Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Hi! Request all ideas in the comments here.

I don’t necessarily have limits for what to write, so feel free to go crazy with requests I don’t judge!!

I’ll write any perp or fictional character(Think Zero Day or Elephant), but do note there’s a rare chance I might decline a request.

Do know that i’d appreciate if you want any specific scenario, it’d be nice if you went into detail.

I also promise not to update this once and then abandon this LOL

ALSO. I tend to work on headcanon requests first since the others tend to take a bit to write :)

Chapter Text

The Beginning:
You probably don’t notice him at first. He’s in the back of class, eyes heavy with that dead-inside look. You’re focused on routines and your friends and finishing your homework before practice.
But Eric notices you, it's pretty hard not to. And he hates you for it, or at least, he thinks he does.

You represent everything he says he hates: popularity, the optimism he claims to despise. You’re surrounded by people who laugh too loud and try too hard. And yet, it's hard for him to not do anything but stare.

You smile at him once. Just once. While passing by in the hallway. And it fucks with him. Because suddenly, he’s thinking about you. About you in your uniform. About your laugh. About the way you twist your hair around your fingers when you're bored in class.

He starts making sarcastic comments during group projects, testing the waters. You obviously catch on. You’re smarter than people give you credit for, and you start responding back, teasing, rolling your eyes, making jokes back.

The Relationship:
It’s kept as a secret at first. Partly because you don’t want your friends asking why you’re into 'that one freak' and partly because Eric wanted it to be that way. There’s something thrilling about it, it's like something only the two of you understand.

He picks you up after late night practices in his car. He doesn’t talk much, just plays his music as he drives you home in silence. His hand brushes your knee at stoplights, but he never comments on it.

He’s not romantic in the traditional way. No flowers or cringe love notes(in his words). But he remembers things. What you order at coffee shops. The songs you like. The things you don't like.

His room is kind of chaotic. notebooks, wires, random printed out pages, but there’s a photo of you tucked into the corner of his mirror. He won’t admit he put it there, but he tends to stare at the photo when he's alone at night.

His Feelings:
Eric doesn’t really know how to handle softness. When you’re kind to him, it kind of unsettles him. He's used to being guarded, angry, paranoid. But when you reach for his hand, he lets you hold it. He doesn’t say anything, but his grip tightens every time someone passes by.

He gets jealous insanely easily. He won’t say it outright, but the mood shifts the second someone else touches you or makes you laugh a little too hard. His voice gets colder. His jaw clenches. He’ll say passive aggressive things and won't admit he's jealous until you get upset at him.

He doesn’t trust easily, but with you, he tries. He tells you about when he's feeling unwell. About the way his head feels like it’s gonna explode some days. He tells you about how he dreams of getting out of this place, just disappearing.

You've learned to not ask questions about specific things.

Random headcanons:

You were never supposed to like him. You weren’t even supposed to talk to him. But you did. It was in history class, after he muttered something sarcastic under his breath and you laughed. He didn’t expect that.

He doesn’t smile super easily. When he does, it’s kind of crooked, like he’s trying not to. It’s usually after you’ve said something kind of stupid, or when you call him out for being overly dramatic.

He can be mean without realizing it. Sometimes he snaps when he’s overwhelmed, and you know not to argue with him.
He always calms down later, but he never truly apologises for it. He says things like “I wasn’t mad at you, it was something else.”

He hates PDA. Doesn’t like being touched in public. But if you’re alone? He’ll lean into your shoulder and sit a little too close. He'll hold your hand sometimes in public though.

He says your cheerleading uniform is ridiculous. He calls it a costume. But when you’re wearing it, he can’t stop looking at you. He tries not to make it obvious. He fails every time.

Chapter Text

Relationship Beginnings:
He didn’t really pursue you. He noticed you first, but said nothing. It was your interest that made things happen. He just let it.

You weren’t sure if it was dating at first. He never exactly asked you out, never called you his girlfriend. It just started happening. You sat near him, then started walking home together, then one day he handed you a gift without explanation.

He was hard to read. You couldn’t tell if he actually liked you at first. His tone didn't change much, and he never smiled like other guys you knew did. But he remembered small things you said, and that was enough for you.

Habits & Behavior:
He stares at you. A lot. Not in a dreamy way. Not even in a flirty way. He's just.. Silently watching. Like he’s trying to figure you out.

He’s surprisingly calm. He doesn’t raise his voice often. Doesn’t get outwardly emotional. Even when he’s angry, you only know by the way his jaw tightens and how quiet he gets afterward.

Physical touch is somewhat rare. If you reach out to grab his hand, he’ll obviously hold yours, but its stiff, like he’s not used to it. But he won’t let go. And sometimes, late at night, he’ll rest his hand on your back like he needs the contact but doesn’t know how to properly ask for it.

No nicknames, he's not really an “I love you” guy either. He calls you by your first name. That’s it. And when you say something soft to him, like “I missed you”, he just blinks, like he's some robot. But he'll stay closer to you after you say it.

