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peachdues · 5 months

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COMPASS

bad boy!Sanemi • gang AU • NSFW

A/N: Peach?? Not having any self control when it comes to writing a fic?? It’s more likely than you think.

This was supposed to be a bad boy!Sanemi takes your virginity drabble that spiraled into a meta-analysis of Sanemi’s self hatred that then blew up into a fic with plot. All of those elements are still present but surprise!! Enjoy 24k words of my brain rot.

Inspired by @homo-homini-lupus-est-1701 ‘s wonderful meta analysis of Sanemi’s self hatred and his scars.

CW: 24k • explicit sexual content • MDNI • gang-related violence • mentions of blood and broken bones • mentions of murder/death • loss of virginity • creampie • vaginal fingering • some angst

I have plenty more of this AU written, so if y’all want more, just let me know 🫡

There are three rules to surviving life in the Corps.

The first is simple: once you’re in, you’re in.

Never outwardly confirm or deny rumors; let others talk, but don’t even think about opening your fucking mouth about the things you see or the whispers you hear.

And don’t be stupid enough to think you can cling onto any vestiges of your old life. There’s no splicing your life within the Corps with the one you’d had before. No separation. You’ve whored yourself to their cause, and for better or worse, you’re there until either someone important says otherwise or you end up in a morgue.

This is especially true for someone like Sanemi, so hopelessly entrenched within the organization that he’d allowed himself to be branded at the age of seventeen upon his ascension from rank-and-file street member to full-blown Hashira — the elite of the Corps, just short of the higher-ups who ran it.

The hot sear of iron between his shoulder blades had hurt like hell, but it was a welcome pain. A reminder that he’d not only outlived his father, but had actually made an impact, enough to be noticed and entrusted with more strenuous duties.

Each Hashira is assigned to a particular field. Uzui, silver haired, boisterous and extravagant, deals in bodies — mostly women, but men too, and he runs all of the strip clubs and escort services west of center city. Kocho, a child prodigy in chemistry, leads an intricate narcotics network.

And then there’s Sanemi: the debt collector.

Largely monetary debts — collecting on behalf of loan sharks, gambling debts, or that which is owed to his fellow Hashira, when their customers forget that there are no friends in business.

But the brand seared into his flesh has nothing to do with money — it is a reminder that above all, he is to ensure debts of another kind are paid.

Life debts.

In the three years since his initiation, Sanemi has only had to carry out this oath twice. Both had been scum, responsible for the deaths of innocents.

Their executions had been quick and without fuss — or much mess. A quick trip to an overpass abridging the Wisteria River. A march to the barrier in the dead of night, when no other cars were out and about to see or hear pleading sobs and bargains for their pathetic lives. A bullet to the head would quiet them, and Sanemi would let the rapids below take care of the clean up for him. Job done.

But even though the spray of their brains hadn’t touched him, their blood still stains Sanemi’s hands.

He will never be able to wash them clean.

But this is the life he chose, so Sanemi will endure the consequences — for the sake of his brother, the only living person on earth he gives a damn about. For whom he’ll do anything — be anyone — if it means Genya does not have to pick up a gun and sell himself to the very gang that owns his elder brother.

The second rule is simpler: no patterns. Patterns signal comfort and comfort may as well be a target on your back, begging for someone to come and take their shot (or several).

And finally, the third and arguably the most important rule, is don’t get attached. Keep your circle small so there’s less collateral to be used against you — against the organization that owns you.

This rule applies to both Corps members and civilians alike.

For the longest time, Sanemi Shinazugawa found Rule Three to be the easiest one to follow. He has his brother and no one else. His parents are dead; he has no friends beyond those in the Corps with him, and he knows better than to get overly invested in any of them. His inner circle is as tight as it can get.

But then he’d chosen your bookstore to hide in and that’s when everything falls apart.

“Fuckin’ Christ,” Sanemi mutters, anxious eyes tracking the large hand on his watch as it ticks the seconds by.

They were late.

The job was simple, and well within Sanemi’s capabilities. Maeda, a local dealer in stolen goods, had run up a sizeable bill at one of Uzui’s joints that he’d yet to pay. And while the slippery lech was quick to come sniffing whenever news spread that Iguro, a fellow Hashira, had managed to hijack a semi-truck full of luxury items, he was surprisingly difficult to connect with when it came time for him to pay for company he couldn’t get elsewhere.

He glanced down at his bruised, swollen knuckles and smirked. Sanemi couldn’t say he loved that his worth was measured in the number of bones he could break, or the amount of teeth he could punch out, but he’d be lying if he said he didn’t relish the chance to smash the pervert’s face in whenever the opportunity arose. Nor could he deny the rush of satisfaction he’d felt when he’d thrown open the steel door of the Maeda’s small office, crowbar in hand, and watched the snot-nosed pervert piss himself, stumbling over his words as he’d begged for mercy Sanemi hadn’t been hired to give.

The stupid, greasy fuck.

By the time he’d finished, Maeda had been little more than a quivering, helpless lump curled in on himself on the sticky, slate floor. His office had been left in shambles, drawers yanked out and emptied, only to be thrown aside (or cracked over the vermin’s back as he sobbed). But he’d had found the money, right down to the last dollar, just as he knew he would.

And that’s how Sanemi finds himself standing in the alley tucked behind Maeda’s small warehouse, Uzui’s payment split into two rolls that he’d shoved down into boots. All that was left was for the two junior Corps members he’d brought along for watch to bring the car around, and then they’d return to the abandoned factory that served as their headquarters.

Normally, this would have been a solo job, and Sanemi would already be on his bike, speeding off to safety. But he’d received an order to take along two, new Hinoe so they could get experience with higher level jobs.

Conveniently, his instructions had omitted the part the fact that the two lugs were utterly useless, bumbling idiots, contrary to what their recent promotions otherwise suggested.

Because neither of the two juniors are anywhere to be found. Nor is there any sound signaling that his getaway ride is approaching.

Sharp, lavender eyes scan the alley before him, but to his dismay, it remains empty — disquietingly so.

Leave it to a couple of rookies to set his teeth on edge.

Sanemi’s eyes drop down to follow the large hand of his watch as yet another minute ticks by. It’s been six minutes and their window had only allowed for four.

He knows how to be patient when the circumstances call for it, but now is not one of those times.

One minute, he decides, shifting his weight between his feet. They get one more fucking minute and then he splits —

A sudden screech of tires at the opposite end of the alley makes his stomach flip. Sanemi looks up just in time to see his escape car grind to a sharp halt, its rear jolting up as the driver slams on the brakes.

The passenger door flings open, and one of the Hinoe stumbles out, his feet barely connecting with the pavement before the car guns away, the side door flapping open.

The familiar howl of police sirens accompanied by distant shouts is enough for Sanemi to know this simple little debt collection has now gone tits-up.

“Pigs!” The Hinoe who stumbled out of the getaway car calls to him. “Pigs!”

“Shit,” Sanemi growls. No doubt Maeda’s bruised ego sold them out. He should’ve taken the time to smash the asshole’s phone.

He’ll be dealt with later — and with relish. But right now, Sanemi needs to get the fuck away.

Part of following Rule Three means not worrying about your fellow comrades when the cops come. None of them are stupid enough to actually risk talking to law enforcement about the Corps’ operations, but the fewer of them who get caught, the better.

So Sanemi takes off, adrenaline pumping fast and jot in his veins as he hears the swine behind him split off. He can’t be sure, but he can make out two, maybe three pairs of footsteps trailing behind him.

He scowls; shaking one cop is a breeze; having to shake off three is a bitch.

He hurtles over a pile of wooden crates and shoves a stack of delivery pallets over behind him as he runs, darting down random alleys and side streets that he knows will eventually lead him to a safe house.

The backstreet he shoots down is a fork, but only the path straight through will lead him to a rust yard of abandoned warehouses and shipping containers that Sanemi knows like the back of his hand. He could lose them there, could vanish between freights and wait the bastards out, and once clear, he could slip back into the district marking the outer territory of the Silo and get back home.

Iron pumps hotly in his veins. Almost there, almost there —

A car skids to a stop at the end of the middle ting of the alley, police lights flashing and alarms blaring.

No good.

“Fuck.” It isn’t the end of the world, but the blocking of the alley meant he had to reevaluate his escape. While he’s familiar with the path now obstructed by the police cruiser ahead, he hadn’t the chance to fully scope out his only other two options — the side streets to the left and right.

Without much thought, Sanemi darts sharply left and prays to whatever deity is listening that he hasn’t fully fucked himself.

Only one shop remains open; a tiny hole in the wall, tucked in between two old apartment buildings at the end of the street — one that borders the city’s western wing.

It’ll have to do, he decides, especially as the police sirens grow louder with each passing second.

He explodes through the front door, wide eyed and panting. Vaguely, it registers to him that this is a bookshop — a thankfully empty, cluttered bookshop.

But his abrupt arrival does reveal that the shop is not totally empty. There is one other — the store’s lone employee, who startles out of her seat behind the clerk’s counter, nearly knocking over a small cup of coffee.

He regards her for a moment, and she him, with matching expressions of wariness and shock at the presence of the other.

Behind him, the police sirens grow louder; more urgent.

It’s now or never. And, because he’s desperate enough to try, he risks a move he knows better than to take.

“You got someplace I can hide?”

——-

You blink, stunned as you stare at the frantic, pleading man anxiously looking between you and the door behind him.

His name registers dimly in the back of your mind. Here. In your store. And, evidently, on the run, if the distant echoes of police sirens growing steadily closer to your store is any indication.

Sanemi Shinazugawa.

You know him; you’d known him most of your life, even if you’d never spoken to him. You’d gone to the same school in your youth — all thirteen years of it, in fact. He’d been an abrasive loudmouth in the hallways, but a quiet, even polite boy in the classroom.

You know he’s from the Silo — a worn down, derelict part of the City that housed only the poorest residents. A cruel nickname meant to mock the poverty of its population.

But the Silo was also well known for being the epicenter of operations for the notorious group known only as the Corps.

It was the Corps who owned a majority of the City, its reach extending from the Silo, through the West and East wings, and all the way into Midtown. And, as was the case with most leeches, the Corps relied on the most desperate and hungry to carry out its biddings, offering some level of protection and security for the poor souls who needed it most.

Hence, its presence in the Silo.

So you hadn’t been surprised when you’d heard Sanemi had joined the Corps. Most kids from the Silo did; what had surprised you were the rumors that he became a high-rank member by the ripe age of seventeen, before he’d even graduated high school.

You shudder to think what he had to have done — what he’d become — in order to achieve such status and notoriety.

If he’d been anyone else, you wouldn’t have helped; you would’ve screamed, alerted the police to his presence, maybe even outed him as a suspected Hashira.

But you owed him.

Years ago, before either you or your siblings could drive, you all relied on the city bus to get to and from school.

But one afternoon, when you’d had to stay late for a club meeting, your little sister accidentally got on the wrong bus. Rather than being dropped safe and sound a block away from home, she’d ended up in a bad part of town that just so happened to have been the stomping grounds of the scowling delinquent now shoved under your cabinet, contorted between boxes of blank receipt rolls and stacks of returns.

Had anyone else found your sister, there would be no telling what would have happened to her. The Silo was not a place known to be kind to lost little girls.

But it was Sanemi who discovered her, sniffling and red-faced at the dilapidated bus stop. And though he’d been nothing more than a scrawny ten year old, he’d put your sister on his back and carried her not just the six miles back to safe part of town, but the additional two that led right to the front doorstep of your parents’ home.

You’d watched him curiously from the stairs as your parents profusely thanked your sister’s white-haired savior. They’d offered Sanemi dinner, or at least some sort of reward for his efforts, but he’d only waved them off, briskly telling them it was “no big deal.” As though carrying a six-year-old nearly eight miles was par for the course, as far as he was concerned.

His eyes had flitted over to you once during the exchange, briefly lingering before he turned and left, a single hand held up in casual farewell.

You’d been ten at the time. And now, here you are, twenty years old, running a shabby bookstore, and the opportunity to pay him back has finally arrived. The chance to show your gratitude for sparing your sister of a fate he himself, had not been able to escape.

Quickly, you motion him to you and without explanation, you cram him under the clerk’s counter, holding the cabinet door shut with your knee just as the police burst through the store entrance.

There are three of them, and they do not bother announcing themselves to you. Instead, they begin to prowl through your aisles, flashlights out and guns drawn while they comb the quiet corners of the store, searching for signs of anything that did not belong; anything misplaced.

A bead of sweat slides down the back of your neck, but you keep your face and your stance casual. Below the counter you cross your fingers, hoping and praying that the criminal stuffed inside your cabinet isn’t stupid enough to try and shift.

One officer rounds back into the main part of the store and locks in on you, stiff and anxious behind the counter.“You haven’t seen anything suspicious?”

“I’m sorry, sir. I don’t know what you mean.”

The cop grimaces. “You haven’t seen anyone who looks out of place? Maybe seems like they’re running?”

You feign an easy, sweet smile, even as the leg holding the cabinet door shut begins to tremble. “I’m afraid you’re my first customer of the day, sir.”

The officer grumbles under his breath something along the lines of not your customer, but he questions you no further. He only waves to his comrades and the three of them shuffle out through the door, one muttering into the walkie strapped to his shoulder.

Several moments pass, tense and thick. The silence is broken only by the sound of your heart hammering against your sternum. You remain still, fingers curled tight against the counter’s edge listening for any sound signaling the cops have returned, that their stiff departure had been a ruse to lull you into a false sense of security, as they waited for you to reveal your deception.

But all remains quiet. And you cannot stomach the silence any longer.

“They’re gone,” you mutter, finally moving aside to let the cabinet door below you swing open.

There’s a faint thumping and a few, muffled curses as the scar-speckled fugitive unfolds himself and spills free from the under-cabinet.

In a way, Sanemi still resembles the boy of your memories. His eyes and hair have always been distinctive: a shocking contrast of violet framed by thick, dark lashes that do not match the mop of silvery-white atop his head. But it’s the faint scowl he wears as he stands, the tinge of annoyance that tugs at the corners of his mouth, that scrunches his pale eyebrows, that feels familiar.

That expression, a portrait of vague irritation with the world around him, was one you came to know well — at least, at a distance. One that remained constant even as you grew; his default.

However, it is still not nearly as memorable as the shy embarrassment that had turned his cheeks slightly pink, had made him cast his eyes down as your parents showered him with gratitude.

But that earnest bashfulness is nowhere to be found now.

He wears a patterned, short-sleeved button down. Though rumpled and a tad dirty, you suspect the top three buttons were left open intentionally, rather than being the product of whatever scuffle he’d found himself in before he decided to make it your problem.

You try not to linger on the very obvious hint of the well-defined muscles revealed by his open collar. Nor do you let yourself consider the bulging mass of his biceps as he runs a hand through his cornsilk hair.

He has scars he’d not had in your youth — jagged, silvery lines that cut halfway across his cheek and forehead. Yet their presence does not dull his good looks.

A scrawny ten year old no longer; Sanemi Shinazugawa is now tall and roguishly handsome. But his infuriating good looks aside, your debt to him has been repaid; now, he needs to get the fuck away.

“Can’t thank ya enough,” he shoots you a devilish smile as he straightens his shirt. “You really saved my ass —“

“Get out of my store.” You order, your voice hard. “Take your trouble somewhere else and leave me out of it.”

Sanemi’s eyes narrow at your use of the word trouble, but he says nothing. Instead, he only rounds the counter with a loping, infuriating swagger, his hands shoved in his pockets.

“As you wish, Princess,” and you bristle at the sarcasm dropping from the word. He pauses to scan the shelf marked New Releases. “Just need somethin’ for the road.”

He snags a small novel — a fantasy story, judging by the cover - and he tucks it under his arm.

“Later,” he calls, waving a lazy hand over his shoulder.

You stare after him, slack-jawed and incensed. “You have to pay for —“

But the door bangs shut behind him, and Sanemi Shinazugawa disappears into the night.

—-

By the time Sanemi returns to his shabby apartment, it is well after midnight. He’d met up with Uzui and forked over Maeda’s payment. Though, the Corp’s head pimp hadn’t been particularly pleased that his money rolls had been shoved deep down in his boots, his nose wrinkling as Sanemi dropped the crumpled, slightly damp wads of cash into his waiting, magenta-nailed hands.

As it turned out, Maeda hadn’t sold them out. Rather, one of the Hinoe had stupidly gotten into a scuffle with some brash, young teenager and in his anger, pulled his gun on the kid.

Right in front of two, marked cop cars.

One of the idiots had been caught and cuffed, and was now spending his evening locked in the damp, cold jailhouse pending bond. The other — the driver — had managed to escape, though he’d been carted off to Iguro for punishment.

There’s a reason he prefers working alone, he thinks bitterly as he kicks his boots off. He fucking loathes incompetence.

He pulls his gun free from its place in his waistband and sets it gently atop his ratty kitchen table. Sanemi then trudges over to his futon, collapsing heavily on it with a groan. A shit day, he decides, pulling the stack of cash he’d received as his cut for the job free from his pocket, thumbing through it. A shit day with shit juniors.

He shifts against a lump that sits under his ass. Frowning, he reaches into his back pocket and pulls out the book he’d swiped from your store and turns it over in his hands. Surprisingly, it has managed to remain in pristine condition despite its rather unceremonious storage in his pocket.

Your face flashes in his mind, but before he can fully appreciate it, your words echo in his ears.

Take your trouble somewhere else.

Sanemi scowls, tossing the book onto his coffee table, annoyed. The implication underlying your use of trouble and the venom with which you’d spoken it is a thorn in his side he cannot ignore.

You know what — who — he is. In Sanemi’s world, that’s a liability.

Though, in fairness, he can’t really be surprised that you do. Gossip is a free commodity in this town, and it’s a coveted one. It wouldn’t be a stretch to conclude that you’d overheard one of the rumors about him and his ties to the Corps.

What concerns him is he doesn’t know what your connection is, if any, to his world. Maybe you’re really just a girl in a bookshop who paid back a decade-old favor.

Or maybe you’ve got an in with them.

The Corps isn’t the only gang operating within the city; there is another, crueler and far more violent that had arisen west of the Silo.

The Kizuki.

In the last six months, the Kizuki have managed to overtake the Western Wing, nearly expanding their reach into center city.

Their takeover had been swift; practically achieved overnight, following the systematic execution of every known Corps members in the area. And their violence hadn’t been limited to active members; the Kizuki had brutally maimed and murdered anyone tangentially connected to those Corps members.

Neither women nor their children were spared. And now, it seemed the Kizuki had set their sights on the Silo.

There are whispers that they’ve expanded into their operations into the neighborhood adjacent to the one in which the bookstore sits. That alone is enough to make Sanemi suspicious — perhaps you’re in league with them, and you’ll hand him over the moment it’s most convenient for you to do so.

Admittedly, that theory seems doubtful. You’re a bookseller. Not the kind of girl he knows is prone to becoming involved with the seedy underground world of organized crime. And your apparent disdain for him and his trouble only supports that theory.

But that’s an assumption, and in his line of work, assumptions are precarious; risky. Too much so for comfort.

Either way, he doesn’t know, and that uncertainty is a breeding ground for the parasite that is doubt. Toxic enough that were it to take root in his brain, his judgment could be compromised, leading him to mistakes he can’t afford to make.

Sanemi doesn’t tolerate blind spots. He will keep you on his radar until he determines the threat you pose and once he knows its severity, he’ll decide how to proceed.

He eyes the book he’d swiped from your store. He likes reading, though he hasn’t had much time for it lately (or, ever). But, if he’s going to hang around you while trying to identify the threat you pose, he might as well have a strategy for getting you to talk.

Sighing, he grabs the novel from his table and thumbs to the first page as he pads into his kitchen, in search of something to quell the grumble in his stomach.

—

His inquiries into you and your life reveal shockingly little.

You work at a bookstore. Your parents sold off your childhood home and retired to some beach down south. Your siblings are spread out across other cities and don’t visit home often, if ever.

Only you remain, abandoned by your family to fend for yourself in a crumbling city with only a shabby bookshop that sits on the furthest end of an otherwise safe street to keep you busy.

Truthfully, the bookstore probably is more interesting than you, at least on paper. But it’s that dirge of information that piques his interest; makes him look at you more as a mystery worth unraveling.

Besides, the smart thing for him would be to keep a tab on you until he can confirm you are in fact, as boring as you appear.

Or so he tells himself.

The image of a ten-year-old you peering at him from your parents’ stairwell flashes through his mind once more.

He’d felt your gaze burning a hole into his head, and shyly, he’d looked back at you, only to find himself unable to look away. Only your mother’s prodding about him joining your family for dinner had broken your temporary enchantment over him.

The memory of how you’d looked at him — a mixture of curiosity and awe highlighted by a faint blush in your cheeks when he’d met your stare head on — remained fixed in his brain for years after.

And though the two of you never spoke, you always smiled at him whenever you locked eyes in the school hallway or cafeteria. A real, genuine smile.

He wonders if he ever smiled back and finds himself irritated that he can’t remember if he had. He should’ve; especially now when it seems as though he’s unlikely to ever see that gentle, radiant smile again.

Sanemi’s phone pings and all thoughts of you come to a screeching halt. The message that flashes on his screen — instructions, only by way of an address and an amount — chase away the images of you and your sweet smile, like a hand scattering smoke.

With a sigh, Sanemi dials the number for two, lower-ranked Corps members to serve as scouts. With watch secured, he shoves his phone into his pocket and runs a tired hand over his face.

He wonders what will kill him first — whether it will be a bullet or whether it will be because there’s nothing left of him to whore out on the Corp’s behalf.

Ultimately, he knows it doesn’t really matter. He won’t die as himself; as Sanemi, the boy from the Silo who wants a life that’s anything but this. He’ll die only as Shinazugawa the Hashira. He’ll die under the mask he’s forced to wear so often, he wonders if it hasn’t yet bonded with his skin.

But as long as he remains in one piece, he must continue on as a puppet in this this tedious show. So, Sanemi grabs his gun from where he’d placed it on atop the cheap plastic of his kitchen table and he tucks it into his waistband.

And by the time his apartment door slams shut behind him, Sanemi has slipped the mask down over his face, and he is Shinazugawa once more.

—

Two weeks pass before he ends up back in front of your bookstore.

Sanemi doesn’t really remember how he got here. He awoke well before sunrise to his phone chiming with orders that he go collect on a sizeable gambling debt owed by one of Iguro’s regulars, an owner of some pawn shop.

The sun was already high overhead when he finally left the pawn shop, knuckles bruised and arm aching. He’d kicked his bike into gear in a familiar daze, one that always slipped over him after he completed a job. A kind of numb quiet that settled into his bones, a dull static in his brain that did not fade until the tremor in his hands subsided.

That paralysis needs to be broken. Contrary to popular belief, desensitization was not an ideal state of being for someone like him. It made him apathetic and careless to the world around him, and that was little better than painting a giant target on his back, begging his enemies to come and do their worst.

So, when the numbness still lingered by the time his bike roars past a rusted water tower that marks the outer limit of the Silo, Sanemi knows of only one cure. His go-to.

His bike is still hot by the time he lifts his phone to his ear, just outside his shithole of an apartment.

He doesn’t know her by name — only by description, as told by the series of emojis that accompany her number on his phone. But it’s surprisingly easy to charm her, though perhaps that’s because she’s looking for an escape just as much as he is.

Less than ten minutes later, the girl pulls up beside him in the parking lot.

Her hands are already roaming down his chest and playing with the buckle on his belt as Sanemi unlocks his door and pushes her inside.

At some point between the front door and his bedroom, the girl has stripped herself of her outer clothing, leaving her only in her undergarments as she tugs Sanemi down by his neck and into her kiss. She’s licking and nipping at his lips in a way he’s not sure he likes, but he allows it because his cock is painfully hard and throbbing where it strains against his pants.

And, after all, he’s the one desperate for relief.

“I’ve only got ten minutes,” she warns, kicking off her underwear as she falls back onto his bed. Sanemi only smirks as he slides his hand down the length of her leg, gripping her by the ankle and flipping her to her stomach.

He shifts away long enough to quickly wiggle free of his pants. He grabs a condom from his nightstand and rips the foil with his teeth. Fingers toying with the girl’s clit as she moans into his mattress, Sanemi rolls the latex down his cock. Protection secured, he reaches for her again, yanking her by her hips until her backside is flush against him. One hand pushes down between her shoulder blades while the other snakes up her neck, and Sanemi nudges the tip of his cock up against her entrance.

“Don’t worry, darlin’,” he winds the long tresses of her hair around his fist and gives her a sharp tug. “We’ll be done in five.”

—-

Even an hour after he tossed the girl her clothing and not so casually suggested she leave his apartment, Sanemi still feels restless.

He cannot shake the images of the afternoon from his mind, and so, Sanemi resorts to walking.

He does so without thought as to destination or the rapidly setting sun. Sanemi only focuses on the activity itself. One foot in front of the other; pace even and quick, each step accompanied by a flash of that day’s sins.

The crash of a garage door as it slammed back against the wall. Wide eyes that quickly filled with panic at the sight of him and the flash of metal tucked against his hip.

Step.

A plea; a desperate promise to pay, one that he’d heard a thousand times from a thousand different mouths. None of them ever seemed to understand their word wasn’t worth shit when they’d already defaulted on their obligations. Yet still, they begged.

Step.

The breaking of teeth beneath his fists.

Step.

The crush of bone under the iron pipe he’d found discarded on the garage floor. The agonized futility of trying to scoot back and away from him, despite a shattered leg.

Green; the color of the money he’d found stashed in a duffel, the debtor’s desperate attempt to hoard the wealth owed to the Corps.

Step. Step. Step. All the way down the street leading until he finds himself on a distantly familiar stretch of pavement that ends at the bookstore’s front steps.

For a moment, he lingers outside the shop, hesitant. He should turn around; there is no reason for him to be here. His investigation into you is not a priority by any means, especially where whatever poking he has done has revealed so little.

The book he lifted from the New Releases shelf is tucked carefully in his jacket pocket. He doesn’t know why he’s carried it around with him, all this time. Sanemi finished the novel the very night you’d helped hide him from the cops.

He should leave; but then his feet carry him up the walk leading to the store, and he’s pushing the door open.

His arrival is punctuated by a cheerful ring of the old bell nailed above the door. At first, the store appears deserted; but then you pop up from under the counter, surprise coloring your features.

That surprise melts quickly into cold disdain that makes something in his chest flutter as he strolls toward you. With every step, that numb haze of his disperses and instead, Sanemi feels himself returning to normal the closer he brings himself to you.

“This isn’t a library,” you chide when he plops his borrowed novel back down on your counter. “You have to pay for the books here.”

It’s incredible how easily he is able to slip back into the skin of the suave, smug playboy, and your adorable glare only makes him smirk. “I brought it back, didn’t I? Look — didn’t even crack the spine.”

“It doesn’t matter,” you reply coolly, snatching the book up and tossing it on a small cart marked Restock. “That loss came out of my paycheck — which is scant enough.”

That piques his attention. “Didn’t you say this was your store?”

His question makes you turn pink, and you’re quick to put your back to him, pretending to shuffle through new releases waiting to be shelved. “I work here,” you mutter quietly, but when you turn back around, you stick your chin out, defiant. “But I am the only employee, so it is my store, in a sense. The owner doesn’t ever come by.”

You wrinkle your nose. “So yes, lost profits affect me, and me alone, you thief.”

Sanemi cocks his head, his eyes running over you in consideration.

You’re beautiful; he’s always found you cute, even as a kid, but the transition between your teen years and adulthood have been kind. Even if you’re glaring at him like you would a crushed bug stuck to the bottom of your shoe.

But your words strike a chord in him. His job is to collect money from those greedy lowlifes who waste it; who use money to carry out their bad deeds, who use it to fuck over others.

He doesn’t take it from those who need it; from those who are barely scraping. by. Sanemi knows the agony of having to choose between keeping the lights on or feeding a hungry stomach far, far too well.

“Fine, here,” he tosses a random novel on your counter and a crumpled twenty dollar note. You ring him up, eyes flicking up to glare at him every so often as you count out his change.

He only continues to watch you, the heat of his stare ignites an itch under your skin that makes you squirm.

Your restlessness boils over. “What?”

“Nothin,” he shrugs. “Just think it’s interesting that you of all people are still lingering in this shit hole.”

Your head snaps up, your task of totaling out his change forgotten. “I live here, idiot.”

He snorts. “Didn’t you want outta here? Do somethin’ different?” He leans forward, elbows propped on your counter as he rests his chin on his fist.

“I don’t see how that’s any of your business.” He’s dancing dangerously close to a sore spot of yours — that you are alone in your hometown, working at a failing bookshop, with no one and nothing to justify your stagnancy.

“This can’t be your dream life.”

You don’t have to answer; you know that. But his line of questioning is puzzling. Because, no matter how casual he manages to keep his tone, his nonchalance is betrayed by his eyes, sharp and inquisitive.

Like he’s waiting to dissect whatever answer you give him.

Sanemi continues. “It’s strange for people not to want for more — to not dream about somethin’ different.”

“And who are you to say I don’t?” You bristle, slamming your cash drawer shut with more force than necessary. “I have a dream of my own. Just because it’s not one you would pick for yourself doesn’t mean it’s wrong.”

He blinks, taken aback. “Woah, woah, I never meant any offense.” He pushes back from the counter. “My bad.”

His response feels genuine but your ego is already bruised. Stiffly, you finish counting out his change and drop it into his waiting palm.

You slide his book across the counter. “Have the day you deserve.”

His surprise morphs into amusement at your iciness. So haughty, he winks. “You too, Princess.”

You turn aside in clear dismissal. He makes a show of taking out his wallet and stuffing his change inside, but your pointed ignorance of him means you don’t see him toss another note on the counter.

He’s already halfway out the door when you call after him, urgent. “Sir, you dropped your —“

“Nah, I didn’t,” he raises his hand in farewell as the bookstore door bangs shut behind him, leaving you to stare open-mouthed after him.

Clutched tightly in your hand is his crisp, one hundred dollar note.

—

His next visit is unplanned, but not in the way that Sanemi avoids routine. It’s unplanned in that he’s annoyed and it’s partially your fault, so that means the onus is on you to fix it.

You’re in the process of double checking delivery logs to ensure all your new inventory has arrived when a large thud against the clerk’s counter startles you.

You frown. It’s him again — all ivory hair and silvery facial scars that somehow are less imposing than the irritated scowl he wears.

“This book was shit,” he scoots the novel across the counter to you with distaste. “I want a refund.”

You level his pout with a frosty glare of your own. Wordlessly, you lean over the counter and tap a single finger against a laminated sign duck-taped to its edge.

Return-exchange only. No refunds.

“But it was shit,” he repeats, as though that will somehow spur you to change a policy you didn’t create. “You let me waste twenty bucks.”

“I did nothing,” you rustle the pages of your delivery log in pointed dismissal. “You’re the one who decided to buy a book before checking it out.”

You glance down at the discarded novel. “Figures,” you scoff. “He’s not even an author. He uses ghost writers and takes all the credit.”

“Woulda been nice if you’d told me that before you let me give him my money.”

You hum idly as you cross off the log’s boxes for new releases. “I suppose I was too stunned that you even knew how to read. Guess I wasn’t really paying attention to your shit choices.”

“Oh?” And you glance up to see Sanemi smirking at you. “The Princess has claws, does she?” He leans against the counter, propping his cheek under a loose fist. “So, what are your recommendations, gorgeous?”

“I’m not your Princess,” you snap imbuing the nickname with as much venom as you can muster. “Call me by my name or call me nothing at all.”

His eyes drop to your name-tag, pinned neatly on the front of your sweater. That insufferable smirk of his only widens. “Alright, alright. What are your recommendations, Y/N?”

The syllables sound rich and honeyed and suddenly, you wish you’d let him stick with Princess, as grating as it was.

Because your name should not sound so sweet, should not roll off his tongue so seamlessly, as it just did.

You’ve never been one to indulge in rumors. But in this city, as economically fractured as it is, gossip is a currency everyone keeps in their back pocket. And though you keep your head down and mind your own business, even you have heard the rumors swirling around town about the eldest Shinazugawa child.

Rumors that he has ascended the ranks of the same Mob that claimed the life of his deadbeat father long before the bastard was shived in the back for a debt he’d owed (their words, never yours).

Rumors that he holds a unique position within the gang, known clandestinely only as the Corps, and that position requires him to do things most won’t speak about.

But the rumor that screeches to the forefront of your mind has nothing to do with his alleged status with the Corps. It’s his reputation as a flirt; a rumored womanizer, through and through, that is a splinter under your skin.

Determined to pick him out, a wicked idea blossoms. “Fine, here.” You stalk purposefully to the section marked Literature. Your finger drags down a line of titles before finally settling on one. You pull it free with a soft grunt, the book sitting thick and heavy in your hand as you dump it into Sanemi’s.

“Read that.”

His eyes flick between its cover and you, incredulous. “This ain’t a book; it’s a brick.”

“It’s a classic,” you counter. “One that examines age-old question of destiny versus free will, generational curses.” Your head cocks to the side, a challenging smirk tugging at the corner of your mouth. “Love and lust.”

His eyebrow raises and you cross your fingers. If he falls for it and ultimately ends up hating the book, then perhaps he’ll decide your taste in reading material is indeed shit, and maybe then he’ll leave you alone.

Sanemi considers you for a moment but then he takes the bait. “If you say so,” he sighs. “But if it’s shit, I’m taking my refund.” And then he leans in close, so close that you can feel the warmth radiating off his body.

His breath is hot against your ear. “Regardless of your shitty little policy.”

You refuse to let him see how much he’s knocked you off-kilter. “So I can expect to be robbed? Will it be at gun or knifepoint? Just so I’m prepared.”

His chuckle, low and dark sends goosebumps skittering down your arms. “Worse,” he promises before he draws back. His grin is wolfish, all teeth and feral hunger. “You’ll owe me a date.”

He looses a low, appreciate whistle as he steps back and takes his eyes over your rigid form. “Though, I might just take you out anyway.”

“You assume I’ll say yes — or are you planning on kidnapping me? I’m sure you’re rather proficient at it, given your occupation.”

Something dark flashes across his face, and it’s enough to make you step back, a sudden fear creeping up the back of your spine.

Stupid, you chastise yourself. You never know when to keep your mouth shut.

But the shadows in his features recede as quickly as they appeared, and Sanemi’s mouth eases back into that same, cocky smile.

“You’ll say yes, Princess. You won’t be able to resist the temptation.”

“Temptation?” You force out a laugh. “And what makes you think I can’t?”

Sanemi’s eyes find your current read, open flipped over on the counter, marking your current page.

It’s a mystery novel. Your third of the month, born of a new hyperfixation on the genre.

You want nothing more than to wipe that smug grin of his clean from his face. He gives an affectionate snake of his head as he turns and makes his way toward the door. “Habits, Y/N. It all comes down to habits.”

You should throw it at his head, but Sanemi exits the store before your hand can find its spine.

——-

Over two weeks pass without so much as a whisper from the enigma that is Sanemi Shinazugawa.

Loath though you are to give him that sort of credit, you cannot deny that he utterly confounds you. He is everything you expected while simultaneously nothing at all what you’d imagined. He is brash and cocky, and he struts around with an insufferable self-importance that can only come from years of being at the top of his game (no matter how he got there).

Yet, he also reads. Enough to have opinions, even decent ones, about certain authors, and he’s open minded enough to accept your recommendation even if it feels as though he has an ulterior motive for doing so.

And, he’d been bothered by the dock in your pay as a result of his mischief; so much so, that he’d slipped you more than enough to make up the loss. That is the action that puzzles you the most, even weeks later. You’d assumed that someone like him, so used to ensnaring people into various schemes, wouldn’t have given two shits if he’d stolen money from some broke girl at a bookstore. After all, his business was all about money — and the lengths some would go to keep it.

Yet he’d paid you back — paid you more than you needed, if you were honest.

Since that day, you’ve had your ears tuned to any mention of his name, any whispers of the mysterious, scarred gang-member who has occupied nearly all the open space in your head. You’ve managed to glean small things here and there. That he’s a Hashira, and Hashira means he’s only one step below what is known ominously as the Master Family — the heads of the entire organization.

That he’s rather feared, even among seasoned Corps members; that he’s known for his swift brutality.

That he’s more than just a flirt; he’s a virile lover. Not picky in the slightest about who warms his bed, though no one has ever been able to pin him down longer than a handful of one-night stands.

