𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬◞﹒୧ . Eren, Ony and Connie have a crush on the same woman: the cute, sweet and autistic girl always dressed in pink who works in the restaurant next to their university. Eren loves you because you're so soft when he's so rough, Only loves you because you're always so polite with him, Connie loves you because he has a thing for chubby women like you. You’re always so shy with them, you have no idea to what extent they want to ruin you. When at a college party they find you crying because your boyfriend Jean cheated on you, they offer you revenge with them. You’re a good girl who has never done anything too freaky with anyone so you don’t really know how to handle three dicks inside you. But don’t worry, they will take good care of you. And show you that you can be loved exactly as you are.
𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬◞﹒୧ . 10.3k words, black!fem!reader, plus!size!reader, college au, hyper feminine autistic reader w/ social anxiety, hispanic!connie, plug!eren, basketball!player!ony, pervert stuff & stalking, polyamory, romance, affection, reassurance, male friendships, connie calls you ‘mami’ and ‘princesa’, ‘sweetheart/baby/bitch’ by eren, ‘baby/love/mama’ by ony, hard!dom!eren, soft!dom!ony, submissive!connie, gay ass stuff between the boys, mild daddy kink with eren, nipple play, fingering, cunnilingus, masturbation, choking, blowjob, handjob, vaginal sex, rough sex, gentle sex, shower sex, standing sex, somno, double penetration, consensual recording, hair pulling, overstimulation, cumming on face, crying from pleasure, titty fucking, slapping, dumbification but on a man !
𝐤𝐫𝐲𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐥'𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬◞﹒୧ . finally a new fic since january!!!! very SCARED of your reactions because my characterization of the boys isn't that popular so i hope yall will like it <333
˚₊‧꒰ა 𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭 𝐦𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭 : 𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐧 + 𝐨𝐧𝐲 + 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐧𝐢𝐞 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚
‘Kiss of Life’ by Sade was playing in the restaurant, making you hum along as you cleaned the tables left by the last customers. Nearby, Eren, Ony, and Connie were watching you intently, as usual.
“Shazam that song, she seems to like it,” Eren ordered Connie, nudging him.
Connie lazily looked up from his phone to look at his best friend. “It's Sade. You have no memory, 'Ren. She always hums when one of their songs, come on.”
He still used Shazam to find out the exact name of the song and added it to the ‘sweet baby’ playlist that he, Eren, and Ony had created to catalog all your favorite songs.
“She's wearing a new dress,” Ony noticed. The three boys' eyes ran over your body.
You were wearing a new dress that you had bought the day before. It hugged your chubby body perfectly, stopping halfway up your thick thighs. The pale pink fabric brought out the luminous glow of your brown skin. Made of satin and molding to your curves in the most exquisite way, with thin straps that barely supported your breasts, the ribbon bow at the center of your chest made your sexy outfit cute. Your long braids was tied in a low bun held by a ribbon bow at the back, leaving your pretty round face uncovered. Your eyelids were enhanced with glittery pink eyeshadow, your long false eyelashes made your gaze so seductive, and your lips were glossy, looking so delicious. A literal angel. Eren, Ony, and Connie would eat you up if they could.
Eren adjusted his bulge in his black sweatpants and tried to look away so as not to worsen his erection by staring at you, while Connie and Ony were still staring, completely unashamed of looking like creeps. Your Mary Jane heels clicked on the floor as you walked around the restaurant taking orders from your little notebook, and when you arrived at the three men's table, your eyes lit up, happy to see them.
They were your favorite customers. They'd been coming to eat at the restaurant three times a week for at least a year. You didn't know how they'd managed to always be there during your shifts—Connie had threatened your boss to give him your work schedule—but it was always a pleasure to see them. They always complimented you and were so sweet to you, nothing like the old men who had wives and looked at you with lust in their eyes.
The most intimidating one was Eren. He was always dressed in black with a hood over his head that hid his face, but you could glimpse his neck tattoos peeking out from under his hoodie. His eyes were always hald-lidded and red from weed, staring intensely into your soul when you took his order, sending shivers down your spine. He was known as the university's plug; you'd never used his services, but his deep voice spoke to you so sweetly that you considered buying from him so he could talk to you privately.
The friendliest was Ony. Compared to Eren's dark appearance, Ony exuded light. You would have to be a psychoapth to not to like Ony's intelligence and kindness. He loved fashion and taking care of himself, you both always talked about skincare and clothes. He played basketball on your university team, making him the most popular of the trio. You loved learning about his sport, and hear the passion in his voice when he talked about Lamelo Ball. He was a bit of a star on campus but was the least arrogant man you'd ever met, always smiling softly when you talked to him, making you feel so safe and care for.
The most flirtatious was Connie. You could never look him in the eye when he called you ‘princesa’, joking about how you were the prettiest girl he'd ever seen. You never knew if he called you ‘mami’ just because it was normal for latino men, or if he was actually trying to flirt with you. Like Eren, he often wore his hood up, hiding his eyebrow piercings, but he wasn't as intimidating. He always had a teasing glint in his eyes that made you flutter.
“Hey,” you said shyly, approaching their table.
As always, Eren was stoned out, his pupils dilated as he looked at you, making your spine tingle. Ony’s lips curved into a smile, clenching his tattooed hand to bump his fists against yours.
You didn’t have any friends because of your social anxiety, only Jean as a boyfriend, so it always made you happy when they treated you like one of their own, even though they were just regular customers you sometimes ran into at university.
“The usual?” you asked, already knowing what they were going to order. A cheeseburger with fries for Ony (don’t tell Reiner, his coach, that he loves that), a steak with fries for Eren, and a salad for Connie.
“No, I want something sweeter today,” Connie replied, leaning back against the back of his chair. Eren smirked, understanding perfectly what his best friend really wanted.
“You just want dessert today?” You tilted your head.
Ony’s eyes softened; you looked so cute with your head cocked to the side.
“Nah.” Connie’s voice grew seductive. “Just you.”
Your autistic brain, which didn’t quite grasp irony and sarcasm, made you wear a confused expression. “Hm, what do you mean?”
Connie just licked his lips, his gaze lingering on your fat thighs. “Nothing, mami.”
“Is that a new dress?” Ony asked, tugging at the hem. “You always wear frilly dresses.”
“Yes!” you exclaimed, enthusiastic and all smiles. You loved fashion so much; you were happy that Ony, who was also a fashion boy, noticed your new clothes. “My boyfriend said frills were childish, so I’m trying out a new style.”
The trio frowned and looked at each other, silently saying, “We should kill that motherfucker.”
“Break up with him,” Eren advised, his face hard.
You shook your head, your heart squeezing painfully at the thought of leaving the only man who accepted your autism without judging you. “N-No, it’s okay.” You looked at your feet, your lips trembling as you realized that the only reason you were with Jean was because he didn’t make you feel different from other girls, not because you actually loved him. You needed so much validation from others.
Ony caressed your thigh, sliding his hand up under your dress to grasp the plushness.
“Hey, it’s okay, baby. ‘Ren is kidding.’”
“I’m dead serious, man.”
Ony's gentle caresses on your skin relaxed you, and your autistic brain didn't really grasp that this was inappropriate contact between friends. You just thought he was being kind. Your face softened, and Ony took a perverse pleasure in exploiting your lack of understanding of social cues.
After the chef prepared their meals, you brought them. As you placed the tray on their tables, you dropped a glass, which shattered. You apologized and bent down to pick up the shards, the skirt of your dress lifting up. Eren glanced at your ass, now visible to everyone, lingering on the way your panties molded your folds. His gut twisted in arousal.
“Connie, take a picture,” Eren whispered.
“I’m your lapdog or something? I only like orders from her, idiot,” Connie muttered but silently took a picture of your body under your dress. They had a whole dossier like that. Photos of you smiling at other customers, photos of you space-outing, photos of you studying in the university library… They were perverts. And stalkers. They didn't really care that it was wrong.
When you finally picked up your mess from the floor, you gave them a shy smile that accentuated their secret erections before walking away.
What a cute angel. You had no idea these men were devils.
────────
'I saw Jean with a girl at a frat party, I'm so sorry sweetheart I think he's cheating on you :(('
Your stomach dropped when you saw Sasha's text message, your world crumbled in minutes.
It wasn't possible.
You and Jean had been together for two years. You'd experienced all your firsts with him. He was the first boy who didn't think you were too much, the first boy who didn't seem to see your autism as a burden, the first boy who made you believe that a weird girl like you could finally be loved. He couldn't have cheated on you. Jean loved you. He told you every day. You weren't too much for him. Please, you hope it was a misunderstanding.
You got out of bed, where you'd been studying your botany books, and went to your closet. You'd never been to a frat party because your social anxiety made it difficult for you. Places where there were too many people scared you too. You preferred to stay safe in your apartment, in your bed with satin sheets and stuffed with plushies.
You slipped into a pink denim skirt, a matching bustier top, and your white Naked Wolfe platform boots. You let your long pale pink goddess braids cascade down your back, hoping your outfit was cool enough for a frat party and people wouldn’t overdose with all the pink on you.
Sasha sent you the address, and you left your apartment with a knot in your stomach.
A two-year relationship couldn't end like this. Jean loved you, right? You weren't some unlovable woman who was going to end up alone for the rest of her life, were you?
You clutched the strap of your bag, looking at the floor as you entered the frat house. You didn't want to see the sea of students; it would trigger a panic attack. Rap music blasted from the party's big speakers; maybe a Big Boogie song. People laughed and yelled along to the lyrics. The smell of alcohol, tobacco, and marijuana were everywhere, and you felt like you were in hell. There were too many stimuli all around you, enveloping you and making your brain confused, unable to function properly.
You raised your head, your heart pounding. You had to look around to find Jean. You inspected the ground floor, trying to ignore how your body stiffened when you brushed against the sweaty bodies of the dancers. You hated physical contact because of your autism; you needed to be in a comfortable environment to be touched because of your sensory issues. Sex needed to be gradual.
And then, as you climbed the stairs, reaching the first floor, you saw him.
Pressing Mikasa's body against the wall, his head buried in her neck, his hips grinding into her.
You stood paralyzed, watching them, your heart aching.
You knew Mikasa well. She was a goth girl who was in the same major as Jean. You'd already seen them hanging out together, and Jean had told you she was just a friend.
You didn't yell that he was an asshole. You didn't try to separate them.
You turned around, went downstairs, and left the fraternity house to sit on the sidewalk.
Was it because she understood sarcasm and didn't need the same jokes repeated to her to get the humor?
Was it because she knew how to be quiet when she was passionate about something instead of yapping for hours about a topic nobody cared about, annoying everyone around you?
Was it because she didn't shut down when she was upset?
Was it because she knew how to recognize her feelings when she experienced strong emotions instead of being unable to speak and explain what she felt?
Was it because she didn't need childish things like plushies for comfort?
Was it because she was interested in grown-up things instead of being obsessed with dolls?
You wrapped your arms around your knees and let the tears flow.
As always, because of your autism, you never knew what you were feeling and struggled to identify your emotions. Was it heartbreak? You weren't even in love with Jean. He was just a boy who gave you attention when everyone else rejected you.
No, it was failure.
Failure because you were both not enough and too much. You just wanted to curl up in bed, hug your plushies tightly, and forget that you were an unlovable woman.
To make matters worse, a torrential downpour soaked your clothes, making them wet and sticky, sending shivers of discomfort down your spine. You hated it when your clothes felt too tight because of your sensory issues; it almost hurt and could cause meltdowns.
A flashback of Jean telling you he loved you in the missionary position and that you were his favorite girl intensified your tears.
Could you really blame Jean?
Who would want a girl like you?
A shy girl who was scared of eye contact, never spoke in public, and barely managed to hold a conversation without getting distracted.
You wished you were a normal girl. You wished you were better at hiding your symptoms. You wished you fit in more easily in society.
“Who stole your smile, mami?” A deep voice boomed in front of you, and someone flicked your forehead. You lifted your teary eyes and met Connie's gaze. Next to him, Eren had his hands in the pockets of his baggy jeans, his hood still pulled up, but you could see his concerned expression. Ony held a coat over you to keep the rain from soaking you even more.
You parted your lips, trying to speak, but no words came out. You felt so many emotions that your brain couldn't function anymore. You were happy to see them; they always brightened your day, but tonight, you were so depressed. You failed at love. You were unlovable.
The combination of your clothes clinging to your skin, the loud music blasting from the frat house, and your pain—you just buried your head in your thighs, ignoring everything around you.
Several muscular arms wrapped around you, lifting you off the ground, and when you raised your head, you were sitting in a car with them.
They drove for a good hour on purpose so you could calm down and refocus on your bodily sensations. The silence of the car calmed your distress for a moment, and you remained silent until they drove you to their apartment.
You were so depressed that you followed them without a word to their place, instead of asking them for a ride home. When you entered their living room, you sat on their couch, staring at the floor.
Eren casually slumped down next to you and put an arm around your shoulders.
“Where is my bubbly girl?”
“Dead,” you muttered.
He chuckled lowly.
“Don’t say stuff like this, I would be very heartbroken if you died.”
“I doubt it.” You were playing with the bottom of your skirt. “You will replace me easily like my boyfriend did when he cheated on me.”
Eren glanced at Ony, seeming to say ‘emotional stuff is for you, man’, and Ony sat down next to you. He placed his hand on your thick thigh, squeezing the plushness, his voice gentle.
“He cheated on you?”
You nodded, silently. There was nothing else to say.
“You don’t feel like you can change him and the need to go back to him like some abused women do?” Connie asked, standing with his hands in the pockets of his pants.
“Not really. I think it’s clear I wasn’t the right woman for him.”
“You mean, he wasn’t the right man for you,” Eren corrected.
“No.” You shook your head. “I don’t blame him.”
Connie tsked.
“Princesa, you talk like those abused women.”
“Yeah,” Ony joined the conversation, “I don’t like how you’re talking right now, mama.”
Your eyes watered again as you thought of all the reasons Jean was right to cheat on you.
“You don’t understand,” you sniffed.
Eren leaned against you, his warm breath caressing your neck as he spoke into your ear, his deep voice making you shiver.
“Then explain, sweetheart.”
Ony kissed the tears that were running down your chubby cheeks, and you suddenly felt strangely cared for. Like a warm blanket over your bruised heart. Wrapped in gentle warmth. In the light of affection, not the darkness of rejection.
Maybe they'll understand if you explain? Maybe you weren't really alone in the world?
“I was homeschooled because I had school phobia,” you said shyly. They all listened attentively without saying a word. “I didn't understand the children around me, so it created anxiety. I didn't learn how to mask my autism because I was never in contact with the outside world and my parents were overprotective. So, I just… live my life without hiding my symptoms.”
“That's actually a good thing, you're sincere,” Connie commented, kneeling down to rest his head on your lap. You ran your hands over his bleached buzzcut, your autistic brain fascinated by the feel of his short, freshly shaved hair. Heat rushed to your cheeks when you realized you were the center of attention, making you even more timid than you already were.
“Not really,” you hesitated, “you need to mask your autism to fit in. Only people who want to be outcasts don’t mask it.”
