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saetoru · 10 months

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✩ ‧₊˚ ✩。i know you still think about the times we had

synopsis. satoru will always comes when you call him, he just never thought you’d stop calling

— word count. 5.2k (where did i go wrong)

— contents. college au, rich boy! gojo, break ups and make ups <3, it’s the cliche trope where the rich guy’s parent forces you to leave him aka gojo’s father is the villain, angst with a happy ending—i don’t want my cause of death to be angry rb! gojo stans, emo gojo ft. marvin’s room (iykyk), cliche rain scene—this fic is so cliche i’m sorry, reader is gn! but gojo is mentioned to like pics of girls on instagram (he was being petty)

— notes. well, it finally happened. the long awaited break up. this one’s for you niku 🤞🏽 AND DABITEE ANON

you open the door when satoru knocks—just barely, though. it’s just enough to hand him the bag with the remaining things he’s left at your apartment. it feels familiar, being here, but it feels so different too. it’s always been happy knocking on your door—he never thought he’d dread letting his knuckles meet the cool wood. it’s like taking the last bite of something sweet when you’re too full. when the sugar is too decadent on your tongue and your head spins and your stomach twists and it’s too much even though it used to be so good.

it’s too much being here. it’s too much trying to meet your gaze and get nothing in return. it’s too much being handed back that sweater he basically let you keep. and yet, it’s good to see you. he wants nothing more than to be here with you, wherever you are, even if you don’t want him to stay.

“that should be everything,” you murmur, still looking down. “let me know if there’s anything missing.”

satoru would never tell you if there’s something missing. he’d never come back and demand back something he gave you, he doesn’t think he could ever take back something he gave you—being handed back his heart after pressing it to your palms is hard enough. but then again, maybe he should look for small things you probably missed. just so he can come back. just so he can see you—how else will he see you now?

“no, it’s alright,” he says quietly. he doesn’t miss the way you quickly let go as soon as his hands grab the bag, almost like you’re being careful enough not to let your fingers meet each other. “you can uh…you can just keep them. or…throw them out if you don’t want them,” he mumbles.

you nod, standing there silently. it’s quiet, and then it’s quiet some more. and finally, you look up at him for the first time since he got here, staring at him a little expectantly. oh, right. now would be the part where he leaves.

“can i…can i just know why?” he croaks. fuck. he’s not supposed to cry. you ripped his heart out and threw it at his feet, you didn’t even care to hand it to him even after you tore every artery apart. but he sniffles anyway, lips wobbling as he stares at you. “why are you leaving me?”

your fingers twitch, like you itch to reach over and wipe that tear that rolls down his cheek. in the end, you cross your arms instead. “i already told you, satoru—”

“that’s bullshit,” he clicks his teeth, shaking his head as he stares at you frustratedly, “you gave me some bullshit reason.”

satoru has worked so hard to be here—to be with you. hadn’t he done enough? hadn’t he told you about himself, things he didn’t want to? hadn’t he tried to become something, someone more than just a guy swimming in trust funds? hadn’t he worked for your attention, waited outside classes and walked opposite directions in the hall with you just to seem dedicated? fuck, he even burned his hand trying to learn how to make pancakes to impress you, let the maids laugh at him as he twisted the stove the wrong way to try and turn it on.

why wasn’t it enough? what more could he give you than everything? how can the guy who has everything not have enough to give? he doesn’t understand.

“satoru, we weren’t gonna work,” you pinch your nose—it’s like you’re the one who doesn’t understand why he’s being like this. “the sooner you accept that the more hurt you’re saving the both of us—”

“we were working just fine,” he says exasperatedly. it’s like you insist he’s crazy when he’s nothing but sane. like he’s trying to tell you the sky is blue, and you’re refusing to believe it’s anything other than green. it’s clear. it’s practically a fact. you were doing just fine—why don’t you see that? “we were happy,” he takes a step forward and cups your cheeks, pressing his forehead to yours, “was it someone? did they tell you something? just tell me who, baby—i’ll fix it. i’ll put them in their place, okay? no one can bother you if i get them to leave you alone—”

“then you leave me alone,” you whisper. he stills. you pull away from his hands. “sator—gojo. please just leave me alone. it’s better that way.”

you close the door, and he stands there. numb. maybe a little shocked. entirely ruined.

gojo. he laughs quietly after a moment at that—it’s a laugh meant for men who’ve lost the last thread to sanity. gojo. it’s like a slap in the face, being called the name he worked so hard to get you to drop. it took him weeks—months, even, to convince you to call him satoru. then he upgraded to toru. then it was baby. sometimes you teased him and called him pumpkin—he called you peaches in return. when you introduced him, you called him your boyfriend.

not anymore. now he’s back to gojo—that god-forsaken name with everything but what he really wants attached to it. his grandfather’s legacy. his future. business deals. fancy invites. more money than he knows what to do with. the name gojo comes with everything but you.

but he had you for a bit, didn’t he? when he was just satoru—but now he’s gojo again, and you’re gone. the only sign of you left is in the faint traces of your perfume in the sweaters you’ve returned.

and satoru still isn’t sure what brought the break up on. he thinks it’s the part that stings the most—when everything seems perfect one second, and then it’s not. had he not tried enough? maybe he was too much. maybe he didn’t understand you the way you needed him to. maybe he was too overbearing. maybe he asked for too much too fast.

he’s not sure. he tried asking when you broke it off—you only shook your head and said it wasn’t going to work out between the two of you, that it was a mistake to try at all. mistake? how could you call this a mistake? things were so perfect, weren’t they?

satoru doesn’t think there was even one second he wasn’t smiling when he was with you, and he used to think the same was true for you too. had you been faking it this long? or was it real at one point—had he really failed you so badly, seen past you so blindly that he didn’t notice when your smiles stopped reaching your eyes?

it’s too late, he figures. you and satoru are broken up.

you ask him to come over one morning, and he does—because he always comes when you call. he brings your coffee order from that cafe you like, the one you don’t go to often because the coffee is more overpriced than any other coffee shop you’ve ever seen. he’s grinning when you open the door, leans in to kiss your lips excitedly. you turn your head then, and his lips meet your cheeks instead—he supposes he should’ve known it at that moment. he should’ve seen that your lips weren’t smiling. your eyes were tired, a little red. you were hugging yourself in that way you do when you’re nervous. you didn’t let him kiss your lips, you made him kiss your cheek.

and then you sat him down on that worn-down couch of yours, took off that bracelet his mother gave him to gift you on your anniversary, and pressed it to his palm as you said we should break up. break up. you wanted to leave him—and satoru didn’t understand, still doesn’t understand.

he’s tried for so long, replayed the last month of your relationship in his head over and over and fucking over. you always smiled. you kissed him first. you held his hand, and even squeezed. you asked to see him. you laughed when he was around. you said i love you. you were happy. but then you weren’t—when did you stop being happy? and how could you have stopped feeling it with him?

—————

breaking up with satoru is the hardest thing you’ve ever done. how long can people live without the sun? you think not longer than a few minutes—that’s what it feels like without satoru’s warmth, anyway.

gojo satoru has always smiled as long as he’s been with you. he smiled smugly on your first meet, smiled bitterly after every rejection, smiled in pure glee when you finally said yes, and smiled like his fingertips could touch the sky every time he saw you after that.

satoru has never looked sad for long in your presence—you have that effect on him, you make his lips curl and his eyes brighten in that way that they deserve to shine. but for the first time ever, his eyes dim with you around, his lips curl into a frown at your words, and he cries for you. his eyes glisten with tears instead of wonder, and you think for a moment that you might be making a mistake.

but then you remember that this is for the best—that if you really love gojo satoru, you’ll let him go instead of clipping his wings.

“he’s picked up his things,” you speak quietly into the phone. you don’t sniffle even as you desperately need to—it’s the last bit of control you have left, and you intend to keep it. “i won’t be seeing him again.”

“good,” his father speaks, “that’s good to hear.”

satoru’s father is a cold man, you learn that on the first meet. he doesn’t look at his wife with a soft look that tells you there’s any love built between the decades of marriage, and he doesn’t look at his only son with any affection for the boy he raised. instead, he stares at satoru like any businessman would an opportunity—with a calculating gaze that tries to work out the best course of action for the most profit.

satoru is young, but he’s charming and conniving and knows how to get what he wants when he wants—he’s quick on his feet and rarely lets himself get cornered into a wall. in the last three generations of the family business, no heir has shown as much promise as gojo satoru. that’s what his father tells you, anyway. you believe him—satoru is smart and knows how to play his cards right, you won’t deny that. his future is set to be comfortable, and he’s never known anything outside of that, never built any other plans for himself.

you can’t rip that away from him—not for your own sake, not for your own happiness.

“you promised you wouldn’t freeze his trust funds once i ended things,” you remind him, “and that he’d keep his inheritance.” somehow, because the world grants you this one favor, your voice doesn’t shake—it’s steady and firm as it reminds the stone-cold man at the end of the line of your agreement—and he offers a slow chuckle that makes your jaw clench.

“yes, i do recall,” he hums, “i’m glad we could come to agree. you understand, don’t you? it is my job as his father to do what’s best for him.”

you know what he’s saying—what that means. you’re not what’s best for him. maybe he’s right—maybe satoru needs someone who’s equally as promising to build a successful company into even more success. maybe he needs someone who can take him out for a change to those fancy places he takes you every few weeks. maybe he needs someone who’s heard of half the brands he wears and doesn’t scold him to turn the lights off so the electricity bill isn’t high. maybe he needs someone who can keep up with everything that gojo satoru is—and that someone is not you, no matter how deeply you love him.

“—the offer still stands, should you change your mind. i’m willing to compensate you for the trouble this must all be.”

your lips curl into a scowl at his words. that’s the thing about rich people, you think—money is always enough to sugarcoat everything. why worry about the dead grass in your lawn when you can paint it green? but you don’t leave satoru for extra cash on your hands—nothing can be worth auctioning off the only man who’s ever made you feel anything. you leave satoru because he deserves to continue living comfortably, to make a name for himself that isn’t just a ghost of his father’s. if that means being cut from the corner of the picture, you’re willing to pick up the scissors yourself.

“no thanks,” you hiss, “i don’t need the money.”

“i would disagree,” his father sneers, “but suit yourself.”

the line ends, and for good this time, satoru is no longer yours. was he ever to begin with?

—————

you try to forget your ex-boyfriend—keyword, try. every hour of your life consists of you using your burner account to refresh his instagram page to see if he’s posted anything new. you unfollow satoru from every social media platform the same day he picks up his belongings—you know he’s noticed within the first thirty minutes because all of his pictures with you are gone, just like all your pictures with him.

in what you assume is an attempt to be petty, he likes every picture of every girl he sees, and he even blocks you on twitter—you know he picks twitter because twitter is the only social media that blatantly states you’re blocked. but then you’re unblocked in two days, and you know he must be missing you now that the initial anger is faded.

it makes you laugh a little, even through your tears. satoru is not satoru without petty fits of emotion, and you can’t bring yourself to be mad, not when it’s your fault he’s hurting like this. he’s extra sad today, you gather—if the way marvin’s room is posted to his instagram story on a blank screen is of any hint. it makes you scoff in amusement that in true gojo satoru fashion, he’s effectively told all eight-thousand-something of his followers he’s pathetically in his feelings.

you scroll through suguru’s story, too—he didn’t unfollow you even after satoru temporarily blocked you, but you figure suguru is the only person satoru really has. you shouldn’t keep yourself close to him, not when it could hurt satoru more, so you remove him too.

suguru is, as always, drinking at some fancy party with obnoxiously rich college students who have not a care in the world for midterms around the corner. who needs to pass when you’re swimming in money whether or not you have a degree? the first thing you learn about the rich is that most of them are only at college for the experience—they don’t see college as the stepping stone to better opportunities, there’s nothing education could offer that trust funds already don’t. but satoru attends college for himself—he enjoys business classes, you learn, and especially finance ones. for someone who spends money so carelessly, he understands it particularly well.

there’s no sign of satoru at whatever party it is suguru is at, there’s no trace of strikingly bright white strands anywhere in any corners—you do see naoya in a corner, though, and you crinkle your nose in distaste. if satoru were here, he’d say something bitterly under his breath about the asshole, and you would giggle. but satoru is not here, and even naoya the women-hating jackass makes you miss your obnoxiously whiny ex-boyfriend.

everything reminds you of satoru. that bear he won you at the fair (after maybe six tries) by your pillows, those polaroids at your desk that you can’t bring yourself to take down, that sticky note on your fridge he left promising to replace the creamer he finished (he’s replaced it more times than he’s needed to by now), that extra big blanket you keep on the couch because the old one barely covered his legs, that pair of silly matching mugs you both had for coffee in the mornings.

every corner of your apartment has something that reminds you that satoru was here, that he was yours, that for a short while, he was the best thing you ever had. it’s your fault, you think—that satoru and you are here in this mess in the first place. he’s always looked at life through a hopeful lens. having everything does that to you, makes you ignorant to the misfortunes of the world, makes you think everything is within the realm of your reach. you, on the other hand, knew this was bound to happen. the two of you together is like hot oil and cool water—what feels like sparks is just the oil shooting out to burn you. you should’ve known this would have never lasted.

in a way, you think you did. it’s why you hated him so fiercely at first—maybe deep down, you always knew you wanted him, that he would never be yours. maybe that’s why you were so adamant about rejecting him, that even when he was clearly trying, it would never be enough. satoru has always been enough, has always been what everyone has wanted—you’re not so sure you can say the same for yourself.

you love gojo satoru. he loves you too—he falls first, and you think maybe, he might have fallen harder too. no one loves like satoru. they say if you press coal hard enough, it turns to diamonds—you think if you gave satoru coal, he would hand you back the sun and all of her stars. it’s just the kind of guy he is, the one that turns everything dull into something bright and warm and worth it. you wish you didn’t have to break his heart, you wish you could’ve walked out of this the only one hurt. but maybe, at the very least, if you break him good enough that he hates you, he’ll move on quicker, maybe have something to look forward to while you continue to work your way up and cheer him on.

before you can refresh suguru’s page one more time to stalk his story, you’re pulled from your thoughts as someone knocks on your door—correction: pounds on your door. you jolt on your couch, standing up and making your way to the front door quickly and looking through the peephole.

satoru. of course.

he’s soaked to the bone—it’s raining outside, and of course, just as on brand as always, he must’ve rushed here without an umbrella.

you shouldn’t open it.

but you can’t just leave him in the rain, can you? but he’s not your problem anymore, you agreed to leave him, didn’t you? but how could he not be your problem when he’s all you think about? but this could cause him trouble if his father found out he was here, right? but can you really leave someone, ex-boyfriend or not, in the pouring rain? you can’t be that cruel can you?

before you can make up your mind, he speaks up, “i know you’re standing there. open the door,” he demands.

“satoru, go home,” you sigh, head pressing against the surface that separates you, “don’t make this anymore difficult than it has to be.”

“if it’s difficult, that means you don’t really want to do this,” he argues. he’s still as good as ever at sweet talk, still as persistent and charming as ever at getting what he wants. “please,” he croaks, “just let me in.”

you know it means more than one thing. you know it means more than just your home. but you shouldn’t, you can’t let him know why you did all this—how can you protect someone from something if they don’t let you? satoru would never let you if he knew, and that’s why you can’t let him know.

“satoru, if you don’t leave…i’ll…i’ll call the cops,” you warn.

“no you won’t,” he says instantly. “i’m not leaving until you open the door. and if i get sick, i’ll send you my bill for the emergency room visit.”

“you’re not going to the emergency room for a common cold, you idiot,” you scoff.

the rain doesn’t slow—in fact, you can hear thunder. satoru is still stubbornly outside, knocking away.

“i’ll start screaming,” he insists, “your neighbors will complain for noise again. do you want to be kicked out of this apartment? just let your cold, wet, heartbroken ex-boyfriend in if you have a heart.”

and because you are, and always will be, weak to the charms of gojo satoru, you open that damned door—even though you shouldn’t, even though you can’t, even though you said you would never again. but you do. because it’s satoru, and he always comes when you call, and you’ll always let him in when he’s here.

“you don’t come to your ex’s house less than one week after the break up,” you sigh once you open the door. he takes a step in, shutting the door behind him.

“why did you leave me?” he asks.

“satoru, you can’t keep bringing this up—”

“why? just tell me why.”

“i don’t have to—”

“tell me why and i’ll stop bothering you. i just need to know why,” he insists.

and then you break.

you’re only human. you’ve lost the man you’ve given everything to for over a year in the span of one week. you’ll never see his lovely mother again who spoiled you rotten, you’ll never hang out out with his funny best friend who treats you like family, and you’ll never be enough for gojo satoru, the rich, loud, sheltered, obnoxious, handsome jackass you met and had to do a project with and accidentally fucked over and over again until you fell in love.

so you shove his chest, once, then twice, then a third time, each time getting weaker and weaker than the last as tears slip down your cheeks as you simply break down. “just leave, satoru,” you sob, “why can’t you just leave? why do you keep coming back?”

you hate seeing him here. you want him gone. you never want to see him again. you hope he never leaves. you’re glad to see him. you hope this isn’t the last time. you hate that he seems to not be getting enough sleep. his eyes are hollow. he must not be eating properly. he probably hasn’t attended class. he has a quiz next week. he most likely forgot about that. his clothes are wrinkly. he definitely hasn’t showered in days.

“last month you said i was it for you,” he glares at you, his eyes red and swollen and every shade of heartbreak. you miss when they were blue—that beautiful, bright, perfect shade of blue. “last week you said we were a mistake. what the fuck do you mean, huh? what are you playing at?”

“you can realize a lot in a month—”

“not enough to erase over a year,” his voice booms. it makes you flinch and hug yourself tightly. tears slide down your cheeks, your vision is blurry. this might be the last time you see satoru, and even if he’s angry, you want to remember the curves of his features. so you wipe them away. they keep coming back. “so tell me,” he clenches his jaw, “did you string me along for a year or did something happen last week that you’re not telling me?”

“i realized you were bad for me,” you say quietly.

satoru stares at you. it’s a piercing gaze—his eyes are electrically blue and his lashes are unfairly long and every time he stares at you, you think he almost sees into your soul. they’re tired—there are purplish bags under them on that pale skin of his, and the whites of his eyes are concerningly bloodshot. he stares, and stares, and for a second, you think you’ll die like this. watching him stare at you as your heart bleeds out.

“i spent weeks,” his voice shakes, “i waited outside your class. i followed you to the next one. i memorized your fucking schedule.”

“satoru, you need to leave—”

“and then you fucked me and left every morning like i was nothing,” he glares, sniffling. you don’t know where the rain drops on his face start and where the teardrops end. “and then i begged you for a chance—begged. i burned my hand, got laughed at by the maids to learn how to make those stupid fucking pancakes for you.”

“i didn’t ask you to—”

“it took you two months to call me baby for the first time. did you know that? i waited two months to hear that. i thought it was the best two months i ever waited.”

“satoru,” you plead.

you’ve given up on trying to wipe away the tears—he’s given up on crying altogether. you’ve never seen him so hollow, so dead in the eyes and so, so tired.

satoru has never gotten tired—not when he’s fighting for you.

“and then you kept pushing me away, acting like i was some shallow guy who wanted to get in your pants and leave cause i had some money to my name. i took you everywhere, introduced you proudly, let everyone say what they wanted to say about me because i loved you, and…and i thought you loved me too,” he shakes his head.

his voice breaks, and god, so does your heart right along with it.

“i do love you,” you admit it before you realize what you’re saying.

“then why did you fucking leave me?” his voice is loud.

satoru never yells, not at you. his voice is always gentle, patient, like he worships the ground you walk on, like he’ll get on his knees if you ask him too. satoru never yells—but he does tonight.

“because i had to,” you sob, fingers digging into your temples as you shake. the words spill from your lips faster than the tears, like a swarm of angry bees, one following after the other. “or you’d lose everything. the trust funds, the inheritance, the company. i couldn’t let that happen to you—not for me,” you whisper.

it feels like defeat—in the end, you couldn’t keep satoru, and you couldn’t leave him either. you couldn’t love him like you wanted, and you couldn’t let him go like you should have. what else is there left to fuck up? what more can you ruin in less than a week? the bees feel like maggots in your mouth, swarming a dead carcass.

“so you left me because my old man threatened you with my trust funds?” he asks in disbelief. you think something in satoru dies at that—something in his shoulders falls and his eyes almost seem gray.

satoru gets his blue eyes from his mother—they’re bright and kind and deeper than the ocean. but unlike the ocean, they’re not scary to fall into, to lose yourself in no matter how far you are from shore. his father’s eyes are gray—cold and blank and not laced with a single hint of emotion.

you can’t help but think that blue suits satoru so much better than gray ever could.

“it wasn’t just that,” you shake your head, “that’s not fair, satoru. what was i supposed to do? know you were about to lose everything and stay?”

“you could have talked to me before you decided for me,” he hisses, “what do you want me to say? thank you? thank you for breaking my heart? thank you for making me feel like a worthless piece of shit who wasted a year for someone who didn’t seem to care? thank you for walking out on me?”

“you know i’d have stayed if i could,” you argue, voice breaking.

“then why didn’t you? why the fuck didn’t you?”

“because i couldn’t!”

“you could!” he screams—you realize, for the first time in your life, you hate when satoru screams. he never screams. “all my life, that old man has been making decisions for me. satoru, wear this. satoru, go here. satoru, don’t do that. satoru, put that away. satoru, stay away from them. satoru, come with me. that’s all he’s ever fucking done—make every choice for me. and now…now you’re just like him,” he breathes, lips wobbling as he stares at you with hurt.

it’s like that for a bit—you stare at him as he crumbles, and he stares at you like he doesn't know you anymore. you don’t know who leans in first, if it’s your hand or his face, but one second you’re feet apart, and the next second his face is cradled in your hands, thumbs swiping away at his tears. you catch them, one by one, waiting to wipe them away no matter how fast they come. because satoru always comes when you call, and you’ll always be there for him to find you.

“i don’t want to leave,” you mumble, “i never do. you are it for me, i meant that, you know. who else will melt extra chocolate in my hot chocolate?”

“then don’t leave,” he begs, voice cracking, “i don’t want you to. i’ll handle that old geezer—my grandfather will knock some sense into him. fuck, suguru and i can even hide his body, it’s fine. just don’t leave, okay?”

you let out a watery chuckle, pinching his cheek as you shake your head. “i don’t know if i’m worth homicide, satoru.”

“i think you’re wrong,” he huffs, “you’re wrong about a lot of things, you know. so wrong.”

“i never said i was perfect,” you pout.

he buries his head into your neck, clinging to you tightly—you cling back, because nothing is as safe as satoru’s arms. you’d melt into his skin if you could, live in that spot right where his heart is so you can make sure it’s always beating.

“you’re still perfect,” he mumbles, “but you’re always mean to me. this was the worst you’ve ever been.”

“i’m sorry,” you murmur, slipping your fingers into his hair—it’s still wet, you realize. he’s soaked, and he could catch a cold but you don’t care. satoru is back. he’s here in your run-down apartment with the mugs and the blanket and that toothbrush you forgot to return and that pair of socks you found in your drawer. satoru is finally home. “i’ll never leave you again.”

“promise?”

“yeah. as long as you don’t block me on twitter again.”

“you deserved that.”

“and for the love of god, toru, delete that marvin’s room story. that was so dumb.”

“are you stalking me?” he pulls away with a grin, making you glare with a huff. he chuckles, kisses your forehead as he murmurs, “missed me that bad, huh? yeah, i would too.”

“well, obviously not enough to post marvin’s room on my story.”

“you can’t be mean to me after you broke my heart!” he whines.

yeah, you think, satoru is home. he’s still that loud, obnoxious, pestering brat that he always was—and he’s still the only love you’ve ever known.

“i love you,” you press your forehead to his, kissing him slowly. you want to kiss him harder, you want to kiss him desperately like you’ll never kiss him again. like you lost him and miraculously got him back. like you’ll never see the sun again without him.

but there’s time for that—lots of it, in fact. because satoru is home.

“i love you too,” he whispers, “wanna shower with me? if you really love me, you would.”

read the makeup sex sequel ;) MINORS DO NOT INTERACT

if this fic was a person i would want it dead.

#teepods.writings #fics.#rich boy! au #gojo x reader #gojo x you #gojo angst #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen x you #jujutsu kaisen angst #jjk x reader #jjk x you #jjk angst #gojo satoru x reader #gojo satoru x you #gojo satoru angst

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hoshigray · 1 month

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Just want to start and say hiiiii I love the work you put out and I can't get over how amazing they are. Since you said your inbox is open I was thinking about Life Guard Choso and a little lips to lips action by the pool side at night. Include anything else you see fit I don't mind☺️.

𝐚. 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: omg tyyyy !! and yippee, a choso request :DD haven't written for him in a long while

⊹ 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬: lifeguard! Choso x fem! reader - explicit content; minors DNI - kissing; making out - sexual acts in a public place; hotel pool room - breast fondling + sucking - fingering (f! receiving) - oral (m! + f! receiving) - praising - implied v + p insertion (ends with cowgirl) - implied unprotected sex (psa: don't be silly; wrap the willy) - cameo: Nobara (best friend) - Choso having a lil crush on reader, and lowkey being horny on the job, lawl - reader lowkey being flirty and taking the lead role.

⊹ 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 2.7k

“—Khhh, ohooo, ohhhmyGod, Chosoooo, your tongue feels so good!”

“Hoooohh, Ch’soooo, right there! Keep scraping me right there…!”

As lifeguarding night shifts go, last night’s had to be the most bewildering Choso has ever endured.

He sits on the lifeguard chair, observing the indoor pool area inside the hotel where he’s working during spring break. Luckily, there weren’t many customers coming to use the pool during his shifts — especially the night ones. So, all Choso had to do was watch the hours go by, go to his lunch break, and occasionally come back if he was called in for the night shift.

What sounds like a manageable task turns out to be otherwise because someone is sitting at the edge of the pool and captures Choso’s observant brown eyes from time to time. It’s you, sitting at the edge with your feet submerged in the water as you converse with your friend — he picks up their name is Nobara – about the joys of your spring break adventures for the past few days.

Your frequent giggles and sweet voice are difficult for him to ignore, sneaking glances under his cap to see you, shooting himself internally for taking advantage to look at you in your cute one-piece swimsuit that hugged your curves nicely. And then the warmth of his blood swiftly changes to freezing temperature when your eyes land on him, averting his gaze back into the water before him.

The ripples of the water have him thinking back on the night shift last night, his cheeks reddening as he recollects the memories…

It was a lonely shift as Choso was the only person in the indoor pool area. It wasn’t until the hour touched two hours behind midnight when the door opened and came you. As someone who’s been lowkey crushing on you for the past few days, this immediately became the worst-case scenario for the young lifeguard, forced to gawk and examine your graceful swimming and two-piece figure.

He’s been doing that for a solid fifteen minutes, suffering in silence while his eyes scan the curves of your thighs and legs and follow the droplets of water trickle down to your cleavage. Eyeing you with such indecency, what an inappropriate thing as a lifeguard.

And it comes back to bite him on the ass when you walk out of the pool and approach him to his chair, startling the pecan brown-haired hotel worker. “Hey there,” you say so charmingly, practically inviting him with just the greeting. “I can’t help but think you’re lonely here just watching me swim…Would you humor me and accompany me? Would feel bad I’m the reason you’re here doing your job at such a late hour…”

Choso knew he should shoot down the offer as he was still on duty. However, judging by how it was nearly an hour and a half from closing the pool and that most of the other hotel workers were gone, a tiny part of him was pinching him to accept the proposal of his mini-crush. It’s just a swim, in the water and out, right…?

That’s what he kept telling himself as he was following and talking with you in the pool; although every time you referred to him by his name, swam circles around his rigid body, or tittered at his words, that statement was demonstrated worthless. The lights from inside the water illuminated your frame lured Choso in with every minute, your eyes sparkling like the broken surface tension of the water.

“Hey, Choso,” God, he couldn’t believe you were calling him by his name; it sounded too dreamlike to be reality. “Have you ever given someone CPR?”

“Uhh, yeah, like once or twice,” he replied while averting his eyes to the other side of the room as if that would help his pinkish blush not be seen by you.

“Really?” You probed, bringing your frame for the water to reach your chin. “You must know the procedure pretty well, then…Hey, let me test you then!”

Huh? “What now?”

“Okay, I’m gonna pretend to drown, and you do whatever lifeguard procedure you do to get me out of the water.” You said it with such a beaming attitude that Choso couldn’t tell if you were serious. They can’t be serious…And then, you took a giant breath before allowing your body to be completely submerged in the water, sinking to the pool floor.

