#T : strings and threads

[wikihowhowtoexist]

Art dump because I haven't posted in a while

[screampied]

☆ cw. fem! reader, college au, bimbo-y reader, dumbification, praise, nerd nanami's a secret freak, fīngering, mdni.

nerd! nanami who eats you out while wearing his glasses. you told him this ‘method’ was far more efficient . . and, he could teach you more about the anatomy of the clit better.. oh, and the fact at how you said you always were a visual learner. you were always grateful for his tutoring sessions sure, but you couldn’t help but stare at him. not just at his eyes, but his noticeable bulge too that would always outline beneath his slacks. and yet now, here you were—laid flat on his wooden old desk as he’s buried right between your pretty thighs. “hm,” he’d grumble, sliding a swollen fat thumb down your glossy clit. nanami hears your cute breaths grow shallow along with the clanking dangles of your earrings and he huffs. “princess, pay attention,” and his eyes flicker down at your sopping needy entrance. “she’s important.”

“o- okay,” you wheeze out a tiny breath, and your eyes focus primarily on the head that’s buried between your legs. nanami pushes back the clear lenses of his glasses before giving your sloppy cunt a single tender kiss. a sweetened gasp rips away from your parted lips as you stare at him, watching intently as he closes his eyes shut, gradually sliding his tongue from top to bottom. “fuuck, ‘ken.”

nanami whistles softly against your dribbling folds while you’re wetly glazing his peachy, pink lips with your slick. “ah, the clit is such a mystery,” he’d purr, positioning his glasses. you’d then roll your eyes once he starts rambling all sorts of anatomy facts while eating you out at the same time. nanami’s pearly cold lenses repeatedly rub up against your thighs as he swiftly flicks his tongue, using his flat vast thumb to smear shapes down your slit. “sooo many nerves inside this pretty thing. thousands ‘n thousands of nerve fibers,” and you moan, feeling him cup his pursed dripping lips around your clit. nanami feels you claw a hand through his blond scalp, digging through his thin blond tresses before he hums.

“but – let’s start with my personal favorite shall we, princess? the dorsal nerve..”

he found it cute how you were so whiny, struggling to hold still as your back brushes up against the dozens of incorrectly marked papers behind you. they were scattered everywhere on the desk, an entire pile—and nanami thinks you were just starting to answer things wrong purposely. “let’s see,” he softly coos, feverish breath colliding right against your eagerly twitching sex. you’ve got a good tugging grip on his hair, peering at how his flaxen blond strings entangle ‘n intertwine between your fingers. “she’s important why?”

a mewling sobbing moan was your answer as his glasses continued to glide and tickle against your skin. nanami raises a single brow, and as his chiseled chin’s just streaming down with shimmery sheeny slick, he tsks.

“u- uhh,” you whimper, tightening your grip against his silky threads of hair. truth be told, your mind was entirely empty. you weren’t thinking about anything except for that fact that his tongue was ferociously gliding up and down the streaming slope of your pretty pussy. it makes you gnaw on your lip, growing even more dumb all from the salaciously narrow strokes of his tongue. “because it stimulates t.. the clit?”

“no, dummy,” he whispers, and even his playful insults made your pussy throb. nanami felt the exact pulse trigger against the flatness of his tongue and you whimper. you could feel his coy grin twisting against his lips before he starts to slurp harder.

it’s loud . . and your eyes were already starting to roll back the second he eases a slender middle finger inside.

“the dorsal nerve helps innervate this spot,” and a treble squeak of a whine snatches out your throat once he teasingly nibbles against your clit. it feels good, and you could feel your body heat gradually heating up more and more. “wonder what goes on in that pretty head of yours,” and with another moan following out from your lips, he gives your wet entrance a soft direct spank. “nothin’. bet it’s just empty, right silly girl?”

“kentoooo, fuck—” you’d moan, maintaining a good grip on his hair. fuck, it was just the way you perfectly dragged out the two syllables of his name – and, oh was the prettiest melody he’s ever heard.

panting heavily, nanami starts to run the pointed tip of his tongue farther inside of your pussy. it’s like he’s a natural—and to be honest, you didn’t think he’d be the type to have such a skillful tongue. for the hours and hours he spends talking, but you were starting to connect the dots. maybe nerds could be just as filthy. . especially with their mouths. his tongue resumes to delve in and out rapidly, barely giving you any time to catch your irregular unsteady breaths. glancing down, you see him with fogged up glasses and a sleazy growing grin.

he’s smug.

your taste – it makes nanami salivate, and he’s even starting to drool past the corners of his lips. you had a treacly flavor to you, and it continues to please his tastebuds the more he swirls his tongue inside. he’s right between your thighs and it’s a pretty sight… you’re a pretty sight, and you can’t help but start to frantically grind your hips against his slack jaw. “forget the l- lesson. don’t stop.”

nanami gives the inner sweltering flaps of your cunt another loving kiss before warm fawn eyes fixate back toward you. “ohh, but princess,” and he could hear your soft gasps once he starts to massage his palm around your sopping heat. he’s maneuvering tender circles against your wet pussy before giving it a soft smack, hearing you whimper for more. you were soaked. . geysering pools of your slick coat his hand and it makes him hum in amusement. “if i do that, then you won’t learn anything,” and you could feel every sharp axon electrocute alongside each nerve of your body. your thighs were this close to snapping back shut, and he’s gotta pry them apart with two big hands. “wonder if my tongue’s jus’ makin’ you dumber,” and that’s riiight when nanami smears the bridge of nose against your cunt.

“nghh, kento,” your eyes widen, and each time his lips smack from pulling away to breathe—you could feel both of your ears ring. he’s filthy, and nanami was so hard that he even reached beneath the desk, slipping a hand inside of his unbuckled pants. you continued to drag your cunt against his face, covering the lower part of his dripping chin with every drop of your lewd polished essence before mewling. “fuck, fuuuuck, ‘m gonna cum.”

“the woman orgasm,” he whispers in husky awe, his tone as smooth as silky silk. nanami lowly grunts, wrapping a hand around his veiny base before giving it a few solid pumps. oh, you turned him on. it was so bad that he couldn’t help but imagine being inside of you. fucking you on his desk, pushing your head into your red-marked papers in hopes that that could feed you some sorts of knowledge – all while showering you with a plethora of compliments of course.

you were pretty, but between your legs you were even prettier. as nanami continues to prattle endlessly, talking your ear off about whatever, his glasses end up falling and you grab them.

sepia hooded eyes narrow at you before he scoffs, taking a second to spit on your weeping cunt. “tell me, sweet thing,” and you’re whimpering, the arch in your back growing as your lips part awkwardly. nanami’s still fisting his cock with a single hand, slowly twirling his tongue inside between your glistening folds before applying faster and faster pressure. it’s repetitive, and you clench down on your jaw the second you feel him pop in his lanky ring finger. “how many nerves does it take to orgasm? quickly.”

as your lashes continuously flutter – you let off a sweet whimper. “around e- eight thousand?”

“smart girl,” he coos, and you felt a stir of butterflies rummage through the lower pits of your stomach at the praise. nanami’s practically french kissing your cunt, using allllll types of tongue. effortlessly, he’s thrusting his tongue in and out, locating every pivotal part inside before he abruptly stops stroking himself. he groans, feeling a vein run down his shaft before he gives your cunt it’s final departing kiss. “c’monnn, let go for me. cum on my tongue, princess.”

as your lips cutely stretch out further, curling ‘n contorting into a shocked oval shape—you tightly grip onto his blonde strands. “fuuuuck,” was all you could reply with, and you could still hear nanami grumbling out nonsense under his breath. even a nerd with his mouth full.

sloppily, his tongue wanders everywhere, reaching near every crevice and swirls its way around your clit before dipping itself right back out. there was not a single thought programmed in your brain—except for the fact that if his tongue was like this, you only wondered what his dick felt like. the thought alone makes you let off a crooning whimper as a lightning wave of pulses throb between your jittery legs. you were so close that the taste of your inevitable orgasm was simply sweet.

it’s as sweet as vanilla frosted icing, and the second you started to uncurl your toes, you felt it.

a cute whimper ripples out of your hoarse vocal chords as you remain to cling onto his glasses. nanami subtlety squints up at you with the most cunt-drunken grin before he lies his tongue all the way flat. “mmph,” and with a sloppy squelching slosh, you hear a finger of his loudly ‘pop’ out of your soddened slit. nanami was moving his head back and forth, the fabric of his tie tickling against your skin whilst you’re coming undone. your harmonious-sounding orgasm lasts for a good nine seconds, echoing through the thin walls of his dorm before he sighs. nanami’s starting to see why you preferred this more than his lectures—

“thaaaat’s it,” he smears his sheeny-slick lips against the opening of your pussy. you’re drooling wet, jaw dropped with your eyes bulged out of their sockets as you realized you came on his tongue.

nanami’s tongue completely wiped out any sorts of review that was supposed to be jotted inside your brain. instead – you’re just dumbfounded with cartoony heart eyes forming in your dilated pupils the more you stare at him. you wanted more, you wanted him. nanami gently caresses down your tender pulsating entrance before giving it a soft pat. it’s a pat that then turns into a sloppy ‘mwah’ with his lips, and it makes your heart race. with droopy eyes, you watch as he runs a hand through his neatly parted hair. unkempt, but still handsome.

“silly girl,” he scoffs to himself with a scolding head shake, and within seconds later he leans in, giving you a chaste kiss. you moan, wrapping your arms around him. nanami grunts, swiping his tongue around the sugary sweet lip gloss that glues against your lips before he slowly spins you around.

“is this part of the lesson too?” you sheepishly hum, still feeling hot ‘n heavy from his lips being on yours just a moment ago. with a tiny gasp, you feel nanami gingerly press up against you, gently grabbing your waist. you ached for more, and you didn’t care about the private session anymore.

“partially,” nanami rasps, and you feel him lean further in, resting his chin against your shoulder. nanami stares at your body and he puts his glasses back on before sighing. with a hand gently pushing you forward – making you arch fully, the blonde grunts. “we forgot the other important part of the lesson though, ‘m afraid.”

with a cutesy shake of your ass against his grey crooked slacks that barely clung onto his hips, you bite the inside of your cheek. you feel something brick hard behind you that doesn’t exactly feel like a book. “a- and what’s that, ‘ken?”

nanami slowly licks the left side of your neck and you moan once he lifts up your leg, bringing his lips up to your ear. “penetration, princess.”

second lesson?

[kissandtellus]

‘Schlick, Schlick, Hooray!’ : LADS Omegaverse, Heat Version

Synopsis: The ‘Heat’ version of ‘Into the Slick of It’! Your Heat has begun and without the help of Suppressants, only your Alpha can soothe this fire.

Warnings: Omegaverse, Knotting, Oral (m&f), Talks of Pups/Eggs, use of ‘Gege’, Caleb likes seeing you cry, Scenting, Marking, it’s another dirty one.

⋆˚🐾˖° Xavier

Xavier tried his best to keep you at an arms length as he tried to nurse you through your Heat. He had came knocking the moment the alarm on his phone went off, signaling your impending Heat.

The Hunters Association had cut back on Suppressants for Omegas, something for ‘budget cuts’.

The state he found you in could only be described as a fucking wreck. The sweat had already kicked in. You were wearing one of his t-shirts with nothing underneath.

When you opened the door, his eyes immediately went to the slick staining your inner thighs.

“Shit-“

“Help me.” Your whimper broke him. Forgotten, was the fruit basket in his hands. He backed you into your own apartment.

Your hands were immediately trying to tear at his sweatshirt. The feeling of his abs under your fingertips made you want to be under the flesh in more ways than one.

Clothing was torn left and right. The race to the bedroom was filled with you clinging to Xavier, one of his hands cupping your ass to lift you up. Your legs immediately wrapped around his waist.

“Xavier, need you inside. Need you filling me up. My Prince-My Love-“ You dry humped against the tent in his pants. His normally stoic facade cracked at the seams.

Your back hits the comforter and you can’t get your hands on him fast enough. His fingers thread to your hair.

“Starshine, you don’t need to-“

“Shut up.” It was the only thing you say before you pulls down his pants and underwear, stuffing the head of his cock snugly in your mouth. You ignore the burn in your throat as you take him inch by inch.

“S-Shit-“ he stumbled over his words. You look up at him through damp lashes when your lips finally meet the base. Your drooling, moaning around his delicious length like it was the last thing you’d ever taste. Your wandering hands cant sit still for long. “Dirty girl, are you touching yourself?”

Xavier knew the answer. Even before the scent of your arousal hit his nose, or the sound of your fingers sliding through your slick folds reached his ears. His hips snap in a rolling motion, cooing down at you as you make a mess of yourself.

“Such a filthy Omega. What would you do without me, hm? Waste that perfectly good slick on your own fingers?” His voice was always so sweet. But when those filthy words fell from his mouth, you can only moan around his length.

His pretty cockhead bullied the back of your throat over and over again. Your tongue flattened to the underside, a mixture of gags and wet noises filling the bedroom. Xavier used your hair as leverage as he chased his own release.

“Yeah? Yeah, my Pretty Girl. Gonna choke on my cum, hm?” His own sense were overwhelmed by your pheromones. His Alpha instincts screamed at him to take you, to dominate you, to make you his all over again.

He barely pulled his throbbing length out just in time for his thick, hot ropes of seed to coat your face. “Aht! Mouth open-that’s it. Good Girl.”

The final few strings coated your eager tongue. His long fingers pressed on your tongue to smear his cum around your tastebuds.

“We’re not done yet. Ass up.”

⋆˚🐾˖° Rafayel

You didn’t mean to walk so far in the midst of your Heat. It had hit you right after your final mission against a tough Wanderer. You thought you could make it to Rafayel’s before it sat in fully.

But when you showed up to his Studio, reeking of your Heat, he was already waiting with the door wide open. He met you at the doorway and pulled you in before you could even explain yourself.

Without a second thought, Rafayel moves swiftly across the studio, his long legs eating up the distance between you. He wraps his strong arms around your waist and lifts you up, carrying you to the makeshift nest he’s created for you without breaking eye contact. His hands tremble with need as he begins to undress you.

His heart aches at the sight of you, so deep in Heat that you're already apologizing. He gently lays you down on the bed, his hands caressing your face tenderly. “Shh, it's not your fault, my love. You didn't do anything wrong."

Rafayel quickly removes his own clothes, his eyes never leaving yours. He can smell your need, thick and heavy in the air. He climbs onto the bed, settling between your legs. His hands roam over your body, soothing and comforting as he tries to calm your racing heart.

You are rubbing your face in the crook of his neck, marking him with your own scent. “Missed you. Need you so much.”

His breath catches at your words, one hand tangling in your hair while the other trails down your side. "Missed you more than anything, Cutie. Gods, that scent..." He nuzzles against your neck, marking you back with his own smell. “How long has this been building?"

Before you can even answer him, his nimble fingers push between your legs to feel just how soaked in Slick you are. That cocky smile of his returns

He chuckles softly, pressing a kiss to your lips before trailing down your neck. “Looks like someone's been a very good girl, all hot and bothered for her Alpha." His fingers circle your entrance, teasing you with gentle pressure. “Soaked and ready, just for me."

"Your poor little body, aching like this..." He adds another finger, starting a slow rhythm as he speaks. “Did you try to take care of yourself before coming here?" He already knows the answer - the raw need in your scent tells him everything. “You didn't, did you?"

“Came straight from work. I-I couldn’t. You know I can’t do it myself.” Your nails dig into his shoulders, a needy whine tearing from your throat.

His eyes flash with primal desire at your words and the way you cling to him. “That's my girl..." He removes his fingers, replacing them with the tip of his cock. He teases your entrance slowly, letting you feel every inch. "Only I can give you what you need."

"Please..." You beg, your hips bucking up to try and force him inside. Your face is flushed, hair a mess from your frantic markings. “Need you inside me, need your knot!“ You sob the last part, the desperation clear in your voice.

Rafayel chuckles at your need. He reaches over to the bedside table where a messy paint pallet rests. He grabs the clean paintbrush right as he starts to fill you with his cock. “You stretch so beautifully around me.”

He praises. He lowers the paintbrush to tease around your nipples, watching them pebble under his administration. You cry out and try to jerk away your chest but he silenced you with a punishing thrust. “Ohhh, easy Cutie. Feels so nice when you gush around me like this.”

You nearly lost your fucking mind when the bristles touched your clit.

⋆˚🐾˖° Zayne

Zayne had thrown out your Suppressants. He’d personal ensure the physician who prescribed them to you at such a young age would never practice in medicine again.

You had stumbled into his office. He wasn’t even sure how you had made it here in one piece by the way you smelled alone. You barely had both feet in the door before he rushed to lock the door to his office.

His fingers were peeling open your eye, shining the pen-light into your pupil. You were pleading as he examined your Heat-stricken symptoms. “Z-Zayne I need them. Just one. Please!” Your pleads fall on deaf ears.

“Absolutely not. Those placebos only mask the issues, they do not solve it.” Zayne removes his glasses just as you launch yourself at the Doctor.

“Need your cock, Dr Zayne. No, need your knot.” You plead on a broken whimper. Zayne tries to just talk to you as a physician, and not an Alpha. But how could he ignore those pretty pleas. You were practically humping his dress pants, clinging to his lab coat.

“This is what you needed right?” His voice is almost mocking when he has you laid out on the examination table, knuckles deep in your squelching cunt. The latex from his gloves are too slick, not enough pressure. You try to squirm under his touch, you need more.

“No Darling,” he pins you down with a strong hand on your stomach, pinning you back. “Preparation is key. I’d like to avoid tearing you.” His fingers move faster, clipping that spot inside that makes those white stars flash behind your eyelids.

“Or maybe-“ he purrs, rubbing your stomach as though he’s petting an affectionate cat. “Being torn apart is what you need.”

Those words have you spasming under his touch, soaking the thin paper sheet on the examination bed. You Heat is blossoming in your belly and as soon as one orgasm leaves you, you crave to be filled yet again. You grasp at the edge of his lab coat sleeve which is now wearing evidence of your Slick.