“I’m an asshole, I don’t try to soften up for people, and I have a very good social life,” Eren grumbled, absolutely disagreeing with what you were saying. You didn’t need to perform a personality that wasn’t yours to be accepted; just being yourself was enough.
“That’s right, Eren is the worst person I know.”
Eren glared at Ony who had said that, his brown, lidded eyes shooting daggers, but Ony smirked at him.
“What’s your point, mami? Are you saying Jean cheated on you because you’re not masking your autism?” Connie ignored these two best friends, focused on your suffering.
Your breath hitched when you gazed into his eyes and saw only care, concern, and affection.
“I’m just saying… Maybe if I was a normal girl, maybe he wouldn’t—”
“You know what to do when a boy cheats on you?” He cut in.
You shook your head.
“You show him you’re wanted elsewhere.” He lifted the hem of your skirt to place kisses on your plush thighs, his lips soft against your skin.
“W-Wait,” his kisses made you tickle, “Connie, you’re—”
“Get revenge on that bastard with us.” Eren buried his head in your neck, and your body warmed as you felt his hot tongue on your flesh. Ony slipped his hand under your top to knead one of your breasts. His hand was so large it enveloped it perfectly, making you flustered.
Your brain was in overdrive. Just seconds before, you had been crying because you were suffering from your disability, and now three hot men were kissing and touching you intimately.
An hour ago, you would have pushed them away because you had a boyfriend, but now?
Your freaky side had awakened, your cunt throbbing at the thought of letting yourself be manhandled by three men.
“How do I get revenge?” You whispered, your voice sounding innocent as if you weren't squeezing your thighs together to hide the smell of your arousal from Connie.
“You know damn well, sweetheart,” Eren chuckled before catching a piece of your skin between his teeth and sucking it vociferously. A wave of heat snaked through your lower abdomen and up your upper body, warming your entire being.
Your cheeks burned, feeling slutty for even liking the attention the three men were giving you.
Connie took his phone out of his jeans pocket, turned on the camera to record a video. He spread your legs and lifted your skirt, filming your clothed pussy where a wet spot resided.
“You’re gonna show that dumbass that if he doesn’t want you, other men will take good care of you,” he asserted, rubbing his fingers on the darker part of your panties, making you shiver.
You didn't think Jean would really care if you were getting laid by other men; he'd already shown enough that he didn't give a damn about you. But you said nothing, because part of you was thrilled at the idea of a foursome.
When you were 18, you had a list of things you wanted to experience once you were cured of your social anxiety. Group sex was one of the things on the list. You were a freaky girl, what can you say? It was time to make one of your dreams come true.
“You’re not gonna eat her out before me,” Eren pushed Connie’s head from between your legs.
“Nobody likes chubby women more than me, so yeah, I’m gonna eat her out first.” Connie bit Eren’s hand before nibbling at the inside of your thighs. “Right, baby? Nobody likes your body more than me?” He looked up at you, his voice sultry.
Before you could answer, Eren’s hand wrapped around your throat, pulling you closer. You gasped, your breath coming in the tightness of the pressure, and when you turned your head toward him, his intense eyes made you swallow hard. There was something terrifying about him in that moment.
“Don’t even answer his question, he doesn’t know what he’s talking about. I love you more than him.” He crushed his lips against yours, forcing his tongue into your mouth. An electric current pulsed beneath your skin. You closed your eyes, enjoying the intensity of the kiss. There was something about Eren's intimidating aura that made you want to be an obedient girl, fulfilling his every desire and simply pleasing him. You moaned into the kiss, his tongue tangling with yours, kissing you as if he had something to prove. His hand tightened around your throat, making sure you knew who was in charge.
When he pulled away, your eyes fluttered open. His gaze was burning hot, and you almost wanted to tell everyone to leave so he could kiss you like that all night.
Ony's eyes narrowed when he saw the interaction between you and Eren. That bastard. Eren had always been possessive; it didn't surprise him that he was trying to monopolize you.
There had always been a kind of tension between the three boys. As many people said, there was always a duo in a trio, and that was the case with them. Ony and Connie always teamed up to annoy Eren, ragebaiting him and provoking his anger issues.
Now that they were in love with the same girl, it was a race to see who would be your favorite. Ony could no longer count on Connie to beat Eren; he had to assert himself.
While Eren was dominant, Ony was the gentlest man alive. Most of his exes had left him because he was too nice, but he wasn't heartbroken. He didn't want to become a bully like Eren to be appreciated for who he truly was. He was going to find a girl who would find comfort in his kindness, not get bored by his loving caresses, and be satisfied by his gentle side. He was determined to make sure that girl was you.
“Stop choking her, that's not how you treat the girl of your dreams.”
“I touch her however I want. She seems to like it, doesn't she ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚?”
You looked back and forth between Eren and Ony, silent before giggling softly.
“I like you both.”
“Nah, you need to choose someone.” Eren’s hand around your throat moved down to caress your pudgy belly beneath your top, and he sucked on your earlobe. Ony lifted your top to just above your breasts before leaning down to take your nipple in his mouth. You didn't even think about sucking in your stomach or trying to position yourself in a way that would lessen the sagness of your breasts. You were comfortable, felt pretty under their hands and lips, your body hot all over.
Connie slapped your thigh.
“Stop focusing on these useless men, mami,” he muttered.
He caressed your clothed core, making gentle back-and-forth movements that transformed into circular motions around your clit. His hot breath on you, his intense gaze, and his calloused fingers against you were an explosive cocktail that already had you trembling.
“Sensitive as fuck,” he chuckled. “Autism or you’re just needy?”
“Both,” you breathed shyly.
The wet patch grew larger as Connie played with your clothed pussy. A frenzy took hold of your body. The atmosphere was perfect, the touches were intentional and tailored to your needs; you didn't feel overwhelmed by the sensory stimulation. Ony's mouth on your breast, Eren's teeth on your lob, and Connie's fingers pressing against you… It was so simple, yet perfect.
You rocked your hips against Connie's hands. “I want more, please.” Your neediness was barely concealed in your voice.
Connie smirked. “Yeah? What does my girl want?”
"Um… You know what I want," you whispered, feeling so shy you would have hidden under the sofa if you could. Being a shy, introverted girl in a freak body was a nightmare. You wanted to be slutted out so badly but struggled to get there.
"You have no game, Connie," Eren mocked, his hand still gently caressing your stomach. His petty laugh was hoarse and sent waves of pleasure into your center.
Connie ignores his best friend and slowly took off your panties. You hated thongs and very thin panties with your sensory issues, you were glad nobody made fun of your plain pink cotton underwear.
When he looked at your bare pussy, he had the same glint he had when he called you a ‘tremendo mango’ at the restaurant. For many weeks, you thought it was a cute way of showing appreciation with a fruit metaphor before googling and realizing it was a compliment on your looks in Cuba.
“So pretty.” The tip of his fingers wandered over the gossy folds just to feel your wetness and touch your cunt swollen with desire and expectation.
“Do you like sexual stimulation?” Ony asked gently, his tongue curling around your other brown nipple.
“Isn’t that what we’re doing?” You said, clueless, shivering again at Eren’s open-mouthed kisses on your neck.
“I mean sex toys and temperature play.”
Your lips parted in anticipation.
“If it’s gradual and we stop when it’s too much, I think it’s okay,” you smiled.
Ony was jealous of Connie at that moment because he would have eaten you for days for that cute expression.
Ony left the room, already missing his tongue on your body. But Eren’s on your neck was divine. He wasn’t ashamed to devour your neck, sucking on the bits of skin he had caught between his teeth, making you dizzy.
Connie set up his phone so he could film you and have his hands free. He sank his fingers between your lips, parting them, and the way he inspected your flesh made you nervous, but the sensation was so good, he chuckled every time you clenched your thighs too much.
“Focus on the top, please, Connie,” you said, trembling with longing to feel his touch on your clit.
“Nah. You’re not dominant enough for my submissive side, I’m bored.”
You widened your eyes as he withdrew his fingers and, in a panic, you grabbed his head, pressing it against your pussy. The vibrations of his laughter against you sent waves of electricity through your body, and when his tongue lapped through the folds, you saw stars. Ony returned with mysterious toys in his hands and glared at Connie, who had the chance to taste you first. You thought Ony was going to use the objects on you, but he sat down next to you and resumed sucking your nipples greedily, as if preparing you and testing waters. One hand on Connie's buzzcut, pressing it against you, the other on Ony's short black hair—with a fresh new fade because he doesn't play about his appearance, just like you (#besties)—you felt like a queen with her loyal maids existing to please you.
Eren had practically become a vampire with all the little bites he'd made on your neck.
"I could eat you up," he whispered, nuzzling you. "Why do you smell so good?"
“Well, to make perfume last longer, it’s recommended to start with a cream and then layer it with oils, butters, mists, and even Vaseline so it lasts longer. You also need a perfume with a high concentration, not just an eau de toilette—”
He bit you so hard you let out a pained moan.
“Nerdy ass.”
“She’s right, though,” Ony joined the conversation, leaving your nipples alone. “Men need to stop with cheap cologne and buy pure perfume. They buy Savage by Dior and are still surprised they don’t have game.”
“Not everyone is a self-care nerd like you, Ony,” Eren chuckled. “Opinion on Maison Crivelli?”
“You’re trying too hard to be niche, just buy Creed Aventus or some Armani stuff.”
“It’s $300, dumb ass.”
“You’re a rich plug, ‘Ren. But I would buy it for you if you weren’t the ban of my existence.”
“Is this… What they call ‘bromance’?” you added to the conversation in a frail voice because the way Connie was eating you out… You tried not to make a fool of yourself by whimpering like a dog in heat.
“More like rivalry,” Eren said, mock-disdain in his voice.
“He’s jealous because I’m taking care of you while he’s hurting you with his teeth,” Ony teased, clipping a nipple clamp to your little finger to check if the intensity of the fixed pressure and tension wasn’t too overwhelming. After receiving your blessing, he clipped them to your nipples, the silver chain connecting them contrasting with your princess-like appearance.
It felt a little painful… but the pain was exquisite, a sensation you hadn’t experienced before. You were discovering a masochistic side to yourself today.
“She looks so pretty like this,” Eren murmured, staring at your body. “I feel like I’m going to ruin her if I touch her more.” He put a little distance between you to unbutton his jeans and free his heavy erection.
Connie stopped eating you out for a moment. He collected a lot of your arousal on his hand to spread it on Eren's dick, making masturbation easier. You looked at Eren, amazed that he wasn't bothered by his best friend touching his cock. He smirked.
"Brotherhood, baby."
You burst out laughing but ended up moaning as Connie went back into business.
Ony and Eren glanced at each other, both captivated by the way you arched your back on the couch, your chest rising and falling, your lips agape.
Ony kissed your arm, along the length of it, as Eren shamelessly stroked his dick while staring at you.
"Ony, you need to fuck her first. I'm going to overwhelm her, I'll save my turn for last," Eren proposed, his voice raspier as his hand worked itself over.
"I like the way you're thinking," Ony smiled against your skin, happy to be the first. Connie's tongue traced around your clit. He was having fun. Sometimes he pressed the tip of his tongue against your clit without moving, to make you whimper; sometimes he made circles over it to make you tremble; or most of the time he avoided touching it so as not to overstimulate you and lapped through the folds. The combination of Ony's kisses returning to your neck, the nipple claws, Connie's tongue, and the sounds of Eren's hand rubbing together made you feel like you were overheating, until you finally exploded. It wasn't spectacular; your autism made you struggle to show big emotions on your face, but Connie and Ony caught the way your body was wracked with spasms and your lip was bitten.
"Now get out of the way." Ony pushed Connie aside, who was laughing at his best friend's excitement.
Connie got up from the floor and picked up his phone to be the cameraman again. Ony laid you down on the couch, resting your head on Eren's lap. Eren smirked at you, looking down at you, his erection just next to your shy face.
“Are we going to do double penetration at some point? Because I need to be prepared, it can hurt,” you said softly, anxiously. Your autistic brain needed to know all the preparations and plan everything in advance so you wouldn't be surprised when it happened. You constantly needed clear instructions and reassurance.
The three of them let out a quiet laugh.
Eren used the hand that didn't touch his length to stroke the top of your head.
“You are prepared, don't worry.”
Ony removed his clothes, and your jaw dropped at the sight of all the tattoos that adorned his dark brown skin, making him look intimidating and even sexier now. He lay on top of you, the hard planes of his body pressed against your soft curves. You felt the definition of his muscles against you, the proof of his dedication to his sport.
His head above you, his beauty and his handsomeness made your cunt clench.
“Hey,” you whispered softly.
“Hey.” He smiled wrapping your thick thigh around his waist. “How do you want it, love?”
You wrapped an arm around his neck, pressing him against you. “Slow and deep.”
“I’m gonna give you that.”
“I’m not this filming this sappy shit,” Connie grumbled.
“Yeah, they are acting as if my dick isn’t aching right now. The fuck you mean slow?” Eren added.
Ony and you ignored them. He kissed you as he lined his dick to your entrance and pushed his hips in. Your eyes widened at the size difference with Jean, and glanced at Eren, who also had a large one. Feeling full, you had trouble breathing as he bottomed out, and then being able to do it again when he moved his hips backward.
Ony felt Eren’s jealous glare in the back of his head and chuckled.
“Take care of my friend, baby,” he commanded.
With your free hand, you jerked your wrist to jerk Eren's cock, while Ony fucked you. Eren let out a groan of relief at the contact of your hand.
“Such a versatile girl,” Connie teased, making you flustered.
Ony was a precise man. He hated jackhammering during sex. All his thrusts were calculated to please his partner, not just to ejaculate. He was gentle, but incredibly intense. Slow thrusts didn’t mean no hard thrusts. So he angled his hips perfectly so that every time he hit the depth of your pussy, he struck a sensitive spot that made your chubby body tremble even if his pace was slow. The way your curves jiggled with his every move was mesmerizing, and all three men’s eyes in the room were fixed on you.
Your hand ran along Eren’s length, squeezing sometimes, stroking most of the time, as you moaned because of Ony fucking you. His hips slammed so hard against you, feeling so good, while still being gentle; this man was crazy. How was that possible? You hugged him more, wanting to make love with him forever.
Eren’s hand twitched at the top of your head, his breathing ragged. He didn't even contain his arousal for long and let himself cum on your face. You let out a chuckle at the surprise of the action. Ony leaned down to lick some of it on your cheek.
“Why are all of you so gay?” you asked, confused.
“Shhhh,” Ony pressed his lips against yours, continuing his slow love making
“Okay, Ony your time is up,” Eren muttered, punching Ony in the shoulder. Ony groaned, not even that close from release but agreed to withdraw from you. Eren cleaned your face with a tissue before placing a kiss on your forehead.
You let them manipulate your body into whatever position they wanted. You were now sitting on Connie, who had given the camera to Ony, with Eren positioned behind you.
You knew Eren was aggressive. You could feel it in his aura and the way he spoke to people. So, as both dicks slid inside you, your heart pounded with the excitement of being manhandled. It took a little while to adjust to the two cocks inside you, but once you were comfortable, Connie murmured, "Kiss me." You leaned down to give him what he needed.
