#obsessed with her laugh and the faces she makes

[cloudtransprncy]

Birthday Girl

Sakura Miyawaki x Male Reader | 4k words Tags: smut, pwp, closet sex, rough, dirty talk, public but private, spit play, facefucking, cock drunk, desperate, light daddy kink, birthday sex

Sakura’s birthday. A packed apartment. Her hands on you all night. The Closet. Lips crash. Yeah, you saw this coming.

AN: She posted this literally few hours ago, had to do it. Shes so hot. Also, not proofread so gg.

Sakura’s back thuds against the closet wall, coats rustling behind your head as you lift her up. Her breath stutters, legs locking around your waist, arms clutching your shoulders, nails digging in like she needs something to keep her grounded—like if she lets go, she might just float away.

Her yoga pants? Barely hanging off one of her legs, abandoned mid-chaos. Her panties? Pushed aside, not even a real obstacle. Your hands grip her thighs tight as you fuck into her, deep and relentless. Her top is slipping lower with every thrust, exposing more of her shoulder, her collarbone, skin begging to be bitten. And you’d do it too—if you weren’t so obsessed with the way she’s coming undone right now.

The coats behind her sway with every motion, hangers rattling above your heads like they’re judging you. Not that either of you care. She’s too far gone, and you? You’re right there with her.

Her hair’s a mess, wavy strands sticking to her damp forehead, fingers tangled in your shirt as she clings to you. Her breath is hot, coming in short, desperate bursts, moans barely muffled by your hand covering her mouth.

“Shh,” you murmur, voice slow, thick with amusement. “You don’t wanna be too loud, baby. Or do you?”

She whimpers, eyes glassy, head tilting back against the wall as she nods frantically.

You chuckle, lips ghosting over her cheek. “Of course you do.”

Your fingers trail up the back of her thigh, squeezing hard. “You act all sweet, but I know better. You love this shit.”

Her hips buck against you, fingers twisting in your shirt, her voice breaking against your palm.

Yeah. That’s what you thought.

Sakura’s birthday party was always gonna lead to this—you just didn’t know when she’d make her move.

It started in the middle of the party—packed apartment, music blasting from a half-broken speaker, bodies pressed together. The room carried the scent mix of sweat, overpriced cologne, and the sharp tang of jungle juice that had no business tasting that good. People were draped over furniture, laughing too loud, shouting over the music, spilling drinks like it was a sport. A night where everything was a little too much, but nobody cared.

And then there was her. Sakura wasn’t just another body in the crowd—she was the center of it.

Soft pink top slipping off her shoulder like an invitation, flared yoga pants hugging her just right, bangs framing her face like she walked straight out of a dream. Every time she moved, heads turned, but her attention? Locked on you. She knew exactly what she was doing, every glance, every smirk, every shift of her hips designed to pull you in, to remind you—she wasn’t just anyone. She was yours.

The tension had been bubbling under the surface all night, and she was stoking the fire.

She was all over you—brushing past you in the kitchen like she didn’t have a whole ass apartment to move in, fingers trailing over your chest when she laughed, leaning in to whisper absolute nonsense in your ear just to see you twitch.

At one point, she dropped onto your lap—casual, she was your girlfriend, she did this all the time. But the way her ass shifted against you? The way she pressed against that spot. Not casual at all.

Your hand slid up her thigh, slow, teasing, just enough to feel how warm she was, the buttery smooth fabric of her yoga pants gliding under your fingertips, just enough for her breath to hitch. And when she turned to look at you, eyes dark, lips parted, you knew exactly where this was going.

She didn’t even have to say anything. Just curled her fingers around your wrist, yanked you up from the couch, and pulled you through the sea of bodies like she was leading you somewhere important.

“Ten minutes. No one will notice.”

She barely got the closet door shut before she was on you, kissing you like she needed it, like she’d been thinking about it all damn night. And maybe she had.

Maybe you had too.

You’re pulled from your thoughts when she breaks the kiss.

Her top keeps slipping lower, the fabric barely clinging to her shoulder, exposing smooth skin, the curve of her collarbone. You don’t hesitate this time—you lean in, teeth grazing her skin before biting down just enough to make her gasp. She tenses, then melts, fingers twisting tighter into your shirt as you press her harder against the wall, groaning as you roll your hips into her.

“You knew exactly what you were doing, huh?” Your voice is low, teasing, but there’s an edge to it. “Sitting on my lap like that.”

She gasps, arching into you, hands tugging at your shirt, trying to pull you closer like there’s even space left between you.

“Oh my god, shut up—just fuck me.”

You chuckle, biting lightly at her jaw, dragging your teeth over her skin just because you can. "So bossy," you murmur, dragging your teeth over her before smirking. "I'll let it slide since it's your birthday."

Her yoga pants made it too easy—too smooth, too soft, gliding under your fingers before she kicks them off the one leg they’re still clinging to. Your eyes flick down just in time to watch her smooth, bald pussy stretch around you, glistening, tight, her arousal slicking your cock with every thrust. A wet strand drips down, sliding over your length, smearing against the base where you're buried deep inside her. Her lace panties slowly slide back into place, only to be stopped by your cock in the way, the fabric bunched against her swollen clit.

The air in the closet is thick—humid with heat, the scent of sweat, her perfume, the musky, intoxicating smell of sex. It clings to both of you, mixing with the sharp, clean bite of your cologne, the space so cramped you can feel every shaky breath she exhales against your neck.

Your hands slide to her hips, gripping, holding her in place, dragging her against you, the obscene squelch of her wetness making you groan. Each motion earns another breathless whimper from her lips, her body clenching tighter, greedier.

Her fingers twist in your hair, nails scratching against your scalp as her back arches, head tilting, mouth falling open. She’s wrecked, delirious, drowning in it. You know the moment you hit just the right spot—her entire body tenses, thighs trembling as she melts, a shaky exhale escaping as she chokes out a moan, her slick dripping down even more.

She’s falling apart, breathing heavy, voice all high and needy. “Oh my god—yes, yes, yes—”

You pull back just enough to grab her jaw, forcing her to look at you. "Open your mouth." The command is lazy, effortless, like you already know she’ll do it.

Her lashes flutter, gaze locked on yours as her lips part, tongue sliding out just enough—soft, pink, waiting. Her breath is shaky, pupils blown wide, cheeks already flushed. She looks so damn pretty like this.

You spit, slow and deliberate, watching the way it lands on her tongue, glistening under the dim lights spilling into the closet. She swallows without hesitation, a quiet, satisfied hum vibrating in her throat, her thighs clenching tighter around you like the act just turned her on even more.

"Good girl," you murmur, thumb dragging down her chin, smearing the wetness before you push back into her, rougher this time. Deeper. Your grip tightens on her hips, keeping her right where you want her, holding her still as you drive into her.

She whimpers, her nails biting into your shoulders, her whole-body trembling. She’s so wrecked, teetering on the edge, but she doesn’t want you to stop. Not really. Still, her hand taps against your shoulder, a quick signal, not to make you stop—just to give her a second to catch her breath.

And then she’s moving, pulling herself off you, breathless and desperate. She drops to her knees, looking up at you through messy lashes, eyes dark and eager.

"Fuck my face. Use my mouth. I wanna choke on that fat cock"

Your cock twitches at the words, and you don’t hesitate—grabbing the back of her head, tilting her face up so she’s looking at you. Her lips part instinctively, tongue slipping out in anticipation, and the sight alone nearly makes you groan.

She’s on her knees, perched on her ankles, fingers wrapping around the base of your cock, stroking slow, teasing, watching the way it twitches in her grip. She leans in, pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses along the shaft, tongue flicking out to catch the drops of precum pooling at the tip.

She looks up at you through her lashes, eyes dark, lips parted as she lets a string of spit fall from her mouth, slicking you up before wrapping her fingers around you again, stroking with deliberate, lazy precision.

"Stretch my lips, daddy," she breathes, guiding you to her mouth. Her breath is hot, her lips plush, brushing against the tip before she takes you in, inch by inch, her tongue dragging along the underside, wet and insistent.

The second you push deeper, you feel the tight squeeze of her throat, her soft tongue flattening along the underside of your shaft, dragging over the sensitive ridge as she swallows around you. Her eyes flutter, lashes trembling, but she doesn’t look away, doesn’t break contact even as her throat tightens. “Yeah, that’s it. Fuckin’ take it.”

Her fingers wrap tighter around the base, stroking in time with her movements, keeping you slick and soaked in her spit. When she pulls back, a wet gasp leaves her lips, a thick strand of saliva connecting her mouth to the tip before she spits on it again, her fingers smearing the mess over your length.

She moans before taking you back in, lips stretching wider, her tongue teasing the slit before she pushes forward, faster, needier, hollowing her cheeks as she sucks. Her nails dig into your thighs for balance, her body shuddering as she gags, choking just enough for her throat to constrict tight around you. Drool pools at the corners of her lips, spilling down her chin, dripping onto her bare chest, messy and shameless as she takes you even deeper.

“Look at you,” you murmur, running a hand down the side of her face, thumb caressing her cheek as she hollows her cheeks around you. “Messy fucking girl. You love this, don’t you?”

She moans around you, a garbled sound vibrating against your cock, making your stomach tighten. You press her down further, forcing her to take more, feeling the spasms in her throat as she gags again, spit trailing down her chin.

Then, with a sharp pull, you yank her off you, her lips slick and swollen, a wet gasp tearing from her mouth as her tongue hangs out, glossy with drool. Her breath is ragged, eyes glazed over, a dazed, cock-drunk expression written all over her pretty face.

You don’t let her recover. You guide her back down, pushing your cock past her parted lips again, stretching them wide as she takes you deeper, hitting the back of her throat in one smooth motion. A choked gag vibrates against you, making your toes curl.

You do it again.

Off. A sharp inhale.

On. A desperate moan, her throat tightens around you.

Off. Her drool spills down her chin, thick and messy, strings of it connecting her lips to your tip.

On. Her throat spasms, her fingers digging into your thighs, her whole body trembling as she lets you use her.

"Fuck," you growl, gripping her jaw, forcing her to look up at you. "You’re so fucking hot, letting me use your pretty mouth like this."

She giggles, the sound breathy, wrecked, utterly cock drunk. A whimper follows, needy, desperate, like she wants more.

Outside, the party rages on—voices, laughter, music pounding through the walls. If someone walked into her room right now, would they hear what’s happening in the closet? Would they pause, listening to the muffled sounds of wet, filthy pleasure, debating whether to check? If they did, if they opened the door—they’d find her like this. On her knees, wrecked, taking everything you give her without hesitation.

Music pounds through the walls, bass rattling the closet door, but it’s almost drowned out by the wet, filthy sounds of her mouth working you over.

Almost.

Then, just when she’s gasping around you, you yank her back up, flipping the dynamic instantly. You drop onto the floor, back against the wall, legs spread.

"Come ride it, birthday girl."

She wastes no time, swinging a leg over you, holding her top up with one hand while the other reaches between you, fingers wrapping around your slick length, angling you towards her entrance. She drags the head of your cock along her soaked folds, teasing herself before finally sinking down with a desperate moan, stretching around you inch by inch. Her breath hitches, her walls pulsing, clenching down like she never wants to let go.

"You always stretch me so good, daddy," she whimpers, her voice wrecked, shaking as she takes you deeper.

The slick sound of her taking you in fills the cramped space, loud, obscene, making your head fall back against the wall as you groan, feeling just how tight and soaked she is, how she struggles to adjust to every inch of you.

She exhales a shaky breath, biting her lip as she starts to move—slow at first, rolling her hips in deliberate circles, teasing. She wants to show off, to make you feel just how good she can be, but she’s already too far gone.

You let her have it for a second, watching her through heavy lids as she lifts her hips, sinking down again, taking every inch. The way she bites her lip, how her eyes flutter as she feels it all, the heat of her wrapped around you—it’s so fucking good.

"Look at you," you murmur, voice thick with amusement, hands lazily gripping her waist. "Tryna show off. You wanted this so bad, huh?"

"Yes—fuck—I need it, I need it." Her voice is a whimper, desperate, as her movements stutter for a second, her body betraying her.

You smirk, fingers pressing into her skin, steadying her. "Then take it, baby. Show me."

She gasps as you guide her down, forcing her to take you deeper, her thighs trembling as she grinds against you. Every drop down is louder, wetter, her arousal dripping between your thighs, making a mess of both of you. The stretch has her eyes rolling back, mouth falling open as she tries to keep up, but she’s spiraling fast.

You watch her fall apart, reveling in it. She’s not showing off anymore—her thighs are shaking, her rhythm faltering, every motion a struggle between holding on and giving in.

She tries to keep moving, but she’s too far gone. Her moans turn breathless, higher, edged with desperation.

Your hands glide over her waist, caressing the smooth curve of her abdomen, fingers pressing into the tightness of her frame. The pink ruffle top she’s still wearing hugs her figure perfectly, accentuating every dip and curve, the soft fabric molding to her body. She’s small, stretched impossibly around you, and she knows exactly how hot that is. Her back arches, one hand lifting to gather her hair, exposing the elegant line of her neck, the full length of her body—long, taut, trembling under your touch.

You groan, watching the way she takes you, how her pussy struggles to accommodate you, her wetness coating your length with every slow, agonizing drop down. She’s shaking, her rhythm faltering, moans getting breathier, higher, edged with desperation.

You grab her hips, slamming her down, forcing her to take it all. She gasps, body jolting as you fill her completely, her walls clenching down in shock, in pleasure, in everything all at once. The impact sends a fresh wave of wetness spilling between you, dripping down your length, making an obscene mess where your bodies meet.

Your hand moves up—palm flat against her stomach, pressing down, feeling yourself buried deep inside her. "Feel that, baby? Feel how deep I am?"

She whimpers, fingers clawing at your chest, gripping your wrists, needing something to hold onto as you thrust up into her, making her take more.

Her head tilts back, but you don’t let her escape. You wrap a hand around her throat, squeezing just enough to make her eyes flutter open, forcing her to look at you. "Nah, baby. Don’t run from it. Take every inch."

She’s crying out, losing control, her body shaking as pleasure overtakes her. She’s getting close—you can feel it, the way her walls pulse around you, the way her breath catches, the way she’s barely hanging on. Just as she’s fully giving in, just as she’s about to break—there’s a knock. On the closet door? No, on the door to her bedroom.

“Yo, Sakura? You in there?”

She freezes, eyes wide, panic flickering across her face. The voice is familiar—it’s Chaewon, one of her girlies.

Your hand flies to her mouth, smothering the whimper that nearly escapes, feeling the way her entire body trembles against you. You both hold your breath, locked in place, but inside, you can feel how she grips you tighter, clenching like the sudden risk is turning her on even more.

Footsteps shuffle across her bedroom, the faint rustle of fabric as Chaewon rifles through her things. Her jacket. Right—Sakura had let all her girlies drop their stuff on her bed earlier. That’s what she’s here for. She’s just grabbing something.

Sakura, reckless and insatiable, starts moving again. Slow at first, rolling her hips against you, both of you biting your lips to keep quiet. The thrill of getting caught makes everything sharper—the squeeze of her walls, the way her nails press harder into your skin, the heat of her breath against your palm.

You slip two fingers between her lips, pressing them past her tongue. Without hesitation, she takes them in, sucking greedily, her eyes flickering up to yours, dazed and completely wrecked. Her tongue swirls around them, hot and slick, coating them in spit as she moans softly around the intrusion, hips never stopping, never slowing. Her mouth is a perfect mess, drool slipping down her chin, her lashes fluttering as she looks up at you, waiting, eager for more.

You lean in, lips brushing her ear, voice barely above a whisper. "Oh, you love this. Getting fucked while someone’s right outside."

She nods, desperate, shameless.

The door creaks as Chaewon steps out, closing it behind her.

The second she’s gone, you drop your hand from Sakura’s mouth and grab her hips, grinding her down onto you, slow and punishing, making her take it. She’s already there, teetering on the edge, her whole body trembling, thighs locked tight around you, her nails raking down your chest.

She tries to be quiet, but she’s shaking too hard, her breath coming in desperate little gasps as her pussy clamps down around you, gripping, pulsing, milking every inch.

"Please—fuck, please, let me cum—let me feel you—" her voice is barely there, shaking, breaking, whimpering between ragged breaths.

You murmur against her lips, teasing. "You need it that bad, baby?"

"Yes—yes, please, I c-can’t—" she stutters, her nails scraping down your chest, gripping onto you like she’ll fall apart if you stop. "I need it, need you to fill me up—please, daddy—please—wanna cum with you—"

Her voice is wrecked, moaning through the words, pleading, trembling in your hold. And fuck, you’re close too—you can feel it, your body tensing, the tight heat of her pulling you in, the way she’s clenching, desperate for it.

"Yeah? You wanna cum with me?" your voice is thick, strained, your grip tightening on her hips as you slam her down one more time. "Then take it, baby. Fucking take it—"

The moment snaps—her body stiffens, then unravels completely, her orgasm slamming into her all at once. Her thighs clamp around you, her walls fluttering in desperate pulses, squeezing, milking you for everything, her body demanding you spill inside her.

And you do. A deep groan rumbles from your chest as you push as far as you can go, holding her flush against you, buried deep, stretching her to the limit. She clenches around you, pulsing, gripping, her walls fluttering in erratic waves, milking every last drop from you. The heat of her, the wet, slick slide of it, has you seeing white, body locking up as pleasure rips through you.

Your fingers dig into her waist, holding her still as you spill inside her, your jaw clenched tight as your release crashes into you, sharp and overwhelming. Her name tumbles from your lips, breathless, lost in the haze of sensation.

She doesn’t stop moving, her hips rolling in slow, messy circles, dragging out every aftershock, refusing to let the moment end. Her breath stutters, caught between a whimper and a moan, her entire body shuddering in your arms. She’s wrecked, trembling, eyes heavy-lidded as she takes it all, lets it sink in, lets herself stay full.

You don’t let go. Not yet. You keep her there, pressing her down onto you, making sure she feels every throb, every last drop settling inside her. She clings to you, nails skimming over your skin, her breath coming in soft, uneven sighs as you both stay wrapped up in the mess you made of each other.

She sighs, stretching her body, still straddling you, then giggles, shaking her head.

"You look fucked out," she teases, voice hoarse.

You exhale a deep breath, still gripping her waist. "I am."

She kisses you lazily, smirking against your lips before leaning down to whisper, "We should get back before someone actually finds us."

"You’re a fucking bitch."

"Yours" She hums, smug, tilting her head as she drags her fingers down your chest, slow and lazy.

Then, she leans in again, licking up the side of your neck, her tongue hot against your skin, before she catches your lips in a deep, lingering kiss.

It’s unhurried, indulgent—nothing like the raw, desperate way she had been moaning for you just minutes ago. She kisses you like she owns you, like she knows she’s got you wrapped around her finger no matter how hard you fuck her. And the worst part? She’s right.

You groan into her mouth, your hands gripping her hips one last time, keeping her close even as she pulls back just enough to smirk against your lips. "Let’s go, lover boy. I’m not done making you obsessed with me tonight."

Your girlfriend is a freak, and you love it.

[amoressb]

───── STRAWBERRY KISSES 西村 力 N. RK

ꪆৎ ⋆˚࿔ how even the simplest things like a bowl of strawberries can hold the sweetest memories ｡｡ idolbf!riki x reader .

FLUFF & wc. 1000 + ; kissing, skinship ｡｡

──── ARCHiVE

riki sat at the end of the table, lazily twirling a bright red strawberry between his fingers. the rest of enhypen was gathered around him, their usual chaotic energy filling the room as the livestream continued. comments flooded the chat, hearts fluttering across the screen like confetti as fans eagerly interacted with their favorite idols.

the group had been live for almost an hour, answering questions, playing games, and teasing each other as they always did. but lately, the fans had noticed something peculiar…riki seemed distracted. he wasn’t as hyper as usual, his usual playful antics subdued as he occasionally glanced down at the bowl of strawberries sitting in front of him.

“riki, you good?” jungwon asked, nudging him with his elbow. “you’ve been staring at that strawberry for like five minutes.”

riki blinked, realizing he’d been spacing out. he let out a soft chuckle, adjusting his posture. “yeah, i’m fine,” he mumbled, rolling the strawberry between his fingers again.

the fans, sharp as ever, picked up on it immediately. the comments exploded :

“why does ni-ki look so lovestruck?”

“he’s thinking about something…or someone.”

“wait, does this have to do with strawberries???”

jay, ever the instigator, leaned in with a smirk. “let me guess, someone special likes strawberries?” rikis lips twitched, betraying a smile before he could stop it. the rest of the members erupted into knowing laughter.

“oh, he’s done for,” heeseung laughed, pointing at him. “riki, man, you’re too obvious.” riki shook his head but didn’t deny it. instead, he finally lifted the strawberry to his lips, taking a slow bite as the chat exploded with emojis and frantic guesses.

sunghoon, raising an eyebrow, decided to push further. “so, are you saying you only eat strawberries now because of her?” the room quieted for a second, then riki, still chewing, shrugged and casually said, “maybe.” the members lost it.

“CONFIRMED!” jake shouted, pointing at the camera. “he’s whipped!”

“riki, this is a public livestream!” jungwon stifled a laugh, burying his face in his hands. “think of your image!”

riki only laughed, feeling warmth creep up his neck. he wasn’t usually this open about your relationship, but something about today made him feel bold. maybe it was because he missed you.

the chat continued to spiral into chaos :

“is he talking about his girlfriend??”

“ni-ki is literally in love and we are witnessing it live.”

“THE WAY HE’S SMILING SOMEONE HELP.”

sunoo, ever the curious one, decided to dig even deeper. “so, how did this strawberry obsession start, huh?” riki glanced down at the half eaten strawberry in his hand, thinking back to the moment everything changed.

“it’s because of her,” he admitted, his voice quieter now, more sincere. “she loves strawberries. always eats them, always tries to make me eat them. at first, i didn’t really care, but…” he trailed off, his lips curving into the kind of smile that made his members groan in secondhand embarrassment.

“but what?” jay prodded. riki looked straight into the camera, his dark eyes gleaming. “but she said they taste better when they’re shared.”

the members erupted in dramatic shrieks, some clutching their chests like they’d been physically wounded. “ENOUGH.” jake dramatically stood up, pointing at riki. “take him off the livestream. he’s too far gone.”

heeseung pretended to wipe away tears. “our riki…he’s in love.”

