vonne !

i write the fun stuff

[lambiconic]

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yvonne , 19 + college freshman , she/they + queer , i mainly write for cod !

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rules: 18+ works will be marked 18+! if its not, anyone can interact! , requests + asks are always open!

i will happily write; smut , anything queer (wlw, t4t, mlm, etc) , male, female or gn reader ,, kink (hard or soft),, fluff angst, dead dove etc

masterlist

[lambiconic]

Teacher's Pet

pt 1 !

cute tutor reader x going back to school johnny

︶︶︶ ⊹ ︶︶ ୨♡୧ ︶︶︶ ⊹ ︶︶

John had never seen his men like this. Gaz with his head in his hands, Simon’s silently falling tears, and Price’s voice trembling with every word.

“You can still do things, Johnny,” Price promised softly. “This… it doesn’t have to change anything.”

It.It being his honorable discharge. The one due to his shot to the head. The one that left him crippled. Yeah, that one.

He glanced around the room, it felt like attending his own funeral.

“I know I can still do things,” he said, voice cracking from the lack of use. “I have plans…”

The men barely glanced at him, their faces twisting with grief.

“I mean it,” John added quickly. “I’m going back to school.”

That stopped the tears.

Simon quickly turned toward the wall and his body began to shake with laughter. Gaz breaking into a full guffaw while Price bent over, hands on his knees.

“You’re a bit old for school, mate–” Price coughed out.

“Not the brightest bulb either,” Simon added. 

“Do you even have a major in mind?” Gaz asked somewhere between laughs. 

Johnny was a little offended. He was a smart man. The military hadn’t been a last resort! He'd joined for the freedom, not because he was too dull for college.

And who cared if he was pushing thirty and still hadn’t picked a major? When you’ve got a cane in one hand and a scar running across your skull you get to be undecided. You get to be bad at the work and a little slow to the concepts. 

But, apparently he was very slow to the concepts. Actually, he was so bad with the work this was all seeming like a waste of time and money. 

He was failing, and badly. From english to his labs, he couldn’t manage to get a hold of anything. 

And god did he feel stupid. He was noticeably the oldest student in every class and, somehow, noticeably the worst. Even that sentence sounded wrong in his head. Was that the right way to phrase it? Who cared. He was an idiot.

He felt stupid sitting in his advisor's office, wringing his hands like a toddler, watching her expression slowly fall as she scrolled through his grades.

“You… hm…” She began, her brows furrowed as she scrolled. “Are… having a difficult time.”

“Yeah.. that’s one way to put it.” He responded, his eyes locked on his shoes.

He heard the creak of her chair as she rolled away from her desk. “College is… difficult for nontraditional freshmen. You were in the force before this. Most of your peers were at prom.”

Ouch.

That stung more than she probably meant it to. Was he that out of place? 

He glanced up as she slid a small pamphlet across her desk. 

“We offer tutoring in all subjects. All classes… all classifications,” she said carefully. “There’s no shame in it. None. I’ve circled a few of our best tutors— and I put a star next to my personal favorite. Y/N.”

He avoided her eyes as he carefully picked up the pamphlet and opened it, his eyes scanning for that name.

Y/N. A junior.

There you were— a bright blue star drawn boldly above your picture.

You tutored nearly everything.

And you were… stunning.

Bright eyes. A warm smile that scrunched your nose just slightly. Your hair shoved into a messy updo that somehow made you look effortlessly put together.

His grip tightened on the paper, jaw going slack. He snapped his head up, heat crawling up his face.

“H-How do I book?” he asked, stumbling over the words. 

[lambiconic]

im sorry im so evil! writing this now!!

will never disappear on yall again

[lambiconic]

Teacher's Pet

pt 1 !

cute tutor reader x going back to school johnny

︶︶︶ ⊹ ︶︶ ୨♡୧ ︶︶︶ ⊹ ︶︶

John had never seen his men like this. Gaz with his head in his hands, Simon’s silently falling tears, and Price’s voice trembling with every word.

“You can still do things, Johnny,” Price promised softly. “This… it doesn’t have to change anything.”

It.It being his honorable discharge. The one due to his shot to the head. The one that left him crippled. Yeah, that one.

He glanced around the room, it felt like attending his own funeral.

“I know I can still do things,” he said, voice cracking from the lack of use. “I have plans…”

The men barely glanced at him, their faces twisting with grief.

“I mean it,” John added quickly. “I’m going back to school.”

That stopped the tears.

Simon quickly turned toward the wall and his body began to shake with laughter. Gaz breaking into a full guffaw while Price bent over, hands on his knees.

“You’re a bit old for school, mate–” Price coughed out.

“Not the brightest bulb either,” Simon added. 

“Do you even have a major in mind?” Gaz asked somewhere between laughs. 

Johnny was a little offended. He was a smart man. The military hadn’t been a last resort! He'd joined for the freedom, not because he was too dull for college.

And who cared if he was pushing thirty and still hadn’t picked a major? When you’ve got a cane in one hand and a scar running across your skull you get to be undecided. You get to be bad at the work and a little slow to the concepts. 

But, apparently he was very slow to the concepts. Actually, he was so bad with the work this was all seeming like a waste of time and money. 

He was failing, and badly. From english to his labs, he couldn’t manage to get a hold of anything. 

And god did he feel stupid. He was noticeably the oldest student in every class and, somehow, noticeably the worst. Even that sentence sounded wrong in his head. Was that the right way to phrase it? Who cared. He was an idiot.

He felt stupid sitting in his advisor's office, wringing his hands like a toddler, watching her expression slowly fall as she scrolled through his grades.

“You… hm…” She began, her brows furrowed as she scrolled. “Are… having a difficult time.”

“Yeah.. that’s one way to put it.” He responded, his eyes locked on his shoes.

He heard the creak of her chair as she rolled away from her desk. “College is… difficult for nontraditional freshmen. You were in the force before this. Most of your peers were at prom.”

Ouch.

That stung more than she probably meant it to. Was he that out of place? 

He glanced up as she slid a small pamphlet across her desk. 

“We offer tutoring in all subjects. All classes… all classifications,” she said carefully. “There’s no shame in it. None. I’ve circled a few of our best tutors— and I put a star next to my personal favorite. Y/N.”

He avoided her eyes as he carefully picked up the pamphlet and opened it, his eyes scanning for that name.

Y/N. A junior.

There you were— a bright blue star drawn boldly above your picture.

You tutored nearly everything.

