#this is so cliche it makes me sick

[lunaetis]

eden is the type to fall hard and fast. however, when i say fast, it doesn't mean she'd go around falling in love with every random person on the street. what i mean is that, i notice how eden tends to have that instant pull towards someone when it comes to her attraction and attachment. she tends to be extremely instinctive with her feelings. according to the relationships i had developed with her, majority of the time, eden almost immediately latched onto the person because she felt that pull. she takes one look at the person and it's like something inside of her just clicked and she decided this is the one. i can't exactly explain it properly. it's not like love at first sight either. that's why i call it akin to imprinting because she gets that dawning and realization that this is the one. like, you know how a puppy would choose someone as their owner & they'd just run to that person & be like i choose you ! take me home ! kind of feel ? that's eden. but more like a sort of fated / destined feeling than a simple crush. because when she falls ? she falls head first, all in, no holding back.

[themslash]

i'm just grumpy because i slept in and some other personal stuff. i'm gonna get ready to go see my damn alone movie.

[singmyaubade]

Good Luck Babe

poly!marauders x nerd!female!reader

summary: after being a wallflower throughout your first five years at hogwarts, you always thought that you could be invisible. but when you hear the marauders talking cruelly about you and proceeding to ask for your forgiveness after, well good luck babe.

warnings: eventual smut! 18+ heavy angst, cursing, reader wants to kill the marauders , swearing, unprotected sex, praise, oral (male receiving), jealousy

a/n: oh hey... this is kinda based on those cliche 2000's movies where the girl is ugly but not really and she has that glow up or whatever. this was written so quick and not proofread, don't kill me. i hope you enjoy and as always, i apologize if you hate this!

STARTING off your sixth year at Hogwarts being an entirely new person wasn't something that you had planned or expected.

On the inside, you felt exactly the same, the same girl who was bold and could ferociously win a fight when it came to her character.

The same girl who was witty and sarcastic, surprising half of the people around you when you made a joke once in a lifetime.

But on the outside, you didn't have an awkward mis-shaped bob and you no longer wore baggy jackets that didn't do a thing for your figure.

And you didn't hide your face anymore, trying your best to be invisible.

It wasn't that you were shy or that you felt like a loser but you thought social hierarchy was bullshit and the only thing you wanted to focus on was your studies.

You may have been a brave Gryffindor on the inside but on the outside, you had to play the part of a shy mouse as corny as that sounds.

Unfortunately for you, invisibility only tends to last for so long until one moment, you are a nobody and then all eyes are upon you.

And maybe, just maybe, if you hadn't heard the Marauders discussing you the previous year, you would have stayed the same.

You had passed by the boys dormitory to give Remus his textbooks back as you always did when you let you borrow when you heard them speaking of the very person behind the door,

"I still have yet to understand why Lily and the rest of them act like she's some charity case," James huffed, "I mean, she's not some sick patient, they only feel the need to pity her because of how she looks."

You always knew that James had a foul mouth but to be speaking about someone like this, it was cruel.

Remus hissed, "That's not nice Prongs,"

"I'm not even saying it to be a dick!" James groaned, "I just mean, I pity her more for the fact that they don't even invite her to anything outside of breakfast and dinner," He explained, causing Remus to go silent.

Sirius chuckled, shaking his head. "That's absolutely horrid."

James reclined on his bed, a smirk playing on his lips. "I’m just saying, if I were Y/N, I’d be mortified."

Your eyes widened as they began to water, they were speaking about you.

Remus leaned against the wall, a thoughtful expression crossing his face. "Maybe she just doesn’t want to hang out with Lily and the others."

"Moony, seriously," James shot back, sitting up. "Where is Y/N right now, and where are the other girls?" His eyebrow cocked, trying to make his point as Remus silenced.

Sirius raised an eyebrow, a glint of mischief in his eyes. "Why don’t we investigate for ourselves?" He unfolded the Marauder's Map with a flourish. "Alright, we’ve got Lily, Dorcas, Mary, and Marlene all at Hogsmeade, but Y/N is..." His voice trailed off, eyes narrowing.

James leaned closer, annoyance creeping into his tone as he grabbed the map, "She's-" He stopped, the color fading from his face.

"Fucking spit it out!" Remus said next as he snatched the map finally and saw that the map had shown that you were right outside their door.

"Shit!" You heard Remus say as he started making his way to the door.

Hearing his footsteps approaching, you quickly moved away from the door, bolting for your room.

Once you made it back to your dorm, you had sinked the floor. You put your hand on your mouth, muffling yourself as you cried silently.

You honestly hated to even say it but you did consider Lily and the rest of them your friends. You had never really thought about how they didn't invite you to places.

And if you were being truthful, they had never asked you to have breakfast or dinner with them.

You had always just assumed that you could join but they never told you to leave or swooshed you off. Another part of you hated how stupid you were, trying to intrude on their private time.

You didn't want to let it get to you what a bunch of seventeen year old boys were saying but it did sting horribly.

But in a way, it also motivated you to be who you were on the inside. You already had the top marks in your entire year and your plan to work in the Ministry after Hogwarts had already been set.

And now your chance to be something at Hogwarts was right in front of you, an opportunity that you couldn't miss.

You had to do it for yourself.

The Marauders had no idea who you truly were or even cared to know. And although Remus was kind to you, you could always see that he never made any effort to be your friend.

Not that you expected him to but it only taught you that they truly thought you were some hopeless case.

And an assignment to make the Marauders bite their tongues was one that you couldn't bare to fail.

After hearing that, you decided to avoid the Marauders for the next month, especially with summer break approaching. To your surprise, you barely saw them outside of classes, never giving them a chance to reach out—even Remus.

And then that summer, everything changed. You let your hair grow past your shoulders, embracing your natural curls instead of straightening them. You started wearing clothes that were trendy and form-fitting, a huge contrast to your old style.

You discovered a newfound love for self-care, enjoying the process far more than you expected. Each day felt like a transformation, and by the end of summer, your mother couldn’t help but notice. “Finally listening to me about your style, huh?” she teased.

You only laughed as you embraced her,

If only she knew what had caused it in the first place.

As you said goodbye to your family, anticipation mingled with dread. You knew the train ride would be the least of your worries, but the welcome dinner and the ceremony ahead felt like they might just be hell reincarnate.

As you entered Hogwarts, you admired it as much as you did when you were a first year. The castle was something you considered a second home and everything about it was magical, there was no doubting that.

A crowd of students, including yourself, moved toward the Great Hall, and you settled into your usual seat at the Gryffindor table.

You spotted the Marauders and the usual group of girls approaching, and you couldn’t help but roll your eyes. They took their usual spots in front of you, with the girls on one side and the boys on the other. James sat beside you, and Lily was directly in front of him.

You never quite understood why they arranged themselves like that, but it hardly mattered in the moment.

They were busy in conversation before James had noticed someone next to him, his eyes widening. You couldn't quite read his face but it seemed like a mix of confusion and flustered.

You stared at him back but he still had yet to mutter a word. You cleared your throat, "Uh hello," You practically whispered.

He snapped back into reality, "Oh sorry, hi," He muttered back.

Silence took over you both as James couldn't find the words of what to say to you.

On one hand, he wanted to call you beautiful, to tell you that you were one of the prettiest girls he’d ever seen. On the other, he just wanted to stare at you for a few more minutes like a creep.

Lily noticed his gaze and leaned in, smirking. "Excuse my friend; we’re still trying to figure out if he has a brain."

"I thought we solved that decades ago," Marlene chimed in, stifling a laugh.

Lily turned to you with a curious smile. "I don’t believe I’ve seen you before. What’s your name?"

Are you actually fucking kidding me?

You scoffed, "I'm Y/N,"

The entire group looked at you in awe, even the ones who weren't chimed in on the conversation.

"Y/N L/N?" Sirius asked, mouth gaping.

"Yep, that one," You snorted.

They all looked like they had seen a ghost, "You look different," Marlene said as Mary shoved her.

"She means in a good way!" Mary added.

"Uh thanks," You said, awkwardly.

They all continued to stare at you like you were an exhibit in a museum, their eyes scanning you up and down.

"Do you all mind not staring at me?" you asked, trying to break the tension. They all looked away, feigning innocence as they muttered apologies.

"How have you been?" Lily asked, clearly trying to ease the awkwardness.

"Fine," you replied, your tone clipped.

You caught the pained expressions on the Marauders' faces, realizing they were the reason for your dismissive attitude.

"That's great," Lily said, forcing a smile.

You felt a wave of frustration at the awkwardness surrouding you and decided it was time to escape. "I'm gonna go to the bathroom," you announced, heading toward the exit before they could respond.

As you walked away, you could already here the mutters and whispers emerging from the table, the fascinating topic being you.

You paced as you heard footsteps trailing behind you, but you ignored them, letting your gaze wander around the castle.

"Y/N!" someone called out, startling you.

You turned to see Sirius, James, and Remus hurrying after you. You only let out a snort before continuing your same way.

A hand suddenly reached around your forearm as you turned to see Remus. You quickly snatched your hand away, finally stopping to look at the group of boys who you despised.

Crossing your arms, you shot them a hostile look. "What?"

"We just wanna—"

"We're so—"

"Listen, we just—"

They all spoke at once, but you scoffed and turned back toward the bathroom, starting to walk away.

You were hoping that they would realize you wanted nothing to do with them but instead, it only made them want to chase you more.

They quickened their pace, and you spun around sharply. "For fuck's sake, what do you want?" you snapped.

James took a breath, his expression earnest. "I'm sorry for what I said. I've been thinking about it since you left. I was an awful twat, and you didn't deserve a thing of what I said."

You let out a sarcastic laugh, "Are you serious?" You asked as your expression changed to furious, "You basically called me a loser and said that Lily and the rest of them were only hanging out with me out of pity,"

James hissed as your statement, feeling the razor in your voice.

"-And now you all want to act as if I should just forgive you since I don't look the same anymore," You got closer to James's face, "Fuck off."

You turned your heel again and this time, the boys didn't follow you.

You finally entered the bathroom and shut the door behind you. Staring at your reflection in the mirror, you struggled to read the expression on your face. You were furious at the Marauders, and the idea of forgiving them felt impossible.

Yet, there was a flicker of gratitude that you felt for the change you’d undergone. You’d gained a new confidence that felt good, but the sting of their cruel words still lingered in your mind.

And you knew that you couldn't let it get to you but knowing they thought that of you, even Remus. It still did things to you that you would never admit out loud.

Snapping out of your thoughts, you realized it was almost time to head to the dormitory.

The rest of the night had flown by, with first years being introduced to their new home for the next six years while everyone else relaxed in the common room. Despite curfews, fifth years and above knew they could hang out longer—the curfew was mostly for the first years anyway.

"Caput Draconis," you muttered, and the Fat Lady nodded, granting you entrance.

Stepping into the common room, your heart sank as you spotted the last group you wanted to see. They noticed you just as quickly, encouraging you to pick up your pace toward the dorm.

"Hey, Y/N!" Dorcas called out, making you wince as you turned to see her waving.

The Marauders looked down, shame etched on their faces, avoiding your gaze as if you were Medusa.

You approached them slowly, dread settling in your stomach as they eyed you like a science project.

"We were just about to play a fun little game," Dorcas said enticingly, while Marlene snorted beside her.

"I don’t know if Spin the Bottle is a great idea for the first night back," Marlene added, taking a sip of her beer.

"A little peck never hurt anyone," Lily chimed in, clapping her hands together.

Of all people, you’d never expect Lily Evans to approve such a thing. This was the same girl who nearly fainted when she heard about Marlene and Dorcas kissing the previous year.

"I don’t know if this is the game for me," you replied, eyeing the group warily.

"Of course it is!" Lily insisted, but you raised an eyebrow. "Oh my gosh! Not like that, I just mean it's a fun game for us all to play," she quickly added, looking flustered.

Part of you wanted to say no and retreat to your bed, but that was the old you, and you knew it wouldn’t help. This was a new year, and you were determined to embrace new experiences.

Besides, you’d never participated in any scandalous games for all of the years you've been at Hogwarts—it felt like a crime in itself.

So, after a moment’s hesitation, you said, "Okay, sure." The girls erupted in cheers, while the Marauders exchanged worried glances.

What if you had to kiss one of them? Would you refuse and create a scene? Would you want to strangle them for even suggesting it?

The possibilities raced through their mind, but there was no turning back as everyone began to form a circle.

As you sat in the circle, a shiver of nervousness enveloped you. You had never kissed anyone before and the whole thought made you nervous within itself.

Don't get it wrong, you've had chances but they never seemed right and you certainly weren't kissing Matthew Trunchbull underneath the bleachers of the Quidditch field.

So when you got offered a shot of firewhiskey to cool your nerves by Marlene, you took it happily as it burned down your throat.

You brushed off all the negative thoughts entering your mind,

What really is the worst thing that could happen?

[sirxlla]

Whispering dirty Christmas lines in the Batboys ears 🎄

----------------------------------------------------

Dick: "Are you a candy cane? Because I’d like to lick you up and down." You said to him through comms.

"Y/N, you know everyone can hear you on comms." Dick stiffled a laugh.

"Oh, shit! Are you serious?" Embarressment and worry filling your voice.

"Nah, I'm just messing with ya. I switched our comms to private." Dick said with major confidence.

"Yeah, you must've not done it right Dumbass cause we can hear you loud and clear." Jason teases as he states through comms. Making your heart fall into your stomach.

Dick, in his embarressment stays silent the rest of patrol, you do as well. He thinks back to the comment in his heart swells proud of you for being confident enough to try to flirt with him considering usually you are fairly quiet and turned into a stuttering mess whenever he would flirt with you.

Jason: He was sitting on the couch reading a book just chilling. Something sweet about Jason is how the both of you needed space from each other on occasion but always came back to bother each other to tell each other about something that the other thought was interesting or random other things. You snuck up behind him even though he a thousand percent knew you were there before you got even close enough to whisper in his ear.

"Is your name Father Christmas? Because you look like a daddy to me." Giggling a bit as you spoke, your lips brushing against his earlobe.

"Babygirl, I'll be whoever you want as long as it makes you happy." He said with a charming smile; Something so lovely about Jason was how he could say just about anything and make it sound like smooth talking. He pulled you over the couch after setting down his book on the coffe table, sliding you into his lap facing him.

Bruce: You were in the cave filling in for Barbara as Oracle because she was feeling extremely sick this evening and Bruce wanted to give you a spin. Of course you have been flirting with him all evening.

"I need help spelling Elf. I have an E and an L. Can you give me an F?" You spouted the random Christmas pickup lines you read online cause this is exactly what Bruce intended the Batcomputer to be used for.

"I'm sorry, what?" He stopped in the middle of what he was doing on patrol.

"Seriously you just now noticed? I've been flirting with you all evening." There was a humor to your voice as you asked him in disbelief.

"Are you serious?" He asked with complete confusion and disbelief.

"Yes, I'm serious." An infectious laughs escaping your lips.

"Well at least youre having fun, Darling." He stated with a smile begging to reach his lips.

Tim: Everyone was sitting down for dinner as you passed him you whispered in his ear.

"Are you the Polar Express? Because I’d like to ride you." That's all it took for him to choke on his drink his face turning bright red. Of course you just returned your seat and acted like nothing had happened.

"What'd she say?" Dick teased Tim, noticing his younger brothers bright red face.

"I don't know but he is sure definitely gonna give Rudolph a run for his money." Jason teased as well.

"My face is not red, I don't know what you guys are talking about." Tim suttered as he lied through his teeth glancing at you. Obviously you had no choice but to look at him but you famed and innocent smile like you didn't just say that until his ear.

Damian: Considering how grumpy of a man he is you kind of knew what to expect when what you flirted with him in any sort of cringey cliche sort of way but that didn't stop you from trying and the joy you felt from his reaction so you walked into the training room.

"Do you believe in kissing someone under the mistletoe? Because mistletoe is what I named my sheets." You asked Damian with a shit eating grin.

"That's the best you could come up with?" He says with a bit of an annoyed tone as he approches you. There's a glint in your eye as you try to run off before you tackles you, a smile graces his thin lips, his smile sharp and cheeky.

"Oh no, I didn't say you could leave." he says in a rather happy tone, a tone he didn't let a lot of people see. He was very mushy on occasion and he could be extremely sweet.

Masterlist

[ch0llies]

YOU ARE IN LOVE | MATTHEW STURNIOLO.

oneshot - matt x reader

It’s the night before you leave for college, and like always, you’re spending it with Matt- your best friend since preschool, the boy who has been by your side through everything. With only hours left before everything changes, the unspoken bond between you two presses against the surface, begging to be acknowledged. Will you fight it like you always have, pretending it’s nothing? Or will you finally say the three words that have been sitting on your tongue for years?

story warnings: fluffy as fuck, smut, oral (fem receiving), angst (if u squint), love confession, both characters are 18, and i think that’s it tbh. If any of these topics upset you… don’t read!

word count: 8k

for @mattsobvimyfav 💙

The room is bathed in the soft glow of fairy lights, their golden hue flickering against the ceiling. The hum of quiet music plays from your record player, the familiar melody of You Are In Love by Taylor Swift threading through the air like a whisper. The night feels heavy, thick with the weight of time slipping away, with the things left unsaid.

You pull the blanket up to your chin, sinking further into your pillows as a shiver runs down your spine. Your head is pounding, your body aching, and your throat burns every time you swallow. It’s just your luck- you’re leaving tomorrow, and instead of spending this night making memories, you’re curled up in bed, feverish and miserable.

And yet, you don’t feel alone. Matt is here.

He’s been here all night, sitting cross-legged on the floor beside your bed, flipping through one of your cliche romance books on your nightstand absentmindedly. His messy brown hair falls into his eyes, and every now and then, he pushes it back with an exasperated little sigh. You wonder if he realizes how much he does that.

“You should sleep,” he murmurs, not looking up from the page he isn’t actually reading.

“I don’t want to,” you mumble, voice hoarse.

He finally glances up, blue eyes soft with something unreadable. He sets the book down and leans his elbows on the mattress, close enough that you can see the worry creased in his brows. “You’re sick. You need rest.”

You shake your head, the movement making you dizzy. “If I sleep, I’ll wake up, and it’ll be tomorrow.”

And tomorrow, you’re leaving. The words aren’t spoken, but Matt hears them anyway. He swallows, his throat bobbing, and you watch as he wrestles with something in his head.

Instead of answering, he reaches forward, pressing the back of his hand to your forehead. His skin is cool against your warmth, and the simple touch sends a shiver through you- not from fever, but from him.

“Still hot,” he murmurs. “Let me get you some water.”

He moves to stand, but you grab his wrist weakly, stopping him.

“Stay,” you whisper.

He exhales, settling down beside you in bed, his fingers ghosting over your knuckles. It’s nothing- just the softest brush of skin against skin but your breath catches anyway.

The song plays on loop in the background. Your record player is older than the both of you combined and will sometimes repeat a certain track over and over and over.

It just happens that it’s this song.

Your eyelids feel heavy, but you fight against it, desperate to hold onto this moment, to him.

���Are you scared?” you ask suddenly, voice barely above a whisper.

Matt doesn’t answer right away. He shifts, his fingers curling slightly against yours, like he’s debating whether to hold your hand. “Of what?” he asks.

“Of everything changing.”

Silence stretches between you, and then- so quiet you almost don’t hear it- he says, “Yeah.”

Your chest aches, and it has nothing to do with your fever. You turn your head toward him, blinking drowsily. “It’s crazy, isn’t it?” you murmur.

He looks at you, brows knitting together. “What is?”

“How you can be around someone for so long and never really say the things you want to say.”

Matt stills. For a long moment, he doesn’t move, doesn’t blink, doesn’t even breathe. His eyes search yours, something unreadable flickering behind them- something fragile, something breaking.

His fingers twitch against yours. You wait, wondering if maybe, just maybe, he feels it too.

Then, so quietly it’s almost lost in the music, he asks, “What do you want to say?”

Your heart stumbles over itself. You open your mouth, but no words come out. Maybe it’s the fever, maybe it’s exhaustion, maybe it’s the fact that you don’t know how to say it- how to put into words what’s been building inside you for so long.

So instead, you just whisper, “I don’t want this night to end.”

And Matt…Matt, who always finds the words, who never stumbles over what he wants to say, just looks at you, like he understands everything you mean without you having to say it.

Like maybe, just maybe, he feels it too.

He shifts closer. Your hands brush, and he doesn’t pull away this time.

The silence between you is thick, filled with everything neither of you are saying, everything you want to say but can’t. The fever weighs heavy on your body, making your limbs feel like they’re sinking into the mattress, but the warmth of Matt beside you keeps you tethered.

He shifts slightly, propping himself up on one elbow, still close, still there. His fingers brush absently against the blanket draped over you, like he wants to hold your hand but isn’t sure if he should.

“You’re gonna love college,” he says after a while, his voice gentle, careful. “You’re gonna meet so many new people, take cool classes, do all that independent adult stuff.”

You let out a weak, dry laugh. “That’s a nice way of saying you’ll be drowning in assignments and have an existential crisis once a week.”

Matt snorts. “Yeah, well. You’ve been preparing for that your whole life.”

You shake your head, staring up at the ceiling, watching the fairy lights blur as your exhaustion deepens. “I don’t feel ready.”

Matt is quiet for a moment, like he’s letting your words settle between you. Then, he exhales and says, “I’ll visit you. You know that, right? It’s not like I’m just gonna disappear off the face of the earth.”

You turn your head to look at him, your tired eyes searching his. “It’s not the same, Matt.”

Something flickers in his expression, something vulnerable, something he doesn’t want you to see. He quickly masks it with a small smile, reaching up to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. “I know,” he murmurs. “But I’ll still be there. However you need me to be.”

Your throat tightens, and not just from the sickness. Because Matt has always been there.

Ever since the first day of preschool, when you found him crying behind the jungle gym at recess, small and overwhelmed and anxious. His triplet brothers had rushed off ahead, caught up in their own excitement, leaving him behind, and he didn’t know what to do.

So you had just… sat down next to him. Quiet, patient. You didn’t ask what was wrong, didn’t try to fix it. You just stayed, let him feel what he was feeling.

And then, after a moment, you had whispered the words that changed everything.

“I’ll wait for you.”

Matt sniffled, blinking up at you with wide, watery eyes. “Really?”

You nodded, swinging your little legs beneath you. “Yeah. We can play together.”

And from that moment on, you were inseparable.

Years passed, and things changed- new schools, new friends, different phases of life- but Matt was always the one thing that stayed constant. The one person you could always turn to, the one person who knew you, even when you didn’t know yourself.

And now you’re supposed to leave him behind?

Matt must sense the thoughts racing through your mind because he suddenly clears his throat and murmurs, “You know, if you wake up with a fever, your mom won’t let you go.”

Your heart stutters.

“You’ll have to wait,” he continues, voice light, teasing, but his eyes say something else.

Your lips part slightly, chest tightening.

“I really hope I wake up with a fever,” you admit, voice barely above a whisper.

Matt lets out a soft laugh, but there’s no humor in it. He looks down at his hands, playing with the hem of his hoodie. “You don’t mean that,” he says, but it sounds like he’s trying to convince himself more than anything.

“I do,” you insist, turning toward him fully now. “I don’t want to leave you, Matt.”

He presses his lips together, his jaw tightening, his fingers curling into the fabric of his hoodie.

For the first time since you’ve known him, Matt looks lost for words.

Then, all at once the weight of everything crashes down all at once. It starts as a small, creeping thought- what if things change? But then it spirals, tangling and twisting until it’s too big to contain. Your chest tightens, your throat constricts, and suddenly, you can’t just lie here.

You sit up too fast, the dizziness from your fever making your head spin, but you don’t care.

“What if you forget about me?” The words tumble out, breathless, desperate. “What if you go to community college and meet cooler people? What if you realize you don’t even want to visit me? What if-” Your voice wavers, and suddenly, there’s a lump in your throat so big it hurts.

Matt’s eyes widen slightly, and he sits up immediately, his hands hovering near you, unsure if he should touch you or give you space.

“Hey, hey, hey,” he says, voice gentle but firm, like he’s trying to ground you, to pull you back from the edge of whatever storm is brewing inside your head. “Slow down.”

But you can’t.

You shake your head, chest rising and falling too fast. “What if everything changes and we don’t talk as much and then it turns into barely talking at all and one day we just become strangers who used to be best friends-”

Your breath stutters. You’re trying not to cry, but your eyes are burning, your hands are shaking, and your body feels too hot, too overwhelmed, too everything.

Matt moves before you can spiral any further.

He grabs your hands, his touch steady, warm, real. “Y/N.”

You look up at him, your vision blurry, your breaths uneven.

And then so soft and so certain, he says the same thing you said to him all those years ago, when he was just a scared little kid on the playground, left behind, lost.

“I’ll wait for you.”

Something inside you cracks.

The words settle deep in your chest, in the place where all the fear and doubt have been building, and suddenly, you’re eight years old again, sitting next to a crying Matt, holding his hand, telling him the same thing.

You had meant it then.

And he means it now.

A shaky breath escapes you, and Matt squeezes your hands tighter, like he’s anchoring you here, keeping you from slipping away into your own thoughts.

“You hear me?” he murmurs. “No matter where you go, no matter how much time passes- Im not going anywhere.”

Your chin trembles, and this time, you can’t stop the tears from slipping down your cheeks.

Matt doesn’t hesitate. He pulls you into his chest, wrapping his arms around you, holding you like he’s afraid you might slip away if he lets go.

You grip his hoodie, pressing your face against him, breathing in the familiar scent of home. Of him. The warmth of it against your cheek is grounding, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your ear calming your own. His arms stay wrapped around you, strong and unwavering, even as your breathing slowly evens out.

Neither of you move for a long time. The same song hums softly in the background for the millionth time, the fairy lights flickering against the walls, casting shadows that feel softer now, less suffocating.

