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mairon-goth-minion · 1 day ago

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so I took some liberties with the prompt whoops word count: 1542

I remember the day I first met Cain like it was yesterday. It was a coincidence, as his parents took him to a ball the instant he turned eighteen despite his being sick. The same ball I attended after I’d just finished my training. He was young, I was younger and I was foolish, but foolishness is a trait shared by most seventeen years old, I believe. Nevertheless, not knowing who he was, not knowing that his station was far above mine and that he was not the son of a knight as I was but the heir to a duchy, I approached him.

Despite his feeble demeanor, he… shone. Was it his golden locks, falling as a river down to his waist? Was it his emerald eyes, brighter than any jewel I’d ever seen? Both? I do not know.

So I went towards him. At first, he looked surprised to see someone reaching out. Did he not know just how beautiful he was? His first words to me were “‘Who are you?’” ‘Hector of Redenbrough, but you can call me Hector. Or Hec. Whichever you prefer.’ I grinned. ‘Hector…’ he said, his voice but a whisper. ‘I am Cain.’

At first, I had believed that the lack of last name came from an embarrassment on his behalf, and had believed him to be born in a rather low station. I could not have been more wrong.

‘Well, Cain, will you offer me this dance?’ I could have asked anyone else, but I didn’t want to. It was all about Cain, and it always has been ever since. His cheeks flushed, he took my hand. It was plainly obvious that he’d never danced before, but I gently led him. I did not care about the amount of times he stepped on my foot. He was too light for it to hurt. It was a happy moment.

The second time we met, he was twenty five, and still terribly sick. A gaunt, pale thing. His father had passed and he had become the Duke of Sulinard, as well as my superior. I think that he recognized me, when he looked at the legions of knights standing in front of him, kneeling. Why else would he have chosen me to be his bodyguard? Was it a coincidence?

I remember the surprise that I’d felt that day, both because of learning his identity as one of the most powerful men in the Kingdom and because I was selected amongst so many others.

“‘Congrats, Hec!’” were words I heard many times, and I remember getting drunk in a tavern with friends, celebrating my new position.

It was a year later that things began growing sour. Cain’s health was rapidly declining, as were my hopes.

See, Cain and I had become friends. I don’t think that he ever had anyone to talk to before I came along and took him to the dance floor, and I didn’t mind spending my days talking with the most intelligent and beautiful person I’d ever met. He fascinated me. He was gentle and frail, but held within him an infinite curiosity for the world, and I could have spent my entire life merely watching Cain talk of things he’d read in his books. So when he was too weak to leave his bed, I became desperate.

I knew that his illness had no cure, and what could I, a mere knight, do when his rich family had tried everything? Well, there are certain things that desperate men will do when all hope seems lost that not even the vilest of humans would even consider. I made a pact with a vampire.

Following rumors and whispers, and after months of research, I found Hara in a small shepherd’s village, where she fed off of sheep. She was starving, and I offered her my blood in exchange for Cain’s life.

Hara didn’t want to, at first, having promised herself never to kill, but I was a desperate fool, and I would have done anything for Cain. So she drank, and drank, and drank, for the first time in her life. I think that she would have drank all of my blood had I not stopped her. When I brought her to Sulinard, Cain was on his deathbed. I was nearly too late. Everyone had lost hope, and he laid on the cold sheets alone with no one by his side.

I took his icy hand, pressing it to my lips, tears staining my cheeks as Hara sank her teeth into his neck. Was I a monster for doing this to him? After all, I had condemned him to an eternity of thirst for my selfish desire to remain by his side.

When she was done, Hara turned to me, grief in her eyes. ‘You know what you made me do, don’t you?’ ‘I do.’ ‘He will never forgive you.’ ‘I do not care if he hates me for ever, as long as I can see him smile one last time.’ I was compelled to honesty. ‘I do not care whether or not he lives an existence of misery, if it means that I know that he breathes still.’ ‘You condemn him to a life of shadows.’ ‘I know.’ ‘He will be hated.’ ‘I know.’ ‘He will be alone.’ ‘I know.’ Hara shook her head, furious. ‘You are the true monster here.’ ‘I know.’ She left, and I never saw her again. Perhaps she still feeds on sheep in faraway villages.

When Cain woke up, I cried of joy. My master had opened his eyes. ‘Hector? Wh- Why am I alive?’ When I told him what had happened, I saw horror in his eyes. ‘You did what?’ His voice was sharper than my sword, and I nearly flinched. ‘You are an undying, My Lord.’ ‘No,’ he said, crestfallen, looking truly afraid. The fear was soon replaced by a glorious fury I’d never seen before in his eyes. ‘WHY DID YOU DO THIS TO ME?’ ‘I couldn’t lose you.’ Grief flooded in his eyes as I said those words. ‘So I will be the one to lose you?’ Clenching my teeth, I nodded. ‘No,’ he whispered once more as the room became suddenly dark. ‘You will remain by my side, Hector, and you may never leave it.’ Shadows twirled all around us, lashing at my skin, leaving red bleeding wounds, but I did not scream nor feel any pain, too lost was I in his eyes, darker than the void of a starless night. ‘Magnificent…’ I murmured as the shadows tore open my chest and entered my heart. It was more pain than I’d ever felt before, shooting through my body as poisoned needles in my veins, and I screamed and screamed and screamed, crying of pain. Yet through this I laughed. I was happy that it was Cain who was hurting me. What a sick and twisted monster I am.

When I opened my eyes, I was in his bed, blood covering the sheets, and he was standing next to me, his clothes and mouth tainted red. Whose blood was it? I would have said mine had my flesh not been completely void of scars or wounds. I soon learned that it was the other members of this household whom he had killed. His mother, his sister, his servants, all of them. I did not mourn any. All that mattered was that Cain was still standing.

The shadows apparently had left a black mark on me, on the back of my neck. As long as he lived, I would too, and I was to belong to him forever. I was the happiest man alive.

For centuries, I stood by his side, as his bodyguard, as his friend, as his companion. I killed any person daring to try and harm him, and I did whatever he asked of me.

I am different than I was. At first, I remained a proud knight despite my belonging to a vampire, only slaying in duels or war. But now? I am no better than an animal. When I fight, it is no longer as a knight. I am a dog, a vicious one, a dog that’s lived for centuries by his master’s side. When I fight, it’s with my teeth and nails, in alleyways where no one can see the bodies of those whom I mutilate.

Cain still resents me, I think. He sent me to war many times. I have seen horrors. I have seen trenches of blood. I have seen the loss of faith. I have seen what Men can do when they let go of morals. Cain resents me but still he loves me, sharing with me his bed and body.

“‘Who are you?’” His words from a distant past echo in my ears, sometimes. Today, my answer would be ‘I am yours’.

You are the knight bodyguard of a vampire, but as the centuries went by it became less and less noble. Now you're mostly just a glorified servant, and when you fight it is not an honourable duel, it's shanking someone in an alleyway.

#writeblr #writers on tumblr #writers #vampire #knight #good x evil #evil x good #the knight is the evil one here XD #oneshot #my writing

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azzibuckets · 5 hours ago

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sweet [part 6]

a/n: sorry for the delay..i kept this in my drafts hoping i’d get inspiration for something more creative but it never came so i waited like a month for nothing 😔

main masterlist | sweet masterlist

Paige really is trying to be happy.

But it’s incredibly fucking difficult to do when Azzi is laughing in somebody’s arms that’s not hers.

“Chill, P,” KK’s voice pipes up from beside her. “I think everyone in this room can feel how hard you’re staring at her.”

Paige doesn’t say anything, scoffing as she forces herself to turn around. She’s felt jealous before - but nothing like this, where her stomach is turning and she feels physically sick. “You need to get laid.” KK suggests, poking her arm. “Flirt with some pretty girls. Make her jealous.”

“Nah, bro.” Paige rubs her temples. Sleep doesn’t come easy these days, and her body never seems to feel 100% with all the conditioning and the intensity of their practices. Frankly, she’s physically and mentally exhausted, and the little energy she has left isn’t nowhere close to enough to deal with all this. “I’m done. I don’t wanna keep doing this back and forth shit.”

“So you’re gonna give up?” KK asks incredulously, eyes widening.

“She’s the one who gave up on us before we even started.” Paige toes the ground. “It doesn’t even fucking matter anymore. I told her how I felt and she doesn’t want to date me.” Her jaw tightens. “I just don’t get how she can forgive Micaela so easily and not me.”

“I don’t think it’s about forgiveness, Paige,” KK says slowly, her demeanor serious. “I think she’s scared, and rightfully so.”

“I know she is,” the blonde groans. “But goddamn, isn’t it worth it? I think about her and I get fucking giddy thinking about being able to take her on dates and shit.”

KK falls silent, worry pooling in her eyes for the girl that’s been like an older sister to her. She’s not used to this, being the one to give Paige advice. “You keep saying you’re okay,” she says finally. “But you don’t have to be.”

“I’m not,” Paige admits. “But I will be.”

•••

Paige curses, kicking at the chair before flopping down on it. Jana and Ice exchange looks behind her back as she aggressively grabs a Gatorade bottle and squirts water into her mouth.

“None of my shots are fucking falling,” she rants, eyes quickly tracking the movement on the court. “How many turnovers have I had?” she asks, turning to one of the team managers on the bench.

The manager checks her iPad, looking back up at Paige sympathetically. “Four.”

“Fuck.” Paige slams the Gatorade bottle down on her thigh. “I don’t know what’s fucking wrong with me.”

The team is up by twenty five points, and Paige doesn’t see the court for the rest of the game. As soon as the buzzer sounds, she’s out of her seat, rushing through the handshake line to go to the locker room. She knows Geno likes giving the fourth quarter to the bench to help them get more experience, but she can’t help but be annoyed that she hadn’t been allowed to go back in and redeem herself against a shitty team that couldn’t even shoot. She’d turned the ball more over than had assists, for fuck’s sake.

“Paige, you coming?” The team is huddled around the door, on their way out for team dinner.

Paige is still next to her locker, head bowed down as she rummages through her duffel. “You guys go ahead,” she responds. “I think I’m done for the night.”

She hears her teammates hesitate, murmuring softly to each other before they decide to leave her be. As she hears the last of the footsteps, she turns around to make her own exit, making eye contact with big brown eyes as Azzi happens to look back at the same time.

Stay. Her eyes communicate everything she’s not brave enough to say out loud. Stay with me, she begs. I don’t want to be alone.

And Azzi, her best friend, who’s always been able to read Paige’s mind, who knows what Paige is feeling before she herself can ever put a name on it, who’s always there before Paige even has to ask, hesitates, her steps faltering, eyes rounding. But then her eyebrows dip, as if she’s remembering their last conversation, the hurt they’d made each other feel.

Azzi bites her bottom lip and turns back around, pace quickening to catch up with the rest of the team.

Paige slams her locker shut.

She was a fool for ever believing Azzi would still care about her after everything she’d done.

•••

“Don’t beat yourself up, Paige,” her dad says. His voice is distorted over the speaker, but still comforting from thousands of miles away. “What would you say if one of your teammates had an off performance like this? You need to learn to give yourself grace too.”

“I know, I just-” Paige looks up at the ceiling, studying the ugly floral patterns glaring back down at her. “I just can’t help but feel like I’m letting them down.” She pulls the blanket tighter over herself. “I’m supposed to be their voice on the court, and today I was doing jack shit.”

“That’s what makes you a good leader. Recognizing the mistakes you’ve made, moving on from them and becoming better after.”

Paige sighs. She appreciates her dad’s efforts to comfort her, but right now nice words are doing nothing to alleviate the hollowness in her heart.

“This isn’t helping, is it?” her dad, ever so honest, realizes.

Paige winces. “Not really. But I appreciate it.”

He chuckles softly. “I could tell. Azzi was the only one who could get through to you when you were like this back in high school. Where is she?”

“She’s, uh, out right now. With the team.” Paige doesn’t have the heart to tell him that they haven’t talked much at all in the last month. Her dad has always had a soft spot for Azzi, their more shy and introverted personalities making them get along.

“Well, when she comes back, have a talk with her, okay? I don’t want you sitting alone with your feelings. It’s not good for you.”

Paige swallows hard. “I will,” she lies. The mere mention of Azzi only intensifies the headache she’s already having. “Listen, I’m pretty tired, so I’m prolly gonna crash now.”

“Yeah, get some rest.” Her dad pauses. “I love you, Paige. Don’t forget that.”

“I know. Love you too.”

The call disconnects, and sitting in her bed in the dark room, the whirring air conditioning the only sound in the room besides her heavy breathing, Paige misses home more than ever. She misses her parents, and Drew. She misses being with people she hasn’t hurt over and over again with stupid mistakes.

“Paige?”

Paige looks up, startled. She hadn’t heard anyone come in, and she’s more confused to see Azzi standing there uncertainly, shifting from foot to foot, cheeks pretty and rosy from the cold outside.

“Az? How’d you get in?”

“Aubrey gave me the key card.” Azzi drops said key card on the table. “Everyone’s really worried, you know.”

“Yeah, yeah, cut the crap.” Paige buries her face back into the pillows, not wanting another lecture on how bad she played. “I’m sorry I fucking blew it.”

“Paige.” Azzi’s tone is soft, and Paige realizes just now how much she’s missed the way her name sounds coming from Azzi’s mouth. “They’re not worried about the way you played. They’re worried about how you reacted to it. They’re worried about you.”

The younger girl sits down tentatively at the edge of the bed. “You always take care of the team,” she says quietly. “But you don’t have to carry the weight of that alone. Sometimes you need to put yourself first.”

Paige almost throws herself into Azzi’s arms, catching the dark haired girl off guard for a moment before she gently hugs her back. As if on instinct, her hands go up to start undoing her ponytail, like she used to always do after games. Azzi combs through her hair, gently twisting off the hair tie and murmuring into her ear.

Shoulders shaking, Paige sinks into Azzi’s chest as she finally allows herself to cry. “It’s okay, baby,” Azzi whispers, lips grazing her ear. “I got you.”

