#or maybe it's something about the way they work itself

[yanderenightmare]

♡ TW: omegaverse, omega reader, careless alpha husband, marriage problems, poor communication

♡ GN reader

He’s a little reckless sometimes—not always paying attention to the feelings of those around him, but he means well, you’re sure of that.

He’s just a little high-strung, is all—doesn’t really have the time to think things through.

He’s always been like that—ready for just about anything and everything anyone would throw his way, and just sort of expecting everyone else to be onboard. He’s an Alpha, after all—it’s not in their nature to worry or look back.

All your life, he’s been the leader—all you others could do was chase after him and just hope on your life to keep up. And as an Omega, you were comfortable like that—with having someone to follow. It felt natural to you—safe and good and correct.

But when he started courting you, you admit being a bit skeptical—weren’t sure if it would work the same way, not sure if it even could. Being mates is different, after all. You’re supposed to be in tune with one another, and you weren’t sure if you’d be heard or just end up being bulldozed.

But you figured, since you weren’t too big on making decisions anyway, that you’d just go along with it, and it would be fine. You’d put your trust in him and follow his lead, and maybe that would be enough.

And it was. Everything worked out perfectly—for the most part. You married in the spring and moved into your new house the day after. He’s a good husband and nice man, deserving of the respect he garners, and he’s successful. A true Alpha. Perfect on all fronts.

What more could an Omega ask for?

Well… suppose it wouldn’t hurt if he listened sometimes. Or no, that’s not fair. You’d have to speak up first in order for him to listen. Still, you think… he should be able to tell without you saying anything. 

You don’t even know what you’re complaining about, really… It's not as if he’s done anything overtly bad. You just feel… well, you suppose you just feel a little left out. He’s so dominating in everything he does—you just end up being swept along in the process. He doesn’t ask for your input, nor do you give it. Things just happen the way he wants them to before you’ve even agreed. You don’t even think he recognizes it himself, how he makes decisions you’re supposed to be making together on your behalf.

He bought the house without telling you, for starters. But it was a wedding present and a nice surprise, so you’re not mad about it exactly. But given how big a step it was, it still feels strange to have been on the outside. Then he sprung that vacation on you and even called your boss to schedule your leave—only a month after your honeymoon, no less. Not to mention the wedding itself—how all the arrangements were already done before you’d even sat down with the wedding planner, of whom was his choice. In some ways, or in many ways, you felt as if you were just a part of the decor.

But it’s not as if you aren’t happy—because you are. And it’s not as if you don’t love him—because you do. It’s just well… You know it’s not exactly fair, but you’re beginning to feel a little taken advantage of… as if he doesn’t even care about you or your thoughts and feelings as long as you’re keeping him happy.

But you can’t keep feeling that way without telling him, you decide. You’re sure none of it is his intention. You’ve never taken an interest in decision-making, so why would he think you’d want to? For all his prowess, you can’t exactly expect him to read your mind, either.

So, tonight’s the night you’ll finally say something. You want to be included. If he’s hiring a new maid, you wish to be a part of it. If he’s buying a new TV, you want to help pick out which one. If he’s taking you out to dinner, you want to be informed, preferably beforehand. Even if all he’s doing is getting his hair cut, you want him to tell you about it.

“Hello, welcome home,” you greet once he staggers into the bedroom, looking tired yet no less neatly put together than always.

“Hello, my sweet,” he mirrors, voice gruff with the toils of the day as he marches over to plant a kiss on your cheek.

It’s late. You’ve already gotten dressed for bed, having been just about ready to cut your losses and postpone the talk for tomorrow.

He could have told you he was working after hours. No, he should have.

You were just about to switch off the night lamp and go to sleep—but find yourself feeling redetermined now.

This was just another one of those things you can bring up as an example, after all.

“I-”

“God, I missed you today. Felt like work took an eternity,” he groans, hurriedly removing his suit with sloppy movements, throwing his jacket on the floor, shirt quickly following before he’s back on you. “Give me those pretty lips—I’m starving.”

He takes your mouth with his, one hand steadying him against the bedframe while the other works on unbuckling his belt, hunching over where you lay.

You put your hands on his bare chest to distance him, asking, “Can it wait a bit?”

He drops his pants on the floor and climbs on top of you, face buried in your neck while muttering, “No, not really. Been waiting all day.”

“Well, I wanted to talk to you about something-” you try again, to no use.

“No talking tonight—none, except pillow talk.”

He says it with a smile. You feel it against your neck—his teeth and tongue and the heat of his voice.

You’re sure he means it playfully, and yet you freeze, feeling a little sick.

“But I really need to—”

“Omegas are supposed to obey their Alphas, you know.” 

His touch isn’t rough, but it’s not without force, but more than that it’s those words that make your heart jump and then stutter. 

You hold your breath, but it goes unnoticed by him or maybe ignored—you’re not sure which. It shocks you—scares you even, but then, following the original freight, your heart sinks, and you feel nothing but disheartened and disappointed.

And then, even a little angry.

“Oh…” you mumble, lying still beneath his onslaught. “I guess I thought I was yours ‘cause I wanted to be, but I see now…” Your brows cinch with many feelings between them. “I had it wrong.”

He halts then—struck with a sudden pang of guilt maybe, or perhaps just puzzled by your words. Whatever the case, the former rush he’d been in is gone, and he looks down at you—finally.

“What? What do you mea-”

“No, no, never mind. I was out of line,” you brush him off—harshly, and he blanches, going rigid. “Do what you want—you’re the Alpha, after all—so by all means.”

You turn your head to the side and lie still.

Eyes prickly and throat tight, you push the words out all stiff and hoarse, “I have no right to stop you, and even if I did, it’s not like I could. But who cares, right? Nothing I think matters.”

“Baby, you know that’s not what I mea–” he tries.

“Then what did you mean?” you all but bark, snapping to face him again. But however pointed your glare is, there’s no mistaking the now visible tears brimming in your eyes.

Seeing it, he stiffens even more, undaring to move. Trying to make his voice softer, “Don’t cry.”

But his acts of comfort are far from sufficient.

“Why? Does it make you uncomfortable?” 

Good, you think—it better. He made you uncomfortable when he ignored your wishes, so why shouldn’t you? And ignore him in turn?

“Funny that, isn't it?” you continue. “The only thing I have against you is a pesky few tears. Would you like me to turn around, maybe?” 

You know you’re guilt-tripping him—and you’re not sure why or if it’s the right thing to do, but even so, you couldn’t find it in you to stop either—no, not until you had punished him, for some reason.

“If you hide my face in a pillow, maybe you won’t hear it either–”

“Please stop,” he finally begs, bowing his head. “I’m sorry.”

You stop. You’re not sure if he even knows what he’s apologizing for. And though the thought of asking him to clarify strikes you, it doesn’t feel important. Those weren’t the words you wanted to hear.

You sigh then, trying to calm yourself down. “I don’t need you to be sorry. I need you to see me—to listen—I need you to respect me.”

He looks up again, this time with a deeply remorseful expression warping his face. “I do. I’m sorry-”

“Really?” you question. It's a little harsh, you admit, but it's what you need, “Then get off me and go sleep downstairs.”

He’s rigid under your admonishment. Shocked by your claims, yet begrudgingly ashamed by the truth in them. 

You were right. He wasn’t paying attention. And by the looks of it, he hasn’t been paying attention for a while.

 “Okay,” he ends up agreeing.

Sliding off the bed like a shunned dog, he walks back to the door he’d only just come through a moment ago.

Keeping a hand on the doorknob, he looks back—head still bowed.

“Good night.”

You feel a little bad about how it turned out, but you steal yourself. You wanted to be alone right now. In fact, you think it would do you both some good.

“We'll talk tomorrow. Good night.”

♡ BNHA – Bakugou, Hawks, Mirio ♡ JJK – Gojo ♡ HQ – Kuro, Bokuto, Miya twins ♡ BLLK – Reo, Rin, Sae, Yukimiya, Baro, Aiku ♡ DS – Akaza, Sanemi ♡ WB – Umemiya, Togame

♡ FEM x M INSERT masterlist ♡ GN x M INSERT masterlist

[valeisaslut]

⭒࿐COLLIDE - c. one

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credits for the fanart: nramvv - edited by me

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𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐎𝐍𝐄

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐘 & 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐀𝐅𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐘

← 𝑝𝑟𝑜𝑙𝑜𝑔𝑢𝑒 | 𝑚𝑎𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑙𝑖𝑠𝑡 | 𝑐ℎ𝑎𝑝𝑡𝑒𝑟 𝑡𝑤𝑜 →

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⚢ pairing: Rockstar!Ellie Williams x Popstar!Reader 𖥔 ݁ ˖

⭒ synopsis: You didn’t mean to find her. Not really. But the music is loud, the drinks are strong, and somehow you’re caught in her orbit. A glance turns into a touch, a whisper into something more. The night blurs in heat and tangled sheets, a secret meant to stay buried. But when morning comes and your phone won’t stop buzzing, one thing is clear—last night isn’t staying hidden. 𖥔 ݁ ˖

⭒ word count: 8,4k 𖥔 ݁ ˖

⭒ content: smut, top!ellie, sub! reader, strap-on sex (r!receiving), oral sex and fingering (r!receiving), hair pulling, praise, pet names, modern au,mention of cigarettes, alcohol and drugs, cursing, violence, afab!reader, MEN AND MINORS DNI, multiple part series, likes and reblogs are deeply appreciated 𖥔 ݁ ˖

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There’s a strange feeling in the air tonight— dense, electric, charged with the kind of energy that makes your skin prickle and your pulse quicken without reason. The kind of feeling that only comes before things change. Before a shift so subtle, so inevitable, you don’t see it coming until it swallowed you whole. 

Maybe it’s fate sharpening its teeth. Maybe it’s destiny rewriting itself in real time. Or maybe it’s just the way the universe works, pulling you towards something, towards someone, whether you’re ready or not.

You don’t know it yet, but the world you know —the one you’ve mastered, the one that bends to your will— will start slipping through your fingers. The lines you swore you’d never cross will blur into nothing. Not all at once. Just enough to make you wonder if losing it might be the best thing that ever happened to you.

Or the worst.

Either way, by the morning, nothing will ever be the same.

・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

The limousine glides to a stop at the curb, the low purr of the engine nearly drowned out by the deep bass thrumming from behind the club’s velvet-roped entrance. Outside, the city glows. Neon signs flickering against the blacked-out windows, paparazzi cameras flashing like tiny detonations in the dark.

Your dress is custom—something sleek but bright enough to catch the low, moody lights of the club. A perfect deep shade of red, sculpted to hug every curve, paired with heels so high they should be illegal. Your stylist had insisted on the look, calling it “effortlessly sexy”.

But as you step out of the car, the cool night air brushing against your bare shoulders, the silk brushing against your legs, it feels more like armor than fashion.

Your heels click against the pavement. Diamond-studded earrings catch the flashing lights as your name spills from the lips of paparazzi, murmured like a prayer behind metal barricades. Security holds them back, but their cameras? Their cameras never miss.

You inhale deeply, forcing a smile as your friend Olivia loops her arm through yours, her perfume sweet and familiar as she leans in, voice smooth with amusement.

“Ready to have some fun?” 

You nod, but the truth settles low in your stomach.

You don’t know what you’re looking for tonight. A distraction, maybe. A release. Something to remind you that your life is more than a series of curated, picture-perfect moments. More than something to be consumed.

The doorman doesn’t even glance at the list before letting you both in. Past the crowd, past the rules. Straight into the kind of luxury most people only dream about.

Inside, the club is a different world—bathed in gold light, dripping in excess. Crystal chandeliers hang from vaulted ceilings, their reflections fractured in the glassy surfaces of designer champagne flutes. The air is thick with an intoxicating haze of perfume and liquor and the music is a hypnotic heartbeat, moving through bodies like an electric current.

A server appears before you even have to ask, pressing a drink into your hand. It’s cold against your lips, smooth and sweet with just enough of a bite to remind you that it’s expensive. You let it linger on your tongue, relishing the way the warmth spreads through your chest.

Everyone’s looking at you. You can feel it. The stolen glances, the whispers behind manicured hands, the way conversations pause when you walk by. The attention used to unnerve you.

It still does.

But you slip into the role effortlessly. Chin high, lips curved in just the right amount of detached amusement, the slit of your dress parting just enough to tease, the subtle sway of your hips deliberate. 

You don’t stop to acknowledge anyone, but you already saw lots of recognizable faces. Eyes track your every move. They want to talk, to be close, to claim even a second of your attention. 

You let Olivia lead you through the pulsing crowd, past velvet ropes and watchful bouncers, into the VIP section—where the real power plays out. The air here is heavier, thick with the kind of confidence that only comes with knowing you belong.

Not even half an hour passes before she nudges you, her perfectly manicured fingers gripping your arm as she tips her head towards a booth across the room.

“Oh, shit,” she murmurs, her eyes flickering with amusement, with something else. Intrigue. Mischief. “Isn’t that the girl from The Fireflies?”

You take a slow sip of your drink, pretending to be unaffected—heavy on the pretending.

“Really? Ellie Williams?”

“Yeah” Olivia exhales, shaking her head, lips curling into a smirk. “Goddamn, she’s hot as fuck.”

Something shifts. A charged pause. The air seems thicker, humming with something you can’t quite name.

You tilt your head, finally allowing yourself to glance over.

And there she is.

And yeah—she’s indeed hot as fuck.

Ellie is sprawled across the leather booth like she owns it—like the whole damn club bends to her presence. The black fabric of her shirt hangs loose on her frame, the top few buttons undone, teasing just enough of the freckled skin of her chest to be unfair. The sleeves are pushed up, exposing tattoos that wind down her forearms, ink bold against pale skin. Silver rings glint on her fingers as she idly swirls the whiskey in her glass, watching the amber liquid catch the dim light.

She’s not alone—the rest of The Fireflies are scattered around her. Dina is perched on the armrest beside her, scrolling through her phone, half-listening to whatever Jesse is saying, who’s deep in conversation with someone you don’t recognize. But Ellie? She’s elsewhere. Detached. Letting the whiskey burn slow in her throat as the bass-heavy music thrums through the club. Until she looks up.

Until her gaze collides with yours.

And then—when she realizes who she’s looking at—something shifts.

She doesn’t look away. Doesn’t break first. Instead, she keeps staring—not in a fleeting, casual way. She’s studying you. Sizing you up. The smirk tugging at her lips is slow, knowing.

Like she’s been expecting you. Like she’s been waiting for this moment.

Like she knew you’d both end up here eventually.

Your fingers tighten around your drink as you exhale, pulse thrumming against your skin.

Ellie takes a lazy drag of her whiskey. In one slow, deliberate movement, she spreads her legs a little wider, drapes an arm across the back of the booth, and raises an eyebrow.

The tension between you stretches—thin as wire, hot as an exposed filament—buzzing as the glances keep coming. Stolen, lingering, and never accidental.

You shift in your seat, crossing your legs. You’re playing it cool, but the thrum of adrenaline in your veins says otherwise. You can feel her eyes on you even when you look away, even when Olivia keeps talking in your ear, words blurring into the low hum of music and conversation.

And then, she grabs your wrist. “Come on,” she urges, eyes glinting with mischief. “We didn’t come here to sit around.”

You let her pull you onto the dance floor, slipping into the current of bodies that move around you, the music curling around you like smoke. You move easily, letting the rhythm sink into your bones, letting the world blur.

But you keep looking back.

And Ellie—Ellie is still staring.

Her gaze is heavy-lidded, dim light catching in green irises, turning them darker. She lifts her glass to her lips again, slowly, whiskey kissing her mouth as she watches you move.

She looks like she’s enjoying the show.

So you give her one.

You dance, letting the music drown out everything else—the flashing lights, the faceless bodies. The bass thrums through your bones, heartbeat syncing to the rhythm, but no matter how lost you let yourself get, you can still feel her.

Ellie hasn’t moved. Not yet. But her presence is suffocating, pressing into you from across the room. She’s relaxed—almost too relaxed. Like she’s pretending this isn’t affecting her.

But the way her jaw shifts slightly, the way her grip tightens for half a second before she hides it behind another sip?

Yeah. It’s affecting her.

So you push it further.

You let your movements get a little slower, a little more deliberate. Your dress clings in all the right places, the dim lights casting shadows over your skin, and when you open your eyes again, you catch the exact moment Ellie loses her composure.

It’s the way her tongue swipes across her bottom lip. The way her fingers drum against the table, restless, like she’s debating something.

The way she exhales sharply, sets her glass down, and finally moves.

She stands, pushing off the booth with that same lazy confidence, but there’s a new sharpness to it now, a purpose. She murmurs something to Dina, who only smirks, flicks a glance at you, then waves her off. 

She doesn’t rush. Doesn’t weave through the crowd—she cuts through it, a slow, steady force, people shifting around her without a second thought.

"Alright, superstar" Olivia drawls, her grin nothing short of wicked as she catches your eye. "I’ll leave you to your… situation."

You barely get a chance to react before she downs the rest of her drink, runs a slow hand down the fabric of her dress, and locks onto a guy leaning against the bar—tall, sharp-jawed, the kind she loves to toy with.

"Oh, I see..." you murmur, arching a brow as you watch her shift her weight onto one foot, feigning nonchalance, even though you know better. "Text me later—if you even remember how to type by then."

Olivia leans in, pressing a quick, sticky-sweet kiss to your cheek, her perfume blooming warm against your skin.

"Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do" she purrs, voice light, eyes glinting.

Then she’s gone, slipping into the crowd, leaving only the faintest trace of laughter in her wake.

And just like that, you’re alone.

Well—not exactly.

You feel her before you even see her.

The shift in the air. The weight of a gaze. The way the energy of the room tilts—like gravity itself is bending towards her, like she commands the space around her without ever needing to claim it.

Your pulse stumbles.

Ellie moves like she knows she belongs wherever she stands. She doesn’t even have to touch you; just her presence alone is enough to sink beneath your skin, coil around your ribs, settle deep in your stomach.

Her scent—smoke, leather, and the sharp bite of her cologne—wraps around you as she leans in, voice dropping low, teasing.

"You always put on a show like that, or was that just for me?"

Her breath ghosts along your cheek, close enough to taste the warmth of whiskey lingering on her lips.

You don’t answer right away. You let it sit, let the tension pull tight between you. A slow inhale, the ghost of a smirk playing at your lips as you rake a hand through your hair, finally turning to meet her.

And fuck.

Up close, Ellie is lethal. The kind of beautiful that feels like a setup, like a loaded gun placed in trembling hands. Her green eyes gleam, sharp and unreadable. Her gaze flicks down to your tits for half a second, barely noticeable—but you notice.

“That depends.” you murmur, voice smooth, honeyed. “Did you like the show?”

Ellie huffs a quiet laugh, tongue pressing against the inside of her cheek, and shit that does something to you. She leans just enough for the space between you to practically vanish, the heat of her breath against your skin.

“I don’t think like is the right word”

Oh.

The music pounds around you, but it’s background noise now—distant, unimportant. Because all you care about is the rush of your own heartbeat, the scrape of Ellie’s voice, and the way she’s watching you like she’s already got her next move planned.

You raise a brow, letting your fingers trace the rim of your glass before taking a slow sip. “Oh yeah?”

Ellie’s gaze drops to your mouth. She smirks. That same lazy, knowing smirk from across the room, only now it’s worse. Now it’s right there.

“Yeah,” she says, voice edged with amusement, with challenge. “I think I need a closer look.”

Your stomach tightens.

You tilt your head, pretending to consider. “Mmm. I don’t know. You seemed pretty comfortable back there.”

“I was,” she admits, eyes gleaming. “But you were distracting.”

“Distracting?”

She muses, lips twitching. “It's hard to focus on anything else when you’re in the room.”

Jesus Christ.

You should say something witty, something smooth, but it seems that your mind is short-circuiting and working against you. So you settle for something else that doesn’t require snarky comebacks.

You don’t break eye contact as you set your drink down and reach for her whiskey glass, plucking it from her fingers like it belongs to you.