He really likes routines. Taking the same path home, sitting on the same park in the park he likes. He'll keep things kind of organized on his desk. If something changes, he doesn't get overly upset, just acts kind of 'off' for a bit.

His Version of “Romance”:

He memorizes your schedule. Not because he’s clingy but because he needs to know where you are. Not knowing makes him anxious, even if he won't fully tell you. He’ll never admit that. But he’s always nearby, even if you don’t see him.

He listens to everything. You say you like a song once, weeks ago. Later, you hear it faintly from his headphones. He’ll never tell you why he started listening to it. He just plays it off like it's not one of the sweetest things you've seen him do.

You once found a rough sketch of your hands. You were looking for something and you found it in a notebook of his. It was done with a scratchy ballpoint pen. You knew not to ask about it, and he never brought it up. But you remember it every now and then.

How You Know He Cares (Even if he never truly admits it):

He saves some of the things you leave behind. A hairclip. A picture of the two of you together. A movie ticket. You find them in a drawer, neatly stacked together. Like it's some type of proof to him that you’re something real.

He's protective. Not in the overdone, obvious way. But it's quiet, something you barely noticed.

Green Flags:
He's pretty honest, even if it seems mean at times. You'll ask him if you look good and he'll answer truthfully.

He's always there when you need him. Not emotionally, but physically. He doesn't question it, or lecture you, just asks if you need anything.

He doesn't really pretend to be someone he's not. He doesn’t try too hard to charm you, impress you, or fit into something considered “normal”. At first he seemed a bit weird, but its a reason why you love him.

Red Flags:
He'll disappear at night sometimes. Sometimes he disappears for hours. Comes back and when you ask where he was he'll simply reply with “Nothing happened.”

He lacks empathy at times. Once, you cried in front of him, and it was as if he didn't care. He stood awkwardly, as if he was waiting for it to be over. No comfort, no asking if you were alright, he simply handed you a tissue when you calmed down and said "Are you done?"

He watches people a bit too closely at times. It's not just you. But other people. He stares at them like he can see into their brain, studying them.

Chapter Text

Nikita doesn’t even need to knock when he shows up at your door.

No text, no call. Just that familiar silence you’ve come to know too well, his figure in the hallway, soaked by the rain and his backpack sliding off his shoulder like it's been dragged through hell.

His hair’s half wet, curling at the edges. A bruise is blooming a soft red under his left eye, and even though he clearly walked, his chest is rising and falling like he’s been running.

You open the door before he even lifts his head to look at you.

“Kita,” you sigh. “Come in.”

He doesn’t answer. He never does when he’s in one of these moods. But he brushes past you and into the apartment like muscle memory, like it’s his place too, and with the way he spends almost 24/7 at your house, it honestly is. His sweatshirt is damp against your arm when he brushes by. You shut the door behind him.
He drops onto your bed without a word, perched on the edge like he’s too scared to properly sit down. You grab a towel from the back of your chair and hand it over to him. He takes it, eyes still locked somewhere on the floor.
His brows are drawn tight when you look at him. You can see the way his jaw clenches, the way his fingers twist into the towel like it might run away.

“Bad day?” You ask, but you already know the answer.

He lets out a sharp laugh that sounds like a scoff as he sets the towel down beside him.

“When is it not?

You sit beside him, close enough that your knees brush. His shoulder flinches slightly from the touch, but he doesn’t fully pull away.

“Wanna talk about it?”

He shakes his head. You weren’t really expecting a yes in the first place.

Still, your eyes drift to the bruise under his eye, red slowly blooming into purple as time passes by. You curse softly under your breath, and his shrug is the same tired one he’s given you almost a hundred times. Like it’s normal. Like he deserves it.

But you know he hates it. You can see it in the way his fists clench.

After a long silence, he finally speaks.

“They called me a virgin,” He mutters, almost too embarrassed to speak. “A fag. Like it’s funny.”

Your heart clenches at his words. You reach for his hand and he lets you hold onto it without resistance, but when he gives your hand a squeeze, it’s too hard, and he doesn’t realise it.

“I’m sorry.” You mutter, “You know that’s bullshit.”

He doesn’t even look at you. His eyes are focused on his lap and his voice cracks when he speaks.

“They weren’t lying.”

You turn toward him at the sound of his words. Your free hand moves to rest on his thigh in an attempt to calm him down.

“Kita,” You speak, and his eyes slowly move to meet your own. “You really think that matters to me?”

He searches your face like he’s scared of what he’ll find. “Name one person who’d ever want me.”

You stare at him.

Then, without a word, you lift his hand up and press it to your chest. Not in a dramatic way. Just right there. Over your shirt. Over your heartbeat.

His breath catches in his throat and his fingers twitch against you.

“Me.”

His thumb brushes up, grazing near the edge of your bra. His eyes flick down, then up again. He looks as if he’s too afraid to move. Like touching you might break something.

But it doesn’t, of course.

