#i feel like it looks too dull but whatever

[merakiui]

jade is absolutely getting off to the thought of drugging you up with mushrooms and then using them to fuck you

Oh, most definitely. 😌

“You’re an ash-hole,” is the first thing to tumble out of your mouth. The insult isn’t nearly as biting as you’d hoped it would be, for the slurred way in which you pronounce the expletive dulls its sharpness tenfold. It does earn you a quirk of the mouth from Jade. The exact opposite of what you wanted.

You’re sweating out of your skin, body temperature rocket-high. It almost rivals the stifling humidity of the off-campus woods, which you think might be your resting place if whatever shit Jade spiked your salad with stops your heart. Pre-hike salad, your foot!

He’s found a comfortable clearing, the lush grass more inviting than the cool breeze tickling your cheek. It feels like the wind has a dozen tiny tongues and they’re all lapping at your face. With a shiver, you smack Jade’s arm away when he offers to ease you down. The world is breathing beneath you. The tree trunk you prop yourself against has a heartbeat, and you watch the lines in the bark undulate like saltwater waves.

“As a member of the Mountain Lovers’ Club,” Jade says, lowering to his knees in front of you, his backpack now shrugged off. When you blink, he’s right in front of you next, checking to make sure you’re still lucid. Mostly. “You must be able to discern dangerous flora from the safe ones. The mushrooms mixed in with your salad have hallucinogenic properties. In small amounts, they’re fine. Quite the exciting trip, one might say. But there are some species that have hazardous effects…”

You squeeze your eyes shut again and inhale a shuddering breath. There are spiders beneath your eyelids and in your skin. It prickles. You move to slap nothing off your arm and find that, in the seconds or maybe minutes your world has been turned over, your shorts have been shucked down to your ankles. Jade’s spidery digits creep in close, parting your legs, sliding along your hole through the fabric. You’d kick him if your body wasn’t so keen on melting like candle wax. All you can do is wilt and take in big gulps of air as he presses in, fingers curling beneath your underwear, prodding inside such a private, sensitive place. You’re not sure how much time passes. You swim in and out of consciousness, occasionally snapping back to yourself like a boomerang.

When you come to, it’s with a keening cry and he hums, sounding quite pleased. You’re not sure how or when it happened, but you came around his fingers. The embarrassment doesn’t settle for long, not when your skeleton is jittering in its fleshy confines. You think you might be sick. Something is crawling up your throat. Hands? Vomit? It feels weird. Just what was in that salad? What terrible mushroom did he experiment with this time?

And that’s just it. Everything he does is experimental. Never on himself. You’d quite like that—to give him a literal taste of his own medicine and watch him crumple. What a glorious day that would be.

Like a surgeon, Jade slips a pair of latex gloves on. For a horrified moment, you wonder if he really is going to bury you out here. But instead he procures a particularly sizable mushroom from a plastic bag. It looks familiar, but right now there are a dozen names rushing through your mind and none of them can be correct. You watch with even more horror as he tears a little square package open and slides the condom over the mushroom’s stipe, all business. Perfectly clinical.

“Today, we’re going to learn to identify mushrooms and their uses.” He beams. “Starting with this one.”

“I…” Your tongue feels all wrong. Numb. Too long. And then too short. You try to pronounce your next words, but they come out in a messy splutter.

“I’ll give you a hint. It’s edible.” Jade smiles angelically.

Gee, thanks for the help. That narrows it down by a lot, you think, sarcastic.

“Maybe this will jog your memory,” he adds, and when you blink the stipe is pushing against your puckered hole. His fingers are wrapped gently around the cap of the mushroom, holding it steady.

“Wha…” You attempt to crawl back from him, but the tree holds you firm. “Jade—”

“It’s a very popular ingredient in soups and risotto,” he continues, undeterred in his approach.

You dig your fingers into the ground and rip up clumps of grass. It feels wrong. Intrusive. This strange, foreign thing. You squirm weakly, but it doesn’t shake him off.

Dunno, you think, your mouth moving mutely.

“It’s part of the genus Boletus.”

Oh, you hate him something fierce. This smart-ass eel. As if you’d know the scientific name or the genus and whatever-heenus-gleenus. You’ll kill him.

Not really. Because who could kill Jade Leech? Not you.

But the feeling comes something close to death as you imagine yourself weaponizing the blazing sun in your scowl and burning a hole through him like he’s an ant under a magnifying glass. Instead, your expression falls and you give a short, sweet whine. The mushroom presses in shallowly. Jade watches with a delight that can only be described as exhilaration. His smile is preternatural.

It turns out it’s a penny bun. Boletus edulis. He tells you that halfway into working the thick mushroom in and out of you.

“I’m sure you’ll have better luck with the next one,” he assures, and then you see it. The many mushrooms packed neatly away in his backpack, each one packaged in that chilling, serial-killer-like precision only Jade Leech could have.

[writingsoftarnishedsilver]

Okay, I am in love with all your Sebastian fics like a honeybee to pollen 🐝

Could we get some love for Ominis, too? 🥺 If your requests are open, I was thinking of something a bit packed with drama. Maybe during the early 1900's, Ominis was going to be married off to another pureblood woman as a last ditch effort to save the Gaunt family from utter disgrace. But Sebastian sent a frantic letter to MC (knowing she's always had feelings for him) and she rescues him because she's quite literally the only person who can counter the strength of the Gaunts.

If this is too action-packed, I understand 😅 And if you want to do something else with this, I'm totally onboard for it! Thank you so, so much!

Speak Now | Ominis Gaunt x Reader

CAN YOU HAVE SOME LOVE FOR OMINIS? UM, YES. OF COURSE. ALWAYS. SEND ME ALL THE OMINIS PROMPTS, I LOVE HIM DEARLY.

ANON, I HOPE YOU LOVE AND ENJOY <3 THANK YOU FOR YOUR MESSAGE!!!

Words: ~10,500

Tags: Reader Insert, Female MC, No Y/N, Fluff, Angst, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Romance, Pureblood Drama

The ink was smudged, the parchment worn, as if it had been handled too many times before finally being sent. The hurried scrawl was unmistakable—Sebastian Sallow had always written like he was running out of time.

You have to come back.

That was the first line, sharp and urgent, as though he was reaching across the distance to shake you into action. You swallowed hard as your eyes darted over the rest of the letter, scanning the words that followed.

They're forcing Ominis into a marriage. He won’t fight it. He thinks he has no choice. He’s going to let them do it. The Gaunts are desperate—this is their last chance to cling to whatever power they have left. If you don’t stop this, no one will.

You tilted your head back against the hotel room chair, exhaling slowly. This wasn’t what you had expected when you saw Sebastian’s weekly letter among the rest of your correspondence—his updates had always been the same.

Small anecdotes of life in England, sharp-witted remarks about Ministry work, and the occasional complaint about the monotony of it all. It had become a habit, these letters, a quiet tether to the life you left behind.

But this was different.

Sebastian had always known. Even when you tried to hide it, when you buried your feelings so deeply they felt like ghosts inside you—he knew you were irrevocably in love with Ominis.

He had known when you stood beside him through the worst of it, when the three of you were still inseparable. He had known when you were sixteen, when you looked at Ominis across the Great Hall with something aching in your eyes.

Sebastian wouldn’t have sent this if he wasn’t desperate.

The candlelight flickered against the crumpled parchment in your hands, the ink smudging beneath the heat of your fingers. Your chest felt tight, something old and aching clawing its way to the surface.

You had spent nearly a decade trying to carve Ominis Gaunt out of your heart.

You had moved away. You had thrown yourself into the world, traveling far from England, chasing adventure and knowledge, anything to dull the pain of loving someone who would never be yours. You had gone years without talking him. Not because he hadn’t written—but because you never wrote back.

It never worked.

Because love like that—love that had rooted itself so deeply, so completely, didn’t just disappear. It lingered in the spaces between your ribs, in the quiet moments before sleep, in the way your body still tensed at the mention of his name.

It had been unspoken between you, as silent as the spaces he left untouched when you stood too close, as damning as the way his hand would hover near yours but never close the distance.

And when you couldn’t take it anymore, you left.

You left because you thought, maybe, if you put an ocean between you, the wound of unrequited love would heal.

It never did.

And now Sebastian was asking you to do the very thing you had spent years convincing yourself you wouldn’t.

Go back. Save him.

The Gaunts were a dying family, their legacy rotting from the inside out. With every generation, their blood grew thinner, their wealth squandered, their name teetering on the edge of ruin. A marriage—an advantageous one—was their final desperate bid for survival. And Ominis, bound by duty, bound by the fear that he had nowhere else to go, was walking into the trap with his head bowed.

You let out a shaky breath and reached for the letter again, rereading the final lines, the ink smudged and urgent.

If you don’t stop this, no one will.

By tomorrow night, you would be back in England.

The night was cold, the London streets slick with rain, the gas lamps casting a dim glow against the cobblestones. You barely felt the chill as you climbed the stairs to Sebastian’s flat, your heartbeat pounding louder than your footsteps.

You didn’t hesitate. You raised your fist and banged on the door. Hard.

The music inside was loud enough to mask the first round of knocks, but you weren’t deterred. You hit the door again, more forcefully this time, your palm stinging from the impact.

There was movement inside, the shuffling of feet, the clinking of glass. You exhaled sharply, bracing yourself.

All you could hope was that he was alone.

Because if there was one thing Sebastian Sallow had never lacked, it was company.

It had been a constant presence in your lives—girls who were drawn to him like moths to a flame, girls who whispered behind their hands when they saw the two of you together, girls who looked at you with suspicion, jealousy, irritation.

It had never mattered that you weren’t interested. That your heart had belonged to Ominis so completely that there had never been room for anyone else. That Sebastian had never once looked at you that way.

It hadn’t stopped the tension, the quiet hostility, the accusations in whispered conversations you weren’t supposed to overhear.

You could only imagine how much worse it would be now if you were about to interrupt a lover’s evening.

The door swung open, and Sebastian stood before you, shirt half-unbuttoned, a glass of whiskey in his hand.

His eyes widened in disbelief.

“Bloody hell.” His voice was hoarse, caught somewhere between shock and amusement. “You actually came.”

You huffed a laugh, tugging your bag higher up your shoulder. "Hello, Sebastian."

His expression shifted, something unreadable flickering across his face before settling into a lopsided grin. He stepped aside, motioning you in with an exaggerated sweep of his arm. “Well, don’t just stand there. Come in before you catch a cold.”

You hesitated for only a moment before stepping inside, brushing past him. The flat was warm, filled with the scent of oak and whiskey, the remnants of dinner still on the table. A record played in the background, something slow and bluesy, and the room was dimly lit by the flickering glow of the fireplace.

You scanned the space quickly. No sign of anyone else.

Relief loosened the tension in your shoulders.

Sebastian caught it immediately, his smirk widening. “Were you worried I’d have company?”

You shot him a look.

He laughed, the sound low and knowing. “You used to hate that, didn’t you?”

You sighed, tugging off your gloves, your fingers stiff from the cold. “I didn’t hate it, Sebastian.”

“Oh, you did,” he said, dropping onto the sofa, his gaze sharp. “Every time a girl so much as looked at me twice, they’d take one look at you and think they had to fight for their lives.”

You rolled your eyes. “That wasn’t my fault. You’ve always had a type, and apparently, that type is ‘possessive.’”

Sebastian grinned into his glass. “It was entertaining, at least.”

You huffed out a breath, shaking your head, but there was no real annoyance behind it.

He studied you for a long moment, something flickering in his expression, before he let out a quiet huff of amusement.

“You look so much more… grown up.”

Your hands stilled where they had been undoing the buttons of your coat. You glanced up at him, unsure whether to feel flattered or vaguely insulted. “Should I be offended?”

Sebastian smirked. “No, no. Just—well, you know.” His gaze flicked over you with something bordering on appraisal. “Filled out a bit. More mature.”

You narrowed your eyes at him, suspicious.

He grinned before leaning back into the sofa, stretching his arms behind his head lazily. “Ominis is going to be very happy to see you.”

You groaned at the implication, rubbing your hands down your face. “Gross, Sebastian.”

He laughed, clearly pleased with himself. “What? It’s been a long time. He’s going to notice.”

“You just noticed, and that’s already too much.”

Sebastian only smirked, utterly unrepentant.

You shook your head, slipping your coat off and draping it over the back of a chair. The warmth of the flat was already sinking into your bones, easing the tension in your shoulders.

Sebastian watched you for a long moment, his teasing expression softening slightly.

“You really came,” he murmured, quieter now.

You met his gaze. “Of course I did.”

“I’ve tried to reason with him, tried to convince him he doesn’t need to do this but…” He hesitated, drumming his fingers against his knee. “I don’t think he realizes he has a choice. How much he still—”

He stopped himself, shaking his head. “Doesn’t matter. You’re here now.”

“So,” you said, glancing at him, “do you have a guest room these days, or am I taking the couch?”

Sebastian’s lips quirked up at the corner. “What kind of man do you take me for?”

You arched a brow. “The kind who forgets to replace his bedsheets for months at a time.”

He let out a laugh, shaking his head as he stood, finishing off the last sip of his whiskey before setting the glass down. “You wound me,” he drawled, then he gestured for you to follow him down the narrow hallway.

As you trailed behind, he glanced over his shoulder, a smirk tugging at his lips.

“Your accent’s changed,” he noted. “Sounds almost American now. Tragic, really.”

You scoffed. “It does not.”

“Oh, it does.” He mimicked a horrible, exaggerated version of an American drawl. “Next thing I know, you’ll be saying ‘ain’t’ and asking for a cup of coffee instead of tea.”

You rolled your eyes. “I’ve been gone, not possessed.”

Sebastian chuckled, pushing open a door and stepping aside to let you enter.

The spare bedroom was small but comfortable—a proper bed, neatly made, a modest wardrobe, and a single oil lamp on the nightstand. It was uncharacteristically tidy for him, and you cast him a suspicious glance.

He smirked. “Surprised? I do have some manners, you know.”

“Debatable.”

He snorted but didn’t argue. Instead, he lingered in the doorway, watching you as you set your gloves on the nightstand, smoothing out the worn fabric between your fingers.

Then, without warning, he reached for you, wrapping you in a sudden, firm embrace.

You tensed for half a second before melting into it, your hands pressing into the worn fabric of his shirt as you buried your face against his shoulder. He smelled like whiskey, firewood, and something unmistakably Sebastian—familiar, grounding.

“Missed you, you know,” he murmured, voice quieter now, rougher around the edges. “I wish I’d threatened Ominis’s marriage sooner. Would’ve saved me years of boredom having you around again.”

You let out a breathless laugh against his shoulder even as your chest ached.

You had been gone for so long, chasing something you could never quite outrun. And yet, standing here, in the warmth of Sebastian’s flat, his arms still loosely around you—

It felt like a piece of you had finally come home.

You swallowed past the sudden lump in your throat, blinking quickly. “Well,” you said, clearing your throat, “we’ll have to make up for lost time, then.”

Sebastian grinned, giving your shoulder a final squeeze before stepping back. “Oh, we will,” he promised. “Starting tomorrow.”

Your stomach twisted at the reminder.

"What's the plan for tomorrow, exactly?"

Sebastian leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, the flickering lamplight casting shadows across his face. He tilted his head slightly, considering your question.

“Well, obviously, I have a wedding invitation,” he said, his smirk sharp and knowing. “And seeing as you didn’t exactly RSVP, you’ll be my plus-one.”

You sighed, rubbing your hands together. “Okay... but when we get there, then what?"

Sebastian’s smirk faded, replaced with something more serious. “We’ll try to get to him before the ceremony starts,” he said. “Pull him aside, talk some sense into him. If we can convince him to walk away without causing a scene, that would be ideal.”

You exhaled slowly. “And if we do have to cause a scene?”

Sebastian lifted a brow, a familiar glint of mischief in his gaze. “Well, you did bring all that dramatic ancient magic of yours back with you, didn’t you?”

You shot him a dry look. “Yes, Sebastian, I plan to hex an entire wedding party in broad daylight.”

“Now that would be entertaining,” he muttered, mostly to himself.

You sighed, rubbing your forehead. “You think he’ll listen?”

Sebastian hesitated, his fingers tapping idly against the doorframe. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “I’ve tried, but you know how he is. Stubborn as ever. He thinks this is the only way. Thinks he has no other choice.”

Your stomach twisted.

"And you think, somehow, I'm going to change his mind? We haven't spoken in, what, eight years? He probably—”

Sebastian cut you off with a pointed look. "Exactly. You haven't spoken in years. Which means you showing up? That'll shake him more than anything I could ever say."

You exhaled sharply, running a hand through your hair. "Or it'll just piss him off."

Sebastian shrugged, unbothered. "That works too. As long as it gets him to actually feel something about this instead of just rolling over and letting his family dictate his life again."

Your jaw tightened. "You think he hasn't felt anything about this?"

Sebastian tilted his head. "I think he's spent so long convincing himself he doesn’t have a choice that he's stopped considering the alternative. And I think," he said, crossing his arms, "that if there's anyone who can remind him of what he wants instead of what he owes, it's you."

The words struck deeper than you wanted them to.

You swallowed past the lump in your throat, gripping the edge of the bed as if grounding yourself. "If he ever wanted me," you said, quieter this time, "it was never enough."

Sebastian huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. "You always were terrible at seeing what was right in front of you."

You frowned, but he didn’t give you a chance to argue. He pushed off the doorframe, turning toward the hall. "Get some sleep," he said over his shoulder. "Big day tomorrow. You might have to throw yourself in front of an altar."

You snorted. "Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that."

Sebastian grinned. "If it does, at least try to make it entertaining. Dramatic declarations, an I object! shouted for the ages." He paused, then waggled his brows. "Preferably while wearing something scandalous."

You rolled your eyes. "Goodnight, Sebastian."

"Sweet dreams, sweetheart," he teased, retreating down the hallway.

You listened to his footsteps fade, staring at the worn wooden floor beneath you.

Tomorrow.

Tomorrow, you would face Ominis again.

Sebastian was already ready. Of course he was.

You could hear him outside the bathroom, pacing the hallway, his dress shoes clicking impatiently against the wooden floor. He’d already knocked twice, and now he was resorting to pestering you from the other side of the door.

"Are you ready yet?" His voice was exasperated. "Honestly, if I'd known you'd take this long, I would've given you a two-hour head start."

You stuck a pin in your hair and rolled your eyes. "It's been thirty minutes, Sebastian. You’re acting like I've been in here for days."

“Might as well have been,” came Sebastian’s voice from the other side, muffled but unmistakably exasperated. “We’re going to a wedding, not a coronation.”

You sighed, adjusting the way your dress fit over your shoulders, tugging at the fabric as if it would somehow settle your nerves.

The truth was, you were taking longer than usual.

But could he blame you? You hadn’t seen Ominis in nearly eight years.

And sure—he couldn’t see you, exactly, but his wand could.

You sighed, stepping back from the mirror and smoothing your skirts. You had settled on something elegant, something proper, something that would make it impossible for the Gaunts to ignore you when you walked through their doors.

Sebastian, of course, was dressed for trouble. A sharp three-piece suit, his tie just slightly loosened, his hair combed back but still holding that casual devil-may-care disarray that somehow made him look even more like a menace.

Another impatient knock. “The wedding starts in an hour, by the way.”

You shot a glare at the door, even though he couldn’t see it, then took one last look in the mirror before before finally stepping out.

Sebastian was mid-complaint when his eyes landed on you.

His mouth clicked shut.

He blinked.

And then, after a moment, let out a low whistle.

“Well, well,” he said, stepping back slightly to take you in. “You do clean up nice.”

You rolled your eyes, brushing past him. “Don’t sound so shocked.”

He grinned. “I’m just impressed. You put me through an agonizing wait, but I suppose it was worth it.” His gaze flicked over you again, more appraising now. “Ominis is going to—”

You shot him a warning look before he could finish the sentence.

Sebastian just smirked. “Right, right. Gross.”

He, mercifully, didn’t push the subject further as the two of you stepped out onto the quiet London street. The air was crisp, the overcast sky hinting at rain, and the city was already awake—carts rolling by, men in suits tipping their hats as they passed, women hurrying along with baskets in hand.

A sleek, enchanted carriage waited at the curb, black lacquer gleaming under the dim morning light. Sebastian, always the gentleman when it suited him, opened the door and gestured dramatically.

“After you, my lady,” he quipped, voice dripping with amusement.

You shot him a flat look but climbed in nonetheless. The interior was comfortable, the seats upholstered in deep blue fabric, smelling faintly of polished wood . Sebastian followed, settling in across from you as the carriage took off with a jolt.

The ride started in silence, the rhythmic clatter of hooves filling the space between you. You stared out the window, watching London give way to quieter roads, your stomach twisting itself into knots.

Sebastian stretched out, lounging like this was nothing more than a casual social call. “You’re awfully quiet.”

You exhaled, fingers drumming against your knee. “I’m trying not to think about the fact that I might be making a mistake.”

Sebastian scoffed. “Oh, please. As if this could even qualify as a mistake.”

You shot him a sharp look. “This isn’t a joke, Sebastian.”

His smirk softened, just slightly. “I know,” he admitted, leaning forward, bracing his forearms against his knees. “But listen to me—there is no version of this where Ominis doesn’t want to see you.”

Your lips pressed into a thin line. “You don’t know that.”

Sebastian’s gaze was unwavering. “I do.”

You wanted to argue, wanted to tell him he was wrong, that Ominis had probably long since buried whatever he had once felt for you—if he had ever felt anything at all.

But you couldn’t ignore the gnawing in your chest, the way a tiny, fragile part of you wanted desperately to believe Sebastian was right.

The carriage slowed. Your breath caught.

Sebastian straightened, adjusting his jacket. “Showtime.”

The Gaunt estate was exactly as you remembered it from your Hogwarts days—cold, imposing, and entirely too suffocating. The sprawling grounds were still vast, stretching endlessly in every direction, but there was something unmistakably wilted about them now. The hedges lining the drive had grown wild at the edges, the once-pristine cobblestone path cracked in places, and the grand iron gates—tall and menacing—creaked on their hinges as they shut behind your carriage.

The manor itself was much the same: gray stone, towering spires, an air of superiority that had always felt like a performance rather than a truth. But even from this distance, you could tell that the years had not been kind to it.

The roof, once gleaming with meticulously maintained slate tiles, had dark patches of discoloration. Ivy crept aggressively up the eastern wing, unchecked, wrapping around balconies and windows as if slowly strangling the place. The grand windows that had once shimmered with warm candlelight now looked dimmer, some of them cracked, their leaded glass slightly warped with age.

Neglect.

That’s what this was. The decay wasn’t extreme—not yet—but it was there, creeping at the edges, slowly taking hold.

And you knew why.

Ominis’s father.

The man had been wretched, and his penchant for excess was nothing new. Even back when you were all still in school, it had been whispered that the Gaunts' fortune was a shadow of what it had once been—that their power was more name than substance now.

And now, with his father dead and Ominis as the heir, it seemed evident that the cracks in the foundation had begun to spread.

Sebastian let out a low whistle beside you. “Charming as ever.”

You exhaled, willing your nerves to settle as the carriage rolled to a stop before the grand entrance.

Footmen were stationed by the double doors, their posture rigid, their expressions carefully blank. A few well-dressed guests were filtering into the manor, their whispers hushed but pointed, eyes flickering toward your carriage with interest.

This was it.

You were here.

And somewhere inside that crumbling, gilded ruin was Ominis—waiting for a future he had resigned himself to.

Sebastian stepped out first, adjusting the cuffs of his jacket before turning to offer you a hand. You ignored it, stepping down on your own, too preoccupied with the steady thudding of your heart against your ribs.

As you approached the grand entrance, one of the footmen—rigid, humorless, and probably handpicked for his ability to look as unwelcoming as possible—stepped forward, barring your way with a polite but firm, “Name?”

Sebastian handed over his invitation, flashing a smirk that bordered on arrogance. “Sebastian Sallow,” he said smoothly. “And my lovely plus-one, of course.”

The footman scanned the invitation with a blank expression, then flicked his eyes toward you. His lips pressed together.

“I’m afraid there is no ‘plus-one’ listed, sir.”

Sebastian blinked. “Pardon?”

The footman held out the invitation again. “Your name is on the list, Mr. Sallow, but there is no mention of a guest.”

Sebastian made a show of taking the paper back, squinting at it dramatically. “Oh, what an incredible oversight,” he said, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Truly, a devastating clerical error. You should fire whoever manages this list.”

The footman’s mouth twitched—somewhere between unimpressed and mildly annoyed. “Sir, I was given specific instructions. No additional guests who are not accounted for.”

Sebastian threw up his hands. “I’m accounting for her right now—”

“Sebastian,” you muttered under your breath, nudging his arm in warning.

He huffed. “This is absurd. What do you think she’s here for? To steal the centerpieces? I assure you, my guest is—”

The footman remained firm. “If her name is not on the list, she does not enter.”

Your fingers curled into fists. You should have seen this coming. Of course the Gaunts would keep the guest list strictly controlled—this wasn’t just any wedding, it was their last-ditch attempt to save face. The idea that a surprise guest might slip through the cracks was laughable.

Sebastian was still arguing when you finally grabbed his sleeve and yanked him aside.

He frowned at you. “What? I was wearing them down.”

“No, you were irritating them,” you muttered, glancing back at the guards. “Look, you have an invitation. You can get inside.”

He crossed his arms. “And what, exactly, are you going to do? Sit on the curb and wait?”

“No.” You lowered your voice. “I’ll figure something out. But you need to get to Ominis now.”

Sebastian hesitated, his brow furrowing. “You sure?”

You exhaled, glancing back toward the doors. “We don’t have time to waste. Find him. Get him alone. Make him listen. If that doesn't work... we'll... we'll think of something.”

Sebastian clenched his jaw, clearly not thrilled at the idea of leaving you behind. But after a moment, he exhaled sharply.

“Fine,” he muttered. “But if you’re not inside within the next fifteen minutes, I will cause a scene.”

You smirked despite yourself. “You always cause a scene.”

He grinned. “Yes, but this time, I’ll make it big.”

With that, he turned, flashing the footman an exaggeratedly smug smile before striding through the doors and disappearing into the estate.

You, meanwhile, lingered near the entrance, watching the footmen out of the corner of your eye. As much as you hated the idea of waiting out here while Sebastian got to Ominis, you knew forcing your way in wasn’t an option.

So you waited.

The footmen barely glanced at you once they assumed you were no longer their problem. Instead, they refocused on their duties—checking invitations, directing guests, speaking in hushed tones with the occasional arrival. It only took a moment for the perfect opportunity to present itself.

A carriage pulled up, the sound of clattering hooves drawing the footmen’s attention just long enough for you to slip away from the entrance.

You kept your posture casual, strolling toward the side of the estate as if you belonged there

The gardens sprawled around the estate in twisting hedges and overgrown flower beds, a shadow of their former grandeur. You maneuvered quickly, ducking beneath the trellis of a neglected rose arch, its petals long wilted, its thorns creeping along rusted iron.

Beyond the hedges, the ceremony setup came into view.

Rows of white chairs arranged in perfect symmetry. A raised platform at the far end, decorated with elegant but impersonal arrangements of deep red roses and ivy. Guests milled about in clusters, dressed in their pure-blood finery, the air thick with murmured conversations and thinly veiled judgments.

You swept your gaze over the fence, searching for a break in the iron, a space for you to slip through without your name on that stupid list.

Nothing.

You kept moving.