“Inside-oh Please!”

“Patience.” His fingers quickly pull his throbbing length from it confines, pants barely shimmied down his hips. His cock is furious, the tip nearly purple with need, leaking already. It’s teasing your dripping folds and you gasp, afraid you might come undone right then and there.

When the bulbous head presses forward you tear at the thin bed cover, back arching. Zayne hushes your cries, hand over your mouth. His knee lifts to the edge of the bed for the right angle and-

You cry out loud behind his hand as he enters you in a single thrust. The burn is so delicious, so welcome, but your breath leaves your lungs at the pure size of him. “Shh, shhh…just take it. I took all that time stretching you. Open up for me. Good girl.”

The rickety bed is on its last legs as Zayne is letting you anywhere but go. His glasses have slipped down his nose while he growls and slobbers against your scent gland.

“You are making a mess all over my office.” His chuckle is nearly a put when he pulls your hair away from the crook of your neck. “If I ever catch you taking those suppressants again, I’ll keep you locked away and force you to ride out your Heat on your own. Understand?”

Oh you understood alright.

Understood enough to cream on his cock again.

⋆˚🐾˖° Caleb

If you thought Caleb was going to leave you alone through your Heat, you were sorely mistaken.

He made a makeshift nest for you right in his apartment. He even took a few days off work to ensure his Pretty Omega was taken care of.

He dropped off everything you needed at the door.

The first two days were fine, besides the sweet smell of your pheromones leaking through the door. But on the third day, it was like fighting off a caged tiger.

“No Pipsqueak, c’mon let’s get you back in bed.” He had tried to pry you off of him. You promised him you only need to come out to use the bathroom.

But here you were stripped down to nothing, arms wrapped around him while your Slick coated the living room carpet.

“If you make me go back in there I’ll die.” You sobbed out, big crocodile tears spilling over your flushed cheeks. “You can take care of me like you used to when we lived at Gran’s. I’ll even be quiet like I used to be. Won’t make a noise when I take your-“

“Enough.” That voice was something he used for his soldiers, not his darling Pips. So when he snapped and those tears started to spill faster, his strength dissolved. “Hey no, none of that.”

He hated seeing you cry.

Well.

Except in this current moment.

Your knees were pressed to your chest, it had been so long since he’d been inside of you. Each time felt like you were back in your Senior year of high school when he took your virginity.

You were crying.

You weren’t sure if they were tears of pain from the stretch, or from finally getting a knot to stuff your hole.

“I’ll be good, so good! Feel so good inside! F-Fuck Caleb-“

“Pretty Omega’s don’t cuss at their Alpha’s Pipsqueak.” His dog tags bump your chin as he begins stuffing you full of his cock.

He leans down and laps at your tears, letting the salty taste linger for a moment.

His strong hands push the back of your legs up until you are nearly bent in half. He watches his cock slide in and out of your sopping hole like it has him mesmerized.

“You wanted to cry so bad Pips. Cry for Gege, cry for your Alpha.”

His thrust is so punishing it feels like he may be a ‘Gege’ shaped hole in your guts by the time he’s done. But it’s exactly what you need. You need him to drill every thought out of your pretty head.

“That’s right Princess, oh I know, I’m so mean,” he fakes a pout as another one of his thrust send you spiraling “Tell me how mean Gege is.”

⋆˚🐾˖° Sylus

Contrary to belief, Sylus is far from a forgetful Alpha. He has the days of your Heat marked down on every calendar available. He has you in the best nest money could buy. No price is too high for his little Omega.

He’s sprawled out in his desk chair as he types away at his laptop. He can smell you before he sees you. You are clutching one of his shirts to your chest so tightly it might mold with your skin.

“Kitten, you should be in bed.”

“It started.”

“I know, Sweetie.” He pushes his chair back from the desk and opens his arms. He knew your Heat can be a frightful experience. Especially after taking Suppressants for so long. But he’d convinced you to stop taking them, that they were damaging to your body.

You crawl into his lap and he purrs, his own scent calming you just a little. “Where does it hurt Sweetie?”

He knows exactly where it aches. But he wants your permission of course. You grab his hand, guiding it down the expanse of your stomach and into the soaked panties you were wearing. “H-here.”

“Oh Kitten,” his finger squelch through your Slick and you squeak and cling to his arm. “Shh, it’s alright. Your Alpha will take care of you. Just relax.”

The nest he had spent so much time maintaining was in disarray. His tongue and fingers draw out a third orgasm and you feel like you might explode. “S-Sy! No more, no more, I need your knot!”

Sylus pulls his lips from your throbbing clit as he licks his lips. Your juices coat everywhere from his nose to his lips. He chuckles as he withdraws his fingers and slick gushes onto the sheets. “Do you know what you’re asking for?”

You let out a whine that says ‘if you don’t fuck me, I’ll lose my mind’

The first thrust is the hardest. His cock almost bends as he tries to fit it inside of your sopping hole. “Relax Kitten.”

“I-I can’t!”

“You can, yes you can. Oh, there we go. Good girl, I’m inside. Can you feel it?”

Oh God you can feel it.

You can feel how he’s taking up every piece of your guts, belly, fuck it’s almost like you can feel it in your chest.

“Oh, easy now Sweetie. You don’t want to inflate my ego. My Knot is doing enough inflating for the both of us.”

Sylus lathers your face and throat with his tongue and fangs. He wants to be like this forever, he never wants to let you go again. Your souls and bodies are intertwined in a dance that is millions of years old.

“I’m never letting you go again. So take this fuckin’ Knot and be mine again.”

[leyiorr]

i can't stop looking at her t-t-t-t, FACE!

mdni.

satoru gojo is doomed.

why is he doomed, you ask? well, put bluntly, you, his girlfriend of five months, are driving him absolutely crazy.

crazy is an understatement, actually. insane, mad, mental, unhinged, deranged, bonkers - whatever you want to call it. he's holding on by a thread; the thinly woven string known as sanity growing ever weaker as the days roll by and turn into weeks.

of course, he's only blaming you. you hadn't actually done anything wrong.

you're the first relationship satoru's had in his life, and he'd be damned if some inappropriate thoughts ruin his chances with the love of his life. he'd never been happier - dating you gave him the kind of happiness he thought only existed in movies; the kind of giddiness of a child in a candy store.

he was devoted to you in every way, shape and form - you are everything he's dreamed of and more.

more.

that's right, you were more.

recently, you were the devil's temptation personified.

surprisingly, even after twenty-odd years of being one of the most attractive guys around, and having women throw themselves at him like he's some kind of greek deity, satoru is a virgin. i'll repeat that, he is a virgin. a fact that only suguru knows. a fact that he's neglected to tell his girlfriend.

he may have a flirtatious personality and the ability to charm ninety percent of the human race with one of his thousand-kilowatt smiles, but in truth, he had never dated anyone. ever. let alone got his dick in a pussy.

so when he starts wanting to go further, he's not sure how to bring it up without sounding like a horndog.

it all started when you wore a sleek black dress to one of your dates. it clung to your figure, fabric wrapping shamelessly around your every curve and tickling your midthigh at its end. and if that wasn't bad enough, it had a plunging neckline, giving the world - satoru specifically - an eyeful of the assets god gifted you with. your boobs were practically spilling out of your dress, the light catching your cleavage as you held his arm. he could feel himself salivating like some sort of perv. how was he supposed to focus with aphrodite's personal creation hanging off his arm?

his eyes began to drift to the flesh of your chest more than he'd like to admit. all sorts of r-rated scenarios ran through his head and he dared to entertain every. single. one. he could do so much with them, tease them, spit on them, pinch them, suck on them, put his dick between them-

“satoru?”

his gaze snaps back to your face at record speed. you notice how he's chewing his bottom lip, flush creeping onto his cheekbones and the tips of his ears. his hands are clammy; there's suddenly too little oxygen in his room.

“did you listen to anything i said?” your arms fold beneath your bosom and satoru almost implodes.

what do you expect him to do? the necklace around your neck has his initial on it, and it hovers over your tits almost mockingly. if it snapped, the letter would fall right between the valley of your breasts-

“satoru!”

he's choking on his saliva, apologizing profusely as he encourages you to continue your story - though he hasn't heard shit over the blood pumping loudly in his ears.

it's a battle no, a war between his rationality and his desires and he doesn't know which is winning. his rationality wins when he's around you - he just sucks in a breath and thugs it out, no matter how much his dick shouts at him. but in private, he's letting the desires win as his fists himself to the thought of you, your lips, your ass; your boobs.

the first time he sees you in a bikini he has to take a breather before he can get into a game of beach volleyball with you and the group.

(and even then he was struggling. every time you jumped for the ball the only thing he was looking at was your tits.)

he should be neutered. effective immediately.

it drags out for so long that you finally notice, and force him to talk to you about why he's avoiding you, and if you'd done anything wrong. but all you get is:

“baby, i'm so sorry- you're so pretty and i can't help myself. i didn't know how to bring up that i wanted to take our relationship to the next step, you mean the world to me and i'd hate to make you uncomfortable-” he trips and stumbles over his words-

“...is that it?”

and his eyes bug out of his head as he stares at you. weeks, months of agony over this and all you have to say is 'is that it'?

he doesn't even have chance to respond; to process your words before you're popping the top button of your blouse.

yeah, satoru gojo is doomed.

[sixeyesonathiel]

no one else needed to notice

pairing — g. satoru x gn reader

synopsis : you weren’t looking for connection when you replied to a quiet post on a jujutsu forum. but what starts as late-night messages with a stranger turns into something warmer, steadier, and unexpectedly real.

sometimes, the person who sees you best is the one you’ve never even seen. until now.

tags –> one shot, 6.4k wc, non-canon compliant au, internet strangers to lovers, emotional intimacy, mutual comfort, secret voice calls, found each other online, reader is from kyoto, soft gojo satoru, extremely mild angst with a happy ending, first kisses, lighthearted moments, a little rain, stupid jokes and late-night feelings, love is about compromise, rip to gakuganji’s office chair. inspired by the song ‘no one noticed’ by the marias.

a/n : writing this made me bawl, to be loved is to be known. there’s just something about being understood by a stranger and finding solace in each other that gets to me. being known & being loved without being seen in a literal sense? sign me up :P i wanna sob because my pookie bear deserved better aaaaa

red string of fate collection m.list

you didn’t mean to answer the thread.

you never do, usually. the forum’s a chaotic sprawl, a digital graveyard of encrypted usernames—like “void_eater69” or “cursed_snacc”—and timestamps mangled by timezones no one bothers to sync. posts pile up like offerings to some forgotten curse: cryptic rants about residual energy, half-baked spell theories, or someone whining about a shikigami that won’t behave. it’s not a place for real talk. more like a dive bar at the edge of a cursed womb, where everyone’s nursing their own ghosts and shouting into the void.

but that night, your room was too quiet. the kind of quiet that creeps under your skin, heavy as a grade-two’s miasma. kyoto’s winter had settled in, and your tiny apartment felt like a box of stale air, the radiator hissing like it was mocking you. your phone glowed on the tatami, a stubborn rectangle of light that wouldn’t let you sleep. your brain was a traitor, replaying the day’s monotony: a sparring session where you’d nearly twisted your ankle, a debrief that dragged until your eyes glazed, the faint smear of cursed blood you’d scrubbed from your sleeve hours ago.

you scrolled the forum to shut it up. past a thread arguing if reversed cursed technique could fix a hangover. past some guy asking if spirits could get drunk—seriously, dude?—and then you saw it. buried under the noise, posted hours ago, short and raw, no punctuation, no pretense:

“does it ever get easier”

you stared at it, your thumb hovering over the screen. the words sat there, small and unadorned, like a stone someone had left on a path. most posts like that were traps—bait for trolls or vents that fizzled into nothing. but this one felt… different. quiet, like a whisper you weren’t meant to hear. genuine, like it had slipped out before the poster could rethink it.

you broke your own rule. typed back without letting yourself second-guess: “define easier. like, emotionally? logistically? existentially?”

he replied in under a minute.

“yes”

and just like that, you were in it.

at first, it was anonymous, the way the forum always is. two sorcerers dodging missions and boredom, tossing words into the dark like talismans. you didn’t know his name, and he didn’t ask yours. just screen names—yours a string of numbers and a bad pun, his something absurd involving mochi and a curse word. you talked about things you’d never say out loud, not to the kyoto higher-ups or the first-years who looked at you like you had all the answers. like how a room full of people could still make you feel like a ghost, drifting just outside their orbit. or how debriefs left a sour taste in your mouth, like you’d bitten into something rotten—guilt, maybe, or just the weight of it all.

he was… unexpected. not funny in a cheap, knock-knock way, but ridiculous, like he’d turned life into a stage and forgotten the script. his jokes were elaborate, stupid, sprawling things, like he was performing for a crowd that didn’t exist. one night, he typed: “i think the veil’s thinning. saw a tanuki trying to do taxes with a stolen abacus.”

you snorted into your pillow, the sound loud in your empty room. “should’ve let it,” you wrote back, fingers flying across the screen. “might’ve gotten a better refund than me. my last one barely covered a coffee.”

he sent a laughing emoji—unironically, the dork—and you could almost hear him cackling somewhere far away. it made you grin, your face half-buried in a blanket that smelled faintly of incense and yesterday’s takeout.

the chats kept going, stretching across weeks. you’d be slumped on your couch, boots still muddy from a mission, when your phone buzzed with his latest nonsense. “ever wonder if curses dream?” he’d ask, and you’d fire back, “only if they’re dreaming of paperwork. that’s the real nightmare.” he’d reply with a string of sobbing emojis, and you’d roll your eyes, but you’d keep typing, because somehow, it felt like he got it.

then came the voice calls.

always at night, when kyoto’s streets went still and the stars pressed against your window like they had something to prove. he’d call from somewhere else—somewhere alive with sound. sometimes it was traffic, a distant honk cutting through his laugh. sometimes it was the ocean, waves hissing like they were gossiping with him. once, a vending machine jingled, coins clinking as he muttered, “what do you want? melon soda? or that sweet corn one that tastes like regret?”

you laughed, your voice muffled by the scarf you hadn’t bothered to unwind from your neck. “melon,” you said, curling your knees to your chest on the couch. “corn’s for masochists.”

“noted,” he said, and you heard the machine whir, then a can crack open. “one melon soda for the meanest sorcerer i know.”

“flatterer,” you deadpanned, but your lips twitched, and you tucked the phone closer to your ear, like his voice could fill the cold corners of your apartment.

you never asked where he was. he never asked your name. it was a rule you didn’t need to speak—just a line neither of you crossed, because crossing it might break whatever this was. but he was your favorite stranger, the one who made the nights less heavy, the one whose voice felt like a tether when everything else was slipping.

the thing was, you weren’t miserable.

not exactly.

just tired, the kind of tired that sleep doesn’t touch, like a curse that’s sunk its claws too deep. your life at the kyoto branch was a loop: wake to the chime of your battered alarm clock, spar until your muscles burned, assist on missions that left your hands smelling of ash and ozone, report to gakuganji in a room that always felt too small. sometimes you mopped blood from training mats, the sponge heavy in your grip. sometimes you taught theory to first-years, their eyes glazed as you droned about residuals, your voice echoing off chalk-dusted walls.

sometimes you lay on your futon, staring at the ceiling’s chipped paint, wondering if you used to feel bigger than this—brighter, like the sky before a storm.

he changed that.

not in a loud way, not at first. it was softer, quieter, like the sound of his breath hitching when you said something sharp. like finding a rhythm with someone, even if your steps didn’t quite match. he’d ask you things no one else did, questions that felt like they were peeling back your edges.

“what color’s the sky in kyoto tonight?” he’d say, and you’d lean against your window, phone cradled against your shoulder, and answer, “pink, like someone spilled their drink on it.” he’d laugh, and you’d feel it in your ribs, a small, stubborn warmth.

“do curses feel pain?” he asked once, his voice muffled, like he was chewing something—probably mochi, knowing him.

you hummed, picking at a loose thread on your sleeve. “maybe. depends if they’re sentient enough to know they’re hurting. what do you think?”

“dunno,” he said, and you heard a rustle, like he was flopping onto a bed somewhere. “but i hope they don’t. makes it easier to sleep after.”

you didn’t reply right away, just listened to him breathe, steady and slow. “you’re softer than you act,” you said finally, and he made a noise—half scoff, half laugh—that made you smile into the dark.

he loved dumb questions, too. “is it immoral to laugh when a cursed spirit looks like a balloon animal?” he asked one night, and you could hear the grin in his voice, like he was picturing it.

you were sprawled on your floor, a half-eaten onigiri beside you, and you snorted so hard you nearly choked. “only if it’s a good balloon animal,” you said. “like, if it’s trying to be a dog, you gotta respect the effort.”

“fair,” he said, and you heard a clink—probably another soda can. “you’re funnier than you think, y’know.”

“and you’re weirder than you sound,” you shot back, but your cheeks were warm, and you pulled your knees up, hugging them like you could trap the feeling.

the best moments, though, were when he dropped the act. when the theatrics fell away, and his voice went low, soft, like he was afraid the words might break if he pushed too hard. one night, after a call that had stretched past midnight, he said, “sometimes… i think i only exist when i’m useful to someone. is that stupid?”

you were half-asleep, your phone slipping against your cheek, but his voice pulled you back. you blinked at the ceiling, the shadows pooling like spilled ink. “no,” you said, quiet but firm. “it’s just sad.”

he laughed—not the emoji kind, not the loud kind, but something small, like he was letting out a breath he’d been holding. “you don’t pull punches, huh?”

“you’d hate it if i did,” you said, and you heard him shift, like he was nodding to himself.