Matt is the first to break the silence.

“Feeling better?” he murmurs, his chin lightly resting against the top of your head.

You sniffle. “No.”

A quiet laugh rumbles in his chest. “Liar.”

You pull back slightly, just enough to look at him, though he doesn’t let go of you entirely. His face is inches from yours, his eyes searching, like he’s making sure you’re okay before he lets himself relax.

For a second, you just stare at each other, the weight of the moment pressing down on you again.

You exhale, resting your forehead against his shoulder. “Is there anything you’ve never told me before?”

Matt stills. “…What?”

You shrug, your voice light but a little shaky. “I don’t know. Just… before I go, I wanna get things off my chest. Feels like the right time, you know?”

His expression shifts, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes. “Like what?”

You purse your lips, suddenly feeling nervous, but you push through.

“Well,” you start, biting the inside of your cheek, “one time I cheated at Wii Bowling and blamed Chris.”

Matt blinks at you, his body frozen.

You don’t notice.

“And another time, that girl in tenth grade- the one I hated- she wrote you a Valentine and left it in your locker, and I threw it out before you could see it.”

Matt doesn’t move.

You keep going.

“Oh, and once, you let me borrow your hoodie, and I got a stain on it, so I shoved it under my bed and told you I lost it. And I only found it, like, six months later, but at that point, it was too late to tell you, so- ”

“I think I’ve been in love with you since we met.”

Your breath catches.

The words hit you like a sudden drop, like the floor has disappeared from beneath you and suddenly everything feels way too real.

You blink at him, your lips parting slightly. “You’re…What?”

Matt exhales, his grip tightening around your hands, his expression so open, so vulnerable, you almost can’t breathe.

“I-” he murmurs, shaking his head, his voice rough with something you can’t quite name. “I- I thought you were gonna say it. I thought you were finally gonna say it, and when you didn’t, I just-” He cuts himself off, swallowing hard. “I can’t let you leave without knowing.”

Your heart stumbles over itself, racing, tripping, trying to catch up.

Matt doesn’t blink, doesn’t waver. “I’ve been in love with you since the moment you sat next to me on that playground and told me you’d wait for me.”

The memory rushes back in full force. The small, anxious boy, the way his brothers ran ahead without him, the way you had just sat there, patient and quiet, letting him know he wasn’t alone.

Matt lets out a breath, shaking his head. “I didn’t say anything because I was scared I’d lose you. I didn’t want to ruin this.” His voice drops, softer now, raw. “But you’re leaving, and if I don’t say it now…” He exhales. “I can’t risk you leaving without knowing how I feel.”

Your chest is tight, your mind spinning, but the only thing you can focus on is him.

Your mouth parts slightly, but no words come out. Your mind feels like it’s moving too fast and too slow all at once, trying to grasp onto the reality of what’s happening- of what he just said.

You blink at him, your breath unsteady.

“…Matt, why-” your voice is barely above a whisper, trembling, “why didn’t you say anything?”

Matt exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair, like he’s been holding this in for years- because he has.

“Because I was terrified,” he admits, his voice rushed, like now that the words have started, he can’t stop them. “I was terrified of losing you, of ruining everything, of making things weird-” He shakes his head, laughing almost bitterly. “I thought maybe it was better to just have you, even if it wasn’t the way I wanted.”

You don’t even know how to breathe, don’t know how to make sense of the fact that Matt has been carrying this inside him all this time.

And then he just keeps going, like all the love he’s held back is pouring out now, raw and unfiltered.

“I-” He swallows, his hands gripping yours tighter, like he’s afraid you might slip away. “I’ve memorized you. Every little thing about you.” His voice turns softer, more certain. “I could pick out your laugh in a room of ten thousand people.”

“The way your eyes twinkle when you’re really, really happy,” he continues, almost breathless. “And how you get that tiny dimple in your left cheek, but only when you smile a certain way. How you furrow your brows when you’re confused, and you don’t even realize you do it.”

He’s looking at you like he’s seeing everything- like you are everything.

“When you’re scared, you always cover your ears first, like the noise is the worst part,” he murmurs. “And when you’re nervous, you play with the hem of your sleeve, and when you’re thinking really hard about saying something, you chew on your bottom lip like you’re debating whether or not to say it out loud.”

Matt doesn’t stop. It’s like now that he’s started, he can’t stop, like every single thing he’s been holding back is tumbling out all at once, raw and unfiltered. His grip tightens on your hands like he needs you to hear him, understand him, feel everything he’s saying.

“I know the way your voice sounds when you’re tired,” he continues, his voice softer now, like a confession. “That quiet, raspy little hum you get when you’re about to fall asleep.”

His eyes flicker over your face, memorizing you even though he already knows every single detail.

“I know the exact way your nose scrunches up when something annoys you,” he murmurs, his lips twitching slightly. “And the way you roll your eyes when you pretend to be mad but you’re not really mad, because if you were, you’d get quiet instead.”

Your throat feels tight, your chest aching with something too big to hold.

Matt exhales, shaking his head. “I know you hate the sound of ticking clocks because it makes you anxious. And I know you never finish your drinks because you get distracted halfway through and forget they exist.”

He laughs a little, but it’s breathless, almost disbelieving, like he can’t believe he’s actually saying all of this out loud.

“I know you love thunderstorms, but only when you’re inside and wrapped in a blanket,” he continues. “And that you get weirdly emotional when you see old couples holding hands because you think love like that is rare.”

Your vision blurs, tears threatening to spill because how… how has he always known?

“I know you like your fries extra crispy, but your cookies extra soft,” he says, shaking his head with a fond little smile. “And you always order the same thing at restaurants, even when you say you’re gonna try something new.”

Your breath is shaky, your hands trembling in his. Matt’s eyes darken, his voice turning softer, more careful.

“I know the way you look when you’re sad,” he whispers. “And the way you look when you’re sad but you don’t want anyone to know.”

His thumb brushes over your knuckles, gentle, reverent.

“And I know that every single time you smile,” he murmurs, his voice almost breaking, “I fall a little more in love with you.”

You suck in a breath.

Matt just looks at you, his heart in his eyes, his love written in every single thing he’s ever noticed, ever memorized, ever felt.

And for the first time in your life, you realize he hasn’t just loved you for a while.

He’s loved you forever.

Your breath is shaky, your chest so full it feels like you might burst.

You stare at Matt, his words still ringing in your ears, sinking into your skin, wrapping around your heart like they were always meant to be there.

And then, suddenly, it hits you.

He’s loved you forever.

And he never told you.

A new kind of emotion surges through you- one you can’t quite name, something between heartbreak and frustration, something that feels like God, why did we waste so much time?

Your hands tighten in his.

“Matt,” you whisper, your voice trembling, “why didn’t you tell me earlier?”

He blinks, thrown off by the shift in your tone. “I- I told you, I was scared-”

You shake your head, your eyes burning, your heart pounding. “Matt, I would’ve spent my whole life with you.”

His lips part slightly, his breath catching, but you don’t stop.

“You’ve had me, Matt,” you whisper, voice breaking. “Since the day you met me. You just didn’t know.”

Matt’s grip on your hands tightens, like he’s trying to hold onto something slipping through his fingers. “I-”

“I wouldn’t have looked at anyone else,” you continue, tears slipping down your cheeks. “I wouldn’t have wanted to. Because it was always you.”

Matt swallows hard, his throat bobbing, his entire body frozen as he watches you- like he can’t believe the words coming out of your mouth.

Your voice is barely above a whisper now, raw and aching. “I thought I was crazy. I thought I was the only one who felt it, and I was so scared of losing you that I never said anything, either. I’m sorry.”

A small, choked sound escapes Matt’s lips_ somewhere between a laugh and a sob. “Jesus Christ,” he breathes, running a hand through his hair like he doesn’t know what to do with himself.

You shake your head, your hands still gripping his. “We could’ve had so much more time-”

Matt doesn’t let you finish.

Before you can even process it, his hands cup your face, and suddenly his lips crash into yours and it’s like everything in the universe shifts into place.

For a moment, you freeze, too overwhelmed, too shocked, too full of everything you’ve ever wanted but never thought you’d have. But then your body reacts before your mind can catch up, your hands gripping onto his hoodie, pulling him closer, your lips moving against his like they were meant to.

It’s desperate and soft all at once, like he’s trying to make up for years in a single kiss. Like he’s trying to prove to you that you were never crazy, never alone in this- that it’s always been him, and it’s always been you.

But then you remember your fever.

You gasp, breaking the kiss, hands pressing lightly against his chest to put just enough space between you. “Wait- Matt, I don’t want to get you sick.”

His eyes are dark, his breath uneven, and for a second, he just stares at you- like he’s been starving for this, for you, for so long, and he just got a taste, and he can’t bear to stop now.

Then, he exhales a shaky laugh, his forehead pressing against yours.

“Sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice low and rough, “I’ve been sick for the past eighteen years because I haven’t been able to do this.”

And then he kisses you again.

Slower this time, but somehow deeper, more intense. Like he’s pouring every unspoken word, every what if, every year of love he kept locked away into you.

Your hands tangle in his hair, pulling him impossibly close, and he groans softly against your lips, the sound sending a shiver down your spine.

Then, without breaking the kiss, Matt shifts- his hands finding your waist, his body moving over yours until you’re beneath him, his weight pressing into you in the most perfect way.

You barely have time to react before he’s kissing you harder, like he wants to memorize every inch of you like this, like he wants to ruin the space between you so it never exists again.

His hands move slowly- tracing the curves of your body like he’s worshiping you, like he can’t believe you’re real. His thumb brushes over your cheek, then down your jaw, then to the side of your neck, where his fingers press just slightly, feeling your pulse race under his touch.

“God,” he breathes against your lips, “you have no idea how long I’ve wanted this.”

You whimper softly, and that’s all it takes. Matt’s lips move to your jaw, then to your neck, kissing you so slowly, so intimately, like he wants to take his time, like he’s savoring the moment.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs against your skin, his lips brushing over the spot just below your ear.

Your fingers dig into his back, your breath coming faster, and Matt groans at the feeling, his hands gripping your waist tighter, pressing you further into the mattress.

He moves with a kind of reverence you’ve never felt before, like he’s worshiping every inch of you, like he’s been waiting for this moment his whole life.

His lips leave a slow, burning trail along your jaw, down the curve of your neck, lingering just enough to make you shiver beneath him. His hands stay steady on your waist, his grip firm but careful, like he’s afraid to rush this- like he needs to savor it.

You don’t say anything. You don’t need to.

Because the way Matt is touching you, the way he’s looking at you, says more than words ever could.

His fingers brush against the hem of your shirt, hesitating for just a second, his breathing uneven. Then, he glances up at you, his eyes dark, filled with something so raw, so intense, it makes your whole body warm.

“Can I?” he murmurs, his voice rough but gentle.

You nod, barely able to breathe, and that’s all he needs.

With deliberate, careful hands, he lifts your shirt up and over your head, letting it drop somewhere on the floor.

His gaze flickers over you, his chest rising and falling faster now, his hands ghosting over your sides, your stomach, like he’s committing every detail of you to memory.

“God,” he breathes, his voice almost broken. “You’re so fucking beautiful.”

His lips are on your collarbone, slow and warm, his mouth pressing open-mouthed kisses down the center of your chest.

Your body trembles beneath him, and he feels it, his hands gripping your waist tighter as he moves lower.

His lips trace along the curves of your ribs, your stomach, his pace agonizingly slow, so intimate, like he wants to worship every inch of you.

Every press of his lips sends heat pooling through you, makes your breath hitch, makes your fingers instinctively reach for him- except he doesn’t let you take control.

This is his moment. His chance to show you exactly what he’s felt for years.

Matt’s lips return to your chest, his mouth brushing over your peaked nipple, his tongue flicking just barely before his lips close around you, sucking gently, teasing, making you arch into him.

A soft whimper escapes your lips, and Matt groans at the sound, his grip on you tightening, his body pressing closer.

“Fuck,” he murmurs against your skin, his voice thick with something desperate, something needy.

And then, slowly, so slowly, his lips continue their path downward, kissing, teasing, taking his time.

Because for Matt this isn’t just a moment.

This is everything.

Every stolen glance, every lingering touch, every suppressed urge finally unraveling all at once.

His hands trace the curves of your body with reverence, memorizing, savoring. His lips ghost over your collarbone, down the center of your chest, mapping you like you’re something sacred-because to him, you are.

“Tell me you want this,” he breathes, his voice almost a plea, his forehead pressing against your stomach as his fingers flex against your hips. He needs to hear it, needs to know that this isn’t just his own longing finally overflowing, but yours too.

Your fingers thread through his hair, tugging gently until he looks up at you, his blue eyes dark with need, with something deeper than want.

“I want this. I want you,” you whisper, and it’s all the permission he needs.

A shaky breath leaves his lips before he resumes his path downward, kissing, tasting, worshiping every inch of you like he’s been starving for this, for you, for longer than he even wants to admit.

Matt’s fingers hook into the waistband of your sweatpants, his movements slow as he tugs them down inch by inch. His lips never leave your skin, pressing soft, lingering kisses down your stomach, his breath warm and uneven against you.

His eyes flicker up, meeting yours through the dim light, and the look in them is nothing short of worship.

“You are the most beautiful girl I have ever seen,” he murmurs..

He slides your underwear down your legs, his fingertips barely grazing your skin, but it sends a shiver through you. His hands are firm yet gentle, grounding you in the weight of his touch. And then, once you’re bare beneath him, he just looks. Drinks you in like you’re something sacred.

His breath hitches as he presses his lips to the inside of your thigh, his grip tightening like he’s barely holding himself together. And he isn’t.

Because the way he wants you- it’s all-consuming.

His hips rut against the mattress, seeking friction, unable to help himself. His need for you, for this, is so intense it borders on unbearable.

His breath fans over your skin, warm and uneven, as he lingers there, lips hovering just shy of where you need him most. His fingers press into your thighs, thumbs tracing slow, mindless patterns, like he’s trying to ground himself- but it isn’t working.

“God,” Matt exhales, his voice wrecked, half a whisper, half a plea. His forehead briefly drops against your inner thigh, like he’s trying to steady himself, trying to hold back, but the restraint is slipping.

He presses another kiss there, softer this time. Then another. His nose brushes against your skin, and you can feel the way his breath shakes, the way his hands flex like he’s fighting every urge to lose himself completely.

“You have no idea what you do to me,” he murmurs.

His lips part against your skin, warm and soft as he drags them over the sensitive flesh, barely there, just a ghost of a touch. He presses another kiss, firmer this time, his breath spilling hot against you before his tongue flicks out, slow and deliberate, tracing the curve of your thigh. He lingers, mouth pressing open-mouthed kisses, his tongue flattening against your skin before he pulls away just enough to let the cool air chase the warmth he leaves behind.

His fingers flex, thumbs smoothing up and down the insides of your thighs in lazy, absentminded strokes, like he’s savoring the way your body reacts to him. He kisses higher, a little closer, but still teasing, still holding back, his nose brushing against you as he exhales another shaky breath. His lips part again, and this time, his tongue drags in a slow, unhurried line, tasting, testing, his grip tightening when your body tenses beneath him.

“Mmph- yeah baby that feels good,” you moan softly.

A quiet, broken sound escapes him as he finally gets a taste of you. One that sends a sharp jolt of heat through you, because it’s not just about what he’s doing- it’s about what this is doing to him. The restraint, the desperation, the way he’s been holding himself back only to finally give in, to finally let himself fall.

He tilts his head and licks you again, slower this time, dragging it out. His pace is torturous, every movement deliberate, like he has all the time in the world, like he wants to unravel you inch by inch. He sucks gently, his lips sealing over sensitive skin, his tongue flicking in short, teasing strokes before he pulls back just enough to let his breath fan over the damp heat he’s left behind.

His hands move, one sliding up to press firmly against your lower stomach, holding you in place, keeping you right where he wants you. The other ghosts higher, fingers brushing, tracing, exploring without urgency. He presses another kiss, softer this time, then another, his tongue flicking between them, lazy and unhurried.

He groans again like he’s savoring every second, like the taste of you is something he wants to commit to memory. His mouth opens wider, his tongue pressing flat and slow, dragging, circling, before he pulls away just enough to murmur against your skin, his lips brushing with every syllable.

“So damn sweet.”

Matt shifts slightly, settling in like he has no intention of rushing this, no desire to do anything but take his time and savor every second. His breath is warm, steadying, as he nudges his nose against you before his lips part once more. He starts with another slow, open-mouthed kiss, his tongue flicking out just enough to tease, to taste, before he pulls back and does it again.

“Oh my- fuck.” you cry out, hands flying down to tangle into his brown locks.

Then he presses in deeper, his tongue flattening against you, warm and wet as he drags it through your folds again with an unhurried precision. He hums low in his throat, the vibrations sending a shiver straight through you as he licks again, savoring the way you react beneath him as he explores, his tongue slipping between your folds, swirling, tracing, tasting.

Then he latches on, his lips sealing over you as he sucks, slow and deep, his tongue flicking in teasing strokes before he pulls back just enough to let his breath spill hot over your leaking cunt. He groans, a deep, needy sound, before he leans back in, sucking again, harder this time, his mouth working against you in slow, deliberate pulls.

“Yeah baby- Matt-” you moan, pulling his dark hair between your fingers as he hits your sweet spot again.

His tongue flicks out between each pull, circling, teasing, slipping lower before he sucks again, his lips wrapping around your folds as he draws them into his mouth, slurping softly, unashamed, like he’s lost in this, in you. He lingers, his tongue pressing and swirling, tasting every inch, every drop, before he shifts slightly and does it again, his pace slow, torturous, precise.

Every movement is deliberate, every pull of his lips, every flick of his tongue, every slow, wet slurp as he drinks you in like he can’t get enough. His fingers flex against your thighs, his grip tightening as he tilts his head, angling himself just right as his tongue moves with purpose, slow and deep, before he latches on again, sucking, savoring, swallowing every sound, every reaction you give him.

His eyes flutter as he shifts, pressing himself closer like he physically can’t stand the distance. His mouth is soft, wet, and devastatingly slow as he licks through your folds, savoring every inch, every taste. His tongue flattens against you before he pushes it deeper, slipping inside you with a slow, deliberate stroke. His groan is muffled, vibrating against you as he thrusts his tongue in again, slick and hot, his hands gripping you tighter to hold you steady.

“Fuck baby yeah- mmph- right there, yeah-” you blab underneath him.

He pulls back just enough to drag his tongue through your slickness, circling your clit in slow, teasing strokes before dipping back down, pushing his tongue inside you again, fucking you with it in steady, deliberate motions.

His hips stutter against the mattress, barely restrained, and when he groans against you again, it’s deep, needy, and frustrated. He grinds down, seeking friction, his body reacting instinctively to the way you arch beneath him, the way your hands tangle in his hair, tugging, guiding him deeper.

His tongue keeps working in slow, steady thrusts, in and out, pushing deeper each time before he pulls back to flick and circle your clit again. His lips wrap around it, sucking softly, then harder, before he licks back down, slipping his tongue inside you again, dragging out the sensation, stretching it, making sure you feel every inch of him.

He hums against you, his pleasure evident in the way his hips roll into the mattress, the way his breath stutters between each stroke of his tongue. His pace never falters, never rushes. Just deep, slow, purposeful movements, his mouth working you over as he grinds down, chasing his own relief against the bed.

His fingers dig into your thighs as he pushes in again, tongue pressing deep before pulling out in a slick, slow drag. Then his mouth is back on your clit, sucking, teasing, worshipping, while his hips rut into the mattress, desperate, uncontrolled, his body reacting to yours like he’s just as lost in this as you are.

The tension between you coils tighter and tighter, pleasure building with every slow, unhurried touch as he continues that same pattern.

Matt can feel it. The way your body starts to tense beneath him, the way your thighs tremble in his grip, the way your breath turns ragged and uneven. He knows you’re close, knows you’re teetering right on the edge, and fuck, it does something to him. His hips jerk harder against the mattress, grinding down in slow, desperate rolls as he groans into you, his mouth sealing over your clit with renewed urgency.

His tongue flicks over your sensitive bundle of nerves in steady, deliberate strokes, dragging slow before wrapping his plump lips around it and sucking it into his mouth, pulling whimpers from you that only make him push himself harder against the bed. His hands tighten even more on your thighs, fingers pressing deep, holding you open for him as he devours you.

The way you react- the way your body arches into him, the way your hands tighten in his hair, pulling, guiding, needing- drives him insane. He groans, a desperate, muffled sound, before sucking harder, his tongue swirling, flicking, stroking. His hips rut into the mattress with growing urgency, each movement perfectly timed with the way his mouth moves against you, like he’s losing himself in the rhythm, in the way you tremble, in the way your breath hitches each time he flicks his tongue just right.

“You’re so close,” he murmurs against you, his voice wrecked, vibrating through every nerve in your body. He licks again, slow but firm, dragging his tongue over your clit in long, wet strokes before sucking it back into his mouth, rolling his hips into the bed with a deep, needy groan.

His movements grow messier, more desperate, his hips grinding down harder, the friction barely enough but still too much. His breath is ragged, his groans coming more frequently now, broken, needy sounds muffled against your slick skin as he buries himself deeper, tongue and lips and hands working you over like he’s determined to pull you apart.

“Come on, baby,” he rasps, barely pulling away, his breath hot against you. “Give it to me.”

And then he’s back on you, tongue flicking, lips sucking, hips rolling into the mattress with frantic, helpless need, completely lost in you, in this, in the way you’re about to fall apart for him.

You’re right there- so close it’s almost unbearable, your thighs trembling beneath his grip, your body arching into his mouth, seeking more, needing more. And Matt knows. He can feel it. He’s so in tune with you that he can tell the exact second you’re about to go under, can tell by the way your breath catches, by the way your fingers tighten in his hair, by the way your body goes tense and ready to break.

You moan, a soft, wrecked sound, and in the midst of it, the words spill out before you can stop them, raw and unfiltered and real.

“I love you, Matt.”

The second they leave your lips, Matt falls apart. A choked, wrecked noise rips from his throat as his whole body tenses, his hips jerking into the mattress with a desperate, uncontrollable need. His groan is deep and guttural, vibrating against your clit as his entire body shudders, his grip on your thighs tightening almost painfully as pleasure crashes over him in waves.

And at the same time, he pulls you with him.

His mouth doesn’t stop, his tongue flicking, sucking, lapping at you with frantic, desperate movements, completely consumed by the feeling of you, by your words, by the way you moan his name as you shatter beneath him. The vibrations of his groans send shockwaves through you, tipping you over the edge with him, your body trembling as you crash into your orgasm, every nerve igniting under his touch.

Matt’s hips stutter against the mattress, rolling through the aftershocks as he whimpers against you, his body wrecked, spent, completely undone. His grip on you doesn’t loosen, his mouth still moving lazily against you, tasting, savoring, dragging out every last bit of your pleasure even as his own leaves him shaking.

Finally, he stills, his breath hot and ragged against your skin. His forehead drops onto your thigh, his hands smoothing over your legs as he presses soft, lingering kisses against you, like he’s grounding himself, like he’s trying to process what just happened.

And then, barely above a whisper, he breathes, “Fuck, I love you too.”

His breath is still uneven, his body still trembling slightly as he presses soft, open-mouthed kisses against your inner thigh, his hands stroking soothing circles over your skin. He nuzzles against you, like he can’t quite bring himself to pull away, like he’s still lost in the moment, in you.

“God, I love you,” he murmurs, voice thick, still wrecked. He presses another kiss, this one softer, almost reverent, before whispering again, “I love you so much.”

But then, as the haze starts to clear, his touch falters. His brows furrow slightly, his breath hitching as he lifts his head and really looks at you. Your skin is still warm- too warm. The fever that had you curled up and miserable earlier hasn’t completely broken, and the realization crashes over him all at once.

“Shit,” he mutters, pushing himself up slightly, his hands immediately going to your face, brushing your hair back, feeling your forehead. His expression shifts, guilt flashing across his features as his lips press into a thin line. “Sweetheart, are you okay?” His voice is softer now, filled with worry as he cups your face, his thumb stroking over your cheek. “I- I shouldn’t have done that. I wasn’t thinking. You’re still sick.”

His eyes search yours, concern bleeding into every inch of him. “Do you need anything? Water? Medicine? A blanket?” His hands are already moving, like he’s ready to jump up and grab anything you might possibly need. “I’m so sorry, baby, I-”

But you don’t let him go anywhere.

Instead, you reach up, grab his wrist, and tug him down until his body is pressed flush against yours, his head resting against your bare chest. He tenses for half a second before melting into you, exhaling shakily as you wrap your arms around him, fingers threading through his hair, holding him close.

“I’ve never felt better,” you murmur, voice soft, sincere.

Matt lets out a breath, something between a sigh and a laugh, and buries his face against your tits, his lips brushing over your skin as his arms slide around your waist, pulling you in tighter. His body is warm, solid, grounding, and for a moment, he just lays there, listening to the steady beat of your heart beneath his cheek.

“You’re gonna be the death of me,” he mumbles, pressing a lingering kiss against your chest. But there’s no frustration in his voice, just quiet, exhausted affection.

The two of you stay there for a long moment, just breathing, just feeling. Matt’s weight is warm and solid against you, his head resting against your chest as his fingers lazily trace along your side. His breath is still a little uneven, but there’s something peaceful about the way he holds you, like he never wants to move.

But then, after a few minutes, he shifts slightly and mutters, “Fuck, I need to clean you up.” He pauses, groaning softly as he shifts again. “And I, uh, need to take care of myself too.”

You blink, tilting your head down to look at him. “Wait,” you murmur, teasing. “Are you still hard?” You grin slightly, running a hand through his messy hair. “Do you want me to blow you?”