Slowly, you bring it to your lips, tilting your head back to take a sip. The burn of the whiskey is immediate, rich and smoky, but you barely register it. Because all you can focus on is Ellie watching you—watching your mouth, your throat, the way your fingers wrap around her glass.

“It’s good.” You murmur, licking a stray drop off your bottom lip before offering it back.

Ellie takes it without a word. Her fingers brush against yours—just for a second, just long enough to feel deliberate. Then she drinks, lips meeting the same spot yours just touched. Indirect kiss.

Ellie doesn’t react, not outright. She just watches you over the rim of the glass, half-lidded, unreadable, before swallowing the last sip. She nods toward the backs of the bar, where the booths are tucked away in the dim neon haze, shadows swallowing the edges of the room.

“C’mon.” Her voice is low, sure. “Let’s go somewhere quieter.”

It’s not a question.

You should hesitate. You should throw something sharp her way, something teasing, a push to match her pull. But you don’t.

Not when the warmth of her touch still lingers against your skin.

So you just follow.

After grabbing fresh drinks, you slide into the booth, expecting Ellie to take the seat across from you. But she doesn’t. Instead, she slips in right beside you, close. Casual, unhurried, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Her thigh presses against yours, warm through the fabric of her jeans. A smirk tugs at the corner of her mouth as she leans back against the worn leather seat, one arm draped lazily over the backrest, fingers just barely grazing your shoulder.

She takes a slow sip of her drink, the ice shifting with the movement, her other hand resting on her thigh—dangerously close. Close enough that if you shifted even a little, if you so much as exhaled in the wrong direction, her fingers would graze your skin.

You take a sip of your own drink, matching her energy, leaning back just enough that your shoulder presses against her arm, your movements measured.

“You comfortable?” she muses, voice dipping low.

“Yeah,” you turn your head as you answer smoothly “Are you?”

Ellie chuckles, shaking her head, her eyes flicking over your face like she’s figuring out a puzzle she already knows the answer to.

“Oh, I’m real comfortable.” 

She tilts her glass, ice clinking, watching as you drag your fingers along the condensation on yours.

“So…” you hum, drawing out the word and trying to chat a little “What’s next for the great Ellie Williams?”

Ellie exhales, tilting her head back against the booth.

“Studio time. Late nights. Same shit, different album.”

You nod, taking a sip. “Bet it’s gonna be good.”

Ellie raises an eyebrow. “Yeah? You a fan?”

You lift a shoulder in a shrug, playful. “Maybe. Or maybe I just said that to be nice.”

Ellie scoffs, shaking her head. “Bullshit.”

You laugh, looking at her over the rim of your glass. She studies you for a second, eyes sharp and knowing, then leans in, her voice taking on a teasing lilt.

“What about you, pop princess? More shows? Another album?” she quips. “...maybe a fake PR relationship?”

You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling.

“I don’t do those.”

Ellie gives you a look—unconvinced. “Sure.”

A beat of silence, thick with something unspoken.

If only you both knew

Then, her hand moves lower, fingertips grazing the bare skin of your shoulder. The touch is featherlight, almost absentminded, but you know better. Her other hand slides down slowly until her palm settles on your thigh, just above your knee. You feel the warmth of it through your skin, a quiet claim. Almost possessive.

She’s testing you. Seeing if you’ll pull away.

And you don’t.

“You nervous?” she murmurs, feeling as goosebumps raise in the skin she's touching.

You exhale, meeting her gaze with a challenge. “Not even a little.”

Ellie hums like she doesn’t believe you. Her fingers tighten just slightly against your thigh, pressing firmer, the weight of them making heat coil even lower in your stomach. 

“Then finish your drink.”

Your brow lifts, matching her grin. “Why?”

She tilts her head, green eyes dark, half-lidded, unreadable.

“’Cause we’re getting out of here.”

Jesus. Fucking. Christ.

You know exactly where this is going.

So you knock back the rest of your drink in one smooth motion, the warmth of the alcohol sliding down your throat, mingling with the heat pooling low in your stomach. The sensation is almost dizzying, but not as much as the way Ellie hungrily watches you.

Her fingers remain on your thigh, unmoving except for the lazy brush of her thumb against your skin. A barely-there touch, but still there. When you set the glass down with a soft clink, Ellie smirks.

"Good girl."

Your stomach tightens, but you keep your expression composed, refusing to give her the reaction she wants. Instead, you lean into her touch, letting your thigh press more firmly against her hand. 

And then, just as effortlessly as she slid into the booth beside you, she moves again—standing, slipping out of the seat with an easy grace. Without hesitation, she reaches into her pocket, tosses a couple of bills onto the table, and tilts her head towards the exit.

“My hotel isn’t far.”

Your lips curve, eyes glinting with something playful, but you don’t stand up. Not yet. “Are you always this forward?”

Ellie chuckles, slipping her hands into her pockets, her smirk deepening. “Only when I know what I want.”

You hum, gaze flicking between her lips and her eyes, drawn in by the way she looks at you—steady, unshaken, expectant.

“And what is it that you want?”

Ellie doesn’t hesitate or waver. Her gaze drags over your face, then lower, sweeping over every inch of your body. That look alone answers every question you could possibly have.

She’s eye-fucking you. 

“I think you already know.”

Her voice feels like a dare wrapped in velvet.

She shifts just slightly to let her fingers brush against yours—not quite holding, not quite taking, just enough to make you shiver. To remind you that you’re the one who has to make the next move.

“Last chance, pop star.” Her thumb grazes the inside of your wrist. “You coming or not?

No time to blame the alcohol, the music, her, or even yourself. None of it matters. Not when she’s this close. Not when you’ve already decided—fuck everything.

You don't answer her with words.

Instead, you let your fingers slip fully into hers, a silent answer in the way you squeeze her hand. With unhurried confidence, you rise to your feet, stepping in close, letting her feel the warmth of your body against hers.

Ellie watches you, her smirk deepening, her grip tightening ever so slightly, like she’s making sure you’re real. And then, without another word, she turns, leading you towards the exit, her pace steady, certain— she already knows exactly how this night is going to end.

・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

The elevator ride is painfully slow.

Ellie leans against the mirrored wall, the yellow glow of the overhead lights casting soft shadows along her sharp jawline. You can feel the heat of her gaze, the weight of it pressing against your skin.

“So…” she drawls, tapping a slow rhythm against her thigh. “Have you ever done this before?”

You arch a brow. “Been in an elevator?”

Ellie huffs a quiet laugh, shaking her head. “No, smartass. Snuck away in the middle of the night with someone you barely know.”

You hum, pretending to think as you glance at her from beneath your lashes. “Depends” you say. “Do you count as someone I barely know?”

Ellie exhales sharply, something between a laugh and a scoff as she steps closer until there’s barely a breath of space between you.

“You think you’re funny,” she murmurs, voice just above a whisper.

Your pulse thrums. “I know I am.”

She studies you for a moment, head tilted, before her lips twitch into something smug. “Alright then” she muses, tilting her chin towards the soft ding of the elevator reaching the highest floor. 

“Let’s see if you’re still funny in a minute.”

You step inside, your heels clicking softly against the marble, the sound swallowed by the sheer vastness of the room. Ellie follows, closing the door behind you with a quiet click.

The Four Seasons suite is nothing short of breathtaking—the kind of luxury that feels effortless, curated. The living area is sprawling, tastefully minimal, yet undeniably expensive, all clean lines and plush textures. Beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows, the city stretches out in a sea of glittering lights, skyscrapers piercing the night sky.

The air is cool and heavy, carrying the faint scent of cedarwood, perfume, whiskey, and something distinctively her. A half-finished whiskey bottle and an ashtray filled with cigarette butts sit on the bar. In the adjoining room, a decadent king-sized bed stands with its pristine sheets rumpled, as if she left in a hurry.

She doesn’t move right away. She just watches you, standing a few steps away, hands in her pockets. She’s giving you a moment to take it all in, to change your mind.

"You sure ‘bout this?" she murmurs, voice lower now, more serious. Less teasing.

Your lips curve, slow and certain. “I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t.”

Ellie exhales a quiet chuckle, running a hand through her auburn mullet before stepping closer. The room feels smaller now, the space between you dissolving into nothing.

“Yeah” she mutters, gaze flickering to your lips. “Didn’t think so.”

And she kisses you.

It’s not gentle. It’s not soft. It’s filled with longing, of knowing about each other without ever really knowing each other, of stolen glances, headlines and rumors that led to this. Her lips are warm, slightly rough from cigarettes and the way she’s been smirking all night.

You match her, hands finding the front of her black shirt, gripping the expensive fabric between your fingers, pulling her closer. Ellie groans against your mouth, low and amused, like she knew you’d be like this— she was just waiting for you to prove it.

She backs you up slowly, guiding without breaking contact, until the backs of your knees hit the edge of the bed. You sink down, breathless, heart hammering, and Ellie follows, bracing herself over you, one knee between your legs, hands settling on either side of you.

Her hands roam, slow but sure, like she’s mapping you out, memorizing every inch of you beneath her fingertips. The room hums with the soft sound of your breaths, the distant city noise barely audible past the pounding in your ears.

Her lips trail from your mouth to your jaw, down the column of your throat. A quiet exhale escapes you when her teeth graze your pulse point, and she smirks against your skin like she’s won something.

Ellie moves with purpose, like she’s savoring every little reaction you give her. The way your breath stutters when her lips graze just below your jaw, the way your fingers clutch at her shirt, pulling her closer, needing more.

The air between you is electric, charged with something you are too far gone to name, but definitely heavy. Her hands press against your sides, fingers flexing like she’s grounding herself, like she needs to remind herself to take her time, try to draw this out.

But then you move—tilting your chin, brushing your lips against her pulse point—and Ellie falters, just for a second. A sharp inhale, a quiet curse under her breath.

She’s kisses you again, deeper this time, more urgent. And you know something inside her has finally snapped.

Her hands grip at your waist, fingers digging in just enough to send a thrill up your spine. Her weight presses against you, firm, unyielding, and you arch into it, meeting her halfway. There’s no space left between you now, just heat, friction and the dizzying sensation of losing yourself in her.

She pulls back just slightly, just enough to look at you, to study your face in the dim light. Her thumb brushes over your cheek, softer than before, more careful. Her pupils are blown wide, her breathing uneven.

And then—just when you think you have her figured out—she shifts, her breath hot against your ear, pressing her knee harder between your thighs.

“Tell me, princess” she murmurs, voice dipped in something dangerously close to amusement. “Still playing the part?”

It would be so easy to keep up the game, to smirk and tell her that she’s the one who’s falling for it. But Ellie’s knee moves again—just enough to steal the thought right out of your head—and you let out a soft gasp instead of answering.

Your fingers tighten in her hair, and she groans low in her throat, the sound vibrating through you. It’s heady, dizzying, the way she knows exactly what she’s doing, exactly how to unravel you.

“That's what I thought…” 

Her fingers finally find the zipper at the curve of your spine, slow and deliberate, the ghost of a touch sending shivers down your skin. She pauses, eyes flicking up to yours, searching, waiting for your approval.

“Yes, please,” you breathe, barely above a whisper—soft, wanting. 

You didn’t mean for it to sound that desperate, but God, you are.

Ellie’s smirk deepens into something downright wicked, her eyes dark with satisfaction. “Fuck…” she mutters, mostly to herself, like she wasn’t expecting you to sound like that, and she wants to hear it again.

Then—slow, torturously slow—she tugs the zipper down, the sound of it impossibly loud in the quiet space between you. The dress pools at your waist before slipping further, guided by her hands, like she’s unwrapping something precious.

And when it finally falls away, leaving you bare save for the delicate lace of your black panties, Ellie exhales a quiet curse, eyes raking over you like she wants to commit every inch of you to memory.

She can’t quite believe you’re real. But you are. And you are here, beneath her, almost naked and looking up at her like this. Her hands skim up your sides, fingers splaying over your ribs, dragging heat in their wake. There’s something almost reverent in the way she touches you, like she’s been waiting for this longer than she’d ever admit. 

“You are even better than I imagined,” she murmurs, voice thick, dark and dizzying. Her gaze flickers back up to yours, and the corner of her mouth tugs into a knowing smirk. “And trust me, gorgeous—I imagined a lot.”

It’s like she’s learning, memorizing. And it’s because she is. This is a moment she wants burned into her mind, something she won’t let fade when the night is over.

“You’re still dressed…” you murmur, running your hands up the fabric of her shirt, fingers tracing over the smooth, expensive material.

Ellie smirks, tilting her head slightly. “Wanna fix that?” Her voice is teasing as she leans in, pressing a peck to your lips, barely pulling away before adding, “Be my guest.”

You don’t need to be told twice. Your fingers move to the buttons of her shirt, starting slowly at first, savoring the way the fabric parts beneath your touch, revealing inch by inch of her skin. But patience has never been your strong suit, and before you know it, your fingers are working faster, making quick work of the last few buttons.

Ellie chuckles softly at your eagerness, shrugging the shirt off her shoulders and letting it fall to the floor without a second thought. 

Your breath catches, taking her in—her toned arms, her freckled chest, her abs, the ink sprawled across her skin, the way the dim lighting casts shadows over every sharp edge of her body.

She raises an eyebrow, clearly enjoying the way you’re looking at her. “Like what you see?”

You swallow, lips curving into something between a smirk and something much softer. “Yeah,” you admit, voice quieter, breathless. “I really do.”

She smirks, all too proud of herself, before lowering her mouth to your body, lips trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses down your chest. Each press of her mouth sets your skin on fire as she moves lower, finally reaching your breasts.

Her tongue flicks over a hardened nipple before her lips close around it, sucking just enough to send a sharp jolt of pleasure straight to your core. Her other hand moves to your other breast, fingers squeezing, kneading, rolling your sensitive bud between her fingertips with a precision that makes your breath hitch.

A moan escapes you before you can stop it and Ellie groans low in her throat, the sound vibrating against your skin. She knows exactly what she’s doing, her movements natural, fluid.

You know she has done this more than a hundred times—but right now, with the way she’s touching you, kissing you, looking at you—it feels like you’re the only one.

And the worst part? She’s barely even started.

“You’re unreal,” she mutters against your skin, voice thick with something reverent, almost amazed. “You sure you’re not the one playing me?”

Your breath catches, a slow smirk forming even as your body betrays you, pressing closer, craving more. “Maybe,” you tease, voice barely above a whisper. “Or maybe I just like watching you lose control.”

Ellie exhales a quiet laugh, but there’s something darker in her eyes now—something wild, untamed. She leans in, lips ghosting over your jaw, your throat, before settling just below your ear.

“Then I guess we’re both in trouble.”

Ellie’s fingers trail lower as she reaches the waistband of your panties. With a slow smirk, she hooks her fingers into the lace and tugs them down, the fabric slipping over your thighs in one smooth motion. The cool air kisses your heated core, and she exhales sharply, her gaze flickering downward—taking you in, almost ridiculously soaked for her. Just for her.

“Damn…” she murmurs, voice thick with something between amusement and hunger. “Look at you.”

“Fuck, Ellie...” Heat rushes to your face, her fingers ghost over your thigh. She’s barely touching you, barely doing anything at all, and yet—your body is already responding, arching subtly towards her, silently asking for more.

Ellie chuckles, low and knowing. “You’re so easy to read.” She leans in, lips grazing your jaw, her fingers still dancing just at the edge of your glistening pussy. “And so, so needy.”

Her words send a shiver down your spine, and when she finally moves—finally gives in to what you both want—you can’t stop the breathy moan that slips from your lips.

Ellie grins against your skin, pleased. “That’s more like it, baby. Keep moaning for me like that.”

Her fingers move like pure sin, circling your clit with practiced ease, each motion precise, calculated. Designed to ruin you, untame you. Your moans spill out freely, and you can feel her eyes on you, dark and burning, primal. 

The sight of you like this—bare, undone, completely at her mercy—makes something in her tighten, makes her want to see just how far she can push you.

So she doesn’t give you a second to prepare. One moment, she’s watching you with that signature smirk, and the next—her mouth is on you, tongue sliding through your folds like she’s been starving for this.

“Oh god! Ellie!” You choke on a gasp, hands flying to the sheets, twisting them between your fingers as her tongue works against you.

Ellie eats you out the same way she plays her guitar—expertly, effortlessly, like she was made for this. Every flick of her tongue is deliberate, every slow drag filled with a deep, unrelenting intensity, she’s savoring you, she wants to make a masterpiece out of your pleasure.

“So sweet…” Ellie groans against your cunt, the sound sending vibrations that make your whole body jolt. Fuck, she thinks, feeling the way your thighs twitch, the way your breath stutters, how quickly you fall apart for her. It’s addictive.

She pulls back just enough to spit on your pussy, watching the way your hole clenches around nothing. A quiet chuckle rumbles in her chest, fingers dragging lazily up your slit, collecting everything you’re giving her.

“You’re fuckin’ messy, babe." She murmurs, half in awe, half just to tease. 

Before you can even think to respond, her tongue is on you again, dragging slow and deliberate licks over your swollen clit while two fingers ease their way inside, stretching you open.

You inhale sharply, your thighs instinctively trying to snap shut around her, but Ellie is quick, her free hand pressing against your hip, keeping you right where she wants you.

She curls her fingers just right, feeling the way your walls flutter around them. She watches you from beneath heavy lids, drinking in the way your head tilts back, lips parting, how every needy sound you make is just for her.

Her lips curve against your heat before she bites down on your clit softly—just enough to make your breath hitch, your fingers tighten in her hair. Her fingers move in tandem, thrusting slow but deep, curling just right against your spongy spot to make pleasure coil tighter and tighter inside you.

You can’t even form words, only breathy, broken sounds slipping past your lips. Your body moves on instinct, rolling against her mouth, chasing that high she’s so effortlessly pulling you towards. Ellie groans at the way you react to her, the vibrations sending a new wave of heat spiraling through you.

“Takin’ it so perfectly, princess,” she muses, her voice rough with satisfaction. One hand smooths along your thigh, grounding, teasing, keeping you exactly where she wants you. The slick, obscene sounds of her fingers and mouth working on you grow louder, matching the frantic pace of your pulse.

You’re so close, you can feel it—electric, unbearable, curling low. Like a thread waiting to snap. 

“I—hah!—Ellie, I’m gonna—” Your voice breaks as pleasure crashes over you, white-hot and dizzying. Your body tightens, trembles, pleasure snapping through every nerve as you cry out, gripping onto her like she’s the only thing anchoring you.

Ellie doesn’t pull away immediately, working you through it, her mouth still lazily exploring, drawing out every last aftershock until your thighs are trembling around her. Only then does she ease back, slow and deliberate, her fingers slipping from you with a quiet, wet sound.

You barely have time to catch your breath before she lifts them to her lips, her eyes locking onto yours, utterly shameless. She slides them past her lips, sucking them clean with a satisfied hum.

“Too good to waste” she mutters, the rasp in her voice making heat flicker in your belly all over again.

You watch her with a dazed expression, your mind still lost in the aftershocks, chest rising and falling as you try to remember how to breathe.

This is almost too good to be true.

And thank God it is.

Ellie watches you with half-lidded eyes, her breath heavy, chest rising and falling as she takes in the sight of you—disheveled, skin glistening, lips parted as you gasp for air. She knows she’s wrecked you, and fuck, she loves it. Loves the way you look at her, like she’s the only thing that exists in the world right now.

“Shit babe, you soaked the bed…” she murmurs, a teasing smirk tugging at her lips as she drags her fingers up your trembling thighs. “Do I turn you on that badly?”

Your head barely nods, your body still buzzing, heat pooling in your stomach again even though you haven’t fully come down. “Mhmm.”

Ellie huffs out a quiet chuckle, pressing her lips against the inside of your knee before pulling back just enough to unbuckle her belt. Your breath hitches as she unfastens it, sliding her jeans and grey boxers down her hips, revealing the deep purple strap nestled between her thighs.

And It’s almost unfair how good she looks like this. Shirt unbuttoned, muscles flexing as she strokes the length of the toy once, watching you with amused eyes.