“yeah,” he murmured. “i would.”

it went on like that for months, long enough that you started noticing things. the way he yawned before he said goodnight, a sleepy hum that made your chest ache. the pauses in his sentences when he was choosing his words, like he wanted to get it right for you. the way his voice warmed when you rambled about something small—like the stray cat outside your building that kept stealing your bento scraps, or the time you’d botched a talisman and spent an hour scrubbing ink from your hands.

he’d listen, really listen, he always does and then say something like, “bet that cat’s got better taste than gakuganji,” and you’d laugh until your sides hurt.

you didn’t ask who he was. he didn’t push for your name. it was perfect, fragile, like a bubble you were both afraid to pop.

until one night, your phone buzzed, and it wasn’t the usual late-hour joke or random question. it was a call, his name—or rather, the string of nonsense characters he used—lighting up your screen. you hesitated, thumb grazing the accept button, then pressed it, curling into your futon as the kyoto cold gnawed at the window.

“hey,” he said, his voice softer than usual, like he was speaking through a held breath. there was no hum of traffic tonight, no vending machine jingle—just a faint rustle, maybe his sleeve brushing the phone, and a stillness that made your pulse loud in your ears.

you didn’t answer right away, just listened to him breathe, steady but careful, like he was standing on the edge of something. your apartment felt smaller, the night pressing against the glass, cold and heavy, like it was waiting for you to move first.

“can I…” he started, then paused, a hitch in his voice you hadn’t heard before. “can I visit you?”

you froze, fingers tightening around the phone until it dug into your palm. the words landed like a stone dropped into still water, rippling through the quiet. your eyes flicked to the window, where the dark seemed to lean closer, listening. your heart did something stupid, tripping over itself, and you bit your lip, hard enough to sting.

“like… here?” you said finally, voice low, almost lost in the radiator’s hiss. “in kyoto?”

“yeah,” he said, and it was quiet but firm, like he’d been turning the idea over for hours before daring to say it. “i’m nearby. for a mission. thought… maybe. if it’s okay with you.”

you swallowed, your free hand fidgeting with the blanket’s edge, twisting it until the fabric bunched. you didn’t know what he looked like. he didn’t know your face. but the thought of him—your stranger, your tether—standing in your city, his voice no longer trapped in static… it made your chest ache, like a curse unraveling too fast to catch.

“we don’t even know what we look like,” you said, softer now, half a shield, half a truth, your breath catching as you spoke.

he was quiet for a moment, and you heard a faint shift, like he was leaning closer to the phone, shutting out the world. “i know,” he said, voice low, steady, like a vow he hadn’t meant to make. “but I think I’d recognize you anyway.”

your lips parted, but no sound came out. your heart stumbled again, and you pressed your knees to your chest, the blanket slipping to the floor. you wanted to deflect, to toss back something sharp, but his words sat there, heavy and warm, like they’d carved out a space you didn’t know you’d left empty.

“you’re weird,” you managed, but it came out too soft, too honest, and you winced, tucking your chin to hide the smile you couldn’t stop.

he exhaled, a sound that was half-laugh, half-relief, like he’d been holding it in all night. “you’re mean,” he said, and you could hear the curve of his mouth, faint but real, unguarded in a way that made your ribs tighten.

“you like it,” you said, voice barely above a whisper, and your fingers hovered over the phone’s edge, like you could reach through it if you tried.

he didn’t answer right away. just breathed, slow and close, and when he spoke, it was so quiet it felt like a secret. “yeah,” he said. “i do.”

the call didn’t end, not yet. you stayed there, listening to the silence stretch, his breath a steady rhythm against the night’s weight. and that ache in your chest grew, sharp and warm, like it was making room for something you weren’t ready to name.

that morning, when he texted for the address, you gave him the name of a small café tucked just off the main street near kyoto campus—nothing fancy, barely even marked, just a warm pocket of space where time slowed down and no one asked too many questions. not because you were scared. not exactly. but the idea of him—this faceless voice, this stranger you somehow knew better than people you’d seen every day—being in your space, standing in your doorway, seeing your real life... it made something flutter behind your ribs. something you couldn’t name without sounding stupid.

it rained that day. not hard. just the kind of persistent drizzle that painted everything in shades of grey, slicked the pavement until it gleamed like wet ink, and made your sleeves cling to your wrists. your shoes scuffed softly against the tile as you pushed open the café door. inside, the air was warm, thick with the smell of coffee beans and something sweet rising from the back oven.

a couple of students in uniforms sat by the counter, arguing in low tones about spell theory. the barista barely looked up as you ordered your usual, fingers drumming a quiet rhythm against the side of your phone. you picked the window seat. always the window seat. you liked watching people go by, liked the illusion of being somewhere else.

time passed.

you checked your phone once. then again. your fingers curled around your cup, heat seeping into your palms. condensation fogged the glass. you were early. or maybe he was late. or maybe the whole thing was a joke you’d fallen for, like a damn idiot. your heart did this stupid stuttering thing every time the bell over the door moved.

then it rang.

and he walked in.

white hair, slightly mussed from the rain. the tiniest drop caught in his bangs, trailing down toward the curve of his cheek. his sunglasses sat low on the bridge of his nose, and he was tall—taller than you'd expected, even though you should’ve known—and dressed like he didn’t care how loud he looked. hands in his pockets. shoulders loose. like he’d just wandered in off some catwalk that ended in your direction.

he scanned the room once, those ridiculous glasses perched low on his nose, catching the café’s dim light like twin moons. his eyes—sharp, too sharp for any one place to hold—skipped over the students bickering about cursed residuals, the barista wiping down a steaming espresso machine, and landed square on you.

his smile cracked open, instant, effortless, like the sun spilling through a storm cloud.

“hey.”

you froze mid-sip, your mug hovering an inch from your lips. your eyes locked on his, and the world did that thing where it shrinks to a pinprick, all cinnamon air and rain-slicked windows fading out. the ridiculous truth hit you like a badly timed talisman:

holy shit. that’s gojo satoru.

your mouth opened. closed with a soft click. opened again, because apparently your brain decided to blue-screen.

“you’re fucking kidding me.”

his grin stretched wider, all teeth and mischief, as he sauntered across the floor toward you. long limbs moved like they were choreographed, raindrops clinging to his white hair like tiny glass beads, scattering light. he shoved his hands deeper into his coat pockets, shoulders hiked just enough to betray how stupidly pleased he was with himself.

“surprise?” he said, voice lilting like he’d just pulled off the world’s dumbest magic trick.

you blinked, unblinking, your fingers tightening around the mug until the heat stung. your face was doing something—probably a mix of shock and are you serious right now—because his laugh bubbled up, low and warm, like he’d caught you red-handed.

“you—i—you’re you,” you stammered, eloquent as a first-year tripping over their own incantation.

“i am,” he said, tilting his head. a single droplet slid from his bangs, tracing the sharp line of his jaw before dripping onto the floor. “last i checked, anyway. unless you’ve got a better theory.”

“why didn’t you tell me?”

he paused a step from the table, one hand escaping his pocket to scratch at the back of his neck. his glasses slipped lower, and you caught a flash of those eyes—crystal blue, too bright, like staring into a clear sky after a curse’s miasma. he nudged the frames up with a knuckle, but then, in a move that made your breath hitch, he tugged them off completely. folded them with a click. set them on the table like a dare.

“didn’t wanna scare you off,” he said, quieter now, his gaze unguarded and pinning you in place.

yo squinted, lips pressing into a thin line to choke back a snort. your eyebrow arched, sharp as a well-placed shikigami. “you thought being yourself would scare me off?”

he shrugged, weight shifting from one foot to the other, his coat swaying like it was in on the joke. “it usually does.”

you blinked again, slower, and something in your chest unknotted. for a split second, he looked… smaller. not the gojo satoru who could level a city block with a wink, but a guy who wasn’t sure if he was too much or not enough. his hair was a mess, sticking up where he’d ruffled it outside, and his eyelashes were wet, catching the light like they were trying to apologize.

you set your mug down with a soft clink, the ceramic warm against your palm, and gestured to the chair across from you. “sit down, satoru.”

his grin snapped back, bright as a spark talisman igniting. “yes, ma’am.”

he dropped into the chair with all the grace of a cat knocking over a vase—legs sprawling, then tucking back, elbows hitting the table before he leaned forward like he was about to spill a secret. his coat bunched at his shoulders, and he smelled faintly of rain and something sweeter, like the mochi he’d probably swiped from a vendor on the way here.

“this place smells like cinnamon and potential,” he said, voice dipping low, conspiratorial. he waggled his brows, and you swore his eyes flickered with a tease no technique could replicate. “you sure you don’t wanna marry me right now? i’d get you a ring pop. blue raspberry, your favorite.”

you snorted, the sound punching out before you could stop it. your hand flew to your mouth, but it was too late—he’d heard it, and his whole face lit up like he’d won a bet with the universe.

“you remembered that?” you said, leaning back in your chair, arms crossing like you could shield yourself from his smugness. your lips twitched, betraying you.

“‘course i did,” he said, tapping his temple with a long finger. “you said it during that 2 a.m. ramble about cursed vending machines. blue raspberry ring pop, ‘cause it stains your tongue and freaks out the first-years.” he leaned closer, voice dropping to a mock-whisper. “i pay attention, y’know.”

your cheeks warmed, and you hated how your mouth kept trying to smile. you kicked his shin lightly under the table, just enough to make him yelp—a dramatic ow that had the students at the counter glancing over. “you’re impossible,” you muttered, but your eyes flicked to his glasses, still folded neatly beside his elbow. “and put those back on, idiot. you’re gonna give yourself a migraine squinting like that.”

he blinked, then laughed—a real one, not the showy kind he threw at missions or bad jokes. “what, you worried about my eyes now?” he said, but he didn’t reach for the glasses. instead, he propped his chin on one hand, staring at you like you were the only thing worth seeing. “i took ‘em off for you, y’know. six eyes makes everything loud—too many colors, too many things. but you…” he trailed off, and his voice softened, like he was peeling back a layer he usually kept buried. “you’re clearer without ‘em.”

your breath caught, and for a second, you forgot how to be a smart-ass. your fingers fidgeted with the edge of your sleeve, and you ducked your head, letting your hair fall forward to hide the heat creeping up your neck. “that’s sweet,” you said, voice dry but wobbling just a fraction. “also stupid. you’ll strain yourself, and i’m not dragging your whining ass to a healer when you’re seeing double.”

he grinned, undeterred, and flicked a sugar packet across the table at you. it bounced off your knuckles, and you swatted it back without thinking, starting a lazy game of tabletop tag. “would you rather i didn’t see you?” he asked, catching the packet mid-air with infuriating ease. his fingers were quick, precise, like he could’ve dismantled a curse in the same motion. “c’mon, admit it. you like being seen.”

you rolled your eyes, but your lips curved, and you couldn’t quite stop it. “i like when you’re not a headache,” you shot back, snatching the sugar packet from his hand. you tore it open, dumping half into your coffee just to mess with him—he’d gagged once during a call when you’d done it, claiming it was “coffee abuse.” now, he just watched you with a smirk, like he was cataloging every move you made.

“liar,” he said, stretching his arms above his head until his shirt rode up, flashing a sliver of pale skin above his waistband. you looked away, quick, and he noticed—his smirk grew positively diabolical. “you told me last week you like my voice best at midnight. all raspy and annoying, you said. direct quote.”

you groaned, sinking lower in your chair, but your foot nudged his ankle under the table, a traitor to your own defenses. “i was delirious from a mission,” you said, pointing a stirrer at him like a tiny sword. your brows furrowed, but your eyes were bright, dancing with the kind of energy you hadn’t felt in weeks. “and you were the one who kept talking about cursed tanukis stealing your socks, so who’s the real mess here?”

he laughed again, loud enough to make the barista glance over with a raised brow. his hand dropped to the table, fingers drumming a restless rhythm, and you noticed how his pinky brushed the edge of your mug—like he was testing how close he could get without you pulling away. “guilty,” he said, tilting his head until his bangs fell into his eyes. he shook them away, and the motion was so boyish, so normal, it made your heart do a stupid little flip. “but you laughed. i heard it. best sound in the world, by the way.”

you froze, stirrer halfway to your mouth, and your eyes flicked up to meet his. he wasn’t grinning now—just watching you, steady and soft, like the rain outside had melted all his edges. your lips parted, but no snark came out. instead, you reached across the table, picked up his glasses, and slid them toward him with a pointed look. “put these on before you ruin yourself,” you said, but your voice was quieter, like you were afraid of breaking whatever this was. “i’m not worth a headache, satoru.”

he didn’t touch the glasses. instead, he caught your hand before you could pull it back, his fingers warm and a little calloused, curling around yours like they’d been waiting to. “disagree,” he said, simple as that, and his thumb brushed your knuckle, light as a feather. “you’re worth a lot of things.”

you swallowed, and the café seemed to hum quieter—the clink of cups, the murmur of students, all fading into a soft blur. your pulse was loud, though, thudding in your ears as you looked at him. his hair was drying now, curling at the ends, and his eyes were still bare, unguarded, like he’d stripped away every barrier just to sit here with you. your lips twitched into a smile, small but real, and you squeezed his hand once before letting go.

“you’re gonna regret saying that when i steal your last mochi later,” you said, leaning back to break the spell, but your foot stayed pressed against his under the table, warm and steady.

he gasped, clutching his chest like you’d cursed him. “not the mochi,” he wailed, but his eyes crinkled, and he leaned forward, stealing your stirrer to twirl it between his fingers like a baton. “fine, but only if you say ‘satoru, you’re my hero’ first. gotta earn it.”

“in your dreams, pretty boy,” you shot back, but you were laughing now, soft and easy, and the sound made his whole face soften, like he’d been chasing it all along.

you stayed in that café for hours, trading sugar packets and stupid stories, your shoes bumping under the table, his glasses still untouched. the rain slowed to a drizzle, painting the windows in lazy streaks, but neither of you noticed. the world was just this—cinnamon air, warm mugs, and the way he looked at you like you were the only thing he’d ever wanted to see clearly.

and somewhere in between the rain tapering off and your drinks going lukewarm, something shifted. not abruptly. not dramatically. but gently, like gravity starting to lean in a different direction. he was exactly the same—annoying, charming, impossible—but there was a quiet steadiness beneath it all. like he looked at you and saw not just a person, but a place. somewhere he could stay.

all while you were still trying to wrap your head around the fact that gojo satoru had been the idiot on the forum sending you tanuki memes at 3am.

he called you a cryptid. you called him emotionally constipated. he told you your voice was the only one he actually waited to hear. you told him he needed better taste. he laughed so hard he knocked his knee on the underside of the table.

when the café finally closed, the barista shooing you out with a tired smile, satoru held the door open, his clear umbrella already unfurled against the drizzle. it was comically small for his ridiculous height, barely shielding his broad shoulders, but he angled it carefully, keeping the rain from kissing your hair. his sleeve darkened, soaked through where the mist clung, but he didn’t seem to care. the night was quiet, steeped in that velvet hush that trails a long rain, streetlights casting blurry halos through the mist, like half-forgotten curses glowing in the dark.

his footsteps matched yours, slow and deliberate, scuffing softly against the wet pavement. he didn’t need to adjust his stride—you noticed how he shortened it, just enough, like he was savoring every second of this walk. his fingers brushed yours once, a fleeting warmth against your knuckles. he didn’t grab your hand. brushed again, lingering, like a question he wasn’t sure he could ask. you didn’t pull away, your pinky curling slightly, grazing his, and the corner of his mouth twitched upward, like he’d caught a secret.

“can I see you again?” he asked, glancing down at you, his voice stripped of its usual swagger. it was quiet, raw, like a wish he’d whispered to the night before daring to say it aloud. his glasses slipped low, catching the streetlight’s gleam, and his eyes—too blue, too open—held yours like you were the only thing tethering him to the ground.

you tilted your head, pretending to mull it over, your lips pursing to hide the smile tugging at them. your scarf fluttered in the breeze, and you tugged it tighter, catching the way his gaze flicked to the motion, like he was memorizing it. “I’d kinda like it if you called me first,” you said, voice dry but warm, your eyes darting to his before skittering away.

his smile softened, reverent, like you’d handed him a talisman he hadn’t earned. he ducked his head, damp hair falling into his eyes, and pushed it back with a quick flick, scattering droplets. “yeah?” he said, and it was so soft, so hopeful, it made your chest ache like a bruise you didn’t mind.

“yeah,” you said, and your fingers brushed his again, deliberate this time, a spark in the quiet.

he didn’t kiss you. not yet. but the way he looked at you—head tilted, eyes tracing your face like he was mapping a new constellation—felt louder than any words. like maybe, finally, he’d found the place he was meant to land, and you were standing right there beside him.

you kept walking, the umbrella tilting as he leaned closer, his shoulder brushing yours. the mist curled around you like a veil, and he started humming—some off-key pop song he’d probably heard on a mission, the kind you’d mocked him for liking during one of your calls. you shot him a look, eyebrow arched, and he only grinned, utterly unrepentant.

“you’re gonna ruin my reputation,” you muttered, but your lips twitched, and you nudged his arm with your elbow, just enough to make him sway.

“too late,” he said, voice lilting like he was sharing a conspiracy. “you laughed at my tanuki tax joke. you’re already doomed.”

you snorted, the sound sharp in the quiet, and he laughed—low, warm, like it was his favorite sound in the world. “you remember that?” you asked, glancing up at him, your scarf slipping to reveal the curve of your neck. his eyes followed it, then snapped back to your face, like he’d been caught.

“‘course I do,” he said, tapping his temple with a long finger. “filed it under ‘proof you’re secretly fun.’ right next to you admitting you like my midnight voice.”

your cheeks warmed, and you shoved your hands into your pockets, muttering, “delirious ramblings don’t count.” but you didn’t step away, and he didn’t either, the umbrella wobbling as he tilted it to keep you dry.

then he stopped walking, abrupt enough that you turned to face him, a brow raised. “what?”

his expression was unreadable, caught somewhere between mischief and something heavier, like he was about to say something that could tilt the world off its axis. his hair was wet now, silver strands curling at the ends, clinging to his forehead, and his glasses fogged slightly at the edges, making his eyes look softer, closer.

“come work in tokyo,” he said, the words spilling out like they’d been waiting all night.

you blinked, your breath catching. “satoru.”