“gross,” sunghoon muttered, but he was grinning.

riki just shook his head, amused by their antics. then, as if on cue, his phone vibrated beside him. he glanced down and sure enough, there was a message from you.

“caught you talking about me, didn’t i? i’ll bring strawberries later, be ready.”

his heart did that stupid fluttering thing again. trying to act casual, he set his phone down and returned his attention to the camera. but anyone paying close attention, especially you, would notice the faint pink dusting his cheeks.

“i’ll be waiting,” he murmured before popping another strawberry into his mouth. the chat went absolutely wild.

———————

the dorm was quieter now. after ending the livestream, the members had all gone their separate ways. some showering, some playing games, some already asleep.

riki, however, was waiting. finally, there was a knock at the door. he didn’t even hesitate before opening it and there you stood, a small bag in one hand and a mischievous smile on your lips. “delivery for mr.strawberry lover.”

riki scoffed, but his grin was impossible to hide. “you saw the livestream, didn’t you?”

“oh, i did.” you held up the bag, rustling it lightly. “and as promised, i brought strawberries.”

he stepped aside to let you in, watching as you plopped down onto his bed, pulling out the container of fresh strawberries. you grabbed one, holding it up to his lips. “since they taste better when shared, right?”

rikis lips twitched as he leaned forward, taking a slow bite. the sweetness bursted on his tongue, but all he could focus on was the way you were looking at him.

“you’re really making me soft,” he mumbled, swallowing. you grinned, “i know.” rolling his eyes, he grabbed a strawberry and held it up to your lips in return. you took a bite, chewing happily as riki watched you with an amused smile.

then, out of nowhere, he leaned in and placed a soft kiss on your cheek. you blinked. “what was that for?” riki shrugged, biting into another strawberry. “you had juice on your face.”

“uh huh,” you said, unconvinced. but before you could tease him, he kissed your other cheek, then your nose, then your forehead.

“riki,” you giggled, lightly pushing his chest. “what are you doing?”

he only grinned, swallowing the last bit of strawberry before his eyes darkened playfully. “making sure you know that strawberries taste better like this.” and then, before you could react, he kissed you on the lips.

it was soft at first, sweet, just like the fruit still lingering on his tongue. but then, as your fingers curled into the fabric of his hoodie, he deepened the kiss slightly, letting himself savor the moment.

when he pulled back, you were smiling. “okay, i’ll admit. that might be the best way to eat strawberries.” riki chuckled, resting his forehead against yours. “told you.”

and with that, he popped another strawberry into his mouth. this time, not because of the fruit itself, but because it reminded him of you.

⋆｡°✩ @miukidoll @liwinly @sugarikiz @hyukabean

[florencebirdsong]

Can I request jealous Agatha x fem reader? Reader and reader’s friend aren’t doing nothing even remotely romantic, Agatha is just over analyzing everything they do together and driving themselves crazy over it

Thank you so much for this request!!! I really hope you enjoy the way I wrote it <3

Staying In

Agatha Harkness x Reader

summary: when you insist on going out with a friend who is clearly into you, Agatha takes matters into her own hands

tags: red flags with hints of mutual obsession, Mistress Agatha, sub Reader, jealous Agatha, magic bondage, light impact play, overstimulation, fingering

authors note: suspend your disbelief for not having a crush on Darcy. I’ve had to as well 😔

she/her pronouns used to refer to r

ao3 | masterlist

You’ve decided that Agatha is being silly. Mainly because her being insecure feels impossible. You aren’t into Darcy. You have never been into Darcy. It’s never even crossed your mind. Something Agatha is well aware of and yet she insists that something is there. At least on Darcy’s end. Which you highly doubt since she would have said something during the decade you’ve known her.

“It doesn’t matter,” you finally snap at her. “Despite what you may believe Agatha, I am my own person. I’m going to go to a nice restaurant with my nice friend and have a nice, platonic night with her.”

Agatha’s face goes blank in a way that makes you nervous. It turning into a slow smirk has you shifting on your feet. Agatha is rarely wrong. It’s a fact that you usually enjoy. Right now it’s too hard to think of your best friend seeing things differently to accept it. Plus, the fact that you have zero interest in Darcy and Agatha has made her claim very clear should defuse things. And yet.

“It’s not what you think, Agatha,” you insist.

“Of course, dear,” she says with that same deadly look and you swallow harshly.

You have to look away otherwise that traitorous warmth inside you is going to take over your rational brain. It’s not fair that she still has such a strong effect on you when you’re frustrated with her.

“I think I’ll retire to my lab for the night,” she says, already turning. You enjoy your nice night.”

You fight the urge to follow her and instead watch her go quietly. That had been a little too easy, especially with your earlier claim. You’re both well aware of how deeply Agatha owns you.

You only debate with yourself for a moment before moving to get ready. Your and Darcy’s schedules haven’t lined up enough for a proper meal for weeks. You’re both busy enough it’s likely to take even longer for them to line up again. You can survive one night of Agatha’s wrath.

—————-

Every other item you try to use disappears. It starts out subtle. Some things not being where you thought you left them, others being in odd but not impossible spots. It escalates until your perfume disappears right out of your hand.

“Agatha!” you finally shout in frustration.

Of course, you don’t get an answer. She’s three floors away. Not that it stops her from watching you but she so does love plausible deniability.

You’re about to rummage through her own drawers (more to make a mess than anything) when her personal perfume bottle appears in a little puff of purple smoke right in front of you. You huff a laugh. Of course.

You don’t try and refuse it. Or deny how much you want it. Every bit of Agatha entices you. Her scent is no different. Even if the perfume doesn’t quite contain every hint of her, it’s enough of a reward for her to use it against you often.

It’s hard to concentrate with her scent surrounding you but it’s something you have to contend with every time you’re around her. You have enough practice to still complete your goal, just not without thinking about her every time you take a breath.

Since Agatha has yet to bind you to the bed, you believe you’re consequence free, at least until you return home. Then you reach the door. The handle turns but the door doesn’t open. You try to flick the lock but it doesn’t move. Frowning, you try to tug it free but it’s too small to get a good grip. It jiggles a little but remains stuck. It’s weird and annoying but nothing Agatha can’t fix. Later. It’s not the best idea to go down to her lair while you still want to leave.

A thought crosses your mind but you don’t genuinely believe it until the back door does the same thing. She really has locked you in. You prefer it when she throws you into bed and traps you there. Huffing, you wonder if it would be too crazy to go out the window. It feels too crazy, and a bit silly. You aren’t a teenager anymore and this is technically also your house.

Instead of creeping out of a window, you creep down the stairs to her basement. While the house may equally be yours, Agatha’s lair is entirely her own. It’s a dangerous place for anyone that isn’t Agatha.

She’s standing at one of her benches, going between a book and some vaguely-witchy item in her hand. You risk a few steps inside.

“You locked the door.”

“Did I?” Agatha asks neutrally, not bothering to look up from what she is working on.

“I could be wrong,” you shrug casually. “If I am then you’ll have no problem forcing it open.”

“I’m very busy, dear.”

“It’s very convenient for both doors to be stuck on the night you don’t want me to go out.”

Agatha finally turns around. “Careful,” she says in a low voice.

You swallow hard. It’s not a smart idea to push her but you’re annoyed enough to do it anyway.

“I guess I’ll just go out the window,” you jut your chin out.

Her eyes darken but she doesn’t move. You know she’s waiting to see if you actually try or if you’re bluffing. It pisses you off enough to turn around. You get two steps before your arms are jerked behind your back and purple lifts you off the ground.

“Agatha!” you yell more in surprise than anything else.

“I did say to be careful.” She tilts her wrist and you fly towards her. “Look at you, all dressed up for her.”

“I’m not,” you snap.

What you’re wearing is nicer than usual but it’s hardly your dressiest outfit. You’re going to a higher end restaurant than the usual casual lunches you do with Darcy.

Agatha flicks her wrist and you whimper at the pain that lashes across your thigh. Sharp enough it’s like you aren’t wearing clothes at all.

“Agatha,” you half-whine, not wanting to admit just how turned on you are.

She flicks her wrist again and you squirm in the air.

“Tell me to stop,” she says as she slowly circles you. “Tell me to stop, and mean it, and I’ll send you on your pretty little way.”

You hate when she does this. You can never refuse her attention. It’s all you think about.

Pain lances again when you don’t answer quickly enough. You debate purposely staying quiet longer to feel it again but you doubt this will be the last of your punishment for tonight.

“Stop,” your voice wavers.

Agatha strikes you again and you can feel yourself begin to drip down your thigh.

“Try again.”

“I want you to stop,” your voice comes out a little firmer this time and Agatha raises an eyebrow.

“I almost believe you,” she says, which you highly doubt. “Unfortunately, you’ve always been a terrible liar.”

“I- I want to go to dinner,” you try instead because you both know you don’t truly want Agatha to stop.

“Maybe. But you want me to fuck you more.”

You swallow harshly. There’s no denying that. “You won’t though,” you say quietly.

“Aw, is that what has my pet all upset? She thinks I won’t fuck her silly since she’s been so naughty?”

“Think?” you ask hopefully and Agatha smirks.

“Why, of course. I want my girl to stay, don’t I? Denying her isn’t going to that.”

It sounds like a trap. It feels like a trap. Agatha’s face is telling you that it is a trap and yet, that heat within you rises. With the way your games usually go, she’s probably going to fuck you. There’ll be some sort of catch, especially after you’ve denied her so much. But just the idea of her touching you when you were so certain she wouldn’t has you giving in.

“I -” you lick your dry lips. “I do want you to fuck me more.”

“Well, now you’re just stating facts,” Agatha flicks her wrist and your clothes disappear. “I suppose it’s better than lying.”

Anticipation surges through you as her eyes run over you. They snag on the red welts caused by her earlier lashes before they stray to the wetness soaking your thighs.

“Oh, you poor thing,” she coos and steps closer. “No wonder you’ve been acting out You’re too desperate to think properly.”

You don’t even contemplate protesting with her hands on you. When she looks up at you for a response you nod eagerly. Her amusement doesn’t settle the voice saying there’s a catch somewhere but her touch soothes any growing anxieties.

“I can certainly help with that,” she says and trails her fingers over the red marks as she makes her way towards your soaked core.

Her fingers lightly run through your soaked lips and you shiver. Agatha has been so annoyed about Darcy that she hasn’t touched you like this in days. You hadn’t realised how much the lack was affecting you.

“There we go,” she murmurs as she runs her fingers over your clit, making you gasp. She circles there for a moment before moving down and smoothly entering you with two fingers. “Empty that pretty little head of yours.”

Nodding, you try to spread your legs further apart but Agatha’s magic keeps you still. You wish she would let you down. Let you touch her. But it’s a miracle she’s touching you at all so you don’t risk asking.

Agatha’s pace remains slow until you’re whining with need. She’s so mean, only giving your clit a quick swipe every now and then until you’re begging incoherently.

“Are you going to behave for me now?” she finally asks with a raised eyebrow. Long past words, you nod desperately. Anything, you’d do anything for her. “Good girl,” she says gutturally and you fly over the edge.

She speeds up for the first time and you writhe in pleasure as the orgasm flows over you, the slow build to it having heightened the intensity. She doesn’t slow, even as you come back down.

“Mistress?” you gasp in confusion when she doesn’t stop.

“Don’t worry. I’m just making sure no silly thoughts linger in my pet’s head.”

You don’t protest or plead. You don’t want her hands to leave yet. It’s been too long without them. A second orgasm won’t hurt. Especially when she pays so much more attention to your clit.

As she makes firm circles around your clit, you wish once again that you could touch her. You want to feel her warmth against you and use your teeth to encourage her to fuck you faster and pull her hair when she doesn’t. Instead, you’re stuck whining in the air as she has her way with you.

Her fingers curl and hit that special spot inside of you. Your head drops forward as you moan. She does it again as she makes firmer circles around your clit and you’re coming before you even realise how close you are.

Finally, finally she lets you touch her. Her magic lowers you down and wraps your arms around her. You cling tight and whimper when her fingers curl again.

“One more,” she murmurs soothingly.

You meant to speak but what comes out is a low whine that’s quickly taken over by a moan.

This one is slow and soft. You’re sensitive enough that Agatha’s slow pace builds you up easily. You whine into her shoulder as the overwhelming feeling of coming a third time floods you.

You tend and shudder in her grasp before going entirely limp.

“There we go. You know where you belong, don’t you?” she asks.

She cradles you like you’re something precious. You nod weakly, holding onto her. There was never a question of who you belong to but you don’t mind reminding Agatha. Or, well, Agatha reminding herself.

“You mistress,” you manage to say.

“Good girl,” she says and kisses the side of your head.

You shiver again.

“So mean,” you mutter light heartedly.

Agatha gives you an amused look.

“Three was getting off lightly and you know it.”

You snort at the pun.

“Can we go lay down?” you ask after a moment. “I’ve missed you.”

The dizzying sensation of teleporting envelopes you a second later.

[teliphone]

Limerence

Summary: Your relationship with Jaeyi is far from normal. It’s toxic, suffocating and obsessive. Students around you stay away from you to avoid trouble with Jaeyi. A new student enters which stirs things a little. Maybe she could be your escape? Or maybe it leads you to sink deeper into Jaeyi’s trap. 

Warning(s): Smut, Jealousy, Obessesion, Slapping, Chains, Fingering, Overstimulation

Word Count: 3.5k

-

Yoo Jaeyi and you walk down the halls next to each other… or rather you’re trying to keep up with her. Her hand tightly wraps around yours, pulling you to match speed with her. You let out a small grunt of pain at how hard she’s gripping. She stares forward, ignoring everyone. You spare one glance to the side. Students mumble with each other as they stare at you. They quickly look away when you make eye contact with them. It’s quite sad, you have soon realized. No one dared try to talk to you ever since you got into a relationship with her. All your friends have left you without any reason. You’re constantly stuck with Jaeyi and it's starting to drive you crazy. The only space she allows you is by letting you sit alone at your desk. She sits a few rows behind you, so she can watch every movement you make. 

Jaeyi drags you into her science lab. The little mice run around in their cages. It creeps you out. You never understood how she could easily test on those innocent mice. You pull back from her grip slightly. She narrows her eyes and finally turns around to look at you. You drop your shoulders in annoyance. You aggressively jerk your hands away before crossing your arms. 

“What are you doing?” You fum. She breaks into a smile as she straightens her back. 

“I want to spend time with you,” She chirps. You roll your eyes and let out a laugh of disbelief. 

“I’ve been with you all day. Can’t I just spend some time somewhere else?” You huff. She turns around and walks deeper into the lab. She opens one of the cages and picks up a small mouse. She completely ignored you. You can feel your frustration building up. You hate when she blatantly ignores you. 

“I am leaving,” You mumble before walking towards the door. You didn’t wait for her response. You knew she was going to find you anyway. No matter how far you try to hide and escape from her, she always seems to find a way to get you. It scares and baffles you. But what scares you the most is if she leaves you. She has removed everyone in your life… all you have left is her. You need her. You pause at the door handle.

“I’ll… text you,” You hesitate before exiting. Jaeyi secretly smirks as she lifts the mice to her face. 

“Cute,” She mumbles directing it to you.  

-

Class today is different. You stare at the new student, Seulgi, standing in front of the class. She looks innocent and lost. Your eyes scan down to see her fidgeting with the ends of her uniform. Your lips broke into a small smile. You wonder if she could survive in this toxic school. She makes eye contact with you and you smile at her—a small one with no further meaning. You didn’t pay much attention to her after that. Returning to working on your homework. Suddenly you feel a presence beside you. 

“...Can I sit here?” She softly asks. Her doe eyes are cute. The students in the room mumble against themselves. Your seat is usually empty. No one wanted to disturb your studying and gave you space. But truthfully it's because they don’t want to get in between you and Jaeyi. They fear what she could do to them. 

“Yes,” You finally answer. You didn’t care what Jaeyi would think. You've had enough of her controlling your life. You can hear a couple of students softly gasping and mumbling. Seulgi smiles and takes a seat. You stare at her a little bit before looking down at your textbook. Jaeyi quietly analyzes the scene before her. Her facade doesn’t break. In fact, she smiles. It gets her excited. She finds you cute for trying to break her rules and not knowing what it will cause you. 

-

It’s a few minutes after break and you walk back to class. You slide the doors of the classroom open to find it empty. You return earlier than the others. You make your way to your desk til a phone notification catches your attention. You scan the room to make sure you aren’t mistaken. You locate the noises coming from Jaeyi’s desk. You look around to make sure no one is around. Her phone buzzes against her desk a few more times. You couldn’t help but find it interesting that she would leave her phone. With curious eyes, you go to look at her texts. 

‘Please delete the video���

‘I apologized!’

‘I’ll do anything you want!’

Your eyes widen in confusion. What video is this person talking about that they desperately want Jaeyi to delete it? Is she blackmailing someone? Before your thoughts can continue, the door slides open. You quickly glance away from her phone. Jaeyi stands at the door staring back at you. There is an unreadable look on her face. She smiles, but her eyes are emotionless. You slightly gulp and avert your stare. You walk to your desk and act like you weren’t caught red-handed. Jaeyi slowly walks past you while staring at you. You feel your heart racing. She takes a seat on her desk and lifts her phone. Her eyes swiftly read the text messages. She glances up from her phone to stare at you with heavy-lidded eyes. 

She knows you saw it. 

She slides off her desk. You hear her footsteps coming closer from behind. You unconsciously straighten your back. Your awareness heightens. She places her hand on top of your shoulders and grips. Your breathing hicks. She leans her body down til her lips touch your ears.

“Don’t tell anyone,” She whispers softly. You secretly clench your fist underneath the desk. She smirks and tilts her head to look at your face. You quickly stand up to get away from her. Her presence is too suffocating. The sweet scent of her perfume is enough to make your brain numb. Your action causes her to widen her eyes and step backward. You tug the green uniform closer to your body before glaring at her. You fascinate her without even trying. From behind, you can hear the sounds of more students entering the room. They all freely talk amongst themselves happily.

“I don’t care what you do as long as it doesn’t involve me,” You speak in a low tone. Little did you know, it does involve you. Everything Jaeyi does involves you whether you like it or not. Her lips slowly turn into a small smirk. You didn’t wait for her response and turned your body around. Right at that moment, a student accidentally bumps into you. The drink in her hand falls onto the white of your shirt. You can feel the cold liquid seep into the cloth. She gasps and immediately starts apologizing. You are stunned for a moment before forcing a small smile. 

“It’s okay,”

“No no, I will pay for you,” She splutters. She starts running her hands over your shirt to try and clean it. Her face expresses such stress and embarrassment. Her movement causes the liquid to spread, making your shirt translucent. You softly grab onto her wrist to stop her. 

“I said it’s okay,” You repeat. She stops moving and stares at you with pitiful eyes. Her poor heart feels like it’s escaping her chest. She nervously looks over to see Jaeyi staring at her with a blank expression. You let go of her hand and start walking to the door. You expect Jaeyi to follow you, but she doesn’t. You secretly feel sad and disappointed about it. 

You enter the bathroom and slowly take off your uniform. This leaves you with just a bra on. You plop the white shirt into the sink and switch on the water. You quietly listen and watch the water drench your shirt. You tilt your head to look at the ceiling and let out a deep sigh. What a hassle. You didn’t have an extra pair of shirts meaning you would have to wear this wet shirt back to class. You reach down into the sink and start scrubbing the material. After a few minutes of scrubbing, you lift the shirt to examine it. Water drips at the edges. Good enough. You wring the shirt til it's somewhat dry and put it back on. The coldness makes you shiver. You just have to suffer through til the end of class. 

You take a seat, slightly shivering. The air feels so cold against the wetness of your shirt. It feels uncomfortable having to be in a class like this. You avoid the stares of other students as you take out your textbooks. Among the students, one is particularly more interested. Jaeyi can't stop staring at you as you try to pay attention to your homework. Her eyes slowly examine your back. She sees the wet damp on your back and tilts her head. The wetness has made your shirt slightly translucent. Your bra is so visible, it's almost humorous to her. She can’t help but think it’s like you want her to see it. She starts to smirk and shift against her seat. You’re so exposed, yet you don’t even realize it. You lean forward to straighten your back. Her eyes dilate at the full view of your back. She nibbles her bottom lip as she starts to fantasize about you, specifically your bra. 

She imagines herself running her fingers down your spine to tease you. She traps you between her body and your desk. You would blush so cutely as she leans her face close to yours. It drives her crazy how reactive you are. 

“Stop it,” You glare at her, slightly pushing against her shoulders. She pushes you to sit on your desk. She quickly slides her body between your legs. She smirks and brings her hands to the front of your wet white button-up. 

“Stop?” She hums as she starts to unbutton the first button. By the third button, she can see your bra peeking out. You shyly look away while biting your lips. She slowly finishes off the last button and quickly tugs your shirt aside to expose your front to her. Finally, after seeing your bra through the shirt, she can see it fully. The cold air touches your bare skin. Your cheeks start to burn bright red. Her eyelids become heavy with lust. She brings her hands up to cup your boobs. Her thumb harshly rubs against your nub. Your breathing hicks. You shut your eyes to save yourself from making more noise. Her two thumbs grind against your sensitive nub while groping the soft plush. She repeats the action over and over til your boobs start to become red from her touches. You tilt your head back and let out a soft moan. She smiles at your reaction and rewards you by kissing your neck. You try to clench your thighs together, but her waist stops you. Your lower stomach feels funny. Suddenly you couldn't handle her touch anymore. It’s making your brain turn into mush. You grip onto her wrist causing her to stop. She leans back and widens her eyes in surprise. Your breathing shakes as you glare up at her. Her eyes were black like the void, unreadable. 

“Do you want me to stop?” She asks softly. 

“...Yes,” You breathe out. You didn’t understand why you said yes. The feeling was too much… but it was also so good. She pauses, deep in thought before her eyes quickly shift. 

“Okay,” She simply responds. She removes herself from your body, leaving you breathless on your desk. Your front is still completely exposed. She smiles at the redness on your chest. As you try to collect your thoughts, you hear a camera click. You quickly glare up to see her snapping a picture on her phone. A picture of your touched boobs. She smiles brightly and slides her phone back into her pocket. 