And you were… stunning.

Bright eyes. A warm smile that scrunched your nose just slightly. Your hair shoved into a messy updo that somehow made you look effortlessly put together.

His grip tightened on the paper, jaw going slack. He snapped his head up, heat crawling up his face.

“H-How do I book?” he asked, stumbling over the words. 

[lambiconic]

you (pt1)

murderess housewife reader x cleaner gaz (and 141) an: trying something new :) i really like this one but its super long i'm working on so i'm dropping this to test interest. (not edited.. be kind)

// mentions of murder, disposal of corpse + not too explicit description of said corpse, brief mentions of sexual harassment

︶︶︶ ⊹ ︶︶ ୨♡୧ ︶︶︶ ⊹ ︶︶

You didn’t mean to. Or at least that’s what you keep telling yourself. 

Repeating it like a prayer, over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over. 

You *didn’t* mean to. 

Staring at the blood on your hands you let out quivering breath after quivering breath, the air burning your throat as your chest heaved. It was a sickening sight, the man on the floor leaking out blood. The way his eyes glazed and popped from his skull, you could see the color draining out of him. His entire form dulling like the switch back to black and white in The Wizard of Oz.

How long had you been sitting there? Hours. Maybe. Definitely. Had to be…you could hear your husband’s hard footsteps entering the home, Kyle came home at 5 on the dot. The familiar sound of him hanging up his keys and tugging off his boots snapping you out of your trance. You’d had hours to do something. At least three. And here you were gawking. 

You let out a strangled sob as you quickly crawled away from the body, your hand coming up to muffle the noise. You can taste the blood on your palm as your mind races. What do you do? You’re covered in this man’s blood, it's sinking into your apron. Staining the leather of your heels. The ones you’d begged him to buy you, expensive. And now they were ruined. 

“Baby doll? You asleep?”

You could hear his voice from your position on the floor, your back pressed against the wall. That playful tone, the one he used when he was about to rouse you from a nap. The fake whisper. You could hear the grin in his voice, the leather of his jacket as he lowered himself into that pouncing position he’d sneak up on you in. “Love?”

You drop your hand to rest in your lap as you hear him slip into the dining room to look into the kitchen. A sob escaping your lips as your eyes meet his. “Kyle..”

You don’t know what you expected. Him to yell? Call you crazy? Leave? You didn’t, however, expect him to drop to his knees and take his hands into yours. “Baby..? Are you alright?” He’d taken your bloody hands and pressed kisses to them, his thumbs rubbing your wrist as he cooed soft reassurances to you. Asking you over and over if you were hurt. 

If *you* were hurt?

“The.. the..” You tried to raise a shaking hand to point over his shoulder, your voice raw and quiet but he just clung to you. “Don’t worry about that. I’ll take care of that. Are. You. Okay?”

He didn’t move until you nodded, a tear slipping down your face as he cupped your face. “You did what you had to.”

He whispered those words with so much conviction, his eyes burning as he gently helped you to your feet. “Go take a bath, clean up.”

You’d soaked for what felt like hours, sitting in the murky brown water. You’d tried to refresh the water but what was the point? Everytime you thought you’d gotten everything off you found blood caked up somewhere else. You could hear the hushed voices from the living room, a few men muttering. The sound of bags zipping open, doors opening and slamming shut.

After you’d finally pulled yourself from the bath you wrapped yourself in a robe, padding into the living room. You resisted the urge to gag as you watched two men gently placing the dead man into a large square of pleather. 

Kyle instantly rushed to your side, taking you up in his arms. “Honey.. You know the boys, yeah?”

You didn’t have the stomach for pleasantries, to offer a glass of lemonade like the perfect little housewife you are. You just nodded.

You've made dinners for these men more than once; Johnny, John, and Simon. They were like family. Of course Kyle would call them to handle your mess. 

“Simon is going to take you to the bedroom to talk,” Kyle says gently, wiping your face. “Ask you a few questions… you’re okay.”

You wrap your arms tightly around yourself as Kyle gently passes you to Simon, a silent conversation passing between the two before he leads you back towards the bedroom. 

And, of course, Simon doesn’t waste any time, “What happened?”

“Stabbed him,” You fight back a loud sob as the words leave your mouth, like speaking them made this any more real than it already was.

“No tears, we ‘aven’t got time for tears.” Simon grunted out, holding your face firmly. “I know you stabbed him… stabbed him quite a bit. Need to know what led to that.”

“He came into the house–”

“Why was he in the house?” Simon interrupted.

“The.. he was checking for termites.” You whisper out. “The annual check up. He came in and when… when he was checking the kitchen he tried to touch me.”

“To touch you,” Simon repeated, nodding. You could see his jaw clench as he ran his thumbs over your cheeks. “Where’d you get the knife?”

“Knife block.”

“That lil Paris Hilton number you’re so proud of?” He asks. “The pink ones?”

“Yes..” 

“Where is the knife now?” He asks, carefully.

“In… in the trash.” 

You could see the wheels turning in his head as he pulled away from you, “Stay here.”

“Okay.”

[lambiconic]

the other woman

housewife reader x neighbor price

// 18+ cheating, some mentions of piv sex and fem receiving oral

︶︶︶ ⊹ ︶︶ ୨♡୧ ︶︶︶ ⊹ ︶︶

He was your little toy. The handyman next door. Cute, easy to wind up, always ready to fix whatever you asked.

And especially fun when your husband wasn’t around.

Marriages get stale. Your mother drilled that into you as you slipped into your wedding dress. They get sour, they stretch thin. But you learn to endure.

Lose yourself. Become a woman unrecognizable. Pretend temptation doesn’t exist. But you were certain that wouldn’t be you.

Not with him. Not with your him. The love of your life.

Until you met John. Big, hairy, full-beard John.

“Want a beer?” John.

“Need anything fixed?” John.

It was your husband who invited him over the first time. He kissed your forehead, grabbed his things, and said, “Just show John the sink, he’ll take care of it.”

Your poor, clueless husband. If only he’d known which wrench to use, how to stop a leak, you might never have ended up pressed against the bathroom wall, dress shoved up to your chest.

And you tried. God, you tried.

Tried to be playful, tried to be fun. Tried to push his head down between your legs, tried rolling onto your stomach instead of lying flat, a sardine beneath his humping. 

But every time, he coaxed you back. Back into place. Back into the soft, submissive role he wanted.

Your mother had been right all along, your marriage had gone stale.

But John made you feel… alive.