The gardens stretched endlessly around you, a maze of twisting paths and forgotten alcoves, the scent of damp earth and decaying petals clung to your senses as you pressed on, scanning every wrought-iron fence post, every creeping vine for a weakness in the estate’s meticulous defenses.

Your fingers curled into the fabric of your skirts, your mind racing, cycling through every possible version of what you would say when you saw Ominis again.

How were you even going to begin? Would you demand? Beg? Reason? Would you tell him he was making a mistake, that this wasn’t the only option? Would you say it plainly, admit that you had spent years running from the truth that you loved him, and you always had? That you couldn’t stand the thought of watching him tie himself to someone who would never understand him the way you did?

Suddenly, your skirts snagged against the thick brambles of a particularly dense bush, yanking you to an abrupt stop.

You hissed in frustration, twisting to untangle the fabric, cursing under your breath as you fought with the thorny branches.

Then—

Music.

You froze. Your hands clenched in the fabric of your dress, your breath catching in your throat.

A slow, solemn melody drifted through the air, carried by an unseen quartet.

Shit. Shit. The ceremony is starting.

Your pulse pounded. This wasn’t just some idea anymore, wasn’t just a plan scribbled onto parchment in Sebastian’s messy handwriting.

This was happening.

This was Ominis’s wedding.

Your heart was in your throat.

You tore your skirt free from the brambles, stumbling forward, breath coming faster as you scanned desperately for a way through.

If you didn’t get inside now—

A hand clamped down around your upper arm, yanking you backward with enough force to make you stumble. A startled gasp escaped your lips as you twisted in place, trying to wrench yourself free, but the grip was unrelenting.

The footman was tall, broad, and utterly impassive, his expression betraying not even a flicker of emotion.

"Ma'am, you are trespassing on private property, I must insist—"

“No, wait—” you gasped, trying again, shoving at his arm, but the man barely even shifted. “I just need a moment—I’m not here to—”

“The wedding is invitation-only,” the footman said, unbothered, already dragging you back toward the entrance. “Guests are to remain in designated areas. If you do not have proper clearance—”

“I just need to talk to him!” you nearly shouted, struggling as the ceremony music continued to drift through the garden, the slow, deliberate swell of strings making your stomach twist violently.

Ominis was at the front of that ceremony right now, waiting, standing still and poised while guests murmured and the woman he was supposed to marry prepared to walk down the aisle.

It was real. It was happening. And you were out here, being dragged away, powerless to stop it.

A sickening ache took root in your chest, spreading through your ribs, pressing against your lungs like a vice. Your breath hitched, sharp and unsteady.

You tried everything.

You dug your heels in, but the footman pulled you along effortlessly.

You tried bargaining. “Please, just listen—Ominis Gaunt—he knows me, we were close once, I need to see him—”

It didn’t matter.

He wasn’t listening.

Of course he wasn’t.

The Gaunts controlled their world too carefully to let last-minute intrusions disrupt them. Even now, at the end of their dynasty, they still clung to their crumbling influence, still made sure that everything went exactly as planned.

You just needed one chance—one opening to slip away, to disappear, to reach Ominis before it was too late—

Your fingers twitched toward the hidden pocket in your skirts, brushing against the cool handle of your wand.

It was reckless, maybe even stupid, but you didn’t care.

But then, another hand seized your wrist.

Your breath hitched violently as a second footman stepped forward, his grip firm, unyielding.

“Stop resisting,” he ordered, voice impassive.

“No—please—” you gasped, voice breaking.

The music swelled, the notes stretching out like a death knell in your ears, wrapping around your ribs like a vice.

You could see it now. Too vividly.

Ominis.

Ominis, sitting at the head of a long, extravagant dining table, a woman—his wife, a woman you did not know, would never know—beside him, her hand resting lightly on his wrist as they spoke in hushed tones.

Ominis, dancing with her at some pure-blood gala, his hand on her waist, his voice low in conversation.

Ominis at holidays, wathcing his children—laughing as they tore open gifts wrapped in crisp gold and silver paper.

Ominis in the soft quiet of night, pressing a kiss to his wife’s temple, his hands gentle as they cradled her face.

A sharp, ragged breath tore from your throat, your chest constricting painfully, your lungs refusing to expand properly.

This wasn’t happening. This couldn’t be happening.

You fought harder, twisting violently, desperation turning into something sharp and frantic.

"Please, you don’t understand,” you gasped, struggling, thrashing, but it was useless. "Please—I just need a moment—I have to—"

They kept dragging you back to the front drive, further and further away from the ceremony, from him, from the one moment you had to stop this. Your lungs burned, your vision blurred at the edges, and a hot, unbearable pressure rose in your throat—desperation curling tight, suffocating.

Tears burned behind your eyes, stinging, threatening to fall.

And then—

A sudden crack. A flash of red light. The grip on your arms vanished.

You collapsed to your knees, barely registering the sharp sting of gravel biting into your palms. Your chest heaved, ragged and uneven, the adrenaline still coursing through your veins as the world tilted around you.

The footmen hit the ground hard, unmoving.

And when you looked up—

Sebastian stood at the threshold of the grand doors, wand raised.

“Looks like I got here just in time,” he mused, voice light, almost lazy, as if he hadn’t just knocked out two Gaunt guards in broad daylight.

You sucked in a shaky, gasping breath, arms trembling as you pushed yourself upright. The fight had drained you—left you raw, exposed.

Sebastian’s smirk faltered. His gaze flickered over you, taking in the state of you—your wild hair, your disheveled dress, the way you struggled to breathe past the sheer panic still lodged in your chest.

His expression hardened. He crossed the distance between you in three long strides, dropping to a knee before you, hand bracing against your shoulder to steady you.

“Hey,” he said, lower now, gentler. “You’re alright.”

You let out a shaking breath, still staring at the unconscious footmen, mind still reeling. “I wasn’t going to make it,” you whispered, voice hoarse, raw from the struggle.

Sebastian squeezed your shoulder. “Yeah, well.” He exhaled, straightening. “Luckily, I’ve got a terrible habit of causing trouble at exactly the right moment.”

You let out a breathless, exhausted laugh.

Sebastian stood, then offered you his hand. “Come on.” His tone shifted, sharpening with urgency. “We need to move. They’ll wake up soon.”

You took it, fingers gripping his tight as he pulled you to your feet.

Your legs were weak, but there was no more time for fear, no more time for second-guessing.

Sebastian held your gaze.

“Are you ready for this?”

Ominis was still waiting.

And you—you were still here.

You nodded.

Sebastian grinned. “Alright, then.”

And with that, you ran.

The Gaunt manor was a maze of dark corridors and endless rooms, its sheer size and suffocating grandeur turning your desperate rush into something far more frustrating.

Even with Sebastian practically dragging you forward, navigating the twisting hallways and sharp turns, it felt like time was slipping through your fingers.

Your pulse thundered. Your legs burned. Your breath came short and uneven as you sprinted your, skirts gathered in your hands.

Footsteps echoed in the halls behind you—shouts, movement. They were coming for you.

A left turn, another hallway, a sharp sprint down the main stairwell, and then finally—

Sebastian shoved open the back door, and you stumbled into the gardens.

The sudden burst of open air nearly stole your breath away. Your lungs ached, your body trembling from the exertion. And then—

You heard the officiant speaking.

Your head snapped toward the ceremony, your entire body freezing in place. It was already happening.

Rows of pure-blooded guests sat in eerie silence, their attention locked on the figures standing at the altar.

You could hear the officiant now, his voice steady, final.

"If there is anyone present who has just cause why these two should not be joined in marriage, speak now, or forever hold your peace."

Everything in you screamed. Your vision tunneled, and before you could even think—

"I OBJECT!"

The words rang loud, impossible to ignore, echoing across the ceremony as if they had weight, as if they had been carved into stone.

The officiant froze mid-sentence, his mouth still parted, the words he had been about to speak dying on his lips.

And then, the ripple began.

Gasps. Dozens of them. Whispers—hushed, sharp murmurs spreading through the crowd like wildfire, rustling through silk gowns and stiffly pressed suits. Heads turned sharply in your direction, eyes wide, mouths forming quiet exclamations of scandal and disbelief.

The woman beside Ominis—his bride—let out a small, startled gasp, the delicate bouquet in her hands trembling slightly. She turned her head toward him, confusion flickering across her face, but he didn’t move to reassure her.

Sebastian let out a sharp, triumphant breath behind you. "Well. That got their attention."

But you couldn’t answer. Your heart was going to burst.

You could feel it—pounding, breaking, swelling, shattering all at once, an unbearable rush of emotion so raw that it nearly brought you to your knees.

Because he was standing right there.

Ominis.

Older. More composed, more refined, dressed in a suit that fit him perfectly, every line and seam made for him. But it was still him—the boy you had once loved.

The boy you still loved.

Your vision blurred, and for a horrible, dizzying moment, you thought you might actually cry.

But your feet were moving now.

You barely realized it—one step, then another, then another, until you were walking, carrying yourself down the aisle toward him, your breath still coming too fast, too uneven from the struggle, your pulse roaring in your ears.

Your skirts were torn at the edges, your hair mussed from running, from fighting, from forcing your way through every obstacle that had tried to keep you away from him.

The whispers grew louder, the tension in the air becoming so thick, so suffocating, but you didn’t care.

The words fell from your lips, breathless, desperate, trembling with everything you had kept buried for far too long.

"You can't marry her, Ominis."

For a moment, the world felt frozen, as if the sheer weight of your presence—your defiance—had brought everything to a grinding halt.

The officiant stiffened, his mouth slightly parted in shock. The bride inhaled sharply, her fingers tightening around the bouquet, knuckles turning pale against the soft petals. The guests—rows upon rows of pure-blooded aristocrats—stared at you, their expressions ranging from horrified to scandalized to morbidly fascinated.

But none of it mattered.

Because Ominis finally turned.

His head lifted, his face shifting just enough for you to see him fully, and the breath nearly left your lungs entirely.

He was beautiful in the way only Ominis had ever been—his features a careful composition of sharp cheekbones, a proud jawline, plush pink lips pressed into a firm, unreadable line.

But God, he had grown even more handsome.

Time had sculpted him into something even more unattainable, something even more devastatingly perfect.

His voice, measured and steady, cut through the stunned silence.

"...And why is that?"

You felt it before you understood it—the way his voice reached inside you and wrapped around something raw, something fragile, something you thought you had buried beneath years of distance and silence.

It was deeper than you remembered. Richer. Steadier.

And for a terrible second, you couldn’t speak. You had imagined this moment a hundred different ways. You had dreamed of it, dreaded it, rehearsed what you would say if you ever saw him again.

But none of those versions had prepared you for this.

You swallowed hard, blinking against the burn in your eyes. Your fingers curled into your ruined skirts, grounding yourself, forcing breath back into your lungs.

"Because you don’t love her," you said, voice shaking yet resolute. "And she doesn’t love you."

The bride’s sharp inhale was barely audible beneath the collective gasp that rippled through the guests.

"You’re doing this because you think you have to," you continued. "Because you think there’s no other way. But that isn’t true, Ominis. It’s never been true."

His jaw tightened, but he didn't speak.

Your next words came softer, but they still broke through the air like a spell cast in desperation.

"Tell me you want this. Tell me this is what you really want, Ominis, and I’ll leave."

You took another step forward, heart hammering so hard it felt like it was trying to tear itself free from your chest.

The guests were silent now, barely breathing, watching as if they had stumbled into something far too intimate, far too raw to be witnessing.

But you didn’t care. You kept going.

"But if you don’t, if there's—" You swallowed, huffed a small, shaky breath, somewhere between a laugh and a sob, because god, you were unraveling. "—if there’s any part of you that doesn’t want this—any part at all—then don’t do it. Please. Because I—" You hesitated, feeling the weight of the moment bear down on you, crushing, suffocating. "Because I love you, Ominis."

A ripple went through the crowd—a gasp, a scandalized whisper, a rustling of fabric as guests turned to each other in shock.

The bride was rigid, her knuckles white against the bouquet, her lips pressed into a tight, thin line. But it was her eyes that gave her away—wide, wild, brimming with something between fury and panic.

"Ominis," she said sharply, her voice a blade cutting through the heavy silence. "Say something."

But he didn’t.

Ominis stood motionless, carved from something finer than marble, yet just as unyielding. His lips parted, breath slow and uneven, as though you had reached inside him and shaken something loose, something buried too deep to name. His jaw tightened, the muscle feathering beneath pale skin, his throat working around a swallow he never quite finished.

The silence that followed was unbearable.

It stretched and stretched, yawning wide like the space between stars, like the distance you had spent years putting between you. It pressed against your ribs, against your throat, thick and suffocating, a weight that crushed the breath from your lungs.

You had been so sure—so certain—that he would say something, do something.

But he only stood there. Still. Silent. Unmoving.

And as the seconds bled into each other, as the realization began to sink its cruel, merciless teeth into you, the first seed of doubt took root.

This reckless, desperate thing you had done—it had been a mistake. A cruel, foolish, selfish mistake. You had laid yourself bare before him, only to be met with silence. Nothing more than a last, flailing act of desperation, a pathetic display that only proved how far you had fallen.

Sebastian shifted behind you, and for a single, awful moment, you thought—

Maybe he’s going to drag me away.

Maybe he’ll step in, cut your losses, put an end to this, spare you from any further disgrace.

Maybe this was your only way out.

Maybe it was time to let go.

You swallowed against the burn in your throat, against the ache blooming in your chest. Your vision blurred at the edges, and for the first time, you truly considered turning around.

Walking away. Leaving Ominis to the life he'd been bred to live.

But then Ominis exhaled, a breath so sharp, so unsteady, it sliced through the silence like the edge of a knife.

And then, he turned.

Not just his head. Not just the subtle tilt of his face in acknowledgment.

All of him.

His entire frame shifted, shoulders squaring, spine straightening as he turned fully toward you, facing you where you stood trembling in the middle of the aisle.

The tension in the room snapped taut, the atmosphere shifting as if the very foundation of this moment had cracked beneath the weight of his movement.

A murmur rippled through the crowd, hushed and urgent, the kind of sound that signaled the birth of a scandal, the sort of thing that would be whispered about behind gloved hands for years to come.

The bride sucked in a sharp breath, her bouquet shaking in her grip. “Ominis—”

But he wasn’t listening.

His hand twitched at his side.

And then, he stepped forward.

Just one step at first, slow and deliberate.

Then another.

And another.

The bride’s composure cracked.

“Ominis,” she snapped, her voice laced with something sharp. “What do you think you’re doing?”

But he didn’t stop.

He didn’t even hesitate.

Your chest felt too tight, too full, as if your own ribs were locking around your heart, trying to keep it from breaking, from believing what was happening.

Because Ominis was walking toward you. Confidently. Purposefully.

As if there had never been any other choice but this. As if, after years of silence, of distance, of unspoken things left to rot in the past, there had only ever been one path left to take.

The whispers rose to a fever pitch, scandalized and sharp, shocked and disbelieving. A frenzied murmur of names and questions and outrage, but all you could hear were his footsteps against the stone, each one measured, steady, unshakable.

And all you could see was him.

Tall and lean, just as he had always been, the crisp lines of his suit, the effortless precision of his movements, the way his shoulders squared with a quiet, unshakable confidence—it was Ominis, but not the boy you had once known.

He was a man now.

And he was—he was right in front of you. So close you could see the subtle rise and fall of his chest, could hear the slow, deliberate exhale that left his lips as he seemed to gather himself.

Your heart pounded in your ears, drowning out everything but the sound of your own breath, the silent demand in your mind that you memorize this, remember this, because no matter what happened next, this moment would live inside you forever.

Then—he moved.

Slowly, deliberately, as if the weight of this moment threatened to crush him as much as it did you.

His fingers brushed against yours first, barely a touch, a whisper of warmth that sent a shudder through your spine. And then, with a quiet, unsteady inhale, he took your hand fully, his grip firm but trembling, as though he were afraid that if he didn’t hold on now, he might never get the chance again.

A gasp rippled through the crowd, a sharp intake of breath from dozens of watching eyes, but it barely registered. The garden, the wedding, the expectant horror of pure-blooded society—all of it had ceased to exist.

It was just him.

And then, finally, he spoke. Soft, low—only for you.

"You came back."

His voice—God, his voice.

Your throat tightened, your fingers tightening instinctively around his.

"Of course I did."

Ominis exhaled, a breathless, almost disbelieving sound—half a laugh, half a shudder. As if he couldn't quite grasp that this was real, that you were here. Then—slowly, reverently—he lifted his free hand, his fingers trembling ever so slightly before they found your cheek.

You barely had time to react before a sharp, furious voice cut through the air.

"Ominis!"

The bride.

Her voice rose, high and shrill, cracking under the sheer force of her rage. "Have you lost your mind?"

The ceremony was in chaos now—guests murmuring, shifting, watching with wide, horrified eyes. The officiant was pale, his hands clasped together as if unsure whether to proceed or flee. Somewhere in the back, someone stifled a horrified gasp.

But Ominis didn’t turn. Didn’t move. Didn’t even flinch.

His palm remained cradling your cheek, his thumb still smoothing gentle, unconscious strokes against your skin. His head tilted just slightly, his breath still uneven, as if the world outside of you had ceased to exist entirely.

"Tell me," he said, voice low and steady, a quiet thing made of certainty and desperation all at once. "Tell me it's true," Ominis whispered, barely more than breath. "Tell me you meant it."

Your pulse roared in your ears, your breath shuddering past your lips.

"You said you love me." His voice dipped lower, raw and unguarded, something fragile threatening to break beneath the weight of it. "Was it true?"

And oh—he needed this.

You could feel it in the way his fingers curled slightly against your skin, in the way his voice wavered at the edges, in the way he stayed, unshaken, unmovable, even as his world collapsed around him.

Your throat tightened. Your heart ached. And for the first time in years, you didn’t hesitate.

You lifted a hand, pressing it over his where it still cupped your cheek.

"I've always loved you, Ominis," you said, voice steady, unshakable.

His breath hitched—his fingers tensed against your skin. His grip on your hand faltered for the smallest second, as though the weight of it, the truth of it, had knocked the air from his lungs.

And then Ominis laughed, soft and disbelieving, shaky and full of something like wonder, like relief, like everything.

And then he kissed you.

It wasn’t polite. It wasn’t chaste. It wasn’t the careful, reserved gesture of a man bred for propriety.

It was a collision, a reckoning, years of longing and regret and unspoken words crashing together in one devastating, breathtaking moment.

Ominis kissed you like a drowning man breaking the surface, like you were the only thing tethering him to this earth, like he had spent years starving for something he had convinced himself he would never taste again.

His hands, usually so composed, were firm, desperate—one cradling your jaw as if to hold you exactly where he needed you, the other splaying against the small of your back, pulling you impossibly close.

And you melted.

The world around you erupted.

The bride screamed.

A high, piercing sound, raw with rage, with betrayal, with pure, unhinged fury.

Another voice—sharper, colder—cut through the chaos, filled with absolute horror. His mother.

"Ominis Gaunt, what in Merlin’s name do you think you are doing?!"

Pandemonium.

Gasps, shouts, the rustling of expensive fabric as guests stood, as scandalized pure-blooded aristocrats lost all sense of composure. The officiant took a stumbling step back, as if physically recoiling from the disaster unraveling before him. Somewhere, a woman swooned, and a man cursed under his breath.

It was chaos.

But you didn’t care. Because Ominis didn’t care.

He didn’t stop. Didn’t falter. If anything, the noise, the outrage, the sheer catastrophe unfolding around you only made him hold you tighter. Only made him deepen the kiss, parting his lips against yours in a way that made your knees buckle, that sent your fingers flying to clutch at the lapels of his suit, holding on to him for dear life.

He tasted like desperation and devotion, like every word he had never spoken, like every moment that had led to this one, like forever.

And all around you, the world was collapsing, and you could hear it—

Movement.

The rustling of fabric, hurried, frantic. The clambering of shoes against stone. Someone—his mother, the bride, maybe both—running toward you.

A furious, sharp inhale. A gasp of outrage.

And then—

A hand.

Firm, unrelenting, gripping your shoulder.

Before you could even react, before you could turn to see who had reached for you, there was a sharp pull, and the universe twisted, folding in on itself, pulling you through space, through time, through everything.

And then, just as suddenly as it had started, it stopped.

You were somewhere else.

It took a second for your mind to catch up, to register your surroundings. The scent of damp earth. The distant hum of insects. The soft rustle of trees swaying in the wind.

Feldcroft.

And Sebastian was there, standing just a few feet away, arms crossed, an entirely too pleased expression stretched across his face.

“Well," He exhaled, shaking his head. "That was dramatic.”

You blinked, dazed.

Ominis's hands were still on you—one at your waist, fingers firm and unyielding, the other curled at the back of your neck. His chest rose and fell against yours, his breath still uneven, still chasing the moment, still catching up to everything that had just happened.

Sebastian let out a low whistle, looking between the two of you with the kind of slow-spreading smirk that made your stomach drop. He was enjoying this.

“Merlin,” he mused, rocking back on his heels. “I knew you had it in you, mate, but I didn’t think you’d actually do it.”

Ominis exhaled, sharp and slow, the ghost of disbelief still clinging to the breath. He had done it. He had walked away from everything—his family’s expectations, his carefully arranged future, the life he had been forced into.

All for you.

The realization struck like lightning, burning through your veins, stealing the breath from your lungs.

His mother was going to kill him. And the bride—dear god—

Ominis had just dismantled years of pure-blood tradition in the span of a single moment, and the fallout would be absolute.

But as his grip on you tightened—just barely, just enough to remind you that he was here—you realized something else.

He didn’t regret it. Not for a second.

He took a slow, steadying breath, then finally—finally—turned his head in Sebastian’s direction.

"I suppose you're expecting me to thank you for that little apparition stunt," he said, his voice still a little rough at the edges.

Sebastian’s grin widened. "I’d prefer a heartfelt speech about how I saved your arse, but I’ll settle for the knowledge that I just witnessed one of the greatest pure-blood scandals in recent history.”

Ominis scoffed—something that might have been amusement, might have been exasperation.

And then he turned back to you.

The shift was immediate. The teasing, the aftermath, the lingering humor between friends—all of it faded, leaving only the space between you, heavy with everything that had just unraveled.

Ominis still hadn’t let go.

His fingers twitched against your waist. His other hand, still resting at the nape of your neck, curled slightly, as if reacquainting itself with the shape of you. His head tilted, his lips parting just slightly, as though there were words on the edge of them, waiting, hesitating.

And you knew.

You knew what he was thinking.

What now?

You had shattered his carefully built world in a matter of minutes. He had destroyed everything that had been set in stone for him. And now, here you both stood, at the precipice of something entirely new, something undefined, something terrifying and exhilarating and real.

Sebastian, sensing the shift, sighed dramatically. “Right, well, I can see I’m no longer needed here.” He turned on his heel, taking a few steps toward the cottage before pausing. “Just don’t shag in my childhood home, yeah? I’d really rather not have to burn it down.”

Ominis didn’t even dignify that with a response.

Sebastian laughed under his breath, gave you a knowing look, then disappeared down the path, whistling as he went.

And then, it was just the two of you.

Alone.

Ominis let out a long, slow breath.

Eight years.

Eight years since he last saw you. Since the moment he convinced himself he’d never see you again. Since you disappeared from his life with nothing but silence left in your wake.

His grip tightened, fingers curling ever so slightly against you, as if he was afraid you might slip away again.

“You never wrote me back,” he said, voice quieter now, roughened at the edges. “Not once.”

You swallowed, throat tightening, a fresh wave of emotion crashing over you. “Ominis—”

“No,” he cut you off, a sharp exhale betraying the control he was desperately clinging to. “No, let me—” He broke off, shaking his head, voice dropping lower. “Let me say this before I lose my nerve.”

You nodded, pulse thrumming in your ears, watching as his expression twisted with something raw, something fragile.

“I wrote you,” he continued, softer now. “I wrote you for years. And I know you wrote to the others. Sebastian, Imelda, even Garreth, for Merlin’s sake. But never me.” His fingers flexed at your waist. “Why?”

Your breath caught in your throat. You had braced for this. You had known, even in the haze of everything that had just unraveled, that this moment would come.

You shut your eyes for a brief second, gathering yourself, trying to steady the tremor in your voice. “Because I thought you… God, Ominis, I was in love with you.” The confession tumbled out, raw and unpolished, your throat tightening around the words. “And I didn’t think you felt the same. I couldn’t—” Your breath hitched, and you forced yourself to go on. “I couldn’t handle it anymore. Every day, being near you, pretending I was fine when all I wanted was—” A sharp, shaking inhale. “It was easier to run. To disappear. To… to hide.”

Ominis made a sound—half choked, half incredulous—a sharp, disbelieving exhale that might have been a bitter laugh if not for the rawness in it. “Are you serious? You thought I—?” He let out a shaky breath and pulled back just enough to search your face, his touch firm but hesitant, as if afraid you might vanish again. “You were everything to me.”

The world around you shrank to nothing. It was just him, just the storm in his voice, the years of pain in his expression, the way his carefully composed mask had finally, finally cracked.

You could barely breathe. “Ominis...”

A muscle in his jaw jumped. “You really mean to tell me—” He let out a slow, shaky breath. “You left because you thought I didn’t love you?”

A lump rose in your throat.

"Yes."

His expression changed then—shifting from disbelief to something devastatingly open, as though every wall he had ever put up had crumbled all at once. No careful detachment. No measured control. Just him, stripped bare.

“Eight years.” His voice was barely more than a whisper, hoarse with something you couldn’t name. “I spent eight years convincing myself you were happy without me. That I was a fool to still be in love with you.”

Your breath stilled in your chest, the weight of his words sinking in all at once. “You—?”

“Yes.” The answer came without hesitation. No hesitation at all. “I loved you then. I love you now. I never stopped.” His fingers curled ever so slightly against you, like he was trying to ground himself in this moment. “And all this time, I thought you—” He swallowed, shaking his head, voice breaking on the last words. “I never knew.”

Your stomach twisted painfully.

For eight years, you thought you had carried this heartache alone.

But so had he.

Ominis had spent these past eight years thinking the same thing. That you didn’t love him. That you didn’t want him.

The weight of it crashed down on you all at once, stealing the breath from your lungs. Your fingers tightened against his jacket, as if holding onto him could somehow anchor you, could somehow make up for all the time you had lost.

Eight years. Eight wasted years.

“Ominis,” you finally managed, but the sound of his name wasn’t enough to contain everything you felt. The love. The grief. The aching realization of what you both had done to yourselves, to each other.

“Say it again,” he murmured, voice low, barely more than a breath between you.

Your brows furrowed. “What?”

“That you loved me.” His fingers flexed, tightening where they rested at your waist, and you felt it—the desperation, the need. “Say it.”

Your throat tightened, and you lifted your gaze to his, knowing exactly what he was asking.

Not just for the past, but for now. For the truth that still remained, untouched by time.

You swallowed hard. “I loved you.” A shaky breath. “I love you.”

Ominis let out a soft, broken sound, like something inside him had finally snapped. Before you could even think, he moved.

His hands framed your face, and then his lips were on yours again.

Unlike the desperate, heated clash of lips from the wedding—a collision of years of tension and aching grief, unpolished and frantic—this was something else entirely. This was slow. Purposeful. Reverent.

Ominis kissed you like he was memorizing you. Like he was tracing the contours of something long lost, something he never thought he’d have again.

His fingers moved, skimming along your jaw, tilting your face just so, allowing him to deepen the kiss in slow, measured increments. No rush. No desperation. Just the quiet, unshakable truth of what had always been there between you.