It seems like hours that Azzi holds Paige. Eventually, the blonde’s breathing evens out, her sniffling stopping as her breaths become deeper. She thinks Paige is asleep until the older girl turns her head slightly. “Will you be here when I wake up?”

Azzi slings an arm across her waist, breathing her in. The ends of Paige’s hair tickle her cheek, but she doesn’t move. “Do you want me to be?”

Paige’s voice comes out, barely in a whisper. “Yes.”

Azzi drops her head, lips skimming across the older girl’s neck. Paige’s skin is warm, her pulse fluttering under her touch. Azzi tightens her grip on her waist, thumb dipping under her shirt to stroke soft circles on her hipbone. Paige shifts closer. “Then I’ll be here.”

•••

Paige wakes up to tangled sheets and warm hands on her face. She blinks sleepily as her vision sharpens to see Azzi propped over her on one elbow. “How you feeling?” Azzi asks softly, her morning voice scratchy.

Paige reaches up, fingers trailing over Azzi’s hand cupping her cheek. “Better,” she breathes out. She looks over at the alarm clock, groaning. “We still have half an hour.”

Paige flips over onto her belly, resting her head on Azzi’s chest. Azzi grabs her waist, adjusting her so that the older girl is fully on top of her. Her hands go up to stroke Paige’s back, scratching up and down her bare skin with her fingernails. Closing her eyes, Paige listens to the steady beat of Azzi’s heart. “You always smell so good,” she murmurs.

Azzi hums, rubbing her socked foot against Paige’s ankle. Paige has almost drifted off again when fingers gently brush hair out of her face. “We gotta be at breakfast in 10.”

“Don’t wanna get up.” She groans when Azzi takes her hands out from under her shirt, pushing Paige off her softly. Azzi starts to get ready, grabbing clothes to wear from Paige’s duffel without even asking.

Paige sits at the edge of the bed, watching Azzi move around the room. She can almost imagine that they’re back to normal again, going to bed together and waking up together as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. “You’re the only one that makes me feel like this.”

Azzi pauses for a moment before choosing not to respond. She disappears into the bathroom, reemerging a few seconds later with two toothbrushes. She hands one to Paige. “You can’t just say stuff like that.”

Paige grabs the toothbrush and stares at her. “What? It’s true.”

“It’s not gonna help either of us move on,” Azzi says pointedly.

“What if I don’t want to move on?” Paige challenges, following Azzi back to the bathroom.

“There’s no future for us, Paige,” Azzi says harshly, turning around to put a warning hand against Paige’s chest. She closes the door between the two of them as if to reaffirm their boundaries.

“So you’re just gonna come to my hotel room and hold me through the night then get pissed at me for still having feelings for you?” Paige laughs humorlessly, slumping down to sit against the door. “Real classy, Azzi.”

“You needed someone. I couldn’t sit in my room knowing you were suffering.”

“Have you ever considered that maybe you’re making it worse by all this coming and leaving?” Paige blinks back tears. “God, you finally just look at me again and I go fucking crazy.” She scrambles to her feet once she hears the door unlock, and Azzi comes out, her eyes slightly red. “I can’t have just some of you. I need to have all of you or - or none of you.”

The younger girl jerks towards her. “You’re a fucking liar, you know? You said no matter what decision I chose, you would be happy,” she shoots back, voice shaky with anger.

Paige’s eyes cloud over. “How do you know that?”

Azzi hesitated. “The letter you write me- I found it. In the guest room.” As if on instinct, her hands reach for her purse, but she stops herself. It certainly wouldn’t help her case if Paige knew she carried that note with her everywhere she went.

Cursing under her breath, Paige runs a hand through her hair. “You weren’t supposed to see that.”

“Yeah, well.” Azzi takes a deep breath, trying to recollect her thoughts. “I’m asking you to be happy for me, okay? I know it’s a lot. But you’re my best friend. I need you to do this for me.”

“You’re not being fair to me.” Paige’s words catch in her throat. “You know how this makes me feel.”

“I know.” Azzi leans her forehead against Paige’s. Her thumb finds the tears coating the older girl’s lashes, the dampness of her cheeks, trying to brush them away, trying to brush all their mistakes and their sins and their pain away. “I know, and I’m sorry.”

Paige dips her head down, burrowing it into her shoulder, fingers digging into Azzi’s waist as if holding onto her any tighter will keep her from slipping away from her life. “Okay.” Her voice cracks. Just ten minutes ago, she’d been firmly resolute in her ultimatum - seeing Azzi with other people had hurt too fucking much for her to stand. But now? Paige has always been a people pleaser. Recently she’s been learning to stand her ground, to be okay with letting others be upset. But when it comes to her best friend, who’s pleading with her, eyes wet with grief and hope and a million words unsaid, Paige knows that she doesn’t have it in her to say no. That learning to get over her pain will somehow be doable if it means that it’ll take away just a little bit of Azzi’s . “Okay.”

#paige bueckers #azzi fudd #uconnwbb #pazzi #uconn wbb #wcbb #angst #paige x azzi #paige bueckers x azzi fudd

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puck-luck · 2 days ago

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get cucked | nicojack

warnings: MMF threesome, cocaine use, unprotected p in v, dom m, sub m, sub/switch f, oral m! and f!receiving, handjob, facial, coming untouched, use of handcuffs, jack is put in the cuck chair at one point, begging, praise, dirty talk, all those usual things, jack DOES get rimmed in this, there is slight feminization (one line), jack is a tit man and loves to suck on titties, use of chatGPT for swiss german sentences since i do not know the language and google translate does not have swiss german (just regular german), swiss german nicknames come from this site as always, please let me know if i forgot anything else <3

pairing: nico hischier x jack hughes x fem!reader

wc: 6,682

Jack isn’t actually sure how he ended up in this position. It’s a blur. They were at the bar– him, you, and Nico, and then all three of you were at your apartment. Jack remembers the drinks, of course, and the way he’d been flirting with you and Nico like he always does, but a switch flipped somewhere along the way.

Maybe it was when you’d pulled out that little baggie of white powder, smirking enticingly. It could’ve been when Nico did the first line, tipping his head back after he was done, revealing that long, tan, strong column of neck. Perhaps Jack got here because of the heavy weight of Nico’s hand on the back of Jack’s neck as he inhaled the powder off of the line of your cleavage.

It was probably what happened right after. The lightbulb illuminated when Jack lifted his head and found Nico’s gaze, pupils blown out and swallowing the expressive brown irises. The tip of Nico’s nose was pink and there was a dusting of snow beneath Nico’s nostril and…

Fuck, Jack couldn’t hold himself back. He’s done so well since rookie year, when he and Nico had taken the tension between them and decided that it just couldn’t evolve into something bigger than friendship. For the sake of the team, they needed to remain friends. They needed to maintain some semblance of professionalism.

All of that went out the window when Jack lunged forward– or maybe Nico pulled him, considering the grip on Jack’s neck– and smashed his lips against Nico’s. Your gasp had filled Jack’s ears, but Nico was kissing him back just as enthusiastically. Kissing Nico was more intoxicating than the coke, so Jack can’t really be held responsible for the way the night has devolved.

He has a vague idea of how he ended up in this chair. It had something to do with the way Nico had removed your clothes and thrown you on the bed, while Jack stripped himself of his clothes. He expected to get into things right away, to have his dick involved from the get-go. Nico had another plan.

After Jack had stripped, Nico pointed at you, laying on the bed with your legs wide, and told Jack to go. He told him to make you feel good, to get his mouth on you and make you come. And Jack… well, Jack– you see, he’s never been the biggest fan of giving head. He’d rather receive it and Nico should know that from the locker room talk he’s overheard. Jack went to remind Nico– murmuring a quiet “I don’t– what else can I do?” while trying to ignore how it sounded like he was seeking permission from his captain. Jack always values Nico’s directions and tries not to refute them, but he just– he doesn’t want to eat you out. He’ll kiss you, he’ll suck on your neck or your tits, he’ll put his fingers inside your cunt, but he wants his mouth to be free. He wants– he wants to kiss Nico again.

“Oh, well, if you don’t want to,” Nico said, shrugging. He was standing at your nightstand, digging around for something– he must know where you keep your condoms, you’d mentioned earlier that you and Nico had hooked up a couple of times before– and Jack didn’t see what was in his hands when he turned to quirk his eyebrows inquisitively at the smaller boy. Nico had caught Jack by the wrist and given it a comforting squeeze. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to, Jack.”

Jack let out a breath of relief. Nico started guiding Jack to your desk chair, settling him on the cushions. Jack went willingly, thinking that the plan would change and Nico might send you between his knees to suck him.

“In fact,” Nico continues without even pausing. Jack’s thoughts had flown through his head, so fast that Nico hadn’t even paused. He guides Jack’s arms behind him, gently, subtly, so slowly that Jack barely notices. He just stares up at the pretty brunet in front of him, finally within reach after years of waiting, and doesn’t even snap out of it when a ring of cool metal surrounds his wrist and clicks. He’s listening for Nico’s next words. “You don’t have to do anything at all.”

And Nico left him there. Jack blinked, confused, and tried to follow. Something hard and biting stopped him. Jack tugged at the bindings on his wrist again and twisted his spine to try and see what restrained him. He caught a flash of silver and his fingers hooked on a thin chain. Jack took a sudden breath– Nico had locked him in a chair. With handcuffs.

He was hard already. Jack just didn’t expect to get harder the more he pulled on the restraints and failed to escape.

“Nico,” Jack says.

The man is taking off his shirt next to the bed, standing above you, when Jack interrupts. Nico looks over his shoulder and raises an eyebrow at Jack. “Hm?”

“What am I– what am I supposed to do?” Jack detests how unsure he sounds, but he’s really not… he’s not sure. This is new. Nico is new. A threesome is new. Coke was new. Now he’s in handcuffs, naked, dick straining and standing tall, and nothing is happening to him. Nico is making no plans to move you from the bed, it seems, considering how he’s climbing onto the mattress and kneeling by your side.

“Hey, schatz. Lay that way for me, will you?” Nico requests, talking to you instead of Jack. He waits until you’re moving, reclining with your head at the foot of the bed and legs stretched toward the headboard, to reply to Jack. Nico looks up and cocks his head to the side slightly. “What do you mean, Jack?”

“I don’t– what am I supposed to do, Nico?” Jack repeats. He can’t understand it, because he’s perfectly capable of coming up with ideas for the next move normally, but he’s lost here. He’s got this creeping feeling, warm and prickly, washing over him. He wants– it makes him want to listen to Nico. He wants Nico to, what, guide him? It’s probably just because he always listens to Nico’s ideas, right? Because Nico is smart and leads so well that he’s easy to follow? Right?

“I told you, Jack. You don’t have to do anything,” Nico explains. He walks forward on his knees and settles between your legs. He stares at Jack while his hands smooth up your thighs and hips, then over your sides.

You moan when Nico’s thumbs brush your nipples. The sound steals Nico’s gaze and he has the audacity to quirk his lips into a smile when he looks down at you.

No– Jack doesn’t like that. He wants Nico to smile at him. A noise that can only be described as indignant leaves Jack’s throat. It was involuntary, but it works. Nico looks back at the chair where Jack sits.

“You didn’t want to eat Y/N out, Jack,” Nico says. “She let us come to her apartment, shared with us even though she didn’t have to, and you wouldn’t eat her out?”

“I don’t like–”

Nico looks down at you. “I’m sorry he doesn’t want to make you feel good, baby. I’ll make you come. You know I love how you taste. We don’t even need Jack.”

Jack doesn’t like that either, but before he can protest, you’re piping up. It feels like forever since you did. Jack had tunnel vision on Nico, he realizes. After wanting it for so long, he’d lost the threesome aspect. Greedy, he chastizes himself. That’s how he got here, locked up and looking at two beautiful bodies enjoy themselves without him. He was greedy.

“No, I want him here,” you pout. You arch your back and tilt your head back, eyebrows practically reaching your hairline as you look at Jack. “You’re so pretty, Jack. It’s about time you made a move. Nico and I have been talking about it for ages.”

Jack’s mind skips, purely out of surprise. “You’ve been– you talked about it?”

You open your mouth to reply, but Nico robs Jack of the answer by pressing his thumb on your tongue. He shushes you. “Don’t reveal our secrets,” Nico chides. “You’re giving him what he wants too easily.”

“You can’t just–” The words dissolve in Jack’s mouth when Nico leans forward and takes one of your nipples in his mouth. Jack has… he has a good view from this chair. “Oh,” Jack breathes out. His eyes go wide, fixing on the hollow of Nico’s cheek as he sucks your skin. Jack is silent while Nico kisses down your stomach and nears your pussy, but you are not.

“Nico,” you mumble when he sucks a hickey into your thigh. You moan out loud when he plants a sweet kiss on your mons pubis and drags his bottom lip over the hood of your clit.

Jack swallows hard. You’re writhing on the bed, but Nico has placed his hands on your hips and anchored you in place. Your lower half is cemented to the bed, Nico’s mouth attached to your core, and Jack can almost feel the pleasure radiating off of you. And Nico– Nico’s eyes are boring into Jack.

His glance could be construed for admiration of your body, as you arch your back and fall into the bed. He doesn’t tease you, which surprises Jack. He expected Nico to savor this, but he’s working his tongue against your clit with a level of skill that Jack can’t even imagine. At least, that’s how it sounds. You sound like a porn star, moaning in a way that is so over the top that it can’t be real… except that you’re sweating and panting and heaving too, and Jack doesn’t think you can fake a reaction like that.

Jack was distracted by your movement, but Nico’s eyes catch him again. That dark, attentive, evaluating look hasn’t left Jack.

His cock jumps. Jack blinks. It throbs. Jack’s immediate first thought is to fit his fist around the length and provide himself a little relief. But then– then– the handcuffs stop him. The metal prevents him from making any move.

“Nico,” Jack calls.

The eyes that stayed on Jack for the past few minutes look away. No, they don’t look away, Nico closes his eyes. He digs his fingertips into your hips and drags your cunt closer to his mouth, licking lower until his mouth disappears into your folds.