And let's just say, you are shocked.

How the hell did you not notice it before? It’s thick, long, and attached to a harness that presses snugly against her lower abdomen—bigger than anything you’ve ever taken.

Your gaze flickers between her face and the toy, your thighs pressing together involuntarily. Ellie notices, her smirk widening. “Something wrong, baby?”

You swallow, your voice coming out weaker than you want it to. “N-no.”

Your breath stutters, eyes widening. “Nervous, pretty girl?” Ellie quirks a brow. She clicks something at the base of the strap, and suddenly, a sound vibrates with a low hum. 

You shake your head, but the anticipation, the way your legs shift, betrays you. Ellie just smirks, gripping your knee and spreading you open. 

“It’s okay” she says, and for a moment, her voice is softer “You can always tell me if it’s too much.”

A thread of something unspoken lingers between you, but then she’s pressing the tip against your soaked entrance, teasing, watching your breath hitch, and any softness vanishes into something much darker.

She pushes in—slow, stretching you inch by inch, letting you feel every single second of it.

You let out a sharp cry, your fingers flying up to grasp at her shoulders, nails digging in. Ellie groans at the sight, her pupils blown wide, her fingers flexing against your thigh as she stills for just a second, letting you adjust. “Shit…” she rasps, voice thick. “Taking me so fucking well.”

Your walls flutter around the length, the feeling making your whole body shudder. “F-fuck…” you whimper, the sound breathy, desperate.

Ellie grips your face with one hand, tilting your chin up so you have no choice but to look at her. “Tell me how it feels.” she demands, her thumb brushing over your parted lips.

“Good—so fucking good—Ells…” you gasp, your voice breaking as she bottoms up, letting you feel the thickness of the toy against your walls. Then, she shifts, gripping your hips tighter, pulling you flush against her as she sinks deeper, her thrusts picking up pace.

“Yeah?” Ellie breathes, watching the way your body trembles beneath her. “Gonna fuck you so good you won’t be able to think straight,”

Your head tilts back and your eyes dart shut as you moan, pleasure sparking through you like wildfire, but Ellie isn’t having that. “No.” she grits, leaning down, her breath hot against your ear. “Look at me.”

She grips your jaw, tilting your face back toward her, her lips just inches from yours. 

“I want you to look at me fucking you.”

The way she says it—so raw, so commanding—has you clenching around her, has your legs shaking as she fucks you harder, deeper, hitting that spongy spot inside you that makes your mind blank.

Your eyes flutter open, and what you see nearly ruins you. Ellie, flushed and wrecked with desire, watching you fall apart beneath her, completely at her mercy.

Her smirk returns, slow and knowing. “That’s my girl.”

“F-fuck, right there—Ellie, please!” you babble, your voice breaking as she adjusts the angle, pressing your knee up to your chest so she can sink in even deeper and hit that spot that makes you fall apart. Your fingers claw at her back, clinging to her as if letting go would shatter you completely.

Ellie groans, sweat slicking her forehead, the vibrations from the toy sending shocks of pleasure through her own body. She’s close, she knows it, but she wants you there first. Needs to see you unravel beneath her, to make you tighten around her.

Your moans turn into choked sobs of pleasure, your body going rigid as the coil inside you snaps. “I—shitt—I’m gonna—!”

And then it happens. Your back arches, your legs shaking uncontrollably as your orgasm crashes through you, your vision going white. The sheer intensity of it rips a cry from your throat, your nails digging deeper into her back as your body spasms.

“Jesus fucking christ…” Ellie curses, watching the way your release splashes everywhere, coating her toy, dripping down between your thighs and her lower abdomen. “Did you just—fuckk—did you just squirt?”

And just like that, with one last deep thrust, she shudders, her own orgasm overtaking her as the toy grinds against her in just the right way. “Oh god, I—”

Her muscles go taut, her forehead dropping against your shoulder as her breath leaves her in a sharp exhale. She rides it out, her body trembling against yours before she finally stills, catching her breath.

She’s careful as she pulls out, the slick sound making both of you shiver. A low whistle leaves her lips as she looks down at the mess between your legs.

You can’t form words, your body still convulsing, overstimulated and spent. Ellie watches you, chest heaving, eyes half-lidded with satisfaction. “Goddamn…” she murmurs, grinning lazily as she flops beside you.

“You really did soak the bed.”

・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

The first thing you notice when you wake up is the smell of coffee.

The second thing you notice is that your body hurts—a deep lingering soreness that reminds you exactly how last night went down. And let’s just say, it was a long night.

You stretch lazily against the sheets, tangled almost beyond saving, blinking against the light filtering through the curtains. The room is a mess, whiskey glasses half-empty on the nightstand, your dress discarded in a careless heap on the floor, the air still heavy with the scent of sex.

The steady hum of the shower echoes from the bathroom. You exhale, running a hand through your hair as you sit up, the sheets slipping down your bare skin covered only by your lace panties. Your fingers find the nearest whiskey glass, bringing it to your lips—only to find it empty.

You huff out a quiet laugh, shaking your head. Of course. Ellie Williams never does leave you anything to sip on but trouble.

And then she walks in.

A towel slung over her shoulders, fresh boxers hanging low on her hips, a white tank top clinging to her still-damp skin. Her auburn short hair, darker from the shower, is pushed back in that frustratingly effortless way.

Your breath catches.

Maybe it’s the afterglow, or maybe it’s just her—but she looks too good. Unfairly good.

Ellie glances at you, grabbing her coffee cup from the table. “Damn, you survived.”

You groan, dragging a hand down your face. “Barely.”

Your body feels wrecked, and you’re painfully aware of exactly why. But there’s no time to dwell on it—your fingers fumble for your phone on the nightstand, and when you check the time, your stomach drops.

Shit. You were supposed to be at the studio an hour ago.

With a sigh, you throw the sheets off and swing over the edge of the bed, standing on shaky legs. Ellie watches, her smirk widening, not even bothering to hide her amusement.

You shoot her a glare. “Shut up.”

“I didn’t say anything.” She leans back against the dresser, legs spread, mug cradled loosely in her hands, eyes dragging over you in that slow, unhurried way. She’s memorizing every mark she left, every inch of bare skin now illuminated by the light. “Just appreciating the aftermath.”

You roll your eyes, but your cheeks warm anyway. Before you can shoot back a response, she tosses something your way—a soft bundle of fabric. You catch it midair, unfolding it. A T-shirt. Hers, obviously.

“This is all I’m getting?” you ask, lifting an eyebrow.

Ellie flops onto the edge of the bed, pulling on her jeans, that fucking smirk never leaving her lips. “What, you want a medal too?”

“No, dumbass. Pants.” You gesture to your mostly bare legs. “Or am I supposed to just strut out of here in nothing but this?”

Ellie hums, head tilting like she’s actually considering it. “I mean… yeah? Could be a serve.”

You glare. “Ellie.”

She grins, taking another slow sip of coffee. "Alright, alright. You can borrow something.”

You huff, pulling her shirt over your head, the fabric soft and smelling like her. “Generous.”

She snickers, getting up to rummage through her bag. A moment later, a pair of jeans lands on your lap. “Don’t say I never did anything for you.”

You unfold them and immediately groan.

“Oh, come on,” you grumble, holding up the jeans.“These are massive. I look like I raided my dad’s closet.”

Ellie, still perched against the dresser, tilts her head, eyes dragging over you in that slow, lazy way that makes your stomach flip. “Nah,” she muses, taking a sip of her coffee. “If you were wearing your dad’s jeans, they wouldn’t make me wanna fuck you all night again.”

Your breath catches—just for a second—before you recover, scoffing as you lob a pillow at her face. She dodges easily, laughing, while you mutter under your breath, pulling the jeans on. They hang ridiculously low on your hips, and you have to roll the waistband several times to make them even somewhat wearable. With a huff, you snatch a belt from the chair, looping it through and cinching it tight.

By the time you’re slipping on your shoes, Ellie is leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed over her chest, her smirk growing by the second. She’s watching you with that barely concealed amusement, like she’s holding back from making some smartass comment.

You narrow your eyes. “What?”

She nods toward your legs, lips twitching. “Nothing,” she says, voice dripping with amusement. “Just… loving the fit.”

You glance down at yourself—the borrowed jeans, the oversized shirt, and all of that paired with heels. The entire disheveled aftermath of last night wrapped up in one ridiculous outfit. It’s not your fault she wears jeans three sizes too big and still manages to look good.

You shoot her a glare, grabbing your phone from the nightstand. “You’re insufferable.”

“And you’re stealing my clothes.” She takes another sip of her coffee, watching you struggle with your belt. “Might as well start charging you rent.”

You roll your eyes and head for the door, but just as you reach the threshold, her voice stops you.

“Hey.”

You glance back over your shoulder, eyebrows raised in silent amusement.

Ellie, standing in the doorway, tilts her head, her lips curling into a playful grin. “Hope to see you around, superstar.”

You return the look, shrugging as you take a step backwards into the hallway. “Don’t hold your breath.”

Ellie chuckles under her breath, shaking her head in mock disbelief.

“Absolute fucking menace” 

・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

The air outside bites at your skin as you step out of the hotel, the morning sun glaring too bright for your tired eyes. Your phone buzzes in your hand—a quick reminder that your driver is two minutes away.

You glance down at yourself: your own clothes abandoned somewhere in a hotel room you never bothered to retrieve, and Ellie’s oversized t-shirt draped over your frame, hanging just a little too big, screaming that it isn’t yours. Great.

You roll your shoulders, trying to shake off the ghost of last night’s lingering touch, the memory of her hands gripping your waist, her lips trailing over your skin. You told yourself it was just fun, a wild one night stand with a hot rockstar to take the edge off. 

But now, you can’t help but feel that your body still hums with the echo of her touch.

You don’t notice the subtle flicker of movement—a camera shutter clicking once, twice, in a quiet, practiced rhythm drowned out by the city noise.

The soft thud of the car door seals you off from the world, and as you settle into the seat, you catch your own scent—a heady mix that unmistakably smells just like her. You rest your head back and inhale slowly, grounding yourself as the car pulls away from the curb.

But you don't know that across the street, a photographer flips through his shots, zooming in on your face. 

You don’t know that in just an hour, your name will be trending worldwide—paired inseparably with hers.

And you don’t know that later, back in the hotel room, Ellie is still standing by the window, scrolling through her phone. She pauses, eyes narrowing as a fresh notification pops up, a text from her manager— with a TMZ headline.

Your name. 

Hers.

“Shit.”

────────────

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࿐♡ ˚.*ೃ OMG OMG OMG THAT SHI WAS INTENSEEE. its so long im sorry lmaooo. I did like 30 proofreads, but there might still be a few grammar mistakes here and there—sorry in advance, english isn't my first language and I will be happy to receive constructive criticism!.

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see ya'll soon, stay tuned ;)

[randomshyperson]

One Of Your Girls - Wanda Maximoff Oneshots

summary: A study session turns into a make out session. Or the one where the most beautiful girl on campus is your situationship and you would never refuse to distract her, even during exam weeks.

words: 3.820k | warnings: (+18), college au, fuck buddies, popular!wanda x loser!reader, mostly smut but there’s actually some plot here, bottom!wanda (we need way more of this sorry), oral, fingering, some dirty talk, reader is briefly described to be shy and introverted because of the loser archetype, w and r are actually super comfortable with each other don’t be fooled, text messages are in bold cause i never tried that before.

A/N-> I have written more than 100 works for wanda, but I don’t remember ever writing casual sex before. To be a demisexual is really something, huh? Anyways, this was actually based on “One of Your Girls” from Troye Sivan, but around the middle I just started doing my own thing honestly. Good reading!

General Masterlist | AO3 | Wattpad | Song-Based Collection

-&-

To inspire students to have sharper minds, as she likes to say, Miss Harkness is known for having the hardest tests on the entire campus. This means that you needed to study seriously for next week's exam, without quick readings or breaks to watch the television or talk about anything other than Applied Sociology with your friends.

And definitely, no 'study' sessions with Wanda Maximoff.

You shouldn't even think about Wanda, and her emerald eyes and bold hands. You need to think about Émile Durkheim or Max Weber, and any other sociologist from past centuries, with their difficult theories from which long and complicated questions will be in your exam.

But Wanda and the casual thing you two have is like clockwork. You had barely made up your mind about keeping your distance, and prepared a proper study session in your dorm - empty that afternoon due to a divine miracle that occupied Natasha and her girlfriend Maria all day - for your cell phone to vibrate with the notification from the person you had decided to ignore.

Stealing a glance at the contact name, you grunted quietly and turned your attention back to the book that had just finished reading the first page.

Focus.

Another vibration makes you roll your eyes.

Wanda didn't do anything wrong, maybe you could just say you’re busy.

"I am bored."

Her text makes you laugh through your nose. Typing quickly, you don't expect a return to your "And I’m busy. Talk to u later."

Your cell phone vibrates again, but you stand firm. Sociology will not study itself. There's a shift of pages, and you taste some of the mint tea from the mug on the table before your cell phone rings again.

Maybe it's someone else. It may be important.

You can’t even fool yourself.

The book is placed on your lap, and you unlock the screen for a photo that brings a warm color to your ears and spreads around your body as quickly as this whole thing began.

"What if I was in public?." You type with a certain harshness, which doesn't match the way your heart missed a beat. Or how you've completely forgotten about the book now, and all you can do is bite back a sigh at the image of the prettiest nipples in this galaxy.

Wanda responds in the same second, and you want to ignore the way your stomach twists at the thought of her feeling eager for a response from you.

"Kinky."

You laugh, rolling your eyes. "You're the worst" That's what you type. You end up sighing when looking at the pile of books around. Wanda only needed one stupid photo to completely take your focus away.

She types before you can tell her off for it. "Are you in your dorm? Wanna see you."

You bite your lip. She is so infuriating.

"I have to study."

You can almost hear her giggling on the other end. "Don't you always?"

You think about cursing at her teasing, but you don't want to cross any lines. It's true that this relationship is a constant push and pull, but Wanda isn't clingy for no reason. You're about to ask if something happened when she adds "Are you really gonna force me to send another photo..."

You swallow hard. "I'm not forcing you to do anything. I was innocently studying until now.”

It takes her a moment, but finally, there's another photo. With your fingers shaking, you forget to breathe at the image of her thighs, a red garter belt in contrast to the pale skin, barely covered by her mini-skirt. It was such a simple image yet so provocative, Wanda truly had talent.

"Fuck me." You sigh quietly, unable to type anything back for a moment.

And so she does it first. "Did I melt your brain?"

“Please come here.” You begged, only imagining her smirk on the other line.

Wanda typed back a second later; “I thought you were studying. I wouldn't want to distract you.”

You huckle incredulously at her cynicism, and almost type back a curse but end up deciding to get up instead, hurrying to make the room less messy for your guest.

Wanda takes a while to show up at your room - Unlike you, she lives on the other side of campus, in an apartment shared with her brother. The outfit she's wearing is definitely more impressive in person, and you have to control yourself not to feel jealous at the realization that a good part of the university has just seen her parading around looking so stunning. This was definitely Yelena's doing, the one responsible for trying out everything she learned in her course on her friends and successfully dressing the whole group like supermodels.

Sometimes you wish you were more sociable, at least to be friends with Yelena and get new clothes.

Not that you have any idea of ​​this, but Wanda did a great job of hiding the way her stomach did two flips when she saw how comfy you looked, the dark green sweatshirt covering your shorts making her immediately think about exploring underneath.

"What's up, loser?"

Wanda had this problem. High defense barriers, almost all the time, but especially when she was feeling things that were out of her control. Like the way her heart raced in your presence, or how she was starting to run out of decent excuses to meet you without admitting the only reason was simply because she wanted to spend some time together.

When you first talked, freshman year, she was the most intimidating person on campus (she still is), but with a little insistence (or friends playing cupid) you had managed to see sides of her that no one else had seen. And vice versa.

It was a pretty interesting dynamic, the most popular girl on campus and a big nerd with social anxiety were somehow dating. Wanda dragged you to parties whenever possible, a possessive hand on yours and a threatening look at any idiot who thought of giving you a hard time. And often you end up in some drunken Instagram live or records of friends making out in the background.

When you weren’t doing the things she liked, Wanda would just show up. After your classes, in the study hall, during your break from your internship, and in your dorm. She didn’t mind showing you off, but there was something so soft about spending time alone. When her defenses were down, the mean girl mask would fall and she would laugh at your stupid jokes, or dress up in your clothes to make pancakes in the middle of the night.

It wasn’t an official relationship, but it was something really closer to one. Something that gave her free rein to come and go as she pleased from your life, and mess everything around as she went.

You made room for her to enter, and she gave a long kiss to your cheek before leaving her shoes at the entrance. You were blushing when you closed the door.

The dorm you shared with Natasha had little more than the space needed for two beds and two desks, but somehow you and her managed to squeeze in enough decorations on the walls and even some of her ballet and fighting awards. Your side was covered in band and movie posters and science holiday medals. A barely used keyboard sat dusty in the corner, and you had made a mental note to show Wanda how to play Over the Rainbow sometime. She tossed her backpack on the corner of your desk, and you hurried to try to clear up some of the clutter on the wood, blushing even more when she chuckled. 

“Come here.” She asked softly, and you swallowed hard as you stumbled closer to her again, guided by her hands holding your wrists. Wanda actually wanted your arms around her, and that’s where she put them. So her hands went up to your shoulders. “You always get so shy when we’re alone.” 

“I am shy.” 

She shakes her head slightly.  “That’s not true,” she says, leaning in close to brush her lips against yours. You gasp slightly, and Wanda pulls away, teasing. "You're an introvert, but no one shy says the things you say when you're turned on, darling"

Yochuckle, shaking your head with pink cheeks. "Shut up." 

She bites back a smile, and leans in, but the kiss is too short, it's so unfair. You try to chase her mouth, but Wanda pulls away to hug you. And that surprises you as much as her breathing deeply into your neck. 

You don't remember hugging her before. Not really. There's plenty of sex of course, and making out and pillow talk and late-night snacks. But Wanda isn't the type to cuddle, or hug. It gives what you two have an intimacy that you understand she doesn't want to have, or didn’t, past tense. 

Your hand caresses your back, and you're not quite sure if you should say anything but finally you do; "Is everything okay?"

It's like throwing a bucket of cold, reality-filled water over her. She breaks the hug, forcing a laugh that doesn't convince you at all.

"Of course!" She says, pulling you close at once and giving you a kiss that's much more determined than before. That almost makes you forget where you were, almost. "Let's take these off." She pulls the folds of your sweater up, but even though you let her, you risk:

"Wanda, are you sure-"

She cuts you off again, this time kissing you with tongue. It's definitely hotter, and it elicits a breathless moan from you. Her hand holds your face, controlling the kiss until you whimper against her mouth. Wanda lets you breathe as she pushes you by the shoulders to the bed, and you fall sitting, facing her.

"I said take your clothes off." She repeats, but it's her who puts on a little show. She pulls off her blouse at once, and the exposure of her breasts covered only by a red lace bra leaves you mesmerized. Wanda giggles at your reaction. “Every damn time.” She teases, her hands moving to undo it. But you move suddenly, grabbing her hips and pulling her onto your lap in urgency. Wanda gasps in surprise at the heated kiss, losing herself in the task of removing her bra as you start to suck on her tongue. With one hand on your shoulder for support, the other ruffles your hair before she feels her bra loosen on her body, not having even noticed your hands working on the clasp until now. She bites her bottom lip as she feels the item being pulled away from her body. 

“You’re getting better at this.” She teases again. You look at her with lust-bright eyes but also with a frown.

“Better? When have I ever been bad at this? Certainly not with you, because you came three times on your first time together.” 

Wanda raises an eyebrow at you, her hips grinding slowly against your lap. “Like I said, not shy at all.” You roll your eyes, gripping her hips a little more firmly to guide her movements. It's Wanda who chases your mouth again, returning with equal fervor every kiss you give her.

