cosmetologynerd

[cosmetologynerd]

what if.

[cosmetologynerd]

THE DEVIL YOU MADE ME LOVE — 𝖩𝖨𝖭𝖴 𝖲𝖠𝖩𝖠

WORD COUNT. 6,177 GENRE. tragedy, romance, angst, && drama. CONTENT CONTAINS. trauma, violence, soul sucking, guilt, power imbalances, enemies-to-lovers, && demon reader x hunter jinu. REQUESTED BY. @theshadowsden

૮꒰ ྀི >⸝⸝⸝< ྀི꒱ა

the clearing is quiet.

too quiet.

not in the way of peace, but in the way of something having been scrubbed from existence. the kind of quiet that presses against your skin, that drips into the back of your throat like ash, that makes the wind forget how to move. birds do not sing here. insects do not hum. the world holds its breath — as if it, too, knows what you’ve done.

there are no bodies at your feet. no blood. no screams still hanging in the air. only the strange emptiness of what’s been taken. a trail of clothes lies scattered through the grass — a watch still ticking, a shoe caught beneath a root, a child’s toy with fingers still curled around it. they are all that remain.

ten of them. ten souls, now folded neatly inside you like secrets whispered into the dark.

you tilt your head back, eyelids heavy, lips parted in something almost like bliss. not because you feel pleasure — you don’t — but because the taste of a soul still lingers on your tongue, bittersweet and warm like honey over rust. it’s the only thing that comes close to joy. not the kill — you don’t kill. you remove. you erase.

and the world never notices until it’s too late.

you exhale slowly.

and then — a sound.

one step. deliberate. too close.

you don’t look at first. you only smile — slow, sharp, and cruel. something always comes after. some pathetic hunter or grieving lover or wide-eyed fool with something to prove. you welcome them. their souls taste better when they struggle.

he emerges from the treeline like he was never meant to be noticed — like shadow given shape. black clothes, silver hilts at his back, a mouth set in something quiet and unreadable. there’s no fear in the way he looks at you. no awe. no disgust. it’s worse.

recognition.

“you’re late,” you say, voice like velvet over glass. smooth. dangerous. “i was starting to think their hunters didn’t even exist.”

he doesn’t speak at first. only watches you. his gaze trails the remnants you’ve left behind — the shoes, the still-warm jacket, the crumpled scarf that still smells faintly of perfume. he doesn’t ask what happened. he already knows.

finally, he speaks.

“jinu.”

you hum, brushing a lock of hair behind your ear with a clawed finger. “oh. i didn’t ask.”

his name falls uselessly between you.

you move toward him without rush or effort, each step making the grass wilt beneath your feet. you circle him, trailing your gaze along his throat, his chest, the way his breath shifts with your closeness. he doesn’t draw his weapon. doesn’t back away. that should bore you.

but you let him live anyway.

“came all this way for a little redemption?” you murmur, lazily dragging your finger down the air beside his arm — not touching him, just reminding him that you could. “or are you here to die for nothing?”

he meets your eyes fully. unshaken.

“i’m here for you.”

you laugh — soft, poisonous. “no, hunter. you’re here for yourself.”

in one blink, you’re in front of him — your hand hovering just inches from his chest. the soul rests there, just beneath the skin. you can feel the heat of it. the rhythm. it would be easy.

so easy.

“if you’re going to kill me,” he says, voice rough but unwavering, “go on.”

your claws hesitate in the air.

not because you’re moved. you aren’t.

but because there’s no thrill in taking what doesn’t resist.

you sigh and lower your hand. “not tonight,” you say, already turning. “you’re not worth the mess.”

behind you, his voice calls out.

“then why did you spare me?”

you don’t look back. your steps are already swallowed by the dark.

“because i like knowing you’ll die knowing you couldn’t stop me.”

and then you’re gone.

just like the rest of them.

no blood.

no mercy.

no heart.

just the echo of absence in your wake.

