#This has been corrupting my brain for so long

[murderandcoffee]

I know, I know. Lyssa needs an alignment as well (She recently split)

👁️👁️

congratulations, you have been assigned…

🕸 THE WEB 🕸

and

🪳 THE CORRUPTION 🪳

enjoy your new allegiance!

(send me a 👁--or 👁👁 if you want two!--and I’ll roll a d20 on my randomized chart and assign you a fear entity!)

[salamansir]

Posting this before my art program kills it again

The redhead is my OC Kolton Lardenois (he/him)

(Test cover for arc 1 of my webcomic)

[cursedcola]

Prompt: Couples will evidently begin to mimic their better half after some time. What traits do you steal from him, and vice versa? Fandom: Twisted Wonderland Characters: Everyone - because I want to and I’m amidst fleshing out all my Yuu/Character dynamics + designs Format: Headcannons. Masterlist: LinkedUP Parts: Heartslabyul | Savanaclaw | Octavinelle (Here) | Scarabia | Pomefiore | Ignihyde | Diasomnia A/N: Putting all my brain rot from my notes into something cohesive. Contrary to my love for ripping your hearts out, I've come with some fluff this time around. BTW you may or may not already do things mentioned - I write my works with a specific Yuu in mind for each character so this is based on them. Just a reminder.

Habits You Steal:

Bargaining (Inherited AND Developed): No partner of Azul's is a shmuck. Not because of his standards (a little bit), but because you will learn to negotiate through trial and error. Being his pearl does not exclude you from daily verbal tango. He can and will still come after Ramshackle if given the opportunity. What? Just come stay in Octavinelle. He won't even charge for it, and you can bring Grim. He is always three steps ahead. Buying him a present is like the world's most daunting task, because he somehow already knows what's inside the box. Every. Time. Even if you shop a year in advance. Don't even start with arguments. He has a rebuttal for EVERYTHING. There is never a winner, only a settlement because he is so stubborn (and you equally so. Pride is contagious). As adults you're constantly exposed to business deals and sometimes have to deal with handling negotiations. Not to mention people with grudges against Azul attempting to shmooze their way through you. Only to find that you are just as manipulative.

"Pearl, Jade says that our deal with the Bas triplets for the next semester has been renewed? I hadn't scheduled their extension meeting until the first Saturday of next month. Would you have anything to say on this?" <- Long story short, the triplets tracked you down to beg for help in getting out of their work contract with Azul. He was always fair, and they entered willingly. No corruption on his part...but they were hell bent on not working in the kitchens with Floyd anymore. Solution? You managed to shmooze an extra week on their terms, in exchange for not being put on Floyd's shift anymore. Azul is so proud - but don't do that again. You're the one telling Floyd he doesn't get to play 'spot the difference' with the triplets anymore. Not him.

Smell Sensitivity (Developed): Nothing shanks the nostrils like sea brine. No pun intended. Lingering around Octavinelle equates to constantly smelling fish. Most students there come from the coral sea and don't mind it. Others only stop in for a quick bite to eat, and don't stay a moment more. The Mostro Lounge just has a potent smell that can't be found anywhere else. Like McDonald's french fries...but fish. Grim loves it, you now get nauseated when a scented candle is lit.

"Must you pinch your nose? Think of my- Octavinelle's reputation for a moment" <- Azul is brewing a scent masking potion as we speak. You're really hitting his pride here, even if you can't help it.

Glasses Wipes (Developed): Octopunk heats up when you so much as touch him in public. Then his glasses get foggy. If you wear makeup, its smears on his skin (to which he acts unbothered, but we all know it's a ruse). He obviously carries a hankey but having some wipes on hand is a nice gesture. Unnecessary, but sweet-ish.

Refined Pallet (Inherited): The cup ramen and foraged greens just do not cut it anymore. Not when Azul's made a VIP menu over at the lounge just for you. Sure, the place has a variety of options but he'll always get Floyd to cook up whatever you're in the mood for. At a discount (since Grim can eat him out of pocket). Have you ever had 100% dark, sea-salt chocolate imported from the coral sea? Ever tasted it in a rich devil's cake, baked fresh with only the best ingredients? Betty Crocker, who???

"I must say, your diet could still use some work - do not look at me that way. The twins found your hidden stash of instant noodles during our 'occupation' at Ramshackle. Under the stairs, pearl? Really? When was the last time your sodium was checked?"

Aversion to Sea Food (Developed): You will never understand how the Coral Sea students are okay with the Mostro Lounge. Neither what was running through Azul's head when he decided to open a SEA FOOD restaurant. Honestly? Red flag. One you ignored, but still a red flag. The existence of merpeople and therianthropes is still new and novel to you. To each their own, but you can't eat any sea creatures knowing that it could be - no, it can't be? Floyd's always joking that Azul is tasty but...it's just a joke, right?

"As much as Floyd loves to special make your chicken strips with wedges...why do you never order from the public menu? I assure you, Mostro Lounge is supplied with only the highest quality - h-huh? What crazy thoughts are you having?! Honestly!" <- This explains so much. He always thought you stared at the food with envy, because Grim would eat your pocket out and leave you to sip on lemon water. He had to force the special 'vip' meals down your throat at the start. is this why you're so uncomfortable having lunch with Floyd and his weekly Takoyaki binge?

Appraisal (Developed): Ever see those shows where a professional goes around to antique markets, and can point out forgeries, fake gems, etc. by eye? That is Azul. He's a collector of gadgets and gizmos aplenty - anyway. Strolls through antique marts, coin collecting showcases, and other marketing events will undoubtably train the eye over time. No scammer will ever shmooze ya out of house and home. Sorry Sam.

Habits He Steals:

Jacket (Developed): Mermen run cold. The uniform blazer Azul dons is more-so just for show than anything. Clothes are overall a novel concept, since most in the coral sea dress minimalistic (or not at all). The lounge runs quite chilly as well. Not enough to deter customers, but the perfect temperature to get uncomfortable after a few hours. Now Azul has many jealous bones in his body, and would rather drop dead than see one of the leech twins loan out their blazer so you can nap in the back room (they're doing it on purpose). Azul often offers his coat out to you the moment you walk inside - so often, that all the part-time workers know if you're on lot if he's walking without it.

"I need my jacket back, please. Why? N-no particular reason. Do I need an excuse to wear my own clothes?" <- Ruggie - Mostro Lounge's most reliable and simultaneously difficult part timer, mind you - was the first to pick up the correlation. If the VIP lounge was shut, and Azul was out doing quality rounds? It meant you were in the back, and he was in a better mood. The perfect time to sneak a platter unnoticed. Azul must take precautions.

Snitches Get Stitches (Developed): ONE perk of living with ghosts. Honey you get ALL the tea on campus. You just need to butter them up with a game of pranks and it’s ripe for the taking. Now, who do you think is going to make full use of this? Azul. They won’t give it to him directly because it’s more fun to make him frustrated. Which means he has to go through you. *Which means* he gets very crafty in buttering you up for details.

Midnight Hour (Developed): This mainly applies to his adult years. Wherever he goes - business or otherwise - you come with more often than not. As a youth his dealings were important - yes. Yet he was still getting his swimming legs in business and his primary demographic was students. Contrary to his pride, Azul wasn't someone important. Someone actually worth targeting like the Briar Prince. The real world is much more risky. You can help with negotiations and running facilities. You might 'think' he is tossing you into the end zone with all his ambitions...but no. Any dealings with high-stake confrontations are handled only after midnight.

"Two-o-clock in the am hours. That is the latest I can offer - well, it seems we've reached an impasse. This deal clearly is not worth my effort, if such 'accommodations' are beyond your capabilities. Allow one of my partners to escort you off the premises." <- Let's make one thing clear. No contract is ever worth putting you at risk. One twin (usually Jade) will remain at his side, the other (Floyd...because he's honestly not the best for negotiations. More guard dog material, and has fun hanging out with you) back with at the house/hotel. Azul doesn't trust 'anyone', and the Leech family is obviously in business with him. He takes no chances, screw probability, and can't kill the inner control-nerd in him. He's never out past three-am and would rather you feel a bit left out then dead somewhere in the Stillwater.

Land Legs (Developed): Considering he will be on land more for the foreseeable future, Azul puts more effort to building his land legs. Not that he wasn't trying before, but there wasn't any guarantee that he'd be working the land beyond NRC. So with the reassurance that 'something' (someone) will require his attention on shore, he decides to invest the effort. Azul will not get on one of those flying deathtraps past academy years though. He's getting a license and pulling up in a new Bugatti.

Pictures (Inherited): Much to Azul's chagrin, you love photos. Maybe it's because you have little to recall from your own world. Maybe it's because you're in the photography club. Maybe it's because you love his misery - but you are always taking photos. At first he insisted that you never get him in the frame. He hates them. Still does, do not misunderstand...and the idea of someone having so many with him included eats him up. Yet his insistent denials do lessen, and he tolerates them. You cannot post them anywhere. Yet...he will only 'mildly' grimace when looking at them around your house. Only because who the heck is coming over that he hasn't approved of?

"This picture? Ah...that is my dear pearl. They are breathtaking, are they not? I truly am the most fortunate man alive. Ah. My apologies, let's return to discussing the contract terms. May I see your completed punch-card?" <- And because you're in them too. As a youth, he kept your photo on his desk in the lounge. Sometimes a client would ask about you, and he'd lapse for a moment before folding the frame down and out of their view. He'd tuck it away whenever you came around, but would talk to it when alone. About his day, his work, whatever first year came crying because Floyd used them as a dart board - and dare I say that he'd keep a family photo in your later years together. Azul hates pictures of himself, but not as much as he loves ones of you. Look at him. Big softie.

—

"Of course. I have remarkable potential as an instructor, do I not? Is it not a great fortune to have me as one's partner? Take this as a lesson that your boss can influence even the most lost souls." == Azul shows no reservation. The moment he caught two part-timers gossiping about your 'conversion' to the 'dark side'. Why, he was positively beaming. His grin wide with a touch of something sinister. Gossip is fine, but they should know better than to do so in his den. Anything noteworthy would undoubtably reach his ears with time, but oh was it a joy to watch them squirm. Honestly. They're fortunate that he's in such a good mood - what was intended to be slandering has just made his day. They're still getting put on shift with Floyd though. He's merciful, yet no martyr.

Habits you steal:

Foraging (Inherited): You are always looking around for plants to propagandize. It's like stealing but not - because Crowley doesn't have any 'rules' about it so...heh. Free food. Jade's a living encyclopedia when it comes to botany and agriculture. He's the whole reason you've got a mini apothecary going in the kitchen and that instant-noodle stash got amped up in flavor. What? you ever add some fresh mushrooms and green onions to that instant chicken yakisoba? Mwah. The mountain lover's club needs to look out, 'cause the Ramshackle Prefect is about to bleed campus dry for every last specimen.

Yapping (Developed): Spinning off the above 'route'. Many people think Floyd's the talkative twin. Nah. This motherf*cker does NOT shut up. He treats you like his second conscience, asking questions he doesn't expect to be answered and giving commentary like your own personal narrator. Who needs thoughts when he literally says everything before you can think it? Floyd salutes you - 'cause finally. Finally, it isn't him subjected to Jade's inner spiels. Sorry Shrimpy, you are a sacrifice he's willing to make. If you ever break up or fight with Jade - Floyd's going to hunt you down - he can never go back. Never.

On a side note, you're an excellent listener now.

Tea (Inherited): Do you hate tea? No you don't. Not Jade's tea. There isn't much to comment on here, other than you will develop a taste for his Atlantic Twice-Seeped Water-Lily brew. You'll be craving it every night if ever sent back to our world (as if that'll happen). Mixed with honey from the Afterglow Savannah and served in a baby-blue ceramic cup that has a shimmer handle. That's your mug, by the way. He has other brews...some improvised and caution is indeed extended. They're tasty for the most part though.

“Ah, just smell that aroma. I developed this blend made just for you, my dear. I’m not one to seek out sweet floral notes for my tea, yet this flavor is an acquired taste that pulls you in for more. I finish the cup without realizing each time” -> Jade can be sweet himself, when he wants to be.

Wearing gloves (Developed): Jade makes you touch weird shit. All the time. Unprompted. He also makes you eat weird shit, but more often than not you can escape by shoveling his experiments onto someone he can get a more interesting reaction out of. Classically condition him not to feed you the weird shit by being unresponsive - off topic. Point is that with his obscene collection of terrariums? Plus being pulled along for foraging quests? You will be touching unknown and possibly poisonous plants, bugs, dirt, maybe some aquatic creatures like toads and fish. For all that is good, keep a pack of rubber gloves in your schoolbag. Keep a pair of insulated leather gloves in your breast pocket at all times too. Hand Sanitizer as well. Who knows when you’ll be elbow deep in murky water riddled with mysterious rainbow moss. What makes it rainbow? You don’t know and Jade won’t say. He does quip that it changes colors with emotions. Screw Twisted Wonderland and it’s freakish botany.

“Oh my, would you look at that vibrant shade of purple. Why are you so frightened? These are meant to be happy ‘bonding’ times for us as a couple, isn’t that what you said? Fufu - oh. Hurry up and put it in this jar. You’ll ruin the sample at this pace,” <- In truth, Jade saw red blooming at the edges of the moss and called quits before your nerves turned to anger. Fear? Amusing. Especially since you have more harmful ‘house plants’ growing on the mantle back at your dorm. Curtesy of Jade himself, of course. Azul doesn’t let him store his more precarious collection in Octavinelle and what you don’t know won’t hurt you. Yet he won’t push the jokes too far, since so few ever come out foraging with him. No no. He needs you to continue as a willing participant. Don’t get angry at him just yet, there are still so many places to explore and the day is young!

Doppelgänger Paranoia (Developed): The Leech twins tried to pull that shit where they swapped places for a day. Therefore you are now freakishly paranoid of Floyd trying to take Jade’s place to pull a prank. It is no help that Floyd is insanely good at mimicking his brother and vice versa. Sure, you could make a keyword or ask Jade to wear something special as a give away. Mark him. Maybe make an excuse of it being a thing human couples do and stick a pin on his lapel. Yet there isn’t a guarantee that he won’t just let Floyd in on it to see what happens. He’s a jerk like that, but your jerk nonetheless.

“Your caution is entertaining, and I do find all this extra attention flattering. Yet there are more taxing worries to mull over, wouldn’t you agree? Surely I’ve earned enough trust to circumvent any doubts in that mind of yours?” -> Do you know that the twin-swap was just a one time trick? Probably not. Doing it again would be boring with no novel results, but Jade does love watching you squirm with suspicion. He’ll offer an assurance eventually, and it will be your call to believe him or not. Until then? He has no problem being under your watchful eye. It’s quite cute, after all.

Habits he steals:

Grammar Control (Developed): Purely to piss you off. Coming from another world - your dialect isn't exactly the same as everyone in Twisted Wonderland. There are region specific languages, and then there is the common tongue. For simplicities sake, let's just say that everyone in TWST can speak common tongue and transferring over gave you this ability. Except (like Epel) you carry a heavy accent - and Jade loves to play grammar police. Your irritation never ceases to amuse him. That's right. He's the train kid from the 'Polar Express'. Just less nasal.

“Let’s try to capture that illusive letter ‘R’, shall we? You don’t want to give onlookers any more ammunition as a respectable prefect.”-> Says the only person using this as ammunition, except for Ace when he gets really snappy and Riddle’s mild cringe when your accent butchers a toast at the Unbirthday party. At this point you’re hearing ‘red leather, yellow leather’ and ‘mark went on a lark after dark’ in your sleep.

Routes (Developed): Another one with the need to have a bit of control. Just a bit. Get ready to roll out of bed at the ass-crack of dawn, because he will be there at five-am sharp to haul you back to Octavinelle (or on a hike. Saturday's only). Isn't it a human custom to stick close to your partner? He's just making sure you're cared for. Which is why you exist attached to his hip most days

Symbiosis 1 (Developed): Only a mild-note for Jade. His brother, noted below, takes this concept more to heart. Jade uses it as an enhancing factor to an already “well-rounded” relationship. The law of the sea dictates that those stronger will enter a ‘pact’ with weaker creatures - protection in exchange for care. You are not in need of protection with that frosh posse and stubborn head of yours. Jade mostly uses this ‘symbiotic relationship’ as a way to get you to do things for him, and to talk down your impulsive behaviors from time to time. Aka you won’t create excessive trouble if it means he feels ‘bound’ to go with (as if he wouldn’t be overjoyed to get in some chaos)

Observation (Developed?): Jade...knows everything about you. It's infuriating (to you, not him), but you are still a potential client regardless of his personal interest. Hobbies, tastes, your worst and best subject, weaknesses -all categorized. Azul and his business come first. Yet you're the only student on campus that has a 'doctored' file. Why?

“I never realized you are adverse to crowds. Yet you handle navigating Night Raven with no difficulties? Is this a mere preference, or would you prefer to find somewhere quiet while I accompany the others? What do you need?” -> (During Playful Land Event) He can't get the finer details without asking questions. There is no source for information about your world or your person other than your word of mouth. His unique magic would be easy - but it's just one question. One, and you might be too resilient for a response. Where's the fun? What makes this a habit is that Jade's keen eye becomes sharper.

Ramshackle (Developed): Bro just moved in. I’m serious. He got permission by pulling a favor. Azul doesn’t let him keep the more precarious plants in Octavinelle, so Jade has overtaken the kitchen with potted flora and fungi. Floyd is enthusiastic that he doesn't have to share a room - what? Twins don't always stick together. Those two probably fight more than they get along. Plus with Jade at Ramshackle it's an excuse to go see what's up with Shrimpy and maybe play with torture the little freshies you hang around with. It’s chapter three but you aren't booted out and have to deal with both Leeches every day. Seven preserve you.

—

“I let my excitement get the better of me for a moment…please, continue as if I am not here. My apologies.” == How rare for Jade’s mask to slip in front of his underclassmen. He was able to brush it off - giving a fib about his clubs upcoming excursion (not entirely untrue. He is excited to go for a hike with you this weekend). Yet the normally dull gossip of his dorm-mates was too much to bare. Not because your changes are becoming more pronounced, but because these little fish are foolish enough to think it’s making him soft. Enough to gossip so blatantly in his earshot? Gods, they make his job much too easy.

Habits you steal:

Leering (Inherited): Floyd...oh dear. He has this habit of staring holes into the back of your head. Anyone's head, really. His presence is intimidating, and it's hard not to pick up what’s going on in his head. There's a catch to this though. You only leer at other people when he isn't around. Too busy with the man in question to bother 'people-watching' (unless you're actually pissed). Riddle is constantly on edge now because he has TWO people giving him the heebee-jeebies. Prefect, it was bad enough you were taking influence from ADeuce. Now the Leech brothers? Well, he'd still take you over Floyd any day. At least you won't try to act on that unsettling aura...yet.

“Somethin’ on my face?…why’re you staring at me like that? Unless you want my attention? Hehe, ya shoulda just said so!” <- Floyd can do it to you, but you can’t to him. Not unless you want to be suplexed and squished tightly for hours on end.

Impulse actions (Inherited): Chaotic energy anyone? Floyd needs a partner who is one of two things - can kick his ass on occasion so he'll play nice, or who will match his freak. Since matching the strength of a Moray Eel isn't something most humans can do? Well, maybe a bitch slap here or there but be aware he is letting it happen. Just know. Better be playful too, not no actual challenge. Point being- you need to match his freak. No buzz-kills.

“Ne Ne~ Yanno, I’ve never seen those super fancy fireworks you land people like to set off. Wanna go get some and rig the - eh? You already got them?….Hahaha Shrimpy’s getting gutsy. I’m so happy” -> His eyes are practically glowing with anticipation. You’re now Azul's third headache 1000%, someone get that man an Asprin.

Snacks (Developed): Floyd can EAT. The only one with a stronger appetite is Jade, but he has a better control over his hunger. While their bodies changed to look human, their appetites did not decrease. Going with ‘symbiosis,’ Floyd gets a bit needy and talks like you’re his internal clock. Jade’s the yapper but Floyd just expects you to know what he needs. So you will always be carrying a selection of snacks (Grim gets in on this) in your bag/purse. Also fidget toys. Not for eating, but to give him when you’re stuck anywhere particularly boring. Props if you can somehow get a two-in-one with the twisted wonderland equivalent of those Air Heads Pull-Aparts.

Lullaby and Goodnight (Developed) : Instant calming effect. Merfolk are very particular with music and are sensitive to vocals. Floyd in particular is super picky. You could be the worst singer on the planet (Floyd will give you half-assed lip for it if you are, in all fairness) but the easiest way to calm him down is with music. It’s cringey and unrealistic to us land-folk but there’s plenty of singing in Atlantica. So humming a soft lullaby for him while sitting together won’t earn any looks in Octavinelle. Unless you sound awful, to which he will punt anyone that speaks out. Not that they would, since a calm Floyd is a godsend no matter the means achieved.

“Did I say you could listen in, hah? Sounds to me like someone’s in the mood for ‘my’ kinda song….don’t move, Shrimpy. This’ll be quick.” <- Good or bad - doesn’t matter. Getting to hear you is Floyd’s privilege. He’s a bit possessive of it, to be frank. So if someone butts in when he’s in the middle of calming down, Floyd’s going to be pissed to the max.

The Little Mermaid (Inherited): Drags you down to the sea at every opportunity. Don’t fight him, just guzzle the vomit-inducing potion and get a move on. Floyd doesn’t care how much a mer-transfiguration potion costs, Azul can take care of it. Floyd hates being restrained to dry land, and hey. He’s up here, so it’s only fair you go down into the sea trenches too. Don’t worry, he won’t take you anywhere too dangerous. He’ll even teach you how to get your sea legs - fish legs? Look. He teaches you how to swim in your mer-form, which he is severely disappointed does not resemble a shrimp.

Habits he steals:

Phone Privileges (Developed) : Floyd’s cellphone is normally in DND mode at all times. The only exceptions are Azul and his Momma - Jade was one too up until they came to dry land. There’s only so many mushroom photos and long voicemails about random crap that Floyd can take. Oh - and you’re an exception now. He saves all your voicemails - some for callbacks to win arguments and others to play when he’s about to sleep. You just better be careful when you call him and what for, also always pick up if he calls you. Otherwise there’s going to be one angry eel lurking by your bedroom window. With ‘first-contact’ privileges, all the unflattering candid pics he has of you are just a click away from being shared if he feels like it (teases but wouldn’t do it. Well, unless you really are ignoring him. Be warned)

Using F*cking Doors(Inherited) : Yes. Yes, you read that right. Floyd loves to parkour across campus. The amount of times he’s snuck into Ramshackle through that tiny circle window in the attic is frustrating. You’re seriously considering bolting the thing shut if it keeps him off the roof and on the ground. Y’know, for someone who can’t fly a broom? He sure has no problem climbing brick walls with his bare hands like some kinda cockroach. A Leech cockroach. Jamil’s worst nightmare good god. After the sixth-or-so heart attack, Floyd’s not allowed anywhere near Ramshackle if it’s not through the front door. The ghosts have strict instructions to punt him…to which he took as a challenge (because of course he did). Until a window was smashed, and you sent hellfire down upon him.

“I said it was an’ accident! What more do you want from me, huh? It’s your fault anyway for sicking those ghost fish on me - Urk…fiiine. I’m sorry or whatever” <- Always will back down the moment you come across as genuinely pissed. Usually with a grunt and hiss under his breath, kicking his foot before stalking off to cool down for a bit. Always fixes whatever he broke or tries to make amends once his mood is less sour.

Symbiosis II (Developed): Paired with the above 'match his freak' and second rendition of Jade's. Except Floyd is 100% serious. Floyd's going to do right by you, but you've got to do right by him. People are going to wonder why the small-pint prefect is sitting here covering one of bro's shifts (they feared for your life when you basically told him to 'fuck off', knowing he was angry after getting scolded by Azul) but that's how it is. Floyd's symbiosis is different than Jade's. He's more impulsive, yet also more predictable with what he needs. The definition of "no one can tell me to do shit except my spouse" 'cause symbiosis is a mutual respect and trade. No one can pick on you except for him. No one can help you the way he does. He is not going anywhere. Ever. Bonded for life - that kind of ‘sappy shit’.

"I already said I don't wanna... ughhh, babysitting those frosh fishies is so booooring. Can't we just ask Azul to lock 'em in a tank or somethin'?.... ALRIGHT, Little Shrimpy. I get it already so stop yammering in my ear...." <- Floyd's the softer brother, if you can believe that. Acts of service are what get him and he thrives on being needed. So you'll be doing it a lot to earn that compliance from him. Be the iron fist that gets him to back down, and simultaneously the one slipping him a few party poppers to set off at one of Heartslabyul's tea-parties as a reward.

The ✨Fashion✨ (Developed) : Surface-world fashion is one of Floyd’s special interests. Oddly enough? You’re a perfectly-sized dress up doll. It’s cute how large his shoes are in comparison to your feet. Hah! You look like a clown clobbering around in those things. He 100% gives you a pair of light up sneakers that sparkle when you walk - makes it easier to find you in crowds. Not that he needs to. Mostly it’s just for fun. He’ll even get a matching pair so you don’t feel zeroed out.

VIP Menu (Developed) : Floyd has a ‘secret’ menu over at the Mostro Lounge. He’s the head cook, don’t ya know? Makes real tasty dishes. C’mon, praise him. He’ll add a few dishes just for you since you’re so picky - that’s a bad trait to have for a broke Shrimp by the way. Good thing he’s around to make sure you’re eating.

“Oi! I told ya that was for you. If the lil’ seal’s hungry he can get somethin’ off the menu on his own…unless he’s lookin’ for a squeeze?” <- One major gripe Floyd has with Grim is how he’s always mooching off your plate. It’s fine if Azul’s picky with his food, cause that’s Azul. You’re different ‘cause in Floyd’s mind responsible for you. Again. He takes the symbiosis thing more seriously than Jade, and will poke your cheek relentlessly and comment if it’s lost it’s squish. He always serves you something to eat, even if you don’t order. Doesn’t let anyone else prepare it either.

Protective (Developed) : At the risk of sounding like a broken record, Floyd is very attentive. He’s clingy as hell and always looking for an excuse to have a good tussle - you’re his favorite person to screw with. Yet only himself, Azul, and Jade get the green card to look at you with anything other than respect. Cause he knows they don’t mean it - and even your little freshman buddies don’t get a pass. Maybe the seal since Floyd could squish Grim like a grape and he knows it. Leona’s almost gotten many challenges for the whole ‘herbivore’ thing.

—

“ ‘s nice, right? What’s better than one of me? Two, hah! Jade might have my face but now Shrimpy’s got my personality” == Finds the situation funny for like, an hour? Maybe two? Doesn’t matter because ‘Shrimpy is Shrimpy’ - plain as that, really. He gets more joy out of teasing people when they find out you’re with him. As if Floyd gives two sh*ts what other people think? Nah.

[xazse]

hiii pookie I LOVED your hybrid post like it got me foaming from the mouth ngl 🫶 you're so talented!!

If you're into it, can we get cowhybrid! reader and Farmer!Gojo specifically please and thank you? I need to see the reader all needy and desperate and Gojo being the only one who can truly give her release and and what she truly needs (feel free to remix or add anyone/anything that you please)

If you're not into it, please ignore this ask instead of refusing because I get embarrassed hihi🎀🫶 anyways mwah mwah love u take care pookie

ANOTHER TRY?

Notes: THANK YOU FOR THE COMPLIMENTS IM GLAD YOU ENJOYED MY WORK!!! and to the second ask I’m very happy you requested that bull!hybrid work lLOVEDDD WORKING ON IT!! You guys are so creative I need to eat ur brain!!! THIS IS FOR ALL THE OTHER PEOPLE WHO HAVE BEEN ASKING FOR A PT2 I SEE YOU GUYS!!! (IF UR READING THIS TO MY OTHER INBOX OFC YOU CAN BE 🪬 ANON!!)

Pairings: CowHybrid!Reader x Farmer!Gojo

Warnings: Lactation + big!boobedReader + implied chubby!reader + nipplesucking + grinding + mean!Satoru + pussy!slapping + teasing.

Gojo has spoiled you for far too long it makes his blood boil and temples wrinkle when you continue to go see Toji and Suguru, it becomes a habit for you to come back in the early mornings after having a night of “fun.”

Confronting said men proved to be so fucking useless, they just laughed in his face when he said he’d kick both of them to the curb should they continue to corrupt you.

“You need us Satoru, why are you allowed to have your nightly routines but she cant? It was gonna happen eventually.” Tojis face was decorated with a fat sneer, all those times he tried to make sure you stayed as far as possible were all for naught, it’s hilarious seeing him seething behind a cool facade.

“Never knew what Toji seen in the woman but now I completely understand his point.” Suguru yelled from where he was transporting some wood.

Talking to them proved to be useless, as a little payback he made them clean the shed from top to bottom.

Trudging back to the main house in his thick boots Satoru comes to face you relaxing on the couch without a damn care in the world.

Why is he trying to get them to be on his level when he should be punishing you, you’re the one who didn’t listen, you’re the one sneaking out every night. He doesn’t know why he feels this hold on you, you’re such a beautiful girl that he can’t help but keep you in this small bubble.

When your eyes land on him you don’t say any kind of greeting, simply ignoring his presence for the movie on the huge ass tv he bought for you and eating the expensive food he bought for you.

You look extremely good right now, your fat boobs not swollen, but your pretty lips are. Satoru won’t say it but his pants tighten at the thought of what they do to you.

He needs you right now, he’ll make it up to you as much as he can.

He approaches you calmly and collected, sitting down at the edge of the couch where your legs are propped up, you still don’t acknowledge him. His trained hands start circling on your soft supple skin, you surprisingly don’t push him away. You give Satoru an inch he’ll take a mile.

