݁ ˖Ი𐑼⋆ nokari ݁ ˖Ი𐑼⋆

random writes i suppose.. in college 19

[nokariwrites]

Lying About The Baby

synopsis; a 23-year-old writing major living off campus with her older sister avia and avia’s boyfriend, simon “ghost” riley, has spent months overhearing their sex through thin walls while feeling stuck as the last virgin in her friend group.

wc; 14k

a/n; i think.. this is one of my best work. idk.. its a love & hate relationship with this, because i just kept deleting it & redoing it because it wasn’t making sense & isn’t that interesting but i gave up.

warnings; explicit content, age gap (23/28), cheating/infidelity, virginity loss, virgin!reader, deception/lying, unintended pregnancy, unprotected sex, rough sex, power imbalance, degradation, humiliation, oral (female and male receiving), orgasm denial, forced overstimulation, spit play, face fucking, body ownership, crybaby!reader, squirter!reader, substance use, manipulation. ᴹᴰᴺᴵ! ᴹᴵᴺᴼᴿˢ ᴰᴼ ᴺᴼᵀ ᴵᴺᵀᴱᴿᴬᶜᵀ! ʸᴼᵁ ᴴᴬⱽᴱ ᴮᴱᴱᴺ ᵂᴬᴿᴺᴱᴰ!

the first thing you learn about thin apartment walls is that they do not care about your deadlines.

your laptop screen glows with a half-finished short story and a blinking cursor that feels like it is judging you personally. you are supposed to be writing about intimacy in a tasteful, literary way, something your professor called “earned tenderness,” and all you can think about is the way your sister sounds when she is not trying to be tasteful at all.

avia has always been loud. her laughter, her music, her phone calls that she takes on speaker with her friends like the rest of the world has agreed to be background noise. it should not surprise you that she is loud in bed too, but surprise and embarrassment do not always listen to logic. sometimes you just sit there, frozen in your desk chair, cheeks hot, listening to your sister say his name like it is a prayer and a dare.

simon riley does not say much in return. when he does, you only catch pieces of it through the wall, low and rough like gravel dragged slow. it is the kind of voice that makes your skin feel too small. it does not matter that you have never seen him do anything more scandalous than wash dishes with his sleeves pushed up and his forearms flexing. your body hears the sound and fills in the blanks anyway.

you delete a sentence and type it again. you stare at the word “touch” until it looks wrong.

your phone buzzes with a text from avia.

avia: i’m going out w the girls. don’t be boring. also put on something cute tonight. you never know.

you exhale through your nose, a small laugh that has no joy in it. cute, tonight, like your virginity is a loose bill in your pocket that you keep forgetting to spend.

you type back with one hand.

you: i’m literally doing homework.

avia: homework don’t hug you at night. be serious. you 23 and still acting scared. you need to let somebody do something to you already.

your fingers hover. you can feel your own irritation and your own fear braided together, tight as a knot.

you: i’m not scared. i just don’t want it to be random.

avia: you say that every time. and every time you let the moment pass. you gonna be 30 talking about “i’m waiting for the right one” like this a movie.

you drop your phone face down on the desk before you can start an argument you do not have time for. your stomach tightens anyway, the familiar ache of being watched by people who love you too loudly. the friend group jokes about it at brunch, about you being the last one. you laugh because you know how to laugh. inside, it feels like being the only person at a party who does not know the song.

from the living room, you hear the soft click of the front door and the heavy, measured tread of boots. simon. he comes home at strange hours, leaves at stranger ones, and when he is in the apartment he moves like he is trying not to announce himself. it is almost polite.

almost.

a moment later, avia’s voice rises from the hallway. “babe, i’m going out. don’t wait up.”

simon answers, low and calm. “i won’t.”

you hear her kiss him, noisy and affectionate. you hear her say something you cannot quite make out, then her laugh. it is easy, careless, like she has never had to second-guess a thing in her life.

then the door shuts again. her heels clack down the stairs and away. the apartment quiets into its usual hum. your laptop cursor keeps blinking.

you tell yourself you are relieved.

you are not.

after a few more minutes of pretending to work, you give up and wander out of your room, partly for water, partly because being alone with your thoughts is worse than being alone with him. you have lived with simon for months now, long enough that you know his habits. he keeps his keys in the same bowl. he folds his clothes with military edges. he does not waste motion. he does not waste words.

in the living room, he is exactly where you expected him to be, stretched on the couch like he owns the shape of it. the television throws cold light over his face, making him look carved. he wears a white ribbed tank that clings to his shoulders and chest, and grey sweatpants that sit low on his hips like they do not know they are being disrespectful.

a cigarette rests between his fingers, smoke curling up slow. his eyes stay on the screen, but you feel the shift when he registers you. like a sensor tripping.

you are in a cropped top and soft shorts, bare legs, hair up messy because you were supposed to be alone tonight. you stop in the kitchen doorway, suddenly aware of every inch of skin you are showing. you have worn less at the pool. none of it has ever felt like this.

“you’re up,” simon says without turning his head.

“yeah. i couldn’t focus.” you open the fridge, letting cold air spill over your face, and grab a water bottle. it crackles in your hand. you can feel his gaze now, finally landing.

“your focus is a choice,” he says.

you huff a little. “okay, professor.”

his mouth twitches, not quite a smile. “not a professor.”

you shut the fridge and lean back against the counter. “do you want anything to drink?”

he glances toward you then, eyes dragging once, quick and clinical like he is checking for bruises. his gaze catches on your shorts. it holds there a beat too long.

“beer,” he says.

you grab one from the fridge, not thinking, and toss it his way. it is an easy underhand throw.

he catches it one-handed without looking, like he has done it a thousand times. the movement makes his bicep tighten. the cigarette stays balanced between his fingers like he was born with it.

you hate that your body notices. you hate it and you do it anyway.

you take your water and, instead of going back to your room, you drift toward the couch. there is space at the end, but you sit closer than that. you sit next to him, shoulder almost brushing his. the air around him smells like smoke and clean soap and something sharper that makes your mouth feel dry.

simon’s eyes flick to you again. “what’s this?”

“i live here,” you say. it comes out softer than you intended.

he takes a drag, exhales toward the ceiling. “avia’s out.”

“i know.”

“so you’re keeping me company,” he says, like he is testing the words.

you shrug, but your heart is beating too loud in your ribs. “you always just… sit out here.”

“i’m watching telly.”

“it’s a military show.”

“yeah.”

you glance at the screen. men in uniforms run through a staged firefight, music swelling like it is trying to impress someone. simon’s face stays blank, unimpressed.

“you think it’s accurate?” you ask.

he finally turns his head toward you, slow. his eyes are pale in the tv light, sharp and tired. “no.”

you laugh under your breath. “why are you watching it then?”

he takes another drag. “background noise.”

you nod, sip your water, then hesitate. “do you… ever smoke anything else?”

his eyebrow lifts slightly.

you lift your chin, trying not to look like a kid asking for permission. “like. weed.”

he stares at you for a moment, and in that stare you can feel him weighing you. not judging, not mocking. measuring.

“sometimes,” he says.

your mouth goes dry again. “i don’t smoke much. but… i kind of want to right now.”

“why?” he asks.

you swallow. the honest answer is because you can still hear your sister in your head, because your body has been buzzing with questions you do not have anyone safe to ask, because the air between you and him feels tight. instead you give him the version that sounds normal.

“because i can’t focus,” you say again, like if you repeat it enough it becomes true.

simon’s gaze drops to your hands, to the way your fingers twist the water bottle label. “you’re wound up.”

you stiffen. “am i?”

“yeah,” he says simply. then, after a pause, he shifts forward and reaches into the pocket of his sweatpants. he pulls out a small tin, a lighter, and a neatly rolled joint like it has been waiting.

your breath catches. “you just have that.”

he looks at you like you asked why the sky is up. “yeah.”

you lick your lips. “can i?”

he holds it out between two fingers. you take it, careful not to touch him, even though you want to. the paper is warm from his pocket. you bring it to your lips and he leans in with the lighter, shielding the flame with his hand. the way his hand cages the fire is practiced, steady. the flame kisses the tip. you inhale.

you cough on the first pull, a humiliating little choke. simon’s mouth twitches again.

“easy,” he says, voice lower. “slow.”

you glare at him, eyes watering. “i am.”

he watches you take another pull, slower this time. the smoke fills your chest, thick and sweet. you hold it, exhale. you hand it back.

simon takes it, his fingers brushing yours for half a second. the contact is nothing. your body reacts like it is something.

he inhales like it is air, not smoke. when he exhales, it rolls out of his mouth in a steady stream, and you catch yourself watching his lips.

you look away fast, heat rising.

minutes pass in a quiet rhythm. joint, tv noise, smoke. you start to feel it behind your eyes, a softening of edges. your shoulders drop. your limbs feel warmer, heavier.

simon glances at you, noticing the change. “there you go.”

“what?” you mumble.

“relaxing,” he says.

you let your head fall back against the couch. “it hits me fast.”

“because you don’t do it,” he says.

“yeah.”

silence stretches. it feels different now. less sharp, more thick, like honey.

your thoughts drift to the thing you have been trying not to think about all week. the sounds through the wall. the way avia talks about it like it is a hobby. the way your friends look at you like you are a puzzle they want to solve.

you turn your head, looking at simon’s profile. his jaw is set, his attention half on the tv, half on you. his throat moves when he swallows. you watch it like you are studying a character for a story. except this character is real and sitting close enough that you can smell his skin.

“can i ask you something?” you say.

he looks at you fully now. “go on.”

your tongue feels thick. “how does it feel?”

his brow furrows. “what.”

“sex,” you say, the word landing in the room like a dropped glass.

simon’s eyes hold yours. the tv light flickers between you. he does not look surprised, exactly. he looks… thoughtful, like he saw this question coming from a mile away and still has to decide how to answer it.

“depends,” he says.

you let out a soft laugh, embarrassed. “that’s not helpful.”

“it’s the truth,” he replies. “feels different with different people. different moods. different… intentions.”

you swallow. “but like. physically. what does it feel like?”

his gaze drops again, down your body, slow enough that you feel it like a touch. it lands on your mouth.

“warm,” he says. “tight. messy. loud, sometimes.”

your thighs press together without you meaning to.

you stare at the tv like it can save you. “i wouldn’t be loud.”

simon huffs a quiet laugh, barely there. “everyone says that.”

you glance back at him, a little offended. “i’m serious.”

“so am i,” he says, and something in his tone makes your stomach flip. “you don’t know until you do.”

your mouth opens. you close it. you take the joint when he offers it, inhale, exhale, and the smoke makes you bolder.

“i want to,” you admit, voice small. “i just… i don’t know. i get scared.”

simon watches your face like he is reading a map. “scared of what.”

“of it hurting. of being bad at it. of… picking wrong.” you swallow hard. “of feeling stupid.”

his eyes soften, almost imperceptibly. “everyone feels stupid the first time.”

you blink. “did you?”

he pauses. “yeah.”

that should make you feel better. instead it makes you curious in a way that is dangerous. you shift closer without thinking, your thigh brushing his. you feel the heat of him through the fabric.

simon’s eyes flick down to the contact. then back up. “you’re getting friendly.”

“i’m high,” you say.

“mm,” he hums, unconvinced.

you stare at his mouth again. you have kissed boys before, pecks at parties, polite little things that felt like checking a box. none of them have ever felt like this, like the air itself is waiting.

your voice drops. “you kiss avia a lot.”

simon’s jaw tightens. “yeah.”

“she says you’re good at… everything,” you say, hating yourself for saying it and not stopping anyway.

his gaze sharpens. “avia talks too much.”

“i know,” you whisper. “i can hear.”

the words hang there. you realize what you just confessed. your face burns.

simon’s eyes narrow slightly, not angry. something else. “you’ve been listening.”

“i didn’t mean to,” you say quickly. “the walls are thin. she’s loud.”

“yeah,” he says, and his voice goes rougher. “i know she’s loud.”

the way he says it makes your stomach drop, like you stepped off a ledge and did not fall yet.

you try to laugh it off. it comes out shaky. “she’s not shy.”

“no,” simon agrees. he takes the joint from your fingers, stubs it in the ashtray, and then he sits back, turning his body more toward you. the movement is small but it shifts the whole room.

his eyes sweep over your face. “what do you want, then.”

you blink, slow. “what do you mean.”

“you’re asking about sex. asking about me.” his voice stays calm, but there is an edge now, like a blade still in its sheath. “avia’s out. you’re sitting close. you’re looking at my mouth like you want to bite it.”

your breath catches. “i’m not.”

he leans in a fraction. “you are.”

your lips part. you do not deny it again. you cannot.

simon studies you for another long moment, then says, almost casually, “want me to teach you how to kiss properly.”

your heart kicks hard. “what.”

he tilts his head. “kissing. you asked. you want to learn. i can show you. no harm in that.”

your mind stutters. “avia would…”

“avia’s not here,” he cuts in, quiet. “and you’re an adult.”

your hands go cold. your body goes hot. you stare at him like if you stare long enough you will see the line you should not cross.

simon’s gaze does not move. he is still, waiting. it makes the choice feel like it belongs to you.

you nod.

it is not a big motion. it is not dramatic. it is just your chin dipping once, like a door unlocking.

something shifts in simon’s face, subtle. approval, maybe. hunger, maybe. he reaches out and cups your jaw with his hand, rough palm warm against your skin. his thumb presses lightly under your chin, tipping your face up.