You stop poking around after that particular revelation, embarrassed that you now know exactly what makes him so popular.

Apparently, his flexibility pairs well with his near inhuman stamina. And he’s said to be very well-endowed.

It’s more information than you care to know, but you can’t deny that your curiosity lingers.

You brush aside your inquisitiveness as nothing more than a natural side effect of your own inexperience. And you’ll be damned before admitting that your interest in Sanemi Shinazugawa isn’t limited to rumors of how good he is in bed. That, perhaps your curiosity stems from something deeper, from a desire to know if that bad boy persona is authentic or a mere facade, and boy on the stoop still lurks somewhere beneath his mask.

—

“You look like shit.”

You startle up from where you’d been resting your head on your arm, wavering between consciousness and sleep.

You know that gravelly voice before you lay your eyes on him, and your irritation is quick to flicker to life.

Nearly a month has passed since your last encounter, and for a moment, you’d thought you’d been freed from his nuisance. But now, Sanemi stands in your store, wearing a half-amused expression on his stupidly handsome face.

“Is that the only descriptor you know?” You ask miserably, hands working quickly to smooth down your mused hair. “Is everything either shit or not-shit to you?”

Sanemi shrugs. “Pretty much,” and he holds something out to you, waiting. “Here.”

It’s a to-go bag from a cafe two blocks away. One known for their almond croissants, for which you have a particular penchant.

Your stomach grumbles fiercely. You’d foregone eating breakfast when you realized you’d overslept your alarm, and had to rush out of your apartment to ensure you’d be here in time for the weekly delivery truck.

The sweet scent of butter and sugar wafting from the bag makes your mouth water.

But this is Sanemi Shinazugawa, and you should think to know better. “Is it poisoned?”

He rolls his eyes. “If I wanted to drug you, sweetheart, I’d pick a far more convenient way to do it — and one that didn’t involve me getting up at the ass crack of dawn for some overpriced pastries.”

Warily, you accept the paper bag, and Sanemi surprises you again by handing you a to-go cup of coffee. He watches as you, ever the dramatic, sniff tentatively at the lid and frown, apparently dissatisfied that you can discern nothing but the rich, aromatic scent of espresso.

Sanemi takes a deep drink from his own cup. “It’s a thank you. For that book you recommended,” He smirks. “It wasn’t shit. It was good.”

You fish a pastry out of the bag, and nearly drool as you behold its buttery, flaky goodness. “You sound surprised.”

“Maybe I was. Your success rate was only fifty-fifty. I had every right to be skeptical.”

“You’re the one who grabbed that last book,” you take a large bite out of your croissant and you fight to keep yourself from moaning. “That had nothing to do with me.” You swallow thickly before taking a large sip of coffee to wash down the pastry. “So, no date, then?”

The smile he gives you is almost apologetic. “Sorry, beautiful. I don’t actually date.” And you nearly double over at the bewildering taste of disappointment creeping sourly up the back of your throat. “Gotta keep things casual in my world.”

The once-over he gives you is razor-sharp. “And you don’t look like a casual girl.”

You resist the urge to cross your arms. “You seem awfully certain, Shinazugawa.”

“Experience,” he offers easily. “I know casual women.” He turns his head away before quietly adding, “And you ain’t one of ‘em.”

It’s odd; you know of his rather wild reputation among women, and yet he seems almost embarrassed by its acknowledgment. But as you’re slowly learning, Sanemi Shinazugawa is a conundrum you haven’t yet been able to pick apart.

You could throw it in his face; you could spew some barb about his experience, rub your salt right into his obvious wound. You have no reason to spare his feelings, not when he’s been such a consistent pain in your ass.

Your eyes drift to the empty pastry bag and coffee cup before they find him again, and suddenly, you don’t see the swaggering, cocky Corps member with a reputation for being just as dangerous and violent as he is flirtatious.

You see only the boy on your stoop; the one who’d gently removed your sister from her place on his back and handed her back to your tearful, relieved parents.

And it’s because you cannot stop seeing that boy, that you offer before you lose the courage to ask, “So, friends, then?”

Sanemi whips back to you, surprise coloring his features that quickly melts into a smile — a real, genuine smile.

And thus, Sanemi Shinazugawa, ruthless member of the Corps and a ranked Hashira, befriends a girl who runs a bookshop.

—-

In retrospect, Sanemi knows he’s probably fucked himself.

His only intention in visiting your shop after that first day had been to discern what level of threat you posed to him, if any, and to address it accordingly. Befriending you was never his goal. After all, he prided himself on his staunch ability in following the unspoken Rules of the Corps — number Three, in particular.

But he has always interpreted Three has a warning against forming bonds within the Corps. And though he knows it’s good practice to keep his circle outside its operations small as well, he rations he’s entitled to indulge his curiosity in you. He doesn’t have friends, not really. Just Genya, and his little brother lives well over an hour away, enrolled in a school in a far better — far safer — city.

It would be nice to have someone a little closer to home that he could relax around.

Yet, he can’t recall whether Rule Three would bar him from associating you outside work hours. Caution would dictate he shouldn’t, but Sanemi never claimed to be a careful man.

He never visits the same day or at the same time. Rule Two says no patterns, and though he’s steadily blurring the lines of Rule Three with each passing day, he convinces himself that as long as he abides by the first two, he won’t be in as deep shit as he, in theory, could be.

It starts out slow; tentative. Despite what he’d thought otherwise, you’re not nearly as prim and haughty as you’d tried to make him believe.

You’re sweet. Genuine, in a way that’s rare for him to encounter in his world.

Gradually, he begins spending more time with you. At first, your relationship is confined strictly to discussions of books. You swap favorites, debate which author is at the top of their genre, and you occasionally needle each other over your respective guilty pleasure: yours, bodice rippers. His, fairytales.

He spends a great deal of his free time at the bookstore, though he’s never consistent with his visits. You never ask him about it, and for that, he’s grateful. But eventually, your conversation turns to other interests — movies, shows, music — and each new mutual interest only further enamors him with you.

And when you invite him over one day after you close the shop to watch an old movie you’d swiped from the store’s limited collection, he can’t find it in him to tell you no.

The first time he visits your apartment, he is appalled.

For starters, the neighborhood you live in isn’t the safest. It’s not the Silo, by any means, but it’s an area he frequents as part of his job and that fact alone sets him on edge. He knows what kind of people linger here; knows that they tend to borrow cash that ends up in Uzui’s business — another Hashira.

And when he sees the shoebox you live in (a studio, you’d proudly boasted, as though the distraction of exposed brick and industrial piping made up for its shit location and shit security), Sanemi finds himself clutching his proverbial pearls.

He supposes he can see its appeal — you’ve certainly turned it into a home.

You’ve made a small living room out of a single couch, thrifted coffee table, and a faintly stained rug. Your TV is laughably small, but he supposes it gets the job done.

A small kitchen stands to the right of the entryway, and there is a bathroom to the left. You have a wall of closets with folding doors, and the wall directly opposite of him boasts three large, arched windows. Sanemi supposes during the day, they provide enough natural sunlight to negate any need for any overhead lighting, of which you have none. But he can’t tell if they open from the outside, so he resolves to furtively check once you’re distracted.

Your bed stands on the furthest wall, tucked into a corner and laden heavy with colorful pillows and plush throws. Books are stacked everywhere — in shelves, in corners, by plants and furniture. All well-worn and loved, their spines cracked and covers stained.

It’s lively; warm. And it has you written all over it. That alone is enough to slightly endear the place to him.

But it’s still a shit apartment in a shit neighborhood.

Worse, your door is little more than a flimsy piece of wood that latches with a single turn lock — the easiest to break, if someone was determined enough to try. He tells you as much and you roll your eyes, brushing aside his concerns as though he’s not precisely aware of what kind of filth might linger around the corner.

The next day, he brings over a deadbolt, a chain, and a drill. He bats off your indignant protests as he installs it on your door. And, because he’s petty, he forces you to sit through a painfully detailed demonstration of how to properly latch and unlatch the chain once he’s finished.

The weeks blend seamlessly into months, and Sanemi finds himself spending more and more of his free time with you. It doesn’t matter whether you’re working at the bookstore or enjoying a night of brain-rotting entertainment on your shitty little television. He just wants to be near you, and he finds himself unable to stay away.

Four months into your friendship, you start a weekly movie night, though the date is always subject to change. Still, Sanemi finds himself craving more of that precious time with you. The hours spent in your store or at your apartment fill a void in his chest he hadn’t realized he’d been harboring, and it’s a fullness he quickly becomes addicted to.

It is an odd thing, this new ritual (never routine) of his. The alternation between visiting the scum indebted to the Corps, to feel bones crush and snap beneath his hands or the iron of a spare crowbar, or blood griming to his knuckles, only to return to your bookshop or apartment, cheap beer and greasy takeout in hand, isn’t the kind of switch he imagined he’d ever make. But you make taking off his Hashira mask so damn easy, and every time he leaves he finds it more difficult to slip back on.

With each passing day, he learns you more and more. He gathers information like a dragon hoards its jewels, each new tidbit a precious gem that he tucks safely away in a mental box labeled with your name.

He learns that, while he prefers tea, you prefer coffee, but you’re picky about your order. If it’s hot, you want it black or with only the faintest splash of cream. If it’s cold, however, you want every sweet syrup and topping known to man, even though it only makes you crash like a freight train once the sugar high wears off.

He learns you think cooking means pouring yourself a bowl of cereal and calling it a day, and it’s a revelation that makes him have to walk away and collect himself, lest he start lecturing you on the importance of proper nutrition, just as he does with his brother.

In exchange, he opens up about the more sacred aspects of his life — namely, Genya. He confides in you the great pride and adoration he has for his little brother, and admits his deep-seated fear that Genya will somehow be pulled into his violent, hostile world of his. And each time Sanemi begins to feel that anxiety rear its ugly head, threaten to settle into the marrow of his bones and send him into a spiral, you’re always there to pull him back.

Sometimes you ask questions, and Sanemi tries to answer them as best he can. But there are some subjects he can never touch. Never wants to.

He can’t tell you whose blood stains his knuckles or is splattered across his shoes. He can’t tell you where he goes when his phone vibrates late at night or at random during the day. He can’t tell you what his fellow Hashira do; the specialties they oversee.

Sanemi does make a point to assure you there is one sacred creed by which they all abide: no kids. This seems to put you at ease, as though this tepid moral line somehow absolves him of the other shit he’s guilty for.

It’s selfish, this thing he has created with you. He knows that. And his blossoming friendship with you likely breaks more than one of the sacred precepts of the Corps. But you’re the first person he’s met since his initiation who knows what he is and doesn’t cower in fear, and that makes him desperate to cling onto you. You know what an ugly, beastly creature he is, and yet you do not run away from him. Even when you probably should.

So, he makes a promise. He won’t show you the Shinazugawa who belongs to the Corps; a formidable member of the Hashira, known because of the things he can do to others to make sure they pay their debts. What he does to them when they don’t.

With you, he wants to be Sanemi; only Sanemi.

And so it goes, for the better part of a year, the two of you learning one another, pretending the ease you feel in the company of the other is merely the product of two people relieved to find a friend in a city that cautions against such ties, and not something in danger of becoming more.

As though the metamorphosis hasn’t already set in.

—

“You never told me what your dream was, y’know.” Sanemi says one night while you finish up inventory at the store.

“What dream?” You hum as you scan the shelves reserved for non-fiction releases, your lips pressed into a firm line as you run your pen down the entries of your log.

He leans against the bookshelf, arms folded across the considerable mass of his chest. “Your big dream — the one you bit my head off for insulting that one time.”

You look up long enough to roll your eyes at him. “Where’s this coming from?”

“Dunno. Curious.”

“Thought you’re not supposed to ask questions in your line of work.” And you shoot him a sly grin. “You ought to be careful.”

Sanemi snorts but he nudges your foot with his. “I’m serious.”

Your eyes dance back and forth between him and the log before you. There’s no real harm in it, you decide. After all, he’s the only friend you have. “I want my own bookstore.”

“Yeah?” He raises a pale brow and waves his hand vaguely around behind him. “Aren’t you practically running this one? That ain’t enough?”

“I don’t own it, though.” You frown, setting your clipboard down. “I just work here. You’ve seen my paycheck.”

And he had, having found a paystub when he’d gone snooping under your counter. You would’ve been furious at his invasion of your privacy had you not been so mortified at the way he’d stared in horror at the pitiful figure reflecting your earnings after two, grueling weeks of work.

His insistence on bringing you meals at any and every opportunity afterward only compounded your embarrassment.

“I want something that’s mine — that I own.” You continue. “I’ve begged the owner to let me organize author meet-and-greets as a way to promote the store for months, and he always says no. If I owned my own store, I wouldn’t need anyone’s permission.”

You pull your bottom lip between your teeth. “I wouldn’t have to live under anyone’s thumb.”

Something shifts in the way Sanemi watches you, a certain profundity creeping into his eyes.

Your cheeks heat. “I know it sounds stupid —“

“It doesn’t,” Sanemi says earnestly. “Wanting your freedom can never be stupid.”

You soften then, as understanding passes between you. Of course he would know all about that — arguably better than anyone you know.

Sanemi clears his throat. “So, a bookstore?” And he gives you a broad smile as he pulls out his wallet and tosses you a twenty dollar note. “Consider me your first investor.”

—

Sanemi spends the rest of the evening watching you work, fascinated by the way you meticulously organize your store shelves, and count the cash in your register. When it comes time for you to heave boxes of excess inventory to the back storeroom so they can be shipped back to their distributors, Sanemi plucks them from your hands, batting off your protests as he carries them for you.

By the time closing arrives, every new shipment has been unpacked and its contents have been shelved.

You flick off the overhead lights in the main store, relying on the backlight of the exit door to light your way out. You tug on your coat and find him watching you, expectantly. “Are you walking me home?”

“Tch. Don’t I always, when I can?”

You grin and it’s enough to chase away some of the sourness twisting in his gut. He shouldn’t do it, as often as he does. He’s risking enough as it is by constantly redrawing the lines around Rule Three to justify the way he’s beginning to bend the parameters around the rule against patterns. But it’s dark and late, and you don’t have a car, and he’ll be damned if he lets you brave the walk home alone.

Better he’s there to protect you from the dangers he can anticipate and see than to stick to his code and risk your harm from those he cannot.

Thankfully, the journey back to your apartment takes no more than fifteen minutes, even when he stops to thumb free a cigarette from the spare carton he keeps tucked in his jacket. You wrinkle your nose at him in mock-disgust as he lights it, the smoke curling out of his mouth reminiscent of a fire-breathing dragon.

He wouldn’t do it if he knew it truly bothered you. But you’d once shyly confessed you liked the faint smell of tobacco that clung to his jacket, especially in cold air like this. So he only shoots you a wink as he brings it to his lips and takes a long drag.

Besides, he thinks as he looses a slow exhale. He needs something to help him take the edge off; to guide him in making that transition between Hashira and Sanemi.

He escorts you all the way to your front door, the two of you trading quips and jokes. And Sanemi savors how utterly extraordinary something as ordinary as walking you to your door feels. Almost as if he’s ordinary, the way he so desperately wishes he could be.

You fidget with your keys, sliding them into your lock. “Did you finish that series I recommended?”

Sanemi grins. “Last night. I think it was your best suggestion yet.”

You duck your head, a bashful smile spreading across your pretty lips and its sight fills him with a golden warmth.

Your door gives way and you turn back to him. “‘Til next time?”

It was what you always said; you never asked him when you could expect to see him again, and he appreciated it. Appreciated not having to explain himself, when most outside his world would likely demand he try.

“‘Til next time,” he confirms, returning your smile with one of his own.

You hover in your doorway, fingers drumming on the frame, eyes roaming his.

“You never told me yours — what your dream is.”

He should leave. You’re treading in murky waters, ones made dangerous because he almost wants to tell you — tell you the truth, at that.

That he dreams of more. More life. More stability. More everything. He’d settle for anything, really; anything at all.

As long as it was more than this.

But Sanemi only responds with a wry grin. “To wake up in the morning, Princess. That’s all I can ask for.”

———

Sanemi’s answer lingers with you long after you emerge from your shower, warm and toweling your damp hair.

To wake up in the morning, Princess.

He’s full of shit and you know it.

Over the course of the last year, you’ve learned a handful of crucial details that make up Sanemi Shinazugawa.

You’ve learned he loves matcha, but he really loves the expensive kind. While you can’t afford to buy the high quality powder, you make do with what you can afford at the grocery, and you make it for him as often as you can.

He drinks it every time, bitter dregs and all.

More importantly, you’ve learned what it means to have a friend involved in the Corps. Not that he’s merely involved with the notorious gang — at least, not any more than the two of you are just “friends.”

Town gossip aside, Sanemi’s affiliation with the Corps is made obvious by his own actions. Like the way the two of you only ever hang out at the bookstore or your apartment; how he never invites you to visit his place, over in the Silo.

Or how he insists on scoping out your apartment every time he comes over, his eyes alert and sharp as his hand lingers at his hip, ready to pull out the gun you know he keeps tucked into his waistband at all times.

It’s evident in the way Sanemi never sticks to a consistent schedule. He varies the days and times of his visits at random, never allowing himself to settle into a routine, even if that means going an entire week or longer without seeing you.

But perhaps the most significant detail you’ve learned about Sanemi over the year of your friendship is this:

He wants out. Dreams of it, even.

This revelation does not come from the scarred Hashira himself. It is the product of months of observation, of studying how his face darkens when his phone pings! while you’re watching some sitcom on television, or when he sees a familiar face pass by your shop window, and suddenly he has to leave because he must be Shinazugawa again, and you won’t see him for the rest of the day.

It is evident in the way he talks of his younger brother, who, by all accounts is a star student and athlete, with a promising future in collegiate archery.

Sanemi is saving every penny he can to send his brother — Genya — to school, far, far away from the Silo. The conviction with which he speaks of Genya’s future, full of college and internships and promise, breaks your heart, because you know Sanemi hadn’t anyone to want those things for him.

Sanemi does not speak of any future of his. You suspect it’s because he doesn’t believe he will have one.

That has to be why he answered your question with his vague desire to wake up every morning. It was an easy answer. One that relied on you making certain connections between his life and his words and deduce that he truly had nothing more to live for other than life itself.

A cop-out, is what it is.

But his reading habits betray his darkest secret — betray the truth — and that’s exactly how you know his flippant answer is utter bullshit.

The book Sanemi carries around the most is a series of classic fairy tales, bought off your sale table a few months back. He’s read the whole thing cover to cover, but he keeps a bookmark on one specific page, and periodically, you catch him flipping back to it.

He made the mistake of leaving the book on your coffee table one night when he excused himself to use your bathroom. Realistically, you knew it was no big deal to flip through it, but somehow, the thought still felt like an invasion of his privacy.

But your curiosity got the better of you so you snatched it up, and thumb quickly to the bookmarked page, desperate to know which story has so captivated him.

You opened to the first page of of a tale — an old French story, about the daughter of a merchant who is sent to life with a beast in a distant castle, as penance for his theft of the beast’s rose.

You smiled to yourself; you were familiar with the story. You know how it goes — the beast everyone believes to be the villain is saved by the woman, and revealed to be a handsome prince. And the two live happily ever after.

Your smile faded as you recalled how the woman saved her Beast. True love’s kiss, or something along those lines.

True love.

And as Sanemi returned from the bathroom and plopped down next to you on your couch to watch a rerun of some old sitcom before he has to leave for the night, you mulled over Sanemi’s apparent fascination with the tale of the beast and the beauty.

And that’s how you drew the series of conclusions which enabled you to see right through his thin facade.

He wants out.

He wants a happily ever after. He doesn’t think he’ll get it.

And, above all, he dreams of love.

—

If any doubt lingered as to the magnitude of his ties to the Corps, it disintegrates one night, about eight months after he’d first burst into your bookstore.

It is well after midnight, but you are still awake, too engrossed in a new fantasy novel to pay particular attention to the lateness of the hour when your phone buzzes on your bedside table.

Sanemi’s name lingers above the notification, which reads simply, Outside.

You untangle yourself from your blankets and pad over to your front door, hastily tugging on a pair of sleep boxers over your underwear.

You open the door and the flutter of excitement you’d felt upon seeing his text is chased away by shock at the sight before you.

There is a bruise forming along Sanemi’s cheek that you almost would have mistaken for dirt if not for the swelling. His hair is rumpled, his clothes in disarray. Though it winks away the second he sets his gaze on you, you swear you were able a cold fury in his eyes; foreign, and violent.

The fury that belongs to a Hashira, not to the friend you know.

Wordlessly, you step back and allow him to limp past you.

“You got liniment?” He rasps, plopping heavily down in your kitchen chair. “And water?”

“You mean icy-hot?” You’re already filling a glass from the tap that you set on the table next to him before you retreat to your bathroom to rummage the cabinets.

You return a few moments later, tub of minty topical gel clutched in hand. You nearly drop it when you realize that Sanemi has stripped himself of his shirt already and is now bare from the waist-up, his forehead resting against his arms where they’re propped up on the back of your chair.

You’ve known for a long while that Sanemi is well-built (obscenely so).

Once, in the early days of your friendship, you’d snapped at him to button his shirt properly if he insisted on hanging around your store, dramatizing over how obscene it was for him to prance around with his chest half-exposed.

Sanemi had only grinned at you before he unbuttoned two more, revealing a generous glimpse of infuriatingly toned abs. Your open-mouthed, scandalized stare was met only with a wink.

He kept his shirt like that for the remainder of the day. You’d hardly been able to look at him without flushing a deep scarlet that only seemed to inflate his already generous ego even further.

But, you’re only human. And as the months passed by, and your friendship with the scarred mobster grew, you found yourself sneaking the odd peek every now and then. A glimpse of pectoral here; a hint of his rigid v-line when he stretched his arms over his head there.

And now, here he is, sitting in your small kitchen area awaiting the relief of the icy hot clutched in the tub that grew more slippery between your rapidly sweaty palms, every mouth watering inch of his upper body on display.

Beautiful. Your mouth goes dry at the sight of him. Sanemi is unbelievably beautiful.

“Need ya to rub it into my shoulder, if you don’t mind,” his voice is muffled against his arm. “I hate asking, but I dislocated the damn thing and had to reset it — fuckin’ hurts, now.”

You know better than to suggest he go get an x-ray. No hospitals, he’d once explained. Not unless you’re bleeding out.

You also know better than to ask how he dislocated it, and so you only pad silently over to him, grateful he’s turned away from you so he cannot see the tremble in your hands or the blush creeping across your cheeks.

Eager to give yourself something to do besides ogling, you focus on unscrewing the lid on the jar of liniment, your nose wrinkling under the burn of its stringent odor. You scoop a generous amount of the salve into your palms and warm it between your hands.

“Motherfucker,” Sanemi hisses as your hands spread gently across his shoulder, your fingers gingerly massaging the topical into his swollen joint. “Shit stings.”

“You’re lucky it’s not broken,” you chide, carefully prodding along the joint in search of anything that may be amiss — an odd lump or gap, signaling something hasn’t been reset properly. “At least, I don’t think it is.”

“Your medical expertise is astounding,” Sanemi drolls, but he winces again as your fingers press against a particularly tender spot. You step away from him with a huff and fish your phone out of your pocket, hands still slathered with ointment.

“I’m not a doctor,” you shoot back. “And since you refuse to go see one, the best I can do it give you the advice of the internet.”

You ignore his grumblings as you search for treatments for dislocated joints. You tap on the first link that appears and scroll, eyes narrowed as you read.

“You’re in luck. It seems like you won’t die,” you say dryly. “But you’re going to have a nasty bruise.” You purse your lips, eyes scanning the article on your phone. “And this says you’re supposed to rest — not overexert the joint.” You reach to tug playfully on a lock of his hair. “I don’t suppose you’re actually going to do that, though.”

He twists and flashes you a mischievous smirk over his shoulder. “You know me too well, Princess.”

You roll your eyes and snort, tossing your phone onto your table in favor of reaching for a discarded kitchen towel to wipe off the excess icy hot from your hands.

You’re about to tell him to put his shirt back on and stop flaunting the muscles he just can’t seem to help but show everyone he has when your eyes snag on a mark that rests squarely between his shoulder blades.

You wouldn’t have noticed it but for the shiny redness surrounding it, a clear contrast to the rest of his skin. But the longer your stare at it, the more clear its abnormality. The mark is puffy and raised, but there’s a distinct pattern to it that makes the hair on the back of your neck curl.

A brand, you realize with horror. Someone has branded him like cattle.

Your finger reaches to trace over the ridges seared into his skin before you can think the better of it. Sanemi twitches under your touch, a small shudder skirting down his spine as he tilts his head back toward you.

“Ugly, ain’t it?” His tone is unreadable. “Like a collar, ‘cept it’s permanent.”

Though he tends to err on the side of caution when it comes to discussing the Corps, you at least know what is role is within it. He told you: debt collector. Mostly monetary debts.

But the brand has nothing to do with money. No, the symbol burned into his skin — the one that stands for Kill — is a neon sign of a reminder that Sanemi’s duties can and do entail another kind of collection.

A chill snakes down your spine. You’d had your suspicions, of course, you’re not stupid. But seeing it confirmed by a brand of all things is a lightning rod through your chest.

Sanemi must sense your stare against his back, and you hear his rueful smile though you can’t see his face. “Guess it’s fitting, since I’m their dog.”

There it is; confirmation of what he is, as though it were possible to forget. You don’t know why you’d held out in letting its weight settle over you. Nor do you know why your brain had refused, for a moment, to reconcile the Sanemi who brought cheap beer and greasy fast food to your apartment for a night of trash television and book reviews with the one before you now, branded with inexorable reminder of what his duties are when he steps outside and debts go unpaid; when scores go uneven.

Your eyes slide to his gun, resting atop your table. It may has well have been smoking.

“It’s barbaric,” you murmur. You never offer much of an opinion on the tidbits of information about his life he shares with you, unwilling to make him feel as though you aren’t someone he can confide in.

But the sight of the brand scorched between his shoulder blades stokes something ugly and angry within you. You’re grateful his back is to you so you can furtively rub your hand over your prickling eyes before he can see you do something stupid, like cry.

He tilts his head back until it rests against your abdomen. “Thank you,” he murmurs, his eyes drifting shut.

You freeze for a moment, your anger temporarily suspended against your uncertainty of whether you should step back or remain. You’ve touched Sanemi a thousand different ways — you’ve grabbed his arm, smacked him upside his thick head, and elbowed him more times than you can count.

But this; this is something far different from your teasing nudges of the past. This small gesture feels infinitely more tender. Gentle.

Intimate.

Sanemi has never not been the picture of cocky brashness, especially around you. His priggish smirk was a constant, only ever dampened by the occasional alert on his phone — the one that meant he had to stop being yours for the night, and go be theirs.

But this Sanemi? This peaceful, eased, vulnerable version of your best friend is wholly uncharted territory. And perhaps it’s because he looks so unguarded this way, his face relaxed and his eyes closed, that you feel so flustered.

You brush his hair away from his forehead. At the first graze of your fingers along his scalp, Sanemi leans further into you with something akin to a moan.

Hot; everything feels so damn hot, the air in your apartment suddenly too thick. Too oppressive.

Yet, you don’t stop; your fingers keep raking through his hair, surprisingly silky.

You think he may have fallen asleep in your chair, but after another moment of your hands carding through his hair, Sanemi stands. You step away instantly, and you avert your eyes while he pulls his shirt back over his head, cursing softly as he works it over his injured shoulder.

Sanemi turns to you and clears his throat roughly. “Thanks again. Don’t know what I would’ve done without ya.”

You wave him off with an exaggerated eye roll, eager to conceal the redness in your cheeks. “Oh please, I’m just your neighborhood book supplier and occasional first aid nurse.”

A sudden sobriety passes over his features, clouding over that all too familiar smirk with something heavier.

“No,” he murmurs and his hand absently lifts to tuck a stray lock of hair behind your ear. “No, you’re more than that.” His palm lingers against your cheek and his voice quiets to a hoarse whisper. “Much more.”

For a moment, you wonder if he’ll lean in; if he’ll show you whether his lips are as warm as his touch.

His eyes drop briefly to your mouth and your stomach somersaults at the thought he might be considering it, too. But the clouds part and Sanemi withdraws from you with an affection flick against the tip of your nose.

And then he turns and leaves.

You sink back against your door after you close it behind him and slide to your floor. You remain there for a long while after, your mind little more than a gnarled tangle of brambles you can’t begin to pick through. But even despite the complicated mess of thoughts and emotions knotted together in your head, one thing stands clear: you’d wanted to kiss him.

And for a moment, you swear he’d wanted to, as well.

An old rumor, one you hadn’t considered since your very first interaction with him, resurfaces in your mind. The one that had less to do with him in the Corps, and more so involved his activities outside of it.

The rumor that he cycles through the bodies he uses to warm his bed more frequently than you change the sheets on yours.

Your cheeks heat, and you shake your head to clear away the sudden, intrusive images of Sanemi tangled in the throes of passion with some faceless stranger that fill your imagination. You don’t care what those blasted rumors claim; you know him. And what’s more, you know that what you feel for him is stronger than anything you’ve ever felt toward anyone.

You’re in love with Sanemi.

It is his face you see at night before you fall asleep; it’s his touch you imagine in those secret moments in your bed or in the shower, when you’re desperate and aching.

It’s he who makes you feel most at ease; the one person you feel truly sees you, thinks you’re actually worth something.

You’ve never really known love before. But it’s because you’re such a novice that you know your feelings are true; powerful. You know what he is — what he thinks he is. And you know that you will never want anyone else; you can’t.

You won’t.

—

Three rules. That’s all he had to do, was follow three simple fucking rules.

Don’t speak. No patterns. And don’t get overly attached.

It had been easy, so easy, to follow them. If there was one thing Sanemi believed he could pride himself on, it had been his steadfast adherence to the Corps’ rules. Number three, in particular.

Until you. Until the day he’d chosen your bookstore to hide in.

Because that was when Sanemi decided that those rules were really more like guidelines; malleable. He’d let himself cast them aside out of a desperation for human connection. And he’d justified his carelessness by convincing himself that as long as he maintained some semblance compliance with the unspoken code of the Corps.

Sanemi had built his own set of rules around the foundation of his friendship with you, a wall of stone around the glass castle meant to ensure you would not be cut by its shards should it ever shatter.

He would not be your liability, nor would you be his.

But now, he’s too deep; Sanemi knows he’s gotten in way too fucking deep with you.

Until this moment, he imagined he’d managed to toe the line of this internal code that applied only to his relationship with you, save a handful of instances when he’d let himself blur it.

As it turns out, he’d been dead fucking wrong. Because he’s pretty sure you just asked him to cross the last major boundary he’d set for himself when it came to you.

So, Sanemi only gapes at you. “What?”

You huff, impatient. “I want you to fuck me.”

You say it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world — as though you haven’t just ripped the floor out from beneath him and sent him falling directly on his ass.

If he didn’t know you were dead serious, he would’ve laughed in your face. And that’s how he knows he’s fucked.

You’re a virgin; he knows that, because you’d drunkenly confessed it to him two weeks prior, tipsy on the cheap beer he’d brought over for your weekly movie night together.

Admittedly, he’d been surprised. You were beautiful — not that beauty was a requirement for a good fuck, but you didn’t seem the type to go for random hookups, unlike him. Still, he would’ve thought you’d had some prior relationship where the opportunity would have arisen.

As it turned out, you’d never been in a relationship, either.

Between long gulps of your drink, you’d asked him to fix it and he’d turned you down — his tolerance for watery beer far surpassed your own, and Sanemi Shinazugawa wasn’t the type to sleep with someone who couldn’t fully consent.

So he’d let you down — but not before he kissed you. It was only once; soft, the way you deserved to be kissed. His lips met yours and suddenly, the gaping hole in his chest felt smaller; fuller. Kissing you felt like coming home, even though Sanemi was sure he’d never fully known what home truly felt like.

And then he parted from you with an affectionate flick on your nose to cover the way his heart clenched at the visible disappointment in your eyes.

He’d boldly kissed you twice more after that night — one a quick, cheeky peck when you went in to hug him, an act done more to fluster you than to sate any desire of his, no matter how he craved more of you.

The other happened only three nights prior, and it was anything but soft and sweet.

One of Sanemi’s fellow Hashira, Kanae, hadn’t been seen in several days, and no one had been able to get in touch with her. When she’d missed a scheduled patrol of one of the neighborhoods in the Silo, he and another member, Iguro, had been sent to check on her.

They’d found her in the kitchen of the small home she’d shared with her two sisters with a hole in her head and her brains splattered across the floor.

Curled under the protective stretch of her limp arms, had been her two sisters, both bearing matching bullet wounds to their skulls.

Kizuki, most likely. They were the only ones brave enough to target someone as high ranked as Kanae.

Their blood had still been fresh, and the stench of decay and rot hadn’t yet set in, which only told them that the girls had been held for several days, forced to endure unknown horrors at the hands of their murderers.

He hadn’t been particularly close with the woman, but as his rank equal, she’d had his respect. But now she and her adolescent sisters were nothing more than smears of brain matter and skull fragments to be scraped off the linoleum of their kitchen floor and quietly buried. Forgotten.

The hours passed by in a blur once Kocho’s death was called into the higher-ups, and Sanemi didn’t remember cleaning up the scene anymore than he remembered the solitary trek back. His mind and his body disconnected, and he only snapped back to reality when he realized he was standing in front of your apartment, unsure of how or when he’d begun walking in its direction.

He knew he should turn around and go home; there was nothing you could do for him right then, he shouldn’t bother you —

His fist was pounding on your door before he could think better of it.

Despite the late hour, you’d greeted him with a broad smile and a shy hi. Your hair had been damp, and he could smell the floral sweetness of your shampoo still mixed with the steam from your shower as it spilled into the hall.

Safe; you were safe.

Your door had still been hanging wide open as Sanemi surged forward, trapping your face in his hands to crash his lips down against yours, his kiss heavy and hot.

You’d broken away long enough to ask, “S-Sanemi — what —?”

“Shut up,” he’d snarled, slanting his mouth back over yours, his teeth nipping at your bottom lip. He’d half expected you to shove him away, perhaps to even aim a knee right at his crotch, yet you’d only buried your fingers in his hair and tugged him closer.

He backed you up against the wall opposite of your entryway, though he’d moved his hand to cup the back of your head to keep it from banging against the exposed brick.

You moaned into the kiss and Sanemi lost whatever shred of sense he’d managed to cling onto. His tongue swept along your bottom lip, and the hand cupping the back of your head loosely pulled at your hair, tugging your head to the side and signaling you to open up — to let him in.

And you did. And the first brush of his tongue against yours as he licked into your mouth ignited an inferno within him that he did not know how to tame.

His hands pushed under your sweatshirt, seeking out the comforting warmth of your skin. Higher and higher they rose, until they came to rest against your ribs, and Sanemi realized you were bare — completely bare — beneath your hoodie.

That you’d allowed him to toe so dangerously close to a line neither of you could cross had clouded every bit of his judgment. The thought that he’d only have to move his hands mere centimeters to touch you in a way no other had before had sent him reeling, and his hips were beyond his control when they pinned yours against the wall and ground into you.

But your single gasp into his mouth broke the spell, and with more regret than Sanemi knew he should feel, he broke away, leaving you both breathless and panting.

Without a word, he’d turned around and stalked right back out of your apartment, closing your door firmly behind him.

He’d sent a text only a few minutes later — a single, ominous reminder to you to lock your door, deadbolt and all.

He hadn’t the stomach to explain his cryptic warning; not as the sight of Kocho remained burned into his retinas.

So, yes, he’s blurred a few lines when it comes to you. But those had only been kisses; heavy touching aside, he’d never allowed himself to go further than that.

No matter how much he wanted to.

And it’s because he knows he can’t cross this last line — can’t open you up to risk more than he already has, that he meets your expectant stare with a rueful smile.

“You’re better off asking someone else, Princess. You don’t want to get tangled up with someone like me.”

Never mind that you’re already tangled up with him — but he’s managed to uphold this last boundary, and Sanemi has convinced himself that as long as it remains in place, he can’t ruin you the way Kocho and her young sisters were ruined.

“I don’t want to ask someone else,” you fold your arms across your chest and cock your hip out, defiant. Normally, Sanemi finds your stubbornness endearing, if not adorable, but not now; not when you should know better.