Jack’s mouth opens and his tongue goes dry, Nico ignores Jack and focuses only on you. Jack watches as his nose brushes your clit, bumping into the nerves over and over again.

You jolt with each nudge, moans breathy and whiny. One of your hands is clutching the comforter beneath you, while the other one is free to thread through Nico’s hair and pull. Jack loses himself in the way the strands of hair grow fluffy or jagged because of your grip, standing tall and messy on Nico’s head. The dark, long pieces on top of Nico’s head become highlighted when the light from your bedroom lamp falls on them just right and Jack loses himself in the mesmerizing changes.

He hears Nico’s voice, muffled between your legs, but deep and gravely nonetheless. “Tastes so good,” he announces to the room. Jack doesn’t respond– he’s not involved. This isn’t a statement for him. Nico must be talking to you, punctuating his sentence by palming the fleshy fat of your behind. Jack wonders what those hands would feel like on his thighs.

Nico has slapped Jack’s ass before, but it was always in an athletic setting. Or it was when they were celebrating– Jack remembers one time rookie year, before they’d decided to just be friends, when Nico had slapped his ass after a successful shot in pool and let it linger. His palm had been so warm through Jack’s jeans, almost impossibly so. Maybe it was the knowledge that Nico was there that made Jack’s blood grow warm, made his heart rate spike. Then, Nico’s hand had dropped and Jack had to bury the urge to follow Nico around like a lost puppy all night.

“Fuck, prinzli, don’t you wish this was you?” Nico continues.

Jack hears him quietly, barely audible over the rush of blood in his ears and the pulse in his untouched and yearning cock, and nods along even though the question isn’t directed at him. Nico’s hearty chuckle and the returning fixture of Nico’s eyes on Jack snap him out of his trance.

“What?” Jack asks. The word is a pile of mush in Jack’s mouth, not nice or pristine like he thinks it should be, but at least it’s out. If Nico is looking at him again, then the question must have been for him.

“Don’t you wish you were over here?” Nico rephrases. His thumb fits over your clit and rubs a quick circle. Your volume increases and Jack has to strain to hear Nico. His mouth spits the words out, curling and dancing in the air. “This could’ve been you, J, and I could’ve had a hand on your cock while you did it.”

Jack’s stomach swoops and his cock releases a blurt of precum to match the movement. His lips part and his eyes go wide. “You would’ve–”

“Touched you, yeah,” Nico confirms nonchalantly.

Jack imagines Nico’s thick fingers sliding along the vein on the underside of his cock. The phantom touch starts slow, but speeds up the more Jack thinks about it.

“I thought it would be nice,” Nico continues. “You know, for you to put that smart mouth of yours to use, so you can show Y/N that you’re able to do more than just talk back to me. I was going to let you come in my hand while you licked her, Jack. I was going to finger you after and use your own come as lube.”

Jack can’t form a single thought. Nico’s words bounce through his brain, like an input of words in a computer code that are essential for the program to work. Smart mouth… talk back… let you come… lube…

The phantom touch on Jack’s cock, Nico’s invisible and imaginary hand, twists around the head of his cock. Jack grinds up into it, his hips lifting from the chair.

Nico purses his lips and lays an open-mouthed kiss on your clit, his middle finger coming between your legs and sliding into your hole. Jack can hear how you open up for him, how you welcome his touch with a whimper and a roll of your own hips– as much as Nico will allow them to move. His other hand is still pressed into your side, keeping you in place.

You throw your head back and suddenly, there are two eyes on Jack. The attention makes him preen, makes him feel even more restricted by the handcuffs.

“I want–” Jack cuts himself off, surprised by how foreign and removed from his body his voice sounds.

Nico quirks an eyebrow and flicks his tongue rapidly over your cunt. He squeezes your side with his hand and you open your mouth to respond, like your mind is linked with Nico’s.

“What do you want, baby?” you ask. The genuine curiosity in your voice tips Jack toward desperation.

“Let me– I’ll do whatever you tell me to,” Jack bargains. He tugs on the cuffs. The metal bites his wrist and hurts. It will probably leave a mark over his blue-green veins, just from the pure effort to keep Jack contained. He knows he’s strong, but not strong enough to break free. He needs Nico to let him loose. “Please, I want this. I can’t– I need–”

“Have you– oh– have you really earned that?” you inquire. Nico nibbles your clit gently to signal that that was the right response. He rewards you for your words by plunging a second finger into your entrance and curling them forward, your body mimicking the movement, but he doesn’t make any move to reward Jack.

Jack doesn’t understand. He asked nicely. He said please. He offered to do whatever Nico said, even if he doesn’t want to.

“But– fuck, Schao, I’ll– I’ll eat her out all night if that’s what you want,” Jack adds. There’s an edge to his voice that he doesn’t recognize, but he’s heard it from women he’s been with in the past. It’s pretty when they beg him for more and now Jack is reduced to begging for something. “You don’t even have to touch me. I can– I’ll do it myself, just let me be a part of this.”

Jack perks up when Nico’s lips turn up at the sound of his nickname. He hums as he continues to eat you out and Jack watches his fingers thrust in time with the twitching muscles under the skin of your thighs. It’s the only sign that he heard Jack’s plea, other than the slight smile on his face. His eyes drift shut and Jack balks. He’s– is he ignoring Jack again?

“Nico,” Jack whines petulantly. His hips twitch upward and he feels a flush cross his cheeks. “Nico, please.”

“I’m coming, sunneschii,” Nico chuckles. Jack can’t tell if he’s being sarcastic. “I’m going make our girl come first, then I’ll let you go.”

There’s another reminder that it’s not just Nico and Jack. Jack continues to get caught up in the aura of the man before him. He loses himself in the dark eyes contrasting against your skin, but Jack has to tear himself away. How he wants Nico– he wants him– but you’re here, and you’re an equal part here, and if Jack keeps forgetting that, then he’ll never get what he wants.

So he closes his mouth and watches Nico’s fingers work inside of you. He watches them fill you, watches a third tease your entrance but never fully slip in. He watches Nico’s jaw pop and manipulate your skin with his movements. He sees how the flat lick of Nico’s tongue to your clit makes goosebumps rise on your skin and make your nipples stiffen into blunt peaks.

Your view is almost as good as Jack’s. If you look down, you see a strong, athletic, European man holding you close and devouring you. The sprinkling of scruff along his jaw rubs your inner thighs while he eats you out, which he knows you love, so he doesn’t spread your legs like he did the first time he took the journey down. You can see how his motions spark the waves of pleasure that emanate from your body, although the connection dulls the sensation slightly. When you look away, you feel like his touch is a mystery and a surprise, and you get to see the ruined boy across the room.

Jack’s not as put together as he thinks he is. His bottom lip is swollen from the way he’d been biting it when Nico first started ignoring him. He’s an attention whore and Nico didn’t give him the time of day– it’s entertaining how easily Jack will resort to begging and grinding his pretty cock into the air in order to regain Nico’s scrutiny. His cheeks are red and splotchy from how turned on he is and his cock leaks onto itself, brimming with pearly white droplets and spilling over. The precum cools and disappears as it makes its way down his cock, but his tip is shining and tinged with purple from his need for contact. If this is how he looks before Nico even touches him, then you’re in for a treat.

Jack sees your eyes roll into the back of your head. Your breasts sit high on your chest when you arch your back and he’s starting to wish that he was licking them. He might be, to be frank, insanely attracted to all of Nico, but Jack has always been a tit man and will always be a tit man. Your tits deserve his appreciation.

You make a long and wanton sigh when Nico drags you over the edge. Jack can tell that you’re finally coming when your body relaxes on the mattress. You’d been in near-constant motion while Nico was working, but now he’s lapping at your folds like a cat drinking milk in a cartoon, and you’re not moving a muscle.

“Jack,” Nico murmurs.

Jack’s heart nearly bounces out of his chest. He’s– it’s his turn. “Nico?”

“I’m going to come uncuff you,” Nico tells him. You take a breath, hearing Nico’s calm voice and letting it soothe you. He kisses the juncture of your thigh and hip. “Are you going to listen to me when I tell you what to do?”

“Yes,” Jack declares. “Whatever you want, Ni.”

He revels in the proud smirk that Nico hides in the skin of your stomach. Nico takes the time to kiss over your stomach, between your boobs– never on them, which Jack thinks isn’t fair to the pretty mounds– and on your mouth. His kiss on your lips is chaste, but your lips slide against each other unhurriedly. Nico doesn’t seem to feel the pressure and impatience coming from Jack while he kisses you.

Nico pulls away and you whine softly, trying to hold onto his shoulder, but it slips away as he moves off of you and approaches Jack. The key in Nico’s hands, dwarfed in his palm, catches the light and Jack has to hold back an embarrassing squeal of excitement.

It takes a lot of effort for you to sit up. You feel like you rub slick over your bedsheets, but you want to get more comfortable. You’d like to sit up on the pillows and see what Nico wants to do next– and with whom.

When you turn around, you feel like your body freezes. You’re frozen, but there’s a batch of boiling water surrounding you and you’re cooking from the outside in. The heat of the room has been turned up to… an incomprehensible four thousand degrees celsius because Jack is clinging to Nico and claiming his lips with the ferocity of a rabid animal.

His hands, pale against Nico’s warm skin, are everywhere. Jack doesn’t seem to know where he wants to touch the broader man now that he’s free. His fingertips paint lines down Nico’s neck and torso. His knuckles are tinged with pink somehow, blushing like the tip of his nose, and you love the way his hands settle on Nico’s waist and dig into the skin there.

Nico seems amused. His thumbs brush over Jack’s jawline and he’s smiling between kisses, tilting his head this way and that to satisfy the desperate boy mouthing at him. Nico guides Jack toward the bed and Jack is mindlessly allowing his captain to mold his body however he wants it– so long as Jack can continue rolling his entire body to try and get some relief on his bleeding cock. There’s no actual blood, of course, but you use the word for three reasons: the precum is spurting from Jack’s slit like the beading blood on a little wound, his cock is red and angry like a splash of rouge on the walls of a murder house, and, if you look close enough, you think you can see his pulse driving through the veins in his cock. Even if he was being subtle about how badly he wants Nico, his dick would betray his true feelings.

“Okay,” Nico mumbles. He brings his hands down Jack’s waist and pat his sides. “That’s enough, prinz. I know. Why don’t you go give Y/N some love, ‘kay?”

Jack comes to you willingly. You’re almost surprised. Jack’s allegiance has been clear from the first second of this threesome. You and Nico had been pushing his limits, certainly, by flirting with Jack while you drank beer at the bar and snorted white powder at your apartment. Nico swore that Jack would’ve made a move on you first, but you’d known all along that Jack would break and go to Nico first. It’s obvious how badly he wants the approval of the older boy. It’s obvious how badly Jack wants to prove himself to Nico.

His solid body collapses on your own. Jack presses you into the pillows and licks into your mouth with the same fervor he afforded to Nico.

Jack is so messy when he kisses. He’s sloppy. His hands card through your hair and get caught on the ends, twisting them between his fingers. He pants between kisses, whining when his shaft drags along your hipbone. He sounds so pretty.

“On your knees, J,” Nico instructs. “You can keep kissing her, but kneel for me.”

Jack bustles around atop you, bracketing your body with his legs. He makes a sad, reluctant noise when his cock loses contact with your skin. He rocks forward slightly and his tip knocks against your abdomen, leaving a line of precum to connect your bodies.

Nico makes a sharp, castigating noise. Jack freezes. You pull back and look around Jack’s lithe body, finding Nico behind him.

“What’s up, Neeks?” you ask.

“Don’t worry,” Nico reassures you. He squeezes your ankle comfortingly. “Just keep kissing Jack. Distract him.”

Jack’s eyes open and he frowns, trying to meet your gaze for an answer to his unspoken question. Distract me? You think he’s asking. What does that mean?

You’re not one to question Nico, so you wrap your arms over Jack’s shoulders and tug him closer to kiss him until he’s breathless and lightheaded. You feel Jack jolt in your arms suddenly, then jerk away from you.

“Nico,” Jack says. His brows come together and he sounds worried.

“Shh, it’s okay. Trust me,” Nico whispers. You hear him plant a kiss somewhere on Jack’s body. “You’ll feel good, prinzli. I promise I won’t do anything that isn’t good.”

You touch Jack’s cheek, tilting your head at him and meeting his eyes. “I know it’s your first time doing something like this, sweetheart,” you murmur. You pet Jack’s hair out of his face and kiss the tip of his nose. “Nico’s going to take care of you. You know how much he cares about you. He won’t do anything that you won’t like, okay? And we can always stop, if that’s what you want. It’s up to you.”

Jack is silent as he takes in your words, seeming to drink them up. He starts to nod, his hands clutching your waist like it grounds him. “‘Kay,” Jack whispers. “We can– yeah. Let’s…” he trails off, then leans forward and kisses you. He sounded a little lost, not knowing what he was saying, and you think he might have found solace in just doing something else, like kissing you.

You don’t have to look at Nico to know how he’s smiling, proud of Jack for taking the jump.

“Can you multitask, J?” Nico asks.

Jack hums affirmatively against your lips.

“Good,” Nico says. “Will you finger Y/N for me? Make her come?”

Jack is already obeying. His fingers are probing against your cunt, two digits sliding into your hole and curling inside of you.

“Good boy,” Nico praises. “Don’t stop until I tell you.” Nico’s hand finds your knee and pinches the soft skin on the side of the bone. “You can tell him to stop too, if you need it.”

“Will,” you affirm before Jack fills your mouth with his tongue and muffles your words.

“One more thing,” Nico adds. He smooths his hands over the globes of Jack’s ass, digging his nails into the soft skin. Jack’s heart jumps at the touch. “My cock belongs to whoever lasts longer.”

Jack’s legs tense and his toes curl when he feels Nico’s tongue paint a wet stripe between his cheeks, passing right over his hole. The feeling is foreign and Jack kind of wants to push Nico away. His first instinct is to say ‘Get off me, Schao,’ because his asshole is not something he ever imagined another person would touch.