You rocked your hips, Eren's and Connie's hands on them for the moment. Eren was dangerously calm as you rode Connie, and didn't give him much friction. The sweat that had accumulated on your back intensified as you thought about when Eren would snap and show his true colors.
“Boring,” he finally snapped, grabbing a handful of your braids and pulling them back, making you gasp.
On his knees on the couch, his hips moved back and forth at a punishing pace. Absolutely no attempt at a gradual rhythm to get you used to it; he didn’t care about your whimpers. He took what he wanted, when he wanted it.
Connie kept his hands on your hips, guiding them to gyrate on him. Sometimes, his hands moved up to touch your love handles, kneading your softness.
“The way we don’t need any lube,” Ony joked, moving closer to the trio, nudging his dick against your cheek while filming your flustered reaction. “You think you take three dicks inside you, baby?”
You nodded softly, wanting to please him. Eren released your hair to let you lean down to take Ony’s dick in your mouth. But Eren picked up the pace even more, hand on your back.
You almost choked on Ony’s dick with the aggressiveness of Eren’s thrusts, and the worst part was that Ony pushed his hips anyway. You looked up at him in surprise and he gave you a little smirk, zooming in on your betrayed expression.
“What is it? Your mouth is full of dick, you can’t tell me how betrayed you are that I have a bit of Eren in me. Poor you.”
Ony’s tone became more petty and you moaned on his dick, turned on by this new change of event. You hoped he would still have mostly his gentle side, but you don’t mind his mean side sometimes.
“Bounce that ass, bitch. You’re not doing enough for me,” Eren muttered.
Eren’s frantic pace made you gargling with Ony’s dick, the sound of it making the three men growl. Ony fed you his cock with quick snap of his hips, hitting the deepest spot you can take him. Connie played with your breasts and nipples clamps as he lifted his own pelvic floor to penetrate you deeper. Eren still stroked your braids even though he fucked you like he hated your guts.
The video continued to play, filming the spectacle.
But the camera will never be enough to understand the pleasure you were currently feeling. Hearing Ony groan because of you made you feel powerful. The fact that Eren fucked you like an animal made you let go. And Connie, who was a mix of both but in a submissive way, made you feel understood, since he saw your lack of confidence.
Everything was perfect.
But as always, your disability ruined everything.
Maybe they'll get tired of you like Jean did because of it. You patted Ony's thigh to let him know you wanted to stop, and when the boys realized you were overstimulated, they stopped everything, including the video.
It was like you had needles everywhere, and even the touch of a feather was unbearable. Anxiety and discomfort paralyzed you. You couldn't speak until the sensory overload dissipated, and you just sat on the sofa staring at the floor, extremely embarrassed by how you felt in front of them.
────────
𝐚 𝐦𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐡 𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐫…
They weren't making fun of you. They understood what was happening and turned off the lights to reduce sensory input and did breathing exercises with you. You begged them never to mention it again, it was so embarrassing and you felt bad about ruining everything, but they always reassured you that they didn't care.
Now, you were in a polyamorous relationship with them.
It happened so naturally. The day after they sent the video to Jean, you were bombarded with messages from him, but you ended up blocking him on Eren's orders. Sad about your breakup, Ony took you shopping with him, and Connie made you Cuban dishes that catered to your autistic food obsessions to comfort you.
After a few days, you had stopped thinking about Jean because you were always spending time with your new boyfriends.
They were all diametrically opposed, but all perfect for you.
────────
˚₊‧꒰ა 𝐬𝐞𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐝 𝐦𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭 : 𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐧 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚
This should have stayed private between you and Sasha.
When she asked you who your favorite boyfriend was, you told her you loved them all equally for different reasons, but that Ony was the one you felt the most cared for with.
One day, Eren was on your phone for some random reason, and Sasha sent you a TikTok about couples, saying, "That's so Ony, no wonder he is your favorite boyfriend."
You never saw Eren so angry.
No matter how much you explained the nuance of your opinion, he wouldn't listen and was deeply hurt that you were had a favorite in your relationship with them.
Connie was nonchalant, so he couldn't care less, but he wasn't helping to ease the tension in the apartment because Eren had been in a constant sour mood since the incident. During the week you made love individually, and on weekends you had foursomes, but Eren had stopped participating in anything.
Eren always played the bad boy, but he was one of the most emotional men in the world.
But, thinking about it, you understood why he was so hurt.
You and Eren had a somewhat special relationship. It had taken you weeks to get used to calling him by the word he wanted to hear from you, because it was new to you. But he deserved it. He lived up to the word. He had punched a guy at a frat party who had made fun of you for not talking much. He was the one who knew the signs of your sensory overload best. He gave you advice on how to earn more respect. He was all about making yourself respected, protected, and taken care of. A dad.
Of course, he was hurt that you felt more cared for by Ony than with him, just because Ony was gentler. It made him feel bad about his personality, about himself. He didn't want to be the favorite, but he didn't want to be one of the least liked of your quartet either.
“Eren, you're such a child,” you pouted when he continued to ignore you while he played Final Fantasy XV on the big TV in your apartment.
“You literally have stim toys,” he mumbled, not an ounce of gentleness in his voice, his jaw clenched.
“A real daddy wouldn't act like that.”
That's when you annoyed him. He threw his controller onto the couch, abandoning Noctis character, and ran after you. You screamed as he charged toward you and started running all over the apartment. Instinctively, you went into his room—big mistake. Eren locked the door and grabbed your braids, pulling you against his muscular chest. Eren had a sleeper build, thin from the outside, a greek god once naked.
“And a daddy wouldn’t fuck his daughter so what is your point, huh?” Eren mumbled.
You nuzzle his hard chest, not finding the comfort you can find in Connie’s body which is less muscular and softer. “Connie is better for hugging, like a real daddy,” you teased him.
“Strip.”
“Uh?”
“You’re going to learn who is really taking care of you in this house.”
── .✦ 𝐚 𝐟𝐞𝐰 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐮𝐭𝐞𝐬 𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐫…
“I’m so sorry!” you cried, but it didn’t matter since Eren had pushed your face into the pillow. All your pleas, screams, and cries were muffled now. The only thing that could be heard was Eren’s ragged and your flesh bumping against each other. The backshots were crazy, and he wished he could send this to Connie.
“Sorry for what? Disobeying dad? Making fun of me? Be specific because you’ve been a really bad kid lately and it pissed me off,” he panted, picking up the pace, if that was even possible.
Your tears soaked the pillow and intensified as he thrust into you. It felt so good; before Eren, you didn’t know you could have sex like this because of your sensory issues. But it was perfect. Eren didn’t change much. He would always be dominant, and you would always be submissive. He would always choose positions where he was in control, always slap you, choke you, and spank you. It was very brutal, but it was so comforting for you, autistically. You loved routine. Eren's brutality was comforting.
“I love you, I'm sorry for saying Ony was my favorite,” you sniffed, lifting your head as best you could so he could hear you.
“You're only sorry because I'm fucking you to make you say it.”
“No, I—”
“I love Ony. He is the smartest man I know. People only care about his athletic performance, but he has a brilliant brain, very strategic. However,” he grumbled, “my kid can't love him that much.”
“You're right, I'm sorry,” you repeated like a robot because you wanted him to turn you over quickly so you could kiss your favorite angry boyfriend. “You're perfect for me, Eren.”
“Uh,” he smirked, his pace slowing down, “I don’t remember being called this.”
“Stop trying to make me embarrassed. Our relationship is already very weird,” you whispered.
“Ah, you're a hypocrite now? It's just because Connie came back from college a few minutes ago that you're whispering. When he's not there, you easily shout “i feel it in my belly daddy”. You think I'm stupid?”
“Shut your damn mouth, oh my god!” you screamed, mortified that Connie knew what you and Eren had as a dynamic. Connie was a bastard, he was gonna make fun of a dynamic that is deeper than just sex.
A deep chuckle rumbled in Eren’s chest. He pulled your thighs back so that you were lying down and in a prone bone position. He nuzzled your neck. “I accept the apologies of my daugther.”
“Ewwww.”
“Acting you’re not into that shit.”
You laughed and he kissed your skin, making you shiver.
────────
˚₊‧꒰ა 𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐧'𝐬 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐮𝐝𝐞 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚
[messages from ‘princess’s harem 🎀 ’ group chat]
goofiestcubandick69 : i just heard our girl call eren daddy in bed ??????????
lamelo’s left ball : wdym daddy that boy can’t even handle his own emotions
lamelo’s left ball : how he is gonna handle a kid
goofiestcubandick69 : thats what im saying
[...]
you : ummmm can yall forget this okay…….
worstpsychiatricpatient : im actually her dad tho
worstpsychiatricpatient : do you even know what is hyposensitivity in autism
lamelo’s left ball : you’re acting like that’s a fatal character flaw to not know
lamelo’s left ball : admitting you don’t know something is the first step to be smarter
goofiestcubandick69 : no but do she knows you ate your own shit when we were at the nursery
[worstpsychiatricpatient has left the chat.]
goofiestcubandick69 : yeah thats what i thought
you : WTF ????????????????????
────────
˚₊‧꒰ა 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐫𝐝 𝐦𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭 : 𝐨𝐧𝐲 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚
Studying for exams was torture for your autism.
Exams disrupted all your routines; you now had to care about things you didn't care about, and you didn't dare complain to your boyfriends because you felt like you complained all the time. As if you had a monopoly on suffering. They suffered from exams too, and you didn't want to bother them with your usual autistic complaints.
You were trying not to burst into tears in the university library because of all the academic pressure and the sheer amount of material you had to study.
As you were reviewing your lectures’s notes, someone sat down next to you. A familiar scent of men's cologne made you stiffen as you looked at the person.
"Not sucking three dicks?" Jean smiled, but there was nothing warm in his expression.
“I’ll do what I want, you cheated on me,” you muttered, unsure of yourself, but like Eren and Connie had taught you to be more confident in your comebacks.
“You weren’t exactly the ideal girlfriend. They’ll leave you eventually and realize it too.” You looked away from the brown-haired man to your textbooks, your eyes welling with tears.
It was your biggest fear.
Being a burden to others. That’s why you tried not to complain too much about your autism so as not to bore your boyfriends.
You wanted your boyfriends to be able to talk about your personality first. About your love of pink. About your collection of perfumes and platform boots. About your knowledge of cosmetology. About your rare vintage clothes.
No, they had to tell all their friends during parties that you were autistic so no one would be mean to you because you didn't talk much because of not understanding the world around you and struggling to read the room.
You were chatty with your boyfriends because they had become routines. But anything new was difficult for you to understand, so you struggled to be yourself.
You shouldn't be ashamed of your disability, but a disability did what it did: it handicapped you in life.
"Many autistic people are happily married. My boyfriends are happy with me. You're the only idiot who can't leave me and prefers to be unfaithful," you said in a trembling voice before leaving the university library. You hoped your boyfriend were proud of you for standing for yourself.
────────
When sadness strikes, always turn to Ony. It should be a famous saying.
“Point in my life” by Gucci Mane was playing in the gym, accompanied by the sound of bouncing basketballs. You cheered Ony on as he made baskets for his practice. With each basket, you yelled, and he turned to look at you, laughing. The other people in the stands looked at you as if you were the male-centered protagonist of a romance novel, but you didn't care. Your baby, your man was surely going to be drafted this summer; he deserved all the praise!
When he finished his practice, you went to the locker room with him. You innocently watched all the men getting dressed in front of you, giving you strange looks, waiting to be alone with your lover.
Once alone, Ony d led you to the showers so you could get undressed.
“What’s on your mind? I know these eyes cried, ma’. Don’t fool me,” Ony murmured, kneeling before you when you were finally naked under the shower spray.
“W-What are you doing?”
He pressed your back against the shower wall and lifted one of your legs to his shoulder.
“You don’t know? Pussy eating therapy session.”
You burst into laughter at the absurdity but quickly panted when he buried his nose and mouth deep into wet folds.
“I… I feel like I’m going to burn out from the exams. It’s just too much. I can’t sleep because it stresses me out so much, and on top of that, I’m not doing my usual routines anymore, so I’m not myself anymore,” you paused to let out a moan as his tongue caressed a particularly sensitive spot. “I cry all the time when I study, and I didn’t want to seem like an attention whore by talking to you about my problems.”
Indulging in your arousal, he groaned at the scent of you; it made him lose his mind. He moved his tongue deeper, lapping at you, twisting it inside.
“I’m scared you, Connie and Eren will leaving me because of my autism.”
That made him stop completely, and he looked at you in horror.
“The fuck?”
Thinking about what Jean said made your eyes water, and fed up, you sobbed. Sometimes you laughed, sometimes you cried; these days you didn’t even remember yourself.
“Mama,” he said softly, rising from the floor to embrace you, kissing your cheek wet not from the shower but from your tears. “Who put these shitty ideas in your head?”
“M-My ex…”
“And what did I tell you about that motherfucker?”
“That he was stupid to look at any other woman but me.”
“Exactly, so why do you listen to him?”
“I don’t know, he was as loving as you all, and still cheated.”
“Being loving doesn’t mean shit. He never helped you during a meltdown. We did. A lot. I hope he dies.”
You widened your eyes. “Don’t say that!”
“What are you gonna do with your socially anxious ass to make me stop, huh?”
You pouted. “Nothing…”
“Right, now let me fuck you good, you need it.”
He lifted you up, wrapping your legs around his waist, as he stood pushing you against the wall.
He kissed you as his dick slid in, all his affection communicate through his tongue, his kiss, the way his hips slammed again you.
You wrapped your arms around his neck, your hands stroking his short hair under the shower jet which dampened it into tight curls.
“I feel so safe with you, Ony. Sorry for what I said, I trust you. I’m a bit tired because of school, I think,” you whispered against his lips.
“Yeah? You’re not gonna listen to this dumbass again?”
You shook your head.
“Proud of my sweet girl.”
────────
˚₊‧꒰ა 𝐨𝐧𝐲'𝐬 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐮𝐝𝐞 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚
[messages from ‘princess’s harem 🎀 ’ group chat]
goofiestcubandick69 : are yall into public sex
you : NO!!!!!!!!!!
worstpsychiatricpatient : yea
lamelo’s left ball : hell no
lamelo’s left ball : nobody looks at my girl like that
goofiestcubandick69 : then why there is a rumor on the campus about our girl looking at naked men with you
worstpsychiatricpatient : thats even gayer than when he licked my cum
lamelo’s left ball : we masturbated together in middle school eren
[worstpsychiatricpatient has left the chat.]
goofiestcubandick69 : man you’re a child
goofiestcubandick69 : and gay
goofiestcubandick69 : ony i didnt forget
goofiestcubandick69 : you put MY girl with naked men
goofiestcubandick69 : tf is wrong with you
lamelo’s left ball : why are we focused on ME when SHE was in my male locker room ?????
goofiestcubandick69 : mi princesa can do no wrong
goofiestcubandick69 : soy su perro
you : exactlyyyyyy
[worstpsychiatricpatient is back in the chat.]
worstpsychiatricpatient : two dumb bitches telling each other ‘exactlyyyyyy’
[worstpsychiatricpatient has left the chat.]
goofiestcubandick69 : this man is true to his @
goofiestcubandick69 : don’t call mi princesa a bitch u motherfucker
goofiestcubandick69 : but call me a bitch if you want to i’m into that
you : ????????
lamelo’s left ball : he has the nerve to call eren gay
────────
˚₊‧꒰ა 𝐟𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐭𝐡 𝐦𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭 : 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐧𝐢𝐞 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚
If Eren was your angry boyfriend, Ony your gentle lover, Connie should be your sexy latino man?