A low growl of your name is his warning. “You don’t know what you’re asking —“

“It’s you I want. I don’t care what the rumors say, I don’t care what anyone thinks — including you.”

The sincerity in your eyes nearly scalds him. “And I am not asking as a friend. You and I both know this is more than that.”

He wants to throttle you. Not literally of course, he could never — but he wants to shake the sense you’re so clearly lacking back into you until you see; until you understand.

Of course he wants you. He has wanted you for months — so much so, he hardly can focus on anything else. And he’s pent up. He hasn’t had the stomach to fuck anyone else. Not since he began falling asleep and waking up to thoughts of you and your touch, of how you might look under or above him, wanton and desperate. Or how you might feel in his arms; on his tongue.

Really, it’s been quite a blow to his rather wild reputation throughout the Silo. But God knows he has tried to fill the you-shaped void in his heart, but nothing — no one — has come close.

More than anything, he wants you to be his, and for him to be yours. He longs to be the Sanemi who takes you out on dates, who kisses you freely without the compulsive need to check over his shoulder, to make sure there aren’t any enemies watching and plotting to strike him right where he’s weak. He wants to be the Sanemi you come home to after a long day at the bookstore. The one with whom you plan a future, utterly and completely yours.

But he can never be just Sanemi. He is nothing more than the property of the very organization he’s sworn allegiance to; the group whose brand he bears on his skin.

He is not good. He is a curse that will infect you, a poison to your life.

He will rot you from the inside, out.

His friendship with you is selfish. He knows that — he’s always known that, and yet he did not stop. It is selfish because he deluded himself into believing he could actually be someone else when he was with you. Someone worth befriending; perhaps someone worth a little more.

You were right to call him a thief, that day. All he does is take your time and affection when he knows damn well he won’t give you anything in return, no matter how he wishes he could.

Sanemi won’t label that thing he holds deep inside his heart which is formed in the shape of your name; not when it could so easily doom you both. But he knows his feelings for you are dangerous, and he cannot allow you to sniff them out.

Because if he does, then this only ends one or two ways: either he lets you in only for you to abandon him once you realize the truth of what he is, or you’re used as a weapon against him.

In either event, he loses you. So it is better to cut this off now, to force you away before either of you become more invested than you already are.

He will not hurt you, but neither will he allow himself to be hurt by you.

You take a step toward him, and the soft whisper of his name sounds like a holy prayer on your lips and that’s how he knows this is wrong.

Your obstinate refusal to recognize him for what he is is a needle digging into his skin, one that whittles away at every wall he has managed to build around his heart, that damnable, soft, dangerous thing that he will not allow you to find; he cannot.

You’re confusing your roles. He is the vulture and you are his prey, not the other way around. he is not here to give. He is here only to take, and you will let him and then he will leave.

And he will not be the carcass you pick clean only to discard once you’ve had your fill.

(A lie, but it’s one Sanemi almost believes. Almost.)

But Sanemi knows you; he knows you better than he knows anything else. You are a constant he has become far too dependent upon, and you are precious — far too precious to him to continue to indulging.

He knows you are too good, too loyal in your feelings to forget about him, even if he disappeared from your life entirely.

A clean break. it is the only thing that will force you to forget him and move on, find another, someone good and whole and not a broken, misshapen thing like him.

He will show you who he really is. He will show you that he could never be just Sanemi, and he sure as hell can’t ever be yours.

Better; you deserve better, so he will become worse.

He advances on you, his step heavy and imposing, and you have enough sense to scurry back from him. But he is too quick and soon he has you caged against the wall of your studio, literally backed into a corner.

“You want me?” He is scathing and he loathes himself for it, but he can’t stop. Not when he’s desperate to save you from the blight of himself.

You shouldn’t; you can’t.

But you nod, damn you. Wide-eyed, you nod and he resents the certainty reflected in your gaze.

His mouth twists into a cruel sneer. “You want to say you’ve had a taste of the lowlife, huh?“

Your eyebrows knit together. “Sanemi, that’s not —“

But he can’t stop his venom. “Bragging rights, that’s all you’re after, right? You want to be like one of the characters in your stories — the good girl who makes an honest man outta the good-for-nothing villain.”

“Stop it,” you bite, and your eyes harden. “You’re acting like an asshole.”

You’re angry. Good. Sanemi knows how to deal in anger.

“Hate to break it to ya, sweetheart, but I’m not acting like an asshole. I am one.”

Your hackles raise, and you step away from the wall and toward him, bold in your fury. “I know you want to believe you are, but you’re not —“

Sanemi’s hand shoots out to grab a fistful of your hair. ��Is that so?” You yelp as he wrenches your head back, your neck straining. “Then maybe I oughta bend you over and fuck you like I would any other cheap whore. Then you can tell me what you think I am.”

Your eyes water as the grip in your hair tightens.

Good, he thinks savagely. Let you see the monster he truly was, let you know he was his bastard father’s son, and that he’d be no different, no different at all. He’s a brute, and you don’t want that, you don’t want him —

“You can do whatever it is you want,” you manage, you throat tight. And Sanemi’s eyes blow wide at the soft, watery smile that forms on your lips despite the tears that escape the corners of your eyes. “Do to me what you like; I don’t mind, as long as it’s you.”

All at once, his ire with you and your bewildering devotion to him melts away, leaving nothing behind but a deep well of guilt, bitter and acerbic.

It isn’t that you think he might take you forcefully and harshly; after all, he’s only shown you he’s entirely capable of doing so.

It’s that you would let him. Without a shred of doubt, he knows you would offer yourself to him to use however he wants, and that you’d do it with a smile not unlike the one you’re wearing right now, soft and earnest.

Fuck, you just did.

And it’s that realization that has Sanemi’s hand loosening from your hair, his eyes softening. An errant tear escapes down your cheek and he moves to brush it away, but you close your eyes the moment you spy his knuckle nearing your face.

You do not flinch, but you are steeling yourself in anticipation of expected cruelty, and the front he’s put forth crumbles to dust.

He is a monster, but not for the reasons he’s used to justify this ugly display of his. He’s a monster because he has made you believe that this treatment is acceptable — an unavoidable cost of intimacy, no matter how fleeting.

Worse, he’s done the one thing he’d sworn never to do to any woman, let alone someone as good and as dear as you.

He’d only wanted to disgust you; enrage you, so that you would kick him out of both your apartment and your life, right out on his sorry ass like he deserved.

But this is worse. He has frightened you.

He recoils from you like a kicked dog. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

He stands awkwardly as you stare at him, wide-eyed and uncertain, and each second that ticks silently by only amplifies the oily well of guilt in his stomach.

He clears his throat. “I’ll go,” he says roughly, too ashamed to meet your eyes. “‘M sorry, I didn’t —“

Your hand grabs his bicep, anchoring him in place. “I want you to stay.”

“You don’t owe me anything —“

“It’s not about owing you,” you interject, lifting your hands to take his face between your palms. “I want you. I want this.”

You prove your point by taking his hand and guiding it to your waist. You hold it there, mouth set in a determined line as you inch closer to him.

“You deserve someone else,” Sanemi can’t stop the admission from rolling off his tongue. “Better.”

But you’re already shaking your head, as though you somehow know different. “There is no one better; I only want you.”

Idiot, he thinks as you rise up on your tiptoes, your arms winding around his shoulders as the distance between your bodies grows narrower. You’re an idiot.

You can’t possibly believe he’s as good as it gets. He’s used you as a distraction this whole time, a chance to forget the things he’s done and what he’ll be required to do in the future. Surely, you must know that.

He will hurt you; it’s in his nature. It’s unavoidable. He can’t be what you deserve.

But then your lips brush gently against his and the last of his resolve crumbles.

Sanemi melts into your kiss. He brings one hand to cradle the side of your face as the one braced against your waist shorts, until he wraps his arms around you and tugs you closer to him.

This kiss is gentle in every way the last was not. Sanemi’s lips are soft moving against yours, his hands almost hesitant in how they hold you. For a moment, he imagines himself not as the selfish, hard brute he knows he is, but instead as the gentle, giving lover he wants so desperately to be. One who is worthy of someone as kind and vibrant as you, and not the trash you’d be better off leaving out on the street.

The tentativeness with which he kisses you tempers some as his tongue flicks out against your bottom lip. You answer his silent request with enthusiasm, your fingers burying themselves in his hair as you haul yourself closer. The moment Sanemi’s tongue sweeps into your waiting mouth, you buckle against him with the sweetest sigh he’s ever heard. One of pure relief, as though you’d been burning and he was your balm.

Ironic, considering he’s only adding gasoline to this fire between you.

But there’s nothing he can do now except allow the flames to consume you both.

Soon, the shy curiosity with which he explores your mouth gives way to a mutual hunger, evident by how he feels as though he’s boiling alive while you gasp and sigh into him, your fingers tugging pleadingly at his hair.

You want more, and he needs you, too.

His nose nuzzles against yours as he bends down, his hands running along the bare expanse of your legs. The ground beneath your feet disappears as Sanemi gathers you up easily into his arms.

One of your arms is looped around his neck while your other hand cups his face, turning it toward yours as he carries you to your bed. Your thumb smooths absently over the scar that cuts across his cheek and then your lips seek out his once more. His kiss is as gentle as the hand squeezing your waist, his fingers slotting into the gap between your sweatshirt and the top of your sleep shorts, stroking your skin.

He lays you out upon your mattress, grateful you’d at least purchased a full bed rather than some shitty twin. Your hands untangle themselves from his hair and instead seek out the waistband of your sleep shorts, but Sanemi covers them with his, halting you.

“Don’t,” he murmurs between quick, messy kisses. “Let me — please.”

Before you can respond, Sanemi sits back and grabs a fistful of his own shirt, yanking it over his head.

Your pupils blow wide at the sight of him and he feels himself hesitate. Sanemi has always felt an easy self confidence when it came to stripping in front of his partners for the night. He’d always been quite proud of his physique, relying on his considerable muscles to mask his deep loathing of his scars.

But in front of you, all sense of self-assuredness goes flying out the window, and suddenly he feels too exposed. His eyes drop to scour the planes of his chest — have his scars always been this prominent? This thick?

“Holy shit,” your soft sigh snaps his attention away from the howling inside his head. For one, petrifying moment, he thinks that you are as disgusted with his body as he is, but then he sees the pink flush staining your cheeks.

Your eyes roam hungrily over him and your tongue darts out to wet your lips. You meet his gaze and your pupils are blown wide with desire — rich, hot need for him.

Your voice is little more than a sultry whisper. “Come here.”

He moves eagerly to cover your body with his, his hair rumpled and his eyes bright as his lips press hurriedly against yours. Your hands smooth over his pectorals and tease down his abdomen until he’s panting, but the moment your nails rake along the skin on either side of his navel, Sanemi moans.

More. He needs more.

He hauls you up from the bed, straddling you across his lap, his hands notched behind your knees as they press into the mattress. You reconnect your lips in a heated kiss, one hand playing with the ends of his snowy hair, the other dropping down his back, settling over the brand seared between his shoulder blades. Covering it.

Yes, he thinks as he nips your bottom lip, urging your mouth to open so he can slide his tongue in to dance with yours. Yes, this is fitting. Because in his ideal world, his life with you would come before any other — including his with the Corps.

Sanemi’s lips begin trailing hotly down your jaw, pausing when he reaches your neck. He finds a particularly sensitive spot with a nip of his teeth that he soothes with his tongue, and he hums in approval at the faint, breathy whimpers that squeak past your lips as you tilt your head, offering more of yourself to him.

The ache burgeoning in his groin in response to your display is enough to drive him insane; he has never wanted anything in his life as badly as he wants this — you.

As his mouth continues its heated path, his hands find the hem of your hoodie. With a gentleness that surprises even him, Sanemi begins charting your skin with his fingers. With every new plane of your body he explores, he pushes your sweatshirt up, up, up, until he guides it over your head.

He tosses it to the side, not caring for where it lands. His attention is focused solely on you as you fall back against your bed, now bare from the waist up.

“Beautiful,” he marvels, eyes running over the slope of your shoulder and tracing the curve of your breasts. “So fuckin’ beautiful.”

He savors every hitched breath, every chill that ripples over your skin as he explores your body with his mouth and hands. Over the years, Sanemi has become well acquainted with the magic of the female body. He’s always liked how soft women were compared to him. He isn’t a picky man; he’ll celebrate them all, regardless of their shape or size.

But you? Celebration isn’t enough; you deserve nothing less than outright worship.

“You feel so damn good,” he mutters against your breast before closing his lips over your nipple and sucking hard. You bow off the bed with a keening moan that gutters out into something more ragged as his hand covers the other, pinching and rolling your stiffened bud between his fingers.

He could spend all night like this, lavishing your soft mounds with his mouth. But Sanemi knows that won’t be enough to satisfy the hunger gnawing at both of you, so with a tinge of regret, he forces himself to move on, descending your body in alternating kisses and nips.

He reaches the waistband of your shorts and his eyes flash to yours as he tugs on it with his teeth. The hot exhale of his breath below your navel sends goosebumps across your skin. Sanemi’s fingers inch below the hem of your shorts until he loops his hands around the waistband, and he yanks them down your legs in a single, fluid motion.

His eyes rake down your body, taking in every beautiful inch. A blush forms on his cheeks as he realizes all that separates you from him is your simple pair of black underwear.

He sits back, eager to join your near-nudity. His hands are quick, if not a little clumsy, as he finds his belt buckle. The instant the metal clicks and the leather around his hips loosens, Sanemi shoves off his pants, eagerly kicking them off your bed until he is left in nothing but his briefs.

Your eyes fall to where the evidence of his desire protrudes stiffly from between his legs. Sanemi watches your throat pulse as you try to stifle your small gulp, your thighs tensing beneath him in an effort to press together.

He can sense your nerves; can see by the way your eyes dart anxiously between his and the rigid tent in his briefs.

With a gentle smile, Sanemi leans in and soothes your unease with his lips. “We’ll take it as slow as you want. I’m not in any rush.”

“N-now?” You murmur between kisses, and he nearly seizes at the hesitant, questioning brush of your fingers against the underside of his shaft.

“Not yet,” he groans against your mouth. “I gotta make sure you’re ready first.”

“I am ready -“

“Not like that,” he cuts off your protest by ghosting his fingers up the covered seam of you. Sanemi circles his finger around where he thinks your clit is, and he smirks when your head tips back against your pillow, your mouth widening in a silent o.

“Found you,” he croons, repeating the movement again until your legs begin to twitch beneath him.

He makes quick work of your underwear, tossing them over the side of your bed without much thought. The sight of you bare beneath him nearly stops his heart dead in his chest. His eyes drop to the neat thatch of curls resting at the apex of your thighs, and his mouth waters.

You blush under the intensity of his appreciative stare, and your legs twitch, as though you mean to close them.

A hand sliding between your thighs restrains you from doing so. “Uh-uh,” he tuts. “Can’t hide from me now, sweetheart’.”

He smooths his hand down the length of your leg until it hovers just outside where he’s most eager to explore. The heat radiating from sends his pulse skyrocketing.

One, tentative finger circles your entrance, testing. Sanemi leans in to capture your lips with his as he pushes in, swallowing your soft gasp with his tongue that he slides into your parted mouth.

A moan vibrates in his chest in time with a faint whimper that sounds in the back of your throat as Sanemi begins exploring you. You’re tight; almost impossibly so, clenching and pulsing around the single finger he gradually sinks inside you, pushing deeper with every gentle pump of his hand.

The thought of your tight, wet heat constricting around the aching length of him just as you were around his finger makes him dizzy with want.

He won’t go down on you, he decides. Not tonight. Not when he’s throbbing this badly after just a couple of fingers; not when your breasts are so plush and soft pressed against his chest where you’re already arcing up into him, sending his mind wild with thoughts of how you’ll move under him; how you’ll moan.

His lips are hot against your neck, trailing down past your collarbone. Left behind are a series of purplish-maroon whorls blooming beneath his mouth, your skin quickly becoming a tapestry for him to display how badly he wants this. You.

You cling to him, one hand buried in his hair, pulling and tugging at him as the other clutches wildly at his shoulder, your fingers digging hard into his muscles. Your teeth are buried into your bottom lip in an effort to stifle your whimpers, but a needy whine slips out as Sanemi sucks one, soft breast into his mouth, his tongue flicking out across your pert nipple.

Another finger slides into your entrance as his thumb works your clit, and before long, you’re vibrating beneath him, unrestrained in how you moan and cry out for him so beautifully.

“Sanemi! I think — oh, I think I’m -“ but then he crooks his fingers, brushing against a rough spot deep within you that makes you writhe. You thrash back hard against the bed, your hips grinding against his hand with abandon.

He smothers a curse into your skin. You’re close and he knows it; can feel it in the way your walls flutter and pulse around him. And as desperate as he is to study how you fall apart, it’s too soon.

“Not yet,” he pants against your breast, circling your nipple with his tongue before imparting a final nip at the soft flesh and drawing back.

Remorseful, he pulls his fingers away from you, leaving you panting and flushed under him. But the hot, searing flames of desire burning beneath his skin intensify still, as he takes your hand and guides it between your legs.

“There. Feel how wet you are?” His voice is husky with want. You peer up at him through heavily lidded eyes as you nod, a whimper vibrating in your throat as Sanemi grinds your hand against your sensitive flesh.

“For you,” your voice is syrupy and warm, and damn if Sanemi doesn’t feel like he could get drunk on it. “It’s all for you.”

His tone sharpens into something possessive; hungry. “That’s right,” and he pushes your hand firmly against your clit and rotates it, eliciting a deep moan from you. “Because you’re mine.“

It’s not fair. But he wants to pretend like it’s true, if only for a while.

Once your fingers are sufficiently shiny with your own wetness, he brings your hand to his mouth, his tongue peeking out from between his lips. Slowly and languidly, he drags it up the side of your digits, and his eyes burn into yours as he slides your fingers into his mouth and sucks them clean.

It takes everything in him not to moan at the sweet taste of you that floods his tongue.

He’d made the right decision in not going down on you. If he had, he’d never be able to pull away; not until his face had become so adorned with your essence that he could not comprehend anything that wasn’t you. Not until you were trembling under him and begging for a break.

The first time you cum will be on him; with him. So as much as it pains him, he resists your temptation.

But not before you know; not before you understand exactly how wild you drive him. How much you threaten his sanity.

“Jesus Christ,” he rasps as he pulls your hand away from his mouth. “Here.”

His hand his gentle but firm as he grips your chin, squeezing your jaw until your mouth parts. The question in your gaze dissolves, your eyes instead rolling back into your head, as Sanemi slides the two fingers he’d just had between your thighs, still covered in your wetness, past your lips.

“Go on,” he orders, his other hand brushing your hair from your face. “Taste how fuckin’ perfect you are.”

The moan that slips free from your lips is one he wishes he could bottle up as your tongue caresses his fingers, your cheeks hollowing so fucking perfectly around him as you dutifully clean yourself from him.

Fuck, you’re trying to kill him.

But some of the burning he feels ebbs as the sobering weight of what’s to come settles over him; the magnitude of what he is about to do. Because no matter what happens after, nothing between you will be the same. Whatever else you are after tonight — whether that’s something or nothing — you will never be just friends again.

Sanemi supposes the punishment fits his crime; this is what he gets for getting in too deep with you, even if it means losing you entirely.

He chases away those thoughts by running his hands down your sides before he pulls back, leaving you in favor of shucking his briefs down his thighs.

Finally bare, he’s quick to drape his body over yours once more, his hands smoothing up and down your sides, unable to quench his need to feel your skin against his. But a foreign uncertainty stills him, and his eyes flash to yours, hesitant.

“Are you sure?”

You answer only by reaching to grip the back of his neck, tugging him down to meet your lips, your kiss feverish and urgent.

He doesn’t have a condom but he’s in too deep now to stop. In a way, what is about to happen is new to him as well. He’s never fucked anyone raw before. No matter who he’d had in his bed, no matter how much they begged him or assured him they were on birth control, he’d always been sure to have protection on hand.

Children are a gift, but he’d be damned if anyone tried to come after him and demand he raise one in his fucked up world. Either Sanemi got out or he never became a parent; there was no middle ground.

But once again, he is blurring boundaries where you were concerned, and Sanemi doesn’t think he knows how to stop himself from having the full taste in the indulgence that was you.

“It might hurt a moment,” he admits against your mouth, his voice raspy. “But I promise I’ll be gentle — as gentle as I can.”

You stretch to kiss him again, your lips soft and warm and everything he loves. “I trust you.”

You shouldn’t, he wants to say. You shouldn’t, and you should run far away from this — from me.

But Sanemi knows you won’t just as much as he knows he doesn’t have it in him to try and chase you away, and so he only kisses you back, slow and indulgent.

He breaks away from you with a soft groan and sits up on his knees. His back straight, Sanemi’s hands curl around your hips and he tugs you forward until your backside is flush against his thighs.

The heat radiating from you pulls him in like a magnet as he lines the tip of his cock up with your entrance. A vein above his brow ticks, the only outward sign of the battle raging within him as his self restraint wars with his tantalizing urge to impale you on the thick, throbbing length of him, desperate for the sweet relief only your body can give.

Every inch of him trembles as Sanemi presses his hips forward. “Fuck,” he exhales shakily, pushing his tip past your entrance. “Fuck.”

His head falls back and the muscles in his throat strain. Some small, needy sound leaves him and the fingers on your hip tighten nearly to the point of pain.

The noise registers in the back of your mind, and vaguely, you recognize it as a whimper. You wonder whether he makes that sound for the others; somehow you doubt it, given that he does it again, only now in the shape of your name.

The rumors always said he never asked for names; he was a one-and-done kind of man. A great fuck, but not someone to go to if you were looking for comfort; softness.

Once again, Sanemi is nothing but a collection of contradictions, especially where you’re concerned.

Sanemi hisses as he slowly eases into you. Despite your wetness, you’re impossibly tight, and your body is a live wire hell bent on pushing out his intrusion.

With a deep groan, he falls forward, one arm shooting out to land near your head to catch himself before he can crash into you. His weight carefully braced above you, Sanemi shifts, widening the stance of his knees. Your legs slide up his waist, locking at your ankles at the base of his spine.

His cock is barely a quarter of the way inside your heat when he pulls out. A whine of protest mounts in your throat, but it quickly flickers out when he presses his leaking tip to your clit and grinds. A soft moan slips out of you when he repeats the movement again, and your thighs widen, your hips tilting up to allow him easier access.

Sanemi circles the head of his cock once more against your sensitive nub, coating himself in more of your sticky wetness, before he slides back into your entrance. This time, your body parts more easily around him, sucking him in rather than trying to squeeze him out.

“There you go, that’s it,” his breath is hot against your ear, his lips trailing silkily across your jaw. “That’s my girl.”

Halfway in, Sanemi brushes against that thin barrier that separates him from the rest of you, and he stills.

He pulls his head back from your neck, and moves his hand out from between your legs to cup your cheek.

“Ready?” His thumb strokes over your cheekbone, tender and soft.

There is a tightness building in your abdomen, a foreign pressure that isn’t entirely unwelcome, but neither is it wholly comfortable. You brace a hand at your side, balling your sheets into your fist as you steady yourself, flushed and panting beneath the scar speckled man holding rigidly still above you.

Your eyes flick up once, and you see the tightness in his jaw; the tremble in his limbs as he fights against the urge to relief the friction mounting where you are joined.

You swallow around the lump of anticipation lodged in your throat. Your breath is shaky, but at last, you manage a single “Please.”

With a groan, he grips himself around his base and slowly, he presses forward. There is a sharp prick that shoots deep in your lower abdomen as Sanemi surges past that thin inner wall.

You cannot stop your cry of discomfort from ringing out anymore than you can stop the surprised tears which escape the corners of your eyes as the sharp pain between your legs intensifies.

But then Sanemi’s lips are there, kissing away your tears, and the hand he’d used to guide himself into your body skims along the outside of your thigh, hiking your leg higher up his waist before it drops to rub gentle circles into your hip.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs between soothing caresses of his lips against your cheeks and across your eyelids. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

He coos his string of apologies as his cock continues to push into you. On and on he sinks, his length endless, and you begin to think your body will split in two before you find the end of his.

Just before you reach your limit, Sanemi stills, fully embedded in your heat. He pants through gritted teeth, his jaw locked against the way you’re constricting around him so tightly it’s nearly painful.

It’s unreal; not only does Sanemi realize how much fucking better sex feels without the restriction of a condom, but he’s also bashed over the head with the realization that you were made for him. For nothing, no one has ever felt as incredible as you.

Nothing in his life has ever felt so right.

Sanemi has always been someone who fucks fast and hard. He’d had no objective other than to escape for a few, blissful moments in the body of another as he pretended not to feel the hollowness in his chest, or the throb of his own self-loathing.

With you, however, he wants nothing more than to relish every movement of your body against his, to savor your every gasp and sigh; to learn what makes you lose control.

You are no temporary distraction; he wants to know you.

He drops his forehead against yours and waits, allowing you to adjust to the intrusion of him.

He trails his lips across your collar bone and down to the twin swells of your breasts, sucking softly at your plush skin as you fidget and squirm beneath him. One broad hand skirts down the outside of your thigh until he finds your knee, and gently he guides your leg around his hips. The other he leaves relaxed against the bed, your foot resting somewhere against his calf.

When your eyes flutter open and find his, he knows you’re ready. So he moves his arm out from between your bodies and winds it instead around your waist, deepening the arch in your back until his chest is flush with yours.

His lips press to your forehead, a silent warning that he is about to move.

And then Sanemi begins molding your body to the shape of his.

He starts slow. He doesn’t withdraw far from you, instead focusing on rolling his hips against yours. Each churn of his groin pushes his cock deeper into your warmth, and soon, your timid whimpers melt into soft moans as your initial discomfort gives way to pleasure.

Encouraged by the way your body starts to relax in his embrace, Sanemi tests drawing his cock out a few inches before plunging back into you.

Before long, the room fills with the lewd sounds of skin slapping against skin, and Sanemi’s moans join yours as he rapidly becomes lost in the euphoria of your wet, tight heat.

One of your arms jumps to lock around his ribs, your nails sinking into his skin as you anchor yourself to him.

His hand snakes across the sheets in search of yours. When he finds it, fisted against your sheets, he pries your fingers loose, winding them with his and he wraps your arm around his shoulders.

“Tighter,” he gasps. “Hold me tighter. Please.”

Your fingers dig into the muscles of his back and Sanemi groans his approval.

And then he’s rolling to his side, pulling you along with him until you’re stretched out across the length of your mattress, chest to chest.

His hand grips under your thigh, tugging it over his hip as he rocks harder into you. “Talk to me, angel,” the hand under your thigh moves to splay across your rear, pushing and pulling your hips in time with his as he grinds. “Tell me how you feel — tell me what you want.”

You cry out, mournful, as Sanemi draws out his cock nearly to its tip before he plunges back into you.

The fullness you feel is overwhelming. You can’t stand that empty feeling, even for a moment. So you hitch your leg higher around his hip, and dig the heel of your foot into the firmness of his ass, limiting his movements.

“Closer!” You gasp. “I — I need you closer.”

He needs that too, he decides; craves it. He doesn’t want to feel any space between your bodies. He wants — he needs — to be so enraptured with you that there is no point in trying to separate. That way, he might get to keep you for just a little longer.

Sanemi’s hand massages your backside, his cock throbbing with every push into you. “Deeper,” he confirms between throaty groans. “You want me deeper?”

You bury your face into his shoulder. Your teeth sink into his skin and with a moan, you nod.

He can do that; is more than happy to, as a matter of fact.

So, with a faint snarl, Sanemi grips the fat of your ass and spreads you wide, and he begins thrusting, hard.

The new angle allows the tip of his cock to bump up against a sweet spot deep inside you. Sanemi’s eyes narrow at the way your head drops back, a loud cry tearing from your throat.

Determined to hit that point within you again and again, he shifts his hips under you while hiking your leg higher up his hip, his fingers digging into the curve of your ass.

It’s a success; soon, your wails echo throughout your studio, punctuated by every punishing slap of his skin against yours.

Really, he can’t give less of a damn at how thin your apartment walls are. The sounds pouring from your mouth are the prettiest fucking thing he’s ever heard.

Something hot and electric mounts quickly in your stomach with each of his frenetic movements. You’ve come before with your own hand, but this — this is something different. Something far more intense, something that threatens to rip you apart from your very sanity until you know nothing but him.

You try and tell him you’re losing control but all that comes out is a pitiful whimper.

But he knows; he knows exactly what you need.

“I’m here, baby, I’m here. I’ve got you.” And with that, Sanemi rolls you back underneath him, settling into the cradle of your thighs and pushing his cock faster and deeper into you. His arms gently unwind yours from his shoulders, and he brings them up over your head, one large hand pinning them down.

“I’ll take care of you, sweet girl,” he promises, and he weaves the fingers of the hand keeping you pressed against the mattress with your own. “Just keep your legs around me.”

Your thighs squeeze his waist in silent answer, your mind far too suspended in the throes of your pleasure to do anything else.

With his lips trailing along your neck leaving hot, open-mouthed kisses in its wake, his free hand slides between your sweat-slicked bodies. He wedges it between where his groin is pressed to yours, and he searches along your sensitive, swollen folds, seeking the spot between your thighs that made you tremble and whine for him earlier.

You jolt under him as his fingers find you again, that foreign, electric sensation sparking deep in your abdomen. “Sanemi —“

“It’s okay,” he murmurs sweetly, pressing down on your clit until you arch further into him with a gasp. “It’s gonna feel so good, baby, I promise. Just focus on me.”

Each rotation of his hand against your sensitive bead matched the deep, pointed roll of his groin, with Sanemi capping the end of every powerful thrust with alternating pulses of his thumb. The pressure he uses mounts with every churn of his hips, and the moan vibrating in your chest as another surge of sticky wetness gushes from your thighs is the sweetest sound he thinks he’s ever heard.

A broken chant of please please please stutters its way out of you, spurning him to go faster; hit deeper.

And Sanemi only knows how to oblige you.

“You’re doing so fucking good, sweetheart. Just keep letting me take care of you —- that’s it.” He curses as you clench down around him, crying out in approval at his praise. “Yeah, yeah. You’re my fuckin’ girl, aren’t you?”

A single wail of his name is your only response, but it’s enough of a confirmation to damn you both.

“You are,” he affirms, his voice taking on the timber of a growl. “Mine. You’re fuckin’ mine.”

His thrusts grow sloppier with every second, though each is punctuated by a silent, recurring chant of mine, mine, mine. Though your eyes are closed, Sanemi can spy a faint sliver of white peeking out from between your eyelids.

You’re close; he can feel it. And he knows, as the walls of your cunt flutter and tighten around him, that your climax will be his undoing.

The hands he has pinned against the mattress over your head flex as you twist and writhe beneath him. your head tosses from from side to side, and the vibrato of your cries rises octave by octave. Every muscle in your body is tense; you are a live wire thrumming with a need to come apart that he knows you do not fully understand.

Sanemi grunts as he fucks you harder into your bed, no longer concerned with keeping his weight off you. He will show you; he will show you how to shatter, and then he too, will break.

But he needs to see you, first.

“Look at me,” his voice beckons you back from the precipice of ruin. “Look at me, Y/N.”

Your eyes open to meet his and suddenly you’re right back at that edge, only this time, you’re falling freely over it, plummeting down a drop that has no end.

“S-Sanemi —!” It’s all you can manage before the knot steadily building in your stomach unravels. Your back arcs sharply away from your bed, and Sanemi ducks his head to smother his own cry against your breast as he takes its tip into his hot mouth.

Your hips jerk and twitch against his, your cunt seizing around him with force that threatens to squeeze the life out of him. Above you, your arms strain and pull against his grip as you writhe and sing for him.

“That’s it baby, that’s it,” Sanemi’s praise is muffled against your sternum, though it is strangled as he nears his own end. “Fuck!“

He’ll have to buy you the morning-after pill tomorrow, he realizes as you continue to come apart so beautifully on his cock, a soft chant of his name the only thing on your lips. He will not force you to bear the consequences of his own selfishness; he will not saddle you with his burden.

But he’s also not strong enough to pull out; not when your body feels like it was made for him, not when your sweet cunt is gripping him this hard, is this wet — all because of him.

He is selfish and he is weak; it’s a toxic combination, and yet he knows cannot stop.

Sanemi’s hips snap a final time against yours, pushing them up and away from the mattress, pressing deeper than he thought possible. His eyes roll back as his own orgasm rocks through him, powerful and blinding, and the growl that built in his throat melts into a strained groan.

He holds you in place, his cock pulsing in time with your cunt while the two of you ride out the waves of your climax together, his cum steadily filling you with his warmth. Your hands skirt down the length of his arms, blindly searching for his hips. When you find him, you pull and tug, a faint whine sounding from the back of your throat. Sanemi answers your plea with a broken moan of his own and he rocks against you, your hips circling with his until he finally lets you collapse against your mattress, limp-limbed and exhausted.

He follows you down, smothering you with his weight as he clings to you like a lifeline, his face buried in the crook of your neck.

“Fuck, you did so good, sweetheart. So fuckin’ good.” He moans into your ear before he pulls back, his eyes searching your face as he pants.

One hand cradles your jaw and his thumb strokes repeatedly over the flushed curve of your cheek. “You okay?”

You don’t answer right away, your eyes shut tight, and Sanemi feels panic bubble hot in his stomach. The hand cupping your face tightens with his worried call of your name, his fear rearing its ugly head, ready to rip him apart, to turn him into the horrid monster he’s always known he was —

“I love you,” and then you’re peering up at him, eyes round and shining with emotion he does not deserve to feel. “I love you, Sanemi.”

It would’ve hurt less if you’d shot him.

Whatever wall remained around his heart cracks and crumbles under the weight of your confession. Sanemi does not answer, cannot find the words to adequately capture the depth of his feelings.

Instead, he snatches you up into his arms, crushing your body against his.

He kisses your lips and then your cheek. One hand cups the back of your head, his fingers burying into your hair as he presses your face into his chest. His arms tremble as he holds you close, every hard ridge of him cradled against your soft curves. He feels your smile against his collarbone, and the way your fingers dance up and down his spine that makes him melt.

It hits him, then. You aren’t waiting for an answer — you said it only so he would know, and you’d not expected anything in return.

All you’d done was give while he took and took. Your body. Your love.

He doesn’t deserve any of it.

Whatever or whomever came after this would never compare to you. Truthfully, Sanemi doesn’t think it would be worth trying anything different. Everything now began and ended with you — including him.

He twists his head to kiss you again and again, your lips meeting his with a sleepy enthusiasm.

He pants as he breaks away. “‘M gonna pull out — might be uncomfortable for a second.”

You wince at the sudden stab of cold left behind by Sanemi’s retreating warmth. He shifts back onto his knees and slides his hands down your thighs, parting them.

A low whistle blows past his lips. “Damn, I made a mess outta you.”

For a moment, Sanemi can’t tear his eyes away from the sight between your legs; the sight of him trickling out you, staining the sheets below. But some of that hot, possessive pride that wells in his chest tempers at the small smear of blood staining your inner thigh.

His fingers massage your legs in silent apology. “Let me clean you up.”

Your hands shoot to grasp at his shoulders, a pleading whimper on your lips. “Don’t leave — not yet.” You bite your lip, your eyes wide and anxious. “Please, can you just hold me for a bit?”

Sanemi’s eyes soften and his heart throbs painfully in his chest. He can’t imagine leaving you; not now, not ever. No matter how stupid and selfish that makes him.

He’d be lying if he said he didn’t know the source of your anxiety — or that you didn’t have reason for it. Sanemi isn’t known for lingering.

But this is different — you’re different. You’re not some temporary distraction. You’re everything. His everything.

“Shhh,” he maneuvers you easily atop him, settling you in against the length of his torso, his hands smoothing up and down the column of your spine. “I’m staying right here, sweet girl. I’m not goin’ anywhere.”

He seals his promise with a gentle kiss against your forehead before laying his cheek against your temple, cradling you to his chest.

Finally, you relax against him, convinced. He lays with you for a long time after, one hand on the back of your head, his fingers rubbing against your scalp until you fall asleep on against him, safe and sound and warm.

Minutes pass, or maybe hours. But Sanemi’s head does not quiet, not even under the soothing sounds of your deep, slow breaths as you dream.

He must have lost his mind. There is no other explanation for the way he’s disregarded every rule, every boundary he’s ever made sense of, all in the name of you. In a single evening, you managed to obliterate every last defense, every barricade he’d safely cowered behind, and now that the castle has fallen, he isn’t quite sure what he’s supposed to do with the rubble.