૮꒰ ྀི >⸝⸝⸝< ྀི꒱ა

the city is still half-asleep when you arrive — the kind of hour where everything feels too quiet, too open. streetlamps flicker against wet pavement. neon buzzes from dying signs. the sky is a dull bruise above the skyline, smeared with orange and rot-colored gray.

your heels click softly as you walk, too clean for the filth that clings to this place. you don’t leave footprints. no reflection in windows. no scent in the air. even the rats don’t see you.

you move through this world like a rumor.

he’s sitting at the bus stop.

late twenties. brown coat. earbuds in.

you don’t know his name. you don’t need to.

his soul called to you from two streets away — bright, bitter, sweet in that aching way some things are when they know they won’t last long. it crackles beneath his skin, worn down by heartbreak and sleepless nights, too tender to last much longer in a place like this.

he won’t fight.

he never saw you coming.

you sit beside him, slowly.

your thigh brushes his. your perfume — or the illusion of it — slips into his lungs like a memory he can’t place. he turns to you, startled, and blinks.

you smile.

not a kind one. not inviting.

just pretty.

he opens his mouth, confused — maybe to ask your name, maybe to flirt — but he never gets the chance.

your hand brushes his knee.

the world goes silent.

a stillness spreads out from your touch like ink in water. his breath hitches. his lips part, just barely — and then his eyes go wide. not in fear. not in understanding. but in the blank, terrifying calm that comes just before the end.

you lean in, lips nearly against his ear, and whisper the words only souls can hear.

“you won’t feel a thing.”

and he doesn’t.

in an instant, he’s gone.

not dead. not bleeding.

just… gone.

his body slumps, still warm, still breathing — but empty. hollowed out like a cathedral with no god left inside. his gaze is vacant. his heartbeat ticks on, slow and useless. he’ll be found tomorrow. eyes unfocused. unable to speak. unable to scream. another name added to the list of those who vanished without a trace.

you stand, smoothing your skirt. his soul hums in your chest — soft, melancholy, like a lullaby sung in reverse. it fades into your being like all the others, nestled in the quiet darkness beneath your skin.

and you walk.

not a thought of the hunter, not a flicker of remorse. just the taste of a soul, and the silence that follows.

then, you feel him before he moves.

he’s alone. he’s silent.

you’re crouched beneath the warm flicker of a subway sign, one hand stretched lazily toward your next soul — a girl in a red jacket, headphones on, leaning against a vending machine with her eyes closed. her aura pulses softly, unaware. she hums something sad. you’re half a breath away from slipping your fingers beneath her pulse, from whispering those lovely little words that end everything.

and then —

impact.

a hand grabs your wrist.

another wraps around your waist.

and the world shifts beneath you.

before you can blink, you’re slammed against the alley wall, hard enough to crack brick. sparks of pain flash across your shoulder, more insult than injury. you don’t cry out. you snarl.

his face is inches from yours — eyes wild, jaw clenched. you can feel the heat radiating off him. he’s stronger than last time. closer. bolder.

“you,” he growls through gritted teeth. “i saw you. i saw what you did.”

your lips curve slowly, even as your head throbs from the collision. “i do a lot of things, hunter. be specific.”

his hand tightens around your wrist. your other arm is pinned behind you. your body is caged in by his. for most, this would be threatening. to you?

it’s adorable.

he’s trembling. just a little. enough for you to feel it. enough for you to enjoy it.

“let her go,” he snarls, nodding toward the girl — still oblivious, the magic wrapped around her like fog. “whatever you’re doing—”

“too late,” you breathe, eyes flashing gold in the dark. “she’s already mine.”

his grip falters for half a second — and that’s all you need.

with a hiss, you twist your arm free, slamming your palm into his chest and sending him flying backwards into a dumpster with a sickening clang. the metal dents beneath him. you straighten, smoothing your clothes, tilting your head as he scrambles to his feet.

“you got stronger,” you purr, stalking toward him, claws lengthening, glowing with heat. “did you train for me, little hunter? did i haunt you?”

he pulls his blade this time. the blue gleams like moonlight. you smile wider.

“how many nights did you think about me?” you whisper, circling. “how many missing souls before you said, ‘no — i have to find her again?’”

he doesn’t answer.

instead, he charges.

you clash like shadow and flame. blue light slices through the air — you dodge, barely, the blade grazing your arm. sparks erupt. your foot sweeps his legs out. he counters with a punch to your ribs. you grunt, eyes glowing brighter now, something feral rising in your chest.

not fear. not pain.

fun.

you grab him by the collar and slam him against the wall, hard enough to make the ground shiver. your faces are close again. his breath is shallow. your claws are ready.

but you don’t take his soul.

not yet.

you want him to see how close he was. how helpless he still is.