Instead, you start to unbutton your shirt with your free hand, slowly and carefully. You never look away from his face as you do. You’re just trying to show him what’s already his.

He doesn’t stop you. His lips part slightly and his breathings uneven.

You slip the shirt from your shoulders, your body behind it now shown to him. He looks at you in a way he never has before. His eyes are almost soft as he glances at your face, then down to your breasts.

You guide his hand to the clasp behind your back and his fingers tremble as he fumbles it open.

And when the bra finally falls away, he lets out a sharp exhale like it hurts to breathe.

You take his hands and place them gently against your chest. His palms are cold and his thumbs hover then slowly drag along the curve of your skin.

“I’m not gonna break,” You say quietly, watching him.

He barely nods in response, like he’s trying really hard to believe you.

And still, he touches you like he’s too afraid you might disappear.

His hands stay there for a long time, just cupping your breasts, like he doesn’t trust himself to do anything else. His thumbs brush over your skin in slow, clumsy circles, and the way he’s breathing, tight, restrained, like he was never aware he needed you this much, makes your own chest ache even more.

You reach up, threading your fingers into his now damp hair.

“It’s okay,” You reassure, leaning in just enough that he can feel your breath hot on his cheek. “You can touch me.”

He closes his eyes, like he’s overwhelmed, but he still leans forward slightly. He hesitates, he always does, but when you tilt your head and press your mouth to his, he meets you halfway.

The kiss starts carefully, almost too carefully. He kisses you like he’s never wanted something this badly before. You can feel it in the way his lips part against your own, uncertain, starved, eager.

You guide his hand lower, down to your ribcage, then to your waist. He makes a sound, almost a moan, into your mouth. It’s low and breathless and just now does it make you realise the warmth you feel in the pit of your stomach.

“Tell me if I go too fast” You mutter, pulling back just enough to see the disheveled look on his face.

“You’re not,” He says, voice hoarse. “You’re not.”

He leans in again, this time without hesitation. His mouth trails down to your jaw, then lower, to your throat. His lips are surprisingly soft and his teeth graze your skin before he kisses the spot better. You arch into him, your hands still buried in his hair.

When his mouth finds your chest, it’s loving. Like he’s worshipping something he’s convinced he doesn’t deserve. He sucks at the skin just above your breast, then dips lower, his breath hitching when you gasp at the warmth of his tongue.

Your fingers tighten in his hair.

“Fuck, Nikita..”

He groans, the sound of his name on your lips does something to him, and suddenly his hands are everywhere. He’s not rough or greedy, just urgent. He’s still trembling when he palms at your thighs, your hips, your waist, like he’s trying to memorise your body.

You pull him closer, fingers fumbling at the hem of his sweater. He lifts his arms up so you can tug it off, and underneath, he’s lanky and covered in faint bruises. Your mouth goes dry at the sight.

“You’re so beautiful,” You mutter, mainly to yourself.

He scoffs under his breath, but it’s shaky and it’s clear he’s insecure. “Sure.”

You kiss down the center of his chest, slow, careful, savoring the way you can feel him breathe shallowly like he’s not actively falling apart at your touch.

“You’re beautiful.” You repeat, mouth right against his skin.

And when you push him gently down onto the mattress, straddling his hips with your knees on either side, he fully lets you. His hands fall to grip your thighs, almost possessive this time.

You rock your hips against his slowly, and his head tips back onto the mattress as he lets out a ragged moan.

“Fuck,” He breathes, eyes fluttering shut. “You’re gonna kill me.”

You smile in response, leaning down to kiss the corner of his mouth. “Not tonight.”

He pulls you into him again, mouth hungry, hips bucking up slightly beneath you.

You kiss him again, slow and deep, your mouth hot against his. His hands are shaking where they now rest on your hips, fingers twitching like if he let’s go you’ll slip away. You press even closer, rolling your hips just slightly, and the sound he makes is a pathetic mix of a moan and a gasp, because he’s never been touched like this before.

“Nikita,” You whisper, your lips brushing against his jaw. “Can I take these off?”

Your fingers are already at the waistband of his black jeans, and he nods before you’ve even finished the question, his breath rough and eyes blown wide with need.

“Please.” He says, voice rough.

You work them open slowly, tugging the denim down his thighs with care. He lifts his lips to help you take them off, every motion stiff like he’s unsure of what to do with himself. You slide the jeans and boxers off together, revealing him fully, and for a moment, he avoids eye contact with you.

You press kisses along his stomach, then lower, until you’re close enough to hear the sharp inhale he makes when you wrap your hand around his length. He’s already hard, twitching in your palm, so sensitive it makes him jolt when you barely stroke him just once.

“Shit-“ He breathes, head tipping back against the mattress. “Fuck, I’ve never-“

“I know,” You say softly, kissing the inside of his knee for reassurance. “Don’t worry.”

You keep touching him like it’s an offering. Your fingers stroke him slowly, base to tip, and every soft gasp he makes is music to your ears. You lean in and let your mouth take over, slow and wet and careful, tongue dragging up the underside of his cock before you close your lips around him.