“no, I’m serious,” he said, stepping closer, the umbrella dipping until a stray droplet grazed his cheek. he didn’t wipe it away, just kept looking at you, earnest in a way that made your throat tight. “same uniform, better pay, vending machines that don’t eat your coins. plus—” he leaned in, voice dropping to a mock-whisper—“you get me. scientifically proven to make life less boring.”

you laughed, sharp and startled, and it broke the tension like a snapped thread. “you’re the cause of my stress,” you said, poking his chest with a finger, your nail catching on his damp coat.

“and I’ll keep causing it,” he said, catching your hand before you could pull back. his fingers were warm, curling around yours, and he tilted his head, grin softening. “but I’ll be closer. way better than those kyoto stiffs who don’t know how you take your coffee.”

you froze, lips parting, because he did know—black, no sugar, the way you’d grumbled about during a 3 a.m. call when a mission had you wired. “you’re ridiculous,” you muttered, but your voice wobbled, and you didn’t yank your hand away.

“you don’t belong there,” he said, quieter now, his thumb brushing your knuckle, light as a wish. “they don’t see you. not like I do.”

you opened your mouth to deflect, to toss back something sharp, but nothing came. because he was right, and the way he looked at you—steady, unguarded, like you were more than a shadow in a debrief room—made it impossible to argue. you closed your mouth, exhaling through your nose, and he smiled, small and real, like he’d won something bigger than he’d planned.

two weeks later, after one strongly worded proposal, two forged signatures, and a very public argument with gakuganji that ended with a chair launched across a meeting room, satoru showed up at your apartment, leaning against the doorframe with a grin that screamed trouble. his coat was slung over one shoulder, and he held a crumpled paper bag that smelled suspiciously like mochi.

“congrats,” he said, voice bright as a spark. “you’re moving to tokyo. pack a toothbrush.”

you stared, one socked foot still on the tatami, a half-packed box of books at your side. “what the hell did you do?”

“justice,” he said, tossing the bag onto your counter, where it landed with a soft thud. he stepped inside, kicking the door shut with his heel, and winked like he’d just saved the world. “also, maybe a little bribery. you’re welcome.”

and just like that, you were tokyo’s problem now.

on your first day, he was waiting at the jujutsu tech gates, a paper flower crown perched crookedly on his head, petals fluttering in the breeze. he held a sign—scrawled in marker, “WELCOME HOME, CRYPTID”—and two matcha lattes, one wobbling dangerously in his hand as he waved like a kid spotting their best friend. the other sorcerers passing by shot him looks, but he didn’t care, his grin wide enough to rival the sun spilling over the campus.

you tried to scowl, to keep your cool, but your lips betrayed you, curling into a smile that felt like surrender. “you’re ridiculous,” you muttered, stepping into his orbit, close enough to smell the sugar on his breath and the faint cedar of his cologne.

he looped an arm around your shoulder, easy as breathing, like the space beside him had been yours all along. his lips brushed your temple, a fleeting warmth, then lingered, soft and deliberate, like he was testing if you’d pull away. you didn’t.

“and yet,” he said, voice low, teasing, “you never left.”

you rolled your eyes, but your head tilted into his touch, just a fraction, and you felt him exhale, like he’d been holding it in. “I’m not wearing the flower crown,” you said, flicking the sign with a finger, making it wobble in his grip.

“not yet,” he said, adjusting the crown on his head, petals catching the sunlight like tiny flames. he handed you a latte, the cup warm against your palm, and you noticed he’d drawn a tiny cat face on the lid—lopsided, with one ear missing, like your stray back in kyoto.

“not ever,” you shot back, but you took a sip, and the matcha was perfect—sweet, not too bitter, exactly how you’d mentioned liking it months ago during a call about bad coffee stands.

he laughed, a sound like summer breaking through clouds, and you looked up, catching the way his eyes crinkled, the way his hair glowed gold in the morning light. his thumb brushed your cheek, featherlight, like he was confirming you were real.

and then he kissed you—no fanfare, no dramatic build, just the quiet press of his mouth against yours, soft and certain. it was the kind of kiss that didn’t ask for permission because it already belonged. like the final word in a sentence you’d both been writing in secret.

his lips were warm, moving against yours with a reverence that made your breath catch. his hand cupped the side of your face, fingers splayed gently against your jaw as though afraid to press too hard, like you were something delicate, worth holding and not breaking.

your eyes fluttered closed. the air between you and the world seemed to hush, like even the breeze knew not to interrupt. your fingers curled into the fabric of his coat—soft, heavy, smelling faintly of rain and something that had to be him.

your knees went a little soft. your heart, stupid and loud, climbed up into your throat.

he pulled back just barely, but didn’t let go. his forehead rested against yours, breath fanning across your lips, sweet with matcha and something sweeter beneath it—something like hope.

his grin was criminal. boyish. blinding. like he’d stolen something precious and gotten away clean.

“told you you’d like tokyo,” he said, voice low, still laced with laughter.

and before you could even think of dodging, he plucked the flower crown from his head—now slightly lopsided from the kiss—and dropped it gently onto yours.

you blinked. scowled. felt your cheeks catch fire.

you shoved it back onto him, petals scattering onto his nose, and he sneezed, dramatic and loud, making a passing student jump. “shut up,” you said, but you were laughing now, full and bright, and his fingers laced with yours, warm and steady, like they’d never let go.

and in that moment—the sun dusting your cheeks, his hand anchoring you, you knew one thing for sure:

no one else needed to notice.

because he did.

and that was enough.

(and yeah, he’d submitted three fake transfer forms in your name, because apparently love means committing light fraud. you’d yell at him later. probably.)

tag list : @akeisryna @esotericsorrow @prettilyrisse @cherrymoon55 @linaaeatsfamilies @k0z3me

[beckwritesif]

The vast stretches of lone trees and wild grass of the rural countryside lures the ego overboard, pulling consciousness off course into addiction, delusion and seduction’s disintegrating madness. You barely pull yourself home from there every evening, the sun telling your time, the birds your weather forecast. One day you might not return home at all.

From the Mud is a Midwest gothic inspired horror romance set in a solitary countryside occupied only by two small towns and stretches of untamed nature. You play a troubled cowboy/girl/puncher who‘s ground deep into a maddening, repetitive routine that a string of deaths suddenly upends. The sheriff of the neighboring town along with a driven journalist and an old friend whose bridge you’ve long since burnt comes to town having heard the news. As you’re hunting for the culprit and running from yourself, your quiet life on the ranch is disturbed, forcing you to keep your cards close and choose your company carefully. But the most pressing matter proves to be whether you can trust your own mind.

From the Mud

☆ Interactive fictional psychological horror written in choice script

Features

Play as either a man, woman, or other

Choose your appearance from overall features to minor details

Experience nuanced romance as either straight, gay, or bi, or forgo romance altogether

Choose whether you’re religious or not in an overly christian rural town

Experience the world react differently towards you depending on who you identify as

Get wrapped up in the chaos to solve the mystery of several murders

Lose touch with reality and slowly question everything around you

Remember: you have to choose to get better

Reject the possibility of unnatural forces at play, or believe

Rot in a jail cell

Ride a horse!

Play a game mostly not driven by numbered stats but meaningful actions and a fuck ton of trackers

Demo! | pinterest | forum thread

Advisory for the story so far: death, gore, profanity, substances

Basics about some of the important RO characters and other below

The Sheriff ☆ Zachariah “Zach” Mallory ☆ a man in his mid thirties

Sheriff Mallory works from his office in Two Rocks, and though his occupation means working closely with other people and seeing to their needs, it would be indolent to describe him as being good with people. At all. Being abrasive and ill-natured, the man does, however, suit the role of authority well. When the angry crease on his forehead soften, you might find there is something else within his tired eyes.

The sheriff has dark brown, chin-length hair and a matching little effort short beard. His sand-colored skin is sun-kissed from being outside, the circles under his eyes almost a purple kind of shade. Under a heavy set of brows sits a pair of dark blue, almost stormy gray eyes. Standing at an imposing height, Mallory is nigh refused anything, and can’t be forced to wear the ugly uniform his rank requires. Instead, he sports a simple white fitted t-shirt and a pair of well-loved denim jeans.

The Journalist ☆ Candy Tillman ☆ a woman in her early thirties

Working for the local news station in Two Rocks, Ms. Tillman has through work experience and excellent mentoring from her predessessor become a hound chasing stories and truths. She is both idealistic and romanticizing (that which shouldn’t), and yet entirely unsusceptable to bullshit. When her facade falters who will accept her then?

The woman with the sweetest name has blonde hair that falls to the middle of her shoulder blades, which she loves to blowout. Her tan skin is contoured by a natural style of makeup, her small, light blue eyes painted. Candy is average height, reaching taller stature with her go-to minimalist pumps. The journalist prefers simple, feminine silhouttes of clothing, keeping up with the times.

The Best Friend ☆ Blythe Abel Goodwin ☆ a woman in her mid twenties

Blythe is your best friend who you grew up with in Ashley and who stuck around when everyone left, though you know she would’ve loved to leave just as much as you once did. In response to the death of her dreams and the narrow-minded opinions of the general inhabitation of the area, she has defiantly become a person of unique and unpredictable character. You’ve known each other through thick and thin, but is there a side to her yet to be discovered?

Your childhood friend is a contrast-filled woman just under average height. Long, black, cascading hair falls from her head down to her mid-back. Choppily home-cut bangs frame her small face. Her fair skin turns rosy in the cold. Blythe’s almond eyes that are sometimes obscured by a pair of reading glasses, are hazel. She wears whatever the fuck she wants.

The Colleague ☆ Ford Wiley Mallory ☆ a man in his early twenties

Ford Wiley is the younger half-brother of Sheriff Mallory and your colleague on the ranch. Working there only half-time, the younger Mallory is dedicated and driven only in the field of his passion; music. His band has only ever played at the local bar, though. Reserved and perhaps somewhat more thin-skinned than most living out on the countryside, Wiley makes do with refreshing optimism. Whether this optimism is genuine or fabricated is yet to be revealed.

Your part-time cowboy coworker has long, wavy brown hair that he sometimes makes an effort to style, and otherwise lets it live its own life. He and his half-brother have little in common, appearance included; Wiley has olive skin covered in freckles. His eyes are dark brown, and he is of average height. The musician’s clothes consist of unwanted (by himself) hand-me-downs from Zachariah and ill-gotten items.

The Old Friend ☆ Sawyer “Saw” Brennan ☆ a gender selectable person in their late twenties (m/f)

You grew up with Sawyer along with Blythe, and the three of you braved your childhood and youth in this godforsaken place for years. But they left when things got hardest, and you haven’t been able to get past it even after all these years. Over the years Sawyer has been away they’ve grown into a person you barely know anymore, and you struggle with their sudden return. Will you be able to understand and forgive them for leaving?

Sawyer has inky brown curly hair, worn long (f) or short (m) and loose, carefully taken care of and styled. They have warm brown skin and sharp eyes to match. Your old friend is tall, fitting their frame into oversized graphic t-shirts and either color matched sweats or baggy jeans.

My intentions with this game: It is not supposed to be a beautiful story, it is supposed to be ugly. Writing this game in the way I am is my taking a step away from perfection and seeing where my unpolished writing takes the story. I have been ruled by fear of inadequacy and a desire for ‘perfect timing’ long enough. If I continue to wait for the ‘right moment’ to create, I will end up not creating at all. My only desire now is to simply create, and continue doing so until I have something to show for it.

Story is written and coded by me

Credits to Cole Meanor for the beautiful photography done for the headers!

[bullet-prooflove]

Champagne Gold: Jack Abbot x Reader (NSFW)

Tagging: @kmc1989 @cosmic-psychickitty @ilariyalavorowrites @spooky-librarian-ghost

Companion piece to:

The Asshole King - Jack discovers you have an unusual technique for dealing with patients.

Bob Dylan - You help Jack to relax after an incident at the hospital leaves him temporarily blind.

Because Of You - Jack realises he's starting to heal in more ways than one after you spend the day taking care of him.

Balance - Jack reveals his feelings for you but they come with complications.

Off Limits - An awkward start to the day leads Jack to make a claim on your affections.

Hawaii - Jack discovers who he really is when you book a trip to Hawaii.

Silk (NSFW) - Jack loves the sight of you in silk.

Boston - You reflect on the past after your ex-husband makes an appearance on a trying day.

This God Damn Fucking Day - Jack steps into the fray with things get messy between you and you ex-husband.

Misdemeanour - Jack's forced to step in when you get arrested because of your ex-husband.

Fishtail - Jack helps you decompress in the aftermath of your ex-husband.

Love Language (NSFW) - Jack has his own unique love language.

What Puts You On That Ledge - Jack finds away to pull you off that ledge.

After Maria died, Jack never thought he’d get married again.

He never thought he’s stand at the end of another aisle watching the most beautiful woman he’s ever laid eyes on walk towards him in a champagne gold wedding dress, one that shimmers as she walks. You look ethereal with a matching laurel wreath head piece threaded through your hair.

“Christ.” He says to Robby who stands beside him, his hands clasped together in front of him. “She’s goddamn beautiful.”

Robby doesn’t respond, he simply clears his throat because you’re already there standing in front of Jack and he’s completely in awe of you.

“You sure you wanna marry me?” He asks gruffly as you take his trembling hands in your own and you give him that sweet smile, the one he fell in love with that morning he gave you a ride home, Bob Dylan playing over the speakers in his car.

“Jack.” You say squeezing his hands lightly. “I’ve never wanted anything so badly in my life.”

***

When Jack recounts his wedding day, he tells people the reception was his favourite part. Everything from the first dance to Bob Dylan’s ‘Wedding Song’ to the casino that was hosted on the lower floor of the venue, where he won a shit load of money.

The truth is it was the wedding night. Him sitting before you on the edge of that bed in the bridal suite, watching you undress for him.

It’s as the material falls into a pile at your feet that he gets one of the biggest surprises. A tiny champagne gold G-string and the prettiest heart shaped pasties covering your nipples.

“I wanted something special for you.” You whisper as he reaches up, his thumb chasing over the tiny rhinestones that decorated them. “And I know how much you like fucking my tits.”

You are a goddamn gift from heaven, he thinks as you sink down onto your knees and help him out of his trousers. He’s already leaking by the time his cock springs free. You arch your back, thrusting your tits out, trapping his dick in the space between. That drop of pre-cum smears across the top of your breasts and his breath catches as you squeeze your tits together and start to move.

“You gonna let me have all the fun tonight?” He mutters, his palm cradling your face, his thumb tracing over the pert shape of your mouth. The light from the chandelier above glints off those rhinestones and already he can feel the ecstasy chasing through his nerve endings as he ruts against your chest. “We keep going like this we’ll be seeing fireworks before I get to enjoy the rest of you.”

“Well let’s change that up shall we?” You murmur as you shift positions, straddling his lap instead. That tiny scrap of fabric you call a G-string rubs across the tip of his cock, separating the two of you. He grabs the tiny strap in his fist, snapping it before he tosses the panties off to one side.

“Opps.” He smirks before his gaze strays to your pussy and he huffs out a laugh. He reaches between the two of you, his fingertips tracing over the gold speckles of glitter and the rhinestones that decorate your bareness. “You really are just full of surprises aren’t you?”

“Oh Jack baby.” You whisper in his ear, your teeth grazing his earlobe, tugging it lightly between your teeth. “I just wanted to make sure you remember this night for the rest of your life.”

Love Jack? Don’t miss any of his stories by joining the taglist here.

Before you join the taglist make sure to read the rules here as you otherwise you won’t be added.

Interested in supporting me? Join my Patreon for Bonus Content!

Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

[synity]

Us, Under One Moon

(Lee Jihoon x FemReader)

*Slice-of-Life, Domestic Fluff, Girl Dad Woozi, Found-Family Warmth*

Lee Jihoon didn’t know he could cry that fast.

He hadn’t cried when he debuted. Not when he won his first award. Not even when he broke down from overwork behind the locked doors of a studio. But the second his daughter arrived into the world eight pounds of perfection, lungs strong, fists tiny his composure shattered like poorly tightened drum strings.

He stood beside Y/N, his wife, her forehead dewed with sweat, exhaustion painting shadows beneath her eyes, and yet, still glowing. Her hand gripped his weakly, but it was her eyes that anchored him eyes that silently said, This is ours.

And so he looked at his daughter. Her name would be Areum meaning beautiful, fitting for someone born with the moonlight resting on her skin and a soul that made the sterile hospital room feel like home.

Seoul, 6:04 a.m. Sunlight seeped through the gauzy curtains and stretched across the king‑size bed like warm honey. Somewhere outside, a sparrow chirped an over‑enthusiastic scale almost as if auditioning for SEVENTEEN. Inside, the master bedroom of the Lee household was quiet… until a five‑year‑old whirlwind padded in on sock‑clad feet.

“Appa…” The whisper was soft but determined. Tiny palms pressed against Lee Jihoon’s cheeks, squishing them together so his lips puckered like a goldfish. “Wake up, you promised heart pancakes.”

Jihoon’s eyes cracked open; the night’s leftover exhaustion evaporated at the sight of his daughter’s bed‑head curls. “Morning already?” he croaked. His voice a producer’s prized instrument sounded more like crumpled sheet music.

From the other side of the bed, Y/N shifted, a sleepy smile curving her lips. “Your turn, superstar. My stage call isn’t until eight.” She reached out and brushed a stray curl from Areum’s forehead. “Mommy will taste‑test later.”

Areum’s face lit up, cheeks dimpling. “Appa, pancakes. With strawberry sprinkles. And chocolate eyes so they can see us eat them.”

Jihoon surrendered, sitting up in a tangle of blankets. His daughter squealed triumphantly and launched herself into his arms. The oversize T‑shirt he wore as pajamas sported a faded Going Seventeen logo; Areum fiddled with the hem as he scooped her close.

“How about a grand entrée?” he suggested, carrying her princess‑style toward the kitchen. “Heart‑shaped pancakes, blueberry smile, chocolate‑chip freckles, and a syrup moat.”