“next time,” you murmur, voice like a secret. “i won’t be feeling generous.”

he spits blood to the side. his lip is split.

he stares at you with fire in his eyes.

“you think you’re untouchable,” he says, panting.

your smile sharpens.

“i am.”

and with a gust of smoke and shadow — you’re gone again. leaving him in that alley with shaking hands, burning lungs, and the taste of failure pressed like your kiss into the bruises you left behind.

you don’t go far.

just the rooftop above the alley — the one soaked in rust and pigeon shit and old, dried blood that doesn’t belong to you. your legs dangle off the ledge as the city groans beneath you, still unaware. still soft. still yours.

but your heart is beating too fast.

your hand is still shaking.

your mouth is still curled into that same wild smile.

and it’s not because of the girl.

you don’t even remember her name — if she had one.

her soul was forgettable. soft. pale. like water that had been left in the sun too long.

but he —

oh.

you breathe in sharp, a laugh tumbling out of your mouth like broken glass and honey. it hurts. it thrills. your ribs ache from where he landed that punch, your wrist burns from where he grabbed you. there’s blood on your lip that isn’t yours.

and for the first time in a very, very long time…

you’re alive.

“fuck,” you whisper to no one, dragging a hand through your hair, eyes wide with something that flickers too fast to name. “fuck, fuck, he really tried.”

you replay it.

over and over.

the tackle. the wall. his grip. the fire in his eyes.

he looked at you like you were killable. like you were real.

no worship. no fear.

just rage.

just heat.

just him.

you giggle — a sound that’s not sweet at all. it scrapes your throat raw, cracked and sharp and breathless. you bite your knuckle, pressing your legs together as your whole body buzzes with something electric and wrong.

“he touched me,” you whisper, almost delirious. “he touched me.”

no one has dared.

no one has survived trying.

you lean back on your elbows, looking up at the smeared, smog-choked sky, and hum a song you stole from a soul two weeks ago. something slow. something sad. it doesn’t match your grin.

“what a pretty little fool,” you murmur. “so stupid. so angry.”

your head rolls lazily to the side. you can still feel the echo of his hands. the throb where he hit you. the warmth of his breath near your mouth when you slammed him against the wall.

“he’s beautiful,” you admit, voice low and reverent. “all that fury in such a perfect face. you should see yourself, jinu. all cut up and trembling.”

you laugh again — this time quieter. darker.

“you’re not supposed to matter,” you tell the night. “you’re supposed to beg. to cry. to disappear.”

but he didn’t.

he fought.

he bled.

he made your bones sing.

you touch your own throat. trace the spot where he’d shouted. the flash of silver in his eyes. the way he looked at you — not like a monster, not like a god. like something he could break.

and the worst part is —

you wanted him to try again.

“come find me, little hunter,” you whisper, closing your eyes as the city thrums beneath you. “i’ll make it hurt next time. i’ll make it delicious.”

you smile, fangs flashing.

then vanish.

because the night is long, and there are still souls to take —

but now, none of them will taste quite as sweet

as the one you’re saving for last.

૮꒰ ྀི >⸝⸝⸝< ྀི꒱ა

he’s not supposed to be out this soon.

his body aches in places he hasn’t named yet — ribs throbbing from where she slammed him against the wall, knuckles raw, jaw tight from how long he’s been clenching it. he hasn’t slept. hasn’t called it in. the others are still combing over the girl at the vending machine. alive, hollowed, confused. no injuries. no trauma.

just… missing.

inside.

like the rest.

and jinu?

jinu’s chasing shadows with blood in his mouth and her name curled under his tongue like a secret he doesn’t want to say out loud.

he moves through the streets too fast. takes corners too sharp. doesn’t check his blind spots. every sound makes his heart leap — a flutter he hates. he’s trained better than this. he’s been hunting demons since he was seventeen. he’s killed things that wear prettier faces. things that sing lullabies in the dark before carving out spines.

but her?

she’s not a thing.

she’s a force.

a storm with legs and a smile that means death.

and he can’t stop seeing her.

jinu stops near a bookstore that hasn’t opened yet. the streetlamp above him hums. there’s something off about the air here. too quiet. too still. that same weight — that emptiness — hangs like smoke just beneath the surface.

he crouches down, brushing a finger along the edge of a hair tie lying on the sidewalk. still warm. there’s a smudge of lipstick on the concrete.

but no blood.

no body.