Jaeyi clenches her thighs underneath her desk. She couldn’t believe that just imagining about you caused her to feel turned on. She grips her pencil and smiles. Laughing at herself for being so needy. It’s silly to her. She forces herself to look away from your innocent body and back to her textbooks. This little game you’re playing is just the beginning. 

Seulgi begins to notice how see-through your shirt is. Her eyes widen, and she swiftly takes off her jacket, gently placing it over you for cover. You turn to meet her gaze, and she offers a soft smile before shifting her focus back to her homework. With a smirk, you touch the hem of her jacket, hoping Jaeyi noticed the gesture. She surely did. Though her expression stays neutral, her grip on the pencil tightens, turning her knuckles pale. 

-

Jaeyi’s room is dark and cold as she slams you against her wall. She traps you between her hands. You grunt in pain at the impact. You could tell your shoulders are going to be bruised again. You glare up at her eyes in hatred. Her eyes dilate and you can see the pure jealousy in her eyes. Her tongue brushes the inside of her cheeks. Thoughts swirl inside her head. You couldn’t help but let out a laugh. She’s so jealous. So easy.

“You’re laughing?” Her voice low. You playfully move your eyes from her lips to her eyes while you poke her lower stomach. Your fingers slowly drag up to grip her collar. You tilt your head and lean closer to her face. Her eyebrows lift in amusement. 

“You don’t control me,” You whisper. Her eyes darken as she smirks. You shove her back and attempt to walk away. She quickly grabs your wrist and spins you around. You fight against her, but she is surprisingly strong. Her hands naturally wrap around the back of your neck, forcing you to look at her. Your eyes feel like sharp knives while hers look warm. 

“I’m going to prove to you I do,” She hisses. She presses her lips against yours softly. You try to move away, but the hand behind your neck locks you. Her tongue brushes against your closed mouth. Her fingers gently rub your neck. While she kisses you, she pushes you onto her bed. She quickly grabs your hands and pins them above your head. Her knee secretly slots between your legs causing you to moan. With your mouth open, she can deepen the kiss. 

“Kiss me,” She begs. You try to squeeze your legs together, but her legs block you. You jerk your body, trying to get away from the source. You can feel yourself getting turned on. She leans away from the kiss in frustration. Her eyes are lidded and lustful. Your chest moves up and down fast. She dips her mouth down to your neck to lick and suck. You accidentally let out a soft moan. She smiles and bites down on your skin. She pulls away again to look at your eyes. 

“Your moans are sweet,” She hums. Her voice is so soft and seductive. You feel your heart skip a beat. 

“Fuck you,” You cuss, feeling your cheeks turn red. She smiles and dips down to your ears. Her breathing tickles you. 

“Stop fighting me,” She mumbles. She sticks out her tongue and licks the outer shell of your ears. You twitch against her body, squeezing your eyes shut. She knew every spot to get you hotter. With a quick movement, she unclasps three buttons from your shirt to reveal your bra. She licks her lips and squeezes her legs together. She’s been turned on since earlier. 

“You teased me all day,” She whispers. She lets go of your wrists and places both hands on your boobs. You lay submissively, not trying to move away and she smiles. She starts pressing her fingers into the softness of your chest. Her eyes glued onto them like she’s addicted. Your nipple hardens and exposes themselves on the surface of the bra. Her eyes flicker up to watch your reaction as she brushes her thumbs against them. Your head tilts back a little and hum a soft moan. Her tongue drags down to the middle of your chest. Her hand continues to squeeze your boobs aggressively. You bring your hands down to her lower neck. You gently gesture her head to look back up. 

“Kiss me,” You blush. She lets out a giggle and moves her body up to capture your lips again. You feverishly move your lips against hers. Her lips feel so soft and plump. You feel like you're floating. She tilts her head, bumping her nose against yours. She keeps the pace to match your needy ones. Her brain turns into a mess when you slightly bite her bottom. She pulls away from the kiss, her chest moving up and down. Her fingers move to unclasp the rest of your buttons. She helps you get out of your green school uniform. She starts taking off hers as well but leaves on her black bra and panties. 

You bring a hand up to cover your red cheeks. You feel embarrassed being the only fully naked one. It makes you feel so vulnerable before her. Just how she wanted. She wants to show how much power she has over you. She moves to the side to grab something out of her bed drawers. Your heart starts to hammer against your chest when you realize what she’s holding. There between her hands is a small silver collar with a small chain. She returns between your thighs and gestures for you to sit up. You obey and she clasps the collar around your neck. She tugs the chains for fun causing you to jerk forward. She pecks your lips. 

“Turn around,” She smiles. Your response is too slow making her tug the chains again. You grunt and it clicks into your head to start moving. You turn your body til you're on all fours, your bottom facing her. You gulp nervously because you can no longer see her. Suddenly you feel a hard slap on your bottom causing you to cry out. Her eyes darken and she smiles sinisterly. 

“You know you’re not supposed to talk to anyone but me right?” She reminds you before slapping again. You bite your lower lip to stop yourself from crying out. 

“I am just protecting you,” She whispers. She tugs the chains harshly making your head tilt back. You choke against the collar, tears starting to form. 

“Say you’re sorry,” She demands. She slaps you again and smiles when she sees your ass turning red. 

“S-sorry!” You cry. She places her cold hands gently against your bruised bottom. She rubs them a little then runs her fingers down to your slit. She rubs your core and chuckles. You’re shamefully wet. It’s like she didn’t have to do much for you to turn into a dirty mess for her. She rubs your juice around your clit. You moan and jerk your body. She continues to circle your clit til she can feel your juices spilling from your core. 

“Please,” You beg, jerking your hips to chase her fingers. She smirks and tilts her head. 

“Yes?” She purrs. 

“...Please put it in,” You blush. 

“Anything for you,” She hums before shoving two fingers into your core. You gasp at the sudden feeling of getting full. You squeeze your eyes shut and grip onto the bed sheets. Your eyebrows furrow in pleasure. She moves her fingers in and out slowly, watching closely at how your hips jerk against her. She feels more turned on and bites her lips. She lets you ride her fingers for a moment. Listening closely to your quiet moans. But you’re moaning too quietly for her. She tugs the chains hard causing you to tilt your head back. It chokes you. She starts moving her hands fast, abusing your walls. You cry out loudly. 

“You react so well,” She mumbles to herself. The sounds of your wet core against her fingers become embarrassingly loud. You moan so sweetly it sounds like a melody in her ears. 

“I’m going to come,” You choke. She moves her fingers faster and tugs the chains harder. You feel so sinister in this position. It makes you roll your eyes back and moan. Her two fingers slide easily against your wet gummy walls. After a few more strong thrusts, you come onto her fingers. You let out a loud high pitch moan. Your silk runs down her knuckles and she chuckles. She lets go of the chain and slows down her movement to let you catch your breath. She pulls out her wet fingers and rubs your clit. Your body shakes and jerks from overstimulation. Just when you thought it was over, you felt her fingers thrust into your core again. 

“I am going to make you come over and over til you turn dumb,” She snickers, slamming her fingers knuckles deep. You cry out and jerk your body away from her, but the chains limit you from moving away. You claw at the collar, but find it useless as your body bounces at each of her thrusts.

“I want to numb your mind til all you think about is me.” 

[hcneymooners]

⋆ up until the very last ember of my heart extinguishes, i will be thinking of you.

dj!mel x best friend!fem!reader. men & minors dni.

synopsis: you & mel have always been thick as thieves, and things have yet to change. but lately, you've been thinking of mel differently and, well—maybe you want more. cw: dj!mel, best friend!reader, female!reader, no age gap i fear, you guys are in your twenties, modern!au, resolved sexual tension, pining, friends to lovers, clubbing, not actually unrequited love, explicit sexual content, dom!mel, sub!reader, lowkey y'all are switches, wall sex, tender sex, vaginal fingering, edging, cunnilingius, oral sex (r!receiving), couch sex, mel is actually insane about you, obsession, possessive behavior, squirting, face riding, pet names, you guys are very soft for each other.

notes: i love her so much guys; i'm gonna be sick. hope you enjoy. this is really rough for my first time back in a while but it is what it is, hmm?

“you’re loyal to her. i’ve never gone a night without seeing you here.”

the words are screamed directly into your ear and you stumble a bit, already off kilter thanks to the lychee martinis you’ve been sipping since the beginning of the evening. the world is beautiful like this: slurred into soft strobes of turquoise, gold, green that caress the sweaty gleaming bodies of the people spinning within it. the set for tonight is still danceable but decidedly slower than usual, honing in on the loneliness and escapism other people may desire on valentine’s eve.

you blink blearily at the girl vibrating next to you. she shakes with a jitter you know belongs either to ketamine or cocaine—or perhaps both. ck-ing was a popular method of dressing up a club night in london. you stop swaying to the beat, body still as you focus on her completely. mel once told you that this was your pull—this ability to make whomever was in front of you feel as though they were the most important thing in the world to you.

“sorry, what?” you finally push out.

“mel,” the girl shouts again, gesturing to the stage way up front. “whenever she’s performing, you’re here!”

you glance up at the woman in question, face softening as you watch the way her body flows into her highly practiced routine of dance. tonight the movements are more minimal, courtesy of her dress—a masterpiece of fanned peacock feathers that catch and scatter light with every subtle movement. the feathers are arranged in a mesmerizing spiral from the jeweled clasp beneath her arm, each eye seeming to watch the crowd as she moves. it's shorter than her usual style, ending mid-thigh in a flutter of iridescent tips that make her look like some rare, exotic bird. every time the bass drops, the feathers tremble in response, creating a hypnotic dance of green-blue shadows across her skin.

it’s not typical for a dj-ing outfit, but mel has cemented herself as a rich girl with a talent. everyone knows who she is, who her mother is. they love that she comes down to their level during the weekends, covers herself in glitter and spins together a beat like some kind of opulent spider.

"yeah," you shout back, your voice still managing to sound tender. "she's my best friend."

the words feel both true and incomplete in your mouth - they always do. you've been "best friends" since you quite literally crashed into her at university, spilling your coffee all over her white hermès sweater. instead of the fury you'd expected, she'd laughed, dragged you shopping for a replacement, and somehow ended up buying you three sweaters instead.

that was mel all over: excessive, generous, impossible to refuse.

"lucky!" your momentary friend shouts back and your mouth dips into a smile that doesn't quite reach your eyes.

lucky. right. lucky to be the one who holds her hair back after bad nights, who listens to her practice sets until dawn, who knows exactly how she likes her tea when she's stressed (earl grey, splash of oat milk, two sugars). lucky to be the one who gets to love her from this careful distance, never quite close enough to risk everything.

the girl disappears into the crowd, leaving you alone with your thoughts and the music again. mel's current track winds down, bleeding into something slower, more haunting. you recognize it immediately—it's one of her original pieces, the one she'd made you listen to first, cross-legged on her bedroom floor at 3 am, her face anxious and hopeful in the low light.

the memory makes your chest ache. up on stage, she's different from that vulnerable version of herself. her movements are precise and controlled, even in that impossible dress. you watch as she adjusts something on her deck, the feathers shifting across her back like ripples in dark water. when she reaches up to adjust her headphones, the dress catches the light in a way that makes your breath catch.

you're not the only one watching. the crowd around you is entranced, and you hear snippets of their whispered appreciation. the warmth of your tipsiness is starting to wear off. you’re suddenly so much more aware of yourself, of the differences between you and the luminescent girl on stage.

tonight you’ve chosen a simple black midi dress with a scoop neck that cups your chest gently. the tops of your breasts swell up softly at the mouth of the fabric, gleaming with a golden sheen that could only belong to your beloved diamond shimmer bath and body works mist. your hair has been longer by a copious number of extensions, the bundles pooling together at your lower back. tinsel is strung artfully in-between some strands, a careful layering courtesy of mel.

as you look around at the people around you, you feel boring and a bit underdressed. everyone is suddenly so much cooler than you and the thought brings a rush of warmth to your cheeks, the embarrassment strong in its resurgence. you shift in place as the song changes to something a bit more fast-paced. there’s a chorus of screams, shouts of pleasure, and the floor begins to shake as people flood it to dance. you smile tightly as someone slams into you rather harshly, their apology half-assed and unfocused.

you clutch the top of your mother’s vintage ysl clutch, the chain a bit rusted and the body bulging with a combination of your house keys, your lip combo, some shit from work you didn’t take out in time, and the normally slim body of your phone which as been made bigger by the chunky sides of your artisan bedazzled phone case. the multiple polaroids of you and mel in the back didn’t help the situation in any way, the glossy memories slightly distended by the rolled bills you’ve tucked back there for emergencies.

as you turn to navigate the sudden pit of people, the music lowers just enough so that mel’s soft steady voice bleeds through. the lights flash once, twice, a third time; the bulbs are hot and pink. you know what’s coming, but you still don’t turn around, though your mouth twitches in a smile.

"hey, london," mel croons and the crowd screams back at her, eager to greet the woman soundtracking what is probably just another tuesday evening. "i have a question before i finish up. i don't want to forget."

your heart stutters in your chest. she does this sometimes, turns you into an unwitting participant in her performances. you remember the first time she did it, six months ago, how your knees had gone weak at the way she'd claimed you so publicly, so casually. how dangerous it had felt, how thrilling.

"has anyone seen my girl?"

the crowd goes crazy and you lift a hand to your mouth to hide your smile, heat flooding your cheeks. you hate how easily she can undo you, how these little moments of possession—even if they're just part of her show—make your pulse race. your free hand unconsciously touches the delicate gold chain around your neck—her birthday gift from last year, a tiny hextech crystal pendant that she'd said "reminded her of home."

"i came in with her. you know her, right? gorgeous little thing in a short black dress. kind of looks like…"

you close your eyes, remembering how she'd fussed over you earlier tonight, her fingers gentle as she wove tinsel through your hair. 'perfect,' she'd murmured, her breath warm against your ear, and you'd had to suppress a shiver. now, surrounded by strangers who are about to echo what you've felt for years, the irony isn't lost on you.

she trails off, holds out her mic to a group of girls right below her who giggle out the finishing portion of her sentence.

“…the love of my life!” they sing, drawing out the ‘i’ for a long while.

mel’s laugh echoes through the speakers, the sound throaty and raw. on cue, the music begins: “please don’t be love of my life” by caitvi, (calvin harris mix). they were a rock band that accidentally stumbled into becoming the summer muses for every edm fiend in existence.

you clutch your empty martini glass with a renewed strength, fighting until you manage to clutch a hand on the bar. the bartender smiles at you, complimenting your perfume which you don’t even think is still on your skin. you say thank you anyway, laughing openly as they tease you about your fondness for lychee. you’ve always been this way, you want to say, always holding on to what you know in the hopes that it’ll eventually love you back.

instead, you look over your shoulder at mel’s far off silhouette. there’s a moment where she looks up, seems to look at you. you don’t know if she really sees you, given your distance and the disorienting nature of the club. you smile regardless, raise a hand to wave lightly. the chrome bow on your acrylics flashes meanly, signaling your position.

she looks way, smiles earnestly at the crowd, and you drop your hand. the moment is broken, like always. as you move to pull your refreshed martini by the stem, mel’s dj tag sounds: sounds of birds of paradise, interwoven into one another over a damagingly sad violin sample. it’s her way of letting the people know that this will be her last couple of songs for the evening.

the birds’ calls fade into the melancholy beginning of “healing” by gordo featuring drake. the opening notes reverberate through you and you press your lips together, body thrumming with the effect of being noticed. she had seen you. that was the only reason she was playing this song. it had been your favorite for the past month, and now here it was on blast at one of the most elite clubs in the city.

‘i want to see you dance to this,’ she’d told you one evening, her mouth trailing against your shoulder. you were twisted together in your bed, the blankets plush around you as the two of you shared her airpods. ‘i want to see you have fun, lose yourself.’

‘i can’t lose myself,’ you’d said back, mouth rising in a secretive smile.

mel had lifted your hand teasingly, bit it gently, and then interlinked her fingers with yours.

‘don’t worry. i’ll find you.’

you look back at her, find her leaning over her deck with a finger pressed pensively to her mouth. she quirks an eyebrow and gestures to the crowd, as if asking why you’re not inside of it. you smile despite it all and abandon your martini, wiggling through the gaps of people until you're up front.

the bass drops and the crowd surges forward, but you hold your ground, eyes locked on mel. she's watching you now, really watching you, her movements more deliberate as she works the deck. you recognize this version of the song; it's her own remix, the one she'd been perfecting for weeks in her home studio. she'd added layers of ethereal synths that make it feel like you're floating, like you're the only person in the room who really understands what she's trying to say.

she gestures to her security guard, a subtle movement that you've seen countless times before. within moments, strong hands are parting the crowd, creating a path to the booth. your heart pounds as you're ushered up the steps, into her domain of switches and lights and pulsing energy. the peacock feathers of her dress brush against your arm as she pulls you close, her free hand settling on your waist.

"dance with me," she murmurs into your ear, her voice carrying despite the thundering music. her fingers trace patterns on your hip, and you wonder if she can feel you trembling. "show them what this song was made for."

you let your body move with hers, falling into the rhythm she's created. the feathers of her dress catch the light with each movement, creating a private light show just for the two of you. she keeps one hand on the deck, maintaining the perfect flow of music, but her other hand never leaves your body, guiding you through the dance like she's afraid you might disappear if she lets go.

the crowd below is going wild, but you barely notice them. all you can focus on is the way mel's breath catches when you press closer, the way her fingers tighten on your waist when you roll your hips. the tinsel in your hair catches the light, mixing with the iridescent shimmer of her dress until you're both wrapped in a cocoon of glitter and sound.

"see?" she whispers, and you can hear the smile in her voice. "i told you i'd find you."

the words send a shiver down your spine, and you turn your head slightly, catching her gaze. there's something different in her eyes tonight, something that makes your breath catch in your throat. maybe it's the valentine's eve atmosphere, or maybe it's the way the lights are hitting her face, but for a moment, you let yourself believe that the look she's giving you means what you want it to mean.

she transitions into the next song seamlessly, but keeps you close, as if she's forgotten that this isn't how she usually ends her sets. as if she's forgotten that you're supposed to be just her best friend, watching from the crowd like always. as if, just for tonight, you could be something more.

the spell breaks when you catch a glimpse of your reflection in one of the booth's chrome panels. you see yourself pressed against her, see the way you're looking at her: desperate, obvious, completely transparent. the music suddenly feels too loud, the lights too bright, your skin too tight. you're acutely aware of every place her body touches yours, and it's simultaneously too much and not enough.

"i need—" you start, but can't finish. mel's hand tightens on your waist for a fraction of a second before you pull away. you gesture vaguely toward the floor, not meeting her eyes. "sorry, i just—"

you don't wait for her response, practically stumbling down the booth steps. the crowd that had been watching your dance parts easily, perhaps sensing your urgency. you hear the next dj's tag start to play—some remix of a taylor swift song—which means mel's set is over. which means she might follow you. the thought makes you move faster.

you trip over your feet, your heel catching on the bone of your ankle as it lifts and you fall. your knees crack against the ground, but you regain your momentum. your neck is warm and you lift your hair with one hand as you spin, eventually locating the flickering neon sign denoting the bathroom.

the bathroom is mercifully empty when you burst in, all perfectly-cut marble and deep blue lighting that makes your reflection look expensive and almost admirably tragic. you press your palms against the cool counter, letting your head hang down as you try to steady your breathing. the bass from the club thrums through the walls, muffled but persistent, like a heartbeat.

“you’re always so fucking stupid,” you whisper to yourself, watching a tear splash onto the marble. you'd let yourself get carried away, let yourself pretend. but mel is mel. this is the girl who turns heads when she walks into rooms, who has fashion houses begging to dress her, who could have anyone she wants. and you're just… someone else.

her best friend, you suppose. the girl who’s responsible for holding her hair back when she's sick, who listens to her practice sets, who loves her so strongly that it feels akin to having a spear sunk through your chest.

the bathroom door opens with a soft whoosh, and you know it's her before she speaks. you can smell her perfume. it’s something custom-made in paris, a mix of lily, amber, and caramel. you don't look up.

"hey," mel says softly, and you hear the click of her heels on the marble floor as she approaches. "what happened up there?"

you close your eyes, trying to ignore how the marble feels like ice beneath your palms, how your body still burns where she touched you in the booth. "nothing happened, melly. i just needed some air."

you use your nickname for her as a way to disarm her, but mel has always been immovable when it came to getting something that she wants. the silence that follows feels incredibly long, but you know it hasn’t even been ten seconds. you lean forward, splash water on your face. blindly, you search for a paper towel but you’re handed a small hand towel instead. your makeup transfers onto the fabric, staining it with the traces of your exhaustion and loneliness.

"[name], look at me." her voice is gentle but firm, the same tone she uses when she knows you're lying. when you don't move, you hear her sigh, the sound followed by the soft rustle of feathers. then her hand is on your shoulder, turning you around.

she's closer than you expected, close enough that you can see the individual glitter particles scattered across her collarbones, catch the faint sheen of sweat at her temples from performing. the peacock dress seems alive in the bathroom's soft lighting, each feather shifting with her breath. you try to step back, but the counter prevents your retreat.

"you were crying," she observes, reaching up to brush her thumb beneath your eye. her touch lingers longer than necessary, and you hate how your body betrays you, leaning into her hand like a flower seeking sun. "why were you crying?"

"i wasn't," you lie, even as another tear escapes. "it's just the vodka. you know how i get."

"yeah," she says, and now both her hands are cupping your face, forcing you to meet her gaze. her eyes are dark, intent, stripped of their usual playful gleam. "i know how you get when you're drunk, and this isn't it. this is something else."

you try to laugh but it comes out choked. "melly, please—"

"when you were up there with me," she interrupts, one hand sliding down to rest against your neck, her thumb pressed gently against your pulse point, "what were you thinking about?"

the question hangs between you, heavy with possibility. you can feel your heartbeat racing beneath her thumb, wonder if she can feel it too. the bathroom suddenly seems smaller, the air thicker. somewhere outside, the music has changed to something slower, more intimate. the bass line crawls up through the floor and into your bones.

this is how love always finds you, corners you. it's a snake that's flat enough to slide underneath the door. you always watch it passively as it slides up your body, only crying out when it bites.