“Don’t forget the whipped‑cream mountain,” Areum added. “Mount Whipmore!”

Behind them, Y/N laughed into her pillow. “Remind me to trademark that.”

The Lee kitchen was equal parts homey and high‑tech: an espresso machine that hissed like a cymbal, a refrigerator plastered with preschool art, and a magnetic whiteboard where Woozi���s to‑do list battled stickers of cartoon tigers.

Areum wiggled onto her step stool painted lavender with silver stars, courtesy of Uncle Hoshi and donned a child‑sized apron. Jihoon tied the strings and grabbed the mixing bowl.

“Flour,” he announced, sliding the container over. “Half a cup careful.”

A puff of white dust clouded the air as Areum over‑enthusiastically dumped the flour. “Oops.”

“Creative expression,” Jihoon said, scooping the excess back in. “Next: milk, eggs, vanilla.”

As they whisked, Jihoon hummed a simple melody four bars looping like sunlight on parquet flooring. Areum matched pitch, her tiny voice threading through his bass notes.

Y/N appeared in the doorway, phone camera rolling. “Your morning duet is going to break Twitter,” she teased.

“Exclusive pre‑release,” Jihoon joked, flipping the first pancake with a practiced wrist. It landed perfectly; Areum clapped like it was a magic trick.

They decorated: strawberry‑slice hearts, chocolate‑chip eyes, whipped‑cream mountains so tall they threatened avalanche. Areum drizzled syrup until rivers formed around each cake. Jihoon pretended to launch tiny gummy‑bear boats down the syrup streams; Areum’s giggles filled the kitchen like cymbal crashes.

They plated three masterpieces. Jihoon carried the tray back to the bedroom where Y/N sat cross‑legged, laptop open, reviewing fabric swatches for SEVENTEEN’s next concept. She closed it at once, face lighting up at the spectacle.

“Mount Whipmore in all its glory,” Jihoon proclaimed.

The family tucked in. Syrup stuck to Areum’s chin; Y/N dabbed it away with a napkin. Jihoon cut bite‑sized pieces for them both before eating his own.

Between mouthfuls, Areum launched rapid‑fire questions: “Appa, why is a piano called a piano? Umma, can we visit the Han River today? Does whipped cream melt in space?”

Jihoon fielded each inquiry with professor‑level seriousness, eyes twinkling. Y/N chimed in dramatizing every answer.

By the end, pancakes were gone, plates licked clean, laughter echoing off the walls. Jihoon pressed a gentle kiss to Y/N’s temple, another to Areum’s syrupy cheek.

“Best breakfast concert I’ve ever headlined,” he declared.

Areum threw her arms around his neck. "tomorrow again?”

“Every day, Moonie my life’s favorite encore.”

And as the family shuffled toward the living room Jihoon to the piano, Areum to her crayon kingdom, Y/N trailing with her sketchbook the sparrow’s song outside seemed to harmonize, as if the whole neighborhood had tuned in for the next movement of the Morning Symphony.

Jihoon’s studio had evolved with the seasons of his life. What was once a solitary space for instruments and stress was now a shared sanctuary.

There was a low corner table with chunky crayons and pink post-it notes, some scribbled with Areum’s critiques:

"Appa, this one made me sleepy, good sleepy"

"More sparkle sounds please."

Y/N had claimed a shelf near the window for her brushes and fabric samples. She’d design mock outfits for comebacks right next to her daughter’s Lego cities.

Sometimes, while Jihoon layered chords, Y/N would be painting the concept poster for a new Seventeen unit. Areum, meanwhile, orchestrated her stuffed animals into a chorus line.

“Appa, make the teddy bear sing!”

“You’re the composer, Moon. You show me.”

She’d tap random keys until a melody emerged, laughing when Jihoon would nod and say, “We have a hit.”

Every Sunday was sacred.

Matching outfits hand-sewn by Y/N. They wore pastels or neutrals depending on Moonie’s mood. Today, lilac hoodies with tiny crescent moons stitched over the heart.

They picnicked near Han River. Jihoon’s old guitar in tow, their portable speaker playing soft ballads, Areum racing between trees with a disposable camera. Y/N sprawled on the mat sketching them both.

After eating, Jihoon sang. His guitar gentle, voice lower than stage level, private.

Areum twirled beside him, feet bare in the grass. Y/N harmonized with soft hums.

A security guard walked by, recognized them, but simply tipped his hat and walked on. Even idols deserved to be Appa, Umma, and Moon.

They stayed until the sun kissed the skyline and Areum yawned against Y/N’s lap.

Woozi could produce a ten-layer synth harmony but braiding hair? That took dedication.

He’d practiced with a doll Y/N bought him until he got it right.

Now, every school morning he braided Areum’s hair into twin plaits. She sat on the bathroom stool, chattering about her day ahead.

“Appa, we have to bring a family photo. Which one should I use?”

“Let’s take a new one,” he said. “Today. Just us three.”

That night, after brushing her teeth and jumping under her space-themed blanket, Areum held out a book.

“This one, Appa. The one where the bear finds home.”

Jihoon read with one arm around her, the other hand in Y/N’s. He gave every character a different voice. When Areum finally drifted off, he didn’t move.

“She’s growing so fast,” he whispered.

Y/N kissed his shoulder. “She’ll always need her Appa, no matter how tall she gets.”

On tour, Jihoon missed them like oxygen.

Time zones couldn’t stop them, though.

Every day, Y/N and Areum sent voice notes. Jihoon responded with lullabies recorded backstage. He wore a charm bracelet with three beads A, Y, and J.

After his solo stage, the staff handed him an envelope. Inside: a crayon drawing of him on stage, a crowd of hearts, and a stick-figure Areum holding a mic beside him.

“So I can sing next time too.”

He cried in the dressing room. Again.

Ten years old.

Y/N decorated the house with moon motifs. Jihoon wrote a song just for her, layered with lullaby melodies and harmonies in the background. They recorded it secretly for weeks.

They premiered it at her birthday party in the living room. Lights dimmed, projector on.

Areum’s eyes filled with tears by the second verse.

“Appa, Umma... this is my favorite song. Forever.”

He held her tightly.

Y/N rested her head on his shoulder.

And the music played on.

Now 16, Areum was taller. Her hair now dyed a soft rose gold. She danced like her uncles, wrote music like her Appa, and had her Umma’s eye for detail.

One evening, Jihoon passed her studio room and paused.

She was recording.

The melody was familiar. The same one he wrote years ago.

“Appa,” she called softly. “Come sing with me?”

He entered, heart full, and sat beside her. She passed him a mic.

And just like that, the lullaby became a duet.

Areum, Jihoon, and Y/N still orbiting, still in harmony.

Under one moon.

Forever.

[whisperedmeg]

SYNODIC CURVE ―.✦ s.r. soft animal series ∘ part iv

pairing: spencer reid x fem!nurse!reader

summary: under the stars, spencer lets her in. what follows is not a leap, but a quiet circling toward something steady.

genre: fluff, smut, a bit of hurt/comfort I guess?

w/c: 5.7k

tags/warnings: post-prison spencer, talk of prison and intimacy issues, brief maeve mention, discussion of past relationship trauma, spencer being an adorable nerd, lots of astronomy talk, just two cuties on their first official date, glasses reid YUM, fingering, handjob, oral (both f/m receiving), 18+ MDNI

a/n: this is my favorite part thus far 🥹. as always, I appreciate anyone who reads this little story of mine so, so much 🫶🏼. part 5 is mostly written already, so it’ll be up later this week, and in the meantime, I might post a one shot unrelated to this series if I can find the time to finish it

series masterlist

synodic (adj.) — describing the period between successive conjunctions of celestial bodies; the cycle of return, when two objects moving through space appear to realign.

—

Spencer’s door was already unlocked when I arrived, as if he’d been checking the hallway every five minutes. His hair was slightly damp from a recent shower, and he’d changed into a t-shirt I hadn’t seen before — navy with a faded print of Saturn and a little ring of stars around it. I couldn’t tell if it was old or just designed to look that way, but either way, it suited him.

“Hope you’re in the mood for popcorn and 1950s melodrama,” he said by way of greeting, holding up the DVD case like it was a peace offering. I grinned and set my things down, padding over to him and greeting him with a quick kiss.

The night started easy. Comfortable. A rhythm we’d already half-settled into. He let me rummage through his kitchen for the popcorn while he dug around for the remote, and soon the apartment was filled with the scent of butter as black-and-white images flickered across the screen. We sat on the couch with the bowl between us, our shoulders brushing, knees nudging.

Halfway through the movie — somewhere between a dramatic monologue and a string-heavy score — I turned to him, catching him already watching me instead of the screen.

“We should probably talk,” I said softly.

He didn’t flinch, just nodded once. “About yesterday.”

“Yeah,” I confirmed.

We didn’t pause the movie. Just let it play in the background as we navigated the parts we hadn’t gotten to over the phone — the strange, lingering discomfort tied to my job, the way it felt like Millburn would always be a third presence in the room. He was honest about how he didn’t like thinking about that place, about the way it’s wired into him now like a faulty line in a circuit he can’t replace. I told him I understood — really understood — and that I never wanted to be one more thing he had to brace himself around. “But I don’t want to avoid it either,” I admitted. “Or you.”

“I know,” he said. “I know you being there probably made it survivable for me. But sometimes, it’s hard to hold that truth next to the version of you I’m still trying to believe I get to have outside of all that.”

That quieted me. I nodded and turned back to the movie, feeling his eyes still lingering on me.

The second half of the movie passed in fragments, but I don’t think either of us really followed it. His hand stayed on my knee most of the time, fingers idly tracing circles, the popcorn bucket long since moved to the coffee table so more of us could touch. When the credits rolled, we didn’t get up.

Eventually, I turned toward him, leaned in a little. He met me halfway.

The kiss started slow, familiar, but deepened fast — the kind of shift that felt like dropping into a current I hadn’t realized I was swimming alongside. His hands found my waist, then under the hem of my shirt, palms warm and steady. Mine were already tugging at the back of his neck, threading into his hair, pulling him closer, pulling him over me.

I felt him start to ease me down onto the couch, his body pressing into mine, and I didn’t stop him. His hips rolled against mine, his mouth on my neck. God, I didn’t want him to stop.

But then — he did.

Abruptly.

It wasn’t dramatic. He didn’t bolt upright or say anything cutting. He just stilled, every muscle in him going tense beneath my hands. I opened my eyes and found him already up, running both hands through his hair as he stood.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly, pacing once toward the window and back again. “I’m— I thought I could.”

I sat up slowly, pulling my shirt back into place. The air between us had gone from warm to thin, and I hated how much of that change I immediately blamed on myself. Like I’d misread something. Like I’d offered too much.

“It’s totally fine,” I said, and the words came out more insecure-sounding than I meant them to.

He paused, analyzing my expression. “No, it’s not,” he said, sitting back down beside me, but this time with a little space between us. “I want to. It’s not you. Not at all. I want you, I— God, I want you so much sometimes it scares me.”

That didn’t help as much as he probably thought it would.

He sighed, rubbing his hand over his mouth like the words might line up better if he kept pushing.

“It’s just… that place rewired everything. I used to know how to be in my body. How to feel desire without it twisting. But now…” His voice trailed off, and he looked away, jaw tight. “Now I get close to you like that, and something inside me just short-circuits.” He looked at me like he was half expecting me to up and leave.

My chest ached — not from rejection, not even really from disappointment, but from how much I suddenly wanted to stay.

Because there was something about the way he spoke to me that stripped everything bare — no performance, no pretense. Just this raw, unfiltered honesty that somehow made me feel steadier, not smaller. I felt the weight of what it meant to be trusted with the part of him that still didn’t feel safe in its own skin.

And maybe that’s what shifted — realizing that whatever this was, it wasn’t about chasing a moment. It was about showing up. Again and again, even when it was messy. Especially when it was messy.

So, I didn’t leave. I just reached over and took his hand. He looked down at our intertwined fingers, then back at me like he couldn’t believe I was still here.

“I’m not going anywhere,” I said, knowing he needed to hear it. “And I’m not going to push you. I’m completely okay with us taking our time with the physical stuff, going as slow as we need. But… I can’t keep guessing where the line is.” I paused, sighing softly. “I’m not asking you to be okay right now. I’m not asking you to give me more than you can,” I added. “But if you pull back and shut me out… I’ll start wondering if I did something wrong. Or if I made you feel cornered or coerced. I just need a little clarity. I need to know it’s not always going to feel like I’m walking a tightrope.”

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” he said after a beat, voice low. “None of this is your fault. I think part of me thought that when I got out, I’d just… snap back into who I was before. That everything I shut down to survive in there would just flip back on like a switch.” He let out a small, humorless laugh. “But it doesn’t work like that. So until I can get my body and mind to realign on that stuff, I’ll tell you when it’s too much. I don’t want you to be second-guessing yourself.”

I nodded, squeezing his hand. That was enough for me right now — just the promise that he’d try.

We didn’t talk much more after that. The rest of the night was quiet, just two people still learning how to navigate each other’s gravity. Eventually, he stood and reached a hand out to me without a word, guiding me into his bedroom like it was muscle memory now. He pulled out a fresh t-shirt from his drawer and handed it over without comment, just a small, almost sheepish smile. I took it, changed in the bathroom, and when I came back, he was already under the blanket, waiting.

He didn’t make a move toward me when I slipped in beside him, just let me come to him. I turned into his chest, and he curled his arm around my waist, breath warm against my forehead.

And even though the ache inside me didn’t leave entirely, it settled. Enough to let me sleep. Enough to stay.

—

The next week and a half blurred in that strange, elastic way time does when you’re learning someone new — stretching and snapping back, full of moments that didn’t feel like milestones until they’d already passed. I worked five shifts at Millburn and left sore and exhausted each time, but never alone. Spencer was waiting for me after every one — sometimes in person, sometimes just a text saying, Door’s open if you want it to be.

He kept busy, too. Chipping away at the mountain of paperwork it would take to get his badge back, fielding calls from the Bureau and his union rep, scheduling psych evals and meetings that sounded endless and exhausting. But he never made me feel like I was intruding on all that. Somehow, without either of us trying, we’d fallen into a rhythm.

We slept in the same bed almost every night now, though sleep wasn’t always the first thing on the agenda. There was more touching — more learning the boundaries, more of him reaching for me. His hands began to linger longer at my waist, his mouth began to pause just a beat more against my collarbone, sucking and licking and tasting. Some nights we talked until the room went dark around us. Others we barely said a word, content to just exist in the same quiet air, our legs tangled under the sheets.

Before I knew it and without even trying, I had memorized the way he made coffee and he had started keeping my brand of toothpaste in his bathroom drawer.

—

“I booked it,” he said one morning, voice soft but unmistakably pleased as he leaned against the kitchen counter in his flannel pajama pants and NASA tee. “The planetarium show. Thursday.”

I smiled, padding up to him and looping my arms around his waist. “Really?”

He grinned. “Seven o’clock. Stars and music. Pie afterward, if you’re still up for it.”

Something about the smile he gave me then made my heart pull in my chest — not the sharp kind, but the warm, stretching kind that always took a few extra seconds to settle.

Later that night, we lay facing each other, his fingers brushing absently over the inside of my wrist. He’d been quiet for a while, lost in thought, and when he finally spoke, it was with that same cadence he used when telling me facts I didn’t ask for but always wanted to hear.

“I haven’t dated much,” he said. “Not before the BAU, and only sporadically since I joined. Maeve was…different.”

I nodded gently, giving him space. I knew bits and pieces about Maeve already, little fragments of his past he’d laid bare inside the infirmary.

“She made me feel like I wasn’t too much. Even when I talked too fast or spiraled out with a thousand thoughts at once, she stayed on the phone with me. Answered every one of my letters. And then she was just…gone. And I couldn’t save her.”

His hand moved from my wrist to my jaw, brushing lightly as if grounding himself.

“Since then, I think some part of me has never fully let go of the idea that loving someone automatically means losing them. Or hurting them. Or both.”

My chest ached for him — not with pity, but with understanding. “I know that feeling,” I said. “I mean, not exactly. I can never relate to the pain you were in after what happened to her, but I know how it feels to conflate love with loss. My last relationship… It wasn't good for me. He constantly told me I was too much. Too emotional, too reactive, too needy. Everything about me was just a little too inconvenient.”

His eyes flicked up to meet mine, sharper now.

“I spent a long time trying to turn it off. Trying to be easier. Softer. Less. And when I couldn’t be what he wanted emotionally, I just…tried to be what he wanted physically.” I didn’t look away. “Sex became the only way I could feel close to him. Or useful.”

He exhaled, slow and low. “He sounds like an idiot.”

That made me laugh a little. “He was. But he was also just… human. And so was I. And I stayed too long. Started feeling like love always came at a cost, both to me and to them. But I’ve done a lot of work since then to be full again. To let go of that feeling, and to get back to myself.”

“You are,” Spencer said, fingers sliding carefully beneath the hem of my shirt. “You’re so full of life, I don’t know how I ever functioned before I met you.”

His kiss came gently, but it deepened quickly — hands finding each other, breath catching in the dark. For a while we didn’t speak, just moved together under the covers, slow and attentive. His mouth trailed along my throat like a map he wanted to memorize, and I let my hands explore the slope of his back, the curve of his waist, the sharp lines softened by sleep and stillness.

When his hand slipped beneath the waistband of my underwear, I held still — not in fear, but in awe of the quiet question he asked with just the brush of his fingertips. He traced the edge of me like he was waiting for my breath to steady, like he was listening for the yes in the way my hips tilted toward him.

When I gasped, soft, and involuntary, he didn’t freeze like he had in the times before. He stayed with me. Kept moving gently, slowly, two fingers slipping through slick heat as his eyes searched mine. Steady and careful. His pupils were blown wide, mouth parted like he’d forgotten to breathe, chest rising and falling as if trying to keep pace with something invisible between us. His thumb brushed over my clit deliberately, once, then again, and the sound I made curled his lips into the tiniest smile, like he was learning something sacred.