“look at me,” he murmurs.

your eyes flick to his and hold. your breath trembles.

“good,” he says, and then he leans in.

his mouth covers yours with a slow, deliberate pressure that makes your head go empty. it is not a peck. it is not polite. it is a kiss that claims time, that takes your breath like it belongs to him. his lips are warm, slightly dry from smoke. he keeps it steady, giving you a chance to adjust, to follow.

you make a small sound, surprised by how much you feel, and his hand tightens at your jaw like he heard it and liked it.

“easy,” he whispers against your mouth. “relax. open.”

you obey without thinking. your lips part and he slides his tongue in with a controlled, patient stroke that makes your toes curl. you taste smoke and beer and him. he kisses you like he is teaching, like every shift of his mouth is a correction.

you try to mimic him, unsure, and he makes a low sound in his throat that feels like approval.

“there,” he murmurs. “that’s it. follow me.”

your hands hover, not knowing what to do. simon takes one of them and places it on his shoulder, guiding you. his shoulder is solid under your palm, muscle moving when he breathes.

you inhale shakily. “i’m not good at this.”

“you’re fine,” he says, voice soft. “stop thinking.”

he kisses you again, deeper, slower. his tongue sweeps, then retreats, then presses back in. he nips your lower lip gently, then sucks it, and the sensation shoots heat straight down your spine.

you whimper, quiet, involuntary.

simon’s eyes open, watching you as he does it again. “that sound,” he says, rougher. “you can make it louder.”

your face burns. your body does not care.

his hand slides from your jaw to the back of your neck, fingers threading into your hair tie. he tugs, not hard, just enough to tilt your head back and give him access. he breaks the kiss and drags his mouth down your cheek, along your jaw, to the side of your neck.

the first press of his lips there makes you shiver.

“simon,” you whisper without meaning to.

he hums against your skin. “yeah.”

his mouth opens, tongue warm on your throat. he sucks lightly, then harder, and you gasp. the sound fills the room, louder than you expected. your thighs clamp together.

“told you,” he murmurs.

you grip his shoulder tighter, nails pressing through his shirt. your breath comes in quick, thin pulls. the high makes everything feel magnified. his mouth on your neck feels like a spotlight.

he lifts his head and looks at you, eyes sharp. “still just kissing, yeah?”

you nod fast, desperate.

his thumb brushes your lower lip, smearing it. “you’re shaking.”

“i’m fine,” you lie.

“no,” he says quietly. “you’re scared and you’re turned on. that’s different.”

your eyes sting with something you hate. embarrassment, maybe. frustration. you blink hard and shake your head like you can shake it off.

simon watches you, then shifts forward, crowding you into the couch. the movement is smooth and controlled, but it makes you feel small. his knee slides between yours, forcing your legs apart, and you inhale sharply.

his gaze drops to the space he created, then back up. “you’re wearing these shorts like you want attention.”

your throat tightens. “i was just… comfortable.”

“mm,” he murmurs. “comfortable.”

his hand slides down your side, fingers tracing the bare skin where your crop top ends. you flinch at the touch, not from fear, from sensitivity. his hand is rough, calloused. it makes your skin feel soft in comparison.

he watches your reaction closely. “you want me to stop.”

it is not a question. it is a statement, like he is offering you the exit without making you feel weak for taking it.

you shake your head, quick. “no.”

“say it,” he murmurs.

you swallow. “don’t stop.”

something dark and satisfied flickers in his eyes. “good girl.”

the words land heavy. your body melts around them.

he kisses you again, harder now. his tongue pushes in, stealing your breath. he angles his mouth, deepening it, and you find yourself keeping up, your lips parting obediently, your tongue meeting his. he makes a low sound, pleased, and you feel it in your core like a tremor.

his hand slides up your ribs, then cups your breast over your top, squeezing. you gasp into his mouth and he swallows the sound like it belongs to him. his thumb rolls over your nipple through the fabric and your hips jerk.

“sensitive,” he murmurs.

you are. you hate how obvious you are.

simon’s mouth moves to your neck again, teeth scraping lightly. his hand slips under your crop top, palm flattening against your stomach, then gliding upward. his fingers hook under the hem and lift, exposing your skin to the cold air.

your breath stutters. “simon.”

“yeah,” he says again, and his voice sounds like he is holding himself back. “you want to learn. i’m teaching.”

he pushes your top up higher, then pauses, eyes on you. not asking out loud, but watching for your body to pull away.

you do not. you lift your arms a little, letting him. your cheeks are on fire.

simon drags the shirt over your head and tosses it aside like it is nothing. your breasts rise with your breath, bare in the tv light. you feel exposed, suddenly aware of everything, and your eyes sting again with that unwanted emotion.

“look at you,” he murmurs, and his tone is a mix of admiration and something more possessive. his eyes sweep down your body like he is memorizing it. “pretty.”

the compliment makes your stomach twist. you should not want it. you do.

his hand cups your breast properly now, thumb flicking your nipple. you whine, quiet, and his mouth curves in a faint, dangerous smile.

“there it is,” he says. “that’s the sound avia makes too.”

your eyes widen. humiliation and heat crash together. “don’t.”

“don’t what,” he murmurs, leaning in until his mouth brushes your ear. “don’t remind you. or don’t make you feel it.”

your whole body trembles. “don’t compare me.”

he pauses. then his voice drops softer. “alright. no comparing.”

his lips press to your jaw, gentler. “this is you.”

the sweetness makes your throat tight. you nod, almost dizzy.

his hand slides down your stomach, over the waistband of your shorts. he presses his palm there, right above where you are aching, and you gasp like he touched your raw nerve.

“this is what you wanted to know,” he murmurs. “how it feels. you want me to show you.”

you nod, helpless.

simon’s fingers hook into the waistband of your shorts. “lift.”

you lift your hips automatically, and he drags the shorts down your thighs in one smooth motion. you kick them off, clumsy. your underwear is small, flimsy, and suddenly you feel ridiculous in it. you cross your arms over your chest instinctively.

simon catches your wrist and pulls your arms down. “don’t hide.”

your breath catches. you stare at him.

his eyes are steady. “i’m the one looking. not them.”

your stomach flips at the possessive edge. you drop your arms.

simon’s gaze dips to your panties, the damp patch already forming. his jaw tightens.

“you’re soaked and you’re telling me you’re scared,” he murmurs, like he finds it fascinating.

“i am,” you whisper.

“yeah,” he says. “but you’re here.”

his hand slides between your thighs, palm pressing over your underwear. the pressure is firm. you jerk, a sharp inhale turning into a shaky moan.

simon’s eyes darken. “louder.”

you bite your lip.

his hand presses harder. “louder.”

a sound escapes you, higher, broken. your face burns. your body does not care.

“good,” he murmurs, and then he shifts down, sliding off the couch to kneel between your legs.

the sight of him down there makes your head spin. simon is big. even kneeling, he fills the space. his shoulders are wide, his arms thick, and the way he looks up at you from that angle makes you feel exposed in a way that turns your stomach to liquid.

he hooks his fingers in the waistband of your underwear and pulls it down, slow. the fabric drags over your slickness and you flinch.

“sensitive,” he repeats, almost amused.

your panties fall to the floor. you are bare. you try to close your legs out of reflex, and simon’s hands clamp on your thighs, spreading them wider with ease.

“no,” he says, calm and firm. “stay open.”

your breath shakes. you nod, and your legs stay where he put them because your body is already learning that his hands decide.

simon leans in and exhales over you, warm breath fanning your slickness. you jolt. your hands fly to the couch cushion, gripping. the sensation is too much, too intimate.

he watches your face, then lowers his mouth and presses a slow kiss to your inner thigh. another. then he bites gently, teeth sinking just enough to make you gasp.

“that’s not where you want it,” he murmurs, voice muffled against your skin.

you swallow hard. “please.”

his eyes flick up, sharp. “please what.”

your throat tightens, humiliation building. “please… here.”

he makes a low sound, satisfied. “good.”

then he spits.

it is not a casual thing. it is deliberate. warm spit landing on your cunt, sliding down over your slickness, mixing. the shock of it makes your whole body jerk, and the sound you make is half gasp, half whine.

simon’s mouth curves. “dirty little thing,” he murmurs, and the words should make you recoil, but they make your core clench hard. “you like that.”

you cannot answer. you can only breathe, quick and shaky.

he lowers his mouth and licks, slow, broad. his tongue drags through the wetness, tasting everything, and you cry out, louder than you meant to. your hips jerk up.

simon’s hands clamp harder on your thighs, holding you down. “stay.”

you whimper. “it’s… a lot.”

“yeah,” he says, voice low, and then he pushes his tongue deeper, pressing into you, and you practically sob at the sensation. your hands fumble, gripping his shoulders. he feels solid, unmovable.

he eats you like he is unhurried, like he has all night, tongue working steady patterns that make your body lose track of itself. he sucks your clit into his mouth and your back arches hard, a strangled moan spilling out.

simon hums, pleased, the vibration making you jolt. “that’s it. let it out.”

your thighs tremble. the pleasure builds fast, too fast. you panic, a tightness in your chest. “i’m gonna…”

his mouth lifts slightly. “gonna what.”

you shake your head, eyes squeezing shut. “i don’t know.”

“yes you do,” he murmurs, and then he pulls back, just as your body starts to tip over the edge.

the sudden loss is cruel. you gasp, hips chasing his mouth.

simon’s hands hold you down. “not yet.”

you stare at him, wide-eyed, breath ragged. “why.”

“because i said so,” he replies, calm. “and because you’re too quick. you need to learn to hold it.”

your stomach twists, frustration and need tangling. “please.”

“mm,” he hums, and his eyes rake over your face, taking in the watery eyes, the parted lips, the way you look wrecked already. “you’re a crybaby.”

you flush. “i’m not.”

he leans in, kisses your clit once, sharp, and you yelp. “you are.”

your legs try to close again. he spreads them wider. “stop running.”

“i’m not running,” you whimper.

“you’re trying,” he says, and there is a dark amusement in his tone. “stay put.”

he resumes, slower now, more controlled. his tongue circles your clit, then drags down, then back up, teasing. he keeps you right at the edge, then pulls away again, letting you fall.

each time he denies you, your body gets more desperate. you start to babble, incoherent little sounds. your hands clutch his shoulders, then the couch, then your own thighs like you do not know where to put them.

simon watches it all, patient and relentless.

“look at you,” he murmurs. “already drooling. eyes gone soft. and i haven’t even started.”

your mouth falls open. you do not remember opening it. your tongue feels thick. you swallow and it does nothing.

he slides one thick finger into you, slow. you gasp, eyes rolling back for a second.

“tight,” he says, and his voice goes rough. “yeah. i can feel it.”

your body clamps around his finger like it is trying to hold it. he pumps once, twice, then adds a second finger, stretching you. you cry out, tears pricking your eyes.

“hurts?” he asks, gaze sharp.

“no,” you lie, then immediately whimper when he curls his fingers and hits something inside you that makes your whole body jerk.

simon’s mouth curves. “that’s the spot.”

you make a sound that does not feel like language. your hips lift. he holds you down.

he spits again, this time into your mouth.

it is sudden. warm spit landing on your tongue. you freeze, shocked, then swallow instinctively.

simon watches your throat move. “good,” he murmurs. “take it.”

your face burns. your body clenches around his fingers.

he leans in, kissing you, mouth tasting like you. his tongue pushes in and your mind goes foggy. you kiss him back, needy, messy. you do not know how to be graceful. he does not seem to care. he likes the mess.

he pulls back and stands, towering over you. he looks down, eyes dark, and then he grabs your hips and yanks you toward the edge of the couch like you weigh nothing.

you squeak, startled. “simon.”

“hands,” he says.

you blink. “what.”

“hands on the backrest,” he repeats, tone leaving no room. “ass up.”

the command makes heat rush through you, sharp. you obey on instinct, clumsy from the high and the pleasure. you lean forward, palms pressing into the couch back, knees on the cushion, ass raised.

you feel exposed, open, vulnerable.

you also feel eager in a way that scares you.

behind you, simon’s sweatpants rustle. you hear the zipper. you hear him pull his cock free, heavy and thick, and your stomach drops.

you glance back despite yourself.

he is big. not just big, but thick in a way that makes your mind stutter. the head is flushed, veins running along the length. his hand wraps around it and it still looks like too much.

you swallow hard. fear spikes. “that’s… that’s big.”

simon’s gaze pins you. “yeah.”

your breath trembles. “i can’t…”

he steps closer, one hand sliding up your back, fingers curling in your hair, tugging your head back just enough to make you look at him over your shoulder. his voice drops, calm and brutal. “you can.”

your eyes sting. you nod even though you are terrified.

he releases your hair and spits into his hand, stroking himself slow, coating his cock. then he drags his hand between your thighs, spreading slickness over you, pressing his thumb to your clit once, making you jolt.

“you’re ready,” he says, like it is a fact.

he positions the head at your entrance and presses, slow. the stretch is immediate, sharp enough that you gasp and your hands grip the couch harder.

simon pauses. his hand moves to your hip, holding you still. “breathe.”

you try. the inhale shakes.

he pushes again, inch by inch. the burn is real. tears spill without you meaning to. you bite your lip hard enough to taste blood.