Then he gets distracted by the way Nico fits his fist around the tip of Jack’s cock and drags it down to the base.

He loses control of his fingers as his body melts into Nico’s touch.

They still inside of you and you scoff indignantly. “Jack,” you groan.

He registers his name falling from your lips, but he doesn’t hear it. He mouths against your neck mindlessly, feeling you pull on his hair. When Nico repeats his name, Jack looks over his shoulder.

“Keep fingering her, büebli. It’s not a fair fight if you’re not doing your part.” Nico flicks the back of Jack’s thigh.

“Sorry,” Jack apologizes breathlessly. He pushes back into Nico’s touch.

Nico quirks an eyebrow. “Oh, you greedy boy,” he muses. He drops his hand from Jack’s cock and palms the globes of his ass, spreading him apart and tonguing along the puckered rim there. “Is this what you wanted?”

Jack whimpers, burying his face against your tits. “Mhm,” he affirms, nodding. His lips catch your nipple and he sucks, as if he’s soothing himself. His fingers have started moving inside of you again and his thumb finds your clit.

You roll your hips into his touch and look down at the two boys before you. Jack sucks on your skin desperately, leaving splotches in his wake. Nico has his eyes closed, showering Jack with attention.

Nico pulls away and brings his pinkie to his mouth, swirling his tongue around the digit. He winks at you, noticing how your pupils dilated as you realized what he’s planning to do.

“Schao,” Jack keens. He’s on the verge of begging again. You can hear it in his voice.

“God, Jack, listen to you,” Nico says. He circles Jack’s hole with the tip of his pinkie, but leans down to lick him and get him more wet, more willing to accept the finger. “You won’t eat out our girl’s pretty pink pussy but you’re falling apart while I eat yours?” He kisses Jack’s rim and nibbles, pushing the tip of his pinkie past Jack’s entrance.

Jack’s jaw drops and the mewl that leaves his mouth breaks halfway through its exhale. His hips drop and his tip finds the juncture of your thigh. It slides into the space between your legs and Jack bucks his hips once, twice, and– shudders.

You feel your face heat up, growing red to the tips of your ears. His cum slides down your thighs, dripping onto the bed below you. His teeth found your tit and bit down while he came– now, he’s licking along the indentations that he left behind, making sweet, satisfied noises in the back of his throat.

Jack feels a bit like he’s floating away. You’re so soft beneath him. He turns his head and closes his eyes, nuzzling against your skin like a pillow. Jack wishes he had something in his mouth, something to suck on… and like you’re reading his mind, you touch his lips. Jack takes your first two fingers in his mouth and swallows around them, humming. Nico is still mouthing along his skin, finding his way up to Jack’s lower back and sucking a hickey there.

“That was so sexy, schatz,” Nico murmurs as he kisses up Jack’s spine. “Coming like that. I barely touched you, baby. My desperate boy. Can’t wait til I get my cock in you one day, make you come undone for real.”

Jack turns his head and blinks his eyes open, finding Nico hovering near his head. You pull your fingers from his mouth and thumb away the bit of spit that collected at the corner of his lips. Jack preens when Nico brushes a thumb over his rosy cheeks, then moans aloud when Nico drops his head and sucks Jack’s bottom lip into his mouth.

“Aren’t you sweet,” Nico mutters. He pulls back and kisses him again, curling the waves at the nape of Jack’s neck between his fingers.

Jack is smiling dopily, admiring the man before him like he hung the stars.

“You wanna suck Y/N’s tits while I fuck her, baby?” Nico offers. He pinches Jack’s side, then tweaks his nipple. Jack squeaks at that and squirms away from Nico’s tickling fingers. He burrows into your arms, wrapping himself around you and hiding against your boobs. He starts to move his lips against your skin as soon as he makes contact.

You and Nico giggle together at how easy Jack is after he comes. He’s a sweet, cuddly boy who wants to kiss and suck the skin of his partner until he comes down from the climax. It’s a massive change from who he was before, but you can’t say you prefer either version. The brazen, flirtatious Jack Hughes who is touchy and sassy sets your stomach afire and makes your nose crinkle affectionately, but this version has you simmering and wanting to wrap him in the world’s warmest, fuzziest blanket and kiss all over his face. He’s an angel, either way, and you adore him.

With Jack tucked into your side, curled up and sucking one of your tits while his palm flattens over the other, Nico kneels between your legs. He lifts your ankle, brings it to his lips and kisses it before wrapping it around his waist. He then takes a pillow from the headboard and stuffs it under your hips.

“Do you want me to grab a condom before I start, babe?” Nico asks you, his hand wrapped around his base.

You shake your head. “Need to feel all of you, Ni.”

Jack swoons against your chest, evidently thinking of Nico’s cock in all of its glory. You bring your hand to his head and play with his hair, scratching his scalp and making him sigh as he nibbles the peak on your breast.

“You’re just as greedy as our boy,” Nico teases. He palms Jack’s hip and squeezes. “Hear that? She’s just as bad as you.”

“‘m not bad,” Jack mumbles.

“No, J, you’re good,” you tell him. He grins and kisses your ribcage, then comes up to rest his head in the curve of your neck. His fingers toy with your nipples still, pinching and twisting and playing.

Nico fits the tip of his cock against your entrance and starts to push forward. You’re open enough from Nico’s mouth, fingers, and Jack’s fingers that he can slide in easily. Nico rolls his hips and grinds forward gently, until you’re lifting your hips and pouting up at him. Jack sees the pout and lifts his head, pecking the corner of your mouth over and over until you turn your head to meet him.

Jack’s kisses are much more subdued now, like his lips glide over yours. You imagine a waterfall painting sun-dried rocks with their mist. That’s how it feels to kiss Jack.

“Ihr zwei luegt so schöön us,” Nico praises. You’ve never learned Swiss German, and you don’t think Jack has either, but you can tell from his tone that he’s saying something complimentary.

“Danki,” Jack mumbles.

Maybe he does understand Nico.

“Ihr sind so guet zu mir,” Nico continues. He bends down and kisses Jack’s temple, then yours. His hips are still moving towards you, thrusts becoming more harsh, and Jack smiles into your lips. He doesn’t reply.

Nico drags another orgasm from you slowly, taking you apart and murmuring in his dialect all the time. His voice lulls you through the climax and the aftershocks spike through your body when Jack suckles on your nipple, flicking the tip with his tongue and digging his teeth gently into your areola.

“Gueti Meit,” he whispers.

Nico slips from your cunt without coming. You draw your eyebrows together and tilt your head. “Nico?” you ask. You sound a bit like Jack.

Nico shushes you by holding a finger to his lips. “J, look at me,” Nico says. “Lay on your back.”

Jack’s eyes brighten and he rolls back. “‘Sup, Hisch?” he slurs out, his tongue seeming thick and swollen in his mouth again.

“Hi, sünneli.” Nico caresses Jack’s cheek and straddles his chest.

You take a deep breath and roll towards them, batting Nico’s hand off of his cock and taking over. You start to stroke him, squeezing and twisting around his tip. You thumb over his slit and lick his frenulum, humming contentedly at the salty taste of yourself and his precum mixed together.

Jack is biting his lip and taking in the scene before him. Nico frees the lip with his thumb before planting both hands on the headboard and throwing his head back, groaning as you increase your speed and tighten your grip. Jack’s hands cautiously come to the back of Nico’s thighs, then grip on when Nico looks down at him and smiles that proud smile. Jack opens his mouth and hollows his cheeks and tries to make himself look as inviting and sexy as he can– he loves when a girl sucks him off and takes his cum all over her tongue and lips and cheeks and he wants to be as pretty for Nico.

The milky white spurts of cum streak out of Nico’s cock forcefully. He’s been waiting all night for this, holding himself back and focusing on the pleasure of the two of you, so his orgasm is strong.

Most of the cum, stripped from Nico’s dick at your hand, falls onto Jack’s tongue. He pushes the muscle out, enlarging the canvas for Nico. He closes his eyes and you lick a stray stripe of cum from the corner of Jack’s lips, relishing in the taste.

You loosen your grip on Nico when he’s effectively milked dry, and you bring a hand to Jack’s cheek to turn his head towards you. You kiss him deeply, working your tongue past his lips, tasting the cum and taking some of it into your mouth as you swap saliva.

Nico separates you and kisses Jack first. Jack doesn’t even flinch at the change, he doesn’t open his eyes, nothing. He’s complacent and relaxed and so hungry to be touched by anyone. After Jack, Nico kisses you. It’s the first time you’ve kissed since he ate you out and you breathe him in.

Nico parts from you and guides your head back towards Jack’s. It’s easy, and you like kissing, so you and Jack fall into a routine. His hand comes to your jawline and pets along the curve. Nico leaves the bed, heading into your bathroom, and he comes back with a wet rag. You hear the shower starting and running in the background when he comes back.

“Okay, enough,” Nico murmurs, splitting you and Jack. He brings the wet rag to Jack’s flushed cheeks and starts to wipe the dried cum away, cleaning him up.

Jack rolls his head back onto his shoulders and blinks slowly at Nico.

Nico kisses his forehead, then uses the same rag to wipe between your legs. He kisses your forehead too.

“Are you up for a shower, or do you want a little more time?” Nico asks the two of you, wiggling his way between your bodies and wrapping his arms around you, pulling you tight against his sides.

Jack snuggles up to him immediately, tucking his head into the crook of Nico’s neck and sighing. You hug Nico’s middle and rest your cheek on his pec.

“Cuddle now, shower later,” Jack decides. He kisses Nico’s pulsepoint. “You smell nice, Schao.”

“Thanks, büebli,” Nico replies.

“And you’re so pretty, Y/N,” Jack adds. “Pretty tits, ‘specially.”

Nico chuckles and you giggle. “Oh, you think so?” you tease. “Couldn’t tell from all the hickeys you probably left.”

Jack picks his head up and peeks out at you, eyes shining. He’s grinning wickedly. “Sorry,” he apologizes, and you can tell that he doesn’t mean it at all.

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covenofagatha · 2 days ago

Text

The psychology of love (Part 3)

Your first date with Morgan and a lesson in defense mechanisms and the delay of gratification

Word count: 4.1k

Warnings: none yet, slowburn

Morgan and you go out to dinner the next day. You had seriously been considering just never texting her and making more of an effort to avoid her, but Wanda and Nat pestered you continuously during breakfast until you had given in.

Turns out, you were both free that night.

You had a class in the evening, so you meet her at the pizza place off-campus after. She’s wearing a light blue dress that brings out the color in her eyes and her Black Opium perfume makes you wish there was someone different sitting in front of you.

“Did you have a good day?” she asks while you’re waiting for your pizzas to be done cooking. The awkwardness of a first date is hanging over you, coupled with the fact that her fingers were inside you on Monday. You’re still a little shocked that happened.

But you nod and smile. Morgan is nice, and she’s trying. The least you could do is try as well. “Yeah, I had two classes. They’re both pretty easy. My hardest are definitely Physiological Psych and Personality Psych.”

Even the mention of the latter makes your stomach clench. Agatha has wormed her way into your brain and you don’t know how to get her out. The perfume you ordered should be here tomorrow and you regret buying it.

Realistically, what are you going to do with it? You can’t wear it—both Morgan and Agatha will pick up on it. It’d be absolutely pathetic to spray your pillow with it and imagine it’s Agatha next to you, plus Wanda would surely wonder about that.

Which means you spent one-hundred dollars on a bottle of perfume that’s going to sit on your desk and serve as a reminder that you’re delusional.

A waitress brings over your personal pizzas and sets them down in front of you, steam billowing off.

Morgan’s looking at you, a little expectantly, and you clear your throat. “How was your day?” you ask, realizing that you never returned the question.

“Pretty good, thanks. I had an International Relations class. We already have a quiz next Tuesday, which is crazy considering this was our second day of meeting.” You learned that she’s a Political Science major while you were waiting in line for pizza.

She doesn’t say anything else, so you chew on your lip and try to think of ways to get the conversation going. “So…how did you get into political science?” At least her face brightens at that.

“My dad works in local government and I’ve always been really interested in it. I’ve interned at his office since I was probably sixteen? I’ll be able to get a job with him once I graduate and then hopefully I can be elected for something,” she says before launching into a few stories about town halls that she’s been a part of. She’s from a small town in Indiana and the people there are apparently a little unhinged.

Morgan’s just telling you about a petition one man started to make his birthday a town holiday when the door to the restaurant opens and a familiar face walks in.

It’s Agatha’s standoffish TA. Morgan is still talking but your eyes follow Rio as she walks up to the counter and shows them her phone. The lady nods and picks up a boxed pizza that’s sitting next to her and hands it to Rio.

As she’s walking to the exit, she tilts her head over to you like she feels you staring. You quickly look away but in your periphery, you can see her coming closer until you have no choice but to crane your neck up at her.

“You’re in Professor Harkness’s class, aren’t you?” Rio asks, but it’s more of a statement than a question. She obviously remembers you from Agatha’s office yesterday.

You nod and she chuckles amusedly, tongue bulging in her cheek. Her complete one-eighty of a personality change is throwing you off.

Rio glances at Morgan and then back to you, a gleam in her eyes. “Good luck.” Before you can ask what she means—is she talking about Agatha’s class? talking about Morgan?—she shifts the pizza in her arms and strolls out the door without looking back.

Morgan raises an eyebrow at you. “That was weird.”

You choose to not say anything and take a bite of your pizza, instantly wincing when it burns your mouth. “Did the man get his petition approved?” you refer to what she had been talking about before Rio, and Morgan dives back into that memory.

She talks for most of dinner, only really taking a break while she’s eating, and then you walk her to her car. Thankfully, neither of you wants to hang out in the resultant once you’re both done with your food. She’s parked right in front whereas you had to find a spot in the garage behind the row of restaurants.

“Do you want me to give you a ride to your car?” Morgan offers and you pretend to think about it before shaking your head.

“No, that’s okay. It’s not very far.” There’s a minute of silent shuffling while you both try to figure out how to end the date. “Um, well I had a great time with you tonight. Let’s do this again soon?”