What he does know is that there’s no putting things back to how they were.

His eyes search your sleeping face because if you were able to make him question nearly everything that made sense in his life, then surely you must also have the answers he needs to re-strike balance in his tilted world. Maybe they lie among the lashes that tickle your cheek, or in the occasional twitch of your mouth between your deep inhales.

But Sanemi is only left feeling more confused the longer he watches you. Because, despite the way he feels vulnerable and exposed at how easily he has been stripped of his guard, he can’t quite bring himself to believe it was entirely your doing.

His eyes widen. There’s his answer.

Perhaps you are not trying to sink your nails into his flesh to peel it back, to demand he be stripped to the bone for you to inspect, to scrutinize and use as you please.

Perhaps that is what you’ve done to yourself, and you’re waiting to see if you will join you; to know if he can volunteer his vulnerability, rather than wait for someone to come and force it from him.

He cannot make any promises. He has spent so much of his life cowering behind the armor he crafted out of his scars and his sneers and barks that were always more ferocious than his bite, that he does not know how to take it off. He does not know how to navigate the world without its weight, both his safety net and his chain. And there is an understanding in your eyes that signals you know that, too.

But he can try.

He mouths I love you against your hairline — he does not voice it, not yet, though it’s what he feels. But your love is a compass that just might point him down the road the leads to a life he so desperately wants; to you.

And he’ll get there, maybe.

In time.

LIKES, REBLOGS, COMMENTS APPRECIATED!

#demon slayer #sanemi shinazugawa #kimetsu no yaiba #kny #kny x reader #kny fanfic #kny sanemi #sanemi x reader #kny fic #demon slayer fanfic #demon slayer smut #kny smut #shinazugawa sanemi #sanemi x you #sanemi smut #demon slayer sanemi #kimetsu no yaiba sanemi #sanemi x y/n

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lno-x · 1 month

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Hello! I've returned to say I adore the twins designs so much!! They look so human and I really love that. You only drew them like a few times but how did you figure out their differences and similarities in appearance (since they are identical twins... I think). Info-dump if you want, I loved reading your response to my last question, it genuinely brightened my day.

There we go, thats Third house designs!

Speaking about twins, need to mention, that i think Corona and Ianthe is identical, but because of weight difference they seem alike

Details inder cut

Women Fashion (Baroque period)

The word baroque was originally used by the Italians to describe pearls of strange or overly ornate shapes, and in the 17th century the term became the name of an era, because it was a period of entertainment, wealth and debauchery (for the rich, of course).

I personally think that period and mindset fit the third house perfectly

Women of that period have centric parted hairstyle with ringlets and wear dresses with deep neckline (that almost show the nipple) and puff sleeves. Made from silk, its look like liquid that embrace the body. Blue and Gold colors was an thing, pearl jewelry was very fashionable

Main take for desing

They fashionably dressed in rich silk and satin clothing, which is perfectly fitting for vibe

I borrowed elements of women's fashion from the Baroque period and mixed it with cavalier fashion on my own taste. For reference i take Baroque painting of Lord John Stuart and His Brother ,Lord Bernard Stuartby Anthony van Dyck.

The Cavalier fashion

Babs design is just creative version of typical cavalier fashion, there no much though behind it

Cavaliers wear long hair with curls and mustache. The waistline was high to make torso shorter and legs longer. The pants was the knee length and worn with with high heeled boots. Cool hats also was an thing in that period.

Springklinge (German main-gauche) or Trident Knife

I won't write about the rapier again, Babs's is just have expensively decorated one. The thinf that are really interesting there is Springklinge (or German main-gauche)

I though its was an some fantasy weapon but no, its was an real pair weapon that used to capture the opponent's blade. Main-gauche comes in different types, with and without hand protection, but mostly rapier and main-gauche was an pair weapon, that decorated in the same style.

senya need to play rdr2 so i need to end that lecture and free up computer for her so end of presentation. thank you.

#tlt #the locked tomb #the third house #ianthe tridentarius #coronabeth tridentarius #naberius tern #lno-x art #answers

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solarsturniolo · 2 months

Text

𝕻𝖑𝖆𝖞 𝕯𝖎𝖗𝖙𝖞 // 𝕸.𝕾. // 𝕻𝖆𝖗𝖙 𝕺𝖓𝖊

𝔖𝔲𝔪𝔪𝔞𝔯𝔶: You never got along with him. Even after years of being friends with his brothers, he never gave you a second glance. He’s hated you for almost six years, what could one weekend at their family’s lake house do to change that?

𝔇𝔦𝔰𝔠𝔩𝔞𝔦𝔪𝔢𝔯: None of my stories are real, they are all fictional. You are responsible for what you read. Please read with caution. Practice safe sex. A tritoon is a type of boat. This is a two part story, there will ONLY be two parts and they will be long. THERE WILL NOT BE A THIRD PART TO THIS STORY.

𝔚𝔞𝔯𝔫𝔦𝔫𝔤𝔰: This basically turned into a novel. lots of plot (you’ve been warned) / Toxic!Matt (if you squint) / tension building / enemies trope / cursing / SMUT / dumbification kink / p in v / unprotected sex / Dom!Matt / spanking / pet names / lots of dirty talk / a true breeding kink / creampie /

𝔚𝔬𝔯𝔡 ℭ𝔬𝔲𝔫𝔱: 15,140

©Solarsturniolo 2024

You were never friends.

How could you be?

His brothers were easy to get along with. Nick cherished you. He had a hard time maintaining friendships, people came and went like the seasons or the wind. It took a while for him to open up fully, afraid that it would be the same with you. But you were different. You stayed during the hard times, loving him when he felt like he couldn’t love himself. It made a change in how he perceived friendships. He rarely went anywhere without offering you an invite. All of his social media pages; an intricate collage of pictures and videos together, capturing your happiest moments with each other. His camera roll practically bursting with memories. Years worth of polaroid pictures remained tacked onto his wall, even as time passed he never took them down. He made his appreciation of your friendship known, never shying away from his platonic love for his best friend.

Chris adored you. In his words, you were like the sister he never had. You immediately clicked the first time you had met, something he wasn’t used to. He was fairly reserved around new people, but you brought his personality out so naturally and easily. People made their assumptions about your relationship with him, it was difficult for them not to when you were both practically joined at the hip; doing everything together even if it was insignificant as going to the garage for a soda or making a trip to the nearby convenience store. He knew everything about you, and you, him. Though his love was platonic, he made it known to everyone: he loved you. Things weren’t perfect, you had arguments and disputes, but at the end of the day he would do anything to repair the cracks and wears in the foundation of your friendship.

Matt despised you. Or, at least, that was how it felt. He never went out of his way to initiate conversation with you, and it was rare for him to acknowledge you in social settings. Sometimes you could feel him looking at you. It was a feeling that made your blood run cold, your skin crawling with goosebumps. It was worse when you caught him; the way his eyes scanned over you, a shit eating smirk plastered on his face as he looked away, paying no mind to you for the rest of the time you were there. It was a weird feeling, one that would keep you up at night. Part of you wanted to smack that grin off of his face, to pluck his wandering eyes right out of his head. You hated the way his gaze objectified you, making you feel weak and helpless while everyone around you remained ignorant to his behavior. You hated the way he’d cut you off when you’d speak, a satisfied smirk creeping onto his face when you’d shut down and shy away from the conversation, only speaking again if prompted by another person.

You knew that he did it for some weird power trip. To control you, at least to a certain extent. Years went by, but his behavior remained a constant variable. How he could go years of giving you the cold shoulder, you had no idea, but he managed to do it with ease. But as the years went by you cared less and less. As long as his sour mood and crude behavior didn’t intervene with the friendships you had built with his brothers, you couldn’t care less…

Or that's what you told yourself.

It ate away at you, no matter how much you told yourself that you didn’t care. Why doesn’t he like me? What did I ever do to him? What do I do to fix it? Why don’t his brothers see it? The way that he looks at me and treats me…Why does it all get swept under the rug? It swirled around your mind, haunting you with hypothetical ideas of how you could have changed everything. Anything you could have done differently just to be on okay terms with him. You weren’t asking for much; you didn’t expect him to be best friends with you, and you certainly had no expectation of him to fall to his knees and declare his undying love for you. But a smile every now and again, a kind word here and there…it would be enough.

It certainly would have made this trip more enjoyable.

“MATT! Quit skipping my music!”

“Or what, Chris? You’ll just queue more-”

Chris leaned over the center console, getting into his brother’s personal space. Matt kept his eyes glued to the wide stretch of road in front of them. “I built that queue from the ground up, I very meticulously chose each song-”

“Chris, what’s the definition of meticulous,” Nick spoke up, his head still resting on your shoulder, eyes glued to his phone. He really wasn’t paying much attention to his brothers squabbling, but his bullshit radar could pick up their nonsense from miles away. The way he interjected himself into the conversation made you smile, he always found a way to be included in their arguments, even if it was just to feed the flame.

Chris turned his head to look at Nick, furrowing his brow at him. “Why do you need the definition if I know how to use the word right?”

“Did you use the word right?” Nick rebutted.

Their argument continued for another ten minutes, even after Chris had Googled the word and passed his phone around as if he were in a blunt rotation, the definition displayed on his screen for everyone to see. His smug demeanor was short lived, though. Matt and Nick very rarely lost an argument with their brother, but when they did, they would share a mutual look and move into Phase Two: gaslight the motherfucker until his brain fried.

Sometimes it was entertaining to watch, but after being trapped in a car with them for, going on, four hours, you were ready for some peace and quiet. The sound of their quarreling became muffled as you put your airpods in, the noise canceling feature kicking into high gear once both pods were snug in place. You flicked through different playlists on your phone before selecting one that was a little less…intense than the music Chris had been playing previously. Pressing the shuffle button, you let your phone fall into your lap, resting your head against the window and watching the endless line of trees pass by. Nothing but brush and trees for miles ahead. You were excited to be going on this trip with some of your best friends, but you couldn’t help the sense of dread that lingered like a shadow in a dark alleyway. Something terrifying looming in the air, a figure of black lurking just out of sight. A bottomless pit of existential worry formed in your stomach just thinking about anything and everything that could go wrong.

This was going to be a long weekend.

X O X O X O

Gravel crunched beneath the tires, loose pebbles flying up as the beast of a vehicle slowly came to a stop in the unpaved driveway.

It was late.

There was still some light outside, enough to see the cluster of dark clouds beginning to close in. The faint warm glow seeping through the windows of houses just across the stream contributed some light, but not much. The dark shadows from the trees absorbed most of it before it could get very far. As the van shifted into park, you lifted your head from where it had been resting, somewhat uncomfortably, against the window. The roar of the engine, that you had all unknowingly grown accustomed to, died down to a soft purr before stopping entirely. The overhead lights flickered to life, illuminating the interior of the car with a hazy yellow glow. For a brief moment, everything came to a complete stop.

Within the next five seconds, three truths became very evident: One; Chris was asleep. Two; Nick was asleep. And three; you were not.

Someone else realized this as well, and his sharp icy glare penetrated your skull like an ice pick through the reflection of his rearview mirror. This didn’t go unnoticed by you, it never did, but it was easier to pretend like it did. As you took out your airpods and tentatively placed them back into their case, you shifted in your seat, the squeaking of the leather just barely being drowned out by the music still playing in the car. The song that softly drifted through the speakers was different from what had been playing earlier; smoother, languid, sultry. The lyrics were alluring and sensual, covered by an addictive instrumental that complimented the underlying provocative tone perfectly. It was sexy, it was passionate…

And it made no appearance on any of Chris’s playlists.

You shifted in your seat again, a sharp inhale coming from the front of the car as the leather squeaked again. “I’ll start unloading the back,” you spoke up, your voice faltering towards the end. He responded with silence, his gaze shifting away from the mirror to stare out of the windshield instead.

Gravel crunched beneath the soles of your shoes as you stepped out of the van. You took a deep breath as you escaped the tense atmosphere in the car, not realizing you had been holding your breath until now. The air was crisp, underlying earthy and musty tones accompanying the clean, fresh breeze that swept over your shoulder. The faint smell of rain began to grow heavy in the air, the dark clouds overhead drawing in. Treading to the back of the car, you opened the trunk and began unloading the bags that were messily stacked on top of each other.

Chris and Nick emerged from the passenger side of the car, both of them trudging over to collect their things. It was clear they hadn’t woken up willingly. Nick’s cowlick stuck out like a sore thumb, his eyelids heavy with sleep. Chris yawned obnoxiously, earning himself an irritated glare from his brother. You laughed softly at the sight, handing them their respective bags. Like a bat out of hell, Matt came around to the back of the car and tugged his luggage out from the trunk, his elbow knocking into your arm in the process. He didn’t pay you a second glance as he slammed the trunk shut, his footsteps heavy and dragging as he walked down the gravel driveway.

Nick rolled his eyes. “Great. We just love grumpy Matt,” he huffed, his tone laced with sarcasm. You offer an apologetic smile, feeling somewhat responsible for Matt’s attitude. It was nothing new, this was his behavior any time you happened to be around, but you knew his brothers must have been getting tired of the same old practices coming from him.

As you followed the other two, Chris slowed his strides to walk with you. Carrying his luggage in his right hand, he hooked his left arm over your shoulders, pulling you into his side. “Hey, you know I can see what you’re thinkin’, right?” He starts, his hand giving your shoulder a soft squeeze. “You didn’t do anything.”

“I feel like I did…” you sighed, not looking up at him. Nick was oblivious to the interaction, his spatial awareness being almost entirely eradicated when he was half asleep. It didn’t take long for him to disappear from view into the house.

Chris shrugged. “Well, what did you do then?” he questioned. This time you did look up at him, brow furrowed and a glint of confusion in your eyes.

“I-I don’t know what I did…”

“Then it’s not you,” Chris smiled. “All him. Don’t pay him any attention. I don’t know what’s got his fucking nuts in a knot, but he’s gonna have to get over it,” he continued. Chris took your bag from your hands as you approached the front porch steps, carrying it up to the door for you. “We’re gonna have fun this weekend, even with Miserable Matt here. Don’t let him get to you.”

Chris handed your bag back to you, his all too familiar boyish grin making an appearance on his face. It was hard not to return the favor, smiling back at him as you slung the strap of the bag over your shoulder. Chris reached out, his fingers brushing the underside of your chin. “Head up, kid,” he tells you. The loud rumble overhead makes both of you flinch, mirroring each other as you and him look up to the sky. Charcoal clouds flood the open sky, blocking out the vivid shades of orange and pink that would have painted the heavens in their beautiful hues. Chris blindly reached out, opening the door to his family’s vacation home. “C’mon,” he mumbled, beckoning you inside.

You didn’t move for a second. Getting struck by lightning was almost more appealing than being trapped in a house with Matt for an entire weekend.

Almost.

You step through the doorway and let the strap of your bag slip off of your shoulder, the bag landing on the floor with a soft thud. The door shut behind you as Chris came inside as well, the deadbolt lock clicking into place. Muffled arguing could be heard from upstairs, followed by the loud slam of a door. ‘We’re gonna have fun this weekend.’ His words taunted you.

“Not likely,” you huffed.

X O X O X O

What started as a movie night (an attempt to relax and unwind after your long, tiring road trip), quickly began to progress into a memorable night, just not for the better. You should have known to dismiss yourself when Nick suggested watching a romantic comedy, earning an annoyed grunt from his brother who was sulking at the far end of the sectional. His feet kicked up onto the coffee table as he reclined deep into the cushions on the couch. His blatant disregard and disrespect for his parents’ beautiful (and expensive) furniture made you scoff.

He shot you a hostile glare, testing you to say what you had been thinking; His electric blue irises, like icicles piercing your skin. Thoughts swirled around in your head as you avoided his gaze, looking straight ahead at the television as Nick flicked through page after page of options, stopping occasionally to read the summary of something that caught his eye. The silence was deafening, you were sure they could all hear you swallowing the lump that had been lodged in your throat. You felt a chill run through you; Even with Chris sitting so close you couldn’t help but feel cold. Frozen.

“Or we could watch something that won’t bore us all to tears,” Chris suggested, his arm hooking over the back of the sofa. In a spur of passive aggressive frustration, Nick hurled the remote at his brother. The impact was intense enough to draw a groan out of him, and he scowled at Nick as he picked the remote controller up. “I hope the bed bugs DO bite, tonight,” he grunted.

Nobody even cared about what was put on anymore, just as long as it would break the uncomfortable tension that surrounded them. Finally deciding on a horror movie, Matt switched off the lamp that was next to the couch, the only light in the room coming from the television. Muffled thunder could be heard from outside, and occasionally a white flash of lightning would light up the sky with deep purple shadows. The rain had started a while ago, though it was much more noticeable now as it created a steady rhythm on the roof. The aged wooden boards of the house moaned and creaked with the howling of the wind. Chris turned the volume up on the television to drown out the outside noises.

Nick was the first to leave. Halfway through the movie, he got up from his spot and shuffled out of the room without a word. Nick wasn’t very chatty when he was tired, usually just communicating through soft grunts and hums, but he was too exhausted to even do that. The floorboards on the stairs groaned with each step he took, though it was only really noticeable if you had been paying attention.

And you had been paying attention.

Chris looked down, seeing that your focus wasn’t on the movie playing in front of you, but instead you were staring off towards the staircase that was hidden in the dark shadows of the entryway. He nudged you softly with his arm to break your focus. “He’s just tired. ‘S okay,” he assures you.

“He seems mad,” you pointed out.

“He’s not mad. He’s been up since seven this morning, and we all know he’s not a morning person.”

Matt shifted in his spot, inhaling sharply and exhaling just as obnoxiously. Your gaze shifted from Chris to his irritated brother. He didn’t even have to look at you, you could tell exactly how he felt. His posture was as terrible as always, but he was tense, the outline of his shoulder blades evident through his t-shirt. His jaw clenched, emotionless eyes glaring at the television. Arms crossed over his chest, the veins in his arms standing out as his biceps flexed. It didn’t take a body language expert to tell that he was angry, or at the very least annoyed.

You went quiet as you turned your attention back to the television. You hoped that Chris hadn’t noticed your change in demeanor. The last thing you wanted was to ruin this weekend just by being present; by doing something to make it all about you. Arguing and fighting with Matt would make it about you. Talking to Chris or Nick about it would make it about you. Showing any emotional response to it would make it about you. The easiest thing to do in this situation was stay reserved.

But Chris was much too conscious of you and your feelings, he always had been. That was one thing you loved so much about him; he was just as in tune with your emotions as he was with his own. However, when he turned his head to glare in his brother’s direction, you wished, for once, that he hadn’t been. “What, Matt.” His voice was gruff and demanding, not even a hint of questioning in his voice. He had gotten sick of Matt’s nasty attitude approximately four and a half years ago, and he officially had enough. “What’s pissing you off this time.”

Matt spared his brother a glance, his eyes refusing to meet yours. “You know how you’re not supposed to talk in the movie theater?” Matt started, pursing his lips as he waited for his brother to reply. Chris rolled his eyes in response. “Same rule typically applies at home.” His tone was passive aggressive, and that was when he finally made eye contact with you. “It’s quite rude.”

“You’re one to talk,” Chris scoffed.

“The fuck does that mean?”

You tugged softly at the sleeve of Chris’s t-shirt, attempting to pull his attention away. “It’s fine-“

“No, it’s not fucking fine,” Chris interrupted. He paused the movie, tossing the remote controller in his brother’s direction. “I don’t know what weird ass Netflix Original Series you think you’re in, but this fucking attitude is insufferable,” Chris snapped. He stood up, grabbing his phone off of the coffee table, stuffing it into his pocket. “You give me a fucking headache.”

“What are you fucking talking about? Netflix Original Series? What kind of comparison is that?” Matt scoffed.

“A pretty fucking good one. You’ve got this weird ass angsty attitude and nobody can fucking stand it.”

Matt shifted in his spot, his confidence faltering. “Wh- I don’t-“

Chris shot his brother another glare. “Oh, but you actually do. And you act all big and tough until someone finally calls you out on your bullshit. You’ve been on this shit for six fucking years and I’ve fucking had it,” Chris grumbled. His demeanor changes quickly, the flame inside of him burning out. He rubbed his tired eyes as he walked away from the sofa, blindly making his way to the staircase. He grunted out a soft ‘m goin’ to bed’ before disappearing up the stairs, just as Nick had done earlier.

The floorboards from upstairs could be heard with each step Chris took, muffled creaks and squeaks barely filling the uncomfortable silence in the room until they stopped all together. The dull drumming of the raindrops on the roof filled the uncomfortable silence that engulfed you and Matt as you sat there, refusing to look at each other. There was a soft crackle of television static, and the faint roar of the thunder outside, but nothing else.

After a few minutes had passed (which had felt more like an hour) you finally decided to steal a glance. Between the light illuminating from the TV and the flash of lightning from outside, all of his features seemed to stand out more so than ever before. The deep shadows beneath his jaw, the light reflecting off of his perfect skin. He pursed his plump lips, almost as if he was about to say something. His earrings glimmered in the dark room, swinging as he turned his head. You felt your heart drop as his eyes locked with yours for the third time that evening. But for once, his gaze held nothing hostile or hateful. His gaze faltered, looking at the couch cushion beside you. He didn’t say anything. He seemed apologetic. Regretful. Remorseful; Something you weren’t sure he was capable of feeling. His fingers picked at the loose threads on the armrest of the sofa, his eyes darting back and forth between the cushions and you.

You could have drowned in the tension; it flooded the room out of nowhere. It had never been like this before, but then again you had never been left alone with Matt before either. As the tension grew, so did the pit in your stomach. Is he going to snap? What is he thinking? Why hasn’t he said anything? Does he want me to apologize? Why is he acting like this? Why won’t he just get it over with and yell at me? As the thoughts began to consume your entire being, you found your chest constricting, the air catching in your throat with each breath you tried to take.

“Are you-”

You stood up from the couch the second he spoke. “Yeah, I’m going,” you replied, gracelessly stepping around the coffee table. His brow furrowed as he followed you with his gaze. You paid little attention to it. You were much more focused on getting the fuck out of there. Before he could get another word out, you had already left the room. Making a beeline for your designated room down the hall, you closed the door behind you, finally taking a second to catch your breath.

This was going to be a very long weekend.

X O X O X O

“Why can’t I drive the boat?”

“You can’t even drive a car, why the fuck would we let you drive the boat?” Nick scoffed, looking at his phone attentively. He had gotten comfortable in his seat, taking one of the captain's seats under the shade of the tritoon. His feet were kicked up, heels resting on the leather lounge seats along the inside of the boat. “You need a boating license.”

You had decided to sit on the lounge seats opposite to the ones Nick was using as a personal footrest, soaking up the rays of the sun as they beamed down from the heavens, spears of light penetrating the clouds above.

Chris stepped onto the boat swiftly, putting down the cooler that he had carried all the way from the house. You weren’t sure why he didn’t wait to fill the cooler once you all had gotten onto the boat, but Chris insisted that he could carry it by himself. You also weren’t quite sure why he had decided to wear a hoodie in 95-degree weather, which surely wasn’t making the job any easier on him. He let out a soft breath as he placed the cooler by the driver’s console, popping it open and pulling an orange Fanta from where it had been buried in the ice. “...Like from SpongeBob?” Chris questioned in response to Nick’s previous comment. He cracked the soda open and brought it to his lips.

“Or like legally?! You fucking moron?!” Nick retorted, a dumbfounded look finding a way onto his face, his gaze tearing away from his phone to look at you as if to say, ‘are you hearing this shit too?’. You smiled, biting the inside of your cheek to hold back a laugh.

Chris narrowed his eyes, scowling at his brother. After he had finished taking a much-needed drink, Chris put the can in a random nearby cup holder. “No need to be rude.”

Nick shook his head in disbelief. “You’re unreal,” he muttered, looking at his phone once again. “If you get pulled over without one-”

“You can’t get pulled over on the water.”

Slowly, Nick turned his head toward you, the same dumbfounded look on his face. You couldn’t hold back your laughter, his reaction was unexpected, but hilarious at the same time. “Am I- Are you-” Nick started, gesturing toward you with his phone. Finally, he looked over at Chris again. “Are you a real fucking person? There is no fucking way you just said that with a straight face. Like, I’m genuinely shocked…No, you know what-” he cut himself off, opening his safari app. He made a quick google search before continuing his harangue. “I am stunned. I am astonished. I am dumbfounded, oh that’s a good one… I am aghast. I am appalled. I am flabbergasted-”

“Alright, man,” Matt interrupted him, stepping onto the boat with a few bags in his hands, all of them filled with snacks that the boys had stocked up on earlier that morning when they went on their grocery store run. “I think we got it.”

He looked sickeningly good this morning. Nothing about what he was wearing was very out of the ordinary, for him at least. A simple white tank top, his renowned blue flannel pyjama pants, and his signature horse pendant: it was simple, it was effortless, it made you want to rip your hair out. You truly envied Matt’s ability to always look good, no matter the time of day or what he was wearing. It wasn’t fair how he could just roll out of bed and look like he had just walked out of a Calvin Klein photoshoot. Then again, nothing about how he looked was fair. His high cheekbones, his sharp jawline, perfectly clear skin; It was a shame he was such a dick.

Chris pouted, crossing his arms over his chest before slumping down into the seat next to you, snapping you out of your thoughts. You tore your gaze away from Matt, looking back in Chris’s direction, giggling softly upon seeing the look on his face: defeated and sulking. Nick rolled his eyes at his brother’s childish behavior. He leaned over, pulling an ice-cold Dr.Pepper out of the cooler, cracking it open to take a sip. Chris uncrossed his arms so that he could mock his brother before slinging his arm behind your back, resting it on the railing of the boat. Chris used his free hand to lift his sunglasses, eyeing Matt who stepped off of the boat and back onto the dock. “You sure you don’t wanna come? The Rogers’ are blowing the tube up,” Chris commented, an attempt to persuade his brother into joining them.

Matt scratched the back of his neck, meeting Chris’s gaze while completely avoiding yours. “In a bit. I haven’t been able to focus a lot back home and I wanted to try to work on Yesterday’s Problem stuff while we’re out here,” he explained, his arm dropping back to his side. “I’ll call you in a bit when I’m done, I just…” Matt trailed off, looking back toward the cabin. “I dunno, I feel inspired, I guess. Motivated.”

“Good,” Nick said simply, placing his beverage in the cupholder in his seat. “It only took you ten months.”

Matt rolled his eyes. “I’m well aware how long it’s been taking,” he grunted. For a moment, his eyes flickered toward you, though you had stopped looking at him a while ago. He shoved his hands into his pockets, jaw clenching as he forced himself to look away.

“Alright. Just call me when you’re ready, we’ll come back around and get you,” Chris shrugged, not caring either way. Matt mumbled something under his breath before turning and heading back towards the house. Chris rolled his eyes as he picked his drink up, taking another sip from it. “Fucker. Probably still mad about last night,” he huffed, pulling you in closer to his side. “Whatever, we’re still gonna have fun, right?”

For some reason, you felt a weird tightening in your stomach as you watched Matt trudge back towards the house, the sounds of his footsteps growing fainter as he stepped off of the dock. You weren’t sure why you felt this way, almost disappointed that he wasn’t coming too. It was a strange feeling, because you knew deep down that even if he had come, he wouldn’t spare a glance or even a breath in your direction. There was no logical explanation for it, there was no reason why you should want him there, but you did.

Maybe a part of you hoped that you could sort out your differences. That maybe one conversation alone was all you would need to build a healthy foundation for your friendship. But you didn’t need a time machine to know that would never happen. Having a one-on-one heart to heart with the man that refused to speak to you or look at you…Disney couldn’t find a way to romanticize that one even if they tried.

“Hey.”

You looked up, his voice dragging you from your thoughts. Chris smiled as your gaze met his, holding out his fist. “Forget him. We’ll have fun without him.” You offered Chris a sheepish smile, gently bumping your fist against his.

“Whatever you say, Chris.”

X O X O X O

“You sure you wanna be in a house alone with Miserable Matt?”

The time had flown since that morning, hours passing in what felt like minutes. The boys’ neighbors were an absolute delight. You were afraid that they wouldn’t like you, or that they’d be standoffish towards you, but you were pleasantly surprised at how welcoming they had been. Nothing but kindness was directed your way, making it far easier to relax and enjoy your excursion out on the boat with everyone. But by the time you had gone on your third tube ride with Chris, you finally started to feel the fatigue kicking in.

“I don’t plan on interacting with him,” you laughed lightheartedly, looking over at Chris as you stepped off of the boat and onto the dock. “But I am in desperate need of a shower and a nap.”

Chris pouted, resting his chin on his arms that were folded over the edge of the lounge seats. “You sure you don’t wanna hang out just a little longer?”

“You’ll see me in a little bit. Spend some time with Nick,” you suggested, watching as the two boys turned their heads to make eye contact. Nick grimaced, shaking his head at the thought. You let out another quiet laugh at their typical brotherly behavior. “I’ll see you guys when you get back,” you stated, waving your hand dismissively as you started the walk down the dock. They called out their farewells as their neighbor expertly maneuvered the boat back out onto the lake.

Getting into the house was easy; Matt didn’t bother to lock the door behind him when he stayed back. As you quietly slipped into the kitchen, you heard the faint music that was playing just down the hallway. ‘As long as I stay quiet, he won’t even know I’m here.’ With that thought fresh in mind, you paid extra mind to close the door behind you with attentiveness, a dull click floating in the air for a moment as the latch slipped into place. Once a few seconds had passed, you made your way through the kitchen, shifting your weight with each step you took to keep your footsteps silent.

Making your way upstairs was tricky, but once you had made it to your room without drawing his attention, a wave of relief washed over you. You closed the door gently before letting out a deep exhale, taking a few steps into the room before collapsing back onto the bed. You weren’t sure why you were so afraid of your presence disrupting whatever it was that he was doing. Sure, he was an asshole, but he had never done anything to strike that much fear into your heart. Still, the adrenaline rush of not getting caught was like a drug, your heart pounded, you could feel it in your ears as the blood rushed to your head. Nothing you had done was wrong, but it almost felt like it as Matt unknowingly sat in his room just below.

It only took a few minutes for you to undress, your body wrapped in a bathroom towel as you went around your room to collect the things you would need for your shower. Your heart dropped into your stomach as your toiletries bag slipped out of your hand, landing on the floor with a loud thud. The products that had been securely tucked inside, now scattered around the room. “Motherfucker- Shit!” you hissed under your breath as you got down to clean them up, stuffing them back into the toiletry bag in your hand. A gleam caught your eye, your head turning to see that some of the products had rolled underneath the bed as well.

‘Now this is just the opening scene of a poorly directed porno,’ you thought to yourself, huffing in annoyance as you bent down, slipping your head and neck under the bed. You used your hands to push yourself forward, your shoulders and back now able to slip under as well. Upon moving further under the bed, it became increasingly obvious that the bottle was too far out of reach, but still you made an attempt. The floorboards creaked and groaned as you shifted your weight, trying your hardest to reach out and grab the mini shampoo bottle. You closed your eyes tightly, the noises almost sounding louder than they normally would.

You prayed that the music had drowned the sound out, that Matt hadn’t heard the numerous bottles rolling around or the sound of the old wooden floors that gave away any movement that was made in their presence. You especially hoped he hadn’t heard the sound of your head bumping against the wooden bedframe as you tried to slip back out, abruptly stopping when the towel caught onto a nail in the wood, preventing you from moving.

But of course, your luck had seemed to run out. You felt your heart racing in your chest, your voice getting lodged in your throat at the sound of his footsteps slowly coming up the stairs. You tried again to free yourself, but to no avail. You were screwed, he had caught you. You knew you’d be getting an earful from him once that door opened, but he took his time, his footsteps remaining slow and heavy as he made his way down the hallway. Your eyes screwed shut as the door to the bedroom creaked open slowly. It was quickly followed by silence, but not a regular silence. A thick silence. A silence that made your heart ram against your ribcage. A silence that made you feel like you were about to be torn apart, limb by limb.

“There’s no fucking way-” his voice was hoarse, like he had just seen a ghost. “You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.”

X O X O X O

Matt stared at the screen, a yawn slipping past his lips, eyelids heavy with boredom. He had made very little progress on his personal project, though that was no surprise to him. How was he supposed to focus on anything after this morning? Seeing you prancing around in that tiny bikini, leaving so little to the imagination. He tried to push the thoughts out of his head, he always tried but very rarely did he succeed. The image burned into his brain, your skin glowing from the sunscreen you had put on just a few moments prior, your head tilted back as you basked in the warmth of the sunshine.

He huffed, closing his eyes as he tried to avoid the thought all together. He groaned, his dick stiffening in his pants. His hand slipped over the bulge in his pants, his jaw going slack as he palmed himself slowly. His brow furrowed, eyes staying closed as he thought about how pretty you had looked laid out on those leather seats; Your collarbones taunting him, the valley between your breasts practically yearning for his dick to slide between them. Matt’s fingers wrapped around the outline of his cock, stroking himself through the thin fabric of his pyjama pants. Another soft groan fell from his lips as his imagination plagued him with filthy thoughts.

‘It’s fine, nobody’s home. Nobody will know.’

Matt shoved his laptop to the empty side of the bed. He situated himself, slightly lifting his hips to pull his pyjama pants down just enough for his cock to slip out. His eyes fluttered open for a moment as he wrapped his fist around his shaft, using his thumb to tease himself, gently rubbing at his tip.

‘Nobody has to know.’

He let his eyes fall shut again, his head falling back against the headboard. Oh how he wished he could have made his brothers disappear. To suddenly snap his fingers and have you all to himself. To be the only two people on that boat, out in the middle of the lake, bending you over the console with his hand covering your mouth. Matt whimpered at the thought of you on display just for him. Your top discarded on the floor, ample breasts bouncing with each thrust of his hips as he held the fabric of your bathing suit bottom aside, having no patience to remove it. His forehead pressed to yours, heavy breaths fanning across his knuckles as he muffled your moans with his palm. “Other people are trying to relax on their vacation too, baby,” he would whisper to you, his cock driving into you deeper and deeper. “Can’t ruin that for them, now, can we? That’s not very fair, is it?”

Matt inhaled sharply, his hand finding a steady pace. He pumped his cock, a ring of precum forming at the base of his fist as it slipped up and down his shaft with ease. It was no use, this was how it always ended: Matt would try with every ounce of self control to focus, to work, to do anything of substance, and each time he would be distracted by you. Even now, with you on a boat in the middle of the lake, he could only focus on you. Your presence taunted him, consistently reminding him that he had to behave himself. That his brothers were there, and that he couldn’t just lay you down on the couch, sprawled out and writhing beneath him while he buried himself between your thighs.

His heart skipped a beat, his hand slowing to a stop at the base of his cock. Panting softly, Matt paused and looked towards the ceiling, the faint sound of plastic and glass rolling around suddenly grasping his attention. He waited, his chest rising and falling with heavy breaths, almost as if he was waiting for something else; Another noise to confirm his suspicions.

When he heard the loud thud, he quickly tugged at his waistband, securing himself behind the confines of his pyjama bottoms. He scrambled out of bed, grabbing the nearest inanimate object on his way out of the room, which just so happened to be a random antique candle holder that his mother had bought specifically for their vacation home. She had a habit of decorating the cabin with numerous knick knacks and novelties, who knew they could potentially come in handy?

Matt circled the corner, beginning his ascent up the staircase. He cursed under his breath as the floorboards squeaked, surely giving himself away to any potential intruder that had snuck into the house. His grip tightened around the antique, his knuckles turning white. Upon reaching the top of the stairs, Matt chewed on his lip as he braced himself for the worst. He stepped forward, making his way down the hallway in slow strides. ‘Somebody snuck in, they’re in your room going through your things. Thank God you went out with Chris and Nick today, who knows what could have happened to you if you hadn’t.’ He stopped just outside of the bedroom door, his chest tightening with fearful anticipation. Matt took a sharp inhale before he grasped the doorknob, turning it and pushing the door open slowly.

His brain short circuited as he stood in the doorway. “There’s no fucking way-” he croaked out, licking his lips like a man starved, his pupils dilating at the sight in front of him. “You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.”

There you were, in all your glory. His dick ached at the sight of you stuck halfway under your bed, your hips up and the hem of your towel just barely protecting your modesty. A soft whine from beneath the bedframe caught his attention. “I-I didn’t mean t-to get stuck,” you timidly spoke. Matt couldn’t do anything but watch, his jaw slack, the candle holder slipping from his fingers and clattering to the floor. “I just came back to shower, I wasn’t trying to bother you.”