He chokes on a moan, his hips twitching involuntarily.

His hand moves to your hair. Not pulling, not controlling, just there. Like you’re an anchor.

You bob your head slowly, taking him deeper each time, one hand steady at his base and the other on his hip. His thighs start to tremble beneath you.

“Fuck,” He whines, voice high and wrecked already. “I’m gonna-“

You pull off with a wet sound, slow and teasing. His cock twitches against his stomach, glistening, flushed. You crawl back up his body and kiss him again, this time it’s open mouthed and desperate, letting him taste himself on your lips.

“Do you want me?” You mutter against his mouth.

“Yes,” He breathes out, without hesitation this time.

You discard the remains of your clothes, hand sliding between your own legs, reaching down to make sure you’re ready. You’re already soaked from just the feel of him and the way he looks up at you. You guide him between your thighs, letting the head of his cock press against your entrance, slow and warm.

His eyes lock with yours.

“I love you,” He says, voice cracking at the end.

You push down onto him in one careful motion, and he groans so loud it nearly startles you both.

“Oh my- fuck-“ He gasps, hands moving to clutch at your waist. “Oh my god.”

You take him inch by inch, feeling him stretch you open. He’s already panting, eyes fluttering shut, nails digging crescents into your skin.

“Look at me, Nikita,” You whisper, cradling his face. “Don’t look away.”

He looks at you. He watches you sink down onto him fully, his jaw hung open in awe, like he can’t believe what’s happening is real. Like he’s in a dream he feels like he should’ve woken up from already.

You start to move, slow rolls of your hips, and he melts underneath you. Moaning, pleading, gasping your name.

You lean down, kissing his jaw, his throat, his ear.

“You’re doing so good,” You praise, and his whole body shudders in response.

You ride him slow and deep, guiding his hands back to your body, letting him touch, letting him learn. He thrusts up weakly, trying to match your pace, but he's far too overwhelmed. His rhythm stutters every time he feels you tighten around him.

“Can I come?” He asks, voice already wrecked and almost barely coherent.

You nod in response, a moan slipping from your lips.

He almost cries out as he finishes, hands clawing at your back, mouth open against your shoulder. You feel him spill inside you, hot and desperate, and you keep rocking him through it, getting every drop out until he’s fully shaking underneath you.

You don’t stop until his grip on your loosens, his breath slowing.

Until all he can really do is just lie there, stunned, sweat slick and broken open in the most beautiful way ever.

When you finally pull off him and collapse beside him, he turns to look at you instantly, burying his face into your neck, arms already wrapped tight around your waist.

He doesn’t really say much at first. Breath hot on your skin.

Then quietly, it’s almost barely audible.

“Thank you.”

You move a hand to run your fingers through his hair.

“You never have to thank me,” You begin, “I love you.”

And for the first time all night, you feel him fully relax.

Chapter Text

It starts with a note in your locker.

You found it folded without a care and shoved inside a textbook of yours one day. The paper was clearly torn out of a notebook of his and there was a small scribble of words, no greeting, no name signed at the end.

“you said friday. don’t forget.”

You know exactly who put it there, though.

He’s not subtle and he never has tried to be. He’s charismatic in that way that gets under people’s skin. Smart, smug, always smirking at seemingly nothing. He doesn’t talk unless he’s making fun of a friend, or starting shit on purpose, and he always sounds like he’s got a secret no one else knows.

And now it’s obvious he’s got plans with you.

The offer came earlier in the week, right after class. He leaned over like he was about to say something casual, and then just dropped it like it meant nothing.

“You’re hot. I’ve got money.”

That was it. Like it was normal to him. No creepy stare or gross tone. Just a deadpan statement, like the two of you were friends.

You laughed it off at first, and then you realised he was serious.

And of course, you were curious. And yeah, he’s got something dark about him, but you’re not scared of that. You’re curious. Just enough to answer with, “Friday. 7:30.”

The building behind the field is half abandoned and smells like smoke and damp grass. The teachers stopped going up there seemingly years ago. It’s just brick walls and concrete and silence.

He’s already waiting there when you arrive. His boots kicked against the wall, hoodie sleeves shoved up to his elbows. The usual, unreadable look on his face.

“Didn’t think you’d actually come,” he says.

You shrug, and he smiles. It’s crooked and sharp-edged like he’s always five steps ahead.

You pretend not to notice, but your stomach flips a little when he pulls the cash from his back pocket. It’s crisp and clean. He holds it out, not like the usual creeps, more like someone who’s making a deal he already knows you’ll accept.

And you do, of course you do.
When you reach out to grab the cash, your fingers brush his for half a second.

He watches you as you pocket the cash. He’s almost infatuated with you, but he won’t admit it. That’s the whole reason why you’re here. Not just because you’re some pretty girl, but something else. Something in the way you don’t flinch. Don’t blush like an idiot in love. Don’t play dumb.

“You nervous?” he asks, voice low.