“damn it,” he mutters under his breath, standing too fast. pain shoots up his side. he hisses.

he leans against the brick wall behind him, eyes slipping closed for a second too long. and that’s when she comes back — not in the flesh, but in his mind.

the way she laughed.

not mocking — giddy. high on violence.

her eyes had glowed like molten gold, like something alive and hungry. her voice was smooth. practiced. sweet. like she’d been made to lie. made to take.

and fuck, she was—

“—beautiful,” he mutters, voice low and rough.

his eyes snap open.

the word burns in his throat.

he glares at nothing, like he can shove it back down, like it didn’t just slip out of him without permission. he scrubs a hand over his face, jaw clenched tight.

“she’s a demon,” he growls. “she’s the problem.”

he tries to replace her face with the others — the missing. the hollow-eyed victims. the crying families. he tries to remember why he started this. what he swore to protect.

but her mouth flashes in his mind again — red, curled, taunting.

her voice whispering “you’re not worth the mess.”

the way her claws didn’t shake.

he kicks the wall hard. his shoe leaves a dent.

he’s losing focus.

he’s letting her inside.

but gods help him —

he’s never wanted to find someone so badly in his life.

૮꒰ ྀི >⸝⸝⸝< ྀི꒱ა

the files blur after the twelfth hour.

there are names in front of him — hundreds, maybe thousands — printed on beige folders with missing timestamps, blurry photographs, lists of last sightings that all start to sound the same. “last seen leaving a birthday party.” “last seen walking home from work.” “last seen taking a phone call outside the café.” last seen. last seen. last seen.

but not found.

jinu stares at a pair of ID photos spread across his desk. a man and a woman. mid-30s. both smiling. both gone without a trace. no witnesses. no alarms. the coffee machine at work still running when they vanished. teeth marks on the side of a croissant. a locked door. a missing soul.

her signature.

he knows it now.

it’s in the stillness. in the neatness.

no violence. no mess. just gone.

he exhales shakily, rubbing at his eyes. they burn.

the light above his desk flickers. he hasn’t replaced the bulb. he hasn’t left this room except to drink straight from the kitchen faucet and collapse into a chair for twenty minutes at a time, pretending it counts as rest.

he should stop.

he won’t.

his mind is full of her.

not just her crimes. not just the way her name crawls through his thoughts like a virus with teeth.

but her.

her face — that unbothered, wicked curve of her mouth. the way her eyes gleamed with delight when he hit her. the sound she made when he bled — not shock, not fury.

joy.

and gods, she’s beautiful.

he hates it. he hates her. he wants to break every mirror in this room for showing her face behind his own. wants to rip the air apart for daring to carry her scent into his dreams.

but he can’t stop.

he opens a new file. the edges are smudged. his hands are shaking again.

this one’s recent. two nights ago.

a teenager. sixteen. missing from a karaoke bar.

found the next morning sitting in an alley, perfectly unharmed — physically. eyes glazed. silent. hasn’t spoken since. parents screaming in the hospital lobby. psych ward booked full.

he flips the report over. there’s a note from a field agent: no signs of trauma. aura scan incomplete. witness described seeing a woman in black. unconfirmed.

a woman in black.

it’s always her.

jinu grips the edge of his desk, breathing hard, trying to push the image out of his head — the way her fingers curled around his wrist like she could feel the pulse in his bones. how close her lips were. how soft her voice had been when she said:

“she’s already mine.”

he clenches his fists. stands too fast. the chair crashes behind him.

his reflection stares back from the dark window. sleepless eyes. a bruised jaw. a man unraveling.

he drags both hands through his hair and whispers to the empty room:

“what the fuck are you doing to me?”

his voice cracks in the quiet.

and gods, how sweet it sounds.

you’re already in the room. already leaning in the corner, arms folded beneath your chest, one ankle hooked over the other like you’ve been there for hours. maybe you have. watching him pace. watching him twitch. watching him come undone over your name.

he doesn’t see you at first.

not until you speak.