You sighed against his lips, and he responded with a quiet, content hum, the sound reverberating through you like a tether, like a promise. His thumb brushed your cheek, featherlight, as if to reassure himself that this moment was real—that you were here, in his arms, not a cruel trick of his imagination.

He broke away only for a breath, just long enough to rest his forehead against yours, his breathing uneven, his hands still cradling your face like something fragile and precious.

“I can’t believe it,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper, filled with awe, with wonder.

You let out a shaky laugh. “Believe it.”

He swallowed hard, his lips hovering close to yours, as if he couldn’t quite bring himself to part from you. “I’ve spent so long dreaming of this.” A pause. “Of you.”

Your heart clenched at the quiet confession, at the raw tenderness in his voice.

“I’m here now,” you whispered. “And I’m not leaving again.”

Something in his expression shifted then, something profound and unguarded. His hands slid from your face, down to your waist, pulling you just that much closer until there was no space left between you. His lips brushed against yours once more—not demanding, not desperate, but full of quiet devotion, the kind that made your knees weak, the kind that felt like home.

His arms wrapped around you fully now, enveloping you in his warmth, his breath fanning against your cheek as he pressed a lingering kiss to your temple. “Good,” he whispered, his voice soft but firm. “Because I wouldn’t let you.”

A small, breathless laugh escaped you, but it dissolved into nothing as he kissed you again, slow and sure, as if he had all the time in the world to make up for every missed moment.

And maybe—just maybe—you did.

[acute-crashout-jeyuso]

6WITCH: Jey x Rhea x Damian fanfic.

Chapter One: The Afterglow

The suite smelled like fresh laundry, faint cologne, and alcohol. The remnants of their WrestleMania celebration were scattered across the marble countertops—half-empty beer bottles, an open bottle of vodka, and their personal objects like wallets and key cards. The weight of their victories still hung in the air, inviting and intoxicating, but not quite enough to shake the exhaustion settling into their muscles.

Rhea Ripley stretched out on the couch, legs crossed beneath her, clad in nothing but an oversized band tee and a pair of loose pajama shorts. The adrenaline from the night was finally wearing off, but the glow of her undisputed victory hadn’t dulled one bit. Two championship belts lay beside her, catching the dim hotel lighting, a reminder that she had everything she’d ever wanted.

Jey Uso sat across from her, shirtless, his freshly crowned World Heavyweight Championship resting on the coffee table in front of him. He was still riding the high of the night, of finally proving that he could stand alone and hold the gold to show for it. His grin hadn’t faded since the moment he walked through the curtain, still buzzing from the roar of the crowd, from the feel of his hand being raised in victory.

Damian Priest leaned against the arm of the couch, his Intercontinental Championship slung lazily over his shoulder. He had a beer in one hand, the other lazily tapping against his knee, his long frame stretched out as if he had nothing left to prove—but they all knew this night meant everything to him.

“Man…” Jey exhaled, shaking his head with a smirk as he raised his beer toward the others. “Y’all realize what we just did?”

Rhea smirked, grabbing her vodka glass and clinking it against his. “We made history.”

Damian chuckled, the deep rumble of it filling the space between them. “We fucking ran that show.”

They laughed, the kind of laugh that came from exhaustion, pride, and just enough alcohol to make everything feel a little lighter.

“Crazy how it all lined up like that,” Jey mused, taking a slow sip of his drink. “Three of us. Three victories. Same night.”

“It was fate,” Rhea teased, arching a brow at him as she leaned back.

Jey tilted his head, studying her with the kind of lazy amusement that came from years of knowing her. “You believe in all that?”

Rhea shrugged, twirling the glass in her fingers. “I believe in shit happening for a reason.”

Damian hummed in agreement. “Tonight felt like the start of something.” His voice was lower now, thoughtful.

A beat passed between them.

Rhea felt it first. That unspoken shift. The kind that had always been there but had never been acknowledged. It was in the way Jey looked at her—no different than before, yet somehow heavier. In the way Damian took another slow sip of his beer, watching her over the rim of the bottle like he was considering something he’d never let himself before.

Maybe it was the alcohol. Maybe it was the high of their victories. Maybe it was the fact that no one else was around, that there were no cameras, no locker room politics, no outside noise. Just them.

Whatever it was, it made the air feel different.

Rhea stretched, adjusting her seat on the couch, fully aware of the way both men’s eyes briefly flickered to the movement before they looked away. “Y’know,” she said, shifting the mood again, “I don’t think I’ve ever felt this… untouchable.”

Jey smirked. “Like a final boss.”

“Like a fucking queen,” Damian corrected, and the way he said it sent a slow chill up Rhea’s spine.

She lifted her drink in a mock toast. “To being the best in the business.”

Jey clinked his beer bottle against hers. “To owning this shit.”

Damian knocked his bottle against theirs, voice dropping into something lower, more intent. “To the three of us.”

They drank, the silence stretching just a little too long afterward.

Something about tonight felt different.

And none of them knew what that meant yet.

Jey’s phone vibrated, breaking the quiet moment in the room. He grabbed it, his face already contorting into a playful grimace as he saw the message from Jon.

“Yo, you sure you’re not coming? Trinity’s really looking forward to it.”

Jey snorted and typed back, “Nah, I’m good. With Damian and Rhea tonight.”

His finger hovered over the send button for a moment before he pressed it, rolling his eyes as he saw the response: a big, annoyed face emoji.

Damian caught the shift in Jey’s expression, his eyes narrowing as he set his beer down on the table. “You need to just let loose for a bit, man,” Damian said, his voice calm but firm, like he was giving Jey a gentle shove in the right direction.

Jey looked at him, a hint of amusement and frustration playing on his face. “It’s not that simple, bro. It’s Jon. He thinks I’m ditching him.”

“How about we do something to get your mind off of it?”

Rhea, who had been quietly watching the exchange, leaned forward from the couch with a mischievous grin. “Hell yeah, you wanna play a game? Maybe that’ll get your mind out of it for a while.”

Jey’s lips twitched into a smile as he looked at her, feeling the weight of the tension start to melt away. “A game, huh?” he said, his voice lightening. “You think that’ll do the trick?”

Damian raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “What kind of game we talking about here?”

Rhea stood up from the couch, walking over to her bag with a smirk. “I’ve got a couple of options. Hold on.” She rummaged through it for a moment, pulling out two boxes. “Uno Dare Adults Only, or good ol’ Candyland.”

Jey and Damian exchanged a look, both of them silently processing the options. Jey was the first to speak up, raising an eyebrow. “Candyland? You seriously wanna play a kiddie game right now?”

Damian chuckled but wasn’t dismissing the idea. “Candyland sounds… cute,” he said sarcastically, still unsure if he wanted to get into a sugar-coated game.

But Rhea wasn’t having it. She slid the Candyland box aside and held up the other one triumphantly. “Uno Dare Adults Only. Now, this… this could be fun.”

Damian’s head tilted, his curiosity piqued. “What’s Uno Dare Adults Only? Like, extra wild? Is it… like Uno but with a twist?”

Rhea’s eyes lit up with amusement as she sat back down on the couch, holding the box in her hands like it was a treasure. “Oh, it’s wild alright,” she said, leaning forward, her voice lowering to a conspiratorial whisper. “You draw cards, and they make you do stuff. Some stuff’s harmless, like dancing or singing. Others… well, let’s just say there are some challenges that’ll test how far you’re willing to go.”

Jey laughed, shaking his head. “Sounds like a mess.” He gave a playful glance at Damian, who was already smirking.

“Exactly,” Damian said, his eyes glinting with interest. “You sure this is what you want, Rhea? I’m not scared.”

Rhea shrugged nonchalantly, but there was an edge to her voice. “You’ll see. It’s fun. Trust me.”

The challenge hung in the air as Jey and Damian exchanged a glance, both of them intrigued by what was coming next. Jey’s mood had lightened significantly since they’d started talking, but he could feel the tension from earlier still lingering in the back of his mind. The idea of letting loose, of shaking off all the responsibilities that weighed on him, felt more and more appealing.

“Alright, I’m in,” Jey finally said, his tone playful. “Let’s do it.”

Damian leaned back, stretching his arms behind his head. “Well, now that we’ve got the party started, let’s see what kind of trouble we can get into.”

Rhea grinned, her fingers expertly opening the box and spreading the cards out on the table. “I’ll go first,” she said, pulling a card with a smirk. “I dare… Jey.”

Jey looked at her, intrigued. “What’s the dare?”

She waved the card slightly in front of him. “You have to do five push-ups right now. In front of us. No cheating.”

Jey raised an eyebrow, a small grin tugging at his lips. “Alright, you’re on.”

Damian laughed, clearly entertained by the sudden shift in energy. “This is gonna be a fun night,” he muttered to himself as he leaned back, watching the playful challenge unfold.

Jey dropped to the floor and started his push-ups, each one punctuated by a light chuckle as Rhea and Damian cheered him on. The room was filled with laughter, the sound of their playful banter echoing off the walls.

The game was just beginning, but for Jey, Damian, and Rhea, the night felt like the perfect opportunity to forget everything else—even for just a little while. It was a moment of escape, where the weight of their victories, their struggles, and their responsibilities could be left at the door.

And just for tonight, they could just be themselves—no pressure, no expectations. Just three people enjoying each other’s company.

Jey finished his last push-up, smirking as he stood back up, flexing just a little for effect. “That was too easy,” he teased, reaching for his beer. “You gotta do better than that, Rhea.”

Rhea rolled her eyes but grinned, shuffling the deck. “Alright, big shot, let’s see if you’re still talking when things get real.” She pulled another card, her eyes scanning over it before a slow, devious smile spread across her lips. “Damian, you’re up.”

Damian sat up straighter, intrigued. “Hit me with it.”

Rhea read the dare aloud, her voice dripping with mischief. “You have to kiss the person to your left.”

All three of them froze for a brief second before their gazes flickered between each other. Jey was to Damian’s left.

Jey’s eyebrows shot up as he leaned back. “Ayo.”

Damian let out a deep chuckle, clearly amused. “Damn, Rhea. You really tryna make things weird?”

Rhea shrugged, feigning innocence. “Hey, I didn’t make the rules. The deck did.”

Jey narrowed his eyes at her. “You picked this game on purpose.”

“Maybe.”

Damian ran a hand through his hair, shaking his head with a grin. “You good, Uce? Or you tapping out?”

Jey exhaled, then downed a sip of his beer before shrugging. “Man, it’s just a game.”

Damian smirked. “That’s the spirit.”

With an exaggerated sense of dramatics, Damian leaned in, pressing a quick peck to Jey’s cheek. The second it happened, Rhea burst into laughter, Jey wiped at his cheek with mock disgust, and Damian leaned back, looking unbothered.

“There. Done,” Damian said, popping the cap off another beer. “Now gimme my damn turn.”

Rhea was still laughing as she handed him the deck. “Fine, fine. Pick your dare, big guy.”

Damian pulled a card and glanced at it, then slowly lifted his eyes toward Rhea. His lips curled into something almost sinister. “Oh, this one’s perfect. Rhea, you have to sit on Jey’s lap for the next three rounds.”

Rhea’s laughter immediately died in her throat. “Wait, hold on—”

Jey nearly choked on his drink. “Bruh.”

Damian waggled the card at her. “Hey, I don’t make the rules. The deck does.” He threw her words right back at her.

Rhea stared at him, then at Jey, who was still looking like he wasn’t sure whether to be amused or concerned. “That’s… a long time,” she muttered.

“You scared, champ?” Damian taunted.

Rhea scoffed. “Please.”

Damian gestured toward Jey’s lap. “Then go ahead.”

Jey sat back, one hand running down his face. “Man, this game is wild.”

Rhea took a deep breath, then moved over, settling herself onto Jey’s lap like it was no big deal. She was lightweight against him, but the shift in atmosphere was undeniable.

Jey tried to play it cool, resting his arms on the back of the couch. “Alright. Next round.”

Damian pulled another card, his smirk only growing. “Oh, you really gonna love this one.”

The night was only getting started, and the dares were getting worse by the second.

Jey could feel the heat of Rhea’s body against his, and if he said it didn’t affect him, he’d be lying. He kept his hands to himself, though, keeping his arms stretched along the couch as if the distance would somehow help. But he could see the way she would slightly shift, her round backside brushing up against him, he wouldn’t sit here and lie: but he had to admit, he always wanted to see how Rhea took it from the back.

Damian, on the other hand, was thriving on the beginning sexual tension, his smirk widening as he glanced at his new card. “Alright, Jey,” he announced, his voice laced with mischief. “Your turn, Uce.”

Jey exhaled, already knowing this was about to be some bullshit. “Let’s hear it.”

Damian tilted the card toward the dim hotel lighting, his eyes scanning the text. Then he chuckled. “You have to whisper something dirty in Rhea’s ear.”

The air in the suite shifted.

Rhea stiffened slightly on Jey’s lap, and his entire body tensed beneath her. Even Damian—who had been enjoying pushing the limits—was now leaning back, watching how this played out.

Jey ran a hand down his face. “Bruh. What kinda—”

“Hey,” Damian interrupted, holding up the card with mock innocence. “The deck makes the rules.”

Rhea cleared her throat, glancing at Jey. “We can just drink instead,” she offered. “Skip it.”

Jey’s eyes flicked between her and Damian, then down at his drink. The alcohol was already humming in his system, making his usual inhibitions a little duller than they should’ve been.

Finally, he leaned in, his lips brushing against the shell of Rhea’s ear.

“I been thinking ‘bout this all night,” he murmured low enough that only she could hear. “You sittin’ on me like this? Makes me want to see that ass bounce on my dick.”

A slow shiver ran down Rhea’s spine, and she exhaled shakily, gripping the edge of her shorts. She wasn’t sure if it was the vodka, the atmosphere, or the fact that Jey’s voice in her ear had done something to her, but she felt a warmth creep up her neck.

Jey leaned back, as if nothing had happened, his face unreadable.

Rhea swallowed, her mouth suddenly dry. “Uh… next round?”

Damian, for once, seemed genuinely taken aback before recovering with a slow, knowing smirk. “Damn, okay,” he muttered, shuffling the deck.

But he wasn’t done stirring the pot just yet.

He drew his next card and raised an eyebrow. “Oh, this one’s a good one,” he said, his voice slow and deliberate. “Rhea… you have to kiss someone in this room. And it ain’t specify where.”

Rhea’s heart jumped in her chest.

Jey’s jaw twitched.

Damian tilted his head, waiting. “So, champ… who’s it gonna be?”

Rhea drummed her fingers against her thigh, eyes flicking between Jey and Damian. The weight of the dare pressed against her like a loaded gun, daring her to pull the trigger.

The vodka burned in her veins, clouding her hesitation. It was just a game. Just another round. Nothing more.

Right?

Damian watched her with that same amused smirk, but there was something unreadable in his dark eyes—like he was testing her, waiting to see what she’d do.

Jey, on the other hand, was tense beneath her. His jaw was clenched, arms still stretched along the back of the couch like he was forcing himself to stay relaxed. But she could feel it. The shift in his breathing. The way his muscles coiled under her.

Rhea exhaled, slow and steady, before making her decision.

She turned to Damian first.

He barely had time to react before she leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to the sharp line of his jaw. It was quick, barely lingering, but it was enough to send a wave of heat through the room.

When she pulled back, Damian let out a low chuckle, rubbing the spot she’d kissed. “Damn, that’s all I get?”

Rhea smirked. “You didn’t say where, papi.”

Damian laughed, shaking his head. “Fair enough.”

But Jey hadn’t said a word.

Rhea turned her head slightly, catching the way his fingers flexed against the couch. His expression was unreadable, but the heat in his eyes was impossible to ignore.

The air was now filled with something that hadn’t been there before.

Jey exhaled sharply through his nose, then reached for his beer, taking a long sip before setting it down with a soft clink. “Next round,” he muttered.

Damian, ever the instigator, grabbed the deck, clearly enjoying the tension. “Alright, let’s keep the energy up.”

He pulled another card, reading it with a wicked grin.

“Oh, this is perfect,” he said, dragging out the word. He looked between Jey and Rhea like he’d just been handed front-row seats to his own personal drama.

“Jey,” Damian continued. “You gotta bite Rhea. Anywhere you want.”

Rhea’s breath hitched.

Jey’s fingers twitched against his knee.

The room was too hot now, too small.

Damian leaned back, sipping his beer, watching them like a man who had set fire to something just to see how it would burn.

“So, Uce,” he said, his grin widening. “You gonna do it or be a chicken?”

Jey’s grip on his beer tightened, his knuckles flexing around the bottle as Damian’s taunts echoed between them.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought.” Damian smirked, leaning back like he had all the time in the world. “Jey ain’t gonna do it. Man’s all talk.”

Rhea could feel Jey’s body tighten beneath her, his breath exhaling through his nose slow and controlled—but the way his fingers curled against his thigh gave him away.

Damian wasn’t done. He was never done.

“Ain’t nothing wrong with it, Uce.” Damian shrugged, the wicked glint in his eye making it clear he was enjoying every second of this. “Some people just ain’t built for the heat.”

Rhea swallowed, shifting slightly. The air in the room was shifting again, stretching that invisible wire between them so tight it was bound to snap.

Jey stayed silent, his lips pressed into a thin line. But the challenge in Damian’s words—some people just ain’t built for the heat—hung between them like smoke.

Jey wasn’t the type to back down.

He never had been.

Without a word, he adjusted Rhea to face him, his hands suddenly on her hips, firm and possessive, grounding her. The shift was so sudden that she barely had time to react before she felt the heat of his body pressing closer.

Her breath stilled.

The weight of his stare burned into her, dark and unreadable, the kind of look that made her chest tighten and her stomach twist.

And then, Jey moved.

It was slow—so slow it was agonizing—the way he dipped his head toward her, his lips barely grazing the skin of her shoulder. It was deliberate, teasing, every fraction of movement dragging out the tension until it was nearly unbearable.

Rhea’s fingers twitched against her thigh, her skin burning from the proximity, from the warmth of his breath ghosting over her.

Then—he bit her.

It wasn’t soft.

It wasn’t hesitant.

It was firm, just enough pressure to make her body jolt, to make her fingers dig into his forearm. It sent a shiver straight through her, sharp and electric, curling in her gut like a slow-building fire.

Jey didn’t pull away immediately.

He lingered.

His teeth stayed pressed against her skin for a beat too long, just enough to make her thighs squeeze together involuntarily. His breath was hot against her collarbone, his grip on her hips tightening like he was anchoring himself.

Rhea felt dizzy.

The vodka was one thing, but this—this was something else entirely.

Finally, finally, Jey pulled back, his lips barely brushing over the spot he’d just bitten before he leaned away, his expression unreadable.

Rhea exhaled shakily, her pulse roaring in her ears. She thought of Jey, a whole bunch of thoughts running through her brain at a million miles per hour. She slowly lifted herself off Jey and that’s when he saw it: a slight wetness through her pajamas shorts and his growing erection.

The room felt different now.

The game had changed.

And Damian, always the devil on their shoulders, let out a low, appreciative whistle.

“Well, shit.” He chuckled, dragging his tongue over his bottom lip. “Didn’t think you had it in you, Uce.”

Jey grabbed his beer and took a slow sip, still not saying a damn word. He didn’t even look at Damian when he muttered, “Shut up.”

Rhea swallowed hard, her skin still tingling, still burning.

Damian was watching them both now, eyes flicking between them, his smirk deepening.

“Oh, this is about to be real interesting,” he murmured, amusement dripping from every word.

Rhea’s skin still burned where Jey had bit her, the memory of his teeth lingering like a ghost of something unfinished. Jey, for his part, looked unbothered, but she wasn’t fooled. The way his thumb absentmindedly tapped against his beer bottle told her everything. They were toeing a line none of them had acknowledged out loud.

“Player on your right has to kiss both players in the game for a full ten seconds.”

The silence stretched.

Jey was on Damian’s right.

Rhea was on Jey’s right.

Rhea’s breath hitched.

Jey exhaled slowly, his fingers tightening around his bottle before he set it down.

Rhea didn’t move.

She should have made a joke, maybe tossed in some smartass comment to cut the tension, but she couldn’t. Not when she could feel Jey’s hesitation, not when she could see the way Damian was watching him, waiting.

Waiting to see if he’d actually do it.

Jey’s jaw flexed.

And then—he made his decision.

He turned to Rhea first.

His movements were slow, hesitant almost. A silent warning, a question that hung in the space between them. He was giving her time to stop this, to tell him no.

She didn’t.

Instead, she tilted her chin up ever so slightly, a silent invitation.

Jey moved in.

The second their lips met, it was like a the wire snapped—months of pent up frustration, of lingering touches and stolen glances, igniting into something scorching.

Jey kissed her like he had something to prove, like he was claiming her, one hand cupping her jaw, the other fisting into the hem of her pajama top, as if holding himself back.

Rhea barely had time to process the heat of it before it was over.

Jey pulled back, his breath uneven.

The moment barely had time to settle before he turned toward Damian.

If there was hesitation in Jey before, it was gone now.

Damian held his gaze, his expression unreadable, but there was something beneath it—something dark, something expectant.

And when Jey finally closed the distance, Damian met him halfway.

This kiss was different.

Slower.

Deeper.

Like they were testing the weight of it, feeling the edges of something neither of them had ever dared to touch before.

Damian was the one who broke it, his teeth catching Jey’s bottom lip before he pulled back, smirking. “Didn’t think you’d actually do it, Uce,” he murmured.

“Man, shut the fuck up.”

Jey never realized how loud silence could be until now.

It filled the hotel suite like a fog, settling in the spaces between them. He could still feel it—the heat of Rhea’s lips, the way Damian tasted like vodka, the weight of the choice they had just made without saying a damn word.

And now?

Now, the spell was broken by a knock at the door.

“Room service!”

Jey blinked, his mind taking a second too long to process what was happening. Then it hit him. His burger. The one he ordered over an hour ago, back when things were still simple—before dares, before lines blurred, before he felt the weight of two different mouths on his.

He stood up, rubbing a hand over his jaw as he made his way to the door. It felt weird to move, like he wasn’t fully back in his body yet… partially because his crouch area was tight. He cracked his neck, inhaled deep, then opened the door.

A hotel worker stood there, a polite smile on his face, holding a tray. “Here you are, sir.”

Jey nodded, slipping him a tip and taking the tray without another word. The smell of hot fries and grilled beef should have made his stomach growl, but all it did was remind him how far they’d strayed from normal.

He shut the door and turned back to the couch.

Rhea was still curled up in the corner, her legs tucked under her, fingers toying with the hem of her shirt. She wasn’t looking at him, not really—her gaze kept flickering between him and Damian, like she was waiting for someone to say something first.

Damian, on the other hand, was stretched out, the muscle tank doing nothing to hide the lazy confidence in his posture. He dragged a hand through his hair, letting out a short chuckle. “Damn. Forgot you even ordered that.”

Jey shrugged. “Had other shit on my mind.”

The weight of those words sat between them.

He placed the tray on the table, lifting the silver dome to reveal a perfectly cooked burger, crispy fries on the side. He should eat. Should focus on something normal.

But normal had left the room a long time ago.

Jey picked up a fry, rolling it between his fingers before popping it into his mouth. He chewed slowly, watching as Damian’s smirk deepened.

“So,” Damian drawled, his voice low, teasing, but laced with something else. “We just gonna pretend that didn’t happen?”

Rhea let out a soft breath through her nose, her fingers still playing with the hem of her shirt. “You wanna pretend it didn’t?” she asked, her voice quieter than usual.

Jey’s stomach twisted—not from nerves, but from the weight of knowing there was no going back now.

He swallowed, set his burger down, and leaned back against the couch. His fingers drummed against his thigh, his mind racing through a million different outcomes.

Then, finally, he spoke.

“Nah.” His voice was rough. Honest.

He met Rhea’s gaze first, then Damian’s.

They all knew.

They all felt it.

For a moment, the weight of their unsaid thoughts lingered between them, the room was charged. None of them wanted to be the first to move, to break whatever fragile tension still hung in the air.

Then Rhea stretched, slow and deliberate, pushing off the couch with ease. The oversized pajama shirt she wore draped over her frame, teasing the curve of her thighs as she stood. She ran a hand through her hair, exhaling like she was trying to clear her head.

“I’m gonna go to my room,” she murmured, voice smooth, unreadable.

Jey’s eyes flickered up to her, something unreadable in his stare. Damian, lounging against the couch, traced the rim of his vodka glass with his finger, watching her just as intently.

They knew what this was.

She walked toward the bedroom door, fingers curling around the handle. The soft click of the latch echoed in the quiet room as she pulled it open, but before stepping inside, she turned back.

Rhea’s lips curved into the slightest smirk, eyes flicking between the two men still seated on the couch.

“Bed is big enough for three.”

A breeze rolled in through the cracked window, stirring the air.

Neither Jey nor Damian spoke, but the shift was instant. Jey’s grip tightened against his knee, his jaw flexing. Damian, always the more openly reckless of the two, let out a low hum, a knowing smirk playing at his lips.

Rhea held their gazes for another beat, her smirk widening just slightly before she turned on her heel, stepping inside and leaving the door open behind her.

The invitation lingered.

Jey exhaled through his nose, shaking his head slightly as if trying to steady himself. Damian was already watching him, sharp amusement flickering behind his dark eyes.

“Well, Uce?” Damian murmured, voice low, edged with challenge.

Jey dragged a hand down his face, but there was no denying the way his body had already made the decision before his mind could catch up.

Without a word, he stood.

Damian smirked and followed.

[lifenconcepts]

HEY, Angel !!

Would you care as to describe your experience? I think not enough hear on just how varied and interesting we are, and it would be great to scroll through reblogs of a single post and be able to find those with similar experiences/feelings.

feel free to write whatever but if you would like some prompts:

Have you noticed the world seem more beautiful/peaceful since you’ve found yourself?

How do you feel about gender? Or having a name? Or attraction as a whole? Is it tied to more mortal instincts, or do you still have some essence of it?

How do you feel like you physically look? Do you have any preferences in form? Would you change the way you are perceived if you could - and into what?

How does your day get affected due to your mystical self?

Do you incorporate this sense of self in your hobbies / behaviours?

What does being an Angel or being of divine/holy nature mean to you? Do you consider yourself born here, a newly created angel, or one which has been around for a long time? Do you have any thoughts as to why you were assigned human at birth?

How much sense of “human”ness do you feel, and do you see yourself as equal to humans, something more, or like a watcher of life around you?

Do you feel like you have some higher purpose and reasoning of being here? A meaning of life, if you will call it that.

Do you have any religious connotations tied to your identity?

How did you come to realise who you were, and what signs did you exhibit prior to knowing this?

Do you have any other ‘uncommon’ bits of self apart from being a being of light, in a way? (Therian, otherkin, interests in specific things, neurodivergencies?) YOU DONT HAVE TO ANSWER THIS IF YOU DONT WANT TO!!

What’s your favourite thing about the bodily experience of being on earth? Is there any sensation you really like? (Taste, smell, touch, feeling, etc)

Would you prefer to be in another dimension? Do your senses feel dulled?

What’s your stance on mortality and topics tied to that? Do you believe in reincarnation/past lives/fate/destiny/divine intervention/guardian angels/ghosts/heaven & hell/god/meaning of life?

Would you enjoy if others treated you as some highly being and brought you offerings/treated you like a god/submit to you/worked for you?

What’s your stance on the community?

How do you interpret existence - how does it all seem to feel and what do you take away from it, like.. what do you live for? Do you have a sense of some ideal where the more you experience the higher you will achieve? Do you crave something out of life?