You furrow your brows. “Are you?”

He smiles at your response. Really smiles.

“Not yet,” he says. “You’re just... cleaner than expected.”

You blink. “Cleaner?”

“You’re real, I guess.”

You glance down at your shoes, thinking of the cash now stuffed in your pocket. This transaction should feel dirtier, but it doesn’t, for some reason.

“Is that a compliment?”

“You’ll know if I compliment you.”

You don’t kiss him. Not yet of course. But you do think about it. This has all just started.

The door clicks shut behind you.

The air in the storage room is a mix of stale and humid. Your back hits the brick wall before your brain catches up to your body, and he's standing in front of you like gravity pulled him there. Not touching, just staring.

You try to tell yourself that you’re not nervous, but you know you can’t lie to yourself.

You wonder if he’s also jealous, but you doubt it.

"Take off your jacket," It’s not a request.

You carefully place it on a nearby chair, turning back to face him again.

Your shirt goes next. You don’t stall. You don’t want him to think you’re insecure of your body. That you're not the type to flinch at his eyes.

His eyes track everything. Not lazily. Not like he's savoring you, but instead in a way that’s almost trying to memorise you.

“God,” he mutters to himself. “You're unreal.”

You don’t respond to his comment, you just watch the way his mouth moves when he says it, the way his tongue sticks out to wet his bottom lip.

Then, he kisses like someone who’s thought about it all too much. It’s not sloppy, but it’s deliberate in the way he moves. Like he’s fully aware of what his mouth is doing to you. Like he wants you to notice that he knows.

His hand wraps around your throat, not tight enough to hurt but just enough to remind you. To keep you still, and maybe also because he’s been thinking about doing that for months.

“You want it rough?” he asks against your mouth, poorly holding back a smirk.

“I want it real,” you say.

A sound slips past his lips. Low. Almost a laugh, but not quite. Something sharp like satisfaction, and he simply just nods in response.

He fucks like he talks. Straightforward. Confident. Just a little mean.

He pulls your pants down slowly but tugs your underwear off a little too fast, like he’s reminding you that this isn’t anything sentimental. That you're not his girlfriend. You're a body with a price tag that he willingly paid for.

He doesn't rush with you.

You thought he would. You thought it’d be quick, selfish on his behalf, purely transactional. But he’s still staring at you like he’s trying to figure out something about you. Like he’s still deciding what to do with you now that he has you in front of him.

His hands don’t hesitate, but they’re not clumsy. They know exactly where to go and what to touch. They know what he’s looking for.

He grips your hips like he’s claiming you, his finger tips burning holes into your sides. Like even if this isn’t love, it’s still something he fully wants, and that matters to him, whether he wants to truly admit it or not.

“Turn around,” he says.

Again, not a request.

You do, stepping out of the last of your clothes, facing the wall. It’s strangely cold against your skin.

He steps in closer, close enough for goosebumps to form at the heat his body's bringing you. One hand finds your waist again. The other slowly drags down your spine, like he’s tracing the outline of your bones.

“Have you ever done this before?” he mumbles, voice low by your ear. It’s not mocking but instead a genuine curiosity.

You don’t answer, but your body does for you.

He exhales softly, like that confirms something he already knew the answer to. Like it’s what he wanted to hear.

You hear the rustle of his clothes behind you. A belt. A zipper. The small clink of metal hitting concrete when he drops something without a care.

There’s no teasing. No buildup. Just the press of him against you, thick, hot, and deliberate. His hand is at your hip, steadying you. The other braced against the wall beside your head.

“Breathe,” he tells you, and when he pushes in, you inhale a sharp breath of air.

He fills you in one long, slow motion. Not to be cruel, but because he just simply can.

Your fingers curl against the brick wall. You bite your lip, breath caught in your throat. He doesn't give you time to get used to his size, but he doesn’t force you into anything either. He waits, for just a split second, like he wants this to be good for you too.

Then he starts to move.

It's not gentle. Not one bit.

He fucks you like he’s trying to maybe kill you. Like this is a one time thing he’s going to burn into both of your memories. His hips slam into yours with sharp rhythm, each thrust exact and full of intent, like he wants this to be your best.

The air fills with the sound of your breath, his breath, and the slaps of skin on skin. The low, involuntary moans you didn’t expect to make. The sharp inhales he lets out when you arch your back, deliberately asking for more without using your words.
“You feel-fuck,” he grits out, voice breaking just a little. His hand tightens at your waist, probably leaving marks for future you to deal with. “You feel so good.”

Your cheek presses against the wall. You don’t answer him. Even if you wanted to, you knew if you tried to speak a string of moans would just come out instead.

He reaches for a fistful of your hair, not harsh, but firm enough to pull your head back. Just enough to see you from the side, your mouth parted, your eyes half-shut and teary eyed.

“I knew you’d be like this,” he says. It’s not cocky. He’s almost just speaking to himself. “Knew you’d take it- fuck.”

You’re moaning more than you should now. Like you don’t want to give him the satisfaction but can’t stop yourself.