"i was thinking," you start, then stop, swallowing hard. her eyes track the movement of your throat. "i was thinking about how great you were tonight, how—how beautiful you are. ‘nd i was thinking about how some things can look real without being real. like stage lights. or club nights. or best friends who—"

you cut yourself off, but her grip on your neck tightens slightly, just enough to make your breath catch. the feathers of her dress brush against your thighs, a whisper of sensation that makes you shiver.

"or best friends who what?" she prompts, her voice low, almost dangerous. she's close enough now that you can feel her breath against your lips, can smell the champagne she'd been sipping between sets.

the door to the bathroom opens, the sound of the club surging in, and you both freeze. mel doesn't move away, doesn't drop her hands. instead, she leans closer, her lips brushing your ear.

"we're not done with this conversation," she murmurs, the words a promise that distills heat through your body. "come on."

she pulls back just enough to meet your eyes, and the look in hers makes your knees weak. you open your mouth to respond, but—

the bathroom door swings shut again, leaving you both in that suspended moment. your "okay" comes out barely above a whisper, but she hears it. of course she hears it. she’s always heard you, even when you chose not to speak.

♤

the ride home is thick with unspoken words.

mel's driver, marcus, keeps his eyes professionally forward as you slide into the back of the bentley, the leather seats cool against your bare legs. mel follows, close enough that the feathers of her dress spill over onto your thigh. neither of you speak, but her pinky finger finds yours in the darkness between your bodies, hooking together like you used to do in university when one of you needed grounding.

london slides past the tinted windows in a blur of neon and shadow. you watch the reflections of passing streetlights play across mel's profile, catching the sharp edge of her jaw, the elegant line of her neck. she’s removed her performance jewelry, but missed a spot of glitter near her ear. without thinking, you reach up to brush it away.

she catches your wrist before you can retreat, her thumb pressing into your pulse point again. the car feels smaller in a matter of minutes, the air between you charged with electricity. she turns to fully face you, bringing your hand up to her mouth so that she can slide your pointer finger into her mouth. the suck of her lips is gentle, tender. you watch her head bob as she slides down further, then pulls off.

she doesn't let go of your wrist for the rest of the ride.

when the car pulls up to her mayfair townhouse, you feel like you're moving through a dream. the click of her heels on the steps echoes in the quiet street. to you, they're like gunshots and you have the irrational thought of the neighbors coming out to complain, to tell you that your desire is choking them in the same way you feel now. your own steps are less sure, thanks to the martinis and the way your whole body seems to be humming with anticipation.

she fumbles with her keys briefly, something you've never seen her do, and then you're inside. the door closes behind you with a soft click that seems to echo in the darkness. neither of you move to turn on the lights. the moonlight filtering through her floor-to-ceiling windows is enough to see by, casting everything in shades of silver.

she looks unreal, like a figment of your imagination. you pinch the inside of your thigh, letting out a hiss of air from in-between your teeth. she moves closer, fingers the indentation where your nails had dug into the skin.

you shake, but she only steadies you.

"melly," you start, but she shakes her head, settling both hands on your waist.

gently, she maneuvers you until your back meets the wall. a hand lifts to settle at the base of your neck, her lithe fingers threading into your hair so that she can cup the back of your head. she’s making sure your head doesn’t hit the stone, sacrificing her own skin to ensure your comfort. the thought makes you warmer than before.

mel watches your face, her eyes almost erratic as she searches for whatever sign she needs. she comes flush against you and your legs part instinctively to make room for her, spread to accommodate the whole of her.

she lowers her head, mouth coming to burn against your neck as she presses a kiss there. you let out a small, weeping sound as if her lips have enabled a release inside of you. in a way they have. you soften, melt into her and find the strength to touch her.

your hands grasp at mel’s neck and she hums in satisfaction, working her teeth into the meat of your neck like a vampire. she pulls back only to look down, freeing a hand from your waist to inch the hem of your dress up.

you moan brokenly as you grow more exposed, your cunt wet against the baby blue lace that holds it. the moonlight sneaks between the both of you and renders the fabric practically translucent, the blue so light in its glow that it seems closer to white.

“you’re so beautiful, baby,” mel whispers and you blink at her, your throat tight. “you always say it about me, and i never understand it. when i look at our pictures, i don’t see anyone else.”

your eyes slip low, going tender, and you cup her face.

“you’re perfect, mel.”

“i guess we’re a good match,” she murmurs and then she’s in you.

the motion is so smooth, so quick. you hadn’t realized she’d peeled the fabric of your panties back, pushed them to the side. you know nothing now except for the steady pump of her fingers. there are two working deep into the heart of you, searching and spreading your slick heat.

you cry out, eyes wide like a doe’s. mel only smiles, predatory and slow. her teeth gleam, two rows of perfect pearls. you feel out of your body, but she brings you back in with every stroke inside of you. her breathing is becoming heavy, labored. her eyes seem a little wild and the hand on your neck moves briefly to squeeze tightly at your waist until you let out a deep “unh.”

mel grins again at the sound and it makes you surge forward, crushing her mouth into a bruising kiss. you bite at her bottom lip until she opens and lets you in, your tongue lapping all over as if to consume her. she slips a third finger inside of you, curling at the walls of your cunt to make you clench down.

you continue to kiss her, tilting your head so that angle is better. you slot together perfectly and she moans into your mouth, increasing the speed of her thrusts. you break away from her and study her face, taking in the way her lip gloss is smeared wickedly around her mouth. her lips are swollen and dark and she takes one in between her teeth as she works deeper into you.

your head falls back and she returns her hand to the nape of your neck, catching you before you can hit the wall.

“you’re okay, mama,” she murmurs and you nod, eyes focused somewhere distant on the ceiling.

she knows how you get, how disassociative you can become when you’re overwhelmed with emotion. she watches as you go somewhere she’s unable to follow. your chest heaves with every exhale and she leans forward to press a kiss to the top of your tits, then another right in the middle of them. her mouth is dusted with glitter when she pulls away.

you fuck down on her hand, an animalistic moan crawling from somewhere deep in your chest. mel fucks you harder, grunting as she shifts you bodily up and down with the effort. you keen as she uses her thumb to rub your clit, the circles tight and concentrated. pleasure arcs white and hot up your spine and you close your eyes, mouth falling open silently.

“that’s it,” she says. “come on, baby. come on.”

“mel,” you gasp and she laughs lowly.

“what happened to melly?” she teases and you whine, a foot kicking out as she presses against your g-spot.

“melly, please,” you whisper. “fuck, please.”

“please what?”

"just please.”

nothing changes. she only watches you squirm and beg like a whore, her face impassive. it was moments like these where you were reminded of her mother. the thought sends another shot of arousal to your cunt and it drools down mel’s wrist, sticky and warm.

“mel, fuck. fuck, i can feel it. i’m almost—i’m right there. just please, baby.” you’re crying now, disoriented and breaking apart with every push of her fingers. “please. please, melly, please."

you drag your eyes from the ceiling to her face, your pupils dilated and bright like stars. her face suffers through a range of emotion before she curses and yanks her fingers out of you.

“no,” you sob, and she sushes you.

“just hang on a minute, mama. hold on,” she soothes, her hands coming to lift you from beneath your thighs.

mel moves quickly and you take comfort in the fact that she needs this as much as you do.

you find yourself draped over the couch, your stomach resting on the arm of the chair. there’s a slight application of pressure as mel forces you into an arch, your ass and cunt pushed up. she nudges your legs apart and then gets on her knees, her hands coming to rest on the back of your thighs as she leans in and puts her mouth on you.

“oh,” you moan and she hums into you.

she’s methodical and precise, her tongue slipping into the mix and filling you as best she can. her pace increases as she licks you front to back, twisting so she can suck and nip on your clit. you let out a high mewl as she grips the plush flesh of your ass, rocking you slowly until you’re able to continue the rhythm on your own.

the heat returns, spirals up from your stomach into your chest and throat. you whimper, letting your head fall forward and down. your eyes squeeze shut as you focus on riding her face, swiveling your hips in small circles to better grind your clit against her nose.

again you can feel it, that call to somewhere distant. mel feels the way you tighten around her tongue, the sudden stiffening of your thighs. she knows you’re just there, right at the golden gate of your private paradise so she removes her mouth and focuses completely on stimulating your clit with her fingers.

“mel,” you breathe. “melly—”

“i know, mama. you can do it. cum on my face. cum all over me, princess. mess me up, hmm?”

you reach down and she reaches up, instinctively understanding what you’re aching for. just as your fingers intertwine, you fall apart. your arch drops and mel hums, closing her eyes as you squirt over her. she can feel you trembling and she opens her mouth lazily, letting your cum drip into it as if it was some sort of sacred rain.

her fingers lace with yours properly now, no more tentative pinky holds. you grip back with the strength of a soldier at war, your eyes rolling shut as you hump against her face and ride out your high. mel only lets you use her, dragging her other hand down to grope at her throbbing pussy.

eventually, you settle and she tugs you down so that you’re sitting dazed and lax in her lap. her hands squeeze your ass as she noses at your cheek, slipping a light kiss onto your cheek.

"hey. hey, baby, look at me. are you with me?”

“ye—yeah,” you get out. “‘m with you.”

“let’s go upstairs," she says softly, and it's not quite a question. "unless—"

"yes," you interrupt, squeezing her hand. "yes."

mel makes no move to get up, however, and you watch her face.

“melly?”

"i need you to know," she says, a hand coming up to trace your jawline, "that whatever happens next… this isn't just because. this isn't just because we were dancing, or drinking, or—"

"i know," you whisper, even though you don't, not really. but you want to believe. god, how you want to believe.

mel shifts, tilts you so that you’re on your back. her braids have fallen from her signature bun, and they block out the little light spilling in from the window.

“baby, i want you. i love you, i need you, and i can’t—i can’t tell you enough how much i’ve wanted this. nothing matters to me more than you.”

“i know, melly. trust me, i understand.”

she shakes her head, opens her mouth. you lift a hand, dig your nails into the sides of her throat as you clutch at it for just one second.

“i understand.”

it feels like she’s been the only thing on your mind since the day you were born. you’ve been waiting for her ever since.

© hcneymooners.

⚚ wife tag: @s-4pphics

[bonnie-the-butcher]

Rip Tide | Chapter VIII

[ MDNI ] [ word count: 7.289 ] [ Masterlist ] 𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐬: Canonverse/Canon-Divergent; Dark! Content; NSFW; Strong Language; Cheating; Drug Use; Mentions of overdose; Some shades of Munchausen syndrome from dear old Rafe; Manipulation; Toxic, obsessive behaviour; Stalking; Violence; DUBCON/NONCON; My writing is really pretentious and English is not my first language, so please feel free to call me out in whichever grammar mistakes you might find find.

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 | You and JJ have always been in each other's orbit. He's your brother’s best friend, the guy you've known your entire life. He was kind, protective, familiar. You never meant for the two of you to start hooking up. And you never meant for it to last so long. But when this boy you thought you'd come to know like the back of your hand turns out to be no better than the men he'd warned you about, you find yourself in the sights of the guy he hates most, regardless of wether you want that or not.

Likes, asks, reblogs, and comments are always greatly appreciated! Thank you in advance for reading <3

Silence weighs heavy in the kitchen as Rafe remains there, in the door, looking at you. His smirk widens, a flash of perfectly straight teeth between his swollen lips. – The new chef, huh? You already hired?

Kareem stands, frantically wiping his hands on his apron. – Mr. Cameron, this is—

– I was talking to her. – He takes his time scanning the room, gaze sweeping over the kitchen like he’s searching for something out of place, something to pick apart. When his eyes land on Kareem, there’s a flicker of amusement, barely there before it smooths into something more polished, more calculated. He gives you a slow, easy smile, practiced like the rest of him. – Didn’t know we were hiring new help.

Kareem only barely bites back whatever it was that flashed over his face so violently.

Rafe exhales a short laugh, like he’s humoring him. He moves closer, leaning against the counter like he’s settling in for a show, and pushes at your plate. – So? What's on the menu?

Kareem puts his fork down, fidgeting with his hands. – Lunch’s already in the making. The new hire was just showing off.

Rafe’s eyes flick back to you, trailing down to the plate before drifting back up. – Was she now? – The way he says it makes your skin prickle. Like he’s talking about a trick dog instead of a person. Like the whole thing is some private joke only he’s in on. – Damn, – He whistles, tilting his head. – Guess we’re getting fancy. You go to culinary school or something?

You hold his gaze, forcing your shoulders to stay squared. You don’t know what game he’s playing at, but you’re almost thankful he’s pretending not to know you. – No, sir. Just experience.

– Sir? You serious? – Rafe grins. – I like it. Real respectful. Could use more of that around here.

There’s an edge to it. A warning disguised as praise. You don’t miss the way Kareem stiffens slightly, the way his grip tightens around the fabric of his sleeve. Rafe doesn’t like him. That much is obvious. But more than that—he likes making sure Kareem knows it.

He reaches for the plate without asking, plucking a piece of cornbread from the edge. He takes a slow bite, exaggerating the motion like he’s savoring it, like he’s considering whether or not to spit it out. Then he hums, licking a crumb from his hand.

His eyes gleam as when he meets your gaze. – Not bad.

– Glad it meets your standards. – You say evenly.

His eyes flick back up, a flash of something sharper beneath the surface. – Careful, – he warns, low and amused. – Flattery’ll get you everywhere.

Kareem shifts beside you, his hand landing on your shoulder as if he's trying to tranquilize you. He's shaking. – Mr. Cameron, is there anything we can do for you?

Rafe doesn’t move. Just chews, watching you with the kind of patience that isn’t patience at all. – Yeah. Well, not you. But maybe she can do it. – He takes your fork, scooping up some of your mashed potatoes. – Lamb roast, like the one at the Wreck. Kareem over here always fumbles it, his lamb tastes like beef jerky.

– Mr. Cameron, the supper’s already planned.

– Well, then, un-plan it. – He says as if it’s the simplest thing in the world, taking some more chicken and mash from your plate, and chewing slowly. – We have a very special dinner guest coming over and I want that lamb for dinner. So chop chop. Go ahead and buy the things. I wanna see if your new hire really is up to my standards. – He looks back at you, mischief glinting off his eyes. – Right, newbie?

You let your eyes drift back to Kareem, nodding quietly. – I think I can handle a second interview.

– Great! – Rafe’s smile is almost innocent, he chuckles lightly, his shoulder brushing yours. – Off you go, Kareem. She can handle a second interview.

The man’s eyes linger on you for a moment. His brows drawn together, eyes overtaken by worry. His lips fall open, but they close again as he reaches for a tote bag on the back door. – I won’t be long.

It's a reassurance, you realize, but as soon as the door closes Rafe starts laughing like a child, covering his mouth as he leans into your side.

– Are you always this charming?

– You know I am, baby. That's what you like about me. – You don’t know what to say. A twinge of discomfort still lingers in your chest after watching Rafe treat poor Kareem, who ranks much higher than you, as if he was nothing. – So… – He pokes at you, eyes wide and intent, and pulls the chair behind you closer with a grin. – You’re officially employed now, huh?

– You could say so.

– You know what that means? – He takes another bite of the chicken and hums, happily. Happier than you’ve ever seen him.

You sit down, and he pulls your chair even closer, his knee brushing yours. – That I don’t have to worry about starving anymore because you saved my ass?

Rafe chuckles, the sound light and careless. He seems so different like this. So different from the guy that was bullying one of his employees not a minute ago. – That too. But mostly, that you’ll have to fulfill all of my cravings, no matter how insane.

His eyes darken as he leans close. You don’t miss the suggestiveness, but you look around, at this giant, pristine kitchen, at the calm surrounding you, at this perfect new job you only have because of Rafe.

You don’t have it in you to be bothered for much longer.

Things never go your way.

You might as well enjoy the smooth sailing while it lasts. – Tell me about these cravings then. I know you like my lamb roast. – He nods, taking the other fork on the counter and handing it to you. – What else do you like?

– Tryna get to know me huh? That's cute.

– Go ahead, Rafe. I’ll make it easy for you: Favorite soup, favorite roast, favorite pastry.

He looks at you, challenge glinting off his eyes. – You’re the professional here, aren’t you? Let’s see if you can guess my taste. Give me your palm reading.

– Palm reading? – You laugh. – I’m a psychic now? Shit, I gotta put that on my resume.

– You’re not gonna put shit in your resume. This is your job now. You ain’t getting fired.

His words are even, level, almost casual. Like he hadn't thought before the words left his mouth. But he is still pressed against you, holding up the fork as an invitation, an attempt to make you feel part of his world.

You take the fork from his hand, twirling it between your fingers as you watch him. His expression changes then. He looks so smug, so sure you’ll get it wrong. But you’re good at this. You've never been good with yourself, but you've always been good at people.

– Alright. Let’s see… – You lean back slightly, crossing one leg over the other. His knee is still brushing yours. – Favorite soup? French Onion.

The smirk on his lips twitches, almost falters. You know you have him.

– Interesting. Why?

– You like rich food. Heavy, but classic. Something you’d get at a steakhouse or some bougie country club dinner with your dad. Here's the thing though, I think, for you it has to be indulgent. Something you could eat for days. It's gotta be tasty.

He nods. – That’s what I'm talking about.

– Cheese too. I bet you put a lot of cheese on your soup. What do you like?

He smiles, leaning so close he's almost glued to your side. – I like a good Gruyere.

– Okay, fancy!

– I'm a man of culture, okay?

– I see it. – You tilt your head, watching his reaction. – That’s my first guess. Am I wrong?

His tongue darts out, running along the edge of his teeth. As if he's thinking about it. – Not bad. Not bad at all, baby.

You grin, triumphant. – Roast is easy. Man like you? Only one option: Prime rib. You like it rare, still bleeding.

His brows lift, eyes gleaming with something between amusement and genuine curiosity.

– You sure about that?

– Oh, I am positive. Lamb is still your number one, but prime rib is a close second. You wouldn’t go for anything too gamey—no pork, no turkey, chicken only if it's fried. – He laughs, the bone of your fried chicken still in his hand. – You like the expensive stuff. The things other people think are only good because they cost a lot, but that are actually better than the rest.

Rafe lets out a quiet chuckle, shaking his head. – You really think you know me, huh?

– Oh, I do.

He’s still grinning, but there’s something sharper in his gaze now, like he’s sizing you up in a way he hadn’t before.

– Alright, psychic. Last one.

You take a beat, tapping the fork against your lip.

– Pastry… You pretend you don’t have a sweet tooth, but you totally do. – His smile sharpens. Rafe licks his lips slowly, his gaze fixed on your mouth. – You’d never admit it, though. So it has to be something subtle. Not over-the-top, nothing too sugary. – You pause for effect, then snap your fingers. – Madame Routledge says... Chocolate croissant.

Rafe stares at you, and for a second, you think you’ve finally missed. But then he lets out a small tsk, shaking his head. – Close.

– Close?

– Chocolate éclair.

Your mouth opens, then closes. That’s—okay, that actually makes perfect sense. – Damn. That was my second guess.

Rafe grins, tilting his head as he leans in just a little closer. – Sure it was. – You narrow your eyes at him, but you’re smiling too. – You’re kind of freaky, you know that? – he mutters, taking another bite of your chicken.

– And you’re easy to read.

His smirk deepens, his knee pressing just a little firmer against yours.

– I’ll let you think that.

– Okay, Bella Swan. What else do I need to guess? – You smirk, teasing him back as your hand grips your cup. You’re not intimidated, but it’s hard to ignore how his presence seems to consume the space around you.

He leans back in his chair, watching you with a new kind of amusement. The food he's eaten entirely, almost licked the plate clean, and even as the plate lies between you two, there’s still an unspoken hunger in the air, only it’s not the kind that comes from a full stomach.

– My favorite drink. What do you think? – He takes your glass and runs his thumb along the rim, gaze never leaving yours. There’s a definite playfulness to his tone, but it’s mixed with a touch of challenge. He’s testing you now.

– It’s hard. – You tilt your head, putting your water down. – Scotch. Or something with vodka, maybe a Moscow Mule if you’re trying to play classy.

– Oh, I see, you think you’ve got me pegged now. – His lips curl up. There’s that cocky smirk again. – I do like a good scotch. But you missed one.

Your brow furrows. – What'd I miss?

Rafe’s eyes gleam with something almost conspiratorial as he leans in, lowering his voice. – Gin. The real gentleman's drink. Never would’ve guessed that, huh?

You blink, surprised yet somehow not. – I'll give you that one. You’re full of surprises.

– I like to keep people guessing. – His voice is low, and there’s something almost predatory about the way he’s watching you.

Before you can respond, he casually throws another challenge your way, his eyes alight with the thrill of the game.

– Alright, let’s go for the ultimate test. You ready?

You laugh lightly, rolling your eyes. – Born ready.

He leans even closer, his lips just barely brushing your ear. – Guilty pleasure.

You pause. He’s looking at you like he’s about to tell you something you’re not supposed to know. You lean in, matching his intensity. – What is it? It's something sweet isn't it?

– Peach pie. – He drops the bomb like it’s the most casual thing in the world, his grin only widening at your confused expression. – I eat the whole damn thing. Never fails. It’s the one thing that can put me in a good mood, no matter what’s going on.

You blink, trying to process it. – Rafe Cameron... peach pie? – You let out a small, incredulous laugh. – You? The ‘I’m so fancy’ guy? Eating peach pie like it's your last meal?

He doesn’t flinch, just smirks. – Hey, don’t knock it ‘til you try it. It’s the filling, sweet, juicy—and the crust? It hits every spot.

You shake your head in disbelief, but you can’t hide your smile. – I guess I see it.

His hand moves, brushing against yours again as his eyes drop to your lips for a moment. – What else do you think you can guess? Maybe... – He trails off, leaning back slightly, a new challenge in his gaze. – ...a favorite movie?

You smirk knowingly. – That’s easy. The one you would say, is The Godfather. Definitely. Eldest son of a legendary man, making the world his own? That's all you, Rafe. – There’s a different glint to his eye now, his smile softens, his eyes round the slightest bit, like one of the walls he's put up just fell to his feet around the both of you. – But that's not your favorite is it? It's cool, but it can get a little boring. Not the sort of thing you re-watch. You like a little feel-good.