That's what everyone thought about Connie.
On campus, the girls with a latino men fetish are interested in him because of his accent. His tattoos. His piercings. His immigrant status. He knows these white american girls well, girls who see latin America as a land full of sexy men, who think latin culture is just about aesthetics. So he created three phases to find the right people for him.
First, phase number 1, which attracts all the girls: The laid-back latino.
Sweatpants. Tattoos. Laid-back persona. Stoned out a lot. Hanging out with the university's plug Eren and the university's star, Ony. Calling any girl 'mami'. The girls love it, adore it, and can't get enough.
Then, he reveals a little bit of himself, and that's when things get out of hand.
There's his "goofy" phase, when he shows how weird and funny he can be, even if it makes him less of a stereotypical latino man.
99% of the girls leave or get the ick.
That's how he knew you were the one because you never thought much of his goofy behavior sometimes and just went along with him. He feels so normal with you; he doesn't have to perform some racist stereotype with you, you just accept him with all his facets.
Now, he can finally show his final layer: his submissive side.
────────
Being the dominant one in the relationship was so much fun.
Of course, you liked being manhandled by Eren, or being praised by Ony.
But it was just as exciting as getting what your submissive man wanted tonight.
“Do whatever you want to do to me in my sleep. If I don’t wake up with you fucking me, I’m gonna blow up the apartment.”
You and Connie looked at each other during dinner, even when you were on Eren’s lap or in Ony’s arms. You both knew you were going to have fun tonight when everyone was asleep. You were going to have fun when he was asleep.
You crept into his room so as not to wake him. You climbed onto the bed and noticed he wasn’t wearing a blanket or a shirt. You chuckled; he was really waiting for this.
You leaned down to kiss all over his chest and abdomen, your tongue flicking around his navel piercing and all his tattoos.
His body shivered, but he didn't open his eyes.
You stripped him of the rest of his clothes and spat on your bare breasts, then smeared the saliva on the inside of your breasts. Your mouth watered at his hard pierced dick that reacted to your kisses. Big. Thick. Exactly the type of dick you wanted to rub your tits around.
You gently palmed his cock before placing it between your breasts. You added more saliva to your mess as you kneaded your breasts around him. The situation was oddly stimulating sensorially with the softness of your chest and the humidity of your saliva.
“Mami, I missed you,” Connie murmured, voice still sleepy as he rubbed his eyes.
You gave him an affectionate smile. “What do you want tonight?”
“Uh, you never learn? My body belongs to you. You’re the one who chooses everything.”
A fire snaked through your belly, igniting your insides.
You stopped what you were doing even though you saw disappointment in his eyes, but they lit up when you sat on his pelvis, sliding down his dick.
“Oh hell yeah,” he moaned, his hands coming to your hips but you slapped him.
“I didn’t say you could do that, Connie,” you chided him. “Put your hands above your head, I’ll slap you if you move them.”
His gut twisted with arousal, he absolutely nodded and obeyed with enamored eyes.
You couldn't say no to people but were able to slap your man, the duality of an autistic freaky woman.
You leaned down to stabilize yourself on his shoulders. Lifting yourself off his cock, you slid down again brutally, making him gasp and whine for more. When he whined too much, you slapped him and told him to stop. He almost cummed and bit his lower lip till it bled not to.
You did everything you wanted to Connie. A slow pace when your legs were tired. At fast pace, fucking yourself on his dick. Sometimes, you turned over and he thanked God women existed just to see your ass gyrating in front of him.
When you were the dominant one, you experienced less sensory overload during sex, that’s why you loved having sex with Connie so much.
You rode him, rocking your hips against him, your tits bouncing, looking like a voluptuous succubus who haunted him at night. It made him lose his mind, and spouting nonsense, his brain going dumb.
“Yesterday I genuinely cried because I wanted to eat you out but it was Ony’s day, so I ate so many sweets just to feel you on my tongue.”
Your heart fluttered and you leaned down to kiss him. “You’re so cute and weird, Connie.”
He forgot about the rules and just hugged his favorite girl ever.
────────
˚₊‧꒰ა 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐧𝐢𝐞'𝐬 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐮𝐝𝐞 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚
[messages from ‘princess’s harem 🎀 ’ group chat]
worstpsychiatristpatient : how do you cope with the fact that your girl is a rapist
you : WTFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFF
you : ???????????
goofiestcubandick69 : she cant rape me since i am her slave
goofiestcubandick69 : my body is her propriety
worstpsychiatristpatient : not only my girl is a rapist
worstpsychiatristpatient : but she uses mind control
goofiestcubandick69 : exactly
goofiestcubandick69 : my mind is controlled by her
goofiestcubandick69 : i always think of my girl
lamelo’s left ball : i’m employed what happened
you : eren discovered somno
[lamelo’s left ball is now offline.]
goofiestcubandick69 : thats why i love ony
goofiestcubandick69 : he knows how to mind his own business
worstpsychiatristpatient : just so you know i called the police
worstpsychiatristpatient : mind u i’m the only one who have a real job and a dangerous one at that
worstpsychiatristpatient : so fuck u lamelo wannabe
────────
˚₊‧꒰ა 𝐛𝐨𝐧𝐮𝐬 𝐦𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭 : 𝐜𝐡𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐦𝐚𝐬 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚
“Ma’, you’re going to hurt yourself.”
Ony took the star you were trying to put on top of the fake pink tree Connie had found on some niche website. He placed it where you wanted it.
“There is no way, it’s really the only color we will ever see at Christmas,” Eren grumbled, rummaging through the Christmas decorations you and Connie had bought weeks earlier, appalled by all the pink in them. “Christmas is green and red!”
“Well, it’s my girl’s world so I don’t care about Christmas rules,” Connie mumbled, taking a drag of his blunt, sitting on the couch.
“And you guys also have pink Christmas pajamas to wear!” you said excitedly, pulling out the pink pajama sets with snowflake patterns.
Eren winced, Connie gave a thumbs-up, and Ony chuckled. But they wore them all, just for your beautiful eyes.
It was going to be a fun Christmas, but you wouldn't trade places for anything in the world.
Because you were with the three loves of your life. In no particular order. Just the trio of your heart.
──────── ✃- - - - - - - - - - - you liked it ? please support fics you liked with a reblog or a comment ! writers never know how we impact you if you don't say anything <3 ── .✦
you were like a vixen straight out of a 80’s porno. always had curtain bangs, hair black with streaks of blonde or pink. lips puckered with a dark brown lip liner and nude pink in the middle glossed up. eyeshadow always sparkled with glitter, body always sparkled in glitter. and Jesus you smelled so good.
looked even better with your black lace bralette and black lace panty, thong so skinny it almost looked like you had nothing on if it wasn’t for what’s between your legs getting hidden by that exact lace. top and bottom belly pierced with a tattoo that reached the top of your ribs all the way to your ankle.
gosh, to say onyankapon was infatuated would be an understatement.
“so you the birthday boy?” you questioned, walking up to him where he was seated in the private room. “friends out there hollering about you, how you deserve this cause you just won a football game, what? last thursday?” you smirk at him, you tease him.
he’s never felt so stuck before, not when he was on the field, not when he had to talk in front of damn near millions of people when he lost a game, and never when he talking to some female. his lips curl as if he was mad at her for even given him a reason to stutter on his words.
he bite his lips, diamond grills showing slightly “yeah, that’s me.” he eyes your feet first when you get closer, cute, feminine with black frenchtip. he eyes trail higher when he sees the long straps on your heels that reaches below your knee, you so fucking captivating. the hell you doing at a strip club?
his eyes meet your pelvic bone, looks at you petite waist and ribcage and he can tell you been working hard on that pole. your body just shows it, faint muscles in your arm, ass so plump and he bet he can sit a cup on it if he concentrated hard enough. “yea that’s you?” you bite your lip back at him, all white straight teeth.
you get even closer, one heeled foot going between his man-spreaded legs. and with that he leans back, gets more comfortable. arms behind the seated area. you tuck your head to the side as you inspect him, designer baggy pants and chrome heart long sleeve, he has a hat on but you can tell he got a fresh cut with some braids underneath. Silver Cuban link chain around his neck and an even big Cuban link bracelet over his wrist that matches perfectly with a blinged out Rolex.
you can’t say the money he obviously has wasn’t making your pussy a little wet, you loved when men came in, and they looked as good as they money. but you can tell onyankapon is different, he’s a little calm, he looks like he was forced into this but possibly has taken a interest in you. and another thing you absolutely loved more than a cute face with money is someone you can get over.
the way he flinches a little, you can tell even though bitches probably flaunt they way at him he ain used to someone like you, and that makes him…cute.
“you cute onyankapon.” and just as he was about to question you with a eyebrow up, you plop on his lap. “can tell you never did nothing like this before huh? even though football filled with niggas that ain shit, you a good boy.” you lean closer to his ear and ony swears his spine tingles and straightens.
his fist balled up and he leaned his head to the side as if it was an invitation. you don’t take the invitation though, you lean back and look at his face, your hands going behind you to lean or his knees, covered pussy in the front of his zipper.
“I-it, what?” it’s like he wanted to confess but a cat caught his tongue telling him no. One hand from his knee moves to grab on his jaw, his breath is caught up and staggered. “usually men aren’t supposed to be touching on the girls, not supposed to be doing more than giving money and watching,” you lean closer to his face, teeth softly biting at his bottom lip, he groans almost pathetically. “I can tell though ony, you might be my favorite.”
your hips grind once against his, and his hands find your thigh, not giving in all the way.
ony was frustrated to say the least, though you had something so skimpy on, his jeans was making it hard.
and speaking of hard he can feel his shit twitching more, the more he smelt you, the more you body moved, the more your fingers touched over his face and under his undercut, the more you fucking breath against his ears.
he was a sensitive man, barely fucking anyone because that’s just not his style. he aware of gold diggers and money hungry girls, which is ironic because he at a strip club where the reside at but fuck he was forced her and fuck did you change every thought process he had.
his friends told him about you, how you move, how you laugh and just how sexy you are. they always said how strict you are about the touching policy, about how you barely even give them more then a 5 minute lap dance before you requesting the money.
he doesn’t know nor you, but you end up on your back.
his jeans still on but dick so hard it’s form against his thigh and he’s getting so fucking greedy he just jumping against your thigh and covered pussy like his famous career doesn’t even exist. like she can’t go and rat him out for actually being a loser.
but you would never, because this is exactly how you like em.
“f-fuck sorry I just….oh god.” he moans softly. his hands grip the underside of your thighs and your hands follow his shoulders. “it’s okay ony, you can take it out though.”
he pauses, breathing heavy as fuck and eyebrows furrowed. “you can’t put it in, but I’ll give you a little something more for your birthday.”
and he does, his thick tip sliding against the pudge of your pussy that’s now poking outside of your panties.
he feels the wetness, he feels the lace and he so turned on he feels like a teenager.
you can tell he’s getting into it, your biting your lips and your pussy is fucking throbbing cause it all just feels so good. he smells so good, and he’s doing so good.
“mm, my- I’ve never did this before.” you mumble and moan, watching him bring your legs up and over one of his shoulder so your thighs close better around his dick and he goes deeper like that, balls squished against where your hole is pulsating and the top of his dick covering almost your whole belly button. “just like that ony.”
“uhn fuck! mama, I think I can nut just like this.” he half way laughs and groans. and now he’s unstrapping your heels to digs his nose in your ankle, to suck and lick on the heel of your feet all the way to the tip of your toes.
you moan out in shock, back arching off the couch.
yes, this is exactly your type.
his hips go sharper, but sloppy nonetheless, it makes him tremble and he’s not even sure what he’s doing anymore, “ima become a regular. I swear, you gon give me this treatment everytime?” he questions and oh he’s the cutest with the way he’s absolutely deadass.
you smile behind a moan and you nod.
you’d give him everything he wants.
A/N: lowkey y’all im finna drop drafts because why not. I’ve been MIA ASF, i edit a little of em but not all. I have so many drafts. (Should I start finishing them? I lowkey lost motivation, I feel like a Wattpad author when they ghost their audience lmao)
matching pajamas, burnt cookies, and a man who can’t keep his hands (or mouth) off his girlfriend.
→ black!f reader | smut | established relationship | connie being a menace
a/n:heyyy guys ik i haven’t been posting i’m sorry you guys i have been really busy but i’ll be more consistent now i hope you guys enjoy it <3
to say connie was in love with you would be an understatement.
you’re his whole world. like genuinely. there’s no version of his life that doesn’t include you in it, front and center. everything else just kinda… revolves around you.
so when you casually mention you wanna buy ingredients to makes cookies, he’s already nodding before you even finish your sentence.
because obviously.
whatever you want goes.
the grocery store is busy, music playing way too loud, people everywhere, and yet connie’s acting like it’s just the two of you. cart in one hand, your hand in the other, thumb rubbing slow circles.
you’re rambling about recipes, about how you wanna do chocolate chip and sugar cookies, maybe even brownies if you feel ambitious. he’s listening actually listening eyes soft, smiling like he won the lottery just standing next to you.
“okay, so—” you stop in the baking aisle, holding up two different cookie cutters. “should we get this one or this one?”
he doesn’t even look at the cutters at first. he’s just… looking at you.
and it makes you smile shyly, a little nervous, because damn, why is he staring like that in the middle of a grocery store?
“get both,” he says easily.
you blink. “you sure?”
“yeah,” he nods, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “why not?”
you laugh, tossing them into the cart, and he swears his chest feels tight just hearing that sound.
if you wanted the moon, he’d be googling how to get there already.
you guys finally finish shopping and that’s when you spot them matching pajamas. your eyes light up.
“connie, look!” you gasp, already dragging him by the arm before he can even respond. he just laughs, letting you pull him through the store. he doesn’t care what it is, as long as you’re excited and it’s with him, his heart is stupidly full.
you grab the cutest set soft, silky, matching little shorts and button-ups with tiny hearts all over them. you hold them up to his chest, grinning.
“we’re getting these. matching. no excuses.”
“whatever you want, baby,” he says
when you finally get home, you disappear into the bathroom to change first. the set feels even cuter on. you step out, doing a little twirl in the middle of the bedroom.
“how do i look?” you ask, smiling big.
connie is sitting on the edge of the bed and the second his eyes land on you… whew. his whole face changes. eyes low, dragging slow down your body, from your legs to the way the shorts hug your ass, back up to your chest, then your face. he licks his lips without even realizing it.
“damn…” he mutters, voice low. “you look so good, baby.”
he’s not lying. to him you’re the most beautiful woman in the world and right now? he’s looking at you like he can’t believe you’re real. like he wants to eat you up and cuddle you at the same time.
you feel the butterflies explode in your stomach. this man really stares at you like you’re his favorite meal every single time.