Choso looked to where you were for about five seconds; you two were at around the 4th or 5th feet of the pool — there’s no way you had to be serious. But five seconds turned to ten, and you didn’t exhibit any signs of wanting to breach. It caused his jaw to drop; no shot, they’re actually serious!

With haste, Choso waddles down to your spot and drives himself into the water, taken aback in perplexity when you greeted him with a wave. He then brings a hand under your legs and one to your shoulder, breaching with you in bridal style. He voices his bafflement, “Wh–What was that idea?”

“Hahaha, took you long enough; you’re a pretty terrible lifeguard for taking your sweet time rescuing me!” You jest to him, the comment poking right through Choso’s stature and dignity.

“I didn’t know you were serious or not…”

“Drowning is always a serious issue,” you bat your eyes at him before poking the mark across his face. It wasn’t until then that Choso realized how close he had you, your face two inches away from his, and the top of your two-piece now in his line of sight for your cleavage to capture his dangerous curiosity. He turns his head to show some modesty he has left, but it’s too late; you saw him. A twinge of your lip forms a pleasant grin, “Well, you know what happens next, right?”

He blinks and brings his face back in your direction. Surely you didn’t mean that, asking the following to make sure, “Wh…What?”

“Mouth-to-mouth, of course!” Oh, this was going way too far, the poor lifeguard holding you frozen still at your goal. “Why, you don’t want to put your lips on me? Or were you sneaking glances at me these past few days for nothing?” Another arrow that shot him down; you knew!? “You’re not quite subtle, you know. Hehe, but I find that kinda cute.”

Choso tried to explain himself, but what only came out was stammers and squeaks. Your gaze had him internally nervous and exposed, so you had to poke him even more, “So? Are you gonna leave your drowning rescuee’s lips alone or save me?”

He gulped at the phrasing, struggling to find the words to give to you. Not you were giving him a chance because your face was moving closer to his every second he didn’t answer. And when your eyelids come down, Choso hesitantly does as well and brings his lips onto your soft ones.

The first peck was long, yet sweetly introduced you two together. You snaked your hand up his pecs to his neck, inviting him to kiss you a second time. His restraint dissolved with every sedation of your lips on his, and it vanished wholly when his ears picked up a moan. He becomes more adventurous and chews on your bottom lip, and the whimper you let out ignites something that he’s been dying to contain for this long.

A hot and steamy kiss that was built up to happen here and now, and Choso relishes having you like this like it’s a dream. You break the kiss with a gasp for air, panting alongside him with a smile. “Well then, do I have to tell you what should happen next, too?”

When Choso silently leads you out of the pool with him, you are pleased that you don’t have to.

“—Khhh, ohooo, ohhhmyGod, Chosoooo, your tongue feels so good!”

Choso moved you to one of the cushioned chaise lounge chairs to lie as he ripped you off your bottoms and greeted your lower half with attention. Being between your legs was far from what he ever imagined; however, with how you tase on his tongue and the wails you’re letting out for him, he can’t find it in himself to stop now.

He licks your clit with a circle, and you squeak at the motion. “Mmmm…feeling’ good there, Y/n?”

“Ohhh, yesss, oh yessss,” you respond with a hazed expression, letting your euphoric sounds fill the quiet indoor pool room occupied by you two. “Fuuuck, lick me more, please…”

Even your requests to him were dear to his ears, obliging your folds with feverish laps and swirls. Your cries become louder, legs jolting with ever every lave and suck of your leaking fluids. But Choso holds you by the thighs, massage them to relax your body. Damn, you felt so soft to his fingers, wanting to have his hands on you for as long as he can.

You bite your lip when your hand grabs tuffs of his down brunette hair, egging him to give your clitoris more kisses and hurried licks that almost have you choke on your spit. “Oh, myGod—Mmmph! You’re so good at this, Choso…Ahhhh, oh fuck, feels too gooood…!”

Choso lifts his head to lock his chocolate eyes with yours, examining your reaction when he switches his tongue with a forefinger bullying inside your vagina. The insertion has your bold jerk upwards, squirming at the finger that’s scraping the velvety texture of your vaginal walls. He then kisses from your thigh up to your abdomen, sucking on your skin to tease. Once he comes up to your top piece, he uses his free hand to bring it up and finally releases your breasts for his eyes to survey. His mouth doesn’t waste time having a nipple inside, licking on the bud as he gropes the other breast.

“Ahhnn! Hahhh, hehe, you look so hot doing that,” you comment, making the young man sneak a glance at you before he sucks and nibbles on the nipple. His finger inside your cunt goes faster, having you whine when his thumb comes to your clit. Swipes to the delicate button erupt howls from your agape mouth, “Ohhhh, Hoooohh, Ch’soooo, right there! Keep scraping me right there…pleaseee, don’t stop…!”

He withdrew from your nipple with a soft “pop” from his lips, bringing his face inches close to yours. “Gonna cum on my fingers, yeah?” He asks to distract you from the sneaking middle finger that invades between your folds. The two digits work together to reach places you couldn’t, rubbing and scratching your inner walls with tips.

“Yesss, yesss, I’m gonna cum…! More, more—Oh, Ohooo!” Choso kisses you again, and you happily mewl into his lips as your orgasm climbs up with the pace of his fingers and his thumb pressing and swiping on your clit. Your chasm clamps onto his digits, bringing your hands to his face to keep the kiss going as your climax hits you.

Shocks from your body prompt you to tremble under him, the walls of your slit contract around his fingers, and your hips involuntarily sway to ride out the phases of your clarity. You suck on Choso’s tongue; his groans are music to your ears while your hand travels down to his swim trunks and feels the tent of his groin.

He moans, breaking the kiss to look where your hand is. You chuckle, “It’s time to return the favor. Come on, let’s switch.”

He follows your lead and takes the position you had previously, watching you situate yourself between his legs as you bring his trunks down to have his erection spring out. He panics a little when you gasp aloud while marveling at his limb, “My, what a long thing you were hiding from me…”

Your compliment has the blush on his ears scorch him with unbearable heat, and you keep eye contact while your plump lips place kisses on the sensitive pink tip of his cock. He hitches his breath at the contact, especially at your hand, grasping his length and beginning stroking motions.

Your tongue dances around his glans and presses on the frenulum, nibbling on the rough skin while your free hand goes to his testicles, softly kneading them to provoke moans to leave his lips. “Such cute sounds from such a cute guy; keep making more for me, okay?” He places a hand on your head, a sign that you take initiative to pop his dick into your mouth.

Bobbing your head up and down, you take in Choso’s shaft inch by inch, the warmth of your mouth doing wonders to his senses. A hand grips the cushion of the tongue chair he’s lying on, and shivers crawl up his spine when you mumble after taking it to the hilt as your voice travels through his body.

“Mmmm…Nngohh, fuck,” he curses with furrowed brows, biting his lip when sensing your tongue lick the underside of his cock. Fuck, your mouth felt so damn good — it took everything for Choso not to rut into your mouth voluntarily. Your tight throat didn’t make it any better, and the walls enveloping his entire girth had him drooling.

Puffed cheeks suck on him leisurely, your lips coated from the saliva covering him, the noises so erotic and out of this world. You continue to massage his balls while your mouth occupies him, alternating with your hands to go down and suck on his balls roughly.

Here is where Choso finds it hard to contain himself with every second, his thighs jerking with every sign of pleasure, throwing his head back when his dick is back inside your gummy throat. Hips subtly propel to your mouth to create more friction, and he whimpers as you happily accept him with mumbled wails and restlessly jerk him off.

“—Kahhnn, nnmgh, shit, Yn,” your name sounds like a dazed slur, the hand purchased on your head eggs you to go faster. He almost bites his tongue when yours teases his urethra for more of his precum, “Fuck, I’m gonna cum, I’m cumming…shiiit, ohh…!”

And you give him aid, sucking on his cock harder and bobbing frantically while you use both your hands to pleasure him more. The commotion of his lower half corrupts all of his senses, hanging by a thread to hang on and howl your name out. One last lap and harsh suck on his glans induces a choked groan, and Choso finally ejaculates into your mouth.

With the thirst pump, you instantly take him back inside your throat, drinking every bit of his load exuding from his throbbing member. He thrusts as you suck him, his orgasm shaking his being with every rut and sob. He heaves and pants, your name said in helpless prayers while you suck his soul out. And, God, does he fucking love it so.

You give him mercy and release his shaft, placing more tiny kisses on it while watching Choso’s quaking frame calm down. And when he does, you bring your body off from between his legs. “Thank you for saving me, Choso.” You crawl to place a gentle kiss on his lips with a hum, and then you relish the cute sounds he makes as your wet cunt meets his length.

“Let me reward you by pampering you more...”

“….—op, don’t stare at him so hard!”

“Is that him?”

Choso snaps back to the present when he hears familiar voices speak — it is you and Nobara he finds that are looking at you from across the poolside. Nobara being the one staring dead at him; your best friend’s eyes feel like daggers piercing Choso’s pale skin. It made him gulp with nervousness.

Then, she cocks her head and leans to speak. “Doesn’t look so bad; don’t know about that mark on his face, though…How long was it, again?”

“Shhh, be quiet!” You slap her arm to silence her, making the mistake of looking at Choso. You two look into each other’s gazes for a few seconds, the warmth of your cheeks creeping up and having you two sever your faces elsewhere.

Nobara saw the exchange, lifting a brow before asking you, “So, do you want me to give him your number, or would you like to fuck him again before that—Oww!!“ Another slap to her bare shoulder, she winces this time.

“Jesus Christ, shut up!”

@screampied 🤷‍♀️🤷‍♀️🤷‍♀️🤷‍♀️

requests/thirsts are open hehe~ 🧸

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theragethatisdesire · 11 months

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aot men as dads - headcanon!! some 18+!!

includes: eren, jean, reiner, & levi

i'm still working on some full-fledged one-shots and parts of my series', but i'm nannying for the summer and have BABY FEVER. please enjoy my little headcanons of my fav aot men as dads <3

DISCLAIMER: some of this post contains MATURE CONTENT that is intended only for those over 18. if you are a minor, please do not read below the cut.

Eren

ok but eren is such a cringe dad lol

buys himself all of the #1 Dad! merch. he’s got mugs, tshirts, hats, all of it, and all of it went on his credit card.

10000% a girl dad. loves all the little dresses and bows; he puts your daughter’s hair in its first bun, nearly tears up when she points at his matching hairstyle and babbles “like da-da!”

you have to parent eren as much as the children. when you turn the corner into the living room where he’s supposed to be having “quiet time” with your toddler only to find that they’re buried in a pillow fort and eren’s signed his own name in crayon on the wall next to your daughter’s scribblings. “babe, we can just repaint it! she’s being creative.”

loves when you’re pregnant. after your first, eren keeps a calendar on the wall marking off the days until it’s safe for him to fuck you again, fuck a baby right back into you. already has a breeding kink before your first. develops a lactation kink after.

TERRIFIED (and i mean terrified) of hurting your little angel. has absolutely zero concept of “cry it out”; if he hears his baby crying, he’s sprinting into the next room, kissing a nonexistent boo-boo.

refuses to admit it but he has no backbone when it comes to your daughter wanting literally anything. she wants it, she gets it.

favorite thing in the world is matching outfits. favorite. “babe, where’s her green hoodie? i’m wearing mine today for the park!” “of course it matters, we have to match! on that note, where’s yours?”

lets your daughter use his hair to learn how to braid. usually has a few pink hair ties or glittery clips sticking out of it when you come home from a mom’s night out.

really big on your baby getting to see the world. drags you on vacation to any place he can think of, even as you try to explain to him that she can’t form any long term memories yet. “but baby, she’ll have pictures. how many kids in her class can bring a picture of them at the eiffel tower to their first show-and-tell?”

accidentally ruins santa and the tooth fairy for your daughter. cries harder than she does over it.

aggressively vets babysitters. ends up settling for a nursing student in the labor & delivery school who’s the oldest of seven children and probably more knowledgeable about child development than both of you combined, but he’s still suspicious.

wants to watch while you push, watch his baby come into the world. you’ve never seen a sweeter sight than eren in his scrubs, crying while holding your baby girl.

Jean

most people picture eren as being the roughhousing dad, but it’s jean, and i will die on this hill.

freaks out every time he drops your first boy while throwing him around like a ragdoll, but he’ll never stop because “listen!! he’s laughing!”. when it comes to the rest of them, he’s experienced enough now to tell the difference between a real booboo and an imagined one, and he simply brushes their little pants off caringly before shouting “now you tackle me!”

jean’s got no gender preference for your first, or the rest of your little brood for that matter. he raises them exactly the same, regardless: tough.

it takes him awhile to get used to the concept of babies’ minds. you’ve walked in on him having full-blown arguments with your shrieking toddlers several times. “what’s not making sense? if you let your goldfish ‘swim’ in the toilet, it dies, simple as that.”

plays “bad cop” for you because you’re terrible at it, but he’s always having to turn around and snicker into his elbow in the middle of scolding because your babies get the same little throbbing forehead vein as you when they’re mad

wants a big family, and gets it. you practically have to drag him to get his balls snipped after your fourth, him reminding you that “it’s reversible!” the entire way there.

the newborn phase is his favorite. he’s rarely home for any longer than ten minutes without scooping your most recent addition into his arms, squishing their little cheeks and marveling at their gurgling noises.

the kids never give him anxiety, but when you’re pregnant??? jean’s a wreck.

“do your feet still hurt, love?” “what do you mean you have indigestion? that could be the baby coming!” “of course we can’t have sex, what if we poke its little head?”

definitely the dad that’s got a delivery bag and a backup bag and an emergency third backup of the backup bag in his car at all times. the first week of your third trimester, he starts watching you suspiciously for any signs of labor, even though this is your fourth together. you think you’ve got it down by now, you tell him, but he won’t listen.

always gets the kids to work together on little surprises for you. every mother’s day they wake you up with breakfast, every valentines day your dining room table is covered in handmade cards, every birthday your kitchen is coated in flour from jean and four little ones attempting to bake

SO HARD to drag him out for a date night. he wants to bring them everywhere: the fancy restaurant, the couples' get away trip

jean's that dad standing in the bar, watching the game, beer in hand, with an occupied baby carrier strapped to his chest

wants to watch during delivery, but he passed out the first go-round, so now he’s content standing up by your head, trying not to turn white as you squeeze his hand hard enough to break.

talks you into just one more on your fourth’s second birthday. “they’re all so big now. don’t you miss it, babe? my baby in your belly? c’mon…” turns out he reversed that vasectomy without telling you

Reiner

another girl dad. hardcore girl dad.

buys his little princess all number of dresses and barbies, is confused when she’s more interested in the baseballs her classmates have.

accidentally raises the most tomboyish, toughest little girl. still babies her, and she hates it.

cries more than you do on your first date night out when you leave her with your mom. forgets to order his entree at the restaurant because he’s watching the baby monitor app on his phone.

definitely the best at splitting baby duties with you. reiner’s up before you most nights when she wakes, grabbing a bottle and cooing at her lovingly even as she screams. you always try to stay awake to watch him on the baby monitor, though, heart melting as his massive arms rock the tiny bundle back to sleep.

all the neighborhood kids love him because of his size. at every cookout, reiner can’t help on the grill because he’s buried in the grass in a little army of toddlers, led by your daughter, shrieking with joy.

always taking pictures. literally always. unflattering ones when you fall asleep breastfeeding, candids at the zoo, eighteen identical pictures of the lock of hair from her first haircut clogging up his camera roll.

can’t be the bad cop. literally ever. he just can’t say no to his little princess, can’t break her precious little heart by telling her that throwing her food onto the floor is bad.

takes your daughter to mommy & me classes with him

DILF DILF DILF. all the moms in the classes swoon over him and gossip about him when he’s not there; much to your annoyance, reiner never notices, insisting that they’re his “mommy friends”.

always sporting a little bit of glitter on his face or a sticker on his back from your daughter

coming from a fatherless background, reiner nearly kills himself trying to be a constant presence in your daughter’s life (you have to remind him that he has to rest too)

never misses an open house night at school, even if it nearly gets him fired. coaches all of her sports teams. literally almost cries when she makes her first soccer goal. actually does cry when she tells you the boy sitting beside her in class called her his girlfriend. full-blown breakdown on her first day of school, so bad he has to stay home from work.

the absolute BEST through your pregnancy and delivery. always cooking your craving of the week, constant foot and back rubs, stays up all night with you for the three days before the birth when you’re just too swollen and miserable to sleep.

holds your hand through the entire delivery, gets in the doctors’ way when they’re performing checkups because “i’m her father, i need to know what’s going on”

Levi

levi never pictured himself as having children, but when your little surprise arrives, blinking up at levi with his own grey, owlish eyes, levi can’t believe he hadn’t thought of it sooner.

very easily irritated with anyone asking questions about your home life.

when his coworkers ask for your newborn’s name, levi simply says “child.” are you two trying again? “why the fuck do you need to know?”

super overprotective. your baby waves at someone in the supermarket, and levi’s leaning down to explain (in words your eight-month-old can’t yet understand) stranger danger.

totally one of those parents that goes half-crazy trying to get their child into the top-notch, snobby preschool in town.

“we’re not wasting his intelligence on the public school”

levi grew up with basically nothing, so he goes all out buying the best baby products on the market. $2,500 strollers, researching “best baby toys for development”, the whole nine yards.

100% spends months trying to get your child to make a game out of picking up his own toys after playtime, but it never works.

has a meal plan for your child to “optimize nutrition” that you have to sneak around to give your baby little chocolates and junk snacks.

“why are there pringles in his playtime bag? they have no nutritional value.”

vets anyone that comes around your child, even other children. “no more playtime with that evan kid. he’s always got a cold or something.”

he’s always been a light sleeper, but once you have your child, levi snores beside them watching kids’ cartoons on the tv like you’ve never seen him, even drooling as his head lolls, arm tucked tight around your little one.

learned everything he could about labor and delivery beforehand

you almost killed him in the delivery room as he explained each medical detail of your labor symptoms to “reassure” you. he finally got the hint when you threatened to decapitate him.

he thinks it’s shameful, but watching you be a mother turns. him. on.

wants to take you right there when he catches you breastfeeding, watches you read a bedtime story, spin your child around laughing. you’re just so naturally good at it and it makes him love you all the more, all that love going straight between his legs.

3K notes · View notes

mystellenia · 2 months

Text

passionate sex with abby ୨ৎ

summary: you and abby spend the night enjoying each other, sharing a passionate moment.

content: fingering (r receiving), praise, abby literally worshipping you, strap on sex

notes: answer to this req!! can someone get me a shirt that says "baby's 1st strap fic!" this was surprisingly fluffier than i intended but i’m not mad. if there are any typos or grammar mistakes, let me know please! i will never consistently proof read <3 prob like 20% of my work is proof read if i’m feeling quite Professional

(wc 1.6k)

"are you asleep?" abby softly whispered into your hair, careful to not disturb you if you had fallen asleep.

the two of you lay on the couch watching a black and white film flicker across the tv screen, a king-sized blanket bunched around your waist. your arms tuck further into your chest, pulling the blanket up a little higher to your waist.

abby's large hands splayed across your lower back—not drawing little shapes, not tracing your skin, just feeling. she was always touching you, whether it was your fingers laced between hers or just her arm pressed against your side. she'd always say that you grounded her, that just being with you could calm her down from the highest of stresses.

you slightly shake your head, responding to her question. "nope."

"do you still wanna watch the movie?"

you shake your head again. "nope."

turning your head to look up at her from where your chin rested on her chest, you kiss her quickly on her cheek. "let's go to bed."

she doesn't respond, just smooths your hair back with her hand and scoots out from under you, grabbing your hand to lead you to the bedroom. she leaves your dishes behind—a bowl, two empty mugs, and a cookie wrapper sit still on the coffee table, frozen and forgotten by the two of you as you walk down the hall.

abby heads to the bathroom and loads up her toothbrush, and you change from your heavy sweatshirt and pajama pants to one of abby's simple, large t-shirts. you take your hair out of its bun and hear a chuckle from behind you, so you turn and see abby smiling and watching you, her foamy toothbrush hanging from her lips.

you take your hair tie out and set it on your side of the bed. "what?" you ask, to which she just shakes her head and returns her gaze to the mirror in front of her. you walk towards her in front of the sink, looking at her reflection. her eyes drop down towards her shirt on you, and she laughs again, quickly leaning into the sink to spit her toothpaste out.

"what!" you smile, tilting your head at her eyes dancing across your face. she takes her time with finishing, leisurely swirling water in her mouth. she finally spits, drying her mouth with a hand towel and saying, "you're swimming in that shirt."

you reflexively look down at it, smoothing it down your body. "it's not even that big on me—it barely goes past my mid-thigh."

"if you say so," she chuckles, leaning in for a kiss. her lips move slowly over yours, taking her time in savoring your taste.

your lips part, and she turns towards the mirror to set the towel down with a dreamy smile slowly spreading across her lips, her blinks slow and partial. you lean against the doorframe with that same dreamy smile until you move back towards her, your hand moving to her shoulder.

abby is the one who deepens the kiss, tilting your head back to push her tongue inside your mouth and humming against your lips. the bathroom counter digs into your butt, and your knees almost buckle at her unhurried kisses.

both of her hands lift up to your head, grabbing each of your cheeks and pulling back to look at you. her eyes look more black than blue, her blown pupils swallowing up the silvery rings of her eyes.

she turns your back towards the doorway and begins walking you backwards to the bed, the mattress hitting the back of your thighs and folding you onto the duvet, your kiss never breaking once. your legs immediately wrap around her hips, ankles locking on the backs of her toned thighs.

her fingers snake under your shirt, swiping her thumbs over your belly and leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake. she parts from your lips for air, and you both break out in a fit of giggles.

you calm down and stare into her eyes, hurrying up to her face and dotting kisses all over her face, making her laugh even more.

abby turns her head away to escape your assault of kisses, and you still once she does. "i love you," she lowly says, her eyes lazily looking into yours.

"i love you, too," you whisper back. you feel your cheeks heating, so you cover them with your hands to cool them down.

"aww," abby sweetly coos, "you shy?"

"i have a crush on you," you say seriously, smiling when she laughs at the absurdity of your statement.

"well, shit, i sure hope so," she jokes and lowers herself, kissing you long and soft.

like an unspoken agreement, abby pulls back as you sit up and you both start removing your clothes, one by one, holding eye contact the entire time. the intimacy of it all crashes over you, and you'd drown a hundred times over if it meant you could freeze this moment in time, pause it and restart whenever you choose.

you lay on your back and abby crawls over you, sucking the skin of your neck and making your squirm. you reach to thread your fingers through her hair, but your fingers are stopped by the braid in her hair, now loose and frayed from being in all day. unfastening the rubber band at the tail, you comb your fingers through the braid and undo it piece by piece. once her hair is fully free, you scratch at her scalp, restless from her tongue moving on your skin.

with no warning at all, abby dips her hand into your underwear, tracing a feathery swipe through your folds. obviously, you jump, your nails digging crescents into her shoulders.

she gradually pushes her finger inside you, and you throw your head back with a groan, your legs opening unconsciously. she finds a slow and teasing pace, her thumb mirroring it while she rubs tight circles on your clit.

abby never breaks eye contact, watching you the whole time and how your face screws tighter in pleasure, listening to your closed-lip moans start to spill through your mouth. she never speeds up, though, and the pace is too slow to finish.

"abby... come on," you plead, trying to keep your eyes open long enough to look at her.

"yeah? tell me what you want and i'll do it," she pants, looking at you and begging for an order, for another way to make you feel good.

just one of her thick fingers can push you closer to the edge, but it's still not enough. your cheeks warm, but you find the words to say, "i need you. right now, abby."

not a second passes before she's pulling out of you and leaning over to the side of the bed, lifting herself back up with a black strap in her hand. at six inches, it was a perfect fit for you—not too small, not too big—and for abby—comfortably sitting against her core.

wasting no time, she slides the tip up and down your cunt, lathering it in your slick before pushing her hips forward and sliding in, inch by inch. she hovers close above your face, observing every twitch in your body. her own jaw is dropped all the way, her lids low as she uncontrollably bucks her hips and pushes the last of the strap in. a guttural groan falls from her lips as if she was holding her breath the whole time, a whiney breath followed by a hushed curse coming from you.

she drops to her forearms, her hand moving to thread through your hair and cradle the back of your head. when you start to squirm, she pulls out almost all the way and smoothly pushes back in. finding a steady rhythm, her hips tenderly pump into yours, hypnotized by your little noises and how your hair splayed around your face in a halo.

this was exactly why abby preferred missionary, but right now her pleasure takes over and makes her forget everything but you as her head falls into your shoulder, her hand tensing around the nape of your neck.

"i—" she struggles to get out— "am so lucky to have you. god, i'm so glad you're mine." she continues breathing praises into your ear, your huffs getting louder and her breaths becoming more labored.

she feels your legs trying to lock around her torso, and she pulls back to watch your face as she always does. "look at me, look at me," she rushes out, trying to catch you before your orgasm.

you pry your eyes open and pull her forehead to yours. "together, please."

"i know, i know. just..." she trails off, trying to focus, her hips suddenly jerking with her orgasm

as if on the same wavelength, you cum a second after her, you two sloppily kissing and moaning into the other's mouth. you both twitch and spasm, the sheets damp with sweat and slick.

after taking a minute to catch her breath, abby pulls out, wincing at the strap's base kissing her puffy clit. she quickly takes it off and lays down next to you, you immediately curling up to her.

she rubs her hand on your arm, quietly murmuring, "good night, pretty girl," and pulling the sheets up, rubbing your skin until you fall asleep.

@picklesarenice69 hi queen

click here!! oh and here too!! ˶ᵔᵕᵔ˶

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devilmademewriteit · 8 months

Text

If You Lie Down With Me

pairing: (pre-ellie) dbf!joel miller x fem!afab!reader

summary: there’s only one guy in all of boston that can get you a morning after pill. unfortunately, on top of being a huge asshole, Joel Miller also happens to be your dad’s closest peer.

warnings: rough sex / smut (masturbation, fem penetration, oral [m receiving]) so 18+ only content; unprotected sex; light choking & restraint; light dom/sub dynamic; fem afab reader; reader has long-ish hair (that gets touched); plot-typical violence (guns, death); plot deviations (no Tess); medication ingestion; pet names (baby, sweetheart, angel); dubcon (slight intoxication, power imbalance, no explicit consent).

word count: 6.5k+

no use of y/n in this fic

alright y’all I’m baaaaAAAaack! so this is basically the other version of Dark But Just a Game that I started back when I was writing it & figured I’d finish it to get out of my hiatus. like any devilmademewriteit fic, it’s dark and nasty and deprived like meeeeeee <3 hope u enjoy !

don’t forget to reblog, check out my masterlist, sign up for the taglist, & leave any comments / feedback / & suggestions!

(ps: new part of Salvatore up next !)

—

“three times the guy I ever thought I would meet, so don't say you're over me when we both know that you lie”

— lana del rey, ‘If You Lie Down With Me’

—

Fuck.

Waking up to a racing heart, a pounding head, and a stomach swimming with nausea was never ideal, although it was always a better experience alone — when you could squint and hiss at the light slicing through the weaknesses in the drapes without hearing your groans echoed by a lower, louder, and annoyingly more pitiful voice.

Right. What was his name?

Jared? Jordan? Jermaine?

Ah, who cares.

If he’d wanted a safe place to nurse his hangover, he shouldn’t have fallen asleep in your bed. Sure, the odds of dad being conscious at this hour (especially the odds after a party like last night’s) were Kate Moss — no, Rolling Stones — slim, but the man would get up at some point, meaning that this poor J-whatever was likely sleeping through his only window of escape from certain homicide.

You whisper. You shake him gently. You gingerly tap the roundness of his bicep.

Huh — Not bad.

You congratulate last-night-you for reeling in this morning’s good-looking catch.

Still… nothing. Not a twitch. Nary a croaked ‘lemmesleep’ graces your ears.

After loosing an exasperated sigh and running through your options, you decide to take the most effective (and least girl-next-door) route. The corner of your elbow collides with his ribs, and the boy jumps up, his loose, blonde curls as wild as his eyes, searching the room for his attacker.

You want to smile at the scene, but the motion hurts your head.

“Y’gotta go,” you croak out, thumbs rubbing circles against your aching temples.

He collapses onto his back, copying your movement with his own fingers to his brow. “God. I feel like shit.”

Despite muttering your agreement, you let your eyelashes flutter closed and your weight turn you away from last night’s paramour: no use figuring out who he is after the (f)act — that just makes it personal.

After a few breaths, the boy moves back up to a shakey sitting position.

Probably sourcing for his clothes.