– You're getting colder…

– I think... Men in Black?

Rafe laughs. – Nope. – He leans in again, lowering his voice just for you. – Shrek.

You blink at him. – Shrek? – You can’t contain your laughter. It feels so fitting, just the right amount of darkness with a lot of humor. It's Rafe to a T.

He grins wickedly. – What? I like the layers. I’m a complicated guy.

You shake your head, laughing. – Of course you do. You’re a walking contradiction, Rafe.

Rafe leans back in his chair again, that infuriating smugness back on his face. – That’s what makes me interesting.

You narrow your eyes, but your smile says it all. – So, what’s your real secret then? You’ve been dropping little hints, but I think I got you figured out.

He grins, standing up to grab the bottle of scotch. – Not yet, that’s-so-Raven. You still have a lot to learn.

He pours himself a drink, you can’t help but wonder if maybe—just maybe—he’s starting to enjoy the game as much as you are. – You want me to dig deeper? Think you can handle that?

– Oh, I can handle it. – He dawns the drink in one breath, flopping back on the seat right in front of you.

– Give me your hands, traveler. Let's see what’s written in your soul. – He’s laughing as he hands himself over, you can see the smallest of shivers blooming in his arms as you cart a finger through the lines of his right hand. – Favorite color, favorite season, favorite ice cream.

– You’re never gonna guess that. None of that.

– Wanna bet?

– What do I get when I win?

– Don’t jump the gun yet, mr. This-is-my-swamp-Corleone. I have not yet revealed all of my talents. – He raises a brow, licking his lips as his eyes trail down your body.

– I’m hoping you’ll show me the talent I’m thinking about when I win.

– Hilarious.

– I’ll guess you! – He grins. – Best of three, how bout that? Loser drinks with every wrong one.

You can feel the smirk tugging at your lips before you even speak. – Someone’s getting cocky.

– I don’t get cocky. I just know you’re not gonna get it.

– You better not bet a drink then. You’ll be owing me a bottle when I’m done with you.

– Fine then, baby. – His eyes flick to your lips. – A kiss then, loser kisses where the winner says.

– With this lipstick? You’re out of your mind.

– I don’t mind if you leave a mark. I like it. – You can see the gears turning in his head. – C’mon. Is someone gonna chicken out?

– Oh, you’re on, mister. Me first. Your favorite color: Judging by the fact that every shirt I’ve ever seen you wear is blue, and your shoes are blue, and your comforter is blue, and your eyes are blue, this is a really tough one. I’d say, blue.

– What kind of blue?

– So I’m right! – You can’t help the giggle. You’ve always been competitive, and this day has you in such a good mood, it falls from your lips before you can even think.

– No! You gotta guess the shade too!

– What am I, home depot? Nobody’s painting walls here, just accept that I won!

– Okay, okay. Where do I kiss? – You laugh, take back your right hand, and point to the floor. It takes Rafe a minute to follow the line. – You’re absolutely hilarious, y’know that?

– I don’t know why you think I’m joking.

– Where do I kiss you?

– Changing the rules, now, Mr. Cameron? – He doesn’t even answer, just leans closer, a smile bright on his face as he pulls back your shirt to kiss your collarbone. His lips remain there for a moment, brushing against your skin like he’s savoring every second. – Sore loser.

– We’ll see who’s losing next. – He squeezes your nose in his fingers as he pulls back, still smiling. – Go ahead. What’s my favorite season?

– Summer.

– You think I’m that much of a plebe?

– Plebe, really?! – You’re laughing now, and he’s holding both our legs as he pulls his chair closer, until his is less than a foot away from yours. – You are a sociological experience, Rafe.

– Wrong. – You can see the pleasure it gives him to say that. – My knee.

You can’t even help the scoff. – You’re wearing pants.

– I can take them off, if you want. – He's squeezing you know, eyes glinting with something almost possessive.

– That's funny. It's just gonna stain.

– Maybe I want it to stain. – He hums, hooking his right hand under your knees and pulling you closer. – Now, you get down there and kiss me.

You shake your head, laughing, but stay put. He doesn’t wanna play your game, might as well play by your own rules.

So you lean in a little closer, just enough that you can feel his breath hitch against your skin, and pull at the collar of his polo. Your lips land just where his had, on the collarbone, and Rafe chuckles lowly, humming with his hand in your hair, keeping you there until you pull away.

You watch the shape of your lips peek from under the cotton of his shirt, deep red and perfectly contoured. It almost seemed like a tattoo. – Your favorite ice cream now. – His fingers are still tangled in the strands of your hair, warm as anything, but still as a stone. – You are a man of hedonisms. You like it sweet, rich, flavorful. But, you are also very layered.

– Thank you.

– That’s nothing. My guess is something indulgent, that’s sweet but not too sweet. Some different textures, some contrasting flavors. A rocky road, if you will. – He smiles, defeated. And you know you read him like a book. – I told you I was good. If I may go a little deeper?

– Go as deep as you want.

– Your perfect rocky road is the dutch chocolate one, with hazelnuts, and marshmallow bits.

– Marshmallow swirl. – He corrects.

– Damn. – You snap your fingers, earning a laugh out of Rafe. – I’ve gotta give it to you, there is not a single thing in your list that is even remotely dubious. Everything is undeniably great.

– That’s who I am. Perfect all-round

You laugh. – Conceited, much?

– Honest. – He corrects. – Now you.

You’re shaking your head before he even starts. – This is not about me.

– You think you’re that hard to guess?

– You’ll never know, Rafe. I will never tell you. My mama always said, remain a creature of mystery. Otherwise people get bored and fuck off. – Rafe raises a brow. – Yeah, that’s it. That’s her whole philosophy.

– Sounds like a bitch. – You laugh, and he does too. You feel a little lighter. – But lets get into it. I wanna know you too.

– That’s too damn bad.

– That's not fair now, baby. You had an advantage.

– Oh, boo-hoo. – You grin. – Told you I would win.

– I still have to kiss you somewhere else.

You hum, tapping your finger on your chin as you smile. Rafe doesn’t even seem angry, his eyes just glint darkly.

You extend your hand. – As Rodrigo Borgia said to Caterina of Forli: Kiss the ring, bitch.

Rafe’s laughter echoes in your ear, low and rich with something dangerous as he takes your hand, his fingers curling around yours. He leans in, lips inches from your hand, but instead of kissing your hand, he trails his mouth up to your neck.

– Careful, – You murmur, almost smiling as you press your palm to his chest, trying to push him away, but his lips keep moving against your skin.

– You said I had to kiss somewhere else. – He whispers, his voice muffled against your neck as he pulls you closer, his hand sliding to your back, pulling you into his body. His other hand is still entwined in your hair, gently tugging to hold you in place.

You roll your eyes, amused by his persistence. But just as you're about to push him off again, something startles you. His phone, tucked in his pocket, rings—a sharp, sudden sound that cuts through the tension between you two.

Rafe groans, pulling away from your neck, a growl of frustration slipping from his lips. His eyes narrow. – No way, – He mutters, already diving in again.

You stop him. – Could be important.

He glances at the screen, and his irritation becomes palpable, the muscle in his jaw ticking as he stares at the name flashing on the display. It’s his father. You can see it clearly from here.

– It’s him, – Rafe mutters under his breath, exhaling sharply through his nose. The smirk he had on his lips fades slightly, replaced by an edge of annoyance. – Of course it's him.

You can’t help but feel the shift in the energy between you two, but you lean back, giving him space to take the call if he has to. – Go ahead. I should get back to work, my boss is really strict.

He shoots you a glare, but there’s something almost resigned in the way he looks at the phone.

– I don’t have a choice, do I? – He leans back in his chair, running a hand through his hair before answering the call. His voice is low, almost cold as he speaks into the phone, and you can’t help but notice the way the playful, carefree Rafe fades with each word exchanged.

The call doesn't last long, just a bunch of monotone sounds from Rafe, who sits there, sulking, as you clean up and start chopping vegetables. When he eventually hangs up, there's an unsettling silence from him. Rafe sighs, his hand running over his face in frustration.

– Bastard. – he mutters, more defeated than you’ve ever heard him. He looks at you, his eyes softening, but the playfulness is gone. – Guess you got lucky this time, – He says, the words carrying a weight that wasn’t there before.

– No big deal, I can always beat your ass later.

Rafe leans back in his chair, and stands, coming closer. He doesn’t answer immediately, his eyes distant for a moment as he comes up behind you, looking at your work as he leans his chin on your shoulder. – I have to go.

– It's okay. I'll catch up with you later.

He doesn’t seem to hear you. Instead his arms snake around your waist, face burying deeper into your neck.

You look over your shoulder, hoping Kareem is still far.

– Your father's gone, right?

The question stops you cold. The knife in your hand suddenly feeling heavy. – Yeah.

Rafe burrows in a little closer, breathing you in. – Did you ever wish he would drop dead? – A shiver tears through you as he remains there, holding you in that iron grip, as if he was physically grounding himself, as if his father might burst through the doors and try to drag him away.

You think about it, but you don't have to.

The answer is easy enough.

A thousand times.

Every time you walked into a room he was in, he'd sigh, heavy, as if your presence alone made the space uncomfortable. At some point, you stopped wishing you'd die, and transferred over that rage to him.

Whenever he scoffed at you, you prayed for a heart attack.

When he cursed at you, you wished he'd be mugged in the street.

When he grabbed you, when he'd pull you around, your thoughts got more violent. They worsened and worsened until the day he slapped you, and you found yourself laying on the floor, digging your nails into your hands as you thought about the knives you were always sharpening, sitting there in the drawer, completely unwatched.

You fed on that memory for a while. To the point that every time you saw him you were clenching your fists.

But had you meant it? – Yeah. A couple times.

Rafe doesn’t say anything else. He squeezes you one last time, almost as if plucking the feel of your body against his from that moment. You can feel him hanging onto it as he walks away.

His steps echo loud into the house, beyond the threshold you can step through, and you go through the motions almost robotically, cooking and prepping and cleaning as if it was gonna save you from the thought he’d left you with.

Work goes by smoothly, though your mind remains a wasteland. Kareem is quieter, too, after he returns, and he keeps looking back and forth between what he does and the doorway, a strange resentment burning in his eyes. You don’t meddle, your own spirits low after the talk with Rafe.

Lunch goes by in a blur, even without the chaos of lunch rush at a restaurant. You feel yourself drown out the noise around you, diving completely into the work. Your partner makes a couple comments here and there. He checks your roast, tweaks your reduction, analyses your vegetables. His smile is reassuring everytime he turns to you, tasting this dish and the other with the comically tiny spoon he keeps in a special pocket on his apron, and pats your back like a middle aged dad whenever the servants come in to take your trays away.

– You work quick. – He finally comments, finishing the plate you made for him, as Rose and Ward lunch alone in the dining room. – Every time I looked at you you were doing something else.

– You work quiet. – You smile back, and when he widens his eyes, you immediately clarify. – It’s nice! Like working with a zen master. I’ve never cooked for so long without someone screaming at me.

– Working at a restaurant kitchen makes you feel like the world’s gonna end. – He laughs, but his eyes fall back to the plate, suddenly darkening. – I actually used to have nightmares about burning entrees and being late on mains when I still worked at the bar.

You ponder what to say for a moment, clearly caught in a touchy subject. – I can tell you’re sleeping well, now. Your skin is glowing.

Flattery really does go a long way.

Kareem smiles, finishing his food in silence as you clean up, and the two of you don’t really speak much until the dinner prep starts looming closer.

Supper waits for no one, and Kareem snaps back into focus as the time approaches. — He’s methodical, you admire that in him. —So you follow his lead, letting routine take over, movements automatic as you prepare the kitchen. The momentary stillness gives way to the familiar rhythm of preparation—the clatter of knives, the hum of the oven preheating, the weight of expectation settling over you like a second skin.

You take charge of the entrees and the main dish while Kareem handles the sides. The lamb roast is yours to perfect, its success a quiet challenge, a second interview you refuse to fail. You roll up your sleeves, minding the ingredients you laid out, and get to work.

You begin with the prep, sliding the lamb onto the cutting board, fingers tracing the marbled surface, gauging its density, its fat distribution. A perfect cut. You reach for the boning knife, and trim the excess fat—just enough to allow the seasonings to penetrate deeper, not enough to sacrifice flavor. The rendered trimmings will be saved, melted down for later use. Nothing wasted.

Next, the seasoning. Garlic cloves are smashed under the flat of your knife, their oils bursting free, before you mince them into a fine paste. Rosemary leaves are stripped from their stems, crushed between your fingers, the scent sharp and green. You mix them with flaky sea salt and cracked pepper, the coarse grains binding to the moisture of the garlic. The mixture is worked into the lamb with steady hands, pressing into every groove, every fold of muscle, ensuring the flavors seep into the fibers of the meat.

The pan is already waiting, and you’re happy for the freedom of throwing a healthy dollop of butter on the iron without having to watch out for Anthony’s pretentious complaints. The sizzle is loud as you lay the lamb down. The heat grips the surface, searing it to a perfect crust, the scent of browning fat filling the kitchen. You tilt the pan, spooning the bubbling butter over the top, watching it soak into the herbs and garlic, turning the surface deep amber. When every side is sealed, you transfer it to the preheated oven, where the slow heat will coax out the tenderness, the juices locking in beneath the crisp exterior.

Beside you, Kareem dices vegetables with methodical efficiency, the rhythmic tap of his knife grounding like the hum of a monk deep in prayer. You glance over your shoulder, watching as he peels and slices carrots into thin ribbons, tossing them into a pan where melted butter and honey wait to coat them in a glossy sheen. He looks so peaceful, so in his element. It's almost cute. You catch the faintest scent of citrus as he zests an orange, preparing the glaze for the carrots, and there’s a moment where he looks up, meeting your eyes briefly before returning to his task.

Turning back to your own work, you begin assembling the entrees. You lay out fresh slices of crusty baguette, rubbing each piece with raw garlic before topping them with a blend of ricotta and herbs, the creamy spread flecked with chopped basil and thyme. Cherry tomatoes, roasted until blistered and sweet, are gently pressed atop each slice, their juices seeping into the bread. A final drizzle of balsamic reduction finishes the dish, the deep, tangy aroma curling into the already fragrant air of the kitchen.

By the time everything comes together, the kitchen smells like warmth, like the indulgence you and Rafe spoke of, and you find yourself praying this tops every memory of the lamb he had before, just to give you that reassurance. The roast rests, juices settling beneath its crisp, golden crust, while Kareem plates the sides—a creamy potato purée, the glossy, honey-glazed carrots, a crisp asparagus sauté with almonds. Dessert waits to be finished in the background, Kareem’s perfect pie crust resting easy beside the fresh-chopped peaches you left soaking in syrup, soaking up all the flavor until the moment is right.

You step back, wiping your brow, allowing yourself a moment—just one—to take it in. The meal is set, a quiet triumph, and for now, that’s enough.

Kareem slumps down on the chair as the echo of greeting and bickering in the room next door gives way to the hums and awes of enjoyment. – Who knew art could be so tiring, huh? – You say.

He looks up from his hands, an easy smile on his face, and nods. – “it is, perhaps, the price we pay for love, the cost of commitment.” – The hum coaxes a brow raise from you as you wash your hands again.

– Okay, private school. – You laugh, and catch his shoulders shaking slightly as he watches you. – Care to enlighten the country bumpkin here before you?

– It’s a quote by Colin Murray Parkes.

– The actor?

He laughs even louder, delighted with your lack of poshness. – The psychiatrist. Didn’t you have psychology lessons in your school?

– Does the Outer Banks seem like the sort of place that would offer that curriculum?

– Well, no, of course. But you’re not from here, are you?

You gasp:

– Of course I am. – He doesn’t even pretend to hide his shock. – Born and bred in the OBX.

– Seriously, Routledge. Where did you learn to cook like this? Couldn’t have been here. – You let out an incredulous laugh, but the question is so ridiculous you can’t even find it insulting. – I didn't mean it like—

– I know. – You grin. – I learned how to cook because it’s the only luxury I could have, food can be elevated. It's the other things that are hard to come around. Sometimes I forget you tourons don’t read class cues like the islanders. I’m flattered you even considered the possibility of me being a kook.

– I feel like I’ve just been spoken to in tongues. – It's your turn to laugh again, the genuine bewilderment on his face a joke of its own. – Toro? Like bull?

– You’ve been living here for years and nobody taught you the hierarchy? – He shakes his head, earning more laughter from you. – I’m kinda glad. But here it is: OBX 101, brought to you by a Routledge. So the rich folk, inhabitants of the Figure Eight, this lovely little neighborhood we’re currently in, are the Kooks. Golf players, country club goers, the cream of the crop. Now they’re rich, but not rich like you’re rich.

– I’m not rich. – He pouts, and you have to bite back the brow raise.

– Says the man who had advanced psychology in his high school curriculum. You’re private school. Now, that’s not something to be embarrassed about. But, a pogue, the poor people of the island, the ones that live in the Cut, like me, we can tell.

– I think that’s just you. You get a good read on people. How’d you learn that by the way?

– My older brother who hated me kind of poisoned the well for me when it came to friends. I had to get my hands on whatever outsider I could reach.

Kareem’s brows furrow. – He sounds like a piece of shit.

– He used to be. We’re better now. – He seems unbelieving, but you don’t go any further. – Now you never told me where you’re from, but maybe I can guess you.

– I doubt that. – He says, the hum of his voice low and steady.

You tilt your head, and he smiles at you, signing for you to go on. – You’re a Texan, that much is obvious. By the accent, I’d say Dallas. And you’re a farm boy, clearly old money. Blue blood, boarding school bred.

– I’m from Highland Park. Which is, to your credit, in Dallas. – It feels good to be right. – But I’m not posh.

– Never said you were. – He’s the one raising a brow now, but before he can say anything else, the door opens again.

Daniel, one of the servants, stands there, his face almost worried. – Mr. Cameron asked to see the chef. – Kareem swallows thickly, face suddenly void of all the playfulness he’d had just a moment earlier. But Daniel stops him again. – He asked for her.

You stop cold, heart hammering against your ribs. Daniel’s words echo in your head, but you don’t let yourself hesitate. Kareem steps forward, a steadying head wrapping around your arm. – Hey, don’t worry. Look, they probably just wanna compliment you. That lamb, it was great. Don’t worry about it.

– You don’t know that.

– Routledge, – It's almost pleading, the way he says it. A soft lull of a voice brushing against your ears as he tried to tranquilize you. But it doesn’t help. How often did things go well for you? You should’ve known better than to hope.

– I’ll be right back. – You murmur. Kareem tries to argue, but you’ve brushed past him before he can think to say anything else.

The walk to the dining room feels longer than it should, each step pulling tighter at the knot in your stomach. The hall seems to stretch around you as you reach the warm light bleeding in from the cracked door. You push through it, and immediately, the air thickens.

They’re all there.

It’s Rafe who holds your attention first. He’s leaned back in his chair, a lazy grin on his face, self-satisfied. Like he’s been expecting you. Like he’s enjoying this.

Ward sits at the head of the table, relaxed, a glass of wine in hand. Rose is poised beside him, her smile the perfect shade of contempt. Wheezie barely looks up from her phone, and Sarah… Sarah’s expression falls as she sees you, and she looks up from her plate with something can’t quite place.

Then your eyes shift, and you freeze.

At the opposite end of the table, just beside Sarah, sits your brother.

The sight of him steals the breath from your lungs. His expression is cold, unreadable, but the anger simmering beneath the surface is unmistakable. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move. Just watches.

Your fingers tighten around the towel in your hands.

– Ah, there she is, – Ward's voice cuts through the silence, warm, approving. – When my son told me he had to fire the last cook, I didn’t think he’d go out and find us a new one. I doubted him, but I have to say, I was… pleasantly surprised. That was the best lamb I’ve had in years. Truly remarkable.

The words come out immediately, but no relief fills you as you speak. – Thank you sir. I’m glad you liked it.

– Liked it? Young lady, I loved this dish. I have to give it to Rafe, he’s ordered nothing but this for years, and I never saw the appeal, but, really, it’s fantastic.

Rose cuts in, a sharp drawl that shatters whatever sliver of gladness was building up. – Honey, you don’t need to be pedantic.

– But, I’m not, Rose. Really. Good help is so hard to find these days, especially on short notice. Very few people put their back into their work. And this, this is exactly that. Passion. I can tell you’re good at what you do.

– Thank you sir, really.

He smiles, gesturing toward his plate, then at Rafe, who’s still watching you like he knows something you don’t. – My son’s gonna sleep like a baby tonight. – He chuckles. – Lamb’s his favorite. But I’m sure you know that.

You swallow hard, forcing a nod. – Yes, he did tell me that.

– She used to work at the Wreck. – Rafe hums, his eyes fixed on you, smiling from ear to ear as he swings a glass around. Scotch, by the looks of it. – She was a chef there. Some moron fucked up her order, and I… Well, I couldn’t think of never eating that lamb again.

You feign laughter, as demure as you can make it. – Yes, thank you for that. I really appreciate it.

– You already thanked me, – His grin is sharp, and he averts his eyes for a fraction of a second, gesturing for you to cut him another piece of lamb. You do, thankful for your steady hands and the heavy knife. – in the interview.

His father makes a sound of surprise. – You interviewed her? – He looks at you as you set the plate before Rafe.

– Yes he did. He was very thorough.

Ward seems pleased. – I’ve never seen this side of you, son. I’m glad to see you take an interest in what goes on in this house.

– What can I say? – Rafe looks back at you, signing to the bottle across the table. You don’t know what game he’s playing, but you’re sure it's not meant to be fun for you. – I’m a proactive kind of guy.

Ward hums, taking a long sip of his wine as he watches you pour Rafe another drink. – I’m glad, son. I’m really glad. – You put the bottle back in its place, trying to ignore the gazes burning holes into your skin as you move to your original spot. – And what’s for dessert?

You hesitate only for a moment, wishing you could disappear. – Peach pie. It should be ready in ten minutes.

The reaction is immediate.

Ward smiles, slow and knowing, but before he can say anything, Sarah speaks.

– That’s Rafe’s favorite. – Her tone is cold, almost suspicious.