Your hands let go of her hips to slide down her thighs, until finally touching the garter belt. You break the kiss with an affected groan, and Wanda takes the opportunity to catch her breath a little. If the image of her swollen lips and dilated pupils wasn't enough to drive you crazy, looking down did. Her skirt was wrinkled up, and the red garter belt was truly a sight. A damp spot was now visible on your pants from all her grinding, and you would have time to feel proud of making her so aroused with just kisses later.

As you pulled the garters and made them slap gently against Wanda's skin, you smiled when she shivered, a breathy moan escaping her mouth. It was such a beautiful thing, turning all her bad girl attitude into a pathetic mess of whimpering.

But suddenly you remembered that she had walked across half the campus wearing this, so your clenched jaw had another reason.

"Did you get dressed up for me?"

Wanda gave a short laugh, not really understanding what you were saying. "You'd like that, wouldn't you?"

You glared at her, your hands giving another warning tug, and Wanda wanted to hate the way her body twitched, but she couldn't help it.

"If not me, who?"

She blinked in confusion, deep in her own lust. 

Why were you still talking when she was literally dripping on your lap?

"What are you-" She fell silent when you grabbed her throat, your grip making her thrust her hips in desperation for friction, her mouth opening in a needy moan. Her own reaction surprised her, and Wanda would have tried to work things out if you hadn't taken away her ability to respond when you kissed her again, dirty and hard until she started whimpering on your tongue again. When you pulled apart again, your fingers invaded her mouth and Wanda's eyes widened, realizing that this might be the first time she'd come without even being properly touched.

You seemed to have noticed the same thing, a chuckle escaping you as she began sucking on your fingers with the same fervor she was trying to grind into your lap.

"Tsk, look at you, Wanda." You began, your hand moving from her throat down to her garter belt, to pull it off again. "You really want me to believe anyone else can turn you into this needy mess?" Flushed with arousal, Wanda still manages to frown in confusion. Anyone else. What the hell are you talking about? There’s no one else.

But suddenly, you remove your fingers from her mouth, and when she tries to ask, it's too late. Your soaked fingers have moved down and they fill her without warning, sinking inside her and eliciting a throaty moan that makes her head fall forward, forehead to yours, and nails digging into your shoulders. You laugh hoarsely. "Fuck, you're so wet, Wands."

The dirty sound of your fingers moving inside her echoes in the room along with her breathless moans, but you don't prolong things for too long. There’s an urgency and roughness to your movements that makes Wanda roll her eyes back and bounce on your fingers in animalistic desperation.

“Oh, baby, I’m gonna come, I’m gonna—” It’s always such a beautiful sight. She arches on top of you, spasming as her climax hits her and spreads hot waves of pleasure. Your hand is soaked, but you pull your fingers away to lick them one by one as Wanda tries to get back into orbit.

When she finally does, it's rewarding. It's your turn to have your throat grabbed, and Wanda presses forward until you're lying on the bed, at her mercy, even as a smile plays on your lips.

It's time for her to shake that smugness off your face.

"You're overdressed." It comes in a warning tone, and her hands go down to remove your clothes, one by one. You help her, between one kiss and another, a touch and a squeeze, until finally, Wanda ends up on your lap again, this time, with no fabric between you other than the beautiful lingerie she picked out for you.

Oh, of course she lets you know.

"I don't want you to get any more cocky than you already are." She began between the countless breathless kisses you were exchanging, minutes on end in this hot make-out session. "But all I could think about when I bought it was how you were going to look at me." She takes advantage of your gasp in surprise to bite your lip and pull, making you tremble. With a smug little smile, Wanda looks at you with darkened eyes. "And how were you going to take it off."

Your hands move of their own accord - There's a hard tug to pull her against you, and you end up rolling around on the bed, until Wanda ends up underneath, writhing at your touch. Your fingers slipped under the belt again, but now you take your time to remove the item, slowly until Wanda couldn't hold her breath any longer.

Stealing a glance at her dripping pussy that she displayed so proudly on her parted legs, you clicked your tongue again before finding your space in her middle, your hands fitting behind her thighs.

"You spoil me, you know?" You whisper, feeling her fit her ankles into your back, an impatient whimper escaping her. You were so close to where she wanted, needed, but still not giving her what she was begging for. "I don't know what I did to deserve such a sweet gift."

Wanda tries to play along, she really does. But you give her a tentative lick, and another, and all that escapes her are shaky moans, as one hand grips your hair, the other seeks support in the sheets. Something she can pull at will without hurting.

She feels hot in all the right places, and she wants to police herself for how addicted she is becoming to the feeling of having you like this, but it's impossible to think about that right now. With you eating her so well and making her forget all her problems.

You hum suddenly, satisfied at the taste, and at the vibration, Wanda loses it. There's a loud whimper escaping her throat as she arches against you, begging for more, but you hold her in place, your own hips grinding against the bed as Wanda starts to sound desperate for your tongue to go deeper.

When you risk teasing her again, shallow tongue strokes that leave her dizzy and shaking, Wanda loses her patience. She curses under her breath, and grabs your hair with determination, managing a satisfied grunt from you before she forces your face against her pussy. Not caring if she’s hurting you or suffocating you, Wanda chases her high with near desperation. She grinds her hips against your face, and locks her legs behind your back, using you until she comes.

She sounds so hot when it finally happens. Your name drips from her tongue as she drips into your mouth. It’s so strong that her body instantly goes weak, her legs shaking around you. You chuckle against her thigh, taking great satisfaction in leaving her like this.

Still catching her breath, she calls out. “Come here, asshole.”

You think she wanted a kiss, maybe another orgasm. But Wanda just adjusts you to her side, so she can rest against you. This is new too, spooning. It's the kind of thing casual encounters shouldn't do.

Of course she notices how tense you've become, and it only takes the moment for her to stop shaking for Wanda to look up, her chin resting on your chest.

"You don't have to overthink everything."

A nervous laugh escapes you. "I wasn’t."

Wanda makes a small grimace of unconvincedness. "I know you were. It's what you do. It's one of the things that makes you, you." She says, and it takes you a little by surprise. She sighs then, and looks away, resting her face against your chest again. You almost think she's not going to say anything else when she continues. "It's good that you think of all the possibilities. That way I'll never be able to disappoint you, you'll always see it coming."

You frown, absorbing her words in silence for a moment. Wanda begins to draw patterns on your stomach that look like her initials, until you sigh.

"I know we haven't named it what’s between us, but whatever it is, you can always tell me what's bothering you." You let her know quietly, your fingers playing through the strands of her hair. "And we can just talk, you know? It doesn't always have to end in sex. You don't have to get a new lingerie as an excuse to see me. No matter how hot you look on it."

She pinches you for the joke, but she’s smiling when she looks back at you.

“You’re not good at the whole casual sex thing, are you?” She teases, but she’s genuinely so happy with your previous words that she just can’t hide it.

You smile, watching her hover closer and closer. “You think? Because I think I’m doing pretty well at this, miss-Oh, baby, I’m gonna come,”

You do an imitation that makes Wanda's eyes widen and she blushes deeply while she huffs in embarrassment. You burst out laughing when she tries to cover your mouth and stop the teasing, and it ends up turning into a small fight of hands and tickles until Wanda ends up underneath again, now with her hands pinned on either side of her head.

There is an exchange of glances between the two of you, and you are smiling just like her.

You know that today, Wanda will not tell you what bothered her, what brought her here. She is right, however, you’re an overthinker and already have a hundred possibilities for what could have brought her there, and considering that you know from her friends how much she has been fighting with her father in the last few weeks, it is not hard to assume it is related to that.

But Wanda returns the intensity of your gaze, and you know that something between you has changed. She will tell you when she is ready.

Your grip on one of her hands loosens, and Wanda uses the opportunity to touch your cheek.

"What are you thinking about?"

You sigh, and she can tell. Her heart misses a beat, and she considers if she’s ready for a confession. If it would scare her or make her so happy, she would freeze. Maybe both. 

But you grimace a little, and smirk, and Wanda feels silly for even considering.

"I'm definitely going to fail Miss Harkness's class this semester."

Wanda frowns and then bursts out laughing, confused and incredulous.

"What?" She asks between laughs. “Why would you be thinking about this now? With a naked girl in your bed, you nerd!”

You giggle at her words, your free hand fitting on her waist as you wait for her to stop chuckling. "I don't know why you're laughing, this is your fault. You ruined all my study sessions with your... distracting presence."

She rolls her eyes in a playful manner. “"Well, I could always just leave-"

You grip her waist tighter, holding her in place. "Nah, who cares about classes anyway? Come here."

Wanda will definitely help you study, she makes a mental promise. But she will kiss you first just a little longer.

[specialgradefckr]

Catching Strays

Satoru Gojo is rich. Obscenely so.

But he's also busy - too busy to have time to meet someone and go through all the song and dance of dating and having a relationship.

The hookups... even being a certified fantastic top tier lay, it's just not doing it for him anymore.

He wants that connection. The intimacy. The personal knowledge and inside jokes and soft affection that comes with a relationship.

And sure, some of it is on him. He's got a fun personality - jokes and jibes and little remarks that he really doesn't mean badly, but tend to be taken in certain ways.

("That's a lot of words to say I'm an asshole." His last potential date had snapped. "Even with a face like yours, people have standards. My life doesn't revolve around you.")

Really, he's nice when you get to know him! But he's also lonely, and bored, and every hobby he tries out never lasts more than a couple days.

It's hard, being as naturally talented and intuitive and as intelligent as him. Everything gets old so fast. It's all too easy.

Gets him wound up. He's got so much energy. And the one thing that never gets old to him? Other people.

So when he meets new people he can be sort of... overwhelming. Overly familiar. Annoying. Clingy.

(Okay, maybe he's a little bitter about how that last one. He'd offered to pay her bills! Why was she so worked up over her dumb career? He had way more money, and he was plenty generous with it!)

Lately, he's been toying with a different solution to his problems - hybrids.

They're like people, just basically as pets (which sounds a little messed up when he thinks about it, so he promptly stops thinking, and the problem goes away) - companions who can live with him, eat with him at mealtimes, cuddle up and even provide some intimacy.

That sort of thing is apparently frowned on, but who cares? It's not like he'd ever force anyone. One look at him and they'd be begging for it.

Do you ever think about anyone besides yourself? You're going to wake up alone one day, with no one to put up with your selfishness.

And besides, they'd live together! They'd become friends naturally!

Yeah... a pet would be great for a busy guy like him. Just some cute thing sitting and waiting for him at home, ready to jump on him as soon as he's back.

("Gojo, you barely take care of yourself. You think you can take care of another person?"

"Please, I've looked this up! Cat hybrids are especially independent. Come on, can't you see me with a cute little kitty curled up in my lap?"

"You're actually hopeless.")

Shoko doesn't know what she's talking about. He can be responsible, he simply chooses not to, because life is easier that way. But cats are easy to take care of!

He just has to find the right one. He's been to a couple shelters, but none of the hybrids there have spoken to him.

It's kitten season, apparently - they're really pushing the young ones on him. But Satoru, despite what Shoko thinks, is responsible. He's looking for something older, mature, able to take care of itself (and also consent).

And what does he see as he strolls through a less-wealthy part of town on his way to his favorite ramen shop?

A cute little stray, big pleading eyes and a sign saying "Anything Helps", tail curled up around you as you look up hopefully to passing strangers.

His heart squeezes a little at the sight. There's a small dish in front of you with a scattering of spare change.

Satoru stops, mid-stride, backing up and grinning down at you.

Looks like it's this kitty's lucky day.

So... it turns out it's not so simple to adopt a stray hybrid.

It's a little annoying. You're a sorry, scraggly thing, begging for scraps in a dingy side corner.

And yet you seem to take some kind of issue with his generous offer of adoption.

Satoru supposes he can forgive you for not trusting a stranger, but he brought you out for ramen! You sat with him for the whole meal! That's longer than ninety percent of his dates have tolerated him!

Deep down, some voice is echoing the same old taunts in different words.

Even a stray off the street doesn't want your company. The best you can do is bribe people to love you, and even with all your money, the love runs out quick.

Funny how the voice sounds a lot like his mother! When talking to his dad, of course. Not him. His parents both loved him.

They'd sent him to the most expensive schools, bought him all the latest and greatest of everything, gave him a penthouse and a vacation home as a graduation gift.

Only, it was sort of big for him to live in all by himself. Satoru tries explaining it to you, but you're reluctant for some reason.

It's hard to tell, between all your stammering and nervous trailing off. How you seemed to stare at him, distracted by his beauty.

Heh. He does get that a lot. But you're the cutest, sweetest, most darling creature he's ever laid eyes on, all pathetic and needy-eyed, and he's not going home without a kitty today.

"What do I have to do to make you come with me?" Satoru says it bluntly. "I have money. All the money you could ever want. You can eat bluefin tuna every day-"

"I eat the blue tunas all the time," You interrupt him eagerly, "The ones in the can!"

"Not those - it's - listen, just tell me you'll come back with me!" He really wants to take you home now. You're just too cute.

Your ears droop (oh my GOD it's so adorable), "I'm sorry, I... I don't know. I need to get back to my spot before Suguru comes looking for me."

A dark feeling seems to creep over him like a shadow. You have an owner? And he's making you beg out on the streets?

Well, you are a very convincing cutie. But Satoru doesn't support scam artists! He makes you eat canned tuna.

You do seem to be in relatively good condition, though, now that he takes a second look at you. No fresh cuts or bruises, not a scratch. Your clothes are worn and dirty but you're surprisingly well groomed otherwise.

"And you want to go back with him? I'm way richer," Satoru says, crossing his arms, looking down at you over his glasses.

"Oh, uh, Suguru is also a stray," You say sheepishly, tail swaying gently, "He's my friend. He takes care of me, I could never leave him behind."

Something twists in his chest. You didn't want to leave your friend - that was why.

One pet was already a reach for him, really. But taking in you both?

Give it up already. You're not capable of love. You aren't capable of caring about anyone besides yourself. You're selfish, and you're fine with it.

You'll die alone, Gojo.

He smiles at you, a wide, easy grin.

"I've got room for two."

[dearestzaychik]

Our Forsakened Destiny.

This Fanfic is for those starving Forsaken Fans out there by the way!!

(( same here ngl... ))

[ Forsaken x Isekai'd Reader ]

[ Gender Neutral Reader ]

TW : Cursing, Touching Jokes ( only mentioned once ), DoubleFedora Mentioned but It's not something that will happen during the actual story.

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[ PROLOGUE ]

READER’S POV.

Clouds up in the skies, in a bustling city during the afternoon as they woke up to the sound of ringing.

“..What time is it already?”

Stated the individual, picking their phone up from the stand as they glanced at the upcoming discord notifications and a call from their friends. Their messages flickering in the channel as the Voice channel looked to be active as well. Looks like Peanut is the most active in the channel as of late.

MENTAL ASYLUM

The NUT :

@Loser101

Join.

Naps :

They might be asleep nut..

The NUT :

at 2 in the afternoon

I don’t think so

Their waking up bc

I said so!

Loser101 :

Boo

Hobo :

Oh my goodness me

Toilet

Menoes :

WAITT THEIR BOTH ALIVE

Hobo :

Im pooping rn

Loser101 :

Hold your horses I jst woke up..

The NUT :

Did you

stay up late..

again

Loser101 :

Yeah…

Menoes :

I think we might have gotten [ Y/N ] addicted to Forsaken..

The NUT :

GOOD

Now join us!!

@Loser101

Naps :

Don’t forget to join VC as well!

Stupid Idiot :

[ Sent an Attachment. ]

Loser101 :

Hold on I still need to get up dawg..

The NUT :

well be quicker

Menoes :

Veen I’m gonna touch you.

Stupid Idiot :

Yeahhh I’m switching out of 07..

Menoes :

WAITT NO I'M SORRY—

Naps :

Oh my days, Just play the game already the match is starting!

[ Message #general ]

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Right, Your dear friends. A few days ago, they seemed to pull you into a game called Forsaken on Roblox. Usually, you don't play games such as Roblox, preferring Identity V over games like that. But they somehow pulled you into a Roblox Game that had somewhat of the same mechanics as Identity V, hence the heavy persuasion from Peanut especially.

“Impatient as always.”

You quoted, knowing how impatient Peanut can be. They already seemed to have started before you, but nevertheless they can wait a little longer. After all, you just woke up and you at least needed to get ready for the day.

THIRD PERSON POV.

Getting up from the bed, slipping into your bunny slippers as you walked to the Kitchen. Turning on the Coffee Machine.. It was just a normal day like always, Thankfully there was a Holiday during Friday meant it was gonna be a Long Weekend. You didn’t need to worry about going to work for now, that’s for sure.

Peanut and the others are still waiting, but they wouldn’t mind waiting for a little while longer. Even though you played the game, you didn't know much compared to how the group knew the Techniques and Story for each character. Maybe the basics of the gameplay you definitely grasped, but the Story behind the characters? Not so much. Maybe the simplified version, but even so it's still limited knowledge about the game itself.

Maybe one day you’ll finally find the time to actually start reading and looking into the story itself.

Ding! Seems like the coffee machine is done making your coffee, you can actually start going through your day.

READER’S POV.

As you were about to take a sip of your freshly brewed coffee, a notification rang in the air once more.. Right, Peanut and the others were still waiting for you. As you opened Discord, you didn’t bother to read the messages in the channel as you immediately joined the VC.

“Oh my god… The whole entire server is targeting us at this point!”

Stated Naps, seemingly frustrated at the current situation she had at hand.

“We’re healers, of course they would target us because we are practically a whole healing buffet for the survivors if we keep surviving!”

Meos replied to Naps, At this point not taking everything seriously as he laughed it off.

“Finally, [ Y/N ] joined the vc... Join us right now in Forsaken or else I’m gonna fucking loose it.. I’m about to be killer right now and may Zeus strike me down if I’m lying, I’M GONNA MURDER THIS FUCKING GUEST-”

Peanut suddenly shot out, before muting her mic. She doesn’t usually open her mic unless it's to call something out or rant about a player, either way Peanut is just.. being Peanut.

“Alright, alright.. Just give me a moment to open my PC then I’ll join.”

You, along with Meos and Naps continued to chat in the call as you joined the server. Looks like Veen was in here too, but he didn’t have his mic opened. Either way, you managed to join in time as the Round loaded in, With Peanut being the Killer as Mafioso.. While you played Chance, unable to switch characters either way since you joined as soon as the round started.

“WAIT OH MY GOD THERE’S A 007N7 IN THE ROUND–”

“Meos, No.”

Surprisingly after that whole thing as well as Peanut killing off the Toxic Guest she wanted to kill, The round was a friendly round as Peanut didn’t seem to want to kill anybody else.. Other than the fact that she was approaching you slowly of course.. She shipped DoubleFedora, but was very open to other ships of course. The pinnacle of being a Multishipper..

“No, no, no. Stop being gay...”

Naps stated, trying to body block Peanut away from you, definitely done from Peanut’s shenanigans.. You couldn’t help but stifle a laugh, this was the usual events that happened during your gameplays with your dear friends. Sadly, Caleb and Debt didn’t seem to be able to play today, but there were still plenty of times to play with them either way.

“Sorry guys, I prefer 1x1x1x1 x Sonic the Hedgehog as my OTP..”

Veen suddenly stated, jumpscaring everybody with how randomly timed he opened his mic. Earning a questionable silence in the voice call before the collection of sudden screams replied..

“..WHAT-”

After the round ended, A Message popped up onto your screen. It quoted..

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[ team c00lkidd join today! ]

- [ YES ]

- [ NO ] [ YES. ]

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.

“..Guys, do you know what this message is?”

Although it seemed to be somewhat in themed of what you’re playing, considering there was a Killer that was themed around c00lkidd, but you couldn’t help but feel wary about the message. After all, none of your friends ever mentioned a message like this.

“What do you mean by a message? Did someone message you?”

Meos asked, seemingly clueless about the message you received. His tone feigned concern, earning you Naps and the other’s attention as well.