There was just no way that this was an accident. Something had heard his prayers and delivered in the most pleasantly delectable way possible. He blinked a few times as he stood there, unsure if what he was seeing was just a figment of his incredibly active imagination. His jaw clenched as he stepped into the room, adjusting to the reality of the situation. “I can’t have a single fucking day,” Matt muttered, towering over you as he approached the bed, his cock throbbing as you pressed your thighs together tightly. “Not one single goddamn day without you being there.”

You whimpered softly at the sound of his footsteps drawing in closer, the heat rising to your cheeks as you became painfully aware of how exposed you were in this moment. The only thing shielding his wandering gaze was the thin fabric tightly wrapped around you. His voice was thick with something, of what you weren’t sure. He had never spoken to you like this before, and something about it made your head spin. “I’m sorry, I-I-I don’t know-”

“You know exactly what you’re doing,” he interrupted, swiftly dropping to his knees. Your heart jumped up into your throat as you felt him move down between your legs, his hands gentle as they caressed your calves. The unexpected touch sent a shiver down your spine. You gasped as he moved himself closer, his hips pressing against yours. Matt nearly came in his pants as he watched your own hips press back against his instinctively, a sight he thought he would never see. He watched with a lazy gaze, his jaw slack as your hips molded against his perfectly, like you were made just for him. One of his hands reached up, grasping at the comforter on the bed in a desperate attempt to maintain his composure. “You want me to help you get out, princess?” he taunted, his other hand moving to gently grasp your waist.

You squirmed beneath his touch, unfamiliar with this side of him, though you weren’t complaining. His words made your head feel fuzzy, like tv static. Swallowing your nerves, you let another soft whine escape your throat. You knew it was wrong, allowing this to happen instead of fighting it after the way he had treated you for years. Still, you couldn’t ignore the ache between your legs as he touched you like you were made of glass, as if the slightest bit of force would shatter you. After years of getting the cold shoulder and nothing but passive aggressive comments, you had never expected that he would be so gentle. You whimpered at the sound of him chuckling, his fingers toying with the towel wrapped around you. “Oh no…you don’t want help getting out, do you?” he sighed, a smirk tugging at his lips as he moved his hips back, amused at the sight of your hips following, desperate to stay connected. “You like it, huh? Being at my mercy, stuck right here just for me,” he continued. “Like the universe wanted this. Wanted me to find you and ruin you,” he growled. His humiliating words made your face flush with a deep blush. “Come on, doll. You know I need to hear you,” he mumbled.

An embarrassed whine spilled from your lips. “Y-Yes, I-I like it.”

You couldn’t see his face, but you could hear him inhale deeply at your confession. His hands slid gently over your lower back, his fingers digging into your hips. “Fuck, ‘s like you knew I was beatin’ my dick, thinkin’ ‘bout you in that tiny fuckin’ swimsuit,” Matt grunted softly. His words hit you like a semi-truck, completely blindsided by his suppressed feelings, but you had little time to process before he started again. “Fuck, you looked so fuckin’ pretty in that swimsuit, darlin’. Got my dick so fuckin’ hard just seeing your tits stuffed into that itty bitty top. Such a naughty fuckin’ girl, gettin’ me all riled up in front of my brothers.”

His words were filthy, his tone dark and hungry with lust. His eyes flickered down, the blood rushing right to his cock as he watched your thighs press together tightly. His firm hands slid over the curve of your ass, the towel still hiding your body from him. A voice in the back of his head screamed for him to tear it away from you, to leave you completely bare and at his mercy. Despite the burning desire inside of him, craving to feel you and see you at your most vulnerable, he knew he was already riding a very fair line. The last thing he wanted at this moment was to overstep the boundaries he was already inching closer and closer to. “What‘re you tryin’ to hide there?” he cooed devilishly, testing the waters as he slowly slipped his hand beneath your towel, his fingers softly grazing your inner thigh. “You don’t gotta hide from me, little one.”

He didn’t move further than that, his thumb rubbing circles into your inner thigh. Your knees wobbled, the tightness in your clenched thighs growing weaker and weaker. He could feel the trembling in your legs, and yet he didn’t react. It made you feel dizzy how your desperate state seemed to have no effect on him. You whined, your eyes glossing over with frustrated tears as you ached for him, your arousal slipping down your thighs.

He watched intently, a primal desire burning deep within him. He knew what he wanted, and he was more than ready to take it, but he needed to know that you wanted it too. He needed to know that it was mutual, that he wasn’t crazy for thinking that you could crave him in the same way he had craved you all of these years. He had to know that you desired him, that you wanted him, that you needed him. You had to need him. You had to crave him.

His mouth went dry as you arched your back ever so slightly, your hips pressing back against nothing as you made a blind attempt to feel him. A defeated mewl from you made his heart swell, his cock straining against the fabric of his pyjama pants, begging to be set free from its cotton confinements. His lips parted, letting out a shaky exhale. He was ready to stop, afraid that he was pushing you too far, though that line had been crossed the moment he knelt down between your thighs. ‘She’s helpless, I’m taking advantage of her, what was I fucking thinking?’ Just as he started to retract his hand, he heard the soft, pleading whine that was trapped from beneath the bed frame. It was unintelligible what you had said, and yet it still managed to make his body flood with warmth. He stilled his movements entirely, unsure if he had heard you correctly. Was his mind playing tricks on him? He couldn’t have made that up…

“Say that again for me, baby. I didn’t quite catch that,” he instructed.

You couldn’t deny it any longer. The desire was too overwhelming to push aside. “M-More, f-fuck please…m-more.”

Silence followed, making you uneasy with anticipation. His hand remained between your thighs, but you ached to feel more of him. “You know, I was supposed to be working.” Your body trembled as his fingers inched further up your thigh. “How am I supposed to get anything done with you around, hm? How am I supposed to focus? You weren’t even in the house and I still couldn’t think about anything but you,” he growled lowly. His fingers grasped the hem of the towel and he pushed it up past your thighs, his eyes darkening as he finally caught a glimpse of what he had longed to see for so long. Matt leaned down; he needed to get a better look. He needed the image to be burned into his brain. He needed to see it when he closed his eyes. His hands grasped the back of your thighs, spreading them with a gentle firmness; he didn’t want to hurt you or push you further than you wanted, but like an animal stalking its prey, he wanted to take his time. Matt didn’t want to scare you off, he didn’t want you to run away. He wanted to feel you surrender to him, letting him tear you apart, letting him devour you until you were nothing. “You’re a sight, darlin’. Prettiest little thing I’ve ever seen,” he mumbled, his voice thick with desire as he watched your desire drool from your folds. “Beg me.”

Your body tensed at his demand, your stomach twisting into knots. He was teasing you and it was making your brain melt. “M-Matt, p-please,” you mewled weakly.

“Please what?”

“M-More-” you choked out.

“Come on now, you can do better than that, little bunny.” The nickname was unexpected, but the whine that it drew from you was enough encouragement for him to continue. He chuckled as your thighs filled his palms, your hips desperately pressing back once again, eager to feel anything more from him. Matt licked his lips, the creamy desire between your legs begging for him to have a taste, your pussy tempting him like a ripened peach on a warm summer afternoon, teeth penetrating the ample fruit, sweet juices slipping down his chin carelessly. “Go on, baby, try again,” he whispered, his hot breath fanning over your heat.

It was like he had flipped a switch in your brain, and he hadn’t even done anything yet. Your body reacted to every touch, his cold fingertips contrasting with the heat that surfaced your skin. Your lips parted to speak, desperate to tell him exactly how you needed him, everything that you craved from him; But nothing came out. You squirmed around in a pathetic attempt to free yourself just enough to close the space between you. “Oh, my dumb little bunny. Trying to run away already?” He teased, moving one of his hands up your thigh, thumbing slowly at your folds. “Before I’ve even gotten to taste you?”

Your knees felt weak as his thumb circled your clit, his strokes gut-wrenchingly slow. “Nowhere for you to run, bunny. You’re all mine.” It amused him, the way you attempted to grind your hips to feel just a little more friction from him. “You’re not goin’ anywhere until I’m done with this pretty little pussy.”

“Y-Yours,” you squeaked out. You wanted to say so much more, but that was enough for him. A satisfied smirk curled at his lips. He had you exactly where he wanted you. Years of him dreaming and fantasizing of having you all to himself, thinking that would be the furthest he would ever get with you…years spent daydreaming and envisioning every possible scenario with you...it had all paid off. This wasn’t a dream; this wasn’t his imagination. You were here with him. You were exposed for him, begging for him, giving yourself to him.

“You learn fast, don’t you? That’s my girl. Maybe you’re not so dumb after all,” Matt mumbled, burying himself between your plush thighs. His thumb slipped away from your clit and down between your slick folds, a chuckle eliciting from the back of his throat. He loved the sounds you made in response to his touch, and he never wanted it to end. If he could tie you down and lay with you, toying with you all day long just to hear your beautiful cries and prayers, he would do it in a heartbeat. He groaned softly, your arousal coating his fingers as he slipped them between your folds, spreading them apart. “God I can’t wait to watch you fall apart on my cock.”

In an instant, he closed the space between you, his tongue tentatively swiping over your dripping folds. You let out a soft cry at the contact, resting your cheek against the cool wooden floor. Pride rushed through him at the rewarding sound. He hummed at the taste of you on his tongue, a sweetness had never indulged in before now drowning his taste buds. A growl grew at the back of his throat as your hips pressed back pathetically and he tightened his grasp on the back of your thighs, holding you in place. “I didn’t say you could do that.”

You dug your nails into the crevices in the wood floor, biting down on your bottom lip to contain your desperate pleas for more. You had never felt more sexually frustrated in your life. Sure you had sex in the past, but it had always been lousy and sloppy.

It had also always been planned. Expected. Predictable. And this was anything but.

“I can play nice with you, little bunny,” he taunted, his tongue tracing your creamy folds with patience. He planted a gentle kiss to your clit, his pride only increasing at the sound of your breath catching in your throat. “And I want to play nice with you. Make you feel good,” he continued, his breath hot against your heat. “But if you’re not gonna behave, I’m gonna have to play dirty,” he smirked, flicking his tongue over your clit, just barely enough to stimulate you. You choked out a whine and clawed at the floor as you tried your hardest to contain your desires. Using every last ounce of your self control to not grind your hips back, to not fuck yourself on his tongue. “You don’t want me to play dirty, baby. I’ll keep you here all night, just like this. For hours and hours and hours,” he continued to taunt, his tone raspy but controlled as he continued to speak slowly. He let his fingers replace his tongue for a moment, spreading your folds to admire the way your arousal drooled from your entrance. “I’ll keep you here and use this pretty pussy until I can’t fill it any more. Even when you’re so full, and my cum is oozing outta you-“ he paused, painting the visual out in his head. He didn’t think it was possible for his dick to get harder than it already was, but the image of you, defeated and squirming, knees wobbling, barely able to hold yourself up as his cum spilled out of you; It was all more than enough to make his cock stiffen even more. “I’ll keep you here just to watch you. There’s no escaping from me, little one. Now, are you going to behave?”

You let out a shaky breath at the feeling of his finger slipping through your drenched folds, circling your entrance slowly. “Y-Yes,” you breathed out. “I’ll be good, I’ll behave-“

That was all it took for him to plunge his finger into your dripping heat. Surprisingly, he was the one to let out a groan. “So fuckin’ tight. Fuck, I knew you’d be tight-“ he grunted. In a slow motion, he retracted his digit from your entrance, watching with a predatory glare in his eyes as the light reflected from the arousal that coated his finger. A string of your wetness was all that connected his finger with your pussy, even as he brought his finger to his lips, licking it clean. “You ever been touched like this before?”

“Y-Yes,” you choked out. It wasn’t a lie, you had been touched like this before, but never in the same way he was doing it. The men you had been with were careless, rough, impatient, needy. Matt was the opposite. Despite knowing his brothers could come back from their relaxing day out on the lake at any moment, he was patient. He was slow, attentive to every sound and movement you made. He was gentle, his focus solely on making sure you were enjoying it, especially under the circumstances you were in.

Well, at least until he heard you say that.

“Really?” He tested. “Enlighten me, baby. Who else made you feel this good?”

You swallowed. Suddenly you felt nervous...shy...embarrassed. Nobody had ever made you feel this good before, not even close. But the last thing you wanted to do was feed his ego even more than it already was. He spent the last six years making you feel like shit, and now here he was between your legs, his fingers tracing softly over your clit again in gut-wrenchingly slow circles. You didn’t even need to see him to know he had the biggest shit-eating grin on his face right now, knowing that you were trapped, helpless, and enjoying it. “F-Fuck you,” you growled under your breath, biting at your lip as his fingers slipped between your slick folds again.

“Yeah? You might if you watch that pretty mouth of yours.” He watched intently as his fingers disappeared inside of you. “I asked you a question. Who else made you feel this good?” He asked again, his voice deep and demanding, a hint of a threat in his tone. You squirmed around, jaw going slack as his fingers sunk deeper into you. His free hand came down harshly onto your ass, eliciting a soft squeak from you in surprise. “One more chance, baby.”

“N-No one,” you huffed in defeat, though your tone changed almost instantly as he started pumping his fingers at a steady pace. “Just you.”

“So smart,” Matt praised. “Say my name this time, sweet girl. Who makes you feel this good?” Sweat glistened on his brow. His lips pursed, a breath of cold air over your sensitive bud making your thighs clench together. The sight pulled an amused sound from deep in his chest. “Try again.” He leaned in again, flicking his tongue over your clit in slow, controlled strokes.

“F-Fuck, please Matt! Y-You, Matt! Only you! Please just-” you blabbered, frustrated tears glistening in your eyes. “Do something! P-Please! Do anything!” You pleaded.

“...Anything?” He smirked, kissing your soaked heat. “Any ideas in mind, little one?”

Matt pulled down the waistband of his pyjama bottoms, allowing his painfully erect cock to spring free. His free hand quickly wrapped around the base of his cock, stroking his shaft a few times as he watched his fingers plunge deep inside of your pussy. He licked his lips, still tasting you on this tongue. “Words, little bunny. Use your words,” he rasped. Matt almost wanted you to kick him, to knock him out of this fantasy, because there was no possible way that this was real life. He had spent years dreaming of you beneath him, years full of yearning desires, years of hormonal frustration. And now here you are. All for him.

Still kneeled between your legs, Matt straightened himself up, his fingers slipping out of your cunt and leaving you feeling empty and desperate. He brought his hand down roughly onto your ass, a sharp smack ringing in the air from the contact. “Naughty little thing. Oh you’re gonna fit around my dick so nice, baby.” Matt held his cock sturdy in his grasp, rubbing his tip over your slick folds. “This what you wanted, baby?” he cooed, his free hand resting on your waist.

The only thing you could get out was a pathetic whine. You wanted him, that was no secret, especially now. You had no way of hiding your arousal towards him, the excitement you felt as he slapped the tip of his cock against your sticky entrance. What you would’ve given to free yourself from under the bed so that you could roll over and watch him; Watching his dick glide between your dripping heat with ease, watching his face scrunch up as he thrusts into you for the first time. You lifted your head off of the cool wooden floor, wincing as you accidentally bump it against one of the planks above you.

Matt chuckled softly. “Easy, little one. Y’know ‘m not gonna hurt you,” he hummed. He slapped his tip against your entrance again, groaning under his breath. “Come on now, princess. Need you to tell me what you want.”

He patiently waited for a response from you. He honestly didn’t mind, he quite enjoyed teasing you for as long as he could. Matt caught his bottom lip between his teeth as the tip of his cock leaked with precum. He thrusted his hips slowly, his shaft gliding against your heat, your arousal combining with his. “M-Matt,” You whimpered, nails clawing at the floorboards once again. Your voice cracked, catching his attention almost immediately. “Please just…f-fuck me.”

With those words, you opened the gates of heaven for him. Allowing him to have access to you, giving him the greenlight to take you right then and there. He surely didn’t need you to tell him again, though he loved the way it sounded rolling off of your tongue. Matt gave his cock a few quick strokes before positioning his tip at your gleaming entrance. His other hand remained glued to your waist, keeping you both steady as he eased himself inside of you.

Your lips parted at the delicious feeling of his cock stretching you out. You could hear him hiss in response to your walls clenching around his shaft, but you had very little time to feel smug. Matt lost every single care in the world that he had, moaning loudly as he bottomed out. He didn’t move for a couple moments. You could feel his hands roaming over the plush of your ass and thighs, but his cock stilled inside of you.

Matt’s eyes fluttered closed. He didn’t dare move a muscle. He had never been so intoxicated by a girl’s pussy in his life. The way you squeezed around him…Hell, if he sat here long enough he could cum just from that alone. It was an addictive feeling, he wanted more even if it killed him. He never wanted it to be over. “Atta girl, look at you taking my dick so well,” Matt grunted, letting his hips finally move, his dick slowly retracting from inside of you.

You couldn’t bear it any longer, you needed him. He couldn’t leave you hanging again. Your hips followed his, sinking back down onto his cock. Matt watched in awe, his jaw going slack as you did just that. His mind went fuzzy as he watched your hips rock back and forth, working yourself on his cock desperately, coating his shaft in your creamy arousal. “That’s it, baby. Been such a good little thing for me, haven’t you?” His voice was thick with lust. He snapped out of his trance and used his hands to help guide your hips, another whorish groan escaping him.

You whined in response; It was all you could manage to get out. Your mind was cloudy as his dick filled you more than you had ever felt before. His strong hands groped at your ample ass, pushing you back down onto his cock, his balls snug against your heat. He groaned again, though it was followed by a deep chuckle. “My sweet little bunny. I told you there was nowhere to run,” he smirked, holding your hips in place as his hips rocked backwards, his cock sliding out of you until only his tip remained buried in your heat. “I knew I could break that pretty little brain, princess. It’s not easy, huh? It’s so hard to think isn’t it?” Matt mumbled, his hips snapping forward to drive his dick back inside of you. It resulted in a cry falling from your lips, your pussy squeezing around him once more. “Don’t worry. I’m gonna do all that hard thinking for you. You just turn that pretty little head off, okay?”

His hips snapped forward again, resulting in another moan slipping from your lips. The sound was like a drug to him, he wanted it injected into his veins. “Feels so good, baby. ‘S like your pussy was made just for me,'' Matt grunted, his hips moving back again. He listened to your pathetic sounds as he pulled out, his hand stroking his cock slowly. He rubbed his tip against your folds, watching as you sunk back down onto him, his tip easing back inside of you, followed by the rest of him. His eyebrows knitted together, a low groan escaping him. He brought his hand down, striking your ass again, leaving a sharp smacking sound ringing in the air. “Impatient little brat,” he hummed, giving the other cheek the same attention. Your fingernails tore at the wooden floor, your body flinching at the impact from his hand. Still, you couldn’t bring yourself to stop moving your hips, loving the way he stretched you full with each stroke.

Matt loved it, watching the way you fucked yourself on his dick; He didn’t even have to move. Amused by your desperation, he cocked his head a little and continued to watch your little performance. Your milky arousal now coating his shaft, his abdomen slick with your juices as you wiggle your hips each time you sink back onto him, desperate to feel more. He groaned as your walls clenched, his dick twitching at the delicious feeling. “Pretty little thing, fuckin’ yourself on my cock…God, I jus’ wanna ruin you…Wanna fuck you so hard, you can’t walk…” His filthy thoughts, now verbally spilling from his mouth like a waterfall. “Wanna make you cum all over my cock, baby. Fuck, jus’ wanna make your pretty little pussy feel good. Only me, nobody else. Wanna put my babies right in your tummy,” he growled, his hand slipping down the side of your waist, his palm pressing against your abdomen. “Gonna put my babies right here. Fuck, I jus’ know you’d make the prettiest little angels. Nobody else's, just mine. All mine.”

He wasn’t sure what had come over him. He had never felt this burning urge in him the previous times he had sex. Something in him awakened, it made his stomach knot up. He panted softly, finally giving into his temptations as he started to thrust in time with your hips, hissing as his dick buried itself impossibly deeper inside of you. “You’d make such a good little mommy, wouldn’t you? So pretty, and soft, and nice…” Matt groaned, letting his hips find a steady pace. A ring of creamy white encircled the base of his shaft, trickling down to his balls with each thrust. The room echoed with the sticky sound of his cock slipping in and out of your tight walls.

You could hardly process the things he was saying. Every word, dirtier than the last. It became increasingly harder to think, or to respond…all you could focus on was the euphoric feeling coursing through your veins. You gasped softly as his hand slipped down from your abdomen, his fingers rubbing your sensitive bud in quick circles. You squirmed at the feeling, knees beginning to wobble once again. “It’s what you were made for, right? My little bunny…you were made to have my babies,” he growled. He picked up his pace, his thrusts remaining relentless. A string of unintelligible vowels fell from your lips as he pounded into you. The contrast between his rough thrusts and his gentle fingers circling your clit was blissful. “Tell me what you want, princess.”

Your lips parted to speak, but you couldn’t find the words. All you could think about was how he felt inside of you, how he made you feel with his gentle touches and his filthy words. He chuckled, the sound making your thighs tremble. “Dumb little thing. Come on now, you know I can’t read your mind, baby…Not that there’s much goin’ on in there right now anyways.”

A loud moan slips from you, your hand flying up to cover your mouth and muffle the sounds you were making. Matt’s eyes darkened, leaning over until his body was pressed to yours as close as he could possibly get. He reached his free hand under the bed, grasping at your arm. It didn’t take much effort for him to pin your arm behind your back. He kept his thrusts steady, burying his cock in you with each thrust. “Uh uh, I wanna hear every little sound you make. Every whimper and squeak that I fuck outta you,” he huffed. “Naughty fuckin’ brat, tryin’ to hide how bad you want your pussy to be used. I see right through you, little one.” His fingers rubbed at your clit faster, a smirk plastered on his face as you began to fall apart beneath him.

“P-Please…c-c-cum-” you managed to sputter out. He licked his lips, his throat going dry. “C-Cumming-” you gasped, your hips spasming as he refused to slow his thrusts, pushing you closer and closer to the edge. Warmth pooled in your tummy, your heart pounded against your chest, your teeth sinking into the soft flesh of your bottom lip.

“Did I say you could?” Matt teased, stopping his fingers abruptly. With a gentle firmness, Matt slapped your clit a few times, rewarding him with the sound of your desperate cries and the feeling of you squeezing around him again. “You’ve been so fuckin’ naughty, I have half a mind to leave you like this,” he growled. “Gettin’ me bricked up every fuckin’ day, bending over in those little tennis skirts, your nipples pokin’ through your shirt, biting your lip- Fuck... every time you bite your lip I wanna grab you by your fuckin’ hair an’ bite it myself.” Matt could feel his own orgasm building up. Any girl he had been with could tell you that he would start to ramble the closer he got to his release, but never like this. “Had to throw out all the fuckin’ popsicles b’cause of you, suckin' on 'em right in front of me. D’you know how many times I had to go jerk off in my room b’cause of you? How many fuckin’ times you joined our party on the game, and I’d die just so I could mute myself and beat my dick to your pretty little fuckin’ sounds. Oh god, baby… Jesus fuck, you’re a fuckin’ minx. You don’t fuckin’ deserve to cum after the fuckin’ hell you put me through,” he growled. “But fuck…I wanna feel your little pussy tighten around my cock while you cum. F-Fuck, I want you to cum, baby.” His fingers collected the juices puddling at the base of his shaft before he reached his arm back around your torso, rubbing at your clit once again.

“Mmmph, M-Matt,” you mewled out, your head resting against the wooden floor. “P-Please, s-so close-”

“Don’t think, baby. I know it feels good, I know you wanna cum,” Matt panted, picking up his pace as he began to thrust faster, grunting softly as his hips collided with yours. “You're gonna be a good girl and let me put a baby in your tummy, isn’t that right?” Matt whispered, his tone hoarse and gruff. He continued to circle his fingers at your sensitive clit. He knew you wouldn’t last much longer, what between your desperate pleas and your trembling thighs, it was obvious that you were close to your release. “That’s what little bunnies do best, hmm? Making pretty little babies?” He gave your ass a firm squeeze, thrusting his hips even faster.

You squirmed again beneath him, moans spilling out of your mouth. His thrusts were rough, his hands groping and touching you possessively. You couldn’t help it anymore. Your head felt like it was spinning, your entire body flooding with warmth. “F-Fuck, I-I-I-” you stammered. He moved his hand back to your waist, holding you in place firmly. His fingers rubbed at your clit faster to bring you to your release. “C-Cumming, f-fuck Matt!”

His fingers dug into your waist, your words only encouraging him to keep going, despite the ache he was feeling in his knees from them boring into the wooden floorboards. Matt rested his head against the edge of the mattress, the sweat forming on his brow seeping into the silk sheets on the bed. “That’s it, baby. Cum for me, cum all over my cock. Did so fuckin’ good for me,” Matt groaned, his hips bucking forward with the desperate need to bring them both to their release. “F-Fuck, please cum on my cock. Please, please, please…Need to feel you, n-need it so bad, baby.”

In an instant, your muscles began to tense, a hoarse cry erupting from you. Your legs wobbled and shook as your orgasm washed over you, finishing with him buried deep inside of you. Matt panted, rubbing your sensitive cunt with slow gentle strokes to ride you through your high. “Atta girl, that’s it. Oh fuck-” he groaned, pumping his cock in and out of you with quick, sloppy thrusts. “God, you’re so fuckin’ perfect. Cummin’ all over my dick, makin’ such a fuckin’ mess. F-Fuck...you’re drippin’ everywhere, baby. S-So fuckin’ messy-” he rambled, grunting with every rut of his hips. His fingers slipped away from your pussy, and he brought them to his lips, sucking your release off of his fingers. He moaned at the taste, bringing his other hand to your waist as well. “Just another minute, baby- f-fuck, ‘m so close. Doing so fuckin’ good. Squeezin’ my cock nice and tight- God you’re so fuckin’ perfect.”

With your sweaty forehead pressed against the cold floor, you forced your hips to stay up, not letting your knees give out just yet. You weren’t about to look weak in front of him. You just hoped his thrusts wouldn’t get any rougher, because you were only one wrong thrust away from collapsing completely.

It didn’t take long for Matt to reach his orgasm, his sloppy thrusts slowing almost to a complete stop. His stomach tightened as he bucked his hips forward roughly, groaning loudly and repeating the action. It only took a few rough quick thrusts before he pulled your hips back, forcing your bodies together as close as physically possible. Heavy breaths passed his lips, along with numerous deep moans. His cock throbbed, waves of pleasure hitting him like a tsunami as his cum pumped deep inside of you. The warmth of your pussy still snug around his shaft, along with his hot cum that was beginning to ooze from your entrance where he was still buried inside of you, it made him weak in the knees. An aftershock hit him like a jolt of electricity, his hips rutting forward. “S-So fuckin’ good,” he whimpered.

He could’ve stayed like that forever; Buried inside of you, watching a mix of his seed and your own release leaking down his shaft. He could’ve gone again, there was no doubt in his mind. He slowly and reluctantly pulled out, his hand grasping the base of his cock. He stroked his shaft, watching with a possessive, predatory gaze as his sticky white cum oozed from your entrance, slipping through your folds and over your clit before dripping onto the floor, pooling between your knees. He wanted nothing more than to bury his dick back inside of you and fuck you until he drained every last drop of cum inside of you, until he was shooting blanks and had nothing left to give. But he knew that if his knees were killing him right now, you were probably in a much more uncomfortable state. He cursed softly under his breath, tucking his cock back into his pants. Matt looked over at the nightstand, grabbing a box of tissues and pulling a few of them from the box, gently wiping the mess from between your legs. He wasn’t worried about the mess on the floor, he would clean it up after. Right now, he had bigger priorities.

He frowned a little as he saw your legs wobbling again. He took another handful of tissues, gently cleaning you up before tending to the puddle between your knees. Once all of his mess was taken care of, Matt tossed the box of tissues to the side, throwing the wad of used ones into the nearby trash bin. You squirmed, attempting to push yourself out from under the bed. You winced as you heard the sound of the towel ripping.

“Careful- hold on, you’re gonna hurt yourself,” Matt mumbled softly as he reached under the bed frame, unhooking your towel from the nail it had gotten caught on. He pulled the hem of the towel back down to cover your upper thighs, his touch lingering slightly. You breathed a sigh of relief. Lowering your body to the ground, you did your best to keep your breathing controlled and steady. Although you wanted to just lay there for a few moments, Matt had other plans. He used all of his strength to carefully lift the bed frame, just barely off of the ground. “Come on, let’s get you out of there,” he whispered, more to himself than to you. He shifted the weight of the bed frame into one hand, using his other to gently guide you out from where you had been stuck previously.

You didn’t want to look at him. Your stomach twisted into knots as you re-lived what just happened. Matt could tell that something was wrong, that you were avoiding his gaze for a reason, but he couldn’t pinpoint why. His brow furrowed. “Is your head okay?”

You finally looked into his eyes, reading the sincerity in them. “What?” you scoffed.

Matt frowned a little at your tone, but he recovered quickly. “Your head…you bumped it kinda hard when you were under there. I just wanted to know if it still hurt-“

“My head is fine.”

“Oh…okay.”

Why is he still here? Does he need an invitation to leave? You looked at him once again, and suddenly a wave of guilt washed over you. What you had done with him was wrong. He was nothing but rude to you for years, and you willingly gave him access to you and your body. You could have cursed him out, you could have fought back or screamed at him to leave the room, you could’ve asked him to help you get out, but you didn’t. “Why, Matt?” you breathed out in a defeated tone. “Why?”

He looked at you with a confused look across his face. With a furrowed brow, Matt shook his head slightly. “Wh-What are you talking about? Why what?” He moved a little closer to you, reaching out to brush your hair out of your face.

You dodge his hand, scooting back. “You know what, Matt,” you bark back. “You’ve hated me since I first came around, you glare at me and say hurtful things. You ignore me when I’m around unless you can find a way to let everyone know just how much you hate me. You refuse to do things with your brothers if I’m involved at all-“ you stopped, feeling your voice getting caught in your throat.

Matt’s eyes widened. “Woah, woah, woah! Hate? This is news to me,” he interrupted, shaking his head again in disbelief. “I’ve never hated you, where the hell did you pull that one from?”

“Are you serious?! You interrupt me, you’re passive aggressive, you refuse to look at me or interact with me in any other circumstances, you avoid me like I’m the fucking plague, you blame me for not being able to get work done-“

Matt stayed quiet. He reached out to lift your chin. When you tried to look away again, he gently cupped your face in his hands. “You really thought I hated you?” He asked with a heavy heart. As soon as you opened your eyes to look at him, he felt like he had just been shot in the chest. “I never hated you, pretty girl. Never ever,” he whispered soothingly, the pad of his thumb gently wiping away a tear as it rolled down the curve of your cheek.

You blinked back your tears, disgusted with the idea of looking weak in front of him. “Then why were you like that? Why did you avoid me? Why would you act like that?” You demanded an answer, one that made sense, one that didn’t make you feel sick to your stomach anymore.

“I-I…” he started, afraid to tell you the truth after keeping it buried for so long. But as he saw the way your eyes glazed over, the way your lip quivered and your body trembled, he knew he couldn’t keep it to himself anymore. He closed his eyes, preparing himself for the inevitable rejection. “I know how I acted was childish-“

“You think?!”

Matt sighed, though the tight feeling in his chest didn’t go away. “Just listen-“

“No, you listen. I’ve been nothing but nice to you, Matt. I’ve never made a nasty remark, I’ve never glared or scowled at you, I’ve never said anything bad about you. I’ve always greeted you, I’ve always been friendly-“

“And I can’t stand it-“ Matt interrupted you, moving his face closer to yours. He looked deep into your eyes, holding your face delicately in his palms. “I can’t stand how fucking nice you are and how perfect you are. I can’t stand how beautiful you look every goddamn day. I can’t stand it because I want it all for myself,” he admits, gently tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “I’m so fucking selfish, I want you all to myself. I don’t wanna fucking share with my brothers or our friends-“

“That’s such bullshit, Matt,” you scoffed.

“I’m being for real,” he insisted, his eyes pleading for you to hear him out. “I thought if I…if I didn’t interact with you that maybe…it would all just go away. I thought…” he paused, instantly re-living every moment he had been a dick to you. The way your light would dim, the way your smile would fall and your eyes would lose their natural sparkle. The way you would go quiet and shrink back until you were overlooked, ignored, invisible. “I thought…how could a girl like you ever like someone like me…”

You stayed quiet. You weren’t really sure what to say in response to that. A moment of silence passed, and when you came to the conclusion that he wasn’t going to say anything else, you took it as an opening to speak. “You expect me to believe that bullshit sob story?” You growl at him.

Matt didn’t know how to convince you. He had spent the last six years making you feel like shit, all in an unsuccessful attempt to shield his heart. “I wish I could take it back,” he spoke softly, his thumb caressing the apple of your cheek in slow smooth strokes. “I wish I could do it all over again. I-I just…I would see the way you were with Chris-” he stopped for a moment as images of you and his brother rushed through his mind like an avalanche. He looked down, avoiding your gaze all together. “I wanted it to be me…but it wasn’t. And I hated that it wasn’t.”

You shook your head in disbelief. “Chris was right, you really do think you’re starring in some crazy ass Netflix Original.”

Your words stung, his eyes were full of desperation and pain, something you had never seen from him before. “You’re not listening to me,” he stated, his eyes glossing over with tears. “I’ve wanted to do that for years-”

“You’ve wanted to fuck me for years?” You scoff. “How endearing.”

“What- No! I-I mean yes, but-” He stammered, running his fingers through his messy hair as he tried to gather his thoughts. “I’ve wanted to be with you for years…It wasn’t just about sex, I’ve wanted you since the minute I saw you,” he continued, moving closer to you again.

“You never said anything,” you whispered, positive that if you spoke any louder your voice would waiver. “How was I supposed to know any of this? How do I even know it’s true, Matt? How do I know you’re not just fucking with my head to get whatever the fuck you want?”

Matt leaned against the side of the bed, his eyes still refusing to meet yours. He was quiet for a long moment. He swallowed anxiously. “Brown corduroy pants and a green knit sweater.”

You quirked an eyebrow at him. “What?”

“That’s what you were wearing the first time I saw you,” he said, the faintest of smiles tugging at his lips. “I remember thinking…’God, that sweater is so fucking ugly’,” Matt relayed, a soft chuckle following close after. “It was like you heard me say that in my head, because you looked over at me and I thought my heart stopped beating…”

Your facial expression softened upon hearing the moment from his perspective. It was all so different from how you remembered it.

“Chris! Get back here and help!”

You and Matt shared a panicked look at the muffled shouting coming from outside. You winced as you stood up, legs aching as you walked over to the window and looked out into the backyard. Your eyes landed on Chris, and your movement must have caught his eye as he looked up to your window, a smile growing on his face. “Hey! We’re gonna have a cookout tonight! Come outside!”

“Chris, quit yelling! We have neighbors!” Nick shouted.

You turned around, your heart racing as your eyes locked with Matt’s again. He looked up at you, his lips parted slightly. “I’ll leave-” Matt whispered, grabbing the bedpost as he hoisted himself up, being sure not to be in view of the window. “You uh…” he trailed off, running his fingers through his messy hair.

Your brow furrowed, looking at him in confusion. “What? Is there something on my face?”

Matt bit the inside of his cheek, shaking his head in response. “You just…You look pretty,” Matt said, his eyes avoiding yours as he left the room in a hurry. The sound of his footsteps began to fade as he made his way down the hallway, the stairs creaking under his feet. You stared at the door, almost expecting him to come back, to say more, but he didn’t.

You rushed to change into something comfortable. You decided on a pair of sweatpants and a simple tube top before you quickly made your way out to the backyard. As you stood at the back door, you saw Matt and Nick setting up some lawn chairs around the stone firepit, already bickering about something stupid, you were sure. Chris chucked a couple of logs into the firepit, spraying some lighter fluid into the pit before lighting a match and tossing it in. The contents in the pit lit up with flames almost instantly, a cheeky smile forming on Chris’s face as he opened the bottle of lighter fluid again. Nick shouted, snatching the bottle away from his brother immediately. You laughed softly, reading his lips as he shouted ‘are you fucking stupid?!’ at Chris.

