Mdni - Blog Posts

nsfw below the cut, mdni

THANK YOU @foppydog for the dead dove tierlist!!! teehee

How Each of My (Favorite) OCs Would Feel Dating A Shota/Loli! (Warning: NSFW Mentions.)

ᴅᴀᴍɪᴀɴ ʟᴏᴘᴇᴢ: -Would date an adult shota/loli -Worried for their safety all the time, a bit protective, but more like a frazzled cat desperately chasing after a hyper kitten -Will act like a father figure for his lil schmookum... Especially if they age regress because THAT'S JUST A LITTLE BABY!!!! -Would probably feel too guilty to get nsfw with his loli/shota partner, even though they're over 18, which may ruin the relationship a bit if his partner isn't asexual ᴏᴡᴇɴ ʟᴏᴘᴇᴢ -You'd only get him to date a loli if it was a loli version of his dead gf of whom he loves to necro. He's a freak like that. Someone get his older brother to rub off on him more so he's more Normal. Or get his older brother to rub something else on him. What? Sorry, it's my demons. ᴅʀ. ᴅᴏᴄᴛᴏʀ -His life has been HELL since his wife died he totally needs a loli in his life... Especially since his kid died too and he needs to kill two birds in one stone -If this is before Talkie gets with Damian, he'd be super overprotective and insist that his loli gf NEVER go near Talkie because Talkie is batshit insane and also awful. If this is after, he'd allow Talkie to be near her... With Damian supervision... -He'd also only go for a loli over 18 -He's the type to carry his loli gf to the tub and get a bubble bath and just sit there by the tub and admire her pretty and perky and beautiful youthful body... -They could convince him to have sex on like a 1-off occasion one time if both of them were extremely desperate to have kids. This man had to be with his late wife for nearly 10 years before they banged but he's like..fertile enough to knock up women one-try so it's not a big bother to him. He's asexual but wants babies.. But if he has a loli gf.. No need for baby.... He can just baby her... ᴛᴀʟᴋɪᴇ -Oh he'd so guro the loli/shota pookie he WOULD -He's honestly awful and the only person he has not absolutely been awful to is Damian -He's perfect for whump fics in this regard ꜱᴛᴀʀᴋʟᴇʏ ᴄᴏʀʀɪɢᴀɴ -What do you mean... He IS the shota. -If he were to be in a Shota x Shota relationship he'd dominate though -Not just NSFW, he'd take the lead in all activities. Bros just like that ʀɪᴀɴ ᴇᴠᴇʀꜰᴏʀʀᴇꜱᴛ -Depends if it's pre-campaign him or not. (yes he is a dnd oc...) -Cuz pre-campaign him was a racist asshole towards everyone around him because he was naive and thought 'this one tiefling was awful to me so all of the other races are awful yes' so he was super close minded and wouldn't even think of dating a loli or a shota -Post-campaign him after he learns that just because one dude is Awful doesn't mean everyone else is would def be all sweet and doting to a loli/shota partner though -Although he'd have to date a loli or shota over 18 because. listen man his entire character arc is 'just because this one guy was a ephebophile doesn't mean that everyone is' and him going after an underage loli or shota just. would not make sense. -Additionally taking care of a loli would remind him of his dead daughter and he'd be fiercely overprotective ʟᴇᴡɪꜱ ᴛʀᴇᴊᴏ -If he somehow escaped from the shota that sexually harasses him and walked into a relationship with another shota or loli that would be devastating for him... you mean to tell me he was harassed for like 10 years by this one dude who he met as a Little Guy and as the Little Guy grew up he got increasingly more toxic and Lewis had to escape from him by basically throwing him at another fat depressed man and saying "THIS IS YOURS NOW!!!" only to turn around and probably get harassed by a different loli/shota -Whumpbait man -yess mwahahah get trapped in a room full of shotas who want you... Surely no dubcon will occur...

Minors do not interact, this is an 18+ blog.

CW: Hard kinks (ex. CNC, kidnapping, blood), BDSM, horror, etc.

╰─ - ̗̀✎ About Me...

୨୧┇Name: Grumpy

୨୧┇Pronouns: She/her

୨୧┇Rel Status: Taken

୨୧┇Sexuality: Bi Demi

୨୧┇Age: 23

୨୧┇Likes: Lord of the Rings, Dead by Daylight, moths, knives, my cats, horror movies, stuffed animals

୨୧┇Dislikes: Anything to do with teeth, seafood, heights

My blog is for me to just reblog random stuff I enjoy. I am not looking to interact with others outside of that.

I made a darkship blog for the sake of dumping my dark scenarios, but it's also open for people to submit their own ideas too! Strictly MDNI (minors do not interact) though, unlike this account, just to make that known. If anyone is interested or has some ideas/scenarios they'd like to dump for any particular reason, the blog is @bl4ck0utg1rl ! There are no restrictions to what fictional ideas people can send in, no matter how dark or light or unhinged or sexual or whatever, as long as it is strictly fictional, and I will add corresponding tags for people to block if needed, so go wild :)

TSUKISHIMA X YAMAGUCHI X READER

AGED UP CHARACTERS | MDNI

The bass thumped hard enough through the floorboards to rattle the red Solo cups stacked in the corner. Tsukishima Kei leaned against the kitchen counter, his backwards cap low over his eyes, sipping casually from his drink as his gaze swept over the crowd. The party was one of those typical college Friday nights—cheap beer, body glitter, and too many people pressed into a too-small house.

Beside him, Yamaguchi Tadashi stood stiffly, shoulders hunched and fiddling with the rim of his untouched cup. He was overdressed in a cardigan and clearly not in his element.

“You look like you're about to bolt,” Tsukishima drawled, nudging him with an elbow. “Relax.”

“I am relaxed,” Yamaguchi muttered, lying badly.

Tsukishima tilted his head, smirking. “You're not. Which is exactly why we need to fix that.” He took a final sip and set the cup down with purpose. “And I have an idea.”

Yamaguchi raised an eyebrow, wary. “Oh no.”

Tsukishima spotted you across the room, laughing with someone near the fridge. He nodded in your direction.

“You trust me, right?”

Yamaguchi hesitated. “…Ish?”

“Good enough.”

And before Yamaguchi could stop him, Tsukishima was already sauntering over to you, cool and confident, dragging his nervous best friend in tow.

“Hey,” he said smoothly, giving you that lazy half-smile he knew worked more often than not. “Y/N, right? We’ve got a weird question for you.”

You turned, arching an eyebrow at the tall blond who’d appeared out of nowhere, his hand casually clamped around Yamaguchi’s wrist like he was keeping him from running. Your gaze flicked between them—Tsukishima in a sleeveless jersey and too much attitude, Yamaguchi flushed and visibly regretting every life choice that led him here.

“Weird question?” you asked, already intrigued. “That’s a hell of an opening line.”

Tsukishima shrugged. “I don’t believe in small talk.”

Yamaguchi looked like he wanted to sink into the floor.

Tsukishima didn’t miss a beat. “Yamaguchi’s a virgin,” he said flatly.

Your brows lifted, the drink halfway to your mouth paused in midair.

“And he’s in his head about it. Way too much.” He leaned in just enough to drop his voice so only you two could hear. “So I thought maybe… if someone cool, someone chill, helped him out—with me there—he might stop stressing and start actually living.”

Yamaguchi made a sound between a gasp and a groan. “Tsukki!”

You looked between the two of them—Yamaguchi’s eyes pleading (but with what? Panic? Hope?), and Tsukishima watching you like he already knew your answer.

You sipped your drink, slow and thoughtful.

“That’s… incredibly forward,” you said finally.

Tsukishima smirked. “Not denying it.”

“And you’re saying this like you being involved would help somehow?”

He grinned wider. “I’m good at what I do. And he trusts me.”

Yamaguchi looked like he wanted to crawl under the fridge, but he didn’t deny it.

You set your drink down on the counter, stepping a little closer to the two of them, folding your arms.

“Well,” you said, giving Yamaguchi a once-over. “He’s cute.”

Yamaguchi blinked. “Wait—what?”

Tsukishima just smiled.

Yamaguchi was still processing your words when Tsukishima hooked two fingers in the collar of his hoodie and tugged, steering him like luggage.

“She said you’re cute,” Tsukishima murmured, amused. “Don’t pass out.”

“I’m not—” Yamaguchi sputtered, voice breaking halfway through.

"Follow me. Both of you." Tsukishima commands

You followed behind, cup in hand, heart thudding with the kind of buzz that had nothing to do with alcohol. There was something about the contrast between them that made your skin prickle—Tsukishima’s laid-back dominance and Yamaguchi’s overwhelmed sincerity. And both of them were looking at you like you were something just out of reach.

Tsukishima’s room was cleaner than you expected for a college guy’s place—dark walls, a half-made bed, shelves stacked with manga and headphones, and a floor lamp casting a warm low light. He closed the door behind the three of you with a soft click.

“Okay,” you said, setting your drink on the desk. “So what now? You guys just… tag team me?”

Tsukishima shrugged out of his jersey, revealing a lean line of muscle under the tank top beneath. “We’re not animals. Unless you’re into that.”

Yamaguchi sat down stiffly on the edge of the bed like it might combust under him. His eyes darted from you to Tsukishima, then to the floor.

“I—uh—only if you’re really okay with this,” he said quickly. “I don’t want it to be weird, or pressure-y, or—”

You walked up to him, placing your hand gently on his knee.

“Yamaguchi,” you said, voice soft but firm. “Do you want this?”

He looked up at you, cheeks flushed, lips parted. “I do. I just don’t want to mess anything up.”

From behind you, Tsukishima leaned in, bracing one arm on the bedpost and letting his voice drop low near your ear.

“That’s the best part,” he murmured. “There’s nothing to mess up. We’ll show him how it’s done.”

You turned your head slightly toward him, eyes locking.

“I hope you’re as good as you say you are,” you said, lips curling.

He gave a slow, cocky smile.

“Guess we’re about to find out.”

Tsukishima sat beside you on the bed, his long fingers brushing your thigh with idle confidence. “Pay attention, Yamaguchi,” he said, tone low and instructional, like this was just another practice drill. “You’re going to learn something useful.”

Yamaguchi swallowed hard, nodding, his eyes fixed on you like you were something sacred and fragile. His nervous energy hung in the air, almost sweet in its sincerity.

You leaned back, letting Tsukishima coax your legs apart with a firm, practiced hand. He watched your face as his fingers slid under the hem of your skirt, slow and teasing. “Start soft,” he said, almost to himself, as he pressed light, deliberate strokes against you through your underwear. “Get her used to it. Build her up.”

You exhaled, hips twitching slightly, and Yamaguchi’s lips parted as he watched the way your body reacted—every breath, every tiny sound you made like a live wire running straight into him.