He reeks of booze and sex — but then again, so do you. His roughened, unfamiliar tenor climbs to barely above a whisper, “Z’something stuck on my leg… blood, or something…”

His interrupting your suffering comes as a deeply unwelcome annoyance, so you try to sort him out to clear him out: “Prolly just the condom,” you mumble, rolling back onto your shoulders, reluctantly supervising his movements.

He lifts up fully, sitting criss-cross and pulling his calf towards him.

“No,” he tries to laugh but succumbs to the nausea, settling for a low breath instead, “S’blood, dude, from beer darts — and I didn’t use a condom.”

Your eyes immediately dart over, settling on his naked, wretched, shivering form. He notices your ire and the hitching of your throat, immediately defensive.

“I asked if you wanted to.”

Unfortunately, he had. The memories of your drunken entanglement start to resurface inside your mind. “It just feels better without one.” This time, you curse last-night-you for being such a careless, inconsiderate, horny bastard.

You’re making problems for me, girl.

“J’s get out.”

J-whatever spares no time complying, collecting his few strewn belongings and staggering out the front door. Once it slides shut, so too do your poor, weary eyes.

Shit.

There goes the afternoon.

Getting your hands on condoms in the QZ was at least fifteen times easier than snatching a morning after pill. Those were a hot commodity, especially among the younger, less responsible crowds.

Luckily for you, as a member of aforementioned younger, less responsible crowds, you knew where your best chances lay in finding whatever it was you needed (if what you needed was deeply immoral or wholly illegal). Unluckily for you, that ‘best chance’ happened to be your dad’s closest and longest-running business partner: temperamental, judgemental, frustratingly competent, Joel ‘Local Asshole’ Miller.

But that could all be dealt with after another eight hours of sleep.

—

Opportunity strikes sooner than expected.

Miller’s in your living room by the time you wake up, the low rumble of his southern baritone recognizable even through the closed door. After scrambling to throw on some clothes, you press an ear to the chipping paint, hoping to determine the number of bodies gathered in your home.

Not many. Just Miller (and the old man, of course).

The latter’s presence bodes ill for you. This would all have to be done in secret, which was not an uncommon strategy where ever the former was involved. No one dealt with Joel Miller to conduct clean-cut, wholesome activities. No one was calling him up for a spare copy of the holy book.

No, getting him alone was essential.

A drink slams down on the counter. After a good, patient ten minutes, you hear your father (‘s rather crude way of) excusing himself to the washroom and heavy-set footsteps decrescendoing down the hall.

This is it.

You slip through the door.

At first, your company takes no notice of you, his eyes still glued to the maps and papers littering the counter before him.

Then, a low grumble: “fun night?”

His voice makes you weak in the knees — an involuntary, near ritual-like response you’d noticed around your mid teens and hadn’t managed to kick yet.

You swallow before responding. “Yes.”

It’s all you manage to muster. Miller finally looks up, wincing slightly as his back straightens. He looks tired, at least more than usual, with his wild, grey-streaked hair tousled and the lines by his mouth cutting deep into his skin.

You’re sure you don’t look much better, a suspicion proven by the man’s slowly spreading, barely-noticeable smirk. That gaze makes you self conscious, mute; your right hand snakes up, absent-mindedly dragging a fallen bra strap back to its proper position.

“So, what was his name?”

He’s teasing, sure, but Miller was there last night. He’d always had sharper perceptions than your father did, especially — and ironically — when it came to you. That skill tended to squander your confidence as the daughter of a modern-day mafia-boss and the owner of a hard, violent heart.

Rushed by the sound of your father’s footsteps, you default to honesty.

“I don’t remember.”

“Try.”

“Josh.”

Amusement flits across his stern expression. “Again.”

“Jamie.”

“Warmer.”

“J-J-something—”

“Gettin’ colder, sweetheart—”

“I need the pill.”

It just tumbles out, an exasperated, desperate plea. Miller, a bit taken aback by your candor, drains of his previous playfulness. You almost notice the split second those dark eyes glaze over. For a second, you’re almost convinced he’s distracted by his imagination’s recreations of the act that had you making such a request.

You almost notice the tingling between your thighs.

He stares. You stare back.

Fuck.

It was moments like this that made you wish Tess was still around. Oh, she wouldn’t be any kinder — no, not at all — but she’d certainly be more professional. Tess was all work, no play. Joel was…

You’re enjoying this, you bastard. You’re enjoying that I’m cornered like this, aren’t you?

The bathroom handle clicks when it turns, and your heart drops into your toes.

Maybe Miller really wasn’t going to help you. Maybe he didn’t have the pill and you’d just embarrassed yourself for nothing. Or, maybe he did, but preferred outing you to your dad at the very first opportunity — letting him deal with you the only way he knew how.

Your fears seem confirmed: his eyes leave the grace of your own, trailing back to his big, splayed hands on the countertop. Unwelcome tears burn the corners of your eyes as the panic begins to set in, as footsteps begin to fall…

“Mine. Tonight.”

It’s low and rushed, but it’s clear, cutting off to the sound of your father lumbering in. A man who saw, thought, and lived through transactions, he’s (thankfully) blissfully ignorant of the tension collapsing around him.

“Morning,” he throws your way.

A taunt, of course — it was well past noon.

You nod in acknowledgement, slowly backing into the doorway of your sacred, beckoning room. They resume their conversation from before, letting you sink into irrelevance.

Before shutting yourself in, you catch a few of Miller’s hushed words. They’re spoken casually to your father but, you later decide, surely meant for you:

“Not that one kid — Jeremy — don’t trust him.”

The door seals (well, not seals… it creaks on its rusty hinges and squeezes into its shrinking frame), and relief courses through you, reaching the very tips of your fingers.

That only lasts a minute.

Soon, you’re negotiating with the rising anxiety of being at Miller’s place alone, asking for his help with a problem that could’ve been avoided if you’d only kept your legs shut.

Alone with Miller, the both of you knowing that you hadn’t.

Crawling back under your covers, you begrudgingly make a vow of celibacy. If this was the cost of attention and a (potential) mid-range orgasm, you were about to become very frugal.

Dreams come easy, but they don’t come sweet.

Flashes of last night’s sins overlay Joel Miller’s unintelligible speech, his voice from the next room over lulling you into a rather confusing, disturbed sleep.

—

At nighttime, it’s a short walk to his building.

Down this alley, past this street, up this back stairwell. Part of being in with Boston’s seedy underbelly gained you access to the best and most up-to-date intel; by the age of twelve, you could run the safest — well, least policed — post-curfew routes from memory.

(Which had come in handy in situations a lot more dire than this.)

Sneaking in was easy, although you cursed him for being so preoccupied during the day. Coming in at this hour required some delicate maneuvers through a half-shattered window, and a less-than-graceful leap down left you with a nick on your cheekbone and a shallow cut along the side of your hand.

Thankfully, the blood mostly dries on your walk up the six or eight or ten flights of stairs. You don’t resent the exercise; it feels good to move, putting the jitters building in every still moment in abeyance.

Still moments like the kind that passes after a barely-audible, coded knock delivered by a girl sucking on the side of her hand, almost wishing for the door not to open.

It does.

He’s in jeans — dirty jeans, dusty — and a simple flannel. It’s Miller — it’s Miller at his most Joel-Miller-like-ness.

So why am I so fucking nervous?

He holds the door open, brows knitting at the sight of your hand in your mouth.

“Window,” You offer.

He mouthes a silent ‘ah,’ before leaning forward to duck his head out the door and, in the process, somewhat sandwiching you against his chest.

Maybe it’s because he smells like forest-fires, but your skin burns red-hot.

Miller looks both ways, checking the status of the hall (empty), then nudges you into the dim light of his place with the weight of his hand against your lower back.

The door shuts behind you.

You’d been here at least a million times before, but the thoughts rising now feel so… new. The jacket strewn on the side of the sagging sofa is his — Joel Miller has sat at this table and showered, slept, fucked inside these walls.

Cut it out. It’s just ‘cause you’re alone. And older.

But what about it, now that you were alone and older?

Old enough to know what goes on between a man and a woman and a little bit of desperation at just the right amounts… and there sure was a lot of him, and some desperation, too…

“Nervous?”

Your feet hit the floor, all thoughts evaporating at the sound of his word. Blushing, you try to de-code his taunt, spoken with playfulness and too much condescension.

“Wh — what’d you — nervous for what? No.”

He’s already across the room, sifting through a box of miscellaneous items. A yellowed lamp shade catches his side-profile, illuminates the smirk spreading across his face. Then, a low command:

“Relax,” and your spine settles, acceding to his wish. “Some girls get nervous, y’know, takin’ it the first time.”

Oh.

You clear your throat, daring to take a step into his place, incensed enough to trace the indents and stab-marks decorating his kitchen table.

“No.”

You’re taken aback by the accuracy and the strength underpinning your answer. It’s true, you aren’t afraid, and hadn’t been afraid of much in a very long while.

What’s a Joel Miller to your best friend’s public hanging? What’s he to a dozen rows of semi automatics raining down on your zigzagging toes? What’s he to a period cramp?

Like a bolt of lightning hitting you in the chest, that cocky, gauche and indelicate rebel you’d grown into reappears.

“I’ve been told I take things pretty well my first time.” The tension rises — this time, at your command — just as Joel does, carrying a leather pouch in his right hand. “And it’s not, anyways,” you add for good measure.

The leather drops onto the marked-up table. Joel crosses his arms.

“Not sellin’ me on givin’ you one of these, sweetheart.”

He gestures to the bag.

A mock-frown as you draw closer to him. His eyes, although severe, reflect the playfulness dancing in your own.

“Why not?” You ask, voice dripping with false innocence.

Joel’s gaze doesn’t stray as it hardens, focused on your own. “They’re for accidents, mistakes, attacks,” he explains, deep and dangerous, “Not girls who can’t keep their pretty lil’ legs together.”

Oof.

On one hand, it sounds like he’s genuinely chastising you for your careless behaviour. But, on the other, he sounds jealous, taunting, hungry.

I’ll play that hand.

Sleeping all day had left you wide awake, and that long-time, school-girl crush on the man before you was dying for content to fantasize about. Even if he pushed you off, you’d get to feel the weight of his hands on your body, right?

So, you return with a taunt of your own: “You think my legs are pretty?”

He shakes his head, his signature scowl spreading as he mostly ignores you. “I think you should at least use condoms,” a breath, “N’ know their first names.”

Ouch.

“I usually do.” you murmur, “and it broke last night.”

“Bullshit.”

“What do you mean, bullshit?”

Joel sighs and lowers himself into one of the four old, rickety chairs lining the table. His hand comes up to his temples and you notice how his legs, exhausted, part.

The man doesn’t deign to respond.

Irritation begins to well in your core, sneaking through your arms and up into your throat. The muscle in your jaw must be twitching like crazy.

How does he know? How the fuck does he always know?

Across the QZ, as a skilled liar and born and bred bandit, people tended to hold whatever image of you that you’d crafted for them.

Not Joel. Never Joel.

He saw through you in a way that had always felt… intimate. It was one of the reasons, you guessed, he didn’t dare spend too much time alone with you and why you’d always been curious about him (as a man, of course). Now, there was no avoiding your obvious vulnerability from either of you — you were stripped bare, your dressings in his hand.

It makes you want to flee as much as it makes you want to leap into his arms.

You snatch up the pouch, opening it up to find a mass of differently coloured and shaped pills. Rifling through, you ignore Joel’s stare boring into your hands’ erratic search.

“Yellow ones,” he says.

“I know what they look like,” you retort.

“‘Course you do.”

He moves faster than he should be able to.

One moment, your palm is slicing through the air, headed straight for the highest point of his cheek. The next, you’re facedown on the table. Your attacking hand is caged in by a much larger, much stronger one, pinned to the decaying wood; the other, he pins behind your back. Pills litter the floor — Joel’s boot crunches into a wayward one as he adjusts himself behind you, leaning over your struggling, smaller frame, immobilizing you with his weight.

“Let go of me—” you hiss, words smothered by the wooden surface pressed to your profile.

“—Shut up ‘n listen,” he commands, leaning over to tower over his trapped victim. “Try that again n’I’ll do worse’n kill you. Understand?”

Despite the authenticity of his threat, a strangled laugh wracks your lungs.

“Gonna turn me in for contraband, Miller? Watch them gun me down in the square?”

You smile through your heavy breaths. There, behind your hips, is a growing movement indicative of some other kind of punishment he’s got in mind.

“Or,” you continue on coyly, “Give me another reason to need that pill?”

Joel pauses, untangling your meaning.

Then, an exasperated scoff. His hold tightens on your wrist and you wince. “You always thinkin’ of the fastest way to get a man to fuck you?”

“Only when his cock’s pressed against my ass.”

He goes quiet — only for a moment. Somewhere outside, rounds echo through the night.

“Z’that what you want?” His voice is deep and threatening, promising of the kind of hard, mind-numbing fuck you’d been craving for weeks.

After a hard swallow, you nod, catching the raise of his eyebrows in your periphery.

A moment passes as he mulls over your answer. Only your shallow, anticipatory breaths populate the quiet space.

“Alright.”

And he lets go.

Heart racing, wrists aching, you flip around to his neutral, impenetrable expression.

“Get down on your knees.”

Without taking a moment to decide whether you’re living anything more than just a really fucked up dream, you sink to your knees, folding your hands in your lap (to stop them from shaking). Before you, Joel’s bulge twitches while he watches you yielding to submission, and you try to ignore the excitement building between your own two legs.

His eyes burn into yours: black, starved, weighty. He tells you to shut your own and you do, unable to resist the tone of his command. Within the self-imposed darkness, Joel’s following order — ‘open your mouth,’ — parts your lips as if they were under his spell. You wonder what you must look like to him, needy and ready to receive whatever you’re given.

He speaks again.

“Show me your tongue, angel.”

The gruffness punctuating his arousal doesn’t let you stand a chance. You let your mouth fall open wider.

Next, there’s rustling. You try to remember whether or not he’d had on a belt, listening and failing to hear the soft clinks of a buckle coming undone.

Too soon, something wraps around your chin — thick, calloused fingers — and the pressure of a thumb running down the middle of your tongue sends a rush of electricity down every stacked vertebrae. It’s slow, tantalizingly slow, as if the man were trying to memorize the feel of every groove, ridge, and bud on his leisurely way out.

When Joel drops his hand, a small weight remains at the back of your throat.

“Close.”

You do, opening your eyes to meet his own: severe and wanting — or wanting for severity?

It’s a pill. That much is obvious once the taste begins to spread, bitter and chemical and totally gag-worthy. He follows up with ‘swallow’ for his own sick enjoyment; by the time he says it, it’s clear that you already have.

What kind of game is this, Miller?

Your cheeks burn when your company kneels down. He places his big, broad hand partly on your neck, partly to the side of your jaw, and you’re still too taken aback to tear it off. The feel of his rough palm against your racing pulse silences every urge to enact revenge. Words don’t come — too quickly forgotten on one’s knees.

“You’re way too easy for your own good, sweetheart,” he near-whispers, shooting to kill in a blow packed tight with condescension. “Don’t let me see you here again.”

And that’s it: your cue to get lost.

Slowly, ever so slowly, Miller pulls away from your reddening skin, straightening to stand. You follow suit soon after, heart pumping lead, tongue bruised by the memory of his touch (more overwhelming than the metallic residue dripping down your throat).

He turns, running a few fingers through his hair. It’s the last look you get before resigning yourself to the journey back home.

Still, before turning the rusted handle, in a brief moment of respite, of clarity, you seize the final word:

“I’m only ‘easy’ when I’m drunk. Or interested.”

Silence courses through the room as Joel registers the meaning behind your confession.

“Goodnight, Miller.”

With that, you see yourself into the hallway, checking its status before tearing into the stairwell.

You barely breathe.

He wanted me — he had to have wanted me.

Miller was a pragmatic player; surely, he’d only bother to play with toys he liked like that… right?

Right?

Unable to clear your head or cool the heat radiating through your core, you take the long way home, the distant sounds of a war between rivals soothing the cacophony of noise swimming between your ears.

—

For the next two weeks, all you’re able to think about is him.

You think about him when he’s gone and when he’s in the room, grumbling in hushed tones to your father. You think about him when you’re unable to fall asleep, letting your hands slip beneath the waistband of your shorts, imagining your own fingers as thick, tan ones running through the warmth between your legs.

He takes no notice of you — a fact you deeply resent. Even in your skimpiest clothing, he’s like a damn horse with blinders on. You decide, in the past weeks, he’d either acquired the patience of Job or purged every sinful craving from his system when he’d stuck his fingers down your throat.

Naturally, you’re more than happy when, at breakfast (two in the afternoon), your father gives you the heads up about tonight’s gathering at the Bar (which was really just an asbestos-ridden basement equipped with enough prohibition-style gadgets and architecture to host a good ‘strategic meeting’ every other month).

“Everyone’s gonna be there,” he mumbles. “Need you to keep your ears open. Had to take a couple rats out last week…”

Everyone’s gonna be there.

Smiling to yourself, your thoughts start to spin out. Business, distractions, booze. Tonight would host a million opportunities for you to get him alone.

Hope blooms through your chest.

Do your worst, Miller.

—

“Man, I wish we could’ve experienced cocktails. Straight hooch is ass.”

A peer named Mel, just a year older than yourself, cringes as she sips on whatever murky liquor’s found its way into her cup.

You don’t mind the taste so much, having grown mostly immune to its taste and burn. In fact, you’d come to welcome the subsequent lapse in breath and judgement.

There was little else in this world that made you feel alive.

“Mhm,” you respond absent-mindedly, looking for a familiar scowl among the mass of scowls peppering the crowd.

A sigh to your right. “Always awesome, having your attention.”

The criticism snaps you back into your body. You smile sheepishly at your friend, apologizing through a wince.

She shrugs, her raggedy, pin-decorated jacket jingling with the movement. “S’okay. Known you long enough to know that look.”

For that, she receives a quizzical glance.

Mel comes back with a scoff. “No victims tonight?”

“Oh god,” you shoot her a look of disgust. “Do you mind not using such weird vocabulary? Make me sound like a predator.”

As the words tumble out, you zero in on the object of your search. There he is: eyebrows knit together in concentration, drink in hand, unsurprisingly (and annoyingly) in conversation with your father. A few other stragglers are in the mix, too, but they’re easily overlooked. Time slows to a full stop in his wake —only for the briefest of seconds —

“Well since the last guy actually wound up dead a week later, I think it’s fitting.”

Once again, Mel’s managed to wrangle your interest.

You stare blankly into her onyx eyes, ringlets falling through molasses around her face. “Jeremy?”

And she’s bewildered. “You didn’t hear?”

This time, both of your heads turn in the same direction.

“Ratted to FEDRA about the storehouse off tenth,” she explains, gesturing towards Miller and your father with a tilt of her head. Famous for her bravery, she stoops into your shoulder, averting his gaze and speaking under her breath, “Judging by the way they found him, my guess is it was mostly Miller’s stuff.”

It’s as if she’d screamed it.

The subject of your conversation turns to face you right as your company’s words drift off. Despite the level of noise, the amount of people, and the cloudiness of the air, you’re trapped in the corridor of your mutual stare, cornered.

The challenge, the knowing marking his expression.

“I need some air.”

You twist into the body standing behind you, shoving row after row of criminal scum out of the way. Mel doesn’t follow — she’d never hung around to comfort you, only to inform you. A mutual, typical relationship for the age, and just how things worked in the QZ.

You slam into the door, stomping into a deserted, silent alley, empty save for a few drunk strays. Your lips begin to tingle and a scream builds inside your lungs. Stalking blindly into the night, unsure of your direction, alone in half a top and a plain, ass-length skirt, shivering despite the warmth of the air…

You’re practically begging for trouble.

Just as your eyes catch the numbers on the old, rusted street sign above, just as you realize you’re on a monitored street tonight, only safe after curfew every other Monday and Wednesday, you’re grabbed by the waist, pulled into the space between two buildings, and shoved into a sheltered nook.

A dim, yellow light clicks on automatically. There’s a door (chained closed) leading into the building to your left and darkness to your right.

And there’s Joel Miller above you, his expression indeterminable.

“You asshole,” you barely hear yourself breathe over the sound of the blood rushing in your ears before lunging forward in a useless attempt to, once again, strike his profile.

He catches your wrist, no doubt having anticipated the attack. It’s written on your face, in your eyes, in your shallow, uneven inhalations. He takes your other hand before you’ve even thought to use it, lifting it above your head and slamming it against the old stucco behind you.

“You’re violent,” he says flatly.

He tightens his hold when you struggle against it. “Proud of yourself, yeah? You’re a killer.”

That inspires a slight smirk. You half expect him to return with an ‘as if you didn’t already know that.’

Instead, he says, “Sweetheart, you didn’t even know his name.”

“You should’ve told me.”

And that’s the real source of this anger: it’s rage at being the last to know.

And for what? To protect your feelings? Since when had anyone in your life bothered to do that?

“And don’t call me ‘sweetheart’,” you add for good measure.

You’d wanted him to touch you so badly for weeks now, but here, scorned at being left in the dark and confused at the death of a paramour, you only want to get free.

“And what’d he call you?” He spits, leaning down and in, inadvertently pressing his thigh between your legs — when his breath grazes the skin of your ear, it causes them to part (against your better judgement). “Got lots of names, right?” He continues to tease, “Heard your boyfriend’s pretty one for you before I shut him up — ‘that fuckin’ slut,’ f’I’m rememberin’ right.”

Despite your rage-shakes, you’re warming at the core, Joel’s pressure against it dizzying your already-addled head. It confuses you, makes the scorn easier to access.

“How did I come up, Miller?” You exhale, jutting your chin towards him. “Couldn’t help asking for all the dirty little details, could you?”

He smiles, and the act lacks any sort of kindness. “‘Lot easier gettin’ him alone once he thought he was meetin’ you.” Joel slams your wrist harder into the wall when you try to wriggle away. “Not sure you wanna keep making that kind of impression, angel.”

It’s hard to rationalize with him so close, as his pet-names echoe inside your head. He’d used your name to enact gang-law violence on a boy who’d been inside you, and yet, all you can think, all you can hear, is the way ‘sweetheart’ sounds tumbling off his lips.

“Fucking let me go, Miller,” you manage to exasperate, resenting the begging edge to every word. “I don’t need another abstinence lecture from you.”

Kicking one ankle off balance, Joel turns you around, pressing your stomach to the wall, your back into his chest. Ignoring your whines and pitiful struggle, he wraps a free hand around your neck, pushing your head against his collarbone. Your stomach erupts with butterflies as the rough pad of his thumb traces the front of your throat.

Yes — no — yes, he wants me — no, no, this is wrong, this is so wrong —

“‘Be wasted on you, anyways,” he says, rough and earnest, like his hand sliding down your chest, your breasts, your stomach, “Startin’ to realize if I can’t fix your dad’s mistakes…” and he’s finding the hem of your skirt and yanking it up, bunching the fabric around your hips —

“Might as well take advantage of them.”

He moves hungrily. He’s everywhere, sliding into your underwear and across your breasts, his big arms and suffocating biceps enveloping your entire frame.

“Joel—”

But he claps a hand over your mouth, silencing any hope of your pleas being effective.

“Think I haven’t seen you? Your lil’ looks…” a low laugh, “n’ those fuckin’ clothes?” God, the rumble, the sheer want in his voice hammers at your initial resistance, and you feel yourself welcoming the feel of his thick, long fingers, sliding between your wet folds. You’re clay, melting against the curved, firm wall of his chest.

You mewl pathetically into his palm.

Another low laugh wracks his lungs, dances at the top of your ear.

“Knew you’d be this wet for me.”

“Knew since you got down on your knees,” Joel continues, uncovering your mouth only to ease a few fingers between your lips — lips that part as though commanded, and a mouth that welcomes and caresses whatever it receives, “‘N opened this pretty lil’ mouth for me to fuck it. Can’t close my eyes without seein’ you like that — so fuckin’ needy.” He exhales from between his teeth, signalling his approval while you suck him down to the knuckles.

His fingers tease your clit and you give him your thanks by pleasuring those of his other hand.

When his hands move, it’s to hold you steady and balanced as he drags your underwear down your legs. That thick, heavy cloud of arousal hides any and all rational thoughts from view.

And he knows. He knows you’re past the point of no return, restraining you only out of his desire to rather than out of a real need to. He knows from the whine you breathe at the loss of his hand against your clit, moving to work at his belt buckle instead.

“Gonna use a condom?” You breathe, emboldened by your clearing senses at the temporary lack of stimulation.

At first, you think he’s missed your taunt.

He backs up, pulling your hips along with him until the tips of your fingers are no longer touching the decaying wall before you. Joel pulls you upright and against him with an arm around your waist and a hand around your throat, turning your head and tilting it back to meet your eyes.

You grasp onto his forearms, failing to stand, unable to breathe. His hardness digs into your back, and his cruel eyes show you just how much pleasure he takes in your struggle.

“Don’t like to waste ‘em,” he finally answers, rocking his cock against your spine, “But I will if you beg. You gonna beg?”

He manipulates your answer, fingers moving to your red-hot core — he barely grazes the nerves, only dancing over the needy flesh. You can’t tear your eyes from him either, tethered to your body through his gaze.

Joel Miller was a frustrating lover.

“N-no,” is your answer, slightly strangled and softly stuttered.

He smiles. “S’what I thought.” Then, “Show me what you can do, angel,” he coos, lips just inches away from yours, his hold on your body relaxing —

“Use your pretty lil’ hands n’ put my cock where you want it most.”

And you both know exactly where that is.

After a nod, Joel allows you to bend forward slowly — it’s like moving through honey. Your legs burn with effort as you reach between your legs to wrap a hand around his thick, hard length.

Christ, he’s huge.

He groans when you touch him and uses his own hand to help guide his tip between your folds. One hand holds your waist, fingers extended under your ribs to support your weight in a skilled show of experience.

With his tip at your aching entrance, you try to lean back, to slide yourself slowly down his many inches.

But Joel doesn’t allow it.

He pushes into you in one go, clicking his tongue at your strangled gasp —

The man hadn’t even bothered to open you up with his fingers.

“Ah, c’mon,” he condescends, “You can take it.”

Then he’s setting a hard pace, hands moving from your hips to your ribs to your biceps to your hair to your neck — anywhere he wanted to go, he went. One eventually comes to the front of your throat, tilting your eyes back and up towards the ceiling. Every one of his thrusts arches your back further until you’re contorting into a half-moon shape, standing only by the grace of his support.

And it feels so good. Joel fills you up to the brim, takes you to heaven and floods your ears with hymns, punishes you in the kind of way you’d only experienced in dreams.

Words tumble out, but they’re filled with nothingness. “Joel,” “fuck,” and “yesohgodyes,” quickly become staples of your vocabulary.

He laughs whenever you sob, grows harder every time you moan, restrains you when you try to run away.

The hand around your throat tightens, digging unforgivably into the flesh as you start to let go, as your walls begin to clench and flutter appreciatively around his cock.

“M’I making you happy, sweetheart? My cock making you smile?” He asks gruffly, pulling you back into his chest. Joel readjusts you into whatever shape you need to be in at the new angle, hips still slamming into your ass. Struggling to stand on your tiptoes, he steadies you with his arms and his hand on your jaw, forcing you to look up into his rugged face.

“Mmhm,” is all you can offer him, the pitch jumping up halfway through when the head of his cock grazes that perfect spot inside your cunt.

He doesn’t let up.

“Show me, baby—” he commands, out of breath, too, but not nearly as tortured as you, “—Show me your smile.”

You do your best, smiling up at him, degrading yourself even more at the hands of Joel-fucking-Miller. And he eats it up, loves the way your grin turns into a bitten lip and knit eyebrows over closed eyes, slowing his thrusts to rock even deeper inside you.

You moan something unintelligible, and a laugh rustles through your tangled hair.

“Am I makin’ you come?”

You nod, feeling that familiar rush of pressure blooming somewhere within that throbbing bundle of nerves under his spell.

He smirks in pride and victory, the last look you get before your head falls against his shoulder, your muscles going lax as the peak builds, as your half-sobs grow louder.

“S’it, baby, tell ‘em,” he coos, nipping and sucking the skin on the side of your throat. “Gonna tell the whole street how you take it like a good lil’ slut.”

His fingers fall to your clit, enticing you right over the edge. You vision blurs and your legs shake, but Joel talks you through your orgasm, sweet nothings starting with, “S’right — show me — yes, fuck — good girl…”

And then —

He stops.

You whine, stars dancing before your eyes as the mean, mean man inside you refuses to fuck you through your climax.

“Joel,” you plead, grinding back against him in a pathetic show of need, “Come with me.”