You barely start to sit up before Matt’s entire body tenses against you. He jerks back slightly, his breath catching as his vision momentarily swims. “Oh- shit,” he mutters, squeezing his eyes shut for a second, like just the thought alone was enough to make him dizzy.

Then, with a reluctant groan, he shakes his head. “As much as that sounds fucking incredible… I, uh…” His voice drops a little, and suddenly, he’s fidgeting, shifting awkwardly as he clears his throat. “I already came.”

You blink at him, surprised. “Wait, what?”

His face turns bright red, his ears practically glowing as he runs a hand through his messy hair, looking anywhere but at you. “Yeah,” he mutters, clearing his throat again, looking almost painfully embarrassed. “Like… while I was eating you out.”

Your gaze instinctively drops lower, and that’s when you see it- the very obvious, very large stain on the front of his grey sweats. Your cheeks heat instantly, and you swallow, eyes flicking back up to him.

“That’s just from… eating me out?” you ask, voice barely above a whisper.

Matt presses a hand over his face, groaning softly, but he nods. “Yeah.”

Silence hangs between you for a second- awkward and heated all at once, because somehow, that’s both incredibly embarrassing and incredibly hot. Your mind swirls with the thought of him grinding against the mattress, that desperate, that lost in you, that completely wrecked just from tasting you. You wish you had seen it.

He clears his throat again, breaking the tension as he finally forces himself to move. “Okay,” he mutters, shaking his head, like he needs to get himself together. “Let me get you cleaned up.”

Without another word, he rolls off the bed and heads into your bathroom, still visibly flustered. You hear the sound of running water, cabinets opening, and then he’s back, a warm towel in his hands as he kneels beside you. His touch is gentle as he cleans you up, his brows furrowed slightly in concentration, his lips pressed together like he’s still processing everything that just happened.

But as he works, his gaze flicks up to yours, and despite the embarrassment lingering in the air, there’s something warm and fond in his eyes.

“Never gonna live this down, am I?” he murmurs, his lips twitching slightly.

You bite your lip, suppressing a smile. “Probably not.”

Matt groans, shaking his head. “Yeah. That’s what I thought.”

As Matt finishes cleaning you up, you let out a little amused hum and murmur, “It’s okay. I probably would’ve done the same if you let me blow you.”

His entire body locks up. His grip on the towel stills, and he visibly tenses, his breath catching in his throat. For a second, he just stares at you, like his brain short-circuited, before he shakes his head, squeezing his eyes shut like he’s trying to physically push the thought away.

“Sweetheart,” he groans, his voice low and strained. “You gotta stop talking about that or I’m literally gonna break.”

You giggle at his reaction, tilting your head at him, eyes gleaming with mischief. “Why don’t you let me, then?”

Matt groans again, dragging a hand down his face. “No,” he says firmly, shaking his head. “I’m not letting you blow me while you’re sick. You’re not doing anything to me while you’re sick.” His voice softens slightly, his gaze flickering over you with concern. “I don’t want you overworking yourself.”

You sigh dramatically, pouting. “Okaaayy.”

He rolls his eyes, but there’s a fond smile playing on his lips as he finishes cleaning you up. Once he’s done, he stands, heading back into the bathroom. You hear the soft rustling of clothes, the wet drop of fabric hitting the floor, and then a moment later, he steps out- now dressed in a fresh pair of sweats and boxers that he’d left at your place before.

When he looks at you, though, his breath catches slightly. You’re still sprawled out on the bed, naked, your body relaxed and already starting to doze off, your lashes fluttering against your cheeks.

His heart clenches at the sight.

With a soft sigh, he walks over, crouching beside the bed and brushing his fingers gently over your arm. “C’mon, sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice filled with so much love it makes your chest ache. “Let me get you dressed and bundled up, then you can sleep.”

You let out a little sleepy whine but don’t protest as he carefully slips his own sweatshirt over your head, his hands gentle as he pulls it down over your body. It’s oversized on you, swallowing you up in warmth, and he smiles to himself as he rolls up the sleeves just a bit. Then, he grabs your sweatpants and helps you slip them back on, making sure you’re comfortable before pulling the blankets up around you, tucking you in snugly.

Just as he’s about to stand up and leave, you reach out, grabbing his wrist weakly. Your voice is small, tired, but filled with so much quiet pleading.

“No… please stay with me tonight,” you murmur, blinking up at him sleepily. “You can’t leave.”

Matt exhales softly, his expression melting into something so incredibly tender.

“Okay, baby,” he whispers, brushing his knuckles gently over your cheek before slipping into bed beside you.

The second he does, you shift closer, nuzzling against his chest as he wraps his arms around you, holding you tightly. His warmth seeps into you, his steady heartbeat against your ear lulling you further into sleep.

Matt presses a soft kiss to the top of your head, tightening his hold on you just a little.

“Get some rest, sweetheart,” he murmurs. “I’ve got you.”

You nuzzle closer into Matt’s warmth, your fingers curling into the fabric of his sweatshirt as you bury your face against his chest. His scent, familiar and comforting, fills your senses, and you let out a soft, content sigh.

“I love you, Matt,” you murmur, your voice muffled against him but filled with quiet sincerity.

His arms tighten around you instantly, like he’s holding onto something precious. He exhales softly, pressing a lingering kiss to the top of your head before whispering, “I love you too.”

And in that moment, with his heartbeat steady beneath your ear and his arms wrapped securely around you, everything feels right.

No matter what happens tomorrow, no matter where life takes either of you, you know it’ll be okay. Because in the end, you’ll always find your way back to each other.

You’ll always wait for each other.

MASTERLIST

tags: @ilovejohnnieguilbertsblog @mattsturnii @starstrucktyrantinfluencer @watercolorskyy @strangecatpeach @katie1002 @1ovesiick @slut4christopherr @mattgirl4eva @mayalovesturn @chriss-slutt @sturniolohohoho @courta13 @izzylovesmatt @matthewsturnsgf @aaa-mi @bigbeefybitch @hopelesslydevotedsstuff @wastelandzella @yourmother29 @whore4-chrissturniolo @idefinitelyhateu @madisonnxtdoor22 @user1smvtysturniolo @briisturniolo @sturniololuvz @hesvoid34 @butterflytsblog @mommymomm @mattsbunnyxx @blushsturns @i8kth @annalisesturnioloxo @kenziesturniolo54 @ribread03 @sturnl0ve @grace-sturniolo12 @sophsturns @mattsturnfx @lilyloveschris @milo-the-dog @riggysworld @scrumptiouskoalabasement @tenaciousearthquakeperson @sturnlovematt22 @seros-girl @sofsturnz689 @sturniololuvz @eeyoresturnz

[burntoutdaydreamer]

Weird Brain Hacks That Help Me Write

I'm a consistently inconsistent writer/aspiring novelist, member of the burnt-out-gifted-kid-to-adult-ADHD-diagnosis-pipeline, recently unemployed overachiever, and person who's sick of hearing the conventional neurotypical advice to dealing with writer's block (i.e. "write every single day," or "there's no such thing as writer's block- if you're struggling to write, just write" Like F*CK THAT. Thank you, Brenda, why don't you go and tell someone with diabetes to just start producing more insulin?)

I've yet to get to a point in my life where I'm able to consistently write at the pace I want to, but I've come a long way from where I was a few years ago. In the past five years I've written two drafts of a 130,000 word fantasy novel (currently working on the third) and I'm about 50,000 words in on the sequel. I've hit a bit of a snag recently, but now that I've suddenly got a lot of time on my hands, I'm hoping to revamp things and return to the basics that have gotten me to this point and I thought I might share.

1) My first draft stays between me and God

I find that I and a lot of other writers unfortunately have gotten it into our heads that first drafts are supposed to resemble the finished product and that revisions are only for fixing minor mistakes. Therefore, if our first draft sucks that must mean we suck as writers and having to rewrite things from scratch means that means our first draft is a failure.

I'm here to say that is one of the most detrimental mentalities you can have as a writer.

Ever try drawing a circle? You know how when you try to free-hand draw a perfect circle in one go, it never turns out right? Whereas if you scribble, say, ten circles on top of one another really quickly and then erase the messy lines until it looks like you drew a circle with a singular line, it ends up looking pretty decent?

Yeah. That's what the drafting process is.

Your first draft is supposed to suck. I don't care who you are, but you're never going to write a perfect first draft, especially if you're inexperienced. The purpose of the first draft is to lay down a semi-workable foundation. A really loose, messy sketch if you will. Get it all down on paper, even if it turns out to be the most cliche, cringe-inducing writing you've ever done. You can work out those kinks in the later drafts. The hardest part of the first draft is the most crucial part: getting started. Don't stress yourself out and make it even harder than it already is.

If that means making a promise to yourself that no one other than you will ever read your first draft unless it's over your cold, dead body, so be it.

2) Tell perfectionism to screw off by writing with a pen

I used to exclusively write with pencil until I realized I was spending more time erasing instead of writing.

Writing with a pen keeps me from editing while I right. Like, sometimes I'll have to cross something out or make notes in the margins, but unlike erasing and rewriting, this leaves the page looking like a disaster zone and that's a good thing.

If my writing looks like a complete mess on paper, that helps me move past the perfectionist paralysis and just focus on getting words down on the page. Somehow seeing a page full of chicken scratch makes me less worried about making my writing all perfect and pretty- and that helps me get on with my main goal of fleshing out ideas and getting words on a page.

3) It's okay to leave things blank when you can't think of the right word

My writing, especially my first draft, is often filled with ___ and .... and (insert name here) and red text that reads like stage directions because I can't think of what is supposed to go there or the correct way to write it.

I found it helps to treat my writing like I do multiple choice tests. Can't think of the right answer? Just skip it. Circle it, come back to it later, but don't let one tricky question stall you to the point where you run out of brain power or run out of time to answer the other questions.

If I'm on a role, I'm not gonna waste it by trying to remember that exact word that I need or figure out the right transition into the next scene or paragraph. I'm just going to leave it blank, mark to myself that I'll need to fix the problem later, and move on.

Trust me. This helps me sooooo much with staying on a roll.

4) Write Out of Order

This may not be for everyone, but it works wonders for me.

Sure, the story your writing may need to progress chronologically, but does that mean you need to write it chronologically? No. It just needs to be written.

I generally don't do this as much for editing, but for writing, so long as you're making progress, it doesn't matter if it's in the right order. Can't think of how to structure Chapter 2, but you have a pretty good idea of how your story's going to end? Write the ending then. You'll have to go back and write Chapter 2 eventually, but if you're feeling more motivated to write a completely different part of the book, who's to say you can't do that?

When I'm working on a project, I start off with a single document that I title "Scrap for (Project Title)" and then just write whatever comes to mind, in whatever order. Once I've gotten enough to work with, then I start outlining my plot and predicting how many chapters I'm going to need. Then, I create separate google docs for each individual chapter and work on them in whatever order I feel like, often leaving several partially complete as I jump from one to the other. Then, as each one gets finished, I copy and paste the chapter into the full manuscript document. This means that the official "draft" could have Chapters 1 and 9, but completely be missing Chapters 2-8, and that's fine. It's not like anyone will ever know once I finish it.

Sorry for the absurdly long post. Hopes this helps someone. Maybe I'll share more tricks in the future.

[oswildin]

Loki x Bestfriend!You Headcannons (He’s In Love With You)

A/N: Avenger!Loki AU, Avenger!You

You’re the first person he has ever felt he could just be himself around. There were no titles, no expectations, just Loki. It was freeing.

Loki always searches for you first whenever he hears the latest bit of gossip around the compound (yes, he most definitely is a gossiper, he just loves the drama, and if he can stir the pot, oh he will).

Quiet evenings with you. You force him to watch films with you, and he always grumbles and will consistently commentate through the whole thing, but secretly, he loves it. He loves being able to spend time with just you, away from everyone else.

He thinks he masks his feelings well, he’s known for deception after all, but no… It’s clear to everyone that the man is totally head over heels and would do anything (and I mean anything) for you. They have bets on how long it takes for him to finally tell you.

He didn’t realise what he felt at first, having never really felt romantic love before. Sure, he’d had fancies, but never anything… real.

It took him a long time to realise that yes, it was in fact ‘love’ he felt for you. The moment he realised was when you were both taking a stroll around the compound grounds, the sun was shining, the birds were singing, everything felt perfect. And then you turned to look at him, the sun sitting perfectly behind you, casting you in an almost ethereal glow.

It was then he felt his heart skip a beat, a flutter in his belly, his eyes widening a fraction at the sight of you. He felt sick and excited at the same time. Nervous yet comfortable. Scared yet peaceful. How was that even possible? Even for a God of his own contradictory nature, that all felt so contrasting.

“Loki? You good?” You’d raised a brow, giving him a strange look as he hadn’t said anything in a good ten seconds - which was rare for him.

“Hm?” Loki had blinked, clearing his throat. “I- uh, yeah, yes. Fine.” He had awkwardly told you, nodding, trying to regain composure.

How utterly cliche. Like a scene from one of those awful romantic films you made him suffer through.

Oh, how his gaze softens whenever you’re in the room. Almost like a lovesick puppy. If his past self could see him now, he would’ve called him ‘pathetic’ and tell him to ‘get a grip’.

But current Loki, he didn’t care. The way you made him feel was unlike anything he’d ever felt before.

Of course he had to fall for his best friend. It couldn’t have just been simple. Easy. But then again, of course he had to fall for his best friend… To even be considered his best friend, well, that was no easy feat.

He takes any reason to be ridiculously close to you. Cooking? You bet he’s standing right beside you at the stove, moving every time you move to grab a spice. Watching a film? Yeah, there’s plenty of space on the sofa, but on the other side of it he can’t make sure his arm is touching yours. Handing him something? Oh, he is practically grabbing your whole hand just to feel the tingle go up his arm.

There was one time he had overheard Natasha mentioning she was planning to set up a blind date for you. He had never interjected himself into a conversation so fast before.

“A blind date? How… tedious. Besides, doesn’t it seem counterintuitive? Going to meet someone you have never seen before? Don’t even know the name of? They could be a- a psychopath or a murderer, or worse yet utterly hideous and dull.”

Yeah, he handled that with his usual tactile diplomacy. (Sarcasm)

“That’s not how blind dates work, Loki.” Natasha told him with a smirk. “I know the candidate.”

“Oh, well that makes me feel a lot better.” Sarcasm, obviously.

Loki was extremely relieved when he found out you had turned down her offer.

“Babe, could you pass me the salt?” You’d once said.

Natasha AND Loki both reached for the salt.

You looked at Loki strangely. Natasha simply smirked. Loki looked extremely embarrassed. He didn’t even like the thought of being called ‘babe’. Well… At least not until you’d said it. Even if it wasn’t to him.

“I thought you said ‘hey’-“ Loki had tried to cover.

You got hurt on a mission? Even just a scratch? Oh, Loki is worrrrieeeddddd.

“Let me see.” He’d insist. “Loki, I’m fine-“ You’d try. “Yes, maybe so, but I’d like to be sure, you mortals are extremely fragile-“ He’d say with his usual dry humour.

He’d dress your wound, even if the med staff had done, he would always find something to critique, something that he could do better. All because he wanted to be the one to make sure you were okay, safe, looked after.

The sun is in your eyes? How dare it, utterly unacceptable, he would not have it. He would destroy it for such an offence. (Not really, but you get the idea).

“Loki, no-“ Tony had said. “Loki, yes-“ Loki had said. “Loki, no.” You had said. “Loki, no.” Loki had said. (Again, you get the idea).

He just found you… utterly comforting. Safe. You accepted him for him. Not the masks, just him. And he finally felt like he belonged. And he would be damned if he ever lost that. Whether he ever revealed how he felt or not…

Spoiler: He does, by accident. Slip of the tongue. What a tragedy for a God known for his silver-tongue, but it seemed even he had his slip-ups, his moments of humanness.

Another spoiler: Of course, you loved him too.

[klausinamarink]

based on this hilarious video with Gianmarco Soresi whom I’ve been watching his comedy work for a few months now

read on ao3

“What do you do?” The standup of the hour - the guy had introduced himself as Eddie - points at Steve.

Flustered at the attention directing every eye in the club to his table, Steve tries not to stammer as he answers, “Well, uh, I make movies.”

“Oh!” Eddie genuinely looks interested. “So you’re a director?”

“Yeah, pretty much. At least I started out as an indie, but I have a big project that’s out and a couple more on the way.” One table nearby claps and Steve tries to wave them off to stop.

“So what was that big project? Was it something we would’ve seen?” Eddie repositions himself so he has one leg up on the stool. Steve stares at how lean they seem with the tight black jeans. He’s got them daddy long legs. His brain suddenly burps out and it nearly makes Steve lose his composure.

“Uh, ha, I did The Final Bat. It’s on Shudder.” Steve shrugs nonchalantly, perfectly hiding his internal cringe. The horror genre is way out of his league and Steve’s already seen The Final Bat being on a few critical lists damning the title as another cliche-filled mess. He only did it because he had finally caved to Dustin’s pleading to make at least one horror movie.

Eddie, on the other hand, seems ecstatic by this revelation. “No way! That’s sick, dude! So the next time you make a horror flick, you’re gonna watch Blumhouse and A24 coming in at each other with steel chairs for distribution rights.”

Everyone laughs, including Robin. She smacks on Steve’s bicep with a wide grin. He smacks her back before he turns back to Eddie and clarifies, “I don’t like horror! I’m not doing it again!”

Aghast, Eddie throws an invisible hat to the ground and stamps on his feet. “Come on! Then what’s the point of watching the studios bite each other’s dicks off when you’re slipping out to watch - I don’t know - the Barbie movie! Now they’re just fighting for the next shitty horror movie to exist!”

Steve covers his mouth but fails to hold back in the laughter. Eddie’s infectious energy is starting to get to him. It makes his chest clench with something other than the usual pains.

Eddie patiently waits for the patrons to quiet down before continuing, still attentive to Steve, “I’m just wondering actually if you ever done theater class.”

“Sure did! Two years in high school,” Steve confirms.

“Let me guess, they did Hamlet?” Eddie raises an eyebrow like it’s meant to be accusatory.

“Yep, soon after I joined.” Steve nods, the memory of that production flashing before his eyes. It had its ups and downs but it was one of the most fun things Steve had ever experienced.

“No wonder they started as soon as your handsome ass walked in the club.” Eddie says low and flirtatiously into the microphone, staring directly into Steve’s eyes. It echoes across the room and back, bringing the howling laughter with it.

Heat crawls behind his face. Steve keeps his hands on the table, forcing down the urge to hide behind them. “I-” He stops to cough, “I wasn’t supposed to play Hamlet.”

Eddie’s eyes go wide, “What do you mean?!”

Robin answers loud enough for everyone to hear, “He was the grave robber, but the other guy who did Hamlet got into a coma a week before the show and Steve knew all the lines.”

“W-Woah, woah, woah!” Eddie holds his hands out, looking scandalous. He throws looks around the club. “Everyone, shut the fuck up right now! This is more important than caring about the rest of you!” Eddie drags the stool over and perches on it like a very much invested gargoyle, almost oblivious to the audience’s reaction.

“Okay, let me go through this.” He points at Steve, still holding eye contact as if Steve’s soul would provide the answer. “You weren’t Hamlet. You were meant to be the guy who gives him the skull to monologue. The OG Hamlet got into a coma for some reason-“

“Car accident.” Robin interjects.

“Yeah, no need to elaborate, ma’am. You, Steve-” Eddie breaks off for a second, holding back a laugh of his own. “You somehow knew all the Hamlet lines because you were waiting to skin OG Hamlet’s head and make his skull yours to do the monologue.”

There’s a scandalous outcry from all tables. Even when they mostly calm down, Steve uses the growing anticipation to ‘think’ about what Eddie just said before he casually shrugs and says, “Sounds about right.”

Eddie drops his face into his arm, letting everyone laugh at him. Steve lets himself break, his laughter bubbling out of him in a way that doesn’t sound so self-deprecating or hollow. If he was in a cynical mood, he would’ve thought it was pathetic that the only person who made him laugh so lightly again was some random standup.

After a moment, Eddie finally looks up, his face broken in disbelieving grin. He chuckles into the mic and looks back at Steve, “Sorry, it’s just I hear some wild stories in the crowd some nights and I think yours takes the cake.”

Steve smiles, “Thanks, man.”

Eddie stands up back, half-leaning onto the stool. “Do you still remember those lines? To be or not to be?”

The whole damn thing. “Uh… some of it?”

Eddie’s grin shifts into something more mischievous. “Let’s see who knows more.”

A collective oooh goes around the room, including Robin. She already has her phone out for recording. Steve rolls his eyes at her and takes a quick sip of his water. He clears his throat and starts, “‘To be or not to be, that is the question.’”

“‘Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer, the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune..’” Eddie says without missing a beat.

Oh, he thinks he knows it all. The sense of competition that Steve thought had died out with his future of a sports career reignites in his chest. He sits up even straighter. “‘Or to take arms against a sea of troubles and by opposing end them.’”

“‘To die-to sleep, no more.’” Eddie slowly walks over to the edge of the stage, “‘And by a sleep to say we end the heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks that flesh is heir to.’”

“'tis a consummation devoutly to be wish'd.’” Steve almost shivers as he recites the line, uncertain if it’s from the club’s cooling temperatures or the intense gaze from Eddie’s eyes. “‘To die, to sleep.’”

“‘To sleep, perchance to dream—ay, there's the rub,’” Eddie suggestively rubs a hand on his chest as he squats down. Steve’s eyes flicker to the hand, almost hypnotized by the motion. Nay, he shakes himself out of it. No distractions!

“‘For in that sleep of death what dreams may come, when we have shuffled off this mortal coil.’” It’s getting harder to remember the following lines. That hasn’t happened before. Steve has never forgotten the damn soliloquy in years, even when other people try to challenge him.

Eddie continues, “‘Must give us pause—there's the respect that makes calamity of so long life. For who would bear the whips and scorns of time, the oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely.’”

“‘The pangs-’” Steve feels his breath catching in his throat when he realizes, for the first time, what beautiful eyes Eddie has.

Oh. 

Eddie suddenly perks up in excitement. For a second, Steve thinks that Eddie has come to the exact same thoughts for him. But then he remembers that he hasn’t completed his line, so Steve feigns defeat.

“I win!” Eddie stands up with a triumphant cry. He spreads his arms out to embrace the cheering whoops and applause. “And I’ve only got to play Hamlet in-” He spins around and crouches down so he can look Steve in the eye again as Eddie’s voice booms into the mic, “-FOURTH GRADE, MOTHERFUCKER!” 

Steve’s not even mad. He just throws his head back, laughing and clapping along. 

Almost too soon, Eddie moves on to heckle on another table. But he keeps glancing over at Steve, his smile widening every time. And Steve smiles back, feeling a laugh slip out of his slips at every joke. He watches Eddie more closely, feeling his heart pound faster in his chest the more Eddie stays onstage. 

By the time Eddie has to depart and thank everyone for being here, Robin announces her need to go home and snuggle with her girlfriend. 

“Man, that was the most I’ve ever laughed in this place.” Steve stretches his back, groaning at the little pops. God, being in his early thirties can be a bitch sometimes.

Robin only hums, moving her eyebrows up and down suggestively. Steve pointedly makes no further comment as he pays the tab.

Outside, the crisp night air welcomes him. Steve takes in a whiff, staring up at the light-polluted sky as he bids Robin a goodbye. Then he hears his name being called. He turns around and sees Eddie hurrying out the doors.

Steve feels a smile already on his face, “Hey, Hamlet.” 

Eddie grins at him, teeth and all, “Hey, yourself.” 

They stare at each other but it lacks the competitive intensity earlier. Steve likes this. But he already has a feeling that this won’t be the first time either one of them would challenge the other.

“Sooo…” Steve says when the silence stretches a little too long. He gestures between himself and Eddie, “Wanna restart our introductions?”

Eddie’s eyes brighten, “Yeah! Right, sorry.” He clears his throat and thrusts a hand out. “My name is Eddie Munson. Self-proclaimed comedian and musician. You may recognize me as the guy who beat you in Hamlet’s famous speech.”

Steve takes his hand. Eddie feels bony and thin, but large enough to fit perfectly into Steve’s palm. He tries not to sound so eager as he says, “Steve Harrington. Film director who doesn’t like horror. Believe it or not, I actually know the whole stupid thing.”

Eddie tilts his head, narrowing his eyes, “Really? Like, no offense, but even if you remember that much-”

“‘And thus the native hue of resolution is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought, and enterprises of great pith and moment with this regard their currents turn awry and lose the name of action.’” Steve winks with the Harrington Charm, smile and all. 

Eddie stares at him for so long that Steve feels his heart racing for a different reason. And then, Eddie turns around and muffles a loud scream into his free hand. When the man turns back to face him, he’s sporting the widest smile Steve has never seen.

“You knew the whole thing!?” Eddie’s eyes sparkle with utter adoration.

“Yep.” Steve pops the ‘p’, grinning like a little shit.

“But why did you forget that line?”

“Let’s just say,” Steve squeezes Eddie’s hand, intertwining their fingers together, “I got distracted by the pangs of love.”

Eddie bites on his lower lip as he swoons his body over so they are pressing against each other. With half-lidded eyes, Eddie whispers, “You know that part is Hamlet referring to missing his dead dad, right?”

Of course Steve couldn’t help but kiss him.