“..No, it's a message box that popped up in the game. It says `team c00lkidd join today`.”

Before you could even get a reply from any of your friends, your PC started crashing as multiple errors seemed to come out while everything else was becoming glitchy and distorted. Your friends tried reaching out, feigning even more concern when you didn’t respond.

“..[ Y/N ]? A—-re yo[] there?—”

“Can yo[] 6ear u—”

The voices of your friends glitching out before an uncomfortable silence lingered in the air, their voices long gone as the only thing you seemed to be able to hear was a static noise coming from your PC. Suddenly, there was a force pulling you in specifically from the Monitor itself. No matter how hard you tried to pull yourself away from it, the harder it was to get out of this predicament. Eventually, the force overpowered your feeble strength as a human, getting sucked inside the Monitor as everything around you seemed to crumble apart and glitch out even more.

You were scared, frightened to say the least. After all, You still had so much to live for. Looking at your hands as you fell into a black abyss, you can see yourself glitching out as well. Although it was painless, it sent a wave of sickness through you. As the further you fell, the more it was a struggle to even open your eyes. The last thing you could see before you passed out was a pop up in red stating..

[ Welcome to your new home. ]

:)

Whether that message was meant to comfort you or not, It definitely didn’t help. Whatever was happening to you, it was far from normal against Human standards if it weren’t so obvious enough. Cursing yourself as you couldn’t open your eyes any longer, succumbing to the abyss that pulled you further and further as your little life was about to take a turn. 

.

.

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[ ACHIEVEMENT UNLOCKED. ]

Welcome to Hell.

NOTES

I'm starving so I decided to cook food myself.. It might look like a bit of a joke first but we can take some jokes then and there! Especially since this is just the prologue :3

Right now, this is a small introduction to a series so do hope in mind that everything might not stay the same!

[mikkomacko]

Reader x mob!boss Nico (also sorry if that's wrong, this is my first request for the series) but something angst smut maybe after Nico comes from the gym?

A/n: This has been in my inbox for literally months I am so sorry it took me so long to write this omg 🫶 but for those of you worried I ignored your blurb requests, they’re probably just in my drafts still lmao

I changed this up a bit but I hope you still love it!

Warnings: smut, jealous Nico, angry Nico

____________________________________________

Nico doesn’t have exes. He’s got old hook-ups and one night stands, girls that clearly come to the Rock looking for him. They’ve all heard about how hot the Devils boss is, as well as the Devils themselves.

It never bothered you.

Nico never had anything with them, at least nothing real, so you never thought you’d have to worry about jealousy between you and Nico. At least nothing beyond the light hearted pouting he does when you’re with Johnny or the way you attach yourself to his hip when girls are obviously flirting with him.

Until an old face made an appearance at the Rock.

You blame Jack for it, honestly. It was harmless, Tyson was harmless other than Nico recognizing the name as soon as you stumbled upon your old boyfriend at the bar. It was one of the first personal stories Nico ever heard about you. Your high school boyfriend, your first love, your first heartbreak. You dated him for a while, fell in love, decided to celebrate your year anniversary together by finally doing it. The universal act of love, the infamous first time from every rom-com.

Except there was nothing romantic or comedic about it at all. It was below average sex, the build up lasted longer than the act itself, and you felt so empty, so disappointed afterwards that you had burst into tears as soon as Tyson was off of you. He panicked, got dressed and basically ran out the door saying he'd check on you later. Later came the next day when he broke up with you, saying you were too much for him and should be with someone who could handle you.

Nico hated Tyson enough as is just for that story. And then he hated him even more when he strolled up to you at the bar and acted like old friends, chatting with you even as you tried to keep conversation quick. You know Nico would've scared Tyson off in a matter of seconds, but you wanted to be civil, so you let him hang with his arm around your shoulders, sipping his beer with a brooding look as Tyson babbled about his life to you.

And you were just about to excuse yourself when Jack ambled up to Nico and asked, "who's the douche?" Which just egged on your boyfriend, his temper already flaring and he shot Tyson a dirty look.

"Her ex."

"Ouch," Jack winced, then patted Nico on the shoulder and leaned into his ear. "She has a type, I'll tell you that."

It was just loud enough for you to hear, turning to Jack with a glare and to hopefully placate Nico but it was all for nothing. He was already angry, already boiling over with a jealousy you've never seen. Denying Jack's statement was only going to make it worse, even though the stupid boy was fucking with Nico. The only thing Nico and Tyson had in common was their dark eyes, and even then Nico's are far darker, hold more depth, are more beautiful.

"Sorry Tyler," Nico spits, not even attempting to be polite or genuine in his 'mishap" on the name. "We've gotta go."

Nico's dragging you away after that, hand on the back of your neck and even though he's jerky and rough as he guides you around the bar and down the hall, his hold isn't mean or hurting. Just demanding.

Swiftly, Nico shoves you through the door into the office, kicking it shut behind him and flicking the lock. You weren't going to say anything, knowing words right now would do nothing for Nico. He accepts and expresses love through physical acts. You two are working on the words thing, but when he's upset like this, it's best to stick what's fool proof.

His hands grab at your face, cupping your jaw and dragging you forward, smashing his lips to yours in a fierce, biting kiss. And you just let him, holding the sides of his neck in your careful hands, easily letting him lead you further into the office until your thighs hit the desk. They’ve barely touched the hardwood before he’s grabbing at your thighs, hefting you onto the desk with effortless strength.

You know Nico is strong, have seen him in the gym, have seen him moving boxes and furniture, have seen him fighting. And you’ve felt it firsthand. Yet every time it takes your breath away, reminds of you that you’re with a man now, not some silly boy like Tyson and all the other average Joes before Nico.

It sends a wave of heat down your spine and straight to your core, arousal pooling in your belly and suddenly it’s like you’re so fucking empty and useless, like you’re life’s mission is to get Nico as deep into your pussy as he could possibly get. How you ever lived without him between your thighs, you don’t know.

“Nico,” you whisper, pleadingly, whimpering when he bites your lip in retaliation. His eyes are dark and demanding when he looks at you, bordering on anger but you know him better.

He just wants your attention. He wants you.

“Don’t talk to me,” he scolds, then almost dismissively he grabs at the bottom of your shirt and starts to haul it up and over your head. “Not after you made me stand there with that fucking hodensniterin and play nice.”

Knowing better, knowing you’ll get him the way you want if you sit there and let him go about his way, you comply as he throws your shirt to the floor, already working his over his head.

You don’t even realize you’ve moved until Nico is staring down at you, an unimpressed look in his eyes. “Now you want me?” He goads, wrapping a hand around your wrist and stopping you from trailing your fingers any further over his abdomen. “You want to touch me?”

You’re nodding along before he’s even finished speaking, brain already going fuzzy from how needy you feel. It’s like all your brain can think about is him, all you can see is him, all you want is him. His name forms on your tongue again and you have to bite the inside of your cheek, forcing your mouth to stay shut.

Meanly, he laughs, yanking you up to your feet by the wrist. Like a rag doll you go with him, flung and maneuvered around so swiftly it catches you off guard when your elbows hit the desk, cushioned by something. Blinking a few times, you look down and realize Nico has thrown his shirt over the hardwood, bunched up as padding under you.

It’s such a sweet thing for him to do, not unexpected of him even when he’s like this, but it still makes your body flush with heat.

“Too fucking bad,” he continues, “I’m doing the touching. Not you.”

Like it’s instinct, you arch back into Nico when you feel the heat of his body get close to you. He chuckles lowly, barely skimming the palm of his hand over your ass but flinching away when you press back into him.

Tears of frustration sting at your eyes, desperation burning in your skin. If he’d just let you talk, let you tell him how badly you want him, how much you need him inside of you right now it’d be fine. But he’s in a mood and already told you not to talk to him.

His fingers hook into the band of your skirt and underwear, the pads of them rough and warm as they drag across your skin. In one pull he's yanking both over the globes of your ass and down your thighs, leaving them bunched up around your ankles.

The air is cold on your newly exposed skin, raises goosebumps on your skin and you shiver, squeezing your thighs together to preserve some heat in your burning core, and subtly relive some of the throbbing in your clit. Nico reacts before you can even let out a hum of satisfaction, wedging a hand between your thighs and smacking them back open.

"Spread them," he demands, shoving his foot between yours now for insurance. You groan, hiding your face in your arms and biting into the meat of your forearm to silence yourself. Apparently that's the wrong move too though because Nico bumps his knee into the back of yours. "Nuh-uh, hands now."

Begrudgingly, you slip your arms around to your back, pressing your wrists together. Chest and cheek flat on the desk, the new position pulls at the stretched muscles of your legs, the ache just enough to make you throb even more.

His left hand gathers yours in one, long fingers holding them together by the wrist, and he presses down into the small of your back. You whimper, more out of embarrassment and neediness than pain but Nico sills for a moment, his right hand stroking over your ass gently.

"You ok?" He checks, voice a quiet murmur and you take a mental check of your body. It's a little degrading being thrown and bent over his desk like this, ass up for him to do as he pleases, but it stings in the best way possible. You trust Nico, know that even when he's got you exposed and vulnerable like this he would never go too far, even though he could.

It's exhilerating.

"Tell me baby," Nico encourages, settling his hand on the seam of skin where your thigh meets the bottom of your ass.

"I'm ok," you say, closing your eyes and breathing in the cologne on his shirt, the rich scent of him. It's soothing and you quickly amend, "I'm perfect, Schao."

You can picture the pleased smile on his face, the dimple it carves into his cheek.

"Good girl," he purrs, dragging his thumb through your folds. The sudden touch sends a shock wave through you, hips canting and rising to your toes to give him better access to your swollen and desperate clit.

"S'this all you needed to be nice to me again?" Nico skips over where you want him the most, going back to thumbing at your hole teasingly. "To pay attention to me instead of that cock-sucker out there?"

You're not sure if your allowed to talk again, so you bite your tongue, sucking in quivering breathes of air through your nose to stay grounded. I was just being polite, you want to say, to defend yourself. I hate him and I love you Nico.

Torturously slow, Nico dips his thumb between your folds, sinking into just the knuckle and you hold your breathe, scared that any sudden movement will spook him into stopping.

He pumps his thumb in shallow movements, careful and calculated. It's not everything you want from him but it's something, a content breath puffing out of your nose.

"Thinks he knows you," Nico mutters, more to himself than you. He pulls back, his thumb suddenly disappearing and you whine, pussy clenching down on nothing. Thankfully, Nico doesn't care about the bratty noise enough to scold you. He silences you with two thick fingers, shoving them into you up so abruptly you flinch, digging your cheek further into his shirt.

"He doesn't," Nico says, louder this time like he's trying to remind you. It goes in one ear and out the other, your mind to preoccupied with the feeling of his fingers pumping in and out of you. He pets at the sensitive sponge part of you, curling his fingers to hit it dead on and your knees shake.

"He doesn't know how to bend you over like this, how to take you apart like I do, does he?"

Your fingers clench into fists, stomach clenching and every push of Nico's finger stretching you pushes you closer and closer to your orgasm. His hand on your wrists tightens, holding you in place and then his fucking his fingers into you faster. Your orgasm crashes over you, white stars bursting behind closed eyes.

He's still talking to himself, muttering stuff under his breath and stroking you through your high. Your thighs quiver and shake, the insides of them damp with it and your knees fully give out, leaving you a heap on the desk. The pounding in your ears must have blocked out the sound of Nico's zipper and the drop of his jeans, because your caught of guard when his fingers have only left you for a second before the weeping head of his cock is prodding at your pussy.

In one swift motion he buries himself in you, stretching your walls as his hips sit tightly against your ass. You feel useless, boneless after your orgasm, only able to lay there and take it. It's so nice you could cry, sniffling as Nico pulls back and fucks into you, a raw moan ripping from his throat.

"Fuck so perfect for me," he compliments, setting a fast and brutal pace. Your thighs and hips smack into the desk so harshly they'll definitely be sore tomorrow if not bruised too. His other hand grabs at your side, holding you so tightly you can feel his fingers between your ribs, painfully keeping you still.

"Just for me, fucking made for me."

You gasp, arch further into his strong body as your walls flutter around him. "All for you Nico," you mumble submissively, hoping to god that that's what he wants from you, that he wants to hear you. He groans in approval, the sound wrecked and rough. "Just want you, only ever want you, Nico."

Somehow he picks up the pace, fucking into you even harder and in the back of your mind you wonder where the fuck he got such a sturdy desk. Pressing his chest to your back, Nico sweeps your hair to the side, his lips finding the side of your neck.

"He had you first," he says low, breath hot against your ear "but I get you forever, right?"

Desperately, you nod, another orgasm building in the base of your belly. "Forever," you confirm. "He had me first, you'll be the last to have me Nico."

Sweetly, Nico kisses your temple. "Tell me," he request, now kissing at your jaw. "I want to hear more baby."

The juxtaposition of his cock fucking you into next week and his mouth being so sweet and soft cuts through you, leaves you raw and exposed to him. You knees shake again, thighs quivering as your high gets closer and closer, stronger now that he's already left you used and sensitive.

"He was the first to have me," you choke out, Nico's mouth ghosting over your cheek as he waits with bated breath. "but you were the first to have me raw, boss."

Nico makes a wounded sound, like he'd been punched in the gut and his hips stutter for a moment before picking up the same pace. He captures your mouth in a biting kiss, licking into your mouth with such dominance and control it sends you over the edge.

He fucks you through it, rocking his hips a few more times before he too stills, buried to the hilt as he comes. You pulse around him, greedily accept everything he pumps into you with absolutely no resistance. Nico kisses at your slack mouth, mumbling soft praises as you come down from your second orgasm.

"So good, baby. You did so good for me," he dots kisses under your eye, dragging his fingers across the skin and you blink your eyes open, realize your eyelashes are clumpy with tears and he's drying your cheeks for you.

"Nico," you cry, legs and hips aching, the edge of the desk digging into your skin uncomfortably He shifts, taking his weight off of you and releasing your hands. They prickle with pins and needly, the blood rushing back to them as they fall to your sides, numbly.

"I got you sweet girl," he assures, kissing down your back. Your in a haze as he pulls his jeans and boxers back up, then helps ease your underwear and skirt back into place. You make a noise complaint, needing to at least clean up a little bit but you don't make a move to do anything.

"You're fine," Nico tells you, slipping a hand under your stomach to drag you up from the desk. "Can sit out there with me dripping from you, yeah? Want you to remember who takes such good care of you now."

Like mush, you let Nico turn and sit you on the desk again, swiping his black shirt from the surface. He looks so pretty standing over you, cheeks flush and glowing, eyes still dark with arousal. His hair falls a little flat over his forehead, a crooked and boyish smile on his face.

"Yeah," you agree, still dazed as he uses his shirt to wipe under your eyes and around your lips, cleaning the spit remaining from his mouth.

Nico leans down, kisses between your eyes in a move so soft and fluttering it tickles, makes you blush like a school girl. "You're never too much," he promises, recalling the reason why Tyson had broken up with you. "You are everything. So pretty when you come, when you cry for me like that. I live for it."

Your heart aches in your chest, his kind words drawing a fresh wave of tears to your eyes. It had been something that followed you, an insecurity always in the back of your mind. You accepted whatever love you could get because you thought that was it. You were too much, they couldn't offer you more and you couldn't ask for more.

Until Nico.

"I love you Schao."

He smiles all handsome and precious, smoothing your hair down with a gentle hand. "Love you more, my baby."

You fall forward into his stomach, cheek pressing into the damp skin on his ribs. You want to hug him but your arms are still regaining their feeling and your legs are tired right now, so you settle for lazily wrapping an arm around his thighs.

“What’s a hodensniterin?”

He snickers, hand on your head, protectively. “Ball fucker.”

[luvvcho]

❅・WHISPER OF THE HEART

SYNOPSIS — The three times he tries to tell you, and the one time he actually does.

WC — (2.3k)

CONTENT: SFW, angst (if you squint), hurt/comfort, family issues/neglect (gojo's family is lowkey awful), idk how to make these erm

a/n: hai ^.^ so i lowkey haven’t written since 2021, so pls bear with me as i get back into writing again! also, i’m looking for a beta reader! if you’re interested, you can reach out to me :p m. list | next >

Tokyo, Japan 2005

Gojo's eyes stung from trying to keep a tear or two from rolling down his cheek. He tilted his head slightly, blinking fast as if that might stop them from falling and hoping you wouldn't notice.“They won’t let me in,” he muttered, stepping away from the towering gate of his family’s estate. His voice was light, almost casual if not for the way it cracked at the edges. “Dad’s pissed I missed my English lesson, so I guess I’m not sleeping here tonight.”

Your brows knit together. In the two years you’d known him, you never quite understood how his family worked, only that they were wealthy, controlling, and conditional in their affection. As long as he played the part they expected, they gave him everything. The moment he strayed, even slightly, they turned their backs, and just like every other time, he ended up on either your doorstep or Suguru’s.

His head hung low, but his arm still found its way around your shoulders, pulling you along as he walked away from the gate. You caught a glimpse of his mother in the upstairs window, standing in the supposed warmth of their grand home, watching her son disappear down the street. You opened your mouth to say something, but what was there to say? Instead, you swallowed it down. “Where are we going?”

“Payphone,” he sighed. “Mine’s dead. Gotta ask Suguru if I can crash at his place again.”

Again. This happened too often.

“Stay at mine,” you blurted before you could stop yourself. “It’s my fault you’re home late anyway.”

Gojo glanced at his watch, the golden arms pointing to 6:30. Seven hours ago, he had been standing in front of your teacher, voice sharp, unwavering, as he tore into them for lecturing you about the length of your uniform skirt. You had both landed in after-school detention, but if given the chance, you knew he’d do it all over again.

He shook his head. “Nah. Zenin’s an asshole.”

His dismissal was instant, but you didn’t miss the way his fingers curled just slightly around your shoulder, holding on.You both rounded the corner in silence, leaving behind the towering homes and pristine streets of the Gojos’ gated community. 

The cold late-November air bit at your skin, and you tugged your jacket higher, burying the lower half of your face into the fabric. Your mind was surprisingly empty; no lingering thoughts about his family, no plan for what came next. Just the rhythmic sound of your footsteps against the pavement.

Unbeknownst to you, the boy beside you was drowning in his thoughts. A million miles a minute, his brain ran wild, tripping over itself. Not about his father slamming the door in his face, not about the house staff refusing him entry, and not about how ridiculously messed up it was that having to sleep somewhere else didn’t even surprise him anymore.

His thoughts fixated on something far more immediate… his arm. His arm which was slung so casually around your shoulders, holding you close against the cold.

He hadn’t even realized it at first. The motion had been instinctual, natural, like muscle memory. But now, the weight of it pressed against him like a revelation.

He had his arm around you.

Sure, you were close. Friends, obviously. Best friends, maybe. But never in a million years did he think he’d be standing like this, side by side, your body tucked under his as if it was second nature. He couldn’t help but think you fit into him perfectly, as if you were meant to be there.

If he looked down, really looked, he’d notice everything he’d been unconsciously curious about since the day he met you. The way your hair caught the dim glow of the streetlights, the way your breath fogged up in the cold, the way your fingers curled into your sleeves for warmth.

And suddenly, his jacket felt way too hot. His grip flexed slightly on your shoulder, fingers twitching before he forced them to still.

This was stupid. Ridiculous. He was Gojo Satoru, for god’s sake. He had girls throwing themselves at him all the time. Not that he ever really cared. But standing here, his heart thudding a little too loud, a little too fast, over something as simple as having his arm around you?

He was so screwed.

“Do you wanna talk about it?” you ask, snapping him out of whatever strange, faraway thoughts had him so quiet. It wasn’t like Gojo to be this silent. If anything, you were more accustomed to telling him to shut up rather than coaxing words out of him, so it didn’t take long for you to notice something was on his mind.

His head jerks up slightly, caught off guard. “Uh…talk about what?”

You give him a look. He knows exactly what. And when realization flickers across his face, his expression shifts instantly.