“that’s it,” he murmurs, and his voice goes unexpectedly soft, almost tender. “you’re doing good. keep breathing for me.”

the sweetness makes you cry harder, which is humiliating, and which also makes your body loosen a fraction.

simon takes that opening and slides in deeper.

you sob, a broken sound, and your body trembles around him. he is stretching you in a way you have never felt, a fullness that makes you feel like you are being filled up, claimed.

“fuck,” he breathes, voice cracking for the first time. “so tight.”

you are halfway impaled and your mind feels like static. your thoughts scatter, replaced by sensation. his hands grip your hips, thumbs digging in.

he holds still, letting you adjust. the pressure eases slightly, becoming an ache that is almost… good. you gasp, blinking through tears, and you feel your body start to accept him.

simon leans down, mouth near your ear. “you alright.”

you nod, frantic. “yeah. yeah.”

“good,” he murmurs. “don’t run.”

you do not understand what he means until he pulls out slightly and your body instinctively tries to retreat from the stretch.

he holds you in place. “there. that’s you trying.”

you whimper. “i’m sorry.”

“don’t apologise,” he says, and his tone goes darker again. “take it.”

then he thrusts in, deeper, and you cry out loud enough that it bounces off the thin walls. your cheeks burn with the thought of neighbors.

simon does not slow. he starts to move, slow at first, each thrust deliberate, stretching you open a little more. the burn fades into pleasure, a deep, heavy pleasure that makes your legs shake.

your moans slip out, messy, high, then broken into little gasps. you hear yourself and it feels unreal, like someone else is making those sounds.

simon’s hand slides up your back and grabs the base of your neck, forcing your head down, pressing you into the couch. “stay.”

the word hits like a collar. you obey, forehead near the cushion, ass still raised, taking him.

his pace increases. the couch creaks. his balls slap against you. the sounds are obscene in the quiet apartment.

“that it,” simon growls. “you wanted to know what it feels like. this what it feels like.”

your mouth opens and a string of drool slips out onto the cushion. you do not even register it until you taste salt. your eyes roll back. your arms tremble.

simon’s grip tightens. “look at you.”

he pulls your hair, yanking your head back, making you arch. his thrusts get harder, deeper, and the new angle makes your vision blur.

“simon,” you sob. “it’s… it’s a lot.”

“yeah,” he says, almost gently. “and you’re taking it.”

he slaps your ass, sharp. you yelp.

“mine,” he murmurs, voice low and brutal. “right now. you understand.”

you do not know what to say. you can only nod, whimpering.

he thrusts harder, the pace turning rough. your body rocks with each impact. the pleasure starts to build again, fast and unstoppable, and panic flares because it is too much, too soon.

“i’m gonna…” you gasp.

simon pulls out abruptly.

you cry out, a broken, desperate sound, hips chasing him. “no, don’t.”

he grabs your hips and holds you still, cock resting at your entrance, wet and glistening. “not yet.”

you turn your head, tears on your cheeks, glaring weakly. “why are you doing that.”

“because you need to learn,” he says, calm, as if he is explaining a drill. “and because i like watching you fall apart.”

your body trembles with frustration. you whine, pathetic. “please.”

simon’s eyes narrow slightly. “use your words.”

your mind is fog. your tongue feels heavy. “please let me… come.”

his mouth twitches. “that’s better.”

then he pushes back in and fucks you hard enough that you scream, the orgasm slamming into you like a wave you cannot outrun.

your body clenches around him, pulsing. your legs shake. your hands slip on the couch. your moan turns into a sob.

simon rides it, thrusting through your climax with controlled brutality, making it last longer than you can handle.

“good girl,” he growls. “that’s it. squeeze me.”

your eyes roll back. your mouth hangs open. you feel stupid, blissfully stupid, thoughts dissolving into wet heat.

and then it happens. the pressure inside you snaps and you gush, liquid spilling, soaking the couch, dripping down your thighs. the sensation is shocking, intense, and you cry out again, louder, voice breaking.

simon stills for a split second, then lets out a low, rough laugh. “there it is.”

humiliation burns through you. “oh my god.”

“don’t,” he says, tone sharp. “don’t get shy now.”

his hand slides down between your legs, fingers spreading the mess, making you feel it. you sob, overstimulated, and he keeps going.

“you’re a squirter,” he murmurs, voice thick with satisfaction. “look at the mess you made.”

you shake, whimpering, trying to squirm away. your body wants escape.

simon grips your hips and yanks you back. “nah. you’re not running.”

“i can’t,” you cry, voice high and wrecked. “it’s too much.”

“yes you can,” he says, and his voice goes soft in a way that makes you feel safe even while he is being merciless. “breathe. take it.”

he pulls out and flips you with startling ease. one moment you are bent over the couch, the next you are on your back, legs hauled up, knees near your chest. the movement makes you dizzy.

simon stands over you, chest rising, cock wet and shining. he looks down at you like you are something he owns for the night.

your eyes are glassy. your lips are swollen. you can feel drool at the corner of your mouth. you wipe it instinctively, ashamed.

simon catches your wrist. “leave it.”

your throat tightens. you stare at him.

he leans down and spits into your open mouth again, slower this time, like he is rewarding you. you swallow, eyes fluttering. your body clenches.

“good,” he murmurs, and then he presses two fingers to your lips, pushing them in. “suck.”

you do, obedient, cheeks hollowing. your eyes roll back at the taste of yourself on his fingers.

simon watches, jaw tight. “pretty mouth.”

then he pulls his fingers out and replaces them with his cock, tapping the head against your lips.

your eyes widen. fear flickers. you have never done this. you do not know how.

simon’s hand slides into your hair, gripping. not gentle. controlling. “open.”

you open.

he pushes in, thick head filling your mouth, and you gag on instinct. tears spring to your eyes again. simon holds still, letting you adjust, then pulls back and pushes forward again, slow at first.

“breathe through your nose,” he murmurs. “that’s it.”

your hands fly to his thighs, gripping. he is solid, unyielding. the cock in your mouth makes your jaw ache, makes you feel small.

simon’s eyes hold yours. “look at me. don’t close your eyes.”

you obey, blinking through tears. the eye contact is humiliating, intimate. your throat works around him. your saliva slicks his cock, drooling down your chin.

“good,” he says, voice rough. “you’re learning fast.”

then he starts to thrust.

it is controlled, but it is rough. he uses your mouth, sliding in deeper, pulling out, then pushing back in until the head bumps the back of your throat. you gag, choke, tears spilling. your hands claw at his thighs.

simon’s grip on your hair tightens. “that’s it. take it. stop fighting.”

you are not fighting. your body just reacts. you try to relax, try to open your throat, and the moment you do, he pushes deeper, making you choke again.

your moans come out muffled, vibrating around him. it is obscene. it makes your cunt clench hard even though you are already sore.

simon’s voice drops, sweet and cruel at once. “you wanted to know what avia’s been screaming about.”

your eyes widen, a fresh wave of humiliation. your body clenches harder.

“yeah,” he murmurs. “you like being used. don’t you.”

you make a sound that might be “yes” but it is mostly a sob. your head feels light, floating.

simon slows suddenly and pulls out, leaving your mouth empty. you gasp, drool dripping down your chin. he wipes it with his thumb and smears it across your lips like he is marking you.

“pretty,” he says again, softer.

then he moves, hauling you up by your arms and turning you so you are on your knees again, facing the couch. he pushes you down, chest to cushion, ass up.

your body jolts with anticipation and fear. you whimper.

simon spits onto your cunt again, then spreads it with his fingers, slicking you up with your own wetness and his. the touch makes you shudder.

“you’re still leaking,” he murmurs, like he is pleased. “good.”

he positions himself and thrusts back into you in one hard push.

you scream, loud, voice cracking. the fullness is overwhelming again, but now your body is looser, more accepting. the pain is sharp then fades into a deep, brutal pleasure.

simon’s hands clamp on your hips and he starts to pound. no slow build now. he sets a rhythm that shakes you, makes the couch slam against the wall with each thrust.

your moans turn into sobs. your face presses into the cushion. drool smears. your eyes roll back. your arms go weak.

“there it is,” simon growls. “limp for me. let me do the work.”

you barely have the strength to nod. your body becomes sensation, nothing else. each thrust hits deep, bruising in the best way, dragging pleasure out of you even as you whine that you cannot take more.

“you can,” he grits out. “you’re taking it right now.”

his hand slides up your back and grabs your throat from behind, not choking, just holding, grounding you. the possession of it makes your mind go blank.

“mine,” he repeats, voice low.

your pussy clenches around him at the words, and he lets out a harsh breath.

he pulls out again.

you sob, a broken sound, hips chasing. your body feels empty and desperate.

simon smacks your ass hard. “still needy.”

“please,” you cry.

“shut up,” he murmurs, and it is not cruel, it is commanding. “listen.”

you go still, trembling.

“i’m going to make you come again,” he says quietly, close to your ear. “but you’re not going to run from it. you’re going to stay open and take what i give you. yeah.”

your brain is mush. you nod.

simon’s hand slides between your thighs again, fingers finding your clit, rubbing in tight circles while his cock presses at your entrance, teasing.

you whine, shaking. “simon…”

“yeah,” he murmurs. “say my name. sounds good on you.”

your voice breaks. “simon.”

he pushes in, hard, and starts to fuck you again while his fingers keep rubbing. the double stimulation is violent. your body convulses, pleasure spiking too fast.

you try to squirm away. he yanks you back by the hips, forcing you to take it.

“nah,” he growls. “stay.”

your orgasm hits like lightning. you cry out, sobbing, and you gush again, soaking his cock, the couch, your thighs. the wet sound is loud, obscene.

simon does not stop. he keeps pounding, thrusts snapping your body forward, making you take it through the peak until the pleasure turns into overstimulation.

“too much,” you sob. “too much.”

“yeah,” he says, voice rough but strangely gentle. “and you’re still here.”

your legs shake so hard you think they might give out. your arms collapse. you end up face-down, limp, body trembling. your mouth opens, drool sliding out again. you cannot stop it.

simon slows, then pulls out and grabs your hair, lifting your head enough to make you look at the mess under you. cum and slickness and your own release, shining in the tv light.

“look,” he commands.

your eyes flutter. you force them open. shame burns.

simon’s hand slides down, scooping some of the wetness and smearing it over your cunt, over your thighs. “you see that.”

you nod weakly.

“that’s you,” he murmurs. “you did that.”

your lips tremble. you whisper, barely audible, “i’m sorry.”

his grip tightens in your hair. “don’t apologise for being a good girl.”

the words hit like warmth. you sob, soft.

simon pulls you up again, turning you so you are slumped against the couch, half-sitting. your legs are spread, trembling, and he kneels between them. he looks up at you, eyes sharp, and you feel like prey and worship at the same time.

he presses his mouth to your cunt again and licks, slow, cleaning you, tasting you, making you whine. the overstimulation makes it almost painful. you try to close your legs and he holds them open with one hand like it is nothing.

“stay open,” he murmurs against you. “take it.”

you shake, eyes rolling. your hands fumble for his shoulders, clutching like you are drowning.

simon lifts his head and kisses your inner thigh, softer. “breathe,” he repeats. “you’re alright.”

you nod, tears streaking down your cheeks. you feel wrecked, raw.

he stands and pulls you up, guiding you toward the hallway. your legs wobble. you cling to his arm instinctively, and he steadies you without comment.

he leads you to his and avia’s bedroom.

the room smells like them. clean sheets, faint perfume, cologne. your stomach twists at the reality of where you are.

simon shuts the door behind you and turns. he looks at you like he is deciding something. then he reaches out and cups your cheek, thumb wiping a tear.

“you still with me,” he murmurs.

you nod, breath trembling. “yeah.”

“good,” he says.

then he pushes you onto the bed, not gentle, but careful in the way he controls you. you bounce on the mattress, hair messy, eyes glassy.

simon strips his tank off in one motion, tossing it aside. his torso is broad, muscled, scars faintly visible in the soft light. he looks like a man built for violence who learned how to be quiet about it.

he crawls onto the bed and presses his weight over you, heavy and warm. you gasp at the press of him, at the feel of his cock against your thigh.

he kisses you again, deep, messy, swallowing your breath. his hand slides under your head and lifts it, angling you. he controls everything, the pace, the pressure, the air you get.

you moan into his mouth, soft and broken. it sounds wrong and right at once.

simon pulls back, breath rough. “you’re going to take it again.”

your eyes widen. your body clenches.

he taps your cheek lightly, not unkind. “don’t look scared. you’ve done it now.”

your lips tremble. “i’m sore.”

“i know,” he murmurs, and the softness in his voice makes your chest ache. “i’ll make it good.”

his hand slides down between your legs, fingers spreading you, feeling how wet you still are. he hums low.

“still ready,” he says.

you whine. “you keep saying that.”

“because it’s true,” he replies, and then he pushes into you again, slow this time, letting you feel every inch, letting your body open.

you gasp, tears pricking again. simon kisses your forehead, surprisingly gentle.