[starboye]

starring: ghostface!drew starkey x male reader

request: ghostface/drew starkey x bubble butt fem boy twink: he calls you and he does the iconic ghostface quote but he notices you’re wearing some really tight boxers and knee high socks so he breaks in you do the chase thing, you tried crawling through the doggy door but you get stuck and he rips open your boxes and eats your ass and then fucks you like a slut, then he helps you get out and fucks you all around your house( you wake up to note saying he’ll be back and stuff like that

warnings: smut, cursing, mention of blood, knife, ass eating, dub-con to consensual, breeding kink, stomach bulge, daddy kink, slight degradation, yandere action from drew, threats, stalking

it was supposed to be a normal night, with you finally all alone in your house in some nice underwear and cute socks chilling the night away with movies and snacks, that was until you got a call from some unknown number and picked up the phone "hello" you cheerily answered but the only thing you could hear from the other side was heavy breaths.

you hung up the phone after the person didn't answer and was about to go back too enjoying your movie till you got another call from the same number, this time answering it with a little more aggression "look here i don't know if this is some sick prank but stop calling" you angrily say before hanging up, but the number calls back again.

you were going to ignore it but the rings were driving you insane so you picked up the phone and just when you were about to scream at the person they spoke "what's your favorite horror movie" the man asks in a friendly but eery tone "what" you asked confused by his random question.

"what is your favorite horror film" he asks again, this time in a more flirtatious tone "and why do you wanna know" you inquire now slightly twirling the cord of the telephone around your finger "i dunno just curious i guess" he says and you fail to notice him outside your kitchen window, lightly running his blade over the glass.

"well i guess mine is scream" you chuckle "wow really that's so cliche" the man says and you could hear the smirk on his face "hey don't judge me" you say "i won't i just didn't expect that from someone as flattering as yourself y/n" he laughs making you freeze in your place "h-how do you know my name" you nervously ask looking around your house frantically.

"oh i know everything about you y/n l/n, from where you work, what you do, and even where you live" he eerily says before hanging up the call and banging on your door feircely "come on y/n let me innn" the man yells in a creepy sing songy voice making you panic even more, and fear sets in as he finally breaks the door down.

it creaking open to a man in a ghostface mask with a knife in hand "come to daddy" the man taunts starting a chase around the house, you trying to dodge him by jumping around through the kitchen and living room, smashing a vase across his face in hopes of slowing him down till you saw an exit, the doggy door.

you hurriedly rush towards the doggy door and slide through at first but you lower half gets stuck behind the door as the man recovers and sees you, all stuck with no way out from his coming attack "well what happend here" he teases running the cold metal across the thigh of your leg making you shiver with fear "don't worry prince i'm not gonna hurt you i'm gonna make you feel so good" the man smiles.

"who the fuck are you" you ask "ghostface but you can call me drew" he says taking off the mask to reveal his very attractive face "well mr.drew could you help me i'm really stuck" you say swaying your ass back and forth to lure him in, his hands planting on your ass and you could feel his breath graze your covered ass and just then you kicked his face with your leg.

"son of a bitch" he curses loudly wincing at the pain now in his lip,you try to wiggle out and you almost manage it but drew roughly pulls you back getting you stuck again in the small door way "and just when i was thinking of maybe letting you go too" he says ripping your underwear off leaving your ass out for him and he wastes no time and dives into your ass, licking and lapping at your hole.

his hands kneading your ass like dough and his teeth nipping at the skin of your smooth ass, you whimper out as you struggle to stay focused on how to get out of this situation "shit you taste so fucking good" drew huffs lifting from his assault on your ass before pulling you back into the house making you yelp out, he turns you over on your back and forces you to look at him.

"listen here, i'm gonna fuck you now and if you try to run ima tie you up instead m'kay" he asks, the knife blade at your neck drawing some blood "yes sir" you say scared shitless at this point, he picks you up and sets you on the table, letting his hard on fall out and slap your hole, you whimper at just the feel and sight of the scary man spitting into his hand to lube you both up.

he slides in with some resistance from you but once his hips begin thrusting into you, you become a moaning mess on his cock as the thrust of him jolt your backward on the table but he holds you close by gripping your hips, seeing you very uncomfortable on the table he moves you to the living room floor.

laying you down and resuming his assault on your tight hole, covering your mouth as to not alert the neighbors of this "fuckkk you feel so good, don't i fell so big in you baby" drew asks looking at you with lust fueled eyes, his hips snapping into your ass making it nearly impossible to answer the question with anything other than incoherent babbles.

"look at you already making a mess on daddys cock" drew smirks cockily seeing your messy hole create a cream ring around the base of his dick before you cum with a loud moan, your nails digging into his back leaving scratches through his clothes "such a good botch for me" drew mutters lifting you up onto the couch and fucking you on his cock as the tv plays none other than scream.

"look at that it's your favorite movie right" drew asks directing your clouded attention to the tv which you could barely understand from the dick that was currently stuffing you full "don't blink or you could miss the best part" drew says with a grin as your head rocked back and forth not even paying attention "you just want daddy to fill you up huh, full of all my cum right" he says nuzzling into your neck.

"fuc- yesss daddy i want your cum so... so bad please breed me" you breathlessly huff running your fingers through his hair and gripping them, creating a sting in the mans scalp but he liked it "yeah gonna have you walking around here dripping with all my jizz" drew groans as he feels his climax brewing in him.

"please please mr ghostface i want it so bad" you moan out gripping his hair tighter till he came in you, painting your walls white and spreading your walls even further till you got a little bulge in your stomach from the inflation of his thick cum, him groaning deeply in your ear as he fucks you on his dick, you could feel his cum swirl around in you.

but after that you remember dropping onto the couch unconscious, drew having had left in this ruined state, when you woke up the next morning you thought it was all a dream, till you felt the aching pain in your ass and felt the cum dripping out of you and found a note on the table next to the ghostface mask he wore "i'll be back tonight, leave the back door unlocked and wear something slutty for me" it said.

you knew it wasn't the best idea to fuck someone like him but with the way he had you dumb cock drunk in seconds last night you couldn't resist and went out and bought some nice lingerie for them man and waited ass up for the secret man to arrive, hearing the back door open and shut was all you needed to hear for the heat in you to start rising again.

taglist: @mailmango @spermeboy @ghostking4m @gayaristocrat @addictedtomalepits @staarb0y @crispysoup318 @its-ares @gargoylesworld09 @kadenvatsune

©starboye productions

[invisibleicewands]

Please come and see me because I’ll be dead soon’: how Michael Sheen got sucked into a forever chemicals exposé

An opera-loving member of high society turned eco-activist who was forced into police protection with a panic button round his neck. A Hollywood actor who recorded said activist’s life story as he was dying from exposure to the very chemicals he was investigating. Throw in two investigative journalists who realise not everything is as it seems, then uncover some startling truths, and you have “podcasting’s strangest team” on Buried: The Last Witness.

On their award-winning 2023 podcast Buried, the husband and wife duo Dan Ashby and Lucy Taylor dug into illegal toxic waste dumping in the UK and its links to organised crime. This time, they focus on “forever chemicals”, specifically polychlorinated biphenyls (PCBs) and set out to discover whether one whistleblower may have been decades ahead of his time in reporting on their harmful impact.

“It’s amazing how big the scale of this story is,” says Ashby, as we sit backstage at the Crucible theatre, where they are doing a live discussion as part of Sheffield DocFest. “With this series, we don’t just want it to make your blood turn cold, we want it to make you question your own blood itself.”

It all started when Taylor and Ashby were sent a lead about the work of former farmer’s representative Douglas Gowan. In 1967, he discovered a deformed calf in a field and began to investigate strange goings on with animals close to the Brofiscin and Maendy quarries in south Wales. He linked them to the dumping of waste by companies including the nearby Monsanto chemical plant, which was producing PCBs.

PCBs were used in products such as paint and paper to act as a fire retardant, but they were discovered to be harmful and have been banned since 1981 in the UK. However, due to their inability to break down – hence the term forever chemical – Gowan predicted their legacy would be a troubling one. “I expect there to be a raft of chronic illness,” he said. He even claimed that his own exposure to PCBs (a result of years of testing polluted grounds) led his pancreas and immune system to stop working. “I’m a mess and I think it can all be attributed to PCBs,” he said.

However, Gowan wasn’t a typical environmentalist. “A blue-blood high-society Tory and a trained lawyer who could out-Mozart anyone,” is how Taylor describes him in the series. He would even borrow helicopters from friends in high places to travel to investigate farmers’ fields. Gowan died in 2018 but the pair managed to get hold of his life’s work – confidential reports, testing and years of evidence. “I’m interested in environmental heroes that aren’t cliche,” says Ashby. “So I was fascinated by him. But then we started to see his flaws and really had to weigh them up. My goodness it’s a murky world we went into.”

The reason they were able to delve even deeper into this murky world is because of the award-winning actor Michael Sheen who, in 2017, came across Gowan’s work in a story he read. He was so blown away by it, and the lack of broader coverage, that he tracked him down. “I got a message back from him saying: ‘Please come and see me because I’ll be dead soon,’” says Sheen. “I took a camera with me and spent a couple of days with him and just heard this extraordinary story.”

What Gowan had been trying to prove for years gained some traction in 2007, with pieces in the Ecologist and a Guardian article exploring how “Monsanto helped to create one of the most contaminated sites in Britain”. One was described as smelling “of sick when it rains and the small brook that flows from it gushes a vivid orange.” But then momentum stalled.

Years later, in 2023, Ashby and Taylor stumbled on a recording of Sheen giving the 2017 Raymond Williams memorial lecture, which referenced Gowan and his work. Before they knew it, they were in the actor’s kitchen drinking tea and learning he had conducted a life-spanning seven-hour interview with Gowan before his death. So they joined forces. Sheen isn’t just a token celebrity name added for clout on this podcast; he is invested. For him, it’s personal as well as political. “Once you dig into it, you realise there’s a pattern,” he says. “All the places where this seems to have happened are poor working-class areas. There’s a sense that areas like the one I come from are being exploited.”

Sheen even goes to visit some contaminated sites in the series, coming away from one feeling sick. “That made it very real,” he says. “To be looking into a field and going: ‘Well, I’m pretty sure that’s toxic waste.’” Sheen was living a double life of sorts. “I went to rehearsals for a play on Monday and people were like, ‘What did you do this weekend?’” he says. “‘Oh, I went to the most contaminated area in the UK and I think I may be poisoned.’ People thought I was joking.” Sheen ended up being OK, but did have some temporary headaches and nausea, which was a worry. “We literally had to work out if we had poisoned Michael Sheen,” says Ashby, who also ponders in the series: “Have I just killed a national treasure?”

The story gets even knottier. Gowan’s findings turn out to be accurate and prescient, but the narrative around his journey gets muddy. As a character with a flair for drama, he turned his investigation into a juicy, riveting story filled with action, which could not always be corroborated. “If he hadn’t done that, and if he’d been a nerdy, analytical, detail-oriented person who just presented the scientific reports and kept them neatly filed, would we have made this podcast?” asks Taylor, which is a fascinating question that runs through this excellent and gripping series.

Ashby feels that Gowan understood how vital storytelling is when it comes to cutting through the noise. “We have so much science proving the scale of these problems we face and yet we don’t seem to have the stories,” he says. “I think Douglas got that. Fundamentally, he understood that stories motivate human beings to act. But then he went too far.”

However, this is not purely about Gowan’s story – it’s about evidence. The Last Witness doubles up as a groundbreaking investigation into the long-lasting impact of PCBs. “We threw the kitchen sink at this,” says Ashby. “The breakthrough for us is that the Royal Society of Chemistry came on board and funded incredibly expensive testing. So we have this commitment to go after the truth in a way that is hardly ever done.”

From shop-bought fish so toxic that it breaches official health advice to off-the-scale levels of banned chemicals found in British soil, the results are staggering. “The scientist almost fell off his chair,” says Ashby. “That reading is the highest he has ever recorded in soil – in the world. That was the moment we knew Douglas was right and we are now realising the scale of this problem. The public doesn’t realise that even a chemical that has been banned for 40 years is still really present in our environment.”

To go even deeper into just how far PCBs have got into our environment and food chain, Ashby and Taylor had their own blood tested. When Taylor found 80 different types of toxic PCB chemicals in her blood it was a sobering moment. “I was genuinely emotional because it’s so personal,” she says. “It was the thought of this thing being in me that was banned before I was even born and the thought of passing that on to my children.” Ashby adds: “We’ve managed physical risk in our life as journalists in Tanzania and with organised crime, but more scary than a gangster is this invisible threat to our health.”

In order to gauge the magnitude of what overexposure to PCBs can do, they headed to Anniston, Alabama, once home to a Monsanto factory. “As a journalist, you have an inbuilt scepticism and think it can’t be that bad,” says Ashby. “But when I got there I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. I hate to use words like dystopian, but it was. There is a whole massive school that can’t be used. There’s illnesses in children and cancers. It truly was the most powerful vignette of the worst-case example of these chemicals.”

It’s bleak stuff but instilling fear and panic is not the intention. “Obviously, we’re really concerned about it,” says Ashby. “And although the environmental crises we face do feel overwhelming, it is incredible how a movement has formed and how individuals are taking action in communities. The lesson to take from Douglas is that the response doesn’t have to be resignation. It can be agency.”

[yanderenightmare]

TW: nsfw, noncon/dubcon, kidnapped reader, bondage, somnophilia, oral, light ass-play

fem reader

It’s Valentine’s Day, and I’m thinking about the incel who’s never celebrated with anyone…

Only… now that he has you locked up in his house all to himself, He’s going to have you treat him to all those Valentine's cliches he’s missed out on – all inside the comforts of your new home, of course.

It’s early morning, and he’s got his cock inside you before you’ve even woken up. His thrusts are sleepy, and his voice is drowsy as he says he looks forward to breakfast – that he hasn’t had anyone cook him breakfast in bed since his mom on his tenth birthday. He likes his eggs sunny-side up, his bacon crispy, his toast golden, and his coffee just a little sweet for the occasion, plus a small glass of juice on the side.

After cumming inside you, he tells you not to take too long – that he wants you back in bed, hand-feeding him before the bed gets cold.

When you get back from the kitchen, he’s picked out a romance to watch – patting your place on the bed with a big grin on his face.

The trouble in your chest is a little eased to see him happy. Though it’s sick doing these types of things with your kidnapper – you much prefer acting like his girlfriend than getting your tits, clit, and ass flogged with a leather belt. 

So you curl up beside him like he gestured and hand-fed him like he’d said and laughed and awed at the movie playing out before you as if you were really enjoying yourself. And when he whispers that he’s made you breakfast as well while lifting the tray off his lap to reveal his hard-on, you hold back the wince and crawl under the covers – not a single slight leaving your lips as you wrap them around him and start sucking him off.

He hadn’t bothered wiping it with a tissue after this morning’s first, and so flakes of dried cum and soured bitterness coat your mouth in overwhelming filth, making tears well up and go dripping pitifully down your cheeks – holding back from gagging as you keep bobbing your head all pliantly while using your tongue to lave over his veins.

He sighs in bliss above the duvet, weaving both hands into your hair as he nudges his tip down further into your plush throat, so warm and wet and tight around him, milking him for the meal in his balls. 

He shoots in right down to your belly when your lips kiss his base, petting your cheek while waiting for you to swallow around him. It takes everything in you not to choke on it and puke – but you’ve done it enough times now to resurface only breathless as you lay yourself to rest against his chest.

He says he’s got you a gift after having let you rest up for a little while – and drags a gift bag from under the bed. You receive it, forcing a shy smile – knowing not to expect a plushie and a heart-shaped box of chocolates but hoping for it nonetheless.

“I thought, since we can’t go outside, we’ll just have to make the most out of it in here...”

The contents of the bag make you swallow thickly – wide-eyed and goose-fleshed with trepidation. 

It’s all red – but that must have been the only thing Valentine’s about it…

Red silk blindfold, red ball gag, red rope, red fluffy cuffs, and a butt plug decorated with a heart-shaped ruby.

“And as for your gift to me,” He breaks your stillness, taking your face in both hands as he lifts it to level his – giving your pout a kiss that breaks with a wet smack. “All your holes all day long is all I want.”

You’re a picture. Bite marks on your breasts, a ring of teeth around your sore nipples – also on the inside of your thighs – along with full handprints welting the soft flesh. On your back with your hands beneath you, kept there in their cuffs – legs raised and spread, tied up in the red rope – mouth sucking on your ball, all muffled whining as you wiggle – blindfold soaked a deep burgundy from the tears streaming down your face. 

Your poor ass spread on the plug he’s eased inside, all cutely swallowed around the heart-shaped ruby glistening in the slick seeping from your pussy as he fucks you hard and fast and unrelentingly with a hand held tightly around your throat – moaning Happy Valentin’s Day!

BNHA – Shigaraki, Denki, Deku

JJK – Mahito

HQ – Tendou

CSM – Denji, Yoshida

[fangdokja]

:D oooh, I love those things where Scara isolates the reader so that she becomes reliant on his ass. So basically, psychological torture, please?

Your body is chained, but your mind? Still free. Or is it?

❤︎ Synopsis. Trapped in a mind game where love is a weapon and escape is impossible, you’ll learn that survival means surrendering to his twisted obsession. But as his control tightens, you’ll wonder: Are you his prisoner, or his willing prey?

♡ Book. World Ablaze (WA): For You, I'd Burn the World.

♡ Pairing. Yandere! Scaramouche x Fem. Reader

♡ Novelette. #1 - Lover or Captor?

♡ Word Count. 10,821

♡ TW. dom + top + older yandere, non-con, psychological torture, manipulation and conditioning, suggestive themes, fear play, emotional manipulation and abuse, hints at rough play and sex, psychological and emotional trauma, isolation, monitoring, lack of boundaries, non-con kissing and/or touching, forced relationship, threats, BDSM, psychological torture, Stockholm Syndrome, force feeding, uncomfortable food descriptions, control over food and water, implied kidnapping

♡ A/N. No problem. I genuinely enjoy writing all forms of torture. I’d say this is soft Scaramouche to be honest. But that’s just me. Since manipulation of circumstances pre-kidnapping is a classic (but also a traditional cliche at times), I decided to make some small fun facts on how psychological torture works in general. Also, do note that this has a different writing (especially formatting and plot progression) style from my usual works, but that’s the point… And, low-key got sick of editing this haha. But that’s nothing new. Either way, hope you guys enjoy :))

He watches you with an intensity that burns hotter than the static hum of the electro mist surrounding the enclosed space he calls home—your prison. His eyes, sharp like the edge of a newly forged blade, track every movement you make, every twitch of your fingers, every shallow breath you take. There is no escaping his scrutiny, no moment where his gaze isn’t a weight you carry as if he’s carved himself into your very existence.

“You’re trembling again,” he murmurs, his voice a lilt of mockery wrapped in silk, carrying an undercurrent of something darker. He’s closer now, the faintest scent of ozone and metal clinging to his presence. He’s always so near, yet somehow never close enough for you to strike—not that you have the strength anymore. His manipulation has bled you dry, turned your once vibrant spirit into a pale echo of itself.

“Have I scared you that much?” he continues, his tone like an echo of thunder in a storm, half-amused and wholly cruel. He kneels before you, tilting his head as if studying a particularly interesting experiment, and you wish, not for the first time, that he would lose interest in his obsession. But you know better than to hope; hope is a fragile thing here, something he’s crushed beneath his heel more times than you can count.

Your legs are bound, wrists tethered together with some unbreakable material that bites into your skin when you move too much. Not that movement helps. He’s seen to that too. The chains are just as much a part of his games as the room itself: walls painted in endless monotones, no windows, only a single dim light that flickers faintly, threatening to plunge you into complete darkness at any moment. He’s told you before that he’d like to see what the dark does to you—what he could do to you while you’re blind and helpless.

“Tell me,” he says now, his hand reaching forward to brush against your cheek. His touch is deceptively gentle, a lover’s caress that belies the brutality hiding beneath the surface. “Have you learned to appreciate me yet?”

You flinch but don’t answer. Words are a dangerous currency here. Silence earns punishment; speech earns worse. You’ve been caught in his web long enough to know the rules of his game are meant to ensure one thing: total control. But your defiance—the last ember of it—makes you cling to the belief that your silence is an act of rebellion, however small.

He chuckles lowly, the sound reverberating through the empty room. “Still so stubborn,” he muses, fingers now tracing the line of your jaw. “I admire that about you, you know. That fight in your eyes. But it’s exhausting for you, isn’t it? Fighting me? Fighting this?” He leans in, so close that you feel the ghost of his breath against your ear. “Do you think anyone’s coming for you? That they even remember you?”

Your stomach twists, a sick knot of despair and anger. His words are poison, injected carefully and methodically into your psyche.

“I erased you,” he whispers, his voice soft but cold enough to freeze your blood. “From their memories, from their lives. Your friends? Gone. Your family? They don’t even remember your face. Isn’t that a kindness, though? Sparing them the grief of losing you?”

He pulls back just enough to look into your eyes, searching for the cracks he’s so meticulously created. “Do you hate me for it?”

You do. You hate him with a depth that frightens you. But you say nothing, your lips trembling as you refuse to give him the satisfaction of hearing it aloud. His expression shifts, a flicker of annoyance crossing his otherwise perfect features, but it’s gone just as quickly as it came.

“Hate me all you want,” he says, his tone growing harder, sharper. “But you will love me. In the end, you always will.”

He stands, his shadow towering over you as he looks down, his smirk returning like a blade pressed to your throat. “I’ll give you some time to think about it,” he says, turning and heading toward the door. “But don’t take too long. I’m not a patient man.”

The door closes with a deafening finality, and you’re left alone in the dim, flickering light. Alone with your thoughts, your fear, and the suffocating realization that he’s right. He’s always right. The world has forgotten you, and all you have left is him.

And isn’t that the cruelest truth of all?

────────────

The room is a void—a cage designed not to hold your body, but to unspool your mind held by fragile thread. The walls are stark and featureless, smooth metal panels that offer no hint of escape. There are no windows, no visible doors, just the cold hum of fluorescent lights that seem to dim and brighten at random intervals, casting shadows that twist and crawl.

The air is heavy, oppressive, suffused with his presence even though he’s nowhere to be seen. You can feel him, though—lurking in the corners of your mind, a phantom stitched into your every thought. His voice crackles through the static-filled speakers embedded in the walls, sharp and invasive, like glass scraping against your skull.

“Lonely yet?”

You flinch at the sound, your knees drawing tighter to your chest. His voice is smooth and mocking, curling around your mind like barbed wire.

“I told you this is for your own good,” he continues, each word laced with a venomous sweetness. “Out there, the world would devour you. I’m saving you, little fool. But gratitude? That’s too much to ask, isn’t it?”

You press your hands over your ears, as if that could block him out. But his voice doesn’t come from the speakers anymore. It comes from everywhere. From nowhere. It vibrates in your bones, coils in your gut, whispers in the back of your skull until you’re certain it’s your own thoughts betraying you.

The silence that follows is worse. It’s his silence—calculated, suffocating, a predator’s patience as it watches its prey wear itself down. Hours stretch into days, or maybe longer. Time is meaningless here. The lack of human contact gnaws at your sanity, leaving only the relentless pounding of your heartbeat to fill the void.

Then, finally, his voice returns, and despite the fear it brings, a twisted part of you clings to it like a lifeline.

“Look at you,” he purrs, his tone dripping with mock sympathy. “So fragile. So desperate. Do you see now? No one else will come for you. Only me.”

The words settle over you like ash, suffocating and final.

And then he’s there.

The walls don’t open. He doesn’t step through a door. He’s just there, as if he’s always been there, a seamless extension of the room’s nightmarish design. The dim, artificial light casts a sickly glow over his features, making him look less human and more like a living doll—perfectly crafted, flawlessly sculpted, and utterly devoid of warmth. His smile is delicate, a razor-thin line that glints with malice beneath its veneer of sweetness.

“You’re quiet today,” he murmurs, his voice a low, velvety hum that sends shivers racing down your spine.

He moves closer, his boots clicking sharply against the metallic floor. The sound is deliberate, each step a calculated reminder of his control, his dominion over this place, over you. His presence fills the room, overwhelming, suffocating.

“I wonder,” he continues, stopping just short of where you sit, “is it silence out of submission? Or defiance?”

You don’t answer. You can’t. Words catch in your throat, strangled by the weight of his gaze.

He crouches before you, his movements slow, fluid, and predatory. His violet eyes gleam in the half-light, shimmering with something dark and unreadable. They lock onto yours, pinning you in place, and the room seems to shrink further, the walls pressing closer until there’s nothing but him.

“Look at me,” he commands softly, his voice a velvet glove hiding an iron fist.

Your head moves of its own accord, your body betraying you as your eyes meet his. The corner of his mouth lifts into a smirk, and the sight of it is both intoxicating and nauseating.

“That’s better,” he murmurs, his gloved hand reaching out to cup your face. His touch is achingly gentle, a cruel mimicry of tenderness, but his grip tightens just enough to remind you of his strength. Of your helplessness.

“You’ve been imagining things again, haven’t you?” he whispers, his tone almost pitying. “Seeing shadows where there are none. Hearing whispers in the dark. Poor little thing.”

He tilts his head, studying you like a scientist dissecting a specimen. The artificial light casts eerie reflections in his eyes, making them glint like shards of broken glass.

“Do you know what isolation does to the human brain?” he asks, his tone conversational, almost curious. “Deprive it of stimuli long enough, and it starts to turn on itself. Hallucinations. Paranoia. A complete collapse of the psyche.”

He leans closer, his breath brushing against your lips, his eyes boring into yours.

“But you’re not imagining me,” he says softly, his smile widening into something sharp, something cruel. “I’m as real as the blood under your nails, the bruises on your wrists.”

Your breath catches as his thumb brushes over your temple, the motion deceptively soothing. But then his fingers tighten, his nails digging into your skin.

“And do you know what the best part is?” he whispers, his voice dropping to a chilling hush. “You’ll beg for more. For me. Because I’m all you have left.”

The walls seem to close in entirely, the air growing colder, heavier, until it feels like you’re drowning in his presence. And through it all, his smile remains, a grotesque mockery of kindness, as he whispers again,

“Lonely yet?”