He does the opposite, sliding himself out of your sore opening. You turn to face him, restoring your balance with hands against his chest, gazing up at him in desire-stricken reproach.

“Use your mouth,” he says, voice gruff at your ruined sight and from his own hand on his cock, keeping his arousal level, “Not gettin’ any more help from me.”

It’s unclear whether ‘help’ means pills or his cock, but you assume both to be safe.

You try to argue (having spent the last few weeks dreaming of Joel dripping down your legs) but he just won’t budge.

Then, his voice softens.

“You know your dad’d kill me, angel.”

And it’s really the sweetness of his tone that does it.

Sinking to your knees, it’s déjà vu when you open wide for him, steadying your shaking knees with both hands on his half clothed, half naked hips. Gravel and debris dig painfully into your bare knees, but you ignore the sting, smiling instead at the taste of yourself on Joel’s cock, lips sliding adoringly down the thick length of it.

He groans his approval, tangling his fingers in your hair to help guide your movements.

As you take him in again and again and again, pleasing every inch of him, he chokes out a laugh.

“Never seen you so quiet,” he muses (mostly to himself), caressing your cheekbone with his free hand —

“Gagged by an old man’s cock.”

You pull off, pumping him with both hands, asking breathlessly, “Are you all so big?”

He smiles, eyes darkening at the dirty compliment. “Give you a few numbers n’ you can tell me.”

God, he’s beautiful from down here.

You hold his attention and lick a slow stripe down the underside of his cock, half-grinning up at his lust-filled expression.

“I only want yours, Joel Miller.”

An uneasy inhale as you take him back in, his brows furrowing and his cock growing impossibly harder. Your words please him, he returns by groaning orders and praises like: “S’all yours, baby — take it all — take aaall that dick — good fuckin’ girl.”

He’s so close and you know it, moaning in submission at his hand’s pressure against the back of your head. With your nose crunched into his abdomen, you hold your throat open for him to use it however he pleases — reduced to nothing more than the man’s plaything.

There’s a low “ah, fuck,” from above, and then you finally know what Joel Miller tastes like.

It’s better than the Plan B.

You hear nothing beyond his recovering breaths, feel nothing past pride, lust, and exhaustion.

Eventually, he loosens his grip. You pull off of him delicately, drawing a groan from between his gritted teeth when you make sure to suck every last drop of his seed into your mouth.

Sitting back on your ankles, you roll your head up to face him.

He swipes a thumb under your lips, clearing the saliva connecting you to his softening cock.

“Still mad at me?” He asks.

You’d be crazy to say yes.

“Only for pulling out.”

You note the twitch at the corner of his mustache.

Joel helps you back on your feet, using one hand to pull you up by your arm and another to arrange himself back to decency.

You adjust your shirt; Joel fixes your skirt. It’s a strange kind of silence settling inside this pocket at the side of a random, ruined building.

Then, your company clears his throat, that mask of seriousness falling over his expression once again.

“You gonna be smart?”

What ever could he mean?

Stay away from him? Stay away from men? Practice abstinence? Use protection?

Either way, you’re not one to make promises you know you can’t keep.

You cross your arms.

“No.”

He sighs.

Well, looks like things are already back to normal.

His face softens and he shakes his head, already regretting his next words. “Just — just come find me, then. I won’t do… this again, but — but I’ll help.”

You frown.

“What do you mean, ‘this’?”

He stares down into your accusatory eyes with a look you’d received many times from him, one screaming, “get real.”

“Fine,” you mutter, breaking eye-contact, “Thank you.”

With a stoic nod, he walks around you, heading back into the night. You try, in vain, to watch him go in silence — god knows you had some thinking to get to — and find that, instead of getting it out of your system, the entanglement had only left you wanting for more.

And more and more.

“Is this what you meant?” and you hear his footsteps halt, “When you told me you’d do worse than kill me? When I tried to hit you?”

It comes out before you can help it, and you twist around to face his still, broad shoulders.

You can hear the smile teasing his lips as he utters the words.

“Why are you askin’ me that?”

Still facing his back, you break into a smile of your own. “So I’ll know what I have to do to get you to do it again.”

You watch him shake his head, grey-streaked ripples in the low light.

“Try your best not to find out, angel.”

With that, he disappears into the darkness, leaving you in the flickering doorway. Thighs aching, heart racing, you take a deep breath, trying to memorize the feeling of what it felt to have them taken from you by Joel Miller.

A feeling you’d chase.

—

Put your red boots on

Baby, giddy up

Baby wants a dance

Baby gets her way

Dreamy nights

Talk to me with that whiskey breath

Twirl me twice

I'll treat you like a holiday

And don't say you're over me

When we both know that you ain't

Don't say you're over me

Baby, it's already too late

Just do what you do best with me

Dance me all around the room

Spin me like a ballerina, super high

Dance me all around the moon

Light me up like the 4th of July

Once, twice, three times

The guy I ever thought I would meet, so

Don't say you're over me

When we both know that you lie

If you lie down right next to me

Lie, lie, lie, lie, lie, lie, lie, lie, lie

If you lie down right next to me

Lie, lie, lie, lie, lie, lie, lie, lie, lie

When you lie down right next to me

Get your jacket on

Be a gentleman

Get into your truck

And pick me up at eight

'Cause we were built for

The long haul freight train

Burnt by fire

Without trial like a stowaway

And don't say you're over me

When they all know that you ain't

If you lay down right next to me

Dance me all around the room

Spin me like ballerina super high

Dance me all around the moon

Like six times 'til I'm sick and I cry

Once, twice, three times

The guy I ever thought I would meet, so

Don't say you're over me

When they all know that you're lying

If you lie down right next to me

Lie, lie, lie, lie, lie, lie, lie, lie, lie

Lie, you lie

If you lie down right next to me

Lie, lie, lie, lie, lie, lie, lie, lie, lie

Lie, you lie

When you lie down right next to me

—

TAGLIST (cont’d in reblogs): @millllenniawrites @inkedells @stardust-chords-enthusiast @mattmurdocksgirlfriend @liviloo12346 @anyas-stuff @readingsunshine97 @maudlinflowers @sullysflm @sexygaypalpatine @livyjh @s-unflowxr @lostsoldieronahill @chapterhappygirl @silkiers @jupitersmoon-cal @supernaturaldean67 @peqchsoup @corrodedcherries @hawsx3 @monboudoir @theonewithacrush @pono-pura-vida @fruitcupsworld @mads-grace4 @killerrxger @niallsbunny @snowyarcher @grnherbs @mswarriorbabe80 @tercabed @sweettea-and-honeybutter @bbyanarchist @thisgirl-knm @pedrit0-pascalit0 @redhotkitchen @isitselfishifwetalkaboutmeagain @pseudonymist @goldengrapejuice @soullumii @kamcrazy123 @wclverine

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murdrdocs · 2 months

Text

implied skinny dipping; slightly suggestive content W/ LUKE CASTELLAN

thinking about luke, dragging you down to the lake for your usual stargazing, and then he 'subtly' suggests you go skinny dipping.

he speaks through a yawn, as if his words are the most casual as ever. as if he's only talking about the weather. "it was hot today, right? the water looks nice. should we go in?"

“is this your way of trying to see me naked?” you hope the suspicion in your tone hides your nerves.

luke laughs a bit in his reply. “i’m not trying to see you naked. swear.” he holds his hands up to either side of him, palms facing you. "scouts honor." he displays only three fingers on his right hand.

you avoid mentioning how he was never a boy scout as you squint at him, a small smile on your lips. one that exists up until luke uses his hands to lift his shirt over his head.

you allow yourself to stare when the orange is covering his face. but as soon as you see those plush lips and the bottom of his scar, you pretend you’ve been watching the stars the entire time.

luke scoffs and you assume his shirt is completely off of him by now. you keep your eyes directed up.“oh, come on. you can look at me, you know? i’m not showing any of the scary parts.”

his dick. the scary parts are his dick and that's all you can think about. you tell him as such.

“it’s all scary parts, idiot.”

he chuckles and then you hear the sound of his belt clinking. your body starts to warm and the idea of sinking into the cool water appeals more and more to you.

luke calls your name, soft and firm.

you hum.

“look at me.”

it takes you a second to do as told, but when you do, you’re glad to see that luke still has his pants pulled up. his hands are on either side of his undone belt, but the clasp of his jeans is still done.

“if you don’t want to, i won’t make you.”

he’s serious now, and him caring about you has always made you feel a certain way.

“i know.”

he lifts his eyebrows, waiting for a reply.

you give it to him by lifting your shirt off of your body.

luke whoops, a little too loud and you fear a wood nymph—or worse—a camper will find you.

you shush him between giggles. as you shimmy out of your pants. luke mirrors you, and when you stand up and begin to perceive luke's half-nude body, your skin burns. when you realize luke is doing the same for you, eyeing your body, your tummy stirs.

you've seen luke half-naked, of course you have, you two are best friends. but then he was wearing swim trunks and not the tightly fitting black boxer briefs that he's wearing now.

you've always known that luke was fit, you've seen him putting in the work to get to this point. but the low lighting accentuates his abdominal muscles. the situation makes him appear more appealing than a best friend. you being naked makes you want him more than a best friend should.

you don't realize just how hard you're staring until luke grins. "do you wanna get in the water or would you prefer staring at me?"

your eyes immediately snap to luke's face but he's already laughing at you. definitely not with.

"no, no, don't stop on my accord. keep looking if you want." he throws his arms out, holding them there as he spins in a circle.

"stop being an asshole." you try to be nonchalant, but you definitely did look at his ass when he turned around. just as fit as the rest of his body but you definitely don't care about that. nor did you really notice. (lying to yourself will only work for so long)

"hey, i'm not judging." he's turned back around to face you again and it's only then that you realize luke is perceiving you just as hard as you're perceiving him.

"perv," you throw the insult at him.

"guilty," he throws the response back.

eventually, you're both going to have to stop denying this thing between you both.

#this is more dialogue work than anything else #lukesworld!#luke castellan x reader #luke castellan x you

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charliemwrites · 2 months

Text

A reader x Simon commission piece I just recently finished for my sweet bean N.W. I had a lot of fun writing a little scenario I never would have thought up on my own!

(Reader is described with FAB anatomy, but no gendered pronouns are used. No sensitive content warnings, just spice.)

It’s a perfect day.

The sun is a bright golden marble in a perfect jewel sky, toasting the sand into a powdery bed. There are only wisps of flossy cloud to interrupt the light, a feathery salt-soaked breeze to soften the edge of heat. The water is nothing but lazy ripples, foamy waves crawling up the coastline before slithering back.

And your coworker is soaking wet.

When you first signed on as a lifeguard, you didn’t expect more than some extra pocket money. A little financial cushion while you finished working through your master’s program. A chance to get some sunshine instead of holing up in your room. Maybe the occasional bit of eye candy while you fished children out of the shallows and fussed at families for littering around the barbecue grills.

You didn’t expect Simon “Walking Wet Dream” Riley. (Okay, that’s not his actual nickname – apparently it’s “Ghost.” Because of course it is.) You didn’t expect his big, fuck-off muscles, or his perfect sun-bleached hair, or the dark ink of his tattoos, or…

Well.

You got more than just eye candy when Mister Price hired you. Simon is a whole damn feast. Especially when he’s fresh from a cool-down swim, red trunks weighed down by water and tides, revealing the tantalizing curves of his hips. Droplets skittering over the bulges and divots of his body, sparkling in the sun…

“Excuse me?”

You try not to jolt, head jerking to the guy that hopefully hasn’t been standing there too long. He looks about your age, maybe a bit older. Wavy, chin-length brown hair and eyes nearly as blue as the water. Pretty, in a young Instagram prince kind of way. Maybe your type in another time – the time Before Simon.

“Hi,” you say quickly, “did you need something?”

“Do you have any plasters?” he asks. “My little brother scraped his knee.”

You glance at the kid shuffling just behind him, his knees dirtied and one red with a bit of blood. Nothing serious, you determine, but could use some first aid.

“Oh, poor thing!” you say. “C’mon, we have some bandages in the shack.”

You wave to get Simon’s attention, make the quick hand-sign indicating you’ll be gone for a moment. He notices you, the two boys, then nods and makes his way back to his usual lookout spot.

The shack is a quiet, cool oasis away from the heat. You’ve dozed off next to the mist fan more times than you care to admit, only to be woken by Simon pressing a cold water bottle to your cheek. It used to annoy you, but now you appreciate the reminder to hydrate.

There’s a robust first aid kit in one of the cabinets, though you groan a bit when you see how high Simon’s stashed it this time. Damned tall man; you could swear he does it on purpose. You try to reach it on your toes, but when that doesn’t work, you jump a bit. Still no luck. You’re going to have to get the stepstool at this rate.

“Here, I’ve got it.”

You jump a bit as Insta-Prince comes up behind you, sliding in close before you can scoot out of the way. He stretches his arm over your head, tugging the kit down from the shelf. When you glance up – concerned about something falling on you – you find him smirking down at you.

“Thanks,” you say trying not to snatch it out of his hands.

“Seems like an… inconvenient place to put that,” he muses.

You sit the younger brother on a plastic chair near the door and kneel, kit open on the floor. “We usually keep it lower… I think Simon forgets I’m shorter than him.”

The kid winces a bit at the sting of wound wash but puts on a brave face when you smile at him.

“Seems pretty rude. Is he hard to work with?” Insta-Prince asks.

You hesitate, trying to think of how to respond. Simon was intimidating, at first. Dark eyes and stoic expression, he was difficult to read. Always within a stone’s throw, you used to feel like he was hovering. Like he didn’t think you could do your job right.

Over the months, though, that insecurity has bridged into a tentative friendship. Even if he’s not talkative himself, he lets you chat to your heart’s content. Keeps you hydrated, reminds you to eat snacks and apply sunscreen. Even handles the rowdier beachgoers when they break rules, his bigger stature and sharp glare enough to cow even the most entitled people.

“No, he’s—”

“What’s the hold up?”

You glance up at Simon’s broad form angled in the shack’s doorway. His eyes aren’t on you or the kid, though. They’re on Insta-Prince – standing a little close to you, now that you’re not focused on the younger brother.

“Just finishing up,” you answer, smoothing a waterproof bandage over the scrape. “You did great, buddy, high five!”

That earns you a little smile and the requested high-five as the kid hops out of the chair. When you stand, Simon’s eyes flick to you. Darker than deep water, something swimming within that you can discern from the surface. It makes you fidgety, like you’ve been caught out doing something you shouldn’t.

“Remember to log it,” he rumbles.

“On it!” You lean over the wooden counter to pluck the clipboard from the wall on the other side, relieved that someone put the pen back for once.

“So, you have to write down all the injuries people get?” Insta-Prince asks, trying for casual conversation. The air feels oddly stifling, and gets worse when he settles closer, peeking around to see the sheet.

“Just if we use medical supplies,” you answer, scribbling quickly.

“Lifeguards only in the shack, kid,” Simon interrupts. “Get moving.”

You try not to snort in amusement. While Simon might tolerate you, he’s got a general disdain for most beachgoers – ironic considering how adamant he is about safety. But he seems to find the average person a nuisance to be constantly monitored and herded away from trouble. Like a shepherd with a flock of particularly stupid sheep.

“My brother was hurt, man, give me a break,” Insta-Prince protests, annoyed.

“And now he’s not,” Simon replies. “You should catch up with him. Kids need to be watched, isn’t that right, sunshine?”

You hum absently in agreement, signing off on the injury log with your initials. There’s a beat of silence that itches at the back of your mind. When you look up, Simon’s arching an eyebrow at the guy, thick arms crossed across his barrel chest.

Sir, firearms are not allowed on the beach, you think, before wrenching your eyes from Simon’s biceps.

“Did you need anything else?” you ask Insta-Prince.

“Just what time you get off work,” he replies, giving you big, soft, hopeful eyes.

You blink, a bit shocked. Flirting happens rarely for you, except maybe platonically with Soap or Gaz. To be fair, you’re not exactly the female lifeguard idol that most people would fantasize about. Half the time you jog around in shorts and a rash-guard, more comfortable in unisex swimwear and keeping the worst of the sun off yourself. Helpful to avoid wardrobe malfunctions if a panicking swimmer grabs at you.

Besides, you’re not really looking to get hit on. Hard to keep an eye out for emergencies if someone’s chatting your ear off for a shag by the restrooms. (You didn’t think people really did that until Farah groaned about it at the bonfire when you first hired.) Still, now that it’s happening… you don’t hate it. This guy is objectively attractive, apparently cares about his younger sibling enough to get him first-aid, and is weathering Simon’s increasingly annoyed scowl.

You figure there’s no harm. Not like someone else is showing a similar interest.

“At sunset,” you answer. “So, uh…”

“6:30,” Simon offers.

You shoot him a grateful look as the kid begins scooting for the door, skirting around Simon’s wider, thicker frame. Christ, the difference is stark. You tug at the front of your rash-guard to relieve some of the sudden heat.

“Maybe I’ll see you then,” he says before disappearing around the corner.

You stare after him for a second. He didn’t even ask for your name. “Huh.”

“The hell was that, sunshine?” Simon grouses.

You turn to him and shrug. “No idea.”

“Really now?” he scoffs.

You shake your head, already agitated by the whole thing for no reason you can pinpoint. Lean over the counter again to hang up the clipboard. “Really.”

“This isn’t a place for your silly summer fantasies and little meet-cutes,” he growls. “This is a real job, with real lives on the line.”

You twist around, brows furrowed as your mouth drops open in offense. “I know that.”

“Do you? Then why the fuck were you in here flirting?”

“I was helping the kid,” you argue, “you saw him!”

“Real convenient, that. When the older one’s been eye-fucking you all damn day.”

Any snappy retorts drown in the shock of his crass language and the accusation. All day? That guy? And Simon noticed? Never mind all that – Simon would seriously think you’d use a kid’s injury as an excuse to… what? Get cozy with an attractive stranger while on duty?

“I don’t know what you’re on about,” you huff, “but I need to get back out there.”

As you pass, a big, rough hand snaps out and catches your elbow. You come up short, half-turning towards him, face hot. Equal parts angry and ashamed for some reason. Summer romance your ass.

“Get it together,” he orders.

You click your tongue at him. “Same to you.”

You wrench your arm back and storm out onto the sand, snatching your floatie from the shack railing along the way. Don’t know what jellyfish stung his ass, but you hope he figures it out. Don’t think your self-esteem can take another round of… whatever that was.

The rest of the day passes tense and slow. Without Simon to talk to, and the beach relatively peaceful, you’re left to fixate on the incident in the shack. What was that about? You thought for sure you’d grown on Simon a bit. Sure, you’re one of the younger lifeguards, which is why Price assigned you to Simon’s post, but you’ve worked hard. You thought you’d proven yourself.

Checking your watch, you find that it’s nearly 6:30. The sun doesn’t seem that low yet, but the beach got empty while you were idly keeping watch. Might as well pack it in, you figure.

Not even thinking of Insta-Prince when you hop up the little wooden steps to the shack. Simon isn’t back from wherever he’s monitoring yet, and you’d like to be clear before that changes. Just in case he’s still in a bad mood.

You shed your blue swim-shorts and rash-guard on the counter, leaving you in the more standard one-piece. Roll your shoulders a bit uncomfortably, itching to squeeze into your binder after a day with tits-out. You’ve gotten accustomed to the sensation of leaving it off for the job, but you’d still prefer to wear it when safe.

You flop onto the counter, reaching over the side to fish your bag out from its cubby. Of course, that’s the exact moment that you hear Simon’s heavy step on that creaky board by the doorway.

“Bloody hell,” you think you hear him mutter.

“I’m just about to head out,” you assure him.

“Meeting up with that knob?”

Your temper flares. You abandon your bag and land on your feet, spinning around. Come up (very) short when Simon’s right there, not enough room to breathe without your chests brushing. But you don’t allow yourself to be deterred.

“So, what if I am?” you challenge.

His eyes darken, then narrow. “This isn’t a game you want to play, sunshine.”

“Maybe I do,” you insist, planting your hands on your hips.

He exhales slow and heavy, boxes you in against the counter with hands on either side of you. Your stupid, traitorous heart skips a beat, then trips into double time. Normally he wears a rash-guard too, but not today. No, today it’s swathes of tanned, scarred skin. And it’s so, so close to yours.

“You won’t win,” he warns.

Your tongue feels heavy and clumsy, maybe because your thoughts feel the same way. Now, you’re not always the most aware of “signals,” but there aren’t many other ways to interpret someone near-pinning you to a counter with smoldering eyes.

You scramble to review the earlier confrontation through a new lens. The way Simon glared at Insta-Prince, not you – until you seemed open to his interest. Oh. Ohhhh.

You wet your lips; the way his eyes lock onto the movement bolsters your courage.

“What if… I don’t want to win?” you ask.

His eyes dart up to yours, something a little sharper than longing when he whispers, “I’d make you a sore loser.”

An unexpected laugh bursts out of you; his teeth flash in a crooked smile as he scoops you up so easily. He sits you on edge of the counter and steps between your thighs, pelvis bumping against yours. You gasp, head dropping to stare wide-eyed at the frankly monstrous bulge in his trunks.

“W-wow,” you mumble faintly, thighs squeezing around his hips.

“C’mere, sunshine,” he growls, cupping your jaw.

You tilt your face up, sigh softly as his mouth slots over yours. He tastes like blue powerade and sea salt, tongue curling against yours when you grant him enthusiastic access.

Your hands make scattered, eager work of exploring him, unsure where you want to touch first, just that you have to. He’s as solid as you always expected, densely packed muscle under healthy, hydrated layers of fat. Sun-warm beneath your palms, shudders as your skim them dangerously close low on his twitching abdomen.

“Can I take this off?” he asks, tugging gently at the shoulder strap of your swimsuit.

“Yeah,” you mumble, wriggling closer.

He huffs in amusement, peeling the elastic material over your arms and down your chest while you scatter kisses over his jaw and neck. You gasp into his peck when his calloused thumbs brush your hard nipples. Just a small touch, yet electricity is racing up and down your spine.

“This alright?” he checks.

You hum the affirmative, pressing into his touch as he pinches and rolls the sensitive peaks, slow searching. Reclaims your mouth to swallow each and every little mewl and moan that spills off your tongue. You can’t help rocking against him, hot and hard through the thin layers of swimwear.

“Simon,” you whine against his mouth, “c’mon.”

“Impatient,” he teases, nipping your bottom lip.

“You’ve kept me waiting long enough,” you complain, tugging at his trunks.

“I know, sunshine,” he coos, “just wait a bit longer.”

He takes the tiniest step back, fingers hooking in your swimsuit again to roll it the rest of the way off. You lift your hips to help, nearly squirming as strings of slick web between the fabric and your pussy. But Simon seems hypnotized, snapping the strands with his fingers and following them back to your swollen cunt.

“Fuck, all this for me, baby?” he rasps.

You make an embarrassed noise – which quickly graduates into an alarmed squeal when he drops to his knees.

“Simon, wait, I’ve been working all day and—”

“Don’ give a fuck,” he growls, “I’ve been dying to taste you for weeks.”

He yanks your thighs over his big, strong shoulders and dives in. It’s messy and obscenely loud, filling up the tiny shack and all the empty space in your head. Would be embarrassing if you had any room for something so frivolous. Instead, you’re gone on the way he sucks your clit and laps thirstily at your entrance. Utterly obsessed with the deep, throaty groans that leave you throbbing.

It's been a while, true, but you know he’d have you on edge so fast regardless. And he does, rushing up on it like a building, rolling wave. The devastating kind that’ll drown you in unyielding currents.

“Wait, wait,” you squeak, tugging at his coarse hair.

To his credit, he stops instantly, though he sounds absolutely gutted about it. Pulls back licking his lips like a cat with cream, chin practically dripping.

“Alright?” he asks, voice shredded to ribbons.

“I just,” you pant, “I just w-wasn’t ready to – to… I wanna cum on your cock. Please, Si?”

“Fuckin’ hell.” He surges up, pressing you down flat to kiss you stupid(er) and senseless. The taste of you isn’t as offensive as you expected, not coming from his tongue. “You’ll get anything you want if you keep talking like that.”

“Just want you.”

He helps you off the counter, drags you by the wrist to the plastic chair by the doorway. You’re about to protest – no way can that chair support someone his size, never mind both of you. But then he’s spinning you around, crushing you to his chest, and yanking you down into his lap. Any such nonsense as good sense dissolves like a sandcastle.

You can feel the length of him pressing hot and a little wet against your spine. (So, so high up your spine, good god). When he freed himself from his swim-trunks, you’re not sure, nor do you care at this moment. Your priorities narrow down to one absolute necessity: getting him inside you now, now, now.

“Easy now, baby, don’t hurt yourself,” he purrs in your ear. “Let me help.”

He curls big hands around your hips, tight enough that you relish the bruises that may bloom there later. Supports your weight as if it’s nothing to him, propping you over his lap as you line up his cock, dragging the flushed head through your pooling wetness. He curses low and rough, sinking you down until the tip catches on your entrance.

“There we are,” he grits, hands flexing in your soft flesh. “Nice and slow now, sunshine.”

If you had your way, he’d already be balls deep in your aching pussy. But his grip is firm and unrelenting, lowering you inch by thick inch down his shaft. You back and squeeze around him, encouraging him deeper, faster, helpless little noises escaping from your gaping mouth.

“That’s it, halfway there,” he breathes. “Doing so well.”

You choke. Halfway?! You already feel stuffed, walls gripping every contour of his cock like you were made for him.

He twitches inside you, bulbous, leaking head grinding deliciously, and your resolve cracks right down the middle. You dig your nails into his thighs and slam your hips down, crying out as he buries deep inside. Can feel him nudging your cervix, stretching your silky walls, all the way down to where your opening is sealed tight around the base of him.

“Fuck,” he snarls.

“F-feels so good,” you whimper, head falling forward as you clench around him.

Oh, you are definitely going to be so perfectly sore after this. You can’t fucking wait.

“If you’re that impatient to be ruined,” he chuckles breathlessly, “best brace yourself, lovie.”

You barely manage to get your feet planted before he’s fucking up into you, hard and mean. Just what you want, what you need. Your head falls back to cry your pleasure to the shack roof as you bounce. Rocking your hips each time he bottoms out, grinding him against that spongy bundle of nerves inside you. It’s mind-numbing; you’re leaking around him, know it must be dripping onto the floor at this point.

He snakes a hand around to your front. Brushes where the two of you are connected, the strange and dangerous sensation making tears prick at your eyes. Then his fingers skip up to your needy, oversensitive clit. You almost want to stop him, already so overwhelmed with pleasure. But again, anything like coherent thought is ripped away on a tide of ecstasy when he begins rubbing quick, tight circles.

Your rhythm faulters at the new stimulation, but Simon just widens his stance. It changes the angle, drags the head so perfectly against your g-spot. With the hand still on your hip, he starts jerking you down to meet each thrust. It’s slightly slower, but so much sweeter, combined with the rhythm he’s strumming on your clit.

Your orgasm rises like a tsunami, higher and higher, a devastating force building up inside.

“Simon,” you keen, “Simon, I’m gonna – right there…”

“That’s it, sunshine. Get me nice and wet with your cum.”

That voice, saying such filth in your ear, sends you over the edge. You nearly convulse, eyes rolling back in your head as you scream. Back arching, writhing and gripping crescents into his thighs. And you can feel yourself gushing all over him, onto the floor.

“Yes, yes, fuck, just like that.”

You’re near limp as he keeps hammering into you, practically using you like a toy to get himself off. The thought alone makes you squeeze around him again, a powerful aftershock bringing another flood of wetness. Your head lolls back against his shoulder, crying into his ear, begging him to cum inside you, fill you up…

He crashes his mouth into yours as he cums, groaning into your lax mouth, jerking violently into your overstimulated pussy. You swear you can feel him spurting inside you, thick and white-hot. It feels… it feels…

You break the kiss to suck in a deep breath, lightheaded and still squeaky with pleasure. Simon trails soothing kisses over your shoulder, grip easing up to caress over the forming finger marks. You hum softly, voice husky. Flutter your eyes open and blink at the pink sky out the window.

“Is it… is it just now sunset?” you ask.

Simon chuckles against your ear. “Looks like I was about thirty minutes off. Whoops.”

#cod #my writing #fanfiction #reader fic #commissioned work #ko fi commissions #simon x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #lifeguard au #beach au #simon ghost riley

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javispunk · 10 months

Text

Handsome

Summary: After spending the last 8 months with Joel and Ellie trying to survive every single day out in this post out-break chaotic world, you find yourself seeing Joel in a much different light.