He starts groping your thighs, the pudgy things hold within the creases of his hand. He pushes your thighs apart and gets a good look at your panties: you always choose to walk around the house like this.

They’re extra tight the way they emphasize your fat pussy, the groan that slips from his lips aren’t-something he tries to hold back, he needs you to know how much he wants you, especially wants you all to himself.

The rise and fall of your chest makes you look so cute, why are you so shy all of a sudden? You’re averting your eyes as well.

Satoru starts teasing your clothed folds, dragging his thick finger up and down, he pushes extra hard on your clit eliciting a small moan from you. He continues this for a little, he needs you wet to take him properly.

He peels off your soddened panties and positions himself above you, finally face to face with you. Your boobs are the first thing he attacks, pulling on your shirt and letting them spill out, the little droplets of milk call to him. He’s grabbing one and putting it into his mouth: he loves your taste so sweet like honey as it cascades down his throat so smoothly.

“Nghm… Toru..” finally you’ve decided to grace him with your sultry voice.

He bites down a little on your nipple making you jump away. He reels you right back in and sucks even harsher, there’s barely any milk left but he’s going to make sure he gets his full.

“Toru.” You call his name so panicked and yet you’re grinding against his fully hard cock. He’s so desperate in the moment that he unbuckles his belt and lets his cock bob free.

His fat tip prods agaisnt your folds, messing with your sticky wetness, he smears it on his tip even grinding down on your clit, but he doesn’t put it in, you don’t deserve that.

He teases you, pretending he’s going to give you what you want just to take it all away.

“Please…” a harsh and loud smack is delivered straight to your clit, you yelp and buckle your legs closed.

“Shirt, take your shirt off.” He commands, of course you’re gonna listen, Satoru has never taken that tone with you.

Your boobs now freely spill for him to gaze at. He spreads your legs back open.

“I’m gonna give you ten slaps, close your legs for even one I’m restarting. Understood?” You nod and your ears move along with it. He likes this look on your face: confusion, arousal and a little bit of fear.

On the first slap you make the mistake of shutting your legs closed: completely an accident but he’s having none of it, he hits your little clit again and again.

“Ahn..” you’re still so fucking wet by the sixth slap, creating a nasty mess that drips to your ass. Gojo’s cock is still throbbing, he jerks himself off, smearing his pre all over.

By the tenth slap you’re gone, completely dazed and only able to whine outloud, he decides that you’ve had enough with the tears that sit on your eye line. He pushes your legs back and lines his weeping tip. The feeling of sliding into your sopping wet cunt is better than any pussy he’s ever had.

His strokes against you are fast even though he should be letting you adjust, the sounds of skin against skin meeting each other is downright lewd.

He tells you to rub your nipples, it adds so much more stimulation that you can’t find it in you to hate it.

His cock drags agaisnt your walls over and over, till you can’t feel anything but the sensitivity of your nipples and the twitching of his fat cock.

He fucks you like that all night, even when you’re meant to meet Toji and Suguru, you can’t stop creaming around farmer Gojos length and nor do you want to.

[spikedfearn]

Heavy Lies The Crown

Chapter I

Sir Jimmy Crystal x fem!reader

summary: Decades after the Rage Virus devastated the UK, the infected have thinned but the world remains lawless and brutal. You’ve been surviving on your own until you’re captured by patrols from a notorious compound hidden in the Scottish Highlands: Eden. Its soldiers are strange—clad in random mismatched tracksuits, long blonde hair hanging tangled and wild like heathen halos, each armed with beautifully maintained bows. Silent. Precise. Unsmiling.

And then there’s their leader. Sir Jimmy Crystal. A gold-chained, tiara-wearing, crushed velvet zip-up psycho with a God complex thicker than his drawl. He doesn’t want to kill you. He intends to keep you.

wc: 6.3k

a/n: So I started absolutely gooning for Jimmy from the moment he drawled “ugh fuckin’ geaux” in the ninety seconds of screentime he has and now here we are. And if you came to shame, save your breath—I already talked about the discourse around him here. My k-hole tracksuit cult-leading princess lives rent-free in my brain, and I’m charging him for every second. Stay mad. Stay wet. Stay blessed. Now ugh—fuckin geaux. Big shout out to @amaranthine-enihtnarama for beta reading, thanks pookie!! NO SMUT in this chapter it's all setup, sorry guys <333

warnings: dark!romance, post-apocalyptic setting, cult dynamics, abduction, forced proximity, authoritarian/power dynamics, God complex, psychological manipulation, ritualistic obedience, choking, breath play, breeding kink, creampie, corruption arc, sexual tension, mentions of blood and decay, mentions of death and violence, intimidation, d/s dynamics, forced bathing, captivity, worship themes, verbal degradation, possessive behavior, choking from behind, unsettling atmosphere, cult rituals, light threat of force, elements of stockholm syndrome, highly charged sexual context, dubcon overtones

likes, comments, and reblogs are always appreciated please enjoy!!

Fic Masterlist/Main Masterlist

Chapter I: Annointed

The air here smells like wet iron and peat. It clings to your throat, heavier with each breath, as if the land itself wants to remind you what’s been spilled on it. A silence rests over the hills—not peace, but the uneasy stillness of something watching. Listening. Holding its breath.

You haven’t seen another living person in days. Weeks? It’s hard to keep track when the sun rises behind a haze of ash and dusk always comes too soon. Even the sky seems starved. The clouds hang low and bruised, heavy with rain that never falls.

The forest stretches ahead like a mouth left open too long. You step lightly. Leaves rot wet beneath your boots. A broken fence curls under moss, the last gasp of an island that once had tidy borders and polite signs. You pass rusted-out trailers on cinder blocks, windshields shattered, doors long gone. The doors always go first. People rip them off in a panic, thinking it’ll help. It never does.

The cold bites through your clothes. Not sharp. Just damp. Soaks into your bones. Makes the ache constant. Your breath ghosts in front of you as you walk, and for a second, you pretend it’s cigarette smoke. You used to hate the smell of it.

Now you’d kill for it.

Your stomach hasn’t stopped making noise. You ignore it. You’ve become skilled at ignoring it, the same way you’ve learned to ignore your own smell, the taste of metal in your mouth, the dull throb in your calves from days of walking with no real destination. You’re looking for food. Shelter. A map. Anything.

You cross a clearing and crouch low in the grass, just like you’ve done hundreds of times before. You survey the landscape: a ruined farmhouse collapsed under its own roof. No movement. No dogs. No smell of death and decay that you've grown almost nose-blind to. Could be safe. Could be worse.

Everything could be worse now.

You move. Cautiously. Deliberately. The earth here is soft and the wind carries no scent—just the musk of damp bark and pine needles. Still, something feels…off.

You pause and tilt your head to listen.

Nothing.

Too much nothing.

Birds don’t sing out here anymore. The ones that do don’t last long. Sound gets you noticed. Attention gets you killed. And this silence is the wrong kind—the hollow kind, as if the trees themselves are waiting for a bloodcurdling scream.

You take another step. A branch snaps beneath your boot. Loud. Too loud. The noise cracks like a warning shot through the quiet.

And that’s when your spine prickles.

Not fear; not yet. Something worse.

Recognition.

You're being watched.

The hair on your arms stands up before your brain can catch up.

You don’t run. You don’t call out. You listen.

The kind of stillness around you isn’t natural. It’s curated. Like someone hit mute on the world.

No birds. No bugs. Not even the soft flit of wind threading through branches. The entire forest has gone tight—drawn taut like the string of a bow, pulled back and trembling, waiting for the moment it breaks.

You slowly lower yourself into a crouch, hand pressed into wet moss. It gives under your palm with a faint squelch, soft and cold and alive with decay. The loamy scent rises up, thick and rich and sharp in your nostrils. Earth and blood smell too close sometimes.

Your heart thuds once, a heavy pulse.

Your fingers curl tighter into the dirt. Grounding. You’ve learned to trust instinct over logic. Instinct kept you alive when logic said the people you loved wouldn’t turn. Instinct taught you how to sharpen a stick into a weapon. How to scavenge rats. How to sleep with one eye open.

Instinct is telling you now: you are not alone.

You shift your weight slowly, inching backward through the brush. One heel catches on a vine. A small sound, but loud enough to make your skin go cold.

Your breath starts to pick up. Not fast. But deeper. Sharper. Your throat feels too open—too vulnerable.

You scan the trees. Nothing.

But the feeling doesn’t go away–it grows.

That same prickle at the back of your neck starts to burn. You can feel eyes. More than one set. You don’t know how—you just do. You feel them drinking you in. Not hungry. Not even curious.

Calculating.

You stand and backtrack carefully toward the collapsed farmhouse, thinking maybe you’ll duck behind the stone wall, find higher ground, get a better vantage point.

You take one step. Another. Then freeze.

Movement. Not in front of you. Beside you.

The sound is barely audible—just the faint rustle of fabric, the smallest crunch of gravel.

Your lungs go tight. Your mouth floods with the taste of copper. Your fingers twitch toward the handle of your rusted blade, tucked beneath your coat. Useless. Too slow. You already know.

Whoever—or whatever—is out here with you? They’ve been watching for longer than you realized.

And they’re close. Too close.

The sound comes first.

It doesn’t ring like a bullet or howl like a holler. It hisses. A sharp, slicing whisper that splits the space beside your filthy cheek and buries itself into the tree behind you with a heavy thock!

You freeze, breath clinging to your lungs.

The bark splinters. Chips rain down against your shoulder. A sliver catches in your collar, warm with friction. You feel it there, resting against your skin—proof that the shot wasn’t a miss.

It was a message.

Your pulse explodes behind your ribs. That thin line of stillness you were standing on? It breaks. Snaps. Shatters.

You wheel around, instinct gripping your limbs. One foot twists in the underbrush. You catch yourself against the tree trunk—the same one the arrow is now buried deep in, vibrating slightly as if it’s still alive. The shaft is black, smooth, and handmade. Fletching dyed dark green. No markings. No blood. Not yet.

You reach for your blade without thinking.

And then you see the second arrow—already drawn.

A figure steps out from behind the trees. Slow. Graceful. Like they’ve had all the time in the world to decide what happens next.

They wear a tracksuit—top unzipped, fabric torn at one sleeve, the color somewhere between piss-yellow and vomit-green. Their hair is long, tangled, hanging in ropes around their face. Their skin is streaked with dirt. Mud along the jaw. Ash on the hands.

And they don’t say a word.

Another shadow moves behind them.

Then another, and another. And another.

One by one, they emerge like ghosts stepping out of the woodwork—blonde, dirty, silent—clad in mismatched tracksuits stained with smoke and rain. Each one armed. Each one watching.

Some hold their bows. Some notched and ready. Others just stand with knives visible at their hips, bone-handled and used.

The archer who fired first tips their head to the side. Curious. Unbothered. Like you’re not a threat. Like you’re already theirs.

You don’t breathe. Your lungs refuse.

Another arrow hisses past you and strikes the ground by your foot. Close enough to kiss your boot.

Still no words.

Just eyes. Watching.

Measuring.

And then one of them smiles, just a little

It’s not warm.

You don’t plan it. You just move.

One moment you’re frozen, breath snagged between ribs, and the next—your muscles snap into motion like a trap springing shut. You pivot on your heel, throw your weight into the turn, and take off into the trees.

Branches slap your face. Mud sprays up the back of your legs. The forest blurs.

You run like you’ve never run before—like the ground might open beneath you if you stop, like air is poison and the only cure is speed. Your lungs seize in protest. Your legs burn. Your heartbeat crashes against your eardrums, a war drum in your skull.

Behind you, the forest doesn’t make a sound.

No shouting. No chase.

Just the sick, humming quiet.

And that’s worse.

Because it means they don’t need to run. They already know where you’re going.

Your boots slip on a slick patch of wet leaves. You catch yourself, barely, skidding through brambles that catch your clothes and tear at your arms. You don’t care. You don't feel it. All that matters is forward. Get to higher ground. Get to somewhere—anywhere—they can’t surround you.

You vault over a fallen log, fingers skimming the mossy bark. The scent of rot is thick in your nostrils. Dead wood. Old things. It clings to you like a second skin.

Somewhere up ahead—there’s a break in the dense canopy of trees. Light, maybe. A clearing. A way out.

You bolt for it, lungs screaming. Every step is thunder in your bones. You don’t look back.

But the air changes again.

A shadow flits past your periphery—too fast to track, too quiet to follow.

Another.

Then—

Crack.

Your foot catches on something taut and hidden beneath the brush.

Not a root.

A snare.

The loop cinches around your ankle, and before you can scream, your body slams sideways into the ground with a sickening crunch. The air punches from your lungs. You taste dirt. Cold. Blood. Pine needles jam under your nails.

Then—snap—a figure descends from the treeline like a wolf from a perch, boots landing heavy in the earth.

You try to scramble. Slip.

A hand grabs your arm.

Another closes around the back of your neck.

Then a voice. The first one you’ve heard.

Low. Calm. Male. Fucking delighted.

“That’s enough now, wee thing. Eden’s got ye.”

The hand at the back of your neck doesn’t squeeze.

It doesn’t have to.

It just settles there, heavy and final, fingers splayed wide like it’s already mapping your bones. It holds you in place—not hurting, not pinning, just claiming. Like you belong on your knees, pressed into the mud, spine curved and breath coming in sharp, humiliated bursts.

You twist. You kick. But the snare’s still wrapped around your ankle, biting into the skin. Any movement pulls it tighter.

You try to reach for your blade.

Another hand wraps around your wrist. This one is colder. Slimmer. It doesn't yank—it just presses, thumb digging in just enough to tell you: don’t.

You look up.

They're all around you now.

Six. Maybe seven. It’s hard to count through the blur of leaves and light and pain, but they stand in a wide circle, mismatched tracksuits streaked with earth and soot, hair hanging in matted ropes, eyes like damp stones. None of them speak.

One of them—barefoot, bow still drawn—grins, flashing a mouthful of decay. Some teeth are rotted through, black at the roots. Others jut out at odd angles, twisted by years without mirrors. One is missing several along the top row, exposing pale pink gums when they smile too wide.

“Slippery wee thing,” someone mutters from behind your shoulder. The one who caught you. The voice is deep. Smooth. Oddly kind.

You flinch when he touches your hair. Just a graze. Fingertips through the strands. It’s not affectionate. Not cruel, either. It’s closer to curiosity. A priest handling a relic.

They murmur to each other in low tones, too quiet to make out. The sound of their voices doesn’t feel like a conversation. It feels like a ritual.

One of them kneels beside you and cuts the snare loose. It snaps back into the undergrowth like a live wire.

You think—now. Move. Fight.

But the blade is already gone from your belt. You don’t even remember the moment they took it.

The realization sinks in slowly that you never had a chance. They weren’t hunting you. They were herding you.

You try to speak. A demand. A threat. A plea.

But all that comes out is a ragged breath and the taste of copper.

One of the archers—an older woman, face half-shadowed by dirt—leans down close enough for you to smell her. Woodsmoke. Sweat. Blood.

“He’s gonna be so pleased with ye.”

You’re cargo.

They move with purpose now.

The man behind you grabs the back of your coat and hauls you upright. Not violently. Just effectively. Like lifting a sack of flour. You stumble, one leg still half-dead from the snare. He steadies you with a hand to your spine, then turns you sharply toward the trees.

“Come along now,” he says, rancid breath hot against your ear. “Wouldn’t keep Him waitin’.”

They don’t blindfold you.

But they might as well.

The forest that follows looks like no place you’ve ever walked before. The path isn't marked—but it’s known. Worn bare by repetition. Sinewy footprints in the muck. Grooves dug into the soil from dragging something—or someone. The trees here lean inward, heavy with damp and time, their bark split and bleeding sap that smells sickly sweet.

The archers fall into formation around you, wordless. You hear their breathing. One whistles tunelessly through a gap in his teeth. Another pulls a long rag from her waistband and begins to wrap your wrists together—not tight, but tight enough.

“There. Now ye don’t get lost.”

The woman smiles. Three teeth. All bottom row.

You walk.

The cold bites deep now, not just into your body, but into your understanding. This is a procession. And you are the offering.

With each step, the terrain shifts—brambles give way to packed soil, then mud, then flattened leaves stamped down by boots. You spot bones underfoot. Clean ones. Stripped bare. Not fresh.

Not all are animal.

Someone carries a lantern ahead of you—oil-burning, the flame shielded by cracked glass. The light it throws is golden but small, and it doesn’t reach far. Enough to see the tracksuits shimmer damply in the gloom. Orange. Burgundy. Baby blue. One glittery purple jacket with rhinestones across the back that read PRINCESS.

It would be absurd if they weren’t so quiet. So coordinated.

So devout.

The deeper you go, the more the woods shift.

There are things hanging from the trees now.

At first, it looks like refuse. Rags. Rope. Plastic. But then you pass beneath one and realize—it’s a tracksuit jacket, tied by the sleeves, dangling like a flag. Faded. Bloodstained. Bullet holes across the front.

Another hangs beside it.

And another.

Rows and rows.

You keep walking. Your stomach clenches. Something between fear and nausea. The woman beside you leans in close as you walk.

“Ye smell good,” she mutters. “He’ll like that.”

Ahead, between the trees, a shape rises out of the fog.

Too square to be natural. Too still. A low wall. A break in the forest. Stone, maybe. Cracked and overgrown but not abandoned. Smoke curls from behind it. Not rising—crawling. Slipping through gaps like it knows how to sneak.

Then you see it—Eden.

Not a village. Not a home. A ruin made sacred by madness.

You’ve reached the edge of something ancient and wrong.

And He is waiting.

They lead you through the gate without ceremony. They don’t speak. They don’t need to. Two archers bracket you like a pair of looming, mismatched statues come to life. One takes your elbow, fingers firm but not brutal, guiding you forward.

The other falls in step just behind your shoulder, close enough that you can feel the faint whisper of hot breath brushing the back of your neck. Together, they move like a single, breathing thing—as if this ritual of capture has been practiced countless times before.

The gate itself is little more than a broken arch of crumbling stone and rusted metal, tangled with ropes and strips of torn tracksuit fabric. You step through it like a witness passing into a holy site. The air inside is different. It’s thicker. Heavier. The smell of damp earth, old wood, and smoky oil threads itself around you.

Your guides do not march. They don’t shove. They don’t drag. They flow, forcing you to match their pace until your body finds its rhythm between theirs. The hand on your elbow doesn’t grip harder when you falter, it merely corrects, a quiet pressure that steers you along the path. The one at your back doesn’t guide with force, but with presence, an overarching warmth that reminds you any move backward would be met with a wall of muscle and sharp steel.

Each footfall becomes an announcement. The sound of your soles scuffing stone is echoed by theirs, precise and orderly. Not a word is exchanged. Not a glance thrown. But every movement feels orchestrated—as if every hand that guides you, every step that matches your own, is serving the same silent god.

They lead you through the gate, and you realize it’s not just an entry. It’s a threshold.

A point where belonging is no longer a choice. A moment where obedience is the only language you’re allowed to speak.

There is no archway. No guard tower. Just two leaning stone pillars draped in mold and rot, bound at the top with torn strips of tracksuit fabric, knotted into fluttering banners that shiver in the breeze. The wind shifts, and the smell hits you like a wet slap—woodsmoke, sweat, burned meat, something sour rotting under it all.

No one says a word as you cross beneath it.

Inside, Eden is...wrong.

Not abandoned,not thriving. Held together by will alone.

Shattered cottages lean against one another like drunkards. Doors hang from rusted hinges. Roofs are patched with sheet metal and broken crates. Every building is bruised and sagging, but still standing—as if the place refuses to die simply because someone commanded it not to.

There’s no power. No lights. No hum of life. Just the hiss of smoke and the wet slap of boots in the mud as you’re marched forward.

You pass people. Not many. Maybe a dozen.

They don’t wave. Don’t smile. Don’t ask questions.

They just stop what they’re doing—sharpening blades, scraping hides, pulling weeds from cold soil—and watch. Some lean against walls. Others crouch like animals. One man gnaws on a charred rabbit leg, letting grease run down his chin, his eyes never leaving you.

Their hair is tangled, matted, stuck to their foreheads with sweat or filth. Their tracksuits are soaked, stained, misbuttoned or zipped up all wrong. Their teeth—what’s left of them—gleam yellow or black or don’t gleam at all.

And yet, they glow. Not with health, but with devotion. The same way a fanatic glows just before the end.

They know where you're going.

And what you’re going to see.

Someone lifts a shard of glass as you pass, using it as a mirror. Not for themselves—for you. You catch your reflection. Brief. Blurred. Strangers’ hands on your arms. Mud on your jaw. Cold in your eyes.

They pull you toward the largest structure still intact. A chapel, maybe,or what was once a manor. The stone is cracked, the windows shattered, the doorframe splintered where something once forced its way in. Ivy curls up the side in long, choking ropes. Animal skulls hang from the guttering, bones threaded with string and beads and bits of plastic like wind chimes.

The archer beside you speaks for the first time in miles.

“Head down. No talkin’. Only answer if He asks.”

A door creaks open. Your feet hit stone instead of soil. The temperature drops. The smell shifts again—woodsmoke thickened by incense, something sweet gone bad. The air is full of it,like a mouth that’s never closed.

The inside is dark. Not pitch-black—just heavy. Filtered. Lit only by oil lamps tucked in alcoves, their glass streaked with soot. The flames flicker low, throwing long shadows that stretch and collapse as you walk.

The room isn’t empty.

Figures move at the edges. Not many. Two, maybe three. They stand still, but not relaxed. Like they’re waiting for a command. One of them holds a cloth. Another holds a bowl of water—brown and lukewarm, the rim charred black. A third has something folded in their hands. Clean fabric. A tracksuit. Less torn than the one you wear.

They don’t speak to you; they don’t smile.

They just wait.

The woman who cut the snare finally lets go of your arm and gestures forward, toward a wide wooden door. Someone’s carved symbols into it—crooked, hand-cut, messy but deliberate. A crude crown. A sun. Teeth. A flower.

“He’s in there,” she says. “Be grateful.”

Your wrists are untied.

No one grabs you again: you’re expected to walk through that door on your own.

Hesitantly, you step forward.

The wooden door groans open under your hand—warped from time and rot, but still standing. The sound it makes cuts the air like a blade.

The room beyond is dark, but warmer than the rest of Eden. Firelight licks at the walls from a hearth in the far corner, casting everything in flickering gold. The scent is sharper here. Not just woodsmoke. Something burned. Something sweet. A perfume made from candle wax, dried herbs, and rot.

Your boots echo across uneven stone. It’s quiet. Not silent—calm, in that same unnatural way a hunting trap is calm before it snaps shut.

He’s there.

You feel him before you see him.

He’s sitting in a long chair that might’ve once been a throne, might’ve once been a pew. It’s covered in scavenged fabrics—torn blankets, netting, old lace yellowed with age. His legs are spread wide, one elbow resting lazily on the arm, the other hand rolling a cigarette between two fingers.

His face is in profile.

And even that profile is chaos.

A cracked tiara tilts across his brow, nearly lost in the mess of long, greasy blonde hair. One eye is framed by an old smear of soot or charcoal. There’s blood on his tracksuit jacket—dry. Flaked. A constellation of it across his collarbone. His neck bears the weight of several gold chains, the slow pendulum swing of an inverted cross briefly snagging your attention. Rings stacked on every finger. A small, curved blade rests against his thigh like it belongs there.

When he turns to face you fully, he grins.

And it’s nothing like a human smile.

His teeth are uneven—some chipped, some yellowed, one gone entirely. But that doesn’t dull the power of it. That grin could lead armies. Could make monsters kneel. It beams at you like he already knows what you are and what you’ll be.

“Fuckin’ look at ye,” he says, voice thick and Scottish and sharp-edged with delight. “Fresh out the trees. All wild n’ twitchy.”

He leans forward.

His eyes are blue, but not bright. More like cracked ice over dark water. Alive with something violently unhinged and cruelly amused.

“Ain’t touched, are ye? Not claimed? Not branded?”

You say nothing.

He smiles wider.

“Even better.”

He tips his head, brushing the long, tangled hair from his eyes, and the faint glow of the room catches the gold and molten red at his throat. His voice drops into something almost intimate, almost holy.

“Name’s Sir Jimmy Crystal,” he tells you, the words tasting like a threat and a promise all at once. “Remember it, s'the only name that’s gonna matter ‘round here.”

The silence that follows is thick. Final. As if the room itself has memorized it.

He stands slowly—not towering but imposing, filled with the kind of presence that reaches. That carries. He steps down from the platform, boot heels scraping stone.

“Come here, then.”

You don’t move.

His head tilts.

“What’s the matter, love? Nobody ever asked ye polite before?” He chuckles, the tension in his shoulders radiating all the authority of a leader. “You’ll find I’m a very gracious host.”

Then, quieter—yet no less impactful—“when I want t’be.”

He closes the distance without waiting.

One hand comes up and brushes your jaw with the backs of his fingers. His knuckles are scraped, bruised. There’s blood under one nail. But his touch is almost soft.

“They said you fought,” he says. “Said you ran hard. Nearly got one of Jimmy Jimmy’s boys in the eye.”

He leans in, nose close enough to scent you.

You don’t flinch.

He smiles like that’s a gift.

“Yer not a Jimmy, though. You’re…somethin’ else.”

He steps back, hands on his hips. Studies you.

Then, finally:

“Petal.”

The name hits like a hot nail through the center of your chest.

“That’s what ye are, ain’t ye?” he continues. “Pretty wee thing, soft ‘round the edges, got thorns when you’re pressed.”

He gestures wide, like unveiling a painting.

“You’re mine now, Petal. Eden’s newest bloom.”

He steps forward again, crowding you slightly—he wants to see what you’ll do. What you’ll become under his heat. His shadow. His name.

“Say it,” he murmurs then reiterates, “say it back to me.”

Then nothing.

No further command. No raised voice. No gesture to prompt you.

Just his eyes—locked on yours, heavy and unwavering, his body stilled like a predator mid-pounce. All that earlier swagger, the grin, the biting charm—it drops. Slips off his face like a mask tossed aside.

What’s left is something still and unblinking.

His stare is pure scrutiny. Not rage. Not even anticipation. Just…expectation.

The kind that doesn’t account for refusal.

The fire crackles somewhere behind him, casting gold along the worn-out throne behind his shoulder, and still he doesn’t move. His jaw ticks once, slow. You see the faintest twitch of his fingers at his side—restless. Not angry. Just ready.

He doesn’t speak again.

Because Sir Jimmy Crystal doesn’t ask twice.

The room stretches.

You feel it in your chest first—tight, tense, a coil winding up behind your ribs. Your throat is dry. You don’t remember when your breath last came easy. You’re too aware of your heartbeat. Of the way your wrists still bear the red ghost of rope. Of the mud drying on your ankles. Of the way he’s looking at you.

Like he already owns you.

Like this is just a formality.

Your mouth opens.

And for a second, nothing comes out.

Then:

“Petal.”

Your voice sounds strange. Foreign. Like it didn’t come from you but was breathed into you. You don’t recognize how soft it comes out—how it hitches a little. How it lands in the air between you like a stone dropped in a still pool.

His head tilts. Just slightly. One corner of his mouth lifts—not a grin. Something quieter. Possessive.

“Good girl.”

The words land like heat across your spine.

He steps in again. Closer now. His boots bump yours, but he doesn’t touch you yet.

He just inhales. Deep, deliberate, like he’s dragging your presence into his lungs.

“I knew you’d be easy, underneath all that bark,” he says softly. “They always are.”

And then his hand comes up. Slow. Measured. He touches your jaw—not rough, not even possessive. Just assertive. His thumb brushes the edge of your lip, like testing the softness of something before he bites.

“Petal,” he repeats, voice lower now. “Gonna hear that name moaned through these halls, aye? Gonna have all of Eden know who the prettiest thing in it belongs to.”

The silence that follows is not awkward.

It’s complete.

He leans closer, nose brushing yours, voice barely above breath.

“Say somethin’ else, then. Something better. Say thank you.”

The words land soft, but they split your ribs open.

Not a bark. Not a threat. Not a demand, even. Just spoken like it’s inevitable.

His hand remains on your jaw. Fingers resting just beneath your ear, thumb dragging slowly over the corner of your mouth. The pressure isn’t enough to hurt. But it’s not gentle. It’s training.

You try to breathe, but your lungs won’t take it in right.

The room feels too small now. Too close. The air clings to the back of your tongue, hot and damp and sour-sweet, like you’re breathing someone else’s exhale. Smoke, rot, and something metallic. Something intimate.

You feel your spine go stiff, shoulders rising like you might pull away—but your feet don’t move. Not because you’re frozen. Not exactly.

Because you’re listening.

And you’re waiting for him to say it again.

He doesn’t.

He just watches. That calm stare. That awful patience. As if there’s no doubt at all that the words will come.

Your mouth parts slightly. Not to obey. Not yet.

To stall.

To feel what it would be like to say it—to give him what he wants and taste how it feels in your throat. To feel how it might curl against your tongue and rot something inside you.

You don’t want to.You do.

Your heart punches the inside of your chest.

You blink—once, slow—and then tilt your head forward, just enough that your lips brush against the edge of his thumb.

Not a kiss.

Not yet.

But the reaction is immediate.

His nostrils flare. His hand tightens, just a breath, enough to tilt your chin higher.

“Go on, sweet thing,” he murmurs. “Don’t make me think you’re ungrateful.”

And something breaks. Not loudly. Not violently. But with a quiet, traitorous tremor in your stomach.

Your tongue is slow to cooperate. Your voice doesn’t come easy. But it comes.

“…Thank you.”