“you like it that much?” you tease, doing another little spin.
connie leans back on his hands, biting his lip as his eyes follow every move.
“i love it. c’mere,” he says, voice dropping even lower.
you already know what that look means. he’s not just admiring the pajamas… he’s thinking about how fast he can get them off you later.
and honestly? the way he’s staring at you right now… you might let him.
as you guys start baking the cookies, connie can’t keep his hands off you. not even for two seconds.
his hands are glued to your hips while you’re at the counter trying to stir the batter. he’s pressed up behind you, lips all over your neck like that’s his actual job. soft kisses at first, then slower, wetter ones that make your knees feel weak.
you’re gripping the spoon tighter, trying so hard to focus. “connie…” you giggle, breath already shaky. “stop, we’re supposed to be baking.”
he hums against your skin, not moving an inch. “mm, i know baby,” he murmurs, voice low and sweet, “but you look so good right now. i can’t help it.”
mind you this man is supposed to be helping. he’s supposed to be measuring shit or cracking eggs or something. instead he’s kissing all up on your neck, hands sliding around your waist, pulling you back against him every time you try to stir.
you’re forgetting what you’re even doing. the batter? what batter. all you can feel is his mouth and the way he’s looking at you like you’re sweeter than anything you’re about to put in the oven.
“connie, i swear—” you laugh, trying to elbow him gently, but it’s useless. he just chuckles and turns you around in his arms, eyes low and full of that lovesick look he always gives you.
“what? i’m helping,” he lies, grinning before leaning in to kiss you properly.
you already know baking these cookies is about to take three times longer than it should. but with the way he’s staring at you… hands still gripping your hips… you’re not even mad.
this man really loves his girlfriend. and right now? he loves her in an apron even more.
you guys finally finish with the cookies. they’re finally in the oven after way too much kissing and not nearly enough actual baking. you now have fresh hickeys all over your neck because connie literally cannot keep his lips to himself.
you stand in front of the bathroom mirror, turning your head side to side with a shocked expression.
“seriously, con?” you whine, touching the marks. “you know i have work! and now i got hickeys all over my damn neck.”
connie appears behind you in the mirror, wrapping his arms around your waist and pulling you back against his chest. he doesn’t even look sorry. he just leans in and kisses the side of your neck, right on top of one of the marks he left.
“sorry baby,” he murmurs against your skin, voice all sweet and low. “i’ll make it up to you, aight? i promise.”
he thinks kissing you is gonna fix everything. and the crazy part? it kinda does. you’re still mad… but melting at the same time.
you glare at him through the mirror. “you gotta stop playing with me. i can’t be showing up to work looking like i got attacked.”
he chuckles and kisses your neck again, slower this time, like he’s proud of his work. “you look good though. real good.”
“connie.”
“what? i’m just saying,” he grins, eyes low as he stares at you in the mirror. “my girlfriend too fine to not get kissed on.”
you sigh, trying to look annoyed but your stupid heart is doing flips. he’s lucky you love his ass.
remember the cookies you were supposed to be making? yeah… those are long forgotten.
because right now connie has you spread out on the couch like his personal feast. your legs are thrown over his shoulders, thighs trembling as he kneels between them. he’s taking his sweet time, and this man is straight up worshipping your pussy.
he starts with slow, messy kisses all over your inner thighs, sucking gently on the soft skin before dragging his tongue up to your folds.
when he finally reaches your clit, he moans like he just tasted heaven.
“fuck… look at her,” he whispers, voice thick with lust. “so pretty and wet for me already.”
then his mouth is on you. warm. sloppy. devoted. he licks long, slow stripes up your pussy, savoring every drop like he’s got all night. his tongue circles your clit before he wraps his lips around it and sucks gently, then harder, then soft again switching it up just to drive you crazy.
you’re already whimpering, hips twitching.
“connie…” you breathe, trying to grind against his face, but he grips your thighs and holds you still.
“nah, baby. let me eat this pussy right,” he murmurs against your slick folds. “you deserve it.”
he pushes his tongue inside you, fucking you with it slow and deep while his nose rubs against your clit. the wet sounds are filthy loud slurping mixed with his low groans. he’s lost in it, eyes closed, face buried so deep you’re not sure he can even breathe. and he doesn’t care.
your hand flies to his hair, gripping tight as your moans get louder.
he slides two thick fingers into you without warning, curling them perfectly against that spongy spot while his mouth focuses back on your swollen clit. sucking. licking. humming. the vibrations make your eyes roll back.
“oh my god— connie, baby— fuck…”
you’re grinding on his face now, chasing the pleasure, and he lets you. he moans louder into your pussy, encouraging you, sucking harder like he wants you to use him. his fingers thrust deeper, steady and nasty, making wet squelching sounds every time he pushes back in.
tears are already forming in your eyes. it feels too good. your thighs won’t stop shaking.
“i can’t— it’s too much—” you sob, voice cracking.
but connie doesn’t stop. if anything, he gets more greedy. he pulls his fingers out for a second just to spread your pussy open with both hands and spit on it before diving back in, tongue flicking fast on your clit while he slides two three fingers inside this time.
your back arches clean off the couch.
“connie—! fuck— i’m— oh shit—”
you’re crying now. actual tears sliding down your cheeks because the pleasure is overwhelming. he’s sucking your clit so good, fingers stroking that spot over and over, and you feel like you’re about to explode.
“that’s it, baby,” he groans into your pussy, voice muffled and nasty.
your whole body locks up. the orgasm crashes into you hard, making you sob and shake uncontrollably. you’re creaming all over his fingers, gushing on his tongue while he keeps eating you through it, licking up every drop like he’s starving. he doesn’t pull away. he stays right there, sucking softly, fingers still moving slow until you’re twitching and whimpering, completely ruined.
when he finally lifts his head, his face is soaked — lips shiny, chin dripping, eyes dark and drunk off you.
you’re still sobbing softly, chest heaving, legs shaking around his head. he kisses your throbbing pussy one last time, gentle and reverent, then rests his cheek on your thigh, looking up at you with pure adoration.
“you okay, baby?” he asks, voice low and soft, even while his face is covered in your mess.
you can’t even speak. you just nod weakly, tears still slipping out the corners of your eyes.
connie smiles, proud and lovesick, and presses another soft kiss to your clit.
“good. ‘cause i’m nowhere near done with you.”
you sit up, push him gently in the chest until he drops back onto the couch. without saying a word you reach for his pajama pants, yanking them down. his dick springs out, hard and heavy, already leaking at the tip. you wrap your hand around him, stroking slow and tight, watching the way his abs flex and his mouth falls open.
“fuck, baby…” he groans, head falling back for a second.
you turn around, back facing him, and line him up with your soaked pussy. you sink down slowly, inch by inch, moaning loud as he stretches you open. the angle is so deep it makes your toes curl immediately.
“shit— that’s it,” connie breathes, hands gripping your waist tight. “take all this dick, baby. look at you… creaming on me already.”
you start bouncing, slow at first, then faster, throwing your ass back on him. the sound of skin slapping fills the room — wet, nasty, loud. every time you drop down, he fills you completely, hitting that spot that makes your eyes roll back.
“connie— fuck—” you whine, hands planted on his thighs for leverage as you ride him harder.
he smacks your ass hard, groaning deep in his chest. “goddamn, you feel so good. this pussy so wet and tight for me… keep bouncing just like that, ma. fuck me back.”
you’re creaming all over his dick, dripping down his balls with every bounce. your eyes keep rolling, mouth hanging open, moans getting louder and sluttier. connie’s hands are everywhere gripping your hips, smacking your ass, then sliding up to wrap around your throat from behind.
he pulls you back against his chest, choking you just right while you keep riding him. his lips are right by your ear, voice low and raspy.
“you riding this dick so good, baby. my perfect girl”
the choking mixed with the praise has your head spinning. you’re grinding and bouncing faster, pussy squeezing him tight. connie’s groaning in your ear, hips thrusting up to meet you, making it even deeper.
but then he suddenly lifts you off him. you barely have time to whine at the emptiness before he lays you on your back and folds you clean in half. knees pushed all the way to your chest in a tight mating press. he slides back inside you in one smooth, deep stroke.
“oh my god—” you cry out.
connie doesn’t waste time. he starts thrusting hard, deep, and nasty. the position lets him hit so deep it feels like he’s in your stomach. every stroke is long and powerful, his heavy balls slapping against your ass.
“this what you needed, huh?” he groans, staring down at you with dark, loving eyes. one hand wraps around your throat again, squeezing while he kisses you filthy — tongue and all. “my baby likes when i fold her up and fuck her stupid?”
you’re sobbing and moaning into his mouth, completely overwhelmed. the pleasure is insane. he’s pounding into you so good your pussy is making the wettest sounds you’ve ever heard. he keeps praising you between kisses, voice rough:
“you’re so fucking pretty when you take this dick… that’s my good girl. let me feel you squirt on me, baby. i know you can.”
his strokes get faster, deeper, more aggressive. the hand around your throat tightens just enough to make your eyes flutter. you’re creaming so much it’s dripping everywhere, soaking the couch.
“connie—! i’m— fuck— i’m gonna—”
“do it,” he growls, kissing you again, biting your lip. “cum on this dick. squirt for me, baby. let it all go.”
it hits you like a wave. your whole body locks up then explodes — you squirt hard all over his dick and stomach, soaking him while you moan his name. your pussy clenches and pulses around him like crazy.
he buries himself deep and cums with you, groaning into your mouth as he fills you up. thick, hot spurts painting your walls while your pussy keeps milking him.
both of you shaking, moaning, riding it out together until you’re both spent and trembling.
he stays inside you for a long moment, forehead pressed against yours, breathing hard. then he kisses you soft and slow, thumb gently rubbing your throat where he choked you.
“i love you so fucking much,” he whispers against your lips, still buried deep. “best pussy in the world… my pretty girl.”
you’re completely fucked out, legs still folded, body twitching with aftershocks… and this man is looking at you like he’s ready to go again.
connie leans in, forehead still pressed to yours, and kisses you deep and slow. you melt into it, hands cupping his face, tasting yourself on his tongue while he’s still buried inside you.
then—
BEEP. BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.
the fire alarm starts screaming through the whole apartment.
you both freeze mid-kiss. eyes wide open. lips still touching.
“…the cookies,” you whisper against his mouth.
connie pulls back just enough to look at you, face blank for a second before reality hits.
“shit.”
you stare at each other like two kids who just got caught. him still balls deep, you folded like a pretzel, pussy still twitching around him… and the damn cookies are burning to a crisp in the oven.
a beat of silence.
then you both start laughing. loud. breathless. stupid.
“i knew we should’ve took them out,” you groan, covering your face while still giggling.
connie just shakes his head, smirking as he finally pulls out of you. “my bad, baby.”
he gives your thigh a little smack and stands up as you both rush (naked and messy) toward the kitchen like it’s a national emergency.
Oh I fucking love this. There's definitely a reference to Naomi Osaka's Japanese heritage, but blended with a Parisian "New Look" silhouette & tailoring.
Hiiii baby! I’m loving the new works&theme especially cabo and meanie! I was wondering if you could do a birthday fic with Nfl!Ony since it’s my birthday today! - 🧸
OFF SEASON
𐙚!!── ony and his fiancée!
⤷ ❝ {a/n: ofcccc my love & i hope you have the happiest birthday today! nfl! ony is a legendary pull so why not bring him back cause ur birthday wish is my command! 😩} ¡! ❞
⤷ 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐈 / 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐈𝐈
𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭
"cheers!"
you and the girls scream as you down the fifth, sixth, or seventh shot tonight? you were keeping count until you believe around your third one. the numbers blurred together, mixing with the bass vibrating through the floor and the neon pink lights reflecting off everyone's faces.
the shot glasses hit the table with a collective clatter and your cousin was already reaching for the bottle for the next round.
"girl, slow down," your sister laughed while grabbing her arm. "we got all night."
"it's her birthday!" your cousin gestured wildly at you while almost knocking over the bottle. "we can do what we want!"
"damn right we can," you slurred while holding up your empty glass like a trophy.
the section ony had rented was huge, it was the entire upper level of the hottest spot in the city; a place that was equal parts restaurant and club, with velvet booths and marble tables. string lights and gold lanterns hung from the ceiling, casting everything in a honeyed glow. the dj was tucked in the corner, spinning a mix of afrobeats and female rap that made your hips move whether you wanted them to or not.
and the food….god, the food.
before the shots started, you'd eaten like a literal queen; oysters on a bed of ice, truffle pasta that cost more than your first car, a charcuterie board the size of your torso, and mini sliders that you'd demolished in three bites. ony had pre ordered everything and the waiters kept bringing out plates you didn't even remember asking for.
but that was hours ago, now it was just bottles on the table, ice melting in buckets, and the faint smell of hookah smoke curling toward the ceiling.
you leaned back against the velvet couch, your light pink mini dress shifting with you as the gold chain across your bare back is cool against your skin. your curls were wild now from hours of dancing and the humidity had them expanding into a cloud around your face. gold cuffs still glinted at your ears and your ring caught the neon lights every time you moved your hand, which was often, because you couldn't stop looking at it.
"let me see it again," your friend demanded while crawling across the couch on her knees.
you held out your hand like a queen presenting her favorite gem. she grabbed your wrist, pulling your ring finger toward the light.
"lawd," she breathed. "it look different every time i see it."
"that's because the lighting keep changing," your sister pointed out.
"girl…don't ruin the magic."
weeks before your birthday, ony had proposed to you at the stadium during the halftime of one of his games. the way he had dropped to one knee in front of fifty thousand people and made you cry so hard you forgot how to speak.
you still watched the video sometimes. late at night, when he was asleep beside you, his arm thrown over your waist, and his breath warm on your neck. you'd pull up the clips on your phone to see the ones that had gone viral, the ones your cousins had sent, even the ones from angles you didn't know existed.
and you'd watch yourself say yes over and over again because it still didn't feel real. but the rock on your finger? that felt real and heavy.
"earth to birthday girl." your friend yells as she waves a hand in front of your face. "you left us again."
"sorry." you blinked while shaking your head. "just thinking."
"about that man, huh?" your cousin said while grinning.
"always about him."
"disgusting. i love it."
"okay, okay," your friend said while clapping her hands to get everyone's attention. "we need to talk about the comments recentlyyyy."
you groaned while throwing your head back against the couch. "do we have to?"
"yes!" your cousin yells while pulling out her phone, already scrolling. "people are obsessed with you. look–" she turned the screen toward you.
it was a post from some sports blog. a picture of you and ony at a game last week— you in his jersey number, him with his arm around your waist, and both of you laughing at something off camera. the caption read: "onyankopon's fiancée continues to steal hearts. who is she?"
"who is she?" your sister read aloud while scoffing. "she's right there, with a name."
"they don't care about your name," your cousin says, echoing her own words from earlier. "they care about the ring."
you held up your hand again while watching the diamond catch the pink neon lights. "can you blame them?"