“Ohh,” he drawls, lips curling into a smirk. “Are you worried about me? How endearing, I didn’t know you cared about me so much.”

And just like that, he’s back.

“Satoru,” you warn, pulling away from him.

He instantly regrets teasing when the warmth of your body leaves his side. Cold air rushes in between you, and even though it should be a relief, his body still feels uncomfortably warm. But he shoves his hands into his pockets and keeps his expression even, pretending it’s no big deal

“You know you can talk to me about anything,” you remind him, stepping forward to walk ahead.

He nods, though he doesn’t say anything.

The truth is he doesn’t want to talk about his family. He doesn’t want to talk about how easily they push him away, how conditional their love is, how the weight of their expectations feels like a noose around his neck. His family already has a say in every part of his life, in who he is, in who he’s allowed to be. Hell, he wouldn’t have even met Suguru if it weren’t for them. You were the only thing they hadn’t touched and he refuses to let them ruin you, too.

So silence settles between you. You’re waiting for him to speak, patient as always, but the words never come.

A few minutes pass, the payphone comes and goes behind you, and the scenery transitions from the suburbs into a less wealthy part of Tokyo.

It’s only when the glow of streetlights stretches further down the road that Gojo suddenly speaks again, voice lighter, teasing. “Say it again.”

You blink. “Huh?”

“My name,” he grins, this time not hiding the way he tilts his head slightly toward you, playful curiosity glinting in his blue eyes. “Say it again.”

You sigh, giving him a small shove with your shoulder. “Stop being weird. Why should I?”

“I like when you say my name.”

You narrow your eyes. “That’s a really weird thing to like.”

He gasps dramatically, pressing a hand over his chest as if you’d just personally offended him. “Don’t make fun of my interests, you wound me!”

A small laugh escapes you despite yourself. “You’re so annoying.”

But you’re smiling, and you notice that Gojo, for some reason, can’t stop staring at you.

The teasing back-and-forth continues, playful insults exchanged between you until you both break into giggles. He plays up his grievous injury by clutching his heart, stumbling as if he’s been struck by your cruel words.

And then—

“Oh, Satoru.”

His head snaps up.

The way you say his name makes something in him trip over itself, and it almost manifests into his exterior world as he stumbles over his own foot.

His first thought is that you’re about to say something important. Something meaningful, something that might make his pulse pick up for reasons he doesn’t yet want to think about.

But then you tilt your head back down the street.

“We passed the payphone a few blocks ago.”

Gojo blinks, momentarily dumbfounded, before breaking into a grin. “Aww, you said my name.”

You groan. “Shut up.”

He hums, pretending to think. “So… do you wanna turn back?”

“Obviously.”

“Why?” he shrugs, stuffing his hands deeper into his pockets. “I thought I was staying with you.”

You open your mouth, then pause. The easy confidence in his voice makes it sound like it was always going to be that way, like it was never even a question in his mind.

“…You sure?” you ask, hesitant now. “I was just kidding earlier. I mean Suguru’s place is closer, and my family might not be home—”

Gojo shrugs. “His parents are family friends. It might not be wise to go there. Plus I like your place better”

It’s simple. It’s honest.

It’s enough to make you roll your eyes and keep walking, but you don’t argue.

Gojo lets himself fall back in step with you, brushing against your side again, this time without wrapping his arm around you. His hands are cold, but the warmth from earlier still lingers.

It was much darker now than when you had left Gojo’s place. If not for the streetlights and the bright glow of the business signs overhead, the night might as well have been pitch black.

A block from your house, the neon light of a convenience store caught your attention. You tugged lightly on Gojp’s sleeve.

“Let’s grab something to eat.”

Gojo hummed in agreement, following you inside. The store was small, the aisles packed tight, and the fluorescent lights buzzed softly above. You made a beeline for the instant ramen section, scanning the shelves.

“What’s the move?” he asked, casually resting his chin on your shoulder from behind.

You stilled at his closeness, your face heating in response.

“Spicy miso,” you said, grabbing two cups. “Unless you wanna cry over beef-flavored sadness.”

He chuckled. “Oh, bold of you to assume I won’t cry anyway.”

You rolled your eyes and shoved the cups into his chest. He caught them easily, grinning as he walked toward the register. You followed, digging in your bag for your wallet, but before you could pull it out, Gojo stopped you with one hand and swiped his card with the other.

“Satoru,” you whined.

“You’re letting me stay the night. The least I can do is buy us dinner.”

You opened your mouth to protest but hesitated when you realized his hands were still on yours. The warmth of his touch lingered a little too long. Before he could notice the scarlet creeping up your neck, you turned away.

“Whatever. I need some air,” you muttered, stepping outside.

Moments later, Gojo followed with two steaming cups of ramen in hand, the convenience store door chiming as he walked through. He settled beside you on the curb, letting the cold night air cool the broth. You both take your first bite.

Gojo nudged his foot against yours. “Y’know, you didn’t have to offer me a place to stay.”

“I know.” You took a careful sip of your broth. “But I did.”

He stared down at his ramen, idly swirling the noodles with his chopsticks. The streetlights cast a soft glow over his face, rounding out the sharp edges, making the sharp angles of his jawline softer, less untouchable.

You’d always heard girls at school talk about how perfect he was: his looks, his charm, the effortless way he carried himself. But you had never really seen it before. Not like this. Not until now, in the quiet glow of the streetlamp, with the world stripped of its noise.

You were not going to catch feelings for Gojo Satoru. You looked away, shoving the thought aside and focusing back on your food, until something caught your eye.

Tiny white flecks drifted down from the sky, vanishing the moment they met the pavement.

“Satoru, look!” you said, turning back to him, excitement bubbling in your voice. “It’s snowing.”

Gojo lifted his gaze, watching the flurries dance under the streetlights. And then, when he looked back down at you, something in him shifted.

The snow dusted your lashes, melting with every blink, your cheeks were tinged pink (not just from the cold but from being flustered earlier, but this he did not know). And, oh, how he wished he could just tell you how beautiful you were. “Pretty,” he said, quietly. “The snow, I mean.”

You reached up, brushing a few flakes from his hair, laughing softly. “It matches your hair.”

And suddenly, he wanted to say it.

In fact, this was the part where he was supposed to say it.

That you made him feel like home, even when he didn’t have one. That you were the only person who had ever wanted to get to know him. Not his last name, not his status, just him. That he didn’t know when it started, but somewhere along the way, his heart had stopped being his own. That standing next to you, sharing cheap convenience store ramen, in fact doing anything with you, felt more like belonging than anything he’d ever known.

His lips parted.

He whispered your name.

“Mhm?” You looked up at him mid-bite, noodles hanging from your lips.

I love you. I’m in love with you.

But the words get caught in his throat.

He let out a breath, setting his cup down beside him. “You, uh… got something in your teeth.”

You blinked. “Huh? Seriously?”

He nodded. “Yeah. Right there.”

You ran your tongue over your teeth before flashing him a grin. “Got it?”

He stared for a moment longer than necessary, something unreadable in his eyes. Then he glanced away. “Yeah. You got it.”

You smiled, leaning your head against his shoulder. “Thanks, Satoru. You’re a good friend.”

He exhaled softly, resting his head atop yours.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “Friend. You too.”

And for now, that was enough.

the plot for this has been fully thought out, and i’ll do my best to get the next 3 chapters done as soon as possible, but i am a student and pretty busy.

pls do not copy, repost, or claim my work as your own :) if you have any issues with what i wrote or noticed any mistakes, let me know privately. thank you for reading <3

[malk1ns]

february 27 vs flyers, 5-4 OT win

i was sent a picture that appeared on the jumbotron before the game started and it looked like geno had a lock on the front of his breezers, almost like he was wearing some sort of chastity device....

inspiration also drawn from the second picture in this tweet.

Sid doesn’t usually put Geno in chastity during games.

Practices are one thing. Nobody’s really going all-out and there’s very little contact—it’s not a regular thing, but sometimes Sid will be in a mood, or Geno will be acting out pre-rut, or they’re using it to make their afternoon plans a little more exciting. Chastity at work has fallen out of favor in general, and in pro sports in particular where even the most well-designed cage can cause injury with the wrong movement. 

Geno’s rut is due in a month, and his eye is starting to wander like it does this time every year. Normally Sid doesn’t mind; all alphas look, everyone knows that, and at the end of the day it’s Sid that Geno comes home to, Sid who Geno spends his ruts into, Sid who wears Geno’s bite on his neck.

Sometimes, though, Sid’s even keel about Geno’s tendency to drool after whatever other omegas are out on the ice upends itself. The first game in their home-and-home against Philadelphia turns out to be the tipping point.

Sid hasn’t paid much attention to how the Flyers are doing this year. They’re not contenders and neither are the Penguins, and the rivalry isn’t as blood-hot as it was when they were younger. He still gets a rush out of scoring in Philadelphia, but it’s not the same level of hatred. Maybe he’s getting soft as he gets older, or maybe over a decade of the Flyers being practically irrelevant while Sid had to make room for three Stanley Cups and two Conn Smythes on his trophy shelf cooled it off.

Whatever the reason, Sid’s vaguely aware that they’ve got a young Russian superstar in the making over there, but it’s not until Geno starts ‘casually’ stretching near him during warmups, making a point to skate by the Flyers bench during play stoppages to exchange a few words that Sid gives it more than a passing thought.

Geno had been restless on the trip back to Pittsburgh, handsy with Sid in a way he almost never gets after bad losses…unless something else got him riled up, of course.

He argued when Sid brought the chastity belt out after their pre-game nap, but Sid has his pride, and Geno’s easy to manipulate when he’s hopped up on his own hormones; he’s suggestible, extra vulnerable to an omega looking up at him through their lashes and putting a little whine in their voice. Knot-stupid, just like every alpha on the planet—they’re all the same at the end of the day.

Sid eased the sting by letting Geno hump his thighs until he came all over Sid’s skin; while Geno was sprawled out on their bed, knot deflating and half-drunk on his orgasm, Sid cleaned himself up, wiped Geno down, and locked him into his cage, all before Geno was coherent enough to notice and try to talk his way out of it.

That doesn’t stop him from arguing the entire way to the rink.

“Hurts,” he whines, shifting in the passenger seat. Sid keeps his eyes on the road; seeing Geno squirm like this always gets him going, and if he gives off even a hint of interest Geno will be on him all night. “Sid, can’t wear during game, like, people see.”

“Should have thought of that on Tuesday before you were drooling after that kid,” Sid says, laying on the horn and swerving into the turn lane he needs at the last second. “Whoops. If I could trust you to keep it in your pants, I wouldn’t have to do this. He’s way too young for you anyway; you’ll thank me after your rut once you’re done being embarrassed.”

“No,” Geno mutters petulantly, but he slouches in his seat and stays quiet the rest of the drive.

The guys notice. It’s impossible not to. Sid holds his breath as they get changed, keeping an eye on where Geno’s practically trying to crawl into his stall, but nobody says anything. The team is never shy about giving them a hard time when Geno shows up wearing it to practice, but that’s different and they know it—dirty jokes and poorly-done innuendo doesn’t apply here.

Everyone gives Geno space, except for Karl who sits next to him for a while. Sid keeps half an eye on the way they bend towards each other to whisper; Karl’s omega keeps him on a pretty tight leash, and while he’s never had to play a game in chastity Sid knows for a fact that Mel has her own methods to keep him under control when his rut is approaching.

The cage works. Geno doesn’t so much as look at the Flyers’ bench the whole first period. Granted, he doesn’t do much of anything else either, and they troop off the ice at intermission down one and with basically no pushback to show for it.

Sid’s as much at fault as anyone; he spent most of the first 20 minutes watching Geno, tracking his path across the ice and cataloging the slump of his shoulders on the bench. He ignores Sully’s irritated diatribe in favor of watching Geno listlessly spin his stick in his stall, eyes downcast and thighs pressed tight together.

Sid’s lips twist into a frown. It’s working, but not the way he anticipated. He wanted Geno focused and hungry, not embarrassed and withdrawn.

Just as they’re about to walk back out for the second, Sid tugs Geno’s sleeve to hold him back. “Hey,” he says, keeping his voice low. “Get this game for us and I’ll make it worth your while.” He cuts his eyes to Geno’s groin where the outline of the lock is pressing against his pants.

Geno doesn’t say anything, but Sid knows when he’s caught Geno’s attention.

It takes another two goals against and a goalie change that has the entire bench cowering under Ned’s anger, but when Geno flips that switch he’s still one of the best in the league, and Sid loves nothing more than sitting back and watching him decide the outcome of a game by sheer will alone.

When Geno snaps the OT winner into the net, Sid can’t get to him fast enough. He practically pushes past Kris to slide under Geno’s arm, tilting his head just a bit, enough for Geno to scent him but (probably) not enough for anyone else to notice what he’s doing out in the middle of the ice with every camera on them.

“That was so hot,” he says under his breath as they skate to the bench, biting back a smile when Geno tries to follow him down the tunnel and gets yanked back. First star of the night gets media duty when it’s a national game, and Sid loves making Geno wait.

Geno’s practically gagging for it by the time he gets back to the locker room, but then the team cameras crowd around him for the helmet video. He stumbles his way through a little speech, eyes cutting to Sid constantly as he trots out something encouraging. Sid slips out when the reporters are let in, taking pity on Geno’s distraction and giving him room to breathe so he can talk to the media without giving them a soundbite he’ll regret later.

By the time Geno barges out of the locker room, hair still wet and eyes wild, Sid’s waited just about as long as he himself can stand without starting to fray at the edges; Geno must be absolutely miserable.

Sid chatters through the whole drive home, as much to give himself something to think about that’s not Geno’s dick as it is to help Geno out. Geno’s responses are mostly grunts, but he laughs at Sid’s shitty joke about Torts, so Sid’s feeling pretty good when they pull into his garage.

As soon as they’re up in the bedroom, Geno’s on him.

“Please,” he groans, mouthing at Sid’s throat. He has Sid pinned to the wall and he’s rubbing himself all over Sid’s body. Sid can feel the metal from the chastity belt through Geno’s thin sweatpants. “Sid, need so bad, you’re say to me if I win you game you give to me, please, it hurts.”

“Okay, big guy,” Sid gasps, fighting off his instinctive urge to fawn, to swoon into Geno’s arms and let Geno take him. “You’re right. You got me that game—let me take this thing off and I’ll take care of you.”

Geno fights it, but Sid powers him down onto the mattress and strips off his clothes before sitting on Geno’s thighs, effectively pinning him in place. Geno thrashes, working to try and throw Sid off and get him belly-down and presenting, but Sid can see it in his eyes—he likes it when Sid bosses him around just as much as Sid does.

Sid keeps the key for Geno’s cage on his necklace, and he fishes it out from under his shirt with shaky hands, almost dropping the chain once it’s unclasped. The sound Geno makes when Sid frees his dick and balls from the constrictive metal is more pain than it is pleasure, and Sid doesn’t give him a second of relief, getting his hands around Geno’s dick and stroking him until he’s hard.

“Damn,” Sid says, mouth watering. Geno fully hard is impressive; even for an alpha he’s big, dick curving up to his belly button and veiny. The skin where his knot swells is loose, and Sid knows from experience that it’s sensitive as hell. When he pinches it, Geno practically howls.

Sid squeezes his thighs around Geno’s legs tighter and rocks down, shivering a little at the stimulation over his pussy. He’s wet and throbbing—Geno’s rut doesn’t always trigger his heat, but he suspects this year it will, with how attuned he’s felt to Geno’s shifts in hormones over the last few weeks. “What do you want?” he manages, clenching down on nothing. “You could fuck me, or I could use my mouth. Whatever you want.”

Geno looks distraught, hands flying to Sid’s side as Sid fumbles his shirt off. “Siiiiid,” he whines, plucking at the waistband of Sid’s sweats until Sid lifts up enough to somehow rip his way out of those too. “So hard to choose, like, both so good.” He bites his lip, and Sid suppresses a whine of his own; he wants to do that. “Pussy always so sweet though, think I want to be inside.” His hands find the creases of Sid’s hips, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise. “You give?”

“Anything,” Sid groans, lifting up and sliding down onto Geno’s dick without giving either of them time to adjust. “Fuck.”

Geno’s hands spasm around his hips as Sid sets a rhythm, bracing himself against Geno’s chest and ducking his head. Geno’s huge and hot in him, and Sid’s legs are sore, but he’s falling into the pheromones Geno’s pumping out—they’re fogging up his brain, erasing the muscle strain from the game and the pain in his elbow and leaving behind nothing but white-hot pleasure. Sid thinks his toes are curling.

“Malysh,” Geno rumbles, alpha-deep from his chest, and when he moves to flip them over Sid doesn’t offer an ounce of resistance. Geno cages him in, arms on either side of Sid’s head, and Sid purrs, baring his throat. Geno’s bite mark feels like it’s throbbing and fresh.

Geno ducks his head into Sid’s neck and fucks into him, careless and hard and feral, and all Sid can do is lie there and take it, every ounce of strength sapped from him as Geno’s knot starts to swell in him.

When it catches, the noise Sid makes is animal, desperate, and when Geno’s hand sneaks between them and closes around his dick he comes so hard he loses the ability to breathe for a second.

Geno’s own breathing is heavy in Sid’s ear, labored and undercut with a nasal whine as he humps forward, knot caught but the need to fuck into Sid until Sid is well and truly claimed still pushing him. It’s not like the steamy romance novels all the Russians in the league are always passing around for their book club, Sid can’t feel Geno come inside him, but he can Geno’s knot twitch, can feel his balls pulse against his ass as they empty themselves into him, and it’s arousing enough to make his soft dick twitch painfully.

Geno always goes nonverbal when he’s knotting Sid, so Sid runs his hands down Geno’s back and purrs as hard as he can, feeling Geno’s frantic heartbeat start to slow as Sid settles them down.

By the time Geno’s knot has shrunk enough to pull out, he’s regained his ability to speak.

“Oh god,” he groans, flopping onto his stomach and narrowly missing clocking Sid in the face with his arm. “Best.”

“Uh huh,” Sid says, blinking rapidly to try and keep from passing out right there. “Good work tonight.”

Geno snorts a laugh into the pillow, then heaves himself to his feet and stumbles for the bathroom. Sid listens to him piss and wash his hands, letting himself wallow in the vast fondness that rushes through his chest.

Alphas have wandering eyes. Alphas need to be kept in their place, reminded where they belong. Alphas are ruled by their instincts and their hormones, and the closer they get to rut the more like animals they act. Everyone knows that.

What Sid also knows is that Geno never lets Sid get up after they fuck, insisting that he be the one to get water and clean Sid off. He knows that Geno will stay up half the night, long after he thinks Sid’s fallen asleep, tracing the scar he left on Sid’s throat all those years ago. He knows that Geno will do anything, reverse the clock a decade and a half on the ice, if it will make Sid happy. 

Sid wriggles on the mattress until he can get to his discarded pants, pulling his phone out of his pocket and tapping at the screen, holding the phone close to his face and closing one eye so he can see. Geno always somehow manages to have all of Sid’s favorite stuff on hand for his heats, everything he happens to be craving that cycle there for him to indulge in; Sid needs to do a better job of returning the favor this year.

[polar534]

I've been thinking about what after means for my Rook and Neve. Writing it out as an exercise more than anything. Then I remembered that before there was an after, there were two weeks of hell. Those two weeks sticking with Neve on some of her darkest nights even when after seems to finally stick.

Because of course there are nights where Rook is out late. That Neve's normal exhaustion from the cases she works during the day finally hits her shoulders. The weight of the never-ending work she puts in with the remaining members of the Veilguard to try and patch up the world left behind finally catching up to her. She passes out at her desk, not remembering where Rook said she'd be. She wakes to find herself alone...

And suddenly Neve is thrown right back to those two weeks of waiting in the Lighthouse. To the quiet aftermath of Tearstone Island.