He made you feel different, grinning against your lips as he gently rocked you on his cock. With him, you felt seen. Wanted. Like you were everything.

Something was always broken in the house, besides your marriage. Cabinet doors started falling off, your china cabinet was wobbly, you wanted a new dresser built. There was always something.

“John’s finishing the new bedframe today?” your husband asked, tugging at his tie. “Yes,” you hummed. “Don’t worry, I’ll test the strength after.” “Jump on the bed like a kid?” he scoffed.

Your lips pressed thin as you flipped through the magazine.

“You’ve been putting on weight lately.” He continues, “I love you fluffy, but you were so small when we met—”

“It’s nine!” you blurted, springing up. “You’re late.” “Am I?” He glanced at his watch, already rushing for the door. “Love you, bye!”

“Fluffy…” you whispered, lingering in the doorway.

But there wasn’t much time to dwell on it, your husband’s car barely cleared the driveway before John’s truck rolled in.

“Still in your nightgown?” he teased, strolling up with a cupcake in hand. “Sexy.” You laughed, nose wrinkling. “Good morning, you.” “Good morning…” he murmured, eyes trailing down your body. “Get in there.”

“John—” you squealed as he scooped you up with one arm, lips already peppering your face. “Oh my god—”

“Eat, “ he whispers, depositing you on the counter. “Its from the bakery you wanted to try..”

“Flavor..?” You ask, your voice shaking as you feel his hand sliding up your thighs. Dropping to his knees as he hooks his fingers into your panties. 

“Like liquid gold,” he purred, kissing along your thigh. “Like heaven…” “The cupcake,” you gasped, head tilting back as you melted under his touch. “Mmm.” He hummed, drawing you closer to his mouth. “Something lemon?”

“Do you think I’m fat?”

He froze, pulling back, his lips still glistening. “Excuse me?”

“He called me… fluffy.” You waved a hand, vague, embarrassed. “Fluffy.”

“Fluffy…” John echoed, rising to his feet. “Fluffy is cute.”

“He says he wants me smaller—”

“Leave him.”

“…What?”

“Leave him,” John repeated, firmer this time. His jaw ticked, eyes narrowing as if the word itself tasted sour.

"Thats....absurd!" Your stomach tightened. “John…”

“He doesn’t see you,” he said, stepping closer, tilting your face up. “Not the way I do. Not the way you deserve.”

You blinked, your eyes prickling. “It’s not that simple.”

“It is.” His thumb brushed your lip. “You don’t belong to him anymore.”

“And I belong to you?” you whispered, the words tumbling out before you could stop them.

His grip on your chin tightened, “You always have.”

“John…” you whispered.

He leaned closer, his beard rough against your skin. “Stop wasting yourself on a man who doesn’t see you. Who doesn’t want you. I see you. Every inch. Every flaw. Every curve. You’re mine.”

Your heart pounded. You thought of dinners gone quiet, of your husband’s distracted glances at his phone, of the way the word fluffy had stuck in your chest. 

You were stale. Your marriage was stale. 

And then you thought of John…his eyes that burned straight through you, his hands that held you like you were something worth breaking the world for.

 John didn’t give you the chance to speak. “You don’t belong to him anymore,” he insisted, pressing his forehead to yours. “You belong with me.”

But what if it goes stale with him too? What if you lose yourself again? 

For a long moment, you stared at him. At the devotion carved into his face. And then, with shaking fingers, you reached for your left hand.

The gold band felt heavier than it ever had. You twisted it once, twice, then slid it free.

It landed on the floor with a soft, final clink.

 “I’m yours.”

[lambiconic]

Lights, Camera, Action

cam star john price, 18+ !! you guys can't say i don't feed you <3

When John retired he didn’t know what he’d do with his life. The force was his life, it was the reason he woke up every morning. An early retirement was never in the cards for him but soon enough it happened. 

A mission gone sideways cost him his career. A stray bullet cost him all he knew. How could he possibly fill the hole that had left?

Apparently, sex work. 

John had uploaded his first video on a whim, a short vid of him shyly jerking off posted to twitter. It was about thirty seconds of his lower half, his calloused hand working his aching cock in the shower. Nothing special but god did people want more. 

And John enjoyed the flattery, any old man would. So he uploaded more. Another video of his low groans and twitching member, roleplay audios of soft sweet praise, the occasional picture of cum spilling down his thighs. And eventually, due to increasing demand, he started camming.

You were his biggest gifter. MILITARYMANLOVER158. Cute and ironic given the way this all started for him. 

And he adored you. Giving you a special little nickname and, more than once, a private chat.

He liked to talk to you, even lowering the chat price despite your insistence that you could afford it. He liked the small moments before his clothes came off. The ones where he asked about your day and learned about you.

That you were a college student living in the dorms and you worked at a coffee shop. That sometimes you’d watch his streams in the library when you were cramming for an exam and that you loved to wear the color green. That dogs scared you but you found them cute.

The small things that had him wondering more and more about you. That had him fantasizing.

About the sweet psychology student on the other end. If you liked it rough… or maybe you were the kind of girl who wanted to make love? What your cunt tasted like and if he could manage to make you squirt. 

He’d caught himself more than once on stream lost in his own thoughts, his usually calm and teasing strokes turning into desperate humping at his palms as he tried to imagine you between his legs lapping at his length. 

He thought he was losing his mind the first time he spotted you in public. A backpack bouncing behind a student rushing to class. But what caught his eye wasn’t your face. It was the charm.

The same gag gift you’d joked about once online. MILITARYMANLOVER158: lol… a friend gave it to me. its a bag of dicks !! i keepit on my school bag :3

It sounded stupid even in his own head. Coincidence, maybe. Wishful thinking. But even if it made him look like a fool, he had to know.

So he followed. Just to be sure. Just to see if it was really you.

And it was.

What started as a strange hulking man introducing himself to an obviously flustered college student with his porn name turned into coffee… then a second meeting… then late-night calls that stretched until the sun came up.

Before either of you could really put a name to it, you were his. Quietly. Casually. 

And there it was, a sneaky little hand snaking up his thigh during a stream. A fresh set of military themed nails dragging across his legs. 

MILITARYMANLOVER158 is typing….

MILITARYMANLOVER158 sent $5 for ‘lol look what i have >:3’

[lambiconic]

Hi lovie! Just wanted to check in on you, you doing all right? Missing your wonderful stories over here, Happy new year btw!!