Pairing: Joel Miller x fem!reader

Content/Warnings: Joel being a HUNK, 18+ smut (minors don’t interact!), masturbation (female and male), fingering, unprotected sex (p in v).

Notes: Please excuse any mistakes, as english is not my first language! If you have any requests you’d like me to write please let me know! Comments and reblogs are always appreciated! Thank you!

After arriving at Bill and Frank’s, as Joel had intended a few weeks ago, you all noticed the house was quiet, still. Joel called out both their names, but got no answer. Quickly he looked at the dining table, plates filled with rotting food still on top of it. He reached for a piece of paper left behind. A note. His eyes analysed it with care, hoping this wasn’t what he thought it to be. Both you and Ellie read the expression on his face, rapidly imagining that the worse had happened.

“So, what does it say?” Ellie pushed. She knew, but wanted confirmation.

Joel folded the piece of paper on his hand, and you could notice the defeat in his expression. “Girls, stay right here please.”

You nodded immediately. Ellie did the same. Of course he would go in first, that’s what he always did. Always looking out for Ellie’s protection. It was sweet. You watched him do this for the course of 8 months, without ever getting frustrated. You could tell he just wanted her to be safe.

With Joel already at the end of the main hall, you looked over at Ellie. “Let’s get on the front yard for a second, I need to get some fresh air.”

“We’ve been getting fresh air for the last few weeks, what do you mea-“ you cut her off.

“Please. Just keep me company.” You put your arm around her shoulder, half hugging her and guiding her outside.

“You two are the same, you know?” You heard her start. “You don’t always have to protect me that way. I can handle a lot.”

“Oh I know you can.” You paused. “Shit, you’re better than me at that. That’s why I’m asking you for company. I’m the one that needs it.”

She looked up at you with a small smile, realising your request. You both sat on the still neatly cut green grass, as you looked over the other side of the road. You noticed Ellie slightly plucking at the pieces of grass that had outgrown the care they’d receive in the past.

“This doesn’t bother you in the slightest?” You asked her.

“Well, it does. But I didn’t know them. I guess that helps.” You nodded back. “But I just wish Joe would let me explore more.”

You sighed. “He just doesn’t want you to find something you don’t have to see.”

“Then why are we both here?”

“Well, probably because he thinks we can’t handle something like that. I know I couldn’t.” You replied. Death was a hard topic for you, how ironic that sounded in the world you were in right now.

“I think he has you on a bigger clutch than me.”

“What? No he doesn’t. He just probably got the idea that I have a light stomach or something. You’re like his kid.” You insisted.

Ellie looked at you from the side with a slight smile. “And you’re like his girlfriend.”

You looked at her with raised highbrows, pure confusion on your expression. “Ellie, that’s not true.”

“Oh please, have you not noticed the way he looks at you sometimes?” She continued. Your face still equal to a question mark. “A few months back, at the museum, when you got stuck on the other side of the wrecked wall, out of his sight, he killed 7 clickers in less than a minute just to get over to you.”

“Ellie, I’m sure he just wanted to protect you the best he could.”

She interrupted you, just to continue proving her point. “Just the other day, at the bay, when you fell over in the water.”

“That was a huge fall, anyone would be concerned, Ellie.”

“No. You didn’t see the way he plunged himself into the water, the fear in his eyes. And you know how to swim!” She laughed.

Her laugh was contagious, so you ended up doing the same. “C’mon Ellie, quit that. It’s not true.”

“Honestly, a blind person could see it. The way he talks to you. He like-” the voice behind you both made her stop abruptly.

“Girls, there’s hot water upstairs.” You saw his figure at the door frame.

“What?” Ellie shouted excitedly. She got up from your side and ran upstairs quickly.

“Second door to your right at the top of the stairs! In and out, Ellie!” Joel made sure she got in the right room. You both heard her reply with a “alright” from the top of the stairs. You also noticed how Joel smiled when she ran past him. She was like his kid, truly. Joel didn’t do that to you, so you pushed Ellie’s words to the back of your mind. Just to prove that, you watched Joel’s expression change from a smile to a slightly more serious face when he noticed your eyes were on him. Your gaze connected for a couple seconds before you broke it.

“There’s another bathroom, you can go now. Second door to your left. I’ll try to look for the car’s battery so we can be on our way.” He offered.

You nodded after smiling his way. “You go. I’ll explore the village a bit, I just feel like walking for a bit. I’ll go after you.”

“You sure?” He insisted.

“I’m sure. I’ll meet you both at the garage.”

***

You haven’t felt hot water washing down your body in months. This shower felt like a miracle to you. You looked down as the water covered your face, seeing the water turn slightly brown at your feet. You tried to hurry, but you also tried to indulge in some time for yourself. When was the last time in 8 months where you could actually spend time completely alone. When was the last time you pleasured yourself? You couldn’t waste this opportunity. They’d both be down at the garage, and you’d have time.

You ran your hand down between your closed legs, still unsure if you should do it. But you thought the release would be good for you. When would be the next time an opportunity like this one would come? You finally indulged, passing your fingers through your slick folds, already wet from the arousal suddenly awoken in you. Your mind wandered off to Joel and the fact that he’d been in the same tub as you were now rubbing yourself. You imagined his naked figure, skin hot from the warm water falling off his body, washing the dirt from weeks before.

In an instant, as you kept your hand between your legs, rubbing soft circles on your bundle of nerves, your mind visualised him standing there, tall and naked, head pulled back as he took advantage of the shower head over him. Would he have also taken advantage of his alone time and pleasured himself? You weren’t made of steel, and you were sure Joel wasn’t as well. You indulged in the thought of him reaching for his hard cock with his hand, pumping it slightly at first. You tried to stop your thoughts, you didn’t want to objectify Joel like this, but you didn’t touch yourself in months, your core aching for some release. And Joel was all that popped up on your mind. You could almost hear his soft whimpers, his needy grunts as he would pump his length faster.

You didn’t even notice, but your fingers were now inside your pussy, eyes still shut, as the sounds of your wetness were muffled by the water running on the shower.

A moan escaped your mouth, as you imagined Joel looking at you, lying there, legs open for him to take you. Would he even like that? What would he even think about to get him off? Some porn magazine he’d find laying around somewhere? Could he get off thinking about you? Was that so strange? Would what Ellie said be true, that he actually might like you or crave you in some way? Your mind was out of sense, as you imagined him close to his edge, as your own also started to form in your stomach.

His breath hissing, his chest moving up and down. Your name slipping from his mouth. Even your head could trick you, but you were so close to your orgasm that you indulged. You curled your fingers inside your core rhythmically, and the knot in your stomach starting to tighten. As a wave of heat crept on you, so did your orgasm and Joel’s name sounded out of your lips, as you rode your high for a few seconds.

***

You ran down the stairs, still adjusting the jacket on your body. As soon as you got into the garage you saw Ellie inside the car, mesmerised by the mechanics of it. Joel out of sight, behind the lifted hood of the vehicle.

“What did I miss?” You questioned.

You heard Joel close the hood. “I don’t think we’ll have the battery ready today.” He rubbed his forehead lightly. “But let’s get in the car, let’s try it.”

Ellie already in the front seat, moved to the passenger’s side, as Joel asked her to. You opened the back door and got in, behind Ellie.

You observed Joel enter the driver’s seat. His hair was clean, still slightly damp from the shower, neatly combed to the back. His silver strands were somewhat less prominent now in some areas, in others more. His skin now clean from any dirt collected in the last few days, his scar on the high of his right cheekbone now more prominent. He was tan, his eyebrows still furrowed in worry. Your view of his profile was perfectly placed, his angular nose seeming more beautiful than it ever did.

He looked over at Ellie beside him. “Put your seatbelt on.” She looked at him confused. “Here.” He gestured to her right, grabbing it and buckling it for her.

“But we’re not even moving!” She protested.

“Just do it.” His worried gaze still plastered on his face. He quickly put on his too. You saw his gaze wonder from Ellie to the steering wheel, where he rested his hands, before finally looking at you through the rearview mirror. You saw his eyes soften, his eyebrows relax. “Are you okay back there?” He asked you.

You took a second to answer him, still caught up in him. You shook your head, humming a timid ‘yes’. God, you could only think about how handsome he was.

He nodded your way, before turning the key on the ignition. The car sounded in a roar, getting started.

“That’s good news.” You said from the back seat.

“It’s not fully charged.” Joel spoke. “Do you girls mind if we stay here tonight? We’ll leave first thing in the morning.”

Ellie nodded her head, just happy to be inside a car. You didn’t say a word, but Joel seemed to read your expression without you even noticing, as he spoke next.

“You guys can get going, eat something or rest. I just need to do something first.” He looked you in the eye as he said his last sentence. You quickly understood.

You looked back at him. The air was still inside the car, until Ellie opened the door and got out.

“I’ll go and try to make something to eat.” She said.

You watched her close the door. You opened yours and yelled. “Wait Ellie, I’ll help you.” After that your gaze flew on Joel, who was still clutching the steering wheel. “You don’t need help?”

He turned to you fully. “No, of course not.” His eyebrows closed in worry. “You don’t have to see any of that. But they deserve a proper burial.”

“Of course.”

“Just keep Ellie busy, please. I’ll be in and out through the back door. Please don’t let her see anything.”

You nodded rapidly. “Of course not!” You assured him.

“Thank you.” He spoke softly, before you left to enter the house.

***

It was surprising how Bill and Frank had a fully stoked kitchen, from the essentials, to meat, vegetables, fruits, everything. The air in the kitchen smelled wonderful, eventually spreading out to the next rooms. It was surprisingly easy to keep Ellie in the kitchen, she was probably just hungry, or maybe she understood everything and didn’t tell you.

After a few hours, dinner was ready and while Ellie checked on the oven, you made sure to set the table for three. She started serving her plate, running to the table on the dinning room you had cleaned before. You followed her action, still in the kitchen. Joel appeared on the door frame, you with a still empty plate in your hand.

“Hi.” You said softly. “Dinner’s ready.”

He replied to your greeting before continuing. “It smells great but I’m not very hungry.” He said while holding on to a cloth where he kept cleaning his hand slightly. “I’ll just have a shower. Again. And I’ll probably get to bed. Is that alright?”

“Of course.” You paused. “There’s clean clothes on the bathroom if you want them. I’m sure they fit you.”

“Thank you, for everything.” He looked at the floor for a second, before gesturing to the plate you had in your hand. “There’s three spare bedrooms, upstairs. You know, besides theirs down here. They’re all pretty much the same but I’ll take the smallest one.”

“Okay.” Your voice came out as a whisper.

“Goodnight.”

“Goodnight.” You repeated, as you watched him turn his back afterwards, and head upstairs.

You filled your plate and joined Ellie in the dining room. You sighed as you sat down next to her.

“Is he okay?” She asked you.

You looked over at her. “I don’t think so. He will be tomorrow though. Just needs a good night rest.”

She understood everything. She was one of the smartest girls you’ve ever encountered. I don’t know why Joel tried to hide anything from her.

“He does that a lot, you know?” She spoke, her fork now down, resting on the plate, now almost empty.

“What?”

“Close himself off when something’s wrong.” She continued to play with her food. “He won’t talk to me about it. But he would with you. He probably thinks you’d handle it better.”

“I’ll stop by later. Make sure he’s okay.” You looked down at her freshly washed hair, running a hand over it. “Now eat and then choose a room upstairs. We have to gather energy for tomorrow.”

***

You tossed and turned on your bed, hoping the sleep would come creeping on you. It never did. You stared at the ceiling for a few minutes, deciding wether you’d let the sheets stay over your body, or check up on Joel. He was a grown man, but still grieving some old friends, you reminded yourself.

You knew he was on the room at the far end of the corridor, the smallest as he’d said. You carried yourself to the door, before knocking lightly on the dark wood material. The sound echoed slightly through the corridor. Joel took only a few seconds to open the door, emerging with only a t-shirt and some pyjama pants that hang slightly loose on his waist.

“Hey.” You said as you saw him. Hair dishevelled from probably lack of rest.

“Hey, you okay?” His voice low.

“Am I okay? Joel, are you okay?” You insisted.

He shrugged his shoulders slowly. “I’m okay.”

“Can I come in?”

He didn’t say anything, just looked at you and opened the door wider for you.

“How’s Ellie?”

“She’s well. Asleep I presume.”

“Some of us have to.” He slightly laughed at his comment.

He smelled good. The effect of two showers in the same day. You decided to tease him.

“So, taking advantage of that shower today, right?” You spoke.

His eyes shot at you, somewhat scared. “What do you mean?”

You looked at him confused. “Oh nothing, just because you used it two times today. For how long haven’t you had a double shower in the same day?” As you spoke the last words, you understood how insensible that came out. He took a second shower because he had to bury two of his friends, stupid. “Fuck, I’m sorry.”

“No, it’s oka-”

“No it’s not. Shit, I’m so fucking stupid sometimes.” You insisted.

“Don’t say that.” He spoke softly, but his eyes were worried. His voice showed a sign of hurt somehow.

“But I am. I can’t even help you and now I say this.”

“I didn’t want your help. I know you don’t take death very well.” You paused your worried thinking, looking at him properly. “Just didn’t want you to go through that unnecessarily.”

You looked at him, giving him a slight smile. “How do you know that?”

He shook his head. “I hear you. Your conversations with Ellie as well.” He paused. “I also know you.”

Your heart began beating faster.

“I’m glad someone does.” You admitted, scoffing at the floor.

The two of you on your feet on opposite sides of the room, the distance between the both of you killing you, no matter how small the actual room was. The silence was not uncomfortable, but you decided to break it abruptly.

“You know, Ellie told me something today. I don’t think it’s true but I might as well ask you now.” You paused and his eyes looked at you intently. “She told me you liked me.” You kind of rushed your words. “I don’t know, she spoke about the incident at the bay and how you jumped right in the water. Or that day at the museum- I don’t know.” You sighed, closing your eyes and looking at him after. “Is it true?”

Your heart was pounding on your chest.

“I care about you. A lot.”

“But that’s it, right?” You asked. “You also care about Ellie, very much.”

He looked at you, one hand roaming free, scratching at his lower belly underneath his tshirt, just above the waistband of his pants. You could tell it was a gesture of frustration. You were ready for a rejection. “Not in the same way, no.”

You were not ready for the response he gave you. Your heart almost breaking your ribcage to get itself free from your body.

“In what way, then?” Your body language couldn’t fool anybody. You naturally, without even realising it, gravitated towards him, ever so slightly.

He did the same. “In the way that I would rather die, than to lose you for that goddamn decease.” His eyes stayed on your expression. He was getting closer to you. “But also in the way of making your safety a priority to me. Your happiness.”

“My happiness?” You mumbled under your breath, as he reached a hand to your waist, pulling you closer to him.

“Happiness, amusement, pleasure. Whatever you want me to. I’ll do it for you.”

Your bodies were glued to each other, Joel was just waiting for your approval.

“Good.” You said before jumping onto him, mouths connected, his arms rapidly catching the behind of your thighs, holding you in place. Your legs wrapped around his center. His hands felt huge on your legs, securing you. You had zero fear of falling, you knew he got you. His tongue asking permission to enter your mouth, which you gladly accepted. The sounds you both made were almost animalistic. 8 months of no physical contact whatsoever, left you hungry for each other.

He sat on the edge of the bed, letting you straddle his lap. You felt your core pulsing when you felt the bulge in his thin pyjama pants. They might as well not even be there. You looked down and could see the entire outline of his length.

Still supported by his hands, you reached over to the hem of your t-shirt and lifted it up, discarding it over your head, throwing it on the bedroom floor. Your breasts hung perfectly a little lower than his eye level. His mouth immediately attacking your right nipple, like he was hungry for you. You moaned, your head thrown back in pleasure.

“Fuck.” He looked up at you with awe in his eyes. “The woman you are.”

“Shit, Joel.” Your mouth hungry for his, hovering his lips. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

“I’ll make up for it, sweetheart.” He started kissing your neck. “Is that okay?”

“For fuck’s sake, just fuck me Joel.” You didn’t have sex in over 8 months. You couldn’t even be ashamed of asking for it like this.

“Is that what you want, sweet girl?” He grabbed your hair that hang low your back, caressing it from top to bottom.

“Please.”

“You don’t have to beg. You don’t ever have to beg with me.” His hand separated your legs further apart and travelled to your core, pulling your panties to the side, rubbing soft circles on your clit.

You moaned at his touch. “This feels so much better.”

“Much better than what?” He continued his efforts.

“Than me touching myself over the thought of you under that shower.”

“Oh, is that right?” His cocky smile under you, alternating his look between your face and your core, scared he might miss any of them. He slid two fingers inside you slowly but deeply. Your eyes rolled to the back of your head. Profanities rolling off your tongue like warm honey to his ears. “Do you like that, gorgeous?”

“Shit Joel, yes, yes.”

His fingers picked up their pace, shocks of heat from the top of your head to your feet. He lifted you up a bit so he could have a better angle to curl his fingers inside you.

“You’re so wet, baby.” His voice was low, dragging itself word after word. He took his fingers out of your cunt, only to suck on them as he looked up at you.

You looked down at him, immediately kissing him passionately. Applying pressure on his bulge with your core, you heard him moan underneath you.

You pushed him into the bed, him hitting his back on the centre of it. You got up, taking your panties off with urgency. You moved on to take his pants off, as he took his t-shirt at the same time. His boxers were restraining his length, it seemed almost painful. He noticed you looking over at it, removing them himself, as he sat up, his back on the headboard of the bed.

“How do you want me?” You asked him.

“Any way. I just wanna see your pretty face when you cum. C’m here” his voice sounded deliciously inviting. His cock painfully hard and propped in the air. He was huge, and you were not sure if he would even fit. But you wanted to try to so badly. You quickly straddled him hoping he would take it easy on you. And that’s exactly what he did. He wanted to please you so bad for the longest time possible, but just as you, he hadn’t shared physical touch with anyone in months. You were both famished for it.

You propped yourself on his entrance as he looked at you in awe. You were dripping on top of his head, as if his pre cum wasn’t enough to lube your insides already. You sat down on his cock, the girth like something you’ve never experienced before. The sounds your two sexes made in contact with each other were pornographic. Your moans also didn’t help your case. Joel put a hand over your mouth as you pushed yourself down his cock, all the way down.

“I wanna hear your moans so badly, sweet girl. But we shouldn’t make much noise.”

“Fuck, I know.” Your voice muffed by his hand, covering half of your face.

He removed it, just to help you get your rhythm up and down his cock. After a few seconds of him stretching you out, your walls became accustomed to him. Your fluids making it easy for him to glide in and out of you.

With a faster pace you began to grab at the back of his neck, as he kissed your breasts once again. “Fuck Joel, you feel so fucking good.”

He couldn’t even get the words out of his mouth for the first few seconds of thrusting. “You’re so fucking tight around me, baby.”

And in fact, you could feel every single pulsing vein inside you, with every thrust he gave you. You began to bounce on top of him, applying strength on your feet so you wouldn’t grow so tired as fast. You wanted this to last. It felt like you were made for each other, the way his cock fit inside you so right, the way his hands grabbed each of your hips with just the right amount of strength. The rhythm never slowed down, Joel made sure of it.

You began to feel the knot in your stomach tighten. “Joel…” you moaned.

“I know, sweet girl. You’re so close.” He paused to kiss you. “Use me to ride your high, c’mon.”

“Fuck, I’m so fucking close.” You continued.

“Let me hear my name out of that pretty fucking mouth.” He kept you bouncing on his length.

“Hum…” you paused as you closed your eyes. “Joel, shit. Joel, Joel…”

“Cum for me, gorgeous. Let me see your pretty face.”

Your mouth opened to an O, as the knot in your stomach released in an explosion. You let out a cry, but you rapidly muffled it with your own hand. He removed it immediately, just to kiss you while still riding your high. As you began to pant, trying to regain your strength, Joel grabbed your torso on his arm, in an embrace, and quickly but surprisingly softly, put you under him. Now on top, with his cock still inside you, he continued to thrust into you. You were so sensitive and he knew, but you wanted to let him have his orgasm. His breath became quicker with the urgency of his release.

“Fuck…” his thrusts became more sloppy as he reached his climax.

“Cum, Joel.” Your voice like music to his hears.

He kissed your mouth one last time before pulling out and cum on your belly. His warm release all over you, spilling onto the bed sheets.

“Fuck.” His voice lower than usual. His mouth travelled to your forehead, leaving a kiss there.

Both of you panting, Joel on top of you, pressure that would always be seeked from you. Once you caught your breath, you pulled the covers on top of you both, as Joel pushed you into his chest, your face nuzzled on his neck.

A few minutes of silence were much needed.

“Do you mind if I stay here tonight?” You asked him, hope in your voice.

“Oh, I wouldn’t have let you out anyway.”

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bittersweetorpheus · 9 months

Text

☆ THERE IS NO SWEETER INNOCENCE THAN OUR GENTLE SIN ☆

The original sin is the fairest: everyone sinks. make the most of the final feast, because for the sinners, the curtain call has come.

☆ CONTENT WARNINGS ☆

Spoilers for 4.0 Fontaine archon quest, pov switches, co-dependency & obsession, hints of soft yandere

“I’m not quite sure when it began, but a prophecy has been circulating around Fontaine: the people will all be dissolved into the waters, and only the hydro archon will remain, weeping on her throne.”

This has become a fact for the Fontaine people, with the water levels slowly rising and consuming parts of the nation. Everyone has different opinions on this- some ignore it, deciding to live in the moment- surely they’ll be long gone before water consumes the whole nation, some believe it’ll be like returning to their origins, and some dread it- how horrible must it be to dissolve into water and possibly lose themselves forever?

But mostly, the Fontaine people have been resigned to it, and gone about their day as normal. The water levels were rising pretty slowly, anyways, so it wasn’t their problem yet. Or it wouldn’t be, if the rising water was still moving at the same pace. However…

☆ 1 WEEK BEFORE THE DUEL ☆

Your awakening is a gentle one.

Or, atleast, it is for about a minute or two before you realize you’re underwater. You panic, scrambling around like a fumbling idiot for another two minutes before you finally get your wits about you and realize that you are, in fact, not drowning and are breathing like normal even though you’re underwater? Unfortunately, along with that realization comes the fact that you… well, where even are you?

You take in your surroundings. Ignoring the fact that you’re underwater for some reason, it’s actually… very pretty. There isn’t a single piece of litter in sight, and you don’t have a hard time seeing, as the water is clear and beautiful. An underwater cliff arches a few miles behind you. The lush ocean ground beneath you splits apart and a trench can been seen below it that splits into multiple different paths leading even deeper under the ocean. The ocean floors and cliffs are lush and foliage is all around you, ranging from huge and tall stocks of plants resembling a mix between flower stems and lilypads to areas with plants the color of autumn leaves. Fish can be seen almost everywhere- crabs that glowed a mesmerizing blue, tiny tidalage, seals splotted in pastel colors, groups of fishing swimming together, and more.

The clear, litter free ocean, bright foliage, and adorable pastel creatures make for an idealized version of an ocean. And, surprisingly, they seem familiar somehow.

Wait…

You give the seals nuzzling you one last pet, and make your way to the surface of the water.

You surface. Huge mountains with colorful foliage surround the ocean. A beautiful city can be seen in the distance, with some ships floating near it. Some sort of bridge can be seen running from the city and through the mountains. It goes so far that it disappears from your line of sight.

Oh.

Oh. Your guess was right. You’re in Fontaine. You stay there for a bit, astonished. You push that to the back of your mind, you’ll deal with it later. But first, did you still have your inventory? You cross your fingers- please, please, please! Archons, you spent so much money getting all those weapons and characters and so much time just farming materials and artifacts. You shudder at the thought of losing all your progress. You’ve already checked the banners, and they’re the same as usual, so you close your eyes, trying your hardest to imagine opening your inventory and-

Huh? What? You are, once again, astonished. You close your inventory and open it again- maybe its just a glitch? Or maybe you’re delirious. You open it again. Nope. Nothing’s changed.

When did you have all these characters- you’re pretty sure some of these characters haven’t even become playable yet. And all these weapons? Wait, how good is your artifact luck? How is this possible? Are you gonna be banned for hacking? Can you even be banned if you’re actually in the game?

You slowly close the inventory once again, still in shock.

Surely this is a dream, right? Yeah! It’s just a lucid dream, even if it feels so realistic.

You decide to spend your time exploring and petting more animals- maybe even meeting some characters! Who knows when you’ll be able to dream like this again.

Yep. Just a dream. You’re just dreaming, thats all.

☆ 1/2 WEEK BEFORE THE DUEL ☆

Dozens of rain droplet streak down the stained glass windows of Nuevilette’s office. Jazz plays, alongside the sounds of a heavy downpour of rain and the ticking of the clocks in the office. He finishes flipping through the files and leans back in his padded chair. He hasn’t been able to do much work these couple of days, always anticipating the familiar feeling of warmth flooding into his body and being guided to do things, but it never came, and with that realization, the rain had started to pour even harder.

Had you finally abandoned him? Had he not concealed his feelings well enough? Were You able to see through his facade? Had You finally noticed his concealed feelings whenever he saw You guiding the ever so immature Furina, or doing exploring the city with Navia? How the corner of his lips would curl down every so slightly whenever You took the warden, Wriothesley, to go ice-briding when You felt bored, one-shot bosses with the Champion Duelist Clorinde for fun, or farmed for talent materials for the magician triplets?

He may not understand humans and their emotions, but even he knows what these feelings are. So, he promises that he’ll stop soaking in jealousy or anger when you fawn over the two Fatui Harbingers or anything of that sort. Just… come back to him. Don’t abandon him. Comfort him like You always do. Praise him, praise his appearance, praise his personality, please come back, he needs You.

But he knows that You haven’t abandoned him. You’re still here, in fact, Your presence is stronger than ever, and the whole of Teyvat is flourishing, almost like its in celebration of something. So, where are You?

Neuvillette sighs, standing from his chair. He’d better check on Furina- who knows what she may be doing without your guidance. As he starts to walk to the door, his long tailcoat brushes against his desk, making a file that was buried beneath all the others fall down, onto the ground. It’s contents sprawl on the floor.

He bends down, picking up the papers and placing them back into the file. As he does, he skims over the contents.

He frowns. Could it be true?

☆ 2 DAYS BEFORE THE DUEL ☆

People are whispering, and Focalor is frozen in place.

The whispering grows louder. She can make out hushed and anxious tones.

“What’s she doing just standing there? How disrespectful.” She hears.

She snaps out of her state of awe, and tries to take grasp of the situation. Unfortunately, in her panic, she says the first thing that comes to mind.

“Imposter!”

☆ 1 DAY BEFORE THE DUEL ☆

“And what do you say to these claims?” Nuevillette asks, snapping ‘The Imposter’ out of their stupor.

“No.” ‘The Imposter’ says.

Nuevillette frowns, “no? I ask that you elaborate.”

“How am I supposed to defend myself if I don’t even know what I did wrong?” ‘The Imposter’ reasons, still not fully processing the situation.

“Hah! Trying to act dumb won’t work here. You know what you did!” Focalor interjects. Truthly, this situation had come to be because of her carelessness and now it had spiralled way out of her control. She can’t take back what she said now, so she’d had to pray for the best. She dug her grave, so she might as well lie in it and hope for the best. I mean, surely it was fine, right? Surely this is an imposter. “If you can’t defend yourself in court, than you might as well duel to prove your innocence.

“I- huh? Alright, then.” ‘The Imposter’ says, not seeing any other choice. “I request a duel, I guess.”

“Very well, your request is accepted. You will be dueling against Clorinde tomorrow at dawn.” Nuevillette says.

People slowly filter out of the court room in anticipation for the day of the duel.

Focalor has a sinking feeling in her gut.

☆ THE DAY OF THE DUEL ☆

Clorinde sits at the harbor, too ashamed to watch over The Creator.

The duel had lasted no more than one or two minutes. The Creator had made no move to fight back, and Clorinde had made quick work of Them. It was only when she had made her way over to Them to end Their life when she noticed the ichor that spilled from Their many wounds. Her heart sunk into her chest. In a panic, she screamed for doctors. She had tried her best to keep Them awake, but They had already fallen unconscious by the time the doctors arrived.

Obviously, The Creator was still alive- who knew what would happen to Teyvat if The Creator, Themselves, Died. But she couldn’t get the image of their unconscious form out of her mind. The sin she’d committed weighed her down like the anchor of a boat.

She sighed, standing up shakily, starting the walk back to the city and…

Wait. Was the water level always this high?

Oh.

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fleur-bbyy · 9 months

Text

SINFUL SUMMER

it’s the first day of vacation and lucifer already can’t keep his eyes and hands off of you.