Your heart stutters, but you keep your face smooth, your voice even. – Really? That’s a coincidence.

John’s voice echoes then, chilling your blood to ice. – Funny, right? It’s my dad’s favorite too. But she knows that. That why she makes it so well.

Ward doesn't miss a beat, even as Rafe turns to glare at your brother. – You two know each other?

John answers for you. – You could say that. – The earth could just split open, and swallow you whole. – Y/n is my baby sister.

– Really? – Ward’s laughter is deep, but somehow not incredulous. – And she’s Rafe’s friend. God, what a small world.

– Looks like it's getting smaller. – John adds. His stare burns into you, hard and unrelenting, like he’s waiting for something.

You don’t let yourself look away first.

Instead, you square your shoulders, holding onto the only thing you can control—the steady rhythm of your breath, the knowledge that you belong here, no matter how much it feels like you don’t.

– Yes. Well, I’ll go check on that pie, and I’ll bring it out soon enough. – You say, voice steady.

Ward nods, pleased. – Good. We’re looking forward to it.

As you turn to leave, Rafe’s voice follows you, low and amused.

– Good job, newbie.

You don’t stop. You don’t react.

But your pulse thunders in your ears all the way back to the kitchen.

Kareem is already there, watching you closely as you step inside. – You okay? – His voice is low, cautious, but the concern is obvious. He nears you as if he’s cornering a wounded animal, warm hands landing on your arms like he’s afraid you’d bolt.

You try to nod, but the motion feels stiff, forced. Your hands are cold, even in the warmth of the kitchen. Kareem notices. He steps forward, brows furrowing as he reaches for your wrist. – You’re pale. Come— C’mere. Sit down for a sec.

Before you can respond, the kitchen door swings open again.

John walks in.

The air turns sharp. Kareem’s hand drops as your brother steps inside, his expression unreadable but heavy with something darker. He doesn’t look at Kareem. Just you.

– You have anything to say? – His voice is quiet, but there’s no mistaking the steel beneath it. – You already lied to me this morning, wanna get it out already?

Your pulse stumbles.

– John, please. I’m working right now.

Kareem straightens beside you, eyes flicking between the two of you. – Sir, you’re not supposed to be here—

– No. – John cuts in, still staring at you. – This doesn’t concern you, okay man? This is family business.

– Don’t talk to my boss like—

– I’ll talk if I fucking want to!

Kareem doesn’t hesitate, his hand resting on your shoulder for a split second before he steps in front of you. – This is not a therapist’s office, sir. She’s working, and you’re not supposed to be back here. So please, leave.

@chatgtfo @bitterdotcom @xmayankax @bluethperson @coralblue35 @munsoncultedits @the-bitch-who-binges @im-julessssss @redkarmakai @hwaaholic @sydkneez

[running-with-kn1ves]

I am existentially and ridiculously obsessed with the idea of women in general, but i've dabbled back into ASMR and I'm down bad.

TW: Alcohol mentioned, manipulation, somno, guilt tripping,

She's just your best friend-- you've known her all throughout grade school, watched her attempt keg stands as you're forced to pull her back to her apartment, her slurring voice calling to you with how much she loves you between laughs and sobs. She holds you in a hug tighter than normal, with her nose deep into the crook of your neck. And in the mornings when you help soothe her hangover, she conveniently forgets.

She's so keen to take care of you, insisting on fulfilling your every need before you can even think of it. It feels wrong, how much she aims to please you, how much of her paycheck goes to your happiness, but there's nothing you can do to stop it-- in fact, it seems to only make her feel worse if you don't let her do what she demands is merely keeping you happy,

"what anyone would do for a friend."

She's with you every moment she can be, and she ensures in all of the self-awareness she has, to not to suffocate you. The last thing she'd want is to be forced away-- so she makes a sacrifice, to leave you to quietness even if its just on the other side of the room.

She watches you while you drift off to sleep, drawing patterns on your back and breathing in the deep scent of your hair.

She knows its vile, its wrong for her to abuse the power you've given her-- but its so hard to resist pulling your shirt up just slightly to see the soft, relaxed flesh of your body, to feel the warmth of your hips under your pajama pants, to sneak a hand up your back and under your shirt, drawing you in for a cuddle as her head is buried into your chest. the dip of your back as it curves from the reaction of her cold fingers is her favorite, it feels as if you're leaning into her, shuddering at her touch.

And when you're tipsy, home alone with her for a calm night-in, you almost aren't surprised to hear her suggest trying to kiss each other. Why not, right? You're best friends, how HAVEN'T you tried before? If your relationship is as strong as you think it is, it won't mean anything, just a silly alcohol-induced memory for the future. But its hard when she's desperate, not in the right mind, feeling your tongue against hers. It's impossible to stop, grabbing at the back of your hair to deepen the kiss with intensity. The hitch she uses to cover up the desperate sigh she lets out doesn't work, and she prays you're not coherent enough to feel how intentional she is, how hungry she is.

She pushes you back on the couch, relishing in the warmth of your body as you slowly feel out her lips, unsure and still feeling off at kissing someone you've shared beds and unhealed emotional wounds with.

"Does this feel good?" She asks, wanting to make sure you're pleased, that maybe she can do something right and get what she wants too. Her thighs encase yours as she's practically holding you hostage, fingers entwined in your limp ones, kisses falling down your neck as you forget how to answer. It feels too raw, too full of desire to just be a drunken kiss, a drunken hickey, a drunken hand up your shirt. But you can't deny it-- that odd tension, the one you've noticed for a long time becoming broken, it felt good. Even when she sucked face with someone random at a party as a defense ploy, never too far away from you, she was never like this-- never all-devouring, savoring the salty taste of your skin, almost crying from the release of getting to touch you like this, while you're awake.

"Just give me this-- please," She's desperate, never having asked you for anything as she kisses your wet lips between words. And how can you say no? Your best friend, desperate for you to give her something so simple, something she's been desiring for a long time. It's the least you could do, right?

[sweetestberryofthebunch]

Ultra Violet - Devil Wears Prada AU (Agatha Harkness x Reader)

When you struggle to find your footing at your new job at renowned Fashion Magazine Runway, a secret Guardian angel decides to help you out. Your new, fashionable style seems to catch even your stone cold, stern boss's eye. You can’t help but wonder if maybe she knows more about your mysterious gifts than she lets on.

Content/Warnings: The Devil Wears Prada!AU, CEO!Agatha x Assistant!Reader and the power dynamics that come with that, No pronouns or gendered terms used for R

✨Happy Valentine‘s Day my little loves! Get yourself a sweet cup of coco, a heart shaped treat and enjoy some all inclusive CEO!Agatha fluff!✨

Your new job at Runway was both the best and worst decision you had made your entire life.

Pay was better than the small tabloid you‘d written for until now, their reputation in the industry was insurmountable, and the office had a portafilter espresso machine. All your friends were especially jealous of that one. You’d landed a well paying position at one of the most prestigious fashion magazines in the world.

But that was also the problem. The Fashion. And, if you really boiled it down, your snobby, ruthless, obsessed with shallowness boss.

Agatha Harkness, head and face of the company. An icon of the scene, a trailblazer in the industry (at least that was what your coworkers told you.) Stoic, opinionated, and most of all, impossible to please.

Jen made sure to let you know about that. She had been Second Assistant before you got hired, but now she was promoted to First Assistant and you filled the new position.

She had explained the hierarchy to you in hushed whispers over morning coffee one day, while Mrs Harkness door had been shut and all you could hear were muffled voices arguing behind it.

Jen and your desks were in the hallway just outside, left and right to Harknesses door like two obedient guard dogs. You wondered if that was how she saw you, if she paid enough mind to her assistants for that at all.

It was only your fifth day working at Runway, and your To Do List was nothing but overwhelming. Meanwhile, Mrs Harkness barely spared you a glance, dropping her coat on your desk in the morning without a word, without even a glance, expecting things to be done and never returning a single gesture of gratitude. And everyone, including Jen, just jumped at her bid and word, like she was Queen of the world. It was … a lot.

„Who needs two Assistants anyway?“, you murmured with a chuckle as the meeting seemed to heat up, only to be met by a panicked stare from Jen.

„Don’t ever question Agatha Harknesses choices!“, she‘d tutted, and she looked like she had more to say. But she was interrupted by the door to the hallway where your desks were situated swinging open.

Lillia Calderu, head of the Runway Archives a few floors below dropped a thick binder of fabric samples onto your desk. Strips of dyed denim, all shades of purple so close to each other, you could barely tell a difference. If you didn’t know better, you would’ve laughed.

„What are you two whispering about?“, Lilia asked loudly, only to be met by both you and Jen shushing her sharply.

The voices behind the door to Mrs Harknesses raised in volume, and Lilia swallowed hard.

„I see“, she immediately switched to a whisper tone. „Vidal?“, she asked Jen, who nodded. They shared a serious look, flinching at the yelling.

You bit your lip, glancing from Jen to Lilia. The older woman took a deep breath, leaning against your desk, a hand on her hip.

„Rio wasn’t happy with the placement of her interview in the June Issue“, Jen explained, „I‘ve been getting angry calls from her secretary for days. Now Vidal showed up in person without making an appointment. Had to push back Calvin Klein, they were not happy.“

„What a glorious first week“, Calderu shook her head, giving you a sympathetic look. „Good Luck, Newbie“, she said, and then, her glance slowly dragged down your form, taking in your large green sweater and simple black jeans and sneakers. Her eyes widened, and as she looked back at Jen, she visibly shuddered, „You’re going to need it.“

„What, is something wrong with how I look?“, you gasped, loud enough to get another sharp shush from the other two.

You looked over at Jen, who just shook her head, raising her shoulders in a small shrug. „To be honest, we’ve all been wondering how you got this position in the first place. You‘re not exactly Runway material.“

„Or sidewalk material for that matter“, Lilia added, and Jen clutched her pearls dramatically, trying to stifle her laughter.

„You‘re not wrong, Calderu.“

You shot Jen a hurt look, ready to defend yourself. You were Second Assistant, most of your work happened on the phone, who cared if you wore Armani or not? After all, you had studied Journalism, not Fashion! And you were more than capable of showing professionalism in your profession!

But before you could give the two women a piece of your mind, the door flew open, and a dark haired woman in a suit strutted past you, flipping her hair over her shoulder.

„Admit it Agatha!“, she snarled, glaring back into the office over her shoulder, „This had nothing to do with the collection and everything with your own stubbornness!“

The woman, Vidal, turned around on her heels, dark hair whipping over her shoulder. As she turned, her eyes focused on you, and she froze in her tracks.

„Oh“, a dangerous little smirk formed on her lips. „You‘re new. Clearly.“

She took a step closer, Lilia moving out of her way as she did. Dark eyes watched your every movement like a lynx stalking its prey, and you suddenly felt incredibly exposed, even behind your desk. When she noticed you shudder, Vidal grinned, exposing her teeth.

„They really let anyone work here these days.“, raising her voice loud enough that it echoed through the hallway, she added „Who let the little barista in?“

To your horror, both Jen and Lilia just shrugged, not saying a word in your defense. Stupid, shallow Fashion industry.

Rio Vidal leaned over your desk, dangerously close to your face. She placed one hand on either side of you, practically caging you into your seat. Her voice was low as she smirked down at you, teeth exposed. „Aggie is going to eat you alive, little mouse. Better run while you can.“

„Rio!“, Mrs Harkness' voice rang from her office, a sharp cut through the air.

All four of you whipped your heads around, even Rio, finding the woman leaning against her office door, arms crossed, legs perfectly accentuated by a fitted culotte, a matching blazer draped over her shoulders, silk scarf loose around her neck. Her brow was creased, and sharp, ice cold eyes stared Rio down like a hawk. „Our meeting is over, Vidal. Get your ass out of my office. And“, her jaw tensed, eyes flitting over to you for less than a second. „Don’t touch my stuff.“

There was a slight frown on her face and you wanted nothing more than to sink into the ground and fall through all nine floors of the building.

But still, Rio listened. With a scoff, the dark haired woman pushed herself off your desk, brushing past Lilia as she made her way towards the door.

„I‘m so sorry!“, Jen started babbling the moment the elevator doors closed and swallowed Vidal up, „She stopped for us, we did not-“

„Silence, Kale.“ Agatha didn’t even bother to look at her. Instead, her cold eyes closed in on Lilia. „Have your coffee break elsewhere, Calderu. There is no reason for you to linger around up here. And you, pet.“, her head whipped around, ice cold stare piercing right through you.

„Starting Monday, I want to see initiative. It’s time to take this Job seriously.“

Just like Rio had done just minutes before, Harkness leaned over your desk, glaring you down as she invaded your space. You leaned backwards into your chair, resisting the urge to flinch away. Blue eyes wander down your front, lingering over your exposed throat for just a moment longer. „And no more green at the office.“

Just as fast as she had leaned in, she was gone again, leaving your heart beating out of your chest, hands curled around the arm rests of your chair so tight, your knuckles turned white.

Agatha was already halfway back to her office. „Accompany Calderu back to her office, pet. I don’t want to see you when I leave. And next week, you either show up dressed like you want this, or don’t bother showing up at all.“

You weren’t ever going to admit it to anyone, especially Jen, but that night you crawled into the back of your uber with tears in your eyes. Fuck your stupid boss and her stupid standards and your stupid coworkers who only cared about appearances! Your work was hard, and ungrateful, and no one seemed to care that you did every little task, every small favour that wasn’t in your job description at all, and you did them all marvelously. But still, no one had your back because you wore converse instead of Louis Vuittons. Not even in front of your boss and her infamous ex wife, known for always somehow ending up closer to Agatha than the Runway CEO would like. Even then, in front of two of the most powerful women in the business, no one felt the need to stick up for you.

When you stepped out onto the sidewalk in front of your home, your uber gave you a worried look, and it only made you cry harder.

However, someone seemed to have your back.

As you walked up the stairs to your front door, you noticed a single package. A white box, even adorned with a lilac bow on top of it. And, when you crouched down to inspect the mystery package further, it had your name written on it at the top.

No tape or even a stamp, just a single gift box with a bow, looking like someone had snatched it away from under a Christmas tree. It wasn’t Christmas though, and it wasn’t your birthday either. It was a regular Friday, only tainted by the tears you‘d just spilled over your stupid job.

When you opened the box, carefully pulling at the lilac ribbon, your confusion didn’t let off either. In fact, you were even more lost with the contents.

A pair of black slacks, the fabric smooth and organic. No polyester in sight, this was high quality fabric. When you held them up, something fell out of the left pocket.

A card, a lapel pin attached to it. Fine, polished silver wrapping around a single, sparkling amethyst.

On the backside was a note, written in a cursive so filigrane that at first, you thought it must be printed.

No more jeans. Time to dress for the job you got.

You glanced up, but the street was empty, no cars other than resident vehicles parked under the flickering street lights. Whoever had dropped off this mystery gift had not stuck around. You swallowed, taking the box and bringing it inside. Maybe there was hope for you.

The gifts didn’t stop there. On Monday, you sat down at your desk, wearing your nice, new slacks and a slightly less washed out sweater today, you found another little box, the same white cardboard, the same ribbon. This one was way smaller though, small enough that Jen didn’t seem to notice from across the room as you unwrapped a brand new, sleek watch. The wrist band was incredibly light and slick, the watch itself small but neat, and the pointers were adorned with the tiniest little diamonds, tainted a bright blue if you held them up to the light. Underneath the watch was a note again. Neat cursive.

Meeting with Dior in 10, not 20. Wear the watch.

You bit the inside of your cheek, but before you could think about it, Jen hung up her current phone call, stress written all over her face.

„Dior called, they are coming in-“

„10, not 20“, you gave her a firm nod, „Don’t worry, I‘ll meet them and take notes for Harkness, you do the evaluation with Lilia.“

As you got out of your seat, you slung the new watch around your wrist. It sat perfectly. Jen gave you a confused but appreciative once over.

„Okay“, she said, „See you in 30.“

On Wednesday, you rushed in from driving Agatha’s son to soccer practice to find the hallway empty. Jennifer must have gotten stuck in a meeting. However, that wasn’t what caught your interest. As you put your laptop down, you noticed another box, this one sitting right in the seat of your chair. It was bigger than the others, and as you pulled the lid off, you were met with a bubble wrap. Whatever was in here, it was packaged like something incredibly precious. You bit your own tongue, anticipation bubbling up inside you. And then you unwrapped it.

A leather jacket. A little scuffed, worn in at the elbows. Definitely vintage, worn before. The arms were studded by silver rings, from the shoulders down to the cuffs. It was gorgeous, and vaguely familiar.

Behind you, you heard the clinking of porcelain, and then a sharp curse. When you spun around, Jen was already halfway across the room towards you, ignoring the fact she‘d spilled fresh coffee all over her desk.

„Where did you get that?“, she asked, panic in her voice. You clutched the jacket a little tighter.

„I found it here. Must be a gift.“

Jen came to a halt right in front of your desk, both hands immediately diving into the box on your seat.

„Hey!“, you nudged her away with your hip, but Jen‘s stance was firm, „Stop that!“

“Absolutely not!“, the first assistant just replied, „As per usual, you have no idea what any of this is about!“

„Then you should tell me, as first assistant and all!“, you shot back, and Jen let out a deep sigh.

„1998. Agatha Harkness gets photographed by paparazzi leaving Rio Vidal‘s mansion. The jacket she wore started a trend that didn‘t settle until denim took over in the 2000s.“ She gave you a long, serious glare. „You are holding that jacket.“

Before you could process what she just told you, and what any of that meant, your coworker already dove back into the box. At the bottom was a folded piece of cardboard, just off white and high quality. There was a set of simple, silver cuff buttons attached to it. Jen snatched the note out before you even had a chance to grab it.

„You polish up nice. Pair with a dress shirt.“ She read out loud, gasping.

„No signature? I can’t believe this! There is no way this left the archive without Mrs Harknesses permission.“

You reached for the note, but Jen took a step backwards, holding it out of your reach. Damn her and her high louis vuittons.

Her eyes closed in on you, pointing an accusatory finger at you. „This is why you‘ve been looking good! Someone is playing dress up with you! Do you have a secret admirer in the archives?“

„I don’t know who these are from!“, you told her truthfully, holding the leather jacket close to your chest. You still weren’t 100% sure she wasn’t just going to tear it from you.

„But … Someone‘s been helping me. Lilia has been a lot kinder since I changed the way I dress, even you shared your salad with me the other day!“

Jen creased her brow at that, glancing from the note in her hand to your face and back.

„I guess there hasn’t been any complaints from downstairs either. Whoever sends you stuff does so fair and square.“ She huffed, nose wrinkling, then shrugged, finally handing you the note. Soft, high quality paper, like artists used for Aquarelle painting. The same neat cursive as the other one.

Jen watched you and shook her head. „Whoever is sending you these is right though. You need a button up with this. And some good shoes.“

As if your secret angel had heard her, the next day, you found a bag with the Lauren Ralph Lauren logo printed on it under your desk. Inside was a shoe box. A pair of sleek black ankle boots, shiny, real leather, a minimal heel to give you just a little bit of extra height, but small enough to keep the shoe androgynous and cool. This time, there was no extra goodie attached to the note, however, when you turned it in your hand, a sour, citrusy scent found your nose. The paper was doused in perfume. This time, when you read the note, a smile slowly but surely crept up onto your features.

Looking good. Now show them exactly who you are, pet.

You licked your lips in excitement, glancing up from your desk. Mrs Harkness office door was closed, her way of letting you know she wanted no disturbances right now.

However, you could hear that one Lorna Wu song playing behind the door, the smooth sound of a record player unmistakable. You were starting to get an idea of who might be behind your sudden gift shower.

By Friday, you had an almost entirely revamped closet, held in shades of violet, plum and indigo. Today, you wore a flowy, long sleeved shirt made out of what you were pretty sure was pure dyed silk, the amethyst earrings and a matching bracelet, the slacks that had started all of this. You looked stylish, young, professional. You looked like you weren't a second assistant, but editor of Runway, and you carried yourself through the hall like it too, dropping the leather jacket on your chair as you passed your desk. Jen looked up from her laptop when you came passed, giving you an impressed nod.

„I‘m gonna be honest, I didn’t think you had it in you.“

You let out a little snort, leaning against her desk. „Thanks Jen, you look great today too.“ She always did, of course. Jen had this game figured out like no other. No matter how much Mrs Harkness had to complain about her work ethic or her shitty handwriting or the coffee Jen bought her being just a little too sweet, not even the Wicked Witch of Runway could criticise Jennifer's style. But, if you were quite honest, you started to feel like you were holding up pretty well yourself. This morning when you‘d dropped off a new collection for the Archive, Lilia had pulled you into a tight hug, before introducing you to one of the photographers. She‘d never done anything of the sorts before. When you walked down the hallway, a binder or a bag of clothes or Agatha‘s lunch order in your hand, people greeted you, some even stepped out of the way now.

„So“, you flipped open your notebook, glancing at your To Do List for the day. „What does the afternoon look like for us?“

„I‘m dropping Nicky off at Alice‘s for his guitar practice.“ She explained, „And on the way back I‘ll stop by Gucci to pick up some samples. Agatha has calls until four, and expects her afternoon latte immediately after. Until then, you’re on phone duty.“ Jen gave you a small smile, and you dared to see pride on her face. „Nothing you can’t handle, superstar.“

That afternoon, you knocked at your bosses door no less than two minutes after she‘d finished her last call. You had a tray with her drink and a salmon cream cheese bagel, the mug still steaming as you peaked into the door.

„Coffee’s ready!“, you announced, ready to put the tray down and disappear again.

However, to your surprise, Agatha told you to come inside. You closed the door behind you, putting her order down on her desk before stepping away, feeling oddly exposed in the middle of the room like that.

You’d barely seen her all week, she was always either on the go but in a conference. But yesterday, as she had brushed past your desk, phone in hand as she’d once again yelled at Vidal about … something, you imagined that for the splinter of a second, she‘d winked at you in passing.

Now, Agatha‘s eyes dragged down your form, and for the first time this week, she genuinely smiled. Taking a sip of her latte, she gave you a satisfied nod.