Your voice sounds like a betrayal.

It sounds like submission.

It sounds like you meant it.

You hate that. You hate how easy it is to say.

You hate how it feels good to give it.

His smile widens—not wild. Not cruel.

Pleased.

“That’s my girl.”

The words are barely a whisper, but they hit like a nail through silk.

He steps even closer now—flush against you, chest to chest. You feel the heat of him. The weight of him. His free hand comes to rest on your hip, fingers curling just above your waistband.

“We’ll make a proper little thing outta you yet.”

And then, voice lower:

“Say it again. Like you mean it this time.”

He’s still touching you.

One hand cupped along your jaw, thumb grazing your lower lip with the intimacy of a lover, the calculation of a surgeon. The other hand low on your hip, fingers curling with idle pressure. Not possessive. Not yet.

Just poised.

Waiting.

His voice has that same half-smile cadence, but the edge is sharper now—threaded with something heavier. The kind of weight that comes before a strike.

He wants it again.

And this time, he wants it perfect.

You feel your mouth go dry. Your muscles ache from how still you’ve been forced to hold yourself. Your wrists itch where the rope had left its imprint. Your brain is screaming for space—but your body doesn’t move.

Not because you’re weak, but because you’re calculating, too.

You don’t say it right away. You let the silence stretch, just a breath longer than it should. Just long enough that it starts to feel wrong. You see it in his posture—the slight twitch of his hand, the flicker in his eye.

And that’s when you give it to him.

“Thank you…Sir.”

You say it sweet.

Too sweet.

You tip your head a little as you say it, lashes lowering like a smirk in motion. You speak with the kind of sugar-coating that’s almost mockery. Just enough to make it unclear.

Polite. Playful. Dangerous.

His thumb stills on your lip.

Then lifts—slowly, deliberately—tracing the curve of your mouth before sliding down your chin. His other hand firms against your hip.

And he doesn’t speak.

He just stares at you.

That same silent intensity from before—hot enough to blister. A fire without flame.

“You think I won’t know the difference?” he says at last, voice low and sharp as a knife dragged across bone. “Think I can’t smell when a thing’s just performin’?”

His grip tightens—not to bruise, but to remind.

His eyes roam your face like a wolf studying a lamb that forgot it was meat.

“You will mean it, Petal,” he murmurs. “One way or another.”

He leans in again—closer now. Lips near your ear, voice so quiet you feel it more than hear it.

“And when you do, it’ll drip off your tongue like prayer.”

You feel the press of his breath against your jaw, warm and patient and ruthless.

Then he pulls back—not far. Just enough to look you in the eyes again. Holding you in place by your silence.

“Now,” he says. “Be sweet. Try again.”

He pins you down with just his gaze.

The heat of his body radiates into yours—smoke and oil and something darker, like the breath of a house right before it catches fire. His hand at your hip has grown still, but it hasn’t let go. The other hovers at your jaw, no longer cupping it, just near—like he’s giving you space to hang yourself.

You feel the words curl in your throat like smoke before a scream.

You could obey.

You could soften your voice. Bow your head. Let the praise come warm and slippery from your mouth like honey melting over hot stone. Let him believe you.

But you don’t.

Not yet.

Instead, you tilt your chin up. A small gesture. Barely there. But it shifts the whole balance of the room. His fingers still in the air near your throat. His nostrils flare—just once. You don’t miss it.

And when you speak…

You lace it with venom.

“Thank you…my King.”

You make it sound filthy.

Not reverent. Not frightened. Not grateful.

You say it like it’s a joke. Like you’re daring him to earn it.

His mouth parts just slightly—no smile now. Just breath.

You watch something dark flicker behind his eyes. It doesn’t rise, doesn’t lash out—but it pulses once, slow and dangerous. You’ve struck a nerve. Not one that makes him angry.

One that makes him hungry.

He steps closer, boot between yours. His chest brushes yours. That awful stillness in him thickens, slows, sharpens.

“That what I am to you already?” he says, voice hushed. “Your King?”

His hand moves again—slow, deliberate. The backs of his fingers trail down your throat.

“Careful, Petal.”

Your heart is a hammer in your ribs now.

He moves around behind you without warning, slow as smoke, one hand dragging across your collarbone as he passes.

You don’t turn.

You feel him behind you. His breath against your hair. His voice just behind your ear.

“You keep speakin’ like that,” he murmurs, “I’ll start to think you want to be ruled.”

You can’t see his face, but you hear the smile in his voice.

“And you don’t want me to think that.”

A pause.

His hand settles at the base of your throat—not tight. Not soft. Just there.

“Because if you do…I’ll give you the crown myself.”

His hand stays at your throat for three long breaths.

You don’t move. You don’t speak. You don’t give him the satisfaction of swallowing beneath his palm. But the silence that stretches between you is not victory.

It’s ritual.

You feel his body behind you—heat and weight and tension, close enough to make your skin tighten, far enough to make you ache. His breath grazes the curve of your ear like a blessing dressed in threat.

And then—

He pulls back.

The absence is as sharp as a slap. The cold rush of air across your neck feels like exposure, like being unwrapped. You almost—almost—step back to reclaim his heat.

But you don’t.

You hold your ground as he moves around you again, slow and loose-limbed, like a lion circling the last twitch of a dying thing.

When he stops in front of you, his grin is back. Soft. Filthy. Relaxed.

But his eyes are still locked on you like a snare.

“That’s enough for now,” he says, almost gently.

He reaches out and brushes something from your shoulder—a bit of leaf, a smear of dirt, it doesn’t matter. His fingers linger longer than necessary, then drop.

“You’ll need rest. Food. I’ll see to it.”

He turns from you like it doesn’t hurt him to look away.

“We’ve got time.”

He takes two steps toward his throne before glancing back over his shoulder.

His smile is lazy now. Pleased. Possessive.

“You’re not gonna leave, Petal. Not because you can’t.”

He sits down. Spreads his knees wide. Drags his hand along his jaw, watching you like he’s already undressing your soul.

“Because by the time I’m through with you…you won’t want to.”

He gestures lazily, and the room stirs like a beast waking from slumber. Figures shift from the walls, rising soundless as mist. Two of them move toward you—a man and a woman. They don’t ask questions. They don’t hesitate. They only bow when he nods.

“See she’s bathed,” Jimmy says, brushing a hand down the arm of his chair like he’s brushing dust from a relic. “Get the stink of the woods off her. Put her somewhere warm. Somewhere quiet.”

A tiny shift goes through the room—almost imperceptible. A glance exchanged. A breath held. Not protest, no. Not that. Not with him. But surprise. The kind that doesn’t rise from disobedience, only from obedience so deep it doesn’t comprehend difference.

He doesn’t name them. Doesn’t call out by their variations of the same holy name. They just know.

They step closer and one of them takes your hand. Not roughly. Not lovingly. Just certain. The other moves to stand behind you, brushing the snarl of your hair from your neck like she’s making way for a blade. Not because she’ll use one. But because she knows he can.

They lead you toward the door, and the room doesn’t speak. Not a word. Not a shift. Not a glance that doesn’t already belong to him. They accept it the way soil accepts a seed falling from a hand that can choose where it grows.

“Go,” he says finally, voice soft and sharp as steel. “Rest tonight, Petal. You’ve a long road ‘fore you.”

And then he leans back, sprawling in that long chair like a man resting between victories, brushing the pad of his thumb across his lower lip as if tasting the air your name has changed.

“An’ don’t worry,” he calls after you as the doors creak open, voice rising just enough for it to fill the space between the walls. “I’ll be seein’ ye soon. Real soon.”

No one questions. No one speaks.

In Eden, when Sir Jimmy Crystal chooses, no one ever needs to ask why.

[stunie]

˖ ݁𖥔 ݁ “DID YOU JUST FAKE THAT, PRINCESS?”

WINDBREAKER BOYS + FAKING AN ORGASM. ft. yamato endo, kiryuu mitsuki, & kaji ren x f!reader

content: explicit smut (18+), fem! reader, overstimulation, squirting, praise (genuine & mocking), degradation, teasing, dumbification, mild humiliation + corruption + dacryphilia + choking, fingering, cunninglingus, muffled (panties), doggy, mating press, wall sex, endo is mean, usage of pet names

mdni - 2.9K wc ; whew it ended up super long ! i had sm fun writing this one <3 as always, individual warnings are below

YAMATO ENDO.

note: ooc, written before newer chapters were out, sorry >:

taking you like this has always been endo’s favorite way to ruin you. your pretty noises are muffled by the mattress, ass high and back arched in a futile attempt to ease the stretch of his cock. it’s so good, and he grabs your hips roughly, pulling you back to slam against his own. his pace is unrelenting, length able to reach the deepest parts inside your cunt as you squeal and tug at the sheets beneath you.

“promise i w-won’t do it again,” you crane your neck to gasp for air, apology coming out frantic and slurred, and your face burns when he laughs— laughs at your sincerity and at the way that your jaw falls slack at the slightest change in his angle. “you’re sorry?” his words come out mocking, relishing in the way your teary eyes clench shut as you try to fight the tension building up in your core— because you know good and well that you’re not allowed to cum until he says the word.

“yea, ‘m sor—”

“sorry’s not gonna cut it,” he spits, “gonna have to make up for it, pretty girl. try again.”

his hands come to push your back further down into the mattress, angling your ass higher for him to let him bully his cock into you harder. it’s so cute how endearing you are, teary eyes trying to focus and think despite the way his heavy cock is hitting so deep inside you, his pace as rough as ever and your head foggy and dizzy.

“i will,” you blurt, the knot in your stomach threatening to snap with each roll of his hips— “i will! i’ll make it up, please endo, ‘m gonna cum, i think ‘m gonna cum—”

“aw,” his tone is low and mocking, pace slowing down ever so slightly as his fingers come to wrap around your throat and apply pressure, “since you’re so cute, i’ll be nice today.”

“cum with me and i’ll let it go, yeah?” he pulls out, until just the tip is inside before he slams back into you. “gonna have to use your brain and match my pace.”

and you’re nodding as soon as the words leave his lips, not a trace of hesitation in the way your shaky hands come to spread your ass wider for him, just the way he likes it. endo feels his dick throb at just how cute you are, holding yourself wide open for him to ravage you as you blabber about how good he feels— how close you are to cumming.

“alrightt,” he lulls, “ready, doll?” his tone comes out amused, but you can’t tell, nodding so desperately as your hips start to jerk. in an instant, he’s picking up his pace, hitting so deep inside you that it makes your eyes roll back in your skull, endo fucking you completely senseless with each snap of his hips.

“e-endo—” you gasp when the hand around your neck moves to push your head down, allowing him to better leverage himself as he buries his cock into the spot that has you screaming. your eyes widen when he finally growls out the word, the word that lets the knot inside you snap as you gush around his cock, thighs reduced to a violent tremor.

“f-fuuck,” he groans when your walls squeeze and flutter wildly against him, his jaw clenching shut to grunt a “just like that.”

“that’s my fucking girl,” he slurs lazily, slowly dragging his cock in and out of you as your walls continue to flutter around the thickness, your chest heaving up and down from the intensity.

the praise makes your heart swoon even with your current state, eyes half lidded and heavy and your mind barely able to register the lewd noises coming from your dripping cunt.

“feel good now? making a mess all over me?”

“mmhm,” you nod mindlessly, tired arms reaching back to swipe at your cunt like clockwork. it was something endo had taught you the very first time he took you, and you’ve never failed to do it since. it’s usually about now when you collect the load that seeps out of your hole, and he’ll pull you onto his lap next, urging you to stick those fingers in your mouth and swirl your tongue around it.

he’s addicted to how good the sight of you swallowing his cum makes him feel, cock throbbing and aching— picturing those pretty lips wrapped around his length again. it’s always enough to rile him up again and again.

your tired fingers rub between your folds, collecting the slick, but something’s different. “h-huh?” you stutter, head craning back to look at your hand. it takes you a moment, innocent eyes squinting as you inspect your fingers— there’s nothing besides your own slick.

“oh, fuck,” endo laughs loudly, “i can’t believe it.”

he grabs your arm roughly, earning a surprised yelp from you as he flips you onto your back, pressing your thighs flush against your own chest, his body hovering over you with a hunger that sends a shiver straight down your spine.

“still so fucking innocent, huh? thought you knew me better than that.”

“i-i don’t understand..” your voice trails off, face burning with embarrassment because he’s always being so mean to you. it takes you by surprise when you feel it slap against your clit, your gaze finally shifting downwards to see his cock— throbbing and slick with your juices, thick precum collecting at the tip.

he really didn’t cum.

“oh, dumb girl,” he coos, “did you forget our agreement?”

he wishes he had whipped out his phone to record the sight of you. it’s adorable, your pretty body folded into a mating press, teary eyes desperately looking up at him as you whine and complain that he tricked you, that’s he’s not being fair, but all he can think about is how he wants to ruin that pussy that you have so clearly on display for him.

he pushes his length inside you all at once, tip kissing your cervix as your head falls back, sobbing that’s it’s too much for you. “aww,” endo feigns sympathy, leaning forward until his face hovers right over the side of your neck, “it’s just too bad you didn’t do a very good job matching my timing.”

he licks a slow, deliberate stripe down your neck and sucks— sucks hard before releasing the skin with a pop to admire the mark he’s planted on you. “since you couldn’t do that for me,” he starts, fingers running along your waist, “you don’t have any other choice but to let me use this pretty body of yours, don’t you?”

“gonna fuck you so stupid— ‘till your brain’s too mushy to think up any more little tricks.”

KIRYUU MITSUKI.

“hey,” kiryuu slaps your cunt lightly, “i don’t remember teaching you to do that.”

his voice is gentle, almost unnervingly so as he pulls your back flush against his chest, hand coming to spread you open for him. “let’s try again.”

“j-just wanted more…kiryuu,” you whine when he’s slow to sink the first finger deep inside, pumping it in and out as his thumb comes to circle at your clit, the precision making your hips jerk and push against him.

“more?” his voice comes out directly besides your ear and it sends a strong shiver down your back, “you’re getting real greedy with me, princess.”

he obliges regardless, eyes gauging your reaction as he slips a second finger inside, pumping them a little faster into your cunt. “f-fuck…” you sigh, walls fluttering eagerly around his fingers when he begins to curl them against your walls.

“look— at the mess you’re making all over us.” your eyes shift downwards, face burning at the sight of his fingers, pretty hands coated in thick layers of your slick, the muscles of his forearms flexing with each curl of his fingers. “see?”

“that’s why i’m gonna take my time with you,” he coos, fingers curling against that spongy spot inside you that dots your vision with stars, “n watch your pretty pussy swallow my fingers like this.”

the lewd noises of his fingers fucking your cunt has you approaching your high, but you’re greedy for more— and knows that painfully well. he’s not any different, cock bulging tight under his pants and desperate to bury itself deep inside you, but not yet.

kiryuu fights back the smile that threatens to creep onto his lips when you gasp loudly at the stretch from a third finger slipping inside you, the thickness making your thighs tremble against his touch. “so pretty for me,” he lulls, “feeling good, huh?”

he loves watching your reactions, eyes intent on watching the way your expression contorts with pleasure, mouth slightly ajar to let out little pants and huffs, your own attention focused on how good his fingers feel inside you. he can tell you’re getting close with the way your thigh has started to tremble harder against his, hips occasionally jerking from the stimulation.

“you’re so good,” he coos, letting out a lazy grunt as his other hand comes to hold your face, “but no more looking. okay?”

his hand clasps over your mouth, your head tilting back to face the ceiling— and that’s when he switches. your head falls back on his shoulder when he’s suddenly he’s suddenly fucking you faster, fingers slamming into the most sensitive spots inside you. his thumb comes to rub roughly at your clit, drawing lewd moans from you as your thighs try and clamp together to fight the stimulation.

“i know, baby, i know—” his voice comes out calm, and he knows what you need. he knows how to work his fingers to make your head spin, knows this pace will have you whining that it’s too much, but he wants to see you cum. so he aims to pummel his fingers against that deep spot inside you, relishing in the way your thighs tremble violently in response.

“mmmp—!” your moans come out muffled against his hand, but he understands. “you’ll cum for me this time, won’t you?”

his hand leaves your mouth, a thick string of saliva connecting the two before he’s holding your thigh open for him, spreading you so he can thumb at your clit harder. “y-yes! ‘m gonna cum, f-fuck— kiryuu” you babble, eyes clenching shut and hands coming to squeeze at his forearms.

it’s too much. you find yourself right along the edge, eyes clenched shut because it’s just too much, but your cunt is eagerly swallowing his fingers whole, juices dripping down your thighs and his arms— “that’s right, you’re so good for me.” his voice comes out a little rushed, a little more breathless as he fucks his fingers into you.

“you can take this.”

all it takes is one more curl of fingers and his thumb to swipe over your clit to have you crying his name loudly, cunt spasming around his fingers as you gush all over him. you whine when he takes his fingers out, dragging them along your folds to watch the way your hips jerk at the overstimulation.

“that was better. see?”

he brings his fingers to your face, and you open your mouth in a daze, swirling your tongue lazily around each finger as he sighs contently, cock throbbing at the thought of your lips wrapped around his dick instead. “ahh… that’s so good.”

“you’re doing so good,” he whispers, “you can take another one. turn around for me, sweet thing.”

KAJI REN.

“thought i told you to be quiet,” kaji growls against your cunt, “not to fake it.”

“‘m trying—” you stammer, thighs trembling as your hands lay flat on the surface, your body bent over his desk as he eats you out from behind.

“what?” his voice ghosts against your clit, making you suck in a sharp breath, “needa be muffled?”

your face burns when he takes out your panties, wet from the way he was grinding his cock against your clothed cunt earlier. you got him so riled up— his mind still stuck on how irresistible you looked folded over his desk, his bulge nestled so nicely between the globes of your ass. he should have tossed you onto his bed next, get a good look at how his cock sits between your thighs when you’re in prone bone, then get you arching your back and pulling at the sheets for him because he always fucks you that good.

but you had to test his patience today.

“open.” he stuffs the fabric into your mouth, fingers subtly ghosting over your lips before his hands are back around your thighs, tugging on them to urge you to come closer.

"gonna teach you a lesson," he spits, and his mouth is back on your cunt in an instant, tongue coming to roughly lap at the slick that’s started dripping. your face contorts, thighs pressing together- but his rough hands are moving to keep you wide open for him.

kaji has always been messy, groaning directly into your cunt as he licks and sucks, eating you out with fervor until he knows your eyes are rolling back into your skull, lewd noises barely muffled by the tiny wad of fabric in your mouth.

he’s slurping loudly, licking and sucking on your clit, and he brings his tongue down to prod at your hole, eyes narrowing into a glare when you try and clench your thighs together. his hands come to hook around the front of your hips, yanking you roughly back until you’re flush against his face, his tongue deep inside your hole as he licks in every direction, fucking you on his tongue while you make those sinful noises for him.

“k-kaji,” your words come out slurred from the muffle, your saliva dribbling onto his table, “‘m close!”

“oh f-fuck,” you cry when two fingers are shoved deep inside you, lewd noises echoing in his room when he fucks them in and out of your cunt, his mouth coming to flick at your clit. it’s becoming too much, and you try to escape by going higher onto your toes— but he doesn’t let you.

“don’t you dare,” he warns with a low growl against your cunt, hand squeezing your thigh to keep you firmly planted against his face. “quit squirming and take it.”

the knot in your stomach is tightening, pushing you closer and closer as his fingers seem to reach impossibly further inside your cunt with each movement, beating against that sweet spot inside that has you moaning so loudly against your panties.

“a-ah—” your eyes widen when his tongue flicks over your clit perfectly, and the coil inside your stomach snaps in an instant, screaming into the fabric as your walls flutter over his fingers, gushing into his mouth as he groans and laps at your cunt messily.

your jaw goes slack even he begins to slows down, fingers leaving your walls empty and needy so he can bring them to his lips and suck on them, get a last taste of you before he’s sloppily wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. your panties fall onto his desk, body reduced to a trembling mess.

and it’s everywhere. dripping down your thighs, coated over his entire hand— his face. if he was even trying to get it off of his mouth in the first place, it didn’t work.

“you’re fucking messy,” his voice is raspy when he leans over you, heavy cock pressing against your ass. “and we’re not done yet.”

there’s a deep, shaky groan from him when he first pushes his cock between your thighs, using your slick to get his dick wet. he’s throbbing by now, so desperate to be inside you, and it’s rubbing against your folds so nicely, tip nudging against your swollen clit each time he pushes forward.

“k-kaji,” you whine, “i wanna see you.”

his eyes widen a bit at the innocent request, your pretty face peering back at him with that fucked out look in your eyes— it’s cute. he’s gentle when his arms come to wrap around you, picking you up and pressing your back against the walls of his room.

“gonna make you cum over n over,” he grunts, sinking you slowly down onto his thickness. he’s always been harder to take in this position, cock practically splitting you open— and your sinful moans are going straight into his ear with the way you’ve latched onto his shoulders.

“you’re so big, kaji,” you gasp, “feels so good.”

“yeah?” his voice is low, breathless as he starts to slam his hips up into yours, tip prodding against your cervix each time he bottoms out. “you like that?”

“mhm,” your lips come to messily suck at his neck, and he groans loudly. “want more, kaji. please—”

"more?" he snarls, audible slaps echoing throughout the room from the way he's bouncing you even harder against his hips. "squirting all over my face wasn’t enough for you, huh?”

you grab at him to avoid falling from the roughness, arms tangled tightly around his neck to let him fuck you with pure strength, thickness spreading you so good as your slick dribbles down his balls.

"i better not hear you whining later that it’s too much.”

pt 2: suo, sakura, togame, & umemiya x f!reader

[eclipixels]

First Word

Yoichi Isagi x Reader

Content: Your baby says her first word…

[571 words]

      You and Isagi had been parents for eight long, sticky, chaotic months. Eight months of endless crying, sleepless nights, spit-up in your hair, and more diapers than either of you thought humanly possible. And somehow, it was all worth it for this squishy, babbling little human who had taken over your hearts (and your entire apartment).

      It was nearing 1 a.m., and your daughter still refused to sleep. Isagi was at late-night training, so it was just you, the baby, and the pit of exhaustion yawning inside your soul. You’d tried everything. Lullabies, rocking, her favorite squeaky lion, even gently bouncing her in front of the fridge light like it was a rave. She just laughed. This baby had energy. You, however, did not.

      “Fuck,” you muttered with a heavy yawn, rubbing your eyes.

      "Fuck," she parroted back in her sweet little coo.

      You froze. No. No way. Surely, she just said “fa” or “fuh”—babble. Right?

      “Sweetheart, no,” you gasped, rushing to her side like you could stuff the word back in her mouth. “Say mama! Or dada! Or Chipotle! Anything else!”

      “Fuck!” she chirped proudly, flailing her arms like she’d unlocked a new level in life. You stared at her, horrified. Oh my god. You had one job. One job.

      “Okay,” you whispered to yourself, pacing. “We’re gonna fix this. We’re gonna…we’re gonna frame Yoichi. Yeah. It was him. Totally him.”

      A plan formed in your overtired brain, and you fell asleep with a guilty conscience and a solid alibi.

      Isagi came home a little after 2 a.m., sweaty and yawning, but smiling as he tiptoed into the room. He paused at the crib, where your daughter was finally asleep. You were sprawled on the bed, out cold.

      “My girls,” he whispered fondly, kissing your head before slipping under the blanket.

      Morning came too soon. The baby woke up first, stretching in her crib with a high-pitched squeal. Isagi scooped her up, grinning.

      “Morning, pumpkin. Did you sleep well?” he cooed, settling onto the couch with her on his chest. He opened his phone, scrolling mindlessly through social media. A photo of Kaiser smirking obnoxiously filled the screen.

      “Ugh, fucking clown,” he muttered under his breath.

      And then, his child, his sweet, innocent child, looked him dead in the eye and said “Fuck!”

      Isagi choked.

      “W-What?! No! Bad word! BAD WORD!”

      “Fuck! Fuck!” she giggled, delighted.

      Panic. Pure panic. She was laughing. Laughing! Was this fun for her?!

      “Oh god. Your mom’s gonna kill me. She’s gonna kill me. Maybe if I tell her you heard it on TV. Or maybe Bachira said it when he came over that one time—”

      You emerged from the bedroom, groggy but smug, already sipping coffee like you hadn’t heard a thing. Isagi sat frozen on the couch, baby on his chest, her little fingers in his hair.

      “Hey, love! How’d you sleep?” he asked nervously.

      “Lovely, you?” You blinked innocently.

      “Oh, you know,” He laughed but you just stared at him.

      “Our child has said her first word and it was a profanity,” he hissed, glancing at your daughter like she was a tiny criminal.

      You gasped dramatically. “Yoichi! You corrupted our daughter?!”

      “Wait, no, I swear—!”

      “Unbelievable,” you sighed, picking her up. She immediately snuggled into your neck and whispered “Fuck.”

      You bit your lip to hide the laugh. Isagi, on the other hand, looked like he might cry.

[cryptiidcrowe]

“ sunrise, parabellum ” after disco elysium

you ever get brain worms so bad about a game you have to write a poem about it. anyway

(plain text version of all 3 readings below the cut!)

harry: tasting the ash / that coated the inside of / your lungs on my tongue is / the closest i’ll ever get to worship / i see them now, blooming brighter / than the butts of our cigarettes / i want to sink to my knees, beg forgive- / ness, beg oh god will i ever be the same / after this? i’ve been suffocating in smoke / since sweet oblivion stole the sunrise / this quiet communion will kill us still / in time, i promise; until then ruin / me with your breath, let the golden / glow of your divine innocence / decay in my lungs — i reach out / hold the fragile fluttering cage of / your life and i know, i know / how easily it'd crumple / if i just close my fist

kim: in your absence, for all / my life, i was told to believe / “blasphemy”; but this will always be / nothing more than watching strangers / living more than me, discarding more / oh, my dear, how little faith i held in you and / me, forgive all my doubt in your hurricane- / self, when your trembling hands hold mine / unknowing, uncaring of all that has come / i realize i never could have predicted you / in the face of something far grander / my lungs long decayed, you revive / sunrises whose brilliance eclipses the / corrupted and cursed, yet still forgiving / over and over and over / faith be damned, i want to guard / whatever it is we’re building / so i promise like a hymn / i will trust you.

together: tasting the ash in your absence, for all / that coated the inside of my life, i was told to believe / your lungs on my tongue is “blasphemy”; but this will always be / the closest i’ll ever get to worship nothing more than watching strangers / i see them now, blooming brighter living more than me, discarding more / than the butts of our cigarettes oh, my dear, how little faith i held in you and / i want to sink to my knees, beg forgive me, forgive all my doubt in your hurricane- / ness, beg oh god will i ever be the same self, when your trembling hands hold mine / after this? i’ve been suffocating in smoke unknowing, uncaring of all that has come / since sweet oblivion stole the sunrise i realize i never could have predicted you / this quiet communion will still kill us in the face of something far grander, / in time, but until then, please, ruin my lungs long decayed, you revive / me with your breath, let the golden sunrises whose brilliance eclipses the / glow of your divine innocence corrupted and cursed, yet still forgiving / decay in my lungs — i reach out over and over and over / hold the fragile fluttering cage of faith be damned, i want to guard / your life and i know, i know whatever it is we’re building / how easily it’d crumple so i promise like a hymn / if i just close my fist i will trust you.

[jinxbabys]

cw: amab jinx with a dick. fem reader. obsessive pervy jinx. solo masturbation. dub con. degradation.

synopsis: jinx jerks off in your body wash.

thank you to the anon who requested this!

jinx knows that this is wrong, but she can’t help it, nor can she find it in herself to care. she wakes beneath your sheets, limbs tangled, and her cock already stiff and sullen. pressing a chaste kiss to your cheek, she stumbles off to the bathroom, with the half-lucid shuffle of someone still sleeping in the marrow of their bones.

the pink cotton panties she wore to bed—your panties, really—do nothing to contain her cock. they ride up, press in, cradle the bulge of her arousal.

then they come off before the door even clicks shut.

her cock leaps forth like a jack-in-the-box—striking her belly with a heavy, indecent slap, then succumbing to its own weight; hanging low against the pale slope of her thigh.

the shower moans to life, sputtering cold needles of water against her shins. despite this, she steps under the stream anyway. from the wire caddy she plucks your bottle of body wash, lifting it to her nose and inhaling your intoxicating, signature scent—almost reverently.

and suddenly, when an idea clicks in her brain, she pauses. the fantasy arrives sharp and abruptly, like a gust of wind slipping in through a cracked window;

it’s you, naked under the same water, lathering your skin, humming softly. she pictures the way you’d squeeze a dollop of body wash onto your loofa, but it’s not just soap anymore, is it? it’s been corrupted. tainted. her cum—crude and uninvited—hiding in the slick, jelly-like substance while you intend to clean yourself. except, unbeknownst to you, you’re making yourself all the more dirty.

“fuck,” jinx breathes, hips jerking. “fuck, fuck.”

the way the image unspools in her mind makes her knees weaken. a small, wounded whimper slips from her lips when her sensitive cockhead twitches. it’s born out of pain—she’s so hard, so achingly swollen—and pleasure alike.

jinx imagines how you’d scrub the soapy suds all over your tits, slow and mundane, and then absentmindedly slipping down the slope of your stomach—effectively spreading her seed further. eventually, you’d drag the loofah down south, rubbing the soap—her cum—against the outside of your pussy.

now she’s certain that she has to do this. not out of impulse, but out of a deeper sort of ache; the need to be as near to you as the laws of flesh and longing will allow. and really, if not now, then when? her cock is hard and ready, balls heavy with her salty, creamy essence. the thought of delaying the inevitable seems ridiculous.

with warmer water beating down on her body, jinx unscrews the lid to your body wash, then grasps her cock in one hand, holding the object she’s going to defile in the other.

she wonders if you’d even notice that she contaminated your favorite soap. no, you’d most likely just press the loofah to your body, rubbing it in absentmindedly—rubbing her into your skin. you’ve always been sweetly naive, eager to believe the best in people, willfully blind to even the more destructive elements of jinx’s nature.

but still, jinx imagines how you’d squawk at her if you were to find out, “why would you do something like this? you’re disgusting!” and the thought makes her cock jump, as if in answer.

in her mind, you recoil. you’re naked and wet and furious. “you seriously came in my soap?” your voice sharpens to a blade. “are you brain-damaged?”