𓇼 lucifer x fem reader

𓇼 warnings: unprotected p in v sex, semi-public(?), creampie, reader wears a bikini, reader wears sunscreen for anti-aging purposes (pls wear your sunscreen!!!), sub reader, lil oral fixation if you squint real hard

𓇼 a/n: 1.6k words of my own fantasy. I was gonna post all the summer stuff together but i’m scared I won’t finish it all in time and was too excited for this one lol. also if it wasn’t clear, it’s one of those cabanas that’s covered on all sides and has curtains at the front, they’re in the jockey position lol, and it’s one of those lounge chairs where the back adjusts. (plz forgive me for not being that descriptive i was excited)

As the sun beams off his clothed back and his feet begin to burn from standing in the hot sand, Lucifer comes to a realization.

You are quite literally his worst nightmare.

Pretty in the face and so, so naive to any of his lustful advances. An innocent request for him to help you apply sunscreen to your back should be just that, innocent. It shouldn’t be so daunting or feel so inappropriate for a man as respected as he was. Scanning over your barely-clothed back as you rub the contents of the tube on your arms. His ruby eyes linger far too long on the dangerously thin fabric on your lower half. He wanted to tell you that your bikini left far too little to the imagination, but he shouldn’t have been imagining that anyway.

“You’re laying inside a covered cabana, you don’t need it.”

"Do you expect me to spend the whole day in here?" You turned to look at him, smiling as your hands began to run the spf over your collarbones. "Besides, the sun still reaches me. I don’t want my skin to be saggy and feel like leather when I’m older." Lucifer crosses his arms and mentally eye rolls: You’ve been hanging around Asmo too much.

"Fine. Finish up everything else and then tell me what you need." You smile once more in victory and continue to cover your front with the lotion. Lucifer stands in the doorway, arms still crossed, a seemingly calm expression resting on his face. His eyes stayed transfixed on your body for the majority of the time, glancing over his shoulder once to see his brothers doing their own thing in the sea and snapping right back over to you as you bent over slightly to reach your legs. Your bikini bottoms riding up even further than before and exposing more of your skin. His eyes widening a bit more when he noticed the outline of your cunt peeking through the fabric, causing the air to feel a bit hotter and his swim trunks to tighten a little more around the crotch.

"Okay, need you now." you said, beginning to lie down on the chair and handing him the tube of sunscreen in the process, his fingers accidentally brushing yours as he grabbed it and he swears you let them linger on purpose. He stood over to the side of you and began to gather the lotion in his hand before you stopped him.

“Don’t be awkward. Sit over my legs.”

Lucifer paused after hearing you voice your request like it was the most obvious thing in the world. He lightly sighed and reluctantly moved to straddle your legs, his half chub barely a few centimeters away from your plump ass. Lucifer contemplated whether you knew what you were doing or not. You had to feel it; there’s no way you didn’t feel it prodding against your thigh as he began to smooth the lotion down your back. holding back a groan when you arched into his touch.

“How exactly does sitting like this help?”

“You’ll reach better. Besides, wouldn’t want you to throw your back out, old man.” You lightly laughed at your own joke and Lucifer rolled his eyes, hands moving to the center of your back. “You’re good at this, should be a masseur.”

He wasn’t able to respond, having to bite the inside of his cheek as you arched even more into him. Your ass dangerously close to his hardening cock. He paused to grab more sunscreen and was about to continue before you stopped him again.

“You missed a spot near my shoulders.”

He slowly leaned forward, relishing in the feeling of his clothed cock finally making contact with your ass but trying to avoid it at the same time. Using his legs to lightly hold himself above you and starting to cover the spot that he missed when he heard a soft moan escape from your lips and your hips push into him even more.

There’s no way you didn’t know what you were doing. There was absolutely no way you didn’t feel his hardened length pressed into you. His hands slowly dragged down your back, stopping at your waist and giving an experimental small roll of his hips into yours, feeling a glorious sensation when you moaned a bit louder. He continued to roll his hips against you, biting back small grunts and groans when you started to meet his thrusts with the roll of your own hips. One of Lucifer’s hands slowly traveling from your waist to the edge of your bikini bottoms, pulling them to the side and shivering at the sight of the strings of your arousal sticking to them. He slowed his hips to get a good look at your soaking cunt and ran his index finger up and down your slit.

“Do you want this?” He asked, fingers running over your sopping entrance and examining the way they shined with your essence. You frantically nodded your head, not trusting yourself to speak without getting too loud. “I need to hear you say it.”

You bit your bottom lip, trying to steady yourself before whispering out a quick "yes." You felt him shuffle behind you and shortly after felt his tip prodding at your entrance. rubbing himself up and down your slit to gather your wetness before he slowly began to sink in. inch by inch with shallow thrusts.

“Ohh fuck.. that’s it. You feel too good.” Your toes curled and pussy gushed at his words. Allowing him to sink even further into you

He was big. Barely half way inside, and you already felt so full of him. grasping at whatever you could and beginning to roll your hips into him once more, eliciting a sharp hiss from the man.

“Need you to open up for me.” His breath was hot on your neck as he leaned over to whisper in your ear.

“Can’t. You’re too big.”

“None of that. You can be good for me.” One of his hands positioned your hips up even more, giving him access to your neglected clit. “She can be good for me too.”

You moan when he begins circling your clit. Feeling your arousal drip down and lubricate his working finger. His thrusts starting to speed up and his free hand tracing up your spine to pull the string holding your bikini top together, giving him full access to your back. Everything coupled together gave your cunt to final push to open up completely. Moaning even louder when he finally pushes all the way in. Your whines and moans crescendoing to the point that Lucifer has to clamp a hand down over your mouth and pray that one of his brother’s didn’t hear anything.

“Naughty thing,” he began, sticking one of his slender fingers into your mouth and grinning when you immediately start to suck, “this is what you wanted the entire time, didn’t you? Wanted to rile me up and fuck you where anybody could walk in and see?”

Beads of sweat begin to gather on both of your faces from the summer’s heat and the intensity of the current activity. Some rolling down Lucifer’s face and landing in small droplets on your back that he lovingly wiped away after removing his fingers from your mouth.

“Are you going to be good and quiet for me?” You didn’t answer. Not trusting yourself to speak and worried you’d let out another loud whine instead.

“That just won’t do,” his thrusts slowed and he pulled his hand back from your aching clit, “answer me.”

“Yes. Yes I’ll be good. I promise.” You said through gritted teeth. Even with his agonizingly slow thrusts, the steady drag of his cock on your walls practically made you shiver. Feeling him hit every ridge as he pulled out and pushed back in.

“Then cum for me. Want to feel you.”

Before you could even try to start fucking yourself on him, he picked up the pace again. Going even faster and harder than before and causing your body to bounce up and down on the lounge chair. The grip on your left side becoming ironclad and his hand once again sneaking to rub expert circles on your clit. His heavy balls knocking his fingers every time he plunged into your heat.

Your orgasm comes soon after with a strangled moan. Burying your face in your hands to try and muffle yourself but to no avail. Lucifer also begins to gradually lose himself as he works you through your pleasure. The clenching and spasming of your cunt around him causes the fingers on your clit to fumble in rhythm and move sloppily. His grunts and groans gradually getting louder and his thrusts speeding up just a tad more before you finally feel that familiar warmth as he spills inside of you. Panting and biting his bottom lip to quiet himself.

The air in the cabana was still thick with sex as the two of you recovered. Finally looking over and noticing that the chair had moved at least a foot away from its original position and your tube of sunscreen had been leaking out onto the sand the entire time. Lucifer carefully pulled out of you and admired how his cum dripped from your pussy. Using two of his fingers to push any that had trickled out back into your spent hole before fixing your bottoms and tying your bikini top back to it’s original position. Finally adjusting himself and getting off of you after making sure you were alright.

“Are you going to stay here?” He asked, his voice quickly returning to its stern nature as he crossed his arms over his chest once again.

“Think so.” You turned your head to look over at him and propped yourself up on your arms, watching as he began to leave to check on the others. “Thank you, by the way.” He stopped in the entryway, glancing over at you with a grin and half-lidded eyes.

“The pleasure’s all mine.”

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laundrybiscuits · 1 year

Text

(Continued from this snippet! Content notes: police interrogation, homophobia)

“You don’t look gay.” The detective gives Steve a very obvious once-over. Steve tries to look gayer as subtly as he can.

“Sorry,” he says. “Guess I’ll have to let my boyfriend know you don’t think I look gay enough to fuck him.”

The detective’s face twists slightly, like he’s smelled something bad. “No need to be like that. I’m just saying, I bet a good-looking guy like you could get a girlfriend pretty easy.”

“You’re not my type,” says Steve. He smiles with his teeth, even though his heart is going fast and he can feel his palms starting to sweat.

The detective’s hands tense, and Steve wonders if he’s about to get hit, but they relax again and the detective sits back.

“Just doing my job,” says the detective. “Because, funny enough, we asked around with all your little friends, and it seems like you used to be a bit of a ladies’ man.”

“Things change,” says Steve.

“In fact…seems like none of your friends ever even saw you talk to Munson before. Moved in different circles and everything. I remember what high school was like.”

The detective leans close.

“So why would the captain of the swim team, a nice normal boy from a good family with a string of pretty girlfriends, ever—ever—stick his neck out like this for some murdering scum like Munson? That’s what I’m trying to figure out, here.”

“Don’t fucking talk about him like that,” says Steve. His mouth is dry. His pulse is thundering in his ears. “He didn’t kill anyone. He was with me the whole time. He’s—he didn’t kill anyone.”

“Hm,” says the detective.

It takes a while for them to stop interrogating him. They keep asking him the same questions over and over, trying to trip him up. He asks for water and doesn’t get it. In the back of his mind, a hysterical little voice is shrieking Scoops Ahoy! I work for Scoops Ahoy!, but he manages to keep it locked down. Doesn’t let himself get baited, just keeps repeating that Eddie was with him the whole time and neither of them know anything.

It takes a while, but it’s over eventually.

When he leaves the station, Eddie’s standing outside with Hopper and Joyce Byers, wearing a shirt and jeans that definitely belonged to Jonathan at some point. Eddie’s got his hands tucked into his armpits, looking antsy and tense, but he’s free and standing on his own two feet. It’s a pretty big upgrade from when Steve last saw him about a week or two ago.

It’s almost too easy to go straight over to him, wrapping him up in a tight hug like they’ve had their arms around each other a million times.

“Oof. Easy there, tiger,” laughs Eddie. “I’m, uh, still a little fragile.”

“Sorry,” says Steve, and loosens his hold. He doesn’t let go all the way.

“Come on, boys,” says Joyce. “I’m taking you two home. Steve, Eddie’s been staying with us, but we’re a little short on spare beds and it’s not great for his recovery. We’re moving him to your place until we can figure out something better, okay?”

———

Joyce drops them off and helps carry in a few garbage bags full of Eddie’s stuff. There’s not that much.

And then the door closes behind her, and Steve’s alone with Eddie for the first time since—actually, maybe ever.

“So,” says Eddie. “What…the fuck, Harrington.”

“Is that an actual question?” Steve says. He rolls his shoulders, trying to get some of the stiffness out. “I mean, didn’t Hopper and Mrs. Byers explain everything to you?”

“Kind of? I mean, I still think this is probably the worst idea of all time, but they told me—anyway, what I meant just now was a much more personalized and individual what the fuck. As in, why the fuck would you agree to any of this? You know you’re never gonna get another girl in this town to look at you now.”

“Dumping me already? Ice cold, man.”

Eddie groans and actually throws his hands in the air in frustration. Steve hadn’t known people did that in real life.

“Jesus christ.” Eddie wheels around and grabs two of the garbage bags. “I can’t do this right now, I need to take a fucking nap. We will be discussing this later.”

“Still don’t know what there is to discuss,” says Steve, but he picks up the last garbage bag and leads the way to the spare room.

Eddie pitches forwards onto the bed, arms outstretched and face mashed into the pillow. “Fuck yes, I am going to marry this goddamn mattress. Hit the lights when you leave,” he says, slightly muffled.

For a second, Steve finds himself stepping forward with a hand outstretched to—do something. He’s not sure what. Touch Eddie’s hair, or something dumb like that. His face warms. He’s really glad Eddie isn’t looking at him and doesn’t see how he’s kind of just standing there with a hand out for no reason.

He turns around, flicking the light switch on his way out, and doesn’t look back.

#steddie #the document title for this is literally “2 cakes”#bc again...there is already a fic with this premise. by bonitabreezy. as I have already said: please go read that instead!#this is like the writing equivalent of a figure study #don't know where it's going or if it's going anywhere. I truly am just vibing with increasingly dubious historical accuracy.

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bunnylovesani · 3 months

Text

Sleeping Beauty

Summary: Your roommate Anakin will go to any lengths necessary to get close to you, even ones you don’t know about.

Content warnings: dead dove do not eat, somnophilia, dubcon/noncon, drugging, violence, oral sex, p in v sex

WC: 3.4k

Work had been wringing you dry lately- so much so that when you’d finally claw your way to bed in the evenings, not even a tornado could rouse you. Your roommate, Anakin Skywalker noticed this- as he noticed everything else. Your mannerisms, your daily schedule, and all your little habits and quirks were committed to memory.

His prolonged glances and lingering touches raised no alarm bells in your mind, putting it down to his affectionate and slightly odd disposition. Sure, he was a little peculiar but your Ani was one of your best friends- always thoughtful, always caring and always there.

On one particularly exhausting evening, you sighed heavily as you traipsed in through the front door of your shared apartment. You always wondered why Anakin had any use for a roommate considering his prestigious job and the doubtless wealth that came along with it- but you just assumed he had a proclivity for modesty.

“Tough day?” He called out as you dropped your bag by the door with a heavy thud and followed the sound of his voice.

“You don’t know the half of it.” You sighed, slumping down onto the kitchen chair as you observed Anakin cooking, dirtied apron clinging to his toned abdomen. “What’s on the menu?”

“Your favourite.” He replied calmly, tipping the pan over slightly to show you a thick steak swimming in herbal butter.

“Wow. That looks- but…I’ve never told you that steak is my favourite.” You furrow your eyebrows and peer up at him in confusion.

“Well of course you have, silly.” He chuckles dismissively.

“No, Ani, I’m sure I haven’t. Have I?” You question, trying to recall a conversation in which you revealed your favourite meal but nothing was coming to mind.

“What have they been doing to you in that office?” He shakes his head and tuts. “Around when we first moved in, you told me how your dad always made steak on special occasions and how you came to associate the meal with good news.”

“I did?” The story is true, though you can’t for the life of you remember saying it.

“How else could I possibly know?” He smiles calmly and you relax. This new workload must really be doing a number on you.

“It’s so nice of you to make dinner but I was kinda thinking of going straight to bed- the exhaustion is killing my appetite. I go to sleep early but I still don’t feel well-rested for some reason…” You ramble on as he puts the sizzling pan to the side and turns to face you, leaning on the kitchen counter with his usually intense glare.

“Why don’t you take a sleeping pill?” He cocks his head to the side and you contemplate his suggestion. “I’ve got some low-dose ones, they’ll knock you right out and you won’t even feel it- I’ll go get them for you.”

“Wait, Ani- I don’t know-“

“They won’t make you drowsy in the morning, I promise.” Before you can object, he’s returned with a shiny tab of small white pills and is pouring you a glass of water.

“Alright, I suppose I’ll do anything to get one good night’s sleep.” You sigh, popping one of the tablets out of their foil casing and swallowing. “They’re the low-dose ones, yeah?”

“That’s what I said.” He smiles, watching you knock back your last sip of water intently.

“Thank you. Oh, but the steak- I feel really bad-“

“Don’t even worry about it. I’ll put it in the fridge, it’ll still be good tomorrow. You just go straight to bed.” He rests his calloused knuckles against the marble worktop, angry veins snaking up his smooth forearms.

“Really? You’re the best, Ani.” You rub his arm gratefully before wading over to your room, yawning.

“Anything for you, sweetheart.” He whispers once you’re out of earshot.

Just like he said he would, Anakin neatly put your dinner away, scrubbed the stove clean and did the dishes. Upon completion, he glanced at the ticking clock on the kitchen wall before swiping the tab of pills sitting on the counter and stuffing them back into their original packaging. Taking the box out of his pocket, he read the front of the pack: Diazepam- full strength.

Satisfied that enough time had passed, he walked over to your room and pressed his ear against the wooden door, waiting to hear signs you were sound asleep. Once he was happy with your soft snores and hums, he treaded the shaggy carpet and crept in.

You were swaddled in your covers and lying on your back, the teddy bear he bought you for your last birthday tucked lazily under your arm.

He stood there and admired you for a moment, heart warmed at how you cuddled his plushie every night without fail.

Exhaling a shaky breath, he approached the foot of your bed and cautiously peeled off your frilly duvet, leaving you exposed in your pink pyjama shorts and bralette. He’d seen it several times but the sight of your bare skin never failed to drive him wild; his self-control and morals flew out the window as soon as you were together like this- the cloudy stillness and quiet of your placid bedroom insulating you both from the outside world and its restrictions.

He reached out to lift your bralette, raising it just enough for your nipple to pop out and harden in the cool night air. His mouth watered at the sight, wanting so badly to lock his lips around it that his cock grew painfully hard and strained against his trousers.

Tracing his fingers down your hips, he hooked them around your little shorts and pulled on them gently, your cotton panties coming off with them.

He has to cover his mouth with an open palm to stop the groan from slipping out when he sees the glistening wetness nestled between your plush thighs.

“What are you dreaming about, princess?” He mutters as he rubs his thumbs against your inner thighs before carefully spreading them, ensuring your legs are wide open but comfortably supported by the surrounding pillows. He lowers himself so that he’s only a few inches away from your heat, taking in the glorious view before him.

He’d fallen in love the very moment he laid eyes on you- but he instantly got the sinking feeling that his feelings weren’t reciprocated. You saw him at most as a friend, a convenient guy to have around, a perfectly suitable roommate. He was under no illusions that you would ever requite his love- how could you when his feelings were so intense?

Deciding he couldn’t take it any longer, he unzipped his trousers and lowered his boxers, letting his heavy cock spring out and slap against his abdomen. Try as he may, he couldn’t tear his eyes away from your lips, which fell into a pretty o shape as you peacefully snoozed. Some dribble gathered in the corner of your mouth and he couldn’t help but kneel and hover above you, staring. He needed to feel your lips on his cock.

Wrapping a hand around his veiny shaft, he pumped it with a couple of rough strokes before resting his blushed tip against your pink lips. The precum oozed out and smeared against your plump bottom lip, moistening it just enough for Anakin to slide his cockhead smoothly past it. He let out a soft moan as your mouth enveloped his throbbing cock, languid wet tongue brushing past it as he slowly glided in and out- the sight of his cock on your lips too much to bear.

Gently pushing his hips forward, he guided the tip to the back of your mouth, the ridged roof sending shivers down his spine. You moaned dreamily, the vibrations from your hums making his cock twitch. When you began to toss and turn, he quickly pulled out and took a step back- the thrill turning him on beyond belief.

Setting his sights on your unfurled legs, he creeps onto the bed and positions himself between them.

“What a pretty little pussy.” He shakes his head in disbelief, knowing he has never before and would never again see anything so beautiful.

Pushing his swollen tip between your folds, he gathers your slick and coats his length in it as he glides along your slit- your thighs involuntarily contracting a little every time he brushes past your clit.

The pained expression on Anakin’s face was apparent- he had never gone this far before. His chest tightened at the thought of violating you in this new way, both out of guilt and excitement. He relieved himself of culpability by assuring himself it was okay- he loved you and was just taking care of you. It’d been a while since you’d been with anyone and your frustration had begun to show- what kind of friend would he be if he let you suffer like that?

Spreading your folds apart with his thumb and forefinger, he gathered a glob of spit and let it dribble from his lips to your entrance before smearing it messily with his cock.

Lining the leaky tip against your opening, he delicately pushes in, stretching you out inch by inch. Even though it feels like torture to deny himself, Anakin sets a meticulously slow pace, paranoia chasing him. His girthy cock plunged into your cunt, bullying it into submission with painfully laboured thrusts.

Anakin bit his lip and scrunched his eyebrows at the sight of your tiny hole being stretched to full capacity, clenching needily around his length. He took this as confirmation that you needed him just as much as he needed you, deluded into believing your desire was apparent with the way your pussy gripped him.

Your breathing sped up and your heart rate rose- your body’s attempt at rousing you- but still, you remained asleep.

Anakin couldn’t believe his luck- he had been dreaming about what it’d be like to be inside you and now that your warmth had finally enveloped him, it was better than he could’ve ever imagined. He often scolded you for how naive you were but it was his favourite thing about you- the trust you felt for him was palpable in the way you gazed at him adoringly. The warm, wet comfort of your heat made him feel electric and he couldn’t help but want more- he wanted to lay hold of everything you had to give. He lifted you by the hips and impaled you onto his cock, forcing it even deeper until you were flush against him, the imprint of his member bulging through your lower stomach.

“Oh, baby…fuck.” He whimpered, barely above a whisper. “I wonder if you could take me this well when you’re awake.”

The room heated up with Anakin’s heavy breathing and your stuffy, sleepy moans. As roughly as he thought he could get away with, he pounded into you little by little, using your pussy like it was his to ruin. Your shared arousal gleamed in the dim moonlight, illuminating how his thick shaft disappeared into you with ease.

He tried not to grip your hips too roughly but with the way your pussy moulded around his cock like it was made for him, he couldn’t help but dig his fingernails into your flesh. The sight enraptured him so much that he didn’t even notice when your pretty eyes fluttered open, widening in shock.

The second your gazes met, he leapt to cover your mouth with his heavy palm.

“Don’t.” He breathed, crazed eyes daring you to scream just to show you what would happen.

You shook your head frantically, eyebrows swooping in distress.

“Be a good girl and stay quiet for me. Can you do that?” He continued thrusting into you, maintaining eye contact as he sunk his cock into your used-up pussy. You nodded hectically, wondering if you were still dreaming.

“Good, ‘cus I really wouldn’t wanna hurt you, baby.” He whined.

Now that he didn’t have to worry about waking you up, he could take you as roughly as he wanted. Stooping down to your chest, he popped a nipple into his mouth and sucked it forcefully, red marks streaking your breasts as he bit and drooled all over them.

“A-ani…what are you doing?” You cry out in utter disbelief after he releases the hand silencing you to knead your breast.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart. I jus’ couldn’t hold back anymore.” He moans as he brutally stuffs your pussy, the sound of lewd smacking reverberating around your cosy bedroom. “I couldn’t wait any longer.” He pulls away from your chest, drool hanging off his swollen lips.

“But I’ll make it up to you, baby.” His voice falters as he slams his hips into you sharply. He’s so deep your entire body feels overwhelmingly full.

“Just let me use you.” His husky voice makes you break out into a flurry of goosebumps as you clench frightfully around his girthy cock.

“You understand, right?” He questions but his hand has already snaked its way back up to your mouth. All you can respond with are muffled cries and whimpers, hushed by his thick palm. “I know you do, you’re my good girl.”

You look down to observe the frenzied way in which Anakin shatters his cock into your tiny cunt, wetness dribbling down your thighs and making your eyes roll to the back of your head.

“I’m gonna stuff this pussy full of my cum.” He growls to himself as beads of sweat roll down his forehead, blonde curls dampened.

“Nmmh!” You squeak, shaking your head in disapproval as best you could with the way he was restraining you.

“Oh yes I am. And you’re gonna love it.” He rolls his hips and sinks into you impossibly deep before pulling all the way out. “Look at that, doll. How are you so wet?” He gestures for you to look down at the way gloopy strands of arousal hang off his throbbing cock, the base soaked with your slick.

You observe with shock, writhing in confusion over how your body had betrayed you. You whine and sob as he slides back in, dragging you impossibly close to him as you claw at the pink sheets.

“Shh…I know, baby. I know.” He whispers as he wraps his hands around your jaw, thumbs rubbing against your dampened cheeks comfortingly.

“I’m almost done, baby.” He rests his forehead against yours and you feel lightheaded from the sudden wave of body heat. His hands travel back down to your hips, raising your ass as he fucks up into you with dizzying speed.

“Come on, sweetheart. Cum all over my cock.” He mutters breathlessly. “I know you want to.”

You try to fight it but your back arches instinctively and your fingers dig into his shoulders as his cock stretches your aching pussy wide. He bottoms into you mercilessly and you feel as though you’re about to slip out of consciousness. With one last thrust, your body explodes into flames and the searingly pleasurable sensation travels to every last one of your nerves.

“That’s it, baby.” He speeds up, chasing his own high. “I knew you’d love my cock. Should’ve let me do this sooner.”

You pant as your heartbeat tries to regulate itself, sprawled and utterly fucked out. Anakin hovers above you, raising your thigh and pressing it against his chest as he ruts into you with feverish intensity. Just as you thought you couldn’t take any more, he comes undone in a loud climax, throwing his head back as he shoots ropes of hot cum into your sore pussy.

Catching his breath, he shoots you a grin as he combs the messy curls out of his face, pulling his cock out and allowing the gloopy mess to run.

“Sorry about this, doll.” He shrugs before reaching for the lamp on your bedside table.

“Wait, Ani-“ You put your arm out but he pins it down by your side before knocking the metal base against your temple, rendering your whole world black.

The blinding light shining out of your bedroom window finally wakes you. You shield yourself from the sunny glare with an arm draped over your eyes, scrunching your face up when the pain radiating from your head suddenly hits you. Glancing over to the alarm clock on your bedside table, your heart almost jumps out of your throat. You were supposed to be at work hours ago yet here you still were, in your pyjamas and cosily tucked in.

You crawl out of bed as you try to piece together the broken fragments of your memory; did you forget to set the alarm? It must’ve been those sleeping pills Anakin gave you- so much for his promise that they wouldn’t make you drowsy. Before you can even reach the door, there’s a knock.

“Hey, you awake?” Anakin pops his head through and gives you a look of concern.

“Just woke up now. Somehow managed to completely sleep through the work day.” You shake your head, confusedly tapping at your bruised temple. “Those pills of yours have given me a killer migraine.”

“What? No, it can’t be from them- I’ve taken them a million times and never had any side effects.” He steps into the room and holds a flat palm up to your forehead. “Oh, honey. You’re burning up.”

“Am I?” You go to feel but he swats your hand away.

“You must have a fever.” He tuts. “Why don’t you go back to bed and I’ll get you some painkillers for that poor head of yours?”

“I won’t be accepting any more drugs from you, thank you very much.” You laugh as you let him guide you back under your duvet.

“Completely understandable. My bad, doll.” He chuckles, folding in the edges of the blanket. “I’ll leave you to it, then. Get some rest.” He tries to take a step back but you instinctively grab onto his wrist.

“Wait.” You groan pathetically. “Can you stay with me for a little while?”

“Of course.” He flashes you that beaming smile of his and you’re struck by a sense of familiarity. He treads over to the other side of bed and joins you under the covers, wrapping his arms around you and letting your head rest on his chest.

“This is gonna sound strange, but…” Your mind races at a mile-a-minute as you come to grips with the sudden onset of images that have flooded your brain. “I think I might’ve dreamt about you.”

“Oh?” He raises his eyebrow and smirks. “What was it about?”

You struggle to put the pieces together; all you can see is a hazy vision of Anakin between your legs, bullying his cock into you as you lay there helpless.

“I can’t even say, it’s so messed up.” You shake the thoughts away, a shiver running through you.

“Sounds more like a nightmare, doll.” He tucks an unruly piece of hair behind your ear. “But it wasn’t real. Just a dream.”

“I know. You’d never do anything like that.” You scoff assuredly and he kisses the top of your head. His gentle touch seizes your chest and you have to focus on regulating your breathing. He’d never guess it but you’d had a fervid crush on Anakin for as long as you’d known him.

“You’re safe here with me.” He brings you closer and you snuggle deeper into his chest, subtly inhaling his sweet, musky scent, hoping he wouldn’t notice. “Now get some rest, darling.” He strokes your hair comfortingly.

“Mmm…love you, Ani.” You unknowingly slip out in a quiet hum before drifting off to sleep.

Anakin seizes up in shock at your admission, total surprise consuming him. You loved him? He couldn’t stop the wide grin from unfurling across his blissful face nor the way his heart leapt with joy from the two simple words. He hadn’t ever allowed himself to treat this as a possibility- it was an undisputed fact that you were too good for him and he never let himself be deluded into thinking otherwise. The elation he felt in holding you in that moment, knowing you wanted to be held back was beyond words.

But just as quickly as the ecstasy flooded his veins, the solemn realisation of his sins hit him like a hammer. A nauseating sense of guilt and regret crept up on him like a maggot into a rose, casting a dark shadow on any future you could’ve had.