“breathe,” he murmurs. “that’s it. i’ve got you.”

your body relaxes around him in small increments. the pain fades into a deep ache, then into pleasure as he fills you completely.

simon stills, watching your face. “you want me rough again.”

the question hangs. your body answers before your mind can. your hips lift, seeking him. your hands claw at his back.

simon’s eyes darken. “yeah. thought so.”

he pulls your legs up higher, folding you. the angle is obscene, makes you feel exposed. then he starts to thrust, slow and deep at first, then harder.

the bed creaks. your moans rise, unfiltered. you do not have the pride to be quiet anymore. you only have sensation.

simon leans down, mouth at your ear. “you’re going to come when i tell you.”

your eyes flutter. “i…”

“yeah,” he murmurs. “you will.”

he fucks you harder, the rhythm turning rough again, his hips snapping. each thrust hits deep, dragging pleasure out of you in sharp waves. your body starts to chase it, desperate, and your mind goes blank, replaced by heat and pressure.

“please,” you sob.

simon’s hand slides to your throat again, holding. “not yet.”

you whine, shaking. your eyes roll. drool gathers again at your lower lip.

“look at you,” he murmurs, voice thick. “pretty and dumb on my cock.”

humiliation and heat collide. your cunt clenches hard. simon groans low.

“yeah,” he says. “you like that.”

you cannot answer. you can only moan, breathless.

he reaches down and rubs your clit again, rougher now, and the sensation tips you toward the edge.

your whole body tenses, desperate for release. “simon, please, i’m…”

he stops moving.

the sudden stillness is torture. you gasp, eyes wide, hips jerking, trying to force friction.

simon holds you down by your hips, voice calm and brutal. “stay still.”

you whimper, tears spilling. “i can’t.”

“you can,” he says, and his tone turns sweet, almost gentle. “hold it. good girl. hold it for me.”

your body trembles, hovering at the edge, denied. it feels like being held underwater with your lungs full.

simon watches your face, fascinated. “that’s it,” he murmurs. “i can see it. you’re right there.”

you sob, helpless. “please.”

“say it properly,” he says, voice low.

your mind is mush. you force the words out. “please let me come.”

simon’s mouth curves. “there you go.”

then he starts moving again, hard, fast, and the orgasm crashes into you so violently you choke on your own moan.

your body convulses. your back arches. your legs shake. you gush again, soaking him, the sheets, everything. the mess spreads, warm and obscene.

simon keeps fucking you through it, thrusts relentless, making you ride the wave until it turns into overstimulation again.

you cry, voice breaking. “i can’t, i can’t.”

“yes you can,” he growls, and his control slips, more raw. “take it. take all of it.”

his breath goes harsh. his thrusts turn erratic, deeper. you feel his cock twitch inside you.

simon pulls out at the last second and jerks himself, stroking fast. he kneels between your spread legs and comes over your cunt and thighs, thick spills landing hot, mixing with your wetness. some drips down toward your ass. it is messy, shameless.

you stare, dazed, watching it run. your mind feels far away.

simon watches you watch it, eyes dark. “look at that.”

you swallow, throat bobbing.

he scoops some with his fingers and smears it over your clit, making you jolt and whine. “that’s mine,” he murmurs.

your body clenches, oversensitive. you try to squirm away and he catches your hips, holding you still.

you whimper, exhausted. “i’m tired.”

something soft flickers in his face. he releases you and shifts up, hovering over you again. his hand brushes your cheek, thumb wiping away another tear.

“yeah,” he murmurs, calmer now. “i know.”

he gets up and disappears into the bathroom. you lie there, chest heaving, legs trembling, staring at the ceiling like it might explain what just happened. your body feels used and cared for at the same time, and it makes your brain ache.

when simon returns, he has a warm washcloth and a bottle of water. he sits on the edge of the bed and gently wipes your thighs, your cunt, cleaning the mess with a methodical care that feels almost intimate in a different way.

you flinch once from sensitivity and he pauses immediately, eyes on your face. “too much?”

you nod, weak.

he softens the pressure, wiping slower. “alright.”

you take the water when he offers it, hands shaking. you sip, throat dry.

simon watches you, then says quietly, “you did well.”

the praise hits harder than the degradation. your eyes sting again. you look away, embarrassed.

simon catches your chin, turning your face back. “don’t look away.”

you meet his eyes, glassy.

his voice drops. “you still scared.”

you swallow. “i don’t know what i am.”

he studies you for a long moment. then he leans in and presses a kiss to your forehead, brief and grounding.

“you’re alive,” he says simply. “and you learned.”

you let out a shaky laugh that turns into a small sob. “that’s not…”

he huffs a quiet laugh. “yeah. i know.”

you lie there while he finishes cleaning you. then he pulls a blanket over you, tucking it around your shoulders with an unexpected gentleness that makes your chest feel tight.

you blink up at him. “why are you being nice.”

simon’s jaw tightens slightly. “because i’m not a monster.”

you swallow. “avia…”

his gaze sharpens. “don’t.”

the word is quiet but final. it makes you go still.

he looks down at you, eyes tired. “she’s my bird. you’re her sister.”

your stomach drops. shame spikes.

simon’s hand cups your cheek again, thumb brushing. “and you’re an adult who wanted something. i gave it to you.”

you stare at him, heart pounding. “so what now.”

simon’s eyes flick toward the door, like he can hear time moving. “now you breathe. you drink your water. you don’t make noise. and you don’t say a word about this.”

the possessive edge returns, controlled. it steadies you.

you nod.

simon’s phone buzzes on the nightstand. he glances at it, then at you.

“she’s on her way back,” he murmurs.

your heart lurches. panic rises, sharp. you sit up too fast and wince, sore.

simon’s hand presses gently to your shoulder. “easy.”

“i can’t be in here,” you whisper, voice shaking. “she’ll know.”

“she won’t,” he says, calm. “listen to me.”

his tone makes you obey before you realize you are obeying.

he helps you up, steadying you when your legs wobble. he hands you your shorts and top. you pull them on with clumsy fingers, cheeks burning.

simon wipes the sheets quickly, practical, then tosses a blanket over the wet spot like it belongs there. he opens a window slightly, air shifting.

he grabs your chin again, tilting your face up. “look at me.”

you meet his eyes, panicked.

his voice drops, low and steady. “you’re going to your room. you’re going to shower. you’re going to act normal. you can do that.”

you swallow. “yeah.”

“good,” he murmurs. “and if you can’t, you come to me and i’ll fix it.”

the words make your stomach flip in a way that is not purely fear.

you nod again, then slip out of the bedroom and down the hall on shaky legs. your body aches. your thighs feel sticky. you feel like everyone can see what happened just by looking at you.

in your bathroom, you turn the shower on hot and step under it, water pounding your skin. you wash slowly, careful, wincing when you touch yourself. you stare at your own face in the fogged mirror afterward. your eyes look different. softer. wrecked.

you dress in an oversized t-shirt and crawl into bed, heart still racing. you try to steady your breathing like simon told you. you stare at the ceiling, listening.

you hear the front door open.

avia’s voice floods the apartment, loud and bright. “i’m home!”

your stomach knots. you hold your breath, listening like your life depends on it.

you hear simon’s voice, calm from the living room. “alright.”

avia laughs. “why you sound like that. you miss me or what.”

“yeah,” he says, and it is so normal it makes you dizzy.

you hear her toss her purse down. you hear her heels kick off. you hear her chatter, words blurring.

you press your hand to your mouth, swallowing a shaky sound.

and then, in the middle of her talking, there is a brief pause, like the apartment takes a breath.

you feel it before you hear it. footsteps. slow, measured. approaching your door.

your heart slams.

there is a soft knock. not loud. not demanding.

you freeze, eyes wide.

the door cracks open just enough to show a sliver of simon in the hallway light. his hair is slightly messier. his face is calm, unreadable. his eyes find yours immediately.

he does not speak. he just looks at you.

it is not the look he gave you when he was teaching you to kiss. it is not the look he gave you when he was pinning you down and calling you his for the night.

it is quieter. heavier.

his gaze drops, just once, to your mouth. then back to your eyes.

a message without words: stay calm. stay quiet. remember.

you swallow and nod, tiny.

simon’s eyes narrow in approval. then he closes the door without a sound.

in the living room, avia laughs again, loud enough to fill the whole apartment, and you lie there in the dark, body aching, mind buzzing, realizing something you did not want to realize.

you are not the same girl who was staring at a blinking cursor a few hours ago.

and somewhere out there, in the space between thin walls and careful footsteps, simon riley is still moving through the apartment like nothing happened, like he is made of control.

except you know how he sounds when he loses it.

and you know, now, that he knows how you sound too.

the door clicks shut, soft as a secret, and the apartment keeps breathing like nothing happened.

for a while you lie there listening to avia’s voice bounce off the walls, bright and careless, and simon’s low replies threaded through it like calm stitching. you hold your own breath until your lungs ache, then let it go in a slow, silent spill, staring at the ceiling like it might rearrange itself into an answer.

it does not. it just stays there, plain and white, while your body hums with the echo of hands and teeth and weight, while your skin remembers pressure like it is a language you never learned until tonight. you blink until your eyes burn, then you roll over and press your face into your pillow, trying to bury the memory under cotton.

it does not bury.

sleep comes in pieces. when you wake up, sunlight pours in like it owns the room. your body is sore in ways you have never been sore, and even the smallest movement reminds you of what happened, of how big he was, how close the line came to snapping.

you lie still, listening.

you can hear avia in the kitchen, humming while she makes coffee. you can hear simon in the bathroom, water running, the soft clink of his belt buckle. normal noises. normal morning. your stomach twists like it wants to crawl out of your throat.

then you feel it, sharp and unavoidable, when you shift your legs. tenderness. a dull ache. the kind of proof you cannot hide from yourself.

you sit up slowly, staring at your knees. you are not bleeding, not like in the horror stories people tell when they want you to be afraid. you are just sore, swollen, and deeply, embarrassingly aware.

when you finally step into the hallway, your sister looks up immediately, eyes bright. “hey, sleepy.”

you force a smile. “morning.”

avia’s gaze drops from your face to the way you move, the careful way you set your feet, the slight stiffness in your hips. her eyebrows lift, then her mouth falls open like she just got handed a gift.

“hold on,” she says, setting her mug down. “no way.”

your stomach drops. “what.”

avia’s grin spreads, almost feral with delight. she leans on the counter, eyes scanning you like she is reading a headline. “girl… don’t play with me. you look… different.”

you swallow. “i’m just tired.”

“no,” she says, pointing at you like she has caught you committing a crime. “you got that soft little limp. and your face is all…,” she waves her hand, searching for the word, “dreamy. don’t lie.”

you laugh, too sharp. “avia, stop.”

she steps closer, lowering her voice like she is being respectful while still being avia. “did you finally do it.”

heat floods your face. you glance toward the bathroom door, heart racing. you can hear simon moving in there. the sound makes your stomach tighten.

you do the first thing your brain offers you. you lie.

“yeah,” you say softly. “i did.”

avia freezes, then squeals, actually squeals, grabbing your shoulders. “i knew it! i knew you was gonna stop playing with your life.”

“avia,” you hiss, trying to pull back, but she is already bouncing on her toes.

“who,” she demands. “who is he. don’t say nobody. i want a name.”

your mouth goes dry. you scramble, mind snagging on the safest thing, the thing that sounds believable. “a boy from my writing class.”

avia’s eyes widen. “a writing class boy? okay, miss romance novel.”

you swallow hard. “we’ve been talking.”

“for how long,” she presses, eyes glittering.

“a little bit,” you say vaguely, because specifics feel like traps.

avia studies you for a moment, then nods like she approves of your vagueness. “alright. and was it… good.”

you hesitate, remembering a heavy body, a low voice, hands that decided everything. your throat tightens. you force yourself to keep the lie simple, clean.

“he was,” you clear your throat, “big. and it was good for my first time.”

avia’s face goes soft in a way that surprises you. she squeezes your shoulders gently. “okay. i’m happy for you. for real.”

you manage a small smile. “yeah.”

“i’m not gonna press for details if you don’t want,” she says, though you can tell it costs her. “but i do want details eventually.”

you nod, grateful and guilty at once. “i’ll tell you later.”

“good,” she says, brightening again. “i’ll wait. but i’m proud of you, okay. you did it when you felt ready. that’s what matters.”

your throat burns. you nod again, unable to speak.

then the bathroom door opens.

simon steps out like he belongs to the air itself, hair damp, face calm. he is already dressed, black shirt, dark jeans, boots. he looks the same as he always does. that steadiness makes you feel unsteady.

his eyes flick to you.

just once.

it is not a lingering look. it is not anything avia could catch if she wasn’t already turned toward him. but it is enough. it lands on you like a hand.

you freeze.

simon’s expression does not change. he looks away, walking to the kitchen like you are not standing there with your skin buzzing under your clothes.

avia turns and wraps her arms around him from the side. “morning, babe.”

“morning,” he replies, voice low.

she kisses his cheek, then looks back at you, mouth full of secrets. “my sister finally out here living.”

simon pauses, beer-bottle posture without the bottle, the slightest stillness.