────────────

The camera in the corner of the room stares at you, its red light pulsing steadily like a heartbeat—like his heartbeat, if he had one. You can feel it watching, a cold, unblinking eye that absorbs every movement, every shallow breath. It’s not just the camera, though. The walls themselves seem to hum with an unseen energy, a constant reminder of the wires and devices hidden just beneath the surface, all tuned to you.

“You’ve always had a penchant for dramatics,” his voice crackles through the speaker embedded high above, sudden and sharp. You flinch, instinctively shrinking against the edge of the bed, the metal frame digging into your spine. “But let’s not make this more unpleasant than it needs to be. You know I’m only doing this for your own good.”

The static lingers, like the ghost of his presence, before dissolving into the oppressive silence that dominates your world.

———

Later, you find it—a book, an old one, its spine cracked and worn. A piece of the life you once had. The familiar weight of it in your hands brings a flicker of warmth to your chest. You don’t know how it got here or why he would allow you something so small yet so meaningful, but you don’t question it. You simply clutch it to your chest, savoring the moment.

But then, he arrives.

He stands in the doorway, his expression unreadable, his silhouette framed by the dim, flickering light. His eyes—those violet pools of cruelty and calculation—narrow as they land on the book in your hands.

“Where did you get that?” he asks, his voice calm, but there’s a cold edge to it, like a blade hidden in velvet.

“I—I found it,” you stammer, clutching the book tighter as if it might shield you from the inevitable.

He doesn’t move, but the air around him seems to shift, thickening with something unspoken. “Interesting,” he murmurs, stepping closer, his footsteps deliberate and measured. “You’re quite resourceful, aren’t you? Always finding ways to entertain yourself.”

You don’t answer. You can’t.

When he reaches you, he kneels, his movements fluid and precise, like a predator cornering its prey. He plucks the book from your hands with deceptive gentleness, his slender fingers brushing against yours for a moment too long.

“Do you know what this is?” he asks, turning the book over in his hands as though it were an artifact of immeasurable value. “A relic. A fragment of something that doesn’t exist anymore. Like you.”

His words sting, but before you can process them, he tightens his grip on the book. With a sudden, violent motion, he tears it in half, the brittle pages scattering like ash across the floor.

“Nothing from before matters,” he says, his tone cool, almost clinical, as he rises to his feet. “You don’t need distractions. You need me.”

———

That night, you try to sleep, but the room refuses to let you. The lights flicker intermittently, each burst of brightness searing your eyes through closed lids. A low, grating hum emanates from somewhere in the walls, setting your teeth on edge.

And then, the noise.

It starts as a soft, rhythmic tapping, like the distant sound of rain against glass. But it grows louder, more insistent, until it feels like it’s coming from inside your skull. You bolt upright, your breath ragged, your body drenched in cold sweat.

“You’re restless,” his voice coos from the speaker, smooth and mocking. “Didn’t I tell you to rest? Or are you defying me again?”

“I—stop it,” you whisper, your voice trembling.

“Stop what?” he replies, feigning innocence. “You’re imagining things again. Poor thing. You really should trust me more. I can help you.”

The noise stops abruptly, leaving an aching silence in its wake. You collapse back onto the bed, your body too exhausted to fight anymore.

———

The next morning, you stumble into the small, sterile kitchenette, your limbs heavy with fatigue. The stove is on—flames licking at the edges of a pan you don’t remember lighting. The smell of something burning fills the air, acrid and choking.

“Careless,” he says, leaning casually against the doorway, his arms crossed. “You could’ve burned the whole place down.”

“I didn’t—” you start, but he cuts you off with a wave of his hand.

“No excuses,” he snaps, his voice sharp as a whip. “You’re lucky I caught it in time. Do you see now why you can’t be trusted? Why you need me?”

You want to argue, to scream that it wasn’t you, that he must have done it himself. But the words die in your throat as his gaze pierces through you, cold and unrelenting.

────────────

The silence stretches into infinity, interrupted only by your own ragged breaths and the phantom echoes of his voice that claw at your psyche. You don’t know when he’ll speak again or if he’s watching, but the not knowing is part of the torment.

When his voice finally breaks the silence, it’s so sudden and sharp it feels like the snap of a guillotine.

“Still holding onto hope, are you?” His voice is soft, almost tender, a cruel mockery of comfort. “I admire your persistence. It’s… quaint.”

His tone is calm, calculated, each word chosen with the precision of a scalpel. It cuts through the fog in your mind, forcing you to confront the reality he’s woven around you.

“You think someone’s coming for you?” he continues, his voice dripping with incredulity. “How adorably naïve. Do you even remember what it’s like out there? The noise, the chaos, the endless parade of fools clawing at one another for scraps of meaning. I’ve spared you from that, haven’t I?”

You don’t answer. You can’t. The lump in your throat feels like it’s suffocating you, and the weight of his words presses down on your chest until it feels like your ribs might crack.

“Nothing to say?” he muses. “That’s fine. I prefer you this way—quiet. It suits you.”

———

You didn’t hear a door open. Didn’t hear the telltale click of boots against the floor. One moment you’re alone, and the next he’s standing there, a figure carved from shadow and disdain. The dim light paints him in stark relief, illuminating the sharp angles of his face, the cold glint in his violet eyes.

“I’ve been generous with you,” he says, his voice low and steady, like the distant rumble of thunder. He steps closer, each movement precise, deliberate, as though he’s stalking prey. “I’ve given you time to adjust, to see the truth. But you…” His lips curl into a faint smirk, though there’s no humor in it. “…You insist on clinging to those foolish little scraps of defiance.”

You flinch as he crouches before you, his gaze leveling with yours. His expression is unreadable, a mask of icy detachment that barely conceals the storm simmering beneath.

“Tell me,” he murmurs, his voice dropping to a chilling whisper. “What exactly are you holding onto? A memory? A promise? Hope?”

He tilts his head, his eyes narrowing as he studies you with an intensity that feels like it could peel back your skin, exposing every raw nerve beneath.

“You don’t even know, do you?” he says, almost pitying. “You’re just… grasping. Blind and desperate. It’s pathetic, really.”

His hand reaches out, and you flinch again, but he doesn’t touch you. Instead, his fingers hover just above your face, as though he’s considering it, savoring the moment.

“You’re so fragile,” he breathes, his tone a mix of fascination and contempt. “It wouldn’t take much to break you, you know. A little pressure here…” His hand shifts, his fingers ghosting over your temple. “…And here.”

His other hand moves to hover over your throat, and your breath catches.

“But where’s the fun in that?” he muses, withdrawing his hands with a slow, deliberate grace. “Breaking you would be easy. No. I want you to understand.”

He leans in closer, his breath brushing against your ear, his voice dropping to a dark, intimate whisper.

“I want you to know that every moment you spend here is a gift. My gift. And when you finally shatter, when you finally look at me with nothing but submission in those eyes…” He pulls back just enough to meet your gaze, his smirk sharpening into something vicious. “…That’s when you’ll understand. That’s when you’ll thank me.”

The air feels thicker, heavier, suffused with his presence. The room spins around you, the walls closing in, the ground tilting beneath you. And through it all, his voice lingers, wrapping around your thoughts like a noose.

“No one else will come for you,” he says, standing to his full height, towering over you. “No one else can. It’s just you and me now. Forever.”

He turns to leave—or does he? The edges of your vision blur, the lines between reality and nightmare dissolving as his voice echoes through the void one last time.

“Stop fighting it, little fool. Stop fighting me.”

────────────

The first thing you notice when you wake is the cold. It bites into your skin, gnaws at your bones, wrapping itself around you like a second, crueler layer of flesh. The thin, threadbare shift you wear does nothing to shield you from it, the fabric clinging to your body with a dampness that reeks of mildew and despair.

The blankets are gone again. He always takes them when you displease him.

Your stomach churns with the memory of his last visit—the quiet menace in his voice, the way he tilted his head as he watched you scramble to piece together what was left of your broken dignity.

“You want comfort?” he had said, his tone laced with derision. “Earn it.”

You had begged—how could you not?—but he only smiled, a thin, sharp curve of his lips that cut deeper than any blade. And then he was gone, taking with him not only the blankets but the small, chipped bowl you had been using to collect water from the condensation that dripped sporadically from the ceiling.

Now, the thirst claws at your throat, dry and insistent. You press your lips together, trying to ignore it, but it’s impossible. Every breath feels like sandpaper scraping against raw flesh.

———

When he finally returns, it’s without fanfare. The door—a seamless part of the wall when shut—slides open with a faint hiss, and he steps inside, his violet eyes sharp and calculating. He’s carrying something this time: a bundle of what looks like clothing, though you’ve learned not to trust appearances.

“You look worse than usual,” he remarks, his gaze sweeping over you like a scientist observing a failed experiment. “Pathetic.”

You flinch at the word, but you don’t respond. Experience has taught you that anything you say will only feed his twisted sense of superiority.

He crouches before you, placing the bundle on the floor between you. It’s not clothing, you realize, but a single, thick blanket. It looks warm, inviting—an impossible luxury in this place.

“Do you want it?” he asks, his voice soft, almost coaxing.

You hesitate, your body aching for the warmth it promises. But you know better than to trust him.

“What do you want me to do?” you whisper, your voice hoarse from disuse.

His smile sharpens, a flash of white against the shadows of his face. “You’re learning,” he murmurs. “Good.”

He stands, taking a step back and gesturing to the far corner of the room. There, you see it: a tray of food, simple but sufficient—bread, water, a small portion of fruit. Your stomach growls at the sight, a humiliating reminder of your hunger.

“Eat,” he says, his tone light, as if he’s offering you a gift.

You don’t move. It’s too easy. There’s always a catch.

He chuckles, a low, mirthless sound. “Ah, still suspicious. How charming.”

He walks to the tray and picks up the cup of water, holding it up to the dim light as if inspecting it. Then, without warning, he tilts it, letting the liquid spill onto the floor.

“No!” The word escapes you before you can stop it, a raw, desperate plea.

He turns to you, his expression unreadable. “Prove to me,” he says slowly, deliberately, “that you deserve it. That you can follow simple instructions.”

“What do you want?” you ask again, your voice trembling.

His gaze narrows, and he steps closer, the soles of his boots crushing the bread beneath them as he walks. He crouches before you again, his eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that makes it impossible to look away.

“Crawl,” he says simply.

The word hangs in the air, a command and a taunt all at once.

Your body stiffens, shame warring with desperation.

“Crawl,” he repeats, his voice harder this time, the veneer of gentleness cracking to reveal the steel beneath.

You hesitate, and his smile returns, cruel and mocking. “Or don’t,” he says, standing and turning away. “But don’t think I’ll be so generous again.”

———

The air in your prison grows colder with each passing day. The concrete floor seems to suck the warmth from your body, leaving you shivering in the thin, threadbare clothing he’s allotted you. Blankets are a luxury, one he dangles before you like bait on a hook. Hygiene products—soap, a toothbrush, even clean water—are rationed out like rare treasures, rewards for obedience that always seem just out of reach.

He watches you from the shadows, a silent predator waiting for the moment your spirit cracks. The sound of his voice is worse than the silence. It’s a scalpel, peeling away layers of your resistance with surgical precision.

“You look uncomfortable,” he remarks one day, his voice lilting with mock concern. He steps into the dim light, his figure framed by the cold, sterile glow. “How long has it been since you last had a proper shower? Days? Weeks?” He smiles, the expression brittle and sharp. “I could help with that, you know. All you have to do is ask.”

You say nothing, your eyes fixed on the floor, but he sees the flicker of humiliation in your expression, and it feeds him.

“No?” He tilts his head, feigning curiosity. “Still so proud, even now. Admirable, really. But pride won’t keep you warm. Or clean. Or alive.”

────────────

When the door finally hisses open, the sound sharp and invasive, you don’t lift your head. But you feel his presence immediately, a dark, oppressive weight that fills the room. His footsteps are soft but deliberate, each one echoing like the tolling of a bell. And then he speaks, his voice low and smooth, a dark current beneath deceptively calm waters.

“You’re looking pale again,” he remarks, his tone laced with mockery that twists your stomach. You don’t answer, keeping your eyes fixed on the floor, but he doesn’t need your response to continue. He never does. “Have you been refusing to eat? Or is it the water? You’ve always been so ungrateful, haven’t you?”

A shadow falls over you as he comes closer, and the sharp scent of ozone and something faintly chemical hits your nostrils. You flinch when his hand, cold and unyielding, grips your chin, forcing your face upward. His violet eyes gleam with a sick kind of amusement as he tilts his head, studying you like a specimen under glass.

“Thirsty?” he asks softly, almost gently, though there’s no mistaking the sadistic edge beneath his words. He reaches into the folds of his dark, flowing attire and retrieves a small, glass vial. It gleams in the dim light, the liquid inside as clear as crystal but no less threatening for its purity. “I brought you something special today.”

He crouches before you, setting the vial down on the floor with a deliberate clink. Then, with an almost theatrical flourish, he places a tall glass beside it, already half-filled with water. “Drink,” he says, his voice a command wrapped in velvet. “Go on. You must be parched.”

You hesitate, your body trembling as you glance at the glass. It feels like a trap—no, you know it’s a trap—but your throat burns with the dry, relentless ache of dehydration. It’s been days since he last offered you anything, the air in the room deliberately kept too dry, leeching the moisture from your body like some cruel experiment.

When you don’t move, his smirk widens, and he leans in, close enough that you can feel the chill of his breath against your skin. “Do you think I’d poison you?” he whispers, his tone almost tender, though the words slice into you like broken glass. “That I’d let you go so easily? Oh, no, little doll. If I wanted to destroy you, I’d make it far slower. Far more… personal.”

The implication chills you to your core, but the thirst gnaws at you with an intensity that borders on madness. You reach for the glass, your fingers trembling so violently you nearly knock it over. He watches with rapt attention, his eyes never leaving your face as you lift it to your lips.

The water is cold, colder than it has any right to be, and it slides down your throat like liquid ice. But then, the taste hits—metallic, sharp, and tinged with something acrid that makes your stomach churn. You gag, dropping the glass with a shattering crash, but it’s too late. The liquid burns as it courses through you, a searing pain that spreads from your throat to your chest, your stomach, your limbs.

He doesn’t flinch at the sound of the breaking glass. If anything, his expression grows darker, more triumphant, as he leans back on his heels, folding his arms across his chest. “How does it feel?” he asks, his tone almost conversational, as though he’s asking about the weather. “The sensation of your body rejecting what it so desperately craves? Fascinating, isn’t it?”

Your vision blurs with tears as you clutch your stomach, the pain radiating outward in waves. You want to scream, to beg, to curse him, but your voice catches in your throat, choked off by the bile rising within you. He watches it all with the calm detachment of a scientist observing a particularly interesting reaction, his head tilted slightly, his lips curved in a faint smile.

“Ah, but don’t worry,” he says after a moment, his voice softening in a way that’s even more sinister. “It won’t kill you. I wouldn’t waste such a useful tool on something as permanent as death.” He reaches out, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face, his touch cold and clinical despite the faux tenderness in his movements. “No, little doll, this is simply a reminder. A lesson.”

He leans in closer, so close you can feel the oppressive weight of his presence pressing down on you. “You don’t survive without me. Do you understand that now? Every breath you take, every drop of water you drink, every bite of food that passes your lips—it all comes from me. And it can all be taken away just as easily.”

The pain begins to subside, leaving you weak, trembling, and utterly broken. He stands, brushing off his knees as though he’s finished with some menial task. “Rest, if you can,” he says, his voice light and mocking once more as he turns toward the door. “You’ll need your strength for the next lesson.”

The door closes behind him with a resounding clang, leaving you alone in the suffocating silence of the room. Alone with the lingering burn in your throat, the taste of poison on your tongue, and the sick, suffocating knowledge that he’s right.

You don’t survive without him.

────────────

The silence he left behind had weight—a crushing, suffocating thing that pressed against your chest until your breaths came in shallow, wheezing gasps. Days stretched into nights, and nights into something darker still, where time seemed to lose its grip and your mind unraveled thread by fragile thread.

But then came the voice.

At first, it was a whisper—a delicate breeze brushing against the edges of your consciousness. Soft, insidious, and almost gentle.

“Did you miss me, little doll?”

Your heart stopped, then hammered violently against your ribs. You spun toward the sound, eyes darting across the empty room. Shadows stretched unnaturally, pooling in corners like ink spilled across parchment.

There was no one there.

But the voice persisted, lilting and melodic, curling around your thoughts like smoke. “Poor thing,” it cooed. “You look so lost. So lonely. Didn’t I promise I’d always come back for you?”

“No,” you rasped, clutching your head, fingers digging into your scalp as though you could claw him out of your mind. “You’re not here. You’re not real.”

The laughter that followed was low, rich, and agonizingly familiar. It reverberated through the empty space, vibrating against your skull like a tuning fork.

“Not real?” he repeated, his tone dripping with mockery. “Oh, my little doll, you wound me. But perhaps I’ve been too kind. Let me remind you.”

The world around you shifted—imperceptibly at first, like the faint sensation of vertigo. Then it hit. The walls groaned and shuddered, the fluorescent light overhead flickering wildly. The air grew heavy, thick with the metallic tang of blood. You stumbled, your knees buckling as the ground seemed to ripple beneath your feet.

When the flickering stopped, he was there. Or was he?

His face hovered just out of reach, a phantom etched in shadow and smoke, his violet eyes glinting like shards of broken glass. He was leaning in, his lips brushing against your ear, his breath unnaturally cold.

“Tell me, doll,” he murmured, his voice velvet and venom, “do you still think I’m not real?”

You screamed, a raw, guttural sound that tore through the silence. You clawed at the walls, at your face, your nails scraping skin as you tried to banish him from your senses. But the voice only grew louder, more insistent, wrapping itself around you like a shroud.

When he finally stepped into the light, the sight of him sent your stomach plummeting. His coat trailed behind him like the wings of some unholy predator, his silhouette framed in a distorted, sickly glow. He tilted his head, a parody of curiosity, and smiled.

“You’ve been busy,” he said, gesturing to the marks on the walls, the bloodied crescents under your nails. “What is it you’re trying to escape from, hmm?”

You stared at him, wide-eyed, your chest heaving. “You weren’t here,” you whispered, your voice trembling. “I heard you, but you weren’t here. You were—”

“Everywhere,” he finished for you, his smile widening. “And nowhere. Isn’t it delightful? How fragile your mind has become?”

He took a step closer, his boots clicking against the floor in a deliberate, measured rhythm. Each sound drove a spike of dread deeper into your chest.

“But don’t worry,” he continued, his tone softening into something almost tender. “I’m here now. Let’s forget all about those nasty little thoughts, shall we?”

His hand reached out, brushing a blood-matted strand of hair from your face. The gesture was achingly gentle, a cruel mimicry of affection. His touch left a burning, icy trail against your skin.

“You look so distressed,” he murmured, his voice dripping with mock concern. “Have you been imagining things again? Seeing shadows where there are none? Hearing whispers in the dark?”

You wanted to scream, to lash out, but your body betrayed you, rooted in place as his fingers ghosted over your cheek.

“No need to answer,” he said with a sigh, his thumb tracing the edge of your jaw. “Your silence speaks volumes.”

And then the illusion shattered.

His hand wasn’t on your face—it was inside your skull. You felt the sharp, electric jolt of something foreign scraping against your brain, an icy tendril of invasive thought slithering into the deepest recesses of your mind. Memories warped and twisted under his touch, familiar faces dissolving into grotesque, melting horrors.

“You see,” he whispered, his voice echoing within you now, “there’s no escape from me. Not in the silence, not in the noise. I’m in every breath you take, every blink, every beat of that fragile little heart.”

You sobbed, the sound choking in your throat as the room dissolved into a kaleidoscope of distorted images. Blood seeped from the walls, viscous and dark, pooling at your feet. You felt it creeping up your legs, cold and sentient, wrapping around you like chains.

And still, he smiled.

“Did you miss me?” he asked again, his voice slicing through the chaos. This time, there was no room for denial. He leaned in close, his breath brushing against your lips as he whispered, “I missed you, little doll. And I’ll never leave you again.”

────────────

The tray lands on the table with a resounding clang, a sound that reverberates through the suffocating silence of the room. The metallic echo seems to burrow into your skull, as if the very air conspires to mock your helplessness. He stands above you, a silhouette of unyielding authority, arms crossed and eyes gleaming with sadistic amusement.

"You should be grateful," he murmurs, his voice smooth and calculated, like a scalpel slicing through flesh. The faint trace of a smirk curls his lips, his tone dripping with condescension. "I went to such great lengths to prepare this. Just for you."

Your gaze falls to the tray, and the bile rises instantly in your throat. The abomination before you masquerades as food, a grotesque parody of sustenance that seems alive in the most horrifying ways. The slabs of meat glisten unnaturally, their surfaces marred by oozing black lesions that seep a thick, tar-like substance. A faint stench rises from them, sharp and putrid, a rancid blend of decay and chemicals.

Nestled beside the meat is a mound of gray paste, its texture like wet cement, flecked with jagged shards of something white—bone? Teeth? You can’t tell, and you don’t want to. The greens are no better: wilted, slimy, and crawling with tiny, wriggling creatures. The bugs move lazily, their segmented bodies glistening under the harsh fluorescent light, their sluggish movements taunting your growing horror.

“You’re staring,” he says, his tone lilting, almost playful. He leans in closer, his sharp features framed by the dim, artificial glow. "What’s the matter? Not to your liking? It’s safe, you know. Perfectly edible. Nutrient-dense, even."

You swallow hard, your stomach twisting itself into knots. Every fiber of your being screams at you to run, to scream, to do something, but you can’t. His presence roots you to the chair, your limbs heavy with the weight of his control.

“Don’t think I’ll let you starve, little doll.” His voice drops, the endearment laced with venom. He picks up the fork, prodding at the meat. The action elicits a sickening squelch as the black liquid pools beneath it, the viscous substance clinging to the metal tines like molasses. “Go on,” he urges, his tone soft but edged with malice. “Eat.”

Your shaking hands reach for the fork, but your grip falters. The metal feels impossibly cold, a physical manifestation of your dread. You stab at the meat, and its rubbery texture fights back, resisting your every attempt to cut it. When you finally manage to tear off a piece, the smell intensifies, a cloying wave of rot and iron that makes your vision blur with nausea.

“Don’t make me repeat myself,” he says, his voice low and dangerous. He steps closer, his shadow swallowing you whole. “You will eat every bite. I won’t tolerate waste.”

Your lips part reluctantly, and the moment the meat touches your tongue, the taste assaults you. It’s rancid, the flavor an overwhelming mix of decay and metallic bitterness. You gag instinctively, your body convulsing as you try to spit it out, but he’s faster. His hand clamps over your mouth, his grip iron-tight.

"Swallow," he hisses, his breath cold against your ear. The word is sharp, absolute. Tears stream down your face as you force the foul lump down, your throat convulsing violently around it. The moment it settles in your stomach, a heavy, alien weight, he releases you with a cruel smile.

“Good,” he purrs, wiping a stray tear from your cheek. “But we’re not done yet.”

He picks up the gray paste next, scooping a heaping forkful. The gritty, slimy mass clings to the metal like glue, its acrid stench burning your nostrils. Without warning, he presses it against your lips, smearing the substance across your skin when you try to turn away.

“Open,” he commands, his tone brooking no argument. His other hand grips your jaw, forcing your mouth open, and he shoves the paste inside. It coats your tongue, the texture gritty and uneven, punctuated by the horrifying crunch of the shards within. You don’t want to think about what they might be. You retch, but his unyielding gaze pins you in place.

“Chew,” he orders, his voice devoid of patience now. When you hesitate, his grip on your jaw tightens, the pain sharp and immediate. “Chew.”

You obey, the shards cutting into your gums as the paste coats your mouth in an unholy mix of textures and tastes. When you finally swallow, it feels like swallowing broken glass, the jagged edges scraping their way down.

“Such a good little doll,” he croons mockingly, his fingers stroking your cheek in a grotesque parody of affection. His eyes glint with dark satisfaction as he gestures to the greens. “Finish it.”

The slimy leaves glisten under the light, their surfaces writhing with life. The tiny creatures embedded within them squirm and twitch, their segmented bodies pulsing faintly. He picks up a forkful and holds it before you, the bugs wriggling and falling off the edges, their tiny legs scrambling for purchase.

“No,” you whisper, your voice hoarse and trembling. It’s the first word you’ve dared to speak, but it’s a mistake.

His expression hardens instantly, his smile vanishing. He grips your hair, yanking your head back with brutal force, and presses the fork against your lips. “You don’t get to say no,” he snarls. “You will eat. Every. Last. Bite.”

The greens and their crawling passengers are shoved into your mouth, the slime coating your tongue and the bugs wriggling against your teeth. You chew reluctantly, each bite filling you with a fresh wave of nausea as the creatures burst, their insides bitter and sickly. Some continue to move, their twitching bodies sliding down your throat even as you swallow.

By the time the tray is empty, you’re shaking violently, tears streaming down your face as your stomach churns with the unholy concoction. He watches with satisfaction, his smirk returning as he steps back.

“Well done,” he says, his tone almost congratulatory. He sets the tray aside and crouches before you, his fingers brushing against your tear-streaked cheek. “See? You can do as you’re told.”

You stare at him, hollow and broken, the taste of his twisted meal lingering on your tongue. When he finally leaves, the door slamming shut behind him, the oppressive silence returns, and you crumble, your body wracked with dry sobs.

The food sits heavy in your stomach, a grotesque reminder of your helplessness. You know he’ll return tomorrow with something worse. He always does.

────────────

The sterile air of the room feels heavier today, pressing against your chest like invisible hands. You can’t shake the unease, the gnawing sensation that something is wrong, even more so than usual. It’s in the silence that stretches just a beat too long, in the flicker of the overhead light that seems timed to your uneven breaths.