What had he done?

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randombush3 · 3 months

Text

dies irae

alexia putellas x reader

part one, part two, part three

words: 12425 (sorry not sorry)

summary: part four, the part that made me realise another part was necessary

warnings: drugs, alcohol, cheating, (a lot of???) vomiting, general angst tbh

notes: in all honesty, i started this with the intention of finishing the series, but it hit 12k and i thought maybe not x

weird little comment, but the last section was originally written in spanish (hear me out: i was on the plane and i didn’t want the people beside me to read it over my shoulder) and i’m still feeling a little iffy about my translation of my og version but oh well!

i hope you enjoy this and are content w waiting another five years for me to churn out the new FINAL part

The sand is warm beneath your feet, each grain rubbing against your bare soles as you sprint. The ground under such surfaces often hardens, proven by the sweat trickling past the thin string of fabric that holds your bikini together. If the beach were not so private, you would be worried about wandering camera lenses.

However, there is no one else here but your favourite people. Well, maybe Nico has dropped to the bottom of the list now that your energy has been worn down while his does not seem to waver.

“I give up,” you pant as he continues to tumble down the shoreline, changing his tactics and swerving into the water, comfortable in his sea. The same sea he looks at each morning from your bedroom window. The one he learnt to swim in. (That and a variety of hotel pools.) “You win, you win!”

The small figure, around twenty metres away, comes to an abrupt halt, wobbling on little legs for a moment. Then he begins to run again, but this time towards the towels and constructed shade you had set up earlier. Unwillingly, you race him back to base camp.

“He ganado,” he declares as he taps Alexia’s shining back as though she is the signpost signifying the finish line. Your hand caresses the divots of muscle soon after, brushing sand across smooth, tanned skin. Nico peers at you strangely, but understands, thanks to Tia Alba, that the beach outfits are special to his mothers.

“Mi ganador,” comes a tired murmur of praise.

“Did you see, Mami? I was so far ahead.” She nods, craning her neck upwards to talk to him. You gladly sprawl out on the vacant towel, passing on the baton to your wife, fortunate that Elena has been asleep in her buggy for the past twenty minutes. “Can I play with Lela now? Is nap time over?”

“No, sweetheart, naptime has just begun.” He looks up at you with pleading, bored eyes. The one unfortunate consequence of going to a private beach is that, unless you bring along your babysitter, there is no one else for Nico to play with. Alexia and you are both exhausted, and today is supposed to be about relaxation. Three-year-olds don’t understand that concept. “If you don’t want to sleep, how about burying Mami?”

“In the sand?”

“Sí, in the sand.”

He leans close to your ear. “Mami says I’m not allowed to do that,” he whispers, though he has not quite mastered the volume of such a tone yet. Alexia pretends not to be listening, but you can feel her foot prodding your shin in protest.

“Rules are sometimes made to be broken,” you tell him. “And if you do bury her, the only way to make her happy again is to get ice-cream. Which means you can also get ice-cream.”

“You are so annoying,” grumbles Alexia.

“This morning, I believe the word you used was ‘sexy’,” you retort. With the Euros on the horizon, it seems that the two of you are using up what little time you have to spend together. Though Alexia sometimes feels like there are hands wrapped around her neck after she failed to win the Champions League once more, she is more than happy to take advantage of the time off before she tries to make amends internationally.

“Mm. You are magically both.”

You tug your sunglasses – Prada, brand-new from a modelling campaign – down slightly, so that they sit lower on your nose. The sun is warm and doing its best to wear Nico down as he finds his discarded spade and begins to dig, and Elena is still fast asleep.

A mischievous grin forms on your lips, one that Alexia knows well. Topless, she flips over onto her back, excusing herself with a muttered comment about an ‘even tan’, and that is invitation enough for you to cup her cheek, your touch as fiery as the surface of the sun that blankets the beach. The gentle breeze ruffles your hair as you lower yourself down to her level.

“The phrase is ‘annoyingly sexy’ in English, darling,” you murmur, your eyes locked onto hers. Even now, after six years, the proximity ignites desire over every inch of your skin, and you cannot wait to kiss. Alexia’s initial grumble turns into a soft chuckle, her eyes sparkling with a mixture of amusement and something more. Impatiently, you kiss her, aware that the moment will soon be ruined by a spray of sand as Nico pursues his mission.

She is just as eager to kiss you back, craving the way you seem to hold the solution to every problem. Part of Alexia’s mind has not yet been able to comprehend the way in which you love her. It is hidden by the other, much larger compartment: the one that reminds her every day that she should never, ever tell you, because it would break your heart. To you, Alexia is making up for lost time. To her, she is secretly begging for forgiveness that you don’t even know she is due.

She knows the minute your phone rings that everything is about to go wrong. No one is supposed to call you today; you have been emphatic about it. You blindly reach for the ringing device, ready to lob it into the ocean, but Alexia grabs your wrist. “It must be something important,” she says, and it feels like she is telling you she understands; you are busy, and she understands.

“I’ll be quick, I promise.” With a quick jog up the steps and onto the concrete of the promenade, you perch on the stone wall separating the beach from the carpark, bare feet swinging over the edge. The rough surface of the wall presses uncomfortably into the exposed flesh of your bum, but you remind yourself that you will soon be lying back down on the beach towels. “Hi? I thought we agreed that pretty much everything could wait until tomorrow. I don’t care about any photos taken of me, and you know that my automatic position is simply to ensure that the children’s faces are blurred out before they get spread around.”

“Y/n!” Your publicist sounds nervous. It’s a stressful job, you guess. Between organising interviews and brand deals and the like, she has to stamp down on unwanted rumours and be on the look-out for any perceived cracks in your very public person. Naturally, you are not perfect.

“Yeah, I’m here. Hi.”

“I’m afraid that it’s not a picture of you this time.” Alexia is now famous in her own right, as she always should have been. With a Ballon d’Or under her belt, you have been promoted to a ‘celebrity couple’.

“She has her own team, you know.”

“I’m sure she will be firing them soon.” The joke fails to land, instead crashing and burning and… You freeze.

“Why?”

“I am sure that you are aware we have feelers out for anything that could potentially harm your reputation.” You nod foolishly, caught up in the undisclosed severity of the phone call, forgetting that she cannot see you. “An hour ago, we were contacted by a photographer; one of the usual ones we get in when you’re in need of a bit of a press-boost. He’s based in Barcelona, has lots of friends in the area and such. I have the terrible job of telling you.”

Your heart quickens as the confession hangs in the air, leaving a heavy silence on the other end of the line. The anticipation builds, and you can almost feel the impending storm swirling just off the coast, waves beginning to thrash against rocks, nature beginning to tear the world down.

“He claims to have some photos, ones that could potentially damage your image,” she says, tone measured and professional. “I haven’t seen them yet, but he described them as… intimate, to say the least.”

“Of Alexia?” you question carefully, forcing the words onto your tongue. “Intimate? What do you mean?”

“Well, they are of her and someone else. Someone who isn’t you.”

“Who?” Dread sets in, and the wall is suddenly not the most uncomfortable thing about your position. You feel too exposed, unsafe in what you are wearing. Taken advantage of, perhaps.

Cheated.

“I have not seen the photos yet, babe. I don’t know what else to tell you.” He would have attached them in his email. Paparazzos don’t have time to harass you digitally as well as in real-life. She must have avoided opening them. Or. Or she is lying.

“I need to see those pictures,” you assert, your need for clarity driving the sentence forwards.

“Are you sure?” You nod again, unable to speak past the lump in your throat, knowing that she cannot see you but feeling helpless to do anything else. She takes your silence as confirmation. There is a brief click of a mouse, and the animated swoosh of an email. “They should come through in a moment.”

“Thank you.”

“Are you… alright?”

She quickly takes the hint from the lack of response and hangs up.

You rest your phone on your thigh as your arms grip onto the ledge of the wall, pulling yourself backwards so that you do not fling yourself off it. You shake as you reach safety, and your fingers feel numb as they tap the screen, accessing your emails robotically until a pinwheel is all that separates you from the photos.

Intimate, huh.

They are practically snogging.

There are eleven images, and each one delivers a blow more painful than the last.

The beach feels confined, like an elaborate cage that you cannot escape. The shoreline creeps towards you, and you seem to be pressed against the hot metal of the car in the carpark. You struggle to recognise the scenes captured as ones where you were present, and the unfortunate date in the bottom right-hand corner evidences the photos as a time when you were not in Barcelona at all: 2021.

The realisation hits hard and you find that everything you have ever believed to be true has simply been a cruel joke that you were excluded from.

What you have been sent is more than just proof; it is a betrayal etched in pixels, an undeniable record of a moment that shatters the foundation of your relationship. Your heart races as your scroll through the images, cruelly reminded of a reality you desperately wish were not true. One you had no idea existed. One that had been kept secret from you.

The lump in your throat grows, and your eyes blur with unshed tears. You are overwhelmed by sharp pain coursing through your veins, and it is as if you have been injected with a poison that burns through your cell tissue, disintegrating every block of your body. It scorches the things you know to be true.

Love goes up in flames before your eyes.

And then a voice that you really do not want to hear speaks, and, just like that, the ashes of what has disappeared are suddenly ablaze once more.

“Nico y yo vamos a tomar helado. ¿Quieres algo?” Sandals, sunglasses, a loose linen shirt. Nico holds her hand, proud of himself. You cannot bear to look at either of them, so you stare at the towels a few metres beneath you.

“Where is Lena?”

“Dormida, aún.”

Shaking, you stand up, enjoying the sharp rocks that pierce into your skin, reminding you that you are yet to die. “Take Nico. I’ll go back down and sit with her.”

“Vale. Te quiero.”

You don’t reply. You wouldn’t have known what to say anyway.

Every step feels as though the world is cracking open and you are going to fall to your death, yet, in the midst of the impending doom, you feel as calm as can be. Numb, perhaps.

Elena stirs as you adjust the parasol providing her the necessary shade. A hand reaches out, prepared to grab onto you, searching for your body like you are her lifeline. You are her lifeline; you are her mother. And so is Alexia.

A tear rolls down your cheek as you let her pull your fingers to her mouth, nails brushing her lips as she whines with the headache of waking up from a nap. “What are we going to do?”

…

The car journey home is silent on your part. You stew in your nothingness, unwilling to engage in the light conversation Alexia creates to keep Nico awake before his sleep schedule is ruined. Barcelona flashes past you, and the city that you once admired feels like the scene of a crime. Looking out the window is almost as sickening as if your eyes were to land on the woman beside you. Almost.

You withhold your grief for the evening, going through the motions of nightly chores; putting the kids to bed, finishing the remainder of your packing, drying the dishes without throwing them at the blonde hair that sails past as she sorts her own suitcases out. A few texts are exchanged between you and your publicist, in which you graciously decide that those pictures will not come from you. Though if her team fails to catch them before they reach Twitter, that is not your problem.

Under the soft glow of the bedside lamp and the comforting blanket of darkness, you clear your throat.

It has been six hours since you found out.

Every second that has passed has done so with excruciating pain, yet you cannot determine whether it has sunk in at all yet. You wonder if, given the chance, you would crumple into yourself and weep as though she has died.

When you look at Alexia, readying herself for bed, you decide that the whole situation is laughable.

You are so stupid. You thought she loved you more than that, and you were embarrassingly incorrect.

“I want you to leave now,” you say firmly, only the bed between you. Alexia pauses, pyjama shorts halfway up her muscular legs as she peers at you curiously. Her confusion is infuriating. “I want you to… go to your mother’s or something. You’re not sleeping here.”

“Why? What have I done?”

She speaks as though this is a normal argument, or as though you are hormonal and unreasonable. You clench your fists and remind yourself not to wake the children up. “I am surprised you didn’t follow her to Mexico.”

It is then that Alexia Putellas realises three things. The first: she hasn’t spoken about Jenni since she left for Pachuca, and she barely pays attention when Nico persuades her to find the stream for the striker’s matches. The second: it has been six months since Jenni called whatever they were doing quits. And the third… the third is how well and truly fucked she is.

She should have confessed her crime the minute she first slept with her; the night after they were knocked out of the World Cup. Elena wasn’t even a concept, then. You took her back though you were unaware you had ever lost her.

Last year, when it was Alexia all alone, she should have confessed her second betrayal. A longer, more hurtful betrayal. Something fuelled by meaningfulness, not passion and heightened adrenaline. If she were in your position, the physicality would not be what obliterated her heart; the emotion behind the entire affair would.

She wipes her eyes, aware that she has started to cry. It is all the confirmation you need. “I’m so sorry,” is the only thing she can think to say, but ‘sorry’ does not amount to the pain she knows she has caused. ‘Sorry’ won’t heal a wound that has cut deep, cut through years of love and happiness and supposed loyalty. ‘Sorry’ does not change the fact that Alexia lent herself to Jenni, let Jenni take her in any capacity she wished, and then returned to you as though it had never even happened.

In all honesty, part of Alexia is very curious about how you have found her out. Mapi would not risk being caught up in such a storm, and Jenni would gain only suffering from telling you because she knows that Alexia would never choose her. Though she has spent night after night with her finger hovering over her sister’s contact, she resolved never to tell Alba either, for fear that her sister would see her for the monster she is and side with you. Selfishly, Alexia does not want anyone to side with you, but even she finds it easy to hate herself.

“Is that all you can offer me?” you croak, and it is clear to Alexia that you are this calm because you are putting your children before yourself. They do not need to hear their parents’ marriage implode; not tonight, not ever. She cannot bear to meet your eyes as you pierce through her bowed head. “Alexia.” She pulls her shorts up fully, forehead parallel to the floor. “Alexia!” you snap.

“I’m sorry,” she repeats.

Alexia Putellas is regarded by most as intimidating, yet, here, she is anything but. She is meek. Pathetic.

She is a woman who continued to make a stupid mistake although she was given so many opportunities to fix it.

And, when Alexia finally grows the balls to look into your piercing eyes, she sees, reflected in your hardened, dark pupils, weakness and idiocy, rimmed with the most stinging of betrayals. It kills her to see you fight your own tears, and it is worse when you have to break eye contact because you are afraid you will vomit if it goes on any longer.

“You are packed, so you can leave tonight. Sort yourself out while I get the children up.”

Everything is ruined because of her.

It is the last night Alexia lives under the same roof as you. It is a horrible way to end a golden age, and the worst possible confirmation of the fleetingness of all things that exist. You hate the world, you hate Jennifer Hermoso, and you hate that you can’t bring yourself to hate your wife.

Alexia says goodbye to a sleepy Nico and a clingy Elena. Your daughter refuses to let her mother go the minute she is passed to her, and all four of you try your best not to cry, whether it be from confusion, regret, or heartbreak.

Nico, inquisitive as one is at his age, does not let the door open without questions. ‘Why now?’ is what causes Alexia to freeze, searching on your face for permission to have one more second with him. You cup the back of Elena’s head, fingers splaying out against her soft hair, soothing her back to sleep. And you nod.

She crouches to his level, dwarfed by her suitcases. In her pocket, her phone buzzes; her taxi has arrived. “¿Te acuerdas cuando te hablé sobre la responsabilidad? Soy la capitana, cariño, y tengo que cuidar a mi equipo, así que ‘ahora’ es lo mejor para ellas.” You are grateful for the lie.

“¿Ahora yo mando? ¿Como me dijiste?”

“Sí. Tienes que cuidar a Mama y Lela, y protegerlas como yo os protejo a vosotros. Y nos veremos prontito, petit. Te lo prometo.”

He is fighting his tears, stiff like a toy soldier marching off to an imaginary battle. You half expect Nico to salute with his chubby, unpractised fingers, but he simply stands there, between Alexia and you. Though Elena is safe in your arms, Nico is caught in the crossfire, two feet innocently leading him into no man’s land.

You take a deep breath as Alexia closes the door behind her. She has been driven out – her own doing – and she knows, because she knows you, that there will be no space in your life for her until your gaping wound dulls in pain. The journey to her mother’s house is the second time she ever considers killing herself, with the first being the night her father died.

But this is how it goes.

You fly to England the next day, holding it together until Elena and Nico are safely in the hands of Anya, but you do not give her a reason for her much-needed babysitting abilities.

It is a small secret. You keep it because on top of being in agony, you are so fucking embarrassed. You. You got cheated on. You weren’t enough for her. (And Jenni was?) It’s really easy to pretend you’re stressed for Alexia, knowing she is heading into a tournament that Spain could win but won’t.

The first official step you take – the very first – is with a nanny. You meet her the day after landing at London Stansted, and she seems to be the perfect choice for the interim period of your life that you have unexpectedly entered; she speaks Spanish, she is discreet, and she reassures you that she is there to enhance family life, not destroy it. And possibly another alluring factor: she is quick to sign an NDA and promise that no photos of your children will make it into any dogshit magazine.

Her first interaction with your children is two hours before your lunch with your publicist, manager, producer, and lawyer. They have agreed to congregate – they have seen the pictures (an exclusive peek, as the deliciously world-destroying surprise photoshoot has not yet been picked up by anyone with ganas to publish it). Each one has a purpose, each one wants to profit off your heartbreak, and, though they’d never admit it for fear of breaking their hard exteriors, each invitee would also like to see if you’re okay.

“Do you… like her?” you sheepishly ask your son while Isabela, the nanny, supervises Elena’s lunch. You’re not entirely sure your daughter understands that the hummus is supposed to go into her mouth, not redecorate the highchair table from white to beige, but Isabela does her best to instruct her, the familiar tinkle of Alexia’s language making your daughter’s eyes light up.

He looks a little puzzled. “Is she a babysitter?”

“Sort of.” You sigh, “it’s just that I have a lot to do, and Mami is playing football now. Isabela is going to help us, but I want to make sure that you want that.”

Nico shrugs. “Don’t care.”

“And she’s going to speak in Spanish, just like Mami does.” In anticipation of a worse reaction, you wince at the slight insinuation that you’re replacing Alexia. He doesn’t pick up on it.

“She sounds funny.”

“That’s because she’s from Colombia,” you answer him, and he nods, storing that information for later. Probably for when Alexia calls to speak to him (a moment you are dreading).

“Is Colombia near Mexico?” He perks up; you know what’s coming next. “Does Isabela know Jenni?”

You have to remind yourself that Nico has not done anything wrong. The fault of the mother is not the son’s, and, briefly, you pray he has inherited your fidelity for the sake of his future partners.

You pretend that the name that just fell from his lips does not fill you with the overwhelming urge to strangle someone. And, calmly, you reply, “probably not, but you can always ask her.”

…

Alexia does not know what to do.

She wishes, she really does, that someone would pass her a clock… and she knows she has trained and worked hard enough to wrestle the hands of time back a year and change her decisions in every situation. Alas, that is impossible.

She tells Mapi, as the team touches down in England, what has happened. The defender is unimpressed – angry, even, at her best friend – but nothing warrants what is to come.

The morning feels eerily normal. Breakfast is difficult, especially when all Alexia can think while she eats is that every morsel in her mouth fuels the monster she has become. Every bite, every sip of coffee, leads her to live another day. She is not particularly certain that she deserves that.

Mapi does not look at her, swerves her request to be partners when training begins. Head down, eyes slowly filling with tears, Alexia takes the punishment. She says nothing when Pina pinches her side, “Patri’s being annoying”, and drags her into the drill.

She runs, she passes the ball, Pina turns and shoots it into the mini-net.

Pina runs, she passes the ball, Alexia turns.

Something goes wrong.

Maybe it is that the pitch is uneven, cut up from whoever had trained before. Maybe it’s the pass, slightly off-target. Maybe she is at that point in her menstrual cycle where the risk of injury is higher – that’s being looked into, isn’t it?

Maybe it’s that her body can no longer stay so robust when everything else in her life is hurtling towards the ground in the most epic downhill slope possible.

Maybe.

The pop is unmistakable, and the pain searing. She can’t help the scream she lets out, barely registering whoever has rushed to her side while she presses her face into the dirt, tears watering the grass.

“I’ve done my ACL,” Alexia gasps, lifting her head up slightly. She catches sight of the blue sky, the green grass. The bright sun shining down on her, hot against her neck but nothing in comparison to the agony in her knee.

She blinks, thinking her eyes are blurring from her tears.

A second later, she is unconscious.

When Alexia wakes up, she is glad to have passed out. She has no memory of being hauled off the pitch or brought into the medical room. Her head aches and her knee throbs, but she knows that there is someone beside her so she does her best to hold in the immediate wave of sobs that seem to take over her.

A calloused hand reaches for hers, unclenching her fist, urging her to squeeze the pain away, pass off some of it to her companion. They have given her pain medication. She can tell because the white walls dance around her and the only word she can manage to get out is your name.

She whispers it over and over again.

“I know,” comes a soothing voice, poorly concealing the worry that cracks the tone. “Shh, I know, I know. You’re okay, Ale. She’s… she’s on her way.”

…

The call is unexpected.

Mapi never has much reason to talk to you on your own, unless you share a concern for your wife’s wellbeing. You suppose that’s a bit of a redundant commonality now. Your lawyers have drawn up a custody agreement and, upon meek request, divorce papers: a gift for after the Euros.

“Dime, Mapi. Estoy trabajando,” you say curtly, signalling from inside the booth that the phone call is nothing to worry about and you can resume the recording session in a moment.

Mapi’s news makes you even more resentful than you were already feeling, because you can’t help but sprint to your car the minute the address is given.

…

Pain becomes part of everyday life.

Crutches, too.

Alba and Eli already existed as frequent visitors, but the former increases her appearances so that she has moved in the day before Alexia’s surgery.

It spills out, the night of the surgery, that Alexia and you are no longer together. That you left her, with good reason. It’s a surprise, considering you had stayed by her side during the twelve hours in England between the medical room, the hospital, and the airport.

When Alexia reluctantly tells Alba why, Alba decides that you are a saint and her sister, a sinner. She holds her hands behind her back to keep herself from slapping Alexia across the face, but little does she know, Alexia longs for the anger, wishing she wasn’t being pitied for her injury. She wishes there was no injury to be pitied for, but, then again, she tells herself that she deserves it and accepts the agony as one would hold a blade to their wrists and slit them.

This behaviour, this quiet ideology that she has been punished for her mistake, is what leads Alba to ensure the keys to the balcony are hidden and the kitchen knives are tucked away in a cupboard, out of sight. Or perhaps it is what she hears her sister telling herself in the mirror. Worthless. Degenerate. Evil, cruel, horrible. Selfish!

She has two children with you, for God’s sake!

“I have ruined my own life.” Her words burn, the intensity of her anger enough to make Alba flinch, hands gripping the steering wheel harder, forcing her way forwards. The hospital comes into view and Alexia cries out in anguish. “I have ruined it, Alba! I have ruined everything!”

Alexia, The Ruiner.

She bears the new name with something more than disappointment. She lets the nurses examine her knee, compliment Alba for her care-taking, and reassure her about the surgery. She lets them talk her through possible complications, secretly hoping one will occur and she will wither away; no longer a footballer, no longer a mother, no longer your wife. Just Alexia, The Ruiner.

Alba and her argue, Alexia lying back in the cot, hospital gown patterned against clinically white sheets, light fabric against her paling skin. “You wanting to die is not you wanting to kill yourself. It’s your regret, and it’s your cowardice at not being able to face the consequences of your actions.” Alexia had been hot-headed enough to voice how she did not want to make it through the surgery. She is in excruciating pain, and is convinced they need to investigate it. “It’s your knee, not your heart. Your heart hurts because you cheated on her and she rightfully left you! Don’t you ever say something so fucking stupid again.”

“Alba!” Eli’s entrance is neither good nor bad. “Alba, leave her.” Alexia’s tears run down the sides of her face, hitting the sheets like little bullets. The soft caress of her mother’s hand across her cheek is no comfort, and Alexia only sobs harder. “You are going to be fine, mi cielo. The surgery is going to go well and you will come back even stronger.”

Alexia knows that, once you have torn your ACL, you are more likely to tear it again, so she mentally disputes her mother’s claim. She has no energy to voice the thought, however.

“Mamá, she’s convinced she’s going to have a heart attack.” Alba points to her sister’s chest, as if to disagree by showing their mother that nothing seems to be out of the ordinary. They begin to argue, and Alexia watches her family implode, deeming herself once more, Alexia, The Ruiner.

It’s not a heart attack, it turns out. She falls victim to a severe panic attack just as they begin to wheel her away. They increase her dosage of anaesthetic.

Unfortunately, the next morning Alexia comes to after a successful surgery and remembers nothing. That is until she looks to her bedside and finds only her mother there (Alba having gone to the big, empty apartment to adjust it to her sister’s newly-disabled lifestyle).

She relives the kisses Jenni used to press to her neck, the marks sucked into her skin though Jenni knew she was not hers to brand. She relives your expression when you told her you knew, the grimace you had worn, the way your eyes flicked to the ensuite as though you were going to throw up at any point.

She hears her knee pop again, sees the trophy slip from her grasp, sees it float into the realm of possibility along with the Champions League cup.

“You’re awake,” Eli says with surprise, offering a warm but sympathetic smile. She reaches out to touch Alexia, but Alexia jerks her body backwards, instantly regretting it when her knee begins to ache unbearably. “They said you’ll be in a lot of pain at first, but it will subside and, soon, you can start recovery. Your physiotherapist is going to visit in an hour or so, and I cannot count how many well-wishes you have received.” Weirdly, Eli thinks to herself, Jenni has said nothing.

Alexia shakes her head, trying to dispel the fog in her mind. “Do the… Do the children know I am hurt?”

“I believe so,” Eli replies with a nod. “Y/n broke the news to them, but we haven’t heard from her since you went into the operating theatre. I have no idea whether she’s going to come here. I assume she will.”

“She won’t,” mutters Alexia, refusing to look at her mother.

“Oh, don’t be so gloomy. She’s your wife, of course she is going to come.” A dark storm brews in the cagey hospital room, but Eli remains an oblivious ray of sunshine. “I know you don’t want Nico and Lela to see you like this, but they miss you. They must have been so excited for the Euros!”

All of it is the wrong thing to say. If Eli had known, she would have approached the uncertainty differently.

If Alexia were not so angry at herself, so guilty, so destructive, she would have calmly explained that your absence is both warranted and understandable.

Instead.

Well, instead, this comes out of her: “She is not going to come because I had a fucking affair and she has left me and taken the children to fucking England where they are probably never going to be allowed to see me ever, and I will live out the rest of my days as a fucking coach because I am useless and I am never going to play football again!”

Eli sits back in her chair, shocked.

“What have you done?”

Neither knows if it is a question or a damnation, but Alexia chooses to answer her mother regardless; “I have ruined everything, and now I am paying the price for it.”

…

Your friends gloat a little bit, calling it Karma. Anya and Gio are first in disbelief, but they soon progress onto the stage of hatred – something you have not yet been able to access.

For now, life feels as though it is on auto-pilot. Your children are happy and safe, your country is going to do well in the Euros, and time does not stop ticking no matter how hard you wish it would.

Alexia’s surgery is successful. You see the update on Twitter, not wanting to contact Alba or Eli in case Alexia thinks you have forgiven her. You haven’t. Perhaps you never will.

“There are two ways you can go about this,” Gio says with a smirk, holding out a thong to you as you stand in your bedroom in just a towel. “You’re hot and rich and famous… and now single, too.” You are not completely sure of that, but you nod, following along. You slip into the lace and then point to the England shirt folded on top of your pillow. It gets thrown at your face. “You can wallow in it and weep like a damsel in distress, giving her the satisfaction of breaking your heart…”

“I don’t think she wanted to–”

“She cheated on you,” Gio cuts you off bluntly. After a moment, your shoulders drop and you resign to hearing her plan. “As said earlier, hot, rich, famous… Babe, just get with someone else. Get with everyone else! Your babies are looked after 24/7 and this is London, my dear. The pond is really an ocean and you are a catch. As your bestest friend, I know what’s best for you. You’ve got an album coming out in September, a tour to hop on in November, and about three thousand dildos you can hop on after that!”

You cringe. “Don’t be crass.”

“Don’t be a prude.” She gestures to herself. “Look at me; Mia’s fine and healthy, doesn’t legally have to see her arsehole of a father, and I get a good shag every fortnight.”

“No, I’ve drawn up the custody agreement already. I’ll go back to Barcelona when the school year starts, and we can swap every two weekends. But I’m keeping our home – she can find somewhere else to live, seeing as all of this is her fault.”

“And the tour?” Gio asks as you pull on your England jersey and a pair of shorts. Good weather has blessed the start of the tournament, and you have been invited to the first match at Old Trafford by Manchester United themselves. Gio and Anya are coming, and you think they have put you in with a few of their players and executives. Your father has his own ticket, planning to meet you there and convince you to pay your grandmother a visit (she doesn’t like that you are lesbian and therefore you don’t like her).