“yeah,” he says, and his voice is even. “good for her.”

the words should feel like nothing.

they feel like everything.

a month passes like that. not in a straight line, not clean, but in days that stack up quietly until the calendar changes and your body still hasn’t forgotten.

simon never touches you again.

he does not corner you. he does not look at you the way he looked at you that night. he does not let his hands linger when you pass him in the hallway. he does not say your name like it tastes good. he becomes, if anything, more careful. more silent. more normal.

it should make you feel relieved.

instead it makes you feel like you are carrying a live wire under your skin.

your mind keeps replaying moments you did not ask it to replay. the way he sounded when he lost his control. the way his voice went soft when you were shaking. the way he took care of you after, practical and gentle, like he could be cruel with his body and kind with his hands in the same breath.

and the worst part is what happens to you now, when you are alone.

you have always known what desire was, in a theoretical way. you have written it. you have read it. you have watched it from a distance like a person standing outside a club, listening to the bass through the walls.

now it lives in you.

it wakes up in the morning with you. it follows you through campus. it sits next to you in lecture, pressing against the inside of your thighs while your professor talks about narrative structure and you try not to squirm in your seat.

you find yourself thinking about simon in the smallest, stupidest ways. his hands on a coffee mug. his neck when he tilts his head to listen to avia. the way his sleeves ride up when he washes dishes. the sound of his boots at the door. the smell of smoke when he walks past you.

your body reacts like a traitor. nipples tightening under your bra. heat pooling low in your belly. slickness that comes too easily, too fast, like your body is eager to embarrass you.

you start touching yourself more than you ever have, not because you want to be wild, not because you want to be reckless, but because you feel like you are going to split open from the need if you do not.

it is not romantic. it is not pretty. it is sometimes desperate and silent, your hand muffled by the blanket, your teeth clamped down on your bottom lip so you do not make noise through thin walls again. when you finish, it never feels like enough. it never feels like that night. it never makes the ache go away.

and it scares you, a little, how quickly your body learned to want.

you try to write about it. you try to put it on the page like it will become manageable if you can turn it into prose. you fill paragraphs with metaphors and sensory details, then delete them because none of it feels honest enough. the real thing is too blunt. too hungry.

one night, after you’ve been tossing in bed for hours, you hear avia walking around in the living room, phone pressed to her ear, laughing. you hear simon’s voice in the background, low, barely there. you hate how just hearing him makes your body tense.

you sit up, breathing hard. the high-strung edge of your own need makes you angry. at yourself. at him. at the fact that he can go back to normal like you were never under him.

you get out of bed and walk to the living room on bare feet, hair messy, eyes tired. avia looks up mid-sentence and grins. “what’s up.”

you wait until she hangs up, then you sit on the other end of the couch and stare at your hands.

avia’s grin fades a little. “okay. something up.”

your throat tightens. you pick the lie again, because it is already built, already standing.

“it’s my body,” you say quietly.

avia’s eyes soften. she scoots closer, her voice dropping. “what about it.”

you swallow. “after… after i did it. i feel… different.”

avia nods, calm. “yeah. that happens.”

“i think about it a lot,” you admit, cheeks burning. “like, all the time. and i feel…,” you search for words that won’t make you sound like you’re losing your mind, “i feel like i want it again. but it’s not like i can just… do that.”

avia leans back, studying you with the kind of seriousness she usually saves for family emergencies. “you talking about that boy.”

you nod, because you have to.

avia makes a sympathetic face. “mm. okay. that makes sense.”

you stare at the floor. “it’s annoying.”

she laughs softly. “yeah, it is. welcome to being grown.”

you huff, embarrassed. “i’m serious.”

“i know,” avia says, reaching out to rub your shoulder. “listen. your first time can kind of… unlock something. your body gets familiar with the feeling, and it starts craving it. it don’t mean you crazy. it means you human.”

you swallow. “so what do i do.”

avia shrugs. “if you and him still talking, you can do it again. simple.”

your stomach flips. “what if he doesn’t want to.”

avia’s eyebrows lift. “if he had you once, he probably want you again. but you gotta communicate.”

you look away, heat flooding your face. “i don’t know how.”

avia leans in, voice gentle but still her. “baby, you a writing major. you literally majoring in words. use them.”

you laugh weakly, then sigh. “it’s just… i don’t want to look desperate.”

avia rolls her eyes. “desperate is calling him forty times. asking a man you like for something you both want is not desperate. it’s adult.”

you nod slowly, pretending it helps more than it does.

avia bumps your shoulder lightly. “and if it was good, don’t punish yourself by acting like you got to pretend you don’t want it again. just be smart.”

be smart. you almost laugh at that, because you have been trying to be smart for weeks and your body keeps voting against you.

the next day you do something that is both smart and stupid. you start making the lie more real.

you pick a boy from your writing class who has been looking at you for a while, the kind of look that is hopeful and nervous instead of hungry. his name is jamie. he is tall in a gentle way, with kind eyes and an earnest smile. he has ink stains on his fingers sometimes. he laughs at your jokes like they are worth hearing.

you tell yourself it is for the story. to make it believable. to make avia stop asking. to get your mind off simon.

you do not tell yourself the truth, which is that you want to see if your body will react to someone else the same way.

jamie asks you out after class, stammering a little. “do you… want to get coffee. or something.”

you say yes because you are tired of being haunted by a man you cannot have.

the coffee turns into a few dates. jamie is sweet. he listens when you talk. he asks questions about your writing like he means it. he doesn’t push. he doesn’t press his hands into your skin like he owns it. he kisses you gently, like he is afraid of messing up.

the gentleness should feel good.

it just feels like nothing compared to the memory you keep swallowing.

when you finally go back to jamie’s place, it feels like you are stepping into a scene you wrote, not one you are living. his apartment smells like laundry detergent and instant ramen. he’s nervous, hands shaking a little when he touches your waist. he keeps checking your face.

“you okay,” he whispers.

you nod, because you are too far into the lie to stop.

jamie is careful. he goes slow. he kisses you like he wants to be respectful, like he thinks tenderness is the whole job. it would have been perfect for the girl you were before.

now you keep waiting for the moment your body sparks the way it did with simon.

it doesn’t.

you feel pressure, movement, warmth, but it’s muted, like someone turned the volume down. jamie whispers sweet things, praise that is soft, and you nod and make sounds you know you’re supposed to make. you arch when you’re supposed to arch. you breathe harder when you’re supposed to breathe harder. you keep your face angled away so he can’t see the blankness.

when he finishes, he does it quietly, a shaky exhale against your shoulder. you don’t even realize what happened until later, when you’re in the bathroom and you feel the slick heaviness and you stare at yourself in the mirror with your stomach sinking.

you tell yourself it’s fine. you tell yourself you’ll handle it. you tell yourself you’ll never do it again.

a week later you start throwing up.

it happens in the morning at first. then it happens at random times, sharp nausea turning your stomach like it’s being wrung out. you blame stress. you blame cafeteria food. you blame everything except what your gut already knows.

you count days on your phone calendar with trembling fingers. you stare at the screen until your eyes blur.

you do not tell avia. you do not tell your friends. you move like a ghost in your own life, swallowing bile in bathroom stalls between classes, chewing mint gum until your jaw aches.

finally, you go to the clinic alone.

the waiting room smells like disinfectant and stale air. you fill out forms with shaky hands. you keep your eyes on the floor, like if you don’t look up, nobody can read your guilt.

when the nurse calls you back, your heart is pounding so hard it feels like it might bruise your ribs from the inside.

the test is quick. the confirmation is quieter than you expected. the nurse’s voice is gentle, almost rehearsed.

“it’s positive,” she says.

your stomach drops anyway, like you weren’t braced for it.

“how far along,” you whisper, because you need a number like you need oxygen.

she gives you an estimate and a small pamphlet, talks about next steps. your ears ring. you nod like you’re listening. you’re not. you’re counting backward again, the timeline slicing through your mind until it lands on jamie’s apartment, on the quiet softness, on the way you didn’t even notice.

you walk out of the clinic with your hands clenched so tight your nails dig into your palms.

you sit in your car for a long time staring at the steering wheel, breathing like you just ran a mile.

jamie’s baby.

you know it. you know it with a kind of cold certainty. you remember simon pulling out. you remember the way he was careful at the end, controlled. you remember the mess, yes, but you remember the way he didn’t finish inside you.

your stomach churns again, partly nausea, partly disgust at your own panic.

two days pass and you keep the secret like a stone in your mouth.

then it happens in the living room, on an evening that should have been nothing.

avia and simon are on the couch. avia is sitting sideways in his lap, arms looped around his shoulders, laughing at something on her phone. simon has a cigarette in his hand, smoke curling up slow. he looks calm, distant, the way he always does.

you sit on the other end of the couch with a throw pillow against your stomach, trying to hide the nausea that keeps rolling through you. the tv is on low. the apartment smells like smoke and avia’s perfume and something fried she brought home.

you are upset in a way that feels unfair, because nothing is happening. simon isn’t doing anything wrong. he’s kissing your sister’s cheek, letting her cling, letting her be loud. you’re the one sitting here with your body full of secrets, with your skin still remembering hands that haven’t touched you in a month.

simon doesn’t glance at you once.

not once.

your throat tightens. your eyes sting. your stomach flips with nausea and jealousy so sharp it makes you dizzy.

and before you can stop yourself, before your brain can catch the words and swallow them, you blurt it out like a grenade you’re tired of holding.

“i’m pregnant.”

the room goes silent.

avia freezes in simon’s lap, eyes wide. her mouth opens and closes once. “what.”

simon’s cigarette pauses halfway to his lips. his head turns slowly toward you.

and when his eyes meet yours, you feel it immediately. not anger. not disgust. confusion.

and then something sharper, something like silent confirmation hunting.

his gaze drops, quick, to your stomach like he can see through your skin. then back to your face, narrowing, searching.

your heart pounds. your lie is already built. your fear is already driving.

you nod.

it is small. it is almost nothing.

it changes everything.

simon’s face goes still. the color seems to drain from it. his jaw tightens hard. he looks at you like you just spoke in a language he cannot afford to misunderstand.

then he stands up abruptly, shifting avia off his lap.

avia grabs his arm, startled. “babe?”

simon doesn’t look at her. he looks at you one more time, and his eyes are darker than you’ve ever seen them.

then he walks out.

the front door shuts hard enough that the frame rattles.

avia blinks, stunned, then turns fully to you, scrambling across the couch like her body moved before her mind did. “oh my god. are you okay. how far. when. who.”

the questions tumble out, urgent and bright and shocked all at once. she grabs your hands, squeezing. her palms are warm.

you swallow hard. you force the story out through a throat that feels like it’s closing.

“it’s jamie,” you say. “the boy from my writing class.”

avia’s brows knit. “jamie… okay. okay. and you… you’re keeping it?”

you nod, because you don’t know how to be anything else right now.

avia’s eyes fill with tears immediately, and she laughs at the same time like she cannot decide which emotion to live in. “oh my god. baby. okay. okay.”

she pulls you into a hug so tight it knocks the breath out of you. “i’m here. i’m here. we gonna figure it out.”

you close your eyes and let her hold you. guilt burns behind your ribs like acid.

avia pulls back, cupping your face. “you told jamie yet.”

you shake your head.

“okay,” she says, determined. “we’ll handle that. we’ll do it right. but you not doing this alone, alright.”

you nod, tears slipping out despite yourself. not from joy. from the weight of it.

avia wipes your cheeks with her thumbs. “and simon… he just shocked. don’t mind him. he love you. he just…,” she gestures vaguely, “men be dramatic.”

you swallow, watching the door like it might open and swallow you whole.

avia squeezes your hands again. “we gonna get baby stuff. i don’t care if you only a few weeks, we can start planning. i’m gonna be an auntie.”

you manage a weak smile because she looks so happy it hurts.

that night she calls her friends. she tells your mom. she starts a list on her phone. she sends you links to prenatal vitamins. she talks like the future is a room she can decorate.

you lie in bed and stare at the ceiling again, stomach turning.

a few days later, avia leaves early in the morning with a tote bag and a mission, saying she’s “just going to look,” like looking isn’t going to turn into buying. she kisses your forehead before she goes, eyes bright with excitement.

“rest,” she says. “you need rest now.”

you nod, throat tight.

when the door shuts behind her, the apartment feels too quiet.

you sit on your bed with your knees pulled up, hands resting on your stomach. you are barely pregnant, barely anything, and yet it feels like your entire body has been rewritten.

you hear the front door open again an hour later.

boots. slow. measured.

your heart starts to race.

there’s a soft knock on your bedroom door.

you hold your breath.

the door opens.

simon steps in and shuts it behind him. he doesn’t ask permission. he doesn’t smile. his face looks exhausted in a way you haven’t seen before, like he hasn’t slept since you said that word.

he stands there for a moment, eyes fixed on you, then he walks to your bed and sits on the edge, careful but heavy. the mattress dips. the closeness makes your skin prickle.

you stare at his hands resting on his thighs. his fingers are tense, knuckles pale.

“avia’s out,” he says, voice low.

you nod, unable to speak.

simon’s eyes lift to your face. they are sharp, haunted. “tell me the truth.”

your throat tightens. “i did.”

his jaw clenches. “don’t.”

the single word hits like a command. your stomach flips.

he leans forward slightly, elbows on his knees, cigarette smell faint on his clothes. “is it mine.”

your pulse pounds in your ears. the room feels smaller.

you nod.

the lie slides out smooth because you have been rehearsing it in your head since the moment you nodded on the couch. you tell yourself you’re doing it for love, for safety, for some twisted version of a future where he looks at you the way he did that night and doesn’t look away.

simon closes his eyes briefly, like he is absorbing a blow. when he opens them again, his gaze is darker, heavier.

“how,” he murmurs, more to himself than to you. “i pulled out.”

you keep your face steady, your voice small. “i don’t know.”

simon stares at you for a long moment, then exhales through his nose, slow. his shoulders rise and fall.