"no," all three of them said in unison.
after your little proposal debrief, the shots kept coming. someone ordered a round of something blue that tasted like candy and burned like hell. your cousin eventually pulled you up off the couch because your song was playing and suddenly you were shaking ass.
the vip section wasn't huge but it was big enough. your bare feet (you'd kicked your heels off somewhere around shot four) moved across the cool floor, arms raised, curls bouncing, and the gold chain on your back catching the light with every bounce.
your cousin joined you, then your friend, finally your sister was there too, and the four of you were a tangle of limbs and laughter, dancing on each other until you were dizzy.
"this is the best birthday ever!" your cousin shouted over the music.
eventually, you collapsed back onto the couch, chest heaving and dress riding up just a little. you didn't bother pulling it down cause everyone here was family.
"i need water," you announced.
"you need more shots," your friend countered.
"i need both."
your sister flagged down a waiter who looked like he'd been waiting for an excuse to come over and ordered a round of waters and another bottle of something expensive.
"put it on the fiancée’s tab," she added and the waiter nodded like he already knew because of course he knew. ony had probably tipped him a month's rent to make sure you were taken care of.
"speaking of ony," your sister said while sliding closer to you on the couch, "when is he getting here?"
you glanced at your phone that read 1:47 am. he'd texted you an hour ago, “you good?", and you'd replied with a blurry photo of you and your girls making kissy faces at the camera.
come through
bring your friends.
👀
"soon," you said while grinning. "i told him to bring the guys."
your friends eyebrows shot up. "i thought this was girls night?"
"it was but i miss my man." you shrugged, unashamed. "and i needed an excuse to see him without making y'all feel like third wheels."
"and you still made us the third wheels?" your cousin asked while laughing.
"no, i made them the third wheels. now y'all can focus on jean and them."
"you're so calculating," your friend said but she was already reaching for her compact mirror.
"i'm considerate. there's a difference boo."
a couple minutes later your phone buzzed and you snatched it up so fast your cousin laughed.
outside. coming up.
finally.
you miss me?
maybe.
you drunk?
maybe.
send a pic.
you held up your phone and angled it downward so your body was in the frame and snapped a quick photo— you sitting pretty on the velvet seats, dress hitched up on your thighs, curls wild, and ring catching the light. your smile was drunk and happy as you tried your best to get a steady picture.
hurry up.
damn. on my way.
you tossed your phone on the couch, grabbed the nearest shot glass and downed it.
"he's coming," you announced.
the table erupted.
"finally."
“where's my lip gloss?"
"connie better be with him. im getting us out the trenches tonight."
"you're so weird."
"and you're so single. let me live."
you laughed while watching your girls scramble to reapply gloss, fluff their hair, and fix their dresses. they pretended not to care but you saw the way your sister checked her reflection in a spoon and the way your friend suddenly cared about the arrangement of bottles on the table.
you just sat back, heart racing at the thought of your man coming and you couldn't wait to feel his arms around you.
a hour later, the elevator dinged as the doors slid open and there he was.
ony stepped out first and his eyes found you immediately, his eyes scanning the room before landing on your face. behind him came eren, jean, connie, and some teammates you recognized but couldn't name in your drunken state.
the energy in the room shifted as ony crossed to you in six long strides, ignoring everyone else, and pulling you off the couch into his arms.
"hey, mama," he murmured against your hair.
"you took forever," you mumbled as you melted into his chest.
"had to drag these fools out the studio. eren was locked in."
"eren can wait."
"he said the same thing about you."
you rolled your eyes as you pulled back just enough to look at him, your hands sliding up his chest to rest on his shoulders. his eyes dragged over your face at your wild curls, your smudged lip gloss, and the drunken slant of your smile.
"you look good," he said.
"i look drunk."
"ain’t no difference."
he kissed you while connie whistled and someone yelled "get a room" and you know that was definitely jean but you didn't care.
you had your man. you had your girls. you had the whole city at your feet and a ring on your finger during a birthday night you'd never forget.
and when ony pulled back, breathless and smiling, he looked at you like you were the only person in the room.
"happy birthday, mama," he said softly.
"thank you for coming," you replied.
"ain't nowhere else i'd rather be."
you weren't sure exactly when you'd ended up in ony's lap. one minute you were standing and leaning against the couch while your cousin poured another round. the next, ony had grabbed your waist, pulled you down onto his thighs, and wrapped an arm around your stomach to keep you from sliding off.
"you 'bout to fall," he murmured in your ear, his breath warm against your neck.
"i am not," you slurred, even as your body sagged against his chest.
"mmhm."
his hand splayed across your bare back and you shivered, pressing closer. the vip section spun lazily around you, pink and gold lights blurring at the edges. your girls were scattered across the couches now, deep in conversation with the guys.
and you? you were exactly where you wanted to be.
"another shot!" your friend appeared in front of you, holding out a glass. "for the birthday girl!" you reached for it but your hand wobbled and ony plucked it out of the air before you could grab it.
"nah," he said, tossing it back himself. "she done."
"ony–" you started to protest but he was already setting the glass on the table.
"you can barely sit up straight, mama. you ain't takin' no more shots."
"i'm fine–"
"you're drunk." he kissed your temple, soft and firm. "and you're gonna thank me tomorrow."
you wanted to argue but your body betrayed you as you melted further into his chest. his arms tightened around you and you sighed, your head falling back against his shoulder.
"fine," you mumbled. "but you gotta take the rest of 'em for me."
"already planned on it."
and he did.
every time one of your cousins came over with a shot, ony took it. every time someone shouted "birthday girl!" and raised a glass, ony drank it. he didn't even flinch, just tossed them back one after another, his chest rumbling with low laughter every time you whined about it.
"you're gonna be so drunk," you said, watching him down another.
"someone gotta be." he set the glass down while wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "can't have you out here actin' up."
"i don't act up."
"you literally tried to climb on the table ten minutes ago."
"i was dancing."
"you were struggling."
you pouted but he just kissed the pout off your lips and you forgot what you were mad about.
somewhere around 2:30, food appeared.
this was drunk food. wings, loaded fries, and mozzarella sticks that stretched for miles when you bit into them. ony must have ordered it at some point because he was the only one coherent enough to use a phone.
"eat," he said while pressing a fry to your lips.
you took a bite, chewing slowly, your eyes half closed.
"'s good," you mumbled.
"eat another one."
"you eat another one."
he shook his head but he was smiling and he fed you three more fries before you turned your face away.
" 'm full."
"you ate like five fries."
" 'm full."
he sighed, setting the plate aside, and pulled you closer. "you impossible."
"you love it."
"unfortunately."
the night started winding down around 3.
your girls were flagging as your sister was arguing with jean about something neither of them would remember tomorrow and your cousin taking mirror selfies with connie's phone because hers had died.
you were barely awake as your face pressed into ony's neck, your breath warm against his skin.
"i'm ready to go," you whispered.
he turned his head as his lips brushed against your forehead. "yeah?"
"mmhm." you nuzzled closer, your nose grazing his jaw. "carry me?"
he laughed low, his chest vibrating under you. "you want me to carry you out?"
"please." you kissed his neck lazily, your lips dragging against his skin. "and grab my heels, they my favorite."
"which ones are those?"
"the ones i was wearin'. under the table."
he looked down and your bare feet were dangling over his thigh, your gold heels kicked somewhere beneath the velvet couch.
"those?"
"those." you kissed his neck again, slower this time. "please, baby."
he exhaled as he muttered, "you tryna kill me,"
"no." you kissed his jaw. "just tryna go home."
he stood up with you wrapped around him like a koala. your legs hooked around his waist, your arms looped around his neck, and your face buried in the crook of his shoulder. he bent down one handed and scooped your heels off the floor, dangling them from his fingers.
"got 'em," he said.
"you're the best," you mumbled into his neck.
"i know."
your girls called out goodbyes as he carried you toward the elevator and shouting "text me when you get home!" you lifted one hand in a lazy wave, your ring catching the light one last time.
the elevator doors closed, muffling the music, and suddenly it was just the two of you.
"you had fun?" he asked, shifting you higher on his hip.
"the most fun." you kissed his neck again, right below his ear, where his cologne was strongest. "thank you for this."
"didn't do nothin'."
"you rented out a whole club."
"that's just money." the elevator dinged as the doors opened to the parking garage. "you happy. that's what matters."
the cool night air hit you the second he stepped outside. ony’s driver had the blacked out suv waiting at the curb. he opened the door for you as you still held onto him, helping you get in because your legs were a unsteady from all those shots. the second the door shut behind him, the world outside disappeared.
it was just the two of you in the dim glow of the interior lights.
“come here, baby.” his voice had dropped that octave that always made you wet. he pulled you across the seat until you were straddling his lap, your dress bunching up around your thighs. his big hands slid up the backs of your legs, squeezing your ass possessively.
“fuck… you really mine now, huh?” he kissed your neck, then your jaw, then your mouth and he was tasting the candy blue shots still on your tongue. “my fiancée. my wife to be. walking around with that ring on your finger while you twerk to city girls. you know what that does to me?”
you whimpered as one of his hands slipped between your thighs, pushing your lace thong to the side. two thick fingers dragging through your already soaked folds.
“shit, you wet as hell,” he groaned, circling your clit with the pads of his fingers before pushing both digits inside you in one smooth stroke. “this pussy been waiting for me all night?”
your head fell back, a broken moan slipping out as he started pumping his fingers, curling them just right against that spot that made your toes curl. the wet sounds filled the backseat, obscene and loud.
“yes–ony… fuck–”
“that’s right. say my name, baby. my pretty baby.” he sucked on your neck, adding a third finger and stretching you open while his thumb worked your clit. “you’re gonna be my wife. carrying my last name. walking around with my ring and my baby in you one day. and you still out here acting like the baddest in the club. you know how proud that shit makes me?”
your hips rolled down onto his hand, chasing the pleasure as it built fast and hot. the driver was separated by the partition, but you didn’t even care if he could hear you moaning like a slut for your man.
ony pulled his fingers out suddenly, making you whine at the loss. he smirked, bringing them to his mouth to taste you while he used his other hand to free himself from his pants. his dick was hard, thick, and leaking for you.
“turn around for me. hands on the seat.”
you obeyed, facing the front, knees on the leather as he pushed your dress up over your ass. he didn’t even pull your thong all the way off, just yanked it to the side again before lining himself up and sinking into you in one long thrust.
“fuuuck, baby,” he groaned, gripping your hips tight. “so tight and wet. this my pussy, right?”
“yes- yours,” you gasped, pushing back on him.
he started fucking you deep, one hand sliding up your back to grab the gold chain like a leash while the other reached around to rub your clit. the car rocked with every thrust, the windows already fogging up.
“look at you,” he praised, voice strained with pleasure. “my fiancée taking this dick so good in the backseat like a nasty little slut. after all them shots and dancing… still creaming all over me. that’s why i’m marrying you. you perfect for me.”
your orgasm hit you hard as your vision blurred. your thighs shaking and moaning his name loud enough that your throat went raw. ony fucked you through it, then pulled out and flipped you onto your back, spreading your legs wide before sliding back in.
he leaned down, forehead against yours, eyes locked on you as he stroked deep and slow.
“i love you,” he breathed between thrusts. “my beautiful baby. my wife. gonna give you everything. this dick. this ring. my last name. everything.”
you came again with his name on your lips, nails digging into his back. ony followed right after, burying himself deep and groaning as he filled you up, hips stuttering against yours.
he stayed inside you for a long moment, kissing you soft and lazy, thumb stroking the diamond on your finger again.
“best birthday ever?” he asked, smiling against your mouth.
you laughed breathlessly, still pulsing around him. “best birthday ever.”
You can't prove it, but someone has been in your apartment
Stalker/Serial Killer!Simon x Reader.
You can't breathe.
The rain is preventing it, filling the space between your mouth and the sky so that every breath you drag in is half air and half water, and your lungs are working at a deficit, pulling overtime.
You're running. You've been running. And it feels the way running feels in dreams, the legs churning, the ground stretching, the distance between you and anywhere safe expanding with every stride like the earth is being fed through on a belt beneath you, and no matter how hard you push it is not enough. It has never been enough.
The rain has soaked through everything. Your shirt is a second skin, plastered to the curve of your spine, dragging at your shoulders, heavy and sodden, pulling at the hem. Your joggers are worse. Waterlogged from the thighs down, clinging to the backs of your knees, catching with every stride so that each step is between momentum and drag.
You're still in your slippers- your fucking slippers- because you didn't have time for shoes, didn't have time for anything except the door and the stairs and the rain, and the soles are tearing apart against the wet ground. Every stone and root and divot rips through what's left of them. The cold stopped being pain a while ago. Now it's just absence. Your feet belong to someone else.
The field behind your apartment building is open and dark and the grass is slick and knee high in places, whipping against your shins as you crash through it, and somewhere behind you something is moving at a pace that doesn't match yours.
You're sprinting. The thing behind you is not. The thing behind you is covering the same ground at a walk, maybe a jog, the unhurried gait of something that understands the end of the pursuit better than you do: that your speed is borrowed from adrenaline and adrenaline has a half life and the distance between you is a loan you're taking out against a body that will come to collect.
The tree line. You can see it in the lightning, ragged dark mass, oak and ash and whatever else grows in the scrubby, unloved patch of urban woodland the city council hasn't developed yet. You've walked past it. You've never been inside it.
The dark between those trees is absolute and unknowable and you are running toward it anyway because the open field is killing you. Open means visible. Visible means found.
You hit the trees and the world changes.
The rain doesn't stop but it fractures, breaking against the canopy and reaching you in fat, cold drops that fall from leaves instead of sky, landing on the back of your neck.
The ground goes soft. Mud swallowing your foot to the ankle on the first step, the earth making a sound around your slipper that is wet and when you wrench free the shoe stays behind. You keep going. Barefoot on one side, the mud pressing between your toes.
You can't see. The canopy hides the lightning. What was blue white and blinding in the field becomes a dim, grey flicker in here, enough to show you shapes, trunk and branch, before the dark closes back over.
You navigate by collision. Bark under your palms as you bounce off trees you don't see until you're hitting them. Your shoulder clips an oak hard and something tears and you catch yourself on a low branch and the bark strips the skin from your palm in a hot, wet line, blood bubbling between fingers, and you keep moving.
Behind you, a branch breaks.
Something heavy stepping on something small, and the crack travels through the trees with a clarity that cuts through the rain and the thunder and lands in the base of your skull like a nail. You don't turn around. Turning around means slowing down.
A root catches your foot- the bare one, the one with no slipper- and you go down hands first, and the mud is cold and deep and your fingers sink into it to the second knuckle and the impact jars through your wrists and into your shoulders and your chin catches a root knuckle and the pain is bright, a flare of white behind your eyes, a copper bloom across your tongue where your teeth meet the inside of your cheek. You're on your hands and knees in the mud and the rain is hammering the canopy above you and the thunder rolls through the ground beneath your palms.
You push yourself up. Your hands slip. The mud gives and doesn't give back and your arms are shaking, not fear, not just fear, but the muscles beginning to fail, the glycogen stores emptying, the body starting to make panicked desperations your brain won't: how much farther, at what cost, for how long.
You get up. You run.