I was unraveling. I could feel it in every nerve ending, the coiled tension winding tighter, the heat in my belly flaring under his touch. He watched me fall apart with that same patient awe, like each flick of his fingers was another word in a language he was still studying but somehow already fluent in. He wasn’t just memorizing what made me shake — he was trying to understand why. Watching the way I arched, the way I bit my lip to keep quiet, the way I clung to his shoulder like I was trying not to drown. I tried to keep from being too much too fast, but it didn’t matter. He saw all of it.

And when I came, trembling around his hand, his eyes never left mine. He leaned his forehead against mine, breathing hard, and kissed me — my cheek, my temple, my brow, my lips. He looked at me as if witnessing me let go was as much a gift for him as it was for me.

When I rolled towards him after, still catching my breath, I reached for the hem of his shirt and felt him stiffen — not from discomfort, but something more fragile. Vulnerability, maybe. Or hesitation edged with want. I moved slowly, pressing a hand to his chest, and he let me, nodding.

My fingers drifted lower, across the trail of soft hair down his stomach, past the waistband of his boxers. He sucked in a breath, loud in the hush of the room, and buried his face in my neck when I wrapped my hand around him.

It wasn’t the way he groaned that undid me — it was the way he tried not to, like even now he was afraid to take up too much space in the room. I cupped his face with my free hand and whispered, “You can let go,” and he did — with a broken, quiet sound that made my chest tighten. He came with his forehead pressed to mine, whispering my name like it was the only tether he had to the present. Like he needed me more than air.

After, he collapsed into me, breath still ragged, hands trembling just slightly as they found my waist. I pressed my face into his neck and let my fingers trace over the long scar on his palm — the one I hadn’t worked up the courage to ask about yet. He let me touch it, didn’t flinch, and let out a breath that felt like surrender.

He changed into clean boxers and then came back to bed, wrapping me up in his arms with a kiss to my forehead. We stayed tangled up like that for a long time, neither of us talking, just sharing warmth, skin, silence. A kind of quiet I hadn’t known I needed until I had it. The kind that said, this is safe. This is yours.

And when we finally stilled beneath the covers, his arms tightened around me as he let his eyes close. It felt like he was holding onto more than just my body — we were carving out space for each other between fear and trust, between what he’d survived and what we were building now. And maybe he hadn’t remembered how to feel this kind of intimacy before — but here, in the hush of the dark, it felt like he was trying.

—

He picked me up at 6:30pm sharp on Thursday in a dusty old Volvo that looked like it had survived multiple timelines and maybe a few natural disasters. I loved it instantly.

I was locking my apartment door when I saw it idle at the curb through the window, a boxy relic with dull blue paint and mismatched hubcaps. Of course this was his car. Of course it smelled faintly like books and peppermint and had a crumpled copy of Scientific American wedged between the passenger seat and the center console.

“You ready?” he asked through the open window, smiling. I sucked in a sharp breath when I noticed he was wearing glasses I hadn’t seen him in before. God, did that man look good in glasses.

I nodded and climbed in. “This thing still runs?”

He scoffed, mock-offended. “Runs brilliantly. It’s a classic.”

“It’s a heap, Spence.” Spence. I’d never called him that before. It just slipped out, and it tasted good when it did.

“It’s a heap with soul,” he countered, pulling into traffic. He didn’t seem to acknowledge the nickname, but I noticed his cheeks blush a little bit. He settled his right palm against the warm skin of my thigh, filling the space above my knee but below the hem of my skirt.

The Smithsonian Planetarium was quiet by the time we got there — just a handful of couples and tourists milling around the lobby, murmuring over ticket stubs and constellation maps. Spencer whispered trivia in my ear while we waited for the doors to open, soft things like, “The light we’re seeing tonight left those stars before Shakespeare was born,” and “That one’s called the Winter Hexagon — six stars, all tied together.”

He was giddy in that understated, Spencer way — rambling facts under his breath and pushing his glasses up his nose with two fingers every time they slipped. I couldn’t stop smiling.

Once the doors opened and we settled in our seats inside, a comfortable silence fell between us. The lights dimmed so slowly I barely noticed it happening — first the dome above us went navy, then charcoal, then a black so deep it made me feel like I was floating. And then the stars came.

Thousands of them, blooming across the ceiling like a slow explosion — faint pinpricks at first, then constellations, galaxies, supernovas flaring to life as the narrator began to speak.

Soft music hummed in the background — a playlist full of Max Richter, Ólafur Arnalds, one movement of Spiegel im Spiegel sliding into a mournful cello piece that made the back of my eyes sting.

He leaned over, his breath warm against my ear. “That one,” he whispered, pointing up as a spiral galaxy rotated above us, “is Messier 51 — the Whirlpool Galaxy. It’s interacting with a smaller galaxy, which is slowly being absorbed. It’s been happening for millions of years.”

“So they’re crashing into each other?”

“Kind of. More like merging. It’s violent, but also… inevitable. They’ll become one galaxy eventually.”

“You’re making this sound romantic.”

He glanced at me, his crooked smile just barely visible in the dark. “A little destruction is romantic, sometimes.”

I swallowed hard and looked back up at the dome. The narrator was talking about stardust now — about how every element in our bodies was forged in the cores of long-dead stars, scattered by ancient explosions. “The calcium in your teeth,” she said, “the iron in your blood — all of it began in the heart of a dying star.”

“That always gets me,” Spencer whispered. “Stardust. It sounds cheesy, but it’s real. Every single atom in your body came from something ancient and violent.”

“Explains a lot about me,” I murmured.

He laughed softly. “You’re made of much better star stuff than you give yourself credit for.”

The stars kept moving. We drifted past Orion, past the Pleiades. Spencer leaned close again. “You know the story behind Andromeda?”

I shook my head.

“She was chained to a rock as a sacrifice, because her mother bragged she was more beautiful than the sea nymphs. So the gods demanded a punishment. But Perseus shows up, slays the sea monster, and saves her.”

“That’s awful,” I said. “And also… kind of hot.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Slaying a monster to save someone?”

“No,” I smirked. “The part where she’s chained to a rock,” I deadpanned, joking.

He choked on his own muted laughter and quickly looked around, half-convinced someone had overheard.

“I’m kidding,” I whispered, nudging his thigh with mine.

His hand found mine again in the dark, fingers interlacing gently but with that same thread of electricity running through it. Something sparking between us that no supernova could outshine.

Afterward, we walked slowly back to his car, and he didn’t let go. Not even when we passed a group of teenagers huddled around the fountain, or when I made a joke about him being the only man alive who would get teary-eyed over a projected simulation of Saturn’s rings.

“It’s the Cassini Division,” he said, feigning indignance. “It’s iconic.”

“Your brain is iconic,” I teased, bumping his shoulder.

He blushed down to his collar.

We ended up at the diner he’d mentioned in the infirmary — the one with chipped mugs and a neon clock on the wall, the kind of place that smelled like coffee creamer and buttered toast and hadn’t changed its menu since 1977. We each ordered pie: I got cherry; he got apple.

“You’ve got some whipped cream on your lip,” I giggled after a few bites.

He licked the wrong side.

“No, other side—” I leaned forward across the table and wiped it with my thumb. “You’re a disaster.”

“A disaster with excellent taste in desserts,” he corrected.

“Debatable.”

“Please. I did research. I picked this place based on data.”

“Oh my god, you ran an analysis on pie, didn’t you?”

“I did,” he said, completely serious. “And this one scored highest in texture, balance of sweetness, and mouthfeel.”

I cringed. “You just said mouthfeel in public. I hope you know I can never un-hear that.”

He laughed, full and genuine, and I thought to myself: god, I’m so screwed. Because somewhere between the stars and the whipped cream and the hand-holding in the dark, I realized I was falling. Not crashing. Not spiraling. Not in the violent way two galaxies merge. Just… falling. Falling for every part of him, every side he’d given me the privilege of seeing.

His palm found my thigh again on the drive home. Something about the energy in his car felt charged, and at one point, I caught him staring at me when he hadn’t realized the traffic light had turned green and a BMW behind us honked.

Once we got back to his apartment, the air shifted the second the door closed behind us. I’m not sure if his hands were on me first or the other way around, but however it happened, I was grateful.

We barely made it to the couch without stumbling into something. His hands found my hips and I pulled him in by the collar of his shirt, kissing him with a low, smoldering urgency I’d been sitting on since his lips brushed my ear in the planetarium. He responded just as hungrily — no hesitation, no nerves, just Spencer, warm and wanting, mouth on mine like he was starving for it. It felt like I could see his walls crumbling before my eyes.

I straddled him, settling into his lap on the couch like I belonged there, and he moaned low in his throat like he agreed. His hands gripped my hips, pulling me down harder against him, and I could feel him already through his pants — hard, insistent, twitching under me every time I rolled my hips.

“Fuck—”

“Do you want me to stop?” I asked, pausing my movements.

“No” he breathed. “God, no, I don’t want you to stop.”

We kissed deeper, rougher. I untucked his crisp buttoned shirt and let my hands slide up his skin underneath it, mapping his ribs, the slope of his chest. He gasped when I pinched his nipple playfully. “Sensitive, huh?”

“Apparently,” he chuckled.

His hands weren’t idle either — one sliding up my spine under my shirt and over my bra, the other gripping my ass with real purpose. I let him touch me like that — unselfconsciously, eagerly — because I wanted to be wanted like this. By him.

I rocked against him again, slower this time, and his head fell back against the cushions. “You’re going to kill me,” he said, eyes fluttering closed.

I kissed the side of his neck. “Not yet.”

He opened his eyes again, dazed but focused, as his fingers drifted under the lace covering my breasts. “Can I?” he whispered, already thumbing lightly at the fabric.

I nodded an immediate yes, and he tugged my shirt up over my head and then the bra down just enough to bare me to the room. He looked at me for a moment — really looked, like I was the most beautiful, bewildering thing he’d ever seen. I felt that look low in my belly and behind my ribs for hours after the fact.

His hands on my breasts were warm, gentle, reverent. Then his mouth followed.

He licked, kissed, sucked — slow and focused — like he was solving a riddle, unlocking pieces of a puzzle one by one. I was panting by the time he switched sides, tugging his hair, grinding down on him because I couldn’t help it.

When I reached between us and undid his belt, unzipping him, he didn’t stop me. Just let his head fall back again and hissed through his teeth when I palmed him through his briefs.

“You’re so hard,” I whispered. “Is this all from the stars, or me?”

He looked at me with a half-smile, eyes blown wide. “You.”

“Good answer,” I giggled.

I tugged at the waistband just enough to slip my hand inside. He was warm, heavy, and twitching under my palm as I started to stroke him properly. He bucked up against my palm, one hand clutching my hip now, the other digging into the couch cushion like he was trying desperately to hold onto something real.

When he slipped a hand down the front of my panties under my skirt, I gasped — not from surprise, but from how confident he was about it. It felt like he’d been imagining this for weeks. Practicing it in his mind, going over it in his head frame by frame.

“You’re soaked,” he whispered, fingers sliding between my folds.

He lifted me off his lap and laid me down on the couch, settling between my thighs as he pressed soft kisses down my body. The second his tongue touched me over my panties, I arched. He locked his fingers around the waistband and pulled the fabric down, kissing my inner thighs as he did, and once they were off, he looked up at me. I tangled a hand in his hair and took a steadying breath, offering silent permission for him to continue.

His mouth met my center without hesitation, and he licked with the kind of precision I should’ve expected from him — methodical, slow strokes that built pressure, then faster ones that made my thighs tremble. His hands gripped my hips hard, keeping me right where he wanted me.

“Fuck, Spencer,” I whined, tugging on his hair, breath catching, thighs tightening around his shoulders.

He moaned into me like he liked the way I sounded, like he wanted me loud. It only made it better — vibration deep and indulgent as he worked me harder, faster, then slowed again just to tease me. The kind of rhythm that bordered on cruelty. By the third time he worked me up, I was writhing.

“I’m close,” I warned, voice tight.

“Come for me,” he murmured against me, voice ruined. “Please.”

He wrapped is lips around my clit and I came with a cry that I couldn’t stifle, hips jerking, thighs clamped tight around his face as he worked me through it — greedy and gentle, like he didn’t want to stop, like he was still starved for my taste. One of his hands left my hip to tangle his fingers with mine as if to say I’m here, I’ve got you.

I was still catching my breath when I pulled him up to kiss me. He hesitated for a second, maybe out of courtesy, but I didn’t care. I wanted to taste myself on his lips. I needed tangible evidence that I hadn’t just imagined that entire experience.

“You’re perfect,” I murmured against his mouth. I didn’t give him a chance to answer — just shoved his boxers down the rest of the way and dropped to my knees on the carpet in front of him.

I looked up at him, asking with my eyes if I could keep going, and he took a shaky breath, nodding. He made a strangled sound the second I wrapped my hand around him, and a louder one when my mouth followed. His hands immediately gathered my hair out of my face and held it against the back of my head.

“Oh, fuck, baby—”

Baby. He’d never used any nickname or pet name for me before, let alone something as intimate as baby. I hummed around him in response.

I took him in slow at first, then deeper — flattening my tongue, hollowing my cheeks, working my hand where my mouth couldn’t reach. He was already so hard, leaking, twitching against my tongue. I moaned around him just to feel him pulse in response, and continued my ministrations with enthusiasm.

“You’re gonna make me—” One of his hands left my hair and hit the back of the couch, grasping blindly. “Jesus, you’re gonna make me come.”

“Good,” I whispered, pulling off just enough to meet his eyes, stroking him with my fingers. “I want to feel you.”

He grabbed my hair again, not rough — just holding on like he needed something to ground him — and I took him back into my mouth, fast and focused. I let his cock hit the back of my throat, eliciting a soft gag, and he groaned, deep and rumbly.

He came with a shudder and a broken gasp of my name, hips stuttering, fingers tightening in my hair as he spilled down my throat. I didn’t release him until he was gasping for breath, the sharp edge of his orgasm dissolving into something loose and messy and soft.

When I crawled back up to sit beside him, we didn’t talk right away. He pulled me close, kissed the side of my face, my shoulder, my temple. Eventually, I tucked my head against his chest and listened to his heartbeat slow.

“You’re unbelievable,” he murmured, still dazed.

I smiled into his skin. “You’re not so bad yourself.”

His hand slid slowly up my spine, fingertips trailing along my neck like he never wanted to stop touching me.

We just stayed like that for a while — tangled, flushed, quiet — the air thick with everything we weren’t saying, and everything we already knew:

That this was becoming something. That the flirtation that started in the prison infirmary wasn’t just flirtation. That we fit together, both in the way my body curled into his and in the way our lives had started to intersect and weave into one.

He looked at me like I was already his, and it scared the hell out of me — not because I didn’t want to be, but because I really, really did. I just hadn’t actually voiced that desire yet, and neither had he. It felt too big, too important, too fragile. He was still trying to re-enter society without breaking, and I was still finding my footing beside him.

Eventually, we made it to his bed, and he helped me dress in yet another one of his soft, worn t-shirts. We brushed our teeth side by side, and when he pulled me into him under the covers, I could’ve sworn my heart literally skipped a beat.

I was halfway asleep when I felt his lips brush my shoulder.

“I’m really glad you came with me tonight,” he said softly.

I turned my head back to look at him and smiled. “I’m really glad you asked. Best first date I’ve ever had,” I murmured back. His hand found mine beneath the blanket.

And as we drifted off together, the stars we’d watched earlier — the ones that had burned for centuries before humans ever noticed them — somehow felt a little less far away.

ᝰ.ᐟ

part v

[sturniolohohoho]

✮ I can't walk ✮ sub!matt x reader ✮

in which you guys both can't walk anymore <3

cw: p in v, humiliation, orgasm denial, squirting, DRY HUMPING MY FAV, freaky ahhhh

wc: 1.4k

You wake up to him shifting in bed beside you. Soft sunlight shines on your face as you slowly open your eyes to a conscious Matt. His arms are wrapped around your neck as you face each other. You yawn and bury your head in his chest, and he responds with a quiet groan.

His body is pressing gently against yours and you can feel his chest rise and fall beneath you, steady and slow. His fingers trail lightly across your skin, teasing the nape of your neck with a soft caress that sends a shiver down your spine.

"Good morning," you murmur, the words barely escaping your lips as you smile into his skin.

Matt's reply is a soft hum of approval, a slight shift as he tilts his head, his lips brushing lightly against your neck. His kiss is tender, the sensation warm and lingering. The feel of his lips against your skin sends a wave of warmth rushing through you, making your heartbeat a little faster.

“I need you,” Matt murmurs, his voice low and filled with a quiet hunger. 

The sound of his words sends a thrill through you. “Mmm. Baby it’s early m’not even awake.” His hands move to the back of your neck, fingers threading into your hair, and you feel his breath hitch as his lips brush your earlobe.

"Please," he repeats, his voice shaky now, pleading. "I need you so much. Don’t make me wait." You try turning away but he just brings you closer, pressing his clothed bulge against you. He moves slowly against you, breath hitching. 

Sitting up, you turn him over and sit on his thighs. “You’re so needy this morning, aren’t you?” He doesn’t respond, whining and bucking his hips up into yours to try and get some friction. You place a hand on his lower abdomen. Slowly, you trace your hand along the border of his dick, rubbing it ever so slightly. He sucks in a breath as you slowly stroke him through the fabric.

“Keep still, Matt.” You lean down and press kisses all along his jawline and neck, suckling little red marks into his skin. He lets out small pants as you slowly rub your clothed cunt against his bulge. Moving down, you nibble on his collar bone and swirl your tongue around his nipple as you simultaneously tug on his hair slightly. His hands grip your ass and force you down more, desperate for some more friction.

“P-please, more,” he whines, thrusting up into you. You chuckle and oblige, pressing down a little harder. Your hands move up his chest and one goes to his face, cupping the side of his cheek. His cheeks are pink and flushed, his messy hair sticking to his face, and lips slightly puffy– it’s really a sight to see.