-🦇

happy new year !!! im doing much better now, sorry for disappearing on you guys !!!

[lambiconic]

rockstars (pt 1, potentially)

feeding you guys because i abandoned y'all... messyily written y'all sorry, porn w basically no plot ! (technically unedited + unfinished)

pretty singer reader x rockstar soap, pic, oral, riding

︶︶︶ ⊹ ︶︶ ୨♡୧ ︶︶︶ ⊹ ︶︶

Johnny was a rockstar. And damn was he proud. 

He started this stupid band with Simon and Gaz on a whim, a drunken night where all three put instruments in their amazon carts while giggling like teenage boys. Gaz on guitar, Simon on the keyboard, and him on drums. 

It was *stupid*! He didn’t mean it but the decision was made and in a mere few weeks The Army Dreamers was born. Their music was shite. It wasn’t good. Objectively and subjectively. It was messy, clashy, loud, and they all had gravely angry voices. It was shit produced and published for jokes. But some people saw their potential and scooped them up quickly, straightened the boys out so goddamn far America got to see and hear ‘em. Johnny never expected this fame, he didn’t expect to be flashed at his concerts and have teenage boys have their faces as profile pictures. But what he really didn’t expect was you.

You were so different from them, your music was soft. Sung accompanied by pianos or perched up on stools with your guitar balanced on your thighs. The rowdiest he saw you get was a pop song. The Cupids. He expected a band, not you. Not the way your fans defended their angel, not the edits of your bright smile, not the articles about indie’s newest sweetheart (ironically also your fandom’s name) and especially not to see you at this after party.

But what he really didn’t expect was for you to know his name, he didn’t expect your giggles, and for you to say your favorite song of theirs was their very first. He didn’t expect you to flirt… and god he didn’t expect you to take him back to your hotel. Did he see anything coming?

You were fluid, graceful, he could only follow you in silence. The way you looked back at him and smiled, the way your perky tits bounced in that fucking dress. Even the way you pushed him against the round bed in the middle of your room was soft.

“Ye sure ye want to do this..?” He asked, his face warm and his breath catching in his throat as he watched your fingers tug at his belt. “Could take ye on a date–”

Your laugh.. Oh he loved that laugh. “Is that how y’all do it in Europe?” You giggled out. “You don’t need dinner to fuck me..unless you don’t want to.”

Your face, the hesitance. The way you pulled your hands away. Everything was drawing Johnny deeper into your hold. “No!” His hand moved before he could think, “No.. I just didn’t want ye to think that’s all I wanted you for. Yer.. beautiful.”

“You don’t have to do that. A date is unnecessary,” You whispered, pushing his shirt up. You were eager, so eager. He could feel his cock stirring in his jeans as your pretty hands slowly unbuckled his belt. “Do you not want to..?

Those eyes, the way you pulled your teeth between your lips…god he was fucked. 

“No–No! I definitely want to,” He stuttered out, watching your head dip down and kiss down his body. “I absolutely want to– yer the most gorgeous thing I’ve ever seen–”

He quickly grabbed your hands as your fingers slipped inside his waistband, your lips pecking down his happy trail. “Oh, ye don’t have to do that—”

“What?” You laughed, your breath ghosting over his skin. “Do you not like head..?”

“I do…” He admitted, his face warming as he gently cupped your face, leading your lips to his. “I’d rather taste you.” 

In one fluid motion he’d flipped you onto your back, his fingers gently tugging your panties down your thighs. “Just a bit..”

“Oh..” You gasped as your body hit the bed, your thighs tensing as you watched him lift them onto his shoulders. 

“Is this alright..?” He murmured against your skin, gently parting you with his fingers. “Yer soppin’ wet..”

You hesitated before cupping the back of his head, “Just.. not used to the favor being returned.”

He hummed as he brought his tongue down to your clit, giving it a soft suck before responding, “I’ll let ye take control in a bit, bon..”

He could feel your body tense under his touch, your thighs quivering as his breath fanned your bare sex. You could feel his eyes watching you, tracing down your neck as you tilted your head back, watching your trembling form as he gently worked his tongue against you. 

“Talk to me..” He grumbled, lifting his head slightly. “I need a little feedback..”

“Perfect..” You gasped out, quickly pulling him up to meet your lips. Lapping at him you melted at your own sweet taste. “Perfect.. Let me back on top..”

“Yes, ma’am..” Johnny murmured, obediently rolling over. 

Before he knew it he was holding your dress above your tits watching you ride him. Your sweet moans like music to his ears, no wonder you were a singer. 

His fingers were digging into the soft skin of your body, grasping at whatever he could manage to get his hands on.

His length buried entirely inside your sopping cunt and your hands clawing at his chest. You were sexy and god did you know it, tilting your head back and groping at your chest. Dragging his hands down to grip your ass as you slowly brought yourself up and down on his cock.

“Fuck, lass—” His nails were digging tight into your ass, his legs twitching beneath you as you picked up your pace.

“Yeah?” You held your hair off your neck, sliding your free hand down your body as you nodded. “Cum for me…cum inside.”

He wanted to ask if you were sure, hell, if you were on birth control but the way your pretty cunt was milking his cock was all the answer he needed. 

unfinished extra -

“Are ye sure you don’t wanna go on a date..?” Johnny whispered, tracing his fingers over your skin. 

“You’re not going to leave me alone until I say yes, are you?” You whispered back, grinning. 

“Nah…”

You let your eyes wander down his chest, the view from above wasn't too bad.. you could stand to do it again.

"Sure.. after my tour."

[lambiconic]

hey,,, hey everyone,,, hi did you miss me?

[lambiconic]

hi, i know i haven’t posted anything in awhile but its because i found out someone was feeding my fanfics from wattpad to ai 🥲

they were copy pasting my prologues into chat bot prompts, like everything i had posted and i’ve spent the past few days trying to get them taken down

[lambiconic]

sign here

pt 4 !!

here's part one, and two , and three !!

taglist: @cumsluut , @mykuup , @yrenaa , @avgdestitute , @thefutureastronaut , @tessakate , @hypertail , @yofshiw

// mentions of murder

︶︶︶ ⊹ ︶︶ ୨♡୧ ︶︶︶ ⊹ ︶︶

You kept the letter on your desk. Right where you’d dropped it that first night. 

You made a point of keeping your distance, but your eyes always found it. Watching it like it might jump out and bite you when you slipped on your shoes, turning your back when you changed as if it had eyes.