The woods thicken. The trees are closer together now and you're weaving between them with a gait that's barely controlled, pinballing off bark with your forearms raised to protect your face, and the branches catch you everywhere else, across the collarbone, the bicep, the soft skin at the inside of your wrist, leaving lines of heat that surface as welts, thin red marks that swell and sting in the rain.
Your bare foot finds something sharp. Glass, maybe, or a stone with an edge, and the pain blooms upward from the arch and you feel the skin open and the heat of blood mixing with the cold of mud and you don't stop. You can't stop.
The trees thin. You stumble out of the dense growth and into a gap in the canopy where a tree came down years ago. Rain returns full and direct, hammering the crown of your skull and running into your eyes. The ground is more leaf litter than mud. Your feet find traction for the first time in minutes.
You stop.
Not because you decide to. Because your body stops. The quadriceps seize, the calves lock, and you stand in the centre of the clearing bent double with your hands on your knees and your mouth open and the rain pouring down your face and into your gasping mouth, and the sound of your own breathing is the loudest thing in the world, ragged, wet, the desperate bellow pump of lungs operating past their margin.
You listen.
Rain on leaves. Thunder, further now, rolling east. Wind in the upper canopy, moving through the branches with a long, low hiss. The drip of water from a broken trunk to your left, rhythmic, metronomic, almost soothing.
No footsteps. No branches breaking. No displacement of air or weight behind you. The woods are empty. The dark between the trees is just dark. You turn, slowly, a full rotation, and every shadow is a shadow and every shape is a tree and the clearing is a clearing and you are alone in it.
The seconds pass. Ten. Twenty. The thunder moves further east and the lightning becomes occasional, distant, a flicker on the horizon rather than a detonation overhead. The rain eases from hammering to steady.
The breath comes out of you.
Not a sigh. Something deeper, something that originates in the locked down muscles of your lower back and travels upward through the ribs and the shoulders and the clenched, aching vice of your jaw. Your hands unclench and the tendons in your fingers straighten with the slow, creaking reluctance of something that's been locked too long, and your shoulders drop a quarter inch, and the shaking changes, less adrenaline, more cold, the tremor shifting from survival to exposure, and you straighten up and push the wet hair off your face and you breathe. In. Out. The rain is cold and clean and tastes like nothing and you stand in it and let it hit you.
You're out. You're alone. Whatever was behind you is gone, lost in the trees and the dark and the rain, and you're going to find the edge of the wood and a road and a light and-
The hand comes from behind you.
It covers your mouth and nose in a single motion, a seal, the palm wide enough to close over the entire lower half of your face with no gap, no sliver of clean air, and the cloth against your skin is wet and cold and sweet in a way that is immediately, viscerally wrong. The other arm locks around your waist, and your back meets his chest and the air leaves your lungs in a scream that doesn't make it past the cloth.
His cock is hard. Pressed against the base of your spine, unmistakable, the obscenity of it, that this is arousal, that the chase and the catching and the feel of your soaked body pinned against his is doing something to him. His breathing doesn't change. That's the worst part. The breathing stays steady, metered, controlled, even as the evidence of what this is doing to him presses against you with a bluntness that is almost conversational, almost casual, like a fact stated without shame: this is what you do to me. This is what catching you does to me.
His arm around your waist tightens, a fractional shift of pressure that brings your hips flush against his, and the adjustment is small and deliberate and possessive in a way that has nothing to do with strategy and everything to do with the specific, private, unhurried pleasure of a man pressing a caught thing closer because he can.
The cloth stays where it is. The chemical is sweet and heavy and it's in every breath now, saturating the fibres, filling your sinuses, coating the back of your throat with a taste like overripe fruit left in a closed room.
Your hands are on his forearm, both of them, gripping, pulling, nails digging into skin that doesn't give, and the strength in the arm is not reactive, not straining, just there. Your feet are sliding in the mud and you're pushing backward, trying to use his weight against him, but his weight doesn't move and your weight is leaving you, draining out through the soles of your feet.
Your knees soften, the tension that holds you upright dissolving. The chemical is fast. Faster than it should be, which means the concentration is high, which means the dosage was calculated, which means someone did the math on your body with an accuracy that implies knowledge of measurements you've never shared with anyone.
Your arms drop, fingers uncurling from his forearm one by one like petals off a dead flower, and your hands hang at your sides and your weight shifts backward into him and he takes it. He takes all of it. The arm around your waist becomes the only thing left in your body, the single point that keeps you vertical while everything else goes soft and dark and far away.
The rain is still falling but it sounds like it's happening to someone else, in a room you've already left. The thunder is just vibration. His chest behind you is just warmth. The cloth is just cloth and the chemical is just a taste now, fading, everything fading, the clearing going grey at the edges and then dark and then nothing, and the last sensory information your brain processes before the dark takes the rest is not the storm or the cold or the pain in your foot or the blood on your chin.
It's the smell of cigarette smoke. Old, stale, ground into the skin of the hand over your mouth- the same smoke that you swore you could smell inside your flat for weeks. And underneath it, faint, almost imagined: your own shampoo. On his skin. In the creases of fingers that have been inside your home, your bathroom, your bedroom, opening and closing around objects that belong to you with the slow, ritualistic patience of a man cataloguing a collection he hasn't finished building.
The dark doesn't fall. It rises. Up from the ground, up through your feet, up through the muscles and the bones and the blood, filling you from the bottom like a vessel being submerged, and the last thing you feel is his mouth against the crown of your head and then the vessel fills and the dark closes over the top and there is nothing left of you that is yours.
Simon Riley lifts you out of the mud.
The storm covers the sound.
No one sees him leave.
***
Several weeks ago…
Finding your address takes Simon Riley eleven minutes.
You don’t exactly do anything to hide your social media presence after all. Two photographs from your public account, backgrounds cross referenced. A corner shop's CCTV feed he shouldn't have access to and does and he has everything he needs. The flat number. The floor. Which windows are yours.
He parks the truck across the street one evening and doesn't move it for three nights. Doesn't need to. Does it anyway. Watches your lights. Learns the routine of your evenings- when you eat, when you shower, when the last light goes out. Flies it all away, memorized completely, until it's as indistinguishable from the air.
He waits until he sees you leave for your shift. Watches the way you pull the door, checks the handle twice, a thing you probably don't know you do. Watches until you round the corner and are gone.
Then he crosses the street.
The lock takes nine seconds.
(Wet ground. Gravel digging into a bleeding back. A sky the colour of poured concrete, no depth, no distance, just grey pressing down. The sound his own breathing made when the next one becomes a question of ‘if’ not ‘when’.)
The flat smells like vanilla lotion and laundry still holding warmth from the dryer and coffee that brewed hours ago and hasn't fully left the air. He stands in the doorway for a moment longer than he needs to. Just breathing it. Then he closes the door behind him, cock twitching, heat pooling low, infatuated hunger.
He moves through the living room slowly. No urgency. Your place is small, everything in reach of the sofa, everything angled towards comfort for a person who comes home tired and wants to stop. An empty mug on the coffee table, lipstick on the rim. He picks it up. Holds it for a moment, turns it in his hands, brings the stained edge to his face and runs his tongue across the porcelain.
Sets it back in the ring of condensation it left.
(Pressure. Hands. Small, delicate. Pressing down. Warm against his skin.)
The bookshelf. He runs a finger along the spines without pulling anything until he finds the one with the broken spine, the cracked glue of a book read too many times in the same place. He opens to the bookmarked page. Reads filthy words about a man taking what he wanted. Hums when he imagines you touching yourself, fingers sinking into your cunt while you fantasize about strong hands pinning you down.
Every room feeds the obsession and he’s rock hard by the time he reaches your bedroom, the air thicker here, soaked in your scent. The bed is unmade on one side only, the pillow still holding the impression of your head, the duvet pushed back, the small evidence of a morning abandoned to the alarm. He stands beside it and looks at it for what is probably too long and then he steps inside.
(You hadn't spoken to him the way people speak to someone who might be dying. No performance of calm. No hollow reassurance. Just looked down at him like his death was just a minor inconvenience in your day.)
He finds the vibrator tucked inside your nightstand, still faintly sticky. A low, guttural groan rumbles in his chest. Naughty thing, fucking yourself after a long day. He turns it on for a second, the quiet buzz making his cock strain against his pants, before switching it off and returning it as if he was never there.
He opens the hamper, his own little treasure chest, and finds a worn pair of your panties- soft cotton, crotch still damp and stained with your slick, makes his mouth water. He brings them to his nose and huffs deeply, eyes rolling back.
(Stay with me. Maybe you said it. Maybe he built it later. Memory at the margins of consciousness is unreliable, the brain filling negative space with what it needs. But the hands he would know. Would know the specific weight and purpose of them anywhere.)
“Fuck…,” he mutters, voice rough and depraved, takes a step backwards, then another, another, until he’s sitting on your unmade bed. He lays down, presses his face into your pillow, grinds hips until he’s rutting against your bedsheets, imagining you beneath him.
Pulls out his thick drooling cock, veins pulsing on the underside, and fucks your pillow hard enough that the headboard taps onto your wall. Imagines your face right there, flushed and needy, lips pulled wide around the head of it, so pretty under him, taking every inch down your throat every night. Pre smears across the fabric and his breath comes heavier, more animalistic, huffing your panties again, again as he chases the high.
(You hadn’t looked scared of him. He remembers that specifically. Whatever you’d seen when you found him- the mask, the gun, the scars- you’d moved past it in about a second and a half. Inconvenient details. Not your problem.)
The pressure builds fast. He grabs the bottle of lotion from your night stand, the one you slather on your soft skin every night- He wants his teeth in that skin. Wants to bite down to the bone and hold on- and unscrews the cap with shaking hands.
At the last second he pulls his cock off your pillows, presses the swollen head onto the bottle and cums, ropes spurting heavy. He milks every drop, stroking himself through the aftershocks, watches his cum mix with the bottle you’ll use later, rub onto your skin without even knowing, carry him with you.
(The way you'd sighed through your nose. Not fear. Not shock. Just the exhale of a person whose evening had just become more complicated and who was already calculating the cost.)
He straightens up.
Tucks his dick away. Buttons his trousers. Stands in the centre of your bedroom for a moment, just looking- the pillow, the nightstand, the lotion bottle returned to its exact position- and something in his chest settles.
He checks the room once. Twice. Leaves nothing out of place. Tucks your panties in his pocket and leaves.
(Civilian hands. No calluses in the right places, no muscle memory of this. Tearing fabric without being asked to. Figuring it out as you went.)
He lets himself out. Pulls the door closed behind him until the latch clicks soft. Stands in the corridor for a moment, existing in spaces he was never invited into.
Lights a cigarette on the way down the stairs.
He doesn't smoke it inside.
He's not a fucking animal afterall.
***
The man outside the pub doesn’t know Simon Riley exists.
That’s fine. That’s usually how it goes.
He's been watching him long enough to understand what kind of man he is. The type. Broad in the shoulders and soft in the middle, who moves through the world with the loose, unexamined confidence of someone who had never once been made to feel small. The kind who followed women to their cars and called it a compliment. Who'd saw you existing after a late shift and had decided that constituted an introduction.
Simon had watched him outside the chippy a week ago. Had watched you clock him from twenty feet out, the way your pace adjusted, fractional, barely perceptible (How loud. How fast. How much trouble.) Had watched the man's hand close around your wrist for just a moment, fingers wrapping with the casual presumption of someone who had done this before and found it went fine, before you'd pulled free and he called you a fat bitch in response.
(The torch in your teeth while both hands worked. The angle of your head. Completely absorbed. He'd been a problem to be solved and you were solving him and the indignity of it had been the most alive he'd felt in years.)
You hadn't reported it. Simon had waited three days to be sure, watching for the signs of someone who had- the variation in route, the hypervigilance, the particular flattened stillness of a person who has filed a thing and is waiting to see what happens to it. Nothing. You'd absorbed it and kept moving.
He understood that too, in a way he couldn't have put language to, couldn’t have articulated.
He follows the man from the pub at closing. Last out, loud with his friends until he isn't, splitting off at the corner with the bac slapping ease of men who don't think about walking home alone at night because they never have to. He navigates with the rolling gait of someone three pints past sensible, loose in the joints, nodding to himself about something, unbothered.
The night is cold and damp, the pavement still wet from earlier rain, the street lamps doing that particular thing they do where they light the ground directly under them but not the spaces between.
The man doesn't look up. Doesn't look behind him.
(You'd told him to stay still in the tone of someone who expected to be listened to. He had- god he had- a soldier through and through.)
The man makes a sound, at the end. They usually do. Something small and bewildered, the realization a person makes when they understand all at once that the night has a different direction than they thought it would go. Simon holds on until the understanding passes.
Then he steps back.
(The quality of your silence. Not frightened silence. Not careful silence. Just… you had nothing to say, so you said nothing. He hadn't known what to do with that for weeks.)
The van is parked at the alley's far end. Simon had left it there this afternoon. He'd known, by then, how the evening would go.
The man is breathing when Simon puts him in the back. Zip ties at the wrists, tape across the mouth, a canvas hood that smells like other jobs in the city. Simon closes the doors without urgency.
He drives for forty minutes.
The lockup is on an industrial estate that stopped being used for anything legitimate around 2019, the kind of place that gets planning notices taped to the fence for months before anyone acts on them. Simon has used it several times before. It has a drain in the floor and the walls are thick enough.
(At some point you’d sat back on your heels and just waited. Watched the wound. Your breathing had been even throughout. His hadn’t.)
The man is awake by the time Simon drags him out of the van. Awake and making sounds behind the tape. His eyes above the tape are blown wide. Simon looks at them for a moment.
Finds he has nothing in particular to say as he drags him inside and straps him down.
It's quiet work. It always is.
(Afterwards, you wiped your hands on the back of your jeans, methodical. Then you’d stood up and that had been that.)
Checks his hands. His jacket. Rolls his neck once, the vertebrae popping in a slow sequence from the base up. His breathing hasn't changed. It never does, the body learned a long time ago that this doesn't warrant elevation, settled it into the same category as any other task completed, any other problem resolved.
He looks at what’s left of the man for a moment; eyes above the tape still blown, chest still instead of panicked, a body now and not a person.
And finds he has no particular feelings about it.
(Left without waiting to see if he'd be alright. He'd watched you go from the ground. Decided something then that he hadn't put words to until later.
Hadn't needed to.)
***
Present…
The first thing that comes back is smell.
Cold metal. Old damp. Something chemical underneath it, industrial cleaner, thick and lives in the back of the throat and doesn't leave when you swallow.
The second thing is the surface beneath you.
Not soft. Not a bed. Something hard and flat and slightly raised at the edges, the metal seams pressing into your shoulder blades and the backs of your thighs through your wet clothes, and the cold of it has been working its way into you long enough that you can't feel the distinction between the table and your own skin anymore. Just cold. Just hard. Just the weight of a body that hasn't been moved in a long time.
You open your eyes.
The ceiling is wrong.
High. Concrete. A single bulb on a wire, the light it throws pooling down onto you in a jaundiced circle and leaving everything past its edge in deep, pressurised dark. Something hangs from the rafters. You blink. Focus.
Chains. Heavy gauge, looped through iron rings bolted into the beam above you, hanging in loose coils, some ending in hooks, some ending in nothing. Just chain. They catch the light in segments. They don't move.