She smiles warmly. “I’d love that.” And then Morgan leans in to press a quick kiss to your cheek before getting in her car. Her perfume drifts into your nostrils and lingers and you hear Agatha’s voice telling you that you did very good. Heat flashes through you but you tamp it down.

You wait until Morgan drives off before turning to head to the parking garage, but you see another person that you know in the shadows.

Professor Harkness.

Your heart lurches as she pushes off the building wall she was leaning against and steps into the light. She’s wearing blue pants and a matching blazer over a black turtleneck. The gold from her necklace catches the streetlamp glow. Her long, loose hair frames her face and you can see her blue eyes glinting even in the dark.

Swallowing roughly, you irrationally worry that she’s going to be mad about you and Morgan. A part of you wants her to be mad.

But she just smirks instead. “Dinner with a friend?”

“Something like that,” you mutter, shrugging inconspicuously. “What are you doing here?” It seems like she’s waiting for someone—a date? Not that it matters, of course. You just want insight into your mysterious teacher.

She moves closer to you, close enough so you can smell her perfume. It’s getting really fucking confusing with both Agatha and Morgan wearing the same scent. “I’m just picking up dinner,” she hums. “Nothing as exciting as you.”

Your cheeks burn. “That wasn’t anything, just a first date. We met at a party a few days ago.” When I let her fuck me because she reminded me of you.

Agatha nods like she knows something you don’t. “Do you remember learning about defense mechanisms?”

“What?”

“In a general psych class, did you ever learn about defense mechanisms? Freudian methodology, of course, that believes our ego unconsciously wants to protect the superego from the id when we do something that would otherwise cause us anxiety, guilt, and shame.”

“I mean, yeah?” You’ve heard of them, but why is she bringing them up?

She waves a hand at your apparent confusion. “We’ll get more into them later in the semester. I just think it’s neat, you know? How we can be doing something and not even be aware that we’re doing it. Denial, rationalization,” she fixes you with a pointed look, “transference. The mind does really work in interesting ways.”

You nod and bite your nails, not sure what to say. It feels like you’re missing something by a mile.

But Agatha just smiles. “See you tomorrow in class, hon.” She winks before leaving you outside and you slowly trudge back to your car, completely dumbfounded.

Once you get back to your dorm, the conversation with Agatha still fresh in your mind, you halfheartedly return Wanda’s greeting and take out your computer and type “transference” into Google.

Transference is the psychological phenomenon where someone redirects feelings from one person onto another. It occurs when someone unconsciously projects feelings or desires onto someone else.

“Holy shit,” you say out loud, your blood running cold. Wanda’s head turns toward you but it’s like you have tunnel vision.

Was Agatha implying that you going out with Morgan is you redirecting your feelings toward your professor onto someone who looks like her?

Your heart is thumping so loud you can hear it. Are you being that obvious to Agatha? Can she tell that you have a crush on her?

As if to make matters worse, you get an email notification saying that a package has been delivered—the perfume. A whole day early, like the universe wants to prove its point.

You let it sit in the delivery room all night because you don’t trust yourself not to go crazy if you smell it right now.

But you barely get any sleep at all just thinking about it.

The next morning, Wanda and Nat interrogate you at breakfast. You had told Wanda the general basics of how the date had gone last night, but now they’re pressing you for the details, which you reluctantly give.

“It was good, she spent a lot of time talking about interning for her town’s government. She’s a Poli-Sci major—” Nat scoffs and rolls her eyes and Wanda laughs, “—and apparently her dad is like the mayor or a council member? I don’t know, I mean, she’s nice and all…”

“Oh, come on,” Wanda says, fond exasperation staining her voice. “You always do this. You meet a great girl and then you decide that she’s boring or that you don’t really like her or you make one tiny thing of their personality into a big problem. Why can’t you just let yourself have something?”

It stings how well she knows you. “I just…I don’t know…I’m just not sure we’d work that well together. And it doesn’t really make sense to get into a relationship now, does it? We’re graduating in the spring so why start something new if we’re going to end up in different places? She wants to go back to Indiana and I’ll probably stay here or go back home, so it just doesn’t seem like there’s much of a point.”

Nat looks unimpressed. “Really? That’s your excuse for why you’re going to self-sabotage? If only long-distance was a thing, god.”

Wanda pats her girlfriend’s hand and stifles a smirk at the sarcasm. “Just because it’s not going to end in marriage doesn’t mean it’s not worth it,” she says gently. “Why not go on a few more dates, just to see what happens? And who knows? She could be worth it.”

It won’t work because she’s not at least twice my age. Except you can’t exactly tell your friends that. So instead you say, “Yeah, maybe.”

“Even if it’s not a relationship, it could be a friends-with-benefits situation,” Natasha adds and Wanda snorts. “You’ve already had sex with her so you already know what you’d be getting into.”

“Okay, okay,” you grimace at her crassness and push your chair back. “I have to get to class.”

You have about twenty minutes before it starts, so you’re not in a rush, but you need the walk to clear your head and mentally prepare for seeing Agatha. The quip about transference has you still reeling and it’s only the third day of this class but it’s already the second time you’ve been nervous to look at her. You’re not sure you can get in trouble for having a crush on a teacher but you certainly don’t want Agatha being uncomfortable around you.

So you’ll keep your distance. You’ll go to class and take notes and answer questions, but you’ll leave right after. You won’t let her praise affect you and you will definitely not get close enough to smell her perfume that makes your cunt pulse.

Practically everything you were just thinking goes out the window when you walk into class and see her standing at the front of the room.

Agatha’s wearing another turtleneck, white this time, under a tan blazer and matching pants. You wonder if she’s been wearing them to hide hickeys on her neck—but then you remind yourself that you don’t care, despite the growing feeling of jealousy in your stomach from your absolutely baseless speculations.

She smiles at you, something dark hidden behind her pink lips, and you shiver as you sit down. Does she know what she does to you? The praises, the projection tests from Wednesday, the way she looks at you?

She seems to like you more than the other students in the class—is that just because you answer questions? Does she encourage you for that because she needs someone to? You’ve had classes where absolutely no one would talk and it was awful. Her praising you for that could just be her way of making sure there’s not an awkward silence.

But it feels direct, pointed even. Like she wants it to be you.

Or is that just you hoping?

Agatha isn’t the first teacher you’ve had a crush on, not by a long shot. There was the English teacher when you were in eighth grade. She wasn’t even your teacher, but you still found excuses to talk to her. There was your ninth grade Biology teacher, and then you took her Environmental Science class senior year just to have her again. Your Developmental Psychology professor from the spring semester of your first year in college. You’re sure there’s more. Each time, though, you were certain that you were special.

Each time, you were sorely disappointed, but not surprised.

You want to say that it feels different with Agatha, but you need to get a grip on yourself.

She’s in her late forties, at least. She might have a partner. You glance at her hands as she’s typing something on the computer. No ring. That doesn’t mean anything, you tell yourself.

But she could get in serious trouble for sleeping with a student. If everything else worked out, if all the other stars aligned and by some way, she did want you, she’d never risk her job over that. She has two doctorates and has published multiple articles about her research, which you’ve been meaning to read, and has won several awards for her work. She’s devoted her whole life to psychology and you are not going to change that.

Agatha may tease, but at the end of the day, you feel confident that she will never be anything but professional, which means that you really need to get over this.

“Okay, getting back into Trait Theory,” Agatha starts and you scramble for your notebook. She clicks present on the slideshow and you begin scribbling down everything typed on the first slide. “Theorists who approach personality through the Trait approach want to know what exactly traits are and what they do. Do they describe how we behave? Are they a sum of all we’ve learned? Do they reflect underlying personality? Are they the building blocks of our personality?”

You chew on the tip of your pen and Agatha’s eyes flick to you with a glint in them. Her lips twitch up and you freeze.

“The problem with traits is that people are inconsistent. We act one way when we’re by ourselves and a different way when we’re with friends versus family versus professors versus romantic partners. So do situations predict behavior more than personality traits?”

Agatha surveys the classroom expectantly so you hesitantly raise your hand, wheels turning in your head trying to think of a sophisticated response. She smirks and nods at you. “I mean, I think situations obviously have some part in how we act, but it’s not like we’re completely different people based on who we’re interacting with. It could be kind of like, what traits do we use more of when we’re with some people and what traits do we use less of?”

Her brows furrow and you can see her mulling it over. “So you’re saying that we have a bank of traits, of consistent traits, but which ones we tap into depends on who we’re with?”

“Yes?” Your voice wavers but you hold eye contact with her.

Agatha hums thoughtfully. “Very good. I like that.” Your cheeks flush and you duck your head, the eye contact becoming too intense. “And it brings us to an interesting thought. I want everyone to write down how you consider yourself personality-wise. And then write down some traits you’d use to describe your best friends.”

You write some general words down for you and then for Wanda and Nat. It’s hard to sum someone’s personality up like that. Glancing around the room, you see everyone’s still working so you pick at your nails and pretend that you don’t feel Agatha staring at you.

The compulsion grows too great in you, though, so you look at her. She doesn’t seem abashed that you caught her—if anything, she looks excited. You swallow roughly to get some moisture into your suddenly-dry mouth and your teeth sink into your bottom lip. Her eyelashes flutter, maybe just enough to be considered a wink, but then someone coughs and the moment is broken.

Agatha clears her throat. “Take a look at what words you wrote for yourself and then compare them to the words you wrote for your friends. Chances are, there’s a good amount of overlap. Opposites attract sometimes, but it’s more often than not that we choose to surround ourselves with people that have similar personalities to us. If we do that, then our traits might be influencing the situations that we’re in, which influences our behavior. It’s a lot to think about.”

She clicks to the next slide.

“Psychologists have found that both situations and traits influence behavior about equally after conducting some experiments that we’ll look at another time. Now,” she turns off the projection and the screen at the front of the room goes dark. Everyone looks at her. “I want to talk to you about an opportunity for next week.”

Someone out of the corner of your eye perks up. “Extra credit?”

Agatha shoots him down with a glare. “It’s the third class of the semester, first of all. Second of all, there will be no extra credit in this course.”

He slumps down, defeated. You think he might be the same person from the first day who was upset about only having five grades.

“We will have a speaker on campus next Tuesday evening at six pm giving a presentation on fallacies from famous psychological experiments. I’ll be sending out more information about it, but I think it will be very interesting, especially for this class. It’s optional, but I do heavily recommend attending.”

You raise your hand and she smiles. “What studies are they going to look at?”

“Excellent question. The presentation will look at the Rosenthal study on expectancy effects, the Stanford Prison Experiment, among a few others, and one of my personal favorites: the study on delay of gratification.”

“Is that the one—” a girl begins to say before Agatha interrupts her like she didn’t even hear the student.

“Mischel and Ebbesen would call kids into a room one-by-one and tell them that they could either have a small candy bar right away, or wait some unknown amount of time for a larger candy bar. The researchers would leave the room and see what the kids would do.” Her blue eyes pierce into you and her face morphs into something almost predatory. “Is it better to get instant relief for something small, or to wait and let the anticipation build up for a better reward?”

She prompts you with a tilt of her head and you wonder if she can see the slight sheen of sweat breaking out on your forehead. “If it’s going to be worth it to wait,” you rasp.

Agatha licks her lips before nodding slowly and then settles back into her casual demeanor. “I mean, who doesn’t want a bigger candy bar?” she jokes and there’s a titter throughout the room. She gives you a smug smile and you face forward, cheeks burning.

She continues talking but you’ve completely zoned out. You feel like a kid in the experiment—have something with Morgan, real but fleeting, or wait for even the possibility of Agatha? Once you’re not her student anymore, there shouldn’t be a problem. And you graduate in the spring anyway.

But that’s if Agatha would even like you back then.

What happens if the researcher never comes back with the big candy bar after the kid waits forever?

She finally wraps up class, saying that she needs to rush off to a meeting and you slowly pack up your bag just in case she lingers. She may be in a hurry, but it’s nothing compared to the other students and it’s only a minute before you and her are the only ones left in the room.

The air feels thick with electricity and tension and it’s like you’re rooted to your seat when she starts to slowly walk toward you. You can feel your heartbeat increase and your breathing quickens—your body wants to run but it can’t.

“Great job today,” she mumbles and drums her fingertips atop your desk surface, her perfume rolling over you like a wave, and you don’t even realize that she’s gone until you hear the door shut behind you.

You shakily stand up and swing your bag onto your shoulders and go to the library, desperately trying to ignore the heat between your legs.

After dinner, you pick up the package containing the perfume on your way back to your dorm. You’re almost afraid to open and smell it because you know your body will betray your mind. Your cunt has become conditioned to the scent—conditioned to Agatha—and you really need to figure out how to stop it. You’d throw out the bottle entirely if you hadn’t spent so much money on it. You’ll find some use for it, maybe for a party or something.

Just as you get into your room, your phone buzzes with an email. Your heart starts to race when you see Agatha Harkness at the top of it and you quickly click on it.

To your dismay, it’s just a course email.

Hello Personality Psych,

Here is the link for information concerning the speaker presentation next Tuesday evening that I mentioned in class. As a reminder, you will not receive any extra credit for attending, but it is an opportunity to learn more about flaws in renowned psychological experiments. Please email me if you are interested so I can get your name on the list.

Best,

Professor Harkness

You chew on your lip. It’s not something that you necessarily want to go to, and for no extra credit, it might be a waste of time.

But you do seriously doubt that anyone else in your class is going to go, which would make you stand out to Agatha.

You imagine walking into a room full of people you don’t know, anxiously scanning the crowd, to find her smiling at you and beckoning for you to go sit next to her. She’d lean in to whisper some remarks about the speaker into your ear and her hair would tickle your skin. Maybe you’d be bouncing your leg because of your trouble sitting still and she’d put a hand on your thigh to help you focus.

Fuck. Your cheeks are burning now and the temptation to open the perfume so it feels like she’s there is gnawing strongly inside you.

Instead, you compose a new email.

Hi Professor Harkness,

I would love to attend the presentation.

Thanks!