“See that?” Tsukishima murmured, voice right against your neck as his fingers slipped beneath the fabric. “How her body tells you what she wants? You don’t need to guess if you’re paying attention.”

Your breath hitched as his fingers slid inside you, slow and sure, curling just right, your hips twitch as you let out a soft groan. You reached out, found Yamaguchi’s hand, and squeezed. “Come here,” you said softly, guiding him closer.

He obeyed, kneeling in front of you like he was praying, eyes wide and flushed with awe.

Tsukishima’s lips brushed your ear. “You touch her next,” he said, withdrawing his fingers and licking them absently as if to taunt. “But first…”

He stood, tugging off his tank and then undoing his belt, unbothered by how Yamaguchi’s eyes went briefly wide. Tsukishima was lean, toned, confident in every motion. When he pressed against you, his length hard and heavy between your thighs, he held your gaze with a kind of heat that burned low and deep.

“Watch how she opens up when she’s filled right,” he said, guiding himself to your entrance. He slowly pushes in, groaning softly at your tightness.

"Christ..."

He start thrusting, starting of slow and shallow to let you adjust to his thick, long size.

Tsukishima’s rhythm grew more insistent, his hips snapping forward with a precision that sent shockwaves through your core. Each thrust pushed a soft, breathless sound from your lips, and Yamaguchi was completely transfixed—his hand splayed over your stomach, feeling every twitch and tremble of your body as it reacted under their touch.

“She’s so responsive,” Tsukishima murmured, eyes heavy-lidded as he watched the way you arched into him, “Every sound, every breath—she’s telling you everything you need to know.”

Yamaguchi swallowed hard, his lips brushing your jaw as his hand dipped lower, testing the edge of your skirt, your skin hot beneath his fingers.

“Can I…?” he asked, voice tight and low, barely more than a breath.

You turned your head, eyes locking with his. “Yes,” you whispered. “I want you to.”

That was all the permission he needed.

His fingers slipped beneath the hem, tentative but eager, and when they brushed between your thighs—slick, trembling, already worked open from Tsukishima’s steady pace—you gasped his name, sharp and sweet. He flinched like he’d been struck, eyes wide at the way your hips bucked under his touch.

“Just like that,” Tsukishima said, his voice rough now, sweat beading along his neck as he moved harder behind you. “Don’t be afraid to touch her like you want her.”

And he did.

Yamaguchi’s shyness melted into hunger. His fingers learned quickly, stroking your clit in sync with Tsukishima’s thrusts, watching how your mouth fell open, how your whole body shivered. His lips found your neck again, desperate and reverent, whispering your name like a prayer between kisses.

You were floating—caught between Tsukishima’s deep, confident drive and Yamaguchi’s trembling, worshipful attention. One had you gasping, the other had you melting. You couldn’t tell whose name you said next—maybe both, maybe neither—but it didn’t matter. All that existed was heat, breath, rhythm.

“You feel her shaking?” Tsukishima growled low, his voice tight with restraint. “She’s close. Don’t stop.”

Yamaguchi didn’t. You cried out—sharp, broken—your hands flying back to clutch Tsukishima’s arm as you tumbled over the edge, body arching between them.

Tsukishima held you through it, grinding into you with a low groan, and Yamaguchi watched you come apart like he couldn’t believe he was part of it—like you were art, and he’d helped paint it.

When your body finally stilled, trembling and slick with sweat, Tsukishima leaned in and pressed a kiss to the back of your shoulder—more tender than smug.

“Lesson one,” he murmured. “Nailed it.”

Yamaguchi looked at you, dazed, flushed, lips parted.

“Can I…” he began, voice hoarse, “Can I try more?”

You smiled, slow and breathless, pulling him closer.

“Oh,” you said, your voice a sultry murmur, “we’re just getting started.”

Tsukishima eased back, his breath warm against your skin as he withdrew, letting the moment settle like static in the low-lit room. Your body still pulsed with aftershocks, thighs trembling slightly, skin flushed and damp. He brushed a hand down your spine, slow and grounding, before flopping back onto the bed with a satisfied exhale.

“Your turn,” he said to Yamaguchi, voice thick and heavy with approval. “She wants you now.”

Yamaguchi blinked, stunned, like he hadn’t expected to get this far. His eyes met yours—uncertain, almost shy again—and you reached for him, fingers curling into the collar of his hoodie to tug him closer.

“You okay?” you asked, soft.

He nodded, swallowing. “I… yeah. I want this. I want you.”

You kissed him again, slower this time, less about urgency and more about reassurance. He melted into it, his hands finally steady as they found your waist. He was warm and earnest, his touch lacking Tsukishima’s practiced finesse but making up for it with raw sincerity. Every brush of his fingers, every breath he took, told you he was all in.

You helped him out of the hoodie and the shirt beneath, revealing pale skin and a lean chest, tense with nervous energy. He was beautiful in a completely different way—open, unsure, but trying so hard to get it right. Your hands slid up his arms, coaxing him closer until you lay back, pulling him over you.

Tsukishima’s voice came from beside you, lazy and low. “Take your time. She likes it when you go slow.”

Yamaguchi flushed, but nodded, his lips brushing down your neck as he lined himself up—hesitant but driven. He paused, looking to you.

“Tell me if I do something wrong.”

You cupped his cheek. “You’re not going to.”

Then you guided him in.

The first moment was breathless—his eyes fluttered shut, mouth falling open in a soft, broken moan as your warmth surrounded him. He moved slow, almost reverently, as if he couldn’t believe this was real. His hips rocked gently, and you could feel the tension in every inch of him—how hard he was holding back, trying not to lose control too soon.

You met his movements with your own, rolling your hips up to meet him, whispering encouragement between gasps. Every time you moaned his name, his rhythm grew more confident, more fluid. His hands gripped your hips like he needed something to hold onto, and his lips kept finding yours—desperate, breathless kisses between thrusts.

Beside you, Tsukishima watched, his eyes heavy-lidded and dark with satisfaction.

“Look at you,” he murmured. “Already making her moan like that. Told you you’d be good.”

Yamaguchi groaned, burying his face in your neck as your body clenched around him. His control faltered, rhythm stuttering, but you didn’t care—every uneven thrust, every shudder in his frame just made it more real.

You wrapped your legs around his waist, holding him closer, anchoring him to you as he moved faster, needier, the tension in his body finally boiling over. His breath hitched against your skin, and he gasped your name like it was sacred just as he reached his peak, his body jerking in your arms.

You held him through it, stroking his back, your lips at his temple. He trembled against you, breath ragged, overwhelmed in the best way.

When he finally stilled, he looked at you—wide-eyed, stunned, and glowing.

“I—I didn’t last long,” he said, voice cracking.

You smiled, brushing the hair from his forehead. “You were perfect.”

Tsukishima stretched out beside you both, propping his head on one arm. “You’ll get better with practice,” he said dryly.

Yamaguchi shot him a glare, but there was no real bite behind it. Just gratitude. Relief. Maybe even pride.

You lay between them, skin warm, body humming, and you could feel the shift in the air—something new, something fragile and sweet blooming in the afterglow

You lay tangled between them, skin warm and heart steady, feeling the quiet weight of something new settling in the silence. Maybe it started as a lesson—but it ended as something neither of you wanted to unlearn.

MEGUMI X READER

Timeskip | Aged up characters

- MDNI

______________________

Megumi’s breathing is uneven under your fingers. His uniform jacket slips off easily, revealing the toned but slender frame underneath. You touch him like he’s made of something precious—your palms slow and reverent as they move across his chest.

His skin jumps beneath your touch.

“You okay?” you whisper, kissing the corner of his mouth.

He nods quickly, but there’s tension in his jaw. “Y-Yeah. I just… I’m not used to this.”

“To being touched?” you ask softly, eyes searching his.

“To being touched like I matter.”

Your heart clenches, and you cradle his face in both hands, thumbs brushing his cheekbones. “You do matter, Megumi. To me. You always have.”

He tries to nod again, but you feel him swallowing hard, holding something back—tears, maybe, or just years of loneliness. So you kiss him slowly. Not rushed. Not greedy. Just a soft press of lips, over and over, until his shoulders start to relax and he kisses you back with more certainty.

Your hands wander again, this time under his shirt, feeling the warmth of his skin and the tense lines of muscle that seem permanently braced for battle. You pull the shirt up, breaking the kiss only long enough to tug it over his head. He watches you, a little dazed, as you take him in.

“You’re beautiful,” you whisper.

He scoffs quietly. “I’m not—”

You silence him with a kiss to his throat. “Let me decide that.”

Your mouth trails down his neck, across his collarbone, down the center of his chest. You leave soft kisses and lingering touches, memorizing every reaction—the way his stomach tightens when you kiss just above his navel, the shaky breath he lets out when your fingers skim his hips.

When your hands move to his belt, he stills. Not pulling away—just hesitating.

“Megumi?” you murmur, looking up.

He meets your eyes. “I’ve never… done this like this. With someone who…” He stops himself, then exhales shakily. “Who cares.”

You reach up and kiss him gently, reassuring. “Then let me show you what it’s supposed to feel like.”

You undress him slowly, lovingly, until he’s bare beneath you. His cock is already hard, resting against his stomach, flushed and twitching slightly with each uneven breath he takes. You stroke a hand down his thigh, then up to wrap around him, careful and deliberate.

He gasps—his eyes flutter shut, lips parting as his hips buck ever so slightly into your hand.

“Feels good?” you ask, voice low and coaxing.

He nods, barely able to form words. “F-Fuck… yeah.”

You lean down and kiss his chest again, whispering against his skin. “You don’t have to hold anything back. I want to hear you.”

Your hand moves slowly at first, dragging slick over the sensitive head, down the shaft. Megumi’s hands find your waist like he’s grounding himself. His moans are quiet at first, breathy and almost shy, like he’s not used to being vocal—like he’s been taught to stay quiet, stay controlled.

You straddle him again, letting his cock slide between your folds, slick with arousal. He whimpers softly at the contact.

“Y/N…” he breathes, looking at you like he might fall apart. “Please. I—I need you.”

You line yourself up and sink down onto him slowly, keeping your eyes locked on his. His head falls back with a strained groan, eyes fluttering shut as you take him in inch by inch.

“Fuck… you’re so warm,” he mutters, almost disbelieving. “So soft.”

You start to move, slowly grinding your hips down, letting him feel every bit of you—tight, wet, wrapped around him fully. He grips your hips, not guiding, just holding—anchored in you like he’s afraid he might drift away.

“You okay?” you ask again.

His hands tremble. “Yeah. Just… I didn’t know it could feel like this. Like… love.”

You lean down, kissing him with every bit of emotion you’ve got. “It is love.”

The pace builds—slow but deeper, the kind of sex that drowns out the world. You whisper sweet things in his ear. You tell him he’s good, he’s beautiful, he’s safe.