“probably,” jinx says aloud. her voice shakes as she wraps her fingers around herself—languidly to start with—while tracing the blue vein down the length of her cock. “probably, yeah. but i love you so much, i just—i couldn’t help it.”

her thighs tense, tremble, then relax—only to coil again. her cock pulses in a relentless cadence, starting at her purpling cockhead, all the way down to her heavy, full balls.

“say it,” jinx hisses to no one, to you, to the silence. “say it. call me a sick little freak.”

and from her imagination, you oblige.

“you’re disgusting.”

“you’re fucking sick.”

“you need help, jinx.”

she nods slowly at first; with the half-lucidity of someone whose mind is full of cotton and static—then quicker, more insistent, while sinking her teeth into her lower lip. her strokes become erratic, urgent and greedy, and she’s pumping her hips with the desperation of a dumb stray.

“i do,” she pants. “fuck, i do. i need you. i need—”

jinx doesn’t finish her sentence. she’s utterly lost in the delirium of sensation. she can only cum—hard, hot, throatily—into your bottle of body wash, while some of her seed drips down the side.

not too long after, when she’s screwing the lid back onto your soap, she ponders the idea of waking you up to join her for a second shower.

taglist: @2ftall @jinxedbambi @mxchi-mxxn @g4ys0n @babiedolllz @just4jinx @mars4hellokitty @lolitalovess @rhian88 @ficbookmarx

(please excuse the large font—my post kept getting flagged otherwise. also, if you received a million notifications from all the times i reuploaded this, i’m so sorry).

[vibelladonna]

❛ 𝑔𝒶𝓂𝑒 𝑜𝓋𝑒𝓇 ❜ 𝜗𝜚 𝓈𝑜𝓁 𝓍 𝑔𝓃!𝓇𝑒𝒶𝒹𝑒𝓇

𝓈𝓎𝓃𝑜𝓅𝓈𝒾𝓈: Half a brutal week of finals, your idea of short recovery is simple: horror games, dim lights, and your boyfriend Sol breathing in your ear through voice chat like he isn’t actively trying to ruin your focus. It was supposed to be just another cursed indie night — you, the monster, and a few well-aimed insults...

...until Sol’s reactions hijack the match entirely. One death screen, one whispered apology, and one desperate Discord call later, and suddenly you’re the one getting hunted — not by pixelated nightmares, but by your very real, very flushed, very wrecked boyfriend begging for your attention like his life depends on it. Turns out, surviving finals was the easy part.

…Surviving him? Yeah, good luck with that.

𝓇𝑒𝓆𝓊𝑒𝓈𝓉: soooo, on April 7th, while I was supposed to be studying for my psych and chem midterms, I stumbled across some [ art ] by @bonw0n — and yeah, I was this close to dropping everything to write this immediately. I behaved… mostly. Might’ve snuck a few "study breaks" to get some of it out. I’ve seen others write for this request too, so here’s my take — hope you love it, dearest.

𝒸𝑜𝓃𝓉𝑒𝓃𝓉 𝓌𝒶𝓇𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔: 18+ NO KIDS (Adults Only) This content contains mature themes unsuitable for children. Please respect the creator's intentions. 

𝓉𝒶𝑔𝓈: sol x gn! reader, smut, masturbation, voyeurism, mutual pining, voice kink, begging, desperate sol, one-sided voice chat (at first), tension so thick you could choke on it, accidentally turning him on, slight corruption kink if you squint, dirty thoughts two idiots falling harder than they realize, and sol is down bad and it’s so funny.

April is hell for college students. fucking tell me about...

Anyone who says otherwise has either dropped out, is lying, or majors in something unserious like something dumb—underwater basket weaving.

It���s exam season—a month-long bloodbath where coffee becomes a food group, sleep is theoretical, and your notes look like they were written by a madman mid-breakdown. You’ve been living in libraries, buried in color-coded flashcards and PDF textbooks you don’t even remember downloading. Your backpack weighs more than your will to live, and your playlist? Just sad lo-fi beats and the occasional mental breakdown.

But you did it.

You clawed your way through a few of your finals already, each one more cursed than the last. You turned in essays with hands that felt like claws, circled scantron bubbles like your life depended on it. And when the last “Submit” button was pressed today—you didn’t cry.

You almost did. But instead, you stared at your ceiling for twenty minutes contemplating existence… then decided to not kill yourself with another night of studying.

Tonight? You earned a break. And your poison of choice?

Well, overall, after exams, most people do one of three things:

Talk about the exam like it was a shared war trauma.

Vanish the second time’s up—those lucky bastards just evaporate into thin air.

Crash into bed, possibly start crying because of overthinking. Bonus points if you start crashing out.

Then there’s the rest—out at some crusty frat party, doing keg stands like their brain cells aren’t already on life support. Or sparking up until they’re spiritually ascending, eyes redder than the F they just got in psych stats. But not you.

Oh no, you? You’ve got taste. Elegance.

Horror Video Games.

And not the cute, fluffy kind either. You’re not out here playing some "build your dream town" simulator, collecting adorable animals with quirky little personalities who talk about their feelings. Nope, not you. You're not clicking through endless dialogue trees in a visual novel where every decision leads to either a hug or a heartbroken confession—though, let's be real, you’ve totally dipped your toes in those a couple of times. It's fine. No one's judging.

But nope, you're deep in the muck of horror.  The darker, the better. 

The more twisted, morally questionable, and "I probably shouldn't be playing this at 2 AM" the story is? That's the kind of game you're downloading like it’s got a bill overdue. You don’t need to sip on some overpriced vodka. You don’t need to hit the vape and pretend you’re too cool for life.

What you need is pure, unfiltered psychological trauma in 1080p.

Forget a chill evening—you want to feel like your mind might short-circuit at any second. You need the cozy glow of your LED lights bleeding across a desk littered with energy drinks and half-functioning headphones. You need your haunted little playlist of indie nightmares and "this game is banned in 12 countries" storylines.

This is your version of therapy. Replacing exam stress with the emotional damage of a pixelated ghost child whispering from behind a locked door.

There’s just something magical about sinking into your chair like a sentient blanket burrito, headset on, game booted up, and letting the real world dissolve into static.

Just you, the dark, and whatever fresh hell is waiting around the next virtual corner to emotionally ruin you. Again.

That was all you could think about during your god-awful fifty-minute-long lectures—well, that and how your professor’s voice sounded like someone chewing chalk while reading a textbook aloud. Especially on your longer days, where it felt like your brain was actively trying to escape through your ears or your eyes get heavy—despite sitting right up front of the class you deadass fall asleep in the middle of lecture…

Still, you powered through. Took notes. Faked interest. Dodged a group project like it owed you money. You even hit the library for a hot minute, pretended to be productive, and then finally dragged yourself back to your dorm like a half-dead NPC on a quest for salvation.

First stop? Food. 

You threw something questionable-but-edible into the microwave leftover take out you ordered yesterday and stared at it like it held all the answers to your suffering. Greasy, hot, probably taking a year off your life, but comforting in a ‘screw it, I survived today’ kind of way.

Then came homework. Ugh. 

You sat down, cracked open your laptop, and forced yourself to speed-run your assignments like you were defusing a bomb. Brain on autopilot. Tabs everywhere. Safari sounded like it was about to take off with your laptop. But you got it done—somehow. Whether your answers make sense? Always, make sure to check everything before you turn in, timestamp and all.

Then finally—finally—you hit the shower.

The hot water came down like it had a personal vendetta, absolutely obliterating your stress, your regrets, and possibly your skin barrier. You just stood there, letting it scald you like a rotisserie chicken, steam turning your bathroom into a sad little sauna with zero luxury but maximum existential crisis.

You hummed. You danced. You nearly slipped. You played that one song—the one you’ve been listening to on loop for days like it’s the soundtrack to your life’s fake documentary. You know, the one that starts off giving you chills and ends up giving you a migraine once your brain decides it’s time to ruin it. Classic move.

Then you stood there longer than you needed to, contemplating your next victim in the horror game queue. Real priorities.

Afterward showering, you did your usual post shower routine then you pulled on your favorite set—something soft and chill but definitely showing more skin than necessary. But who were you trying to impress? No one. You just liked how your blanket felt better that way. Priorities.

Besides, the whole point was to feel the warmth of your blanket better. You wrapped yourself in it, a cozy cocoon, and sank into your gamer chair, legs tucked beneath you, heart already settling into that familiar rhythm.

Your desk was a beautiful kind of chaos—lived-in, deliberate, curated for comfort and carnage. At the center of it all stood your mid-sized monitor, propped on a stack of mismatched textbooks like some sacred relic. It bathed the room in soft, moody colors, its screen already alive with the eerie flicker of the horror game’s menu.

Game boxes were stacked like grim little trophies on your shelves, each one a memory of a night spent half-screaming and half-laughing, usually with Sol on the other end. 

Twisted monster figurines stared blankly from their perches, arranged meticulously from “mildly unsettling” to “this one gave me a complex.” And the posters? Cult-classic psychological thrillers and cursed films—tattered at the edges, warped slightly by years of devotion. They stared back at you from the walls, their looming silhouettes shifting every time the screen flashed with static or movement.

Your gamer chair was a throne, worn-in just right—soft, broken in by years of sleepless nights and stress-fueled gaming binges. Draped across it was your oversized blanket, the one that swallowed you whole and made you feel like a cryptid rising from a cocoon. There was something sacred about that chair. It knew things. It had been with you through exam week breakdowns, existential dread marathons, and now, it was your command post.

Your controller was resting on the desk beside you, waiting.

The game was already launched, the lobby open, and your headset nestled comfortably over your ears. The built-in proximity voice chat was activated—just you and Sol in your own little bubble. The room was quiet but not silent. The faint buzz of the monitor, the gentle hum of your fan, the occasional creak of your chair when you shifted—it all became part of the ambiance.

And right on cue… Sol was already online.

His username—pumpkinlover00—pulsed softly in the game lobby like a heartbeat. Waiting. Always waiting. Same time, every night. Like a ritual. Like a promise.

There was no need for a message. No awkward small talk. No fumbling attempts at icebreakers. You two had long since passed that stage. This was muscle memory now—deadass unspoken rhythm built on laggy screams, ill-timed reloading, and the electric hum of shared adrenaline.

You reached for the controller, the soft click of your grip syncing perfectly with the moment his voice crackled through the in-game chat.

“Yo,” Sol murmured, his tone rough and low like he hadn’t spoken all day—maybe he hadn’t.

You grinned, stretching out in your throne of a chair and tugging the blanket tighter around you. “Yo yourself,” you said, thumbing through the loadout menu lazily. “By the way… when were you gonna tell me your gamertag was pumpkinlover00?”

There was a few seconds of silence.

Then, a sigh. The kind that screamed regret.

“It was a dare,” Sol said, as if that explained anything.

You snorted, already grinning as you adjusted in your seat, “Yeah, okay. But pumpkinlover00, though? Be honest. Did you also bake it a pie and whisper sweet nothings to your jack-o-lantern?”

“You keep talking and I will leave you mid-extraction,” he warned, dry as dust.

“Do it. I’ll tell everyone in the dorm that you made a shrine out of pumpkin guts and played Linkin Park while crying.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t just tell them,” you said, spinning your controller in hand with flair. “I’d make PowerPoint slides. Full color. Transitions. Soundtrack.”

He groaned, however you heard the little snort of laughter he tried to bury. Then his eyes landed on your own in-game tag floating proudly above your character’s head: DumpsterSnacc_.

“…You named yourself after trash food,” he muttered.

“Excuse me? I named myself after a rare and powerful snack born in the fires of poor life decisions and gas station cuisine. I am the forbidden flavor.”

“Sounds like you were found in the dumpster.”

“Bold talk from a guy whose username sounds like a seasonal candle from fucking grocery store.”

He laughed at that—low, sudden, genuine. “Alright, alright. Let’s see which one of us gets ghost-murdered first.”

The game flickered to life with its usual guttural startup scream, the kind that sounded like it had regrets and 3 unpaid debts. Your mission scrolled across the screen in grim text, paired with a deep voiceover that could narrate your funeral.

You selected your loadout: flashlight, flares and, of course, your unshakable sense of superiority.

“Alright, Pumpkin Spice,” you said, cracking your knuckles. “Ready to yank some haunted toaster ovens outta Satan’s basement?”

Sol chuckled. “Lead the way, Snaccrifice.”

The screen cut to black. And the horror began. Eveything loaded in with an unholy screech—part static, part radio distortion, part something that sounded like it came from a throat that shouldn’t exist.

You and Sol had just booted up the latest co-op indie horror hit: R.E.P.O. session. A physics-heavy, proximity-voice nightmare where you and a friend sneak into abandoned, rotting buildings to repossess cursed artifacts... all while being stalked by something that learns how you play.

Smart. Fast. Shapeshifting. The kind of monster that knew your patterns better than your therapist. Naturally, you both took it dead seriously. It was so serious, in fact, that your characters were dressed like absolute clowns. Literally.

You had picked grey skin with the bright neon outfit, oversized heart sunglasses, and an inflatable donut ring as a belt. Sol, not to be outdone, went full chaos: Green skin, a banana suit, and ski goggles, paired with bright orange gloves. His character model moved like a confused mall Santa.

“I swear to god,” he muttered through the proximity voice chat, distorted by digital reverb, “if we die looking like this, I’m logging off forever.”

“No you’re not. You're emotionally attached now,” you replied, confidently stomping your ridiculous pink boots toward the first hallway.

You’d already picked your roles.

You were the lead retriever—the brave idiot who runs in, grabs the cursed junk, and throws it back like it’s Black Friday at a pawn shop.

Sol? He was the cart dude—your ever-loyal partner who stayed behind just far enough to avoid immediate death, but close enough to catch whatever hell you flung his way.

He pushed the in-game collection cart behind you with janky, glitchy physics, the wheels squeaking like it was haunted by a grocery store demon. You turned around dramatically, forcing your character model to do a sudden 180.

Because the game used proximity-based voice chat, this also forced your character and Sol’s to make deep, intense eye contact. Eye contact that was only made worse by the exaggerated googly eyes stuck to your sunglasses. “Alright,” you said in your Serious Voice™, stepping forward with authority.  “Game plan.”

Sol’s character nodded, “Hit me.”

“We’re hitting the west wing first. Storage room. There's an artifact in there worth at least $1800 in-game bucks. Probably cursed. Probably breathing. I’ll go in, grab it, scream if I die. You stand back, push the cart, and if something runs at you, throw it my way and run.”

There was a pause.

“That’s… that’s your plan?” he asked.

“It’s a working plan.”

“It’s a dumbass plan.”

“It’s our dumbass plan.”

You both stared in silence again, your avatars breathing heavily, noses almost touching on screen. Sol finally sighed. “I hate that I trust you.”

“I hate that I’m the brains of this operation.” You smirked, turned on your flashlight, and marched forward.

The darkness swallowed you both whole. 

Behind you, the sound of a cart creaking along… and the soft jingle of a banana suit bouncing into the unknown.

You were just finishing loading a creepy little porcelain baby head into the cart—its painted eyes were scratched out and it laughed when you dropped it, so that was great—when the game's staticy radio pinged.

Incoming call.

Username: Hyugo_WasHere

You froze. So did Sol.

“No,” Sol said immediately, full volume, the word sharp enough to slice the tension. “Do not answer that.” Too late. You were already clicking accept.

The call connected with a loud, cheerful “Yooo! Pumpkin Boy! You in that haunted IKEA game?”

You grinned. “Hyugo, you tryna R.E.P.O some haunted junk with us?”

“Am I?” he said. “Am I ever. I’ve been watching Sol’s stream on Discord on mute for like ten minutes. Sol’s scream when the mannequin fell was a chef’s kiss.”

“It fell from the ceiling,” Sol hissed. “And it grabbed my shoulder. You would’ve screamed too.”

“I would’ve shot it,” Hyugo replied flatly.

Sol groaned, already defeated. “I swear to god, if he logs in—”

“He’s already at the party,” you said casually, watching the character list update.

A second later, a new player spawned in the safe zone, cyan color. And dressed like a goddamn menace. Hyugo’s avatar was in tight metallic leggings, a sparkly vest, and a jester hat with bells that jingled with every movement. His character moved with the swagger of someone who wanted to be shot first.

“Why are you like this?” Sol muttered.

“Stealth is a suggestion,” Hyugo declared, spinning in place.

“You’re going to get us murdered,” Sol added.

But you? You were already laughing. “Let’s go, Yessss, let’s go team. The ghost’s not ready.”

As the mission progressed, the building changed. Literally.

The layout shifted the deeper you went, doors that led to supply closets now opening into winding hallways, entire wings that didn’t exist in the beginning of the match suddenly sprouting up like tumors. The wallpaper pulsed. The ceilings dripped. Somewhere in the distance, something screamed like it had teeth where lungs should be.

You, Sol, and Hyugo pushed on. Slowly, methodically.

You led the charge, grabbing cursed relics and slapping them into the cart with casual violence. Sol stuck close, flashlight flickering, cart wheels creaking, muttering price estimates like a haunted appraiser.

Hyugo, despite all odds, actually helped. He wandered ahead with a scanner, pinging valuable loot and joking in proximity chat about how your footsteps sounded like wet noodles. “$1200 mirror up here,” Hyugo called once, voice crackling. “Probably possessed. Can I make it kiss itself?”

“No,” you and Sol said at the same time.

Still, you were doing fine. 

The cart was getting full. The radio said Extraction Ready in 3 Items. You were winning. So, you split up briefly—Sol stayed behind with the cart while you moved into a shadowy side room to grab what looked like a golden antique camera. It was twitching in your hand as you placed it in the cart with a clang.

That’s when Sol ran in. Not walked. Not jogged.

He sprinted in like something was directly behind him, eyes wide, headset audio crackling with his panicked breath. “Gun.”

You looked up. “What?”

“Gun!” he barked again.

“Dude, what—?”

“GUN!!” He was just repeating it now, flailing his arms like his in-game model was having a seizure. “BIG—GUN—HE HAS A GUN—”

“Who has a gun?!”

“THE BLIND GUY!!” Sol whisper-shouted. “HE ALMOST SHOT ME!”

You blinked, slowly crouching. “You mean the monster has a gun? Like an actual gun?”

“Yes! A fucking shotgun. Like He’s blind, but he’s got aimbot—he hears you, and just—” Sol mimed a gun recoil. “Pop. Dead. No warning. No build-up. Just excellent ass hearing and bullets.”

You snorted. “So what I’m hearing is: don’t make noise.”

Because the Blind Huntsman was coming.

The cart was half full, sitting between the overturned desks and office rubble. You had all scrambled to hide, moving fast as the soft, dragging footsteps of the Huntsman echoed from the hallway—his boots heavy, and his breath sharp, unfiltered, like someone breathing through shredded cloth.

You dove under a busted-ass metal table in the middle of the room, the thing barely standing on three legs and draped with old-ass hanging wires and paper folders that probably hadn’t been touched since the building caught its first haunting. The light was dim, pulsing like a dying heartbeat from some emergency light in the hall. Dust settled thick on the floor, the smell of old rot and burning metal clinging to the air.

Across from you, Hyugo’s stupid cyan avatar ducked under another table, practically hugging the wall like some horror-movie goblin. He looked so ridiculous in that clown-ass outfit y’all let him pick, and the way he moved just made it worse—jerky, crouched, twitchy, like someone who was definitely going to get caught first.

And then there was Sol. Goddamn Sol. Man had one job—hide. But instead of tucking under a desk like a normal person, he panicked and wedged himself behind the door. Behind. The. Door. Like the Huntsman wasn't gonna swing it open and yeet him into next week.

Earlier, before shit hit the fan, he had said all calm like, “I’m gonna scope the hallway next. The cart’s almost full. Let me just—wait, hold on—” His mic clicked. That dreaded click.

You knew something was wrong. So did Hyugo. 

Both of your avatars shifted ever so slightly—tense, alert.

Then Sol said it. “I’m getting a call.”

You silently screamed. Huygo’s shoulders went up like “no way this idiot’s serious.”

You hissed, “Sol, no—”

But he said it. Out loud. “Hello?”

The door didn’t creak open. It detonated—BOOM.

The sound rattled your headset so hard your mic peaked. Splinters flew, chunks of drywall exploded like confetti, and dust swallowed the whole room. The screen shook like a natural disaster, and you actually jumped IRL, heart hammering. Sol’s body got flung back like a ragdoll—slammed straight into a metal filing cabinet, bounced, and crumpled like a puppet with cut strings. It was the worst-looking hit you’d ever seen in-game. Just flopped there, half-folded behind some drawers.

And yet… somehow… the bastard lived.

He slowly sat up, stunned as hell. Twitchy, like he had just experienced every lifetime trauma at once. His mic crackled in all staticky, and he muttered: “…what the fuck.”

You were dying. Not in-game. In reality. Trying so hard not to lose it. Your whole body was trembling from how bad you wanted to laugh. You slapped both hands over your mouth and held them there like a makeshift muzzle, eyes wide, shoulders shaking.

You peeked out at Sol’s avatar.

He was looking dead at you.

And you felt it. The shame. The betrayal. The comedy. Whoever coded that eye tracking in this cursed game deserved an Oscar. Sol just sat there, traumatized, and stared at you like “you saw that, didn’t you?” And yeah. Yeah, you did. And it was the funniest shit you’d seen all week. Then Hyugo’s dumbass peeked out too.

Hyugo peeked out from his hiding spot—real slow, real cautious—and locked eyes with Sol first. Sol’s avatar, still slumped against the cabinet like a traumatized Victorian ghost, stared back. No words. Just… the kind of look that said "Don't you dare."

Then Hyugo turned and looked at you. Your own avatar, tucked safely under the rust-ridden desk, met his gaze with the same energy. A silent pact. Do not make a sound. Not a breath. Not a giggle. Not even a pixel twitch. 

And Hyugo? He was trying, man. He really was.

You could see it—his character model shook slightly, his shoulders giving that telltale twitch. Like he was holding in a sneeze. You knew the warning signs. The snort was coming. And then—“Pfft.”

CRACK.

The Blind Huntsman didn’t even hesitate. Didn’t pause. That cursed bastard snapped around the second he heard the slip. One single shot. Pinpoint. Surgical. Hyugo’s head went supernova. Cyan body parts everywhere. His avatar’s body slammed into the edge of the metal table with this sickening clunk, arms flailing once before collapsing in a stiff, horrifying ragdoll motion. His limbs twitched for half a second… then silence.

Just the head left. Rolling. 

Like the Huntsman said, “shut the hell up” with extreme prejudice.

Dead. Instant. No revive. No second chances.

The man got deleted like he owed the server money.

You were fully biting down on the sleeve of your hoodie now, hands over your face, trying not to scream with laughter. Shoulders shaking, breath hiccupping through your nose like a possessed hamster. Your eyes were stinging from how hard you were crying—silent tears of pure, uncut chaos.

Sol’s mic crackled again, dry as hell. No emotion. Just raw judgment. “…I hope you get haunted, bro. I really do.”

You couldn’t even answer. You were beyond words. The cart you were supposed to be pushing? Yeah. You just stared at it. Like maybe if you focused hard enough, you could will the mission to complete itself.

And the Huntsman? Still there.

Pacing slow. Heavy boots echoing through the static haze. He hadn’t forgotten. Not about Sol. Not about you. He was still walking. Still waiting for someone to slip up. And you could feel it—He was pissed.

You and Sol managed to slip out while the Huntsman circled the wreckage, still checking corners like a paranoid ex. You bolted left, Sol darted right—no words, just instinct and pure panic-fueled coordination. Both of you were half limping, half sliding into the hallway, ducking behind the rusted lockers and broken shelving until the Huntsman's heavy steps grew distant.

There was a long, quiet beat once you were safe.

Then—“…Did we just leave Hyugo’s decapitated ass in there?”

You stared at Sol. He stared back. Then you both turned to look at the cart you’d spent ten minutes loading, still sitting abandoned in the middle of the room next to Hyugo’s... head. 

“Motherf—”

The next ten minutes were pure stealth-game agony. Crawling back, avoiding cameras, sensors, trying not to alert any monster. You had to watch the Huntsman loop its route three times before Sol gave you the go-ahead. He moved to the body. You got the cart.

Teamwork, right?

Eventually, you loaded the final files, got the cart into the hallway, and hit the extraction point with barely a second to spare. The screen faded to black.

Round complete.

The next scene dumped the three of you back into the familiar starting truck. Same cramped space. Same dim, flickering fluorescent light humming overhead like an anxious fly. The air in the truck felt heavier than before, like it still remembered the chaos from the last round.

Sol stood in the corner, arms crossed, glaring at absolutely nothing with the weight of every bad decision Hyugo had ever made. You were perched on one of the benches, legs pulled up, hoodie sleeve still a bit damp from when you nearly choked on your own laughter earlier.

And then there was Hyugo.

His avatar spawned in silently, just standing there for a long second like he was processing his own digital funeral.

Then he exhaled like someone twice his age. “…damn, I got clapped.” 

That was all it took.

You started laughing again, that quiet, breathless kind that rocked your shoulders and made your stomach hurt. Hyugo cracked up beside you, doubling over, no shame at all.

“Who the hell answers a phone call in the middle of a mission, bro?” you snorted, elbowing his character like it could knock some sense into him.

Sol didn’t laugh. Didn’t smirk. Just slowly raised his arm and pointed at Hyugo like he was pressing a mental “report player” button.

“That's what your ass get,” he said flatly. “Prank-calling me mid-hide with your creepy-ass burner number? You deserved that karma in 4K, dumbass.”

Moving on, the next map flickered into existence as the truck doors groaned open. Bright, sterile white lights cut through the foggy interior, revealing a massive abandoned science lab, all clean metal, reinforced glass, and flickering emergency signs that suggested terrible things had happened here. The air was thick with strange green mist hissing from the vents, swirling in ghostly patterns around overturned desks and shattered containment pods.

Hyugo was still sprawled on the floor from his latest brush with death, groaning dramatically. You and Sol stepped over him like he was part of the scenery.

"Science lab, huh?" you muttered, adjusting your gear.

"Great," Sol sighed. "Haunted test tubes. Love that."

Hyugo finally pushed himself up, grinning like he hadn’t just been yeeted toward acid twice in the last five minutes. “Oh, y’all are gonna love this.”

He opened his inventory with a smug flourish, the soft chime echoing like a game show reveal. And there it was:

The Hourglass.

Not just rare—stupid rare. Glowing in vibrant shades of purple and pink, pulsing slightly like it had its heartbeat. The mist around your group even seemed to freeze for a second, as if reality itself was like, wait, what.

You and Sol both just stared. At it. At Hyugo. Then, back at the Hourglass, like you were waiting for a hidden camera reveal.

“You found that?” you asked, taking a cautious step forward.

“Yup,” Hyugo said proudly, hands on his hips. “Just vibing in the vents. Found it near a corpse. Thought it was lore or something.”

Sol blinked like a tired professor dealing with the world’s most dramatic intern. “Hyugo.”

“Yeah?”

Then it happened.

Hyugo’s model jerked slightly, like a status effect triggered, and when his mic crackled back to life, he was no longer speaking like Hyugo. No. Now, he was channeling something deeper. Something ancient. Something theatrical.

He straightened up with cartoonish grandeur and spoke in the slow, wise tone of a final boss monologue. “Sunny,” he began—Sol’s cursed nickname—“I have acquired… the capsule.”

You blinked. “The what?”

“The capsules. Of time. The very essence of fate distilled into radiant fragments. This—” he gestured dramatically to the Hourglass, “—is our salvation. Our burden. Our destiny.”

Sol deadpanned. “…You’ve been holding it for three seconds.”

Hyugo ignored him. Spun on his heel with dramatic flair. “We are going to win this game. For the realm. For the vent corpses that came before us.”

You crossed your arms. “Hyugo—”

“If it means I have to sacrifice my life…” Hyugo continued, raising one hand to the digital ceiling like a knight accepting a divine quest, “so be it. Let my KD be shattered. My dignity obliterated. My outfit scuffed—”

Sol raised his weapon slightly. “Don’t tempt me.”

Hyugo gasped. “You would turn on me now, Sunny? After all we’ve been through? After I carried you through that cursed stairwell map with the glitchy ass doors? Have you no heart?”

You tried not to laugh. Failed.

“Onward, you two!” Hyugo declared suddenly, pointing dramatically at the truck doors as they creaked open to reveal the misty lab ahead. “We must go! For glory! For loot! For Sunny’s tragic lack of skills!”

Sol muttered, “I have skills—”

“SILENCE! The prophecy unfolds!”

And with that, Hyugo bolted forward, cape fluttering—he didn’t have one, but you felt like he did—into the ominous green mist, yelling something incoherent about “ether trails” and “data packets of destiny.”

You glanced at Sol. Sol glanced at you.

“I’m not reviving him when he gets face-checked by a mimic chest,” Sol said, voice flat as asphalt.

You tilted your head, smirking. “You know we’re following him anyway.”

“…Yeah. I hate that,” he muttered, already moving.