You sign it off with your name and hit send before you can rethink it and then throw your phone to the end of the bed.

The moment you press your hands to your face because you can’t believe how bad this is getting, your phone vibrates. You know what it’s going to be before you even look at it, and yet you’re still surprised to find that Agatha responded almost immediately.

I’m very glad to hear that and I look forward to seeing you there.

Professor Harkness.

Only this time, instead of the regular email signature under her name, and every other professor’s name in their emails, that shows her position, the university name, and her email address, there’s something else as well.

Ten digits. Your breath catches in her throat.

She added her phone number.

Taglist: @lostbutlovely33 @diorrxckstar @whoreforolderfictionalwomen @katekathry @onemansdreamisanothermansdeath @tayasmellsapples @natashashill @mybraininblood @mysticalmoonlight7 @cactuslover2600 @loveem0mo @readysteddiero-nance @lonelyhalfwitch @lesbiantortilla @crescendoofstars @sol-in-wonderland @ahsfan05 @gbab09 @sasheemo @agathaharness @live-laugh-love-lupone @chiar4anna @fuckedupforkhahn @lowlyjelly @sweetmidnights @n3bula-cats @m1vfs @agathascoven1 @filmedbyharkness @autbot @claramelooo @dandelions4us @agathaallalongg @jujuu23 @21cannibal @angel-kitten-babygirl-u-choose @jeridandridge

#agatha harkness x reader #agatha harkness x fem!reader #agatha x reader #agatha x you #agatha harkness x you #agatha harkness smut #agatha smut

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littlelamy · 16 hours ago

Note

This request is NASTY...but smut: Reader has never swallowed/she finds the idea of it gross but Rafe just loves her so much and has such primal desires that he just wants her to do it and wants to see her with it dripping, and he's just really begging (but in a sweet loving way, not like toxic and demanding)

notes: i am giving everyone permission to send more NASTY requests 🤭😏

you’ve never done this before.

he knows that. he knows how you wrinkle your nose at the thought, how you always pull away at the last second, letting him spill anywhere but in your mouth. it’s not that you don’t love him, not that you don’t want to please him—it’s just the idea of it, thick and warm, coating your tongue, sliding down your throat. it’s always been a hard no.

rafe loves you so much it aches. and God, does he want this.

he’s on his knees before you, hands gripping the plush of your thighs, lips pressing desperate, open-mouthed kisses against the inside of your leg. his eyes flick up, pupils blown wide, chest rising and falling in heavy, shuddering breaths. he’s already wrecked, just from the idea, just from knowing he’s got you here, flushed and nervous but willing.

"please, baby," he murmurs against your skin, voice thick with need. "just once. just for me. wanna see you take it, wanna see you messy with it. fuck, i know you’d look so pretty."

his words send heat straight through you, pooling low in your belly, making your thighs twitch beneath his grip. he notices, of course he does, and he groans, pressing his forehead against your leg like he’s trying to ground himself.

"i’ll make it good for you," he promises, tilting his head up, lips brushing against your knee. "promise i’ll take care of you. just need you to try, y/n, please."

your heart is pounding, your skin hot, the room thick with the scent of sweat and sex and rafe. he’s watching you like you hold the entire fucking world in your hands, like he’d do anything, give anything, if you just said yes.

and maybe it’s that—maybe it’s the way he’s looking at you, the way his voice shakes just a little when he begs, the way he’s already so far gone, already teetering on the edge—that makes you nod, makes you whisper, "okay."

his breath catches. his grip tightens. "yeah?" he breathes, like he can’t quite believe it.

you nod again, a little slower, a little more sure, and he groans, dropping his head against your thigh before surging up, crashing his lips against yours. it’s messy, needy, desperate, all tongue and teeth and a deep, low sound from his throat that makes your knees weak.

his hands move, tracing down your body, fingers slipping into your hair, gentle but deliberate as he guides you lower. "just like that, baby," he murmurs, voice rough, urging you downward. "fuck, need you so bad."

you hesitate for only a second before sinking to your knees, looking up at him through your lashes. his breath stutters, his fingers flexing against your scalp, holding back even as his whole body trembles with need.

"angel,you don’t understand how bad i want this."

your lips part, tongue flicking out, teasing, and the way he chokes on his breath makes you feel powerful. you want to see him undone, want to see him lose every ounce of control he has left.

and so you do.

his head falls back, a deep, guttural moan slipping from his lips as your mouth wraps around him. he’s gripping the back of your head now, fingers tangled in your hair but still careful, still reverent. "fuck—just like that, baby, just like that."

his thighs tense beneath your hands as you take him deeper, hollowing your cheeks, the weight of him heavy on your tongue. he’s breathing raggedly, curses and praise tumbling from his lips in a broken, desperate mantra.

"gonna—fuck, baby, gonna cum—please, wanna see you take it, wanna see you be so good for me—"

when he finally spills, his whole body shudders, his grip tightening just for a second as he groans your name, thick and wrecked. the taste floods your mouth, warm, salty, overwhelming—but you don’t pull away, not this time. you let him see, let him watch as you swallow, as you part your lips after, sticking out your tongue to show him.

his breath catches, eyes dark and heavy-lidded, hands cupping your jaw, stroking his thumb over your lips. "fuck, baby. that’s my good girl." your lips part, tongue flicking out again, teasing, and the way he chokes on his breath makes you feel powerful.

taglist: @namelesslosers @maybanksangel @averyoceanblvd @iknowdatsrightbih @rafesheaven @anamiad00msday @ivysprophecy @wearemadeofstardust0 @rafesangelita @sstargirln @rafedaddy01 @soldesole @bakugouswaif @skywalker0809 @vanessa-rafesgirl @evermorx89 @outerhills @ditzyzombiesblog @slavicangelmuah @alivinggirl @rafesgreasycurtainbangs @rafesbabygirlx @drewsephrry @lil-sparklqueen

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wow-thisismylifeiguess · 1 day ago

Text

Sentient Gotham

- Bruce regularly chats w her. Like, full blown conversations. He can see a physical manifestation of her like she’s right in front of him, but completely invisible to everyone else

- Zatanna does not believe him. She’s Gotham born and bred and a powerful magician, but she cannot sense a living breathing Gotham the way Bruce claims he can

- Constantine does believe him, but it’s mostly to spite Zatanna

- Gotham calls herself Bruce’s mom and frequently whines about him not calling her that

> “I had a mother. And a father. They’re both dead.” > “WHEN WILL YOU STOP BLAMING ME FOR THAT?!” > “When I’m convinced it’s not true.”

- Bruce’s kids also don’t believe him about the whole ‘I talk to Gotham’ thing for a long time and think he’s either lost his mind, he’s schizophrenic, or that he’s fucking w them

- they do eventually see and speak to her themselves

- Jason first sees her right before his death, which was an incredibly difficult task for her. It’s a combination of reasons. 1) like Bruce, Jason is a Gotham City native and has deep ties to the city, 2) he has deep ties to Bruce, 3) she was also there to comfort Bruce because she knew he wouldn’t be fast enough. But Jason sees this gorgeous woman who cradles his cheek and murmurs soft words to him that he’ll only end up remembering many years later

> “Your father loves you. He tried. So please don’t hate him. It’s my fault, not his.”

- Bruce frequently wonders why it’s him who can see her and no one else, to which she always just says it’s because he’s her son

- Bruce’s connection to Gotham…changes him. He is human, at least…mostly. But there’s an otherworldliness to him that grows over the years which he’s stupidly oblivious to for a very long time

- Gotham has beef w Alfred purely because he’s British

> “I could’ve raised you better than that man!” > “I do not tolerate disrespect for Alfred.” > whining, “But babyyyyyy. He’s an outsider!”

- she adores Bruce’s kids and frequently whines about how they don’t believe she’s real. But at the same time, Bruce is her absolute beloved

- after Jason’s death, she’s the one who basically sends Tim Bruce’s way to stop his self destructive behavior. Tim had been taking pictures of Batman and Robin for a while, but Gotham had fogged over his mind just a little bit to prevent him from putting the pieces together about their identity. When she stops, it finally clicks for Tim and it’s what leads him to becoming Robin

- the kids all have their moment when they finally can see and speak to her. It happens at different times, but the important reason as to why they’re able to do so is due to their relationship to Bruce and the length of time they’ve been around him. It comes at the moment where they’ve reached optimal and absolute trust in Bruce

- Bruce does actually call her ‘mom’, but it happened once and she will never let him forget it

> Bruce getting worked up during a conversation w Gotham in front of Dick and Tim > “Dick….who is he talking to?” > “You don’t want to know.” > “My mom won’t stop badgering me- No. No. I didn’t say that. I didn’t call you that! You can’t prove anything!”

- Gotham comforts Bruce often when he feels like he’s not enough. His failures weigh heavy in his heart, but she’s always there to talk him through it

> “Why me? Why am I the one you picked? I’m not enough. I never will be.” > “You are and you always will be. Bruce, you do so much for this city. For me. For your family.” > “It’s not enough.” > “You are only mostly human, Bruce Wayne. You have done things no one else could ever hope to do. If any one else were in your position, they would not have nearly enough strength as you do.”

- several months later, after Bruce is just idly going over case files, he remembers the ‘mostly human’ part of what Gotham said to him. He’d glossed over it before in his depressive spiral, but now he’s like !?

> “Gotham….” > “Yes, my dear?” > “‘Mostly human’. Care to explain what that means?” > awkward laugh, “Uh…..” > “Gotham.” > “I didn’t do it on purpose! I had no control!” > “Gotham.”

- order of who sees Gotham:

Bruce (obviously)

Jason (first time)

Tim

Duke

Jason (second time)

Steph

Dick

Cass

Damian

- the last three take a while but mostly because they’re not Gotham natives. Dick’s a little bitter about it because he practically spent his entire life in Gotham

> “You’re a traitor.” > “WHAT DID I DO?” > disgust, “Blüdhaven.” > “Oh. Whoops.”

- While Gotham is Bruce’s #1 Supporter™️, she is at times critical of his behavior and decisions. Particularly about things that damage his relationship w loved ones and things that he chooses to do in order to hurt himself

- she finds ‘Brucie’ to be distasteful

> “I didn’t raise you to be a whore.” > “You didn’t raise me to begin with.” > “STOP DENYING ME PARENTAL RIGHTS!”

- Gotham is, obviously, restricted to only appear within Gotham City’s borders. She’s only able to break through that restriction a handful of times, w the first being when Jason dies. There are a few other instances and she’s popped up on the Watchtower and jumpscared Bruce by accident. The JL were very confused and incredibly amused

- She’s able to take on the form of anyone, but sticks to a unique appearance of a woman w long black hair and pale skin. Her eyes are white and she’s typically dressed in a suit

> young Bruce, in awe, “You kind of look like me if I were cooler.” > “You’re plenty cool, Bruce.” > adult Bruce, tired, “Why are you in a suit?” > “Because I look cool, Bruce. You said so yourself.” > “I was ten!”

- she once offered to take on the appearance of his mother and Bruce shot it down so fast. She never brought it up again

- when Clark found out about her, he believed Bruce immediately. He’s the only one Bruce ever told who believed him right off the bat

> “You…don’t think I’m insane?” > “I do.” > “Then why would you lie and say you believe me?” > “Because I do. You’re insane about a lot of things, Bruce. But you sounded too serious when you told me about this, so why would I ever think you’re lying?”

- Gotham begrudgingly likes Clark

> “You hate Alfred for being an outsider, but Clark is in your good graces?” > “He’s an alien. It’s different.” > “He’s also from Metropolis.” > “Shhhhhh, don’t remind me. I’m trying to be blissfully ignorant.”

#she's just a silly little entity #bruce wayne #gotham #sentient gotham #jason todd #dick grayson #tim drake #alfred pennyworth #clark kent #batfamily #batfam #batman #my post

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leona-hawthorne · 1 day ago

Note

military!mattheo’s favorite things about reader orrr what it’s like before he goes away WINK WINK

⊹ ࣪ ˖ military!mattheo’s favorite things about you

warnings ; nsfw 18+, fem!reader, fluff, smut

₊⊹ navigation ; military!mattheo ; him and reader ; au’s ; m.list

there isn’t a single thing military!mattheo doesn’t love about you. not one. he’s tried to think of something before—some little habit that might get under his skin, some quirk that should annoy him—but he always comes up empty. especially when he’s been away for so long, when all he has are memories of you, replaying like a goddamn prayer in his head. it only makes him love everything more. every little thing.

because you’re perfect to him, made for him, and no matter how hardened he’s become, no matter how much blood stains his hands, you’re the one thing that’s still soft, still untouched by the ugliness of the world. here are some of his favorite things, just to name a few:

the way you always make sure he’s taken care of when he comes home.

when he steps through the door, dusty and tired, he’s greeted with a warm meal—something homey, something familiar. a plate of his favorite food, even if it’s just something simple, with a glass of whiskey on the side. and there’s always a hot bath waiting for him, the water perfectly steamy, the bubbles just right.

but it’s the little things you slip under his pillow that get him—your letter. handwritten. always waiting for him, like you’ve been waiting all along.

how you fold his uniform when he’s home.

you’re careful, gentle, like it’s something delicate and not something that’s seen blood. you smooth your hands over the fabric, over the creases and patches, your fingers lingering at the frayed edges like you can will them whole again. he watches you do it, watches the way your brows knit in concentration, and he thinks—if anything in this world is holy, it’s you.

the way you hold his dog tags between your fingers.

as though they haven’t stuck through war. like they don’t weigh heavy with all the things he’s done. you twist the chain around your knuckles absentmindedly, press the cool metal against your lips when you think he isn’t looking. but he sees. he always sees.

the way your fingers trace the veins in his forearms.

following the lines like a map, like you’re learning him by touch alone. you press down where his pulse is strongest, smiling a little when he shivers.