And when he finally cums, it’s overwhelming—his hands gripping you tightly, mouth against your shoulder, moaning your name like he’s been holding it in for years. He shakes through it, body trembling beneath you, the release raw and full of emotion.

You ride out your own climax moments later, gasping his name as your body clenches around him, hips grinding down until you both fall still, panting, wrapped in each other.

You don’t pull away. You just hold him.

And this time, when Megumi wraps his arms around you, it's not cautious or hesitant—it’s full, desperate, like he’s finally letting himself believe he’s wanted.

“Stay,” he whispers against your skin, voice hoarse.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you murmur back. “Not ever.”

ITOSHI RIN X READER

Timeskip!! - MDNI

warnings- smut.lots of smut.

You hadn’t meant to ignore him.

Training had been brutal all day with drills, everyone pushed themselves harder than usual, practicing attack patterns and breakaway techniques until your muscles screamed. You hardly had the energy to notice anything beyond the next drill, the next breath.

But Rin noticed. He always noticed.

He noticed the way you barely glanced at him between sessions. How you slipped into a conversation with Bachira and Isagi without seeking him out, the way you normally would.

Rin caught the way your smile came easier around everyone else. Not him.

He said nothing, as usual. The cold mask he wore stayed in place: detached, disinterested, immaculate.

But under the surface, he simmered.

Now, walking back to the dorms long after everyone else had collapsed into their beds, your phone buzzed.

Rin Itoshi [1:43 AM]:

"Come to my room. Now."

The text was simple. Sharp. Not a question.

You hesitated in the hallway, heart thudding.

You could almost feel his eyes already—impatient, irritated, burning with something you couldn't quite name.

You shouldn’t go.

Rules. Curfews. Sanity.

But your feet moved anyway.

By the time you reached his door, your palms were sweaty.

You knocked once, soft.

No answer.

You reached for the handle, and it swung open from the inside, Rin standing there in low sweatpants and a fitted black t-shirt, hair still damp from a shower. His blue eyes fixed onto you immediately — no greeting, no hesitation — and the next thing you knew, he was pulling you inside and shutting the door with a click.

The room was dim, the only light coming from a small lamp on the desk. It cast Rin’s face in sharp shadows, the angles of his jaw and cheekbones cut with almost brutal precision.

You opened your mouth to say something — an apology maybe — but he was faster.

"Don’t," he said, voice low.

You froze under his stare. His fingers brushed against the inside of your wrist, featherlight, and the contrast between his touch and his expression made you dizzy.

"You ignored me all day," Rin said.

It wasn't an accusation. It was a fact. Plain. Devastating.

"I didn’t mean to," you whispered.

His eyes narrowed slightly. His hand slid up your arm, deliberate, slow, until his fingers were curled around the back of your neck. The touch was almost tender — if not for the possessive way he pulled you closer, forcing you to tip your head up to meet his gaze.

"You don't get to," he said.

There was a pause — heavy, electric.

Your heart hammered so loudly you were sure he could hear it.

The tension stretched between you, taut and trembling, like a ball about to be snapped into the net.

Without warning, Rin kissed you.

It wasn’t soft.

It wasn’t gentle.

It was punishing — his mouth crushing yours, forcing a gasp from you that he swallowed greedily. His hands tightened around your hips, pulling you flush against the hard, lean line of his body. You could feel the heat radiating off him in waves.

He kissed like he played: with singular, devastating focus.

You barely noticed your back hitting the wall, the way he pinned you there with his body weight. His hands slipped under the hem of your shirt, palms rough against the bare skin of your waist.

"Tell me," Rin murmured against your lips, voice rough. "Tell me you want this."

"I want you," you whispered, breathless.

Rin made a low noise in the back of his throat — something between a growl and a groan — and kissed you again, deeper this time, his tongue sliding against yours in slow, deliberate strokes.

It was too much. It wasn’t enough.

You fisted your hands in the soft fabric of his shirt, tugging, wordlessly pleading.

Rin understood. Of course he did.

He pulled back just enough to strip your shirt over your head, tossing it aside without looking. His gaze raked over you — bare-chested, panting, flushed — and something darkened in his expression.

"You’re mine tonight," he said simply.

You didn’t argue.

You didn’t want to.

Rin’s hands didn’t fumble.

They moved with infuriating precision, like every inch of your body was a map he already knew by heart.

His fingers slid down your sides, slow, almost reverent — if it weren’t for the way his nails occasionally dragged just hard enough to sting. You shivered under the assault, arching into him instinctively.

He smirked, barely — a tiny twist of his lips that you would have missed if you weren’t drowning in him.

“You’re shaking already,” he murmured, voice low and rough. His forehead rested against yours again, trapping you between him and the wall, his hips pressing firmly between your thighs.

You could feel him — already hard, already straining against the thin fabric of his sweatpants.

A helpless sound escaped you.

Rin caught it immediately. His hand snapped up to cup your jaw, tilting your face up, forcing you to meet his eyes.

"No hiding," he muttered. "I want to see everything."

Your chest heaved, your pulse skittering wildly. You nodded, wordless.

Satisfied, Rin kissed you again — slower this time, almost lazy, as if savoring the way you melted under him. His tongue traced the seam of your lips before sliding inside, drawing a low whimper from your throat.

You barely noticed when he hooked his fingers into the waistband of your shorts, tugging them down in one fluid movement. Your underwear went with them, leaving you bare, trembling against the wall.

Rin dropped to his knees without a word.

You gasped — and he smirked against your thigh, the faintest brush of teeth scraping your sensitive skin.

"You don't deserve it," he muttered, almost like he was talking to himself.

"But I'll still give it to you."

Then his mouth was on you — hot, relentless, devastating.

You cried out, hips bucking, but Rin’s strong hands gripped your thighs, pinning you open for him. He licked into you with slow, obscene precision, every flick of his tongue deliberate and measured like he was studying every reaction you gave him.

And you gave him everything.

Broken sounds spilled from your mouth — his name, pleas, desperate whimpers — and Rin drank them in like oxygen. His lashes were dark against his sharp cheekbones, his brows furrowed in pure focus.

Rin Itoshi didn't just eat you out.

He dismantled you.

Piece by piece.

You felt the orgasm build almost too fast — a tightening low in your stomach, spiraling out of control.

"R-Rin, I'm—" you gasped, fisting your hands in his hair, trying to pull him back.

He growled — a low, warning sound — and sucked hard on your clit, sending you over the edge with a cry that you barely managed to muffle into your hand.

Your legs shook violently, threatening to give out, but Rin caught you easily, standing and lifting you without effort.

You barely realized he had carried you to the bed until your back hit the mattress.

You blinked up at him, dazed, ruined — and he stared down at you like you were something his, something only he could touch.

"You’re not done," Rin said.

The way he said it — calm, certain — made your head spin.

He stripped his shirt off with one hand, revealing taut muscles, lean lines, a body built for brutal efficiency. He made no move to tease, no drawn-out seduction — he wasn’t trying to be sexy.

He just was.

The waistband of his sweatpants slid low, and then he shoved them down enough to free his cock — thick, flushed, angry-red at the tip, already leaking.

Your mouth went dry.

Rin caught the way you stared at him — and for the first time, something flickered across his face. Not arrogance.

Something closer to vulnerability. Desire. Need.

"Turn over," he ordered, voice sharp.

You obeyed immediately, rolling onto your stomach, chest pressing into the sheets. You barely had time to breathe before Rin was kneeling behind you, grabbing your hips roughly and pulling you up onto your knees.

You felt the blunt head of his cock nudge against your entrance, teasing, pressing.

Then, with one slow, brutal thrust, Rin pushed inside.

You choked on a moan, fists clenching the sheets.

He was big — thicker than you remembered — and he didn’t give you much time to adjust, starting a punishing rhythm almost immediately. Each thrust forced a broken gasp from your lungs, each snap of his hips brutal, relentless.

You could hear his breath, ragged and strained, could feel his fingers bruising into your skin where he held you like he might never let go.

"Too much?" he muttered, voice strained.

You shook your head desperately. "N-no, please, more—"

He growled, low and feral, and slammed into you harder, the wet sound of skin against skin filling the room along with your incoherent cries.

You felt drunk on him — on the stretch, the pleasure, the overwhelming fullness.

Rin wasn’t speaking anymore.

He was just breathing — harsh, desperate — like he was fighting something inside himself, something ugly and possessive and unstoppable.

You knew you weren’t going to last long. Not with the way he was fucking you like he had a point to prove, like he was trying to imprint himself into your very bones.

And judging by the rough, broken noises spilling from his throat, he wasn’t far behind you.

Your climax hit you like a freight train — sudden, blinding, devastating — and you screamed into the sheets as your body convulsed around him.

Rin cursed viciously under his breath, hips stuttering once, twice, before he buried himself as deep as he could go, spilling inside you with a hoarse, wrecked sound that you barely recognized as his voice.

For a moment, the world spun.

For a moment, there was nothing but the sound of your breathing and the pounding of your heart.

Then Rin pulled out slowly, his hands lingering on your hips like he couldn’t bear to let you go completely.

You collapsed into the sheets, utterly spent, utterly ruined.

And Rin — ever Rin — just stared down at you silently, chest heaving, his blue eyes dark and unreadable.

Friends with benefits (and feelings) --- MDNI

---------------------

Timeskip Nishinoya

warnings: Suggestive/smut,swearing

Notes: Yes i did cringe multiple times while writing this, yes i dont know why i decided to write this. Lmk if you want part 2.

____________________________________

You weren’t supposed to have favorites.

But the way Nishinoya looked at you from across the court, sweat-slick and grinning like he just won the damn lottery? Yeah, you were in trouble from day one.

It started as a joke — friends who just “helped each other out.” Post-practice hangouts that got handsy. Casual, no-strings-attached, totally chill.

Except tonight, he was already flushed before you even touched him.

His apartment smelled like the cheap body wash he always used, and there he was — on the couch, bouncing his knee, eyes wide the second you stepped inside.

“You took forever,” he said, voice breathy and impatient.

“I told you I was showering,” you said with a lazy smile, dropping your bag and sauntering over.

He bit his lip, shifting where he sat. “Yeah, but… I was thinking about you. And now I can’t sit still.”

You tilted your head, eyes dragging down his bare arms, over his tank top, to the telltale tent in his sweatpants. “You could’ve waited for me, hmm?”

He whined — an actual, needy whimper. “I tried, but you’re mean and hot and you take your sweet time on purpose—”

You cut him off with a kiss, and he melted instantly, fingers clutching at your shirt, pulling you into his lap like you were oxygen.

“Y/N…” he breathed against your mouth, hips shifting under you. “Need you— I’m serious, please don’t tease tonight.”

“Why not?” you asked sweetly, grinding down just enough to make him gasp. “I like hearing you beg.”

And oh, he did.