Without a second of hesitation, Sol opened his inventory with the resigned grace of someone prepping for a ritual he swore he wouldn’t take part in. One swift flick later, he pulled out the gun—the gun. Sleek, matte black, gold trim. The kind of in-game weapon that costs 7,000 currency, your soul, and your firstborn. Came with a single magazine and a kill count higher than most player stats.

Your eyes widened. “Sol—”

Before you could even finish your sentence—BANG. 

Hyugo collapsed like a folding chair. A single headshot. Dead. Instant. No fanfare. His body rag-dolled across the floor and slammed into the lab wall with a sad little clunk, the Hourglass clattering beside him like a dropped Fabergé egg. “…WHAT THE HELL?!” Hyugo’s mic exploded back to life as his model twitched on the floor.

You exhaled. “What the helly?”

Hyugo groaned. “What the helly??”

“What the helleante?” “What the helleon musk?” “What the helleberry pie?”

“What the Hellebron James?” “What the Helly Rae Jepsen?” 

“Guys.” Sol’s voice cut in, calm but worn, like a man hanging by a single thread of patience. “Shut the fuck up.”

He walked over, still holding that overkill gun in one hand like it weighed nothing, then, without missing a beat, used the grab function to hoist Hyugo’s limp avatar off the ground. His digital arms dangled, legs flopping like a sack of potatoes in skinny jeans. “Bro—BRO,” Hyugo shrieked, squirming. “Put me down! What are you doing?! SOL—Sol stop—STOP—”

You trailed after them, watching like an exhausted parent witnessing their two chaotic ass sons take very different approaches to conflict resolution. 

“Sol. Come on.”

Sol’s avatar stopped just at the edge of the glowing, toxic pit bubbling in the middle of the containment zone. The green light cast eerie shadows across the lab walls. He slowly turned his character model, head cocked toward you.

One word. “Justice.”

“BRO I’LL BUY YOU A SKIN,” Hyugo screamed. “A WHOLE PACK! LIMITED EDITION! I’LL PAY FOR IT WITH MY OWN CURRENCY—”

Sol took a step closer to the pit. Paused.

Hyugo whimpered. “Please don’t Wario-yeet me into acid, I’m useful…”

Another step. The acid hissed below, eager. Hungry.

You raised a hand like a referee about to blow the whistle. “Sol. We do need him to activate the switch in the next room. You remember the puzzle door.”

Sol sighed, heavy and reluctant. “I hate teamwork.”

Hyugo, still dangling: “I LOVE teamwork.”

After a long moment, Sol dropped him. Hyugo screamed like a dying fax machine as his avatar plummeted toward the acid below—arms flailing, mic peaking—until you lunged. Frame-perfect grab. Caught him by the hoodie just before he splashed into the bubbling green abyss. His scream cut off immediately. For a second, the whole game seemed to lag, his body glitching mid-air as you held him up like some divine intervention.

Silence. Then: “—Y-you saved me,” Hyugo breathed.

You dropped him. He hit the floor with a loud thunk.

"Don't thank me," you muttered, brushing off your sleeves. "I just didn't wanna hear that scream again."

Hyugo groaned, rolling onto his side. "You two are bullies."

Sol casually reloaded his gun. “You’re welcome for the content.”

Hyugo sat up, rubbing his digital head like he could still feel the gunshot. “I’m getting a new squad.”

"You say that every round," you smirked, already scanning the lab. Beyond the glowing acid pit, the corridors stretched into eerie, sterile hallways, the green mist rolling between shattered glass panels. 

Oh, yeah—and the rest of the game? Oh, it completely fell apart. What started as a semi-coordinated dungeon crawl quickly devolved into Hyugo’s personal chaos playground.

You were trying to play with some semblance of focus. Sol was attempting to maintain professionalism, a beacon of composure in the chaos. And then there was Hyugo, who effortlessly turned the entire game from a tense "sci-fi horror dungeon crawl" to a wild, unhinged improv comedy show—complete with light war crimes.

He was a menace. No—he was the menace. A digital gremlin incarnate. One moment, you’re creeping down a shadowy lab corridor, the eerie hum of the ambient music seeping into your headphones, the air thick with tension. You’re on edge, weapons ready, your mind focused on the mission at hand… and then—BOOM.

Big Sean’s “I Don’t F*ck With You” intro explodes through team chat, its intro blaring like a furious soundboard god had just unleashed chaos upon you. You whip around the corner just in time to see Hyugo, arms flailing, sprinting full speed through a doorway, the music pounding in the background. Behind him? A grotesque, duck-shaped miniboss, honking like a malfunctioning bike horn and spewing acid everywhere.

You couldn’t help it. 

You were dying from laughter, struggling to even aim properly, your screen a blur from tears of hilarity.

Sol, on the other hand?

“TURN IT OFF,” he growled, weapon drawn, hands visibly shaking with frustration. His usual calm demeanor? Gone.

Hyugo didn’t even flinch. “I WOULD RATHER DIE!”Instead, he leapt. A full-on swan dive off a second-story catwalk, arms spread wide in dramatic, angelic fashion, while the music still blared through the speakers. His avatar ragdoling gracefully down to the depths below, and that ridiculous duck miniboss followed right after.

You? Hysterical. Barely holding it together.

Sol? “I hope it eats him.”

The only thing more ridiculous than Hyugo's antics was the fact that you all still couldn't stop.

The next round? It was a complete disaster.

You were trying to maintain some semblance of control, moving stealthily through a high-alert containment zone. Alarms blared in your ears, the shrill sound slicing through your focus. Enemies were everywhere, ready to pounce at the first sign of trouble. Sol was on point, carefully lining up a perfect shot on a sniper perched high in the rafters. It was the kind of moment that made you feel like you were finally in control.

And then, suddenly—LOUD BABY CRYING.

The mic exploded with static, the shrieks vibrating through your headset. You froze, your camera whipping around to see what the hell was going on. There, crouched behind Sol, was Hyugo.

And he wasn’t even doing anything. He was just vibing. No weapons, no tactics. Just existing, silently in the corner. 

The worst part?

Every time you looked directly at him, he shot off like a rogue NPC with a death wish. His character zigzagged around the hallway, darting every which way, a trail of baby wails following him like an ominous echo through the halls. It felt like you were being haunted by the ghost of daycare past, each screeching cry more absurd than the last.

Sol's jaw was clenched so hard you could practically hear his teeth grinding together. He spun on you, his frustration practically palpable. “I’m this close to uninstalling.”

You shrugged, not even bothering to hide your grin. “Let him live. He’s the only one distracting the minibosses.”

Sol’s glare could’ve burned a hole through steel. “He’s distracting me.”

Of course, things didn’t get better.

You were one artifact away from completing the mission. 

Going back for the legendary Hourglass. 

A cursed, time-warping relic that everyone knew was crucial to the final steps. You had made it this far, fighting tooth and nail to stay alive, to push forward. The whole mission had come down to this one piece.

Sol exhaled slowly, trying to keep it together. “Alright. Where’s the Hourglass?”

Before you could even answer, Hyugo shot up from the corner where he’d been hiding, far too excited. “Ooh! I’ll get it!”

You and Sol both said it in unison. “NO.”

You pointed at him, voice firm. “I’ll get it.” 

You sprinted off, cursing under your breath as you dashed through the corridor, praying to every god in existence that Hyugo wouldn't somehow decide to follow you and make the situation even worse. The last thing you needed was him trailing behind you like a damn toddler in a toy store, causing chaos at every corner.

When you finally returned, panting, gripping the eerie-looking relic in your hands, you were met with a sight that made your blood boil: Hyugo, standing atop a console, looking absolutely delightful in that damn ugly seasonal cosmetic hat.

He spun around like he was auditioning for a low-budget action movie, and before you could even blink, he started blasting the most obnoxious clapping sound effect. His character mimicked a ridiculously exaggerated movement, like he was giving backshots to Sol's and yours.

That was it. You were done.

No more laughter. No more tolerance for his nonsense. The mission was right there, within reach, and yet here he was, ruining everything with his antics.

You slammed your hand down on your mic key. “Hyugo, what the hell is wrong with you?” you growled, voice dripping with annoyance. “You can’t be serious. Every time we get anywhere, you turn this game into a circus. We’re not here to play dress-up and throw sound effects around. This isn’t a comedy show!”

You glared at him through the screen, fury bubbling up. “I’ve been trying to finish this mission for hours, and all you’ve done is run around like a damn gremlin, causing chaos and wasting everyone’s time! I swear to god, if you don’t knock it off—”

Hyugo, of course, just stood there, you knew for a fact that he’s grinning like an idiot behind his fuck ass character. The last shred of your patience snapped. You looked at Sol’s character on the screen, knowing he was feeling the exact same way. Sol’s normally calm demeanor was clearly strained, but he wasn’t saying a word.

“Hyugo,” you seethed, “I’m done. Just—get out. If you can’t take this seriously, then don’t waste our time. You’re a walking distraction and a complete menace. Maybe if you stopped playing clown, you’d actually be useful for once.”

Without waiting for any kind of response, you spun around in your seat, fingers slamming against the buttons in a blur of frustration. The shot rang out, and with a satisfying pop, Hyugo's avatar’s head crumpled to the ground, lifeless.

There was a long, tense silence. You were still fuming, but you didn’t care anymore. Hyugo was out of your hair. The relic was in your hands. The mission was finally going to be over.

Or so you thought.

Then, out of nowhere, his voice crackled through the mic, calm and far too chipper. "Alright, I’m logging off for the night," Hyugo announced, as if he hadn't just spent the last hour turning the game into a goddamn circus. "I’m gonna play something else. This is... yeah, this is too much for me."

You blinked, taken aback. He was serious? After everything? You were half-expecting him to jump back in and say, "Just kidding!" or somehow start another round of chaotic shenanigans. But no. This time, he wasn’t even bothering to tease Sol. No baby were crying sound effects, no loud meme noises blaring through the speakers, no swan dives off catwalks. 

You let out a long sigh as the weight of the chaos slowly lifted from your shoulders, but just when you thought you could finally call it a night, Sol shot you a look that could only be described as a challenge.

“Don’t tell me you're actually done,” he said, a smirk creeping into his voice. “Come on, it’s late, but we’re so close. You’ve gotta finish the level with me. I dare you.”

You raised an eyebrow. You were exhausted, physically and mentally. 

The idea of continuing felt like a cruel joke, but you knew one thing: Sol wasn’t backing down, and he had a way of wearing you down with that competitive streak of his. "Fine," you muttered, giving in. "But if I regret this in the morning, I’m blaming you."

Sol gave you a look through the camera—equal parts smug and tired triumph—as you queued up a new level, eyes bleary but still gleaming with challenge.

“You sure?” he asked, leaning back in his chair, stretching like a smug cat. “This one’s deep in the DLC vault. Real freakshow hours.”

You smirked, fingers already flying across the controller. “Bring it on, coward.”

What loaded next was an obscure, borderline-broken DLC map—one of those buggy, cursed messes made by a dev who clearly needed therapy and a hug. Everything about it was off: the lighting was dim and sickly, the corridors were way too narrow, and worst of all, voice proximity was cranked up to hell. It didn’t just pick up speech. It picked up breathing.

Neither of you noticed it right away—until Sol whispered a dumb joke and the monster twitched on the screen.

“Oh hell no,” he muttered, sitting up straighter. “This thing reacts to voice pitch?”

You hummed, too tired to even laugh properly. “Mmhm. Screeches at loud noises, tracks whispers like a bloodhound.”

“Great,” he deadpanned. “So basically, I die if I sneeze.”

You forged ahead anyway, navigating through the maze of twisted hallways and creaky floorboards. The monster’s guttural growls kept brushing up against your nerves, but your exhaustion forced you into a kind of laser-focused calm. Your voice dropped lower, slower, softer—soothing, unintentional, intimate.

“Go left,” you murmured. “No—wait... not yet... okay, now. Stay close to the wall.”

There was silence on Sol’s end. Long, uncomfortable silence.

“Why are you... whispering like that?” he asked, voice a little thinner now.

You didn’t even look up. “Monster hears pitch. Screams attract it. I’m trying to not to get us murdered.”

“Sure,” he said, and then quieter, “It’s just... wow. Okay.”

Another corridor, another wave of tension. You were crouched behind a rusted shelf, heart thumping, flashlight flickering like it had stage fright, as the game’s monster—this twitchy, multi-limbed freak that sprinted at sound—skulked somewhere nearby. 

You leaned into your mic, voice steady, low, breath soft. “Hold your position… grab the crowbar… don’t move… until I say so.” Smooth. Silky. Calculated.

And then—“Sol?” Nothing.

“Sol?” Still nothing.

You peeked down the hallway just in time to see Sol’s in-game avatar standing completely still like some tragic mannequin left in a post-apocalyptic mall. Just… chilling. No movement, no reaction—man really just decided to embrace the void mid-mission. Then, out of the shadows, the monster shrieked like a dying lawnmower and launched itself at him.

“SOL—WHAT THE FUCK?!”

You screamed his name like he’d walked into oncoming traffic. His character didn’t even flinch. He just stood there, stoic as hell, right until the monster decapitated him with enough force to send his character’s head flying halfway across the screen like it owed him money. 

“Oh my god—SOL, YOU DIED, YOUR HEAD—YOUR FUCKING HEAD WENT INTO THE SKY.”

Still no response. 

Just the sound of the monster doing a victory screech and your own mic picking up your frantic panting as you became the hunted next. Now it was your turn to run. You booked it, chart in hand, tripping over half-looted shelves and whispering panicked commands to no one. You were not about to leave those high-priced relic items behind. No way. That shit was worth more than your character’s life, and you were committed.

You could feel the vibration through your controller ramping up—like it was trying to match your pulse. The sound of claws scraping concrete got closer. Louder. 

Then—“Nnnh…” A noise. Quiet. Way too quiet. But there.

You froze mid-run. “Sol?” No answer.

“…Are you—are you for real jacking off right now?!”

A pause. Then, barely audible through your headset, a low mumble:

“Keep talking… please,”

“I AM IN A GAME, YOU SICK LITTLE FREAK! THERE IS A DEMON CENTIPEDE THING TWO FEET BEHIND ME—I AM FIGHTING FOR MY LIFE—AND YOU’RE TRYNA BUST?!” 

The controller was still buzzing in your hands like it had a personal vendetta. Maybe it was the in-game monster. Maybe it was your own nerves. Or maybe—just maybe—it was Sol, breathing way too hard in your headset and dragging your sanity down with him.

And the worst part? It was funny. Because you'd forgotten—actually forgotten—you were even dating him. You were so used to Sol being somewhat mean, clingy, pouty, and generally up in your business that his little habits no longer register. Until now. Until this very cursed match. Because this? 

This was a whole other level.

Just when you rounded the next corner—BAM. The monster dropped from the ceiling vents like it had a grudge, tackled your character, and splattered your health bar in one hit. Your screen flashed a dramatic, unforgiving red:

YOU DIED.

You blinked at the screen. Jaw slack. Controller limp in your hands.

“…Are you kidding me?” you said, voice cracking. “I just got jump-scared to death because you decided to moan in my ear like we’re in some low-budget audio drama.”

Nothing. Just silence. Then, his mic crackled.

There was rustling, a shift, the soft sound of movement, and then Sol exhaled. Shaky. Like he’d just run a marathon—or committed a sin.

“I-I’m sorry,” he muttered, breathless and too soft for comfort. “I couldn’t help it. Your voice… it was driving me crazy.”

Your face went hot. Neck, ears, everything. You curled your toes on instinct. That stupid familiar twist of heat hit your stomach before you could even think to shut him up.

“Sol,” you hissed, but it came out more like a whimper.

“I—can we switch to Discord?” he asked suddenly, almost desperate. “Please, please, Pumpkin. Just for a sec. I need you to see what you’re doing to me.” He begged, using said nickname.

Your heart stuttered. 

You weren’t proud of it, but the way he begged—soft, needy, breath catching like he was barely holding it together—yeah.

You were a little turned on.

Fine. Maybe more than a little.

You stared at the screen, still frozen on your defeat, the red YOU DIED taunting you like it knew exactly why. The headset felt suddenly too hot on your ears, like it was echoing back his voice over and over again. Your fingers flexed around the controller like it owed you an explanation.

“Sol, we’re in the middle of a game,” you muttered, but the protest was flimsy, half-hearted at best. Because let’s be real, your fingers were already flying to open Discord with the kind of speed that betrayed just how curious you really were. How desperate, aww.

“Then quit it.” His voice was a rough whisper, thick like honey poured over gravel, dark and syrupy-sweet. “Quit the game. I don’t give a damn if it’s ranked, or cursed, or if the final boss was personally designed by the devil anymore. I just need—”

A low, broken groan tore from his throat, vibrating through the call and sending an electric shiver straight down your spine.

“—need you to look at me.”

And when the video call connected?

God. You looked. And you immediately regretted it.

The screen flickered to life, and there he was—Sol, wrecked and breathless, like he’d been fighting for control and lost. His black and neon-green hair was a disheveled mess, sweat-damp strands clinging to his forehead. His shirt was rucked up past his hips, revealing the sharp cut of his abdomen, the tantalizing dip of his V-line—like he’d gotten impatient, like he’d been touching himself just thinking about you—well, of course, all he thinks about is you after all.

Bruises littered his skin, dark and possessive, marking him up in a way that only made him look wilder, more feral. His red-orange eyes were blown wide, pupils swallowing the color, glassy with desperation. His hands trembled where they braced against his desk, mic discarded like even that was too much to hold onto.

“You did this,” he accused, voice raw, wrecked. A confession. A prayer.

Your throat went dry. Heat flooded your veins, crawling up your neck, your cheeks, your ears—everywhere. You bit the inside of your cheek hard enough to sting, just to keep yourself from whimpering.

“You’re insane,” you breathed.

Sol nodded, feverish, eager. “For you? Every damn second.”

You tried to laugh, but it came out shaky, breathless. “We were just gaming—”

“No.” His voice dropped, sharp and dangerous. “You were gaming. I was trying not to lose my goddamn mind listening to you—your threats, your fucking voice, whispering curses like you were trying to ruin me.”

“I was not!” you protested, weak, already squirming. 

“‘I’m gonna shove this bat so far up your undead ass, you’ll respawn with it sticking out your mouth,’” he quoted, verbatim, voice dripping with accusation. His gaze burned into you, unwavering. “Tell me that wasn’t filthy. Tell me you didn’t know what you were doing.”

You swallowed hard. “Okay,” you admitted, voice barely above a whisper. “Maybe that one was a little hot.”

His grin was wicked, triumphant, as he leaned closer to the screen, like he could taste your surrender. “So,” he murmured, voice dipping into something dark, hungry, “still think we’re finishing that match?”

Your cursor hovered over “Rejoin Game.”

Then, with a slow, deliberate click, you closed the tab.

“…I hope that monster knows it died for a very good cause.”

Your breath hitched as Sol leaned back, his fingers hooking under the hem of his shirt with a slow, deliberate smirk. "You wanna see more?" he taunted, voice dripping with sinful amusement. "Then say it."

Your lips parted, heat coiling low in your stomach as you narrowed your eyes. "Take it off. Now."

A sharp, breathy laugh escaped him as he obeyed, dragging the fabric up and over his head in one smooth motion. His chest was perfectly—toned, flushed, his pierced nipples glinting under the dim light of his room.

You hadn’t noticed before, but each one was adorned with a small silver med-sized bars, the metal catching the light as his breathing quickened. "Fuck," you muttered, biting your lip. “Aww, you’ve been hiding these from me?"

Sol’s grin was all teeth. "Not hiding. Just waiting for you to ask."

Your gaze raked over him, lingering on the way his stomach tensed as he shifted, his fingers toying with the waistband of his pants. "And what else are you hiding, huh?" you challenged, voice dropping into something darker. 

"You gonna show me everything, or do I have to make you?"

A shudder ran through him at the command, his pupils blown wide. "Fuck—" His fingers trembled as he undid the button, the zipper sliding down with a hiss that sent a jolt straight to your core.

And then—"Holy shit."

Your eyes locked onto the glint of metal there, nestled along the length of his cock, a delicate Frenum piercing tracing from the tip down to the flushed, aching pink of him. He was big, thick, and heavy in his hand as he gave himself a slow stroke, the silver bead catching the light obscenely.

"You—" Your voice cracked. "You’ve had this the whole time?"

Sol’s breath came in ragged bursts, his free hand gripping the edge of his desk. "Yeah," he admitted, voice wrecked. "Thought you’d—ah—like it."

You did. God, you did.

“Play with yourself,” you ordered, rather quickly—voice dripping with dark command, leaving no room for hesitation. “Let me see how pathetic you look when you’re desperate for me.”

A sharp, wounded whine tore from Sol’s throat, but his hand obeyed instantly, sliding down his stomach to wrap around his cock—already hard, already dripping, the metal of his Frenum piercing glinting under the dim light. His fingers moved in slow, torturous drags, his breath hitching as he squeezed just the way he knew you liked to watch.

“Fuck—fuck—” His hips jerked, chasing his own touch, his thighs trembling. “Tell me—” he gasped, voice wrecked, “tell me how I look.”

You leaned closer to the screen, lips curling into a cruel smirk as you drank in the sight of him—his black and green hair sticking to his sweat-slicked forehead, his pierced nipples pebbled tight under your gaze, his abs flexing with every ragged breath.

“Like a whore,” you purred, low and filthy. “All these piercings, all these pretty little decorations—just for me to look at, huh? You like showing off? Like knowing I’m staring at your cock and thinking about how mine it is?”

Sol moaned, high and broken, his free hand flying up to pinch and twist at his nipple, the metal barbell catching the light. His back arched off the bed, his whole body shuddering. “Yours,” he gasped, voice cracking. “Always—fuck—always yours.”

You watched, transfixed, as his fingers moved faster, his strokes turning messy, needy. His other hand kept playing with his nipple, tugging at the piercing just to hear himself whimper, just to feel something sharper.

And God, you were losing it too.

Your thighs pressed together, trying to relieve the ache building between them, but it wasn’t enough. Nothing was enough. Not when you could see the way his cock twitched in his grip, the way his stomach muscles clenched as he got closer. Not when you could hear every broken gasp, every bitten-off moan.

Your mind raced with want—with the desperate, clawing need to have him here, in your room, on your bed, begging for you to climb into his lap and ride him until neither of you could think. 

You imagined his rough, massive hands dragging down your body, his teeth sinking into your shoulder as he whined into your ear. You could almost feel the heat of his skin under your palms, the way his muscles would tense as you traced every scar, every bruise, every inch of him.

And his piercings—fuck. 

You wanted to lick them, to bite down just hard enough to make him gasp, to suck his nipples until they were red and swollen. You wanted to taste every part of him, to sink onto his cock and feel that Frenum piercing drag inside you, hitting every perfect spot until you were both sobbing.

But most of all?

You wanted to see those eyes—those obsessive, red-orange eyes—locked onto yours as he came undone beneath you, whispering your name like a prayer.

"Be careful with yourself, pretty boy," you murmured into the mic, voice dripping with false sweetness—but the tremor in your breath gave you away. Your fingers slid between your thighs, slow, teasing, just enough to make your hips twitch. "Wouldn’t want you to break before I’m done with you."

"Sol," you breathed, voice dripping with sin as your fingers traced slow, teasing circles over your own skin—just watching the way his eyes darkened, the way his breath hitched when you bit your lip. "You have no idea how badly I want to touch you right now."

His throat bobbed, his grip tightening around his cock like he was barely holding on. "Fuck—tell me," he begged, voice already wrecked.

You tilted your head, letting him see the hunger in your eyes—the way you ached for him. "I’d start with your face," you murmured, dragging your fingertips down your neck, mimicking the path you’d take on him. "Kissing you so deep you forget how to breathe. Then your neck—" 

Your teeth grazed your lower lip, just imagining the way he’d shudder. "Biting you just how you like it. Gentle? Or hard enough to make you whimper?"

Sol’s hips jerked, a broken sound escaping. "Hard—fuck, please—"

You smirked, dragging your nails down your chest, watching his gaze follow every movement. "Then I’d take my time with these," you purred, rubbing your own nipple just to watch him lose it. "Your piercings—god, I’ve thought about them so much. The way they’d feel against my lips, cold metal and hot skin. I’d tease you until you were begging me to move lower."

His breath came in ragged pants, his hand moving faster, desperate. "Lower—where—?"

You let out a slow, sinful laugh. "Guess." 

Your fingers trailed down your stomach, lower, lower, until his eyes burned with recognition. "Oh, Sol," you sighed, voice thick with want. "You liar, such a bad boy. All this time, you never told me about this." 

You licked your lips, imagining the weight of him, the way that frenum piercing would feel pressing against your tongue. "I’d take my time tasting you, savoring every inch—until you were shaking, until you couldn’t stand it."

Sol’s back arched, his free hand gripping the edge of his desk like he was about to snap. "You—you knew—?"

‘No," you admitted, your own fingers slipping between your thighs, moaning softly at the contact. "But I dreamed about it. About how it’d feel when you fucked my throat, when that little metal bar hit the back of my tongue. You’d try so hard to be good, wouldn’t you? But I’d make you lose control. Make you push deeper, until I was choking on you—until you came so hard you screamed."

He let out a strangled groan, his thighs trembling. "Or—fuck—or you could ride me," he gasped, his voice raw with need. "Take what you want, use me—‘

You cut him off, “Fuck—fuck—fuck—“ 

Your breath hitched as you rocked against your own fingers, Sol’s blown-out, filthy gaze locked onto you through the screen. He was watching—watching every twitch of your thighs, every shuddering gasp, every slick, desperate stroke of your fingers. And God, the way his lips parted, his chest heaving, his cock twitching against his stomach—like he was made for this. For you.

"That’s it, pumpkin," Sol groaned, voice wrecked, his fingers digging into his own thighs as he fought not to touch himself yet. "Look at you—fuck—look at you, taking yourself apart just ‘cause I’m watching."

You whimpered, arching off your gamer chair, your free hand fisting the blanket. "S-Sol—"

"Tell me," he demanded, his voice rough, needy. "Tell me what you’ve been thinking about. What you dream about when you’re pretending to focus on your goddamn finals."

Your hips stuttered. Fuck.

"Y-You—" you gasped, your mind spinning with him—Sol, yours, always yours, forever yours—jumping on him, riding him, your mouth around your cock as you ordered him to take it and be still until he was sobbing your name. Or maybe him pounding into you—vice versa if you have to be honest, his thick cock splitting you open, filling you up so good, so perfect, slow and deep one second, then brutal the next, fucking you senseless until neither of you could think—

"Fuck, Sol—!" You bit your lip hard, your thighs trembling. "I—I want you—inside—want you to fucking ruin me—"

A sharp, punched-out moan tore from Sol’s throat, his hand finally—finally—wrapping around his cock, stroking hard, fast, like he couldn’t hold back anymore. "Yeah? Where?" he growled, his hips jerking up into his fist. 

"Tell me exactly where you want me, pumpkin—"

"E-Everywhere—" you whined, your fingers working faster, your body burning. "My mouth—my hole—fuck, just—fill me up, Sol, please—"

"Fuck—" His head tipped back, his breath coming in ragged gasps. 

“J-just you—fuck, you cumming so deep inside me—gonna make me drip with it—" You moaned, loud and shameless, your climax crashing into you like a fucking tsunami—and just as you came, shaking, screwing your eyes shut, you heard Sol break.

Sol’s breath hitched, his rhythm faltering. "I’m—I’m close—"

You locked eyes with him, your own pleasure coiling tight, unbearable. "Then come," you demanded, your voice a dark, delicious command. 

"Come for me, Sol. Let me hear how much you need this."

And when he did—when his whole body shook, when his voice broke into a desperate, pleading cry—"Ngh—pumpkin.”

His back arched off his chair, his cum flying—literally hitting his camera with a wet splat, his cock pulsing in his hand as he kept stroking, milking himself through it, his moans filthy, pathetic, perfect.

"Shit—look what you did—" he panted, his voice wrecked, his cum streaked across the screen like some kind of obscene trophy. "Fuckin’—everywhere—"

You laughed, breathless, your body still buzzing. "Mmm… should’ve been inside me instead."

Sol’s eyes darkened, his tongue darting out to wet his lips. "Next time," he promised, his voice low, dangerous, "I’ll make sure none of it goes to waste."

Then, with a smirk that sent a fresh jolt of heat straight to your core, he leaned closer to the camera—and licked a stripe right through his own mess.

"Fuck," you breathed.

Sol just grinned, his lips glistening. "Better than video games?"

You groaned, throwing an arm over your face. "Shut up."

He laughed—warm, bright, yours—and you couldn’t help but smile.

The screen between you flickered with the remnants of what just happened—Sol’s chest still heaving, his lips parted, his skin flushed down to his collarbones. You both just breathed for a second, the air thick with satisfaction, the kind of exhaustion that curled warm in your stomach.

“Fuck,” Sol muttered, voice rough, dragging a hand down his face. “We’re gonna have to clean this shit up.”

You snorted, stretching lazily, your muscles loose and tingling. “Your camera’s never gonna recover.”

He glanced at the mess streaked across his lens and groaned, but there was a smirk tugging at his mouth. “Worth it.”

You both took a second to recover—him wiping his screen with the hem of his shirt, you grabbing tissues to clean yourself up—moving in comfortable silence, the kind that only came when words weren’t necessary. When the heat between you spoke louder than anything else.

Then, softer: “Exams fucking suck,” you sighed, flopping back onto your chair, legs still trembling slightly.

Sol huffed a laugh, rough and warm. “Tell me about it. I think my brain’s just soup at this point.”

“Same.” You grinned at the ceiling, still feeling the ghost of his gaze on you. “But at least we’ve got this.”