“M- m’not lasting long,” he says between pants, hands roaming all over you and you grind down harder.

“In your pants? That’s pathetic,” you whisper in his ear. He practically moans, hips bucking up into yours.

“I-i please,” he whimpers, unable to look you in the eyes. You grab his jaw roughly, turning it towards you. His eyes look and focus on you, fucked out and hazy.

“Fucking look at me Matthew,” you command, keeping his head in place. He averts his eyes, whining.

“I-  I can’t I’ll c- cum,” he stutters, hips thrusting up into yours subconsciously. “T-that’s embarrassing.” His words go straight to your core as you feel yourself getting wetter and wetter. 

“Hold it and look at me,” you hiss, grinding down harder. He lets out a loud moan, finally making eye contact with you. You can feel his legs strain around you and his hands tighten on your ass as he tries holding his upcoming climax.

“Y/n p-please I need to cum,” he says, eyes rolling to the back of this head. You decide that he’s been holding it long enough– besides, he had much more to go.

“You can come baby,” you say, grinding down extra hard. As soon as the words leave your mouth he explodes, hips and legs juddering up. He lets out a string of pathetic whines, hands flying up to pull your hair. He gasps, mouth parted and sweat covering his face.

He just pants for a few moments as you give him a break. Right after, you continue grinding on him, chasing your own high. He gasps, whining.

“N-no i’m overstimulated,“ he cried, legs shaking. You ignore his pleas and keep going, knowing you have a safe word. His moans grow louder and louder, and he’s making too much noise for a quiet house in the morning. With a smirk, you slip your index finger into his parted mouth. He doesn’t even react at first, then wraps his lips around it, muffling his cries.

You grind down on that wet patch on his pants harder, frustrated, but it’s just not enough friction– Matt on the other hand is already fully hard again. With a groan, you get off of him for a second, taking your finger out of his mouth. He whines at the loss of contact, pushing his ups to try and meet yours again. 

“N-no, please,” you shush him and reach for the band of his sweatpants, pulling them and his boxers down at the same time. Matt gasps at the contact, his leaking and angry red tip springing out. He looks up at you, desperate again for a second climax. You take your own pyjama pants off, revealing your soaked core, thighs slick with arousal.

You swing a leg back on top over his body, kneeling and lining yourself up with him. Holding the base of his dick lets out a little hiss. You rub his tip teasingly around your entrance, and he throws his head back in agony, but he knows better than to say anything.

Slowly, you sink down on him, taking it inch by inch. It goes in smoothly, but he’s still so incredibly thick, stretching your walls out so deliciously as you let out a loud whimper in harmony with him. As you finally bottom out, you wiggle your hips around to get comfortable.  Matt looks so fucked out, letting out little pants. 

Just to fuck with him, you clench your walls around his dick as hard as you can. Hands and hips flying up, his eyes widen and he chokes on his spit. You laugh, but you’re pretty much in the same state as him– desperate for more friction.

“Y/n– ride me– please, this is t-too much.” You nod, equally needy, and lift yourself up, dropping down with a loud squelch. He lets out a guttural moan as you feel his cock twitch and grow more inside you– if that was even possible at this point.

At this point Matt is done for control-wise. He grabs your hips harshly and plunges himself back deep inside you, hitting your g-spot perfectly. You practically scream in pleasure, back arching and hands flying to his shoulders for support. Without stop, he keeps going at a diabolical pace, the sound of skin slapping on skin filling the room.

His tip slams fucking perfectly on on your g-spot every thrust, and you’re not even able to warn him as your climax approaches, your body too limp and your mouth wide open. Suddenly, your whole body seizes and clenches around his dick, letting out a squirt of arousal from inside, coating his dick. You cry out as your orgasm overtakes you, your vision going temporarily. Your slick fluids leak out as he buries himself inside you one final time, with a yell and shoots his seed into you.

You’re completely limp on top of him, letting out pants from the little aftershocks that are still causing you to clench down on him slightly. He’s just a whimpering mess, cock still embedded into you, your pussy still milking him. 

After a solid minute of breathing, Matt strokes your head and back, murmuring sweet nothings into the crook of your neck. Carefully, you pull yourself off of him, everything sensitive and sore. The rest of the mix of your fluids practically spill out of you, and he lets out a loud moan at the sight. You can tell he’s about to use his finger to push his cum back into you and you slap his hand away.

“No fucking way, Matt. I don’t even think I can walk.” he chuckles and pushes his sticky hair back.

“Y-yeah, me neither.”

a/n: ummmmmmmmmmmmm freaky ahhh

taglist-

@sturniolosrtewsexy @sturnbrooke @emely9274 @babytomatoes21 @arianna1342 @gemzyy @namelesssav @chestersturn @ellieluvssturniolos @tits4matt @vanteguccir @luke8989 @matt-sturnioloo @glee2skkii @riggysworld @sturnslux3

yall idk how taglists work, so if you got tagged here but you only wanted to be on the taglist for my series, just lmk and i can create a separate list, but rn I only have one big list!!!!

dividers by @enchanthings 

[ordinary-barbie]

but i feel something when i see you now.

tags: friends with benefits, references to death, rafe is anxious, some sexual references but nothing graphic, mentions of aftercare, angst followed by tenderness, author finds a way to shoehorn love island in yet again

summary: You and Rafe have the perfect friends-with-benefits situation. No feelings, just fun. But one night, everything shifts.

note: title from "icu" by Phoebe Bridgers!

Something felt...different about Rafe tonight.

The two of you had fallen into a comfortable routine. You'd come over to his place (or sometimes yours, but you preferred his "bougie high thread count sheets"), you and he would shoot the shit or play Mario Kart together, and then fuck. He'd take care of you afterward, and then you'd just joke around for a bit before you left. When you and Rafe had first started hooking up, you'd both been fresh off of breakups—you with your high school sweetheart and Rafe with the girl he'd been dating since junior year of college—and had quickly agreed to a no-strings-attached arrangement. It was fun, casual, and easy, just the way both of you liked it.

Tonight started off normally. You and Rafe caught up on the latest season of Love Island US, pausing the show after a few episodes to make out. But the sex tonight was different—way more intimate than usual. Rafe kept staring deeply into your eyes, holding you like you were some priceless artifact.

After Rafe did his usual round of aftercare—cleaning you up with a warm towel, getting you a cold bottle of water from the fridge, and insisting you pee afterwards—he buried his head in the side of your neck, inhaling your scent. "Stay with me tonight," he mumbled into your skin, leaving featherlight kisses along your collarbone.

"What's gotten into you tonight?" you joked. "You're not usually this...clingy."

Rafe suddenly grew quiet. "I—It's nothing," he mumbled.

You raised an eyebrow. "It's not nothing. I can tell something's on your mind. So spill."

"You're gonna laugh at me," he said, looking away from you.

You tenderly grabbed his face, turning it so the two of you were looking face-to-face again. "Rafe Cameron. We've known each other since college. You've told me things you've never told anyone else, not even Topper and Kelce. I promise I won't judge you for whatever you have to say."

Rafe sighed, running a hand through his hair—a surefire tell that he was feeling anxious. You squeezed his hand comfortingly, trying to help ground him.

"I had a dream about you last night," Rafe began, his voice shaking. "Actually, it was a nightmare. You and I were at the beach, and...you died. I saw the ocean waves take you away. And I couldn't do anything—it was like the sand was keeping me there. I was stuck." He was trembling as he recounted his nightmare, prompting you to wrap your arms around him and give him the deepest hug.

"I don't want to lose you. I can't," Rafe said, on the verge of tears.

You rubbed Rafe's back soothingly, your heart absolutely aching for him. Ironically, you'd really grown to care for him after becoming fuckbuddies. Before then, the two of you weren't close; you were only tangentially linked through mutual friends. But then you came to realize that Rafe Cameron was a person, who laughed at your dumb jokes and cared about his sisters and worked too hard.

And the sex was great—of course it was, this was Rafe—but sometimes, in the afterglow, you allowed yourself to wonder about something more. The thought scared you a little, so you quickly snuffed it out, convincing yourself that you were fine with this arrangement, and so was Rafe. No need to shake things up when everything felt so comfortable and familiar, right?

"I'll stay as long as you want me to," you assured Rafe, lifting up his hand and kissing his knuckles.

Rafe smiled gratefully before getting up and finding you an old UNC Tar Heels t-shirt to sleep in. You shyly asked if he had any mouthwash, and Rafe made a mental note to have a spare toothbrush waiting for you whenever you stayed over again. (He should probably keep one at your place, too. You know, equality and all that.)

In the light of day, you knew that you and Rafe would have to look at your entanglement and make some decisions about the state of your relationship. It was clear that this wasn't some casual fling anymore—both of you felt too much for that. But for now, Rafe was content to hold you close, and you happily leaned into his touch.

[raylynnn]

~Brothers best friend~

⚠️: Getting caught by you brother with his best friend

⚠️; make-outs, hair pulling, oral F&M, fingering, hand jobs, pet names, dirty talk

You couldn’t help yourself. Too much was expected of you you were just a little 16 year old girl with needs. Who’s needs had been ignored for too long. You were just trying to take care of this “needs” on your own with you favorite toy. Your toes curled, back arched, eyes squinted and your knuckles white from gripping the sheets as you held the toy over your sore clit.

And of course..like Katsuki always does. He ruins everything he ruins all the fun.

Like usual, katsuki would just walk in the house. No knock, no call or text, but him and your brother had been friends for so long no one cared. He walked waiting downstairs for your brother when he got a text from your brother saying “hey I’m not at the house yet, wait for me there I’m stuck in traffic” katsuki rolled his eyes and put his phone away, waiting for your brother. Almost every other day they would come over and head to the gym together. It was their thing. But how was katsuki supposed to focus on that when all he could hear was your endless moans and cry’s.

All he could hear from downstairs was you talking to yourself , edging yourself on with your own words. Katsuki thought about it and he denied himself but the tent in his pants kept saying otherwise. Fuck it. He came upstairs and opened the door no knock, co call or text. He walked in too see you completely blissed out the toy used with so much aggression and you plowed it into your tight little hole.

“Having fun princess~” katsuki mocked. Your eyes nearly busted out of your head as you scrambled to cover up. “Katsuki!” You shouted, but he didn’t listen.

That’s how you ended up here.

With his face burried between your soft plush thighs, nipping at your clit while dragging his fingers up your soaked slit. “All the for me..huh?” He said pushing his face impossibly closer to your heat. He dipped his tongue into your repeatly trying his best to rile you up. “S-suki! Please!” You begged hoping he’d give in already. Instead of giving into your pathetic please..he added 2 fingers dipping them into your soaked cunt prodding at your hole before soon pounding his digits into you with no mercy.

You were whining and crying, begging even. You just a pathetic slutty mess, falling apart in-front of him like this. But finally you started to get close, you started to feel that thing string of patience and frustration snap on its last thread, waiting for that damn to burst and-

But no. He stopped and looked up at you with a shit eating grin as he pulled his fingers out, bringing them to his lips before unzipping his pants taking down his boxers before taking hold of his cock. He slapped it against your thigh once or twice before lining up with your sore twitching hole. “Aww, is somone excited..you sure you can take me sweets?” He mocked taking ahold of your jaw with his free hand forcing you to look at him. “I need an answer sweets..” he said through gritted teeth. You nodded your head quickly so eager to get your little pussy rammed.

“Y-yes please..p-please I can t-take it..” you pleaded. He smirked before lining up with your entrance. He slowly pushed in letting out a sigh of relief. “Yes..f-fuck..” he groaned. “God..such a perfect pussy” he started at a slow pace but that didn’t last long before he had you face in the pillow, ass in the air creaming all over his cock. He was plowing into you like a stupid slut. And he had no problem saying it out loud. “God..look at you. Your fucking p-pathetic..twitching and leaking all over my dick..man what would your brother say if he saw you getting dicked down like this..” he tortured using that sexy sultry tone as he fucked you like a dog.

He slapped your ass..hard. “Keep that ass up or I’ll stuff it full too..do you understand slut?” You nodded frantically, arching your back like a cat once again. “Good girl..sorry baby don’t mean to be so mean..” he said rubbing over the red mark on your ass. “Just want to make this pretty pussy flutter around thinking about me..yea I’m the only one who makes you feel this good.” He said grabbing onto the fat of your hips rutting into you as if you were some toy. “Ain’t that right baby..yea your just a stupid cumslut..nothing good for other than just a cum dump..right slut?” Your eyes rolled back and your mouth hung open, he was right you were just a cock hungry whore. Nothing behind those eyes other than the thought of getting your guts fucked.

“Just..j-just a stupid cum slut..” you muttered out gripping the sheets so tight your knuckles turning pale.. “atta girl..catching o-on arnt we..?” His hips stuttered and his thrusts became sloppy, your core started to ache and the boil in your tummy became overwhelming. “B-baby!! G-gonna gonna c-cum!” You stuttered out babbling on about how good he made you feel. “God..good fucking girl..stupid bitch..cum f-for me..c-cum c-cum on this c-cock..b-baby..” he said thrusting his hot sticky load into you. “FUCK!” He groaned. Your hips shook but this one felt weird oh fuck..no don’t tell me- “plzplzplzplz.. Katsuki!” You screamed, clear fluid spraying from your cunt like a faucet. He pulled out quickly, rubbing over your pussy with the pads of his fingers quickly, extracting all the sweet nectar from your abused cunt.

As he finished dumping his load into you that’s when you heard your door open. “Hey sis, you seen Bak-“ before his eyes laid on katsuki sat on his knees infront of you sprawled out with him pushing your legs up by your ears as he slapped your cunt over the soaked bed sheets from your release. “Good fucking girl..” he muttered under his breath before you both locked eyes with your brother. Katsuki’s eyes suddenly went shocked as he closed your legs lmeditly , basically jumping into his pants.

Your brother looked at katsuki..horrified before he muttered. “You..and him..m-my sister! Jesus chr-“ he lectured slapping his forehead before he pinched the bridge of his nose before he spoke.. “10..9..8..” Bakugo and you locked eyes before questioning your brother. “Um..what are you doing? You questioned as you tried to cover up. “Counting down katsuki 10 second head start before I fucking kill him..” he said with narrowed eyes. Bakugos eyes widened before he grabbed his shirt. Before he rushed out he took your jaw into his hands before passionately kissing you, tongue and everything.

“Call me sweets..” he said before booking it out the door leaving your legs a twitchy, trembling mess.

“3..2..1..Your dead Katsuki..”

[raziele]

thinking about the bad kids slowly dying off, one by one.

thinking about them carrying the ashes of their fallen to the next funeral, and the next, till its adaine sitting on a pew alone with all her friends ashes, sobbing, realizing she is alone, she will be alone, that they're never coming back.

thinking about adaine, numb after the years, with tokens of her friends in her pockets.

kristen's hair ties: sometimes adaine washes her hair with shampoo that smells like she did, puts on her old tye-dyed t-shirts.

riz' necktie, it's threads coming unraveled at the worn edges. it used to smell like his cologne.

gorgug's playlists still comfort her, the uncompromising, screaming, yet somehow gorgeous music blasting. it drowns out all the years spent without him, takes her right back to the day they went to basrar's for the first time.

fig's guitar sits in her room. adaine tries to learn how to play, hears the echo of figs laugh through the strings. she takes up smoking cloves.

fabian left adaine all his gold jewelry, and she keeps a strip of his old battle sheet in her pocket. the elves in kai lumenera welcome her with open arms every few decades, the trees swaying with the memory of fabian's dancing, his lilting voice still carried in the wind.

"the bad kids," and yet, everything they had was so good: still, all lovely things must come to an end.

before adaine lays down for the last time, she pulls on an old IDK tee, now-long hair tied up just how kristen used to. it doesn't match, but she still ties riz' gregorian necktie, just slightly too tight. she's rusty, now— riz had her tie his tie once, but that was so long ago now. she puts in earrings, clasps a necklace, decorates her long, elven fingers with sparkling diamond rings. she plays an old, old song on bass. it's harsh, unforgiving metal, but beautiful and melodic to her ears.

thinking about their inherent tragedy.

aelwyn takes everyone else's ashes to the last funeral.

[loveandmurders]

Red string and crimson hands (poly!Sinclair brothers x f!reader) - Part I

Hi everyone, I'm posting the first part of a new series requested by @mrstargayen09

The request: "In a world where soulmates are connected by an invisible red string, Y/N has always seen hers—threading through city streets, weaving between strangers, leading her toward someone she has never met. She’s always dreamed of a soft, fairy-tale romance, but fate has other plans. One rainy night, she finally follows the string to an abandoned house on the outskirts of town. Inside, she finds the Sinclair brothers again, mysterious and beautiful men with intense eyes and blood-stained hands. The string ties them together, but the sight before her freezes her heart—each of them is kneeling beside a lifeless body, fresh blood pooling beneath them. They look at her, fear flashing across their face. Y/N should run. She should scream. But instead, she steps closer. Something about them—about the way their string glows brighter, about the sorrow in their eyes—tells her there’s more to the story than just a crime. As they grow closer, Y/N learns the truth: the Sinclair brothers aren’t murderers by choice. They've been cursed, bound to take lives in exchange for their own survival and the continuation of their legacy. The weight of their actions has nearly crushed them—until she arrived, the one person who could rewrite their fate. But can love really bloom when their hands are stained with blood? Or will fate demand its price, tearing them apart just as they’ve finally found each other?

Back story: They're childhood friends and Y/N thought they stopped the killing after Trudy and Dr Sinclair died."

Warnings: no proof reading, reader wakes up at the hospital, amnesia, mentions of pain, panic, sadness, despair, blood, killers

When you opened your eyes, white was the first thing greeting you back to the world of the living.

But it was so bright, it made you wince in pain, and you unconsciously brought your hand over your face to protect yourself. For a brief instant, you thought that darkness was much nicer.

After a little while, you found the strength to blink your eyes open again; your survival instinct was probably kicking in and trying very hard to make sure you were in a safe place. It was funny in a way, because you didn’t remember being in danger before, and if you had been more attentive, you would have wondered where that thought came from. As you opened your eyes, your attention didn’t land on the room around you, but on the first colour greeting you back to reality: red. 