He was a squirmy mess beneath you, hands trembling where they gripped your hips, trying not to buck up too hard. His breath hitched every time your fingers slipped under his shirt, every time your lips brushed his neck.

“You’re driving me crazy,” he whined, high and wrecked. “You always do this—act all cute and then ruin me.”

You hummed against his throat. “You love it.”

“…Maybe.”

By the time you had him sprawled out across the couch, flushed and panting, shirt pulled halfway off and sweatpants barely hanging on, his attitude was long gone. What was left was just Nishinoya — needy, sensitive, so easy to unravel.

“Y/N,” he moaned, hips rolling up into your touch, eyes half-lidded and desperate. “Please, I can’t—just do something—anything—please—”

You covered his mouth with yours to shut him up — not that you really wanted him quiet. His sounds were addictive.

You break away from the kiss to remove his sweatpants and boxers at once. Your eyes snap to his lower half, drinking in the sight of his muscular thighs and hard, aching cock, practically begging to be touched. Noya desperately tugged the hem of your skirt

Seeing the pure want in his eyes, you cant help but tease him a little, despite the ache between your legs.

You slowly take your skirt off, watching his pupils grow wide with lust. Noya lets out a soft groan of both annoyance and desire — desperate for you to end the torturous teasing, his hand goes to your hip, his fingers hooking your underwear, pulling them down.

"F-fuck..."

He watches as you sit yourself in his lap, straddling his hips — Nishinoya reaches over to his wallet and pulls out a condom, opening the wrapper with his teeth and rolling it on. You give his cock a few strokes, making sure its secure, he lets out a needy noise.

"P-please, Y/N...put it in..."

Your eyes trail back up to his face, he is softly panting, waiting for you to give him the relief he desperately craves. You give him a mischievous smile.

"Beg."

Noticing the look on your look on your face and the position he is in, makes him realise he is like putty in your hands. His breath hitched as he looked up at you, cheeks flushed and eyes wide with lust. His fingers gripped your hips, moving you closer, voice trembling as he whispered, "Please, Y/N… I need you—need your hands on me, need you to make me feel good. I’ve been thinking about you all day and I can’t take it anymore. Don’t tease, just—please, touch me. I’ll be good, I promise…"

----------------------------------------------------

His hands were trembling where they gripped your thighs, nails digging in just enough to leave little marks. He was already wrecked — flushed from head to toe, sweat clinging to his chest, eyes glassy with need.

You hovered over him, dragging your fingers along his stomach, watching every twitch of his muscles. He whined.

“Y/N… please,” he breathed, voice cracking. “I can’t— I need you so bad, please, please…”

You smiled down at him, slow and cruel. “You’ve been begging for what, ten minutes? You sound so pretty when you’re desperate, baby.”

“I’ll be good,” he gasped, hips bucking up instinctively, only to groan when you pressed him back down. “I swear I’ll be so good—just ride me, I need to feel you, I can’t take it anymore—”

Finally — finally — you let yourself sink down onto him, slow and steady.

He choked out your name like a prayer, head falling back against the pillows, mouth open in a silent moan. His fingers clutched at your hips like he was trying to ground himself, but he couldn’t stop trembling.

“F-Fuck, you feel so good—so tight—oh my god, don’t stop, please don’t stop—”

You leaned down, lips brushing his ear. “Was it worth the wait, Noya?”

He nodded frantically, moaning into your shoulder. “So worth it—please don’t stop—ride me just like that, I’m gonna lose my mind—”

And you did — slow at first, then faster, until all he could do was cry out your name over and over.

“Nngh—Y/N, I—fuck, I’m gonna—”

His voice cracked, raw and frantic, hands clinging to you like he’d float away if he let go. You leaned in, kissing his cheek, whispering against his skin, “It’s okay, baby… let go. I’ve got you.”

And he did — falling apart with a strangled moan, body tensing beneath you as he came into the condom, shivering through it, chest rising in shallow bursts. You stayed with him the whole way down, cumming with him. One hand cradling the back of his neck, the other stroking his side gently.

He whimpered your name, quieter this time. Dazed. Vulnerable in a way only you ever got to see.

You kissed the corner of his mouth, then his jaw, then his fluttering pulse.

“It’s okay,” you murmured. “You did so good.”

Noya let out a shaky breath, eyes fluttering open to meet yours. There was nothing cocky in them now — just warmth. Gratitude. Something close to love, but neither of you said it.

You cleaned him up with soft touches, slow and careful, tossing the condom and grabbing a warm cloth. He squirmed a little at the contact, still sensitive, but didn’t stop you — just reached for your hand when you were done, tugging you down beside him.

His face found your neck instantly, breath warm against your skin. “Don’t leave yet,” he mumbled. “I wanna hold you a little longer.”

You slid an arm around him, pulling the blanket up over both of you.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you whispered.

And in that quiet, wrapped in the mess of tangled sheets and soft breathing, it was clear: this wasn’t just casual anymore.

Not even close.

NSFW, I'm finna say some things because I haven't written in a while and I need a creativity exercise. Didn't do Price or Gaz because... I lazy. Excuse formatting. Again, Lazy.

Simon would probably feel genuinely terrible about it. He'd fuck you nice and slow instead, but not for a while after the visit. First he'd have to eat you all sloppy and soft—let you ride his tongue for hours in apology. Big man with furrowed brows, tongue buried between your thighs as if he lapped at you gently enough, you'd get the picture. That you'd forgive him. And he didn't think he deserved it, either. How could he do that to his little bird? He knew he was a big guy but he didn't think he was genuinely doing any harm... an ugly, sticky part of him is proud, honestly. He doesn't quite know how to feel about that. Bruises in the shape of him where no one could see.... how wonderful.

Johnny's a bit smug. Yes, he'd fucked you rough and deep and quick. That's exactly how you liked—exactly what you'd asked him for. And hearing your gyno say that your cervix was bruised made him proud because.. well, that meant he'd done a good job following your directions. He was a mutt. A good mutt. Your good mutt. And he was happy that he could provide the back arching pleasure that would result in this. But, listen—! It's not like he didn't care. When you complained about the soreness he'd draw you a bath and settle you in, the water warm and smelling of lavender epson salt. He was sorry that the bruises hurt, of course, but as his fingers slip into your cunt while you bathe—just to delicately feel you from inside—you can't help but think he wasn't all that sorry for the bruises existing.

Hey I wanna know right

Since everyone always writes the boys fucking reader character so hard (mostly Johnny and Simon) what do you guys think would happen if they went to the doctor worried she had some sort of UTI and the doctor said they had ahem bruising in their, ahem, insides

What then

Mostly a question for @mina-org and @goatgoesmbe let's be honest

So I'm never going to recover.

Salt to the Wound

pairing: simon riley x fem!reader

word count: 8.7k

contains: 18+ SMUT MDNI, fem!reader, sex being used as a coping mechanism, heavy angst, no use of y/n, unprotected sex, established relationship, complicated grief, mentions of death, displaced aggression, marital issues, panic attacks, religious speak, mention of calories, unhealthy coping mechanisms, mention of dead relative, simon being pretty aggravating, purposeful omission of tags to avoid spoilers, & did i mention this is all angst?

author’s note: oh my god, this has been such a bitch to complete! i’ve been working on this for months in between my nasty smut fics bc this truthfully made me so sad to write, so i had to take breaks in between. there is only angst; i cannot hold your hand…you must walk alone…i’m sorry. read at your own discretion.

divider by @plum98 & for my taglist click—>here!

Simon can't move on from Johnny's death.

"Johnny's dead."

You remember the line clear as day.

In fact, you remember almost every single detail about that day. 

The weather had been docile, a change from the feverish heat the day before.

The air was slightly damp.

The weatherman chimed that a promising stormcloud was brewing in the distance, which could bring a couple of inches of rain, typical of January.

Your neighbor's son came to your front door, meekly asking to retrieve his ball from your backyard. 

The postman had hand-delivered your new dress, complimenting the new planters Simon built in the front yard.

Your favorite body wash that smelt of fruit ran out. 

You had made pie, apple instead of your usual cherry.

You had accidentally poured too much cinnamon in the apple mixture, shooing Simon away when you finally pulled it out of the oven because it was a "bad pie."

Simon had never heard such ridiculous words.

No pie is a bad pie.

He shoveled a spoonful into his mouth as you went to answer the house phone, quietly laughing as he hissed at the hotness. 

Then it happened. 

"Johnny's dead," the voice on the other end of the line announced, shattering the tranquility of the moment.

They were the only words that flowed through the phone line.

The very words you had selfishly cursed for the past year.

The words that had single-handedly eroded everything you and Simon had built together.

Because that day, on every level except physical, the Simon you knew had died with Johnny.

His mind merged with the very soil Johnny lay in, leaving his physical body on the surface while his soul wandered beyond your grasp. 

So out of touch, so disconnected from reality. 

Simon had become a shell of a human. 

He wasn't living, merely surviving—going through the motions. 

It was devasting to watch the man for whom you gave your heart slowly disengage right before your eyes. 

Bit by bit, piece by piece.

Until there was no more man left to see.

Just mere flesh and bones.

It was such unfamiliar territory since Simon relied on you as he relied on oxygen to breathe.

You were his sustenance, his reservoir. 

An eternal flame that burned with an unyielding passion. 

Now it seems he couldn't get far enough away from you.

However, it wasn't always that way. 

The evolution of his disconnect hadn't been linear; it was ever-changing. 

Some days, he would act just like your sweet Simon before; other days, you felt like he resented you.

Resented you for what? 

You're not entirely sure. 

You didn't kill Johnny.

But with how Simon reacted to your mere presence, it felt as though you might as well have.

You can still recall Simon's noticeable change, apart from his defining silence, which occurred exactly two weeks after Johnny's death.

The bitter taste of anise, accompanied by the sharp taste of mint, coated your tongue; experimenting with new cocktail recipes had become something of a hobby for you.

Kept you occupied while Simon worked in his office.

You had insisted he take some time off, some real time off.

Price wouldn't let him return to work, so he supplemented by hiding in his office all day and doing paperwork and other such tasks.

It wasn't entirely what you had in mind, but it was the best he could give you.

He would have gone truly mad without his work to drown out his thoughts.

So, you bit your tongue every morning as he trudged out of the sanctity of the warm bed you shared, leaving you alone in the silence, and headed straight to the room across from yours that had him so consumed.

It was funny, really. 

You always thought that perhaps a pretty woman would eventually come around and attempt to steal your Simon from your hands, not a spare room with cream walls. 

Digression aside, you selfishly enjoyed the time alone. 

Simon would only speak a couple words to you daily, the silence between you growing thicker with each passing day.

You fault him none, though it was exhausting trying to help someone who despises being helped to any degree, even if they so clearly needed it.

That was why you enjoyed the alone time. 

Though it could be occasionally dull.

So, finding a hobby to fill your time was not just a choice but a necessity for your sense of fulfillment.