“This?”

“Yeah. This.” You gestured vaguely between you, as he shifted in his seat, giving you another glimpse of his toned stomach, the way his sweatpants rode low on his hips. “The games. The dumbass voice chats. The… other stuff.”

There was a pause.

Then, so quiet you almost missed it—

“This is the only part of the day I actually look forward to.” Sol admitted.

Your breath caught. “…Yeah,” you murmured after a beat, voice softening. “Same.”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It was loaded—warm and electric, like the air right before a thunderstorm. Then Sol broke it, his voice dipping into something teasing but dangerously sincere.

“Your voice is dangerous, you know.”

You laughed. “Why? ‘Cause it almost got you killed in-game?”

“No.” His tone shifted, low and deliberate. 

“Because I think I’m kind of into it.”

“Oh my god—” You grabbed the nearest pillow and hurled it across your room, your face burning.

Sol laughed, the sound bright and unguarded, and you could picture him—sprawled back in his chair, smug as hell, that lazy grin playing on his lips.

You both laughed it off—mostly—but when the moment settled, neither of you moved to leave the call. The screen stayed open, Sol’s heavy-lidded gaze still fixed on you, lingering like he was memorizing every detail.

Fuck. The night couldn’t end like this.

You glanced at your clock. “…I don’t have another final until Friday.”

Sol’s eyebrow arched. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” You bit your lip, then slowly—deliberately—spread your legs, letting him see the mess you’d made, still glistening between your thighs. “So… you could come over. Bring snacks.”

His breath hitched. His fingers twitched against his desk, like he was fighting the urge to reach through the screen.

“Fuck,” he muttered, his voice rough.

You smirked, then—just as his eyes darkened with hunger—you poked at the screen, sticking your tongue out before abruptly ending the call.

Leaving him with nothing but the image of you.

And another hard bulge in his sweatpants.

“Fuck,” Sol groaned to the empty room, already scrambling for his keys. He grabbed his jacket, his pulse racing. 

Yeah. This was so much fucking better than video games.

The call between you and Sol was already too much—voices tangled in panting breaths, the slick, filthy sound of skin on skin, the way Sol whined your name like a prayer. It was overwhelming. Distracting. So much so that you didn’t even notice the other set of ragged breathing.

A third participant in the call.

Hidden in the shadows of the voice channel—camera off, letting go rugged breaths —Hyugo sat frozen at his desk, bathed in the dim blue glow of his monitor. All he’d meant to do was pop in, apologize for trolling you both earlier, maybe convince you to queue up another round. But then he’d heard your voice. Sol’s voice. And then—

Oh.

Oh, fuck.

His fingers, which had been idly scratching at his thigh, froze. His breath hitched, sharp and sudden—like he’d just taken a hit straight to the chest.

This wasn’t just a call.

This was filth. A live, unfiltered, obscene performance—and he was the unseen, uninvited spectator.

And that alone made him hard, fast.

It wasn’t long before Hyugo’s baby-blue hair, usually tied back in a neat half-pony, now hung loose—sweat-damp strands clinging to his flushed cheeks. His lips—god, his lips—were bitten raw, his teeth sinking into the fabric of his own shirt to stifle the pathetic little noises threatening to spill out.

He hadn’t meant to stay.

He definitely hadn’t meant to touch himself.

But the way you talked to Sol—low, commanding, dripping with filthy promises—it wrecked him. The way Sol begged for you, voice cracking on your name, the way he whimpered when you teased him—

Hyugo’s hand was already slipping past the waistband of his sweats before he could stop himself.

“Fuck,” he breathed, silent, trembling.

He wasn’t supposed to be here. Wasn’t supposed to be listening.

But god, the way you talked about ruining Sol—

His cock twitched in his palm, already leaking, already aching as he quickly fisted himself, trying to be quiet. He could’ve put himself on mute, but—

The risk of getting caught turned him on more.

So he tested himself, gagged by his own shirt, watching his cock pulse in his grip, his thighs tensing as he fought to keep his hips from jerking forward.

He should leave. He should close the call.

But instead, his fingers tightened, stroking slow, so fucking slow, just to drag it out, just to hear more.

By the time Sol left the call, Hyugo was ruined.

His thighs shook. His free hand clutched at his own shirt, dragging it up to his mouth to bite down as his hips jerked forward—

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck—

He barely had the presence of mind to grab a few napkin from his desk, cupping it over the tip just as his orgasm ripped through him—a silent, shuddering cry muffled into fabric as he spilled into his palm, his cock throbbing with every pulse.

“F-fuck—!”

He slumped back in his chair, chest heaving, skin burning, his cock still twitching as he dabbed himself clean, careful not to let a single drop ruin his precious gaming setup.

Disgusting. Pathetic. And so fucking good.

He still couldn’t believe you two—blissfully unaware, oblivious to the fact that he’d just come to the sound of you and Sol falling apart.

Hyugo’s lips curled into a shaky, guilty smirk.

"Maybe I should still be annoying in y’all’s games more often," he thought, breathless, wicked. 

This wasn’t better than video games, but—Fuck.

He didn’t mind shit like this now. He’d take it every damn time.

…y’all… should I write a threesome? jkjk…

Also... not gonna lie, writing this made me like Sol. Just a tiny bit.

[absdollievu]

And they were roomates

nerdcollege!abby x femcollege!reader

“Room 302”

You can feel Abby’s eyes on you again—sharp, silent, disapproving. You’re sprawled across your bed, phone raised above your head, fingers moving fast as you send another voice note in the group chat.

“You ever gonna open that textbook?” Abby’s voice cuts through the room like a knife through quiet.

You roll onto your side and glance over. She’s at her desk, back straight, highlighter moving across a page like she’s painting a masterpiece. Her hair is pulled up into a messy bun, a few loose strands sticking to her forehead. She hasn’t looked away from the page, but she doesn’t need to. You already know the look on her face.

“I’m multitasking,” you say, gesturing lazily with your phone.

She finally looks up. “Multitasking?” She lifts an eyebrow. “Pretty sure TikTok doesn’t count as prep for midterms.”

You grin. “Hey, there’s educational content on here. I saw a guy explain quantum physics using cats and Red Bull.”

Abby closes her book with a loud thunk. “You’re unbelievable.”

“I’ve been told that before.”

She exhales—more tired than annoyed. You think she might actually be used to you by now. It’s been three months, and despite your late-night voice calls, early morning music blasts, and a general aversion to productivity, she hasn’t requested a room change. Not once.

You sit up and cross your legs. “Wanna watch a movie instead? You look like you need a break.”

Abby narrows her eyes. “You’re trying to corrupt me.”

“I’m trying to save you. You’ve been studying since lunch. Your brain is gonna melt.”

She hesitates, and for a second, you think she might say no. But then she sighs, pushes back from her desk, and grabs the remote.

“If I fail this test because of you, I’m writing your name on my scantron.”

You snort. “At least we’ll go down together.”

And as the movie starts, and she finally smiles for the first time all day, you can’t help but think that maybe—just maybe—being annoying has its perks.

⸻

You’re out of breath, hoodie half-zipped, and the panic in your chest is loud enough to drown out your thoughts as you bang on the dorm door like your life depends on it. Because, honestly? It kind of does.

“Abby! Abby, open up! Please! I’m gonna die!”

The door swings open a few seconds later. Abby stands there in sweatpants and an oversized shirt, glasses perched low on her nose, a protein bar in one hand and her usual look of exhausted patience in the other.

You’re practically vibrating. “Midterms. Abby. I don’t know anything. I looked at my notes and it’s like ancient Greek.”

She blinks once. “So you’re finally realizing you’re screwed.”

“Yes! And I need you to unscrew me. Academically. Please.”

Abby takes a long, dramatic bite of her protein bar, chews, and then says, “No.”

Your jaw drops. “No?!”

“No,” she repeats, adjusting her glasses. “I’m walking to the café. I need caffeine. And distance.”

And with that, she steps past you and starts walking down the hallway like some calm, towering goddess of discipline and disappointment. You scramble to catch up.

“Abby. Abby, come on. You’re, like, my only hope. Everyone else is worse than me. Paulina thought the French Revolution was about baguettes. Please.”

She keeps walking, not even sparing you a glance as she pushes through the dorm exit and into the brisk air. “Should’ve thought about that before you decided to major in group chat politics instead of psychology.”

You groan. Loudly. The café’s across campus. It’s going to be a long walk. But you’re committed now. You trail after her, spewing every excuse and half-baked promise you can think of.

“I’ll buy you coffee! I’ll clean our whole room! I’ll go to class! I’ll—”

You reach the café’s doors just as Abby pulls one open. You tug gently on her arm, face scrunched in a dramatic plea. “Abby. If I fail, I’ll have to retake the class. With a professor who hates me. And I’ll cry. You hate when I cry.”

She pauses, hand still on the door. Her expression softens—just a little—and she exhales like this is the most exhausting favor anyone’s ever asked of her.

“Fine,” she mutters, holding the door open wider. “But I’m quizzing you over coffee. And if you get one question wrong, I’m making you delete TikTok for the rest of the semester.”

You gasp. “You are cruel. You’re cruel, Abby Anderson.”

And yet, as you both step into the warm, espresso-scented air of the café, you can’t help but grin. Because even when she rolls her eyes and pretends to hate you, she still shows up.

⸻

It’s been a few days since the café. Abby hasn’t said anything about how well you did, or how she’s been quietly rewriting her study materials so they make more sense to you—not the textbook. But you can feel it in the way she starts pausing after each card, letting you come to the answer in your own weird, roundabout way. She doesn’t roll her eyes as much. Doesn’t sigh as dramatically. Sometimes she even lets your ridiculous examples stand without correction.

Tonight, you’re in the dorm. Your side’s a mess, as usual. Her side? Not a single thing out of place—except for the fact that her desk is currently occupied by both your notebooks, two mugs of tea (hers mostly untouched), and a bowl of chocolate covered pretzels you brought in as a peace offering.

Abby sits across from you, legs crossed, pen tapping against her knee. Her glasses are slipping again. You wonder if she knows how often she pushes them up when she’s trying to hide a smile.

“Okay,” she says, holding up a card. “Explain confirmation bias.”

You lean back on your elbows and smirk. “That’s when you only look for stuff that proves you’re right. Like how I keep ignoring my grades and focusing on the one time a professor said I had potential.”

She snorts. “That’s… not wrong.”

“You’re smiling.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

She looks down at the flashcard. “Next question.”

But the corners of her mouth are still tugged upward, just a bit. She flips the card and throws you another one. “Defense mechanisms. Give me two.”

You hold up a finger. “Projection. Like when you get mad at me for not studying, but really you’re mad at yourself for how much you secretly enjoy our study sessions.”

Abby raises an eyebrow.

You add a second finger. “And denial. Like how you’re pretending you don’t love my sense of humor.”

She rolls her eyes so hard it almost counts as a stretch. “That’s not how those work.”

“It’s how I work.”

She looks up at you then, chin tilted slightly, and there’s something unreadable flickering behind her glasses—like she’s trying to figure you out, again. You hold her gaze a second too long before she glances away and pretends to reorganize the cards.

The air shifts, just a little. Not a full change. Not serious. But enough that the room feels warmer, more charged.

You break the moment with a grin. “What, no lecture this time?”

“I’m saving it for when you inevitably crash mid-sentence because you’ve been running on caffeine and chaos.”

“You care.”

“I’m invested in not watching you spiral.”

“You care a lot.”

She looks at you again. This time, it lingers. “Shut up and read the next definition.”

You don’t. Not right away. You study her instead—how she bites the inside of her cheek when she’s holding something back, how her fingers flex slightly when she’s annoyed and trying not to show it. How she doesn’t push you away when the flirting starts to sneak in like a slow drip. She just… lets it hang in the air.

You flip a flashcard.

“Okay,” you say. “Final question: which defense mechanism is it when you pretend not to like your annoyingly charming roommate?”

Abby lets out a sharp breath through her nose. Her mouth quirks into a reluctant smile, but she doesn’t look up. “That’s called repression,” she mutters, scribbling something in her notebook.

You’re grinning. “Interesting. Very, very interesting.”

She doesn’t say anything.

But her ears are a little red.

And she still hasn’t told you to stop.

⸻

The dorm’s gone quiet. Flashcards are stacked neatly on Abby’s desk, tea mugs mostly drained, and the study buzz has simmered into something slower, more still. You stretch, groaning dramatically, then grab your towel and shower caddy.

“I’ll be quick,” you say, already halfway to the door.

Abby doesn’t look up. “Please don’t flood the hallway again.”

“No promises.”

You disappear down the hall, the sound of the shower starting a minute later.

Abby brushes her teeth in silence in the bathroom while you’re showering. Taking a quick glance outside to your side of the room—half a disaster zone, half a lived-in mess she’s begrudgingly gotten used to. She spits, rinses, and wipes her mouth on the towel hanging by her bunk.

The shower shuts off.

You return, wrapped in a towel and rubbing at your damp hair, cheeks pink from the heat. You don’t say anything as you dig through your drawer for a sleep shirt, but Abby catches the slight grin on your face when you realize she’s watching and turns quickly back toward her bed.

You change with your back to her. Nothing dramatic—just cotton and routine and maybe a heartbeat that’s a little too loud for no real reason. You crawl into bed, exhale, and reach to turn off the lamp.

Darkness swallows the room in a soft, shared quiet.

“Goodnight, Ab’s,” you mumble into your pillow.

There’s a beat.

“Don’t call me that,” she says automatically, voice low.

You roll over slightly, just enough to peek through the dark. Waiting.

And then, softer:

“Goodnight.”

You smile, eyes already slipping closed.

Abby turns her face to the wall, tugging the blanket up—and hiding the small, involuntary smirk that’s found its way to her lips.

⸻

[hcneymooners]

౨ৎ when i feel you (from within), i exist. : second half.

wnba!paige x wnba!azzi. men & minors dni.

hey, sugar. read the first part here.

cw: that weird blurring of lines in your friendship when you’re both in love with each other, light sexual content, mentions of weed, love confessions, avoiding each other at public events, the embarrassment of wanting someone so badly you'd do anything for it, being mean to each other because it's easier than taking the leap.

notes: i hope you guys enjoy this. i feel a bit kinder about it than the first part. still giving credit to where credit is due. dedicated to the beautiful @loeysoi simply because i love her and appreciate her warm, creative spirit so much.

anyway, i hope you all enjoy. all my love. always.

they don’t talk about it, but it consumes them. it almost seems to up the stakes. they think about it all the time. 

paige thinks about it, gasping and shuddering underneath the ho,t spraying shame of the shower. azzi thinks about it, lying on her side in the dark with her eyes pressed shut and her mouth parted. 

they both get invited to the same athletic philanthropy event. something clean and public and charitable, which makes it worse, somehow.

azzi sees paige first. she always does. paige is near the drinks table, talking with her teammates, backlit by the golden wash of some fake candlelight. when paige finally sees azzi, it’s later, deliberately so. she has that practiced distance, the kind that makes you feel childish for wanting anything. the realization, once made, makes azzi’s face flush with the salt-heat that comes with tears. 

she turns to go three hours in, her blown-out curls now flat and devoid of any further interest to beautify her tonight. she looks beautiful as she leaves (she comes to this conclusion later via an instagram fan page) in her gown: blue leopard, cut down to her belly like an incision. her chest peeks out delicately, something azzi often feels she isn’t, and she’s careful to be camera-aware as she bends to scoop teammates and friends into loose, departing side hugs. 

she makes it down the long velvet hallway on her own. it smells like mildew. old money and old fabric. it’s a museum, so there are exhibits to catch her eye. she’s calling her driver. she’s almost out. but it’s on the stairs that she finally falls. 

she trips over air, or maybe all of her carefully built emotional architecture, built just for this evening, has found the crack in its foundation. 

either way, she’s going down. one step, one twist of the foot. 

she lands hard. hits the middle spread of the staircase, the step wide enough for her to bring her knees to stone and crack the front of her foot against the edge before rolling over with a sick little cry. she winces as she examines the sole of her foot, the awkward roll and bend of her ankle. lets out a mewl of pain as she presses into the center. 

there’s a sharp cut there, beading with blood like a stigmata. there’s not a lot, but there’s just enough to embarrass her. 

and then paige is there. of course. not running, not even striding. just appearing, like she’d been there all along. she’s at the bottom of the stairs, hands in her pockets, mouth drawn into something unreadable. 

her eyes move over azzi’s body. assessing, maybe. amused. azzi feels the salt-heat climb back into her face. she wants to get up on her own, to say something casual, to pretend none of this matters. 

she wasn’t going to say anything, really. she wasn’t. she was going to be good about it with a slight grimace and roll of her eyes as if to say god, i’m so clumsy, even though they both know it’s not true. but instead, her skin-brain connection is corrupted, and the pain wins out, and she says it before she means to.

“fuck you.”

it comes out low and neat. not thrown, not spat. in the same way her flatmate in london used to drink whiskey during that one semester abroad. measured and burning. it seems to hit paige like a slap. 

one light eyebrow lifts, then both. cartoonish surprise. azzi tries to push herself up, mortified, but her ankle screams and she crashes back down, dress blooming around her like a wave.

somewhere in the distance, someone puts on “empires” by niki and the dove like a sick joke.

nothing stays the same i've learned my lesson well if you wish too hard it eludes you just the same but my love is young, it's young it burns the edges of my heart i'm dying for ya

her scream gets swallowed up by the synths. it’s grotesque and a little funny. she hates that.

paige moves then, her body always responding to azzi’s own, and practically flies up the steps to where her best friend is heaving hard through her nose. azzi isn’t in any position to refuse her help, but she digs her nails into paige’s pale shoulder when she bends and smiles, sharp and bittersweet, at the pained grunt she gets in response. 

maybe that’s why paige is purposefully so slow when she picks her up, strong hands sliding up beneath azzi’s clenched thighs and gathering up every bit of her dress as she swings her off the ground. it’s definitely that and not the fact that there’s love between them threatening to be lost. love, along with the memory of their bodies wet and pressed together in the sanctity of that dallas shower. 

her face gets rushed with that burst of tears again, and she tries to turn away, but once again paige proves that she knows her innately, is so intimately involved with the fabric of who azzi is. paige slows, a hand coming up to tenderly bring azzi’s face into the open by the base of her neck. 

“hey,” she says, and azzi begins blinking fast because everything is fine. it is. “hey. azzi, mama, look at me. does it hurt?”

azzi lies, but not really. “yeah.”

“shit, maybe we should take you to the er. they can—“

“charge me thousands for what i already know?” azzi snaps. “i just need to put ice on it.”

paige is quiet for a moment, and then she says, “okay, princess.”

and azzi knows when they get to her car, paige is going to climb right in after her and sit with her hands curled around the delicate bridge of her calf as she keeps her foot elevated. and then they’re going to arrive at azzi’s apartment. 

and then paige will never leave. 

which azzi used to want. but since the kiss, she’s not sure anymore. because paige let her leave. well, maybe azzi could’ve—

the car pulls round and azzi looks right into the headlights, lets the mean shine bleach out all of her doubts.

✈︎

“god, are you trying to kill me?” 

paige looks up from where she’s bandaging azzi’s foot. 

“i don’t know,” she answers drily, and azzi rolls her eyes. “i could be asking you the same question.” 

azzi flushes then. 

when they’d entered her apartment she’d immediately demanded paige put her down and had shimmied out of her dress until she only had her ass tucked into a pair of deep blue briefs and a bare chest. she’d ignored the hitch of paige’s breath from behind her and hobbled into her bedroom to grab an oversized loewe cotton tee. 

she’d planned to hobble her way back out, but paige had come into the room with a hard look and swung her back up until she could dump her onto the l-shaped sectional.  

“bitch,” azzi mutters and paige presses her thumb into the bruise right above her ankle. 

azzi cracks her jaw with the clench of it, and paige’s mouth quirks up. 

“watch your mouth, az.”

and just like that, she’s back in doctor mode. her hands are clinical, confident. azzi watches her and aches.

it reminds her of high school, college. when bruises were an invitation. when paige used to press into her softest spots, those mottled blooms of gold and violet, under tables and behind closed doors, pushing until azzi broke. her eyes or her cunt, one of them always leaking. 

they never talked about that either.

god forbid. 

paige’s eyes are still trained on the swelling like it’s got secrets. if she keeps pressing it, something’s going to speak.

so, she presses again. slower this time. thumb dragging just slightly across the indigo strip of pain swatched across azzi’s brown skin like she’s testing ripeness. like she’s wondering: which one is wet?

something in azzi’s stomach flips.

it’s not a question out loud, but it hangs in the room like steam. and azzi knows what she means. or doesn’t mean. or can’t say. her thighs twitch a little, involuntarily, and she hates herself for it. hates how paige notices. how her steel blue eyes flick up, fast and sharp.

“does that hurt?” she asks, the words so soft they’re nearly a coo. her thumb stills, warm and heavy against the throb.

azzi nods. lies again. or maybe doesn’t.

“here?” paige asks, sliding the edge of her thumb lower, closer to the hinge of azzi’s ankle. slower this time, like she’s waiting for the wince, or the breath hitch. like she wants to feel it in her teeth.

“paige,” azzi says, and it’s not a protest. it’s a warning. or a plea.

“hmm?”

azzi leans back against the couch like she’s trying to melt into it. tries to tilt her face away, but paige’s free hand catches her at the neck again, not rough but definite. they’re always like this: somewhere between a chokehold and a cradle.

“you’re flushed,” paige murmurs, the thumb still circling now in a pattern azzi can’t ignore. “you hot?”

“you know i am,” azzi says, and it’s an irritated whisper.

paige hums again and lets the sentence curl in her mouth before she licks it clean and says, “yeah. i know.”

she shifts forward, her hand never leaving azzi’s ankle, and the other trailing up her calf now, slow and reverent. “still wanna ice it?”

azzi can’t answer. 

doesn’t want to. 

she just lets her legs part a little wider and watches the way paige’s mouth changes when she notices. but then. but then paige gets closer, and once again, azzi just blurts it out, her mouth a river with no dam. 

“will we always be like this? just pressing?” 

and it’s so revealing. the ache persists in the way she says “just pressing.” it’s tactile and vague and brutal all at once. it reveals how their bodies are always so close but never aligned, always almost.

paige doesn’t answer. maybe her hand presses just a little harder, and azzi gasps. 

her whole body folds in on itself like a piece of fruit bruising from the inside out, and paige—sweet, stubborn, unbearable, in love paige—presses again like she’s asking something with her hands that she doesn’t have the language for. 

and azzi, caught in that taut place between wanting and wincing, kicks out reflexively. not hard, not really, but it’s the wounded foot. the one she’d been babying. the one paige had carried her because of.

the contact is enough. it doesn’t injure, but it startles. azzi’s ankle throbs, and her chest feels worse, like it’s been punctured. when paige reaches out again, softly this time, carefully now, azzi jerks away, and her eyes are welling, and they both realize they’re standing on the edge of something they can’t unknow.

azzi is tearing up and trying not to, and it’s worse because she knows what it means now. knows that pressing can’t be only “play” anymore. not if it makes her cry. not when it’s been echoing in her chest since they were kids, since bruises under tables and reverent touching on court.

paige opens her mouth to say something. another sorry, maybe. azzi just shakes her head and says, quietly and shaking:

“we can’t keep doing this. it’s not just touching anymore.”

paige seems to drop like a body in a fall, and she bends until her forehead is on azzi’s shin and she can smell the thick slather of coconut oil and honey cream on the skin. she gathers strength that quickly dissipates as she thinks of what azzi may say if they do talk about it. 

“i asked you,” azzi continues, “not to be sorry. and then i texted you to talk about it because i knew we would end up just like this.”

“you broke the rule,” paige mumbles, and azzi pulls her bun so that the other woman lets out a hiss of pain. 

“it’s a stupid rule, madison.”

paige sits up then, her middle name coaxing out the meaner part of her that azzi secretly likes.

“don’t fucking call me that, azzi.”

“then stop being mean.”

“is this what you wanna do?” paige asks, squaring her shoulders. “because i can get real mean.”

“oh, fuck you, bueckers,” azzi huffs, and she tries to swing her legs off of the couch but paige holds her down with a warm palm on her good ankle. “always so big and bad.”

“nah, because you know that’s not the first time we’ve done that, but you want to talk about this one.”

something about that makes azzi feel as though she’s backed into a corner, so she verbally lunges with venom sweet and dripping from her teeth.

“i want to talk about this one because you can’t be a coward, and justify not talking about it because we're not teammates anymore.”

paige’s eye twitches, and azzi lets her sit there and flinch like she’s been buzzed by an electrical wire. she manages to get up and lets out a thin yelp from between her teeth. paige lets her be in pain, and that almost makes azzi cry. 

almost.

with a drawn-out sigh, she begins to hobble her way to her bedroom because she’s already embarrassed; she might as well commit to the bit. it’s a pitiful, miserable little escape, teeth gritted and eyes shining, and she can feel paige watching her go the same way you’d watch someone walk out into traffic. 

she makes it a few, bumbling, shuffling steps forward before paige pushes off the sectional and dives for her. they’re kids again: two newborn basketball prodigies with a rivalry running under the bone of the friendship. 

paige goes lower as azzi tries to weave out of the way, and snags her leg with an open hand. her fingers curl, long and hard, around the muscle, and azzi can’t pry it loose. so, as expected, she begins to fight. which means she falls. 

azzi yanks her leg up, trying to slide it out of paige’s hand, but paige has never been above playing dirty with her. her palm glides sweetly around azzi’s good ankle and then switches to the other, the one with the bone bruise and thirty thousand leagues of pain. she clutches it, and azzi lets loose a sharp “holy shit!” at the white flash of agony and stumbles.

she loses her balance, begins to plummet toward her shiny apartment flooring. paige catches her without thinking, rolls onto her back underneath her just in time. azzi lands heavy on top of her, her breath knocked out in a sharp, startled gasp.

their faces are too close, and azzi can feel the vibrational echo of the way their ribs knock together. paige’s hair has come loose. azzi can smell the cheap, scentless conditioner she always uses when she’s traveling. azzi plants her hands on paige’s chest to push herself up, but doesn’t.

her best friend’s hand is splayed wide over her spine. she can feel the tremor in it. the heartbeat. she feels it as it moves lower, as it dips to squeeze at the fatty crease of her ass and thighs. it’s less erotic than it would be with anyone else. 

paige always liked the fuller parts of her. azzi thinks it's because it makes her feel comfortable enough to take more. 

azzi narrows her eyes, narrows them further when paige mockingly does the same. she asks, breathless and wrecked,

"if i hadn't booked that flight to dallas, would you have ever called me?"

paige’s eyes widen, blue and startled. azzi’s hands are idly on her tits, and it would be slightly funny if azzi wasn’t desperate for the truth. instead, she presses down on the tissue. thinks of paige’s nipples, rosy pink and hard in the mornings when she takes those frigid showers, and then crushes them like the flowers they remind her of.

paige grunts, and she pushes uncomfortably on the base of azzi’s spine.

“chill,” is all she says, and azzi grabs her face and squeezes.

“i told you not to be sorry. i asked you not to regret it,” she says again.

paige shrugs. “‘nd i didn’t, ma.”

“you didn’t respond to my text message.”

“right, cause imessage is the place to have life-changing conversations. i wonder if our government’s tried that.”

“we could’ve facetimed,” azzi protests, slightly outraged. “you know that i’m always available for you.”

something flickers across paige’s face. azzi seizes it. 

that twitch, that terrified, guilty twitch, like a rabbit’s nose. she can see paige’s beautiful, pink brain begin to expand; she’s finally realizing the full weight of her, sitting on her chest, of how they sit in one another’s lives.

azzi tilts her head, lashes low, almost tender as she says,

"why. wouldn’t. you. call. why were you lying all alone, getting high like the loser you like to pretend to be? say it."

paige's throat bobs. she squeezes the meat of azzi’s thigh like she’s grounding herself there. she mutters, almost inaudibly:

"didn’t know if you wanted me to."

azzi lets out a little sound, high and bitten-off, like it tears straight out of her chest. she fists her hand harder in the collar of paige’s t-shirt.

“why wouldn’t i want you to, p?” paige relaxes slightly, knowing they’re back on softer ground with the use of the nickname. “what exactly was i doing that would’ve ever taken precedence over you?”

“you were in your skims dress,” paige says, and azzi’s face twists with confusion. “you posted a picture on your story. that’s your date dress.”

azzi sits back, eyes fluttering like she’s receiving a premonition. 

“you weren’t mad about losing the game,” she says, and it's not a question.

paige grins against her mouth, that stupid cocky grin azzi wants to punch out and kiss at the same time, and says:

“that’s the point of the game, princess. someone wins and someone loses.”

azzi closes her eyes. 

“there is something seriously wrong with you, paige.” she opens them again and reaches down to pinch the side of her best friend’s neck. "i was at a last minute brand event."

“hey!” paige squeals, and azzi lets a wry smile tug at her mouth. "how was i supposed to know that?"

"by calling me, madison," azzi hisses, sliding off of paige’s stomach to sit on the floor. she sighs.

“would you ever tell me that you loved me, if you did? like loved me. for real.”

she hears paige shifting, sees her rise in the periphery of her eyesight. she’s not sure why it surprises her when paige turns her head by the chin, fingertips fragile enough to allow azzi to pull away if she wants to.

“azzi,” she says, her face so soft it’s like a wound, “i do love you for real.”

azzi’s whole body jerks like she’s been struck. this is the body when it has forgotten how to process tenderness and has spent so long bracing for impact.

she blinks at paige, wide-eyed and trembling, mouth parted. for a second, they just stare at each other.

paige’s hand is still there, cradling the hinge of her jaw, thumb slipping instinctively higher, brushing the soft undercurve of azzi’s lip. she sends it higher, slips it inside. she tastes like azzi’s skin.