“Look at you,” he mutters, slowing down just enough to make you whine out. “Fuck, look at you.”

You gasp when he thrusts in hard again, deep and mean and perfect. You feel it in your stomach and the way you clench around him on instinct. His hips stutter for the first time. You can tell he’s close.

“Where do you want it?” he asks, voice ragged.

You twist your head just enough to be able to slightly look back at him. “Inside.”

His jaw clenches in response, his eyes shutting. He doesn’t last long after your words.

You feel it when he finishes,his hips press flush to yours, and he groans into your shoulder, his hand flattening against your lower stomach like he wants to really feel this moment. Like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he doesn’t hold you down.

When he pulls out, the silence after is loud.

You stay there for a moment. Both of you trying to catch your breath. Not speaking.

Then you turn slowly, bare and flushed and glowing in the shitty lighting. His eyes track over you again, slower this time.

He’s still hard, just barely. And he’s looking at you like he can’t decide if this was a mistake or the smartest thing he’s ever done.

You pick up your clothes without shame.

He watches you the whole time, almost unblinking.
“You’ll text me,” he says, like it’s some command.

You don’t answer. You just pull your hoodie on, cash still warm in your pocket, and leave without looking back at him.

Chapter Text

It’s quiet in his room except for the soft hum of the fan in the background. The only light in the room comes from the almost blown out lamp on his desk, casting light across Dylann’s room.

You’re sitting cross-legged on his bed. Legs bare. Hoodie stolen from his closet. Your hair’s still damp from a shower you took hours ago, and you haven’t spoken a single word in ten minutes.

He’s crouched on the floor with a mirror laid out in front of him, the one he seemingly stole from his bathroom ages ago, and it’s smudged with finger prints you can faintly see. There’s a little plastic bag on the side, torn open like a candy wrapper. He hasn’t looked at you yet, far too focused on what's in front of him.

You watch the way his hands move, careful, exact, fingertips stained faintly with ink and whatever he was picking at earlier. There's something oddly admiring about it, like this is a ritual and not a bad habit.

Your throat is almost dry when you ask, “Are you gonna offer me some or just have me watch you?”

He lets out a small laugh, still not glancing up. “Didn’t think you wanted any.”

“You thought wrong.”

That gets his attention.

He lifts his head. He’s got that same old hollow-eyed stare that you’ve grown to love. You wonder if he hears his own heartbeat the same way you do, like a ticking time bomb, like it’s always something that's about to go off.

“Fine,” he says, lips curling faintly into what seems like a smile. “Your choice.”

You crawl toward the edge of the bed, your elbows on your knees now. The mirror is laid between you. He rolls up a bill, the edges almost ripped. You wonder how many hands it's been on before his.

You lean in. He watches, of course he does. You feel his eyes on you like pressure, like gravity. And even though it’s your first time, you don’t hesitate. The last thing you’d wanna do is hesitate in front of him.

You snort a line. It hits sharp and dry and bitter. A noise comes from your throat, a half-cough, half-whimper. Your head snaps up and he’s trying to hold back a laugh, a genuine one.

“Good girl,” he says, and wipes under your nose with the rough pad of his thumb.

You hate the way your stomach flutters at such simple words. Hate the way your thighs press together without meaning to. Like your body’s already answering him before your brain has time to actually catch up.

He snorts his line next, and for a moment, both of you just exist. In the silence. In the chemical fizzing you feel under your skin. Everything is too bright, too sharp, too much, and it’s beautiful.

The ceiling breathes. Your bones buzz against your skin. And when you blink at him, slow and unfocused, he’s already moved closer to you, your knees brushing.

His fingers slip around your ankle, then glide up your shin like it’s casual, like it isn’t the first time he’s touched you today.

“You feel it?” he asks, almost quiet.

You nod too quickly, dazed. “Yeah.”

He hums. “You’re pretty like this.”

His hand is resting on your thigh now, under the hoodie, thumb tracing tiny circles near the hem of your underwear. You exhale shakily, not breaking eye contact.

“I’ve been thinking about this all day,” he mumbles. “You. This. How wet you’d be for me with a little coke in your blood.”

Your breath catches in your throat. You’ve never seen him like this.

“You wanna get fucked?” he asks, voice deadpan, like he’s just asking if you want a drink of water. Like it’s the most natural thing in the world to say while cupping your cunt through your underwear.

You nod almost immediately, though.

He smiles, it’s slow and mean and possessive. Like you just handed him something he already knew belonged to him.

“Then lie back.”

You lie back quickly, because why wouldn’t you listen to him?

The hoodie rides up around your ribs as you settle into the mattress, the warmth pulsing through your veins. The fan is seemingly louder, or maybe that’s the sound of your own pulse. His hand is already between your legs, steady and sure, like he’s been waiting his whole life to touch you and now he’s finally allowed.

He pushes your underwear to the side and slips two fingers over your slit, just enough pressure to make your hips twitch, just enough slick to make him smirk at you.