“could’ve,” he mutters, jaw tight. “could’ve got inside you anyway. on my fingers. on you. fuck.”

the way he thinks through it makes you nauseous, not because he’s wrong, but because you are watching him build a belief brick by brick. you let him, because you are already standing on the lie and you don’t know how to step off without breaking everything.

simon’s gaze flicks to your stomach again, then back to your eyes. “you’re sure.”

you nod again.

something in him shifts. a decision locking in.

he sits back and looks at you like he’s seeing you for the first time in weeks. not your sister’s kid sister. not a person in the hallway. you.

his voice drops, rough. “alright.”

you swallow. “alright.”

simon’s hand lifts, hesitates, then reaches for your knee. his palm rests there, warm and heavy. the contact sends a shock through you. you try not to flinch.

he watches you carefully. “i didn’t touch you again.”

you blink. “i noticed.”

his jaw tightens. “had to be smart.”

your throat burns. “yeah.”

simon’s thumb rubs once over your knee, slow, absent. “i’ve been thinking about you. more than i should.”

your breath catches.

he holds your gaze, unwavering. “i’m not proud of it.”

you whisper, barely audible, “i am.”

simon’s eyes narrow slightly, like he’s surprised by your honesty. then his face softens, almost imperceptibly.

“you’re carrying something now,” he says quietly.

you nod, hand drifting to your stomach without thinking.

simon’s gaze follows the movement. he swallows, throat bobbing. “my kid.”

the words make your stomach flip in a way that isn’t entirely guilt. it’s warmth too, sharp and addictive.

simon leans in a little, voice lower. “listen to me.”

you nod, obedient.

“avia can’t know,” he says.

your heart stutters. “she…”

“she can’t,” he repeats, firmer. “not now. maybe not ever. you told her it was that lad from class. keep it that way.”

you swallow. the lie thickens. “okay.”

simon’s hand slides from your knee to your thigh, gripping gently, steadying. “i’ll take care of you.”

your breath trembles. “how.”

“private,” he says, eyes on yours. “when she’s at work. when my schedule aligns. i’ll be here. i’ll make sure you’re alright. i’ll make sure you got what you need.”

you stare at him, stunned by the bluntness. “and avia.”

simon’s jaw tightens. “i’ll handle my house.”

the possessive phrasing makes your skin prickle.

he pauses, then his voice drops softer, rough with something you can almost mistake for tenderness. “i love you.”

your heart slams.

simon doesn’t look away. “and i love the baby.”

your eyes sting. you blink hard, trying to keep tears from spilling. you’ve wanted him to look at you like you matter for a month, and now his words feel like a hand wrapping around your throat, not choking, just holding you in place.

you nod quickly. “okay.”

simon’s mouth twitches, faint. “that’s all you can say.”

your voice cracks. “i don’t know what to say.”

he shifts closer, hand sliding up to your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek like he’s checking if you’re real. “say you’ll keep quiet.”

you nod. “i’ll keep quiet.”

“good girl,” he murmurs, and the words make your stomach clench hard.

simon leans in and kisses you.

it’s not like the first time, not hungry and reckless. it’s slower, heavier, deliberate. his lips press to yours like he’s sealing a promise. you melt into it instantly, hands grabbing his shirt like you’re afraid he’ll disappear.

his mouth moves down your cheek, to your jaw, to your neck. he kisses the place that still feels sensitive when you think about it, and you shiver, breath catching.

simon pauses, mouth against your skin. “you alright.”

you nod, eyes closing. “yeah.”

he exhales, warm against your throat, then pulls back and wraps an arm around you, tugging you into his chest like you belong there.

you go willingly, curling into him. his body is warm and solid, the kind of weight that makes you feel safe even when it shouldn’t. his hand rests on your back, holding you close. he smells like smoke and clean soap and something sharp that makes your head feel quiet.

you listen to his heartbeat under your ear. steady. controlled.

simon’s lips press to your hairline. “boy,” he murmurs, almost to himself.

you blink. “what.”

“hope it’s a boy,” he says softly. “a little lad. stubborn like me.”

your throat tightens. you want to laugh. you want to cry. you do neither. you just cling to him, letting his arms hold you like you are something precious.

for the first time in a month, you feel looked at again. not with casual eyes. with ownership.

and you tell yourself the lie is worth it, because in his chest, with his breath warming your hair and his hand steady on your back, you finally feel loved.

so.. do we love this? do we hate it? something random & i’ve been working on for like a.. few days. something to keep my account busy! anyways please let me know.. i love the commentary, feedback, etc.

ᵗᵃᵍˡⁱˢᵗ @tomurafrlover23 (let me know if you want to be added to my taglist)

[nokariwrites]

Yes, While Driving

synopsis; on a road trip to disneyworld with your best friend caelie and her longtime boyfriend dick grayson, long-buried tension rises during the quiet hours of the night drive back.

wc; 2k

a/n; may or may neglected him driving during so.. let’s not get mad at me for that. genuinely don’t like this but i was damn near sleep so it is what it is. enjoy!

warnings; infidelity, explicit, oral (male receiving), handjob, unprotected sex, praise kink, dirty talk, public sex (in a moving car), mildly risky sex (someone in car, risk of being caught), rough sex, cowgirl, overstimulation (if you squint), squirter!reader, weed use, size kink (if you squint). ᴹᴰᴺᴵ! ᴹᴵᴺᴼᴿˢ ᴰᴼ ᴺᴼᵀ ᴵᴺᵀᴱᴿᴬᶜᵀ! ʸᴼᵁ ᴴᴬⱽᴱ ᴮᴱᴱᴺ ᵂᴬᴿᴺᴱᴰ!

you didn’t even want to go to disneyworld in the first place.

not because it was disney—no, you were obsessed with disney as a kid. but it was hot. it was packed. it was a long drive from tennessee. and you’d already been once with your family when you were fourteen. but caelie asked. and when caelie asked for something, she didn’t ask twice.

“i want us to take a road trip,” she had said in early may, toes tucked under your thigh while you both laid across your couch, her socked foot already tapping with excitement. “just us. like we used to talk about back in high school.”

you were suspicious. “a road trip to where, exactly?”

“florida.”

“florida where, exactly?”

“…orlando.”

you narrowed your eyes. “you tryna drag me to disney in the middle of summer with all them funky ass tourists and musty kids—”

“—yes.”

“girl.”

“please.”

and you had caved, because that’s what you did. you and caelie had been close since high school. you were the youngest in your friend group, skipped a grade, always tagging along on the heels of older kids who somehow never made you feel like the odd one out. caelie especially. she was the one who taught you how to roll your first blunt. the one who helped you through your first heartbreak. the one who protected you when that creepy-ass sub tried getting too close in gym class.

and now she was the one dragging you to florida.

the drive from knoxville was already hell on earth. the highway stretched ahead like an endless mouth, and the further south you got, the more you regretted every second of agreeing to this.

but you had to admit: it was fun sometimes.

she packed snacks. you packed pre-rolls. the aux shifted between her phone and yours, and when her voice cracked on high notes, you screamed louder just to match it.

the only thing that kept you from giving the trip a 10/10 was dick.

not that he was awful. in fact, he was the opposite—and that was the problem.

he was too good.

caelie had been with dick grayson since you were seventeen. he was already a little older than her, a little quiet, kind of that golden retriever energy in a body that didn’t match it at all. he looked like trouble but moved like he wasn’t. back in high school, you didn’t see him that much—he was off at college, and when he did show up, it was all eyes on caelie. they’d sneak off for car makeouts, or cuddle on her bed with the door unlocked because her mom liked him too much to care.

now, you were twenty-two, and you hadn’t seen dick in over a year.

when he showed up with a duffel bag and his arm around caelie at the gas station, it caught you off guard.

you had leaned close to her window before she unlocked it.

“i thought this was a girls’ trip.”

she grinned. “it is. he’s just driving.”

“and sleeping with you.”

“also that.”

you sighed. “you couldn’t leave the dick at home, huh?”

she had just stuck her tongue out at you.

you didn’t realize how much you’d regret that joke until three days in.

not that he was annoying. he wasn’t.

he was quiet.

he drove mostly, making long-haul stretches easier on you and caelie. he always pumped the gas—even when you swatted his arm and told him you got it, he just shook his head with that tired half-smile and said, “don’t worry about it.”

he carried your suitcase like it weighed nothing. he held open the doors without even thinking about it. and he didn’t just do that for caelie.

he did it for you.

at first, it was annoying in that older guy way—like he just didn’t want the two of you to stress. but slowly, you started noticing the way his eyes tracked over you when your shirt slid up too high. the way his fingers fixed it—light brush of fingertips down the hem, barely a second of skin-on-skin, like he didn’t even realize he was touching you.

he didn’t say anything about it. you didn’t either.

but your thoughts started getting messy.

he looked good. you weren’t blind.

his black hair was longer now, always tied back in a low bun or left slightly disheveled when he got out the shower. he wore tight-fitting shirts that clung to his chest and arms, like he didn’t even realize what he was doing.

he smelled like cedar and clean linen. always.

he was patient. he was funny in a subtle, off-hand way. he had long fingers and the kind of mouth that curved too easily into a smirk when he wasn’t saying anything at all.

by the time the trip was over and you were loading back into the car to drive home, the damage was already done.

you had a crush.

like a real one.

you told yourself it was just a little stupid. just because you hadn’t gotten laid in a while. just because it was easy to see him in a different light when caelie wasn’t watching.

you didn’t mean to be attracted to him.

you just were.

you were eight hours into the return trip when the real shift started.

2:30 am.

the highway was empty. caelie had taken the backseat hours ago, kicking you up front with dick under the excuse of “i need the whole backseat if i’m gonna knock out.”

you sat in the passenger seat with your legs kicked up, scrollin’ on your phone with your hoodie bunched under your chin.

dick hadn’t said much.

just let the silence stretch.

you’d talk here and there, mostly about stupid shit—road signs, weird car plates, why the hell wendy’s was still open that late. he laughed easy.

you started liking the sound of it.

eventually, you reached into the console and found the stash you’d tucked into the middle compartment. you raised it, eyebrows up.

“you good?”

he glanced over. “you rolling up?”

“unless you tryna be square.”

he snorted. “nah. pass it when it’s lit.”

you rolled with quiet hands, slow and practiced. it was calming—something you’d done a hundred times before, but this time, it was almost therapeutic. his hand stayed steady on the wheel, glancing over every so often to watch.

you lit up first. took a long drag, rolled your head back and sighed.

then passed it to him.

he inhaled with that same kind of care. practiced, measured.

you watched the way his jaw flexed as he blew the smoke out through his nose, eyes still fixed on the road.

it made something low in your stomach stir.

“you always this quiet?” you asked, voice a little looser now.

he gave a half-smile. “when i’m driving.”

you took another hit, exhaled. “you always this gentlemanly?”

“you always ask so many questions?”

you smirked. “only when i’m tryna get to know someone.”

he glanced sideways. “didn’t we grow up together?”

“barely,” you said. “you was always with her.”

he went quiet at that.

you let a beat stretch. took another slow hit.

then, voice light and casual, you said, “so what’s y’all’s sex life like?”

he coughed a little. not hard—just enough to show that he wasn’t expecting it.

you didn’t look at him. just passed the blunt back, eyes still forward.

“that’s a bold question,” he said.

“it’s late. and i’m high. bold questions come with the territory.”

he was quiet for a second.

“…it’s good,” he said eventually.

you raised a brow. “just good?”

“great,” he corrected. “but…”

“but?”

“she’s still not good at head.”

you held in your laugh. barely.

you didn’t look at him when you said it: “i could do it better.”

silence.

then: “that right?”

you finally glanced over.

he was smirking now. not wide. not cruel. just a small curve to his mouth that said you’re serious?

you didn’t flinch. didn’t giggle. didn’t look away.

you just nodded, slow. “mhm.”

he watched you.

you watched him back.

the car kept rolling. the blunt burned lower.

and you knew—clear as day—that if you climbed into his lap right now, he wouldn’t stop you.

his eyes dropped to your mouth first.

you didn’t flinch when he glanced away from the road again. he looked at you longer this time. really looked. his hand flexed on the wheel, thumb twitching once. the smirk never left his mouth, but it sharpened—like he wasn’t just amused anymore. like he was interested.

your pulse climbed. not fast. just heavy.

you could feel it low in your belly, thudding there slow like a warning.

the blunt was dying in your fingers. you handed it off.

he didn’t smoke it. just dropped it into the ashtray and tapped out the embers.

“you really saying that?” he asked.

your voice came low. steady. “yeah.”

“you know what that sounds like?”

you shrugged. “do i look like i care how it sounds?”

his gaze ran over you again—this time, longer. down your tank top, across your bare thighs, slow and deliberate. he watched your legs shift where they were crossed. he noticed how your chest rose a little higher with each breath.

he licked his bottom lip.

“…get on my lap,” he said.

your throat dried out.

he said it like a dare. like he wasn’t going to say it again. like he meant it.

and you meant it too.

you unbuckled your seatbelt slow. crawled over the console just as slow. he leaned back to give you space, but not much—you were close before you even settled.

your thighs dropped open over his lap.

he kept one hand on the wheel. his other hand landed on your waist. low and light. a touch that didn’t grab, didn’t force. just let you know he was there.

his voice was even. “you good?”

you nodded.

he waited.

you nodded again. “yeah.”

his hand slid lower.