Matt laughed under his breath, looking over his shoulder for a moment. As his eyes locked with yours, you tensed up, your breath catching in your throat. You were pleasantly surprised when he smiled, a bashful redness burning in his cheeks. He looked away from you quickly, but you could still see the smile on his face.

You stepped out onto the back porch, greeting the boys’ neighbors as they started the grill up. You shared a few moments of small talk with them before heading down the porch steps, shuffling over to the boys by the firepit. Chris smiled at you, pulling you into a bear hug. You laughed, hugging him back. Matt watched, his smile faltering a little as he looked down, focusing instead on tossing handfuls of pine needles into the fire, fueling the large flames as they engulfed the debris in the confines of the stone pit.

Nick had noticed the strange behavior on Matt’s part, and he had been suspicious from the moment Matt happily emerged from the house, smiling and offering to help his brothers. But Nick’s suspicions only grew upon seeing you. He stood up, wiping the dirt from his hands onto his swim trunks. “Hey, feeling a little better?” Nick asked you.

You smiled, nodding your head. “Yeah.”

“Shower pressure’s pretty nice for an older house,” Chris chuckled.

“Yeah…It was nice, for sure,” you laughed as well, going along with Chris’s statement.

Nick raised an eyebrow at you. “Really?”

“Mhm,” you nodded again.

Nick started to walk towards the house, stopping as he stood beside you, leaning down so that his lips were only inches away from your ear. “Your hair is dry,” he stated before walking towards the porch steps.

𝕬𝖚𝖙𝖍𝖔𝖗𝖘 𝖓𝖔𝖙𝖊: Oh my, what is going to happen in part 2?

𝕿𝖆𝖌𝖘: @flowerxbunnie @megamett44-lover @xtravrgnoliveoil @mattsturnswife @sturniolofan4lifee @oversturn @soursturniolo @sturnioz @luverboychris @meerkatzthings @soupuurr @gemofthenight @sturnsforlife @hi-7-hi @blahbel668 @mattspleasure @sturnybabes @jjmaybankswifes-blog @sturniolosreads @bernardsleftbootycheek @egirlshit @matthemunch44 @nonamegirlxsturniolo @chrizz333 @sturniolopowers @mattsleftnipple03 @worldlxvlys @hearts4chriss @janiellasblog @creamoncreamoncream2 @meg-sturniolo @ellie-luvsfics @lustfulslxt @braindead4l @ghostlythinggoingaround @taekwite @querenciasturniolo @whicked-hazlatwhore @m4ttslvr @mqttittude @bewtyschooldropout @lovelybrokenheal @h3arts4harry @riowritesitall @freshloveforthefit @esioleren @colorthecosmos444 @mbbsgf @kitkatbar1275

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pucksandpower · 10 months

Text

Your Friend Steve

Max Verstappen x Reader

Summary: it’s finally me and you, and you and me … just us, and your friend Charles

r/relationshipadvice

u/yourusername · 9h

My boyfriend (26M) and I (22F) cannot get a second alone!

The two of us have been together for a few years now. We met through mutual friends and really hit it off. He’s caring, thoughtful, and we have the best time together.

The issue is ... his best friend (26M) is ALWAYS around. And I mean always. We’ll be out to dinner and bestie will show up and pull up a chair. We’ll be cuddling on the couch watching Netflix and he’ll let himself in with the spare key and wedge between us. I swear this guy is like an overeager puppy sometimes.

The other day I came home with my boyfriend and bestie was there ... sleeping on MY side of the bed because he “got lonely” at his place. And don’t get me started on trying to plan a vacation for just the two of us. Without fail, bestie always finds out where we are and shows up.

I’m happy they’re so close and I’d never want to get between them or ask my boyfriend to pick. But his best friend is starting to feel like a third wheel in our relationship. I jokingly said to my boyfriend that at this rate, bestie will be part of our engagement and marriage too!

I could really use some outside advice. How do I kindly set some boundaries with my boyfriend’s overly-attached best friend? I want all of us to still be friends but the constant third-wheeling is getting to be a bit much.

u/relationshipguru123 · 8h

Wow, this sounds really annoying and awkward! Hate to say it but your boyfriend needs to step up and set some better boundaries with his friend. As close as they may be, it’s not ok for him to let his friend crash your alone time constantly. It’s disrespectful to you and your relationship. If your bf won’t address it, you’ll have to be the “bad guy” and talk to the friend directly to give him a reality check.

u/NeedMoreSpace · 7h

I feel you, OP! My sister deals with this with her husband’s best friend too. They even joked that the friend would be IN the delivery room when they have kids one day 😳 She finally sat down with her husband and told him that while she cares about the friend, she needs some lines drawn for their marriage’s sake. Maybe suggest setting one or two date nights a week that are just for you two? And no dropping in unannounced! Compromise is key.

u/BFFboundaries · 5h

This behavior would drive me CRAZY! You need to put your foot down with your bf and tell him his friend’s constant presence is affecting your relationship. Then talk to the friend together to make it clear you just need some alone time as a couple sometimes. If they don’t respect reasonable space, it will breed resentment.

r/relationships

u/DutchLion · 5h

Help! My best friend (26M) is cockblocking me without even realizing it!

I (26M) have been together with my girlfriend (22F) for a few years. She’s awesome — fun, hilarious, and crazy sexy. She puts up with my quirks and even likes watching sports with me. Absolute keeper!

The problem is, my best friend has NO boundaries. I love him like a brother but he has zero concept of personal space or alone time.

Just last night, my girl and I were enjoying some long overdue freaky time together, when who bursts through the bedroom door unannounced? Yep, my best friend. Turns out he “accidentally” made copies of my keys ages ago.

Before I can react, he’s jumped onto the bed between us asking what we’re up to. My girlfriend was mortified and hurried to cover up. There went the mood for the rest of the night thanks to Captain Cockblock!

That’s just the latest in a long string of intrusions. Double dates, surprise sleepovers in OUR bed, you name it. I’m going to have to lock down the apartment Fort Knox style to get any intimacy!

Don’t get me wrong, I would take a bullet for my best friend. But how do I politely tell him that constant third-wheeling is killing my game and giving me the most painful blue balls known to man? Is there a tactful way to set some boundaries so we BOTH stay sane and satisfied?

u/CantUnseeThat · 4h

Dude, I felt awkward just READING this! Major props to your girlfriend for being so chill. You gotta have a talk with your boy and set some hard lines. A real best friend would respect that your relationship needs privacy too.

u/Locks4aReason · 3h

Your friend needs better boundaries yesterday. Sit him down, tell him you get he’s lonely but he can’t just walk in whenever, especially when sexy times are happening! Maybe suggest setting him up on some dates so he finds fulfillments elsewhere.

u/needabroboundary · 3h

As much as you love your best friend, your personal life with your lady should be a priority over letting him run wild! Have a man-to-man talk and make it clear you just need some couple time a few days a week. Offer to schedule some designated bro time to keep that bond too. Gotta compromise.

u/needspace321 · 2h

Don’t feel bad about setting some hard boundaries, even if it bruises his ego at first. True friends will understand. Explain you just need some regular alone time with your gf. Offer a standing weekly bro night to keep the friendship intact too. You need to have that balance!

r/AmItheAsshole

u/PrinceOfMonaco · 3h

AITA for wanting to spend time with my best friend and his girlfriend?

Some background — my friend (let’s call him M) and I go way back to childhood. We’re basically as close as brothers. A few years ago he started dating his now serious girlfriend (we’ll call her Y).

Initially, I’ll admit I was worried M would drift away and our bromance would fade. But much to my delight, Y is awesome! She likes the same sports, laughs at my jokes, and comes to watch our competitions. Honestly it feels like I gained a sister!

Naturally, the three of us started hanging out constantly. I know me and M have always valued bro time together. But now Y joins our gaming sessions, I ride along on their date nights often, and I will even crash in their guest room after late nights! It’s been pretty great.

Or so I thought? Lately I’ve noticed them acting strange and tense around me. They barely react when I barge into their room or surprise them by their cars after work. Sometimes they pretend to be “busy” if I try making plans last minute.

I can’t figure out why though? Just the other day, I popped by to say hi only to have M rather sternly tell me I should “call before visiting from now on.” And I could swear I heard Y whisper about needing “boundaries” … whatever that means!

I’m starting to feel hurt they suddenly seem fed up with me! AITA here? Am I missing something? Someone help me decode these mixed signals!

u/needboundaries101 · 3h

YTA. I know you value your friendship but your total lack of boundaries is overbearing. Your friend is trying to set reasonable limits without damaging the friendship but you’re oblivious to all hints. Surprising them and inviting yourself along all the time is inconsiderate. Give them space!

u/respectrelationships · 3h

Soft YTA. I get you cherish the bromance and her friendship too. But constantly crashing date nights, unannounced visits, etc is cockblocking to the max! They likely feel too awkward to bluntly tell you that they need alone time too sometimes. Tone down the clinginess before you do permanent damage!

u/flying_solo · 2h

NAH but only because you seem genuinely unaware your behavior is an issue! Most people would have picked up on the hints by now. You should DEFINITELY be calling ahead before visits or tagging along to closed plans. Give them a chance to say no thanks. Gotta let your bro spread his wings too.

u/threesacrowd · 2h

YTA. You would lose your mind if your best friend was this invasive during your dates! When they make excuses or leave early, that’s NOT an invitation to join them unasked and uninvited next time! They’re just too polite to be harsh so I’ll spell it out — you have to give them personal alone time without taking offense.

charles_leclerc

Liked by maxverstappen1, yourusername, and 1,273,948 others

charles_leclerc happy third anniversary to my favorite couple ❤️

View all 3,085 comments

maxverstappen1 thanks, mate!

charles_leclerc i’m going to pick up some dinner from that italian place we all like and i should be at your place in around 20 minutes

yourusername we really appreciate that, charlie. but you know … it’s our anniversary and we would like to celebrate alone

charles_leclerc i totally understand! that’s why i’m taking the food to go so we can celebrate alone with just the three of us

maxverstappen1 yeah but we want to ✨celebrate✨ you get me?

charles_leclerc you want me to stop and buy some sparklers?

yourusername what we’re trying to say is that we want to celebrate … in bed

charles_leclerc even better! your mattress is so comfortable and we can put some netflix on while we have a sleepover together

landonorris they’re literally spelling it out for you in black and white 💀

pierregasly mon ami, they’re trying to say they need some adult time tonight 😏 maybe skip the visit this once

danielricciardo how do i say this nicely … max and y/n are clearly desperate for uh, anniversary cuddles without you as the little spoon!

lewishamilton someone rescue my man charles from himself before it’s too late. praying the two lovebirds to get to celebrate properly tonight 😉

charles_leclerc of course we will all celebrate properly! i have champagne

roscoelovescoco read’s the room’s 🙄

f1wagupdates i can’t tell if charles is trolling them or if he genuinely doesn’t get it 😭

charles_leclerc what is there to get?

yourusername i give up 🤦‍♀️

yourusername … what flavor popcorn do you want for our sleepover?

charles_leclerc white cheddar, please!

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f1boistrash · 4 months

Text

i have a name | l.s

a/n: so this is an idea i had after the miami gp and its been stuck in my head so im finally writing it. there is some slight jos slander and reader is max's sister

summary: y/n verstappen drives for f1 academy. they find comfort in a certain american when the media gets too much

Your whole life you've always been Max's sister. You didn't hate your brother for it because it wasn't his fault. You hated the world for being so small minded. You hated your dad for not caring. His words stuck in your head like a broken record. 'You're overreacting Y/N. It's not a big deal. You need to grow up.'

But it was a big deal because why couldn't they be bothered to learn your name. Your accomplishments throughout your career always amounted to 'Max's sister' it was never 'Y/N Verstappen'. You were sure if they could your trophies would say that too.

Going into the F1 Academy you thought it'd be different. You were excited when you got the call. The first person you told was Max and he was even more excited than you, if that was even possible. You were at the forefront of the series, watching young girls across the world become interested in the sport you loved. Something you wished you had growing up.

The driving was great. The team was great. Everything was great except the media. Its the one thing you dreaded stepping into the spotlight more. You tried to develop a thick skin like your brother but it was difficult when you constantly got picked at.

"So, Y/N, great day today. You qualified third. How was it?" The interviewer asked.

"Yeah it was great. Obviously we'd prefer P1 but we're still happy with the result and looking forward to pushing it even more tomorrow." You replied, grinning at your result. It might not be front of the grid but you were still proud.

"Your brother Max had a phenomenal season last year. Can we expect the same this year?" And there it was. Your first interview of the weekend and it only took one question before they asked you about your brother. Normally you didn't mind talking about Max's accomplishments. You were so unbelievably proud of him. It's when they start talking about him when they should be asking you about your race and your season that you get annoyed.

You plastered on your fake smile, hoping no one saw the disappointment flash across your face. "It's hard to say what this year will bring but what I do know is that Max will give it his everything. Whatever happens though I'm still proud of him."

Before anymore questions about Max could be asked your manager made a sign that time was up. You thanked the interviewer and left the media pen. She gave you a run down of tomorrows schedule as you were now finished for the day. Your manager didn't need to ask if you were okay because she knew you weren't. Working with you for a few years meant she had learnt all your tells.

You thanked her for today before parting ways, leaving you alone. The night air was brisk but welcoming. You shut your eyes and sighed enjoying the silence. You were supposed to be meeting Max tonight yet you couldn't bring yourself to move. Not wanting to face him just yet.

It was late and you weren't expecting many people left at the grid. Especially the F1 drivers which was why you jumped when a voice broke the silence. "Y/N right?" Logan said, your stomach fluttered when you looked at him. You have never really spoken to Logan before, only seeing him in passing but you always thought he was cute. He also called you by your name and not 'Max's sister' which was a welcomed surprise, used to his friends calling you that. "Sorry, didn't mean to scare you."

"It's fine, just wasn't expecting anyone to be left at the track." You told him. You took in his appearance under the setting sun. He was in his Williams uniform, his hair slightly tousled from wearing his hat all day.

"Yeah, I was just heading out. Had to do a few tweaks before tomorrow. What are you doing here late?" He asked.

"Media." You grimaced. Logan laughed, understanding your reaction.

"That bad huh?"

"Yep." You nodded. "Talked about Max the whole time."

The two of slowly started walking towards the car you have rented this weekend. It was one of the few left in the parking lot. "Seriously? That's so shit." Logan said, shaking his head. It wasn't out of pity though, more like anger.

"You get used to it." You shrugged.

"You shouldn't have to though." He told you, pulling you both to a stop. His eyes, looking at you intensely making you nervous. "You were incredible out there today and I'll definitely be watching tomorrow as you get your first podium of the season."

"Wait, you watched qualifying?" You asked, surprised.

"Don't tell my trainer though." Logan grinned, winking at you making you laugh. It was a sound he could get used to.

"Well thank you Logan. It means a lot." You thanked him, coming to a stop when you reached the drivers seat door.

"You have a name, Y/N. Your not just Max Verstappen's sister and I hope you know that." He said, earnestly.

You don't know what came over you but you found yourself leaning up, pressing a kiss on Logan's cheek. "Thank you."

-x-

"You're late." Was all Max said as you walked through your hotel room door. You kicked off your shoes, walking further into the room seeing your brother lying on your freshly made bed scrolling on his phone.

"Don't you have a sim race or something?" You asked, shoving his feet off your bed trying to change the subject because what else can you say? The reason you were late was the slight breakdown you had about the interview and then you bumped into Logan. You couldn't exactly tell Max that.

He playfully stuck his middle finger up at you, knowing you were making fun of him. "How was your day anyway? Excited for tomorrow?"

"Yeah it was good." You lied. You liked that Max was oblivious sometimes because it meant you didn't have to talk about what people said about you. However, you also hated his obliviousness because sometimes you wanted your brother to comfort you. "Hopefully people won't get sick of the Dutch national anthem." You grinned at Max who laughed loudly.

You asked Max about his day and he told you about how confident he was with this years car, excited to see what he can get out of it. He carried on talking as you got out of your team uniform and into some comfy clothes when he quietened down.

"When were you going to tell me?" Max asked when you exited the bathroom. "About what the interviewer said?"

"It's fine Max." You said, avoiding his gaze on you by putting your clothes away. You were afraid if you looked at him the dam would break.

"It's not fine, Y/N." He huffed, his voice raising out of anger. It wasn't aimed at you though, Max would never raise his voice at you. "It was so unprofessional. Not to mention the commentators today couldn't even be bothered to learn your name. I'm going to do something about it."

Max's reaction reminded you of Logan's. You didn't think anyone would care this much. Especially someone who you never really had a conversation with before. You knew it was pointless to ask Max to leave it alone so you didn't bother. "Just please don't do anything stupid."

"When have I ever done that?" Max asked and you laughed. You would run out of fingers if you counted all the times Max did something stupid.

It was getting late and you and Max said your goodbyes, leaving you alone once again with your thoughts. Instead of the video on repeat in your head it was Logan's words. You reached over for your phone and unlocked it, going straight to instagram to find Logan's profile. You hit follow before going to his dms.

Y/N:

Thank you again for tonight.

His response was quick making your stomach flutter.

Logan:

You don't need to keep thanking me Y/N

Y/N:

I know

I enjoyed talking to you tonight

So thank you for your company 😊

Logan:

I enjoyed talking to you too 😊

I hope we can do it again some time

You were sure you were grinning like an idiot but you didn't care. You had fallen for the American and hard.

Y/N:

I would love to ☺️

Good luck for tomorrow Logan 💙

Logan:

Good luck Y/N 😊

#logan sargeant imagine #logan sargeant x reader #logan sargeant #f1 imagine #f1

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ldrfanatic · 5 months

Text

two worlds collided

theodore nott x fem!malfoy!ravenclaw!reader

a.n. this is quickly becoming a theo obsession blog BUT I am open to requests for others

love theo in this piece.

to be added to my theo nott taglist just comment on one of my theo nott posts :)

synopsis - you're draco's sister but you're a ravenclaw. your father shunned you because he thought that voldemort wouldn't want you but when Nott sr is trying to find theodore a bride your father takes this as the perfect opportunity. over time you grow to genuinely care for one another.

warning - cursing, lucius malfoy is a prick, hitting, borderline verbal abuse, arranged marriage

accompanying song - never tear us apart (bishop briggs)

works slytherin boys

"Father is asking for you."

Shock washed over you and you wondered if you submerged yourself into your cloud-like bed if Lucius would just forget about it. After carefully weighing your options, it seemed rather unlikely. You threw your navy covers to the side and shuffled awkwardly to the main dining hall where your mother, father, and older brother Draco were waiting.

Your eyes fell onto a rather scary looking man and another handsome figure who you recognized as Theodore Nott, one of Draco's friends.

"Daughter." The warm velvet tones of Narcissa Malfoy filled the air. After you'd been sorted into Ravenclaw, Draco and Lucius had shunned you. Narcissa had been the only person in the entire family still kind to you. Well, she and your estranged aunt Andromeda who you'd been secretly exchanging letters since third year.

"Now that the Dark Lord has gained strength, it is imperative that we maintain close connections within the Sacred 28." Lucius approached you, looking rather unhinged, and placed a large hand on your shoulder. There was a malicious look in his eyes that made the entire interaction all the more unnerving. "Once the Dark Lord begins his plans, he'll need people he can trust to continue the most important of magical bloodlines."

Your father took you by the shoulders and moved you to stand in front of Theodore and the mystery man at his side.

"This is Theodore Nott Sr. and his son, who I presume you know from school."

Nott Sr. glanced to the side at Theodore who snapped out of a sort of trance. He brought your hand up to his lips and placed a gentle kiss on it.

"Y/n."

You smiled but didn't say anything, waiting in silence for your father to elaborate. He and Nott Sr. had clearly formed some sort of plan. "You and his son are to be married."

"What?!" Your body whipped around of its own accord and you felt rage explode over your body. "You haven't spoken to me in years and suddenly you expect me to marry this man without even asking me if I wish to be married to him or anyone for that matter?!"

Lucius' hand came down suddenly. A loud 'whack' resounded in the room as the back of his palm made contact with your cheek. "You ungrateful little brat." He straightened his cloak and took what you supposed was meant to be a calming breath. "Draco noticed the way that you stared at the Nott boy in school. You ought to be more appreciative that I didn't choose that awful Pucey boy although he was more than willing."

Though you couldn't see, Theodore's nose turned up in disgust at the mention of Adrian Pucey. He'd taken a liking to you, completely undeterred by the elder Malfoy's numerous threats to stay away from his younger sister. Draco might've been appalled that you'd been sorted into Ravenclaw, but that didn't mean that he was gonna let that slimey tosser terrorize you.

Your gaze stayed on the floor for a few moments before you turned back around, muttering a small apology to Theodore and his father. Overall, Theo was quite handsome and you had stared at him more than a few times. He really was quite handsome.

Nott Sr. studied you for a few moments then turned to Theodore expectantly. "Why don't the two of you take a stroll and become acquainted while Lucius and I finish up the particulars." It was phrased like a question, but in truth he wasn't asking. The air was silent as you walked out of the room the brunette boy following diligently.

The cool air nipped at your exposed skin as the heavy oak door slammed shut behind you. It was always cold and dark in the area surrounding Malfoy Manor.

"I'm sorry Theodore."

"Theo."

You stared at Theodore like a fish out of water waiting for words of any intelligence to come to you. Finally, you stuttered out an ignorant 'Huh?'.

"Call me Theo."

Your heart beat loudly in you ears for a few moments. "Oh-kay," Theo began to mosey into the Manor gardens with you hot on his heels. He was quite tall and due to the length of his legs, every one step he took was nearly three of yours. "So Theo. I am sorry you got dragged into this."

"That's alright fiancée." Theo teased you with a smile that could make any girl weak in the knees. For a moment you felt as though you could almost forget that the both of you were being forced into this.

"Still. I know your reputation. I only ask that you keep your conquests separate from our entanglement."

An indescribable akin to hurt flashed in the eyes of the boy before you. As well as something you didn't quite recognize.

"My reputation?" You spluttered at him for a few moments once again making a fool of yourself in front of Theodore Nott.

"Theo I didn't mean to--"

"Whatever." He turned away from you and stalked angrily back towards the Manor, calling over his shoulder. "And it's Theodore."

The rest of the break passed by pretty miserably, as expected. You and Theodore had gone on a few dates, as demanded by both your father and Nott Sr. since the pair of you were courting now, but they were long and excruciating with little to no conversation.

Despite a summer that seemed as though it would never end, September finally arrived.

You were boarding the train with Theodore and Draco as your parents watched on. They'd been keeping an extra close eye on the pair of you. In all honesty, you and Theodore hadn't grown any closer in your courtship than you'd been as distant acquaintances the year prior. If anything, the walk in the garden at the start of your relationship had forced you further apart.

And though you'd pretended you didn't care, seeing Theodore with other girls was never something you'd enjoyed. Now, knowing that he'd be your husband sooner rather than later, the thought of Theo running around with some daft blonde Slytherin made your heart sink to your stomach.

Yet, as the year progressed, you and the rest of Hogwarts were unexpectedly surprised by Theo. Before you knew it, the first snowfall graced Hogwarts in November, and Theodore hadn't had any flings with any girls. He was even turning down girls that had been brave enough to approach him and make the first move.

Without your parents to keep the two of you tightly bound, you and Theodore hadn't spoken since the train in.

Through all of this, you hadn't expected to become close friends with Pansy Parkinson, a Slytherin girl in Theo and Draco's year. But she'd walked up to you during breakfast one morning and the two of you really hit it off.

Hence why currently, you were sat on Pansy's bed while she worked on her charms homework. And she was putting her absolute all into trying to convince you to ask Theo to Hogsmeade.

"C'mon Y/n! It might be fun."

"If by fun you mean he'll humiliate me in front of the entire student body." You mumbled under your breath. You tried to tune her out so as to focus on the book you were currently attempting to read, but she was determined.

"According to Blaise Theo's been talking about you when Draco isn't around to glare at him for it."

"Look Pans, I know you're in love with the bloke but have you considered that Blaise may be confused? Or simply taking the mickey?" Pansy shot you an unimpressed look. "Theo and I haven't spoken since September. In any case, if he's turning down long legged red heads who are all but stripping in front of him, what makes you think he'd want to go out with me?"

"Because he's already agreed to speak with you in the Slytherin Common Room tonight."

"What?!"

Pansy ignored your protests and damn near dragged you down to the common room with an iron grip on your wrist. When you got there, Theo was spread out on one of the expensive leather couches with a cigarette in between his lips. Yet as he noticed you approaching, he immediately dropped it and put it out with a stomp on the stone floors.

"Y/n."

The sonorous tones of Theo's voice bounced off each wall of the common room and seemed to warm you from the inside out. His voice was so inviting that you almost believed you could actually do this.

There is, however, one thing to know about Theodore Nott. No matter how inviting or pleasant Theo's aura is, you'd made a promise to yourself not to look him in the eyes. You knew that if you made the unfortunate mistake to look Theodore Nott in his malachite eyes, you'd lose all ability to think, speak, even breathe properly.

It wasn't until you saw his shoes enter your line of sight that you knew that he'd approached you at all. Worse, when his large hand found purchase under your chin and lifted your gaze to meet his, you knew that you were well and truly fucked.

In that most regrettable moment, you realized how much you'd fallen in love with Theodore. During shared hushed dates and the rare moments of laughter. Theodore Nott had completely enraptured you. And you realized much too late to do anything about it.

So now here you stood. Lost in the beautiful blues and greens of your fiancée's eyes. You were completely, 100% at Theodore Nott's mercy. And likely not for the last time in your life, you felt the urge to give into him. He was a sin that you'd willingly drown in.

"Bellisima," Theo's voice thickened as he spoke. You couldn't understand what he was saying nor could you place the language. But in all honesty, you hadn't known that he even spoke any other languages. His tongue wrapped effortlessly around each syllable and his voice deepened even more than usual, if possible. "I asked you a question."

"Huh?"

"You've been avoiding me." He stepped closer and your heartbeat spiked. "Why?"

Why had you been ignoring Theo again? How could you, or anyone for that matter, ever dream of not giving this devastatingly handsome man everything he desired and more? Oh yeah. Your wretched father.

"You've already been roped into entrapment with me and then forced to hang out with me all summer. I didn't want to cause anymore turmoil to your peace than I already have."

Theo's lips pursed and his eyes narrowed. Once again you'd gone and offended the poor boy.

Immediately, you opened your mouth to apologize, but he cut you off.

"D'you know for a Ravenclaw, you really can be rather thick sometimes?"

You felt your jaw drop in shock. The small grin he currently sported on his face let you know that he'd obviously been teasing. And for the umpteenth time since knowing him, Theo stole your breath with his stupid mesmerizing smile.

Yet, through all of that, he was right. You genuinely had no idea what he was talking about. After what seemed like an eternity of silence, Theo finally seemed to get the hint that he was going to have to spell this out for you.

"I know you probably don't know this about me, but I never do anything that I don't want to. No matter who's asking."

You continued to stare at him blankly. Had he hit his head during the last quidditch match?

Theo ran a hand stressfully through his hair. He grabbed your wrist and led you back to the couches where you settled comfortably in the seat next to him, careful to maintain a respectful distance. "Merlin, Y/n. Turns out you Malfoy's are all slow."

"No offense." He added on quickly when he saw the look on your face. "That's not the point. Y/n I never would have agreed to this engagement with you if I didn't actually want to. I know that you did not get a say in the matter so if you truly wish to live our lives separately, I will respect your choice." Theo gently pulled your hand until it was safely tucked in between both of his larger ones.

"But whatever your decision, know that I am yours. I have wanted nothing more in the past few months than to be by your side. And every moment I spend without you is inexplicable torture for my soul."

"Theo."

He shook his head and cradled you face between his palms.

"No. My mother had a saying. Lascia che la vita accada. It means 'let life happen'. She believed that the only way to truly know if something is meant for you is to let life make it happen on its own. So take a few days. I'll meet you Saturday morning in the Great Hall. But know that if you agree to be mine, Tesoro, you'll be mine for eternity."

To say that staying away from Theo in the days following was easy would be a complete and total lie. When you told Pansy about the conversation the pair of you had (or lack thereof really) she'd all but exploded.

Finally, Saturday morning rolled around. You'd genuinely thought about all your options and you'd come to a decision. The only issue with Theo's plan is that Saturday was the infamous Gryffindor v Slytherin Quidditch match. The Great Hall was bustling in seas of only red or green. You were sporting a dark green jumper, a show of obvious support for the Slytherin team.

Those of your house that favored Gryffindor looked on at you with disdain as you stood from your bench and began making your way to the Slytherin table in search of Theo. He was one of Slytherin's chasers so trying to find him during such a hectic morning proved difficult.

As you walked up and down the table, a familiar figure appeared in front of you.

"Ahh Malfoy. I've been looking for you. I was wonderin' if you'd wear my jersey."

Before you had time to respond or even acknowledge the situation at all, Adrian Pucey had shoved his green and silver practice jersey into your arms. It was an incredibly common practice for girlfriends and boyfriends of Quidditch players to wear their partner's jerseys to their games for good luck.

The hall fell silent as the sound of glass breaking reverberated through the air. You looked to the source of the noise. Theo had stood so abruptly from his seat next to Blaise and Lorenzo that his entire breakfast went flying and ended up on the floor.

He was staring at you with clear ache in his eyes. Suddenly, he swung himself over the bench and stormed out of the room.

You threw Adrian's awful smelling jersey back at his face and ran frantically after Theo.

"Theo!" He ignored you and continued walking briskly even as you approached quickly on his heels. "Theodore please. Just let me explain."

"You don't owe me an explanation, dolcezza ragazza. You've made your choice."

"You've got it all wrong. That's not my decision. I don't want that." You cried out as tears brimmed your eyes. The thought of losing Theo because of Adrian Pucey was mournful.

"Hey, hey. Calma tesoro. Breathe." Theo's hands one again found their way to your face. He gently thumbed the tears from your face. "Don't get yourself all worked up. I'll always listen to you."

"Adrian he just sort of threw his disgusting jumper at me. I don't want him. I only want you. I'm yours, Theodore Nott, completely and without hesitation."

The grin on Theo's face was nothing short of heart-stopping.

"Does that mean you'll wear my jersey at the game today?"

wc 2.6k oops

4.17.24

-- taglist --

@thatdammchickennugget @moonlightreader649

#slytherin boys #slytherin #theodore nott #theo nott x reader #theodore nott x reader #theo nott #slytherin boys x reader #lorenzo zurzolo #draco malfoy #blaise zabini #pansy parkinson

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bodhrancomedy · 9 months

Text

Guess who's on TV!

(Well, iPlayer until the 15th, that's when it airs on BBC One)

Hope Street episode 3.11, let's go!

First of all, I'd say they did me dirty with this picture, but my university ID was exponentially worse.

Onto the spoilers!

Our boy Matthew has arrived in Port Devine, looking a little concerned.

For good reason when he's suddenly confronted by this lad, Dara.

Ah, a fight which Matthew escapes by slipping out of his coat. (Pretty sure this is the take where we ripped it practically in two...)

Dara's questioned, he claims he's never met Matthew in his life. Hmm.

Police do some investigating (and some character stuff) before Dara makes his way to Matthew's mother (Louise)'s house to have a wee showdown.

They both in a gang and Matthew's stolen a gun. Dara needs to get it back...

Matthew's nay having it. "This is my way out. If they want the gun back, they have to let me go."

Another fight. The gun goes off! (Poor Pete and I were convinced after take one to put some padding on. My arm looks bulky because I'm strapped up with squishy stuff and allergic to plasters so it has to be in a sock)

Thank fuck no one was hurt. Dara gets the hell out of dodge -

Leaving Matthew to contemplate his mortality. And other people's, but mostly his own.

"Oh fuck, my bosses are gonna find me and murder me, oh shit. I'm far too young and pretty to die!"

Time for Matthew and Louise to follow Dara's example and get the fuck out of here.

The police are now on the Halbridges' trail, but they discover the phone tracking them and leave it in a field.

Meanwhile, Dara's been arrested for drug dealing. He refuses to talk, clearly nervous.

Ah, what's this on Dara's phone? So Matthew and Dara have been in a relationship for over a year now.

(The poor intimacy coordinator having to walk me through my just about second kiss in my entire life. And the third. And the fourth. And the fifth... Pete is a very sweet person. Made it all funny.) ("Relax your hand, Bodh. Just relax it. Open - open your fingers, just let me position your hand.")

They're both working for the same gang. Matthew was given the gun to hold onto by their bosses' and freaked out, running away with the weapon. His plan was to trade his freedom for the gun, but Dara was sent to get it back for the Brazier Brothers, notorious drug runners and gang leaders.

These guys.

Unfortunately, now Dara's had to tell the Brazier Brothers that Matthew is refusing. They're going to kill Matthew and then Dara. Oh no.

But Dara has an idea where they might be hiding.

At the caravan there's a standoff between the police and Halbridges. But when the Braizer Brothers are arrested, they're convinced to come out.

(Side note, my favourite picture of me, ever.)

Oh no, the Halbridges are going to jail and Matthew's regretting his life choices.

Matthew walked off to his new life inside a jail cell.

The end.

(This is where Niall Wright accidently sublexed my shoulder. To be fair to the man, I'd never mentioned it and he took his finger sliding in-between bone like a champ)

Look, it's me!! I was on TV! Bit sad they cut pretty much all the uses of SSE (weren't allowed BSL because we still had to speak the lines), but I got to be queer and Deaf so that's pretty nice.

#deaf #queer #funny #actor #hope street #hope street bbc #long post #spoilers

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chris-slut · 6 months

Text

HOW LONG

pairing: dom!matt x sub!reader

summary: for what feels like months, matt’s been feeling different towards you. he can’t help it, he stays up one night scrolling through your instagram, phone in one hand and his cock in the other. nick tells you to go grab a blanket from his bedroom but you definitely grab something else instead.

!both p.o.v!

!warnings!: SMUT, oral; male!receiving, pet names (mama, pretty girl, slut, baby, good girl, gorgeous), p in v, unprotected sex (don’t do), praising.

authors note: decided to post again since my last one did good, HOW DO YOU DO A MASTERS LIST.

word count:

MATT HAS no clue why— or how, but he was scrolling through your recent instagram post. the way the silky pink dressed hugged all your curves and showed the slutty little pink panties you had underneath it. fuck all he wanted was to watch you go down under him.

after 5 minutes of scrolling, his cock was in his hand going up and down. “f-fuck y/n,” he moans, imagining his hand was you. he forgot that you were sleeping over for his brother nick.

his hand goes up and down faster and faster— “shit y/n, fuck— fuck!!” he whimpers louder than he’s meant to. his legs shake as he images your slutty lips wrapped around the tip of his cock.

the way your panties were showing made him go insane. he wishes he could rip them off you and just fuck your absolute brains out. it’s the only thing he’s been thinking of doing since he’s laid eyes on you.

he knows it’s wrong, but he can’t help himself. he feels like a dick jerking off to a photo of his brothers best friend. his legs shake more and more and loud growls and whimpers escape past his lips. feeling the cum shoot out of his cock, he lets out one last loud whimper and wipes it off.

all he can think about is you tho, and he knows he can’t take anymore— but come on, he’s so attracted to you he’s got to do it twice.

* Y/N’S P.O.V. *

“DO YOU think you can go and get some extra blankets from matt’s room? there in his hamper,” nick says to me as i nod, placing my cola can down and getting up from the couch.

i quickly walk up the stairs, since i’ve been friends with nick for as long as i can remember and i know matt on some level— i walk in without knocking.

“jesus y/n, fuck!” i fix my vision as matt’s sweatpants are pulled down to his thighs, his long and hard cock moving up and down while his hand is wrapped around it. is he moaning my name?

i sit there for a minute in pure shock, and matt doesn’t notice me so he continues. “fuck y/n, fuck!” he moans a little louder as a little drop of cum starts to come out of his cock. fuck that’s hot.

“matty?” i ask after another 2 minutes go by, his eyes open wide as he takes his hand off slowly— his gaze going from his cock to my eyes now. his cheeks turn to a cherry red s he pulls his sweatpants a little under his v line.

“shit y/n— what are you doing in here?!” he asks, worry filling his voice. i laugh dryly at him as i slowly walk over, “what’s going on in here?” i ask as he smirks, shaking his head at me— “i asked you a question y/n.”

my eyes widen at his sudden dominance, but deep down i absolutely fucking love it. jesus anything this man does turns me on. “getting some blankets for me and nick, is that an issue?” i ask, tease filling my tone. he growls lowly as he grabs onto my wrist.