“Fuck,” he mutters, dragging the tips of his fingers along your folds again. “You’re soaked already.”

You arch into it, chasing the friction, and he chuckles under his breath.

“Yeah,” he mumbles to himself. “I knew it’d hit you like that.”

He pulls his hoodie up higher, bunching it right under your arms, and lowers his mouth to your chest. He sucks a mark into the skin just above your breast, hard enough to sting, and your legs fall open wider without meaning to.

You’re buzzing. You feel over-charged. Every brush of his fingertips feels electric and amplified, like your nerve endings have bloomed out just for him. You whimper when he pushes a finger inside you, and he shushes you, but keeps going.

He’s watching your face like it’s a mirror, watching every twitch and every shift in your face. When he adds another finger, curling them up until your back arches, you hear yourself moan his name, soft and cracked.

He fails to hold back a low groan in his throat. “Say it again.”

“Dylann,” you breathe. “Please-”

“Yeah?” He’s dragging his mouth up your stomach, nipping along your ribs, until he’s over you again, face close. His fingers don’t stop. “What are you begging for?”

You blink up at him, pupils blown, lips parted.

“You. I want you.”

He bites your jaw, not hard, just enough to make you gasp. Then he’s up, already fumbling with his belt, and you watch the way his hands shake, not from being scared, but from urgency. As if he’s starving for you. You see it in the way he stares at you, all teeth and hunger and heat. The coke’s made him possessive, more than usual, like something animal has replaced him.

He pushes his jeans down, cock already hard, tip slick. He gives himself one slow stroke, eyes never leaving yours, barely blinking.

And then he pushes in slowly at first, not teasing, but in a deliberate way. Like he wants to feel every inch of you stretching around him. Like he’s memorizing you.

You gasp, your head pressing back into the pillow, legs twitching. It’s really too much, the coke, the pressure, the slow ache of being filled and somehow not enough, all at once.

“Fuck,” he groans, voice breaking.

Your fingers tangle in the sheets below you, then move to his hair. You don’t know where to put them actually. You feel like your body’s unraveling, every nerve is on fire. You feel full, raw, open.

He stills, buried deep, and looks at you. Eyes searching, pupils blown out and wild. “You okay?”

You nod, it’s barely there, but just enough to keep him moving.

He draws his hips back, slow and smooth, and then pushes back in deep. The motion drags a broken sound from your throat.

“You’re perfect like this,” he murmurs. “Like you were made for me.”

Then he starts to actually move this time.

Long, grinding thrusts that build heat and pressure and it makes you really only able to focus on the feeling of him inside you, the sound of the creaking bed, your panting breaths that feel like they aren’t actually reaching your lungs.

“God, listen to that,” he groans, voice frayed. “You hear how wet you are for me? You hear that?”

You do. It’s practically impossible to ignore.

It’s obscene. The messy sound of skin on skin, of your cunt clenching around him every time he bottoms out. Your clit throbs untouched. You arch your back, hips rolling up to meet his, chasing more friction, more pressure.

And he gives it.

His rhythm changes, it’s faster now, rougher, until your thighs are trembling and your eyes are rolling back into its skull. One of his hands grips your hip so tight you know it’ll bruise for later. The other finds your throat again, fingers spread delicately over the pulse that races impossibly fast under your skin.

“You want to come?” he asks, panting.

You nod. Desperately. But he doesn’t let up, he keeps fucking you hard and steady, dragging you to the edge with every thrust.

“Say it.”

“Please- Dylann, I need to-”

“Say who you belong to.”

“You, fuck- I’m yours, I’m yours, please-”

His thumb finds your clit and presses down, rubbing tight circles, just barely enough until your legs kick out and your breath snaps into a sob.

That’s when you come.

It tears through you, hot and endless. You spasm around him, squeezing, as your body jerks under his. You moan his name, over and over, like a prayer, your voice almost barely a voice at all.

He doesn’t stop. Not even when you start to twitch.

“Yeah,” he pants, thrusts getting messier. “Just like that. You’re made for this.”
He pulls your hips up, angles deeper, and you feel every inch, every grind of bone and skin. Your body’s limp, but your walls still flutter around him, your clit still aching, so sensitive you flinch every time he brushes against you.

“You can take it,” he mutters. “You always do. You’re mine. You love when I fuck you dumb like this.”

You do. You love it even when it burns. Especially when it burns.

He’s close now, his thrusts becoming sharp and erratic, his breath caught in his chest. He leans in, buries his face in your neck, groaning, and ruts into you with desperate finality.

“You want me to come in you?” he asks, breath catching in his throat like it hurts to speak.

You nod, already beyond breathless. “Yes—please, inside. I want it. I want you.”

His face twists like it breaks him to hear that. And then he comes with a quiet, desperate sound, not a growl, not a moan, but something small and cracked. Like it took him by surprise. Like your words flipped a switch inside him.