When you stumbled in the next night from a well deserved party there it was…waiting. Your head was still spinning from the cheap liquor. Your ears rang from hours of standing too close to the speakers. 

You glared at the stupid letter from across the room, your fumbling hands tugging off your heels and desperately trying to hold your body up against your sloppy drunkenness. 

You hadn’t written back.

Not yet.

You hadn’t even sat down at your desk since the day it arrived. You studied in bed, ate in bed… what a child. Avoiding a piece of paper. 

It felt heavy, radioactive. Every time your eyes brushed over it your stomach turned. 

You didn’t know how to respond. You didn’t want to respond.

How many people had he lied to before you? How many people had he lied to to get into a program like this? How many students had fallen for the act?

You wanted to sympathize, to understand. That was supposed to be the point of all this, wasn’t it? To see the person behind the sentence.

You wanted to put yourself in Simon’s shoes, to imagine what he’d lost.

You wanted to picture Jonathan Mactavish the way Simon must have. Someone worth everything, someone worth killing for. 

But even then there was the line you couldn’t cross.

Murder? You couldn’t get behind that.

You still hadn’t touched your desk in days when your RA handed you another envelope.

Your hands trembling as you make your way back down the hall, your heart pounding in your ears.

Another letter.

He knew. Somehow, he knew.

He could tell you were hesitating. Thinking about dropping the whole assignment. 

And still he’d written, using his freakily fast mailing service. 

Fuck it. 

Your curiosity won out in the end. It always did.

You sat on the bed, the envelope resting in your lap. For a long moment, you just stared at it, the chicken scratch staring up at you. 

Eventually you tore the envelope open, ignoring the sickening feeling in your stomach, and began reading.

‘I knew you wouldn’t respond easily to that. But I thought you’d enjoy having one of the more interesting inmates,’ it began.

The casualness of his tone made your skin crawl. Was that a joke?

That you’d enjoy chatting up a murderer? You kept reading anyway. You always did.

“John was the love of my life.”

“I couldn’t tell you about what led to his death even if I wanted to. Confidentiality… oaths… all that, y’know?”

Your eyes tracked each line, teeth gnawing at your lips.

“But I don’t want you to view me as a monster. I’d never hurt you or any woman like that. Or anyone who wasn’t involved in Johnny’s death, period.”

“It wasn’t something I did lightly.”

You could almost hear his voice in the sentences. Measured, like he was pleading his case.

With a bit of desperation...

“You’re the first person I’ve had the chance to chat with in a while. I’d like to keep talking to you. I’ll answer your questions.”

Then there was the line that made you pause, your gaze drifting toward your desk. Toward the neat little stack of loose-leaf paper and the gel pens beside it.

“I could even guarantee you a perfect grade on this assignment if you asked. If you answer these letters, ha ha.”

“I’m sorry if I scared you.”

“Yours, Simon.”

You read it all the way through, then again. 

Yours.

Too intimate, too…sure. Like he’d already decided what you were to him.

But..

“I could even guarantee you a perfect grade on this assignment if you asked. If you answer these letters.”

You needed this grade. That was the whole reason you’d agreed in the first place. Failing wasn’t an option.

Even though you’d been proven right about every obvious safety concern you were still here. 

And, against your better judgment, you sat down at your desk.

You slid a fresh sheet of paper into place, your pen hovered for a moment before finally touching down. 

'So, you’re mine, huh?'

[lambiconic]

sign here

pt 3!! i'm so glad everyone is loving this!!!

of course thank you for the love but i also want to recognize real quick that prisoner simon riley is a biiig thing in this fandom ! i've been seeing more and more fics w this trope as i've been writing this (my laptop is listening..) so please if you feel like our works start to get similiar in the slightest pls dm me, i'm fine w rewriting this !!

here's part one, and two !!

taglist: @cumsluut , @mykuup , @yrenaa , @avgdestitute

// mentions of murder

︶︶︶ ⊹ ︶︶ ୨♡୧ ︶︶︶ ⊹ ︶︶

You wished you didn’t need this stupid assignment. You wished you’d just studied instead of partying every night, that you didn’t have to rely on extra credit to scrape by. You wished your inmate was even slightly easier to deal with.

His next letter was short and absolutely infuriating. No charm this time, no warmth. Just a few angry lines scrawled in pencil. 

‘Answer my questions or I won’t reply.’

You stared at the words, your finger gripping the paper so hard it crumpled... for a moment, you considered tearing the letter clean in half.

You had no choice. You couldn’t exactly march up to your professor and admit that your inmate pen pal was bullying you into writing back. How pathetic would that sound?

B-But, miss– he’s being mean :((( 

You needed this grade. You needed it bad.

You dug through the clutter in your desk until you found his last letter, that stupid list of questions glaring at you.

What did you look like?

How were you supposed to answer that? Too vague, and he’d lose interest. Too personal, and you’d give him exactly what he wanted.

You listed the basics — hair color, height, eye color, the length of your hair. Facts, not feelings. Simple, neutral, safe.

Then, for good measure, you threw in something meaningless but personal enough to sound real. Something like… you had freckles! Small ones you got from your mother’s side.

Did you get along with your family? A simple yes should do.

Did you have pets? A dog at home, none in your dorm.

Ever think about joining the military yourself? You’d rather die– no, you were more passionate about your major. 

Did you have a boyfriend?

The question lingered at the bottom of his letter like a trap.

He still hadn’t answered yours and yet he had the audacity to ask that. 

You felt your jaw tighten as you read it again. And one more time. The nerve of him.

No. You didn’t. 

You signed and dated the letter like usual, sealing it with a quick swipe of your tongue before slapping the stamp in the corner. 

Afterward, you just sat there, staring at the envelope on your desk.

Truthfully, you were scared. Not of him, obviously, but of the “what ifs” that followed. What if this wasn’t enough? What if he didn’t write back?

With snail mail, there was no way to know. No instant feedback. Just the waiting… and the uneasy thought that somewhere, miles away, a man you didn’t know was deciding whether you were worth a reply.

Whether you were worth passing this class.

You nearly dropped to your knees right there in the RA’s office when they handed you the envelope. It came so fast it felt impossible, like he was throwing it at your face. You snatched it out of their hand, mumbling a rushed thank you. 

Thank fucking god. 

You tore it open before the elevator doors even closed. The envelope shoved into your pocket, forgotten, as your eyes scanned the familiar handwriting. 

You felt a weight lift off your chest, the graphite and chicken-scratch bringing you an odd sense of calm.