Even if it consisted of the occasion day drinking.

You'll repent later.

Now, you just needed the burning taste of rum down your throat.

Your face sourced at the combination before you scribbled, 'absolute shit,' on a small notebook you kept to keep track of all of your combinations and rated them in excruciating detail. 

Hearing his office door creak open, you shoved the notebook into your pocket. 

Not because you cared if he saw, but because his office door opening earlier than ten-forty-five startled you, abruptly shifting your emotions. 

You heard his heavy boots thunk against the vinyl flooring, inching ever so close to the kitchen where you stood. 

Your heart quickened from anticipation, and you tried to steady your breathing, not wanting to give away your guilt.

"You eaten?" His voice is deep and strained as he stands still across the island.

You stay completely still, refusing to budge even a little. Instead, you choose to shake your head from side to side slowly.

"Can pick up pizza?" He suggests.

His presence now stirred a strange mix of emotions within you.

He would never lay a finger on you.

It was the news that had thrown everything off balance, leaving you both in a state of discomfort and awkwardness.

Johnny was dead.

And you could feel his haunt everywhere.

"Pizza's good," you say softly, pretending to adjust a tilted bottle of tequila.

An uneasy silence lingers between you for a moment, and then you finally turn to meet his gaze.

He looks…like shit.

You let out a soft sigh as you take him in fully.

He has dark circles under his eyes, tinged with shades of purple and blue.

His once bright blue eyes have lost their luster, and his lids now hang heavy and fatigued.

His hair is unkempt, and his beard is starting to grow, giving it a scraggly appearance.

"You don't look so good," you find yourself saying without much thought.

"Just tired," he mutters, swiping his car keys off the counter.

You move to stand. "You've been working like crazy," you say, gently pressing your hand into his shoulder.

He tightens at your touch.

Whole body going taut.

You try not to take it personally.

You fail.

"Yeah…I, I'll get the pizza," he murmurs, moving towards the front door.

Then he leaves without a goodbye. 

You thought it was just bullshit.

What the articles said about coping with a loss.

Dealing with grief.

They all seemed like distant concepts.

But, he was so evidently disconnecting from you.

You felt your head swarm at the admission.

Simon was isolated, lost in a vast ocean of grief and despair. 

And you didn't know if you were enough to reel him back in.

Three weeks later, you're cozied on your sofa, a blanket draped over your legs, the soft cushions embracing you in their cozy warmth. 

The clouds, heavy with water, have transformed from soft white to an ominous smoky gray, a stark contrast to your cozy sofa and warm blanket. 

You have your favorite tea in your favorite mug, a book wide open though long forgotten on the cushion next to you.

Your eyes are now captivated by a trashy British reality television show, a guilty pleasure that adds to the coziness of your setting. 

Usually, Simon and you snuggle up and watch the show.

Always on the edge of your seats, eagerly anticipating the outcome.

Will the man stay on the island, sacrificing his share of the prize fund, to be with the woman he's grown close to?

Or will he choose the money over her?

It's always more enthralling with Simon.

Though, you're not sure where he is.

He didn't say where he was going when he left about half an hour ago.

And you didn't bother asking.

Maybe that makes you a lousy wife.

Or perhaps, you're just exhausted.

It feels like you're tearing your own flesh, trying to get him to answer anything. 

You guessed the latter.

The television crackles to life, the sound of synthesizers and strings filling the room, creating a sense of suspense.

"Henry's decision will be…" The host's voice begins.

You find yourself sitting up, the hot cup of tea between your hands, and your eyes glued to the television.

"…revealed right after the break," the host chimes as the camera cuts to a condom commercial.

You sink into the couch with a deep sigh as you hear the front door open.

The thud of heavy boots moves into the kitchen, near earshot.

You turn to see Simon grabbing a glass and slipping it under the tap for some water.

Your teeth dig at the flesh of your cheek, your foot steadily tapping on the vinyl flooring.

He takes a deep sip of the water, sucking it between his teeth and swishing it around his mouth before he spits it back in the sink, running the water to clean out the saliva now lining the metal sink.

You'd rather be shot than deal with the taciturn.

It was egregious.

You felt awkward in your own home.

With your own husband. 

"Simon," you say with nerves on your tongue.

He turns towards you, taking a proper sip of the water.

"Sit. Our favorite show is on," you chime, a warm small growing on your lips.

He shakes his head. "Not feelin' it tonight, sweetheart."

"Come on," you urge, pointing towards the television with your pointer finger. "We're about to find out if Henry is staying or leaving."

"I'm—I'm not in the mood," he mutters, only with slight annoyance.

You decide to push your luck. "Come on. Would be nice to see you." 

"Stop asking," he cuts sharply, setting the full glass in the sink.

You narrow your eyes slightly. "Why are you being so mean?"

"Christ, I already said I wasn't in the God-damned mood." 

Ice and venom coat his words as his hand slams into the countertop.

He didn't yell, but you wish he did.

So, you could get some type of God-damn emotion from him.

Instead, his voice was low, commanding.

A voice a lieutenant would use on his inferiors. 

Not on his wife.

His eyes widen as your lips purse.

"Well then," you murmur, eyes still on his. "Guess that settles it."

He releases a shallow breath, opening his mouth before shutting it promptly.

Your eyes squint as you take a deep gulp.

But instead of being a man and apologizing, he leaves for his office like a fucking coward.

You're left there, eyes still on the spot where he stood, cheek now bleeding onto your tongue as the television announces, "...leaving the villa."

And you can't even find it in yourself to care.

It feels awkward when you finally gather enough courage to slither into the bedroom.

You had been paralyzed to the couch even a couple hours after the whole ordeal.

Not a word was breached between either of you. 

He had shut himself in his office while you had become one with the couch.

What a match made in fucking heaven.

You slip into some soft pajamas, then into the bed, the heavy comforter offering you comfort.

You rest your weary head on the pillow, eyes already heavy with emotional exhaustion. 

Before you fall into sleep, you hear the same thud of his boots streaking along to the bedroom, where you catch a glimpse of him slipping something into his sock drawer. 

The warm brown of the book cover in his hand catches your eye.

There was no mistaking what it read on the front: large, gold Cardo font with a cross hovering above the text.

"Holy Bible."

He shoves some loose papers overtop of the Bible and shuts the drawer, moving the flick of the light switch off.

His boots came off in a thud as he slipped off his shirt and jeans, slipping into the bed far from you.

Not a word was shared.

You should sleep, but instead, your mind is tormented by what you saw.

Had Simon prayed?

Prayed to a God he didn't even believe in.

If he hit his knees, splayed open the Holy doctrine, and prayed within the hopes that, by some miracle, he should get to see his brother again.

"Simon," you murmur lightly, regretting breaking the silence as his name leaves your tongue.

"Yeah?" He asks, back to you.

"Were you...praying?" Your question comes out fatigued.

"Ye—Yeah," he mutters skittishly.

You say nothing more.

Your weary eyes drift closed as you pull your blanket taut against your face, peacefully drifting off.

That night, you're plagued by a disturbing dream. Your teeth fall out one by one, leaving only protruding gums. A looming figure stands behind you, tightening your throat with fear.

You spring awake at 3:37 am.

You are drenched in your own perspiration, eyes lingering over to where Simon should be.

He's gone.

You should feel slightly relieved, but you only feel overwhelming dread.

Your skin crawls with a sense of unease, as if something is lurking just out of sight, watching you.

You blink, and it's March.

Two months since Johnny's passing.

You thought the time would pass achingly slow, but time has unfortunately moved forward at an exceptional pace.

It always felt like time should stop.

People should stop.

Because why do they get to carry on and lead an everyday life as if you aren't getting swallowed, eaten alive by the confines of your own home?

It's not fucking fair.

You are not only having to mourn the loss of a good friend but the loss of your own husband, who's still breathing.

It felt like some cruel joke was being played on you that you found no humor in.

But, regardless of the loss, you had to keep moving.

For yourself.

Or you'd probably drive yourself into madness, and nothing good ever came from a mad woman, or so they say anyway.

It was a Friday night, and you had decided to try a new recipe from your grandmother's cookbook. 

You couldn't remember the last time you had a homecooked meal that wasn't full of M.S.G and far too many calories.

But tonight, you were about to change that.

With a simple button swipe, your groceries appeared at your front door, and you got straight into it.

The large russet potatoes were peeled and cut into chunks. They were then plopped in heavily salted boiling water and smashed along with many tablespoons of butter and cream.

Chicken thighs were seasoned and marinated for half an hour, not a minute less, before being seared on cast iron. 

The asparagus and parsnips were lightly oiled before being pan-seared, and then they were sprinkled with salt, pepper, and parmesan cheese.

And before you knew it, you had transformed a handful of ingredients into a feast that was elegantly presented on some fine china you snagged from the cabinet for you and Simon.

You took a seat, admiring your hard work and savoring the delightful aroma of the chicken as it filled the room.

Hearing the same thud of the boots you had come to ignore coming from down the hall, your head shot up to see Simon with his keys in hand. 

"Where are you going?" You ask, curiosity and a bit of disappointment evident in your tone.

"Out," his voice was snipped as he marched towards the front door, not sparing the dinner a glance.

You sit up with a frown. "I made dinner, Simon."

"Not hungry," he says mechanically, like he was planning on shooing away any plans you offered. "Don't wait up for me," he murmurs, shoving on his coat, moving out of the front door, and pulling it closed.

And suddenly, the optimism you had clung to like a lifeline died, wholly and truly, leaving you in a void of despair.

You sit at that comedically large dining table for what feels like ages, pushing your vegetables around with your fork until they're practically mush on your plate.

There's nowhere else to go.

You feel utterly stuck as if the weight of the disappointment has rooted you to the spot.

Your head flings to the front door, as keys get shoved into the keyhole, before the door is pushed open to reveal a flushed Simon.

"Where have you been?" Your voice is warm yet firm.

He doesn't respond, only throwing his keys the bowl and moving to the fridge to grab a cold bottle of water.

"Simon," his name comes off your tongue almost in warning.

"What?" He turns to you, face red from the cold.

"Where the fuck have you been?" You snap, the sound of your chair scraping against the floor as you stand up, adding to the tension in the room.

His eyes widen at your tone.

Your mind was ablaze with conflicting emotions.

Tongue hot with accusations.

"Were you with another woman?" You tack on, crossing your arms over your chest.

"Christ, no," he says immediately with a scoff. "Why would you even ask me that?"

You knew it was ridiculous.

He may be a fool, but he wasn't a cheater.

"I never have a God-damned clue where you go!" You step from around the table, voice rising. "You're my husband!"

"You're my wife!" He tosses the bottle of water into the sink. The plastic crinkles against the metal, as his voice rises with yours. 

"Then act like it!" You yell, throwing your hands in the air. 

You're both practically heaving with anger.