“still alive,” you murmur, half-teasing, and he grabs your hand and kisses your fingertips like a prayer.

how you kiss his scars.

not just the old, faded ones, but the fresh, angry ones too. the ugly ones. the ones that still ache when he moves a certain way. you never ask where they came from, never make him speak about things he’d rather forget. you just kiss them, soft and slow, like your lips alone can rewrite history.

the way you never let him leave without a kiss.

even if he’s already got his boots on, even if his bags are packed and waiting by the door, you pull him down and kiss him like you can anchor him here, like you can press your love into his skin so deep it’ll never leave him. he doesn’t know if you realize how much it wrecks him. how he carries the taste of you like a ghost, like a promise, like a reason to come back.

the little crease between your brows when you’re focused.

he sees it when you’re curled up with a book, when you’re doing something mindless but deep in thought—folding laundry, stirring tea, brushing your hair. sometimes, he watches you in the mirror, that soft little furrow between your eyes, and it makes something ache inside him.

so he kisses it, every time. presses his lips there and murmurs, “don’t think too much, baby.” like you don’t have to. like he’ll do all the thinking for you.

how you hum when you cook.

not a full song, just little bits and pieces, half-formed melodies that drift through the kitchen as you move. sometimes, it’s a tune he recognizes, sometimes it’s just soft nonsense, but it stays with him. when he’s away, crouched in some cold, godforsaken place, he swears he hears it. swears it keeps him warm.

how you run your fingers through his hair when you’re half-asleep.

slow, lazy, dragging your nails against his scalp in a way that makes his eyelids go heavy. he pretends not to need it, pretends he’s too tough for it, but you know better. and when he finally does fall asleep, his head in your lap, you kiss his temple and whisper, “i’ve got you.”

how you always know when he needs to be in control.

he doesn’t have to ask for it—you sense it, feel it before he does. the way you let him flip you onto your stomach, let him take you from behind like he’s claiming you, letting him hold you in place with one hand on your back while the other digs into your hips. you don’t complain when he gets rough, don’t beg him to slow down—you love it when he takes what he wants, when he uses you like his own personal playground.

you just let him fold you in half, pressing your knees to your chest as he drives into you. the breathless little whines you make, the way you blink up at him, glassy-eyed and dazed. he knows you could squirm, fight, tell him no, be gentle—but you don’t. you let him toss you around, pin you down, grip your waist hard enough to bruise. you want it, and fuck, if that doesn’t drive him crazy.

“missed you so much,” he pants against your throat, and you nod, gasping, “missed you too, missed you so bad.” it does something to him. makes him want to keep you like this forever, pretty and pliant and his.

how you taste when he finally presses his lips to your cunt after a long deployment.

like honey and desperation, soft and sweet but with a hint of something darker. he can’t help but moan into you when you pull him closer, when you tug at his hair, pushing him deeper. you beg him to take his time, but he’s fucking starving, needs to devour every inch of you until you’re trembling and crying out his name.

the way you sound when he’s got you beneath him.

when he’s stretching you open, murmuring, “easy, baby, let me in.” the little whimper that catches in your throat when he bottoms out. the way your fingers clutch at his wrists, your nails digging into his skin, like you’re barely holding on. he loves that. he loves ruining you.

the way your nails leave marks on his back.

long angry red lines and deep crescent shapes from where your fingers dug into his skin, desperate for something to hold onto. he never tells you, but he loves it. loves the way it stings when he runs his hand over the scratches later, feeling the indentations like little imprints of you. it’s like you’ve marked him, branded him, and it gets him hard every time he so much as notices them in the mirror.

the way you bite him when you cum.

sometimes, it’s nothing too hard, nothing painful—just a little scrape of teeth against his shoulder, his neck, his jaw. sometimes, it’s straight up animalistic, going deep enough to leave marks. you bury your face in his throat, gasping against his skin as you tremble in his arms. and it makes him fucking feral. makes him rut into you harder, chasing after that feeling, after the little please that falls from your lips when it’s too much but you still want more.

the simple feeling of you beneath him.

wet and warm, your legs wrapped around his waist as he fucks you slow, each movement deep and deliberate. he never wants to rush these moments—wants to savor how you squeeze around him, how you moan when he presses deeper, closer, until you’re clinging to him like he’s the only thing keeping you grounded.

how you always cry a little when you’re cumming.

not sobbing, not loud, just quiet little tears slipping down your cheeks as you tremble beneath him. he brushes them away with his thumbs, licks them up, shushing you, kissing you, whispering how good you are, how sweet. he tells you he loves you then, like it’s a confession, like it’s something fragile and sacred. and you always say it back. always.

how fucked-out and pretty you look when he's done with you.

glossy eyes, swollen lips, breath coming in short little gasps. you always reach for him after, even when you're boneless, even when you can barely move. you curl into his chest, soft and sleepy, and he holds you like you're the only thing in the world worth holding.

this was fun to write, i wanna do more of these lists

#— 𝑙𝑒𝑜’𝑠 𝑤𝑜𝑟𝑘𝑠 ❧#— 𝑙𝑒𝑜’𝑠 𝑎𝑢𝑠 ❧#military!mattheo #mattheo riddle #slytherin boys #harry potter #mattheo riddle x fem!reader #mattheo riddle x you #mattheo riddle x y/n #mattheo riddle x reader #mattheo riddle headcanon #mattheo riddle smut #benjamin wadsworth #slytherin #mattheo riddle blurb #mattheo riddle fluff

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softaestluv · 2 days ago

Text

Breaking Bread

Simon Riley who is quite the anomaly of a man, or human, rather. Your lieutenant who has only spoken a handful of words to you.

Simon Riley who happens to be sat at the only open table in the messhall.

Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x Sergeant! Reader

Tags: Short n’ Sweet, Fluff, Pining, Angst, Slow burn if you squint, Food as a love language, Eventual romance, Eventual smut, Military inaccuracies

Simon Riley who is quite the anomaly of a man, or human, rather. Stands at 6’4, a total of 220 pounds, takes up double the space of most people. Lieutenant of the special forces, done irredeemable acts with his bare hands. A brute. Forbidding. Curt with his words. The terrifying wraith and apparition of many— of you.

Simon Riley who is your lieutenant. Who you’ve seen complete such acts, though they were always finished within a blink of an eye. Blood splattering before you even had time to complete your blink, ordering you to follow behind before you’ve even realized what happened. Quite grateful that you were on the same side as him, any enemy of his faced far worse fate than the nerves that ate at your skin in his presence.

Simon Riley who’s only spoken a handful of words to you. To anyone, really. A man of few words. Nothing more than orders during a mission or training. Muttered gravelly. Low and demanding. Said in such a way that you had no option, but to react, obey. Though you don’t think it’s necessarily a you problem, at least you hope it’s not. He seems to be this way with everyone outside of 141, but you suppose Soap talks enough for the both of them.

Simon Riley who happens to be sat at the only open table in the messhall. Sergeant’s squished tightly onto other tables as if to avoid sitting with their menacing lieutenant. Which is how it usually is, sat alone unless Soap is by his side.

You debate smuggling the food on your tray into your pant pockets and eating in your room in solitude. Not because it would be so horrible to sit with him; you wouldn’t mind sitting in silence. He’s never been terribly rude to you— outside of his usual demeanor.

He just seems social disinterested and you know he wouldn’t necessarily want you there. Make him feel forced to speak if he doesn’t want to or make him angry for disturbing his peace. A wrath you wouldn’t want to face, you’ve seen the laps he’s made sergeants run for irritating him.

For the sake of his comfort you almost turn away, already reaching to unbutton your pants pockets, but before you can his gaze finds yours across the hall. Piercing. Tense.

Your feet move on their own accord, walking towards his table because you think ruining his comfort for a day is better than the rejection he might feel watching his sergeant stuff her pants full of bread and beans just to avoid sitting with him.

"Hi, Lieutenant," You start, pinching the inside of your cheek between words, "Is it okay if I sit with you?”

You pause for a response, but as you should have expected, nothing comes, so you begin to ramble, “I know you usually sit alone. I won’t bug you! I promise, I’ll sit quietly.”

A grunt of approval is all he gives you; a small smile smearing across your lips as you sit down opposite of him.

And true to your word you don't disturb him, don’t even look up from your plate to glance at him. The both of you just eat in silence, no words shared between the two of you. You scarf the food down quicker than Ghost does because training drains you of all your energy. Makes the military food taste like a five star meal even though it’s bland.

Finish your plate first, despite the fact that Ghost started eating before you. When you’re done you stand up, quietly mumbling your gratitude to him for sharing 'his space’ with you before disappearing in the hall.

When tomorrow comes, you walk past his empty table even though sharing lunch with him wasn’t entirely terrible. He doesn’t let you get far, a gloved hand finds your wrist, stops you in your movements. You look down at him with wide eyes.

“Ah, Lieutenant?”

He points to the empty space in front of him, “Your seat.”

Your eyes widen, impossibly so, but still, you sit.

This is an ongoing fic that I am still writing. All the other fics I have posted have been completed on ao3 before I cross posted here, so the updates for this fic won’t be as quick as my previous ones. Please bear with me! I do plan for it to be about 5 parts! Short n’ sweet!

I just wanted to share it as well. Thank you <3

Also if you’re anon who sent me a request yesterday & you happen to read this, I will be doing your prompt! I just need some time to write it :)

#cherri writes #fanfic #simon ghost riley #ghost cod #simon riley x reader #softaestluv #call of duty #cod #ghost x reader #simon ghost x reader #simon riley x you #simon riley #cod x reader #breaking bread

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meazalykov · 2 days ago

Text

not now, and not again

sydney lohmann x bayern!reader with features of platonic!lena oberdorf x bayern!reader

warnings: acl injury, past acl injuries.

the pain takes over every nerve in your body, the pain shooting up your leg. it is radiating from your left knee like fire. you don’t even register the way you’ve crumpled onto the grass, the way the game stops around you as a whistle pierces through the air.

your mind is louder. no. no, not again.

the words repeat in your head, a desperate, panicked chant, but nothing drowns out the agony pulsing through your knee. you don’t want to look. you don’t need to. you already know.

your right knee had already betrayed you once, had taken a year from you, had forced you into months of grueling recovery, of loneliness, of doubt, of fear. that was during your time back in the states playing for north carolina.

now, your left knee burns, throbs in a way you recognize all too well.

this can’t be happening.

the stadium’s crowd looks ahead, some in horror and others in sympathy, but all of it feels distant, like background noise to the pain tearing through you. you’re just outside the penalty box, the damp grass beneath you sticking to your skin, and you barely process the movement around you until hands are on you.

“hey, hey.. i’m here,” tuva’s voice reaches you first, steady, grounding.

she kneels beside you, her hand light on your back as if afraid to add to your pain. the scandi’s brows are furrowed, her lips pressed into a worried line. you know that look. concern, fear.

you hate seeing it directed at you.

there’s another presence, and this one makes your stomach twist.

sydney.

she’s beside you in an instant, her hands gentle but firm as they hover near your shoulders, unsure where to touch without hurting you. the german’s eyes, deep with worry, scan your face before trailing down to your knee, where you know the damage has been done.

“baby,” her voice is softer than you’ve ever heard it. barely above a whisper.

“talk to me.”

you shake your head, eyes squeezing shut. if i talk, i will cry. if you acknowledge it out loud, if you give power to the reality of what’s happening, you’ll break down right here, in front of thousands, and you can’t. you won’t.

sydney doesn’t push. she just exhales, her hand finding yours where it grips at the grass, knuckles white. she pries your fingers away from your knee so the medics and care for it, wrapping hers around them instead. your girlfriend’s grip is warm, steady.

she holds on like she can keep you from slipping into the panic clawing at your mind.

the medics are running now, bright neon vests flashing in your peripheral vision, but all you focus on is the way sydney holds your hand, the way tuva rubs small, reassuring circles on your shoulder. the way your body shakes, not just from pain but from the crushing dread sinking into your chest.

you hear your name from somewhere, alara, maybe? or lea? voices blurred together by the blood rushing in your ears.

sydney speaks again, just for you.

“it’s gonna be okay,” she murmurs, leaning closer, her forehead nearly touching yours. her breath is warm, grounding.

“whatever happens, i’m here. you hear me? please listen to me, you’re not alone in this.”

you want to believe her. however, this might mark another dark era in your career.

as the medics finally reach you, as they kneel beside you and begin their examination, as they press against your knee and the sharp, unbearable sting shoots through your leg, you feel the first tear slip free, tracing hot down your cheek.

you squeeze sydney’s hand harder.

she doesn’t let go.

at least until she had to let go when you were taken off the pitch.

the weight of her absence settled in immediately, a cold contrast to the warmth of her hand in yours. now, sitting in the medic room, you stared at the television mounted on the wall, watching the game continue without you.

the bright stadium lights flashed across the screen, illuminating players who still had control over their fate tonight.

you shifted slightly, grimacing at the ache pulsing through your knee. the medical staff had already wrapped it up, the brace feeling eerily familiar, too familiar. you had spent months in something similar, learning how to walk again, how to run again, how to trust your body again. now, here you were and back to square one.

a knock at the door. light, hesitant. you didn’t answer, but it creaked open anyway. it was lena stepped inside.

for a moment, she didn’t say anything. she just walked in, leaning against the counter, her arms crossed over her chest. the german’s presence was enough to say it all.

i’m here. and out of everyone on the team… i know exactly how you feel.

lena’s own knee had betrayed her not long ago, forcing her to miss nearly a year of football and the olympics, where she couldn’t even get the bonze medal they all won.

she was finally coming back, ready to return to the pitch soon.

you exhaled sharply, still watching the screen. still seeing the minutes tick down.

“how are you feeling?” she finally asked, voice careful but not overly gentle.

“like shit.”

lena chuckled at your bluntness.

“yeah,” she nodded, “i remember that feeling.”

you glanced over, your frustration simmering beneath the surface. frustration at the pain, at the situation, at how quickly everything had changed in a matter of seconds.

“look,” lena said, shifting forward slightly.