His hips jerk once, then again, and he spills into you with a desperate, broken sound. You feel it, the warmth flooding inside you, the twitch of his cock, the helpless shiver that rolls through him. And then he just slumps down.

He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t move.

His full weight sinks onto you, forehead pressed to your shoulder, arms moved to wrap too tight around your ribs. You’re still full of him, your legs sticky and shaking, your head spinning with too much everything, but his breath is the loudest thing in the room. It’s rough, hitched, almost like he’s trying not to cry.

He doesn't say anything for a long time.

No cocky remarks. No incoherent praises. Just his breath, and his arms tightening around you as the seconds pass by.

His cock seemingly softens inside you, but he doesn’t move. Doesn’t even try.

You thread your fingers into his hair, and he leans into the touch like he’s still starving for it.

“Don’t go anywhere.”

“I wasn’t planning to, idiot.”

Chapter Text

It wasn’t the first time you’d caught him. You knew this wouldn’t be the last time either.

Eric had never cared enough to even lie properly about it all. A long glance at a girl, the faint smell of perfume that wasn’t yours lingering on him. The first time he cheated, you told yourself it was fine. That he came back to you and felt bad and that because of that it didn’t matter.

But as time went on, it happened again and again until it was almost something normal between the two of you. You still stayed anyways though, Eric was all you had.

Your parents never saw you and only spoke to you to argue. Friends were never something you had and also something you gave up on long ago. Eric was the only person who really noticed you. Even though he was cruel at times and uncaring, it was better than nothing.

But this time, you really couldn’t just ignore it.

You stood outside his car in the school parking lot, the cold of the evening making you stand there with your arms crossed. Eric was leaning against the hood, mirroring your stance. He looked annoyed already, like he was bored of the conversation before it even started.

“You think I don’t hear shit, Eric?” You spoke, voice shaking with more emotion than what you wanted it to. “People talk. People see you. You don’t even care to hide it anymore.”

A short, sharp laugh came from his lips. The kind that was almost mocking. “Jesus Christ. Here we go again.”

“I’m not crazy!” You continued, the look he gave you made your throat hurt and the words you spoke didn’t help at all. “You know I’m not making this up. Why can’t you just be honest with me?!”

Eric shifted, his eyes rolling at your words. “What the hell do you want me to say? That I’m fucking around? I am. Are you happy now?”

The bluntness of his words almost knocked the air out of your lungs like a punch to the gut, even though you already knew it. You only blinked at him, arms tightening around yourself.

“Why me, then?” You spoke. “Why do you keep me around then?”

For a split second, his expression softened. Then, a smirk tugged at his mouth. “Because you’ll always be here.” He spoke simply. “You don’t go anywhere. No matter what.”

The words hurt worse than you thought.

He pushed himself off the car, brushing past you like the conversation was already over. “Don’t be so dramatic,” He muttered, “You’ll get over it.”

But you didn’t move. You stood frozen still, your heart dropping into your stomach at the realisation of his words. He was right, you never left. You always came back and you both know that.

You didn’t say anything else. You just turned, walking off into the parking lot, and this time you knew you wouldn’t come back to him.

The walk home felt longer than normal, all you could focus on was your thoughts, they were louder than ever and it was all you could focus on.

His words kept replaying in your head. It was pathetic, really.

You hated how true it was. Hated that you had no one else to turn to. Eric was the single thread holding you together, even though he was horrible. And yet, you still felt like you needed him, like some pathetic dog waiting at the door.

Your house was dark when you walked inside, it felt empty. Your parents were probably asleep or too wrapped up in their own arguments to notice you. The silence was loud, deafening almost, which didn’t help you one bit.

You went straight to your room, locking the door. The air smelled of dust and your desk light painted the room a soft yellow. It was safe, familiar, but not enough to make you forget about the hollow feeling in your stomach.

You dropped your bag by the door, sitting down on the edge of your bed. You hoped that maybe tomorrow he would apologise, but you knew he wouldn’t.

You laid back on your bed, staring blankly up at the ceiling. You stared up at the ceiling until your eyes hurt.

You thought about the girls who’d you hear about in whispers. About the way Eric laughed with them while walking, the same grin you thought only you got to see. About how easy it was for him to not care, but you swore he did before this all started.

Your chest ached so badly it felt almost dangerous, like something was physically hurting you. You pressed your hands to your chest, but that didn’t help.

The silence grew unbearable. You curled up into your side, pulling your knees to your chest, and let the tears you’ve been holding back finally happen.

The thought was small at first, then became louder until it was the only thing you could think of. Maybe there was another way to stop the cycle.

You didn’t push it away this time. Not tonight.

You finally sat up, shakily reaching for the drawer at your desk. You held onto the handle for a good while, before finally opening it.

Inside laid the thing you swore you were gonna throw out some day. The blade you thought about far too often.

Your hands were surprisingly steady, as if you were calm. A strange peace washed over you with the blade in your hand, even though your throat was sore and your eyes burned from the tears.

You moved quickly. You didn’t care to write a note or back out last second because this was it.

And that was the end.