Then, the door opens, and he steps inside with the quiet elegance of someone who knows he doesn’t need to announce his presence. Scaramouche. His name alone sends an involuntary shiver down your spine.

He looks the same as always—poised, meticulous, as if every strand of hair and every fold of his outfit had been arranged with precision. But today, there’s something different in his eyes, something colder, more calculating.

“You’ve been quiet,” he says, his tone almost conversational, as if you’re old friends catching up. His lips curl into a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “What’s the matter? Cat got your tongue?”

You don’t answer. You’ve learned by now that anything you say can and will be twisted, reshaped into a weapon aimed at you.

He sighs, a sound filled with exaggerated disappointment, and steps closer. The room feels smaller with each measured step he takes, until he’s standing just a breath away, towering over you like a shadow.

“I’ve been thinking,” he begins, tilting his head slightly, the motion almost childlike but laced with menace. “You haven’t been entirely honest with me, have you?”

Your heart stutters. “What are you talking about?”

“Oh, don’t play dumb,” he snaps, his voice cutting through the air like a blade. “I saw the way you looked at me yesterday. The resentment, the defiance. After everything I’ve done for you.”

“I didn’t—”

“You did,” he interrupts, his voice softer now but no less dangerous. “And it hurt me. It hurt us.”

His words sink into your chest like daggers, each one meticulously placed to draw the maximum amount of guilt and confusion. You know he’s lying—there was no resentment, no defiance—but the certainty in his voice, the way he says it as though it’s an undeniable truth, makes you doubt yourself.

“Do you know how hard I work to keep you safe?” he continues, crouching down so his face is level with yours. “Do you have any idea what I’ve sacrificed for you? And this is how you repay me? With distrust? With hatred?”

“I don’t hate you,” you whisper, your voice barely audible.

“Don’t you?” His smile widens, cruel and mocking. “Then why do you keep trying to hurt me? Why do you keep betraying me?”

Your mind races, desperately trying to piece together what he’s accusing you of, but there’s nothing to grasp onto, no crime to confess.

“I didn’t do anything,” you say, your voice trembling.

His eyes darken, and he leans in closer, so close you can feel the chill radiating off him. “No?” he whispers, his tone dripping with venom. “Then why do I feel like you’re lying?”

────────────

The first time you see him again, it’s through a haze of adrenaline and fear, your limbs trembling as you push yourself upright. The sound of boots pounding on the concrete echoes like gunshots in the cavernous space. Everything smells like oil and blood and something metallic you can’t quite place.

He bursts through the shattered doorway, his dark silhouette haloed by the dying embers of light spilling from the outside. His eyes, sharp as a blade’s edge, scan the room until they lock onto you, crumpled in the corner, battered and bleeding.

“I told you not to wander off,” he says, his tone more exasperated than angry. But there’s something underneath it—an undercurrent of urgency, of barely contained panic.

Before you can respond, he’s kneeling in front of you, his gloved hands moving with precision as he checks for injuries. His touch is cold, clinical, but his gaze burns with something raw and unspoken.

“You could’ve died,” he mutters, almost to himself. “Do you have any idea what they would’ve done to you if I hadn’t gotten here in time?”

The words hit you like a blow. You remember the men who dragged you here, their faces masked but their intentions clear. You remember their laughter, the way they circled you like predators, and the sickening certainty that no one was coming to save you.

And yet, here he is.

“Why…?” Your voice cracks, barely audible over the pounding of your heart. “How did you find me?”

He pauses, his hands stilling as he meets your gaze. “Because I always find you,” he says simply, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. “Because you’re mine to protect. No one else cares enough to keep you safe, to pull you back from the brink every time you stumble into danger.”

You should feel grateful—relieved, even—but his words don’t sit right. They coil around your mind like a serpent, squeezing tighter with each repetition.

———

Days later, after he’s taken you back to the sterile confinement of your “safe place,” the cracks in the story begin to show.

You wake up screaming, your dreams plagued by shadowy figures and muffled threats. The first thing you see is him, sitting in the corner of the room, his arms crossed and his expression unreadable.

“Still having nightmares?” he asks, his tone calm but laced with faint condescension.

You nod, your throat too dry to speak.

He stands, walking over to you with measured steps. “I warned you,” he says, sitting on the edge of the bed. “The world out there is cruel, unrelenting. They don’t care about you like I do. That’s why you need to stay here, where I can protect you.”

“But—” you start, the words dying in your throat as his gaze sharpens.

“But nothing,” he snaps, though his voice never rises. “Do you remember what happened? What they said they’d do to you? Or are you already twisting it in your head to make me the villain again?”

You flinch, the accusation stinging even though you know it isn’t fair. “I didn’t say that,” you whisper.

He leans closer, his presence suffocating. “But you thought it,” he murmurs. “Don’t lie to me. I can see it all over your face.”

The conversation leaves you shaken, his words gnawing at the edges of your mind. Had you misunderstood him? Was he right?

———

The next day, you notice something strange. The small, cracked mirror on the wall—the one you’ve stared into countless times, trying to find traces of the person you used to be—looks different. The crack is gone, the glass pristine, almost too pristine.

You press your fingers against it, your reflection wavering slightly. “Was this always here?” you mutter to yourself.

“It was,” his voice answers from behind you, making you jump.

You turn to find him leaning casually against the doorway, his arms crossed and an infuriating smirk on his face. “Are you doubting your memory now?”

“I…” You hesitate, the weight of his gaze making it impossible to think clearly.

“Maybe it’s the stress,” he continues, pushing off the wall and walking toward you. “Trauma does funny things to the mind. Makes you see things that aren’t there, remember things that didn’t happen.”

He stops just inches away, his hand brushing against your cheek in a gesture that feels both comforting and imprisoning. ��But don’t worry,” he says softly. “That’s why I’m here—to keep you grounded, to make sure you don’t lose yourself completely.”

———

Over time, the little inconsistencies pile up: a drawer that seems to shift its contents overnight, a diary you swore you wrote in that now sits blank, the faint smell of antiseptic that lingers on your skin despite not remembering any wounds.

“You’re imagining things,” he says whenever you bring it up. “Do you want me to get the doctor again? You remember what he said last time—about your delusions?”

The mention of the doctor shuts you down. You remember the cold metal of the examination table, the too-bright lights, the clinical detachment in the doctor’s voice as he listed off your supposed symptoms.

“You’re not well,” he had said, his tone devoid of compassion. “But with time, and the right care, you can recover.”

And who had been there to hold your hand through it all? Who had whispered reassurances in your ear, promising that he’d never let anyone hurt you?

Him.

Always him.

———

One day, he takes you outside—or what he claims is outside. The sky is gray, the air heavy with the acrid smell of smoke. There’s no one around, just endless stretches of concrete and metal, like the remnants of a city that never finished being built.

“This is what’s left,” he says, gesturing to the desolation around you. “You wanted freedom? Here it is. Go ahead. See how far you get.”

You take a hesitant step forward, then another, the silence pressing in on you like a physical weight. But the farther you walk, the more it feels wrong. The same twisted tree looms in the distance no matter which direction you turn.

“It’s a loop,” you whisper, realization dawning like a shard of glass slicing through your thoughts.

He steps up behind you, his breath warm against your ear. “It’s safety,” he corrects. “And the sooner you accept that, the better off you’ll be.”

You sink to your knees, the weight of his words crushing you.

Because deep down, you know he’s right. There’s no way out.

────────────

The “gifts” arrive in silence, placed delicately where you can’t ignore them. They are always wrong in ways that make your stomach churn—a photograph from a vacation you can almost remember, the faces distorted into grotesque smears as if melted under the heat of his touch. A trinket you once cherished, now fractured or tarnished beyond recognition, its edges sharp enough to cut. A letter written in your own handwriting, the words rearranged into senseless patterns, like a code you’re too far gone to crack.

You don’t want to touch them, but you do, every time. They feel like a thread tying you to the world you left behind, even as the thread frays in your trembling hands.

Today, it’s a letter. A crumpled piece of paper, brittle and yellowed at the edges, that wasn’t there when you closed your eyes to the oppressive dimness hours—or was it days?—ago. The words shift as you read, the ink bleeding into itself until sentences collapse into meaningless blotches.

“It’s all gone, you know,” his voice cuts through the silence, a dagger laced with mockery.

You whip around, the paper crinkling in your grip as you face him. He’s standing in the doorway—or at least, where a doorway would be if this room obeyed the laws of reason. His silhouette is backlit by a faint, sterile glow that gives him an otherworldly edge, making him seem more phantom than man.

His smirk widens as he steps forward, his movements slow and deliberate, his boots echoing against the cold floor. “Everything you had. Everyone you loved.” He pauses, tilting his head as if savoring your reaction. “I made sure of it.”

His words pierce through you, sharp and unrelenting, a scalpel carving away at your hope. Your hands shake, the letter slipping from your grasp and fluttering to the ground.

“I don’t believe you,” you manage to whisper, though your voice wavers under the weight of his presence.

“Oh?” His tone drips with amusement as he crouches before you, his violet eyes glinting with something dark and twisted. He picks up the letter, smoothing it out with a precision that feels mocking, before holding it out to you again. “Then tell me—what does it say?”

You stare at the paper, the lines of ink writhing like living things under his gaze. The harder you look, the more the words evade you, slipping through the cracks of your comprehension like grains of sand.

“Nothing?” he presses, leaning in closer, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous murmur. “How tragic. And here I thought this might bring you comfort.”

He straightens, looming over you as his smirk softens into something almost tender—almost. “But you don’t need those relics, do you? Memories are just burdens, after all. And I…” He reaches out, brushing a strand of hair from your face with a touch so light it feels like a mockery of affection. “…am here to unburden you.”

You recoil, pressing yourself against the wall, but there’s nowhere to go. His hand lingers in the air for a moment before he withdraws it, his expression shifting into something unreadable.

“You have me now,” he says, his voice calm, measured, but with an undercurrent of something that makes your skin crawl. “And isn’t that enough?”

———

You don’t answer. The silence stretches between you, heavy and suffocating, until he chuckles—a low, mirthless sound that vibrates through the room.

“No?” He turns his back to you, pacing with the languid grace of someone who knows they’ve already won. “Ungrateful to the end, I see. Typical.”

He stops near the far wall, his hand trailing across its surface as if feeling for a seam. The room responds to him, a soft click reverberating through the air as a hidden compartment slides open. From within, he pulls another “gift”—a locket this time, small and tarnished, the metal warped as though crushed under immense pressure.

He holds it up, letting it dangle from his fingers as he turns back to you. “Do you recognize this?”

Your heart clenches at the sight of it, the faint glint of its once-polished surface sparking a memory so vivid it feels like a slap. You don’t answer, but he sees the recognition in your eyes, and his smile sharpens into something predatory.

“You kept this with you always, didn’t you?” he muses, his voice soft, almost reverent. “So sentimental. So human.”

He steps closer, dangling the locket just out of reach. “And yet, it couldn’t save you, could it?” His smile falters for a split second, a flicker of something bitter crossing his features before his mask of cold amusement snaps back into place.

He drops the locket at your feet, the sound of metal striking the floor echoing in the silence. “Take it,” he commands, his voice suddenly hard, sharp enough to cut.

You hesitate, your hands trembling as you reach for it. The moment your fingers close around the cold, misshapen metal, his boot comes down next to your hand, so close you can feel the air shift.

“But remember,” he says, his voice low and venomous, “everything you touch, everything you remember—it’s mine now. Just like you.”

His words sink into your mind like hooks, tearing at your resolve as he turns and disappears into the void he came from, leaving you alone with the locket and the crushing weight of his truth.

———

You want to say no. You want to scream it, to hurl the word at him with every ounce of strength you have left. But the word sticks in your throat, a jagged shard of glass you can’t swallow or spit out.

He doesn’t wait for your answer. He doesn’t need to. The smirk that plays at the corners of his lips tells you he already knows.

“You’ll see,” he murmurs, his tone almost reverent now, as though speaking of a truth so profound it defies comprehension. “In time, you’ll come to understand. I’m all you have. All you’ll ever need.”

He steps back, his boots clicking against the floor in a rhythm that echoes like a heartbeat—your heartbeat, weak and faltering.

“Do try to appreciate my generosity,” he says over his shoulder as he moves toward the shadows. “These little gifts of mine… they’re not just for you, you know. They’re for me, too. A reminder of how far you’ve come.”

And then he’s gone, leaving you alone with the letter, the photograph, the watch. Alone with the fragmented remains of a life you can no longer remember.

The lights flicker again, plunging the room into darkness.

His voice lingers, though, soft and venomous, a ghost that refuses to leave.

“Gratitude, little fool. That’s all I ask.”

────────────

The room you’ve been confined to has changed again. Not in any tangible way—no new walls, no new objects—but in the oppressive way it seems to warp around you, making even its empty expanse feel too small. It’s as though the walls breathe, inhaling your will and exhaling despair. The only constant is him. Scaramouche, who looms like a god in a world of his own creation.

He stands before you now, framed by the stark artificial light, his expression unreadable. Every movement, every glance he spares is a study in calculated perfection, as though he’s rehearsed this scene in his mind countless times before bringing it to life.

“You’ve made progress,” he begins, his tone soft, almost kind. “I can see it in the way you’ve stopped resisting.” He kneels to your level, his hands clasped neatly on his bent knee. “But we still have work to do.”

You flinch as he reaches out, his fingers brushing against your wrist. His touch is light, fleeting, yet it feels like chains being wrapped around your bones.

“Tell me,” he says, his voice dipping into something more intimate, more poisonous. “What’s your name?”

You hesitate, your lips parting but refusing to form the words. The question isn’t innocent; you know that by now. It’s a trap.

Scaramouche’s smile deepens, and it’s the kind of smile that makes your stomach churn. “I see,” he murmurs, withdrawing his hand. “You’re still clinging to it. That identity. That name. That life.” His gaze sharpens, cutting through you like glass. “How selfish.”

“I’m not selfish,” you manage to whisper, your voice trembling.

“Aren’t you?” he counters, rising to his feet. He begins to pace, his hands clasped behind his back, his every step deliberate and echoing in the oppressive silence. “You insist on holding onto a version of yourself that no longer exists. Do you know how exhausting that is for me? Watching you struggle, knowing you’ll never succeed?”

His words are a scalpel, precise and cutting. “Let me simplify things for you,” he continues, his tone lightening as though he’s offering a gift. “You don’t need a name. Names are for people who belong to the world, and you…” He pauses, turning to face you fully, his violet eyes glowing with an unearthly intensity. “You belong to me.”

The words hang heavy in the air, suffocating you in their finality. He kneels again, his hands resting lightly on your shoulders. “Say it,” he commands, his voice velvet and steel. “Say you’re mine.”

You shake your head, tears pooling in your eyes. “I—I’m not—”

His grip tightens, not enough to hurt but enough to remind you of his power. “Say it,” he repeats, his tone leaving no room for defiance.

When you don’t respond, he sighs, releasing you and rising once more. “You still don’t understand,” he says, his voice tinged with disappointment. “But that’s alright. I’ll help you. I always help you, don’t I?”

———

The next morning, you wake to find everything in the room gone—your blanket, the single chair you’d been allowed to sit on, even the thin mattress you’d been sleeping on. The floor beneath you is cold, unyielding, and utterly barren.

When Scaramouche arrives, his expression is one of practiced pity. He crouches down, inspecting you like a scientist observing a fragile experiment. “It’s painful, isn’t it?” he says softly. “To have everything stripped away. But it’s necessary. You have to learn that those things were only weighing you down.”

“Why are you doing this?” you ask, your voice breaking.

“Because I care,” he replies without hesitation. “Because I want you to be free.” He tilts his head, his gaze softening in a way that feels like mockery. “Don’t you see? I’m saving you from the prison of your own mind. The sooner you let go of who you were, the sooner you’ll find peace.”

You don’t respond, but he doesn’t seem to mind. He rises to his full height, towering over you like a judge delivering a sentence. “I’ll leave you to think,” he says, his tone light but his words laced with menace. “But remember: the only way out of this is through me.”

———

Days pass—or maybe weeks; it’s impossible to tell. The walls seem to close in more each day, their featureless expanse a blank canvas for the chaos in your mind. You begin to question everything: your memories, your sense of self, even your sanity.

One day, Scaramouche returns with a new “gift.” It’s a mirror, small and oval, its edges gilded in a way that feels almost mocking. He sets it before you with a flourish, his smile unreadable.

“Look,” he says simply.

You hesitate, your hands trembling as you reach for the mirror. When you finally raise it to your face, you barely recognize the person staring back. Your skin is pale, your eyes hollow, your hair disheveled. You look…empty.

“Do you see now?” he murmurs, crouching beside you. “This is who you are. Who you’ve always been. The world out there didn’t care about you. It chewed you up and spat you out. But I…” He pauses, his gaze locking onto yours in the reflection. “I’m the one who picked up the pieces. I’m the one who’s here for you.”

Tears stream down your face, and you don’t even know why. His words are poison, but they seep into the cracks of your mind, filling the void with something dark and insidious.

“You’ll thank me someday,” he says, his voice soft and almost tender. “When you finally see the truth. When you finally understand that I’m your savior.”

He takes the mirror from your hands, his fingers brushing against yours in a way that feels both possessive and gentle. “But until then,” he says, rising to his feet, “you’ll stay here, where you belong. With me.”

────────────

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[sleepyangelkami]

hey, I want to request a long one shot about ellie x cheerleader!reader, but ellie is like a type of emo? idk, she just use very dark clothes, accessories and she's grumpy, meanwhile the reader is the opposite, she is popular and social (she's not mean). strangers to very close friends (also about the social rejection that Ellie had). and it ends with rough smut (lmao sorry, I'm begging)

FUCK THE CHEERLEADERS e.williams

 ☆ WORD COUNT - 7.8K

ELLIE WILLIAMS X FEM!READER

 ☆ SUMMARY - for as long as ellie's known she's hated just about everything and everyone. she hated the school she went to and the people in it. and she hated those prissy cheerleaders. what happens when one of them starts changing her mind?

 ☆ WARNINGS - slight abby anderson x reader (briefly mentioned), smut, slowburn, dom!ellie, sub!reader, mean!ellie, manhandling, fingering (r. receiving), oral (e. receiving), scissoring, squirting, rough sex, slight loser!ellie, praise kink, overstimulation, dirty talk (mmm), jealousy sex, slight innocent!reader?, swearing, smoking, getting high, lowk bullying, ellie is an abby!hater (i'm sorry.), homophobia, petnames, use of y/n, intended lower case, nothing i write is ever proofread 🩷

ellie williams hated just about everything in the world, it seemed. it was as if a scowl had been engraved on her brows as she walked through the halls of the school. she hated a lot of things, she hated this school. but more importantly, those damn cliches. those jocks and their stupid cheerleaders hanging underneath their arms, it made ellie sick, it made her scowl deepen.

it wasn't unusual for ellie to be clad in her black beanie, black hoodie and black ripped jeans. what could she say? she liked black. with her sketchbook sitting underneath her arm and her backpack hanging from one shoulder, she managed to make her way towards the east end of the school, where her ugly red locker lay. "why the long face?"

the voice had belonged to dina woodward who stood next to jesse (does this man have a last name?) they were both hand in hand next to ellie's locker. the three had lockers next to one another, had since freshman year. the two may have been the only two people ellie tolerated at all. they were her best friends. even so, she found herself scowling at the way their hands were intertwined.

"stupid fucking cheerleaders." already, jesse was rolling his eyes while the girl forced her locker open, this wasn't the first time he's heard that. "thinkin' they run the school, give me a break with their fucking pom poms and the skirts up their asses―"

"we get it ellie." jesse rolled his eyes, shutting his locker door. "what'd they do this time?"

ellie hated the jocks enough but she knew that at least they took pride in being assholes. but the cheerleaders? they walked around school with no consequences, wearing a sugar coated smile that made them look like nothing short of angels. they hid behind the facade of being good people. at least the jocks could admit they were dickheads. the cheerleaders pretended to be something they weren't. and for some reason, it made ellie hate them even more. "what do they ever do." she mumbled. "'here's lessie williams on!' 'draw anything new today williams!' 'let us see inside your sketchbook williams!'" she fawned a high pitch voice. "Like god! it was freshman year can't anyone get over it!"

dina and jesse were conscious of the couple people that had turned their heads to look at them but they knew that one sharp glare from ellie and they'd turn away again.

you see, in freshman year nobody really knew ellie. sure, they knew her but they didn't know her. she was quiet, always sat in the back of the classroom, always scribbling something down on a piece of paper or in her sketchbook. the one thing that brought her joy, the one thing she actually enjoyed doing was drawing.

and they ripped it away from her.

stupid stephanie meadows, who, in all her glory, decided to rip the sketchbook out of her hands and show the rest of the cheerleaders what the girl had been drawing. she had meant it as harmless teasing, ellie was sure. but the girl just so happened to be drawing some... female anatomy.

then birthed the name lessie williams.

she hated those damned cheerleaders ever since.

"i'm really sorry, ellie." jesse wore a sympathetic look as his brows furrowed lightly. there really wasn't anything they could do. they would stand up for her but that'd only drag them down. ellie understood this, she didn't expect anything from them. "that sucks."

but ellie didn't respond to his sympathy or his pity, merely slamming the locker door shut. "man, fuck the cheerleaders." her infamous catchphrase. she wore it out, used it every single time those damned cheerleaders were around. every time, there was venom laced in her voice. she didn't just hate them, she loathed them entirely.

but as soon as the venomous words slipped from her mouth, there was a sound of honey laughter that invaded her ears. "hi, dina!" there you stood, a sweet smile attached to your lips as you passed the three. you had two maybe three folders tucked in your arms, light purples and pinks with your name in big writing. y/n l/n.

"hi, y/n." it was merely a greeting in passing but ellie's blood boiled. her eyes fell on your outfit. your cheerleader outfit. the outfit was black and white, long sleeved but tight, showing off all of your curves and giving you all the attention that you didn't want. your skirt was short, too short, flimsy material showing ellie all that she shouldn't see. you had a light pink bow sitting at the top of your half up half down ponytail, curled hair falling behind your back. the colour of the bow matched your cheer leading shoes which were white but had pink stripes through them along with your baby pink leg warmers. you were the only cheerleader with a bit of colour.

you left ellie's sight as soon as you came, she turned to dina with a look of poison in her eye. "what? are you guys friends now? you gonna join the cheer squad?"

jesse took a step back, muttering something about not getting involved. he was well aware of what happened last time. ellie's wrath was not something you wanted to get involved with. "no, ellie, i'm not going to join the cheer squad." dina was rolling her eyes over the stupid encounter. "she happens to sit next to me in biology and i was saying hello."

"yeah, to y/n fucking l/n." everyone knew who you were, the prissy cheerleader who always wore smiles for everyone she met. often times being tucked under the arm of the captain of the girl's soccer team, abby anderson.

dina wasn't having it. "she's never actually said anything to you, ellie, she's never even been there when it happened and i'm sure if she was, she'd say something about it. she's really nice once you give her a shot."

ellie could have laughed in dina's face. "you're kidding." she was a cheerleader. "they're the same, every single one of them." and could you blame the girl for being so defensive? after all, it was her that got the horrid bullying and harrasment for so many years, not dina, not jesse, ellie. they didn't know what it was like to be in that ring of fire, they hadn't the slightest idea. "you know what, fuck this, i'm going to class."

dina was rolling her eyes. "ellie!" but the girl didn't turn around, holding her bag and her sketchbook close. "ellie, c'mon, don't be like this!" but she never spared her a glance.

jesse puffed out a breath. "just leave her." he mumbled to the girl next to him. "she'll be back."

and she was back. she was back before lunchtime. you see, that was the thing about having little to no friends. for ellie, dina and jesse, it didn't matter what was going on. whether dina was arguing with ellie, whether jesse and ellie were in a scuffle, whether dina and jesse were on their hundredth break. truth was, they only really had eachother. so, no matter what was happening, their lunch times were spent together at their separate round table in the cafeteria.

ellie was picking at her food when she saw her again. when she saw you.

you were walking up to their table sort of nervously, toying with your sleeves. ellie's expression immediately faltered. "is she walking over here?" dina and jesse looked up, glancing to you who had so many eyes on you. ellie could see the table of jocks and cheerleaders all staring at you, they simply couldn't take their eyes away. "she better not be fucking walking over here, she's not sitting―"

"ellie." dina whispered harshly as she shoved her foot forward, hitting ellie square in the calf. she winced, holding in the pained cringe.

"uhm, hi." you glanced back to the group of cheerleaders that were all staring. sometimes, you wished to be invisible, it was like there were always people watching. you felt like an actor on a stage and constantly having an audience. "dina, i was wondering if i could talk to you."

when you'd uttered the words, you sort of assumed dina would get up and walk with you. at least you hoped she would. you got the feeling that her friend didn't like you, the death stares she was throwing you, the glares that were burning into your head. not that you understood, though, you didn't even know her name.

"yeah, sure." she shoved to the side, allowing room for you to sit down. you awkwardly looked at the spot between her and her brunette friend wearing a black hat. the girl had looked away since you brought yourself over to the table. "guys this is y/n." she introduced as if they hadn't known who you were anyway. "y/n, this is jesse." he gave a smile to you to which you couldn't help but smile back softly. "and... ellie." she didn't lift her head. "ellie." she kicked her underneath the table once more.

ellie lifted her eyes, sending a glare your way before turning her head back down. you frowned but kept quiet. you didn't understand why the girl didn't like you but who were you to judge, you can't change how someone feels about you. besides, she didn't know you, you still had time to get her to warm up to you. perhaps she was like that with everyone.

in a way, she was.