Thrown back to the days with Emmrich consulting her on ways to narrow the search, his hair an absolute mess. Blood hastily wiped across his face, his cheek cut from the shaking of his hand as his razor reminds him just how uncertain he really is. Books tossed and piled high in his office, all dead ends. She hears Taash's rage, throwing furniture that always seemed to mend itself back together. Hears them roaring into the night, trying to get their voice to carry far enough for Rook to hear. To just find them already. Remembers Lucanis locking himself in his room, his eyes bloodshot from wrestling control between him and Spite. Both unable to do anything but wait. Both blaming themselves. His questions seem to echo her own. Why had Rook called out to him before she disappeared? He was right behind her. He was the closest. Why didn't he catch her before she fell?

She's brought back to Harding's quiet sobbing hiccups and the scout swiftly drying her eyes when she saw Neve approaching. Inexplicably trying to hold it together all for her sake. Even as reports came in from all over Northern Thedas. As the news breaks of the world to the South falling to the blight. The deafening silence coming out of Minrathous, from Dock Town, somehow echoing even louder than the world's cries for help.

She's brought back to the times she was asked to enter Bellara's room to find something. Maybe an artifact that Bel had been tinkering with would help. Of course Neve would find it, she understood Bel's system better than anyone else. Nevermind the fact that her hands shook as she picked it up. That the entire room felt wrong, and her stomach flipped to stand within it.

That unease never leaves her, even as her eyes are unable to look up at the decaying nest of feathers and fur that Assan had left behind in his favorite spot. Closing her eyes only makes her see Davrin. Makes her think of just how much she would give to hear his confidence one last time. To see the determination he carried in his shoulders with everything he did, inspiring the rest of them to keep going.

His never-ending faith in Rook.

The Grey Warden's oaths her uncle taught her echo in her head.

In death, sacrifice.

She's brought back to the nights where she shakily entered Rook's room, taking care to make sure no one else would see. Neve isn't one to hope for anything, she's played that game and lost too many times. But maybe, maybe she'd catch the world off-guard. That this nightmare would come to it's end and she'd walk in to see Rook, passed out on the couch in her room, snoring loudly enough to cause an echo down the hallway.

Telling herself she knew better when the room is empty, letting the door shut behind her and ignoring the frost gathering on the glass, preventing her from seeing the water beyond...

[charliedawn]

Hi Charlie! I recently came up with an interesting idea about the Hannibal family. The reader (the murderer) somehow found out that the Hannibal family were cannibals (maybe she was friends with Peter and he admitted it to her) and she decided to give them a present. How will they react when she comes in with a live connected person and says, "I wanted to surprise you, but, I didn't know which organ do you love, so I brought you a whole person” 😁

Hannibal Lecter Sr.

He’d be pleasantly surprised but would mask his amusement behind a polite, knowing smile. He'd step forward, examining both you and the terrified person you brought with a certain curiosity.

"My dear little lamb, what a…thoughtful gesture. One does not often acquire such an exquisite present without great trouble. Tell me, how did you acquire them ?"

He would take this as an opportunity to assess your potential. If you did it cleanly, efficiently—he’d be impressed. If it was messy and impulsive, he’d chuckle and offer you a bit of guidance, like a refined mentor shaping a promising protégé. Either way, he definitely considers this a sign of loyalty.

Hannibal Lecter Jr.

He’s find this fascinating. His eyes would settle with interest on the future dinner, and he'd step around the person like an artist inspecting a fresh canvas.

"A whole person, indeed…a truly generous gift. But the question remains—do you know how to carve, or shall I teach you ?" He said before taking out a knife and the person started screaming in fear—muffled of course.

Hannibal Jr. wouldn’t waste this opportunity to test you. If you show hesitation, he’d smirk, amused. If you show skill, he might actually let you assist in the preparation. Regardless, this is a bonding moment for him—proof that you belong in his inner circle.

Morgan Hannibal

Morgan would be the most pragmatic about it. He'd remove his gloves, exhale sharply, and give you an evaluating look.

"You’re either very bold or stupid. Either way, I like it."

He’d check the victim’s vitals, ensuring they’re still fresh and worth consuming. Then, he'd gesture for you to follow him into the kitchen. He’s not wasting a good resource. But this also tells him something important: you’re willing to go to extreme lengths for them. He won’t forget that.

Kevin Hannibal

Kevin would burst into laughter. Not just a chuckle—full-blown, incredulous laughter.

"Oh, princess, you really did that ? For us ? For me ? That’s…that’s insane—I love it." He’d walk up to you, tilt his head, and grin. "Did you enjoy it ? Did it feel good ?"

He’s way more interested in your experience than the meal itself. He might even praise you.

Him *smiling at you* : "Are you trying to impress me ? Because it’s definitely working."

Peter Hannibal

Peter…oh, Peter would cry. He’d look at you with wide, teary eyes, his hands clasped together.

"You—you did this for us ? You’re the best !"

He would immediately hug you, completely ignoring the horrified victim you dragged in. He’s just overwhelmed by how much you care. No one’s ever done something this meaningful for him before. It wouldn’t even occur to him to question your methods—he’s too busy adoring you.

Message from Author:

You have officially won the Hannibal family’s favor. They now see you as one of them. Whether that’s a blessing or a curse…well, that depends on how much you enjoy their company.

[rewatching-sam-and-dean]

I normally try not to weigh in too much on the actors themselves, but fandom is being hysterical (not in the funny way) as usual after The Boys promo video with J2 and Misha.

Here are some facts:

Jensen went to Kripke and asked if he had anything for him after SPN ended. Kripke helped him craft his audition until it would be acceptable for the other producers. We know this happened because Jensen told us, and he talked about it multiple times. There is nothing wrong with him going to Kripke for work. This is networking, and it’s what actors should do.

Jared never once publicly asked to be on The Boys. At most, he answered fan questions when asked what kind of character he’d like to play, but he never actually hinted he wanted a part. In articles, when asked if he’d join, Jared essentially said he was too busy filming Walke, in a polite way. Also fact, Kripke has hinted at wanting Jared on The Boys before Walker was cancelled, and he did so publically. Then when Walker was cancelled, Kripke really ramped up the public pitches to get Jared on the show, and was publicly psyched when Jared finally agreed. Jared never, publicly at least, even asked or hinted at wanting to be on The Boys, never mind begged.

Misha hinted multiple times publicly, including tagging Kripke on social media directly, that he’d like to be on the show. Kripke never said anything publicly, as far as I’m aware, about wanting or trying to get Misha on the show prior to the announcement from yesterday. When he talked about getting the biggest SPN Pokémon, it was when Jared finally signed on. When he talked about breaking the internet again, it was in reference to a J2 reunion on screen. When he talked about reuniting the SPN trio, it was in reference to JA, JP and JDM, not Misha. Was Kripke always planning to include Misha once he finally got Jared? Maybe. Is it possible he wasn’t going to bother with Misha until or unless he got Jared too? Yes. He could have hired Misha on at any time before and never did. Misha definitely publicly begged to be on the show, and Kripke never said anything in return to, or regarding, him being on the show until now. Kripke probably only brought him on because he thought of something funny/gross/trolling to do with J2 and him on screen.

Ultimately, I would have preferred not to have Misha in The Boys because when I finally get to see J2 on screen together, I didn’t really want him there, too. It feels like trying to shoehorn Castiel in with the brothers again from forced SPN scenes. But, I’ve also lost interest in the show itself, so I’ll probably pick and choose what moments I bother to watch anyway.

That being said, The Boys has a whole cast beyond Jensen being a regular in Season 5, never mind it being a giant J2 reunion that will take up a bunch of screen time. So, adding Misha to the mix isn’t exactly robbing fans of long and significant J2 moments on screen. (Though I’d still be happy for him not to be in their scenes at all).

Honestly, Kripke probably wanted Jared so bad, at least in part, so he could bank on free publicity in social media from Jared and J2 fans. He already had the Jensen fans on board. Similarly, he probably decided to add Misha for the same reason. Happy or not about his addition, people are talking about it on many social media platforms, this bring free attention yo the show.

Kripke just wants publicity.

What I want is to get out of this is at least one solid (hopefully more), Misha-less moment between J2 on screen.

But people are really losing their shit over what might amount to like 5 minutes of screen time from Jared and/or Misha. Jensen’s Soldier Boy isn’t even one of the main cast members, even either him being a regular this season, so I doubt there will be a lot of room to expand on a character for Jared (never mind Misha) and then interacting, on a show that’s on its final season and has many storylines to wrap up.

Anyway, in conclusion, only one member of J2M begged for a part in The Boys, and Kripke is using all of them to generate buzz. Simple as that.

[mrs-delaney]

Hide | An Unexpected Invitation | Chapter Two

Summary: Riley Carter never expected much from a simple text asking if she liked food, but Joe Burrow's direct approach catches her off guard in the best way. Between late nights at Electric Lady Studios finishing her band's new album and her growing anticipation for their first real date, Riley finds herself drawn to the NFL quarterback's refreshing authenticity. After a messy public breakup left her wary of relationships, especially with someone in the spotlight, she's surprised by her willingness to break her own rules for Joe. As their text exchanges and late-night calls deepen their connection, Riley faces a decision: maintain the careful distance she's built around her heart, or take a chance on someone new.

Pairings: Joe Burrow x Riley Carter (OC)

Word Count: 3.2k

Requested: No | Yes

Warnings: Mild language, flirty banter, mentions of past toxic relationships, public scrutiny, and undeniable chemistry.

This story is ONLY posted on Wattpad and Tumblr under miss_delaney. If you see it anywhere else, it has been stolen. Do NOT copy, repost, translate, or distribute my work on any other platform. Please respect my writing.

Want to be added to the taglist? Drop a comment or message me! 💕

Requests: Open

Author’s Note: Here we go! Sorry its late. This chapter is all about setting the foundation for Joe and Riley’s dynamic—playful, unexpected, and just a little bit risky. I love writing those early moments where two people click without fully realizing what they’re getting into. Their chemistry is building, and things are definitely about to get interesting. Let me know what you think! 😊💛

Riley stared at her phone, thumb hovering over the screen as she read Joe's message again.

Joe QB🏈: Do you like food?

A laugh escaped her lips before she could stop it. Was this his idea of a smooth opener? It was so direct, so oddly simple, that she couldn't help but find it endearing. She'd had guys slide into her DMs with carefully crafted messages, obviously rehearsed lines, and pretentious attempts at intellectual conversation. But "Do you like food?" That was new.

She tapped out a response, deliberately matching his directness with a hint of playfulness.

Riley 🎤: Yes, QB. I like food. Love it, actually. I'm always down for a nice meal.

She hit send and set her phone down on the kitchen counter of her rented NYC apartment, turning her attention back to the coffee brewing in front of her. The rich aroma filled the small space, mingling with the distant wail of sirens and the perpetual hum of the city that filtered through her half-open window. She was only in the city for another week—just long enough to finish the studio sessions for her band's new album before heading back to LA for meetings with their label. She wasn't expecting a quick response—the guy probably had a rigorous schedule with his sponsor events and appearances while he was in town. But barely thirty seconds later, her phone buzzed.

Joe QB🏈: Alright then, wanna come over Friday night? I'll cook you dinner.

Riley nearly choked on her coffee. Well, that was unexpected. Not the invitation itself—she'd had plenty of those—but the casual confidence behind it. No "maybe we could" or "if you're free sometime." Just a straightforward invitation to his place, with the added detail that he'd be cooking. It struck her as both presumptuous and refreshing.

She hesitated, finger hovering over the keyboard. The sensible response would be to suggest a restaurant instead—something public, neutral, safe. That's what her publicist would advise. Hell, that's what she would advise any of her friends. Never go to a guy's place for a first date.

But then again, this wasn't exactly a normal situation. They'd already met on national television. He'd already admitted to having a crush on her in front of millions of viewers. And something about his straightforward approach intrigued her.

Riley 🎤: You're telling me Joe Burrow can cook?

His reply came almost instantly.

Joe QB🏈: Don't sound so surprised. I can follow a recipe.

She grinned, shaking her head at his confidence.

Riley 🎤: Guess we'll see if they're as good as your QB skills.

Setting down her phone, Riley leaned against the kitchen counter and took another sip of her coffee, a strange flutter of anticipation settling in her stomach. She'd just agreed to a date—was it a date?—with Joe Burrow. The same Joe Burrow who'd turned bright red on The Tonight Show when she'd walked out. The same Joe Burrow who'd kissed her cheek and asked for her number with that endearing mix of confidence and nervousness.

It had only been a few days since The Tonight Show, but Riley's life already felt a little... different. Not dramatically so—she was still working with her bandmates on their new album, still navigating the busy recording schedule, still trying to make the most of their limited time in NYC. But there was something new weaving its way through the familiar rhythms of her life: the constant presence of Joe Burrow in her text messages.

She wasn't sure what had possessed her to say yes to his casual "I'll cook you dinner" text, but here she was, letting him monopolize her phone in the best way possible. What started as a simple exchange about food turned into hours of texting—playful, funny, and way too easy.

Each notification from him sent a little jolt of anticipation through her system—a feeling she hadn't experienced in years. Maybe it was the novelty of it all. Or maybe it was just him.

She liked his sense of humor. It wasn't forced or over the top; it was subtle, the kind of humor that made her laugh without even realizing she was smiling. And he paid attention. He actually asked her questions, remembered things she'd told him, and sent follow-up texts that felt genuine rather than perfunctory.

Like yesterday, when she'd mentioned in passing that she was trying to cut back on caffeine, and twelve hours later, he'd texted to ask how the caffeine withdrawal was going. It was such a small thing, but so few people actually listened to the details.

Joe Burrow was nothing like she'd expected.

She wasn't sure what she'd expected. Most athletes she'd encountered at industry events or award shows had come across as cocky—all swagger and practiced charm, their public personas polished to a shine. But Joe seemed different. He texted like a normal person—sometimes with perfect grammar, sometimes with abbreviations, occasionally with a meme that made no sense out of context but somehow made her laugh anyway.

There was something steady about him that settled her, a calm confidence that never veered into arrogance. In an industry where she was constantly surrounded by big personalities and bigger egos, his groundedness felt like stepping into a quiet room after hours in a crowded club.

And maybe that was why she didn't slam on the brakes like she normally would have. Why she was willing to consider having dinner at his place rather than insisting on a public restaurant with an escape route.

With a sigh, Riley set her empty coffee mug in the sink and headed to the studio. She had work to do, and she couldn't spend the entire morning analyzing text messages like a teenager. But as she settled in front of her keyboard, her phone buzzed again.

Joe QB🏈: What are you up to tonight?

She smiled, typing back quickly.

Riley 🎤: At Electric Lady. Long night ahead.

The response was immediate.

Joe QB🏈: What's Electric Lady?

Riley stared at the screen, momentarily taken aback. Was he serious? Electric Lady was legendary—practically hallowed ground for musicians. But then again, not everyone lived in her world, did they?

Riley 🎤: You're kidding.

Joe QB🏈: I'm not.

She shook her head, smiling despite herself. There was something endearing about his willingness to admit he didn't know something.

Riley 🎤: It's only one of the most iconic recording studios in NYC. Hendrix built it. Bowie recorded there. Springsteen, Patti Smith, The Clash... Do I need to keep going?

Joe QB🏈: Alright, alright. I get it. Sounds cool.

Riley snorted. "Sounds cool." As if she'd mentioned a trendy new coffee shop rather than one of the most significant musical landmarks in the city.

Riley 🎤: Cool doesn't even begin to cover it. It's my happy place when I'm in the city. Something about the history in those walls... it's like you can feel it when you're creating there.

There was a pause before his next message—longer than his previous replies had been.

Joe QB🏈: You sound like you're working late a lot this week.

The observation surprised her. Most people—especially people she'd just met—didn't notice or comment on her schedule unless she explicitly mentioned being tired or busy.

Riley 🎤: Yes, we are on a roll. We're finishing the bridge on this new track that's giving us hell. It's either going to be the best thing on the album or drive us all insane before we get it right.

She set her phone down, turning her attention to the keyboard in front of her. Her fingers drifted across the keys, finding the melody that had been haunting her for days—an insistent, driving sequence that contrasted with the vulnerability of the lyrics she'd been working on. It was the kind of song that would have their fans holding up lighters at shows, a perfect arena anthem with just enough raw emotion to make it personal.

But her mind kept drifting back to their conversation. To the way he actually seemed to care about what she was doing, not just when she'd be free to see him.

The rest of the week followed a similar pattern. When she wasn't at Electric Lady, she was either catching up on sleep or texting Joe. It was quickly becoming her favorite way to wind down after her long nights in the studio.

In the back of a sleek black Escalade, Manhattan's lights refracting through rain-streaked windows, her phone lit up with his name. Not a text this time—a call. She hesitated for only a second before answering.

"Isn't it past your bedtime, Burrow?" she teased, leaning back against the leather seat.

A low chuckle filled her ear. "Probably. But I figured you'd still be up."

"Good guess," she replied, watching the city lights blur past her window. "Just heading back to my place from the studio."

"How's the mysterious project going?" he asked, genuine curiosity in his voice.

This was what continued to surprise her about Joe. He was curious about her work, and unlike other people who would ask about her career out of politeness, Joe actually seemed interested in the details. It threw her off at first. She wasn't used to someone wanting to know her, not just the version of her that showed up on red carpets and album covers.

"It's going well," she said, more openly than she might have with someone else. "Today was mostly vocal tracking—the less glamorous part where I sing the same line fifty times until it's perfect."

"Sounds exhausting," Joe commented.

"It can be. But there's something satisfying about getting it exactly right. The guys are patient, though. Andy, our drummer, is practically a saint when it comes to vocal sessions. Nick keeps us laughing even when we're ready to kill each other over a single note."

"I get that," he said, and she could hear the understanding in his voice. "It's like when we run the same play over and over in practice. Looks boring from the outside, but there's something about the repetition, the precision..."

"Exactly," Riley said, surprised by how well he seemed to understand. "Different fields, same principle. The pursuit of that perfect execution where everything just clicks."

There was a comfortable pause before Joe spoke again. "So, we still on for tomorrow? Or are you going to be too wiped from your late nights?"

She smiled into the darkness of the car. "I'll be there. Seven o'clock, right?"

"Yeah," he confirmed. "I've already started prepping some things."

"Wow, taking this seriously, huh?" she teased.

"Can't have America's dream girl thinking I can't cook, can I?"

Riley groaned at the reference to the media nickname that had stuck after their Tonight Show appearance. "Please don't call me that."

Joe laughed, the sound warm and rich through the phone. "Sorry. Couldn't resist."

"Uh-huh. I'm hanging up now," she said, though there was no bite to her words.

"Goodnight, Riley," he said, his voice softening.

"Goodnight, Joe," she replied, ending the call with a smile lingering on her lips.

The car pulled up to her building, rain now falling in earnest. As she dashed inside, nodding to the night doorman, she realized she was actually looking forward to tomorrow night in a way she hadn't anticipated. There was something about Joe's direct approach, his genuine interest, his unexpected moments of vulnerability that made her want to know more.

Their calls had quickly developed a rhythm of their own. Late at night, her phone would light up just as she was finishing at the studio.

Their conversations rarely lasted more than ten minutes, but she found herself looking forward to them—this small, consistent connection across the miles between their separate worlds.

But as much as she was enjoying their easy back-and-forth, a part of her couldn't help but hesitate. A part of her kept waiting for the other shoe to drop. For the easy conversations to turn complicated, for the red flags to appear, for the inevitable letdown.

Her last relationship had left scars she hadn't realized were still there. Her ex—another musician, a guitarist whose talent was matched only by his volatility—had been part of her life for far too long. They'd spent years in an on-again, off-again cycle that was as exhausting as it was destructive. The kind of relationship that burned so hot it left everything around it in ashes, including the early days of her band when they were just starting to gain traction.

The breakup had been messy, the kind that made headlines and left her name plastered all over the tabloids. Paparazzi outside her house, speculative articles about who had cheated on whom, invasive questions in interviews that were supposed to be about her band's music. Her personal life dissected on social media by people who knew nothing about the actual relationship.

She still remembered the sting of the public fallout. The embarrassment. The frustration of people weighing in on something they knew nothing about. The way strangers felt entitled to judge her decisions, her emotions, her life.