“are you into that?” paige murmurs, eyes never leaving her finger on the slick petal of azzi’s tongue. “tasting yourself?”

it’s too much.

“what the fuck is wrong with you?” azzi answers.

paige smiles. azzi lets out a noise. it’s hoarse, punched-out, almost feral. she launches forward.

the kiss lands clumsily, all teeth and open mouths, azzi’s hands scrabbling at the loose fabric of paige’s t-shirt like she’s trying to climb inside her. paige catches her like she’s been waiting her whole life to. she’s still conscious of keeping azzi’s foot out of the collision, and that makes azzi kiss her harder.

she fists a hand in azzi’s curls and yanks her closer, chest to chest, hip to hip, until there’s no air left between them.

it’s not delicate. it’s not even sweet.  it’s desperate.

they are both swollen with greed.

azzi pulls back just an inch, just enough to pant against paige’s mouth, to feel her breath coming in hard waves. she searches her face, studies the flushed skin, the slack pink mouth, the wildness in paige’s blue eyes. 

paige must see the same thing reflected in her because she shudders, almost shakes. she grabs azzi’s shirt like she’s ripping off a band-aid. azzi lets it go. the cotton burns up somewhere behind them.

her mouth finds azzi’s breast like instinct, like muscle memory, needling at the peaked nipple with her teeth. azzi spasms so hard she almost tears away.

"mmm," she breathes out.

"yeah," paige answers, voice low and heavy like fruit. “c’mon, mama.”

then paige’s hand is slipping into the elastic of her shorts, blunt fingers dragging through slick, through heat, until they find the saltwater taffy pink of her, the electric pearl right above it. she presses there. not gently, not cruelly, just certain. azzi’s hips chase her touch.

azzi almost bites through her own tongue, trying not to scream. she knows what is wet this time.

she curls over paige like she’s trying to fold them into one person. she cups paige’s jaw, palms the strong lines of her throat and cheeks like she's memorizing them. paige presses her forehead to azzi’s, hand still working slowly, dragging circles, and mouths into the wet, open space between them:

"azzi."

paige lifts her head.

azzi cradles her face in both hands like she’s trying to crush paige and save her at the same time.

"p," she manages, and paige rubs against her with new urgency.

forehead to forehead. breath and blood and everything loud between them.

the wanting’s already unspooling through both of them, irreversible.

it’s good sometimes, azzi thinks, to break the rule.

© hcneymooners.

[ryuucam]

MY SAVIOR, BEAUTIFUL SOUL

⋆｡𖦹°‧ the oak family head has always intrigued you, but your sworn loyalty to the nameless led you to raise your sword against him in battle. but now that it’s all over, and he’s repented his sins, will you let him get closer to your heart?

contains friends to lovers but it’s more like love at first sight, slight aventurine x reader, purity-corruption talk, slight yan!sunday, gopher wood and sunday backstory, religious imagery, character study?, very very slight gore but as a rhetorical device, pov changes (reader -> sunday), scent kink, virgin!reader (implied) and virgin!sunday, he’s an asshole about virginity, cunningulus, pussy referred to as “she”, dubcon-noncon creampie

notes this was supposed to be a drabble idk what went wrong, take this as a thank u for all the support <33 feel free to send in requests

sunday, dominicus, the oak family head. ever since you arrived in penacony, you’ve heard these names countless times - but you can’t blame the citizens, because, as the ipc gambler said, he is the most famous man in the whole planet of festivities (well, he said handsome, but thinking about how attractive he is will just make you even more distracted). you can’t deny that you feel intrigued by the halovian, but, with all that happened, it is very unlikely that you’d ever interact with him again. well, that’s the harsh reality of the trailblaze - as march told you in one of your “girl talks” in your room in the reverie. and as soon as you start coming to terms that your little crush on sunday is destined to be inconclusive, you suddenly receive a text from mr. yang: the man you’ve been infatuated with is joining the express.

you’re a bit ashamed of your lack of hesitation when it’s time to vote in favor of the new member of the astral express - at least caelus and the others agree with you in looking past all the ena chaos. well, it’s not like you went against your better judgment: it’s clear that sunday has had a change of heart, and all his actions are a product of years of grooming and abuse by another member of the family. as he came to terms with this knowledge, though, sunday changed. the meticulous oak family head is no more, and all that’s left behind is a bird with no wings, no freedom, nothing. but, despite being just a shadow of his former self, the halovian is not a stranger to humanity, to feelings. he saw your behavior on penacony (your courage, your strength, your desire for freedom), and he saw how you stood up for him for his addition to the nameless. and he admires you.

as weeks go by on the express, sunday slowly starts getting closer to you: first, it’s offering you some insight on books he’s read, that are most certainly in your interest, miss y/n, then, it’s joining you for breakfast. and when you two are close enough - closer than he is to any other member on the express - he starts being more physical. resting his knee against yours (unknowingly making your heart skip a beat, or two), lying his hand on your shoulder, and slowly inching his face closer and closer to yours. even if he’s long abandoned the manipulative powers of ena, you still feel trapped by his gaze. however, it’s not controlling - far from it - but the sheer sensibility and vulnerability that pool in his irises are enough to make you go weak in the knees.

one night, you’re both sprawled out on your bed, staring at the stars in the ceiling. while you’re seemingly relaxed, sunday feels like his brain is about to short circuit any second now: his nose is filled with your perfume, his fingers are less than an inch apart from yours, and his eyes are stuck on your face. have you always looked this good? yes, he’s sure of it: your hair frames your face so well, your complexion looks exceptionally dreamy, and the way your eyes melt into his is enough to make him feel lightheaded. and your body - god, your body. sunday has lived a life of chastity, of strict rules and limited, if not any, freedom. even so, he can’t help but feel guilty when he feels his cock inevitably strain against his pants when you unintentionally get closer to him. his breath hitches, and he hopes, prays even, that you don’t notice the twitching. sunday feels like the guilt could eat him alive: you’re so sweet, so willing to accept him for who he is - and he’s doing nothing but tainting the sweet image has of you.

who is he kidding? the second he met you, you were corrupted by him. since your first introduction in the reverie, when he wasn’t an outcast, a fugitive yet, but the most respectable man in penacony, he had his mind set on you. he was disgusted with himself when he felt his stomach churn at every interaction you had with the stoneheart. sunday knew he had no business involving himself with your affairs with aventurine, but he went against his better judgment and spent just a tiny bit more time torturing the avgin man. of course, he feels like a monster now. and he felt like one when you were on the battlefield, fighting against the harmonious choir, against him. but, sunday is now a new man. so, deep in his heart, he hopes that you’ll forgive him for lusting over you.

“sunday? are you okay?”

oh. your voice, your sweet, honey-like voice. it’s enough for him to be stripped away from his thoughts, a saint arriving at a land of sin and evil. he coughs - a lousy way to mask his thinking. “i…yes. don’t concern yourself, miss y/n”. your eyes soften. “sunday… you can tell me what’s wrong. you’re not alone anymore.”

right - he’s not alone. he has you, mr. yang, caelus… he is no longer trapped in a cage, and his newfound freedom is hard to process. the world sunday has known for years has collapsed, but rebuilding a new one is easy if you’re with him. and he knows you won’t leave. right? how could you leave? an angel like you is above all cruelty he’s known, and you’ll take care of him. so he smiles, and closes his eyes, denying himself to stare at you any further.

you just sigh: after all that’s happened, you can’t bring yourself to pry further in his mind. you don’t know what you’ll find. so, unconsciously, you reach out to him, hand sneaking over his face, caressing his cheek. you don’t miss the hitching of his breath, or how his eyebrows form a slight frown. sunday, on the other hand, is feeling everything all at once: he feels like he’s crash landing in a groundless void. the more he sits there, helpless, the more he feels disgusted with himself. how can he not do anything in this situation?

but he knows, deep down, that you won’t blame him for being weak: you’re worshipping him as much as he does you, and for just a second, sunday feels the robbed divinity rush in his veins again.

and with this newfound confidence, sunday open his eyes and almost closes the gap between you two. it’s bold, irrational, and so unlike him, but he sees no trace of malevolence in your eyes - just genuine surprise. he thinks you look so cute like this, so surprised. so he’ll keep going, so long as he gets to see you like this. he inches closer, and everything around him stops. his heart and mind are racing with questions, unresolved reasonings, but sunday thinks it’s time to let this all go. maybe he’s trying to cope with the lustful, sinful, but oh so addicting thoughts he has of you, but maybe, just maybe, he’s a tired man seeking solace.

and maybe he can be both, he concludes. his lips press against yours, clumsy and inexperienced, and his eyes flutter shut. sunday feels the oxygen flowing back into his lungs when you mimic his actions. the hand that was resting on his cheek now serves as a way to pull you both closer to each other, both unknowingly afraid to break the kiss. it’s fragile, raw, but so is sunday. you’re the first to pull away, reluctantly, but the halovian knocked all air out of your lungs. your hand doesn’t move, though, and a line of spit that connects your lips serves as a testimony to what just happened. you’re breathless, wordless, but sunday sees your dilated pupils and reddened cheeks - maybe you need him in the same way he needs you. that must be it.

“miss y/n…” sunday speaks first. your expression softens. he sees it, and suddenly every word that comes to his mind seems meaningless, unworthy of being uttered in your presence. you deserve more, much more, and sunday fears he’ll never be able to communicate with you - not even by ripping out his heart and handing it to you. you sense this (and sunday wonders how: surely you have not been blessed by xipe?), and rest your forehead against his. you smile, and he feels powerless. experimentally, you rest your lips on top of his. “is this okay?”, you murmur, lips not leaving his.

god, yes. sunday feels no hesitation as he crashes into the kiss, breaking the soft and gentle balance you tried to build. he knows he’s never done this before, but he doesn’t worry about self consciousness, insecurities or whatnot. he forgets about lust, maybe because he’s already been taken over by it, or maybe because what he’s feeling is love. either answer is foreign to sunday, who keeps following his instinct. he gently moves on top of you, one hand holding yours, while your other hand lowered itself on the nape of his neck. he kisses you again, and again, until you’re both panting, lips swollen and wet with spit. and the he feels it - how could he have forgotten it? the strain in his pants is more evident than ever, nudging at your soft thigh. he whimpers at the friction, feeling his clothed sensitive tip nudge against your skin. sunday feels his stomach churn: what now? he’s never done this before - he has never touched his cock, let alone have it done by someone else.

then, he hears it. and he feels like he could listen to that angelic sound for the rest of his life.

you whimpered - or is that a stifled moan? sunday does not know, but it doesn’t matter as he’s now painfully aware of your presence. he feels lightheaded, his mouth is inexplicably dry: he swallows, then closes his eyes. he gets closer to you, nose prodding at your cheek, taking in your scent - it’s sweet, just like you, but it’s just so human, so raw. is this what arousal smells like? sunday’s head is spinning, and he feels like all the blood his poor heart is pumping out is going straight to his pants. his free hands goes from your cheek, your neck, your collarbones. then, he hesitates: he needs to tell you something, he can’t just take you. “miss y/n… will you let me?” your eyes are watery, your face is burning. you can just nod, not being able to let out any word but a sweet, sweet whimper. sunday smiles: you’re just so cute. “you have to tell me… can’t do anything otherwise. can you do that for me, miss?”

embarrassment pools over you. when did he get so bold? but his erection feels so good on your skin, and you need more: so, you do as he commands. “please, sunday… t-touch me? please-ah!…” sunday rolls his hips into your crotch as you speak, tip hitting your poor cunt. he smiles, and kisses you again. he keeps on kissing you, trying his best to keep you quiet - and him. his hands sneak down to your chest, feeling the soft, supple flesh sink into his cold, trembling fingers: your breasts are even better than what he imagined (countless nights spent stifling his noises as he pumped his cock, thinking about you), and he feels his dick twitch when he feels your nipples hardening. as he unbuttons your shirt, he wonders how he could’ve lived without this, without you, for so long. you’re left in your bra - it’s nothing elaborated or fancy, just a white, lacy bra that cups your boobs so well. sunday breaks the kiss to press pecks all the way down to your neck, pressing his lips on your soft mounds and nose on your cleavy. aeons, you smell so good. “pl-please… help me take this off.” you don’t question his inexperience, and slowly unhook your bra. sunday’s the one that takes it off, and he swears his briefs are drenched in precum. he latches his mouth on your nipple, hand playing with the other, first sucking gently - and as you moan and cry louder, he gets harsher. he’s unaware of the hickeys tainting your smooth skin: even if he wasn’t, he’s too busy playing with your tits. his cock is subconsciously prodding at your crotch, and you can’t take it anymore: “sund-ah! sunday!… ngh, n-need you to-hm!… do m-more…”

oh. how can he deny you? he leaves a goodbye kiss on your nipple, so lewd but so him, and moves his hands to your waist, slowly tugging down your skirt. once it’s off, sunday focuses on your panties - oh, they’re matching with your bra. did you do this for him?, he wonders. you minx, you knew that he’s infatuated with you. well, now’s not the time to dwell on this, he concludes, and strips you of your panties. now he’s left stunned: your puffy cunny is staring right back at him. “y-y/n… you’re gonna let me touch this? this pretty pussy? please?…” you nod - the praise making your head spin and eyes roll back into your skull. sunday smiles, relieved: he didn’t know what he’d do if you denied him of your sweet hole any longer. his face hovers over your crotch, lips kissing your labia, your clit, your hole.

his nose is pressed against your clit, bumping on it as he makes out with your cunt - and you cry, thrashing desperately because this is so lewd, so perverted! how’s sunday supposed to know all this? your thoughts are interrupted when he sighs, and reluctantly leaves your pussy alone. you gulp as he raises his body, undoing his belt and letting his pants fall. he’s in his briefs, and you can clearly see the fat outline of his cock. it’s hard, thick, and there’s a wet spot right where the tip is: sunday lets out a deep breath, and tugs down his pants. your mouth is watering, and you feel your neglected cunt leak as his cock springs free, hard and angry, so different from its owner. sunday is delicate, pure, and his length is swollen, veins leading to the oh so delicious mushroom tip.

sunday’s embarrassed: why are you staring at him? is his cock so horrid? why- oh.

he lets out a moan when your hand engulfs his dick, soft skin wrapped around his aching flesh, and sunday thinks lust has really taken over him. “please, let me-ah, lemme put this inside. need y-you!” and how can you say no?

you lean back, and sunday’s on you like a starved man - he knows he should lick your hole a bit more, maybe stick a finger or two in it, but he has long forgotten all the knowledge he got from some blooodhounds years ago. his tip prods at your small hole, and he worries about breaking you. can you take it? his sweet angel, you’re so perfect for him and he’s about to defile you - oh, he feels like he could cum just like this. tip pressed against your clit, both of your juices mixing together in a candied mix. he lowers his cock a bit, enough to be face to face with your entrance. the world stops when he slips it in: your pained moans, your walls fluttering shut around him, your tears staining your white sheets. sunday has ruined you, corrupted you with his lust, but now that he’s known how your cunt feels, he can’t get enough.

he moves, and his thrusts are messy, sloppy, inexperienced, his balls slapping and bruising your soft skin. sunday feels like he’s reached heaven, and he won’t stop. he can’t - you’re sucking him in so hard, so desperate to be fucked by your halovian companion. oh, you must be a pervert too, sunday realizes, letting a defiled angel like him taint you. but now you’re his, forever robbed of your purity and pride, and you’re not going anywhere.

“‘m gonna c-cum, ‘kay a-ah, angel? let me cu-uhm! in you, please? y’re g-gonna be ngh! a sweetheart, yeah? lemme claim your cunny, ‘kay?” sunday’s voice is slurred, words flowing out of his lips without his control. you nod, maybe even say something back, but sunday can’t hear you - you’re pussy’s the one he’s listening to right now. and she’s pleading so sweetly for sunday to cum in her. so, maybe you’re telling him no, that it’s risky, it’s wrong - but he’s not listening.

sunday empties his load deep in your pussy, kissing your cervix and womb with it, and he’s happy. he kisses you, poor you who’s all fucked out on your bed. don’t worry though, sunday will take care of you. it’s only natural - you’re bound together now, and maybe this realization is the reason you creamed so sweetly around his cock. he kisses you again, and you succumb yourself to him.

he’s happy, and he feels his cock twitch at the thought of doing this again. then, he’ll take his time tasting and ruining you again, and again, until he’s sure you won’t leave him: not for the avgin, not for the trailblazer, not for dan heng. you’re his, and he’s yours. forever.

[a-hermit-pining]

LADS Men React to You Being Different From Other Lifetimes

AN: The what ifs in my brain go crazy.

Pairing: Lads boys x (varying) reader

Genre: angst, fluff, drama, everything

Summary: In another lifetime they meet a different you.

(I do not own these characters)

Xavier: Vampire reader

What if the prince of light met you, the evil in the dark?

He found you in an alleyway, crouched over a withering man beneath the same pale light where he'd first seen you in Philos.

But you were not the same.

Your eyes, once shimmering pools of hope, were now blackened depths of corruption. Your lips, which once curled into soft smiles, were pulled back in a wicked snarl, dripping with blood.

"Hello, princeling." Your voice slides through the air like silk laced with venom. And then, you're next to him, breath ghosting along the curve of his ear. "Came here for this body?"

The hair on his neck stands on end. A dangerous warmth coils low in his stomach.

He can still feel the ghost of you, the whisp of the light you once carried. And yet, standing before him now, you are everything dark and unholy.

In that lifetime, he drove the stake through your heart. His hands trembled. His breath shattered.

And never before had he felt so hollow, a bone-deep melancholy that clung to him like a curse, long after your body turned to ash.

Rafayel: Older reader

He feels the pull for the first time as he walks toward his seat on the plane.

The ancient pull of his oath, mercilessly reminding him of the emptiness of this lifetime. He hadn’t found you. Across countries, towns, and villages, he had failed, lost another chance.

He had given up and was now on his way home, to the shores of seas that reminded him of Lemuria. He had boarded the plane and now… here you were.

You look up at him with the same eyes he’s been searching for. But now, in this life, they sit beneath crow’s feet. Lines of age carve your face.

He has never seen you like this. The sight steals his breath away.

Gray hair, a kind face, glasses perched on the tip of your nose.

In this lifetime, you lived, longer than any.

He wishes for nothing more than to grow old and blissful with you. But time had not been kind to him.

Instead, he sits next to you, listening to your chatter about your grandchildren, your late husband, and the life he had been denied access to.

Zayne: Soldier reader

He holds a saw and, without a flinch, chops off your leg.

The screams of a young soldier fill the tent, only to be drowned out by the explosions outside. The world was coming undone, with you.

The blood of millions failed to sate its hunger.

But Zayne cannot think about that now. He looks at your terrified expression, the pain and anguish of hurt mixed with hysteria.

"My leg..." you whimper.

He cups your face. You are so young. A peasant, shoved into the war between kings who could not care for life.

"Shhh, poppy will make it better," he murmurs, tipping the warm milk to your lips. "You’ll be fine. I will take care of you."

He sits next to your bed, holding your hand until your eyes droop shut.

There are so many others to tend to. But just for a moment, he steals time to sit with you, to the cruelty of watching your innocence shatter.

His eyes land on your broken spear, all that you had. In a battle of fire and steel, all you were allowed was a rusted spear. His heart twists at the unfairness of it.

Sylus: Elf reader

The old world was fading. That’s why the sight of you. your form, was astounding.

An elf. In the modern world that bowed to mortals. You were a peredhel. Half elven.

But this was not your world. Even if it demanded your very core. Tt was not yours.

You knelt beside a man who bound you in chains of servitude.

Sylus felt bloodlust flood his mind.

His other half, his mate, treated as such.

Immortal, untouched by time… this was perfect. He would have an eternity to remind you of the past.

He would find another way for the world to function, and if that came at the cost of others, so be it.

Ignoring the room full of Onichynus members, he walked toward you, breaking off the chains with his bare hands. Your captor was already headless on the floor.

Without a word, the scent of the past fills his mind as your hand slips into his palm.

You look at him, terrified. And in the tongue of sea elves, you say, "Elen síla lúmenn' omentielvo."

A star shines on the hour of our meeting.

Caleb: Male reader

Brothers, many assumed. Or cousins, on occasion.

But Caleb always made it a point to state that you were friends, that you shared no blood.

Once, it had hurt you. Your soft, childish heart had feared being the cause of his shame.

If he wanted a friend, you chose to be just that, though the idea of a brother had always been dear to you.

It would be years later when you would come to know his side of things.

How the prospect of being your brother, or a long-lost cousin, had been his greatest nightmare.

Not because he loved you any less. But because he loved you differently.

And when his words are said out loud, he finally allows himself the love he had held back, to have this.

Holding hands, kissing, matching gear, he does it all. Without ever caring about others.

Now that it wouldn’t mean being perceived as your brother, but as your lover.

[tasteleeknow]

RASPBERRY PIE

minors dni. minho x fem!reader. 4k words content warnings. pet names (sweetheart, angel). mutual pining. sweet/shy reader. perv!minho. corruption kink. food play. dirty talk. oral (m rec.). soft!dom minho.

you bake your quiet neighbour a warm raspberry pie.

He's pretty sure he's utterly fucked from the jump – he finds himself attached so early he almost convinces himself you're a witch in disguise; that maybe he'd moved in next door to a creature designed to trap men like him. A siren, maybe. The sweetness was an act; all the soft tones and doe eyed looks were just a trick to lure him down beneath the waves.

He was determined not to drown.

And then you show up with the pie, a little flushed from working around a hot oven. It'd been 6 months – 6 months since he'd moved in, and as he opens the door to find you in an apron with little pink stains, a feeling of approaching and inevitable doom settles in his chest. Finally, you'd come to take him.

"Hi," you greet with a shy smile. "My friend brought me over far too many berries yesterday so..." you look down at the golden pie, carefully decorated and clearly still warm, "...well I made this. For you."

If he was wise, he'd politely decline, close the door, and never be faced with the reality of the sweet little siren in his apartment, offerings of temptation and all.

"For me?"

You look up at him through long lashes. "Do you like pie?" you ask. It's the way you say it, like if he doesn't you might genuinely hurt inside – like with a simple rejection of your offering, he had the ability to snuff out some little candle alight inside you.

"I like pie," he says.

Then you smile. Like it's the best news you've heard in weeks. "Oh, good."

He steps aside, his body betraying him. The siren enters with her warm pie and soft smiles – and he knows, unequivocally, that he's fucked.

He keeps his distance as you comfortably navigate to the kitchen to find a place for your offering. The apartments were all pretty much identical as far as he knew. The two on this floor, his and yours, were mirrored. He imagines that just on the other side of your joining wall, you took the same steps he did he each morning, in parallel.

You fiddle a little with the delicately placed raspberries atop the pie as he approaches from the other side of the island. You wear a tiny silver ring on one finger, much like one he wears on his own. He'd spotted it before, during short interactions in the elevator. He suppresses the urge to comment on it now, to ask if it meant anything to you.

He doesn't need to know you. He couldn't afford to. He was finding himself attached enough without it.

Then you pluck one little berry up in your fingers and bring it to your lips. He watches you. He watches you and he knows that he's walked willingly into a trap.

"Sweet?"

You look up. "Hm? Oh." You nod. "They're lovely. My friend gets them from this farm near his parent's place."

Friend. His. He sits in the feeling that stirs in his chest for a quiet moment. It's a rotten feeling. He doesn't like it at all.

"He brings them often?" he finds himself asking.

"Not at all. He just happened to come by after being there for a weekend. He doesn't go there often, I don't think." Your accompanying smile is almost enough to snuff out the rotten feeling before he has time to digest it. Almost.

Then he considers that this might not be the only pie. You may have made this other guy a pie just like it... maybe it was bigger, maybe you'd used the sweetest berries in his pie.

He kicks a cat toy across the floor as he stuffs his hands in his pockets, a little embarrassed by his own internal monologue. Witchcraft, turning his brain into mush.

"You have a pretty view."

He looks up to find you brushing your hands down your apron and rounding the kitchen island. You seem drawn to his floor to ceiling windows, a little moth to the light.

He follows.

"Mine isn't nearly this nice," you continue once he's standing beside you. "All I get is the construction site and a concrete wall." Then you close your eyes, head tilting back a little to let the sun's afternoon rays bathe your face. "Don't get the sun like this, either," you add, a little dreaminess leaking into your already sweet voice.

Oh, he's fucked.

"You like it?"

You blink up at him, eyes adjusting to the light again. "Hm?"

"I mean if you really like it, you're welcome over anytime, whenever." He wonders if this is part of your spell work, making him say stupid shit. Maybe he'd be better off if you were casting spells on him, if he had a reasonable excuse for being so fucking braindead. "For the sun," he adds, like it makes it better.

A small breath of laughter slips from your pretty lips. "It does get a little gloomy over there, on my side of the wall."

It was hard to imagine anywhere you were being gloomy.

"I should go," you continue after a short moment of comfortable silence, each of you basking in the sunlight. He really should appreciate that more, he notes. Then he considers the fact he'll associate this little patch of warmth with you each time he attempts such a thing.

"Sure," he says, following you from a safe distance to the door. "Thank you. For the pie."

"You're welcome."

Everything is fine. He's alone and he survived the encounter. Then he's faced with the pie. He stares down at it, warm and made with careful hands.

He plucks a berry off the top. He thinks of the berry you'd eaten in the same way.

Everything is fine.

He hesitates as he goes to pluck a second berry. Instead of lifting one from the crust, he presses the tip of his finger a little against the surface. Warm. He breaks through. His finger is coated in syrupy, red filling when he pulls it free. It's sugary sweet when he sucks it clean.

Shame. That's what he feels next. Because sweet gestures of neighbourly kindness should not trigger the kind of thoughts creeping their way into his head.

He wonders if the little siren's cunt is as warm and sweet as the little offering she brought him. He considers doing the right thing, having a cold shower and sitting in the morning sun with a slice of pie.

But apparently, today, and the day before, and every day for the past 6 months, Minho was not wise and he wasn't very good. Because he let the thoughts of his sweet little neighbour stew for months, and this is where it'd led him.

He stands there, one palm pressed flat on the kitchen counter, the other buried in his sweatpants, and he thinks of the sweet little siren with her sweet offerings, and he imagines sinking his hard cock into her warm, sweet cunt.

—

It's hard not to deflate entirely as you close your apartment door behind you. You'd expected too much from a single pie, you suppose. It would entirely out of character for him to ask you to stay for a slice, to take the opportunity to finally have a conversation longer than an elevator ride.

You sigh, dropping your forehead against the cool surface of the door. It helps a little. You're overheated, both from the cooking, the warm sun, and the heat that had bubbled up from the inside as the pretty - yet frustratingly reserved - man next door had watched you move about his space.

You hadn't lied, his apartment was far nicer than yours. You could imagine basking in that patch of sun any chance you had. You wonder if he does the same, if he sits there after a shower, chest bare and hair still a little damp - letting the sun warm his skin.

You leap back as a knock on the door jolts you out of your daydream. Sighing, you press your palm to your forehead - head thoroughly rattled - as you pull the door open.

Oh.

"Hi," Minho says casually. He's a little flushed compared to when you'd left him minutes earlier. He shouldn't be. There were no stairs between your apartments.

"Hello, again."

He glances over your shoulder, getting a clear view of your empty living room. "It is darker in here," he says, still casual.

"Oh. Mm, yeah. I miss your sun already."

His eyes fix back on you. Then he pulls his lip between his teeth slightly. He has something to say... something he won't say.

"Why'd you make me the pie?" he asks.

You blink. "I... had a lot of berries from-"

"Your friend. I know."

You're officially confused. His eyes drop down your dirty apron before returning to your face. "You only made one?"

"Is it bad?" you question.

He pushes some hair away from his eyes. "No," he says quickly. "No, it's... nice." His eyes sweep down your body again. "Sweet," he adds.

"I only made one."

His eyes jump to yours before a brief look of confusion flashes across his pretty face. He seems to remember his own question soon enough. "You didn't want to give it to," he gestures vaguely behind you, "your friend?"

"No," you answer simply. This entire interaction was drifting into territory you weren't sure you were ready for. If his questions got any more interrogative, you might find yourself wondering how to answer them in any other way than 'Oh, the pie? I baked it for you because I have a huge, embarrassing crush on you, even if you've seemed intent on not knowing me.'

"He doesn't like pies?" he asks.

You can't help following the path of his fingers as he fiddles with the chain hanging around his neck. They brush his skin as he strokes the metal back and forth.

"I... don't understand what you're asking me," you say as you pull your eyes from his neck. "Is something wrong?"

He readjusts his position in the doorway, pressing his hand to the frame and freeing you from the constant distraction at his neck. He leans over you a little like this.

God, he's pretty.

"You a witch?" he asks.

"I'm sorry?"

"Did you put something in it?" he continues, still leaning well and truly into your space. "Something to make me-" he cuts himself off, brows furrowing.

"Are you asking me if I poisoned the pie?"

His voice drops, like someone might overhear, despite you both being entirely alone on this floor of the building. "I'm trying to figure out why all I can fucking think about is how you might taste on my tongue."

Your head rushes, all the heat returning. Then your eyes drop to the floor.

"Look at me, sweetheart."

You don't. His shoes are safer. He was flirting. More than flirting. He wanted you.

His fingers guide your chin up, it doesn't take much, a nudge. "I'll leave if you want," he says. "Never mention it again. Just tell me what you want."

"Did you like it?" you find yourself whispering. "The pie."

His lips crack into a lopsided smile. It's tiny, but it's a smile. "Loved it, sweetheart. Sent me to heaven."