"I was wondering if i could borrow your biology notes again over the weekend?" you had hopeful eyes, a little sympathy in them. "i'm sorry, i know i've asked like three weeks in a row now, i just really need to get this done." you had been attempting to rewrite all of your notes since the start of the year, you had realised how much you'd fallen behind in biology after you took cheerleading a bit too seriously.

dina waved you off, a big smile stretched on her lips. "yeah, no worries, you can drop by saturday?"

you grinned up at the girl. "yeah, i'll swing by after practice." practice. ellie could feel another eye roll coming on. "thank you so much." you began getting up from your seat next to the girls.

there wasn't much room, your leg brushed against ellie. you expected her to retract with a hiss as if you'd burned her, as if you were carrying a plague. instead, she froze. she didn't look disgusted, nor did she look happy, she didn't look much of... anything. she just froze.

in ellie's mind, she was cursing herself. if another pretty girl had brushed up against her, she would have smirked and leaned into it. she was cursing herself because she almost had. for a second, she forgot who you were. she forgot that the only reason she could feel the smooth skin of your leg was because of that stupid uniform.

"it was nice meeting you both." you smiled, mostly to ellie. you thought if you showed off your pearly whites she may see that you mean no harm.

when she didn't look up again, you sighed before leaving. what was so wrong with you that the girl hated you so much?

𝜗𝜚

ellie didn't need a fucking math tutor.

that's what she'd been telling herself for the past thirty minutes. she had been in her car, a rusted up van given to her by joel, passed down onto her. mr. gray had told her that she was flunking math and with the grades she was getting, if she kept them up he'd have to choice but to hold her back.

she couldn't risk that. so, he got her a tutor. at first, she got angry, stating that there was no need, she didn't need a tutor. she'd figure something out by herself. maybe jesse or dina could help her? but the man assured her that even they were only a mere average. he'd arranged a date for the first tutoring session at the local coffee shop, he stated that the tutor was the smartest kid he had ever taught. at least in math.

when she heard that you were her tutor, she downright flipped out.

yet, here she was in her van, stuffing the text books that lay on the seat back into the bag and opening the door. she couldn't afford to stay back, she'd have to make it work.

even if that meant you becoming her tutor.

she could imagine it now. you'd run thirty minutes late and be sat in the front of a fancy car, a porsche or something and you'd sit her in the darkest corner of the coffee shop.

yet, as she walked in, ten minutes early, you were already sat there. you were clad in a light jeans and a large woollen sweater, an off white, kind of brown. it was odd not seeing you in that uniform of yours. ellie awkwardly found herself ordering a coffee, her eyes drifting off to you. you had a couple text books open, notebooks too with a glass sitting next to you, pink straw peeking out.

"uh, hi." the sound of her voice caused you to jump before turning around to see her, smiling softly. she did not return the smile, sitting herself down at the booth you were in. right next to the window, the place that received the most light in the entire coffee shop. "you're early." she commented, mumbling beneath her breath a "probably cause of the porsche."

at the sound of your honey laugh, she looked up. your smile was wide and you shook your head. "no, i took my bike." you nodded outside the window to the little turquoise bike that sat in front of the cafe, little basket sitting in the front. "left the porsche in my garage." the sound of the joke nearly had ellie's lips curling upwards. nearly. she stopped herself. "uhm, we don't have to start just yet, you know, cause we're both early."

ellie barely muttered out an "alright." before setting her books on the table.

"what're you drinking?" you questioned quizzically.

"huh?" she glanced to the coffee cup next to her.

you shrugged your shoulders. "I think you can tell a lot from a person by what they drink. mine's a frappe, no coffee." your smile was a little lopsided. "makes me too hyper. what about you?"

"coffee." she deadpanned. "black."

"that's nice." you shuffled around awkwardly at a failed attempt of soothing down your own embarrassment. "you come here often?"

"look." ellie wasn't in the mood for your chit-chat, or anyone's for that matter. but you just so happened to be the one sitting in front of her at that given moment. "we don't need to do this whole small talk thing, i'm here 'cause i'm flunking math not because i'm trying to have it on with abby anderson's little girlfriend."

your brows furrowed, a little taken aback. "I'm not her girlfriend." you mumbled. "let's just get started, then." and so you pushed the chunky text book her way.

a couple moments passed you by. it was almost complete silence as you looked over the sums ellie had done. she was strumming the pencil against the table and waiting for you to finish. when you did, you wore a sloppy grin. "you got 'em all right." you spoke, pride in your voice. "well done, they were really hard." they weren't hard, ellie knew that. they were the basic sums, the easy ones that would soon lead into all the algebra she could never understand. but you were trying. really trying.

you gave her a couple more on the next chapter, awaiting her finish as you read through your own notes. she noted the fact that you didn't take out your phone to flick through your messages, or sigh loudly looking at the clock. there wasn't any rush or pressure.

she felt her insides twist a little. perhaps she was being a bit harsh earlier. "every saturday." she mumbled catching your attention, you hummed in question. "every saturday at one o clock, i come here... to draw."

your eyes lit up a little. "you draw?" ellie's heart stuttered. you didn't know? if you didn't know she drew then could it be possible that you hadn't heard the stephanie meadows situation at all? could dina have been right when she said that you truly were different?

"uh, yeah." she murmured, too busy thinking over the situation. what was happening? "yeah, i draw."

by the end of the session, you'd learned not much more about ellie other than the fact that she really did need this tutoring. perhaps it was a good thing she had been paired with you and not someone else. you knew that if you were working with ellie, patience was required.

you were walking out the door together when the bell dinged slightly, you had to go one way to get to your bike, she had to go the other to get to her car. "ellie?" she turned, hands in her pockets and satchel sitting on her shoulder. "could i get your number?" her brows pinched together and you almost slapped yourself for the way her face scrunched up. "don't look too excited, i mean for the next tutoring session, mr. gray isn't gonna set up any more for us."

"uh, yeah." she fished into her back pocket, grabbing out a pen. "do you have a piece of paper?" You merely shoved your sleeve up, handing her your arm. she looked at you quizzingly before scribbling down the digits onto your arm. "Just... delete it after."

you pressed your lips into a thin line. "wasn't planning on keeping it."

𝜗𝜚

ellie was fucking furious.

her feet were practically stomping up the driveway of dina woodwards house as she shoved her fist against the door, harshly pounding on it.

a confused and concerned dina met her eyes soon after, she opened the door and the girl allowed herself in. "them fucking cheerleaders, dina! i'm gonna kill them! i'm gonna fucking kill them!"

"wha― ellie-" dina had seen ellie angry like this countless times, always mouthing on about those cheerleaders and how they're dead if they do something again. she never did stand up for herself.

"you know and you're the one who told me she was different!" dina looked at her with confusion laced in her eyes. "she's just another one of those fucking cunts! fuck the cheerleaders, they're all the fucking same! she's nothing but a bitch―"

"ellie!" dina had cut the girl off. ellie turned around to see you. you were standing with the biology notebook in hand while a gear bag was slung across your shoulder, dressed in your cheerleaders outfit from head to toe. the mere sight of you, of the clothes reminded ellie exactly why she hated you. all of you.

"you." she gave a sneer to the girl. "you told them where i was, didn't you?" you backed up, giving dina a confused and scared look. what was she talking about? "you told them i'd be at the fucking coffee shop and did you see what they did to my fucking car?!" outside the living room window you could see ellie's van pulled up, covered in some kind of a liquid. milk? yoghurt? coffee?

"I d-didn't―" you were backing away from ellie, confused and hurt. had she really thought you'd be behind something like that. "who―"

"who is it ever? stephanie fucking meadows, you're just like her. you know, i actually thought you might have some human decency but i was right, behind all that fucking prissiness, all the smiles and high fucking ponytails, you're all just a carbon copy of each other." you were staring at her in disbelief. "I told you i go there every saturday at one o clock, who shows up? i know you fucking told her!"

"I didn't!" was your feeble argument.

"yes you fucking did!" ellie's hands had come to the top of your arms, shoving you slightly. but she was much stronger than you were, you stumbled back lightly.

"ellie!" dina was grabbing ellie's own upper arm, dragging her away from you. "are you fucking insane?" ellie's pupils were blown wide. "if she said she didn't do it, then she didn't fucking do it, okay?"

"I'm, uhm―" your eyes looked elsewhere. "I'm gonna go, thanks dina." and you were fleeing the scene.

not seconds later did the front door burst open again, jesse running in panting. "ellie, i am so sorry." ellie and dina looked at him in confusion. "stephanie told me that if i didn't tell her where you were, she was gonna revoke my place on the soccer team and you know the coach is her dad. I didn't have any other choice."

dina was glaring at ellie, a sick look in her face. "looks like you owe someone an apology, doesn't it."

ellie was breathing through her nose.

shit.

𝜗𝜚

ellie was standing at your front door, wrapping her knuckles against it. she had this look on her face making it plain obvious that this was not something she wanted to be doing. you had your location on your phone which is the only reason ellie was able to see where you lived. and how were you going to feel when the girl that just laid hands on you showed up at your front door?

the door opened to reveal you, now dressed in a shorts and tank top. you looked at her expectingly. "uhm, yes?" she didn't miss the way you practically hid yourself behind the door.

she glanced at her own dirtied converse trying to piece together what she was going to say. "i know you didn't tell stephanie where i was." and then there was the mumble of, "I'm sorry."

you blinked at her. "you are?" you got the feeling that sorry wasn't something ellie williams said a lot. and it wasn't, the words were barely even in her vocabulary. yet here she was, apologising on your doorstep, to a cheerleader. you had the effect of making her do a lot of things she couldn't see herself doing.

"yeah." kicking one of the pebbles on the ground. "I am. i shouldn't have yelled at you and i especially shouldn't have laid hands on you." god, what had she been thinking? it was as if she was looking to start a fight with you. with you. ellie had been in a multitude of fights before. but you? nothing but a sunflower.

"It's okay." you pressed your lips into a thin line. you watched as ellie's head snapped upward. it was? "they shouldn't have done what they did to you. you were upset, i get it." you knew stephanie could be a lot of work, you were shocked when ellie had told you but at the same time, you weren't necessarily surprised.

"yeah but i took it out on you." and she shouldn't have, she really shouldn't have.

you shrugged your shoulders, a small smile stretched to your cheeks. "happens to the best of us." but ellie was sure, cheerleader or not, you were an angel in disguise.

she could have walked away then and there, she could have told you that she was thankful for your forgiveness and left. that was the plan, anyway. to leave, she didn't think she'd end up sticking around much longer. she didn't think you'd forgive her in the first place. but then she saw that pretty smile on your face, the way you didn't look at her all disgusted and scared, the look everyone else had been giving her her entire life. it was almost like you looked at her and she meant something. this is what urged the next words to leave her mouth.

"do you wanna go get ice cream?"

sitting in the back of an ice cream parlor with ellie williams was not on your saturday to do list and yet here you were, licking your vanilla ice cream. "i can't go back." the girl uttered. she'd gotten chocolate ice cream and given you a weird look, stating that you were nothing short of 'basic'. "that coffee shop was my place." she groaned, putting her head in her hands. "this is shit." the situation, she meant, the icecream was amazing.

you were squirming on your chair, wondering if you should speak your mind or keep it contained. fuck it. "you know, if you wanted..." her head looked up at you, all nervous and shy. "we could maybe come here on saturdays, you could draw, if you wanted and i could do like homework or something." you blew the air from your cheeks. "that way if someone comes in they won't give you a hard time 'cause you're with me. not that i'll tell anyone we're here."

ellie couldn't help the way her lips tugged upwards. she was staring.

"what?" you let out a breathy laugh.

she shook her head. "you're just not at all what i thought you were."

and that was how it began.

every saturday ended in you and ellie sitting in that ice cream parlor. usually, it began after practice so you were still dressed in your cheer uniform, it ended when the sky was dark and the ice cream place was closing.

you began spending an awful lot of time with ellie. sitting with her and her friends at lunch or even inviting her over some days that it was too cold or too rainy for the ice cream parlor. in doing this, you sort of pulled away from that whole 'clique' that you were in. you couldn't of been happier.

that led to now.

it was one of the days in the summer that was sort of cold so you and ellie decided against ice cream. she was sat across your bed on her stomach, doodling little things into that sketchbook of hers. "els?" she hummed, not looking up. you had called her the nickname accidentally one day but it sort of just stuck after that. "can i ask you something?"

she groaned slightly as she closed her book. "you know i hate it when you start all vague like that." you had been skipping your way over to the bed seeing as you were sitting at your desk beforehand, trying to focus on biology. oh, how you hated the subject.

you sat yourself down next to her, giving her those doey eyes. this couldn't be anything good. "I know, i'm sorry." you mumbled sheepishly. "and i know it's not exactly your thing but i was wondering if maybe you'd... you don't have to i just― if you'd like― would you want to maybe..."

ellie had to chuckle at your nervousness. you were so squeamish and shy at times. she wondered what other times you acted like this. squirmy and struggling for words. "spit it out, angel." those silly names had started a couple weeks ago when ellie 'accidently' said one just to see your reaction. but when your face turned beat red, she couldn't help but continue.

you sighed, placing your hands in your lap. "so, the last game is on saturday and you know, i'm kinda required to go and i obviously wanna spend time with you to so i was wondering if you maybe wanted to go?" scratching the back of your neck. "if they win, abby's hosting some after party at hers and you could bring dina and jesse? not that i'd leave you alone―"

ellie cut you off. "y/n." you were looking at her with those saucer eyes. "if you want me to go, i'm already there."

your lips curved up and a huge grin fell on your face. "oh, thank you, thank you, thank you!!" you slung your arms around her neck, hugging her close.

you were too close. she could feel all of you, the parts she wanted to the most. she ignored it, squeezing her eyes shut as she melted into the hug. if she had it her way, she'd be doing whatever she pleased with you. but the situation was delicate right now, she needed you to warm up to her completely. then, she'd make her move.

𝜗𝜚

ellie regretted saying yes to your offer. she hadn't regretted watching you jump around in that cheerleading outfit, giving her almost a full display of your ass. she hadn't regretted the way you looked at her every time the cheering slowed or you lost focus. there wasn't an inch of regret in her bones when you threw your arms around her at the end when the women's soccer team won their game, your body squishing against her own so she could feel everything. what she did regret though, was coming to this stupid party.

ellie was no stranger to parties, in fact she sort of liked them at times. she always found herself strung across a couch, joint sitting between her fingers.

parties usually relaxed her, allowed her to live on the edge a little.

but right now? her glare was enough to send someone six feet under.

it started out okay, with dina and jesse by her side, you excitedly clinging to her like a puppy. she liked that, the fact that you were so attached. then, as always, dina and jesse go find themselves a room. you stayed with ellie, sitting up on the couch with your knees bent, still in your little cheer costume. she'd offered you the joint to which your face scrunched up, declining the offer politely.

then abby anderson called you up.

now, ellie had sort of anticipated this. captain of the football team, captain of the cheer squad. it made sense. abby was doing her stupid speech that had ellie rolling her eyes, and smoking the joint. leave it to abby to make a party boring.

suddenly, you were under her arm.

you hadn't even been paying attention when abby grabbed you, holding your shoulder close. your eyes instantly flickered to ellie who didn't look nearly as happy as she had with you by her side. her jaw was clenched, hand fisted and eyes narrowed in on you. she brought the joint to her lips again, eyes never leaving yours as she blew the smoke out. she caught on to the way you gulped and looked away.

dare she say, she saw your thighs squeeze together.

when you returned to your seat, ellie wouldn't so much as look at you. you took this as it being time for you both to head home. ellie stated that she would drive you, as she had been the one driving here. you told her you didn't think it was so much of a good idea, she was definitely high.

but the look she turned to give you was enough to have you shrinking back, shutting your mouth.

when you got into the car, sitting in the passenger seat with your hands sitting in your lap, you couldn't help but turn your own eyes towards ellie's whose knuckles were turning white due to how hard she was holding onto the steering wheel. "els?" she didn't so much as hum your way. "are you okay?"

"'m fine." was her deadpanned response.

had you made her mad? was this all over abby? why would it be? could she be... jealous? there was no way in hell. you knew you liked ellie, that much for sure but there was no possibility of her liking you back, you knew this. you'd been so wrapped up in your own thinking that you almost missed the way she had missed the turn off to your house. "els, you missed the turn." craining your head to look at the turn as if it was going to come back.

"I know." she stated, voice still icy cold. "i'm bringing you to mine." joel was out tonight, ellie knew this meaning there was no way in hell this man would be home before two pm the following day.

when ellie opened up the big brown door for you, it occurred to you that you'd never actually been in the house. you glanced around as you felt a cold hand on the small of your back. ellie lead you towards what you assumed was her bedroom. you glanced up, she still hadn't looked at you, her eyes strained straight forward. you stopped walking causing the girl to finally snap her eyes down towards you. you moved to step in front of her. "ellie, are you sure you're okay, i―"

ellie cut you off by her lips crashing into your own.

you didn't have time to think, melting into the kiss. the girl shoved the door behind you open, keeping you in her arms as she led you inside, leaving her foot kick the door closed. she made sure you didn't fall over until your foot hit the edge of your bed where she guided your back onto her sheets.

your head was spinning, the feeling of her rough lips on yours was enough to have you weak at the knees, a feeling pooling in your panties. but you were also confused. when ellie pulled away for air, eyes viewing you and your puffy lips, you took this as your chance. "ellie, wha―"

but she cut you off with a low groan. "just stop talking." and suddenly her lips were on yours again. her hand travelled down underneath you, hands coming up to squeeze at your ass. you whimpered into her mouth, the noise going straight down to her cunt. she held back a grunt as her hand moved to your stomach, flipping up your skirt and letting her fingers travel down further. they trailed up your thighs until they found your clothed cunt, sopping and wet. "f-fuck." ellie stuttered out, she'd expected it to be a little wet, sure, but she had this kind of an effect on you? "you're ruining your cheerleaders outfit, angel." you couldn't contain yourself, hips bucking and a whine falling from your lips. holy shit. ellie wasn't going to be able to contain herself, she'd end up creaming in her pants. "get on your knees."

your big blown out eyes found her own lowly red ones. "what?" nervousness eating at your stomach.

ellie took note of the little worry laced in your eye, she knew you better than you knew yourself. "get on your knees f'me, baby." pressing a little kiss against your neck. but she realised she had been just a little too soft. "now." she spoke, sternly.

you did as you were told, eyes never leaving ellie's as you positoned yourself on the ground underneath her, slight confusion lacing your eyes, mostly excitement. your knees scratched against her old carpet, eyes doey and looking up with enlarged pupils.

ellie bent down, her legs spread in front of you as she tilted your chin up, kissing you roughly. you could feel the hunger in the kiss. "don't like abby looking at you, touching you." you could hear the venom in her voice, her tone changing as if poison had been sat underneath her tongue. "touching what's mine."

you shook your head, eyes wide. "ellie it wasn't like that, she was told to―"

"shh." ellie didn't want to hear it, she especially didn't want to keep talking about abby, not when she had a pretty cheerleader sitting on her knees for her. "jus' say you're sorry 'n put your mouth where it's useful, yeah?"

ellie grabbed your hands, guiding them up to her hips so she could stick your two thumbs down the waistband of both her jeans and her boxers. "'m sorry, els, 'm really sorry." eyes almost watery. ellie helped you pull her jeans and boxers down her legs, letting them pile around her ankles, not caring enough to take them off completely.

"then show me." she spoke, voice a mere mumble, she was trying to stay in control but it was so hard when you were so close to her core. "c'mon, you know what to do."

your hands had sat at her thighs, keeping you propped up as you mouth came close to where she needed you. you looked up at her, then back down to her sopping cunt. breathing out lowly, your breath fell onto her causing her hips to buck. your tongue peeked out of your mouth before you leaned forward, pressing a kitten lick to her cunt. she let out a grunt letting you know that she liked it, with a little confidence you did it again, and again, and again.

you heard a low chuckle through her grunts from above you. "y'so cute." she mumbled, her hand falling into your hair as she tugged it closer. you moaned against her causing vibrations throughout her body. "s-shit." she found herself bucking her hips into your mouth.

you found your tongue moving against her quickly, practically making out with her cunt as your tongue dipped itself into her hole. you didn't really know what you were doing, you were doing what you hoped was right and by the grunts and curses that were falling from her lips, something had to be good. tongue dancing in circles around her clit making her chant your name as she held onto your roots, tugging you impossibly closer.

you sucked at her clit, it caused her entire body to move. "fuck, baby, jus' like that." she bucked her hips into your face, grinding down on it. it was as if she were face fucking you, the thought didn't seem so bad. "shit, don't stop." mumbling things you weren't even paying attention to. your hips were grinding against nothing, searching for release as your tongue worked against the girl.

ellie felt euphoric. she'd dreamt of this very moment a thousand times over, you with your mouth on her. she couldn't contain herself any longer, she knew that if you kept your pace up she was going to cum.

she couldn't. not yet. not before you.

she had so much more planned.

she hadn't even registered the fact that she was pulling you up before she was practically throwing you onto the bed. her big hands messed with the plush of your hips, squishing the fat of your ass as she turned you over so your face was buried in the sheets. "did i do something wrong?" you mumbled with fear in your tone, practically muffled into her sheets.

"no, bunny, you did so well." her mouth pressed kisses against the back of your thighs. she held your ass in the air while your face was practically squished against the pillows. "too well." wet hot and sloppy kisses all against your skin. "wanna have my fun with you now." her fingers moved to your covered cunt, rubbing up and down gently, a moan fell from your lips. "feel good, hm?" she moved to sit up on her knees, towering over you as she played with your pussy from over the cloth. she leaned over you. "tell me what you want." but you merely bucked your hips back. she stopped you by pressing her hands firmly on your waist. "tell me what you want or you wont get anything."

you whimpered desperately. "ellie." the sound of her voice on your lips was enough to have her going completely mad. "need your fingers." the mumble was low and pathetic, embarrassment flooding your cheeks.

she didn't move from her position. slowly, she trailed her hand back down to where your sopping cunt lay. she pulled the fabric of your cheerleaders outfit and your panties away from your pussy, sliding them across your ass as her fingers gently rubbed at your now bare cunt. "this what you want?" your hips were rolling against her fingers, eyes rolling to the back of your head and incoherent mumbles falling from your lips. you didn't answer, too caught up in your own euphoria. "god, you're fucking pathetic." and nodded your head too, agreeing with her as she drew tight little circles around your clit.

you could have came by the mere stimulation of her fingers against your clit but you wanted all of her. "inside." you mumbled through your whining. "please, els."

she was rather enjoying herself too, pressing kisses on the back of your neck. "you can beg better than that." she had full faith that you could. your whining never stopped as you threw your head into the pillows, much too embarrassed. "listen to me." her mouth falling near your ear. "be a good slut and beg for my fingers or you're not getting anything."

and the way her voice sounded and the way her fingers felt never stopping their attack on your clit. how could you not? “please els, please need it so bad.” grinding your hips down on her moving fingers. “please, i’ll be good, promise i’ll be good, please ellie.”

“good girl.” ellie cooed into your ear, a smirk on her lips. she stuck two fingers inside you without warning, pumping them in and out of your dripping hole. “see? wasn’t so hard was it? ‘n now you got what you wanted.” pressing kisses against your shoulders as she continued her assault on your dripping pussy.

you babbled and whined, whimpered and begged as you felt her fingers completely undo you. they were pumping in and out of you consistently as she soaked in your every whimper, your every noise as you babbled into the sheets. even you were unaware of what you were trying to say, all you knew was that noises fell from your lips and they seemed like good ones. “ellie!” you were almost screaming her name in a chant. “‘m gonna, i can’t―”

“i know, sweetgirl.” cooing at you again. “can’t hold it?” you shook your head over and over, your hole tightening around her two fingers that plunged right back into you. “mm, let go, pretty. be a good girl ‘n cum all over my fingers.” and that was exactly what you did. 

she felt you tighten around her, completely sucking in her two fingers as you gushed around her, wet and sloppily as you came undone. she kept moving her fingers, allowing you to ride it out as she pumped in and out of you, gently now that she knew you were sensitive. when you collapsed onto the bed, fucked out and tired, she finally let her fingers exit your little hole.

her eyes couldn’t help but be strained to your face, cheeks pink and eyes slightly droopy. you looked completely fucked out and she was the cause of it. pride melted inside her as she grabbed your knee, flipping you around to look up at her with those doey eyes again, pupils wide.

she wasn’t entirely done with you yet.

“can you give me another?” you weren’t responding, babbling something as she reached down to untie your little costume. she slipped it off you with ease, smirking at the fact that you hadn’t been wearing a bra. “yeah?” to your constant babbling, not a clue in her head of what you were trying to say. “know you can, pretty girl.” reaching up to grab the top of her jumper, sliding it off and tossing it somewhere across the room.

you were gawking at her, not a drip of shame inside you. eyes wide as you stared. she understood for she had been staring just as much as you had. eyes drawn to your chest as her hands came down to kneed your tits, fingers slipping over your nipple causing a moan to fall from you, arching your back up on the bed.

she just had to have her cunt on yours. 

she quickly climbed atop you, watching your face that never moved, you were waiting in anticipation for what she was going to do next. when she lowered herself onto your cunt, you couldn’t help but whimper out. even when your pussy was all sensitive, you couldn’t help but grind your hips upwards. the best part? she hadn’t even started moving yet.