After finally walking away for good, she'd sworn off relationships entirely. Not just publicly, but privately as well. She'd made a promise to herself: no more losing herself in someone else's orbit, no more putting her needs second, no more drama that derailed her creative focus.

She'd thrown herself into her career, traveled the world alone, and learned how to be happy without needing someone else to fill the gaps. And for the most part, it had worked. She'd become someone she was proud of, someone she didn't think she could've been if she hadn't taken time for herself.

The band's latest album—the one that had catapulted them from indie darlings to mainstream recognition—had emerged from that period of self-discovery. Their sound had evolved into something more powerfully honest, with electric guitar-driven anthems balanced by moments of intimate vulnerability. Critics had praised their ability to blend raw emotional lyrics with radio-ready hooks, and fans had responded to that authenticity in droves.

She still remembered the moment they realized things had changed for good—a sold-out show in London where the entire crowd sang their lyrics back to them so loudly that she'd had to step away from the mic, overwhelmed by the wall of sound. The guys had looked at her with the same stunned expression, all of them realizing simultaneously that they'd crossed some invisible threshold.

After a year of being single, Riley had found a comfortable rhythm in her independence. She'd learned what she actually wanted: someone who would respect her work while still making her feel cherished. Someone who understood her world without trying to dominate it. Despite the walls she'd built during her recovery from that toxic relationship, she was ready to open herself up again—just cautiously, and on her own terms.

So when Joe Burrow appeared with his straightforward texts and genuine interest, she found herself intrigued in a way she hadn't expected. There was something refreshing about his approach, something that made her curious enough to say yes to dinner at his place despite all her usual rules.

The truth was, she wasn't sure she was ready for anything serious, especially given their careers and geographical distance. But for the first time in a long while, she was willing to at least explore the possibility.

Friday morning arrived with unexpected anxiety. Riley found herself second-guessing her decision to go to Joe's place, wondering if she should text to suggest a restaurant instead. But before she could overthink it further, her phone rang.

Riley was still in bed when her phone buzzed, Joe's name lighting up the screen. She groaned softly, pulling the blanket over her head before answering.

"Hello?" Her voice was still husky with sleep.

"Morning, Riley," Joe said, his voice light and teasing. "Just checking to make sure we're still on for tonight."

She rolled onto her back, blinking up at the ceiling as she smirked. "Why are you calling me so early, Burrow? Don't you know I like to sleep late?"

"Early?" Joe laughed, and she could practically hear the grin in his voice. "It's eleven."

"Exactly. Early," she quipped, running a hand through her tangled hair. "I told you I like to sleep late, especially after a long night at the studio."

Joe chuckled on the other end of the line, the sound warm and relaxed. "Guess I'll have to keep that in mind. But I needed to make sure you weren't backing out on me."

There was something in his tone—a hint of vulnerability beneath the confident teasing—that made her heart soften a little. As if despite all his self-assurance, he genuinely wasn't sure she'd show up. It was those glimpses of real person behind the quarterback that kept drawing her in.

She rolled onto her side, smiling to herself. "Not a chance. I'm looking forward to tonight."

Joe's voice was playful when he responded. "Yeah?"

"Yeah," she admitted easily, surprising herself with her own honesty. "You say you're cooking a meal for me. That's really sweet. I can't wait to see what you come up with."

"Just a heads-up to manage your expectations," Joe said, a touch of self-deprecation in his voice that she found oddly charming. "We're not talking culinary genius here."

"I'm sure it'll be fine. What time do you want me there?" Riley asked, sitting up and pushing the blankets aside. Sunlight streamed through the gap in her curtains, illuminating dust motes dancing in the still air.

"Seven," he said without hesitation, as if he'd had the time planned all along.

"Perfect," she said, already mentally planning what she was going to wear. Something casual but flattering. Something that said "I made an effort" without screaming "I spent three hours getting ready for you."

She had a busy day ahead—a final vocal session, then a meeting with their manager about the upcoming tour schedule. The album wouldn't be out for months, but they needed to lock in venues for the fall tour now. Eleven cities in fourteen days, starting on the East Coast and working their way west. The thought of the grueling schedule would normally make her anxious, but today it seemed manageable. A problem for future Riley.

There was a brief pause before he added, his voice warm with amusement, "Do I need to send you a calendar invite so you don't forget?"

Riley laughed, the sound more carefree than she'd felt in a while. "I'll be there, Burrow. Don't worry—I wouldn't miss this."

Joe chuckled. "Good. I'll see you tonight then."

"See you tonight," she echoed, ending the call and dropping her phone onto the mattress beside her.

She exhaled, staring at the ceiling for a moment, a strange mix of anticipation and nerves swirling in her stomach. This wasn't just some guy she'd matched with on a dating app. This was Joe Burrow. NFL quarterback. Someone who lived as much in the public eye as she did, whose career came with its own unique pressures and scrutiny. Someone who seemed like he might actually understand her world in a way few others could.

But more than that, this was someone who made her laugh, who paid attention, who showed genuine interest in her life beyond the glamorous surface. Someone who didn't seem intimidated by her success or intent on competing with it.

A slow smile tugged at her lips as she swung her legs over the side of the bed. She had a date to prepare for.

Yeah. She was definitely looking forward to this.

[e-vay]

I saw that you added Agent Stone to your AU and I wanted to ask about it—the EVay AU itself. I noticed that some parts of Sonic Boom are in it as well as parts from the games, and, correct me if I’m wrong, but I think at some point you said that the Boom!Baby comic isn’t canon in the official universe? I got a little confused about what was canon for your AU and what wasn’t, so I wanted to ask if you could maybe provide a little guide on the EVay AU lore if it’s not too much trouble?

One thing you have to keep in mind is that I've been posting illustrations of my "AU" for over 11 years (and if you count just me creating "Aurora" herself, we're talking closer to 25 years) so there's going to be discrepancies from when I first started posting.

Back then, I didn't understand how AUs worked and so I thought I had to separate the game universe and the boom universe, so on my older posts you might see me say something like that. But having been doing this for awhile now, I realized that when it comes to fan-stuff it's really just whatever you want. There are no rules, you can mash things up and you can change things as you see fit.

I made a guide to my AU and I update it as things about my stories get added and changed. I also have a link to it saved in my pinned post. It's safe to say that if it's in the guide, it's canon to my AU.

I am sorry for any confusion I give any of you guys. I'm not one of the official writers/artists, I'm just a fan of Sonic like all of you are, so though I try to make my stories clear and consistent, I didn't hold myself up to the same standards as the official writers to keep my lore rigid and unchanging. I never expected my content to blow up the way it did, so it never occurred to me that I should have everything about my AU figured out before I started posting about it.

But again I think that's the beauty of fan content: it's not permanent, so it can be an ever-evolving thing without needing a 'reboot' like in official media.

[archivalofsins]

I'm doing Mikoto and Amane together since Amane's thing is just a reiteration of what was said with Shidou and Mahiru,

So, let's start with Amane,

"Prisoner No. 008: Amane Momose. Your judgement was “innocent”, and as such, her ideas were affirmed. Hehehe, she truly did outdo herself, really messed with the situation. She murdered Shidou because his actions went against her beliefs. Because of the death of Shidou, she also caused the death of Mahiru. What a little brat we’ve got! Maybe that’s the reason for her success. She’s even promulgated her religious views. We could even call it, Amane-ism, this religion she’s created. It’s perfectly suited to MILGRAM. She’s successfully made Futa a believer. So, what will you do now, Es?"

I love how Jackalope states that Amane's new religion is perfectly suited for Milgram. Because sir what? It is? That makes me really curious about what her religion entails for Jackalope to make such a bold claim.

The commencement notice is also harping on how much damage Amane has caused and continuing the trend of displaying her as a threat. Jackalope keeps this same energy with Mikoto as well. Now one could say they're doing this in order to pull the rug from beneath our feet later but I doubt it.

This is the last trial through how Jackalope discussed the deaths of Haruka, Shidou, and Mahiru it seems Milgram is diving right in to how all of the audiences assumptions and shows of good faith have enabled the situation it currently finds itself is. It is tempting to double down but ultimately what the prisoners do with the lives they live are their business and we can't stop anyone in fiction or in reality from living how they wish to live.

Unless one were to stop them from living entirely. Now I'm not going to highroad anyway and say it's important to be the bigger person and live and let live. That would be disingenuous. I have no defense for Amane killing Shidou other than the fact that I don't particularly care that she did that because she told us she was going to do that and I voted with that outcome in mind.

I know shocking some people do choose how they're going to vote while taking into full consideration the consequences making that statement can have. Instead of coming up with a myriad of excuses later when it doesn't go the way they want because they just couldn't fearmonger hard enough or hold a fictional characters life over other people's heads well enough.

Sometimes and most times people should before they give their input reflect on how helpful that might be to the person they are giving the input to or themselves. Possibly reflect on if saying anything at all is the right course of action for them personally. Simply so they don't end up doing something that they can't take back and will regret.

I'm not going to do mental gymnastics to defend the murder of a fictional character who was also a murderer or excuse the deaths of those characters. I'm just gonna do what's the best thing for me personally which is vote and behave how I want to in my best interests until this ends.

Amane isn't the first person to attack someone within this prison. She won't be the last sure her attack was the only one that killed someone causing the death of another involved party in the process. Yet I'm pretty sure a lot of people don't care about the details of how the second death occurred and will take this caused Mahiru's death as Milgram stating Amane went up and stabbed Mahiru too.

See look that middle-schooler is evil and should be burned at the stake on some Backdraft shit,

Count me out I'm not dealing with that energy in 2025 if that's how some people want to spend their time behaving I hope it works out for them. I hope that brings them joy but that is not how I want to spend the last trial of Milgram. A lot of people in this fandom need to mature and recognize that they are not just a safe space for others simply because they say they are.

Also that maybe harping on the youngest person here for being a bad individual who committed murder like everyone else here then going in other cases that's a minor is odd. It's weird. That makes some people some weirdos. I'm sick of hearing about this hat girl and Mu's case where people bring age constantly but then dogpile on someone younger than both of those people. Simply because her bad actions actually impacted them.

Because they lost something from it. It doesn't matter that everyone else here has killed someone. Has also killed kids and admitted from day one. Because those victims don't exist in the eyes of the audience as people so they don't matter. Their lives don't matter because they aren't characters who entertained the audience that the audience grew attached to.

Those characters are just side characters nameless faceless unimportant dead side characters. They are just bodies to set the scene. Speaking of which let's go into Mikoto now.

Let me tell you they learned from last trial on showing more than two of these guys with how the fandom tried to spin that. Because they flipped that bitch like a coin they are not playing anymore.

They split that first one in half and turned that shit over. The front and the backside is right.

"Prisoner No. 009: Mikoto Kayano. Your judgement was “innocent”, and as such, his ideas were affirmed. Hmmm...... What a change from before, so coy! Such a disappointment! I was thinking he’d show us another rampage. It is so boring when one has to go without.... He’s like a shell of a person. He’s been found “innocent”, even after butchering all those people. Doesn’t it make him happy? I wonder why? Maybe he lost something precious?"

"Why, hey why, I’m nowhere to be found?"/ "Just the two of us, relieved, aren’t you? I’ll protect you (us)."

Mikoto Voice Line 3

Mikoto: It’s like something’s disappeared from inside me, and I’m… I’m scared. I’m tired. I just want this to stop. All of it.

"He’s like a shell of a person."

Mikoto Voice Line 1

Mikoto: Kayano Mikoto. I think. That’s who I am, right…?"

"I’m DOUBLE (MeMe)."

Mikoto Voice Line 1 continued,

Mikoto: Ahaha, you’re probably wondering what I’m talking about."

So, I'm downright loving this to be honest.

"I wonder why?"/ "Why?"

"I just want this to stop. All of it."

Fuck it let's do Kotoko too,

"Prisoner No. 010: Kotoko Yuzuriha. Your judgement was “guilty”, and as such, her ideas were rejected. There, you see? I made sure she’s carefully constrained so she wouldn’t wreck havoc. Your fangs... her vigilante justice wasn’t imparted, right? What? Are things different now? It almost makes me feel sorry for her, being at the mercy of your whims...... Obviously, she now views you as her enemy. Don’t think for a moment that you can now communicate with her effectively. "

"But, I must say, the current situation within this prison is directly influenced by the fact that she was once found “innocent”. "

"Evil done against evil, can that ever be justified......? Go on and settle the matter to your satisfaction."

In all things Jackalope remains fair I said it earlier while watching through the video still and I'm glad he hit the nail on the head. The first domino that lead to all of this was Kotoko. All from those first verdicts. It didn't hit us fully until we were almost at the end of the road but the repercussions for everything the audience has said, all its enabled, all it was able to turn a blind eye to.

It's all coming back around now.

"......hehehe. I did tell you, MILGRAM allows for sensibility, morality, ethics, legality, preference, taste, or sexual inclination as the basis for judgement. You really did act in accordance with that. That makes me so happy. And the result is this. Take a look at the prison. What do you think, Es? Do you think you’ve been able to carry out your standards within this prison?"

"Can you really say that you were able to find “innocent” the ones you truly wanted to forgive, and find “guilty” the ones you truly wanted to punish? What? It’s not something to shy away from. Take pride! This is your prison, those feelings that you carry and all."

This prison will happen just once, and it was chosen by you all. If it wasn’t for all of you, the results would have been different, I’m sure. Well now, is it not just beautiful, Es?"

Jackalope and Milgram once again showcasing if the audience and Es did not engage the situation would have been different.

"I am just enthralled by this prison that you all have created. Teeheehee...... hehehe...... Let us now enjoy MILGRAM until it’s finale together, shall we?"

I would be remiss to not point out this looks similar to the light we see in Double at 1:48,

To touch on Jackalope's question real quick,

"Can you really say that you were able to find “innocent” the ones you truly wanted to forgive, and find “guilty” the ones you truly wanted to punish?"

I can't say for certain if there was one right answer for any of the prisoners. However I can say through everything in Milgram I made the decisions I believed in wholeheartedly. Regardless of if they lead to the outcome I wanted or not is irrelevant. I am happy to have been able to have enjoyed and been involved with this once in a lifetime media experience.

I don't know how it will resolve of course and I have been let down in some regards but would I say I regret being involved with it at all at this point? No. I will continue to enjoy the prisoners being the most of themselves until Milgram draws to a close those that are still here now and those that are no longer here.

But I didn't like the subtle implication that the prisoners were dead or going to die before this occurred. Mostly because why even have us vote on any of this at this point. Furthering that implication just makes it feel like a non-issue. I'm also just not particularly interested in stories with that sort of twist. When stories have done things like they were dead from the start or not real twists I just feel like it's taken away the weight of certain points retroactively.

Since from the beginning we were told to vote as though we were choosing whether to let them back into society or not I always liked that framing more. That sort of plot point would really make me go so the deaths in Milgram don't matter and should not impact the decisions on the prisoners still here because they're all dead anyhow so what's the point on harping how they died a second time.

You get what I mean. If it is that I'll be disappointed like with Mahiru but if it is that then no one can really hold anyone dying within Milgram over anybody else's head because they were all dead when they got here at that point. So, what does it matter?

There's a time in the commencement notice when Jackalope is speaking of Mahiru that implies this,

"Well now, don’t get down on yourself. As I’ve said many times, they are all already goners. It’s not a huge point of concern whether they live here or not."

Along with this imagery as well,

Though it doesn't have to mean that it did make my ears perk up. Because there's two ways this go they could all be dead which would be boring for me. Or like the ending implies they are all about to die regardless. Because the ending of the commencement notice shuffles through scenes from milgram with all the characters taken out of them.

So maybe regardless of the last trial verdicts the prisoners are still slated to be executed which would explain why Jackalope is being so flippant about the deaths. As well as why there was no new point added onto this trial. He didn't say if you vote them guilty they're gonna die and if you vote them innocent we'll spare them. No talk on how it would impact things after this just said well let's enjoy it before it's all,

Over,

"Let us now enjoy MILGRAM until it’s finale together, shall we?"

[Route: Your (Curtain) Call]

For all of them.

"They are all already goners."

Side note this thumbnail was sick as hell he looks so mad~ But he's so thrilled in the video.

[notebooks-and-laptops]

Back on my Neve should have been a Soporati shit.

But she SHOULD HAVE been a Soporati. DATV does VERY little in the form of interesting mage lore, and so her being a mage doesn't really add much at all. But her being a Soporati does!!

For one, Neve has the personality of someone who would look at docktown and be like 'the mages are doing absolutely nothing to help this place, and people say you have to be a mage or a Templar to make a difference but FUCK THAT'.

Secondly, it would be a way to really contextualise the poverty of docktown. Docktown is seen as 'poor' in the game but it doesn't really explain WHY or the systematic problems which might lead to this area in particular being poor. but Krem did! Back in DAI Krem talks about how the practice of slavery makes Soporati poorer; Soporati have to compete with mages who can do things quicker and slaves who can do things cheaper which means that they rarely stand a chance when it comes to work they could be doing. So they either a) live in poverty scraping by or b) sell themselves into slavery! It's systematic oppression! It seeps all the way down!

Neve as a Soporati could have talked about that, and how she saw that affecting docktown. Maybe it could even be something which led to some kind of riot pre-game that stopped slaves being brought in as regularly to the docks (because like. Docktown as Tevinters literal dock really should be crawling with visible signs of the slave trade coming from the boats; especially because we know from the comics/da2 that a lot of slaves are transported to Tevinter by sea). The riot itself would then be justification for why there is a political *cough* venatori *cough* presence in docktown at the moment to 'keep the peace'. This could ALSO highlight the stark differences between the templars in Tevinter as they would not be the ones relied upon to enforce order because they're viewed as kind of useless.

And that way, instead of the shadow dragons feeling very much like a white saviour-y, run by powerful, privileged people organisation we could see them as a more grassroots organisation in and of themselves; built up of Soporati who also have a high stake in abolishing slavery not just for moral reasons but because it's affecting them too! And Neve could have been the face of that!

I just. I really wish she'd been Soporati guys. I wish we'd got more lore about the different classes in Tevinter and how they affect your standing and your life.

[heysoundsgood]

A few more (genuine) thoughts and theories about chapter 85!

I love narratives that invite a close reading, and Witch Hat's foreshadowing is so on point and the worldbuilding so detailed that it's kinda hard not to.

Working through the new details from chapter 85, this may not age well, but I one thousand percent think Qifrey is going to turn into a silverwood tree at some point. Like, he's toast on that front, no? Everything about his visual design and story so far is all gravitationally drawn around the idea. He's a chekhov's gun and you can't not fire those.

But if that's the case, what's the inciting incident that causes him to be, even momentarily, chilled out enough to germinate, and god what a sentence to type. You know what I mean, what's something so good that could happen to him that the curse/spell/experiment would fulfill itself?

No idea, but we know what (and where) he cares about more than anything because he's said as much. And good god the notion that Qifrey collects apprentices as a way to protect them from being planted/experimented on...

I love this stuff to pieces.

I'm also not really sweating possible treefrey* because the entire story is, in some part, about what happens when people turn into things because of magic. Into rock, or solid gold, or wolf boys or cat hybrids or big ol blood trees. Not just what happens though, also, 'how do you undo this transformation' and 'can you'?

The counterclock spell un-leeching a man. Coco's idea about canceling Euini's wolf curse with a negative version. Accessing the library to undo Coco's mom's petrification. A lot of story beats about reversing or mitigating spells cast on people.

My very first thought on seeing the Naakiwan Downs was also, 'huh this is an interesting choice for a cozy atelier, it's so barren of vegetation.' It was a genuinely interesting artistic choice for a setting, and maybe a reason she chose to put there was because a giant tree would contrast real nice with the surroundingsssssjustsaying.

Anyway, this was fun, correct me if I misread some of the details. I don't think it's inconsequential that there's more than one piece of concept art of future(?) melancholy Olruggio, or the one with older/adult Coco wearing lil Qifrey glasses.

*delicious angst