"Would you... would you like to come in?"

He nods.

You go to turn, to let him follow you. But then, instead, you take his hand and lead him in. He's warm. You imagine all the sun he gets over there must've absorbed deep inside him over time. Maybe he could leave some of it behind here for you - that heat might leak from him if your kept him here long enough.

He follows where you lead, his hand still grasped firmly in your own. You're not sure why you lead him to the sofa. You aren't sure what you're expecting next. It's why you find yourself simply standing beside the piece of furniture waiting for him to say something – to let go of your hand maybe.

Instead, his thumb begins brushing over your skin. He's quiet, seemingly unhurried to break the tension building.

"I asked my friend to bring the berries," you confess quietly, eyes focused on your interwined hands. Confessions were always so much easier with your eyes downwards. "I wanted to make something for you... specifically."

"Why's that?"

His thumb continues against your skin. He doesn't make you look at him like he had before.

"Because I... wanted you to - I wanted your attention."

You can hear the smile in his voice when he speaks, "So you baked me a pie?"

"I'm good at baking."

"You are," he agrees. Then his other hand reaches for the hem of your apron. He rubs it between his fingers a little. "Messy though."

You look down at the patterned splotches, pink on white. Then he releases your hand, taking that warmth with him. He only allows you a few seconds to miss it though. That same hand snakes around the back of your neck, skin on skin.

Your eyes are drawn to his without thought.

"Are you always messy?" he asks.

You nod, chewing on your lip a little.

He seems pleased with your answer, a small hum escaping his throat. "I like messy," he says, sounding a little far away. "Do you like messy, sweetheart?"

Your eyes drop to his lips, a little stained from your pie filling. "Yeah," you breathe.

He tugs you towards him before your have time to suck in another breath, attaching himself to you like he's starved. You can't help gasping a little into his mouth as he presses you into him with a hand to your back.

Holy fuck. Surely you'd wake up slumped against the door any second. Maybe someone hadn't just knocked on the door. Someone had opened it and knocked you out and you were dreaming about your pretty, brown eyed neighbour.

He groans a little before taking your lip between his teeth. No. No you were definitely awake. "So sweet," he mumbles as he releases you, his breath ghosting over your wet lips. "Can I have you?"

–

It's hard to keep his head on straight as you look up at him with those big sweet eyes. Can I have you? His stomach rolls as he waits for you to say yes. Please say yes. 6 months of denial and he was desperate.

You'd made that sweet little gift for him. Just for him. His little siren.

Then you're pressing against his chest, forcing him down onto the sofa. He looks up at you, at the stained apron and the hair sticking a little to your temples from the time spent making his pie.

Then you lower yourself to your knees.

Oh, fuck.

Your hands only have to brush his legs for him to get the hint. He spreads them, allowing you to shuffle closer to him – settling between his thighs.

Then you look up at him. "Can I taste you?"

He's keeping you. His head drops back as he collects himself. Then, "You want my cock in your pretty little mouth?"

You nod, fingers pressing lightly into his thighs.

Minutes ago he was fucking himself into his own hand imagining how warm you'd feel around him. Now you're between his legs, lips wet, asking to taste him.

He's careful to keep his eyes on you as he frees himself, intent on catching each and every reaction you make – he's keeping it all.

You're a little hesitant as you reach for him. "You're good, sweetheart," he encourages. "Touch me however you like."

It seems to be all you need. In the next second your soft little hand is wrapping around his length. His head drops back again as his eyes close.

It's a mistake, closing his eyes. He's not prepared when your wet lips press to the tip of him, soft and warm. He groans, hand automatically making a home in your hair. He needs grounding. He needs –

Your lips wrap around him. His little siren was sucking his dick into her sweet little mouth. His hips jump a little. "Oh fuck, that's right. You're all warm for me."

You hum a little around him. Then, you take him deeper. Hot little tongue dancing over his sensitive skin.

"Good girl," he groans. "Take it for me, sweetheart." He resists the urge to spill himself right here, right against your tongue. "Hm? You taking it for me?"

His hips jump again as he fucks himself into your hot mouth, wet and sweet and just for him. You'd wanted his attention. You'd come for him. Just him.

"You mine?" he gasps as he forces his head up to look at you. "You gonna let me fuck you?"

Your lips pull off him slowly, a little suction at his tip sending his head spinning. "Do you want to?" you ask, lips swollen.

He leans forward enough to begin lifting you, encouraging you to climb into his lap. Each hand rests at your hips as you settle yourself there, his leaking cock pressed between you.

"So bad," he answers.

You shift a little in his lap. He imagines you squirming on his cock.

"Me too," you confess. It's quiet, like it's bad.

Sweet siren.

"Sit on me," he instructs. "Want you to bounce on me, sweetheart."

You eyelashes flutter as you blink a few times, processing, deciding. Then you shift, reaching up under your dress and tugging your underwear down.

Something in his stomach stirs when he realises you were leaving the rest on, apron and all.

You grasp him in a soft hand, guiding him beneath your clothes – then you sink down. He's transfixed by the little sound that escapes your lips as you take him in. That, and the way your cunt feels squeezing around him. He might have to keep you for fucking ever.

Hot and sweet and wet and better than he'd imagined as he'd fucked himself against his counter minutes earlier. Better than any of the scenarios he'd dreamed up over the months he'd spent thinking of his sweet little neighbour.

You fall into him with a sigh once you're full seated, cock buried deep.

"Doing so well," he says, hand squeezing a little at the back of your neck.

You mumble something into his neck in response. He can't quite make it out, but he swears, it almost sounds like a tiny 'thank you'. He has to keep himself from filling you at the thought of it.

His hands return to your hips. You must take it as a prompt because you lean back from him enough to begin lifting yourself off him and dropping again.

It's slow at first, a little swivel in your hips, grinding yourself down into him.

The apron prevents him from seeing how his cock looks slipping in and out of your little cunt. He hasn't even seen it, that sweet little hole between your legs.

Instead, he feels.

–

It makes sense that a man as pretty as him would have the prettiest cock. One you wanted to taste. One that would have you slippery and ready to take him.

There's this vein that throbs in his neck each time he drops his head back with a groan. His neck. God you want to lean forward and bite into it. But he might not be into that. Next time, you think. Or the time after that.

God you hope there's a next time.

His fingers dig into your hip as you sink all the way down again. It feels a little like he's resisting, holding back.

"Minho?"

His head lifts, eyes a little glassy as he blinks at you. "Hm?"

"You can fuck me," you tell him. "However you want. I want you to fuck me."

He blinks again. His fingers dig into your skin harder.

"Tell me when you wanna stop. Just tell me," he says.

You nod. Then he's leaning forward and tugging you against him. His lips press to your skin just at the crook of your neck.

Then you're falling. He falls over you. Then he lets go. He presses you into the couch cushions as he drives into you, hair falling over his face. He's even pretty like this, with parted lips and brows slightly furrowed.

Your skin slaps together as he fucks himself into you. Messy, he'd said. He liked messy.

That's what he gets as he continutes to drive into you, as you begin to drip around him, as he fucks that wetness into you and over your thighs and then the sounds it all makes.... messy.

"Wanna fill you," he mutters. "God, I wanna fill you so bad. Wanna fuck my cum into your sweet cunt."

You squeeze your eyes shut as he continues, overwhelmed.

"You can take it for me, angel. I know you can. Sweet little thing made just for me. I knew it." He's muttering so much you're hardly sure he even knows what he's saying. His fingers are almost painful as they dig into your skin, like he can't hold onto you hard enough.

"Fill me," you gasp.

He eyes lift from where you join together to lock on your face. "Yeah?" he asks, a slight croakiness breaking his words up a little. "I'll make you all warm and sticky inside, hm? Just like your pretty little pie? That sound nice?"

Oh god. There was something inside you, something made for this – for him. You knew this was going to ruin you forever.

"Please."

He falls over you, then he bites. He bites into you as he floods you full.

[writermani4c]

Me and the Devil | Count Orlok x Reader

summary: You're a nun at an isolated convent. He is in your mind, eating away your mind bit by bit, soon destroying the pillars of your faith. Until you have no choice but to surrender to him, he will destroy all that is necessary.

warnings: He's a vampire. Of course he doesn't have to play fair, does he? There is mind control and there are some rather bloody deaths. I don't think I'm really good with that, I don't think it's too heavy, but it's good that there's a warning.

:: We girls can't bear to see a vampire who is completely obsessed with a woman, who will spill as much blood as it takes to get her, and who has already fallen in love with her. I'm completely obsessed by Nosferatu, even though I couldn't get a screening where I live. This is basically my brain being eaten away by Bill Skarsgard's hunger… I'm always hungry for Bill, but at this point in time I could be kept in a secluded castle to give birth to all of his babies, and I mean that. I hope you enjoy this. By the way, good luck in 2024!

The high-pitched squeak penetrated the stones of the convent, seeping like moss into the soft, bumpy cracks in the porosity, and imitated the soft voice of a wanderer saying a prayer in a dead language, older than time. His understanding was forgotten by men, but that didn't silence him. That voice was still preserved in the air that surrounded you like a thick mantle covering a thick cotton habit, as light as the coat of a holy lamb, which covered you from head to toe in a sacred enclosure. 

Through the narrow window of his room, all that showed were the orange Carpathian mountain ranges in the middle of a mild autumn, with the taste of hot tea and the smell of a fire burning in the evening, when the temperature dropped at night.

The mountain ranges and that stone fortress, far from the convent and yet terribly close.

Every day, the castle seemed to move. When you weren't watching it with your stoic expression, it seemed to grow tentacles over its foundation and creep up slowly. Depending on the day, it seemed further away, with only the tip of its towers appearing between the hills. But when you were getting ready for bed, tucked up in the modest comfort of your little room and wrapped in the soft blanket of your nightgown, the castle seemed terribly close to you, so close that you could feel its evil aura as you raised your hand in a vain attempt to touch it. 

He was calling you. A strength, a terror, a hungry longing.

Come to me, my eternal beloved. 

Tormented, you choked on your own breath. The deep, seductive sound of that voice crept under your blankets at night, and under the modest garments of your nightgown, finding your soft, easy-to-creep skin. His touch was physical, even if you often groped your skin in search of those hands and found nothing but loneliness, and intimacy. So intimate that not even the devil himself, cruel and cunning, could emulate such evil in his attempt to corrupt the Lord Jesus in his trial in the desert.

It scared you.

The feeling of intimacy that belongs to something, that is lost until it is regained. That invisible hand, as well as the voice that only you heard, shook your sense of self and made you feel the narrow mattress slipping off your back, the thin blanket sliding off your body and your fear of dissolving as you floated above the bed. A demonic, ghostly vision, with your eyes rolled back in a trance that nothing and no one could stop.

You felt it, more intimately than you felt anything else, and that was scarier than any of the other traps in hell.

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— My child — greeted the voice on the other side of the wooden confessional booth. The only voice you could turn to in times of extreme need. Father Lengyel was an elderly authority in the convent, as was Mother Superior Illés. If it hadn't been for that, you wouldn't have had the courage to confide in him your greatest fears, seeking the reassurance of his gentle voice. — In your praiseworthy stillness, I can see that something is troubling you. You owe me your ordeal, child.

— Father, help me! — Tired and sleepless after a night awake, with your knees against the floor praying to ward off the tentacles of evil, you felt your eyes grow heavy as you saw the low, hunchbacked shadow of the priest. — I'm cursed. I didn't do anything about it, but I know that the shadow that haunts me was born with me, wrapped around me like an umbilical cord that has never been amputated. I feel it and sometimes I hear its impatience calling my name.

— Fear not, my child. No shadow of a curse is stronger than our Lord's mercy on your spirit, waking you up every morning with a breath of life.

But maybe it's not our Lord, you thought bitterly. You almost disbelieved that God would even work in your cause, probably deciding to wash his hands of you and leave you alone on your ordeal. This thought angered you, wondering how God, your holy God to whom you dedicated your time and efforts to serve with blind devotion, could leave one of his daughters helpless when the claws of the nefarious one threatened to entangle her? 

And anger, even though it was blasphemy with your Father, was easier to manage in your restless spirit than the fear that perhaps God hadn't let go of your hand. Perhaps he was there, following in your footsteps not long ago, weeping blood for not being able to do anything to prevent the evils that awaited you. Maybe there were forces greater than the salvation you blindly tried to reach like a child afraid of the dark.

That thought you swept from your mind, because if that thing was stronger than the Savior you were turning to, there would be no reason to be reluctant in its evil call.

— I beg you, Father, with all the infinite goodness of your being, pray for my soul. 

— I will, my child. You too, pray for wisdom and that the Lord, in his infinite love, will bring you comfort. 

When you left the confessional, you got down on your knees in front of the proudly erected altar. The suffering face of that poor man in his moment of greatest difficulty never comforted you, but inspired you. If even he, the son and Messiah, found the purpose to remain firm on the narrow road of faith, you too would find the strength to stay in the light. You would have to pass through that tortuous valley to have your healing.

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You weren't the youngest in the convent, but you weren't the oldest either. When you arrived, with your only bag with a few belongings and a photo of the home you grew up in, the home that always seemed unworthy of your torments about the terror that was trying to get its claws into you, there were older girls who took you in as a younger sister, teaching you the trade so that you could also teach those who came to the convent after you. This was the mission: you didn't serve God's pure purpose alone, but learned from your sisters so that you could teach others in a cycle that stretched out like an infinite patchwork quilt. 

Among his protégés, the young Agnes was the most cherished. So young and intelligent, she was your faithful dog in the convent corridors. Agnes, who came from a poorer and more literate family than yours, found comfort in listening to you read the Psalms, the book they were given to study. Agnes' chubby cheeks and earthy brown eyes reminded you of the child you would never have, the one you could never run your hand through and love. The Lord was merciful to you in giving you a sister to fill that void and you gave her all the attention you could. Your beloved Agnes sat next to you while you ate your lunch in silence. The soup was thinner, to save supplies for the harsh winter, and the bread was smaller. All deposits were saved and all fasting was done in summer and fall, because in winter your bodies' strength was tested by the ice that seemed to be trying to infiltrate your bones. They would have to eat better to survive until spring.

Next to him, young Agnes choked on her bread.

— Eat slowly. 

— Pardon me, sister! — She stopped eating, lowering her head as if she expected to be punished. You smiled, running your hand over your protégé's head. 

— Don't be like that. I'm talking for your own good, chew better, it also helps to fill your stomach.

The girl turned her face towards you with a soft, youthful smile. 

A low, loud sound caught their attention. It was as if the ceiling had broken, so you looked up in doubt, but it seemed as firm as ever. Surprised gasps and the sound of footsteps moving across the stone floor made you stand up and look around, at the shocked faces of your sisters. 

— Stay behind me, Agnes. — You stood in front of the girl, shielding her with your body, while you searched for the cause of the commotion among the others. 

Another thud made you find the source of the terror. Your older sister, a girl so genuinely kind that she wouldn't mind giving up her own shoes and going barefoot if she had to. Olga. Olga, who was so generous that she always presented the others with little embroideries on old linen handkerchiefs, making them priceless pieces. Olga who hugged you as soon as you arrived, immensely happy as if you were a relative she hadn't seen for years and who was returning home. Your beloved sister Olga's nose was covered in blood and her front teeth were in an equally miserable state. Her blue eyes were completely covered by dark pupils, making them animalistic as she looked around at the familiar faces until she stopped at you. 

She gritted her teeth painfully, teasing the veins in her neck. Olga no longer knew you. She didn't look at you like her younger sister, but with anger.

— Ungrateful! Damn you! — She pointed her slender, cocked forefinger, the knuckles seeming to ache with the effort. — Ungrateful and  damned, unfortunate creature! Look what I do to what you love so much, look what I do to the object of your efforts!

Olga moved her face away from the table enough to almost fall backwards, gripping the edge of the table with her fingers tightly, before putting all her strength forward and, with a hollow sound of something breaking, smashing her nose against the wooden table. The noise tore you apart. Young Agnes' arms wrapped tightly around your waist as you pushed her back. 

Mother Illés rushed into the dining hall. 

She gave you an appeasing look and you understood. With agility, you gathered all the younger girls, totally terrified, and asked them to follow you out while Olga, surrounded and supported by her older sisters, screamed:

— Love me! Devote yourself to me! Command me if you wish, but don't ignore me, my beloved, don't deny me, for I am your lord and savior! I am the master of your pure and tormented soul, my beloved! 

But you, terrified, denied his call once again. You covered your ears as you led the girls into the courtyard outside. The dry autumn wind enveloped you, your voices, but did nothing to muffle the terror in your minds. Little Agnes was still wrapped tightly in your body and soon the others followed suit, seeking warmth in your shivering, freezing body. Concentrating on them, on reassuring them, took your mind off the torturous thought that, yes, he was impatient.

All those years of “tranquility” were his gift, his way of making you surrender voluntarily. But he was lonely. He was hungry. 

Now he controlled Olga's body. 

But not just her. 

That same night, while Olga was tied to her bed under the watchful eye of Mother Illés, Annabeth began to dance as she blew out the candles. You didn't see it, you were busy with your chores, but the others saw it and told you about it in sad, frightened voices. Annabeth, so young and playful, began to twirl around and the others thought she was just playing. The girl liked to play games, hiding pine cones under her pillows and little flowers in the sleeves of her habits. 

She spun around mesmerized, spinning faster and faster and more violently. Her feet seemed bewitched and she suffered without even being able to move her mouth to do so, her teeth clenched in a painful grind as her jaw unhinged. The candles on the altar grew, fueled by something supernatural and unworthy, dancing along with young Annabeth.

That macabre dance ended in a tableau and the flames touching the young woman's habit. The fire consumed her without anyone being able to put it out; no amount of water could stop the flames. They consumed Annabeth until there was nothing left. In her death, she said nothing, but tearing her clothes to get rid of the fire, her name was torn into the soft skin of my body. Her name was everywhere, written with love, sorrow and anger. Like a love-hate letter, he wrote to you through the skin of an innocent girl. 

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You hadn't slept a wink for three nights. 

At the slightest sign of unconsciousness, as you blinked your eyes a little more slowly, it was as if he was lurking there waiting to take you, and this made you resist even though your body could barely stand.

The mother didn't let you take part in the funeral, allowing you only a brief farewell before you were taken to your chambers to rest. 

You didn't want to rest.

Even so, you didn't have the strength to move. Perhaps it was tiredness or apathy, the feeling that all your efforts were useless.You lay there in your narrow bed, watching the day fade away through the shadows on the wall.

The night was his territory. 

Night was when he hid in the wind and entered his room.

Even though he wanted to, there was no voice in his throat to scream and a hot tear ran down his left eye. 

The door to his room opened and, to his relief, Father Lengyel entered his room. The black cloak swirled solemnly around him, like something divine coming to his rescue.

— What ails you, my dear!

— A large, slender hand, smelling of scrubbed earth, touched his face. There was a certain softness to it, even though the ice in your palms made you sigh with the thermal shock. — My poor little lamb! 

The man held your face lovingly, with such care that you simply let go, allowing yourself to cry in dismay at his attentive care. Father Lengyel, so small and twisted, sat on the edge of your bed. A candle burned on the chair on the other side of the room, the glow of the fire casting shadows on the wall next to your bed and leaving you cloaked in that lonely corner. Father Lengyel kissed your cheek, with those closed, dead lips, so cold they made you shiver.

— Father!

— Poor creature!

— My shadow is growing. — You confessed, leaning your face on the old man's hand. — My shadow consumed poor Olga and Annabeth, casting them into the valley of the storm. 

Father Lengyel pulled the blanket away from your body and, in the narrow space that barely fit a body, he lay down with you. Your eyes widened as the man pressed himself against your body. The man you had always seen as a loving and attentive father, a listener incapable of the slightest judgment, lay beside you with the warmth of a lover. 

— You curse us all, my sweet. — His mouth curved into a smile that only reflected darkness. — Everyone, everyone, everyone. My eyes, so blessed with the beauty of your soft skin and childish eyes, your sweet mouth and the shaggy strands of your eyebrows, became the object of his dark admirer's envy and, look, what he did to me.

In the short distance between your faces, that distance you wanted to increase at all costs, you could make out the old man's wrinkled features. His withered cheeks, the corners of his eyes creased by years and years of study and service to the church. His thinning hair was pearly white on his straight head, with little spots like freckles. The eyes, previously blue, weren't there. 

In their place, there was the emptiness of two hollow holes whose darkness seemed to feed with pleasure. 

The priest smiled in her direction.

— Smile, my dear. Who else in the world would be as adored and cherished as you? What other soul would be as worthy of all the fascination of eyes that have seen the rise and fall of empires as the rising and setting of the sun? There are worse ways to live. In complete ignorance, never seen and never remembered, gradually rotting away like this old man. 

In an unknown breath, you felt the instinct to fight with the same strength as the archangels as you sat up in bed, your body trembling from the effort. The priest continued to lie there, moaning with satisfaction as he enjoyed the smell of your hair against the pillow where you had shed your tears. 

He was totally possessed. The evil had taken hold of the most benevolent man you've ever had the pleasure of knowing, save only his own father, a man so generous that he gave up his beloved daughter to the care of a convent without ever doubting his desires to follow a holy life. All was lost.

You got out of bed, your legs wobbly as you dragged yourself out of the room. There were few lit candles and a long corridor. Carefully, you hugged your body and left your quarters, dreading the next demonic sight you would encounter on your way.

The convent seemed more alive than ever. A complete organism. The walls moved as it breathed and guided you in silence, the cold accompanying you like a guardian, a raven on your sullen shoulders. The moon was high in the sky, its pearly glow illuminating what not even candle flames could touch. And you walked, leaning on the walls, groping for balance. In the dining hall, where Olga's blood was embedded in the wood of one of the tables, you saw the shadows of the feet of all your beloved sisters and your devoted mother.

They all floated solemnly, with ropes around their necks. They all looked at you with pupils consumed by darkness and wide smiles, so big that they seemed to rejoice in your presence. 

— My beloved! — cried Clara. 

— Beacon of my darkness! — said Lucia. 

— Don't you see, my beloved? 

With dread, you walked around the tables, looking into their faces. Every single one of them. The rope wasn't taut, they were floating under the invisible force that kept them alive only for a brief moment. Just long enough for you to see them, to remember their names and their faces, their voices, their lives and their untouchable faith. Because they, like your Savior, had no power to stop the terrors you were cursed with at birth.

As soon as your cry marked his arrival in this rotten, petty and cheap world, he also felt the pain in his chest, where his lungs were supposed to work. Your soft cry marked the raw, lifeless gasp of the thing that woke up to take in its big, slender hands what was rightfully its: that poor soul, which had never found a single day's peace, shrouded in the melancholy of that fateful encounter. 

Nothing could stop her soul from touching him, much less his emptiness from possessing her soul.

It was a perfect fit, an unspoken agreement between heaven and hell. God, all merciful, gave you up for the greater good. You were eternally linked. 

And your sisters, mother and father paid the price for coming between the two of you, for taking you away from your true home and your true master. They filled your days with their miserable little lives, with miserable knowledge, with miserable privations for such... miserable glory. 

— I have set you free, my beloved. I have loosened the nails that bound you to your cross. — Murmured the mother, with jubilant eyes, cheeks streaked with sweet tears. Your stern and beneficent mother. — My obsession is the key to this filthy, worthless prison. Come, darling, and enjoy with me all the pleasures you've been denied. Come quickly, my beloved, put an end to my loneliness.

His shadow has grown over you, outside in the courtyard.

— Spare them! I beg you! — Her voice roared over the tearful smiles of her sisters. Young Agnes wiggled her legs, looking at you with that untouched childish gaze, as if she were throwing herself into dense fluffy clouds and not into the abyss of death, into the blackness of darkness. — Spare them and I'll follow you without looking back. I will never desire anything other than your company, nor will I follow any other path than the one your feet once trod.

Your sisters' laughter exploded through the high ceiling, laden with a mockery that didn't belong to them.

Bewitched, they all looked down at you with equal dark amusement, their voices blending together like a spiral that drained the strength from your legs. 

— Don't you understand yet, my holy lamb? — Smiled sweet Agnes. — There's no bargaining. Whether they live or die, you will still be mine.Even in death, I will pull you back and chain you to me. I myself have suffered many years of being bound to the prison of my desires for you, waiting for you for countless years, feeling the weight of your rejection, cruel lover. 

— But you love me, don't you?

— Every part of me to every part of you, my sweetness. 

— So give me these gifts. Spare my beloved sisters, my fellow human beings, those sweet women with pure hearts who have guarded me long enough for you to come and take your rightful possession. They are not guilty, but guardians. — On your knees, you clasped your hands to your chest, begging the devil for mercy. — I know I wasn't good to you, I was insensitive to your call, but they are not to blame.You'll have all my devotion if you spare them, but if you kill them, even though you have my body and my spirit, you'll never have a drop of my attention. 

The silence of the souls hanging from the ceiling of the convent refectory echoed their inconsolable weeping.Thick tears and a plea so strong that it could make the souls turn over in their graves. 

The doors opened in a rush, letting the cold wind enter the dining hall. 

For the first time, under the ethereal light of the moon, as if in a macabre mixture of dream and nightmare intertwined by the thin veil of unconsciousness, you saw it.Not its aura or its agonized call, you saw the creature with your own eyes. 

You, who know so little about men, had never seen such a figure. 

So tall that you had to stoop to pass through the door that you would walk through without any difficulty.Eyes so deep that no light could reach them. A face hardened by the spectre of death, with a long nose and a thick moustache of a deep shade of black.He entered the sacred ground with equal parts ease and pain, each step a necessary torture to reach the object of his desire. The soul he so coveted in his millennial solitude, forgotten by the world, completely abandoned under the promise of a single soul that the heavens did not claim, a soul he could corrupt at will. 

Yours to devour, he thought at first, perhaps resentful that he was also chained to a lowly mortal, a wandering and very basic creature. Yours to torment, he thought, when you were very young and saw his shadow in your room for the first time. Yours to worship, he realized now, pulling her by her bare arms to stand up.

The creature, hungry for something, for some compensation for its endless loneliness, brought its face close to his and, with a touch of malice, stuck out its tongue, licking the length of his tears with its cold, inhuman breath. 

— I thought you'd wait for me in your habit, my beloved.I was particularly looking forward to it. — He lowered his cold, vile gaze, delving into the shape of your body beneath the nightgown with which you were forced to rest, a fabric so thin of light cotton that it hung down your body, revealing through the worn nature of the fabric the color of your stiff nipples against the fabric. He gasped with pleasure. — But what unparalleled pleasure it is to see you in such intimate attire, my eternal obsession. 

His hands, holding her face, were huge, with large, aged nails. Nails that would have dug into the earth to escape the grave. Their coldness was uncomfortable, but, given the horrors in your mind, you found yourself accepting their touch as a shred of comfort.

It destroyed your sanity, that it would at least give you the soothing balm of a caress.

— Please! — you sighed with a breath, a breath as anguished as it was tired. 

Your hands touched his, your eyes full of life and fear threatened his darkness with such a benevolent request, something the creature had never witnessed. 

Those like you, mortals, used to beg for mercy on your own life, on your knees and with the greatest promises of riches and pleasures.And here you were, a soul who would never reach heaven, asking for mercy for others when it was your fate that was at stake.

How he loved you! How he hated you!

— Treating it as my personal gift and demonstration of my esteem, these women live by my ability to have mercy on the requests of your heart. — He approached your warmth, the steady rhythm of your heartbeat, the salt of your feverish skin. All his vitality was more than banal desire, he was madly fissured by every cell of his anatomy, every rudimentary bit of his mortal Anatomy, and so doomed to the horrors of putrefaction. — My eternal living flame, how it tormented me not to be able to touch it. How it torments me right now to feel the softness of your skin. 

The creature's eyes mapped your face, his eyes so vivid and striking in color, the visage on your skin, the softness of his mouth as you breathed audibly, so bruised by fatigue that you didn't even budge when he wrapped you in his arms like a bruised little bird. Her soft sigh, nesting her head against his shoulder, was the fuel for him to release the women from their ropes, gently lowering them until their feet touched the ground.

— As long as you live, my ladies, be the witness of my triumph in having my sweet beloved in my arms for eternity.

He lowered his face in your direction, the ancient smell on his clothes made you scratch your nose. 

The texture of his mustache was thick. When his funeral lips touched yours, you tried to resist. Never before have you felt the pleasure of a passionate kiss or a love that took your breath away. But he knew what he'd been waiting for, holding you tightly by the back of your head, wrapping himself around you menacingly as his mustache scratched and skin immaculate from his face. His lips were hard, demanding and hungry.

His mouth ate you as his last hope, the last of pleasures and torments, a feast for a dying man.

The exchange, life and death, touching each other for the first time ignited an impulse in you. The impulse that matched his kiss, because that was the deal. You gave in, letting your lips submit to the kiss. Your body was surprised as you gasped with pleasure at corresponding with him, stimulated by the passion with which he held you. The human body is capable of many bargains to continue resisting.

And you, who had resisted for so long, gave in to that bittersweet feeling of surrender, feeling it take against your body.

Her body gradually sank into the feeling of being supported. As her dark lover's lips devoured hers, the world became a darker and darker place, the hiss of the wind seeping into her ears like spilled poison.  Between soft gasps, feeling the creature suck on his lips, unable to be completely satiated, his body gave in to the strain, falling into a powerful sleep. Realizing that you no longer corresponded with him, he walked away, looking at her with apprehension. His right hand, large and bony, rested on his chest. 

The beating of his heart was quiet, yet powerful. Each beat rumbling softly against the bones of his chest. 

Under the gaze of the bewitched nuns, he disappeared with the night, carrying with him the only one with whom he could share his eternal night.

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