“i came in here because i know your mind is probably going to some dark places right now. it did for me too. if this is your acl… i promise you, it’s not the end. i thought it was, but it wasn’t. it won’t be for you either, especially since you’ve been through this before.”

your fingers curled against your thigh, not quite believing her. your mind wasn’t giving you the same optimism, not when you could already feel the possibility sinking in like an anchor tied to your chest.

you exhaled, letting your gaze drift back to the television. the game was still on. ten minutes left. the scoreboard flashed: 2-2. your heart clenched.

sydney was on the screen now. your girlfriend’s expression was tense, her shoulders stiff. even through the distance, even through the screen, you knew what that look meant. she was stressed. worried. syd’s focus might’ve still been on the game, but part of her mind was on you.

you swallowed hard. you had scored the first goal of the match earlier, in the seventh minute. it had felt good, the rush of it, the celebration, the way sydney had grinned at you from the bench as you ran past.

now? now, that might be your last goal for a long time.

you bit your lip, blinking hard against the sting in your eyes. don’t cry. not now.

lena stood from the chair, stretching slightly.

“i should get back out there,” she said, reaching for the door.

before she left, she turned back to you.

“i’m sorry for what is happening, y/n. you might hate me for saying this but i was told that things happen for a reason,” she told you, a conviction in her voice that you couldn’t match right now.

“i had to learn that the hard way. you’ll get through this. i know you will.”

you couldn’t find the words to respond. not before lena leaned down, wrapping you in a quick, firm hug.

then, she was gone.

the second the door closed behind her, the first tear fell.

you tried to hold it in, tried to keep it together, but the weight of it all crashed over you like a tidal wave. you squeezed your eyes shut, hands clenching against the edge of the table.

not again.

you thought back to the beginning with sydney. to the way you first met, shortly after the 2023 world cup. neither of you had come out of that tournament feeling good. your country had been expected to go to the finals, only to get sent home in the knockout rounds. sydney’s germany hadn’t even made it past the group stage.

she had texted you on instagram first. a simple message. nothing much. you hadn’t even played in the same league back then, let alone the same club. you texted her back yet somehow, conversation after conversation, late-night calls and shared frustrations, she became someone you didn’t just want to talk to. she became someone who you needed.

now, a year and a half later, she wasn’t just some footballer friend you met online. she is your girlfriend and you were here, playing in germany, a bayern player until 2028.

the thought of the next world cup drifted into your mind, uninvited. 2027. if you recovered in time, if you did everything right, you could still make it. you could still prove yourself.

realistically, you knew you couldn’t rush this, not if it really was your acl again.

you wiped at your face quickly, hating how your hands shook.

the game was ending. 2-2. bayern and lyon locked in a draw.

there was a knock at the door again.

this time, you knew who it was before you even turned your head.

the door swings open before you even have the chance to respond. sydney doesn’t wait, doesn’t hesitate. she’s already dropping her cleats onto the floor with a dull thud, rushing toward you before you can even register the desperation in her eyes.

then, she’s holding you as you fall into her, letting go of the last thread of control you had over your emotions. the tears spill freely now, soaking into the red of her kit, the same one you were still wearing, though it felt heavier on you now, like it didn’t belong anymore.

sydney doesn’t say anything at first. she just holds you. syd’s arms wrap around you, pulling you into her as if she can shield you from the pain, from the fear, from the familiar nightmare of what could be happening to you again.

the woman’s lips press soft, warm kisses against your temple, your cheeks, light touches meant to ground you, meant to remind you she’s here. you squeeze your eyes shut, focusing on the way her hands move over your body…one firm on your lower back, the other tracing light circles on your thigh, just above your injured knee.

“i’m here,” she murmurs, her voice steady despite the emotions weighing in it.

“this time, i’m here.”

you nod against her chest, gripping onto her jersey like it’s the only thing keeping you together. because last time, she wasn’t here. you had barely known each other back then, still strangers despite the messages, despite the late-night conversations that never quite dipped into this.

now, she knew you. she knew everything about you. every fear, every unspoken worry you didn’t even have to voice.

“i know what you’re thinking,” she whispers, and you almost scoff. of course, she does.

“but whatever’s going on in your head right now, it won’t happen. i know this is happening but your worst fears to come out of this? they won’t come true.”

you want to believe her. you do. the pain in your knee is still there, the brace still heavy, the memory of your first injury still fresh even after all this time.

your breath shakes as you try to calm yourself, focusing on her. on the warmth of her body, on the soft way she keeps pressing kisses to your skin, on the way her fingers never stop moving, as if she’s afraid to let you feel alone in this.

so you turn your head from her chest, pressing a firm kiss against her lips.

she responds immediately, deepening it just enough to let you feel her. it’s not desperate, not rushed. it’s steady, grounding, the kind of kiss that reminds you that you’re not alone here, not this time.

when you pull away, you whisper it against her soft lips.

“i love you.”

it’s a thank you as much as it’s a declaration. a reminder that even if this feels impossible, even if you feel like you’re drowning, she’s here.

sydney exhales softly, resting her forehead against yours.

“i love you more,” she says, voice unwavering. she pulls back just enough to look at you, her thumb brushing away the tears still lingering on your cheek.

“and i’m with you through this,” she promises, “since i couldn’t be last time.”

masterlist

#sydney lohmann x reader #sydney lohmann #woso fanfics #woso community #woso x reader #meazalykovrecommends #gerwnt #lena oberdorf #lena oberdorf x reader #tuva hansen #bayern frauen

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amara-scott · 2 days ago

Text

Never been loved.

Pairing: Mattheo Riddle x Slytherin!female Reader Tags: Angst, Angst, Angst

Prompt: "You've never been loved, I can tell."

It would have been a beautiful spring day in the courtyard of hogwarts. But standing before Mattheo—you knew this was possibly a turning point about to happen. Your best friend. Having built that trusting relationship with him was hard. On both sides. But you stuck together and knew each other well.

But now the tension between you and Mattheo is thick, like a storm ready to break. You can feel it in the air, the unspoken words that hang between you both, electrifying the space. And yet, the weight of it all crashes down with the finality of your words, words that you didn't even realize held so much truth. "You've never been loved, I can tell." You don’t know why you said it, why the words slipped from your lips like a confession, an accusation. But the moment they leave your mouth, they settle over him like a shadow, dark and unavoidable.

You watch him, frozen, as his gaze falters, as if a part of him dies with your words. His shoulders drop, and for the briefest moment, he looks almost… human. Vulnerable. The walls he so carefully constructed around himself seem to crack, and for the first time, you see the weight he’s been carrying—the one he’s never let anyone see.

But Mattheo doesn’t speak. Not right away. His lips tremble, just slightly, as if the words he wants to say are too much to bear. His breathing is shallow, uneven. It’s a quiet sort of pain, the kind that threatens to swallow him whole, but he refuses to let it. “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he mutters, the harshness in his voice an attempt to mask the tremor you caught. His jaw clenches, his eyes narrow, but they can’t hide the flicker of something deep within them.

You wish you could take back the words, erase the hurt you’ve caused him, but you can't. The damage has been done, and now all you can do is watch him retreat behind that mask again.

“You don’t know me,” he snaps, cutting your thoughts off. The rawness in his tone pulls at your chest, makes your heart ache for him in a way you hadn’t expected. He’s breaking, but he won’t let you see it. His walls go back up, taller and colder than before, as he presses his lips together, trying to maintain control.

“You don’t know my name,” he continues, but it’s not the name he’s referring to. It’s something deeper, something that has been built over years of pressure, expectations, and burdens no one should ever bear.

You reach for him, words forming on your tongue, but they choke you as he takes a step back. The tears that threaten to spill seem to freeze in your throat. You want to apologize, to explain yourself, but the words are too heavy, the apology too fragile.

He shakes his head then, and you feel the weight of his emotions like a physical blow. “No,” he says, voice cracking. “You don’t have the right to talk about me. Talk about love. You don’t know anything about me.” His voice raises, and you flinch, a tiny part of you bracing for the anger that you know is coming. But then—then his eyes soften, and a single tear escapes, rolling down his cheek, tracing the path of all the years of grief he’s kept locked away.

The world tilts as you see that tear. It shatters everything you thought you knew about him. The bravado, the indifference—it all crumbles. He’s not invincible. He’s not the cold, untouchable boy he’s shown everyone.

You want to reach out, to take his face in your hands and promise him that it doesn’t have to be like this, but the fear that grips you—fear of what he’ll do, of what this moment will mean—paralyzes you.

When he speaks again, his voice is low, but it cuts through you like a knife. “I think it’s best if we part ways from now on.” The words hang in the air, and for a moment, everything goes still. The wind dies, the distant sounds of the castle fade. His voice is the only thing that matters now.

Before you can process what’s happening, he’s turning away from you, walking toward the castle with a speed that leaves you breathless, leaves you empty. You stand there, a hollow ache settling in your chest.

Your feet move before your mind catches up, and you grab his arm, forcing him to stop. “Mattheo, no—don’t say that.” But he doesn’t even look at you. His body stiffens, his hand brushes yours off as if it’s a weight he can’t bear.

“I’m only saying what you would expect of me. Your image of me is quite apparent. Since you know me so well.” His words are cruel, but they are truth. And it cuts deeper than anything he’s said before. You step back, your heart sinking with the realization that he’s right.

With one last glance over his shoulder, he’s gone, leaving you standing in the shadows of the evening, alone.

Days pass. You bury yourself in your studies, pretending like it doesn’t matter. You let the ache settle in your bones, telling yourself that you’re stronger than this, that you’re better off without him. But every time you close your eyes, you see him—his face, the way his eyes softened for the briefest moment before he pulled away from you, the tear that marked the end of everything.

Pansy finds you in the library, but even she can see the storm brewing inside you. She drags you out, forces you to confront what you’ve done, and somehow, you find yourself standing at the threshold of the common room, looking at Mattheo across the room.

You stand frozen at the entrance to the common room, your breath shallow, heart pounding. The noise around you seems to fade into a dull hum as you lock eyes with Mattheo. He’s sitting there, looking as casual as ever, but there’s something in his gaze that stops you cold—something colder than you’ve ever seen before. It’s like he’s trying to shut himself off from you, a wall rising in the space between you that feels miles wide.

Pansy’s grip on your sleeve is the only thing keeping you tethered to the present, but even her silent pressure on your arm doesn’t make your feet move. She knows what’s going on in your head, even if you’re too caught up in the chaos to say it.

Mattheo’s face remains unreadable as his eyes flicker between the fireplace and the others in the room, but the tension in the air is thick. You can’t tell if he’s angry, hurt, or simply indifferent—but the chill in his expression tells you enough. It’s the same kind of look he’s given you every time you’ve pulled away, each time you’ve said something wrong, like you’ve been a weight dragging him down.

“I think I should go,” you mutter to Pansy, your voice barely louder than a whisper. You can feel your hands trembling, the nervousness creeping up your spine.

Pansy doesn’t let go of your sleeve. Instead, she gently pulls you forward, her usual playful tone gone, replaced with a sharp, no-nonsense edge. “No. You’re not running away this time. Not from this.”

Your throat tightens, and for a moment, you feel like you might suffocate under the weight of it all—the fight, the guilt, the fear that he’ll never forgive you. But Pansy is already moving, leading you towards the fire where the others are seated. The firelight flickers in your eyes as you step forward, your body feeling heavy, like you’re walking through quicksand.

Mattheo doesn’t look up right away, but when he does, you feel the full force of his gaze. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t ask you how you’re doing or what you’ve been up to. It’s like the space between you has grown into something vast and impenetrable, and no words can bridge that gap. You wonder if that’s what you deserve after what you said, after what you did.

“You don’t have to do this,” Pansy says softly, but there’s a firmness beneath her words. “But if you don’t, you’ll never know if things could be fixed.”

You can’t breathe for a moment. Everything in you screams to just leave, to hide away again, but you know she’s right. You’ve never been good at facing what you’ve done. But if you leave now, you might lose him forever. And you can’t do that.

You stop in front of Mattheo, the words stuck in your throat. For a long moment, you don’t know where to start. It feels like you’ve already said everything you could say, yet nothing at all. But it’s different now. You’re standing here, staring at him, and for the first time in a long time, you’re not running.

"Can we- talk?" You don't hear your own words as you speak and hold your breath while you wait, still contemplating if you could make a run for it—but Pansy is right. Mattheo doesn't spare you a glance as he simply stands up and walks past you, toward a secluded corner in the common room, two armchairs next to each other, a dim lit candle and tall bookshelves rising to the ceiling. You join him as he sits, fiddling with my robe until you take a deep breath, finally looking up at him.

“I—I’m sorry.” The words feel like they’ve been stuck in your chest for so long. You swallow hard, voice cracking slightly. “I never meant to hurt you.”

He stares at you in silence, his jaw tightening, but there’s something there now—a flicker of recognition in his eyes, something that tells you he’s listening. Not because he has to, but because he wants to. You don’t know if that’s a good thing, but it’s a start.

“I know I fucked up. I don’t know what I was thinking, but I—” You pause, unsure of what to say next, your chest tightening with the weight of all the things you should have said before. “I care about you, Mattheo. More than I’ve ever cared about anyone.”

He doesn’t speak for a long while, and for a moment, it feels like the world has frozen around you both. But then, slowly, his lips part. His voice is low, almost like it’s coming from somewhere deep inside him, a place he’s been hiding for too long.

“You don’t have to keep apologizing.” His gaze is soft, almost vulnerable, and it shakes you to your core. “You don’t have to say anything you think I want to hear.”

“Then what do you want to hear?” you ask, almost desperately. “Because I don’t know how to fix this.”

“You don’t have to fix it. Just… be here. With me. No more walls.”

Your heart beats faster at his words. It’s not perfect, it’s not the answer you hoped for, but it’s something. Something you can work with.

And when he stands, taking a small step toward you, you feel the knot in your chest loosen just a little bit, so you stand as well. His arms, warm and familiar, slide around your shoulders, and for the first time in what feels like forever, you don’t feel so alone.

“Let’s not do this again,” he murmurs against your hair, pulling you close as you clutch his dress shirt, shutting your eyes tightly.

And you nod, knowing that no matter how long it takes, you’ll keep trying. You’ll keep showing up, even when the storm inside you feels too strong to bear.

For him. For you.

For what you both deserve.

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