The letter began with a thank you for answering his questions, followed by a string of praise that made you both roll your eyes and read twice. Then, finally, he started to return the favor offering his own answers in that same uneven scrawl.

He was six even, ash-blonde, brown-eyed. His hair was buzzed short. His own choice, he added, to support the prison barber. Cute. 

He wrote that he was estranged from his family. 

He loved cats, but owned a dog named Riley, a mutt his mates were taking care of while he served his time.

And then, at the end, almost as an afterthought:

Single, obviously.

And then he said he’d answer your question.

You felt a small grin tug at the corner of your mouth as you tilted your head. Got em. 

“I lied…” it began.

Your grin faded.

“I’m in jail for manslaughter.”

You heard the elevator ding somewhere.. the soft whoosh of the doors opening, the dull thud as they shut again. You barely registered the people moving past you, the bump of shoulders, the murmurs of conversation.

Your eyes stayed fixed on that one word.

Manslaughter…?

It didn’t feel real. It couldn’t belong to the same man who’d written about his mother, his teammates, the dog he missed.

But there it was, etched in graphite. Plain. Unapologetic.

“I’ll be in jail for another three years. Good behavior and some strings,” he wrote.

You felt your teeth sink into your lower lip as you read on. 

“This would scare a girl like you, I’m sure. I’m sorry to be so blunt. I want to be honest with you. So you’re honest with me. I didn’t kill the man I killed for fun, I didn’t do it for the high but for the revenge. For Johnny.”

Jonathan Mactavish.

You lingered on the name, tracing it with your eyes the way he must have with his pencil. The way Simon wrote about him made it clear.

This wasn’t just another man from his unit, not just a brother in arms or someone he’d shared rations and bullets with.

No, there was something deeper in the way he spoke about him. It was grief, yes, but it was something else too. Something quieter. Something you didn’t want to name.

More than family.

More than a friend.

You read the name again and again. 

What kind or man was he to be worth killing for? 

[lambiconic]

hi! i loved sign here, if youre planning on continuing it could i get on a taglist please? if you have one ofc <3

absolutely !! im not sure how long it’ll be but ive definitely got more planned !

[lambiconic]

sign here

pt 2 ! didn't expect the love. much shorter part

here's part one !! tags : @cumsluut

︶︶︶ ⊹ ︶︶ ୨♡୧ ︶︶︶ ⊹ ︶︶

You could tell a lot about a person from the way they wrote…their handwriting, their phrasing, even the rhythm of their sentences. You’d learned that in class, sure, but really, you’d known it long before then. It was something you’d always noticed.

You stared at his letter, your fingers tapping against the crumpled paper. Pencil, not pen. His handwriting was neat but uneven, like he’d written fast, as if the words were fighting to get out before he could second-guess them.

It was pretty, in its own way. Pretty, and a little desperate. But… pencil, not pen. That detail stuck with you. No matter how quickly he’d written, no matter how certain his words seemed, he’d still chosen something he could erase. Something he could take back. It said more than any sentence in the letter ever could.

You leaned back in your chair, the metal creaking beneath you as you stared at the letter. Your brows furrowed. How were you supposed to respond to this? What were you even meant to say?

It tugged at something in you… the way he wrote about his mother, his men. You told yourself it was just empathy, that anyone would feel moved reading those words. But the truth was, it felt personal. Like he’d shown you a piece of himself he didn’t offer easily.

And maybe, against your better judgment, you’d wanted to believe it.

You tried to recall what the point of this assignment had been in the first place. Something about understanding perspective, studying patterns of thought…getting to know the person behind the crime? Right. That was it.

You picked up your pen. Pen because you didn’t plan on erasing anything. You meant every word you wrote. This wasn’t supposed to be personal. You reminded yourself as you began writing. You were here to study him, to understand how his mind worked.

You couldn’t let him disarm you. You wouldn’t let him disarm you.

To say Simon was disappointed when he got your next letter would’ve been an understatement.

You’d gone back to that stiff, professional tone after just one letter. Cold. Distant. He barely made it through the first sentence before the rage got the better of him, ripping the paper into pieces. A moment later he was crouched on his shitty cot, trying to tape the letter back together.

He hated this, all of it. Hated how the first real human contact he’d had outside these walls had him acting like a damn child.

He hated the way he found himself waiting for your letters, counting the days like it mattered. Hated how his chest tightened when the mail cart rolled past his cell. And when your reply finally came, and when it wasn’t what he wanted, he’d slam his fist against the cot and stomp his feet like a child. It was pathetic. He knew that. But knowing didn’t make it stop.

He wanted you to be something for him. Something clean, untouched, a perfect piece of the outside world he could hold onto. He wanted you to bend, to soften under the weight of his words.

He pressed the pencil to the page, grip firm. This time, he wouldn’t be charming or careful. He’d write something that demanded a response. Something that would make you waver, make you feel him the way he’d been feeling you.

Something that would make you need him. He wanted to be more than an assignment to you. He wanted to matter.

[lambiconic]

sign here

pt 1 !

something small i've been writing ! its turning out to be longer than i thought, so i'll release it in parts to gauge interest!

an incarcerated simon riley x a criminology major reader !!

︶︶︶ ⊹ ︶︶ ୨♡୧ ︶︶︶ ⊹ ︶︶

At first, you thought the assignment was ridiculous. Hell, even dangerous. Writing letters to an inmate? It felt reckless, even idiotic. What if they’d done something terrible? You weren’t allowed to know, after all. All you got was an envelope with a name, an age, and the name of a prison.

It sounded simple enough: write a few letters to an inmate of your choice during the last few weeks of class. It was just extra credit… but unfortunately, you needed the points.

You couldn’t help the slight snarl that twisted on your lips as you read over the brief get to know about your fabulous new…something.

Simon Riley, your new…friend (?) for the next few weeks. A man in his late thirties incarcerated for an undisclosed amount of time for an undisclosed reason. Dangerous, reckless, stupid.

You lifted your gaze from the paper, realizing you were one of the few who’d actually agreed to this ridiculous assignment. For your own sanity, you decided it had to be because everyone else was lazy, not because you were desperate enough to need the extra credit.

“I’ll take your first letter at the end of class,” your professor said brightly. “I’ve included a small sheet of paper and a pen. I’ll send off your first letter and deliver your inmate’s reply. After that, you’ll handle the mailing yourself.”

You barely heard her. Your focus was on the envelope in front of you, staring blankly at the piece of loose leaf. What were you even supposed to write?