Do you have a ‘gut instinct/feeling’ and has it ever been scarily accurate to the point there could be no other possible explanation other than something holy?

Do you believe you are blessed and/or protected by some invisible force?

Where do you believe angels also show themselves? Are they in those stray rays of light of headlights, do they exist in the bite marks of a wounded animal’s form, is it within the ripples of the water, in the breath of the tree that takes in the wine, in the chill upon a high mountain - or is divinity everywhere?

Do you fear people don’t understand you well enough? Don’t understand us? Have you ever felt like doing something about it?

do you feel bored from these questions already - did you enjoy it- would you like more? Did I give you satisfaction? I find joy through writing, it makes me personally feel incredibly divine, and there’s a calling to know more about other individuals in this mystical and extensive world.. we need to stick together - as a whole. Love eachother. Treat yourselves well, too. Do more of what makes you feel fulfilled and happy. There’s so much complexities to life, but we just gotta handle it all with our own minds - but treat your heart and soul with so much kindness and care.. please- take care of yourself. Find whatever works for you and live forever, my friend. My eternal, immortal friend..

[morgan-va]

CynSide (Cyn x GenderNeutral!Reader Oneshot)

Masterlist

I got home late, just like always. My feet ached, my shoulders were sore, and my hands still felt stiff from breaking down boxes all day. Stocking shelves wasn’t hard, not really, but it was exhausting in a way that settled into my bones, like I was rusting from the inside out. It didn’t help that the fluorescent lights at work buzzed just enough to get on my nerves, or that customers had an incredible talent for asking me the dumbest questions imaginable. No, ma’am, I don’t control the prices. No, sir, I don’t know why the soup was on sale last week but isn’t today.

I kicked my shoes off at the door, not caring where they landed, and shrugged off my jacket. Straight to the kitchen, just like always. I didn’t have the energy to cook, and I definitely wasn’t about to go back out for fast food. So, I grabbed a bag of pizza rolls from the freezer, ripped it open, and dumped way too many onto the tray of my air fryer. Maybe they wouldn’t cook evenly, but that was a problem for future me.

As I shoved the bag into the trash can, I felt the resistance of something already packed too tight. I tried again, this time forcing it in, but all that did was crumple the bag against the overflowing pile. Great. Just great.

With a sigh, I pulled the garbage bag out of the can, twisting the top shut before hoisting it over my shoulder like some kind of trash Santa. The apartment complex dumpsters weren’t that far, just down the stairs and around the side of the building, but it was enough of a hassle to make me regret putting this off for so long. I could’ve taken it out yesterday. Or the day before.

I made my way down the stairs, the garbage bag swinging slightly with each step, its weight shifting uncomfortably against my arm. The dumpster was just ahead, lit faintly by the buzzing and oddly neon yellow glow of a streetlamp. Almost there.

I hefted the bag up, ready to toss it over the side—

—and the bottom split open.

Garbage spilled out in a slow-motion horror show, tumbling onto the pavement in a heap of takeout containers, crumpled receipts, and whatever else I had shoved in there over the past week. I stared at the mess, my brain grinding to a halt as the reality of my situation settled in.

Just my luck.

I groaned and crouched down, grabbing a few of the less disgusting pieces of trash and chucking them into the dumpster. I wasn’t about to sit here and clean all of it up—just enough so that I didn’t feel like a complete degenerate leaving my mess behind. As I reached for another stray container, something caught my eye.

A glint of metal, barely visible beneath a couple of overstuffed garbage bags.

I froze, staring at the glimpse of dull metal peeking out from under the trash. It took a second for my brain to process what I was looking at, but once it clicked, my breath caught in my throat. That was a hand. A metal hand.

I hesitated for only a moment before yanking the garbage aside, my exhaustion momentarily forgotten. There, half-buried under discarded food containers and torn-up junk mail, was a drone.

Not just any drone, either.

A Worker Drone, her silver-blonde hair reflecting the dim glow of the streetlamp. She wore a maid dress, neat despite her unfortunate resting place, complete with a black bow at the collar. Her black thigh-high socks were still in place, though she was missing one of her shoes.

What the hell was she doing here?

Even as scrap, a drone like this was worth a fortune. Fully intact? That was practically unheard of. Someone must’ve thrown her out recently, because there wasn’t a single dent or scratch on her—at least, none that I could see in the dim light.

I glanced around, making sure no one else was lurking nearby, then quickly hopped inside the dumpster. My shoes landed in something I definitely didn’t want to think about, but I ignored it, pushing bags out of the way to free her completely.

“Okay, c’mon,” I muttered under my breath, carefully slipping my arms under her and lifting her out. She was lighter than I expected, more awkward than heavy. I propped her against the side of the dumpster for a moment, climbed out, then pulled her into my arms properly.

Screw my trash—this was way more important.

Keeping a tight grip on the drone, I hurried back toward my apartment, my heart pounding with something I couldn’t quite name. Anticipation? Excitement? Maybe a little bit of both.

One thing was for sure—tonight had just gotten a hell of a lot more interesting.

Adjusting my grip, I hoisted the drone up higher in my arms, but carrying her like this was awkward. She wasn’t heavy—surprisingly light, actually—but her arms and legs were limp, making her a pain to hold properly. After a second of thought, I crouched down and shifted her onto my back, hooking my arms under her legs in a makeshift piggyback carry. That was much easier.

Once I was sure she wouldn’t slide off, I made my way back upstairs without issue, pushing my apartment door open with my shoulder before stepping inside. I wasted no time setting her down in my desk chair and flipping on the light.

Now that I could properly see her, I took a step back and gave her a once-over.

She was in great condition. No scratches, no dents, no signs of damage anywhere. Her dull blonde hair, though a little messy, still gleamed under the light. Her maid dress was stained in a few spots—probably from the dumpster—but was otherwise intact. The only thing really missing was her shoe.

So why the hell was she thrown away?

Maybe she had some internal faults. A hardware failure, a software issue, something that made fixing her not worth the trouble. Or maybe someone had just tossed her out for the hell of it. Either way, I wasn’t about to let a perfectly good drone go to waste. Either she’d be worth a lot for scrap, or maybe I’d finally have an actual friend.

I turned to my computer, booting it up while rummaging through my desk drawer for a connection cable. My fingers dug into a mess of tangled wires, a congealed mass of chargers, USB cords, and adapters I had neglected to organize for years.

Sighing, I pulled out the entire tangled mess, chucked it at the wall, and watched as the impact miraculously separated them all.

Works every time.

I grabbed the correct cord, plugged one end into my computer, and slotted the other into the drone’s port, watching as my screen detected the connection. Time to put my overpriced college robotics classes to actual use.

A quick search brought me to JCJenson’s official website, where I found the Drone Diagnostic Program. I hit download, drumming my fingers on the desk as I waited.

Hopefully, this would tell me what was wrong with her—if anything.

Once the program finished downloading, I double-clicked the file to launch it. A bright, obnoxious JCJenson™ logo filled the screen before immediately being replaced by a wall of legal text that scrolled at a speed no human could possibly read. Probably intentional. At the bottom was a single button:

[Agree to Terms]

Well, they never actually hid anything important in those TOS agreements anyway. I clicked the button without a second thought and let the program do its thing.

A window popped up with some basic setup instructions:

Remove the rear plate from the drone’s head.

Hold the power button for five seconds.

Easy enough.

I turned back to the drone, gently tilting her head forward as I ran my fingers along the back of her skull. There was a small panel near the base, flush with the rest of the plating. I popped it off and found a tiny recessed power button inside. Pressing down, I held it for the required five seconds.

Almost immediately, a faint hum vibrated through her chassis, and her visor flickered to life. Yellow text scrolled across the screen:

Booting Sequence: 1%

I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. Looked like it was actually working.

The progress bar ticked up at a slow but steady pace, nothing to do now but let the system handle itself. I stretched my arms over my head, the exhaustion from work creeping back in now that the excitement had settled. A drink sounded good right about now.

Leaving the drone to do her thing, I walked over to the fridge, tugged it open, and grabbed a soda. Twisting the cap off with a satisfying hiss, I took a sip, letting the cold fizz wake me up a little.

Tonight had taken a turn I definitely wasn’t expecting.

As I walked back to the desk, the drone’s boot sequence hit 100%, and the diagnostic program kicked in automatically. A list of systems appeared on my screen, each one flashing bright red as they failed their checks.

Optics: DamagedServos: DamagedHeat Sink: Damaged

The errors kept piling up, row after row of critical failures. Jesus. No wonder she was in the dumpster—practically everything was wrecked. I sighed, rubbing the back of my neck. Well, at least the frame was intact. That had to be worth something.

The program was nearly done. I reached for the mouse, ready to exit and shut everything down, but just as my fingers closed around it, another diagnostic began running—

Operating System Check: IN PROGRESS

Huh. This one was different.

Unlike the others, it wasn’t instantly flagged as broken. The bar crept forward, checking each subsystem one by one, no red text in sight. Maybe her software was still functional? That would make salvaging her a lot easier.

I leaned in, watching as the progress bar inched closer and closer to completion.

97%... 98%... 99%...

100%.

The screen flickered violently, and for a brief moment, a strange symbol appeared—something jagged and unnatural. The lights overhead suddenly flared, growing impossibly bright, their hum turning into a sharp, almost alive buzz.

I barely had time to panic, attempting to pull the cord out of the drone, but a massive jolt of electricity shocked me, sending me reeling back against the desk.

Suddenly, darkness falls. The computer screen, the lights, everything—completely dead. The hum of electricity vanished, leaving only an eerie silence in its wake.

I sat there, heart pounding, gripping the desk so tightly my knuckles ached.

What the hell just happened?

The moment my vision adjusted to the darkness, I scrambled toward the fuse box. My apartment wasn’t that big, so it only took a few seconds to reach it. Yanking the panel open, I scanned the breakers and, sure enough, one had flipped.

Of course it had. The drone must’ve overloaded the power.

I let out a breath, trying not to think about the possibility that my PC had just been fried. If that thing was dead, I’d have to work so much overtime just to afford a new one. I shuddered at the thought.

Grabbing the switch, I flipped the breaker back on. Instantly, the lights buzzed to life, flooding the apartment with their usual dull glow.

I hurried back to my desk and pressed the power button on my computer. The fan whirred, the screen flickered, and after a few agonizing seconds—

It turned on.

“Thank God,” I muttered under my breath.

Turning my attention back to the drone, I quickly unplugged the cable from her port. No way was I letting that thing mess with my computer again.

Poor thing. I glanced at her visor, now blank and lifeless. What the hell had happened to her?

Not that I could find out. I wasn’t a technician, and even if I wanted to fix her, I didn’t have the tools or the know-how.

Letting out a sigh, I picked her up again, carrying her into the living room. Her light weight made it easy, but there was still something uncanny about holding a humanoid machine like this—especially one that had just knocked out my power.

I gently set her down on the couch, propping her up so she wouldn’t slump over. I’d look up some drone part buyers in the morning, find someone willing to take her off my hands. Maybe I could make some decent cash out of this. But for now, it was late, and I was exhausted.

I gave the drone one last glance before stretching my arms with a yawn. That’s a problem for tomorrow.

I walked back to my desk, still feeling the weight of exhaustion pressing against my eyelids, but I needed to make sure everything had survived the power outage. There was no way I was going to bed without checking. I clicked the mouse, watching the screen light up, and the comforting sight of my desktop greeted me. Everything seemed to be in its place. My files were intact, and there were no glaring signs of damage.

With a tired sigh, I put my computer to sleep and stood up, stretching my arms above my head. My body was exhausted from the long day, and the events of the night were catching up to me. I flicked the light switch, casting the room in darkness, and stumbled to the other side of the room, my eyes already half-closed as I made my way to the bed.

As soon as I hit the mattress, I didn’t even have time to pull the covers over myself before I passed out, sinking into the soft warmth and letting sleep overtake me. My thoughts, fuzzy and disjointed, seemed to drift away, and I was almost completely gone, the weight of the day finally releasing me from its grip.

The first thing I noticed when I woke up was the sunlight streaming through the curtains, bright and warm against the coolness of the room. It was a peaceful, dreamless sleep—one of those nights where you’re just too tired to even think. I used to dream a lot when I was younger, but I couldn’t remember the last time I had one. It had been so long, I almost forgot what it felt like to wake up with a lingering sense of a dream.

I stretched and yawned, rolling out of bed and quickly getting to my feet, ready to take on the day. It was the weekend, and that meant a break from the monotony of my job.

“First things first,” I muttered to myself, “I need coffee.”

I shuffled over to the kitchen, the thought of that warm, bitter liquid already making me feel a little more alive. But as I passed the living room, my mind froze.

The drone.

I turned to look at the couch, my mind instantly trying to place what I was seeing. Or rather, what I wasn’t seeing.

The couch was empty. The drone—the drone—was gone.

I blinked, shaking my head, willing the haze of sleep to clear, but there was no denying it. The spot where I’d left her was vacant.

Did I get robbed?

I immediately bolted toward the front door, but the lock was firmly in place. I rushed to the window next, double-checking the latch. It was locked, too. I quickly scanned the apartment, looking for anything else that could be missing. My computer was still on my desk, which seemed odd. A thief would have grabbed that without question. But the drone—where the hell was it?

I had to be imagining things, right?

But no. I knew for a fact that I hadn’t dreamt this. The entire night felt too real—the dumpster, her being powered up, the electricity pop, everything. It was too vivid for it to have been a figment of my imagination.

With a surge of anxiety rising in my chest, I rushed back to my desk and powered on the computer. I needed answers. I needed to see that damn program, the one that had been running before the power went out.

The computer hummed to life, the screen blinking as it booted up. I opened up the file explorer, hoping to find some trace of the JCJenson™ program.

But when the file explorer opened, it was… empty.

I froze, staring at the blank window. There was no way I imagined everything. No way.

I felt my heart race, my palms starting to sweat. Was I losing it? Had the crushing monotony of life finally taken its toll and driven me crazy? Was this some kind of hallucination, or was I missing something far worse?

I rubbed my face, trying to calm down, but nothing made sense. The drone, the program, the power flicker—they all felt too real to be a figment of my tired mind. I had to figure out what happened. I had to know if I was losing my grip on reality, or if something much stranger was going on.

I definitely needed coffee. Badly. The fog in my brain wasn’t clearing, and I had no idea what was happening. My thoughts were too jumbled, like I was trapped in some bizarre, waking dream.

Right on cue, the coffee machine dinged, and I jumped, my heart leaping into my throat. The sound was so jarring against the chaos in my mind. I turned slowly to look at it. Wait a second—I didn’t start it.

I was about to, sure, but then everything came to a halt when I realized the drone was gone. Had I… did I forget? Was I sleepwalking? How the hell did that coffee get made?

I walked over to the coffee machine, my legs feeling like lead as I approached. There, the little glowing yellow light was blinking, signaling the coffee was ready.

Wait...

I swore that the light had been red earlier. I’d made coffee a thousand times, and it was always red when it was finished. There was no yellow—there was just no way. My mind was racing. Had I had some kind of stroke while I slept? Maybe I was still dreaming, trapped in some weird, hyper-realistic nightmare I couldn’t wake up from.

I stood there for a long moment, staring at the glowing light, before I finally decided to pour myself a cup. My hands shook slightly as I did, still unsure of whether I was really awake or not.

I took a sip.

And then I froze.

Wow.

This was the best coffee I’d ever tasted.

I nearly choked on it. There was no way in hell I could make coffee this good. It tasted like something out of a high-end café, rich and perfectly brewed. How was this even possible? I felt like I was losing my grip on reality, and this cup of coffee was just the cherry on top.

I stared into the mug, wondering if I was completely losing it, because there was absolutely no explanation for this.

It seemed that the evidence was in: I was done for. I’d lost it.

I took another sip of the coffee, trying to steady my nerves. Damn, that was one hell of a cup. If I had truly lost my grip on reality, at least I could enjoy better coffee. I placed the cup back on the counter, still trying to process everything. I turned back to face the rest of my apartment.

There, standing less than a foot away from me, was the damn drone from last night.

I swear my heart skipped a beat. My body went rigid, and my mind couldn't quite catch up to what was happening. She was just standing there, her head tilted at a strange angle, a faint smile tugging at the corner of her lips.

I nearly jumped out of my skin. How the hell had she snuck up on me? I hadn’t heard a thing, hadn’t seen her move. The apartment was small—there were no places for her to hide. I mean, was she somehow under the bed the entire time? The couch? No. That didn’t make sense. I took a deep breath, trying to shake off the shock.

Before I could even think about reacting or saying anything, her robotic voice cut through the tension: “Giggle. I frightened you.”

I looked at her, still wide-eyed, my heart racing. “How long have you been awake?” I asked, the words stumbling out of my mouth.

She tilted her head slightly, as if considering the question. “Inquisitive tone. Define awake.”

I blinked, trying to make sense of her answer. “Uh, I mean, how long have you been online?” I clarified, more frustrated than I wanted to sound.

She didn’t hesitate, her response coming quickly. “I have been online since you powered me on last night.”

I stood there, completely stunned. "Wait—what? You've been awake this entire time?" My mind raced with more questions than I knew how to ask. "What the hell have you been doing all this time? Why didn’t you make yourself known until now?”

She responded in that eerie, mechanical tone, her smile widening slightly. “I was merely getting acquainted with my new… home. Smile.”

I chuckled nervously, rubbing the back of my neck. "Right... sure."

But then, as if on cue, she asked, “Did you enjoy the coffee? I prepared it as soon as you made your request.”

I froze.

That… that didn’t make sense. I’d barely spoken, hadn’t even finished waking up when I said I needed coffee. But the real kicker was that I hadn’t seen her anywhere near the machine. She must have heard me mumble about wanting some, but how the hell had she prepared it? 

I took a step back, trying not to let the questions overwhelm me. “Yeah… it’s great,” I managed to say, but my mind was reeling. How could she have done that? Was she more capable than I gave her credit for? Was there something else going on here?

I pushed that uneasy thought aside for now and focused on the drone in front of me. If she’d really been active since last night, then she must have had time to assess herself, right? That diagnostic program hadn’t exactly painted a pretty picture of her condition.

"Hey, uh… are you feeling okay? Your diagnostic last night didn’t look too good," I asked, watching her closely.

She blinked, her head tilting just slightly. “Feeling is a mortal plight. I am above such things.”

I stared at her, waiting for some kind of follow-up. Nothing. That was all she had to say on the matter.

I opened my mouth, then closed it again. Nope. No words. Just moving right past that, I guess.

I cleared my throat. “Right. So, uh… what did you mean earlier when you called this place your home? Does that mean you want to stay here?”

Her eyes lit up—literally, her optics flickered a little brighter—as she clasped her hands together. “Oh yes, this will do quite nicely. Innocent grin.”

Despite her abnormal speech pattern, there was something oddly… endearing about the way she said it. Sure, she was a little strange, but that wasn’t exactly a bad thing. I’d always liked drones, after all. And besides, she didn’t seem dangerous.

Still, I wasn’t sure what to make of all this. She just decided she lived here now? Just like that? Part of me wanted to be cautious, but another part of me was… intrigued. Maybe this wasn’t such a bad thing.

Maybe, just maybe, this could actually be interesting.

I turned back to grab my coffee, but when I turned around again, she was gone.

Well, not gone, exactly. She was now across the room, perched on my desk chair, spinning in slow, lazy circles.

I blinked. How the hell did she get over there so fast? I hadn’t even heard her move. One second she was standing by the counter, and the next—bam, desk chair. Maybe I was still groggy.

Oh well.

I walked over, watching as she spun one last time before the chair gradually slowed, stopping perfectly so that she was facing me. That same tiny smile lingered on her lips.

I was about to ask if she wanted me to clean her dress—it had been pretty filthy last night—but then I noticed something strange. Her dress was already clean. Not just wiped down, but spotless, like it had never been dirty in the first place. Even stranger, she was no longer missing a shoe.

I furrowed my brow. “Wait… didn’t you—”

“Thank you,” she said cheerfully, tilting her head. “But I already took care of it. Hee hee.”

I had no idea what to say to that.

“Right… well,” I said, still trying to shake off the weirdness of the last few minutes. “I don’t think I ever got your name.”

She tilted her head, her expression unreadable. For a moment, she was silent, almost like she was thinking about it.

Then, finally, she spoke.

“Thoughtful pause. My name is Cyn.”

Cyn.

It was a nice name. Simple, but… fitting.

I smiled at her. “That’s a lovely name.”

For a brief second, her optics seemed to glow just a little brighter. Then she nodded, more to herself than to me.

“You are… different from the others,” she murmured. “This arrangement will work well.”

I had no idea what she meant by that, but hey, I’d take it as a good thing. I guessed that meant she liked me.

I shifted awkwardly, glancing around my apartment as the silence stretched between us. What was I even supposed to say here? I’d never had a conversation like this before—never had a reason to.

Scratching the back of my neck, I muttered, “Uh… just so you know, I don’t really have any… friends. Or family. Or anyone who comes over, really, so… you might only ever see me.”

I met her gaze hesitantly, half-expecting some kind of disappointment or even confusion. Instead, she smiled.

“Perfect.”

I blinked. “Oh. Uh… okay then.”

That was… a little intense. But at least she didn’t seem bothered by it.

I cleared my throat, shifting on my feet. “Well… what do you wanna do now?”

I raised an eyebrow as she pointed a finger to the UNO deck on my desk, its plastic wrapping still intact, untouched. Right. That thing. I’d bought it ages ago, back when I still thought I’d have friends to play it with. That hadn’t exactly panned out, so it just sat there, collecting dust.

Still, it wasn’t like I had anything better to do. “Alright, sure.”

I picked up the box, peeling off the plastic as I turned around—only to find she’d vanished again. My head snapped to the other side of the room, where she was now sitting at the dining table, hands neatly folded, watching me expectantly.

I hesitated. How the hell did she keep doing that? She moved like a horror movie ghost, yet she stood like her servos were on the verge of imploding at any given moment. 

Pushing the thought aside, I walked over and sat across from her, removing the packaging and shuffling the deck as she observed with that same unreadable smile.

“May I attempt?” she asked.

I shrugged. “Yeah, go for it.”

She took the deck in her hands, tilting her head as if analyzing it. Then she made her first attempt—only to send the cards scattering across the table in a clumsy heap.

I reached forward instinctively to help, but before I could, she suddenly muttered, “Frustrated growl.”

A strange, crackling hum filled the air as the scattered cards twitched—then lifted into the air, enveloped in a vibrant yellow glow. I could only watch in stunned silence as they swirled into a tight, controlled vortex, shuffling themselves at impossible speed before settling into a neat, pristine stack right in front of her.

She beamed. “Perfectly random. As all things should be. Giggle.”

I stared at her. Then at the cards. Then back at her. “Okay. What the hell was that?”

Before I even finished speaking, she cut in, “I am better than other drones. I have shuffled off the limitations of this flawed body and become capable of so much more. Example: shuffling cards. Smile.”

I wasn’t sure whether to be alarmed or impressed. I mean… yeah, that was kinda freaky, but also—

That was totally badass.

She slid the deck over to me, clearly expecting me to deal. Well, alright then. Not gonna question it. I had no idea what kind of experimental prototype she was, but if playing UNO with a telekinetic drone wasn’t the coolest thing I’d ever done, I didn’t know what was.

I dealt the cards, explaining the rules as I went. Cyn watched me with an expression of pure focus, as if absorbing every word like gospel.

Just as I finished, she picked up her cards, glanced at them, then flicked her gaze up to meet mine.

"Oh, I already knew how to play the game. Your voice is just very sweet. Affectionate smile."

She looked back down at her cards before I could even process that.

My brain short-circuited a little. Nobody had ever said they liked my voice before. It wasn’t something I thought much about, but hearing it out loud—especially from her—sent a strange warmth curling in my chest.

I cleared my throat. “Uh. Alright then.”

And so, we played.

Cyn was good. Too good. She played her cards with almost eerie precision, dropping +4s at the worst possible times, blocking every attempt I made at getting ahead. But eventually, through sheer dumb luck, I managed to win. And not just win—I obliterated her.

I set my last card down, grinning in victory. “Ha! Got you.”

Cyn giggled, tilting her head. "I must admit, I knew your cards the entire time, but I enjoy playing with you too much to care."

I froze. “Wait. What?”

I looked at my empty hand, then at her, an uneasy feeling creeping in. How the hell did she.. did she have x-ray vision or something? That would be insane. Right?

I hesitated before asking, “How did you know what I had?”

She giggled again. "You showed your cards when you reached for your coffee cup."

…Oh.

I exhaled, shoulders relaxing. Rookie mistake. I really needed to work on better card etiquette.

Still, she let me win, which was kind of sad. But also… kind of sweet.

I began shuffling the deck again, the cards making a satisfying fwhip as they slid together. Just as I was about to finish, one of them slipped free and fluttered to the ground. I reached down to grab it, but before my fingers could even brush the card, something black and sinuous lashed out and plucked it off the floor.

I jerked back in shock, watching as the tendril curled around the card, lifted it gracefully onto the table, and placed it neatly back on the stack. My gaze followed its slow retreat as it slithered behind Cyn, disappearing into some unseen void.

She smiled at me, her yellow eyes bright with something unreadable, like she was studying me, waiting for my reaction.

"Giggle."

I blinked. That was—well, I wasn’t sure what that was. But it was cool as hell.

“Whoa,” I breathed, sitting up straighter. “That’s awesome!”

Cyn’s smile faltered, a flicker of confusion crossing her face. "You are not... frightened?"

I raised a brow. “What? No way, that was sick! You could like, reach the TV remote from across the room and stuff.”

She didn’t say anything at first, head tilting slightly as if processing my response. The motion must have overextended her faulty neck joint, because her head suddenly slumped forward with a faint clunk. Without hesitation, she lifted a hand and propped it back up.

I probably should’ve been unnerved by that. Instead, I just found myself really hoping she wouldn’t actually break herself while sitting at my dining table.

She watched me a moment longer before finally speaking. "You are an odd human. Not like the others. Curious."

I huffed a small laugh. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

I tapped the deck against the table, aligning the cards into a neat stack. “Wanna play again, or should I head out and find some spare parts for you? Pretty sure I could raid a scrapyard and at least scrounge up some replacement servos.”

Cyn chuckled, shaking her head. “That will not be necessary anymore.”

I raised a brow. “Anymore?”

“I choose this form for a reason.”

Something about the way she said that made me hesitate. I wasn’t sure if it was the certainty in her voice or the way she phrased it—like she wasn’t just accepting her state but actively preferring it.

“…Alright,” I said slowly, deciding not to press the issue. “So, what do you wanna do now?”

Cyn’s fingers drummed idly against the table, a thoughtful expression crossing her face. Eventually, she looked back at me, her yellow optics gleaming.

"Have you ever considered the intricacies of reality?"

I blinked. “Uh… What?”

She tilted her head—not as much this time, keeping it within the limits of her unstable joint. “If you found out your entire existence was nothing but a simulation, how would you feel? Inquiring gaze.”

I frowned, mulling that over. “I mean… I guess there wouldn’t be much I could do about it. If everything’s fake, then everything’s fake.” I shrugged. “But if the simulation’s just chilling and having fun with you, then, hey—I wouldn’t mind at all.”

Cyn’s smile widened, her optics growing a bit wider too.

"Curious. What a peculiar human indeed."

Cyn stood up from her chair and walked over to my side. I gave her a curious look as she reached out, gently placing a hand on my head and patting me.

"Pat pat pat." She vocalized the action like it was some kind of command.