Seathing with so much untouched and unsaid verbiage.

The silence hangs between your two before you hurdling yourself into his arms, slamming your lips onto his with so much devotion and heat.

His hands grip your cheeks tight as his tongue slides over your teeth and any piece of flesh he can.

You pant into his mouth as his hands move to grip the backs of your thighs, quickly pulling you up to lock your legs around his waist.

He moves to place you on the dinner table, standing between your legs, and you reach out behind you, sweeping your plate full of mushy food and wine glass onto the floor to make space.

The glass shattered, and the china burst into a thousand tiny pieces with a loud crash.

Neither of you cares in the slightest.

His fingers fidget with the hem of your loose top as your lips practically turn blue from losing circulation.

It had been months since you and Simon had been intimate.

Well, since...

You didn't think you needed it during this time in mourning.

Hardly ever thought about it.

Because you two rarely exchanged words, the silence between you became a barrier.

How could you be expected to share such an intimate moment when your words seemed to fail you?

Somehow, you found yourself yearning for it, a deep-seated longing that you couldn't explain or ignore.

It felt like an insatiable desire you couldn't shake.

And when his teeth sunk into your lips, you felt the soft, erotic sting of your skin break; all bets were off.

"Simon," you mewl into his mouth. "Please."

He doesn't answer in words.

Just moves to remove his belt, tossing it to the side where the leather slaps over the broken china and mushed vegetables.

Strips himself of his jeans, boxers following suit.

His fingers move back to grip the hem of your shirt, pulling it over your head, throwing it on the table, lips moving to skim between the dip of your breast as he moves to grip on the fat of your waist.

Your hands move to thread through the back of his air, earning a deep groan from him that rumbles against your skin.

"Shouldn't be touchin' you like this," he mutters into your skin, rough hand skimming down your stomach to slide under your pajama shorts.

"Why?" Your breathing is labored as his fingers push down into your cunt, underwear sticking to the skin due to your dripping arousal.

His finger presses into you further making you release a shallow moan.

He opens his mouth to speak before promptly shutting it, hesitating for a moment before finally speaking.

"Just fuckin' yelled at ya, bug," he grits out the first part, like he's angry at himself for ever raising his voice, no matter if you did the same thing, then says your nickname warmly.

"I yelled first," your voice is sweet like honeydew as your hand moves under his chin, gently forcing his chin up so he can look you in the eyes, and he wants to kill himself even more.

You're an angel.

A fucking divine entity, a wellspring of goodwill.

He doesn't deserve you now.

He's not sure he ever has.

"Needed to hear it," he mumbles, slipping your shorts and panties off in one pull, eyes taking in your arousal-soaked cunt. "Don't deserve ya," he murmurs, with a hint of despair.

"You do," you assure, sitting up more to kiss the corners of his mouth.

He turns his head to the side, almost in guilt; you don't have time to question why before he's lining himself up with your entrance, hand coming to rest on the back of your neck for support as he slips inside you gently.

There's no rush, no urgency to get off.

His movements are slow, unrushed.

This wasn't just a quick fuck.

It felt like he was trying to get a tangible connection to you.

Just bodies melting into each other with ease and familiarity. 

Your moans echo off the walls.

Fingernails digging into Simon's back through his shirt.

The barrier does nothing to meddle with your touch.

Nothing could ever diminish your touch.

He lets out a curse, baring his teeth as his fingers dig into the tender flesh on your hips.

His name comes off your sweet tongue in a plea.

You're about to fucking erupt.

Stomach on fire, skin slick.

He shoves his finger in your mouth, collecting some saliva before using that as a lubricant to stimulate your clit.

You let out a string of incoherent words as the stimulation hits you everywhere, all at once.

His head dips back as he comes inside you, eyes shutting closed.

Your breathing is ragged as you both come down from your highs.

However, when you breathe, you feel tightness in your chest.

A squeezing pain that only elongates.

"You okay?" Simon presses his hand into your shoulder.

You nod weakly. "Must have overexerted myself," you jest.

You suck in a deep breath, desperate for more air or something to suppress the pressure you feel. 

Simon quips a brow, opting to move away from you to grab you some cool water. "Drink," he commands, nudging the glass to you.

The water feels like a relief flowing down your throat and is so refreshing you can feel it move through every vein in your body. 

"Better?" He asks warmly.

"Better," you agree, nodding as water drips down your lip and onto your chin.

But you can't shake the feeling something is off.

It almost feels like an impending doom looming over you.

"Feel like a shower?" He taps your thigh in question.

You nod with a smile, forgetting what you were even concerned with.

You shake off the feeling of doom as you wander behind Simon to the shower.

But doom is inevitable, a fate that cannot be escaped.

The following month, April, brought fickle weather with chilly rain and bright blue skies.

Along with the fruition of tulips and daffodils came your plan.

To finally speak to Simon about Johnny.

Even just thinking his name made you feel like you were indulging in some dark code.

It felt wrong.

Even though it was far from.

You had planned to talk to him a week ago, but you chickened out at the last minute, your fear of confrontation winning over your resolve, instead opting for an awkward conversation about cats.

Safe to say he had no idea you had other objectives at play.

Just thought you were a little kooky.

He had been more receptive to conversations since your sex-capade.

Felt connected to you again.

What a perfect time to ruin it all.

He's sitting at the dining table eating a sandwich.

With no pickles because he despises them.

You smile softly.

You know him so well.

Approaching him slowly, you pull out a chair adjacent to his.

"Nice weather," he says, looking out the window at the blue skies.

"It is," you hum in agreement, shifting in your seat.

"Might go for a run later." He takes a bite of a sandwich, and you chew on your cheek. "You want to come?"

"We should talk," you blurt, deciding you need to cut the cord as soon as possible before you chicken out again.

He quips a brow, sets down the sandwich, and wipes the crumbs off a rag. "About?"

You chew on your lip nervously. "Johnny."

His eyes lock to yours in an instant, and his chewing halts.

And you can feel anxiety claw up your clothes.

"You just—you seem," you try, stumbling over your words.

You knew you should have practiced more.

"We aren't having this conversation." His tone is low and carries a finality.

"It might help if you talked to me." There's desperation in your words.

"Stop," he holds up his hand like he's giving you a fucking command.

"I'm not a fucking dog," you grit. "You can't just give me a command to shut up."

"I know you're not a damn dog," he mutters, his voice a strained whisper.

"Good. Glad you could clear that up," you sit back in your chair, crossing your arms over your chest. "Since you can't clear up anything else."

You knew you shouldn't have said that the second it slipped off your tongue.

It's defensive.

You were supposed to sympathize, not defend. 

He stands up abruptly. "Not taking this shit."

"What shit, Simon?" You throw your hands up in a shrug. "Your wife asking you to speak to her?" You let out a dry laugh. "That shit?" 

He moves around to swipe his keys from the bowl, not uttering a word.

"Where the hell are you going?" You stand, moving over to him.

His eyes bore into your jaw clenched. "Anywhere but here."

And he was gone again.

Just leaves when times get too trying, apparently. 

You stand there, your eyes brimming with tears.

What was to become of you two?

You let out an anguished yell before going to your room, hands planted firmly into the soft mattress, before letting your emotions overcome you.

You sink onto the floor, head in your hands, as you prop yourself on your elbows.

Knees becoming bare from the shitty carpet while your shirt moistens from your tears.

This—this can't be it.

What was life to be without your husband?

You'd be subject to destitution.

A life of isolation, a terrifying prospect, filled with unbearable loneliness. 

Bile crawls up your throat, threatening to escape as the thoughts flood your mind. 

Your heart pounded violently, threatening to crack your ribs. 

You can't breathe.

Throat too tight to get any air through.

A stabbing pain erupted in your chest like it had before, but this was worse.

You clench your chest, tears spilling faster due to the physical pain.

You don't even process Simon hovering over you, hand clenching your shoulder.

Your head turns, and you see his mouth moving, eyes wide in concern, but you can't process what he's saying.

You can only focus on the crushing sensation in your chest. 

His eyes are scrambling, watching you push your mouth into the mattress to release a deep, tormented groan.

You were in unbearable pain.

He wastes no time grabbing and holding you in his arms, bridal style. 

You don't have it in you to scream at him.

You just sob into his chest.

This was surely going to kill you.

He grabs a stray blanket and tosses it on you quickly before swiping his keys off the counter. He then moves outside and places you in the car.

He drives in a rush, reckless.

His eyes darting over to you, curled up in a ball in the passenger seat, sobbing, hand resting over your chest.

He doesn't know what to do.

He can't crawl in your body and demand your body to be kind to you.

So, instead he brushes his hand over your wrist, attmepting to give you some comfort and he pushes the pedal further to get you to the hospital.

Desperate to heal you.

He pulls into the ER parking lot, not bothering to straighten his wheels, sprints around to your side and gently places you in his arms, all but sprinting to the ER door.

The receptionist greets you before she hears your cries and pleas.

"She, she needs help," Simon frantically says. "Please."

Nurses flood out from the large door that seperates you and Simon from the rooms.

"Sir, you'll need to wait out here," one of them says, helping you into a wheelchair and wheeling you back through the door.

"She's my fucking wife!" He shouts, though to no avail.

The door shuts in his face, shoulders dropping in defeat.

He doesn't sit, he can't.

The thought of him being comfortable while you're in agony disturbs him.

He instead stalks around the room, hands wiping across his face.

Surely, this wasn't...

Could it have worked so soon?

He grabs a trashcan, promptly puking in it at the thought.

It, it has to be a grim coincidence. 

Yeah, yeah.

Has to be.

He waits in the waiting room for what feels like ages before a doctor comes in asking for a Simon Riley.

"Is she okay?" Simon searches the doctor's face.

"She's stable," the doctor says, his voice steady and reassuring. "For now."

"For now?" Simon echos the question.

"We ran some blood tests and did an ECG on her heart," the doctor reads over his papers. 

"And?" Simon says impatiently. 

"Does she have any familial history of heart disease in her family?" the doctor asks, scribbling on the paper.

"No, no," Simon stutters. "Why?"

"The ECG results showed that your wife has coronary heart disease," the doctor says.

Simon's eyes widen, his fear palpable. "Heart disease? What—what does this mean?"

"The arteries in her heart have become too narrow, which reduces blood flow to the heart. There are treatments available to manage the condition and improve her quality of life," the doctor reassures Simon as he sees him start to get frantic.

"Are you talking about fucking surgery?" Simon's hands move through his hair anxiously, his body tense with worry.

"Not necessarily. We can start with medication," the doctor says confidently. "A standard dose of Atorvastatin daily can help manage her cholesterol and fat levels." The doctor messily scribbles the prescription on a paper and tears it off.

"Along with some lifestyle changes to help manage her condition. If needed, we can discuss other options, like angioplasty or surgery. But first, let's see how she does with the medication." He hands over the prescription to Simon.