“we’re not stopping the car,” he murmured.

“i know.”

“you’re sure about this.”

“i know, dick.”

the way you said his name made him inhale. barely. just a small breath through his nose, like he liked how it sounded.

you leaned forward. rested your hand on the side of his neck, soft. your other hand slid into his lap.

he was already hard.

and big.

he shifted under you. his hips pressed up a little, but he didn’t lose focus. eyes still half on the road, jaw clenched like he was hanging on to every last ounce of discipline.

you unzipped him slow.

he didn’t speak.

didn’t help, didn’t stop you either.

his cock was thick in your hand when you pulled it out.

hot. heavy. already leaking.

you swiped your thumb over the tip, slow. his mouth parted.

“that’s it,” you whispered.

he gripped the wheel tighter.

you leaned down. let your breath hit his skin first, then your mouth. tongue first—flat lick under the head, then a swirl, slow, before you closed your lips around him.

his hand clutched your hair.

tight.

you didn’t go fast.

you took him deeper inch by inch, head tilted so your hair wouldn’t get in his face, the car still rolling through the highway, nothing but dim headlights ahead.

your mouth was warm. wet. slow strokes with your tongue every time you slid down, cheeks hollowing, lips tight around the base.

his hips flexed.

“fuck,” he muttered.

you moaned low around him.

it made his hand jerk on the wheel.

“you tryna kill us?” he muttered, voice tight.

you pulled off just enough to breathe, mouth slick, breath hot. “don’t act like you not loving it.”

“you’re better,” he hissed. “you’re—fuck—you’re better than her.”

your stomach twisted.

you didn’t say anything.

just swallowed him deeper, throat relaxing, hands tight on his thighs to steady yourself as you bobbed your head in long, slow strokes.

his free hand buried in your hair, not guiding—just gripping. like he needed something to hold on to. his thighs tensed under your palms, muscles flexing every time you gagged quietly around him.

your moans came soft. barely there. sweet and muffled.

you were soaked already.

you could feel your panties sticking to your folds, your thighs shifting, heart pounding now.

you popped off, lips slick, chin wet.

“you want more?” you whispered.

he glanced at you, eyes dark. “yeah.”

“you want it while you’re drivin?”

“get on it.”

you climbed him slow.

he helped—hands under your thighs, guiding you just enough, his cock thick against your entrance.

you pulled your panties to the side and sank down.

his jaw dropped.

his grip left the wheel for just a second.

he groaned deep—head tilted back, mouth parted.

“jesus—”

you settled fully, eyes fluttering, head pressed to his neck so he could still see the road.

his hands came back to your waist. gripped tight.

you rode him slow first—hips rocking, legs trembling a little from the stretch. he filled you to the hilt, deep and thick, every inch rubbing just right against that swollen spot inside you.

“you okay?” he murmured into your hair.

you nodded into his neck. “mhm.”

“talk to me.”

“feel so good,” you whispered. “i missed this—fuck—i missed this kinda pressure.”

his hand came up and gripped your jaw. made you look at him.

his voice was low. rough. “you wanna be good for me?”

“mhm.”

“then stay quiet, pretty girl.”

you whined.

he bucked up into you, hard and deep. the sound your body made against his was wet—filthy—slick from how ready you were.

your moans came out soft, breathy, high in your throat. you buried them in his neck like he told you. let your hips grind down into his slow, then fast, then slow again. the rhythm hit perfect each time.

he didn’t talk much. just gave you little grunts. a few fucks. a tight jaw. a hand that stayed gripped to your ass while he helped rock you forward.

you bit your lip.

his voice came soft in your ear. “you close?”

you nodded fast. “please, please, please—”

his hand came between you. pressed to your clit, rubbing tight circles.

you shook.

your thighs trembled.

you came hard around him—wet and hot and gushing, a full-body pulse that made you shudder in his lap, clenching tight, grinding down with every wave.

he hissed. “you a squirter, huh?”

you nodded against his chest, breath ragged.

“fuckin’ christ,” he groaned.

he pulled out quick, just in time.

you slid off into the passenger seat with shaky legs.

his hand worked himself fast—only took a few strokes before he came, hot ropes shooting onto his shirt, his abs, a breath punched out of his chest.

you watched, cheeks flushed, thighs still twitching.

he finally exhaled.

the car went quiet again.

just the hum of the highway and your heartbeat in your ears.

he looked over at you.

“you okay?”

you nodded.

he wiped his hand on a napkin. tucked himself back in. zipped up slow.

“you sure?”

“yeah.”

he looked at you again. lingered there.

then reached over. pulled your hoodie back over your lap. gentle.

“get some sleep,” he murmured. “i’ll wake you when we stop.”

too short for me, ughh! i need to write a longer one, maybe.. i’m thinking about doing Bruce or.. the Joker? which one? i have SUCH A GOOD ONE FOR THE JOKER, ugh! but i dont wanna give something the people dont want! lmk if you guys liked this one! i love feedback, commentary, and all that!

wanna be in my taglist for all my upcoming posts? let me know!

[nokariwrites]

𝓗𝓔𝓡 𝓓𝓐𝓓, 𝓗𝓔𝓡 𝓗𝓤𝓢𝓑𝓐𝓝𝓓

summary; you were never in competition with your stepsister — but she made you the enemy anyway. after years of petty cruelty and deep cuts that went ignored by the adults in your life, it all comes to a head when you find out she’s been sleeping with your boyfriend behind your back. broken, humiliated, and done being the bigger person, you decide to take the one thing she values more than anyone: her father.

wc; ~19k

a/n; don’t remember making this?? this is so poorly done. i think it’s a good concept just poorly executed by me. just had to get out of notes. anyways, enjoy.

warnings; age gap (20s/late 40s), step-siblings rivalry, infidelity, emotional manipulation, power imbalance, slow burn plot, rough sex, degradation, slut shaming, choking, spitting in mouth, dirty talk, crybaby!reader, fingering, oral sex, cowgirl, doggystyle, hand over mouth, cheating, secret relationship, older!Jason. ᴹᴰᴺᴵ! ᴹᴵᴺᴼᴿˢ ᴰᴼ ᴺᴼᵀ ᴵᴺᵀᴱᴿᴬᶜᵀ! ʸᴼᵁ ᴴᴬⱽᴱ ᴮᴱᴱᴺ ᵂᴬᴿᴺᴱᴰ!

you never liked that house.

not because it was small. not because it was loud. not even because your daddy married a woman who couldn’t cook for shit and brought a demon into your life with a smile on her face and a fresh coat of lip gloss. you just never liked how fake everything felt inside it. like every conversation was a performance. every family dinner, a photo op. and every hallway, a trap waiting to close in on you.

the walls in that house were thin, and so was the line between civility and venom.

you were twelve when it started. when they made you sit beside her on the stairs while they took pictures of you two pretending to be sisters, wearing matching sundresses from target. your smile didn’t reach your eyes and hers didn’t even bother trying. five years older than you, and already brimming with that bitter, nasty kind of pride girls like her wore like perfume.

taylor.

the first day you met her, she rolled her eyes before you even sat down. you remember that. remember how her voice always had this sharpness to it, like she was chewing gum made of glass. she told you you walked funny, dressed funny, talked too soft. she acted like your daddy was a pest and your presence was an infestation. you didn’t know why. you were just the new kid in the house, trying to make peace. she was seventeen. damn near grown, mean as hell, and already decided you was her competition before you even finished growing.

but you weren’t in a competition. never had been. not with her. not once.

you tried not to hate her.

you didn’t respond when she mocked your hair or pretended to gag at your lunch. you didn’t react when she called your room “the maid’s closet” in front of guests. you just learned to keep to yourself. you’d pull back when she came too close. kept your music low, your eyes down, your tone careful. your dad used to say “she’s just adjusting, sweetheart. y’all gon’ be tight when you get older.” her mom would laugh it off. “that’s how girls are.”

nah.

that ain’t how you were. and it damn sure ain’t how sisters should’ve been.

she stole your little diary when you were fourteen and read it out loud during a sleepover. laughed at your crush. said your handwriting looked like a five-year-old’s. slapped her knee like it was the funniest thing in the world when you ran off crying. her mama told her to apologize. she never did. just rolled her eyes, said “god, it’s not that serious.”

but it was. because it never stopped. every boyfriend you had, every moment of peace, every inch of attention — taylor found a way to take it from you.

the worst part? nobody ever checked her for it.

you were twenty when it happened. when it all fell apart.

you and iven had just hit your two-year mark. he was soft-spoken, a little awkward, but always sweet to you. not the most conventionally attractive — didn’t have the smoothest skin or the best job — but he made you laugh. he was the first one who looked at you like you mattered. told you you were brilliant. said he was lucky to have you. and after everything you’d gone through in that damn house, that meant something.

you met him through a mutual at a party. he offered to walk you home, made sure you got water before bed. you liked that he never pushed too hard. never made you feel like you had to perform just to be loved. and in the beginning, he showed up for you like nobody else ever had.

he’d hold your hand in public. called you just to hear your voice. texted good morning every single day without fail. he didn’t have much, but he gave what he could. and you? you gave him everything.

you overlooked the insecurity. the lack of ambition. the clinginess. you gave him grace. even when your friends told you he was punching up — that you were way too fine for someone like him. that he’d lucked out. you didn’t listen. you just poured into him, loved him deeper. because you thought love was supposed to be selfless. loyal. even if it meant you got the short end sometimes.

but loyalty didn’t mean shit to iven.

and love? he didn’t even know the meaning of the word.

two weeks ago, you were at his place like usual. legs in his lap, taking selfies on his phone while he sat gaming, zoned out in his headset. you were scrolling, bored, flipping through old photos when a banner slid down from the top of the screen.

taylor; you up?

you blinked.

taylor was a common name, you told yourself. could be anybody. curiosity made you click. you shouldn’t have. god knows you wish you hadn’t. but you did.

and what you saw—

she was sending him nudes. full-body. mirror pics. ass shots in your favorite lingerie — the one that went missing last month. laughing about how he’d said she tasted better than you. talking about how he came quick when they fucked in his car. he was complimenting her. calling her baby. saying “i can’t stop thinking about it.”

the dates didn’t lie.

this had been going on for two months.

you didn’t scream. you didn’t cry right away either. you just stood up, slow and quiet, and handed him his phone.

“i’m leaving.”

he looked up, confused. “what?”

“i saw the messages.”

his face went pale. he started stammering, reaching out to you, trying to explain — but you were already out the door.

you didn’t answer his calls. didn’t read his texts. didn’t sleep for two days.

you laid there in your bed, stomach twisted, eyes raw from the tears. couldn’t even be mad at just him, because taylor had done it again. again. and this time, it wasn’t petty. it wasn’t childhood shit. it wasn’t about clothes or social media likes.

this time, she fucked the one person you thought was safe.

and that’s when something in you broke.

you didn’t wanna cry anymore. didn’t wanna forgive or be the bigger person or turn the other cheek. you wanted her to hurt. to feel it. deep. somewhere she couldn’t cover up or pretend didn’t exist.

you wanted blood.

the opportunity came faster than you expected.

your daddy and her mom were headed out — ten-day cruise for their anniversary. jamaica, saint lucia, all that. they offered to let y’all stay at the house while they were gone, but taylor suggested her dad’s instead. more space. better wifi. pool in the back.

you hesitated at first. not ‘cause of him — you hadn’t seen her dad in years. but because of her. sharing a house with that bitch after what she did? you didn’t think you had it in you.

but then you remembered something.

jason todd.

her daddy.

and that’s when the idea bloomed.

you always knew she was a daddy’s girl. always on him, always running her mouth about how fine he was. she looked at that man like he hung the stars in the sky. was always up under him, always talking about how nobody could ever compare. she damn near worshipped him.

so what better way to get back at her than by taking the one man she looked up to more than anybody?

you didn’t plan it at first. you really didn’t.

but when you saw him again — tall, broad, lean muscle under a fitted tee, silver at his temples, that tired but sharp look in his eyes like he could read you without trying — it was like fate dropped it in your lap.

he was 48, maybe 49. clean-cut. quiet. deep voice. walked like he’d done time in the military, spoke like he hated wasting words. and he looked at you.

not often. not for long. but enough.

the second day you were there, you came into the kitchen in just your shorts and a bra, claiming you thought nobody was home. he was leaning over the counter, fixing coffee, and you caught him glancing down.

just once.

but it was enough.

he scolded you for it. told you to cover up. said this wasn’t how grown women carried themselves in somebody else’s house.

you apologized. said it wouldn’t happen again.

then did it again.

the next night, you wore a tiny tank with no bra. the night after, you just wore panties and a tee, “looking for a charger.” you made sure to always look half-innocent, half-oblivious. always said sorry. always played it sweet.

and it worked.

slowly.

he started saying less. looking longer. always quiet, always firm, but never uninterested.

becky, his wife, noticed too. the few times she was home, she’d shoot you looks. pull you aside. tell you your clothes were inappropriate. said “this ain’t college, baby girl. put some damn pants on.”

you’d act embarrassed. lie through your teeth.

“i just came from the shower.”

“these are pj’s, becky. i wasn’t tryna show off.”