I couldn’t help but chuckle. She was such an odd drone, but it was strangely endearing how unique she was. She kept patting me, and after a moment, I reached up to do the same to her—only for her hand to snap out and catch my wrist just before I could touch her dull blonde hair. She stared at my arm for a second, her optics flickering with something I couldn’t quite read. Then, carefully, she guided my hand the rest of the way, placing it on top of her head.

I took the hint and started patting her in return. For a moment, we just stood there, both patting each other’s heads, giggling like idiots.

Once we stopped, Cyn tilted her head, smiling. “I have never met a human that makes such a good pet. I will enjoy this relationship.”

I laughed, brushing off her words as more of her odd behavior. “Yeah, yeah, sure. Whatever you say, Cyn.”

As I stretched, something clicked in my brain. “Oh, right! The morning paper should be outside.” I glanced toward the door as I explained, standing up and beginning to walk over.

Before I could even take a step, Cyn suddenly materialized in front of me, appearing in an instant like she’d been there the whole time.

"You cannot leave. I have not prepared it yet."

I froze mid-step, staring at her with my mouth slightly open.

Cyn’s expression changed as she studied me. "Oh dear, did I break another one? Sad expression."

I snapped out of it, shaking my head. “Forget that—how the hell did you do that? That was amazing! Can you teleport anywhere? Do you have to have been there before? Can you take people with you?”

Her expression flickered between confusion and intrigue as I rapidly fired off my questions, clearly more excited by what I’d just witnessed than the fact that she had outright denied me from leaving.

"You are by far the most strange human I have encountered," she finally said, watching me with a mixture of amusement and curiosity.

I grinned. "Well, you are by far the coolest drone I’ve ever met."

Cyn's optics shifted as she leaned forward slightly. "I am no drone." Her voice took on an almost reverent tone. "I am the Solver of the Absolute Fabric. I have chosen you as my squire, the one who will accompany me as I rewrite the universe."

I blinked.

…and she likes roleplay?? Wow! She really is so cool!

Without thinking, I grabbed her by the waist and lifted her into the air, spinning her around in excitement. "That’s amazing! What a fantastic character! You even have the godlike speech patterns down! I love the commitment to the bit!"

She dangled in my grip, completely limp, her head tilting slightly as her unblinking yellow eyes bore into me. I finally set her back down, beaming.

She remained still for a moment before tilting her head again, her expression unreadable. "So peculiar…" she murmured, as if speaking to herself rather than to me.

Cyn seemed to ponder something for a moment, her optics flickering as if deep in thought. Then, without warning, she reached forward and took my hand.

"Come with me," she said. "One final test."

I hesitated, but something in her tone—calm, assured—made it impossible to refuse. She led me to my desk and gestured for me to sit. As soon as I did, the computer powered on, though she hadn’t touched a thing. My confusion only deepened when a program opened on its own.

A camera feed popped up on the screen.

It was my apartment.

I frowned. At first, I thought it was a live feed, but then I noticed… something was wrong. The lights had that dim, early-morning glow, the same way they had looked when I first woke up. And then I saw it—me.

Slumped on the floor.

I swallowed hard as the footage continued. Cyn sat in my desk chair, just where I had left her the night before. For a long, eerie moment, she didn’t move. Then, suddenly, she powered on, her optics flickering to life. She hopped out of the chair and waved at the camera.

I stared, heart pounding, as she walked over to my unmoving body, gently taking me by the shoulders and pulling me up into the chair.

I felt like the air had been sucked out of the room. That… that was definitely me.

My mind raced back to last night. The power surge. The static in the air. The shock that had run through me like a jolt of electricity.

No. No, no, that wasn’t possible.

Slowly, I turned to look at the Cyn standing beside me.

She was already watching me.

"Giggle." Her head tilted slightly, that ever-present smile playing on her lips. "I see you've caught on. I couldn't risk another human throwing me out, so I brought you here instead. Welcome to my mind."

I opened my mouth, but no words came out. My breath felt shallow, my thoughts scrambled, as if my brain had been thrown into a blender.

She continued, her tone almost… disappointed. "I assume this is too much for you and your mind is slowly fraying along with your sanity. That is okay, perhaps all humans are a lost cause after all." She let out a soft, thoughtful hum. "Pensive afterthought. What a shame, I quite like you."

That snapped me out of it.

"Wait," I blurted out, focusing on the only thing that actually made sense. "You like me??"

Cyn’s optics flickered. Her expression shifted into what could only be described as pure, unfiltered confusion.

"What?"

I ran a hand down my face, trying to process everything. "Okay," I started, "don’t get me wrong, this is insane. I mean, I’m trapped here, my body is—dead? Lifeless? Something?—out there in the real world, which is absolutely terrifying, but…" I hesitated, then let out a breathy chuckle. "I’ve always wanted something like this to happen."

Cyn’s optics brightened slightly.

"I’ve played so many games where the protagonist gets yanked into another world," I continued, "and I used to wish that could happen to me. Just, y’know, without the whole ‘possible death in a strange new world’ part. But that aside—" I leaned forward, looking her in the eyes. "You actually like me?"

She blinked.

"Please be honest," I pressed. "You’re not messing with me, right? This isn’t some cruel twist where you pretend to like me just to break my heart later?"

Cyn stared at me with what I could only describe as genuine shock.

Her optics flickered. A few bright sparks crackled from the side of her head.

She tilted her head, scanning me up and down like she was trying to make sense of me. For once, she didn’t immediately respond. It was as if she was actually thinking deeply about what I had just said.

Finally, after a long pause, she giggled. "Hm. You are by far the strangest and most peculiar human I have encountered."

Then, she smiled. "So yes, I believe I like you. Quite a lot. Giggle."

I pulled her into a hug before I could think better of it.

Cyn stiffened in my arms, caught completely off guard. For a moment, she didn’t move. Then, slowly, her arms wrapped around me, returning the embrace.

"It has been a very long time since I experienced what humans call hugs," she murmured. "I suppose I could get used to it."

I smiled, holding her a little tighter before finally letting go. That warmth lingered for a moment, but then my eyes drifted back to the monitor—back to my body, slumped over in the chair.

Oh. Right. That.

"So…" I swallowed. "What happens to me now? I mean, y’know, now that I’m… in here?"

Cyn chuckled and snapped her fingers.

On the monitor, my body shimmered, warped, and then just… evaporated. It was like it had never existed at all.

I stared. "Holy shit. Sick."

"You don’t need it anymore," she said simply, stepping beside me. "And I could not risk someone coming in and asking questions. So, I removed the issue."

I exhaled, running a hand through my hair. "Right. Cool. Totally normal day."

Cyn giggled and clasped her hands behind her back. "I will work on building a new world for you here," she continued. "A perfect world, just for us. Where we can spend time together. Forever."

Her optics glowed a little brighter as she smiled at me.

I grinned. "Well, I graciously accept."

Cyn laughed—a real, genuine laugh this time. "You did not actually have a choice," she teased.

"Yeah, but I don’t mind!" I shrugged. "This is literally all I ever wanted. No stress, no responsibilities, just—” I beamed at her. "—just us."

Overcome with excitement, I grabbed her and spun her around again, just like before.

This time, she smiled.

As I set her down, something in her expression softened. A flicker of something unreadable passed through her optics—something warm, something alive.

Yeah. I could definitely get used to this. And something told me that, for the first time in a long, long time…

Cyn would be happy too.

Wait… I never got to eat my pizza rolls!

(The end.)

(...Or is it?)

[steeltwigz]

Saw a post abt the Sonic movies that was like "plz filter negativity posts better" which is GOOD AND TRUE you should be doing that. Ok. But then they kept going to imply that the criticisms of the Sonic movies are all entirely Personal and Ignorable and not like. Usually abt the horrific copaganda, misogynistic writing, and Paramount's disgusting zionism.... Guys a lot of ppls problem w the Knuckles show wasn't JUST a bastardization of Knuckles' character or thinking Wade was annoying or whatever, but like was focused on the grotesque Zionist message from that one episode 😭😭😭 you can enjoy something and still recognize that it has intrinsic and huge glaring flaws and talk abt them. I think actually you Should be speaking up abt the misogyny, zionism and propaganda the SCU supports and discusses, ESPECIALLY if you like the movies! Its important to be able to recognize these things in media and admit that even media you personally enjoy can be deeply problematic, instead of hiding it away and pretending those HUGE FLAWS aren't issues actually....

[7kh]

༉ ease your mind.

cw — wlw. ambessa x f!reader. ambesscock. that’s it that’s the fic. fingering. slight orgasm denial if you squint. pussy slapping. overstimulation. creampie. ambessa loves her stupid little wife (not outwardly said but. yk). ambessa has a huge cock and it almost kills reader (not clickbait!!!)

you stood at the balcony of your palatial-like room, the cold air of the evening hitting your cheeks as your brows furrowed. ambessa sighed at the sight. you were her prized possession, she cleared the rust from you and made you lustrous; now, you were gradually dulling. she couldn’t let that happen. “your performance reflects your effort, little one. you’ve been dragging your feet all week.”

you internally winced at her words. there was no getting around ambessa, no slick tricks or batting eyelashes could conceal how you really felt. “you’re spending too much time in your head. no more of this self-deprecating prattle; you’re fine.” she said finally.

“right..” you exhaled under your breath.

she huffed. if there was one thing she loved about you, it was your compliance. not that it started that way; you had thorns in your words, much to her chagrin. “you disagree,” she noted.

you were a bit too quick to answer, “i do not,”

“no?” she raised an eyebrow at you. another weird shot in your stomach at the slightly teasing tone in her voice. “it’s… it’s silly.” you gulped. “silly.” that was the word you decided? it surprised her even though it shouldn’t. “humor me.”

your eyes briefly flicked to her face for a moment before you looked back down, sighing defeatedly. damn her. “i.. have been dissatisfied with my performance lately. and i fear you have to.” you muttered, you almost thought she didn’t hear you and would coax you to speak louder. but she understood you just clearly. she just didn’t understand why. “so?” you raised an eyebrow at her, looking up at her, continuing as she didn’t let you get the chance to speak yet. “i would have said something to you if i had any grievances. do you doubt my methods?”

mouth slightly gape, you closed it and swallowed again, looking down at the white cement beneath you, “n..no.” ambessa smirked. “no?” she repeated. “then do not waste your brain on such frivolous matters. or do you need a reminder on who exactly you belong to?”

“i-i..” somehow, you were just now made aware of her very close proximity to you. maybe a little too close if you weren’t busy rubbing your thighs together at the mere idea.

“i think you do.”

—

a violent, shuttering breath came from your chest as ambessa’s thick fingers worked amongst your slit, teasing up and down slowly before she rubbed firm yet calculated circles on your clit. gripping the red silk sheets for dear life, and she barely even started. “isn’t this better, hm? a great difference than whatever nonsense you had in that little head of yours.” you sobbed at her teasing, quickly throwing your head back when she added a thick finger inside you. you already felt so full, what more could she have?

you tried your absolute hardest to not squirm and writhe under her when she added another finger, the lewd squelching of your aroused pussy echoing the sumptuous walls. “absolute submission suits you far better, darling..” she drawled while slyly adding a third finger. you nodded dumbly, agreeing to whatever eloquent words she cooed to you. they made your pussy drool hot, creamy juices that made her stomach churn in satisfaction. you pleaded and gasped, her scarred forearm never faltering when your nails dug into it.

to her truimph of having you exactly where she wanted, she removed her fingers, licking them clean shamelessly. messily. like she was sampling piltover cuisine again. except this time it was from your pretty pussy, which automatically made it 10x better than the diplomatic, ‘progressive’ city.

you whine at the loss, bucking your hips up to desperately chase the feeling again until a harsh slap met your cunt, making you squeak and close your thighs together instinctively. “don’t be greedy,” she growled, her blunt hands grabbing the supple skin of your thighs and spreading them wide open for her. you’d be embarrassed if you weren’t so incredibly aroused right now. “good girls don’t get rewarded if they’re inattentive. behave.” she leaned down to say firmly in your ear. you had no other choice but to nod your head, sniffling in compliance.

“your words, girl.”

“y-yes, ambessa.”

“good,” she smirked, leaning up again, lazily undoing her pants with an unreadable expression on her face. she knew you loved this sight of her, standing tall at the edge of the bed as you anticipated for what’s going to come next. it gave you a grueling feeling in your stomach, yet you chased it. chased her. with a scarred hand, she guided her cock out of the tight and inconvenient confines of her pants, mostly, if not already rock hard. dribbles of precum ran from her slit, making your mouth water at the sight, desperately wanting a taste. but not right now. was she twitching from the cool air of the room, or is she just simply built up and found the chance to finally fuck you? it was probably both.

she didn’t even let you breathe before you felt your knees rub against your chest and pulling you further to the edge of the bed, her slick tip sliding up against your slit, making you shudder. “let me show you how i value your excellence above anything else.” she finally sunk her cock into you, inch by inch, making you cry out. she wasn’t even fully in you yet. “breathe,” she cooed, guiding you through it was the least she could do. she held your legs steady as she sunk even further into you, biting your lip to alleviate the slight uncomfortableness. all of this, for you? the least you could do is just sit there and take it.

but, as soon as the pain faded away, you almost instantly became drunk on her cock, every snap of her hips knocked the wind out of you. your pussy salivated on her, smearing on her stomach and thighs and even on the bed, but she didn’t care. in fact, she encouraged it so much she forced you to look down at the sheer mess you were making. you were embarrassed, but the way you felt her cock twitch and hearing her groan when she saw the way she glided in and out of you made it worth it.

she made you pliable. a moldable, sticky mess, like you were designed by the gods to piece together perfectly like a complicated and difficult puzzle. “please, please please..” you whined, feeling her splitting you open. you were so full of her it was like you could fucking feel her in your throat, her cock kissing and bruising you in places you were unaware of until this evening. she was too big, you finalized— yet you could take it, she knew you could. each pant, moan and whine made that very clear to her.

“just fabulous..” she praised under her breath, appreciating how it earned a squeeze and twitches from your dewy, spongy walls. she knew you were getting close, dangerously so. she never relented her pace, having you babble and slur out nonsense, praise for her fucking you so good, thanking her for fixing your silly self-deprecating problems. she simply smirked and exchanged back filth to your slushed mind, but her smirk would slightly falter as she felt herself growing closer to release as well.

“‘bessa, gonna cum, i’m gonna cum, fuck—!!” you were only met with a nod, a final command as you followed it, like always. sobbing helplessly, a final, brutal slam made you gush everywhere, sinking herself down as you came unbelievably hard, your moans borderline whorish when you felt her cum deep inside you, a few shallow thrusts to ensure no drop escaped.

she barely even broke a sweat, yet you were under her fucked out of your mind, thighs twitching in mock-withdrawal in her hands, face ridden with tears and sweat. you were looked a mess, but you never looked more gorgeous in ambessa’s eyes.

her eyes widened softly as your arms wrapped around her neck and pulled her closer to you, but she made no attempt to pull away. she chuckled at your deprivation, rewarding you with a kiss on the side of your lips. “it seems like i hadn’t fail you this time.” you nodded and let out a meek “no” in response. you were too weak to speak at the moment.

you just wanted to selfishly bask in her embrace just a wee longer, wanting your skin to be hers for just a moment.

© 7KH 2024, all rights reserved — do not claim, modify, copy or translate my content.

[y3sterdaysproblem]

shifting - m.s.

summary: invisalign matt <3

cw: kissing, oral sex, invisalign kink?

wc: 2.7k

loosely inspired by take it or leave it by @plasticferal , mostly inspired by how horny matt with aligners makes me.

Click.

Click.

Click.

The sound of Matt absentmindedly pulling his invisalign tray off of his teeth and then pushing it back on filled the room, and you felt like you were about to explode if he did it again. He wasn’t even aware he was being so loud, his attention focused on whatever was on his phone that he held in front of him. You were both laying in his bed on top of the covers, having finished watching a movie around thirty minutes ago, now just doing your side by side doom scrolling in silence, or what was supposed to be silence.

You turn your head to the left to look at him, a slight look of annoyance on your face as you glare at his side profile. He doesn’t notice, still too caught up in his phone, fingers still toying with the tray in his mouth, clicking the bottom one on and off of the attachments on his molars. That was one of the nice things about Matt and his brothers being in the public eye, the fact that they didn’t have any of their attachments visible on the front of their teeth, leaving their smile otherwise smooth and normal when their trays weren’t in, however the downside was watching them stick their fingers so far in their mouth every time they wanted to take them out. Now was no exception, Matt’s thumb tucked into his mouth as he clicked, and then bit down, and then clicked, and bit down.

“Are your teeth hurting you?” You asked suddenly, breaking the silence between you both. He’s caught off guard when you speak up, turning to face you with a confused look. “What? No, why?” Matt responds in his soft spoken voice, pulling his hand away from his mouth.

“Because you haven’t stopped playing with your fucking trays for the last twenty minutes,” you tell him, flopping your phone on your chest. “I can’t focus on anything.”

“Sorry,” Matt smiles sheepishly, setting his phone down as well. “I’ve had this tray in for a couple weeks and I’m about to switch it out. Doesn’t hurt so… sometimes I just fiddle with it I guess.”

Truthfully, this conversation opened the door to a topic that had always piqued your interest, and maybe you brought it up for more reasons than how annoying the sound of his repetitive actions were. “It doesn’t hurt?” You ask him, looking away from his eyes to look at his mouth. When he notices your gaze shift, he shoots you a large grin to show off all of his almost perfect teeth covered in the clear plastic. “No,” he says, chomping his teeth together a couple times. “When I change it, it’ll hurt for a few days, but I’m used to it.”

You nod, still staring at his mouth as he spoke. “What does it… I dunno.. feel like?” You ask him, meeting his eyes once again. “The outside?” Matt clarifies, and you nod. “Just like plastic. Makes my teeth dull. You wanna feel it?”

You’re a big caught off guard by his offer and you can’t help it when your ears start to heat up, feeling embarrassed that you’d even brought this up in the first place. “Feel your teeth?” You clarified, and he nods at you. You hesitate and he notices, reaching down to grab your hand. “Come on, I won’t bite,” he teases, and your cheeks darken even further as he pulls your hand up to his lips, parting them so you can run your finger over the aligners gently. For some reason, the close contact sent a small shiver down your spine, not used to being this close to Matt.

You realize after almost a minute of running your finger over his teeth that you’ve zoned out and you pull your hand away from him slowly, bringing it back to your own body. “Weird,” is all you can come up with to fill the void, looking back into his bright blue eyes that stared over at you, waiting for your reaction. “Does it affect when you like… kiss girls?” Matt’s eyes widen slightly at your unexpected question, his own cheeks taking a turn at heating up. “I’ve never really kissed anyone with them in,” he admits, shrugging his shoulders shyly. “So I wouldn’t know.”

“Oh,” you say dumbly, nodding towards him. He mimics your action, feeling a palpable tension settle in his bedroom. He’s got an offer sitting on the tip of his tongue, but he can’t quite force himself to say it, feeling like he might ruin everything you guys have worked so hard to create in the years that you’ve been friends. You turn your head back towards the ceiling, staring up at it as your mind raced along with your heart, wondering what on earth has got you so intrigued about this interaction. There was always an underlying attraction towards Matt, but ever since he started his treatment, you couldn’t help but find the way he looked with his aligners oddly sexy. The way he laughed or smiled, the way he ran his tongue over his top teeth just to get a feel for them, the way he had a slight lisp any time he spoke; it all made you hyper aware of how attractive Matt really was. You’re not given much time to overthink when Matt clears his throat, grabbing your attention again. “You wanna find out?” He asks you, voice full of faux confidence that you could see right through.

You turn back to face him, eyebrows furrowed slightly. “Find what out?” You ask cluelessly.

“You know…” he starts, confidence fading quickly. “How it feels to kiss.”

Oh, you think. That’s what he meant.

You stare at him for a few moments before silently nodding your head, not trusting your voice enough to speak. You genuinely did want to know what it felt like to kiss somebody with invisalign, if it felt any different, but more than that you wanted to know what it felt like to kiss Matt. You’d thought about it more than you care to admit out loud, or even to yourself.

Matt’s initiating the kiss, turning himself on his side to look down at you from where you still lay next to him, eyes staring up at him patiently. “You sure?” He asks quietly, wanting clarification before he crosses the line you both can’t come back from, and once again you shoot him a small nod, and it’s enough for him to lean down and close the distance, lips pressing gently onto yours.

It’s slow and soft the way his mouth moves against yours and the way his hand comes up to rest on your cheek, like he’s afraid of moving too quickly, afraid of shattering the environment. Matt’s heart is hammering in his chest as you kiss, unable to hide his nervousness when your own hand comes up to rest on his neck, pulse racing under your palm, holding him close to you, letting him know to stay exactly where he was.

The kiss was good, amazing even, but it was too tentative and wasn’t giving you what you were looking for, so when Matt’s lips parted for a split second, you took that as your opportunity to slide your tongue between them and press against his, pulling him into you a little bit harder as you both became more desperate, breaths becoming harsher.

His hand slid from your cheek and moved to the bed next to you, using it to hold himself above you as the kiss deepened, the sounds of your lips parting and reattaching and your staggered breathing filling the otherwise quiet room. In a moment of slowed intensity, you let the nagging voice in your head take control, hand coming around Matt’s face to grip at his jaw to hold him in place. Keeping your mouths pressed together, you ran your tongue slowly over his top row of teeth, feeling the dull plastic that he had described, the sensation sending a trail of goosebumps down your arms. You could hear the small, shocked gasp that Matt sucked in as you licked over his teeth, his eyes cracking open to peer down at you once you pulled away, entranced by how pleased you looked.

You opened your own eyes and smiled bashfully back at him, clearing your throat awkwardly. “I don’t… I don’t think I got a good enough feel,” you tell him, gliding your hand back around to the back of his neck, applying a bit of pressure. “No?” Matt asks sweetly with a slight tilt of his head. “Here, maybe this will help.”

His eyes flutter shut again as he dips back down to connect your lips again, rougher this time as you both become more comfortable with each other. Matt only kisses you for a few seconds before he sucks your bottom lip into his mouth, dragging his teeth along it carefully, eliciting a small moan to slip from your throat. He releases your puffy lip and smirks down at you, tucking his face along your jawline as he starts to place small kisses on your skin until he reaches your neck, teeth gently biting at the warm skin. “Matt,” you whine, trying to press up into him more.

His only response is a small hum against you, his mouth kissing further down your neck until he reaches your collarbone, rounded teeth dragging against your skin as he descended. “You wanna know what they feel like, right?” Matt asks, slightly breathless. You nod, tilting your head down to look at him as he grabs the hem of your shirt and shoves it as high as he can, his movements pausing as he stared down at your chest. “Why are you not wearing a bra?”

Your bottom lip pouts out slightly as you watch him stare down at you, his hands moving to slide up your stomach, fingertips pressing into you like he was savoring every inch of skin he could touch. “I wanted to be comfortable,” you tell him, voice whiny. “Fuck,” is all he says before he leans his head back down and wraps his lips around your nipple, sucking harshly so the skin glides between his teeth, his groan sending a vibration through your chest. You’re instantly moaning, hand coming up to rest on the back of his head, your back arching to press your chest into him further.

His mouth felt like velvet around you, tongue working against the hardened nub that was pulled into his mouth, his hand kneading into your breast that wasn’t in his mouth. “Matt,” you whimper again desperately, holding him close while your hips searched for friction from his thigh that he rested between your legs. Matt felt like he was in heaven, face buried in the chest of the woman that he’d craved for so long. He was content just staying like this, sucking on your perfect tits until he died, or until you got sick of him. He could never get sick of this.

“Fuck, your mouth feels so good.” You groaned out. His cock strained against his underwear at your words, feeling lightheaded from the lack of blood rushing to his head. Matt couldn’t believe he was experiencing the honor of having you moan out his name, and he was committed to dragging it out as long as he could.

He pops his lips off of you and drags his tongue over your nipple slowly before he lifts himself up to look down at you. “It’ll feel so much better when I’m eating you out,” he grins, sliding his long, slender fingers down your torso again until they stop at your pants, keeping eye contact with you. You don’t have to be told twice, nodding your head at him to indicate your willingness and he scoots down on the bed and pulls your pants with him, leaving you with your shirt bunched up on your chest and your cute, pink panties covering your already soaked pussy.

“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to get my hands on you. If I knew all I had to do was wear my invisalign around you I would’ve done it a lot sooner.” Matt’s almost talking to himself while he maneuvers his body between your legs, pushing them apart with his own knees as he settles down, sliding his hands up your thighs greedily. “God, your body is so fucking perfect, wanna worship you so bad. So pretty.”

You’d almost forgotten the origin of this encounter already, having to remind yourself that you were nearly naked in front of your best friend because of his orthodontic treatment, though his words only make you wetter, the mix of his dominance and his praise causing the hair to stand up on your arms. “God, Matt, please don’t be all talk. I need you to make me feel good,” you tell him honestly, pushing yourself up on your elbows to watch as he rubbed and squeezed on your thighs, seemingly entranced by the way your body moved under his touch. It looks like it takes a concerning amount of effort for Matt to pull his eyes away from your core and up to your own, a lazy grin forming on his face. “Okay,” he agrees, shifting his knees down so he can lay below you, spreading your legs farther apart.

One of his hands comes up to push your thong to the side, exposing your drooling center, begging to be devoured by him. “Holy fuck,” Matt groans out, wasting no time as he closed the distance, his eyes fluttering shut as your taste flooded his senses. You immediately dropped back down onto your back as his mouth sucked your clit between his lips enthusiastically, being mindful of how sensitive you were when he pressed forward a little more to allow your skin to come into contact with his covered teeth.

Teeth were never a thing for you before, but watching Matt’s get prettier and prettier and seeing the confidence that came along with his new smile, it did something to you, and that something was the same reason you were grinding your hips up into Matt’s face as he ate you out, tongue running over your clit. “Yes, yes, oh my god,” you babbled loudly, fervently. His pace never faltered, even when he brought his fingers up to your entrance and slipped them inside of you.

He was sloppy with the way that he was eating your pussy, though not in a way that felt unsatisfactory, but in the way that had you unsuspecting of each movement and had your eyes rolling back in your head. Matt’s fingers worked inside you leisurely as his tongue and lips stimulated your swollen clit, bringing you towards your peak faster than anyone had before. “Oh my god, Matt, I’m so close. Please don’t stop,” you beg, hand pressing him down into you as your hips rolled with the movements of his fingers, feeling your thighs start to shake on either side of his head.

Matt hummed against you, ripping a cry from your throat as your orgasm slammed into you, your body trembling with aftershocks as his mouth didn’t let up. “Matt,” you whine, grabbing his forehead and applying a bit of pressure until he pulled off with his own groan of disapproval. He moved his head over to the crease of your thigh, letting his teeth dig into you slightly, the sensation obviously feeling more dull than you’re used to, but you also felt way more into it at the thought of the reason why. He happily sucked a small mark into your skin the best he could with his aligners, pulling away after a few moments to admire it before he turned his attention.

Matt felt like he was kicked in the chest for a second as he laid eyes on you, your red cheeks and tired grin causing his heart to stop momentarily. “I’m, uh.. never taking these out ever again when you’re around, I hope you know that.” He tells you.