You sit up.
Too fast. The room tilts, the chemical still moving through your blood in slow pulls, your vision lagging behind your head by a half second, and you put both palms flat on the table and look at your hands and think: table. You're on a table.
You look down at it.
Metal. Stainless steel, or close enough. Dull with use and age. A drain at one end and channels running toward it, worn smooth, the edges of them a colour the rest of the surface isn't.
The walls.
You make yourself look at the walls.
Covered. Arranged, and that's the thing that takes a moment to process, that it isn't chaos, that there is a system here and someone maintains it. Metal implements on pegboard hooks. Shapes you have names for and shapes you don't. Coils of rope hung in neat loops. A length of heavy plastic sheeting folded into a rectangle with creased edges. Zip ties in three sizes on three separate hooks.
Your brain moves through it. Moves past it. Files it somewhere it isn't going to open right now.
You get off the table.
Your bare foot touches the concrete floor and the cold shoots upward through your ankle and you remember the wood and the root and the skin opening on the arch and you look down. Someone has wrapped it. Gauze, tight and clean. You stare at it for a moment longer than makes sense.
You wrap your arms around yourself. Your clothes are still damp, stiffening now as they dry wrong against your skin, and the cold is bone deep and total.
Somewhere behind you, a door opens.
You turn.
He's bigger than the room should allow for. That's the first coherent thought- not fear, or not only fear, but the lizard brain focusing on the right thing or the wrong thing or the only thing that matters in that half second delay. Tall. Broad. The balaclava still on, the eyes above it catching the yellow light. He's not moving fast. He's not moving with urgency at all. He steps inside and closes the door behind him and stands there for a moment, looking at you.
You say nothing.
He says nothing.
The chains hang in the space between you. The drain sits at the edge of your vision. The table presses cold against the backs of your thighs and you are standing in the middle of all of it in stiff damp clothes with a wrapped foot and a mouth that tastes like chemicals and copper and your heart in your chest is doing something loud and relentless that you are not going to think about right now.
He takes a step toward you.
You take one back and your hip catches the edge of the table and you stop, your hands coming up not quite in front of you, not a fighting stance, just the instinctive, trying to make yourself account for the space it needs.
He stops. Looks at your hands. Looks at your face. Something in the set of his shoulders changes, a small adjustment, a fraction of something releasing that you couldn't have explained if asked.
"Sat up on your own." His voice is low. Manchester flat, the vowels worn down, consonants that don't waste themselves. The voice of someone for whom speaking is a tool and not a pastime. "Good."
You stare at him.
"Where am I." Not a question. The grammar of a question with the punctuation of a statement, because some part of you has already decided that the answer is less important than the act of speaking, of making the room contain your voice as well as his.
He looks around the space briefly. Back at you.
"Somewhere no one's lookin’ fer you."
"That's not an answer." The chains catch a draft from somewhere and shift, a soft metallic sound, barely there. You don't look at them. You keep your eyes on him and your hands where they are and your back against the cold edge of the table and you breathe.
In. Out.
"No," he agrees. He says it without apology, without particular interest in your objection. Just a fact acknowledged and set aside.
The rain outside hammers the corrugated roof in waves, loud then quiet then loud again, and the single bulb swings a half inch in the draft and the shadows move and then settle.
He takes another step toward you.
You don't move this time.
"You wrapped my foot," you say.
He says nothing.
"Why."
He looks at you for a long moment. The pale eyes move over your face with the same unhurried attention he brought to the room, to the door, to everything. Like assessment is just how he exists in the world. Like everything he looks at is being filed.
"Didn't need it gettin’ infected."
"You chloroformed me in the woods."
"Mmm."
The flatness of it. Not defensive. Not guilty. Just the confirmation of a man who sees no contradiction between the two facts and isn't going to pretend otherwise.
Your hands are still between you. You lower them slowly. Not because you've decided anything. Just because holding them up is starting to feel like a performance for an audience that isn't here.
"What do you want," you say.
He takes another step. You stay where you are this time, hip against the table, and he stops close enough that the space between you is no longer large. Close enough that you can see the pale of his eyes properly now, the way they haven't moved off your face since he came through the door.
"You know what I want," he says.
Your heart does the loud thing again.
"I don't," you say. "I don't know you."
Something moves across his expression. Not quite a smile. The ghost of something that might have been one in different circumstances, on a different face.
"You've known fer months."
The rain. The chains. The single bulb throwing its yellow circle down onto both of you now, the shadows pressed back to the edges of the room.
You look at him.
He looks at you.
The table is cold against the backs of your thighs and the gauze on your foot is tight and professionally done and the room smells like metal and old damp and somewhere underneath all of it, faint and almost imagined, cigarette smoke.
You don't say anything.
Neither does he.
The silence stretches, thick and charged, until the air between you feels like it might snap. The single bulb sways overhead, dragging yellow light across the sharp cut of his jaw beneath the balaclava, across those pale eyes that haven’t left your face once. Heat rolls off his massive frame in waves, bleeding into the cold of the room, into the cold of your soaked clothes, until your skin prickles with it.
Your heart slams against your ribs like it wants to crawl out and hand itself over. The metal table bites into the backs of your thighs, the gauze on your foot is tight pressure, but none of that matters when he finally moves.
One big hand curls around your wrist, rough calluses scraping over your racing pulse. His thumb strokes once, like he’s tasting the fear and the want underneath it and then he lifts you like you weigh nothing and slams your back down onto the table.
The impact jars through your spine, cold steel shocking against your skin as your soaked shirt rides up and your joggers bunch at your hips. He’s on you in the next breath, caging you completely, the thick, heavy ridge of his cock grinding hard against your cunt through the wet fabric.
You gasp- half protest, half broken moan and his mouth crashes down on yours, claiming, devouring. The balaclava is shoved higher now, just enough for his lips and teeth and tongue to bite through your skin, blooming blood against your tongue. He tastes like stale tobacco and rain, and he kisses like he’s starving, tongue fucking into your mouth in time with the harsh, obscene roll of his hips.
His cock is massive even through his trousers- thick, burning hot, the fat head already leaking and smearing precum against the soaked seam of your joggers.
One massive hand shoves under your shirt, palm rough and scalding as it palms your breast, callused thumb dragging over your nipple until it’s aching and peaked. He pinches hard, twisting just enough to make you arch and whimper into his mouth, tears splashing down your cheeks and then he’s yanking your joggers down your thighs, wet fabric catching at your knees; he doesn’t bother pulling them off all the way. Just rips them down far enough to bare your dripping cunt to the cold air.
“Fuckin’ hell,” he breathes, pulling back just enough to look. Two thick fingers drag through your folds, spreading the slick mess, circling your swollen clit until your hips jerk helplessly. “Soakin’ already. Knew you’d be a greedy lil thing fer me.”
He frees his cock with his other hand, the thick, veined length springing out heavy and flushed dark, the head glistening with precum, a fat drop beading at the slit.
It’s obscene how big he is, how it throbs in his fist as he strokes himself once, twice, smearing the wetness. Then he’s lining up, the blunt head nudging against your entrance, stretching you open before he even pushes in.
Your eyes widen, panicked. “Wait-!”
He drives in, bottoming out in a single stroke that punches the air from your lungs in a high pitched whine. The stretch is vicious, burning, your walls forced wide around the thick girth of him until you feel every vein, every ridge dragging against your insides. A broken cry tears from your throat as he bottoms out, tears spilling, balls heavy and tight against your ass, the head of his cock kissing so deep you swear you feel it in your throat.
“Christ, tha’s it,” he groans, hips grinding deep, holding himself there so you can feel every inch of him pulsing inside you. “Takin’ every fuckin’ inch. Been dreaming about this tight cunt swallowin’ me whole.”
He starts to move slow at first, dragging out until just the fat head is stretching your entrance, then slamming back in so hard the table creaks beneath you.
Every thrust is wet and filthy, slap of skin on skin echoing off concrete walls, your arousal coating his cock and dripping down to soak the metal beneath you. His hips snap harder, faster, the thick head battering that spot inside you that makes white hot sparks explode behind your eyes.
Your hands fist in his jacket, nails digging in as he pounds into you. One of his hands pins your wrists above your head, the other grips your thigh, yanking it higher so he can drive even deeper. His mouth finds your throat, teeth sinking in.
Your orgasm crashes over you, walls clamping down around his cock so hard he snarls. Your back arches off the table, cunt gushing around him, soaking his balls and the metal beneath you as wave after wave rips through you.
You’re crying out, shaking, tears leaking from the corners of your eyes, and he fucks you through it, chasing his own release.
“Fuck- good girl, squeezing me so fuckin’ perfect- ” His rhythm stutters, turns sloppy and desperate. He buries himself one last time, grinding deep as his cock pulses and throbs inside you. Thick, hot ropes of cum flood your cunt, spilling deep, so much it leaks out around his shaft and drips messily down your thighs onto the table.
He stays buried inside you, heavy and twitching, one hand sliding up to cup your tear streaked cheek almost tenderly. His thumb brushes the wetness away as his breathing slowly evens out.
The chains overhead sway softly in the draft, clinking like they’re keeping count.
***
Several weeks ago…
You can’t prove it, but someone has been in your apartment.
You stand in the doorway of your own flat for a long moment. Coat still on. Keys in your hand.
Then you step inside and close the door behind you, and you don't change anything about your face.
You notice the mug first.
Not displaced… that would be too obvious, and whoever came through your door is not obvious. It's the ring. The condensation ring on the coffee table is wrong, slightly, the way a thing is wrong when it's been lifted and replaced by someone who understood the importance of replacing it but didn't account for the fact that you always set it down on the same quarter inch of worn lacquer, the same groove. You've been setting it there for two years. The ring is two millimetres off.
Your shampoo. The bottle on the shower shelf that you could swear was turned slightly. And underneath all of it, you stop in the middle of your bathroom and just stand there, breathing in something like cigarette smoke. Old. Ground into skin.
You are not scared. That's the thing you keep examining, turning over, looking at from different angles. You have every reason to be scared and the feeling that surfaces instead is something more like… recognition. The specific recognition of something that has been true for a while finally making itself legible. Someone has been watching you and the part of you that should be running is instead sitting very still and watching back.
You think about what kind of person does this as a matter of course.
You think about this more than you should.
(And then you stop thinking about it altogether when your landlord- the one with the master key and the habit of using it “accidentally” when you’re showering or laying on the couch with your vibrator between your legs- goes missing on a Wednesday and turns up dead in a Birmingham car park on a Friday, and the police use words like opportunistic and random and you use no words at all, just stand at your kitchen window with your mug and watch the street below and breathe. And then the man from HR who cornered you in the stairwell stops showing up to work, and a week later someone finds him in a canal in Leeds with his wallet still in his pocket. And you stop thinking about it when the pervert who harasses women on the way to work and who rubbed himself against your ass for seven stops isn’t on the bus one morning and doesn’t get on it the morning after that either. You think “huh” and stop looking for the stories in the local paper after that)
You put this information somewhere quiet inside yourself and you close the door on it.
Then you make decisions.
The next morning you put on lipstick before your coffee. Not the lipstick you wear to work, the dark one you only put on when you're going somewhere worth the effort, a rich, specific red that leaves a clean mark on porcelain. You drink slowly. You set the mug down in its groove. You leave it on the table when you go. (Smeared now when you come back)
You buy a new book. Cracked the spine yourself, deliberately, over the place you wanted him to open to. Bookmarked the right page. (And the book mark is not exactly where you measured it when you put it in the pages, tucked down three millimeters more.)
The panties took more consideration. You stood in front of your drawer for a long moment, the particular cold logic of the thing settling through you. Then you put on the soft cotton ones, the worn pair, and you wore them for a full day, and you touched yourself in them until the gusset was soaked, and you left them near the top of the hamper. (Gone when you change out of your work clothes and go to throw them in the dirty laundry)
Rewards, you were beginning to think of them as, for the ledger that someone was keeping on your behalf, without your asking, without your knowledge of the specific terms, but not, you were becoming increasingly certain, without your participation.
You hadn't asked for any of it.
You hadn't not asked for any of it either.
This is the part you sit with. The part you turn over in the small hours when the flat is quiet and the street below has gone still and the cigarette smell has faded but not entirely left.
You are not innocent. You are not sure you want to be. You put on the lipstick and you left the mug and you walked close to the city drunk long enough that the message was legible, and three days later he ceased to be a problem.
The ledger exists. You are on it. The question you haven't answered- the question you keep not answering, keep setting aside- is whether you are the subject of it or the cause.
The night you saved his life is the night the ledger tips.
You don't think of it that way at the time. At the time it is simply a matter of logistics: a man bleeding out in the alley behind the Tesco Metro, the specific dark of blood, a wound that is going to kill him in four minutes if someone doesn't intervene, and you are there with your hands and your knowledge and the particular absence of panic that your colleagues have always found slightly unsettling in you.
You don't think about the balaclava. You don't think about the gun- empty, or he'd have used it- that you'd stepped over to get to him. You think about the wound and the pressure and the count.
Stay with me.
He lives. That's the metric.
Afterwards when the sirens got close and radio chatter from the paramedics were nearby, you stood up and wiped your hands on the back of your jeans and the calculation is already running somewhere below the level of words: he owes you something now. Not gratitude… you don't want gratitude, gratitude is soft and symmetric and what exists between you is neither. What exists is something that runs deeper than the ledger of your landlord and the others, something that reorganises the terms entirely and you’ll take advantage of it for as long as he’ll allow you and you’ll reward him for it for as long as he does.
He watched you go.
You knew he was watching.
You didn't look back.
(And you do not let yourself think about what happens when crumbs stop being enough. When the man who has been living on the edges of your life decides the edges are no longer satisfying and wants th full thing, everything you can give to a man like him.)
The storm comes on a Thursday. You've been watching the weather for two days, the way the pressure dropped, the way the air went close and electric and tasted faintly of iron- meteorological preconditions for a power cut in this part of the city, the grid unreliable, the substation two streets over that goes out whenever the rainfall hits a certain rate.
You go to bed with your phone charged.
The lights go out at half past eleven.
The thunder is already overhead, close enough that the flash and the crack arrive almost together, and you sit up in the dark and breathe and wait for the backup on the hall light to kick in the way it usually does and it doesn't kick in this time, and the flat is completely dark, and then lightning fills the window for a single white second-
-and there is a shape in your bedroom that is not furniture.
The thought arrives lie lightning does: total, white, gone before you can hold it. Whether your name was always on the ledger too. Whether you were ever the one keeping it.
Your body moves off the bed, through the door, navigating your flat entirely by memory because the dark is total and the thunder swallows the sound of your feet and somewhere behind you something large and patient shifts its weight and doesn't rush, and that is the worst of it, the not rushing, because it means he already knows how this ends-
You hit the stairs. You hit the rain. Your slippers begin to fray.
You can’t breathe.
artwork for this piece by the lovely @auberghyn I’m crying it looks so pretty. The woman is actually me! I sent the artist pictures of myself and everything. It should not be used to indicate Reader’s race though! Go view her post for the uncensored version. :]
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