But unlike the brightness that seemed to completely engulf you, red was in the form of a string dancing in the air, like a playful friend waiting to be followed. You didn’t understand what it was; it seemed so unreal. You wondered if you were dreaming. That was until a doctor arrived next to your bed. She called your name once or twice before you finally looked up at her. You quickly glanced around you, and understood you were at the hospital. Your body fully woke up as pain made its presence known. You tried not to groan but you were getting physically uncomfortable. It even made you forget about the red string waving at you.

“How are you feeling?” the doctor asked

You wanted to reply but you struggled to talk and frowned in worry. She shushed you, trying to appease you. You eventually managed to creak out a “What happened?”

“You don’t remember? You had a bad bike accident. But you got very lucky, with just a few broken ribs and a head trauma. We just need to make sure that no other kind of damage happened.” she explained to you and you tried to remember the accident, but your memory seemed hazy. 

“My parents…” you whispered and she nodded

“We found your wallet, and called them right away. I need you to rest some more before I let them come and see you, okay?” she replied

You wanted to see them right away, but actually your eyelids were already heavy. She gave you some painkillers, and with the relief of the pain leaving your body, you fell asleep almost instantly. 

When you woke up again, you were in pain once more, but you felt more awake this time. You managed to talk almost normally too. The doctor came back and sat in front of you. She started to test your capacity to control your body, while keeping you in bed. And then she asked you questions about your past. 

You quickly realised that a lot of it was gone.

You remembered your name, your parents names, who was the president and other things directly linked to the present or to usual knowledge (you still knew how to read and write for instance), but you had massive black holes in your memory. For example, you didn’t remember the city you were born in.

It was making you panic. You needed to remember your past, you needed to remember all of this, otherwise how would you know who you were? The doctor appeased you once again, she understood it was frightening, but she was hopeful. You were doing well otherwise, and it wasn’t uncommon for an accident like that to alter the memory temporarily. She was certain it would come back to you very soon.

She finally agreed for your parents to visit you. You were so happy to see them and you started to cry. The shock of everything was hitting you hard as they tenderly hugged you, trying to calm you down.

“It’s alright, baby, you’re fine” your mother whispered to you and you nodded, the tears were slowly stopping.

When you told them you didn’t remember your past, your parents exchanged a look.

“You mean you don’t remember Ambrose?” your father asked and you nodded, even if the name seemed vaguely familiar.

“Maybe that accident is a miracle then” your mother murmured and your eyes widened at such words “No, I mean… I’m so sorry you’re in pain and you have no idea how terrified your father and I were when we got called by the hospital but… Ambrose is… a bad place with a lot of bad people, and it’s for the best if you don’t have to remember it anymore. Trust me, it’ll make things a lot simpler” your mother explained and you tried to believe her.

All the time you spent at the hospital, you had only two things in mind: the name of Ambrose and the red string. One night, you had asked about it to your parents, because you knew you could trust them.

“Oh so you can still see it?” your mother hummed

“In your mother’s family, one person per generation can see the string attaching them to their soulmates” your father explained “and in this generation, it’s you. You’ve always been able to see it, since the moment you were born.”

“And I didn’t follow it?” you asked

Your parents stayed silent for a little moment.

“Sometimes soulmates aren’t a good thing” your mother finally replied

“I don’t understand” you replied “if the string…” you started but your parents cut you off

“Please, baby, promise me you won’t try and follow it.” she begged you and you looked up at your father, trying to understand

“Your mother is right… There is a reason why your soulmates aren’t there by your side” your father added

“Soulmates? Plural?” you frowned “Wait you know who they are?!” you exclaimed

“Yes, unfortunately. You grew up all together. And you always said the red strings were attaching you all. And we always hoped it wasn’t true. When you got old enough to understand what it was, we couldn’t deny that they were your soulmates. But they are bad people. Their parents were dangerous, and those children…” your mother said

“A family of monsters.” your father ended

“They live in Ambrose?” you asked

“Lived. We don’t know now, and it doesn’t matter, because when we left, you agreed it was for the best. Awful things happened, and that is why we’re so happy you don’t remember any of it. You don’t have to bear this burden anymore” you mother continued

“You just need to never follow the red string, to actually stay far away from it, and everything will be alright. We know that sometimes you feel sad over the loss of your soulmates, but now you are free from that feeling.” your father added, quite hopeful it would be a new start for you.

Sadness.

Yes, that was definitively what you were feeling as you were quietly watching the red string. You didn’t remember your soulmates, but your heart definitely remembered them and what was forever gone.

From what your parents told you, you had been away from your soulmates for over a decade. You couldn’t imagine how terrible it must have been for yourself: knowing you had soulmates, knowing them, knowing where they were, knowing how to easily find them, and yet deciding to stay away from them. Your father had to be right, they had to be monsters or you wouldn’t have been able to stay away from them.

You didn’t realise tears were cascading down your face, until a nurse came to check on you and worriedly asked you if you were alright. You gently shook your head and tried to smile at him. 

It wasn’t just sadness.

It was as if something was missing. It was a hole inside your chest. It was such a cruel and violent desire that you couldn’t satisfy, and it burning you from the inside. You knew that curiosity killed the cat, and with everything your parents told you, you couldn’t have a look at Ambrose or at the end of the red string. It was too dangerous.

You needed to take the chance that you were granting, you needed to move on and to forget about the red string. Maybe that if you were focusing on other things, you could pretend it didn’t exist.

In a way, it was indeed easier, because you didn’t know what you were missing. Or at least, you knew that what was missing was actually something toxic for you and it was better to not have it in your life. You didn’t have any kind of tender memories with those people that would haunt you at night. You even tried to convince yourself that your soulmates weren’t loving or caring about you that much, otherwise they wouldn’t have let you go or they would have found their way back to you. If over a decade, they hadn’t been able to do so, it meant that you didn’t matter that much.

Yes, it was alright, you didn't want something you didn’t know anyways. It was alright if in this existence, you didn’t live with your soulmates either.

Soulmates are such an overrated concept anyways, right?

Trying to get better and out of the hospital allowed you to put the red string aside. Then you worked hard to get back to a normal life.

At night, you were welcoming the pain of your broken ribs, because it allowed you to focus on something else. 

Months went by and the accident was just a souvenir now. The only thing it left behind was this “luck” of not remembering Ambrose or your soulmates. You pretended everything was alright in front of your parents, your friends, your colleagues. Yes, you were happy, you were doing well, you were living a perfectly quiet and peaceful life. 

But at night, even in the complete darkness of your room, the crimson string was still there, hanging above your head.

Sometimes, you even woke up in the middle of the night, as if the string had tried to pull you by the wrist or the ankle out of your bed. One evening, you even found yourself talking to it, even if you knew it wouldn’t answer you.

“What’s the point? What’s the point of showing me the way to them, if they are bad for me? Aren’t soulmates supposed to bring you happiness and not just sorrow and pain? My parents told me it was better without them, so why are you still there? Why are you still trying to bring me back to them? I forgot about them, about Ambrose. I could be at peace, but no, you have to be there and to remind me they are waiting for me somewhere I don’t want to go anymore. I mean… My parents told me I don’t want to go. And I believe them. They are my parents and… I know that I feel something like fear when I try to remember about that place and them. And it’s not fear about remembering all the awful things that happened, it’s fear of them. So why can’t you just leave me alone?”

You grew obsessed with fairy tales and fanfics talking about soulmates. You tried to cope, in a way, and to forget about your reality. You needed to imagine another existence in which you would have good people awaiting for you.

One afternoon, you were basking in the sun with a book laying on your lap. You were enjoying the soft wind kissing your face as you were leaning against the bench you were sitting on. Everything was alright. You closed your eyes and just relaxed in this quiet atmosphere. You took a deep breath before looking around you again. You watched the red string weaving between strangers, dancing in the street, inviting you to follow it, like always.

When the desire to follow it was getting too strong, you always called your mother. You never told her what it was about, you just pretended you wanted to chat around with her. 

One time, you asked her about soulmate and the red string.

“Why are some of us able to see it?” you asked her and she sighed

“We don’t really know. My grandmother always said we had been curse by an evil witch” she tried to laugh

“You don’t believe it?” you wondered

“Before I just thought she was crazy, because she could see her string and her soulmate was a criminal. But now I don’t know” she admitted

“What do you mean, her soulmate was a criminal?” you frowned

“He was a killer actually. It seems that whenever a member of the family sees the red string, it means the soulmate will have hands covered in blood.” she said

“So my soulmates are killers too?” you shivered

“I never said that. But they are toxic and wild animals. Their parents were the worst” your mother replied

“Did they hurt me? Did her soulmate hurt your grandmother?” you questioned some more but were met by silence “Mom?” you called after a little while, wondering if she was still on the phone

“It’s… complicated” your mother replied and after that you hadn’t been able to get any more answers from her.

And it woke up something in you: they were your soulmates, so they couldn’t hurt you.

And you needed to follow the red string.

--

Part 2

[lunette-png]

Waves of Ithaca

Interlude 5: The Messenger and the Lightbearer

art by Neal Illustrator

High on Olympus, where the clouds clung to the marble pillars and the air shimmered with ambrosia’s haze, Hermes sat at the edge of a balcony. His fingers danced over a silver coin, spinning it between knuckles with the ease of a practiced thief, catching the divine light. The messenger god’s eyes were half-lidded, but there was no mistaking the spark of mischief beneath.

“You’re still thinking about her.”

The voice was sunlight itself, warm and gilded. Apollo emerged from the temple’s shade, scrolls tucked under his arm, the faint smell of ink and cedar lingering around him. His golden hair seemed to catch every ray, and the stones under his feet appeared brighter in his wake. The scrolls, tightly wound and bound with golden threads tapped gently against his side with each step.

“She’s close now,” Hermes remarked, his voice a ribbon winding through the quiet.

Apollo moved past him, each step deliberate. He set the scrolls down at the temple's edge, the golden thread glinting in the soft light, before positioning himself behind his brother. His arms crossed over his chest, as he leaned against a marble pillar. “To Ithaca? Or to trouble?”

Hermes grinned, sharp and sly. “Is there a difference?”

Apollo’s lips pressed into a thin line, but he did not rise to the bait. Instead, his gaze remained fixed on the winding trail of a ship cutting through the Aegean. The vessel’s sail was a pale wing against the deep blue, and even from Olympus, the sea’s breath seemed to touch them.

“She sails like she was born to it,” Apollo murmured. “Poseidon’s mark.”

“And yet,” Hermes flicked the coin into the air, watching it spin, “she is not of the sea. Not entirely. She is flesh, blood, and stubbornness. Just like her father.”

A shadow passed over Apollo’s face. “You sound almost fond.”

“Maybe I am.” Hermes caught the coin, held it tight. “I spoke to her, you know. In Pylos. She has the eyes of a sailor—always searching, always knowing where the horizon lies.”

“You saw her too. I could feel it. You lit up Delphi more than usual.”

Apollo arched a brow, a ghost of a smile on his lips. “She passed through my temple, nothing more.”

“Oh, nothing more, he says!” Hermes grinned, stepping into Apollo’s path. “You didn’t speak to her, but you watched her, bright and silent. Meanwhile, I held a conversation—and her coin.” He tossed the silver into the air, and it vanished before it fell. “You can learn a lot from what a person carries.”

Apollo’s posture stiffened, silence draping over him like a shroud. The sunlight that danced around him seemed to dim, edges of light curling inward as if wary of the space between them. The quiet stretched, an irony settling over the scene—the god of music and poetry, a master of words, choosing none.

“Oh, is that envy I hear?” Hermes spun to face his brother, his expression a mask of mock innocence. “Because I spoke to her, while you only stared?”

Apollo’s eyes narrowed, molten gold beneath a cool exterior. “She didn’t need words from me. She felt my gaze. I saw the way her brow furrowed, the questions in her eyes. Mortals often don’t know why they feel drawn to the light.”

Hermes clapped, slow and deliberate. “Beautiful. Shall I fetch my lyre, or would you like to provide your own accompaniment?”

A sigh escaped Apollo, but the corner of his mouth twitched upward. “You play the jester well, Hermes. But this is not a game.”

“Everything is a game. Especially with mortals.” Hermes leaned back, balancing precariously on the edge. “You see a heroine. I see a story. And what a story it could be.”

Apollo did not reply immediately. His gaze fell to the ship again, now carving its way toward Ithaca’s shores. “She stands on the precipice. Her father’s homecoming will cast a shadow.”

“Or a light.”

“Even light can burn.”

Silence stretched between them, a taut string ready to snap. Below, the ship skimmed the waves, the crew pulling at oars, the captain—(Y/N)—at the helm. She moved with the wind, every shift of her body in harmony with the sea’s rhythm.

“She won’t be welcomed as he will,” Apollo said quietly. “She has brought victories, but not stories.”

“Not yet.” Hermes’s eyes gleamed. “But perhaps she needs a nudge. A twist of fate.”

Apollo shot him a warning look. “Stay your hand, trickster.”

“Oh, come now. You must admit it would be interesting.”

“No.” Apollo’s voice held a finality, a weight that turned the air cold. “Let her find her path. The Fates have already spun their thread.”

Hermes pouted, though there was a glimmer of something more dangerous beneath. “Fine. I’ll watch. For now.”

As the sun began its descent, casting the world in hues of orange and rose, the two gods remained. One, a beacon of light and truth; the other, a shadow with wings and a silver tongue. And below, the daughter of Odysseus sailed homeward, unaware of the divine eyes upon her, or the threads of destiny stretched taut beneath her feet.

AN: i know i have been doing alot of interludes, but i just wanted to insert the events tha happened before each chapter. i promise the next update will be a chapter though! anyways, have some hermes and apollo interactions- i hope i was able to capture their characters well. lowkey not proud of this, i might edit it later-

[mattslvrxo]

꣑ৎ { user x dominic fike } ꣑ৎ

{ ! } contains: situationships , soft nsfw content, adult words .. etc

you knew what this was supposed to be. casual. fun. no strings, no pressure. but feelings never cared about rules.

and the worst part? he was the one who said he didn’t want a label, but the way he touched you, held you, whispered things when he thought you were asleep—it all felt like a lie. or maybe it was just easier to believe he meant it, even when his lips said otherwise.

right now, your phone’s buzzing again. dom’s name lights up your screen. you don’t answer. not tonight. not again.

you throw your phone on the bed, ignoring the ache crawling into your chest. maybe if you stop responding, he’ll get the message. maybe if you stop letting him back in, your heart will shut him out too. but you know better.

—

he shows up three hours later. hoodie thrown on like armor, chain dangling down his chest. he doesn’t knock. doesn’t call. he knows you always leave the door unlocked—for him. “you ignoring me now?” he mutters, voice low, eyes sharp. you don’t turn around right away. “you said you didn’t want anything serious.”

“i didn’t say i wanted nothing at all,” he shoots back. “that’s not the same thing.” you scoff, arms crossed. “you don’t get to cherry-pick the pieces of me you want. you show up when you’re bored, fuck me like i’m everything, then disappear when i start feeling something real.”

his jaw tenses. “you think i don’t feel anything?”

“do you?”

he’s silent. the kind of silence that makes your skin crawl. and then he closes the distance, backing you against the wall with that same frustrating intensity that always gets under your skin. “don’t act like this doesn’t mean something to you,” he murmurs, breath hot against your cheek. “you wouldn’t let me in if it didn’t.”

“i let you in because i love you,” you spit back before you can stop yourself. t hangs in the air like smoke—thick, suffocating. his eyes flicker. hurt? surprise? guilt? you can’t tell. you push him off. “you should go.” but he doesn’t move. doesn’t even blink. “say it again.”

“why?” your voice cracks. “so you can pretend it didn’t happen?” he cups your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek. “say it again.”

“dom…”

his mouth crashes onto yours before you can say anything else. it’s not soft. it’s desperate. angry. all the words he doesn’t know how to say poured into a kiss that leaves your knees weak.

he lifts you up, hands gripping your thighs like he needs to feel your skin to believe you’re real. your back hits the bedroom wall, and he groans into your mouth like he’s starving for you.

“i think about you every fucking night,” he breathes against your lips. “even when i try not to.”

“then why run?”

“’cause i’m scared. you’re not just another girl—i don’t know how to be with someone who actually matters.”

you cup his face, softer now. “then stop pretending you don’t feel it too.”

his forehead presses to yours. and for once, he doesn’t run.

—

the air shifts.

he lays you on the bed like you’re something fragile. but the second your shirt comes off, his control cracks. he kisses down your neck, your chest, the curve of your waist like he’s tracing a map he’s memorized in dreams.

“you drive me fucking insane,” he whispers, dragging his fingers down your hips. “can’t stop thinking about you. your mouth. your moans. the way you look at me after…”

you gasp when his tongue brushes between your legs, slow and teasing.

“you like that?” he smirks, licking his lips. “yeah, you do.”

you thread your fingers in his hair, tugging. he groans, burying his face deeper.

it’s filthy, and desperate, and real. and when he slides into you, there’s no space between bodies, no lies left to hide behind.

“look at me,” he growls, thrusting deeper. “this isn’t just sex. not anymore.”

you wrap your legs around him tighter, biting your lip as the pleasure builds.

“i love you,” you whisper again. “even when you’re an asshole.”

he chokes out a laugh, hand sliding between your legs to rub circles that make your eyes roll back.

“i’m your asshole, though,” he breathes, kissing your neck. “i’m trying. let me try.”

your nails dig into his back as you both fall apart, breathless and shaking, tangled in sheets and feelings that were never casual.

—

after, he doesn’t leave.

he wraps his arms around you from behind, resting his chin on your shoulder.

“i’m not good at this,” he mumbles. “but i don’t wanna lose you.”

you sigh, melting into his warmth. “then don’t.”

and for the first time, he doesn’t lie. doesn’t run.

he just holds you.

like maybe he finally understands what he has to lose

req by : @pucca63