Simon grabs the paper, nodding his head. "Alright. Can I, can I see her?" His voice is desperate.

"Of course," the doctor nods his head reassuringly. "Follow me."

The doctor leads Simon through the hallway until he reaches your room, carefully opening the door to let Simon step through.

His stomach drops, a wave of concern washing over him, when he sees you.

Eyes swollen and red from your cries.

They hang low from your apparent exhaustion.

"Simon," you greet him with a weak smile, the familiarity in your voice comforting him.

Your voice is weak and raspy.

You look sick.

And he can't handle it.

"Hey, I'm okay," you assure, as you see him examine you, worry written on his face. 

"I know you are, bug," tears brimming his eyes; he moves over to you, gripping your hand tightly. "I know you are."

To you, it felt like a source of comfort amidst the chaos. 

And that's why Simon said it.

But deep down, he knew.

Nothing could undo what he had done.

No amount of praying, begging, or bargaining could change that.

He had selfishly sealed your fate.

And now, all he could do was wait.

It had been two months since your diagnosis, July.

Things had been decent in that regard.

No better, no worse.

The medication proved helpful.

It reduced the pain you get in your chest, so that was nice.

Over the two months, you persistently urged Simon to join you in counseling.

For your sake.

For the sake of your marriage.

At the beginning of July, he finally agreed, a hopeful sign after a turbulent period that had you ready to leave him.

"What are you doing?" Simon roughly asks as he follows you to your bedroom, hands anxiously running through his graying hair. 

"I'm fucking leaving, Simon," your voice quakes, tears spilling down your face as you struggle to pack a duffle bag.

"Don't, don't do that," he stumbled over his words, moving over to you. "Just, just calm down," he placed his hand on your shoulder in comfort.

You shook his hand off before eyeing him. "Calm down?" You repeat his words. "You want me to calm down?"

"Yes. Please," he pleads, hand hovering on the drawer handle.

"You want me to calm down?" You repeat again, your voice dripping with anger. "Fuck you." 

His eyes widen; clearly, he's taken aback. 

You finish packing, wiping your tears with the back of your hand as you lean against the nightstand. "Simon, you need help," you say, grabbing your wallet. "You need to see someone. Anyone."

He exhales a sharp breath. "Fine."

Your head shoots up, eyes narrowing in disbelief. "What?"

He wipes his face with his hand frantically. "If that's what it takes," he shrugs, nodding. "I'll get the help. Just, just don't leave me, bug."

"Nice to see you again." You snap out of your daze as the therapist greets you.

"Likewise," you murmur, glancing over at Simon sitting beside you.

His leg is tapping a mile a minute.

He's nervous.

You're surprised he actually managed to get in the car and come here.

"Hello, Simon," she sticks her hand out for Simon to take. "I'm Doctor Shaw," she greets with a warm and inviting smile.

Simon takes her hand, giving her a firm shake, and nods in acknowledgment. 

"Please," Dr. Shaw brings her hands up. "Follow me."

You and Simon both stand, a sense of anticipation in the air, as you follow Dr. Shaw to her office.

The office looks the same as it has since the last two times you came by yourself.

Warm and inviting.

Only some outside light spilled into the room, opting instead for a warm orange hue from a small lamp illuminating the space.

It exudes a sense of calm, wrapping you in its soothing embrace.

"Please," Dr. Shaw gestured to the couch as she sat in her chair. "Sit."

You and Simon both take a seat and you grab a pillow to hold. Simon leans timidly, his shoulders hunched and his hands fidgeting.

"So," Dr. Shaw begins, eyes moving to Simon. "Simon." His eyes flick to hers. "Talk to me about some of your hobbies."

Simon sits back on the couch, shifting uncomfortably. "Like to run, I guess," he mutters. 

She nods with a smile. "Good, good. Exercise is good. It can help clear the mind," she scribbles some notes on a notepad. "Now, I would like to know more about you two and your marriage," she hums.

Simon takes a deep gulp, and now you're shifting into the cushions.

"How are we doing in that regard?" Doctor Shaw purses her lips as she fixes her pen to start taking notes.

You shift in your seat, glancing at Simon next to you. "It's been...hard," you breathe out nervously. 

"Interesting," she scribbles in her notebook. "Can you tell me when you think it became difficult?"

You gulp. "Um...a couple, a couple months ago."

"Can you think of any factors that may have caused difficulties?" She tips her head back, offering you a comforting smile.

You tap your foot against the soft blue carpet, finger tapping anxiously against your thigh.

"Simon's friend, um, passed away in January." You choke on your words halfway through before completely finishing the sentence.

Her eyes flick to Simon. "I'm so sorry. That must have been very difficult for you, Simon."

Her voice grinds Simon's gears.

Simon is pessimistic, a cynic.

Has an excruciating time finding sincerity in anything anyone says. 

This is no exception.

"Simon," she begins. "If you're willing, I would like to know more about your friend."

"Thought we were here to talk about my wife and I?" Simon's tone is dry without hesitation.

She nods lightly. "We are. It could be helpful for your wife to hear you talk about some of your feelings," she sits up in her chair.

"Did my wife tell you that?" He sits back in the chair, shoulders taut.

She quips a brow. "Tell me what, Simon?"

"That I don't share? Is that why I'm here?" He glances at you, already sinking further into the cushioning of the couch. 

You don't say anything, opting to stay silent. 

This was a setup.

A ploy to psychoanalyze Simon's psyche.

"You brought me so she could pick my brain," he voices plainly, pointing his finger lazily towards Dr. Shaw.

"No. I wanted you to come so we could fix our marriage," your voice is full of irritation.

"Because it's all my fault it's bad. Right?" His voice raises louder than he intended. 

His eyes soften as you widen in surprise, your waterline brimming with tears. 

"Shit," he exhales. "I'm, I'm sorry," he says to you with care, closing his eyes slightly as he wipes his face. 

"I understand this is difficult for you," Dr. Shaw begins, voice solace. "And I want to acknowledge your discomfort. It takes courage to confront painful emotions," she shifts in her chair, leaning forward.

Simon's eyes narrow. "Spare me the shrink bullshit, doc," his voice is critical. 

"It's important to express your feelings, Simon," The doctor urges, to Simon's dismay.

"Why?" He retorts coldly. "Because you won't get paid if I don't?"

Dr. Shaw sits up straighter as Simon lets out an irritated sigh.

"Look," he turns to you. "I know you think this is helpful, but it's not," he says with as much delicacy as he can muster.

"You aren't even trying," you murmur.

"Sweetheart, this is just...not for me. Never has been," he holds your hand softly. "If this helps you, keep coming. I'll pay whatever she charges, okay?" He moves to stand, pressing a soft kiss on the top of your head. "I just...I can't."

Your head flicks up to meet his as his voice cracks slightly, eyes glossed over, revealing his vulnerability.

"See you at home," he bid you goodbye, not sparing the doctor another look before stepping out of the room.

"There is no right way to grieve, and I can understand your frustration," Dr. Shaw says to you, offering a small smile. "Just be there for him when he needs you. He'll come back around," she affirms, turning to grab your receipt for the session.

"Thanks," you say meekly, hand reaching for the receipt.

"This isn't your fault," she confidently says before you step out the door.

You give only a small smile in response. 

It was strange.

You and Simon had fiery love. 

Two timid souls burning with such passion, desire.

A flame to a flame. 

It was a love that felt like sparks igniting each other, creating a blistering and rapid heat that was impossible to ignore. 

But in the end, the flames of love can burn each other out, consuming everything in their path, including the ones who ignited them.

Despite your prayers, you couldn't shake the feeling that this was your inevitable reality.

The rest of the summer and the beginning of fall blur through to September. 

You were seething with anger.

The kind of anger that has you near in tears. 

Simon had missed your sister's funeral, the one event that you had hoped would bring you both closer in your shared grief.

You had told him multiple times throughout the last week where and when to meet you.

He assured you he would be there for you.

He was a fucking liar. 

You practically spring out of your car, parked next to his idle truck, taking heavy steps up to the house door.

The door pulls open, slamming against the house's side, making Simon awake on the couch.

The sight makes your eye twitch.

He lay dormant, several beer bottles strung across the coffee table.

And to think things were going pretty well between you two, but this was beyond belief, unforgivable.

While you were crying over your sister's casket, he was here.

Sleeping his drunkenness away. 

"Don't tell me you're drunk," you ballistically say, tossing your purse onto the kitchen table with force. 

"I'm not tellin' you a thing," he monotonously says like this is some joke. 

"I needed you, and you were proper drunk?" Your voice rises. "I—I needed you, Simon," your voice shakes. "You gave up on me."

He says nothing, just lies there.

Your jaw ticks.

You rush over to him, forcing him to stand. "It's been—get up! It's been months, Simon!" You shout out, your voice filled with desperation. "Johnny is dead—gone," you snap out, eyes locking onto his. "He's been gone, and so have you. Except Johnny has an excuse. You don't," your chest is heaving. 

Simon's eyes widen, noticeably aggravated. "I—" 

"People die every day—and don't get me wrong, I am so fucking sorry, so fucking sorry, that it was Johnny—" You begin, sincerity in your voice as tears prickle down your cheeks. 

"Don't—" He starts in a warning tone. 

"Truly, I am. And I get it; you didn't need things from each other. But I need you. And I need to know you won't just abandon me when times get tough for you," your hands move through your hair, attempting to soothe yourself before more words flow out. "You need to grow the fuck up and talk to me like a grown-ass man and not a fucking pubescent boy!"

"Fuck, fine! Simon snaps. "It fuckin' killed me when Johnny died. I—he was my best friend, my brother. My only family. Gone." Tears spill down his cheeks as his arms flail around. 

You stand silently before your tongue comes out, wiping away the salty tears coating your lips. 

"Simon, I know you don't believe this, but we are family—me and you," you breathe out, trying to control your breathing.

"It broke me," he whispers solemnly. "Split me in half."

"I get that," you begin nodding your head, emotion clogging your throat. "But I need you to be whole."

"I, I can't," he stares at the floor, his hand closing into a tight fist. 

"Simon. You, you can't let it fester. It's consuming your life. Our marriage." Your desperate eyes drift to him, filled with fear. "Let me help you," you beg. "I can help put you back together again." 

"No. You don't understand," he lifts his head back to look at you, his eyes pleading for comprehension. "I think I'm broken beyond repair."

That was before.

It was December now.

You find yourself in the chilling hospital room, tears streaming down your face as you ponder the disintegration of your marriage with Simon.

You suffered a massive heart attack some days ago. 

A complication from the heart disease. 

It had weakened your heart muscle and lead to some brain damage. 

The doctor said treatment options were no longer available. 

So, instead of that, he switched his focus to comfort care.

Essentially, he's making it easier for you to die. 

It's strange. 

You know you're dying.

And you thought that death brings people together.