„You may not look like a barista anymore, but I swear this stuff has been better since you started to do the coffee run.“

You caught your lower lip between your teeth. „Thank you, Mrs Harkness.“

Then, as you turned to leave, Agatha called out to you again.

„Wait up, pet.“

You froze, glancing over your shoulder back at her. There was an unreadable glimmer in her eyes, tainted lips curled into a small smirk. „Add whatever you like to drink to the order tomorrow. Use my card.“

You couldn’t help but gasp, smile so wide you quickly had to turn away, before she could see. This was entirely new. Coffee run meant a drink for Agatha, sometimes one for Lilia. Never for the assistants. Well, until now. „Thank you, Mrs Harkness.“

„Call me Agatha.“

„Of course, Agatha.“ Her name rolled off your tongue surprisingly easy, like it had always belonged there. You bit back a grin, feeling your stomach tighten. Her undivided attention felt like opiates in your system, made you feel like you were floating on clouds above the world. Like you wanted nothing else, ever again. It was dizzying.

„Come over here“, Agatha’s voice brought you back to reality. It was calm, and she nodded towards her desk, cluttered with notebooks, concept art and prior issues of the magazine. Every night before you left, you made sure to organise it, but over the course of just one day, Agatha always managed to restore the chaos.

Right now, she was getting off her seat, putting down her cup. To your surprise, she had foregone stockings today, bare skin under her deep purple, tight pencil skirt. The matching blazer was draped over the back of her chair, sleeves of her white shirt pushed up to her elbows. It was unusually casual, uncharacteristically human. It was intimate.

Your stomach did a little flip, stepping forward to stand in front of her desk as she had ordered. The quiet obedience gained you a satisfied little nod.

„You’ve been cleaning up quite well, pet.“

If you thought about it, you didn’t mind the pet name at all.

Praise from Agatha was a rare treat, if you believed Jen, it was near impossible. You played with the rings adorning your fingers, glancing down at the tips of your polished, shiny black boots.

Agatha paced around her desk in a slow circle, until she was standing right behind you. „Everything I’ve heard about you has been nothing but positive.“

Goosebumps rose on your skin. „Thank you, Mrs Harkness.“

She tutted. „I told you to call me Agatha.“

A warm hand grazed your hip, and you exhaled sharply at the touch. „And here I thought you were good at taking orders.“ She glanced at you over your shoulder, a mocking pout on her lips.

Her fingers curled around the silky fabric of your shirt for a mere moment before letting go again.

„Turn around.“ You spun around to face her without missing a beat.

Agatha‘s eyes dragged over your blouse, along your shoulders, your collarbones exposed by the silky fabric, dipping lower for just a moment. Your breath hitched.

She took a step forward, into your space. Instinctively, you took a step back. The air got sucked out of your lungs when you felt the desk press into the back of your legs. You were now caged in between Agatha‘s presence in front of you and her desk behind you.

Your boss seemed unbothered, her hand reaching out, running over the neatly folded collar of your shirt. You’d added the lapel pin to it, the silver reflecting in the blue of her eyes. You swallowed, and her glance focused on the movement of your throat.

„Gorgeous���, she murmured, and you weren’t sure what exactly she meant. You imagined you saw her lick her painted lips, but you weren’t sure. Either way, goosebumps tickled your arms, your chest, all over your skin.

Agatha’s index finger and thumb take your collar between them, silky, deep purple fabric running through her hold. You felt her gently tug on the fabric and your heart skipped a beat. The only thing you wanted was for her to touch your skin instead.

But then she spoke, and it took every fibre of your being to concentrate on her words.

„Ultra Violet, the Pantone Color of the Year in 2018“, her lips pursed into a dangerous, thin smile, „Do you know why that is?“

She didn’t wait for an answer. Instead, she took another step closer. You swallowed hard, halfway sitting on her desk now, knees sliding apart automatically as she stepped between them. You didn’t stop her, just held still as she invaded your space. It was like there was electricity flimmering through the air.

“George Hobeika Fall 2017 Couture showcase. He comes to me with a collection of deep oranges and reds. Orange for fall? How original. I send him a note telling him to shove his off the rack bullshit back to where he must be hiding that visionary spirit he claims to have. The color of the paper?“ Her brows raised, blue eyes unreadable as she scanned your face expectantly.

„Ultra Violet“, you guessed, and the pleased curl of her lips has your heart almost beating out of your chest.

„Exactly“, she murmured, so close that you felt her breath on your face. „Ultra Violet. The colour of the standout dress of the show, the colour you saw on every Magazines front page for a full year after.“ She chuckled, tugging on your collar just the smallest bit. The upper button came undone. You didn’t stop her.

Agatha’s voice dropped. „I send Kale to buy office supplies once and the entire fashion industry bends over backwards for me.“

Her fingers let go of your blouse. Instead, her thumb hooked underneath your chin, tilting your head upwards. There was no escape to her intense eye contact now. Her voice was low, amused. She practically purred at you.

„And look at you, wearing my color, seven years later.“

She took another step towards you. Her hips pushed against yours now, and your hands found the surface of her desk behind you, pushing yourself upwards as she pinned you against it. Her body was warm against you, even through layers of expensive satin and velvet. It was only now that you noticed your blouse matched the colour of her skirt, of her blazer. Her rings were adorned with the same amethysts that dangled off your ears.

All the little gifts on your desk, every single item in your new, professional closet, they all had one thing in common. Ultra Violet. The colour of the Woman herself. Every single thing that made Jen green with envy or Lilia whistle impressed, they weren’t just gifts from a secret admirer who wanted to help you. They were territorial markings. They were hers. You were hers, visible to everyone’s eyes.

Blue eyes twinkled down at you in approval, the realisation written all over your face.

„My colour, all over you“, Agatha purred, her thumb dragging along your jaw, up towards your cheekbone, and then slowly towards your slightly parted lips. Her touch was gentle and you stopped breathing at the feeling, trying hard not to lean into the touch. But then, her hand found your hair, fingers curling into it, pulling you closer. Her other hand slipped around your waist, palm pressed firmly against your lower back. A familiar scent found your nostrils, sour and citrusy.

She was so close, you felt every single one of her words on your lips.

„You wear it so well.“

That was when the knot inside you snapped. All restraints, every last ounce of professionalism flew right out the window. Your eyes fell shut. It took barely a slight nudge of your chin to close the gap between you. Finally, your lips were on hers.

Agatha was firm against you. The sweetness of Charlotte Tilbury matte lipstick met your tongue, her painted lips creamy and soft against you. She kissed you with vigour, her hand firm on your lower back as she pushed you flush against her. She leaned forward, pushing you onto her desk with strong arms. Your shirt slipped off one shoulder and you let out a surprised squeal. Agatha took the opportunity and slipped her tongue between your lips. The faint bitterness of Espresso hit your tastebuds, her tongue dancing around you with the confidence of a leading dance partner.

Your hands found her shoulders as your back hit the surface of her desk, pulling her down with you. Holding onto her tightly as she stood between your legs, she kept you in place exactly where she wanted you with the hand in your hair.

A little moan escaped your lips, devoured immediately by her mouth against yours, and her teeth grazed over your swollen bottom lip.

Suddenly, the penetrant sound of a new notification cut through the air. On the other end of the desk, Agatha‘s phone lit up, vibrating once.

A part of you wanted to grab the damn thing and throw it out the window into the night, but you also wanted to keep your job. Now more than ever, actually.

So, as Agatha pulled away, adjusting her blazer as she did, you pulled your shirt back in place as well. But not with a frustrated little sigh, sitting up on her desk as she gave you a warning look with raised brows.

While you were still catching your breath, Agatha stepped around her desk casually, reaching for her phone before turning to the skyline behind her desk, New York City gleaming back at her in shades of Neon and Steel blue. The bright Purple Runway sign from above your building tainted the entire street in a faint violet light. Her mark was everywhere.

Agatha‘s brow creased as she typed into her phone.

„Before you go home, make a dinner reservation for two at the French Place at the Boulevard. 9 pm sharp. Message Nicky‘s babysitter to let her know I‘ll be late.“, she said matter of factly, and you scrambled for your notepad to write down everything she told you. Even your notepad was purple. How had you never noticed that until now?

„And remember to pick up your suit for Vidal‘s Gala before Saturday. You’re going to need a fitting.“ You tried to ignore the way your heart leaped in your chest. Your first event as her assistant, and she was taking you and only you!

“Oh, and Y/N,“ Your name on her lips was new, and it was exciting. You felt your chest flutter at the sound.

Agatha turned back around to look at you, the city lights illuminating her form. Her lipstick had smudged the slightest bit, but it did not ruin the image of perfection she was. If anything, it just made your stomach burn even hotter. Her eyes found yours and there was a twinkle in them, lips curled into a subtle smirk.

“You have Dinner at the French place on Boulevard at 9. There‘s an outfit waiting for you in the Archive.“

A knowing smirk tugged at your lips, raising a brow at her. „I must polish up nice to wear archived items.“

Agatha tutted, bright eyes twinkling. „You have been.“

[heliosunny]

I absolutely LOVED your Himeko one, thank you so much for writing it! Now hear me out Herta x Ruan Mei x deadpan assistant reader (reader doesn’t give to fucks about anything lol, they just stay for the research lol)

You guys never cease to fail me with your hear me out

Yan!The Herta x Assistant!Reader x Yan!Ruan Mei

The whirring of machinery filled the laboratory. You barely blinked as you recorded the latest test results, your attention solely on the data in front of you.

"You're staying up late again." Herta’s voice rang out, her tone edged with a knowing confidence. "Humans are so inefficient. Unlike me, of course. I can do everything effortlessly. You should rest."

You didn’t look up. "Noted."

Herta sighed, stepping closer, her movements precise and deliberate. "If you collapse, your research will suffer. I could arrange for you to be taken care of. Permanently. It’s only logical."

You finished typing and clicked save. "I’ll manage."

Herta smirked. Anyone else would be intimidated, but you simply… weren't. She knew she was brilliant—capable of anything. Yet, you remained infuriatingly indifferent, treating her presence as nothing more than white noise.

From across the lab, another presence approached. "Still working?"

"I need to finish sequencing this data before tomorrow’s experiment."

Ruan Mei leaned in slightly, "Fewer distractions would make things easier. I could ensure no one interferes with your work."

You finally turned your head, but only to adjust the microscope. "No need."

Herta raised an eyebrow, amusement flickering in her eyes. Ruan Mei’s expression remained steady, though the knowing glint in her gaze deepened. They had tried everything—manipulating your schedule, controlling who you interacted with, ensuring they were your only company. And yet, your reaction remained the same: absolute, unwavering indifference. The data was what mattered.

A test tube clinked against the counter as you picked it up. "Pass me the notes on the last trial."

For a moment, neither spoke.

Then Ruan Mei let out a quiet chuckle. "Of course."

Herta tilted her head, smiling smugly. "You really don’t care, do you?"

"Not particularly."

Herta’s smirk widened. Ruan Mei’s gaze sharpened slightly. If fear wouldn’t make you acknowledge them, if obsession wasn’t enough…Then they’d just have to find another way.

---

An accident. The lab was a mess—shattered glass, overturned equipment, and the unmistakable scent of burnt circuits. You lay slumped against the console, blood seeping from a deep gash along your arm. Yet, your face remained as calm as ever.

Herta and Ruan Mei arrived together, their sharp eyes scanning the scene before their gazes landed on you. Herta clicked her tongue. "This isn’t just an accident."

Ruan Mei knelt beside you, pressing a cloth against your wound. "Someone was here" she murmured, her voice calm but firm. "This wasn’t self-inflicted, nor a malfunction."

Herta’s eyes swept across the wreckage. "Debris patterns suggest a struggle. Equipment was deliberately smashed—except for the high-priority research terminal. That means they weren’t just here to destroy. They were looking for something."

Ruan Mei nodded. "And they didn't expect resistance. You fought back."

You exhaled. "They were sloppy."

Herta smirked, "Sloppy, yes. But bold. To attack you directly? They were confident in their ability to subdue you. That alone tells us something."

Ruan Mei’s fingers hovered near a jagged fragment on the ground. "Here. This break is too clean—whoever was here knew exactly what they were doing."

Herta turned her gaze back to you. "Whoever it was, they underestimated you. But you’re injured. That irritates me."

Ruan Mei’s voice was softer, but no less firm. "We’ll find them and make sure they don’t get a second chance."

You merely closed your eyes for a moment. "That’s your business. Mine is still the research."

Herta huffed a laugh. "Of course it is. But don’t mistake our patience for leniency. Whoever did this… won’t be walking away from it unscathed."

Instead of calling for medical aid, Ruan Mei simply rolled up her sleeves. "Hold still."

You barely flinched as she used a syringe with a strange-looking liquid inside on you. The pain was sharp, then numbing, then sharp again. Flesh knitted together, the sensation alien but effective.

Despite everything, you spoke. "You shouldn't waste it on me."

Ruan Mei’s movements didn’t falter, though you caught the faintest flicker of relief in her steady gaze. "You’re talking. That’s good."

"You’d be unbearable if I died."

Herta huffed a laugh. "True."

Once the procedure was finished, exhaustion finally crept in. Your vision blurred slightly as you leaned back, head resting against the cool metal. Ruan Mei’s gaze lingered, but she said nothing further.

"Rest" she murmured, voice softer than usual.

As your consciousness slipped, you caught Herta’s voice, sharp and determined. "We’re finding the culprit. And when we do… well, let’s just say they won’t get the same kindness you did."

Ruan Mei simply nodded.

Ruan Mei and Herta stood amidst the wreckage, their keen eyes scanning every fragment, every overturned instrument, every small disturbance in the environment.

Herta broke the silence first. "Look at the footprints. The spacing is inconsistent—whoever was here moved quickly, but not efficiently."

Ruan Mei kneeled, running her fingers lightly over the ground. "And they stepped here. This area was clear before. Notice the scuff marks? They hesitated. Perhaps they realized they took the wrong direction."

Herta smirked. "A mistake. Good. That means they're not as competent as they thought."

Moving further into the lab, Ruan Mei's eyes landed on a fractured beaker. "The break pattern—this wasn't just knocked over. It was deliberately shattered, possibly to cover up another sound."

Herta tapped her temple. "A distraction, then? That tells us the culprit had prior knowledge of how the lab operates. They knew breaking glass would delay us, force us to investigate multiple possibilities."

Ruan Mei picked up a small metallic fragment, holding it to the light. "This material… it's not from any equipment we use. And the shape—it's a piece of a glove. Not standard lab wear."

Herta’s expression sharpened. "Custom gloves. Specialized equipment. That narrows our list of suspects considerably."

Ruan Mei's gaze moved to the security console, where a faint smudge lingered near the access panel. "They tried to bypass the system manually. The interface was touched by someone not wearing proper lab attire—there's residual oil."

"Sloppy work. A professional would’ve worn gloves throughout."

Ruan Mei exhaled softly. "Now we just need to run a material analysis on this fragment and cross-check it against the logs of personnel who entered the lab today. The answer is already in front of us."

"And once we find them… well, let's just say they'll regret thinking they could outsmart us."

Later that night, the lab remained dark, silent. Until a faint rustling near the storage cabinet broke the stillness. The intruder had returned.

As they reached for something inside, the overhead lights flickered on, bathing the lab in a harsh glow.

Herta’s voice rang out. "Took you long enough."

Ruan Mei stood beside her, arms crossed, her gaze steady. "You knew we’d figure it out, didn’t you? You left too many signs behind."

The culprit froze, their eyes darting between them two. Their hesitation only confirmed everything.

Herta sighed, shaking her head. "The footprints, the shattered beaker, the security panel..."

Ruan Mei took a step forward. "You needed to retrieve something. And now you’re here, caught in the act."

The culprit tried to bolt, but Herta was faster. With a flick of her wrist, an unseen force locked them in place. "Not so fast."

Ruan Mei approached, her voice calm but firm. "You should have left when you had the chance."

With precision and efficiency, they secured the intruder. The mystery was solved, and now it was time for answers.

---

The first thing you noticed when you woke up was the unsettling presence in the middle of the lab.

A 'new specimen.'

It loomed in the dim lighting, its form distorted, a mix of organic and synthetic in ways that defied conventional understanding. Even with your detached nature, something about it sent a prickling sensation down your spine. But instead of panicking, you simply sighed, rubbing the sleep out of your eyes before standing up and heading straight to your workstation.

Herta had been there earlier, observing the entity with a critical eye, arms crossed as she muttered calculations under her breath. When she noticed you moving, she smirked. "Finally awake? I half-expected you to sleep through the discovery of a potential anomaly."

You sat down and powered up the console. "Unlikely. My schedule is precise."

She chuckled, amused. "Of course. Though, I have to say, you're remarkably calm for someone who just woke up to this... thing."

You glanced at it again. "If it's dangerous, it should be contained. If it's harmless, it should be studied."

Herta tapped her chin, watching you with a knowing gaze. "You're so predictable. Always straight to work, never questioning the bigger picture."

"I leave that to you and Ruan Mei" you replied, adjusting the settings on your interface. "Speaking of which, where is she?"

"Busy. Something about an ongoing experiment needing adjustments. Which means..." Herta leaned in slightly, a smug grin forming. "You're stuck with me today."

"That was already obvious."

Herta laughed outright at that. "See? This is why you're interesting. No panic, no hesitation. Just an endless march forward, like a machine."

"You're flattering yourself if you think you're much different."

Her eyes gleamed with amusement. "Oh, but I am. I acknowledge my own brilliance and enjoy it. You, on the other hand, don’t even bother to look in the mirror."

You exhaled, turning your attention back to your work. "Self-awareness is unnecessary for efficiency."

Herta tilted her head, watching you in silence for a moment before speaking again. "You know, I could analyze you like an anomaly if I wanted."

"You already do."

She grinned. "True. But I think I’d rather keep talking to you instead."

----

Ruan Mei may have been busy, but for now, this was enough. The next day, Herta was preoccupied with another project, leaving you to assist Ruan Mei.

Ruan Mei was busy fine-tuning an experiment, her fingers deftly adjusting various instruments. Without needing to be asked, you moved beside her, scanning the logs and adjusting parameters as needed.

She glanced at you, her voice as soft and composed as ever. "You should still be resting."

"Efficiency takes priority" you responded, eyes focused on the data.

She exhaled lightly, a faint hint of amusement in her tone. "You're remarkably stubborn."

"I simply follow the logical course of action. The work needs to be done."

Ruan Mei hummed, seemingly satisfied with your answer. "At least drink something while you do. I don’t want to explain why you collapsed from neglecting basic needs."

Without argument, you reached for the cup of tea she had set beside your console earlier, taking a sip before resuming work. "Happy?"

She smiled slightly. "Content. For now."

As the two of you worked in sync, she occasionally made small remarks about adjustments to the experiment, and you countered with brief, calculated suggestions. It was a rhythm the two of you had perfected over time, one of mutual understanding and unspoken trust.

At one point, she paused, observing you. "You always do this—work without pause, talk without hesitation. But do you ever stop to think about yourself?"

"Self-reflection is inefficient in moments like these."

She chuckled, shaking her head. "One day, you'll have to let yourself breathe. But I suppose today is not that day."

"Today is just another day" you replied.

She let the conversation drift into silence, but the warmth in her voice lingered. And as the hum of the lab surrounded you both, it was enough.

----

The following morning, you decided to do something different.

Carrying a tray of breakfast, you walked into the lab, setting it down near where Ruan Mei and Herta were working. "For saving me."

Herta barely glanced up before smirking. "Oh? A rare moment of generosity? How fascinating."

Ruan Mei took a delicate sip of tea, her expression unreadable but her tone teasing. "Perhaps we should make you thank us more often."

They both laughed, though you simply shrugged it off, indifferent to their reactions. As you turned to begin your work, neither of them made any further remarks, but something lingered in the air—an unspoken possessiveness in the way they watched you.

You didn’t notice.

For them, that was fine.

[ayumigotabittoolonely]

Yuji itadori x tall reader head canons

♡ The moment Yuji lays eyes on you, it’s game over for him. You’re exactly his type tall, strong, blessed and he’s already imagining what your wedding photos would look like.

♡ He’s so confident when he confesses, too. Probably flashes you that goofy, boyish grin and says something like:

"Hey, I think you’re really cool. Wanna go out with me?"

And you? You look down at him (literally) and just go:

"Sorry, you’re too short."

Immediate psychological damage. Yuji.exe has stopped working.

He stands there, smiling on the outside but internally combusting.

"Too short? Too SHORT???"

But it gets worse. He asks, trying to salvage his pride:

"Then… what’s your type?"

And you, without hesitation:

"Todo."

MORTAL WOUND. DEATH. PAIN.

♡ Bro just got rejected and his best friend got praised in the same breath.

You walk away, completely unaware that you just shattered his entire ego.

Meanwhile, Yuji is standing there, staring at Todo from across the training field like a betrayed shonen protagonist.

♡ Cue maldative dreaming.

"so when I asked her out , she said I wasn't her type"

"I wish I was a little bit taller…"

"I wish I was a baller…"

"i wish I was 6 foot baller"

"I wish I had a girl , I'll call"

♡ He starts looking up height-enhancing exercises on Google. Hanging from bars, stretching his legs, drinking so much milk this man is on a mission.

♡ Considers asking Gojo if there’s a cursed technique that can make him taller.

At some point, Megumi just sighs and says:

"You’re never gonna be taller than Todo. Accept it."

Yuji refuses. He refuses.

♡ Starts wearing shoes with thick soles, hoping to gain even an inch.

♡ When you and Todo are sparring, and Todo lifts you effortlessly, Yuji is in the background dying inside.

♡ Eventually, he just stares at himself in the mirror like:

"Maybe she’ll fall for my personality instead… right?"

♡ Meanwhile, Todo has no idea any of this is happening. He’s just vibing, calling Yuji his besto friendo, completely oblivious to the emotional crisis happening next to him.

Wish granted

♡ After weeks of maldative dreaming, failed height-increasing attempts, and watching you simp for Todo, Yuji was ready to accept his fate.

But then, fate does him a solid.

♡Gojo sensei, in his infinite wisdom (or trolling tendencies), pairs you and Yuji as training partners for an entire month. (Fox he did that on purpose)

♡Yuji is initially like, “Oh god, this is gonna be painful.” He’s fully expecting you to talk about Todo 24/7 while he suffers in silence.