“I don’t know,” you sigh, “because I’m not sure if it’s a good idea to make the children’s lives even more unstable. Maybe it’s best to give them a few months to adjust to the idea of us not being together.”

Gio hums in agreement, knowing she had it easy with her own co-parenting adjustment because her daughter was a baby with no recollection of her parents being a couple, much less in-love. “You’re a good mum.” She kisses your cheek and wraps you in a very needed hug. “You’ll get through this because you are stronger than a pathetic affair.”

You swear.

“What time’s our train leaving?!”

The match is a good one, and the atmosphere is enough to make you feel the slightest bit alive. Spain plays in two days, and though you have good reason to believe Alexia is going to be there, you are booking a family trip to Legoland to delay the first hand-off of many.

England win with one goal to nil, courtesy of Beth Mead’s chip. You are on your feet, cheering the entire match. One of the United executives tells you that he loves your passion and asks you if you’d take his ticket to the post-match drinks as he wants to head home for a nap. You laugh, the old Mancunian reminding you of your father, and accept. It’s just the one ticket, so you bid Gio and Anya goodbye, book a hotel for the night (comfortable with the idea that Isabela has safe hands to care for your children), and give your father a valid reason to pass up on the visit to Didsbury.

The only person at this event that you really know is Alessia Russo, after exchanging a few DMs last Christmas to wrangle a signed Manchester United jersey for Nico’s Christmas present (a gift Alexia had refused to say was from her as well).

“No kids today?” she asks with a grin, pulling you into a friendly hug.

“Didn’t manage to get them tickets,” you reply. “But now I get to drink, and you get to watch me and wish you weren’t on a nutrition plan.”

She shakes her head. “We’ve actually been instructed to celebrate the wins. Sarina Wiegman says it’s a key part of tournament success.” You look around the room, noticing every Lioness here, hair still wet from the showers and donning team-issued tracksuits, has a can of beer in their hands. Jorge Vilda could never. “Glad to see you haven’t yet become a Spain and Barcelona fan. Feeling patriotic enough to be introduced to our captain?”

Leah Williamson bears the same concentrated eyes gifted to Alexia; determination, victory, leadership.

You’re unsure if you have ever formally met her, perhaps at the Brits once. “I go with Alex? Alex Scott,” she says, as though she is trying to impress you. She takes the briefest of looks down to your hands that hang near your waist with no glass to hold (the bar has cut you off for half an hour).

You wear one ring. It is not the one with which Alexia promised you her total devotion, but it is from her all the same. An old gift – maybe from your first anniversary?

Leah doesn’t ask whether you are still married.

“I heard your son loves football?” He is obsessed with his mother, he wishes to follow her in every single thing she does. “You should bring him to our next match. I’ll get him one of those passes, and– Hey, you know what? I bet there’s a way I can get him a place as a mascot for one of the matches! Both our next ones are down south.”

You smile. “Really?”

“Yeah, course. He might be a bit young but I’m always glad to help out our little fans, and it might throw Spain off their game.” She winks, offering no further explanation, and is suddenly called away before you can request more information.

You have to admit, the idea of Nico walking (toddling) out with England makes you feel both proud and satisfied. It will be a tiny jab towards Alexia, which, honestly, is a privilege considering how she has stabbed you in the back repeatedly with a machete.

When your son’s first time on a proper football pitch is with Alessia Russo, holding her hand with wide eyes and a wider smile, you are sure Alexia has smashed the screen of whatever TV she has been studying her opponents with.

…

Spain playing England in the quarter-final feels intensely political within your family.

Alexia is in Brighton for the first time in her life, and she hates more than anything that she is not preparing herself for a match. She won’t be going through her pre-game rituals for another seven months, at least.

You tell Isabela to take the children to Alexia’s hotel, unable to put yourself in front of the wheel. Your hands have not stopped shaking since your manager texted you a screenshot of their conversation (seeing as you refuse to talk to her, not for pettiness but for fear of breaking yourself in two), and Isabela poured you a glass of wine before she left to calm your nerves.

You feel sick, and the toilet water turns red as your body rejects the rioja. Once you have wiped your mouth, you laugh at the notion that even Spanish wine is unwelcome inside of you.

“Who are you?” Alexia demands as the revolving doors of the lobby reveal her two babies with a stranger. She is quick to remove Elena from the arms of this new woman, although she is disgruntled by how comfortable her daughter seems. One of her crutches falls to the ground, Alexia not having been able to master childcare and post-surgery impairments because she has not seen the children she is supposed to care for, but she does not find it in herself to care.

“Hola, Sra. Putellas. Encantada.” Isabela holds out her hand but Alexia does not shake it, jaw clenched at the way you have gotten a Spanish-speaking nanny as though to completely erase her babies’ Catalan accents and memory of their other mother! “Me contrataron para ayudar a Y/n con los niños. Me dijeron que usted se encargaría de ellos hoy.”

“Sí, lo estoy haciendo, porque son MIS hijos.” She looks at Nico, who has been hiding shyly behind his nanny’s leg, afraid of his mother’s fierceness. Alexia softens, hoping to welcome him into her embrace, but her stupid knee won’t bend and she can’t get onto his level. Isabela reaches out to help her, or to at least steady her so that she doesn’t drop the squirming toddler she is holding, but the help is unwanted and, quite frankly, embarrassing.

Alexia’s frustration brings tears to her eyes.

She quickly blinks them back.

“¿Le gustaría que la ayudara, Sra. Putellas? Me han pagado por trabajar hoy, así que no es un proble–”

“¡No!” Alexia snaps. Silently, she curses how condescending and petty you have become. Paying the nanny in advance to taunt her for her injuries! “No. Estaré bien. Soy su madre.”

“Por supuesto, pero también está herida.” Isabela looks around the lobby for a moment. “¿Está sola?”

Alexia knows that Mapi’s parents are going to be arriving any minute now, kindly offering to help out with Nico and Elena. “Oh, we do not mind! We’d love for María to have children of her own,” they had said.

“Soy perfectamente capaz de manejarlo–”

“Isabela,” Isabela supplies.

“Isabela,” Alexia repeats. “Ahora, si ha terminado, vaya a disfrutar su día libre.”

She waits on the sofa just left of the door for Mapi’s parents, silently begging them to arrive as soon as possible. Nico is bored and would like to run around, upset that Alexia denies him his fun whenever he whines to play. Elena is tired, grumpily napping in Alexia’s lap, but that means she can’t position her knee the way the surgeons had asked her to. Isabela hadn’t meant to, but she had dumped two rucksacks of toys, snacks, and clothes onto Alexia, who still hasn’t been able to retrieve her crutch from the floor.

Close to tears and very overwhelmed, the arrival of the couple comes as a great relief. “Oh, you poor thing,” coos Mapi’s mother, a caring woman from whom her friend inherited the same quality. She kisses Alexia’s forehead and instantly takes the weight from her lap, hushing the soft whimpers Elena lets out. “Let us look after the babies. You make sure you have the tickets sorted. Have you taken your pain medication? Oh, let me take care of it for you.”

The fuss is something she has had to get used to, but she is thankful for the assistance. They wrestle Nico into his red Spain jersey, something he was not delivered in, and they ensure all three of their wards are comfortable before the stadium appears in the windshield of the taxi.

Alexia begins to get nervous.

Spain has more talent than England – always has – but they don’t have the same funding nor support. Their manager is a dickhead and the federation corrupt, and Alexia’s teammates suffer daily in a way no Lioness would be able to comprehend. She fears for their reputation, for their progression.

Her nerves increase when she sees you in the stands, in your own box of course. It seems that you see her too, but your only acknowledgement of her presence is the wave you give to your children. Alexia has to remind them sharply in Catalan that they are Spanish.

Afterwards, when Spain lost and Alexia is blaming herself for the defeat, you walk through the tunnel, following Leah’s directions that she had sent over text. You’d added her to your contacts yesterday, growing tired of Instagram DMs.

The odd thing about this area is that to your left, nothing is heard and the air hangs its head in shame, but to your right, a nation celebrates its victory. Sadly, you know you have to fetch your children from the Spain changing room before you say goodbye to the English heroines.

You knock on the door, politely. You have never been more glad that a player has not been selected for a squad. Jenni has missed the Euros due to injury, much like her partner-in-crime.

A solemn Ona Batlle, a Manchester United player who serves as a bridge between worlds in your household, opens the door, making no attempt to force a smile when she sees that it is you. You are (were) their captain’s wife; you are like family.

“Hi,” you breathe, not wanting to be the one to pierce through the silence.

Ona stands to one side and you pass.

Most of the girls are tearful, sniffling into their jerseys, heads in their hands, but no one is as distraught as Mapi. Her sobs take the fun out of winning, her devastation crushing and contagious and impossibly hard to ignore. She buries her face into Alexia’s shoulder, but it does nothing to muffle her cries.

You gulp, catching hazel eyes, understanding the plea to not make this feel worse.

You are heartbroken, and so is Mapi. For different reasons, yes, but both organs are shattered in the same way.

Alexia mutters something very quietly, secretly wishing Mapi does not let her go because this is the first time the defender has actually spoken to her since Alexia did what she did, but the blonde hair stops itching her face soon enough.

Rooted to the spot, you search the room for two smaller Spaniards, finding them both taking after Alexia, comforting the players.

“Nico, Lela, come on,” you croak, finding tears in your own eyes. “Say bye-bye to Mami.”

Their hugs and kisses are missed the moment Alexia leaves the country, and the absence of them makes Alexia crumble completely when she finds the letter from your lawyer that Alba has been hiding from her.

…

September rolls around with school, the start of your custody agreement, and the release of your new album.

Judgement Day.

For many, it confirms the split from your wife. Those pictures were never picked up by a magazine, so you have had them deleted with a baseless threat to sue for defamation.

Alexia no longer has to communicate with you through one of your employees, but any texts exchanged are few and far between. She tells you that she is renting a flat near the training centre. It has three bedrooms, but Nico and Elena share one because her mother is living with her while she recovers from her ACL. She also partially tore her meniscus, though she had hesitated to pass that news on, but everything seems to be in order and she is ahead of schedule.

You reluctantly text her whenever you leave the country, whether that is because you are flying to London for work (and to visit Leah, who you are now good friends with) or because a club opening has called and you have answered. It’s not as messy as the media makes it seem, but you agree with the articles that say you seem to drink as though it is what keeps you alive. The word ‘addict’ gets thrown around, but you are sitting in an armchair in front of your therapist before that escalates, if not for yourself then for the sake of your children.

They themselves do not understand. Nico frequently asks when Alexia will come home, though he has usually just visited her when this question pops out, and Elena throws big tantrums during the swaps. Those are done at a neutral location: the park near you. You hope the playground takes the edge off the palpable tension between you and Alexia as you sit on opposite sides of the same bench, exchanging brief updates about your shared duty until whoever is a mother for the next two weekends makes up an excuse to go.

Just before Christmas, once you have calculated that it’s technically Alexia’s turn with their children until January, you go on your biggest night-out since the days when all you were was a 2010s pop star in a girl-group. With no one to go home to and an empty house in Highgate awaiting your return, you get the closest to sleeping with someone else since before meeting Alexia. Her lips trail down your neck, the white powder on her nose rubbing onto your skin as she presses herself into you. You grope her body desperately, painfully dissatisfied by the bones and creamy skin your hands find. You are used to muscle, to strength, to power.

Not some anorexic model who calls you a MILF and hasn’t had a sober day in years.

In the end, you don’t end up sleeping with her, but it makes the headlines nonetheless. Your publicist lets them. “The world needs to see you move on, even if you aren’t,” she says. Your slight disagreement is not voiced, and social media explodes with further confirmation that you are single. A group of football fans are quick to attack you, calling you cruel for leaving Alexia when she is injured, but the thousand-person army doesn’t particularly bother you. You are doing your ex a favour by not opening up about the reason for the split, and you are both aware of that.

You spend Christmas with your parents, who are not pleased to have you moping about their house. Your father tells you that success is the best revenge. You tell him that your album has topped the charts in December, winning its battle against Christmas music.

“But that hasn’t mended a broken heart,” he is unkind enough to point out. “And neither will models, drugs, or alcohol.”

At this point in the day, you have made it through a bottle and a half of wine and a pack of Marlboro Golds. Voice hoarse from smoking and sobbing the entirety of Christmas Eve, you tell him to “fuck off” and call a taxi for yourself.

You don’t remember the destination you had typed in, but you end up at Leah Williamson’s house.

Leah is home, having returned from Milton Keynes half an hour ago, and is not really surprised by the state you are in. She supposes that she has gotten to know you well enough to realise that you are far from stable. This is the first time the English captain has seen you heartbroken, but she is unsure whether it will be the last.

…

Your tour commences the following month, with January being a fresh start to a new year. You tell Leah, who invites you out with her on NYE, that this year you won't be cheated on. It is not the comment that makes her laugh, but rather the way it slurs out of your mouth.

Barcelona feels suffocating when you arrive at the park to say goodbye to Nico and Elena. You’ll be in the States for the entire month and maybe some of February. Alexia is sure it will be fine, especially since the team has taken it upon themselves to look after the two children and help where they can. Additionally, Alexia is growing closer to one of her friends, Olga, who loves children and wanted to be a teacher before she decided on something much cooler.

Alexia has the courtesy to send Mapi and Ingrid in her place, knowing that you do not want to talk to her. You haven’t yet heard her explanation, but that does not matter. Nothing excuses what she did, and nothing will. (And with Jenni, who is no longer the godmother to Elena, the title being revoked instantly.)

“Will you miss us?” Nico asks as you kiss his soft hair, hugging him tightly. “Mami said that we have to swap every three findes so why no now?”

“Why not now?” you gently correct him. “Because I have to work. I’m going to sing in front of lots and lots of people and, maybe, write some new songs!” Your attempt to excite him crashes and burns, but you are not going to give up. “This is a secret so you can’t tell anyone, but some really, really special people want to make songs with me.”

“Who?” he pouts.

“Well, one of Mami’s favourites, Karol G. She is very nice, and she told me she has an idea for a collaboration.” Petty, yes, but also a career move. Nico’s innocence and lack of understanding about the meaning of separation means that he sees your plans as a very nice gift for Alexia. “And, let me think. Ooh, Bad Bunny – you know him, don’t you? I’m sure Pina or Patri or–”

He pulls away from your embrace, taking a step back. “Sí,” he says, sounding exactly like Alexia, “but to Mami, she no like because he says rude things.”

“Adults are allowed to say rude things,” you reply with a cheeky smile, winking at him. “Your mami says rude things all the time, but not in front of you.”

“Really?”

“Yep, but you’ll have to ask her about that.”

Alexia has hobbled through the nighttime routines, aided by Olga, who has halved the job by picking Elena and Nico up from nursery and school and watching them until Alexia’s day at the training ground had ended. Her and Olga haven’t kissed yet, but Alba has advised her sister to be quick about it if she ever intends to. Alexia is not sure she does want that, because your absence has only made how much she loves you (and how much she fucked up) even more obvious.

Their beds are on opposite sides of the room, which is technically the master bedroom – only fair, Alexia thinks, because they are having to share here but not when staying with you – and Elena is fast asleep by the time Nico is tired of the bedtime stories he has relentlessly requested. She brushes off the slight sting of his dismissal of her acting and helps him settle underneath the covers.

As usual, she presses a kiss to both cheeks and the tip of his nose, and tells him to have nice dreams and a good rest. The weekend starts tomorrow, which means he gets to join Alexia at the training centre and sit in on the sessions. Alexia is slightly jealous because she is still stuck in the gym, but as long as he is entertained, she will get over it.

“Mami, how long is a month?” asks Nico, voice small and groggy and… is that a hint of an accent? Maybe the two and a half months of Isabela’s Spanish has affected him. She will look into it.

He tugs on her jumper when she spaces out. “Sorry,” Alexia whispers. “A month is thirty days. Maybe you need to pay attention at school.” She pokes his cheek playfully, and he giggles.

“I do pay attention, I do. Thirty days is long.”

Alexia dreams of the football pitch, of the grass she has been promised she will play on before April. “It can be very long,” comes her agreement, picturing where in her recovery she will be come February. “It can also be very short.”

“I miss Mama.”

His statement, unbeknownst to him, is uncomfortably relatable.

“Thirty days will be very short. You’ll see her again soon, and, you know what? She made me promise to give you goodnight kisses from her every night! She is going to send them to me from America, and I’ll pass them onto you.”

“Really?”

“Sí,” says Alexia with pursed lips, raising her eyebrows to invite him to doubt her. He looks up at her with adoration, as if her word is law. She can only be thankful that you are merciful enough to have not turned her own children against her. You have expressed your wish to keep them from being collateral damage, and Alexia respects you for that.

“Mama said that she makes songs in LA with Karol G!”

Then again, there are other ways to be petty.

…

Touring has always exhausted you. Eat, sleep, travel, sing, in varying orders; the schedule grows repetitive and tight after the first week.

After the first show in LA, you bring a blurry face to your hotel room. You kiss her, you can’t bear to do anything more, and you let her sleep off her drugs in your bed while you take the sofa in your suite.

High on adrenaline half the time and utterly knocked-out when not, you zombie your way through the travelling, grouchily rehearsing new songs on the road, signing merchandise for your screaming fans. You get asked about your private life in a few interviews initially, but the journalists soon learn that the topic is to be avoided if they wish for you to talk to them at all.

The headlines continue to tear apart images captured of you at clubs, and magazines never seem to find the pictures of you with your children when you visit them while you make your way around Europe.

There comes a point where you look at a woman and she becomes, in the eyes of the media, your latest plaything.

Alexia is seething by the time your two-night show in Barcelona rolls around.

One day, when Nico and Elena understand the concepts of affairs and heartbreak, they will see the articles written about their mothers; the hate Alexia gets, the times she has been called a whore by fans of the same sport she devotes her life to, the stark inequality between her and her male counterparts. With these horrors of the world, they’ll see the pictures of you, pupils blown out, eyes red. Women clinging onto you that perhaps faintly resemble Alexia.

Because Alexia knows you, because she loves you, she can see that what has been labelled your ‘slay’ era is really fuelled by devastation. A disaster that she caused. It riddles her with guilt, but she doesn't know how to expel that emotion from her head without reverting to the early days of her loneliness where she ate nothing and made her sister seriously worry whether she was going to find her bleeding out in the bathtub one day. And so, with a lack of command over such a strong feeling, she decides to rage. She is furious with your irresponsibility.

“Where should we eat?” your guitarist asks with a grin as you touchdown in Barcelona. The soft murmur of Spanish and Catalan is unexpectedly comforting, the familiarity grounding. Maybe Barcelona has become your home. Maybe it never stopped being that, because home is where the heart is and, frustratingly, yours still belongs to the woman who tore it out of your chest and didn’t even have the guts to tell you about it.

“I can’t,” you reply quickly, wiping the sweat from travel off your brow with the sleeve of your turtleneck. “I promised my son I’d tuck him in while I’m in the country, and my daughter has been drawing at nursery so I’d like to collect some of the pictures and see if I can get them blown up onto canvases.”

Laughing, your crew make their way off the jet. “You know, most celebrities would pay thousands for abstract art but you get yours from a toddler.”

“She’s talented.” Mapi draws with her, you’ve been told. Elena is what makes Ingrid yearn for a ring to appear in their relationship sooner rather than later. “And take the piss all you want, but if you had had to put my kids through what I have, you’d feel the same.”

The sofa in the Putellas household (the apartment no longer inhabited by Eli, who was very glad to escape the intense atmosphere as soon as Alexia was cleared to live by herself) houses three unsettled humans of varying sizes. The biggest, Alexia, shifts on the soft, new cushions, awaiting your arrival with gulps of brewing tears and the latest set of paparazzi photos of you fresh in her mind. The boy, Nico, practically vibrates with excitement, promising himself that he will drag out this bedtime as long as possible to make up for all the others you have missed. The smallest is upset because she hasn’t fallen asleep yet, kept awake by her older brother who shakes her whenever she starts to drift off, hastily scolding her with a ‘no, Lela! Mama is coming home’.

With no key to this flat, you are forced to be buzzed up.

The anticipation builds. Nico and Alexia try to remember what you smell like, testing themselves to see if they can recall it scent for scent. Have you changed your shampoo? Alexia wonders, Do you still use the same moisturiser?

“Hi, my darlings!” you squeal as the door flies open and Nico comes hurtling into your crouched form, closely followed by his unsteady little sister. “Oh, how I’ve missed you!” You squeeze them as though you are never going to let go, and only release them from the hug when Elena begins to whine, adrenaline rush dying and tiredness overcoming her once more.

“Mama, home,” Nico says with an inaccurate finality. You spare Alexia a glance as he pulls you through the bare walls and grey decor until you reach a door with stickers up and down the white-washed wood. “Mami made me change, but you can read! Lela wants this one.” He rumages through the box of books near the children’s whiteboard (on it, the odd x’s and o’s of football tactics), pulling out a few to stack into his own pile before thrusting something you recognise very well.

“Mami reads to us in English sometimes,” he says matter-of-factly, though Alexia silently curses him from where she is standing in the doorway. “Important to know.”

You chuckle. “Mm, very important. How else would you talk to me?” Elena quietly crawls into your lap, happy to take over Nico’s bed, where you are sitting. You stroke her hair, holding her close. “Mami reads you ‘The Very Hungry Caterpillar’?”

He is too young to know what scepticism looks like.

“Es que hay ‘La Pequeña Oruga Glotona’.”

You refuse to look at the voice which speaks, but you nod.

“Alright, why don’t you get into bed, and then I’ll start to make my way through the mountain of books. I am absolutely all yours for tonight, my loves.”

…

Alexia’s hands slam down on the dining table, slapping against the wood with a loud bang. “Enough!” she exclaims, her voice slicing through the tense air like a knife. Her eyes blaze in fury and you shrivel, not quite sure what you have done to her. You grant her the silence she needs to continue, though her shout echoes through the shattered tranquillity like a bomb that continues to explode. “It is enough.”

“What, Alexia?”

You sound kind of… bored once you have regained your composure. Your shock is now replaced with a blank expression, and you run your eyes over your nails, examining your cuticles so that you don’t risk making eye contact with her.

“You think you can just waltz in here as if you haven’t offered yourself to the entire world and expect everything to be okay?” Her voice trembles with indignation, venom dripping from each word she spits out. “You can’t go from common slut to mother in one day!”

Nails forgotten, you square your shoulders and set your jaw. “I hadn’t realised you were the jealous type, Ale.” The nickname slips out like a poisonous dart, taunting her, wounding her. It rattles her, and you intend to shake her more. “It’s none of your business, not anymore. Deal with it – or don’t, I don’t care.”

“What kind of example are you setting for our children?” she continues, lips curling into a scornful sneer. “Kissing anything with a mouth! Like some, some hormonal teenager. And to have it all over the papers? It’s trashy! It’s embarrassing for me, because my wife has her hands down the pants of every woman she meets, pumped full of alcohol and drugs and… You, you go to these events, paid to get yourself on the front pages so that they can be mentioned in the location of the incident, and… and that’s like prostitution! Making money from your body, from sex!”

Her fists clench and she storms towards you, footsteps harsher than her bad knee can probably take, but you make no move to back down. You lift your chin up; “I don’t have to resort to prostitution for money. I have more than enough.”

“Then you do it for attention,” Alexia reasons with herself, albeit very loudly. “That is what you are, aren’t you? A slut for the cameras and the glitz and glamour of it all. So quick to jet off on tour, leaving me with our children–”

“I may be a ‘slut’ for attention, but at least I am not a whore for a woman who is not my fucking wife!” You press your hand to her chest roughly, pushing her away from you. “I’m not the one who had an affair, I’m not the one who ruined everything!”

Alexia recoils at your words, freeing herself from your searing touch before she melts. She forces her fury to its boiling point. “How dare you,” she seethes, voice cracking at the ferocity in which she forces the sentence out. “You think you can just throw my mistakes in my face?” You hold your ground. She will not intimidate you. “You think you’re so righteous, but you’re not as innocent as you pretend to be.”

It is a baseless accusation. You both know it.

“The only fact we have here is that you fucked Jenni. Our daughter’s godmother. Your ‘best friend’, my friend too! I trusted her, and I trusted you, and you took that trust and obliterated it by sleeping with her!”

Alexia wants to cut you deep, wants to give you the gory details of it all, but she hears the croak of your voice and knows you will not make it to your hotel if she tells you.

“I slept with Jenni, sure, but you have passed yourself around enough to make us even.”

“Nothing will make us ‘even’, Alexia,” you cry, meaning to sound scarier than you do. You can’t help the tears from streaming down your face, nor the hoarseness of your throat. “And I would never ever do to you what you did to me!”

You have to go on vocal rest the next day, otherwise the concert would be called off.

Alexia refuses to attend, even though most of her teammates will, instead pawning Nico and Elena off to your backstage staff and dangerously driving herself to Alba’s place.

It is one of those nights where Alba cannot leave her side for fear Alexia will choke herself to death on her tears. When the elder of the two can longer hold it all in, Alba ties her hair back with an old hair bobble so that the blonde strands don’t get in the way of her sister’s vomit.

("I don't want to live like this," Alexia says, her eyes wide and alert. Her little sister looks at her with empathy, searching, with a broken heart, for a version of a woman from the past she's not sure she knows. This Alexia is not the same.

"Of course you don’t." It's obvious. Obvious by the way she forces her existence without happiness, without company, without a smile. It's like there is no sun in Alexia's world, nor a blue sky, nor an end.

It never ends.

So, she says, "I don't want to live like this, without her, without the family I dream of every night, every waking moment. I don’t want to live, Alba. I didn’t want to live in August, and I haven’t since, and I… I do it because people rely on me." She takes in a deep, acidic breath, grimacing at the taste of bile on her tongue. “If it were just me, just Alexia”--The Ruiner, she silently adds–“I wouldn’t be here. Alba, Alba, I don’t want to live like this.”

She carries on repeating it because Alba has to understand. There can't be a possibility that Alba thinks her sister is insincere. What a lie that would be! To Alexia, she prefers death over continuing like this, with her head in the toilet and vomiting, vomiting, vomiting.

"If I had the chance, I would go back to August 2021 and never sleep with Jenni. I’d not let her kiss me, not give into it. I'm exhausted from it; from my loneliness, from the kids' questions, asking when their mother will come back home. Do you know that Nico asked me if we still loved him? If she still loves him? And why his friends have two parents and he seems to have a shell of a woman for one, and a vacant space in the king-sized bed for the other?"

"She might not want you again, however, and your imagined future may be false – it is the opposite of reality, no? If I were her, I wouldn't. You cheated on her when she only gave you love and patience and… Well, Alexia, I swear I really want to see you happy, but I just don't think she'll forgive you."

"And why not?"

Alba sighs. She places her hand on Alexia's back, moving it in circles to calm her sister down. When they were little, it was always Alexia who helped Alba. With school, with her problems, with new lovers or ones from the past. It was her responsibility to take care of her little sister, and when their father died and there were only three of them, Alexia felt that responsibility even more.

Here, roles reversed, Alba can only apply that which she has learnt from the heaving lump of flesh slumped on the chequered tiles.

"Alba," repeats Alexia, lowering her voice, relenting. "She loves me."

The younger of the two can’t help the tears that brim in her eyes, distressed in her own right. "She loves you despite your other girlfriend because she's a saint. She's a saint but, if you want her to be happy, you cannot take advantage of her," Alba warns gravely, sincerely, and correctly. Alexia lifts her head and looks at the clock on the bathroom wall. Alba's apartment is clean and trendy, just like the woman, and she has dirtied it with her presence. She remains, for the foreseeable future, Alexia, The Ruiner.

"Smartass."

"It's just the truth."

"Well, if that's the truth, I'd rather you be a liar."

Alba sighs again, more heavily, and asks Alexia to get up from the floor. If Alexia's knee hurts, she says nothing and jumps up and down. "Ay, your knee," Alba grumbles but Alexia keeps going. She keeps going and going until she can't breathe and her lungs hurt. She keeps going because she believes it will rid her of her sadness, or at least hopes so. She hasn't stopped when Alba asks her to. A loud voice breaks the silence. "What are you doing?"

"Destroying everything. If I can't be with her, I don't want to play football. I don't want to walk, or see, or talk. I just don't want to live."

To Alba, this tells her two things. One is that her sister has gone batshit crazy. The other? Well, that is the solution. It's simple, really; one sentence, and Alexia will know what she has to do.

"You need to fix this.")

Heartbreak is ugly, but Alexia’s guilt is uglier.

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