But you and Simon might as well be light-years apart.

You glance at Simon sitting in the chair across from you, anxiously tapping his foot. 

He's nervous.

But not about you dying.

About something else entirely.

You can tell.

You can always tell.

Your eyes flick to the hospital room door, opening wide before your doctor beckons Simon to come outside with him. 

Their conversation is muffled, but you catch the tail-end of it. 

"It would be best to take her home. Keep her comfortable."

Now you have the confirmation. 

You're going to die.

Just not sure when it will come.

You just have to sit and wait while slowly withering into oblivion.

"Hospice care can be provided to support and comfort her during this time," the doctor adds, his voice a distant echo.

A hot tear slips down your cheek, pooling onto your hospital gown.

You see Simon nodding his head along, finger resting on his chin in thought.

You want to scream.

And cry.

And punch someone.

And pray.

And move back home.

But you can't.

You feel utterly and hopelessly helpless in your own body. 

Life works in a mysterious, fucked up kind of way.

It's not fair. 

It's not linear.

And it's certainly not always kind.

All that's left to do is do what Simon did when Johnny died, go through the motions, the daily routine that feels like a never-ending cycle, and eventually, your physical body will leave you.

Your mind will wander far beyond anyone's grasp, yearning for a connection bond that cannot be.

MONTH ONE: January

You took up journaling.

Your hospice nurse suggested you take up the hobby.

So you did.

It wasn't as therapeutic as you thought.

It was just recounting what you ate that morning and what you planned to do the next day, the mundane details of life that seemed to stretch endlessly.

Boring, menial thoughts.

You didn't have much to say.

The only thing you thought of these days was what would happen in death.

Simon was kinder now.

Said he wanted to leave with you. 

You feel guilty for having to leave him alone.

Even though you have no choice in the matter.

You hope you don't see him in the afterlife. 

His life belongs here.

On the surface.

You've had some trouble walking.

Even fell in the hallway while trying to reach for a side rail Simon had installed.

You cried and pleaded for him not to help you up.

He managed to gather your heaving body in his arms and held you tight as you sobbed into his shirt about how you didn't want to die.

He didn't sleep that night.

Mind was too riddled with guilt; instead, he prayed.

With a cross to his heart, he hit his knees and closed his eyes, murmuring into the darkness to any entity who would listen. 

You thought it was nice when you turned to your side to hear his hushed whispers. 

He was praying for you to get better, you thought.

You didn't even realize he was praying for forgiveness for his own sins. 

MONTH TWO: February

Your journal hobby has quickly dissipated as quickly as it began. 

It's become harder to move.

You have to rely on Simon to do measly tasks. 

It's humiliating, to say the least.

"You okay, bug?" Simon asks as the warm, sudsy sponge moves across your back, shining you clean.

"Yeah," your voice is hushed as your lips flatline. "I can do it," you assure, reaching for the sponge.

"You sure?" His eyebrow lifts. "I'm happy to—"

"Just give me the fucking sponge," you grit, ripping the sponge away from him to scrub your arm.

You find you're weaker than you thought. 

You can barely hold up the light sponge to clean yourself. 

Your hand sinks down into the warm bath water before you attempt to pull it up higher, over and over, until you toss the sponge over the lip of the tub.

It hits the tile, releasing water and bubbles on the floor.

Your head drops into your hands, tears mixing with the bath water.

"It's, it's really happening," you heave into your hands. "I can't even lift a fucking sponge, Simon," you say, disgust coating your words. 

Simon leans forward, hand grazing your back. "I'm so sorry, bug," his voice trembles.

You turn to look at him, with red, puffy eyes and slick tears slipping down and into his beard. 

"Don't apologize," you affirm with a sniffle. "You didn't do this to me."

He almost throws up but chokes down the bile to speak. 

"Can I, can I finish?" He almost pleads.

You give him a soft nod and a gentle smile. 

He grabs a fresh sponge and repeats the same process, this time being more gentle.

Like he's purposely trying to remember the feeling of your body under his hands. 

It makes you feel loved again.

MONTH THREE: March

You were slowly withering away right before your own eyes. 

You didn't even recognize yourself in the mirror.

Your skin has gone pale and blotchy and started mottling.

It's cold to the touch, void of any warmth.

"I'll be right back, okay?" Simon cooly says, pressing a kiss on your head.

"Where are you going?" You ask curiously. 

"I told you I had to pick up Price's kid from school," he says warmly. "You don't remember?"

"Yeah. I, I remember," you nod your head, plastering a reassuring smile.

You really didn't remember.

Memory is a slippery thing these days, evading your grasp like a wisp of smoke. 

The moment something touches your brain, it usually escapes within an hour. 

It's a constant source of frustration, a relentless storm that rages within you.

Makes you want to throw a chair across the room.

He leaves, not even realizing the question has you spiraling.

Proding and pinching at your skull's skin to regain control of your brain. 

You must look insane.

But to you, this is the only thing that makes you feel sane and in control of your body.

The feeling of inability is one of the most haunting prospects.

The hunger for control gnaws at you, a ruthless creature that refuses to be sated.

But it's slipping through your very fingers like sand.

Fast and all at once. 

MONTH FOUR: April

By mid-April, your body feels hollow.

You can't do much of anything.

Though you did find some peace with your morality. 

Finally, you came to terms with your reality. 

And then, a spark of courage ignited, urging you to step out of the house for the first time in a while. 

There was an unusual, almost compelling, need to visit Johnny's grave.

You had only done so once, but it would be nice to leave some flowers.

Your hospice nurse drives you and waits in the car as you find his grave slightly disheveled like someone had messed with it.

Maybe even crawled out of it.

You're too tired to investigate.

You sit in the soft dirt, legs crossed as the sun beats on your head.

The lull of sleep licks your brain and makes your eyes close and unclose lightly. 

You yawn, stretching your arms out before the feeling of sleep becomes too strong. 

You find yourself lying next to Johnny, separated only by a few feet of dirt. 

You feel calm, peaceful even. 

Though when your eyes shut for the last time, you don't see the bright, ethereal light you imagined.

You see nothing but darkness. 

And smell brimstone.

It couldn't be. 

This wasn't the heaven you were promised, a place of eternal peace and joy. 

It was a cruel joke, a betrayal of the highest order.

You were supposed to be in a place of eternal love.

An incomparable beauty. 

This looked more like—

"Bastard sold you out, m'afraid," a voice croaked in the darkness.

The figure was indistinct, a mere shadow in the darkness, but its presence was suffocating, a palpable sense of doom that felt all too familiar, like a nightmare you couldn't wake up from. 

"Who—who are you?" You speak into the darkness, not paying much heed to what he said. 

"I shall not speak my name, my dear," the voice remarks. "You shall find out soon enough," he assures, pure humor coating his tongue.

Your voice trembled with fear, barely audible in the oppressive darkness. "How—how am I here?" You managed to stammer, your terror evident. 

A heinous laugh comes from the dark and shoots into your eardrum. "Your husband called upon me some time ago," he says. "He wanted his friend back, so he offered me your soul in return for him back." His voice is simple and casual as if it were ordinary. 

Your heart thumps in your chest, and your lungs deflate quicker than they inflate. 

"N—no. Simon...he loves me," you try to contradict. "He—he wouldn't do that," you speak into the darkness, voice tight. 

"Loves his friend more," he casually says.

Your eyes widen as tears begin to pour down in a consistent stream down your face; you try to move your arms but find your arms are magically constricted to your side. 

"Don't worry. We'll have fun—you and I," his tone is insidious.

Simon had bartered your life for his own selfish volition and damned you to an eternity in hell.

That—that serpent. 

What kind of diabolical monster would do something so heinous.

He promised you a lifetime of love.

A baby that you would share.

A tangible tell of your love.

He was a false prophet. 

When did he find time to do this deal?

Oh. Oh.

He did act skittish that night. 

That—that night that you asked about him praying.

You just assumed he was praying to God to help him cope by perhaps showing some signs of Johnny.

Help him deal with the trauma in any way he could. 

He was instead striking up a deal.

And it wasn't with God.

mini author’s note: do share your tearful thoughts in the comments!

Children are annoying. There, I said it.

My description says MDNI not because anything too crazy goes on on this page, but because I fucking hate kids man.

Can’t stand anybody under the age of 18 tbh.

Esp like middle schoolers too (and this is 100% aimed and I hope they see this) bc how is a 13 year old gonna repost a bunch of my shit after following me talking about how “we brought back secrets and shame” like bro I’m 20 years old, the only reason YOU care about secrets and shame is because you’re literally in the 7th grade an surrounded by people who look at you wrong for breathing.

Middle schoolers are mean as fuck idc. And I hate them. Fuck you.

mdni. college au. first installment of boyfriend!bakugou “a like-like”

“So,” You breathe. “Does this mean you like me?”

The difference in temperature is stark as he lifts himself off of you.

You’re still pretty when you’re sweaty, you’ve always been. When you’re heaving out strained breaths across the field, when the afternoon sun shines on your exposed shoulders.

- When you’re underneath him.

The only difference now is that those purple colored blemishes on your skin aren’t from his fingers or his explosions. And the taste of you is still sweet on his tongue. - He looks down at you and you’re everything he could’ve imagined, sprawled out like a painting; all his.

Katsuki makes an incredulous face from where he’s slotted between your legs. “W-What…? Do you not see what we’re doing right now?”

“Yeah but,” You pout. His balls ache. “What if this is just some friends with benefits situation and this is like some one off thing?”

“Do you want this to be some one off thing?”

You shake your head. “No...”

He’s angling his hips back when you speak up again, but the way you’re starting to clench down on him nearly makes him lightheaded. “Do you like-like me?”

You and Mina have been hanging out too much. Oh god, he’s gonna go soft if he keeps thinking like that.

“____- Angel,” He huffs. “I like you so much that it fuckin’ hurts sometimes. You think I’d be this deep in yer guts if I didn’t?”

He shudders when you tighten up. “Ask me to be your girlfriend.”

“I think that fuckin’ goes without saying.”

Your fingers are feather light when you reach for him. Silk, cotton, and every other fucking soft thing he can think of when you wrap your arms around his neck and pull him in. He fits into you like a key, fills in all your empty spaces and molds himself to you like it was the only thing he was made for. He wants to close his eyes and stay this way forever, melt into you and cover you like a veil. - And when you starts to speak, airy and breathless, nuzzling into him like you feels the same; he sure there isn’t a feeling around that’s any better than this.

Until your words register to him. “I wanna hear you say it, Katsuki. Wanna hear it in your voice like I’ve always wanted.”

He’s in heaven.

You shiver as he skims his nose down the curve of your neck, following the trail up with slow tempered kisses.

He’s sin as he hums against your skin. “Let me be your boyfriend and I’ll fuck you till you cry.”

pt 2 for toji visual links

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pt 2 !!