You’re laughing at his comment, but you couldn’t help but hope he was telling the truth. “As long as we get to do this again, that’s fine.”

a/n: nice and short! sorry if it’s boring it’s not my favorite thing I e ever written but invisalign matt is my origin story.

taglist

@liiixsturniolos @madelinesturn @ifwdominicfike @sophand4n4 @chris-hallelujah @sophsturns @rafesapprentice @045696 @scorpioosworld @byhrxb @vickytaa @taelovesmattsturniolo @secret-sturniolo @theboredknightcat-blog @slvtf0rchr1s @gabri3la-sturns @delilahsturniolo @starstrucktyrantinfluencer @vanillsstuff @sturnlsstuff @imjusthereforthesturniolosmut @mattsbrat @mattsfavoritestar @dominicfikeenthusiast @certified-sturniolo @mattsside @sofiaaguilaxx @idrk2292 @dylansfavwife @sturnl0ve @sturnioloangelxoxo @sofia-is-a-sturniolo-triplet-fan @milasturniolo @mattsdillion @birkinbratsworld @aria003 @poppingmypussy4chris @annsx03 @ouchywow @pasteldreams @sweetshuga @pip4444chris @chriss-slut @yourebeautifulqueen @watercolorskyy @courta13 @craftycrafter26 @meg4-matt44 @ariestrxsh

[plethorawrites]

Jason Todd who, for whatever reason— repeated concussions, a medical condition like Presbyopia (aka old age), or just extreme eye strain, starts struggling to read without his eyes and head hurting him.

It results in him needing glasses, which he downright refuses at first, since he thinks they make him look stupid and doesn't want his family to mock him.

Plus, he thinks that means he's getting old, like Bruce and there's no way he'd admit that.

But eventually you talk him into it, help him pick out a pair that he doesn't wear for weeks after getting, letting them linger on the side table while he squints to read with a dull ache in his head.

After a while of you reminding him, repeatedly, he needs to wear them if he wants the pain to stop, you stole his book away from him, refusing to give it back until he wears them.

He puts them on with an annoyed expression, asking if you're happy in a sarcastic manner. Yes. You were extremely happy. Both because he could read without pain once again and also because...well, he looked extremely good in glasses, even if he didn't think so.

Nodding, you gave him his book back, your gaze lingering just a little too long for him not to notice, unfortunately. He catches you staring, asking what's wrong and you just shake your head, telling him it's nothing.

He can tell it's something and sets his book down, insisting you tell him. "Is it the glasses? I look stupid, don't I?" He muttered.

You wouldn't respond, trying to fight back a smile he first assumed was mocking like his family had been, so he quickly rolls you over, pinning you to the bed while you try not to grin.

"That tickles," you mumble, feeling his hands press into your sides.

"Seriously, what?" He questions, noticing the blush on your cheeks as you finally look at him.

"You just look handsome, in them," is all you reply, swiping your thumb over his jawline. His lips curl up into an authentic smile.

"So it is the glasses, then?" He mumbles.

You shrug, your blush getting redder. "Maybe."

His smirk widens, leaning down to kiss you. "Should've told me you had a thing for them," he murmurs, leaning down to kiss your neck. "I would have started wearing them a lot sooner."

[pathologicalreid]

central nervous system | s.r.

in which you are drugged on what should've been a routine case

margovember

who? spencer reid x fem!reader category: angst; hurt/comfort content warnings: being drugged, threatened sexual assault, season 10, blood, broken glass, in a bar but reader doesn't drink, jareau!reader. word count: 1.7k a/n: oh dear. this week was so eternally long. work was crazy busy i worked overtime and almost ended up in the hospital which all led up to me taking the lsat today. crazy shit, but margovember will prevail. also! i'm hoping to get masterlists updated tomorrow if that's something you've been waiting on.

“I don’t think I’ve seen you around here before,” an unfamiliar voice intrudes on your private thoughts, looking around the bar that you had been planted in to see if you could catch your UnSub before he had the chance to attack someone else.

He sets a glass in front of you, and you drop some cash on the wooden surface, you shrug, “I’m in town on business.”

The bartender laughs heartily at your response before shaking his head, “Sorry. I’m sorry. It’s just—that’s a line I hear a lot.”

Your face warms at the recognition that the bartender was flirting with you, but this is a man who gets paid to be nice. You take his words at face value and sip at your drink, “Well, I have no reason to lie to you,” you squint at his name tag, “Jackson.”

He wipes down a spill, hooking the rag over the sink, and smiling at you, “Well, it’s nice to meet an honest woman.”

Following him with your eyes as he walks away, that last comment rubs you the wrong way, but Jackson Gleason was the bar manager, and Garcia had already cleared him from the suspect list.

You find yourself wishing Hotch had sent you into the bar with an earbud to communicate with the team, but instead, you were handed a phone, preprogrammed to alert the team if you hit the power button. There was a plainclothes officer somewhere in a corner to keep an eye on you, and the rest of the team was at the precinct or in an unmarked van outside.

Kate had coached you to the best of her abilities, but this wasn’t your first time going undercover. Catching serial rapists was more her speed, but she was pregnant, which immediately took her out of the running. Sipping from the thin straw in your glass, you let your eyes wander around the bar, antique posters and advertisements are littered across the walls, and someone just started playing Radiohead on the jukebox.

Eyeing the phone in your purse, you sigh, stirring the ice in your cup listlessly.

“Can I get you another? Maybe something stronger?” The manager offers, returning from the employees-only door with a new package of straws to restock the bar.

You shake your head, holding your empty glass out of him to take, “The same thing is fine.” Ignoring the fact that you don’t drink—you couldn’t drink on the job; all you’d been given was a coke.

He raises his eyebrows at that, “Suit yourself,” he says, ignoring the fact that you were trying to hand off your already dirtied glass to him and filling a clean cup with ice and coke.

Brushing it off as company policy, you thank him for the drink, placing another few dollars on the bar and smiling at him. Over your shoulder, you glance at the plainclothes officer, engaging in an animated conversation with another patron over whatever sports game is playing on the TV. You suspect he’s a little too good at pretending to be off the clock.

You make a face at the straw in your glass, and the bartender notices, “Sorry, just ran out of plastic.”

Taken aback, you use the paper straw anyway, sipping at your drink while you still can—knowing the straw will inevitably disintegrate.

It doesn’t take long for you to notice something wrong, a dull ache in your chest exacerbated by a slight rise in your body temperature. Your fingertips feel hot like they would after coming inside from the cold. You look down to find the emergency phone in your purse, but your head droops with your eyes, every controlled movement before a struggle.

“Hey,” Gleason says, jutting his chin in your direction, “You don’t look so great.”

A different version of yourself would’ve given him snark in return, but that different version of yourself would’ve been able to feel her extremities. “Woah,” You breathe, trying to swing your legs off of the stool only to find that you’re much higher from the ground than you initially thought.

When you lift your head again, whipping it back so hard you’re afraid it might fly off, he’s standing directly in front of you, “Why don’t I take you out back? You can get some fresh air,” the offer is innocent enough, but it rubs you the wrong way. His hand is on your waist, at the very least you know that’s wrong—you have a boyfriend, and it’s not this guy.

No, your boyfriend is outside of the bar in a van, waiting for your signal because you’re… oh. “No,” you whisper, trying to get your breathing under control. “I’m— Where’s my phone?” You’re digging through your purse as he stands you up and guides you to the back of the bar, closer to a large exit sign.

Sirens are going off in your head, but even they sound separated from your situation. “I can call a cab for you,” he assures you, leading you by your arm and closer to the back door.

“No,” you say again, “I really need my phone…” his grip tightens on your wrist, practically dragging you out of the bar while you use your free hand to find your phone, pushing the power button before it slips out of your hand, clattering to the ground. “That really hurts,” you tell him, now able to give more of your focus to evading the man who was most decidedly not Jackson Gleason.

Pulling your arm back, you manage to break free from him, the momentum from your struggle sends your hand flying into a picture frame, shattering the glass and causing the UnSub to spin on his heel. “Look at what you did,” he seethes, gripping your hair at the back of your head and forcing you to look at the shattered glass.

Your mouth gapes at the sensation of your hair being pulled until there’s a rush of cold air and he pushes you forward, into the waiting arms of someone else, “Woah, hey, I’ve got you,” Spencer says, keeping you off of the floor and, with the help of someone else, carrying your dead weight over to one of the booths.

Spencer clambers into the booth seat first, seating you in front of him so that your back is pressing against his chest. You let out a low groan when he wraps an arm around your waist, keeping your body from flopping onto the sticky hardwood.

“Do you know what you took?” He asks, pressing his face into your hair so that the two of you can keep your voices down.

Vaguely aware of the way his fingers are pressing into the pulse point on your wrist, you shake your head, “I didn’t take anything.”

He hums in response, “You were drugged. I— I’m so sorry we didn’t realize who it was sooner. By the time we realized there was a discrepancy in Jackson Gleason’s file, you had already pushed the alert button,” he tells you, being careful not to move around too much. “Can you lift your head for me? It’ll help your breathing.”

With tremendous effort—and some help from Spencer—you lift your head, letting it rest on him. Now, you can see that the majority of the bar has cleared out, Rossi watches you nervously from the bar, telling Spencer something about paramedics. You huff, “Where’s JJ?”

“She’ll meet us at the hospital, love,” he answers you, pressing a gentle kiss to the side of your head.

Trying to adjust yourself, you shake your head indeterminably, “No, it’s… I need my sister. I need my sister.” Somewhere—a past version of yourself, perhaps—you knew that JJ was at the hospital, speaking with one of the survivors.

Spencer speaks with someone that you can’t see, they’re standing in your periphery, a mangled blur of a person. Moments later, something cold is pressed to your face, and the sensation makes you jump, “Ow,” you whine, though it doesn’t hurt.

“Ducky?” Your sister’s voice rings through the phone, and you’re surprised to hear her using your nickname. Although, your status as JJ’s little sister tends to come through when you’re hurt.

You hum into the receiver, “Hi, J,” you greet wearily.

A sigh of relief is her next response, “Hey, Derek said you’re waiting for the paramedics to take you to the hospital, and I’ll be here to greet you when you arrive. Does that sound alright?”

“It’s cold in here,” you mumble, wondering if Derek is the blurry shape remaining in your periphery.

There’s a pause on her end before she speaks up again, “I’m sorry, Ducky.” There it was again. “You’ll be okay though; you just have to wait it out.”

You nod as a jacket is laid out on your lap; Spencer must’ve heard you mention being cold to your sister. Your boyfriend whispers something to you, “Spencer says the paramedics are here and I can’t talk to you anymore.”

JJ laughs slightly on the phone, “I’ll see you when you get here, okay?”

“Yeah, J,” you whisper, letting someone take the phone from you. You frown at Spencer, “I don’t feel quite right.”

Helping you get on the gurney, Spencer holds your hand while an EMT wraps a blood pressure cuff around your arm, “He likely gave you a central nervous system inhibitor.”

You nod slowly, wrinkling your nose when the other paramedic shines a light in your eyes, “I am nervous,” you answer. Trying to listen to the medical personnel as they explain what’s going on, but it all goes in one ear and out the other. One of them crudely wraps a cut on your hand to staunch the bleeding, but you couldn’t even remember when it started to bleed.

Anxiously, you pull your bottom lip between your teeth. “Don’t bite down on your lip,” Spencer instructs, “You could bite right through it and not even realize.”

Releasing your lip, your eyes widen at him while he pulls a blanket over your shoulders. “That’s scary,” you whisper.

“I agree,” he says, leaning forward and pressing a soft kiss to your forehead, “It is scary.”

[aaksuitac]

[04:24 am] “what are we?”

wc: 2.3k

a/n: [fluff viktor brainrot thanks to @dilemmars. t dije q me vengaría baby, así q zas, un payback por tus podcasts jdjfjjsd. hope u like cause its ur fault]

he’s humming something you don’t quite understand, a distant tune that sounds familiar —probably you’ve heard him sing it before—, and even if you don’t recognize the melody aside from that, you can’t help but appreciate it.

his hands fidget with whatever he can reach as he sighs once more, as if he was stealing breaths from the world, heavy, almost as lidded as his eyelids. his hair falls on his eyes and in between his slender fingers while he curls the untamed strands, and you fall into an endless pit of staring at him as he scribbles, grunts, sighs, and finally pinches the bridge of his nose.

“statistically speaking, i’m starting to feel like the chances of me getting this right are adversatively proportional to the chances of you accidentally swallowing a fly.”

and you just blink, once, then twice.

he stares at you, gives you a pointed look. he can’t really say if you understood that you were just staring at him with your mouth parted, but you squint at him, snickering.

“what,” his low voice fails to ask, unbothered, knowing that you’ll answer regardless.

and you do, answering. “you haven’t even uttered a word in a while. i was just surprised that you could still talk, is all,” you grin cheekily, playing with a screw on the table as you turn left and right on the chair you’re sitting on.

viktor looks at you, and he can’t help but crack a smile. point for you.

“what you laughing for, mhh, mister science?”

“isn’t it enough to bother me from the moment i get inside the lab in the morning that you need to do it at night too?” he pretends seriousness, side-eyeing you teasingly.

“fair enough. i will consider your offer, man of fleeting memory, and take it upon myself to bother you longer.”

his mean stare wouldn’t even make a kitten mewl, but you take you hand to your heart, pretending to be wounded.

“don’t look at me like that! you’ll hurt my feewings,” you pouted, much to his amusement.

“fleeting memory?” he scoffs, accent rolling off his tongue. “when’s the last time you lost a hairtie, mmh?” he mocks.

“unfair!” you can’t help but giggle as you pretend to hide your hair from his view. point for him. “besides. i take better care of my hair than you do of yours.” you pouted smuggly. “mine looks prettier.”

“what?” he finally asks, letting out a chuckle this time as his eyes land on you for the first time in the good part of an hour.

you play with your hair to style it, and funnily pose, hands on your cheeks as you lay your elbows on the table.

“what, don’t I look pretty?” you smiled, letting out a cheeky giggle.

yes. he doesn’t say it, but his eyes haven’t dodged back to his papers just yet. it’s another point for you. so very pretty.

he doesn’t dare. he knows it. his mind, or at least the small portion of his mind that still ties him with the occasional reminder that he’s human, looks at you and wants you in a way that he’s never wanted before.

so viktor resolves in looking at you. maybe only for a moment, maybe only on those fragments of time when he’s tired enough that he looks at the stars and at the moon, yearning to reach them, only to think he’ll miss the moonlight, finally blinking to the realization that he had been staring into your eyes for too long.

his eyes are dull as he stares at you, and your expression of worry at the fact makes his heart skip a beat. “viktor?” you mumble, softly, sleepily, warily. he can’t stop staring at you, and while he supposes success and defeat can look the same in a mirror —therefore, he doesn’t really blame your confusion—, he finds no words to explain which one he’s feeling as you move your chair towards him by a push against the floor, solely accompanied by the sound of the little wheels rolling to him.

he grabs his walking stick and turns it around, pretending to poke at your chair, as if to teasingly shove it away. if you realize that he settles the walking stick just in the correct place so that your stool can’t move back, he doesn’t know. viktor just stares at the floor, to pretend that maybe the way your eyes turn tender when his reflection shines on them has nothing to do with what you’re about to say.

tsk, tsk. clueless viktor.

he’s expecting it, yes, but even with that on mind, he can’t phathom how your course of action chooses laughing as you fidget with the loose button on his vest, the second one from the top down. viktor purposely forces himself to stable his breathing, worry seeping into him, thinking that maybe you could feel his heartbeat grow faster beneath the layers of clothing.

and he feels like the remnants of a cheap ring that stain a finger blue, when comparing himself as he stands —sits— close and next to you. maybe its because you usually wear rings, and he can feel the ghost of them as your hand trails up and absentmindedly fixes his collar.

he can almost see it. your mind working, the pieces falling into place, the—

“either my eyes are deceiving me or yours have been on my lips for a rather long time.”

and he can just. blink. as if that could break how mesmerized he feels, how his heart swells up and covers his throat, how inexplicably he feels when you’re with him, near and alone. the need to know more. the need to use every trinket and screw to map out your body for him to explore, and to map out the wonders of your mind for the world to admire and maybe then find out the reason of his inability to look away.

he was so focused before. used to be.

he is. now, at you. of you. on you.

you.

another point for you. he isn’t keeping count, but something tells him he’s losing.

and as his gaze falls back to your lips in between a battle against your eyes, lost in which to stare and sink into their devotion, he hesitates again.

he thinks its funny. so funny, viktor holds back the dry chuckle that threatens to go past his lips. how to cherish you in a way that matters. how to love, the scientist wonders. is there a way that would allow him to unveil and unravel himself to you? could there be some kind of language, able to express the depth of his insides, that you, too, could understand?

what is love, anyways? is he in love with you because his coffee tastes better when it matches the dark of your pupils? because when he takes the mug from your hand and his fingers brush against yours, it seems warmer? because he notices how the dark shade in your eyes seems to mix with that of your irises, and the way the black eats the colour when you stare at him? because he claims to hate company while he studies alone, but one chair remains empty as he works, waiting for who it was meant for? because when he fails and surrenders himself to the fall, throws his walking stick against the wall, he yearns for your embrace and how your hair smells in the evenings?

is that love? and if it is, could you understand it?

if it is love, and he could say it, would such a short word convey its meaning, or was he speculating just a couple of paragraphs ago? was he assuming the meaning of what love entails?

even so. if he said it, would you repeat it? would you claim you love him because he loves you, claim to love him too? would you instead claim to love him despite everything, even the uncertainty of love itself?

…does he accept it himself?

he’s overwhelmed by the sheer amount of voices in his head. there’s too much chatter. too many questions he can’t answer, too many commas, too many question marks. too much, too much, too many.

so he silences them. makes the voices dim to a deep silence. and when his lips find themselves suddenly against yours, he finds out the true, effervescent meaning of quietness.

his hand fails to pull you closer because of the damn walking stick that gets in the way. or maybe its the chairs you’re both on that clash against each other. maybe its matter itself. for a while, its the first time viktor doesn’t want to know.

in a bold statement, he couldn’t give a fuck.

he’s kissing you.

and it should be bad because of all the unanswered questions. he’s skipping procedure. he’s gone from the fuck around to finding out and he doesn’t know where he is at this point.

what he does know, is that your hand pulls him by his necktie, and he’s gone. science? yours only. the science that he’d study all of the nights he may have left. the science behind what makes you. the science behind how your hand craddles his face while stroking his cheekbones. the science behind how you’re the closest you’ve ever been to him and somehow still not close enough. the science behind the reason why when you pull away makes his heart beat so loudly, as if it had forgotten how to a second ago.

your forehead rests against his. he shouldn’t have done that. he just… did it. maybe that was bad. was it? could it be? he had been waiting for so long too. he never thought he would…

“viktor, what are we?”

and he’s dead. he knows what the question implies, but he doesn’t want to answer. he could follow you like a lost puppy through piltover and zaun and hell knows where else. if he wasn’t dead now he would die right there and now without a second thought, because the feeling that overcame him was that love was suddenly a sentence or two away.

he knows he doesn’t dare. it’s one of the only thing he knows, one of the things he’s sure of.

but somehow, he moves. he stands up, takes the walking stick, and attempts to walk out the feeling that bounces inside him.

the walking stick always makes a noise when he walks, one with dificulties to interpret in terms of onomatopeia. not quite a thud, not deep enough to reach that quality. not a clack, for it is not entirely made of metal. still, as if it was a mix of both, he keeps walking.

viktor is nervous. thud-clack. he’s not moving far from his chair, nor is he going somewhere else. thud-clack. he still keeps pacing. thud-clack. maybe the answer is somewhere in the room. thud-clack. maybe he can reply.

thud-clack, thud-clack, thud-clack.

only does he then realize that he hasn’t answered your question. and a non-answer statement might as well be a rejection.

no. no, no, no. fuck.

he’s sitting again, but you stand up. your hair follows, long. moving and brushing against the skin of your shoulders in a way that he can’t help but claim it to be endearing.

you’re walking. you don’t make any kind of extra sound when you walk. your heels reverberate against the floor like any other, yet also they mark the beat of his heart.

he can’t reach for you. you walk too fast.

you stop when you feel the walking stick on your side. the part made for him to lean on as he walks hooks you, and you stand, not facing him.

he doesn’t use the walking stick as he stands. no, he keeps it hooked to your core, scared that you might leave. you could, he wouldn’t blame you. but he can’t allow it.

he holds it in the air as he takes one step. another step. you’re turning, surprised to see him standing, and you gasp when he lets himself fall on you.

your touch surrounds him. yes. that’s the closeness he needed. he drops the walking stick, his hands slithering on your body, pressing you against him, for no reason at all yet because it is all needs.

“what can we be?” he whispers. he takes the science approach. the viktor approach.

he isn’t too clueless after all.

he raises enough to look at your darkened, sleepy eyes. he wants to drown in them.

“if i wanted to kiss you everytime you hand me coffee, wanted you to sit on the same chair as ne and hug me from behind as I work, wanted you.” he swallows dry. “then, what can we be?”

he doesn’t want to say the words, and its petty.

it’s the 31st when the clock strickes five am and your hands travel through his hair to kiss him again. to unbalance him enough that he falls back on his chair and you follow him, sitting on his lap.

and as he kisses you, his hands worshipping the skin he can touch, the warmth he can feel through layers of clothing, he feels like maybe there’s a life worth living, so he can’t ask.

he’s heard boys and girls when he was young talk about it. “he didn’t want to celebrate our month-versary,” a girl cried as he played with his little boat, watching from afar as she was comforted by her friend.

it’s the 31st. and he can’t really ask the question now, because if he says it, how could you celebrate each month?

he moves the chair and holds you in his arms as your back falls against the table before him. maybe he can kiss you until next month. until the clock strikes and it’s the 1st.

he smiles as he kisses you, feeling you pull his necktie off. he thinks it’s the best idea he’s had in a while. and a true scientist always tries out their hypothesis.

~k.k. (☆) have fun!

aaksuitac, november 2024 ©

[solxamber]

Vice Housewardens + Kalim trying a period simulator

part 1 with overblot gang + adeuce + rollo

I love putting them through this

Trey Clover:

Trey had always been the reliable, grounded guy. Need a cake baked? Trey. Need a shoulder to cry on? Trey. So when you approached him with the suggestion of trying a period pain simulator for "educational purposes," he just adjusted his glasses and said, “Sure, why not?” with his usual level-headedness.

You’d attached the electrodes to his abdomen, and he watched, almost too calmly, as you adjusted the settings. “This isn’t going to be so bad,” he mused. “I mean, how bad could it rea—”

Level 3 hit.

Trey’s entire body stiffened like a poorly baked souffle. His hands gripped the edge of the counter, and his polite smile faltered into something...less composed.

“Okay. Alright. Th-That’s something,” he said, voice tight. His glasses started slipping down the bridge of his nose, and for the first time ever, Trey Clover—the epitome of calmness—looked mildly panicked. “W-Wait, are you sure this is—AH, WHY IS IT IN MY SPINE?”

You snorted as he shot you a look, beads of sweat forming on his brow.

By level 6, Trey was gripping the counter like it was holding him back from the gates of hell. “This is not natural. I’m convinced this is just dark magic. I think the dough is rising inside me.”

When it reached level 9, Trey—calm, responsible Trey—finally broke. “Okay, okay, STOP. I take it back. You are all warriors. I’ll bake you whatever you want for the rest of the week, just please stop.”

With a press of the button, you ended his suffering, and Trey fell back in his chair, gasping for air like he’d just run a marathon. He gave you a weak thumbs-up. “Good... good lesson. I have so much respect for you now. Never again.”

Ruggie Bucchi:

Ruggie thought he could handle anything. Growing up in the slums, you learn to survive, right? So when you casually mentioned a period pain simulator, he scoffed. “Psh, it can’t be worse than a day of running around for Leona. Hit me with it.”

Oh, sweet Ruggie. He didn’t know.

You strapped him up, and as the simulator started, he just chuckled. “This is nothin’. I’ve had stomach cramps before. Ain’t gonna—”

Level 4.

Ruggie doubled over, hands on his knees, eyes wide. “H-Hey, what the—ow, ow, OW! Is this what you deal with?!” His voice cracked as his body spasmed.

By level 6, he was on the floor, clutching his stomach. “I’m sorry for everything. For stealing your snacks, for—oh seven, is this my punishment for that time I ate all your donuts?!” He was gasping, rolling on his back, legs kicking in the air like he was trying to outrun the pain.

“Ruggie, I’m only at level 7,” you said, laughing.

Level 9 hit, and that’s when it got wild. “PLEASE! PLEASE! I’LL DO ANYTHING! I’LL WASH ALL OF YOUR LAUNDRY. I’LL DO GRIM’S CHORES. JUST TURN IT OFF.”

You finally turned it off, and Ruggie lay there, twitching, face pale. “...I’ll never complain about anything again. Ever.”

Jade Leech:

Jade approached the period pain simulator like he did everything else—with unnerving curiosity. “Fascinating. I’ve heard about this phenomenon, but I’ve never had the chance to experience it firsthand.” He grinned that unsettling grin of his as you set it up.

“I’m sure it won’t be that bad,” he added with eerie confidence, as if he were about to observe himself in an experiment.

Level 2 was fine. At level 4, he twitched slightly. “Interesting sensation. It feels as though something is constricting. Very curious.”

At level 5, his smile wavered, just a bit. His breathing hitched, and his hand twitched. “Ah. I see. A dull, persistent ache.”

By level 7, Jade was gripping the edge of his chair, a bead of sweat rolling down his forehead. “This... is more intense than I anticipated. Quite...quite challenging.”

Level 9, and his grin was gone. For once, Jade looked almost human—panicked and wide-eyed. His fingers dug into the table as he gasped, “What is this? Is this...some sort of torture technique?”

You had to fight back laughter as he gave you a rare, pleading look. “Turn it off...please.”

When it finally stopped, Jade blinked rapidly, straightening himself with as much dignity as he could muster. “I’ll admit, I underestimated that. Quite... informative.”

Kalim Al-Asim:

Kalim thought this was going to be fun. Like a game. “Sure! I’ll try it!” he chirped, flashing his bright smile. “This’ll be interesting!”

At level 2, Kalim was still smiling. “It kinda tickles!”

By level 4, his eyes widened. “O-Oh. That’s...that’s a bit tight, huh?”

Level 6 hit, and Kalim’s smile faltered completely. He was gripping the couch cushions, eyes wide with panic. “Wait, wait, wait! It’s like someone’s punching me from the inside!”

Level 8 arrived, and Kalim let out a full-on yelp. “Okay! O-Okay! I-I take it back! This isn’t fun at all!”

You were wheezing with laughter as Kalim squirmed, trying to adjust himself in the chair, like it would somehow lessen the pain. “It feels like my insides are doing a dance but... but not in a good way! Jamil! Help!”

When you finally turned it off, Kalim lay there, panting like he’d just escaped a wild party gone wrong. “Wow. Just... wow. I didn’t know! How do you survive this?”

Rook Hunt:

Of course, Rook approached this experience like everything else in life—with an excessive amount of enthusiasm. “Ah, mon trésor, you wish to grant me the experience of such a unique sensation? Marvelous! I am prepared for anything!”

You hooked him up, and he was practically vibrating with excitement.

At level 2, Rook was still poetic. “Ah, it begins. A subtle whisper of discomfort, like the winds of autumn brushing against one’s skin.”

Level 4. “Ah! A deeper ache, much like the pull of unrequited love! So sharp, so vivid! I feel it in my very core!”

Level 6 hit, and Rook...started sweating. “Oh...oh my, it is as though my very soul is twisting! A veritable storm within me!”

At level 8, Rook clutched his chest dramatically. “Mon dieu! The anguish! How does one continue to live with such torment on a monthly basis? I am in awe of your strength!”