‘Hi, I’m Y/N, I think this stupid, pls dont be a murderer :3’

You smirked at the thought and decided to go with something only slightly more appropriate. Your name, your age, your major, and a string of meaningless small-talk questions to fill the silence.

It was only a few days later when you got your first reply.

Already? Could mail even move that fast?

His letter wasn’t at all what you’d expected. It was warm, funny, almost disarmingly casual. He joked about your stiff tone and told you to stop addressing him like he was your dad. He said he was thirty-seven, locked up for “treason and general crime,” whatever that was supposed to mean.

You couldn’t deny it… he intrigued you. There was something about the way he wrote, he was charming on paper. And besides, wasn’t the whole point of this assignment to *get to know him*?

You leaned back in your chair, tapping your fingers against the desk as your mind wandered. What did people even ask in situations like this? What would a criminal psychologist ask? 

Something that sounded curious but not invasive, thoughtful but not too personal.

Maybe you’d just start with *why*.

Your next letter was simple, informal. And it ended with a question. Why?

Simon stared at it for a long time.

Why what? Why did he do what he did? Why had he lied about his crimes? How had he let himself care this much about a stranger? Some college kid with neat handwriting and too many questions.

You were studying… what was it? Criminology? Figures. To you, he was probably just another specimen. This was too much.  Too much emotion for him to process, more than he’d felt in years. Since before the trial. 

Not that life inside was particularly hellish for him. His old unit had pulled some strings, made sure he was comfortable. His setup was almost luxurious compared to the barracks and his sentence was reduced. Still, the feeling unsettled him. He hadn’t felt this strange urge to justify himself since the day he’d stood in court.

His mind was racing, thinking about you. What did you think of him? Did his letters come across the way he wanted? Calm, charming, human? Did you see him as a man or just another inmate, a study subject in your neat little notes?

When he finally picked up his pen, he chose to ignore your question entirely. Instead, he wrote you something gentler, a story about his life before the sentence. His mother’s sweetness. The men he’d served beside. A few lines about the military — everyone had sympathy for veterans, right? 

Then came the questions, carefully chosen to turn the gaze away from him.

What did you look like?

Did you get along with your family?

Did you have pets?

Ever think about joining the military yourself?

Did you have a boyfriend?

[lambiconic]

the boy next door

i read a submission wrong and wrote divorced!simon x neighbor reader instead of divorced!reader x neighbor simon.. so take the draft as an apology for disappearing // cheating, some piv sex, crude language

︶︶︶ ⊹ ︶︶ ୨♡୧ ︶︶︶ ⊹ ︶︶

There were two things you liked about your neighborhood: the cheap rent, and your gorgeous neighbor.

The landlord hadn’t lied in her listing. LOUD! PARTY NEIGHBORHOOD! COLLEGE STUDENTS! It was right there in all caps. And honestly, for less than a thousand a month, how could you pass up a townhouse — noise or not?

Still, you don’t think she fully prepared you. Actually, you think she lied. Sure, you were young, a fresh graduate who liked a good party as much as anyone. But these kids? They didn’t just party, they made it a competitive sport. Who could have the loudest, most obnoxious party on the block? Whoever’s headboard smashing against the wall can be heard down the street gets a surprise! A million fireworks to set off at 3AM!!

You were going to move. This wasn’t just a threat, it was a promise. You were browsing apartments, your screen cluttered, brows furrowed, and your nails gnawed down to the skin when you saw him.

Him. 

At first, you thought he must be lost. No way a man like that would willingly move into a neighborhood like this.

Him. Simon Riley.

 Mr. Riley was older, noticeably so. Rugged, big, menacing but like in a scare you out of your panties way. He was…distracting. 

You found yourself lingering longer outside of your door during the week he moved in, pretending to fumble with your keys to watch the sweat slide down the sculpted marble he had the audacity to call a body. Skipping to your mailbox in your lace nightgown and robe to catch his gaze. You could feel it, hot and heavy. His eyes raking down your exposed legs, lingering on your chest as you pretended to be interested in your spam mail. 

Simon wasn’t stupid, he saw you. Always flittering around like some nervous little bird, staring at his windows from your car, then ducking your head when he caught you. Peeking through your blinds as he carried boxes inside. He could feel your eyes. Lingering on his hands, his crotch. 

You wanted something. Him? His attention?

And the way you’d bend over in that tiny nightgown, pretending to fuss with the grass…who exactly did you think you were fooling? More importantly, who were you trying to impress?

Simon had been warned before he moved in.

The neighborhood was crawling with college kids, always drunk, always loud. Parties spilling into the street, music rattling windows, couples rutting in the backs of their cars like rabbits. He thought he could handle it. Noise didn’t scare him.

But it made him wonder.

Were you like them? Were you loud? The kind of girl who got sloppy on cheap vodka and let anyone touch you? Would he catch you one night in the backseat of your car, palms pressed to the glass, panties dangling from the rearview while you moaned for an audience?

Were you like her? His ex-wife. His separated wife. His slutty, whoring separated wife.

The one who opened his bed to another soldier.

Did you cheat, too? Did you lie with that same pathetic breathless voice, choking on excuses while your phone told the truth? Would you cry even as he held the proof in his shaking hands?

Would you spit at him like she did? Call him weak? A bitch? While he broke apart reading the filth you’d written about him?

Were you worth two college kids fucking against his car? Was a glimpse of your panties and coy little eyelash flutter worth his patience, his sanity, his lack of sleep?

He had an answer to that one. Fuck no.

He was leaving! He was moving like yesterday! He’d already found an apartment, scraped the money together, even bought the damn boxes.

But, then he saw you.

You weren’t sure how you gathered the confidence, the audacity to walk over to his apartment in the middle of the night to bang on his door. Maybe it was the tequila, maybe the ridiculous scrap of lingerie you’d thrown on, maybe the bass from the party next door rattling through your walls.

“I heard whoever’s headboard is the loudest gets a cake delivered the next day,” you blurted the second he opened.

Simon blinked. “What?” 

“It’s… it’s a neighborhood rumor,” you stammered, suddenly aware of how ridiculous you sounded.

“Mm.” His gaze dragged over you.. “And you’re trying to win this little challenge?”

You don’t remember how you made it from the doorway to his bedroom. Only the desperate hope that he couldn’t taste the cheap liquor on your lips when he finally pulled you in. His hands were hot, his touches desperate and angry. 