“fuck.” she breathed out, feeling your clit rub against hers. “jus’ slow down, alright?” chuckling at your nodding. “gonna give you what you wan’t. jus’ gotta… jus’ need to…” but she cut herself off, unable to keep talking as her eyes rolled, a moan falling from her lips. the way you rolled your hips against hers, the way her clit bumped off your own, she couldn’t keep up.

her hands moved to sit up against you, she needed to take some sort of control. she moved upright, grinding her hips down to meet yours. her movements were much quicker than yours, a little desperate as she felt your clit constantly on hers. she couldn’t help the low groan that fell from her lips. “els!” you were a moaning, blabbering mess, back arched against the bed and eyes screwed shut. “feels so good, els, feels―” cutting yourself off with yet another whine.

ellie’s eyes were on yours, watching as your face twisted and contorted in pleasure. It drove her to hump her hips quicker, bouncing and bumping clit to clit. “good girl.” her own breath shaking. “takin’ it so well, my good girl.” 

the way the words fell from your lips had your stomach twisting in knots for the second time that evening. this time, you could barely hold yourself. “ellie!” you couldn’t even get the words out, all you could feel and see was pleasure, all you could think was ellie.

ellie knew what you were trying to say, merely grunting as she found her own stomach pooling with that feeling. “yeah?” her head in your neck as she moved her hips against you so quickly, grinding down so fast, you could see stars. “you gonna cum all over me?” there was a higher pitch to her tone, you could tell she was so close, as close as you were. “gonna cum all over me like the little slut you are, hm? my slut.” 

that was all you needed.

when ellie felt it, she found her hips stuttering against you. the sputtering of liquid against her, coming from your pussy. her eyes glanced down to see you squirting all over her cunt, hips chasing you as the liquid spurted, hitting her and travelling down to your stomach. the whining and the whimpering in her ear didn’t stop.

watching you squirt all over her could only make her come as close as you had. her stomach knots unravelled as she came, her hands holding your own tightly. you both grinded against each other as you came down from your highs.  

when ellie finished, watching as your legs shook, she collapsed to the other side of you, chest heaving up and down, her eyes glancing to you who was looking at the ceiling in pure shock. she couldn’t help the way her lips curved completely upwards, the biggest shit eating grin on her face.

she had fucked the cheerleader.

main masterlist/ellie's masterlist

[themultifanshipper]

can you write something with driver!reader x max with 🔵?

You and Max had been hovering around each other for months. Making each other jealous to try and get the other to do something about it. It had turned into a sick little game of who would crack first.

Tonight you'd gone a step too far and gotten a bit too close with his friend.

Warnings: Ferrari!reader, jealousy, angry max, drinking, smut, choking, rough sex, crying, fingering, bickering, rivals to lovers, Lando as a plot device, cliches, I'm sorry this is probably not my best work but I put everything I had into this so enjoy :3

requested from my prompt list

The bass was pumping through the walls of the club where you had decided to celebrate your victory. P1 baby! And with Ferrari back on their A game, you and Charles both got a podium with Lando on the second step, while Max just went back to his driver's room seething with rage after a penalty left him p5.

It felt amazing to finally be on top and you dragged your best drinking buddy Lando to the club as soon as possible for a night of wild celebration and many, many drinks that people had bought you.

Lando knew the game you were trying to play with Max, you were just using him to make Max jealous, but he would be damned if he didn’t take full advantage of the opportunity.

And you certainly weren’t going to refuse the advances of Lando Norris, one of the sexiest men you’d ever laid eyes on.

That’s how you ended up with him gripping your hips as he moved them to the beat, one thigh slotted between yours as you ground against each other, losing yourself as his lips made their way across your jaw, to the junction between your neck and your ear, your eyes closing, body lost in the pleasurable sensation.

You two danced for so long that you’d almost forgotten your game, when the feeling of Lando’s heated skin was suddenly ripped away from your greedy hands.

Before your alcohol-addled brain could register what was happening you were being dragged out of the club and into the street.

You vaguely registered Max hailing a taxi and getting you back to the hotel.

He all but threw you into a room before locking the door behind him. You barely remember getting there, but you were in a hotel room that clearly wasn't your own, red bull branded clothes strewn all over the place.

“What the fuck was that?” he asked, shaking with barely contained anger.

“What?” You batted your eyelashes in faux-innocence “Am I not allowed to celebrate my hard earned win?”

“Not by crawling all over my friends like a slut”

“They're my friends too, Max, I can do what I want with them”

That seemed to make him hesitate, but his anger came back full force as soon as the image of Lando's greedy hands all over you flashed through his mind.

“Stop fucking around in front of me”

“And why should I do that, it's not like you have the balls to do anything, and I have needs, Max” You were getting bolder by the minute, partly because of the alcohol, but also because you were sick of the games.

“Like that fucking kid could ever satisfy you” he scoffed, you just smirked.

“Oh I don't know, he seemed pretty eager to please in the club, maybe I could go back and find out if it was just his phone I could feel in his pocket, it felt pretty satisfactory to me…”

“Stop fucking talking about Lando!” he growled and stepped closer to you unconsciously.

“Come over here and make me, coward”

That's what made him lose it. Max Verstappen was a lot of things, but he never ran away from what he wanted.

You ended up propped up against the wall, Max was knuckle deep inside you and you knew you weren’t going to last long. You didn’t know how it was possible for him to find the spot that made your knees buckle so fast, but he brought you to the edge of extasy in no time, only to stop just as you were about to reach the precipice.

You whined and clawed at his shoulders, but he just grabbed your wrists and held them above your head.

“Say you’re fucking mine. Say I’m the only one who’s allowed to have you like this…”

His lips trailed down your neck, nipping and sucking at the skin. You couldn’t help but run your mouth a little bit more though.

“I think the British driver that got p2 today would disagree with that sentiment- “

His hand came up to swiftly wrap around your neck and squeeze, cutting you off.

“Don’t talk about him when I’ve got you dripping down your thighs just from a couple of fingers” he growled, other hand going to undo his belt to push his jeans and underwear down, just enough to free his cock from the constraints of his maddeningly tight jeans.

He roughly dragged you to the bed, turning you around and pushing you down so hard you had to put your hands out to catch your fall.

“Going to make you take my cock and prove to you I’m the only one who can make you scream for me.”

You were certainly wet enough, and he didn’t give you any time to respond as he slid into you with unwavering strength.

Your arms gave out immediately and you fell face first into the sheets, struggling to breathe as he gripped your hips tight and immediately started a bruising pace with his hips.

Your whole body was on fire, not from any pain, but from the intensity of his cock pushing into your g-spot mercilessly, and you cried out as your orgasm crept up on you in record time.

He didn’t stop though, forcing you to endure his relentless pace and stamina and you quickly turned to mush, the pleasure coursing through you so intense that he had to hold you up by your hips.

He pulled out suddenly and the sudden emptiness sent your brain and body into a frenzy, babbling incoherent sounds that sounded like his name, and ‘please’.

Max turned you over onto your back and slid back into you, hooking your legs over his shoulders to deepen the angle, and to look at your face as he brought you the edge a second time.

You cried as the euphoria took over your body, his hands coming up to wipe the tears away from your cheeks and he came not long after, pumping you full and dropping his sweaty forehead onto yours.

Once you’d both come down from your highs, and you had regained the ability to speak, he looked into your eyes. All the anger from before had disappeared, and now he looked scared, terrified even. You just stared at each other, not knowing quite what to say after that.

After a while he finally plucked up the courage to ask “Can I kiss you? Please.”

You smiled and fresh tears (this time of joy) sprung to your eyes as your hands came up either side of his face.

“Yes, Max…” you whispered “kiss me, pl-”

Once again he cut you off, and his lips were softer than you ever could have imagined. It just felt right, the two of you, wrapped perfectly together like two pieces in a puzzle.

“I love you…” you murmured, breaking away for air.

It was his turn for tears to start forming as the relief washed over him that this wasn’t a one time thing, and that you truly felt the same way he did.

You both missed your alarms, and subsequent attempts by your teams to contact you, and therefore your flights.

“How the hell are we going to get back to Monaco, now?” he asked as you both sat in bed nursing hangovers.

“Well…” you said tentatively “I know someone who’s private jet is probably still here…”

He looked confused for a moment, then his eyes widened and he shrieked.

“Absolutely not! We are NOT flying with fucking Lando!”

Spoiler alert, you had no choice... This was going to be a long flight

[jishyucks]

⋆.˚ Twinkle, Twinkle ˚.⋆ — lmk (Teaser)

‣ pairing: mark lee x reader

‣  genre: fluff, friends-to-lovers

‣ current wc: 5.6k (so far), about 65% done, predicted 10k

‣ summary: The world is sick and tired of your and Mark’s inability to understand feelings. With a friendship that has lasted longer than you can count on your fingers and friends who can tell you’re both utterly in love with each other, the universe decides to make use of its different light forms to tip you both over the edge of friendship.

‣ warnings (so far): some cliches?, like one kms joke, mentions of alcohol, mentions of vomiting (cause of alcohol)

‣ an: this idea has been rotting in my drafts since like February and i finally got the motivation to write it yippeeee,,, tag list maybe? just ask!

Without light, it’d be awfully difficult to see (duh)

Mark’s bed was the 2nd most comfiest bed in the world, a close runner-up to your parents’.

His mother truly chose the perfect pillow for you to use, paired with a blanket that complimented it well. They both smelled like fresh laundry, an aroma you were familiar with because your best friend smelled exactly like this.

The clock on Mark’s nightstand reads 12:23 AM, moonlight pushing past his closed shutters to emit a bit of its light into his room. Its light does poorly, giving the glow-in-the-dark stars on Mark’s ceiling a chance to emerge through the darkness.

Your mind’s filled with thoughts of the conclusion of the movie you both had just watched—Tangled—and your younger self could not help but think…

“Mark?” you called out into the darkness, “Mark, are you awake?”

There’s shuffling in the space next to you and then you hear Mark hum, “I’m awake. Why?”

You hesitate to ask the question that’s been keeping your brain occupied ever since the credits started rolling. But knowing Mark, he wouldn’t take it the wrong way.

“Do you…”

You can barely see Mark’s head lift up to look at you in the darkness, bedhead creating a jagged outline.

“Do you think I’ll ever fall in love and get married like Rapunzel did in the movie?”

Your mind replays the clips of Rapunzel and Eugene underneath the lanterns, lights creating a scene you’ll never forget for the rest of your life.

Mark hums again, something that he did when he was deep in thought. Your question wasn’t too far-fetched. He’s overheard a lot of the other girls in his class talking about crushes they’ve had on other classmates or squealing over that one idol he couldn’t remember the name of. The only difference now was that these thoughts were coming out of you.

“Do you think you won’t?” Was Mark’s reply.

At the time, you really didn’t know what you were saying, barely having the knowledge to understand the deeper meaning of it all.

Love and marriage? You weren’t aware that you had skipped practically everything before that.

“I think so.”

Mark doesn’t reply for a long while, long enough to convince you that he had fallen asleep the second you answered his question. But when you feel the bed dip, you can make out that he is now sitting up and reaching for his lamp.

Click!

You let out a quiet hiss, squeezing your eyes shut because you’re suddenly blinded.

Mark snorts, “Sorry, I should’ve warned you.”

There’s movement on his end again, the blankets softly rustling. You’re not sure what Mark was trying to do, but once you finally open your eyes, the first thing you see in the lowly-lit room are his eyes shining back at you, mouth opened slightly because he was going to say something. He’s propped up on his elbows, crushing the barrier pillow between you both.

“Why’d you have to turn the light on?” You scoot yourself up to face your best friend.

Mark shrugs as chews on his bottom lip in search of words, “I just feel like it’ll mean more if you could see me saying it.”

“Saying what?”

“You’ll find your happily ever after,” Mark says seriously. You can tell just by the way he looked at you that he was serious. Not even a hint of kidding looming behind his pupils. You forget that Mark was such an optimist.

Your brows furrow, unsure whether or not you should take this boy seriously. “And how are you so sure about that?”

Mark’s eyes reflect the light coming from his lamp and he grins. It’s almost creepy the way he does, like he has something hidden up his sleeve.

“I just am.”

[esote-rika]

not a mask, but a reflection | Spencer Reid

Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!Waldorf!Reader Category: idk hurt/comfort?? flangst? something like that, I'm sorry I truly don't know how to categorize this Summary: The BAU ladies insist on a makeover for Spencer, so you decide to indulge them by promising to take him shopping. It doesn't go as either of you expected, but it allows a chance for the two of you to form a deeper bond. Content: reader’s outfit is described, reader is based on Blair Waldorf in background, and personality– so you're rich!! and fashionable!! And snarky, but in a ride or die sunshine x sunshine protector kind of way, early season 2 glasses!Spencer crushing on reader, implied autistic Spencer, brief mention of his bullying, lots of dialogue!!! especially about fashion advice (PSA to wear whatever you want!!) Word count: 2.8k A/N: I'm back on my Blair Waldorf-reader agenda. I'm mainly writing these because of my own crackship, but I tried very hard not to describe any specific appearance stuff for the reader (aside from what ur wearing) so it’s as immersive and universal as possible! Styling in film and TV fascinates me and I wanted to explore Spencer’s character through clothes. ALSO! I incorporate a Blair Waldorf quote into the conversation that goes “Fashion is the most powerful art there is. It’s movement, design, and architecture all in one. It shows the world who we are and who we’d like to be.” pls know I didn't come up with it, the Gossip Girl writers did. It's from S4E13 specifically.

Saturdays are usually meant for curling up on his couch to read his favorite books, or marathon obscure foreign films. Alone, always alone, Spencer Reid has grown used to the feeling; accepted it, enjoyed it, even. He wouldn’t have survived all these years if he didn't appreciate his own company, after all. 

However, today is different. He’s expecting company, which is unusual enough, but he’s expecting you of all people. And it’s for such a silly thing too— a makeover. Something straight out of a cliche high school movie. It had started at work, during a case, a passing comment made by one of the people being interviewed. Something about looking like he’s playing dress up, spoken so softly he’d been willing to pretend to ignore it. 

But you heard it, had snapped at the man in annoyance about respect and propriety. At the jet, you had snapped at him about wearing clothes that fit better, and of course Morgan and JJ had to get involved, and Garcia squealed about a makeover over the phone. He hadn’t expected you to accept; when you did, he considered several ways to get out of it: pretend to have a date (implausible), pretend to get sick, just don’t show up. But then you said you’ll meet him at his apartment and his world seemed to come crashing down.

“I need to see what I'm working with before I dive headfirst into this,” was your reply when he protested. It makes sense, of course, but he's not happy about accepting you into his space. It's curated for him and his comfort, and he dreads the idea of casting your shrewd, critical gaze over his design choices. If he's less of a coward, he would admit that a small part of him desires your approval. Craves it, needs it, so much it makes his skin crawl.

So that’s why his Saturday morning is spent cleaning; straightening books, hiding the case files strewn about. He doesn’t want to give you any ammunition to tease him with. Having to undergo a makeover is embarrassing enough.

It reeks of bleach when he opens the door for you. The wrinkle of your nose has no business being so cute when it's obviously done to express disgust.

“What is that smell?”

“Hello to you too,” he can't keep the sarcasm from his tone as he steps aside. 

You saunter in heels even though this is meant to be a casual get together. They click against his hardwood floors until you reach his rug, the thick fabric dulling out the noise. “Did you bleach your entire place?” 

His expression is sheepish as he closes the door, “I figured I'd clean.”

“You sure you're not hiding a murdered body in here?” you walk straight into the middle of his apartment and look around. He winces as he waits for your verdict.

“I’m not, I just - you’re so -”

“I’m so?”

“Particular.” I don’t want to disappoint you, but he clamps his mouth shut before the words escape. Having you come in for a makeover already isn’t doing anything for his confidence. In fact, it just confirms his suspicions. Something is wrong with him, despite all the attempts at propriety and flattery otherwise. The BAU sees it, you see it, and you’re here to fix it. He swallows the lump in his throat, and with it, his pride and the tiny hint of resentment. 

You are trying to help, he reminds himself. 

Maybe it’s his hopeless optimism, maybe it’s desperation to seem normal for once, but it’s enough to surrender to your knowledgeable hands. 

He lets his eyes take you in, allows himself a moment to linger on the details of your ensemble. The picture of coordination, as usual; shoes and bag the same shade of rich brown, the barrettes in your hair matching the pale blue trimming along the edges of the sundress you’re wearing. This is you dressed down, he knows, but somehow you manage to outdress him. 

“I’m not even going to ask what you mean by that,” your eyes roll, before landing to one of the doors in his apartment, “Where’s your bedroom?”

He sputters, “My - uh, why?”

“I’m assuming that’s where you keep your clothes?” You look at him like he’s dumb, and he turns bright pink. “I told you, I can’t take you shopping before I see what you already own.”

He can’t believe he fully didn’t realize it meant letting you into his bedroom. But then again, his brain has the tendency to turn to mush when he’s speaking with you. “Right,” he nods, scrambling to his bedroom. All of his anxieties about his living room and the overwhelming amount of books seem distant now; you hadn’t even commented on them. Instead, this new one arises, bubbles in his stomach. Showing you his bedroom is so much more intimate. The space he sleeps in, where he’s most vulnerable.

A space no other woman has ever even seen. 

He feels your presence behind him, smells the distinct loveliness of the perfume you like to call your signature scent. Of course you don’t ask for permission. He’s found quickly that you’re used to taking and having what you want, used to the world yielding to you instead of the other way around. 

Your heels make sharp taps against the floor. Combined with your perfume, it’s already obvious that you’re making your mark in his room, his haven. He imagines the fragrance will linger when you leave, and it makes his ears burn with a longing that knocks the wind from his chest. The door remains open, and he’s thankful that he isn’t completely caged in his bedroom with you. 

“Here’s my, uh, where I keep my clothes.” he hastily opens his closet, relief flooding his body as he sees it’s not that messy. Everything is ironed and pressed, although some of his sweaters are haphazardly piled together. He hopes he won’t have to show you the mess that is his sock drawer. 

You step up beside him, bare arm brushing against his. Brows furrowed in concentration as you rifle through his clothes. He steps back to give you more room to work with, although it’s more for his sake than yours. Your proximity is making him a little dizzy. He finds himself slumping on his bed, watching your movements. You’re approaching the task at hand with the same meticulous acuity as you would in a crime scene. Focused. Detail oriented, even when doing something so insignificant.

He’s not sure what to expect. He’s bought his clothes based on what he sees other men wear, relying on his observation skills, and the clothing guidelines given by HR to deduce what is considered appropriate. His father wore dress shirts a lot, back when his family was still intact. Hotch and Morgan wear suits, but those have always felt too formal to use on a daily basis. He opts for cardigans and sweater vests to keep him warm instead, because they’re softer, less restrictive. They remind him of Diana, the things she would wear back when she could still teach. He hopes you don’t make him get rid of them.

“You wear a lot of light browns,” your voice lifts him out of his anxious stupor, “You have to give that up.” 

He frowns in confusion, “What’s wrong with wearing light brown?”

“You’re too pale, they make you look even more sickly. But if you must wear brown, lean into this shade instead,” you hold up a dark brown blazer that he actually really likes. He smiles, happy that it got your seal of approval. You turn to him, eyes narrowed, “And your dress shirts are too big, look at where the shoulder seam falls.” 

He blinks in surprise as your hand comes to touch an inch past the edge of his shoulder, pinching the fabric, “It should be up here. You’re too slim for an oversized look, it just swamps your frame. If you’re going to be wearing them, they have to fit you better.” 

He nods, feeling a little out of his depth, “How do you know all of this?”

“Years of consuming Cosmopolitan and Vogue.” You turn back to the closet, he frowns slightly. The words mean nothing to him, and he flinches when he hears you sigh.

“Fashion magazines?” you prompt, glancing back over your shoulder.

“Ah,” He nods, lips pursed, “I can't say those are on my reading lists.”

“Obviously not, otherwise you'd know not to wear,” You gesture at his entire ensemble, nose wrinkling once again, “This.”

It doesn’t really occur to him what the problem is as he looks down at his checked button down. “It’s a nice shirt.” he says, although he can see your point now; it’s too big. 

“Reid, you look like you’re about to start proselytizing about our lord and saviour Jesus Christ.” you say, stepping away from his wardrobe and stopping in front of him. 

Your teasing makes his cheeks burn. Or maybe it’s your sudden closeness, your hands at his buttons, “Um, what–” he’s stiff, memories rushing of being held down, clothes forcibly ripped—

“Relax,” you step back after undoing the top button. The annoyed scoff surprisingly gives him some comfort, reminds him it’s you, he’s here with you, “There, that’s better. Don’t button it up all the way.”

“Why not?”

“I told you, it makes you look like you’re cosplaying a minister.” He shifts under your gaze, feeling exposed, even though he’s fully dressed. But that’s exactly what you’re judging, after all, his clothes. There’s nowhere to hide. “Why are you so tense, Reid? It’s not going to make you look like a fool, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

Why? Where does he even begin? The fact that he’s never had a woman in his room before, and it’s making him feel like he’s about to implode? His memories of being stripped naked for all the school to see, humiliated, fueling the irrational fear of letting go of his clothes, the things he’s comfortable wearing. And for what? In order to be fashionable? To seem normal, to be fixed? 

He settles for a half truth, the words mumbled and embarrassed, “I like my clothes.”

To his surprise, your eyes soften, “Okay. And?”

“I like how I dress.”

“You don’t want to change your style?”

He looks down and shakes his head, feeling a little silly. How can he explain it to someone like you, who probably would have been one of his tormentors when he was back in school? It’s sick, this desire to be close to you, to be accepted by you as though being in your orbit would lessen his eccentricity. He thought he’d left it behind in high school, had grown out of it, but it’s there, recognizable and refusing to let him rest. 

“You know you didn’t have to say yes to this,” the bed dips as you sit beside him, “It was a silly thing the girls and I thought would be fun, but if it’s making you uncomfortable, I’ll stop and we could just, I dunno, go for ice cream instead.”

“No, I - I do, I just… don’t want to change completely.” It's almost pathetic how something as simple as clothes is making him spiral, “I like how I dress, even if you guys make fun of it. It’s comfortable. I get really cold hands, and the sweaters help, and - and the satchel is convenient even if you say it clashes with my outfits or whatever.”

Your hand rests on his forearm, and his rambling halts immediately.

“Then I won’t stop you from wearing grandpa-chic,” the lightness in your voice makes him smile, “This is why I wanted to see what you had. I wasn’t about to start from scratch, and there’s obviously a reason you gravitated towards these pieces. I wouldn’t force you into something you hate, that sort of defeats my fashion philosophy.”

“Your fashion philosophy?” He's smiling now as he listens to you.

“I believe that the whole point of fashion and clothing is to help reflect what you are on the inside, not mask it.” You reply, hand finding his own. He allows it, finding something warm and soothing in the touch of your hand, silencing the usual urge to pull away in fear of germs. “And, anyway, I think your clothes make you look really intellectual, so if you like them, you have the pieces in your closet already, it’s just a matter of styling them better.” 

You squeeze his hand, but he could have sworn you did it to his actual heart. 

He watches as you return to his closet again, rummaging through the clothes. You hold up a white button down and a navy blue cardigan, head tilted to the side, teeth worrying the plushness of your lower lip, “Like this; this is a nice combination, and it’ll work better with your complexion. Try it on.” they’re tossed over to him, landing on his lap.

You’re turning away from him, still going through his clothes—allowing him privacy. He appreciates that. He scrambles out of his current clothes, his skin prickling as he thinks about the fact that he’s in a room with a woman alone, getting undressed. No. You’re a friend and a coworker doing him a favor, he should get his head out of the gutter. Hurriedly, he puts the suggested ensemble on.

“Uh, it’s — you can turn around.”

He holds his breath as your eyes rove over his figure, still with the same sharpness he’s used to, but blunted by the small smile playing across your lips. “Yeah, that’s better. Navy’s a great color for you.” you have a stack of his shirts in your hand, all of them patterned and printed, “I’m sorry, but these… have to go. Or at least don’t wear them to work. The prints are ugly, no offense.”

He chuckles, taking the shirts from you, “Not wearing ugly prints to work anymore, got it.”

“Yeah, keep the funky patterns on your ties.” you reach up, brushing lint and dust off the cardigan, “Your shirts should remain plain, solid colors; you have a lot of nice sweater vests and cardigans, it’ll be easier to match them together if your shirts are in more basic colors.” 

Committing your words to memory is easy enough. Rules. He likes rules, but they need to make sense to him, otherwise their arbitrariness will simply frustrate him. “Why?”

“Why what?”

So far, you’re being so receptive to his questions, it might actually make him cry. It’s a new feeling, being the one who’s floundering. Not being the smartest, most knowledgeable person. How exciting, he decides, getting to learn in an area he’s never been able to fully understand on his own. He clarifies, “Why can’t I match the cardigans and sweaters to, uh, colorful shirts?” 

It’s a while before you answer, moving around to wind a tie across his neck. Your words are thoughtful when you speak, “It’s a visual balance. Too many colors and patterns can look heavy and distracting— which is okay, you know, but time and place is always something to consider when you’re dressing up. And you’re going to work, so it’s better to err on the side of caution and wear things that are more… sleek.” Your hands are deft as they tighten the tie, tucking it into the cardigan. “So now that I know what sorts of clothes you like to wear, it’s a matter of finding the right color combinations and cuts that fit your body. Here, see for yourself.”

You push him forward until he’s in front of his mirror, and indeed he does look… better. Still himself, still familiar, but the contrast of the navy cardigan against his pale skin somehow brings out more warmth from his cheeks and makes his hair seem less dull. Visual balance, you said. “Like art,” he murmurs.

“Exactly,” your smile is proud, peeking from behind his shoulder, “Fashion is the most powerful art there is. It’s movement, design, and architecture all in one. It shows the world who we are and who we’d like to be… and this is showing the world that you’re one attractive nerd.”

He laughs at that. There’s a lightness in his chest as he realizes he doesn’t have to change everything. “I think I get it.” he replies, meeting your eyes in the mirror.

“Of course you do, you’re a genius.” A slap on the back, one filled with warm intimacy, “Now, I did promise the team a makeover, so now that I know what sort of stuff you need, we can finally go shopping… and we need to do something with your hair.”

“What’s wrong with my hair?” he asks, but he’s smiling and so are you.

THERE WILL BE A PART TWO! Also, tagging everyone who expressed interest in Waldorf!Reader @mggslover @libraprincessfairy @lillaberry @lokisswiftie