“why didn’t you knock,” he asks me, “what’s up with all these questions, jesus,” i say back— grabbing the closest blanket next to me. his grip tightens around my wrist as i drop the blanket, barley being able to move.

* THIRD PERSON *

matt grabs her wrist and pulls her hand down closer to his cock, her fingertips only inches away from his waistband. just knowing that any second her slutty little lips could be wrapped around his cock makes him grow harder by the second. she’s a fucking tease. the smirk on her face only makes his grow more and more impatient for her touch.

“y/n, please, just give me head!” matt begs for her touch. all he wants is to feel her hand wrapped around his cock as she spreads her saliva down it. he just wants to fuck her mouth like the slut she is.

“fuck matt— don’t say shit like that,” she whimpers out, mumbling her words as her nails get closer and closer to his waistband. she wants nothing more then to rip his sweatpants and boxers back down and suck his cock.

“why? i’m not lying baby,” he says to the girl, looking up at her through his eyes lashes. fuck he’s a slut. i can’t control myself any longer as i climb onto him and slowly start to take the clothes from beneath his waist right back off.

“look at you, taking orders from me, such a pretty girl,” matt says, causing a moan to slide past the girls lips. his cock springs out and hits his stomach, growing hard just knowing y/n’s in his presence.

matt grabs a handful of her hair and forms it into a ponytail, bucking his hips slightly so his tip hits her lips. “be patient matt,” i try to hold his hips down, but he lets out a low growl and moves my hands— pushing his tip into my mouth. “don’t tell me what to do mama,” he says to her.

she begins to suck his cock, bobbing her head up and down. “fuck— been wanting your slutty lips wrapped around me since i’ve seen you,” he rants out, causing her pace to fasten.

letting go, matt hums in disappointment. she spits on his tip and sticks her tongue into it, a whimper now falling past his lips. she kitten licks the tip and slides her tongue down his full length. ‘such a fucking tease’ matt thinks.

without a warning, she takes his full length. both of them turning into a moaning sweaty mess. “oh- yeah- FUCK!” matt groans out as his legs slowly start to shake, signaling he’s close. “i’m not done with you yet matty,” y/n says as she takes his cock out her mouth, a pop! noise coming with it.

“wanna ride you, let me ride you please!” she begins to beg as matt smirks, running his hands down the curves of her waist. “fuck baby, ride me,” he mumbles in a low voice as he leans forward, uniting the knot to her short pajama pants with his teeth.

he wastes no time sliding them right off, revealing the same pink bow panties she had on in the selfie he was jerking himself off to. “those fucking panties, you know what your doing slut,” matt says as my cheeks grow hot. what’s that supposed to mean?

“jerked off to your photos, you were wearing these slutty little bow panties and jesus— all i wanted was to fuck your dumb brains out baby,” matt admits as he slides them off with one hand, patting his lap for her to sit on.

she quickly does as told as he pulls her in for a messy make out session. their tongue’s fight for dominance and— of course, matt’s won. he slides his tongue past her lip as their teeth’s clash together— a whimper falling from both’s lips. her hips begin to grind as her wet core rubs against the skin of matt’s cock.

“fuck baby, hover over my lap real quick like the good girl you are,” good girl made her grow even wetter, she slides up and hovers her body so her clit is now lined up with matt’s tip. “grab a condom from my bedside table really quick,” matt says as she quickly shakes her head— “no.” she replies.

a smirk falls into matt’s face, “oh your a slut, you want me to fuck you raw?” he says as y/n slightly nods, her cheeks growing hotter as embarrassment fills the room. “you wanna be filled up huh? have my babies like the good girl you are?” matt teases her once more, “fuck matty, please!” she begins to beg for it. she doesn’t have to tell matt twice as he grabs her hips and pushes just his tip into her clit.

“is this good for you so far?” matt asks, sliding in little lengths at a time. “no matty, more- please!” she begs as he shoves as much as he can into her, a loud moan escaping past her lips. “shhh, don’t want nick to hear now do we?” he asks as his one hand falls from my waist and onto my mouth, shutting me up and muffling my moans and cries.

our sweaty skin slap against each other, whimpers falling from both our mouths. “fuck baby— look at you taking me so well, so fucking good for me. such a good girl,” matt praises which sends y/n over the edge. her back arches in the air and her head falls back, rubbing his thighs as she bounces up and down onto him. “fuck matty, gonna cum!” she says as matt slowly goes rougher.

“me too sweetheart, cum with me!” matt moans louder then expected as their legs begin to shake against each other, both of them hitting their orgasms. the room is filled with whimpers and loud cries, occasional growls coming from matt’s throat.

“shit- cumming!” y/n cries out as her steamy liquid falls onto matt’s cock, matt plunging into her once more as he fills her up with his own white, sticky liquid. “fuck— such a good girl!” matt says as he slowly slides his cock out of her core. whimpers falling past their lips as he does so.

“do you think nick still needs his blanket?” matt asks, laughing at his own joke. she lean’s over and click his phone on. 11:38 p.m. fuck time does go by fast when your having fun.

“nah, i think he’ll be fine,” she replies, both of them pulling in for one last kiss.

that night definitely ended better than they expected.

#chris sturniolo #chris sturniolo smut #chrissturniolo smut #matt sturniolo smut #matt sturniolo #nicolas sturniolo #nathan doe #sturniolo smut #sturniolo triplets #christopher sturniolo #matthew sturniolo #nick sturniolo #sturniolo x reader #smut #sturniolo fanfic

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risingode · 22 days

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loml (loss of my life)

summary: in which ellie's only ever cried in front of you three times. yet the fourth is the most devastating of them all.

pairing: ellie williams x y/n

genre: angst

wc: 962

please comment or message letting me know your thoughts! it helps motivate me :)

once again inspired by taylor swfit :)

a/n: hello everyone! it has been quite a while since i have uploaded on here. i've had a lot of changes in my life since the last time i posted a writing of mine, primarily, i am now in my third (!!!) year of university. crazy to even think about tbh. anyways, i know i primarily write about jungkook from bts, but recently i was gifted a ps5 by my brother in law and the first game i bought was tlou part 2 remastered because i never quite got over the game, or more specifically, ellie williams lmaooooo. anyways pls enjoy this short little drabble, i am excited to get back into writing! and yes, i will keep writing for jungkook as well, i'm just mixing it up a bit!

Ellie Williams was an enigma to the world, and right now, her mystery is unfurling in the cruelest of ways. The room before you is a tapestry of shattered dreams, clothes scattered like discarded promises, each garment a silent witness to the betrayal unfolding before your eyes.

Your heart, once so full of trust and love, feels like it's disintegrating. A heart-shaped void appears on the floor beneath you, a grotesque reflection of the pain ripping through your chest. There, in the dim light, your fiancée lies entwined with another woman, their bodies a stark betrayal of the vows once promised to you.

It's almost absurd, the way a love that once made you feel invincible can crumble so easily, as if it was all a cruel joke. The sight is so surreal that you question its reality, your mind unable to reconcile the image before you with the life you thought you shared. Your feet are rooted to the ground, as if some invisible force has tethered you to this unbearable truth.

The diamond ring on your finger, once a symbol of unending love, now feels like a shackle, its weight a painful reminder of the promises that were so carelessly broken. You stand there, numb and hollow, the ache in your chest growing more insistent with every breath.

Her voice is a faint murmur, drowned out by the protective haze your mind has wrapped around you, shielding you from the full weight of her betrayal. The woman who promised to stand by you for the rest of your life is now an almost surreal presence, a distant echo as the reality of the situation sinks in.

They scramble to untangle themselves from the bed—your bed. Clothes are hastily pulled on, and you feel a wave of nausea rise up, the bile surging before you can even hope to stop it. The force of the moment propels you into action, and you sprint through the house, your heart pounding with the realization that every corner holds a painful reminder of the life you built together.

The couch you assembled in your first apartment, the dishes you chose together, each one a piece of your shared dream, perfectly matching the white and royal blue of your kitchen. The kitchen where you cooked meals side by side, dancing to songs from artists you discovered together,

“This one’s the song I want to walk down the aisle to,” you’d said, stirring the pasta as you both cooked together.

Ellie looked up from where she stood, buttering garlic bread. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you replied, smiling as you watched her. “Do you like it?”

Her eyes twinkled with that familiar warmth as she walked over to you, wrapping her arms around your waist. “I don’t care what song you walk down the aisle to,” her tender voice whispers into your ear, “as long as the person standing at the end of it is me.”

The air is cold against your hot skin, a reminder of how real everything you just experienced was. You couldn’t seem to care, though, almost prying open the door to your poorly parked car. The silence of it deafening as you give yourself time to catch your breath, finally it was quiet. Still, the sounds of their shared moans and whimpers echoes in your mind. The silence doesn’t last long, a loud thump breaks you out of your dissociated trance. Your neck snaps towards your driver’s side window, Ellie’s tearful face is the sight you’re met with. You think back to all the times you’ve seen her cry before. You conclude it’s three.

The first time was when she was drunk, confessing her feelings, afraid you didn’t feel the same. You had held her close, whispering reassurances.

“Oh, Ellie, you’re silly to think I don’t like you too.”

The second was when you were rushed to the hospital after a fall at work. The memory is a blur of bright lights and pain, but Ellie’s tear-streaked face as she clung to you is vivid.

“You scared me so bad, baby,” she had sobbed into your shoulder.

You had tried to lighten the moment, chuckling despite your discomfort. “I just have a mild concussion. The only thing I’m worried about is how I’m going to step back into that office without a bag over my head. I’m so embarrassed.”

She pulls away to look at your pouting face, noticing a light purple bruise decorating your pretty eye. She frowns, leaning in to leave a kiss on it. “Shut up, you’re never leaving my side again.”

The third and only time you cried alongside her was the day she proposed, her hand shaking in your grasp as she got down on one knee.

“You’re the love of my life, Y/N. I don’t care how many years pass, or how many hurdles we come across, I will always be there for you. I can’t imagine loving anyone as much as I love you, baby.”

You’re choking on your tears, your hand feels almost numb at the tightening of her grip. You reach your empty hand up to your chest, willing your beating heart to still.

“Will you marry me?”

Now, in the cold car, you’re confronting the fourth time, a cruel twist of fate that you never anticipated would be this moment. You thought the tears would come on your wedding day, as you exchanged vows to love and cherish each other, for better or for worse. The irony makes you laugh, a broken, hollow sound, as you shift the car into reverse.

Ignoring the pleading sobs muffled by the glass, you drive away, each mile feeling like a mile further from the life you once knew and the promises that were so easily shattered.

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yaoyaobae · 1 year

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Its been awhile and i have another OC to share LOL gotta draw brain rots instead of keeping them in your head forever ☺️💖

Name: Aurore Dormir

School: Royal Sword Academy

Pastime: Escaping school to wander in the nearby forest, spending time alone

Hobbies: Sightseeing, Gardening, Fencing.

Family: Father, Mother , *Brother ( silver, please refer to the last note regarding my own theory)

Aurore is a third year student at RSA, currently house warden of the sleeping beauty inspired dorm.

Aurore is also the next king of the Kingdom of Heroes, which naturally made him the center of attention in RSA.

Unlike Malleus whose powerful aura pushes people away from him, Aurore draws people towards him as they feel a sense of security around him.

He was only recently enrolled into school during his second year as his family brought him back from isolation for training, far away from the world’s eyes.

At first glance, Aurore may seem like the ideal dream prince: Kind, Polite, Courageous, Strong and Smart as he is consistent in securing top grades across his cohort. But deep down, he isn’t exactly the perfect prince most of his peers think he is.

Aurore is actually afraid of strangers and overwhelming attention ( he was raised in isolation so meeting humans are.. yeah) He is skilled at hiding his weakness but starts blanking out if there are too many people crowding around him.

As a result, he finds happiness in spending time alone in places where no one recognises him. He usually takes a short stroll around Sage Island’s various forests when his caretakers aren’t looking.

Strangely, Aurore mentions that his enjoyment from lonely strolls only existed because he would suddenly find himself in unknown places as a child…as if something or someone was calling him. But he became mentally stronger as he got older and knows how to guard himself during his impromptu walks.

Bonus personal theory/lore:

Hi! So if you have been following me since i started creating twst ocs, you would be familiar with a certain comic i drew for an Aurora Oc ( its not exactly Aurore because i didn’t flesh him out) . But to sum up my theory for that comic:

There was once a powerful kingdom that clashed with briar valley, humans and fae did not get along as well back then.

Somewhere in between the war, both of the queen’s sons were cursed by a powerful magician and separated at birth. The queen initially wanted to send her two sons far away from the castle, but only managed to send one tucked away in a casket that drifted on a hidden river which led to a forest.

The war ended a few days later, with both fae and humans forming a truce. The queen fell into depression after realising that her second son probably did not make it and blamed herself for not keeping him a little longer had she known he would have been safe and alive in her arms.

Time heals wounds, and with some reassurance from the King the Queen got back up on her feet stronger for the sake of her people. Of course, sometimes the servants would catch a glimpse of the lonely Queen staring into the far forests wondering if she will ever see those small pair of Aurora coloured eyes again.

Because the Queen conceived her two sons alone away from the servants, only she and the King were aware of their other missing son. The three fairy advisors who had protected them from the very start told the Queen that if word of two cursed princes were to spread, the kingdom would be doomed to fall . The Queen had no choice but to accept this decision, and so they entrusted their only son to the three fairies in case the curse within him acts up. Hence Aurore was raised in isolation away from the world’s attention and only enrolled in his second year to prevent the curse from possibly manifesting.

In this story I created Silver is the missing prince in question who drifted far into the forest and eventually picked up by Lilia. His only proof of his royal status is a ring with an aurora coloured gem (Book 7 mention).

Regarding the curse: Silver was cursed to feel drowsy all the time while Aurore was cursed to follow a voice in his head which leads him to sleepwalk into dangerous places alone. Silver’s hair colour reminds me of the spindle/needle, so in a way he contains the sleeping curse. Like Aurora, Aurore is drawn into strange places by a voice and eventually to the spindle. Hence these two will always feel an unfamiliar sense of closeness to each other.

“Yao why do you think Silver would have a brother? Much less the RSA guy inspired by Aurora? Doesn’t Silver already have Aurora’s traits?”

In general this is just my own fun theory to think about, but my reasons are because i think it would be interesting if Silver canonically had living family member(s) from a royal family( that ring kinda tells all). It would also put him in place wondering if he should return to his biological human family or stay with his Briar Valley family as he feels a stronger bond with them. With the way TWST tackles issues about fae/human like Sebek from example, i would love to see Silver’s resolve for his found family.

In my old comic, the Aurora OC actually dislikes Fae because of the war. He especially hates Lilia because he believed the war criminal took his own brother away and is promoting peace despite his past.

I feel Aurore would dislike Lilia but eventually learns to see the war from both sides as humans aren’t all that great either, he is still a naive prince with much to learn about the world. So while Silver does have Aurora’s trait, Aurore may have some of King Stefan’s from Maleficent/OG film. TWST tends to combine diff character traits anyways🌝👍

Anyways I adore these two so much and am looking forward to Silver’s past in the future updates! Thank you for reading about Aurore, till next time 💖

#twisted wonderland #twst #twst fanart #yaoyao_twstoc #auroredormir #twst silver

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ellecdc · 5 months

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All's Fair in Love & Chaos (III)

third instalment (I - II - III - IV)

a short blurb style mini-series in collaboration with @unstablereader no real plot, just vibes and comedy.

Synopsis: soulmate au, everyone's soulmate's initials become visible on their wrist when the last person in the bond 'comes of age' (I've left the age ambiguous because their may be mature insinuations later on in the story). As luck would have it, and much to everyone's horror; it appeared that you, Barty Crouch Junior, and Sirius Black were soulmates

poly!DeathStar x fem!reader

“Okay, but I don’t think you’re properly considering my perspective on this.” James offered calmly.

“Because your perspective is asinine and foolish.” Regulus spat back causing Remus and Peter to chuckle.

“Asinine and foolish… Regulus Arcturus Black, I’ve raised you better than this; quit speaking like such a ponce.” Sirius scolded, causing Regulus to glare at him.

“Your friend is the stupidest fucking wanker I’ve ever met in my life.” He corrected.

Sirius brought a hand to his chest and looked at his brother adoringly. “I’ve never been more proud.” He whispered as he wiped a fake tear from under his eye.

“I just think that two things that have eight legs ought to be closely related. I don’t think it’s outlandish to call an octopus a wet-spider.” James carried on level-headedly.

“Because they’re completely different phylums!” Regulus bellowed.

“Okay but they’re definitely the same shape.” Peter added solemnly.

“They are-” Regulus started, turning to look at Peter incredulously. “They are not the same shape! How are they the same shape?”

“Well, they’ve both got, like…their bodies? Right? And then they’ve got their legs just….all outward like. You know?” Peter explained, using his hands to represent said body and legs.

“Salazars saggy balls.” Regulus muttered under his breath as he stood from the library table and gathered his things. “Je n'arrive pas à croire que je m'entoure de parfaits abrutis. Âme sœur ou pas, je ne peux pas continuer à vivre ainsi.”

Regulus continued muttering furiously under his breath as he made for the door causing Remus to let out a long suffering sigh and gather his own things.

“Way to go, boys.” He sighed in faux admonishment. “You’ve put my soulmate in a bad mood.”

James muttered what sounded an awful lot like ‘well it’s not very hard now, is it?’ as Sirius quickly looked at his watch. “Oh shit! Is it four o’clock already?”

Remus opted to wait for Sirius as he carelessly shoved his untouched homework - that they had originally gone to the library to complete - before hurrying for the library door his brother had just exited.

“What’s happening at four o'clock?” Remus asked as he caught the door Sirius had just allowed to close unceremoniously on one of his oldest friends.

Both Sirius and Regulus grumbled - albeit for very different reasons - as Remus and Sirius stepped outside of the library where Regulus had been waiting for his boyfriend.

“Must you bring your brigade of buffoons with you everywhere?” Regulus hissed at Remus who simply tsked at him and pulled him into his side.

“Play nice, Reggie.” He murmured into Regulus’ hairline.

“Yeah; play nice Reggie.” Sirius mocked petulantly, earning him a swat up the back of the head from Remus.

“What’s happening at four o’clock?” Remus repeated as he professionally managed a potential level four sibling squabble between his best friend and his soulmate.

“I have to meet with Y/N and Junior.” Sirius explained solemnly.

“You have your soulmate bond organised by a timetable?” Remus asked as a joke, pausing in his chuckles when he realised Sirius was being quite….serious.

“It gets better.” Regulus added unhelpfully and unprompted as he followed Sirius and Remus (unwelcomely) to Sirius, Barty, and your meet-up spot. “They have to have supervised hand-offs.”

“Don’t call it a hand-off Regulus; she’s not some child in a divorce.” Sirius muttered petulantly.

“I agree, I rather think you and Junior are the children in this situation.” Regulus bit back with his nose in the air; Sirius wanted to break it.

He didn’t get the chance though, as Remus ushered the conversation along. “Why does it need to be supervised?”

“Because Junior kept trying to hex me when we’d meet up, and then when Y/N told him he couldn’t do that, he’d hide somewhere in the castle and I’d have to snag the map from your trunk to find them.”

“Who supervises these exchanges?” Remus carried on, but Sirius needn’t respond when they stepped into the courtyard where Barty, you, and Pandora were waiting near the fountain.

“Hello Sirius!” Pandora greeted brightly, causing Barty to scowl.

“No fair! He’s not supposed to bring back up! I would have brought Evan!”

“It’s not back up Barty.” You argued exhaustedly, looking particularly mortified at the attendance at today’s exchange.

“Hello, Junior.” Sirius bit out as politely as he could manage only to have the sod glare at him.

“Is there something you’d like to say, Bartemus?” Pandora asked serenely.

“Yes. Get fucked Black.” He spat.

“That was perhaps my fault.” Pandora conceded. “Barty, say hello to Sirius.”

“Hello…..Sirius.”

“Good job, Bartemus.” Pandora praised like he was a snotty little nursery school student. “Now say goodbye to Y/N.”

Sirius heaved a sigh as he crossed his arms and shot Remus a look before watching Barty turn to you and pepper kisses all over your face; you - Merlin love you - looked like you were working really hard to fight your fight-or-flight instincts.

“Now Treasure, if you get tired of him or need anything, just-”

“Barty, I’m fine.”

“I know you’re fine.” Barty conceded. “It’s him I’m worried about.”

“Barty.” You repeated; tone taking on a severity Sirius wasn’t accustomed to hearing from you. “It is Sirius, our soulmate…our soulmate. I will be fine, yeah?”

Properly chastised, Barty shot Sirius another glare before acquiescing and pressing one last kiss to your cheek before letting go of your wrists.

You nodded gratefully at Pandora for her service and shot Remus and Regulus a wary look as you made your way across the courtyard.

“Hello, gorgeous.” Sirius greeted you salaciously, causing you to flush impossibly further at the attention.

“Sirius, please.” You begged.

“What?” Sirius scoffed in faux offence. “He’s allowed to make a fuss over you and I’m not?”

You groaned and stomped your foot a little bit as you allowed Sirius to take your hand in his. “You’re supposed to be more reasonable.”

“Fine.” Sirius relented as he pressed a kiss to the back of your hand. “I can wait until we’re in the privacy of the dorm to fuss over you.”

You groaned in horror again when Remus laughed and Regulus grumbled at the thought of his brother fussing over anyone.

“I’m going to be attending poor Y/N’s funeral before I ever attend her soul-bond.” Remus joked as the four of you made your way back into the castle.

“Make sure it’s a nice funeral, yeah?” You asked him quietly.

Remus barked a surprised laugh at that. “Consider it done.”

“And then send the bill to Junior.” Sirius added quickly, earning him an elbow in the ribs.

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55sturn · 7 months

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✮ FEEL IT ON THE WAY HOME

pairing: matthew sturniolo x fem!reader

synopsis: in which matt finds himself growing jealous of y/n's friendship with nathan, despite matt not officially being with her, however she sees his deepest worries and assures there's no one else for her.

warnings: swearing, jealous!matt, snide comments here and there from matt (basically passive aggressive!matt), relationship anxiety, angst if you squint.

THIRD PERSON POV

if anyone were to ask matt, when he fell in love with you, he'd tell you somewhere between junior and senior year. but deep down he knew that he was lying. he knows he fell in love with you the moment he met you.

the two of you met during the summer between eighth and ninth grade. it was the one and only summer he let his mom send him away to summer camp with his brothers. he decided that he'd go once, just for the memories.

and boy did he make some memories.

FLASHBACK

"matt c'mon! they're letting us have a free hour on the beach!" chris exclaimed loudly as he jumped on his brother's bed, disturbing the middle triplet who tried to peacefully nap during their free hour.

"chris go away!" matt grumbled, pulling the pillow over his head, keeping away from chris until nick came into the room, ordering matt to get up. matt obliged, but not without complaint.

the three boys made their way down to the beach. chris immediately took off toward the makeshift court where a few boys his age were playing basketball. nick took off toward alahna who attended the camp as well.

matt was about to follow nick when he spotted a girl, probably his age sitting alone at table drawing away in a sketchbook.

"hey, why are you by yourself?" matt greeted, sitting across from her, feeling the need to keep this girl company.

"i just moved to boston and my mom sent me to this stupid camp to make friends in time for school but i'm mad at her so i'm not gonna make any friends." the girl replied, not taking her eyes off her book as her pencil scribbled furiously. when she realized he wasn't leaving, she let out a dramatic sigh and looked out at the water.

"well, i'm matt!" he laughed, noticing how stubborn she was about not looking at him.

"i'm y/n." she replied, finally looking at him and felt her face grow warm, but she thought that was gross so she chalked it up to the summer air against her skin.

a week later, the girl left summer camp with four new friends, despite her penchant for being alone.

when the school year began, y/n quickly found that she was attending the same high school as the triplets. she was quick to fall into their routine, developing a close relationship with their closest friends as well. almost immediately fitting into their dynamic and group.

however, y/n got rather close with nathan almost immediately after meeting him. she opened her arms and let nate in without fighting, she felt a strong brotherly tie to him.

however matt didn't know that she only considered him a brother, his jealously stewing over time. he knew he was falling in love when he wanted to punch nate for stealing y/n from him. he knew he was falling in love when he was angry when he should've been happy when y/n found her first boyfriend.

he knew he was falling in love the moment he met her.

FLASHBACK OVER

in the two years since y/n, the triplets, alahna, and nate have graduated, matt hasn't been able to pinpoint the exact moment his relationship with y/n changed.

they went from awkward teenagers trying to navigate uncomfortable and unfamiliar feelings that brew in the pits of their stomachs every time they met their best friend's eyes, to people testing the waters of what is considered a normal friendship while cuddling, spending the night with her chest to his back and his arm wrapped tightly around her waist.

they went from best friends teasing each other relentlessly over not having their first kisses only to become each other's first kisses. they kept the terribly awkward, clashing of teeth, tongue in the wrong spots type of kiss, to themselves.

however, despite their first kiss being terrible, once they graduated and the triplets moved to los angeles, y/n and matt had a tendency to share more kisses every time they convinced her to come out to los angeles or whenever the triplets flew back home to boston.

matt depended on those close, personal moments of intimacy with y/n. they made him feel like he had her in his life in a way that no one did. she was special to him, his first ever love. he didn't want to give that up. and so, he and his brothers were on their way to boston, partly because they missed home and mostly because matt needed to see her.

"so are you gonna tell her?" nick hummed, looking at matt who sat in the middle seat of their section on the plane, his eyes glued to his phone as he watched the minutes tick by, his right knee bouncing rapidly as he waited for the plane to land.

"huh? tell who? what?" matt replied, a delayed reaction to nick's question, the pounding in his chest travelled to his head, causing his reaction time to be slowed.

"he asked if you're gonna tell y/n that you've been in love with her for like ever, bozo." chris snickered, earning a swift smack to the stomach, causing chris to double over groaning slightly. okay so maybe, matt's reaction time wasn't delayed.

"shut up chris. i'm not in love with her."

"that's bullshit, and you know it." nick mumbled, earning a glare from matt who just slumped back in his seat, plugging his airpods into his ears, trying to ignore his brothers and their ridiculous teasing for the rest of the flight. the flight couldn't go by fast enough for matt, who was subconsciously biting his nails as he listened to playlist that y/n had made for him. as the boys struggled to but kept busy, the flight was soon over, all three of them rushing to grab their carry/ons and get off the plane.

as the triplets headed toward their house, they grew nervous. all their friends and family knew they were coming home and were awaiting their arrival. matt felt his nerves calm slightly when he heard y/n's laugh from the open window in the kitchen.

as he pushed through the door, he felt his heart crumble to pieces deep in his chest. seeing y/n, thrown over nate's shoulder laughing loudly as he tickled her, bright matching smiles on their faces, made his words and feelings get stuck in his throat as it ran dry.

matt scoffed slightly and rolled his eyes as y/n looked up from her place over nate's, smiling brightly and squealing slightly as nate placed her on her feet. matt ignored the bitter jealously rising up his throat as she wrapped her arms around his neck, kissing his cheek briefly.

"i missed you." y/n whispered as she pulled back slightly, the look on her face sending a stubborn, unwavering warmth through matt's chest that he tried to fight hard to fight.

"yeah, you too." matt hummed, hardly looking at her as he stared nathan down, a half-assed grin on his face while he dapped his childhood friend up. as y/n hugged nick and chris, she felt eyes staring into the back of her head. turning around, she met matt's angry stare along with nathan's blissfully unaware, cheesy and lopsided grin.

"can we go to denny's? i could so fuck up some of their waffles right now." y/n laughed, looking to matt, her eyes softening as she silently pleaded for the boy in front of her to drive the group to denny's.

"yeah lemme put my shit away and we can go." matt sighed, the hardened front he masked himself with easily cracking and crumbling down completely around his feet under the soft stare that had him weak in the knees every time he looked her way.

as he quickly shuffled his suitcase and duffel bag up the stairs to his room, he felt his mind swarm with conflicting emotions and ideas, unsure if he wanted to punch his best friend for carelessly flirting with y/n as if his feelings weren't painfully obvious or if he just wanted to settle in security, knowing that he had y/n in a way no one else did.

sighing, he returned back to the group of people waiting for him, knowing if he stayed in his room, someone would come looking for him and he didn't have the nerve to talk about the feelings swirling beneath his ribcage.

the group piled into the van, chris, nick, and matt all in their respective spots, with nate and y/n squished beside each other, giggling amongst themselves as they talked about god knows what.

"so y/n, did you finally ask out that guy you said you were into?" nick prodded, tilting his head inquisitively as he eyed the way her and nate interacted.

"wait, did you think that guy was nate?" y/n laughed loudly, not missing the things nick said with a look.

"i mean, y'all act like a couple." nick chuckled as y/n rolled her eyes.

"yeah you do, it's fucking annoying." matt whispered to no one in particular as his eyes flicked to y/n in the backseat, however chris caught his comment and quietly giggled to himself. the rest of the drive to denny's consisted of the three in the back bickering over shit while chris watched matt stew in his jealousy from beside him, smirking to himself.

as the group piled into the restaurant, they all ordered their preferred forms of breakfast despite it being nearly two in the morning. the group giggled amongst themselves, save for matt who couldn't stop glaring at nate. y/n had picked up on and it made her feel unsettled, she couldn't pinpoint why he'd be upset.

as everyone finished paying for their food, y/n pulled matt aside, her hand on his arm as she looked up at him.

"what's goin' on up there?" she asked, her voice soft and calm, hoping it'd ease matt into talking, and help her get a sense of understanding what he was feeling.

"it's nothing, y/n." he muttered, his voice cold and slightly unsteady as he pushed her hand off his arm.

"matt, c'mon i know you better than you think i do, tell me what's bothering you. you've been acting weird since you first walked in the door. nate's noticed it and so have i."

"why don't you just go bother nate about it then? you seem to be much closer with him anyway." he snapped, rolling his eyes are the shock that fell on her face, before feeling his heart sink as her eyes held something that resembled hurt.

"that's what this is about?"

"y/n, drop it please."

"no matt, i thought it was clear that i don't see anyone else the way i see you."

"well with the way you've been acting with nate it makes me wonder what we actually are. i'm normally not the type to get jealous but jesus christ, i can't help it. you're an amazing girl, any guy would be lucky to have you as their girlfriend or whatever we are and i sometimes wonder why you're into me." matt whispered, unable to keep his feelings at bay any longer with the way she was looking at him, her head tilted, nothing but love and concern in her eyes. she made him feel safe, like he could tell her his deepest emotions and she would listen intently, providing safety for him.

"matt,-" she whispered, stepping closer to him and cupping both sides of his face, her thumbs dragging along his cheekbones as he leaned into her touch, his eyes falling shut briefly.

"there is absolutely no need to worry at all, i'm yours, okay? i-" she paused, taking a deep breath before continuing,

"i love you, matt. i've never looked at another guy the way i've looked at you. not once, and frankly i don't want to. there's no one that can understand a simple look from me the way you do. there's no one who knows me better than you, no one else who's ever taken the time to understand me and be patient with me the way you have. i am yours, and i hope that you're mine. okay?"

"okay." he whispered back, nodding softly as she leaned up, pressing her lips to his in a gentle but passionate kiss that meant they had a mutual agreement, that they were each others, and that one kiss, that one simple kiss that meant they understood each other, was more than enough for matt.

the two broke apart at the sound of giggles, turning to find the rest of the group standing behind them.

"what the fuck was that?" chris exclaimed, genuinely shocked that his brother and his best friend were kissing, and seemingly together.

"a kiss, dumbass."

"yeah but is this the first time or?"

"chris you idiot, do you not ever read between the lines? it's obvious they've been together for a while now." nick replied, his tone incredibly dull, like matt and y/n being together was the most obvious thing.

"i love you too, y/n." matt whispered as he wrapped his arm around her shoulders, pulling her into his side, and pressing a kiss the side of her head as they walked toward the van.

falling in love with your best friend is never easy, it's complicated and messy and leaves behind a lot of doubt but y/n was worth every bit of complicated, every bit of mess left behind, y/n was worth it all to matt.

and that alone, was enough to put his worries and self doubt at ease. because as long as y/n was there to reassure him that she was his, he knew they'd be okay.

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lauraneedstochill · 1 year

Text

Confess the longing you are dreaming of

summary: Aemond thinks the woman he has to marry is the most impudent and unsufferable he’s ever met. He’s also never wanted anyone so badly. pairing: Aemond Targaryen x Martell!reader (third person, no mention of Y/N) warnings: bantering and teasing, mentions of unpleasant sexual experience, praise kink (guess who’s got it), a dollop of softness, mild smut (... for starters ;) author’s note: couldn’t get the idea out of my head and spent a few sleepless nights writing this. I imagine her brothers as Pedro Pascal and Oscar Isaac ✨ words: ~8000 song inspo: Hozier — Better love

>>> Aemond isn’t present when the idea is voiced the first time — he has a hunch that his grandsire is to blame for that. No doubt, Otto was the one to plan it out, come up with arguments served with his persuasive tone. He’s always loved to make arrangements and strike deals, each one of them to play into his hands, and Aemond hates the thought of being just another pawn of his.

He is blindsided at the breakfast but it’s made sound carelessly mundane — as Otto puts down his cup, he throws him the proposal, the way one would leniently throw alms to the poor. And Aemond thinks he must’ve heard him wrong.

“Marry me to... Who?” the prince asks, hardly covering his surprise.

His grandsire directs his gaze at him, the old man’s mouth twitching into a condescending smile. Since Otto isn’t keen on idle talk, he tells him plainly:

“You’ve long been of age, Aemond, you know that,” his knife scratches the plate as he cuts the meat, his eyes not moving from the prince. “House Martell holds power, and we’ll be fortunate to have such allies. Besides,” he pauses to take a bite, and Aemond gets annoyed at waiting; Otto chews, then adds, “I’ve only heard good things about your bride-to-be. Wouldn’t you confirm, Ser Criston?”

The mention of the knight is unexpected to them both — Aemond turns his head to meet Ser Criston’s puzzled look. But the brunet effortlessly copes with his emotions:

“We met when she was just a kid. But I knew she’d grow into a fine lady,” he easily agrees. Mayhaps, too easily for Aemond’s liking so he makes a note to talk about it later on.

His grandsire only lets out a pleased hum. “Well, I’m under the impression she will make a good match for our prince,” and Aemond feels that Otto carefully picks each word, “She’s said to be both beautiful and smart, and known for being quite independent,” he’s usually so stingy with his praise, it’s worth its weight in gold.

But that is not what Aemond hears. The choice was made for him, and his rejection of it makes him paint a portrait less alluring — a pompous wayward woman raised in the traditions that are starkly different from his; and yet, it is expected of him to accept it freely. His wounded ego simmers at the thought.

“I’d add another word to that,” Aegon chimes in, half-drunk already, “Everyone knows the Martells to also be promisc—”

“Look who’s talking,” Otto glares at him, and Aegon shuts his mouth.

The word is left unsaid, only the meaning of it isn’t hard to guess, and Aemond feels embarrassment creeping up his cheeks and weighting down his chest. He deems himself an educated man, well-read and eager to put his knowledge to the test, but he has yet to learn of carnal pleasures. A memory is clawing out: him, ten-and-three and plied with wine, laid on a bed that smelled of sweat, a naked woman next to him. Despite her tireless attempts, he wanted none of it, and the repulsion made him sick — and then it made him hate the act itself.

He did go to the brothel through the years, tried watching, touching, looked at bodies of all sorts, only it felt like putting paint over a rotten wall. He felt constrained, and lacking in some way (perhaps, in many), and more so awfully incomplete. Not once he sensed a spark, a pleasure he would crave, and no amount of effort could help him fill the emptiness inside.

He quells the feeling, pushes in indifference instead, and glances briefly at his mother. She meets his eye but only grants him a faint smile, her own gaze lacking any protest.

“Her brothers wrote that they would visit in a fortnight,” Alicent peacefully explains. “It is our duty to ensure a royal welcome.”

“Brothers?” Helaena blithely chirps. “How many does she have?”

“Four but only two of them are coming,” Otto tells her softly, then looks at Aemond, adding in a voice more wily. “I am convinced they really want to see whom their dear sister is about to marry.”

He doesn’t spell it out but the implication can’t be clearer — Aemond must play the part and make a good impression. As if impressing just one stranger wasn’t tedious enough.