♡ But after a week of working together, he realizes something.

You’re actually… really cool.

Not just in a “wow, hot person” way but in a “holy shit, I really like talking to them” way.

You hype him up during training and laugh at his dumb jokes.

You don’t baby him you challenge him, push him to be stronger.

And when he actually manages to land a hit on you during sparring, you grin and say, “Damn, shortie’s fast.”

♡ Normally, the height comment would kill him. But… why is he blushing instead???

♡ Meanwhile, you? You were obsessed with Todo.

♡ But now? Yuji’s got you questioning everything.

♡ Like, why does his laugh make your chest feel weird?

♡ Why do you find yourself looking for him in a crowded room?

♡ And why, for the love of all things holy, do his stupid brown eyes make your heart race???

♡ Todo doesn’t even cross your mind anymore. Especially not when Yuji looks at you like that.

♡ It all officially clicks for both of you one night after an intense training session.

♡ You’re both exhausted, lying on the ground, staring at the sky. And out of nowhere, Yuji just mumbles:

“I don’t even care about being taller anymore… I just wanna be good enough for you.”

Your heart? Gone. Exploded.

You turn to face him, and without thinking, you say:

“You were always good enough, idiot.”

And then you kiss him.

Congratulations, Yuji. You may not have gotten taller…

But you got the girl.

This was inspired by this edit

AND THIS WAS REQUESTED IF U HAVE ABY REQUESTS PLESSE TELL.

[secretlysamcro]

Black female reader x Jax Teller PLOT SPOILERS!!! explicit language & offensive language. If you’re under the age of 18, haven’t finished the show or dislike any of said topics, please read no further.

Request: Okay! I just saw your post about requests for Jax x black!reader and the first thing that popped into my head was this scene from Mr. & Mrs. Smith (because I am shamelessly obsessed with this movie) when they do the shooting game at the fair. I would LOVE to see your spin on this where reader is lowkey a sharp shooter and surprises Jax cause maybe she doesn’t look it 👀 Lmk what you think! I love your writing 🖤

Backstory: The Sons, Gemma & y/n spend a little time at fun town, y/n showing Jax how sharp her shot is, photo booths & unexpected screams…

Laughter blends with the hum of carnival rides as the scent of over priced fried food lingers in the air. Jax keeps his arm around you, his touch warm and possessive, pulling you closer with each step. Your smooth dark skin glows under the lights, a contrast to his pale complexion, marked with the inked memorial of his late father, John Teller.

Your eyes light up with excitement as you near the shooting game. Without hesitation, you tug Jax along, urging him forward with a quick pull. He smirks, the corners of his mouth twitching as he shoves his beer cup between his teeth to hold it.

With his free hand, he digs into his pocket, pulling out some change and tossing it to the fair worker. "Two" he says, his voice muffled by the cup. You skip forward, reaching for the sniper, your fingers brushing the cool metal as you prepare to take your shot.

Jax leans in, eyeing you with that cocky grin of his, "You know how to hold it?" he teases, his voice low.

You laugh softly, the question almost making you roll your eyes. If only he know, you think, but you play it off, flashing a sweet innocent smile. "Yeah" you reply, as you line up the gun, getting it perfectly positioned.

Jax, now finished with his beer, sets the cup down and leans casually against the side of the booth. His back is turned to the target, but his focus is entirely on you. "Yeah?" he challenges again, the doubt high in his voice.

"Yes Jax, damn..." you mockingly demand, a playful laugh slipping out before you can stop it.

You take aim, fire lazily, and miss. Five shots in a row, not even grazing a target. But you're not really trying, and each miss only makes you laugh. Jax joins in, shaking his head with a look of amused sympathy, like he genuinely feels bad for how shit you are.

You roll your eyes, biting back a grin as you step aside, letting Jax take his turn. He's good, you'll give him that. Lining up his shot, taking down most targets with ease, but still missing a few. You watch him intensely, eyes fixed on his every move as if you're trying to figure out his technique.

"I wanna go again!

He pauses, then lets out a laugh, repeating your words with a teasing tone "You wanna go again?" shaking his head, he digs into his pocket for some more change, rolling his eyes as he prepares to watch you fail all over again.

Only this time, you're not fucking around.

Lifting the rifle, you line up your shot, your focus precise. Before Jax even has the chance to turn back around, half the targets are already down. You make it look effortless and when he finally turns to see what's happening, his jaw drops to the ground.

By the time the last target falls, you lower the rifle, Jax's cocky grin now stretching across your own face. With your teddy, five times the size of Jax's, tucked under your arm, you strut past him. Before you get too far though, he pulls you into him, his arm wrapping around your shoulder.

"Where the hell did you learn to shoot like that?" He laughs, still in awe.

"Beginner's luck" you tease, snuggling closer to his chest as you continue to walk.

The Photo Booth was small to begin with, but with both of you crammed inside, you positioned awkwardly on Jax’s lap, it felt even smaller. Your curls, worn like a crown, framed your face perfectly, as always.

“Shit, y/n your hairs takin’ up all the goddamn space” he mutters, laughing awkwardly shifting around, trying to squeeze into the frame.

You shoot him a playful look, already knowing he’s just messing around. You smack his chest playfully as you laugh at his struggle.

“Just take the picture Jax” you laugh, tilting your head so the camera gets your best angle.

Stepping out of the booth, you wait for the photo strip to print. As soon as it pops out, you grab it, a satisfied smile spreading across your face.

“Oh, we look good” you say, nodding your head as you admire the two of you.

Jax leans in, taking a look before shaking his head with a smirk. “Nah, you look good. I’m barely in the damn thing” he laughs, pointing to where only half of his face peeks out from behind your curls.

Before you can even respond, a familiar voice cuts through the noise. “Well, ain’t you two the cutest” Clay remarks as he strolls over, Gemma slung over his shoulder. He sets her down gently, his eyes moving between you and Jax.

You laugh, alongside Jax. Without thinking. You step a little closer to him, drawn to the comfort of his presence. Not that you were scared, there’s just always been something about Clay that puts you on edge.

As you all stand around talking, a family approaches. An older man, a woman, and their younger daughter.

“Republicans, 12 o'clock” Clay hisses under his breath as they move closer.

Still, when the man steps forward, Clay puts on a grin, extending a hand “How you doing, Elliot?”

“Okay, Clay” the man responds, shaking his hand stiffly.

Gemma grips Clays arm a little tighter, you also pressing yourself closer to Jax without much thought.

“Hey Mom, I’m gonna go to the spin out again” The young girl pipes up.

Her mother frowns “Tristen, you’ve been on it four times already” she says, a little unimpressed.

The daughter pouts, shifting her weight and shrugging her shoulders.

Jax digs into his pocket, pulling out some leftover tokens “Hey, here” he says, handing them over to Tristen.

“That’s not necessary” her mother replies, her tone polite but borderline firm.

Jax just laughs, squeezing your hand before giving Tristen a wink “That’s aight, they kicked me off cause I was screaming too loud”

She brightens up instantly, saying thank you before she runs off towards the ride.

Once she’s gone, her parents don’t bother sticking around. They wrap up the conversation quickly, making it clear they’re in a hurry to move along.

You all watch as they disappear into the crowd. Gemma, shaking her head. “You’d think with all the money they had, they could pay someone to remove those sticks shoved up their asses”

Clay grins, his arm around Gemma “maybe he’s a little paranoid his country club cronies are gonna see him talkin’ to the outlaw”

Gemma laughs, moving in closer to Clay. “Come on, I need to talk to the outlaw” she says, shoving him into the photo booth.

Jax immediately, turns away, a disgusted look on his face “you both make me sick” he says, before grabbing you by the waist, pushing you forward. “Come on, let’s get outta here”

As you continue walking, you catch up with Bobby and Tig. “Darby’s guys?” Bobby asks, eyeing the unfamiliar men who had just passed by.

Jax watches them for a second before shaking his head “don’t recognise 'em” he speaks, sizing them up in the process. A voice cuts through the air.

“Oooh, look at the big bad bikers, huh? Gonna get clowny all wet?” You all turn towards the voice, only to see a guy dressed as a clown, grinning like an idiot, clearly looking to start something.

Jax, never one to walk away from a challenge, steps right up, ready to play. The booth worker hands him two yellow balls. The goal? Hit the target, dunk the clown.

Jax takes his first throw, but his shot is just a little off.

“Aww, what’s the matter tough guy? Can’t put the little ball into the tight hole?” The clown taunts, his voice a complete mockery. “Bet all your leather wearin’ butt buddies say the same”

Jax’s whole demeanor shifts. He’s pissed. His jaw clenches, his grip on the second ball tightening. You step in front of him before he can do something real stupid. Placing your hands on his chest to calm him down.

“Gimme it” you say, giving him your confident smile.

He exhales sharply through his nose but hands you the extra ball. You take your time walking up to the booth, making sure the clown sees the sway in your hips. He puckers his lips, making an over exaggerated kissy face at you. Jax moving to lunge, but Bobby and Tig grab his arms, holding him back.

You look over your shoulder with a little smirk. “Don’t worry babe, I got this” lining up your shot, you take a breath before launching the ball, of course, you hit the target dead on.

The clown drops straight into the water, suddenly he doesn’t seem so cocky.

Jax bursts into laughter, his arms wrapping around your waist, a little too tight as your waist beads dig into your skin. “That’s my girl”.

Meanwhile, Bobby and Tig rush forward, making sure to push the asshole under just a little longer than necessary.

The fairground is quieter now, the crowd thinning as the night stretches on. You and jax are currently tucked away behind a burger van, hidden from view. The metal of the truck cool against your back as you lean against it, whilst Jax stands close in front of you, pulling pieces from your candy floss and bringing them to your lips.

His fingers brush against your lips, staying just a little too long each time. You close your mouth around them, your tongue grazing his skin before he pulls away, his blue eyes darkening as he watches you.

“You doin’ that on purpose darlin’?” His voice is low and teasing, as usual.

“Maybe” you tease, shifting just enough for your knee to brush exactly where he’ll notice.

"You know, you still never told me where you learned to shoot like that" he chuckles, his thumb grazing over your bottom lip.

"You..." you poke his chest, smiling "...shouldn't judge a book by its cover". There's a teasing tone in your voice, daring him to challenge you.

"I..." he presses his forehead against yours, playful but firm "...don't read books" he adds, trying to sound cool.

"Maybe you should start" You arch a brow, waiting for his comeback.

His expression shifts slightly, his head tilting "You callin' me stupid?" there's a faintest edge of offence in his voice, unsure if he should be insulted or amused.

"No" you say, grinning "I'm just sayin, you don't exactly look like the type who enjoys foot rubs or lets me braid his hair for fun"

Jax narrows his eyes, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. "Alright, alright keep it down" he says, shaking his head. "I got a reputation to protect" You shift a little, straightening up, "Speaking of books…" you hesitate for a second, knowing he wont wanna talk about it. "you read any more of that manuscript you found?"

Jax exhales deeply, his nostrils flaring in the slightest. "Nah, haven't had the time" he murmurs, his voice dipping lower in tone.

You study him for a moment before offering, "I could read it to you tonight?…" But when you see the way his shoulders stay stiff, you decide to lighten the mood. "…While I do your nails, maybe throw in a face mask too" you tease, arching your hips toward him.

He snorts, shaking his head "Yeah, cause that's exactly what I need"

You tap his chest again playfully "Self care, Teller. You should try it some time" “Why do I need to take care of myself when you do it all for me, huh?” he murmurs, his voice dipping into that familiar, flirty tone as he leans in closer. He bites his lip, gripping the the back of your neck tight as he leans in. His lips meeting yours, slow and deliberately. He could take you right then and there, knowing full well that you'd let him, but the moment is cut short.

A piercing scream shattering through the entire fair.

“TRISTEN!”

A woman’s voice, panicked and desperate.

Then again, louder this time.

“TRISTEN!”

You and Jax both freeze. Your eyes meeting his, concern flickering between you both.

“Isn’t Tristen the lil' girl from earlier?” You ask, an uneasy feeling twisting in your stomach.

Jax takes a second to register. “Yeah, Elliot’s kid”

Without another word, you both move, rushing back into the heart of the fair, the flashing lights seeming harsher now and the music from the rides providing an eerie backdrop to the chaos unfolding.

You spot Elliot and his wife frantically searching, their faces tight with fear.

“What’s going on?” You ask, stepping towards Tristan’s mother. Your hand resting lightly on her arm, a small attempt at comfort.

“We can’t find Tristen” she says; her voice shaking as her eyes dart around. The panic in them making your chest tighten.

“Oh shit” Jax curses under his breath, glancing towards Elliot who’s looking just as frantic.

“She’s gotta be here somewhere” you offer, trying to reassure her, but the mother immediately shakes her head.

“No! We’ve looked everywhere” she insists, her fear spilling over, just like her tears.

Elliot comes rushing back, his expression pained. “She’s not on any of the rides”

“Oh my god, oh my god” his wife whispers, her breathing uneven, her entire body trembling, she stumbles forward, calling out for her daughter again, and again, and again.

The name “Tristen” echoing through the grounds, desperate with urgency.

Photos & gifs are not mine, just edited together.

For the lovely @daughterofapollo-7 🖤

Love an excuse to rewatch episodes, not that I need it it’s all I fucking watch lol. Hope you all enjoy!

Jax Teller Masterlist

[little-glitter-kitten]

I Think The Apple's Rotten Right To The Core Pt. 1

Prologue: As your brother, Caleb always took great pride in the fact that he was always the first to notice the little things when it came to you. When you were hurt, when you were sick, when you were lying or keeping a secret. What will Caleb do when he notices just how much his precious little adopted sister has grown? Can he fight the filthy, rotten feelings threatening to ruin all he holds dear?

(Caleb x Reader, no use of 'Y/N, AFAB reader, size difference.)

TW: Pseudo-incest, dub-con, possessive Caleb, Obsessed Caleb, Yandere Caleb.

YOUR POV:

You beamed at your Grandmother as she recounted her latest adventures in knitting. Any other 22 year old would have zoned out by now, but you were feeling nostalgic. It had been twelve long, gruelling months since you had been back here in your childhood home, and you were more than happy to soak up what little time you had with the ones you cared about.

The past year, you had been thrown yourself head first into your Hunters exams, much to the detriment of your mental health, so being back home was the soothing balm your soul didn't realise it had needed. You giggled as Grandma began laughing, recounting some silly mistake she had made in her latest knitting escapade that had delayed the finished product by nearly two hours. Wrapping your hands around the warm mug of tea, you inhaled its comforting aroma as your eyes scanned the photographs and knick knacks that lined the walls. You smiled to yourself, content in the fact that nothing had changed. You were home. The only thing missing was...

"Caleb!" Grandma exclaimed, rising from the chair as fast as her aching joints allowed her to.

"Grandma, be careful." He laughed, his deep voice edged with concern as he ran to the older woman's aid, helping to her rise from her chair.

"Oh, stop your fussing, Caleb."  She smiled fondly, embracing the tall man in tender hug. "I can take care of myself."

Smiling at the antics of your two loved ones, you quietly got up and shut the door your brother had left open in his rush to help your Grandmother.

"Still know how to make an entrance, I see." You teased, walking back to the kitchen table where Caleb and Grandma were standing, his arm still wrapped protectively around the older womans shoulders.

"Still jealous that I'm quite clearly the favourite, I see." He shot back with a warm smile. Lifting his eyes from the elderly lady under his arm to you, his smile faltered for a split second before the cheesy grin was back on his face. "Come here." He smiled, lifting his other arm out to you.

Smiling back, you walked over, slotting yourself under his proffered arm, feeling quite small against the 6'2" man.

"Did you finally get that growth spurt we thought you missed out on, pipsqueak?" He smirked, poking your ribs. "You almost come up to my shoulders now."

Scoffing, you push yourself out of his grasp.

"Caleb, you still can't help yourself, can you?" Your Grandmother sighed fondly as she shuffled back to her seat at the table. "I would think you'd have outgrown your childish need to torment your poor sister."

Looking back at Caleb, you can't fight the urge to poke your tongue out at him after hearing your Grandmother come to your defence.

Caleb stood there, smirking at your petty antics, his eyes scanning you down and then up again. "She looks big enough and ugly enough to defend herself now, Grandma." He scoffed. "Still need dear old Granny to protect you, pipsqueak?" He mocked.

"You'll be the one who needs protecting soon if you don't shut up." You shot back.

"She's right, Caleb." Your Grandma smiled proudly from her chair. "You are looking at a fully qualified Hunter."

"In that case, I better behave." He raised his hands in surrender and chuckled. "I'm going to go up to my room to put this bag away."

"Oh, Darling, that reminds me..." Your Grandma said, looking at you. "Your bag is still by the front door. Go pop it up in your room."

You looked at Caleb expectantly and he shook his head. "Like I said, 'Miss Hunter', you're big enough now, go do it yourself.

Giving an exaggerated sigh, your trudge over to where you had dumped your bag and slung it over your shoulder, following Caleb up the stairs. Caleb turning left and the top of the stairs to put his bag in his room, you followed the hallway to the door on the left at the end.

Opening the door, you sighed contentedly. The room was still exactly how you left it, right down to the plushies and tchotchkes. Placing your bag on the bed, you flopped back and stared at the photographs you'd hung on your ceiling from various periods in your life.

"Feeling nostalgic?" A deep voice rumbled from the doorway. Lifting your head, you notice Caleb leaning against the door frame.

Flopping back down, you continue your perusal of the memories.

The sound of boots, muffled by carpet make their way over to you before your almost bounced off the bed. Looking over, you see Caleb laying next to you, scanning through the photos on the ceiling.

"Remember that day?" He smiles, pointing at a photograph of a sullen 8 year old boy in fairy wings and cowboy boots.

"I still can't believe you let me dress you up." You giggle. "My fashion sense was horrid."

He dropped his hand to his chest, looked at you and gave a small smile. "Looks like it's improved now, though."

You scoff at his attempt at a compliment and go to smack his chest. You're caught off guard when his large hand, wraps around yours, gently but firmly. He looks at your joined hands with a small smile.

"Seriously though." Caleb told her "I am really proud of you."

"Not your annoying little sister anymore, huh?" You giggle.

"Yeah, I've noticed." He muttered before clearing his throat and standing abruptly. "Come on, before Grandma starts looking for us." He smiles and offers his hand.

[darkmarkmarauder]

Sibling War - Riddle Family Affair

The Riddle Manor had seen many battles—duels of power, wars of ideology, the clash of darkness and light.

But nothing—nothing—was as violent as the rivalry between Delphini and Mattheo Riddle.

"You absolute dumbass! You took my broom without asking, and now it's snapped in half!" Delphini shrieked, brandishing the broken remnants of her prized Nimbus 2001 like a murder weapon.

Mattheo, sprawled lazily across the velvet couch, didn't even look up from flipping his dagger between his fingers. "Relax, Del. I’ll get you a new one. That thing was ancient anyway."

"Ancient? Ancient?" Her voice climbed an octave, dangerously close to shattering the chandelier above. "That was a collector’s edition, you half-brained, ego-inflated, insufferable—"

"Oh, here we go." Mattheo groaned, rolling his eyes. "Merlin’s balls, you’re such a drama queen. Maybe if you weren’t so busy obsessing over a stupid broom, you’d actually have a life."

Delphini launched herself at him.

Mattheo barely dodged, leaping over the back of the couch as she swung the broken broom at his head. He laughed, dodging her second strike. "You really think you can take me, little sister?"

"You absolute prick—"

Marvolo sighed from his seat by the fireplace, flipping a page in his book. "You know Father is going to kill you both if you destroy the sitting room again."

Delphini hurled a hex. Mattheo dodged, and the spell obliterated a marble bust of Salazar Slytherin.

Marvolo just sighed louder. "And there it is."

"YOU’RE PAYING FOR THAT," Delphini screeched.

Mattheo smirked. "Make me, baby sister."

The house shook as another hex exploded against the walls. The family tapestry burst into flames. An entire bookshelf rattled, and somewhere, a window shattered.

And then—

The temperature dropped.

A sharp, suffocating chill filled the room, and the lights flickered out. Every candle in the manor snuffed out at once. The only sound was the heavy, deliberate click of polished shoes against the marble floor.

The hairs on the back of Marvolo’s neck stood up.

Mattheo and Delphini froze mid-duel.

From the darkness, Tom Riddle emerged.

His robes billowed behind him as if he were some ancient shadow made flesh. His gaze was slow and deliberate as it raked over the ruined room—the broken bust, the smoldering tapestry, the shattered window.

Neither Mattheo nor Delphini moved.

"Would one of you," Tom’s voice was silk stretched over steel, "like to explain to me why my home currently resembles the aftermath of a war zone?"

Silence.

A pause.

Then—

"Delphini started it," Mattheo said immediately.

"You unhinged, gaslighting bastard—"

"Enough." Tom didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to.

The air thickened, pressing down on all three of them like gravity itself had turned against them.

Delphini swallowed. Mattheo shut his mouth.

Marvolo, wisely, stayed out of it.

Tom folded his hands behind his back. "You will clean this entire room before dinner. You will repair every inch of damage done to this house." His voice lowered to something far more dangerous. "And you will do so in absolute silence."

Delphini opened her mouth.

Tom’s gaze flickered to her.

She snapped it shut.

"Good." Tom turned, his robes sweeping behind him as he left the room, leaving nothing but cold fear in his wake.

The moment he was gone, Mattheo exhaled, rubbing his face. "You’re so lucky he didn’t Crucio us."

Delphini shoved him. "You’re so lucky I didn’t Crucio you."

Marvolo just flipped another page. "Idiots."

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

a/n: I changed my font guys, IDKKK I liked the old one it just made me copy and paste my writing into a font changer and then have to paste it onto here and it just took me forever to get anything done. also I found it a lot harder to read bc the font is bolded so im gonna try this out, maybe I’ll go back but idk 😭 I like this font so far it’s easier on the eyes

[carolinanadeau]

Sally Ann Howes interviewed about an incident where she was trapped in her dressing room during a performance of What Makes Sammy Run? on Broadway, 1964

[miraneko19]

Realized this while playing Birushana. Tomomori. You know.

[widevibratobitch]

godddddd i wish preziosilla would fuck me nasty