“my bad, i didn’t think anyone was up.”

and every time, she bought it.

jason, though? he stopped commenting. stopped pushing back. he’d just clench his jaw, look away. sometimes he left the room altogether.

but you could feel it. the tension.

and that’s when you knew — it was gonna happen.

you just had to pick the right moment.

the house was quiet that night.

becky was working late, picked up a double shift at the hospital. taylor was upstairs with the shower running. jason was on the couch, watching some old crime flick with the lights low and a beer in hand.

you came out your room in a shirt that barely touched your thighs, no bra, panties soft and snug. you moved slow, sweet. padded barefoot to the living room, rubbing your arms like you were cold.

“can i watch with you?”

he looked up. eyes swept your figure, then flicked to the screen again. didn’t say a word about your outfit. just nodded toward the other side of the couch.

you sat.

the movie was boring, so you talked instead. leaned in close, whispered little things. asked him questions — about his job, his life, his past. you laughed at his jokes. touched his arm when you smiled. looked up at him like he was the most interesting man in the world.

and he cracked.

bit by bit.

you felt it in the way he started looking at your mouth when you spoke. the way he shifted under the blanket, muscles tensing when you stretched.

when the moment was right, you slid closer. into his lap. looked him in the eye and said what had been on your mind for weeks.

“i want you.”

he froze. stared like he wasn’t sure he heard you right.

“you’re too young,” he said. “and i’m married.”

you didn’t back down.

you told him he’d been looking. that you noticed. that he was hard under you right now, so don’t pretend he didn’t want it too.

then you kissed him.

he hesitated.

but he kissed you back.

only for a second.

then the water upstairs turned off and you bolted, breath caught in your throat, heart pounding. left him there with his head in his hands, confused and silent.

and that was just the beginning.

you couldn’t sleep.

every time you shut your eyes, it was him you saw. the look in his eyes after you kissed him. the way he gripped your hips like he was gonna toss you off his lap but didn’t. the way his mouth lingered when he pulled back, lips slick, chest heaving, like he was trying to catch his breath and his composure.

you knew what you were doing. you had been playing this whole thing like a game of chess. slow, sweet, calculated. pawns moved, pieces in position. but you weren’t expecting that. not the way he kissed you back. not the way his hand lingered on your thigh like he wanted to leave fingerprints.

you knew you had him.

but it wasn’t enough.

not yet.

so you waited.

you watched the time crawl past midnight, digits glowing from your phone screen. listened for the shift of footsteps upstairs, the soft creak of old pipes. you heard her door click shut. you heard the low hum of a tv turn off. you heard his floorboard creak around 12:47am.

you waited.

you waited ‘til the house got still. no running water. no footsteps. no flicker of light under the door.

then you moved.

quiet. barefoot. no bra. nothing but panties and that thin little tee that clung to your body like skin. it was cold in the hallway. air thick with night and sin. your thighs trembled with every step, not from nerves — from want. from the slick already gathering between your legs just from thinking about him.

his door wasn’t locked.

you opened it slow.

he was turned to the side, one arm under the pillow, chest rising and falling heavy. and right there next to him, curled under the blanket, was his wife.

becky.

dead asleep.

your heart pounded in your chest like it was trying to warn you. but you ignored it. all you saw was him. shirtless. hair messy. back muscles peeking out from the sheet, all that lean, hard weight sitting under the dim glow of the moon through the curtains.

you stepped in. soft. steady. walked to his side of the bed and crouched down low.

you touched his shoulder.

“jason.”

he stirred. blinked blearily. looked down at you like he thought he was dreaming.

you didn’t say anything. just mouthed please as you climbed onto the bed, straddling his hips, your bare pussy pressed right against the bulge under his boxers. you could feel it. heavy. hard. waiting.

he shook his head. whispered, “no, you need to go. you gotta—” but his voice died when you rolled your hips once. slow. just enough to make him exhale through his teeth.

he sat up, grabbing your waist, pushing you back just an inch. his eyes darted to becky, then back to you. “you tryna get me killed?”

you smiled. slow. sinful.

“i told you i’d be quiet.”

his jaw clenched. hand still on your hip. you leaned in. lips to his ear.

“you been wantin’ me.”

he didn’t answer.

“and i want you so bad it hurt.”

he swallowed. his breath came hot and fast against your neck.

“you know this wrong,” he murmured.

“don’t care.”

“you should.”

you looked him dead in the eye.

“but i don’t.”

that was it.

his mouth was on you like a man starved. his hands gripped your thighs tight, dragging you down over his lap, pressing your heat right against the length of him. his lips moved rough and messy — neck, jaw, shoulder, mouth — like he was trying to make up for all the time he spent pretending he didn’t want this.

you moaned before you could stop it. not loud. just a soft, broken fuck whispered against his lips.

his hand flew up. clapped over your mouth.

“shut that shit up,” he breathed. “you want her to wake up?”

you shook your head fast, biting your lip through his palm. he was still hard under you, twitching now. you rocked against him again, and this time his eyes rolled back.

“you know what you doin’, huh?” he whispered. “comin’ in here lookin’ like that. sittin’ on daddy’s dick.”

you whimpered. couldn’t help it. hips grinding, slow and wet.

“look at you,” he rasped. “cryin’ already. you a mess, baby. you came in here ready to be ruined.”

you nodded, tears already glossing your lashes.

he licked his thumb and pressed it to your clit through your panties, rubbing soft and slow. you shuddered. he laughed under his breath.

“so fuckin’ needy. what happened to bein’ quiet?”

you clutched at his shoulders, mouthing please please please like you were praying.

he moved your panties aside with two fingers, found your slit already soaked, and just stared for a second. like he couldn’t believe what he was about to do. then he dipped one finger in. slow. shallow.

your mouth fell open against his chest. you bit into the meat of his pec, anything to stay silent.

“yeah,” he murmured. “that’s it. you gon’ take it like a big girl, huh?”

you nodded, trembling.

he added another finger. stretched you wider. moved slow and deep, fingers curling to hit that soft little spot inside that made you twitch.

“so damn tight,” he whispered. “pussy grippin’ me like she don’t wanna let go.”

you rocked against his hand, wet sounds filling the dark room. you were a mess. leaking all over his fingers. eyes rolling. mouth open. every part of you screaming yes even as your lips stayed sealed.

then he pulled his fingers out. sucked them clean.

“lay down.”

you did. right on his side of the bed, body trembling, thighs open.

he crawled between your legs, pulled your panties down your thighs slow, like he was unwrapping a gift. then dipped his head.

his tongue was warm, rough. he licked one long stripe up your slit, then circled your clit slow.

you slapped a hand over your mouth and cried.

silent. wrecked. back arching.

he kept going. licking slow, teasing. every few seconds he’d look up, eyes dark.

“don’t run.”

you didn’t. couldn’t. you were frozen under his mouth, coming undone in waves. when you came, it hit hard — your thighs shook, your hands flew to his hair, and you cried into his pillow like your heart was breaking.

he pulled back and kissed your inner thigh.

“you good?”

you nodded. barely.

he grinned. then spit in your mouth.

you swallowed before he could tell you to.

“good girl,” he murmured. “you gon’ take this dick like a good little slut now?”

you didn’t answer. just opened your legs wider.

he stripped his boxers off. thick. heavy. curved just enough to press right against your wall and stay there. he lined up. pushed in slow.

you clawed at his back. threw your head back. damn near sobbed.

“quiet,” he whispered. “you said you’d be quiet, remember?”

you nodded fast, eyes wide, tears slipping free.

he bottomed out with one hard thrust and didn’t move.

“feel that?”

you nodded again.

he pulled back. slammed in again. over and over. back shots in the bed, your hands gripping the sheets, his palm over your mouth when you got too loud.

“this what you wanted?” he whispered. “gettin’ fucked next to my wife? lettin’ me split you open while she dreamin’ about god knows what?”

you sobbed into the mattress. took every stroke.

“you know you ain’t never gon’ be right after this, huh? pussy gon’ stay dumb for daddy.”

he pulled your head back by your hair, kissed your throat, bit your shoulder.

“gon’ cry? go ‘head. be a crybaby. i like ‘em soft.”

you whimpered under him, tears soaking his pillow.

he slapped your ass. rough. made you jolt.

“told you you was a slut. ain’t even tryna deny it.”

he pulled out. flipped you over. pushed back in deep, hitting your cervix with every stroke.

you covered your mouth again, shoulders shaking.

“you love it,” he breathed. “look how you creamin’ on me. fuckin’ hell—”

he spit in your mouth again. choked you while he kissed you. made you feel small. made you feel owned.

and when you came, he didn’t stop.

he fucked you through it. made you cry again. turned you into a mess of moans and whimpers, eyes glassy, mind blank.

when he came, he groaned deep in your ear, spilling inside you.

then pulled out. slow. breathless.

you laid there. shaking. wrecked. ruined.

and he looked at you like he didn’t know whether to kiss you again or throw you out.

you smiled.

“now we even.”

morning didn’t come gentle.

it came sharp, like a blade dragged slow across your spine.

you woke up tangled in your sheets, head pounding dull, body sore in that deep, quiet way that didn’t come from sleep. your thighs ached. your mouth felt dry. and between your legs there was that heavy, used tenderness that made your stomach flip the second you shifted.

you stared at the ceiling for a long minute, blinking, breathing, letting the reality settle back into place.

last night was real.

his hands. his mouth. the way he looked at you when it was over, like he’d crossed a line he couldn’t erase and didn’t know whether to burn the bridge or stand on it. you remembered slipping out of his room afterward, pulling your panties back on with shaking fingers, padding down the hall like a ghost. remembered crawling into your own bed and staring at the dark, heart beating so loud you swore it’d wake the house.

you hadn’t dreamed it.

you pressed your thighs together, winced softly, then laughed under your breath. quiet. breathy. almost disbelieving.

“damn,” you murmured to yourself. “i really did that.”

you dragged yourself out of bed, threw on a hoodie and some shorts, tied your hair back sloppy. when you opened your door, the smell hit you first.

breakfast.

bacon. eggs. coffee. something sweet, maybe pancakes.

the house felt… normal.

too normal.

you went downstairs slow, cautious, like the floor might give you away. becky was in the kitchen, humming to herself, hair wrapped up, apron on like it was any other damn morning. sunlight spilled in through the windows, warm and golden, lighting her up in a way that made your chest tighten.

she smiled when she saw you.

“morning, baby,” she said, bright. “you sleep okay?”

you swallowed.

“yeah,” you said, voice smooth even though your nerves were screaming. “slept real good.”

she laughed. “good. y’all kids be stayin’ up too late. sit, eat. food finna get cold.”

you sat at the counter, hands folded in your lap, heart thudding. she slid a plate in front of you, loaded. eggs fluffy. bacon crisp. toast buttered just right.

she watched you take the first bite like she was proud of herself.

“jason still knocked out,” she added casually, flipping another pancake. “that man sleep like the dead when he tired.”

your fork paused midair.

“yeah?” you said lightly.

“mm-hm. he ain’t moved. taylor still sleep too. must be nice bein’ young.”

you forced a smile, nodded, took another bite. it tasted good. too good. your stomach twisted anyway.

becky fixed two more plates. one for taylor. one for him. she moved around the kitchen easy, content, like nothing in the world was wrong. like her marriage wasn’t cracked wide open under the weight of last night.

when she finished plating his food, she turned to you.

“can you take this up to him, baby?” she asked. “i gotta step out back and flip the laundry. holler if he want coffee.”

your heart skipped.

“yeah,” you said. “i got it.”

you took the plate. warm. heavy. every step up the stairs felt louder than the last. your pulse climbed into your throat.

his door was cracked.

you nudged it open with your foot and stepped inside.

he was on his back this time, one arm flung over his head, hair a mess, mouth slightly open. shirtless. relaxed. like he didn’t spend the night committing a sin he couldn’t undo.

you stood there for a second, just looking at him.

then you set the plate down and leaned over, tapping his shoulder.

“jason.”

he stirred. frowned. blinked.

then his eyes focused on you.

and everything changed.

his gaze sharpened instantly. mouth curved into something low and knowing. he hummed, deep in his chest, and reached out, pulling you down toward him without a word.

his lips pressed to yours. slow. unhurried. a good morning that carried weight.

you kissed him back, soft, sweet, like this was normal. like it didn’t threaten to blow the whole house apart.

he pulled back just enough to look at you.

“you good?” he murmured.

you nodded.

“yeah. i’m good.”

his hand slid down, popped your ass once. playful. familiar. dangerous.

“so,” he said, voice rough with sleep. “what we doin’ now?”

you smiled, leaned in, kissed the corner of his mouth. dragged your lips along his jaw.

“we can be whatever,” you said quietly. “i just wanna be closer to you.”

his jaw tightened. his hand flexed on your hip.

“that so?”

you nodded, kissed him again. softer this time. then straightened up before either of you could forget where you were.

as you turned to leave, he smacked your ass again, harder.

“bring me coffee,” he said, low.

you laughed under your breath and slipped out.

downstairs, becky was waiting at the counter.

not smiling.

not moving.

just staring.

her eyes tracked you as you walked in. slow. sharp. knowing.

she didn’t raise her voice.

didn’t curse.

didn’t even look angry.

she just said it.

plain.

steady.

“i know you fucked my husband.”

will be updating this like.. when i get up from my nap. but.. let me know how you guys feel about this trash of a fic i swear. i love commentary, feedback, and more :)