As if he isn’t vexed already by how unsuitable he finds her.

>>> Frustration grows in Aemond with each day, takes roots, and clogs up all his thoughts. Some other man would’ve been glad — he often heard that the Martells are quite the lovers. He can’t admit it to himself how much he’s bothered by his own misfortunes on the love field.

He bottles his emotions up and doesn’t utter any word of discontent, nor does he ever speak of the awaited visit. Although he makes just one exception.

“My grandsire mentioned that you knew her,” he reminds Ser Criston one day after training.

The knight nods. “I crossed paths with Quentyn, he’s the oldest. She used to come to watch us train.”

“What was she like?” Aemond carefully wonders.

Ser Criston ponders for a minute, polishing his sword. “She was a quiet little girl, kept to herself. A lot of boys were always chasing after her, and she paid them all no mind,” he smiles at the memory. “But I remember one of them who was... particularly pesky. His charms didn’t work on her so he got offended, rude, followed her around. She tolerated him for over a month. One morning, he was hassling her in the training yard, and she just took a spear laying nearby — and smacked him with no warning,” he shakes his head but it’s apparent that he isn’t judging. “She didn’t use the pointy end but she got him good. And then she told him that next time he would think twice about his actions. She was impressive for a ten-year-old,” he muses and puts the sword away, then turns to Aemond, giving him a wistful stare. “Frankly, I think that you will like her.”

He does, for just a second, as his mind rushes to paint the image of a fearless little girl; and then he mercilessly wipes that image off. Maybe in other circumstances, he could’ve found amusement in that story, but Aemond only huffs and thinks back to the list of all her traits he prematurely made up. He adds “rebellious” to that list, and his self-doubt is a venom that clouds his judgment. He’s in no rush to find a cure.

>>> Their ship arrives a few hours earlier than planned — and after the dock watchers break the news, the bustle begins. Maids, servants, guards all run and faff about the castle, the dining hall gets filled with smells and noises, plates and dishes clanking.

Aemond is not excited in the slightest.

He dresses up reluctantly, each piece of clothes only dampening his mood that’s been already sour for the past two weeks. He all but drags his feet into the dining hall and by the time he reaches it, he looks so grim that one may think the prince’s preparing for his death, no less.

The minutes fly too quickly for his liking — they barely have time to sit, his mother nervously toying with the tablecloth already, and then the guards rush to announce the guests. Surprisingly, she’s not among them. The prince thinks he should be relieved; deep down, there is a splash of worry fizzling in him.

Her brothers walk in calmly in a cloud of servants bearing gifts. Their kinship is immediately clear — both tall, broad-shouldered, and dark-haired, self-confidence subsisting in their every step. The oldest is distinguished by a touch of gray in his short beard, his gaze more focused, a slight smile plastered on his face. The other one shamelessly stares at every maid his eyes can catch.

“Your grace, it is a pleasure to finally meet you,” Quentyn reaches their table first, and Alicent walks down to greet them. He keeps his distance and his smile, his tone is measured. “We were so sad to learn that the King has fallen sick. But I can tell the Kingdom is in great hands. And —”

“Women’s hands do have a healing touch,” Oberyn smoothly interrupts, his accent a bit thicker, his voice honeyed. “I will prefer a Queen over a King at any given day. Unless, of course, your husband can compete with you in beauty... I somehow doubt that.”

A shade of disapproval grazes Quentyn’s face but Alicent is too amazed to notice. The compliment may come off as blunt but she still takes it well, her smile embarrassed yet sincere.

“I hope you will enjoy your stay,” she tells them humbly, then looks over the crowd. “But may I ask where is the lady we’ve been waiting for?”

“She made a stop on our way to catch up with an old friend,” Quentyn answers, ready to explain, “It’s been years since we’ve met Ser —”

“Still can’t believe he is the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard,” Oberyn chuckles. “I think it’s all the armor that makes it look like he poses a threat. But you may reconsider if you see him in the nude.”

This time, the older brother glares at him with warning, and there’s a lull in their conversation, while Aemond’s struggling to hear what made his mother’s cheeks so red, his mind nervously preoccupied with someone else —

her laughter enters first.

It’s bright and joyful, a sound so lovely it might be enough to crack up his restraint. But then he spots her, and it feels like his whole body flares up at the sight.

She’s walking with her hand under Ser Criston’s arm, and Aemond’s never seen a dress that covers so much but hides so little. It’s muted orange, floor-length, made of sumptuous silk, with two long slits along the sides, curves of her thighs beguilingly seen through. Her neck and arms aren’t covered, and the material is intricately stitched around her waist to show a few more glimpses of her sun-kissed skin. The waves of her long hair fall on her shoulders and frame her face, each feature of it striking but her lips stand out the most — full, plump, and reddish. Not once before Aemond found the thought of being kissed so tempting.

She doesn’t even turn her head to look at him. She’s talking to Ser Criston quietly, and he’s engaged in conversation, unusually relaxed. Their difference in age is obvious, and the knight seems like just another relative of hers, but an uneasy feeling still leaves a bite on Aemond’s chest. He can’t imagine her so carefree — so beaming and compliant — by his side. His jealousy tastes bitter like a stale wine.

He hears his brother let out a short laugh. “It’s not like they were fucking,” Aegon carelessly notes. “Please ease your outrage before she runs away.”

“I don’t remember asking for advice,” Aemond snarls.

“You do look like you need it,” the blond comments, then goes back to drinking.

She gracefully approaches them, her voice melodic like a murmur of a river. “Forgive me, your grace, for being late, I haven’t seen Ser Criston in some time,” she tells his mother. “He was once a dear friend of mine.”

“I only helped to shush away a few of your admirers,” the knight cackles, earning a smile from her.

“I hope you are making use of all his talents,” she says to the Queen, making her face flush right away.

She delicately moves on to another topic. “It is a pleasure to have you here, you must be tired from taking such a long trip.”

“We found it quite enjoyable,” Quentyn remarks politely. “The beautiful sights along the way are worth the journey, and your city has some great views too.”

“Can’t say I’ve heard great things about your food,” Oberyn grins. “Hence why we took the liberty to bring some of our own,” he signals to the nearest servant, who runs to open one of the trunks they carried. “The dornish fruits are also my sister’s weak spot.”

“As if you don’t gorge yourself on them!” she jests, letting go of Ser Criston’s arm at last. “My brother is a glutton, your grace, please excuse his manners in advance.”

“You can call me Alicent,” his mother corrects her warmly. “Only seems fair to continue this discussion at the table,” she slightly moves away to let the girl go first.

Aemond unintentionally stiffens and only when he stands up from his chair to greet her, she finally does look at him. In contrast to her countenance, her gaze is dark and piercing, and the prince is staggered by how unreadable it is. Her brothers glance at Aemond briefly — Quentyn is pensive, while Oberyn looks like he wants to bite his head off; neither says a word.

She’s seated to his right, and she leaves behind a trail of scent — apples and plums, and he can’t help but catch the movement of her hips under the flowing dress. The words all mash and fall apart, and he can’t pick a single one to strike up a conversation.

Aegon is sitting next to her, and his patience only lasts a minute. “Never knew Ser Criston was such a ladies' man.”

“I’m sure he succeeded on that front but we are merely good friends,” she answers calmly, keeping her eyes on servants bringing fruits — blood oranges and pomegranates, robust grapes, and ripened cherries.

“You two seemed more than friendly,” Aegon presses, his tone evidently taunting.

She picks a golden apricot and runs her thumb over its fragrant surface. “Maybe it’s the wine that makes you see things,” she rebuts and takes a bite out of the fruit, a drop of juice risking to escape her mouth but she wipes it swiftly with her finger. She catches Aemond looking, and his cheeks heat up.

“We’ve never seen him in the company of a woman,” the older prince points out, filling up his cup once more.

She takes out the kernel and eats up the fruit, her mouth glistens. “Aren’t the knights of the Kingsguard forbidden to marry?”

“Never stopped them from bedding whoever they like,” Aegon remarks crudely, and Aemond is thankful that their mother is too preoccupied with Oberyn’s tireless chatting.

“Maybe some men have the decency to follow orders,” she responds, unbothered, taking a cherry and clasping it with her lips. Aegon doesn’t seem to notice and only gulps the wine and rolls his eyes. Aemond can’t look away.

“Aren’t you Martells known for not following the rules? I thought unruly was in your house’s motto,” Aegon argues, a corner of his mouth curled in a smirk.

She takes another cherry, the third in a row, her lips already stained with juice. “I think you keep getting your facts wrong,” she brushes him off, and Aegon goes to object some more but spills the wine right on his shirt. The displeased cry brings Aemond out of his trance.

“He tends to do that when he’s drunk,” the one-eyed prince coolly interjects.

Her eyes flicker to him, then she fully turns her head. “So you can actually talk,” her teasing comes off soft but her gaze still burns. “It’s good to know.”

“You seemed preoccupied with someone else,” he musters an excuse.

“Do you expect your wife to never speak to other men?” her voice almost betrays her disenchantment.

“No,” Aemond quickly answers, caught unawares by how strained his thinking process is. “She— you are free to choose your friends, of course.”

“I’m flattered,” her tone suggesting otherwise, “Not that I would ask for anyone’s approval,” she reaches for a plum; he closes his eye with a sigh.

Aegon comes to stand in between them on the pretext of needing another carafe of wine: “I didn’t mean to interrupt your friendly bickering, please continue.”

“It seems like Aemond isn’t in the mood for talking,” she doesn’t look at him, the tip of her tongue darting to lick her finger. “And I am never in the mood for begging.”

“My brother’s hospitality leaves much to be desired,” Aegon takes a sip. “So I regret the disappointment you are soon to suffer,” his hand falls on her chair. “But if you ever wish to be... well satisfied, all you have to do is ask me”.

It’s hard to tell if Aegon’s actually that drunk or merely provoking (or if he’s got a death wish, Aemond wonders).

She replies without much thought. “Well, if I ever find myself in need of...,” she trails off with a smile but her gaze gets harsh — her words then follow, “My choice won’t fall on you,” the smirk falls off Aegon’s face, and she glances straight at Aemond, adding, “I like them taller.”

But her straightforwardness is met with his resistance, with the deep-rooted unacceptance of his lurking needs. He adds “indecent” to the list, and they speak no more.

>>> Her boldness doesn’t pose a problem to anyone but him. To his surprise (or more so to his shock), his mother gives in first.

The morning can’t come fast enough for Aemond after he spends the night tossing and turning. A few hours later he rushes to the garden for a walk, overwhelmed by restlessness his training didn’t help him cope with. That’s when he sees it — a spot of yellow shining through the trees. He somehow knows it’s her without further confirmation but still, his feet carry him on.

Her dress is vivid like a field of marigolds, her hair plaited, wrists adorned with golden bracelets. He slackens pace and peers into her — and he wants nothing more than to drink her up, her whole appearance is the sweetest nectar... Until he hears another sound and realizes she is not alone, and it’s his mother sitting by her side, wrapped in her favorite green and, unexpectedly, in glee. He can’t remember when he saw her laugh like this — out loud, giggling, tears at the corners of her eyes are not from sadness but from joy.

“My dear, that is so improper! Did he apologize at least?” Alicent inquires with a smile.

“Oberyn rarely does,” she tells her serenely. “His lover looked way more ashamed. I hope each of your rooms has locks, gods know I don’t want to walk in on him again.”

Unlike his mother who is covered by the shade of trees, she’s bathing in the sun, the soft light caressing her skin, and Aemond’s eye greedily follows every ray. In barely a minute he feels warm all over.

“I hope that Aemond’s chambers got locks too,” she adds all of a sudden, a bit louder, and his chest is splashed with cold.

His eye moves to her face, and she’s already looking at him, direct and daring. He knows he’s hidden by the trees but there’s no hiding from her gaze.

Aemond turns away and steps back in haste, his abashment mixed with grievance at her implication. He believes someone like her would never lust for him, and her jokes at his expense not only hurt but prompt his resentment to grow stronger. He adds “deceptive” to the portrait of her he is so adamantly set on painting.

>>> She wins Helaena’s heart with ease. His sister fondly compliments her brooch — a little poppy made out of gold — and she gifts it to Helaena the same day. The silver-haired princess grabs at chance to show her own collection, and they spend the day looking through the jewels spread over the floor, sitting right there and equally amused.

And that’s how Aemond finds them. He only planned to see his nephews but hearing her voice coming from Helaena’s chambers makes him slow his step.

“... And this one he gave me for my latest name day,” Helaena babbles cheerfully.

“Aemond clearly spoils you,” she laughs without a shade of envy. “As he should!”

“He is very kind at heart,” Helaena eagerly assures her. “You will be happy with him, I am certain of it.”

There is a pause that makes him feel uneasy, makes him sneak up closer to the room.

“I do believe he’s not an evil man,” she finally says, “Maybe he just wasn’t made for marriage.”

Surely she can’t see him through the door but he can swear that he feels her gaze, like a silent challenge, a hidden mocking. He barges in without a knock.

Helaena beams. “We were just talking about you!”

His sister’s dress is milky blue, modestly pretty, and loosely fitted. It’s also treacherously pale compared to the liquid gold the Martell girl is dressed in. She’s sitting with her feet under her thighs, the bending of her back is bare and in plain sight. He should’ve walked away the second he heard the sound of her voice because not looking at her seems impossible.

“Oh, you came to see the twins? They are with Aegon but I can call— No, I will bring them back myself,” Helaena springs to her feet, rosy-cheeked and smiley, and leaves the room before Aemond can protest. And then it’s just the two of them.

He takes a breath and makes an effort, with his jaw tense and his blood rising, to drag his eye away from her. It feels as pointless as ignoring sunlight in an open field on a summer day. Only her beauty is more brazen — and so is her wit.

“I take it, gold isn’t your favorite color,” she speaks up with an impish tone. “Would be a bad idea to wear it on our wedding then.”

She never comes too close, always just a little out of reach, and yet he feels as if her presence grips him, weakening his will. He doesn’t want to be with her until he is — and then he has no wish to leave.

It scares Aemond as much as it spikes his anger.

“Why did you agree to come?” he bristles.

“You are not asking about your sister’s chambers, are you?” she clarifies, and he hears her smiling.

He tells himself he only needs to cast a glance to check.

He does — he meets her gaze — her earrings catch the sunlight and cast a trail of glares — the scattering of specks play on her skin, her neck and collarbones, sneak to her upper chest — his own is heaving. His struggle only lasts a moment but it leaves him short of breath. He isn’t looking anymore, his eye trying to discern the pattern on the drapes behind her.

“Our marriage, how do you benefit from it?” he hates how hard it is to control his voice.

And how she watches him intently without giving him a clue of what’s on her mind.

“I plan on visiting my family a couple of times a year. It will be easier to do on dragon back,” she doesn’t sound spiteful when she says it but her words still sting.

He can’t stop an image flashing through his mind: her on top of Vhagar, lungs full of air, pressed to him. It’s tempting — to have her in his hands, and yet the vision is too intangible to cling to. Instead, he thinks that in just three days she learned to play him like a harp, his years' worth of self-control is merely a sand castle against the tide of her sharp tongue.

He only snickers dryly at her reply, then they both hear the sound of running footsteps. Jaehaera and Jaehaerys rush to greet him — but almost instantly abandon, the kids' attention drawn to the shining golden dress.

He thinks “unruly” suits her better than does “pompous”. He comes up with a fake excuse to leave; the image of her stays with him.

>>> He picks more adjectives as the week goes on — she’s audacious, disobedient, wanton. She moves around the castle as if she owns every room she’s in. She wears less, and even on rare occasions when she doesn’t, her defiance more than compensates for it. She never shies away from a deep neckline, nor does she feel the need to hold back her resounding laughs. Her jewelry clinks, each of her dresses is brighter than the other, but it’s her wicked mouth his eye always falls on first.

More times than not, Aemond can’t tear his gaze away, each meal for him now both a torture and a feast.

He watches as she parts her lips, puts them around a luscious grape, a cherry, or a peach, she swipes her tongue to lick up every running drop, savoring its tang — and keeps eye contact with him. He barely can taste the food he’s eating, and no wine can quench his thirst, his body flooding with a feeling he can’t define, his heart adrift.

He tries to fight it off with all our strength. He scratches off “unruly” to write down “unabashed” instead.

But then the dinner comes, and even though he’s never had a taste for sweets, he thinks he’d eat them from her lips (deep down, he wants to). The lies he tells himself are brittle like the flesh of fruits under her teeth.

>>> He comes to think “insufferable” fits her the best. That thought rings in his head while he is standing in the stable, his eye on anything but her. He was informed she wished to pick a horse, and he begrudgingly agreed to come, only to keep up the pretense.

What turns out to be much harder is for him to keep restraint. The dress she’s wearing might as well be a chemise — it’s just as light and white, and much to his discomfort, it also tirelessly risks hiking up to expose more of her legs.

Discomfort, mayhaps, isn’t the right word for it.

He stays out of her way but, unsurprisingly, he ends up looking — at how she walks, spring in her step, swinging her hips. She gives each horse a piece of apple and feeds them by hand, strokes their muzzles, and then she mounts and rides them, one by one. She grabs the reins, her foot easily finds the stirrup, and as she swings her leg over the saddle, her dress slips up, showing a few inches of her skin.

He swallows thickly, glances more intently — over her dainty ankles, bending of her knees, he notes how smooth her skin is, soaking up the sun. Her dress then billows slightly, and his eye glides higher, hungry, follows up the contour of her thighs that bounce a little as the horse gallops.

He feels it blooming — a sensation with no name that travels from the lower chest down to his very navel, then spreads and tightens all that’s underneath.

He is so deep in his enthrallment, he doesn’t hear the steps approaching until there’s someone standing next to him. Quentyn stays silent for a minute, throwing him a sideways glance.

“My sister’s always been terribly picky,” the man says out of the blue, “And usually it’s hard to meet all of her demands,” — it doesn’t seem like it’s the horses he is talking of. The vagueness of it makes Aemond focus as he takes his eye off her but Quentyn doesn’t elaborate, giving him a smile instead. “I do admit, your patience is commendable. Some other man would’ve already interfered just to wrap the process up.”

“I was under the impression she doesn’t need anyone’s help,” Aemond replies evasively.

“You guessed it right,” Quentyn titters, his tone veiled with the same unclear meaning when he adds, “The only thing left for us all is to accept it,” and with that, he goes to join his sister.

When Aemond — tamely, almost yielding — takes a peek at her, his gaze collides with Oberyn’s who clearly watched them talk. Unlike his older brother, he prefers to stay away, but the mischief in him pairs really well with danger. He grants Aemond a nod, switching attention back to her, his threats unspoken for the meantime.

For just a second, it gives Aemond pause as he finds it odd that no one brings up their wedding, and no announcements have been made ever since she came. He doesn’t mull over it for long because her laughter interrupts his thoughts (or maybe he just yearns for any chance to look at her). She rides around the yard, her hair floating in the wind, a little breathless but breathtaking, her lips enticing and her curves making his throat dry.

He tries to ground himself, to look for explanations, for some reprieve from the entrancing spell he’s under — he’s never been so close to losing reason —

out of the corner of his eye, he sees a couple of guards dropping their gaze in poor attempts to stop themselves from gawking; it reins his passion, bringing back his jealousy instead. He’s way too used to seeing himself unworthy to even entertain the thought of having her, and his denial prickles. He wants to burn his feelings out, and anger helps with that — it breaks out and engulfs him fast, hardening both his heart and gaze.

“Quentyn is the friendliest of the two, and you couldn’t hold a conversation?” Aegon appears out of nowhere, seemingly displeased despite the bottle in his hand. “Must you always be so gruff? I stayed behind in hopes you’d make it work!” he waves at Oberyn then glares at Aemond, waiting for a reply. “Are you pretending to be deaf or...?”

“Must she test my patience?” Aemond mutters, his tone not jealous but exasperated, his eye boring into her, “Putting herself out like that for all the men to see.”

Aegon being speechless is a rare sight. He cannot fathom it at first, looking from Aemond back to her, confusion sobering him up. And then he grins, realization creeping up on him; there are some things he’s always quick to notice.

“It’s funny that you say that,” he leans in to tell him and catches Aemond’s gaze, “Since it’s just you who’s staring,” Aegon pats him on the back and leaves to greet her brothers.

Aemond tries to choke it down — his irritation and his shame combined, but it’s too much for him to handle, his head and heart clearly in conflict. He doesn’t wait for her to make a choice, retiring without sparing her a glance (a fear nibs at him that if he looks at her once more, he will stay rooted to the ground).

He doesn’t leave his chambers for the remainder of the day, dining all alone and fuming all the same. He’s usually good at curbing his emotions but he is having trouble understanding them, wanting nothing more than to erase all memories of her. But even in his solitude, he catches himself thinking — about her cunning smile and swaying hips, her eyes on him, his hands wanting to roam and touch and —

Aemond shoves unwanted thoughts away and goes to bed earlier than usual. He remains steadfast in his resolve to find some peace, he makes a conscious effort to shift his focus to all the boring, random things his mind can come up with until he is too tired to care.

But then he falls asleep, and his subconscious welcomes her. He sees her right before his eye in that obscenely short white dress, there are no people in the yard, her tantalizing moves all meant for him. She hops off her black horse and walks to him without a single word — anticipation makes him drop his guard and hold his breath — and then he feels her lips on his, her body pressing into him, his hunger for her ruining his self-control, the kiss is searing, suffocating, driving him insane, his fingers pulling up her dress —

he wakes up painfully aroused.

He lays in bed, his heartbeat rushing, his breathing ragged, and vision blurred. While he’s still grasping for the remnants of his dream, he sneaks his hand into his breeches, wishing he could rip her dress off and sheath himself inside her, spread her on his bed, and drink every salacious sound she makes... It only takes him a few strokes to spill over his fingers; he can’t remember if he’s ever reached his peak so fast.

And only then, as he comes down from his high, it hits him, like lightning in the dark — in spite of her remarks, her audacity, her dresses, and every cruel adjective he’s found for her, he’s never wanted anyone so badly. Aemond sits up abruptly, his sleep gone, giving way to stubbornness that comes hand in hand with reticence. He persuades himself that he’ll suppress this — the spark, the pleasure that he craves, and he won’t be a slave to his desires.

He’ll rid himself of feelings, of this lust. Inevitably it will wane.

>>> It doesn’t.

Desire is a guest that never leaves, unwanted but demanding space, attention, time. It slips into his thoughts the moment he wakes up, it whispers in his ears, never giving up, it’s layered in between his clothes and his skin. He hides it well from everyone; it lodges deeper into him.

Desire is a cherry in her mouth, each fruit she bites in, savors, drinks the juice from. He doesn’t want to watch — he can’t take his eye off her, caught in his fervor like in undertow, the flavor of her lips the only one he truly yearns for.

Desire bruises more than does a hit, cuts deeper than a blade, and there’s no weapon he can fight it off with. His training brings him no relief, and he can’t sweat it out or wash it off him, and even while he soaking in a bath, it feels like longing only rises back with steam.

Desire waits for him at night, stands by his bed, slides right under the covers with him. He dreams of her, and in those dreams, her body sings under his every touch, trembles from his praise, his hands and mouth paint her with marks and kisses. He wakes up with his chest aflame and out of breath, and then it takes all of his willpower not to crawl to her.

It staggering how much he really wants her, and he hates himself for it.

>>> It’s been three weeks and they have barely shared a word. He does his best to cut down their encounters and avoid her, he doesn’t argue and takes no offense, he hopes that if he pulls back just enough she will give up and let him be.

Aemond spends his evenings in the study, his table piled with books, and for a couple of hours, it does help to take his mind off things. The night already steals in while he’s searching through the shelves for scrolls, too caught up in the process to pick up the creaking of his door.

Her gaze nearly scalds him. He only looks up out of surprise — and then he freezes at the spot, his heart a stone that plummets to his stomach.

Out of everything she’s worn, this dress might be the one to bring him to his knees — the cutting out the front so low, his eye falls in the hollow between her breasts; he envies fervently the golden chain that rests there. He takes in her whole body, bare arms, and flaunting forms, all clad in deep dark green. He’s never seen her pick that color (and he can’t help but think she put it on for him).

He’s brought back from his stupor when their eyes meet — and startled by the determination in her gaze.

“Ser Criston told me that you missed your training,” she stately starts walking toward him, “Quite a few times this week.”

“I found myself preoccupied with other things,” he clears his throat and clasps his hands behind his back, the scrolls forgotten.

“With reading, I assume?” she almost sounds aggrieved (he wants to ask what else she’d rather have him do) but then her tone gets jaunty. “Would you mind if I join?”

“Actually, I would,” Aemond takes his eye off her, his coldness feigned. “I’d like to avoid distractions.”

And more than anything, he would like for her to leave; she’s not the one to give up so easily. “Maybe we can learn some things together?” she nonchalantly insists, and that ambiguity — deliberate or not — leaves his face suffused with pink.

“I highly doubt you take interest in the things I study,” he manages, his crudeness biting his own tongue.

She only sneers, already nearing his table. “You surely rush to judgment.”

“And I am never wrong.” (Although he’s been wrong once before.)

“That’s very humble of you.” (And she’s tenacious with her intent to prove him wrong again.)

“I am surprised you know that word,” he replies too hastily — and instantly regrets his outburst.

And his attempts to get away from her could’ve been valiant, but only left him feeling like a coward.

She’s got enough courage to spare. “Oh, my apologies, did I strike a nerve?” her hip grazes a stack of books. “You sound so displeased with my behavior,” she puts her hands right on his table, her cleavage in full view.

“You interrupted my studies,” he’s looking only at her face.

“Just this one time,” she clears up, her sly smile is a dare, “Sounds like you have quite a few complaints.”

Damned be her dress and the day he laid his eye on her. “It’s clear as day that we have nothing in common,” he hisses, her persistence molding his anger. “From your bawdy humor to your reckless behavior and your...,” he struggles to push the word through his mouth, “vulgar dresses — everything suggests that we will never make a good couple.”

He catches a gleam in her gaze but it’s not threatening nor hurt — and when the corners of her mouth curl up, her face expression actually looks amused. “I didn’t realize my presence tormented you that much,” she crosses arms over her chest, her hands under her breasts; he looks away that very instant. “So will it please you if I take my vulgar dresses and go back home and leave you be?”

He wants to say it will — he’s thought of it for days — but now he isn’t sure. The dreams he has of her will hardly be enough as every image he collected has got nothing on the real form.

“Is there anything that does?” she asks him suddenly and takes a step in his direction, and then another one.

Belatedly, he realizes that he’s backed against the wall. The air in the room heats up, and Aemond moves back to his table, fingers holding to its edge to find some balance. “...Does what?”

“Please you,” she swiftly clarifies, now standing at arm’s length.

“That isn’t any of your concern,” he wants to glance away and yet, his eye is drawn to her.

“I am inclined to disagree,” her lips stretch into a smile. “Shouldn’t a wife know how to make her husband feel good?”

“We are not married yet,” he tries to argue weakly.

“I’d like to learn beforehand,” but her assertiveness works quicker than his doubts.

The time is still, and seconds drag like hours. His heart leaps at the thought of being all alone with her, his concentration crumbling, his self-restraint already hanging by a thread.

“The way you look at me suggests you aren’t averse to the idea,” she tells him in a low voice, her eyes two glowing embers. Aemond gulps, she deftly rounds the table. “You act so cold and so collected,” she muses, coming closer, and he helplessly steps back. “But I am yet to meet a man who would deny himself the pleasure of laying with a woman,” her voice is warm and warming; his legs bump into the chair, prompting him to sit.

He hesitates for barely a moment but his quick reaction fails him because the next thing he knows, she’s standing next to him, her golden chain casting a blinding glint — he blinks — and then she’s straddling him, her thighs on either side of his.

Aemond’s mouth falls slack as he becomes aware: to lift her he will have to touch her. He glances down at her legs that sneaked out through the long slits of her dress, all bare to the very hips before him.

“I wonder if you are too spoiled by the attention of the ladies? Mayhaps you’ve got so satiated, the intimacy doesn’t bring you any joy,” she runs her fingers up his chest.

He only finds it in himself to shake his head. She isn’t satisfied with that reaction. “Or do you simply find it boring and have a taste for something else?”

Objection bubbles in his throat but he gets no chance to voice it — he barely registers a clinking sound before he feels cold steel pressed under his chin, her fingers wrapped around the hilt of his own dagger. He meant to leave it at the training yard but it completely slipped his mind.

“Does this work better? I’ve heard that you Targaryens have peculiar tastes,” her other hand lands on his shoulder, his chest is stirring with emotions he can’t read.

“That’s not— No,” he mumbles, his voice raw, the weight and feeling of her body overwhelming.

She cocks her brow at him in disbelief. “No? So it’s just plain old satiation then?” she makes no attempt to press the blade but her questions do get pushy. “Must be so hard when women throw themselves at you ever since you were... What was it, ten? Twelve years of age?”

He would expect her to sound teasing — instead, he hears disappointment. That’s the reaction he is used to getting.

“My brother took me to a pleasure house when I was ten-and-three. He said it’s time to get it wet,” he forces out, “And it was...,” awful and humiliating, something he wishes to forget, “...Not what you are describing.”

Her face expression changes — first surprised, then splashed with sadness, and her every feature softens. Aemond sees her opening her mouth to speak but he averts his gaze, abasement scrabbling at him. His eye falls closed, and he keeps thinking that now she will get up and leave, and there won’t be any wedding, and he’s got no reason to get so overly upset already, and —

she sheathes his dagger without a word, the unexpected movement making him breathe out.

And then she dips her head down, and her lips fall on his jaw. Aemond inhales sharply. Her mouth feels softer than it was in all his dreams, and she plants kisses down his throat, moving to the part of it the blade was pressed to. He doesn’t know where to put his hands while hers lock nimbly around his neck.

She pulls back slowly, and he dares to look at her again, trying to catch the merest shadow of pretense but there is none.

“I am truly sorry that you had to go through that,” she tells him quietly. “Have you tried some more since then?”

“I did,” his answer comes off hurried, blank, “I... I am aware of how the act is done.”

“How the act is done? Aemond, that doesn’t sound enjoyable at all,” she pouts, then gently caresses his face, her voice a tender whisper when she adds, “But it should be.”

He stiffens, waiting for the discomfort to wake up, for the aversion to coil his guts, to trigger the jarring need to move away. None of that happens. Instead, he feels her fingers running through his hair, a calming motion bringing only comfort, her every touch relieving tightness in his chest.

“You seem too tense... We have to work on that,” she joyfully murmurs. “Unless, of course, my worry causes you distress,” her fingers stop, “Do you want me to leave, my prince?”

“No,” he rasps, he almost pleads, “D-don’t.”

She hums with satisfaction, bringing her hands down to unclasp his leather doublet, knowing she won’t meet any resistance. He should resent her for this but he doesn’t (he didn’t and he won’t). The air lays cold over his shirt, and Aemond shivers; she moves her fingers down his firm chest with an unspoken admiration.

“Tell me how it usually goes,” she inquires, one of her hands finding its way back to his silver locks. “Do you find pleasure in undressing them?”

Her warmth envelopes him, scented with cinnamon and peaches. “They come without much clothes,” Aemond blurts out, earning another hum from her.

“And what about you?” she glances curiously at him.

“I don’t... I don’t like them touching me,” he timidly avows, and saying it to her does bring somewhat of a relief.

With both of her hands, she cradles his face, thumbs gently contouring his cheeks — he all but melts into her palms. “And yet you are so responsive to the touch,” her voice praises, “So pretty.”

She leans in again, leaving a kiss at the hollow of his throat — and then her mouth travels up, ardent and steady, and he squirms in place. Not out of discomfort.

“You are not supposed to rush it if you want it to feel good,” she whispers in his ear and moves back to catch his gaze. “You never rush into fighting so why love making should be any different?”

Astonishment brightens his face, and she chuckles lightly. “I must confess, I did enjoy watching you train, even though you never noticed. The way you move and twirl your sword,” she’s recollecting breathy, “You are so lithe and fast and so resistant... An infatuating sight.”

She holds his gaze and lifts her hand — he follows it, unblinking, until it finds one of the straps — she hooks it with her fingers. “Fairly soon it made me wonder how would your hands feel... on me,” his heart jolts at her words.

Slowly, she moves the strap aside, baring her breast for him; Aemond’s breathing hitches. She takes his hand in hers, planting a kiss over his knuckles — and then lets his fingers graze her naked skin.

“It was so cruel of you to rob me of my pleasure,” she laments, but he can barely hear a thing, his eye wide as he fixes on the soft swell of her breast, on how her nipple peaks so eagerly under his touch.

She guides his hand over her chest, down to her ribs and waist, letting him brush her every curve, placing his fingers firmly on her hip. And then she reaches for his other hand and lowers the other strap; his body trembles. The layers of his reticence are all peeled at once, leaving his desire raw and undisguised, unshackled. He’s drawn to fondle, clutch at her plump breasts but her grip is tight and taunting, not letting his fingers roam free.

Still, when both his hands sink into her hips, he realizes that he’s getting harder by the second.

It doesn’t go unnoticed by her. With a controlled, torturously slow move she drags her clothed core over his straining cock. His mouth stays closed but there’s a sound — a muffled moan caught in his throat.

“Doesn’t this feel good?” she teases, lightly tugging on his hair, her lips reaching the column of his neck. “With how much you read, I hoped you’d be more generous with words,” each of her kisses weightless like a drop of rain but then her mouth finds a spot below his ear and suckles at it, pulling a whimper from his chest.

He thinks he should... his mind goes blank after another movement of her hips, and she picks up the pace, merciless and sensuous. He tries biting down his moans but only hurts his mouth. She notices, her rapt eyes on him, and puts her finger on his lower lip:

“Please, don’t be shy with me,” she coos, her gentle touch soothing his bitten flesh, “Our desires coincide,” she earnestly affirms him — and the spark erupts and drags him into pure bliss.

He feels that his arousal leaks, his breeches way too tight to hide it, his fingers dig into her supple skin, but she gives no complaints. He watches breathlessly through his hooded eyelid as she grinds against him, then looks over her bouncing breasts, her nipples pebbled, and the pressure curls somewhere down his spine. She peppers him with kisses — the angles of his face, neck, everything that she can reach, except for his desirous mouth. And yet the softness of her lips and hands, her skin that’s draped with the redolent scent, the rhythm of her hips all bring him closer to the edge.

Her forehead is pressed to his, their lips an inch away but never fully touching. “Let go for me,” she says against his mouth, “My handsome, fierce dragon.”

That does it for him. He harshly presses her to him, then shudders with a strangled moan and comes undone, his eye squeezed shut as her name quivers in his mouth. The pleasure whirls him in and leaves him drained and stunned, a little bit light-headed.

It takes Aemond a minute to recover before he finds her gaze again — and in another minute he discerns her shallow breaths, her parted lips, brows slightly furrowed. He wants to ask her if she reached her peak, if he can help her with it —

but she pulls back.

She stands up and only briefly grabs his shoulder, steadying herself, then promptly puts the straps back on, fixing her dress. He wants to lend a hand but she moves it away, leaning in to lightly caress his face. “No, you don’t get to have me yet. I want you to admit it first, to say that you want me,” her words are laced with dignity but cooling to his mind.

She steps back, cruelly fast, the only consolation is her naughty tone. “Until then, I have to satisfy myself some other way. But I will think of you while doing it, my dear prince,” she promises, a ghost of a smile on her lips, and then walks out without looking back.

The silence feels unwelcome in the room and hangs over the ceiling like a cloud, but Aemond he is too dazed to move, spent and perplexed to wrap his head around it.

Desire, it seems, has come to stay.

But it’s not the only thing he’s feeling.

✧... YES, there will be a second part, it’s already in the works! ✧ and yes, I didn’t bother to rename Pedro’s character 'cause I adore Oberyn sue me

✧ just to clarify, I usually age Aemond up to 20 (or however old Ewan looks to you ;) ✧ I got inspired after watching the video for ROSALÍA’s “La Fama” (give it a watch, she is soooo 🥵) but I only found it because of this gorgeous gifset so shout-out to OP for giving me inspiration

✧ my recent fic (couples who kill together, stay together 🔥) ✧ my masterlist

thank you @amiraisgoingthruit for letting me tag you in every silly story of mine, hope you’ll like this one (if anyone else wants to be tagged, don’t be shy)

English is not my first language, so feel free to message me if you spot any major mistakes. reblogs and comments are very much appreciated!

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