He tugged at your lingerie, ripping it to shreds like it offended him. Then he had you tossed, bent, twisted into positions you’d never imagined. His hands digging into your thighs as he ate you alive. His massive body sandwiched between your thighs, his thrusts were..dominating. Like he knew he owned every part of you. Your body. Your pleasure.

You wondered, head spinning and the sheets soaked beneath you, if this was what it was like to be with a man like him. If sex could always feel this dramatic, if orgasms were always this mind shattering. 

And that’s exactly what you asked the next morning. If you could do this again.

For a second, Simon thought he’d misheard you. Hell, part of him still wasn’t convinced you were real. The pretty neighbor he’d been stealing glances at for weeks, now lying tangled in his sheets. Bruised, glowing, hair a mussed halo around your face, lips curled in a smile that made something sharp twist in his chest. 

You looked beautiful, and out of place. It hurt, having a woman here. Having you here. You were painful.

He was scared. He wasn't ready. So all he could say was no. That you were a good lay and nothing more. That your cunt was sweet, that he was lucky to fuck you, but that’s all it would ever be. 

That he hoped you got your cake. 

And then he watched it happen. Watched the same bitterness he’d once seen in his own eyes creep into yours. Watched you yank angrily at the shirt he’d offered.

And then you did the one thing he couldn’t seem to manage.

“Fuck you,” you spat, storming out.

He watched you give his treatment back. 

Stupid. You were so fucking stupid.

To think a man like that could ever want a girl like you. To believe, even for a second, that someone like him would kiss you, claim you, keep you. That he’d see you as anything more than a body to fuck.

You hated yourself for it. For hoping, for wanting, for falling.

So you stopped. Stopped looking. Stopped lingering. Stopped caring. Or at least you tried.

You didn’t hear it the same anymore. The bass rattling your home, moaning, the rocking cars.

You didn’t linger by the blinds. You didn’t pause at your door, pretending to fumble with your keys. You didn’t dare glance at his windows.

And Simon noticed.

He noticed the way your car pulled in at night and the curtains stayed drawn. The way you walked faster from your mailbox, head down, no lace nightgown, no coy smiles. The way you no longer left him anything to catch, no bait. 

He told himself that’s what he wanted. That distance was good. Clean. Safer.

So, why the hell did it make him grind his teeth at night? Why did it feel worse than the parties, worse than the noise, worse than anything else on this goddamn street?

And why was he at your door?

He expected anger, sure. He deserved it. But he didn’t expect the door to slam in his face.

Or for it to happen again when he knocked a second time.

Or for you to yell through the wood that if he didn’t leave, you’d call the police.

The words stung but Simon stood there on your porch. 

He wasn’t that kind of man. He wouldn’t let you believe he was that kind of man. Not the kind who’d bury himself in a girl and moan his ex-wife’s name into the pillow, praying she wouldn’t notice. Not the kind to tell her she had a sweet cunt and was a good lay, nothing more.Not the kind who’d prey on a girl’s obvious interest. 

Not the kind to take out his messy divorce on a beautiful woman. 

He didn’t know what he wanted. At first, it was simple. He wanted to fuck you. And he did. But now?

Now he wanted to apologize. To see your nose wrinkle when you smiled, to run his hands through your tangled hair in the morning. To wake with you sprawled in his sheets, warm and soft against him.

A relationship? No. Not yet. He wasn’t ready. He couldn’t risk pulling you into the wreckage of her, to involve you in their shitty divorce.

But God, he wanted to see you again.

“I just want to say…sorry.”

You stayed silent, praying he’d give up and leave. You couldn’t take it, god, you’d break, you’d cry.

But he didn’t leave. He stayed. He talked. And you found yourself listening.

You listened as he spoke about her. Thalia. About the divorce. His voice cracked when he admitted to the affair. How it hurts just to have a woman close to him.

And then he apologized. For the way he treated you. For unloading his bitterness onto you. For talking too damn much.

For hurting you. For taking without giving, for using your body like an outlet, for tossing you around and eating you out only for his own pleasure.

It took him a while to leave, to sit with what he had done with you. To accept that you weren’t letting him in. He should probably move. The partying, the noise, the fact that he’d fucked and dumped his only normal neighbor.

But then there you were, grabbing his wrist and looking at him with those eyes.  “I forgive you.”

Simon believed they called what he did a “fumble” but what do they call getting the girl back? 

It wasn’t easy. It wasn’t quick.

You had forgiven but obviously not forgotten. .

So he worked. Slowly. Patiently. The way a man does when he knows he’s got one last chance.

He started with the little things. Carrying your groceries from the car. Fixing the hinge on your mailbox without being asked. Leaving bags of your favorite snacks at your door with no note, so you wouldn’t have to look him in the eye when you took them.

Then came the longer things. A knock at your door, not with apologies this time, but with takeout. Waiting outside while you decided if you’d eat with him. Sitting on your porch steps in silence just to show you he wasn’t going anywhere.

He never pushed. Never asked for more than you could give. If all you had in you was a nod, he took it. If it was a short conversation through the screen door, he treasured it.

And slowly, you let him back in.

You lingered at your mailbox again. You smiled when you saw him. You looked at him with that same hungry, lingering gaze that once made his chest tighten.

This time, Simon was determined to do it right. He was careful. Gentle. Slow and sweet, every touch deliberate, every kiss patient.

Until you caught his wrist, brows furrowing.

“Simon… what are you doing?”

He froze. “What? I’m…trying to do foreplay. To be gentle.”

But…I liked what you did before.”

The sex was great. He was great. Still in the doghouse. But somehow, you and Simon were great together.

And slowly, it started to be more than that. Coffee in the mornings. Shared errands. Clothes left in one another’s closets.

One evening, sprawled on his couch with the TV flickering, you nudged him gently. “So… tell me about her. Thalia.”

Simon stiffened at the name but didn’t pull away. “It’s complicated,” he admitted. “Divorce isn’t… clean. Not for anyone. She made choices that left me… broken in ways I didn’t even know I could be.”

“She cheated,” he continued. “I found out in the worst way. And I… I wanted to be angry, I tried to be angry, but… it didn’t make it easier. It just left me tired. Bitter. Careless.”

“And…me? Us?” You ask, your voice quiet.

His eyes met yours, “You’re not her. And I’ll do everything I can to make sure I don’t… treat you like that again. I won’t fuck this up.”

[lambiconic]

sorry for disappearing… i have no excuse i just have no motivation to write