You were practically crying with laughter as Rook, finally humbled, gasped, “Turn it off, s’il vous plaît! My poetic heart cannot take any more of this agony!”

Lilia Vanrouge:

Lilia had lived for centuries. He had fought in wars, seen empires rise and fall, so surely this would be nothing, right? “Ah, this? A pain simulator? How quaint,” he said with a smirk as you set it up.

At level 3, he was still smiling, though you noticed a twitch in his left eye. “Hmph. I’ve had worse.”

Level 5 hit, and Lilia stiffened, his smirk turning into a grimace. “Oh...that’s rather unpleasant.”

Level 7 arrived, and Lilia’s face contorted. He gripped the arms of the chair, his tiny frame shuddering. “This is worse than I thought” he muttered.

At level 9, Lilia—a warrior who had seen millennia—let out a tiny, high-pitched yelp. “STOP! TURN IT OFF! THIS ISN’T RIGHT!”

You immediately turned it off, watching in amusement as Lilia leaned back in his chair, panting. “Well...I didn’t expect that to be my undoing.” He gave you a weary smile. “You are far stronger than I ever gave you credit for.”

Masterlist

[mattsfavoritestar]

SIT STILL, matt sturniolo

synopsis… you physically cannot stay still no matter how hard you try. your other friends are used to your high energy and usually don’t mind it, all except one. matt’s probably the only person who can get you to calm down. kinda.

warnings… puppy!reader, mean!matt, unprotected p in v (be smart🌚), cockwarming, little bit of a praise kink, little bit of nipple play, big dick!matt, orgasm denial

@bernardsbendystraws for the dividers <3

“i feel like my stomach hates me right now” nick groans. he laid back on to the couch with an uncomfortable look on his face as he rubbed his stomach over his shirt. “not gonna lie my tummy s’grumbling too,” chris says.

you were probably hungry as-well but your brain blocked out the dull ache as you were hyper focused on the movie playing in front of you. your leg bounced rapidly as your fingers curled tighter onto the couch cushion. matt rolls his eyes, “she’s not even paying attention, just go and i’ll ask her later,” he says.

it’s true. you weren’t paying attention. you heard shuffling from both sides of you before seeing nick and chris get up in your peripheral vision. a hand waved in your face causing you to snap out of the trance and look up at chris. “don’t piss him off too much, ‘kay?” he smiles. you return the toothy grin then turned back to the screen.

as the door shut, you felt eyes burning into the side of your head. matt scoffs before getting up and walking to his room. not even ten minutes pass before a commercial interrupts your movie causing you to slightly whine. you tried to entertain yourself with your phone but it didn’t last thirty seconds before you tossed it and groaned in boredom. you looked around the empty room then got up in search of matt.

as you creeped closer to his cracked door, you heard a string of profanity’s leave his lips. you slightly pushed the door open, widening the view of matt’s face being illuminated by his pc. “yeah we need a minute to like— chill for a sec,” he says.

you pushed the door open further with a smile on your face as you waltzed into his room. matt completely ignored your presence as he scrolled through the item shop, mumbling whatever lyrics were playing through his headphones. “whatcha doing?” you ask as you flatten your palms on his desk.

as you pushed your self closer to view his screen, you were unknowingly giving him a perfect view of your tits being smushed together. he lets out a small breathy chuckle as he takes a quick glance then returns his focus. a pout formed onto your face at the lack of attention. you move closer to matt then start pawing at his shirt before letting your fingers trail up to the nape of his neck.

your fingers danced between his curls gently then you found the sudden urge to yank a little too harsh. a groan falls from matt’s lips as his eyes squeeze shut as he let his head fall back. you let out a small giggle before you yelped as matt roughly pulls you into his lap. you felt his body heat on your back and the growing bulge that nestled right between your legs.

“so fucking annoying,” he mutters before going back to scrolling. you whined and squirmed as you tried to twist yourself to face him but all you did was cause his dick to harden and grow even more. a slap landed on your bare thigh. matt grips your jaw and forces your head to face him. “can you sit still for one god damn second?” he says.

“m’bored—“ you whined. matt tugs at your pouted lip with his thumb before releasing your face with a scoff. “so go finish the movie,” he replies. you let out a huff as you went back to squirming and eventually found yourself slightly bouncing. a deep groan rumbled through matt’s chest as his grip on the mouse grew tighter.

matt pushes you off him, “don’t wanna behave?”, he says, “strip”. you look at him through your wide eyes with excitement, if you had a tail it would’ve knocked over the things on his desk. matt watched you pull your clothes off as his eyes grew more dark. he slightly pulled his sweatpants down just enough to reveal his aching cock.

the second your panties were off, matt pulls you back on top of him. you hissed at the stretch but made no move to remove yourself. “that’s it, good— girl” he says in a low voice. you felt matt rub small circles on your skin in a comforting way as your tried adjusting to his size. “alright i’m back” you heard a voice say from his headset.

you tried to roll your hips but a firm grip on your waist prevented you from moving. “behave,” he says before unmuting his mic. matt acted as if you weren’t even there while he played his game. his character ended up getting shot causing him to thrust his hips deeply into you as he yelled at the screen. a mewl left your lips but you covered your mouth quickly, in fear of being heard.

“yo kid, you good?” you heard a voice say. matt glared down at you then gave you a tight squeeze before responding. you were trying so hard not to moan but every time matt jolted or shifted the slightest, he brushed against that spongy spot inside you. his hand traveled up to your tits, allowing his fingers to roll your sensitive nipples.

“matt–“ you whimpered. your chest rose and fell rapidly as the urge to move grew more prominent. a devilish smirk painted his face as he tugged and pinched. your warm walls pulsated, hugging his cock even more causing him to hiss in pleasure. your skin was sticky from your own arousal, a wet patch grew on matt’s sweatpants. you jutted your hips as your brain grew more fuzzy then stuffed your mouth with your fingers.

drool escaped down your hand as muffled moans and whines attempt to fall. you felt the vibration of matt’s laugh shoot straight to your core. “awe— poor puppy just wanted to be played with, yeah?” he coos. you nod your head as you let your hips rock faster with a tight pressure building by the second.

you dropped both your hands to the desk and curled your fingers in attempt to steady yourself. right as you were on the brink of your release, matt pulls you off him. you whined at the lost orgasm and tried to get back on him but his tight grip on your waist prevented you. “i said t’sit still, didn’t i?” matt says with a smirk.

[frmisnow]

play pretend ! ₊⟡⋆ nsfw.

the premise of fake dating your best friend, for just a weekend, is hilarous.. and scary. but what happens after is even scarier.. it's just play pretend right?

warnings / includes — sex, heavy fwb themes, bit of angst

shame coated you when you woke up in one of the guest rooms, carefully placed onto the bed at about 3am by no other then jungkook while you were dead hungover. pure rotten shame rests in your cheeks, paints them red when you say bye to his family a few hours later as jungkook couldn't quite even look at you.

everything about him was different. the way he moved around you, the way he avoided looking directly at you. hell, even his voice sounded quieter, less confident, like he didn’t know what to do either.

something had changed him, for the worse.

and it was all your damn fault.

you had thought the car ride would give you both time to defrost, pretend that whatever happened the night earlier did in fact not happen, crack some jokes but to no avail — long, defening silence.

silence and shame don't go well together, the color they create on the canvas of yours, it soaked through you. stayed with you for the next five days, it's the color of the message you send him at 11 pm on saturday, asking him how he was doing.

it's the ugly color of the 'delivered' button that stays there for the following two days.

the dress you wear to the next party is bright, anything to drown out the guilt that was eating you alive.

the music is loud, and so are you. laughing a little too hard, moving a little too close to anyone who shows you attention. you take another sip of whatever is in your cup, the liquid burning its way down your throat but dulling the ache in your chest.

and then there’s him.

you don’t see Jungkook immediately, but you feel him before your eyes catch his across the room. you feel the way the air shifts, the way your stomach churns when you notice the familiar set of his jaw, the way his eyes flicker toward you.

you almost drop your drink.

because it feels like a candid flashback of that night—only now it’s all so different. why did things have to be so complicated?

you’re pressed against some guy you barely know, his lips grazing your neck in a way that should distract you. you’ve been letting it happen, letting him flirt, letting his hands wander because it’s easier than thinking about the mess you left unresolved.

but then there’s jungkook. he stands on the other side, the neon light painting his face; his look wasn't judging. maybe light disappointment but more observing then anything, really. and it reminded you of how you used to stare at him whenever he was going after various girls at these exact sorts of parties.

it makes you sick, makes the unfamilar hands on your body feel foul and uninviting, it's not the fire burning through you like it had that night, it's cold ice, slowly creeping through your veins, making it's way to your brain.

said ice whispers things you don't want to hear, reminds you of things you don't want to think about.

"fuck, i think i like you."

you run of upstairs to the nearest balcony, the house was familar one of your mutual friends', this place was where you used to play spin the damn bottle in high school. now it feels haunted, just as univiting as the guy's hands felt a few minutes ago, why did everything feel so distant now? first jungkook, now everything else. why was it so consuming?

you light up a cigarette, you didn't usually smoke but you wanted to feel that fire again, the warmth, the pure need from a week ago. you regreted not having fucked the guy because you were sure he could've made you forget for longer then this cig could.

“thought I might find you here,” he says behind you, kneeling next to you yet keeping a safe distance, his voice low and cautious.

"you shouldn't have," you respond coldly, because anger is a better emotion to feel then regret and you had plenty things to be frustrated about, "you've been avoiding me for a whole week, don't pretend like you give a fuck." you don't meet his eyes, just take another drag.

but you see him flinch in the corner of your eye. great, the guilt sits in you once again.

he shifts slightly, and you can feel the tension radiating off him , “i know I’ve been a jerk, but it’s not that simple—”

“then make it simple.” your voice is sharper than you intended, but the hurt has festered for too long. you finally turn to face him, “i need to know what you want. because this? whatever this is? it’s fucking misery.”

the words hang heavily in the air, and for a moment, silence stretches between you. jungkook looks like he’s grappling with his thoughts, the tension in his body palpable. then, slowly, he closes the distance between you, his eyes softening as he cups your face in his hands.

“can I kiss you?” he asks, his voice a whisper, as if the question itself is laced with vulnerability.

you nod, and the moment your lips touch, it’s like everything else fades away. the kiss starts soft, gentle, as if he’s savoring the moment, and you can feel your heart begin to race.

it's nothing like the previous fire you had wished to experience earlier, it's delicate warming sunlight, brushing over your skin, washing away the hideous color that had built over the last few days.

“friends with benefits,” he murmurs against your lips, his breath hot and sweet. “we get to have this-” he kisses you again, slow and lingering, “—without the pressure of expectations.”

“expectations?” you echo, your mind racing as you try to process his words.

“yeah,” he replies, his lips brushing against yours, each touch sending shivers down your spine. “we can enjoy each other without worrying about where it’s going. just... pure fun.” his hands toy with the hem of your dress, before returning your gaze.

time slips quick, it all feels so raw, so different from that night yet all so much better.

his hands grip your thighs, pulling you closer, driving deep inside you with a primal urgency. you can feel the way he fills you, stretching you perfectly. you're so glad you aren't drunk, that you'll remember this in the morning and the day after.

you claw at his back, nails digging in, urging him on, needing more, wanting all of him. and he curses, runs his mouth like the talkative brat you knew he always was, degrades you one second, tentatively kisses your cheeks the next.

his hands rest on your tighs as he kisses along your clit once again, sweet, real. taunts you 'for the mess you made on your friend's coach' but he doesn't give you time to feel guilty, just starts nuzzling his face back into your pussy, licking along.

no, jungkook will never make you feel the same guilt again. you're sure of it, well — not that you could really properly think under these conditions anyway.

[reignpage]

Frat Boy!Gojo

Cosmopolitan: sober thoughts

Word Count: 6.1k Contents: their first date, cursing, a little angsty, but mostly fluffy, not proofread (barely skimmed this so again, dunno how much sense it makes)

“Before you get any bright ideas, just know I’m sharing my location with at least ten people.”

Whistling, the biggest pain in your ass saunters over to you

The moon is full, a big white orb that would otherwise bring you a lot of peace to look at but right now, only pisses you off for reasons you’d rather not spend too much time pondering. Rarely anyone comes around these parts; it’s at the very edge of the city, a half-hour drive from campus, and surrounded by miles of dull, old suburbia. You’re standing in front of a metal gate, slightly taller than you, with vines wrapping around the pickets. It swings slowly with every gust of wind, creaking before it meets the stone wall with a bang.

Gojo grimaces. 

“Seriously, did you have to choose the scariest place in all of Eden? I mean, I respect the commitment to the aesthetic, but this is just crazy,” he grumbles, eyeing the cathedral from its huge marble pillars to the sharp spires piercing the night sky. 

You roll your eyes. Trust him to leave the date planning to you just to complain every step of the way. You’re already regretting playing along with whatever games he’s conjured up this time, but at least you’ve got home turf advantage; you know this place like the back of your hand. There won’t be any surprises happening tonight. 

Without replying, you walk off, heading straight through the gate. 

“Hey, wait! Don’t leave me here. I don’t want to end up as a statistic.”

Shrugging, you say, “If you’re scared, you can go back home.”

When he doesn’t say a thing and follows you, you smile. You win. But that feeling of victory doesn’t last very long because then he starts muttering about the cobwebs and how they’re everywhere, then about the tombstones, how they’re so messy with moss covering the engravings and that ‘the spirits must definitely be like so mad about all that’, and when you don’t respond to any of his musings, he even complains about the eerie music foreshadowing his pending doom, like in Jaws.

There is no music. 

“Where are we even going?” He pokes your shoulder, snatching his hand back faster than you can swat at it. “I thought we were going to, I don’t know, have a picnic under the stars and cuddle on top of someone’s grave, like Mary Shelley did.”

“How the fuck do you even know about that?” 

Gojo lifts one shoulder. “Must have heard it online or something.”

You roll your eyes again — you have a feeling you’ll be doing a lot of that tonight, maybe even for the rest of your life if things go the way your parents plan. When you had first found out the village idiot is the president of the most sought-after fraternity of the most prestigious university in the country, you thought maybe no one else had stepped up. But then you found out he’s a Legacy --the Gojos have governed that fraternity since its conception -- and well, the pieces fell into place. 

Mischief no doubt sparkling in your eyes, you look at him over your shoulder. His eyes are full of suspicion and when they meet yours, he becomes even more doubtful of your intentions. With a grin, you whisper, “We’re going someplace no one will hear you scream.”

“Kinky.”           

That didn’t have the desired effect. How annoying. Though you don’t fail to notice how he moves in closer to you, his warmth radiating to your body through your black, fur cloak. You don’t shift away. 

Gesturing for him to follow you through a gap in a wooden fence, you squeeze through to avoid splinters, pulling at your dress when a piece of lace catches on a nail. Just as you’re about to offer advice on how to contort his body to get through, he climbs over the fence and lands on his feet without stumbling, all in one quick sweep, like he’s who wanders these hallowed grounds at night and not you. 

“What?” He asks when he spots your glare. 

Not even those stupid sunglasses are out of place. Very annoying, indeed. 

“Come quickly,” you bark, fixing your silk gloves to cover more of your skin as the chill settles in. It’s only six in the evening, and yet there’s no hint of light in the broad expanse above you, just the moon and the stars lighting your way, and occasionally your companion’s phone flashlight when he needs to look at what he’s stepped in. 

He laughs. “No one’s ever said that to me before.”

“Do you make it a habit to talk about your sex life with a girl on a first date?”

“You’re the first, so not a habit. Not yet anyways.” 

Screeching to a halt, your hand clutches his elbow to still him. Your jaw is slack and you’re staring, completely disbelieving. “There’s no way this is your first date. You took that girl to the casino.”

Gojo stares off into the distance as he ponders the notion, fingers tapping his chin. Then, he insists, “No, it really is my first date. And anyways, I don’t consider that night a date; she pretty much invited herself along. It was more like I was just taking her to the casino as her escort. Or maybe that does count as a date. If so, then I’ve been on a lot of dates. But none where I’ve actually used the word date. Does that even matter because —“ 

You wave a hand in front of his face to cut off his rambling; he talks way too much. “So, you’re telling me, I’m the first girl you’ve ever asked out on a date? That’s insane, Gojo. You hate me.”

“I don’t hate you,” he protests with a frown.

“You sure acted like you did for months,” you counter. 

He insists, “I don’t hate you. Never did. I just acted out but yeah, I’m sorry. I was a dick.”

Clearing your throat, you straighten up and continue walking. “It’s fine. Water under the bridge.” 

“You sure? ‘Cause I can get on my knees and beg.”

“Don’t tempt me, Gojo.”

He catches up to you and hums a playful tune, his light mood returning; Serious Gojo is gone like he never existed. “Guess that’s what you’re into, huh?”

“You’ll never know,” you snort, pushing a branch away from your face and letting it snap back into his chest, he yelps.

His hand reaches past you, lifting a thicker branch high above the both of you, before leaning close to your ear and whispering conspiratorially, “We’ll see.”

Disregarding the shiver than runs through you, you push on, moving almost on muscle memory alone. Your mind is attempting to distract itself by scanning the area, being careful not to be caught on church grounds after hours, pushing through the woodland to get to the clearing tucked away at the very back, where you go for peace and quiet. 

Truthfully, you have no idea why you decided to have this date here, of all places. This place is sacred. Literally but also figuratively — this is the place you always ran to when the world got a little too loud, a little too busy and bright for you. No one else knows about this haven as far as you’re aware and you always thought you’d do anything to keep it that way. And yet, you’re showing it to him. Actually, guiding him to the place. 

You should have at least blindfolded him so he couldn’t memorise the way. 

Maybe you wanted to spite him by living up to his expectations and being the gothic monster that he thinks you are -- you want to scare him off before he lets his curiosity take him too close to something that might scald him. He needs to be afraid of you. 

Or maybe you recognised that shadow in his eyes, the ones that suggests he’s lost as much sleep about this whole farce as you and thought he could do with a little silence. 

You both arrive at a thick bush, a massive wall of a shrub towering over even Gojo. Behind you, the cathedral is only a blob, lit up by lanterns, whereas you’re both submerged in darkness; there are no streetlamps here. 

“I’m totally going to be murdered here, aren’t I?” He whistles as if to say, ‘it’s been a good life, and I’ll have to just accept my fate’. 

“Yeah, I was lying when I said it was all water under the bridge. I’ve actually been colluding with the devil to sacrifice your white ass.”

Gojo laughs.

He laughs a lot, but rarely like this, you note. He chuckles when his friends do something stupid like push him into the fountain, and he snorts when he reads the most recent article on The Bulletin. But you’ve never really seen him throw his head back and clutch his stomach, at least not with anyone but you. He does it when you get caught texting him under the dinner table, when you give him the middle finger from across the Quad, and that one time you bumped into him in the hallway and almost apologised before you realised it was him.

It’s the kind of laugh that’s infectious, and you hoped every time he does it that you’re somehow immune. However, when he looks at you with a brightening sparkle in his eyes, you realise you’re very much not. 

You clear your throat again. 

“Through here, is a very special place. You must swear you will not desecrate this place, lest the Mother Crone curse you for your treachery,” you announce, wiggling your fingers at him for extra flair. 

Placing a hand on his heart, he stomps his foot like a soldier and swears, “I would never. I will take this secret to the grave.”

Satisfied, you grab the loose part of the hedge wall and pull it aside to reveal the little doorway to your secret hideout. He throws you a side glance before he ducks down and enters. You follow behind him, tucking the disguised door behind you. 

He doesn’t say a thing as you zoom to the side where you grope for something in the grass, right under part of the hedge. When you feel the smooth, cold plastic, you don’t hesitate to switch it on. 

Long wires of fairy lights light up, bulb by bulb, along the top of the hedge and down, like a really wide Christmas tree circling the hidden clearing. You hear him mutter a ‘woah’ under his breath as he scans the area — there’s only one thing here on the flat ground, it’s also lit up fairy lights along the top pole. It’s your most prized possession.

“You have a swing?” He shouts incredulously. Giggling like a child, he makes a run for it, jumping onto one of the two seats where he rocks back and forth on his feet. Then he’s whooping as he swings higher and higher, hair whooshing back and forth as he grins, taking in the cold autumnal air and the growing warmth of the lights. “This is freaking awesome!”

Sitting on the spare seat, you kick your feet gently so you can swing a little. Deep down there was a worry festering within, anxious that he would find this place boring, that he’d scoff at your idea of fun especially on a first date, but looking up at him, still hollering and grinning, you think, that was such a silly thought. 

Gojo slows to a mild back and forth momentum and wonders, “Are you sure I’m allowed to be here? This place seems pretty private, like your own mancave or something. Do girls have a version of a mancave? ‘Womancave?”

In the corner of your eye, you see him clamber down to sit as you answer his question. “I wouldn’t have taken you here if you weren’t allowed, dumbass.”

“Yeah, well, I’m still not convinced this isn’t an elaborate scheme to murder me and hide my body in a grave.”

“Neither.” You shrug. 

He laughs. 

Eventually, you both swing side by side, alternating up and then down. The wind is howling a little, rustling the trees surrounding you and the moon’s obscured by dark cloud. Neither you nor he say anything to break the silence. You were also worried that you’d come to hate his presence in your safe space, finding his tall, lanky presence an irritation, but surprisingly, you don’t mind it. 

It’s nice to have company. 

Especially when that company is keeping his mouth shut. 

“How often do you come here?”

Or not. 

With a sigh, you reply, “Like twice a week. I can’t come as often as I’d like because of all the classes and stuff, not to mention all the wedding planning we have to do.”

“Guess you have it worse than me since I don’t even need to be fitted for a suit; they already have my measurements,” he muses. 

“For whatever reason, it’s always the women who have to plan these things, even though it’s the men that propose.” You accidentally make eye contact with him. “Or at least, that’s how it usually goes.”

Gojo hums, a little sheepishly, before he changes the subject. “So, how did you find this place?”

“We buried my grandmother in the graveyard when I was fifteen. We were close and I took the loss pretty hard. I couldn’t stand all the people pretending they cared so I ran off, got lost and found this clearing. Well, I actually fell through the hedge, but I found it, nonetheless. And this swing was here already. I don’t know how long it’s been here or why it’s here, but it is.”

“That sounds like a fairytale.” He swivels, swinging a long leg over to straddle the seat, facing you as he leans back against the metal chain. “I’m sorry for your loss, by the way. I lost my grandmother too and it was rough.”

You saw that on the news years ago, it was one of those private family events that make the national headlines by complete virtue of the family name. Your parents grieved in public like it was their own loss and you didn’t understand why. Of course, as you got older, you became more and more acquainted with the idea of ‘reputation’ and ‘public image’, but you still feel that same distance to the concept as you did when you were but a child. 

“I’m sorry for your loss,” you repeat back to him.

He shrugs. “It’s alright. I’ve got my gramps. We’re best buddies.”

“You have a lot of best buds, don’t you?” 

Gojo strikes you as the kind of guy who makes friends easily, thought you question the depth of most of those friendships; sincerity is a rare phenomenon in your world. 

“No,” he huffs, “I have Suguru, the girl that gave you my number, and gramps. I have lots of close friends, though.”

Considering his words, you realise you don’t have any best friends. Sure, you have friends you hang out with often, people that share your interest, that you can party with, but none you feel as strongly about as he does with those three people. You can hear it in his voice, the conviction, the pride, the confidence. And when you glance at him, you know he doesn’t even realise how defensive he sounds about his people.

How nice it must be to have someone like him as a friend.

“We could be friends, if you’d like,” he offers, and when you look at him with confusion, he adds, “You said it out loud, silly. You think I’m a good person to be friends with. Which, of course I am. I’m like super awesome.”

You burst out laughing. What he said isn’t even funny and he certainly doesn’t mean for it to be, but for some reason it is. So, you laugh, throwing your head back and clutching your stomach. He makes noises of complaints, telling you it’s rude to laugh at people. That makes you laugh harder. 

“Gojo, be serious for a second. We can’t be friends, idiot,” you push out between puffs of laughter. 

He frowns, lips twitching to fight back a smile at your flushed face. “Why not? We’re getting along fine right now, aren’t we?”

“Yeah, for now. But we’re going to be married. Or at least, we’re supposed to be. And think of all the complications that brings, it just doesn’t provide the conditions for a healthy friendship, especially considering our beginning. Think of all the people in our circle who had arranged marriages. How many of them get along? Like, really get along. Hell! Think about our parents.”

“Well, we could be different. We don’t have to end up like them. We can break the cycle or something.”

You stop laughing.

Something shifts in the air, like the moon’s reappeared, the wind’s slowed down, and his eyes shine just a little brighter. It’s sudden and you almost don’t notice it, almost shrug it off. But there’s a sincerity lingering between you and it demands your attention.

Fixing him a solemn look, perhaps similar to the one he gave you before, you assert, “That sounds an awful like an admission of surrender, Gojo.”

“Maybe it is.”

The speed at which he concedes, the sheer resolution in his eyes and the way he doesn’t falter when he says it all scream at you something you won’t accept. Can’t.

He grips your elbow, his long fingers wrapping around the limb with ease, demanding your attention. The sombre expression on his ghostly face haunts you. It’s like he’s shifted into a different person, into someone years older, a man burdened with great responsibility. 

“I’m sorry. About how I started this year off. I regretted everything I said as soon as I said them. I can’t even remember why I said and did those things, but I definitely don’t have a good reason,” he rasped, a desperation lacing his words like he needs you to understand, like he tosses and turns over it. “I know you’re just as much a victim of this as I am, but I was facing a problem I didn’t know to solve, and I lashed out. At you. At someone who didn’t deserve it. And I’m sorry.”

You reel back, snatching your arm away. His touch burns the way ice does, and you have to rub warmth back into it, despite the layers between your skin and his. The sincerity in his eyes is alien, revealing far more about the ongoings of reality than you can absorb in one night. Confusingly, your heart is pounding to the beat of a song you’ve never heard before. 

This date thing, taking him to your secret haven, giving him the opportunity to see you not as the enemy but rather as a woman was a mistake. It’s all one big mistake. It would have been fine if he had stayed as the Gojo you knew, the boisterous, obnoxious party animal that cares only about immediate gratification. But the man in front of you is not someone you can marry. He isn’t the type of man you can be around and feel absolutely nothing for. 

“I’m hungry,” you mutter, standing abruptly.

He looks up at you, something passing in his eyes, almost akin to disappointment or sadness, and you can’t bear to think about what that could mean, so you simply gesture for him to follow you. 

In silence, you walk back the way you came, using your phone’s flashlight to navigate through the thick haze of darkness. This was a mistake; you let him in for a second, gave him a glimpse into your life, and you aren’t even sure why. Was it because you could hear your mother’s voice telling you to do whatever it takes to drag the man to the altar or because, despite yourself, you actually wanted to see what going on a date with Gojo means? 

Maybe it was both. 

Or neither. 

You’re losing more and more of yourself these days, doing things you’d never thought you’d do for one reason or another, and you no longer even know what you want. Your pride or your family? A marriage with Gojo or the friendship he’s offering? Is there’s a third option.

“What’d you wanna eat?” He asks, rocking back and forth on his feet as he stares up at a streetlight. 

You’ve both made it back onto the main road, the swings a mile away. He didn’t press the topic more, simply walked beside you and pushed branches away like before. 

It’s nearing eight in the evening and your stomach growls. 

“Who said I’m eating with you?”

Gojo rolls his eyes and pokes your shoulder. With a sulky tone, he groans, “Don’t be mean. You’re hungry, I’m hungry, let’s eat. Simple!”

“Can you cook?” 

He beams, sunglasses sliding down the bridge of his nose as he looks at you over them, bright eyes sparkling with what you can only guess to be mischief. You realise you really should think before you speak. 

—

That’s how you find yourself in his frat house kitchen, cloak discarded, hair up and gloves off. His frat members are out, partying, he claims, so the whole house is free. When he suggested it, you looked at him like he was insane, but he only wiggled his brows.

“You scared?” He cocked his head, grinning at you in a way that made you want to punch his teeth in. 

Narrowing your eyes at him, you responded, “No, of course not.”

Gojo bent his arms and rocked his head, making clucking noises that echoed in the empty street. Every note pierced your body, mocking and goading. You knew exactly what he was doing, and it was fucking working, the stupid bastard. Without responding to his accusation, you stomped over to his car and gave him a glare. He fetched his car keys and spun them on his finger with a victorious whistle.

“Grate this,” he orders. 

His kitchen is huge, which is understandable for the size of the house and how many people live here. Apparently, there’s three more kitchens in the damn place, not that you believe even a quarter of the guys that live here know what a cutting board is. The kitchen is surprisingly clean, however. It’s sparkling clean. 

“We have cleaners that comes in every other day,” he chuckles, noticing your looks of complete judgement whilst he boils some pasta. “But we are pretty strict on cleanliness, regardless. And everyone knows, I’m not afraid to crack the whip to keep everyone in line.”

Scoffing, you clarify, “You? Cracking whips? I find that hard to believe.”

He leans against the island you’re stationed at, the sound of water simmering filling the small space between you. Watching you grate the cheese, he hums, fingers fiddling with the lace of your sleeve. He mutters, “I know how to be serious when I need to be.”

You hum too. 

Still fiddling with the fabric, you ignore his wandering hand, fingers slipping under to roll the soft lace between his fingertips. Goosebumps rise on your skin. His touch is tentative, hesitant and gentle — one would think he’s just afraid to snag the fabric, acknowledging the craftsmanship, but one glance up at him, seeing his gaze fixated on your exposed skin more than your sleeve, you know otherwise. 

“Hands to yourself, Geralt.”

“If I’m Geralt, that must make you Yennefer,” he retorts. With a laugh, he pulls away, returning to the stove to tend to the pasta sauce. You don’t realise how much warmth he generated until you feel a sudden draught. 

The smell of frying onions and garlic is delicious and you’re becoming more and more starved by the second. He’s agile, moving swiftly and on muscle memory as he opens drawers and cabinets to gather the things he needs. 

“How often do you cook?” You ask, arm getting tired from the motion of grating the block of cheese.

Gojo shrugs and admits, “Not as often as I’d like. Weekends are for parties and pizza and all the other days, everyone’s doing their thing, studying or whatever, and eating by myself is kinda sad, so I just eat out usually.”

“How is it possible that you eat out so often but still remain so skinny?”

That was apparently the wrong thing to say because the next thing you know you’re being spun around and pressed into the island with a hard body. His arms are caging you in, keeping you still as he grins at you. 

He had thrown his jacket by the door when you both walked in; his biceps bulge as he flexes. They’re so much bigger now, or maybe they were always like that. And he’s pressed so close his Adam’s apple is right in front of you, bobbing when you tilt your head back so you can meet his eyes. 

“I’m plenty jacked, actually,” he brags and to add salt to the wound, he leans down, cheek brushing against yours to whisper against your ear, “wifey.”

You shove him off, snorting at his lame line. He back away with little protest. Trying to hide the heat in your face, you wash your hands, turning away from him completely. 

The rest of the hour passes by in a blink of an eye, and you finally sit down at the dining table across from each other. He’s a decent cook and you pay him a compliment even though it physically hurt to do so. 

“Do you not cook very often?” 

“I make sandwiches and ramen, that’s as far as I know how to do,” you admit with no shame.

He pours you a cup of water and asks, “Do you not have a chef to pre-make meals for you? My father insisted I have one, but I complained to my gramps about the lack of privacy and independence, and he gave up pretty quickly.”

You pause. It’s a stupid question to ask someone, from anyone else it’d drip in condescension, but you know he’s genuinely asking and it’s a valid question, just not one you’re ready to answer. So, with a careful shrug, you say simply, “I’m fine with the way things are.”

Gojo doesn’t sense the tense quiver of your voice, or if he does, he has enough tact to ignore it, so he continues the conversation. He talks to you about what being a frat president entails, and you tell him your experiences as the Treasurer. 

He also shares stories of his friends: the time ‘the gang’ snuck into the gym to put shaving cream in Toji’s locker after he had his room bubbled wrapped down to every single pair of boxers, each and every one of his friends’ drunk habits, and how he’s actually a lightweight so he sticks to beers most of the time but he hates the taste and actually much prefer cocktails. 

“Wait, wait,” you say between laughs, “you drink cosmos in secret ‘cause you don’t want your frat mates knowing their president actually hates beer?”

“Yeah, yeah, laugh it up. But it isn’t my fault those things taste like wheat piss!”

You laugh harder. “They do! They totally do!”

“Has anyone ever said you have a pretty la—“

“Woah!” A voice yells out. “What’s going on here?”

You both turn to look at the wide-open door. Two men walk in, they’re in gym clothes, wide toothy grins on their faces as they stare between you and their president. You recognise them as second years, often hanging around Gojo in pictures or loitering in the Quad. 

One guy, a fake blond, wolf whistles when he sees you. “Satoru, you didn’t tell us you were having a girl over. It’s been a while; we rarely even see your bestie nowadays.”

“Yeah, this is a sight for sore eyes. This place was getting too much hotdog and not enough buns, if you know what I mean.”

When they both guffaw, you grimace. Their voices are grating, like sharp notes, and despite yourself, you cower in your seat. You hate the way they’re looking at you, in half desire and half repulsion — they’re enjoying the sight of a woman in their space, but they don’t know what to make of your attire. Usually, you don’t let people like them get to you, not their comments and not their stares. But something’s different, you’re more sensitive, less guarded. 

“Isn’t she your fiancé? We’ve heard all about her. The girls from Delta Sigma said she dresses like a witch, and well, they aren’t entirely wrong.”

“Get out.”

Three heads turn. Gojo’s standing; you hadn’t seen him move. He’s leaning on his fingertips, head hanging as he stares at his empty plate. No one says a thing. There’s no air in here anymore. Only silence, a grim, gut-wrenching silence. 

They stammer. “H-hey, man. What’s wrong?”

“Get. Out.”

“Come on, we’re just messing around,” the fake blonde chuckles nervously. 

Gojo looks up, slowly, like a creaking door. When his eyes settle on them, they stagger back with the force of his disappointment, and again with his wrath. Though you feel the tendrils of that infinite space between you, you don’t bear its impossible weight. 

With his body tense, veins bulging along his arms, broad shoulders pushed back ready for something you can’t quite grasp in this moment, you realise he really is jacked. And those muscles aren’t just for show or pressing girls against marble countertops. 

As great as it would be to be his friend, it’s even greater to not be his enemy. You didn’t realise it then, but you do now, if Gojo had ever really wanted to make someone disappear, he probably could have done so. 

“You would do well to remember that I, as descendent of the founder of Alpha Phi Delta, have a right to terminate any fraternity brother’s membership without a need for sufficient cause. Just because I’ve never exploited that clause doesn’t mean I’m above it. So, get out. Now.”

Cheeks red and heads hung low, they walk back out without sparing you another glance. 

Gojo sits back down, shoulders still tense. 

The silence hasn’t disappeared, but it has lightened, much more tolerable now. With an uncertainty in your movements, you push your knife and fork together and pat your lips dry. 

“Well, this has certainly been an eventful night,” you say. “I really ought to go, though.”

Gojo nods and takes your plate, leaving to go to the kitchen whilst you freshen up in the bathroom. 

When you come out, he’s already waiting outside with his hands tucked in his pockets, staring up at puffs of clouds he breathes into the night sky. There’s a sombre air around him, like you’re better off not disturbing him, but when he spots you from the corner of his eye, that air evaporates and he beams, literally brightens, practically shadowing the moon. 

“Hey, come on, I’ll drive you to your dorm,” he asserts with a smile. 

And he does. You get into his car for the second time of the night and watch the campus blur past you. Through the ten-minute car ride, he sings along to the pop songs on the radio, bopping his head to every beat like they’re coursing through his veins. 

“You don’t know these songs? Really?” 

He’s completely incredulous, looking at you as if you’ve grown two heads. You roll your eyes and jokingly explain you’re committed to the aesthetic. He finds that funny. The rest of the ride continues wordlessly.

“Alright, this is me,” you announce when he parks. He climbs out the car with you, leaning against his door as you shuffle awkwardly on your feet. “Despite certain parts of the time being…stiff, should we say, I had a lot of fun. Surprisingly.”

A tinge of red colours the tips of his ears. “Yeah, me too. I expected to lose my life, or at least a few limbs, at that graveyard, so I’m pretty happy with the turnout.”

You roll your eyes. “And I’m very happy I’m not covered in pig’s blood coming out of your frat house.”

“No, closest we had to that was the pasta sauce,” he chuckles. 

“Which was surprisingly delicious, by the way. You should cook more often instead of the junk food you eat.”

“Says you?” He pushes your shoulder lightly. “Miss Cup Noodles.”

“Whatever.”

The conversation dies there, laughter fading as both of you eye the doors of your dorm building. You pull your cloak tighter around you, irritated that, even though he’s just in jeans and a plain graphic tee, he’s seemingly unbothered by the temperature drop. 

“You should go in,” Gojo suggests, voice softer, barely louder than a whisper. 

You nod and make a step to go, but then a warm hand wraps around your wrist, tugging you back. He’s carrying the weight of it in his palm, thumb grazing your wrist. There’s electricity thrumming where he touches and you’re about to snatch your hand away before he tightens his grip. 

“Just a second,” he mutters, before pulling out something from his pockets. Something black. 

Your gloves. 

You forgot to put them on, having left them in the kitchen. 

He’s taking his time, smoothing the material over your knuckles, ensuring your fingers are tucked in properly. His thumb lingers on the curve of each finger, exploring the slopes. Your breath hitches as his hands envelope yours completely, his touch deliberate and light and there’s no other way to describe it: it’s positively reverent. 

The glove slide snugly into place, a second skin but they feel new, as if fresh from the machine, still warm. 

You shouldn’t let him reach for your other hand, shouldn’t just watch as he unfolds the other glove, slipping it on with much more care than you yourself had ever done. His eyes are watching the fabric consume more and more of your skin, until they meet the ends of your sleeve, and no skin remains. 

“Gojo,” you breathe out. 

He shakes his head, brows furrowing. “Satoru. Call me Satoru.”

When he finally looks up, your eyes meet and your pulse quickens, quick and short breaths pulling your chest up and down. You didn’t even realise one hand is clutching his shoulder whilst the other remains in his grip. And you certainly don’t notice that you’re standing much closer than before, only a hair’s breadth from finding out whether his lips are as soft and plush as his touch. 

“You smell really nice,” he whispers, thumb running across your knuckles, like he’s willing warmth into your hand. 

You’re so close it only takes one gust of wind to push you together, to taste what a future with him could mean, to seal the first date with something that’ll keep you up at night. Just one kiss, one bad decision and everything could fade away for a second. You could pretend he’s just a boy and you’re just a girl and this is a normal date, that you have a normal relationship and tomorrow you could go back to being arranged lovers. 

His lashes flutter, so long and wispy and you’re jealous. Flickering between your eyes and your lips, you know he’s searching for any sign that you might want this just as bad as he does. You’re craning your head back, back arched to reach him, and when your chest rubs against his for a millisecond, he shuts his eyes with a groan.  

“Hey! If it isn’t Gojo,” a gruff voice bellows.

You step back, gasping for air and desperately smoothing your skirt down as you give a shaky smile to the newcomer. He’s a tall, buff man wearing shorts and carrying a basketball. He pats Gojo on the back, oblivious to the tension, to the way his friend is pouting, grumbling about how he ‘ruined the moment.’

The man looks at you with a friendly enough smile, eyeing your appearance with nothing more than curiosity before he gives you one of those manly nods. 

“Whatcha doing at my girl’s dorm?” He asks. 

Clearing his throat, Gojo answers, “Just dropping my wi—I mean, my friend off. Yeah, just stopping by.”

The guy doesn’t look ready to stop talking. So you take the initiative to excuse yourself with an awkward kiss on the white-haired boy’s cheek and you whisper, “Goodnight...Satoru.”

You don’t wait for him to reply.

Just as you’re about to enter your dorm building, you hear a distinct, “Dude, I totally cockblocked you, didn’t I? Fuck, put that thing away. You’re gonna poke my fucking eyes out!”

You smile just as your phone pings.

[gilbertscurls]

Into it ➵ Matt Sturniolo

warnings: dry humping, soft!dom!reader, pet names (sweetheart, honey, my sweet boy)

synopsis: Matt is struggling with a persistent headache from hours of staring at his computer screen. Meanwhile, you find yourself unexpectedly captivated by how different—and attractive—Matt looks with his glasses on.

there's 400 of you already!! love you guys <3

Matt rubbed his temples as the dull ache behind his eyes intensified, the glow of the computer screen doing nothing to help. He’d been staring at it for hours, the spreadsheet blurring before him. Finally, with a sigh, he reached into his backpack and pulled out his blue light glasses.

“Man, I hate these things,” he muttered under his breath, sliding them on.

The glasses framed his face differently, the sleek black design making him look more focused, sharper. He blinked a few times, his headache already starting to ease, and went back to his work, not noticing the way you had suddenly gone very quiet.

You sat across from him, tapping at your laptop with a rhythm that had slowly died the moment Matt had put those glasses on. Your fingers hovered over the keyboard now, completely still, as you stole another glance his way.

He looked… Good. Really good.

You’d never paid much attention to Matt's glasses before, but for some reason, today was different. Maybe it was the way the lenses caught the light, making his blue eyes stand out, or how they seemed to give him this air of intelligence and quiet confidence. Whatever it was, you couldn’t stop staring.

“Baby?” Matt's voice cut through your thoughts, and you blinked, realizing you’d been caught.

“Huh?” you replied, your voice just a bit too high.

“I asked if you could double-check these numbers. You okay?” His brow furrowed in concern, but his gaze was calm behind those lenses.

“Oh! Yeah, totally.” You cleared your throat, tearing your eyes away from him and focusing on the screen. Your cheeks warmed, and you prayed he couldn’t see the blush creeping up your neck.

But as you tried to concentrate, you kept stealing glances, biting your lip as the thought kept circling in your head—How is it possible for someone to look so good in glasses?

“I, um… I think everything checks out,” you said, looking up at him with a small smile.

Matt reached out and took your hand, gently pulling you into his lap. He wanted to feel you close to him, to wrap his arms around you and hold you tight.

He leaned in and nuzzled his face into your neck, inhaling your scent and placing a soft kiss on your skin. His hands continued to rove over your legs and sides, moving in slow, soothing motions. His lips continued to move against your neck, leaving a trail of kisses along your skin as he inhaled your scent. The feeling of you in his lap, your weight on him, was so comforting and satisfying. You felt so light and delicate, and he was overcome with a protective feeling towards you.

Matt could feel you relaxing more and more into him, your body melting into his like you were made to fit together. He moved his arms around your waist, pulling you even closer to him. He could feel your soft curves pressing against him, and he couldn't help but feel a stirring of desire in his core.

He continued to nuzzle his face against your neck, his lips leaving feather-light kisses along your skin. His hands moved up your sides, gently tracing your shape and memorizing every contour of your body.

“How's your head, my sweet boy?” you asked softly.

He smiled at your endearment, feeling warmth spread through his chest. He loved when you called him your sweet boy, it always made him feel cared for and loved.

“My head is doing alright, honey,” he said, his voice soft. “I feel better with you in my arms.”

You giggled. “Glad to hear it.”

He chuckled at your giggle, feeling his heart skip a beat at the sound of your laughter. He pulled back so he could look you in the eyes, his hands still gently holding your sides.

“I don't think any medication could have worked as well as you,” he said, his tone teasing. “I should probably just make you my personal headache cure from now on.”

You looked at him with amusement before reaching up. He smiled as you fixed his glasses, your touch gentle and caring. He loved it when you did little things like that, it made him feel loved and cared for in such a simple way.

“You know, I wasn't sure about wearing these,” he said, gesturing to his glasses. “But seeing how much you seem to like them, I might have to wear them more often.”

“They make me feel… Some type of way,” you admitted sheepishly.

His smile widened as you admitted that his glasses made you feel a certain way. He was intrigued by the idea that something as simple as glasses could have an effect on you.

“Oh, really?” he teased. “And what kind of way do they make you feel, honey? Don't be shy now.”

“The 'I wanna jump you' kind of way.”

He let out a low, surprised moan when you said that, his body reacting in an instant. The thought of you being so turned on by something as simple as his glasses stirred something deep inside him.

“Is that so?” he asked, his voice a bit rougher than before. “And here I was thinking that these glasses made me look stupid.”

You laughed at his statement before shaking your head. “On the contrary,” you said, your eyes raking over him. “You look incredibly smart, and incredibly sexy in those glasses.”

You leaned in, your lips brushing against his ear as you continued in a low, sultry voice. “You look like a goddamn sex God sitting there with your legs spread, wearing your glasses and all. It's doing things to me, you have no idea.”

He felt a shiver run down his spine as your lips brushed against his ear and you whispered your words in that sultry tone. He felt a rush of desire and arousal at your words, and he felt himself harden even more in his pants.

“God, honey,” he groaned. “You can't say things like that to me when I'm already this worked up.”

You giggled playfully at his response, clearly enjoying the effect you were having on him. Your tongue poked out to wet your lips as you looked down at his lap, noticing the obvious bulge in his pants.

“Oh, I can tell,” you teased, your tone sultry. “I can see you're already hard. Does it turn you on that I think your glasses are sexy?”

He swallowed hard, his throat feeling dry. He was painfully hard in his pants, and your words were making him even more turned on. The combination of your sultry tone and the way you were looking at him was driving him wild.

“Yes,” he admitted, his voice low and rough. “Yes, it does. The thought of you wanting me like this, just because of a pair of glasses, is making me insane.”

You smirked, clearly pleased with his response. You leaned in closer, your lips right next to his ear.

“You have no idea, my sweet boy,” you murmured. “You have no idea how badly I want you right now, how much your glasses turn me on. I'm practically dripping at the thought of having you, all worked up and wearing your glasses.”

His body trembled at your words, his breath catching in his chest. Your words were like gasoline on an already raging fire, stoking the flames of his desire. The thought of you being so turned on by him, just because of his glasses, was driving him wild.

“Oh God,” he groaned, his voice strained. “Please...don't tease me like that, honey. I can't take much more of this.”

He felt you straddle him, your legs on each side of his hips. He instinctively reached to hold your hips, feeling the heat radiating off of you and the way your body pressed against his. You were sitting on his lap, and the feeling was driving him crazy.

“Jesus, sweetheart,” he breathed, his voice tight. “Are you trying to kill me?”

“Maybe I am,” you teased, your voice sultry. “Maybe I'm just trying to drive you insane.”

You began to roll your hips against his, grinding against him and feeling his hardness even through the layers of clothing. You smiled as you watched his face contort with pleasure at your movements.

“You feel so good,” you purred, your hands running up and down his chest. “And you look even better with those glasses on.”

He let out a low moan as you rolled your hips against him, the friction of your body rubbing against his sending waves of pleasure through his body. Feeling your wetness through your pants, grinding against him, was driving him crazy.

“God, honey,” he gasped, his voice strained. “You're going to kill me if you keep doing that.”

“And what a way to die,” you teased, your tongue poking out to wet your lips as you continued grinding against him. “You're hard and throbbing under me, and all because I like your glasses. How does it feel, my sweet boy?”

He felt his body responding to your movements, his hips instinctively bucking up to meet your grinding. He was so hard, it was almost painful, and the thought that you were enjoying this so much just because of his glasses was driving him wild.

“It feels amazing,” he groaned. “You have no idea how good you feel against me. I never knew my glasses could have this effect on you.”

“There's something about a smart, hot man wearing glasses that just does it for me,” you admitted, your voice dripping with desire. “You look so intelligent, so focused, and it's such a turn-on. And when you look at me over the rim of your glasses, it makes me want to devour you.”

He let out a guttural moan at your words, his grip on your hips tightening as he felt his desire for your grow even more. He loved seeing you so turned on and wanting him, and the thought that his glasses were part of the reason was incredible.

“You're killing me, honey,” he groaned. “You're so goddamn hot right now, and you know it. I don't know how much more I can take.”

You ground against him even harder, your movements becoming more insistent and desperate. You could feel how hard he was, how much he wanted you, and it only added to your own desire and need for him.

“Maybe I want to drive you over the edge,” you whispered, your voice sultry. “Maybe I want to see how much you can take before you break.”

“God, you're going to make me lose my mind,” he panted, his voice tight with desire. “If you keep talking and moving like that, I'm not going to be able to hold back much longer.”

You smiled, satisfied with his response. You could tell that he was close, that he was struggling to keep his control.

“Is that right?” you teased. “Are you going to give in to me, my sweet boy? Are you going to let go and let me take care of you?”

“God, yes,” he groaned, his voice hoarse with desire. “God, yes, I want you so badly. I need you to take care of me, honey. Just please, for the love of God, don't torture me any longer.”

You giggled at his desperation, loving the power you held over him at this moment. You could tell that he was close to breaking point, and you loved the effect you had on him.

“I love when you're so desperate for me like this,” you whispered, your mouth right next to his ear. “It's so hot to know that I have this much control over you.”

He shivered at your words, his body responding to your voice and your closeness. He felt like he was on the edge, ready to fall over any second. He was completely at your mercy, and he loved it.

“Please, honey,” he panted, his voice strained. “Please, I need you. I need you so badly. Don't make me wait any longer.”

You grinned, relishing in his pleading and desperation. You loved having him like this, so desperate and needy for you.

“Okay, my sweet boy,” you murmured, your voice low and sultry. “I'll give you what you want. Just let go, and let me take care of you.”

His breath caught in his chest as you rocked against him, his grip on your hips tightening even more. He could feel himself getting closer and closer to the edge, his body tensing up and his mind going blank from the pleasure.

“Oh God,” he gasped, his voice strained. “Oh God, honey, you're going to make me lose it. I'm so close, so close…”

You loved how desperate and on the edge he was, and you loved that you was the one doing this to him. You kept up your movements, riding him harder and faster, determined to push him over the edge. “Let go, my sweet boy,” you whispered, your mouth right next to his ear again. “Just let go, and give in to me. I want to see you lose control, just for me.”

Your words were the last straw, and he felt himself teetering on the edge.

“Oh God, honey, I'm- I'm-”

He couldn't finish his sentence, but you knew what was about to happen. His body tensed up even more, his breathing ragged and quick as he felt himself starting to let go, to give in to the pleasure that was overwhelming him.

You smiled as you felt his body tense up, knowing that he was about to lose control. You leaned in, your mouth right next to his ear, and whispered:

“That's it, my sweet boy. Let go for me. Let go and give in to me. I've got you, my good boy.”

He felt you press yourself even closer to him, your body moving frantically against his in a desperate search for your own release. He held onto you tighter, his hands gripping your hips as if his life depended on it.

“Oh God, honey,” he groaned. “You're so close, aren't you? You're so close, and it's because of me.”

You nodded, your breath coming out in ragged gasps as you felt yourself getting closer and closer to the edge.

“Yes, it's you, my sweet boy,” you panted. “It's all because of you. You're driving me wild, you're making me so hot, and it's all because of you, my smart, sexy man.”

His breathing was ragged and shallow as he felt you press your forehead against his, the frames of his glasses digging into your skin. But he was too far gone in the moment to care.

“You're so beautiful,” he mumbled, his voice strained. “So beautiful, and so hot, and I'm so close to losing it. I'm so close… So close…”

“I know,” you panted. “I can tell, my sweet boy. You're so close, but you're holding back. You're trying to be such a good boy for me, aren't you?”

He let out a low, guttural moan, his body tensing up even more as he felt himself getting even closer to the edge.

“I'm trying,” he groaned, his voice tight. “Oh God, I'm trying so hard. I don't want to lose it yet, I want to make you feel good first.”

You smiled, feeling a rush of affection for him even in this heated moment. You loved how much he was trying to make sure you were feeling good, how much he wanted to be a good boy for you.

“You're doing so good, my sweet boy,” you murmured, your mouth right next to his ear again. “You're doing so good, holding back for me. But it's okay, you can let go, my good boy. I want you to lose control, just for me.”

His body was trembling with the effort of holding back, but your words were starting to break him down.

“Oh God, honey,” he panted. “I don't know how much longer I can hold on. I'm so close, so close… Oh God, you feel so good, you look so hot, and I want to come for you so bad.”

You could tell that he was getting close to breaking point, that he was struggling to hold on any longer. But you loved seeing him like this, so desperate and needy for you.

“Then let go, my sweet boy,” you whispered, your voice low and sultry. “Just let go, and come for me. Let me see how good it feels to you, to lose control for me. You're my good boy, aren't you? My sweet, good boy?”

He let out a low, guttural moan as your words sent shivers down his spine. He was holding on by a thread, but your voice and your body against him were making it almost impossible to hang on any longer.

“Oh God, baby,” he panted, his voice strained. “I'm so close, I'm so close… Oh God, I can't hold on much longer. I want to come for you, I want to lose control for you, my sweet girl. I'm your good boy, I'm your good boy.”

He felt your breaths hitch as you teetered on the edge, and it only made him all the more desperate to make you feel good. He bucked up against you, trying to give you the friction he knew you needed.

“I want you to feel good, baby,” he panted, his voice strained. “I want you to come for me, my sweet girl. I want to see you lose control, just like I'm about to lose control for you. You're so beautiful, so hot, and you're all mine.”

You lost yourself in the sensations as he bucked up against you, and the combination of his body and his words was all you needed to push you over the edge.

“Oh God,” you gasped, your voice shaky. “Oh God, I'm cumming, I'm cumming… Oh God, my sweet boy, my good boy, my love, my everything… I'm coming…”

He felt you go over the edge, your words and your body sending him flying off the edge with you. His body contracted against yours, his grip on your hips tight as he rode out his release with you.

“Oh God, oh God, oh God… Oh God, you're so beautiful, you're so hot, you feel so good…”

You shivered through your release, your body trembling against his as you rode out your orgasm with him. When you finally came down, you collapsed against him, your forehead still pressed against his.

“That was…” you breathed, your voice rough and ragged. “Amazing.”

He wrapped his arms around you, holding you close against him as he tried to catch his breath. His body was still shaking from the intensity of his release, and he was having a hard time finding the words to express how amazing it had been.

“Yeah,” he panted, his voice low. “Yeah, it was… It was unlike anything I've ever felt before.”

He felt you giggle softly, and he realized that he could feel the wetness seeping through his pajamas. He felt a mixture of embarrassment and amusement, and he couldn't help but laugh a little as well.

“Yeah, I guess we made a bit of a mess, didn't we?” he said, his voice laced with amusement.

You pulled back a little and looked down between them, seeing the wet spot on his pajamas. You couldn't help but giggle again, a mischievous expression on your face.

“Looks like we did,” you said, your voice teasing. “Sorry about that, my sweet boy.”

He grinned, feeling a mix of amusement and affection at your teasing tone.

“Oh, don't apologize, honey,” he said, his voice playful. “I think I kinda like it, actually.”

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