“well, if you’re going to beg, hunter, at least buy me dinner first.”

his entire body jerks toward the sound — too fast, too wide-eyed. it’s beautiful, the way he stumbles back a step, chest heaving, hand twitching toward a weapon he hasn’t even touched in the last four hours.

he stares at you like you’re a ghost.

like you’re the answer and the disease in one.

“you—” his voice catches, already thick with disbelief. rage. something else.

you smile — slow and poisonous. “me.”

you step out of the shadow like silk, deliberate, hips swaying with that old familiar arrogance. you move like you own the floor, the building, the sky. and maybe you do. the light flickers again as you pass under it, dimming like it knows better than to shine on you.

his mouth opens — maybe for a threat, maybe a curse — but nothing comes out.

he’s staring.

just a little too long.

“you look awful,” you purr, trailing your eyes down his form — unshaved jaw, deep circles, the slight tremble in his left hand. “have you been thinking about me?”

“get out,” he says, breathless.

you click your tongue. “now, now. is that any way to talk to the woman living rent-free in your head?”

his jaw clenches. he looks like he wants to throw something — or maybe pull you into the wall.

both are tempting.

you move closer, slow and taunting. he doesn’t retreat, but his shoulders tense like he’s preparing to be struck. as if you haven’t already hit something deeper than blades ever could.

you stop inches away. his breath hitches.

“you came here for a reason,” he grits out.

you tilt your head, eyes glowing faintly in the half-light.

“i wanted to see you squirm.”

his hands curl into fists. “you think this is funny?”

“i think you are funny.” your voice is light, dancing, syrupy with mockery. “tough little hunter losing sleep over a soul thief. what would the others say?”

“you’re a monster.”

“and you’re obsessed.”

you reach out — not to touch, but to hover, your fingers just beneath his chin. his skin radiates heat. he doesn’t move. not an inch. it’s not submission.

it’s restraint.

and gods, it’s beautiful.

“you’re not going to kill me,” you whisper. “not yet.”

“don’t be so sure.”

“then prove me wrong.”

you see the conflict bloom across his face — rage, hunger, fear, something sharp and glittering beneath it all.

you don’t disappear this time.

you linger.

because it’s too good — the look in his eyes, the tight line of his mouth, the chaos spinning behind his calm. because for the first time in what feels like centuries, you don’t want to feed. you want to watch.

you want to see what happens when the man chasing you finally realizes you’re not running.

jinu shifts, his eyes flicking to your hand — still half-raised, still not touching. “why are you here?” he asks, low and sharp.

“i told you,” you reply, trying to keep your voice light, teasing, detached. “i wanted to see the damage. you’ve been so busy thinking about me—”

“you didn’t have to come in person.”

you pause.

it’s subtle. almost imperceptible.

but you feel it — a crack. a glitch in the script.

he notices.

“what?” he asks, stepping closer. “you don’t have a comeback for that?”

you force a smile, eyes narrowing. “don’t get cocky, jinu.”

“don’t get sentimental,” he fires back.

that hits harder than it should.

he watches your smile falter — just a twitch at the corner, just a breath between masks. he sees the flicker in your gaze. the one that isn’t rage. not cruelty. not hunger.

something else.

“wait,” he says softly, stepping forward again, slower this time. “you’re not just playing with me, are you?”

you inhale sharply — too sharp. the air catches in your throat like a needle dragged against glass.

“don’t flatter yourself,” you snap, too quickly.

his eyes light up. not with victory — with understanding.

“you’re curious,” he says, almost to himself. “about me. about this.”

he’s so close now.

you could strike.

you should strike.

but you don’t.

because for some damn reason, you’re listening.

“you’re not supposed to care,” he says, voice low. “but you stayed. you watched me break. you let me see you.”

you swallow hard — a useless habit, a leftover tick from pretending to be human. his breath is warm on your cheek now. his chest rises and falls slowly, steady, like he’s already used to being this close to you.

“you think you’re in control,” you murmur, your voice quieter now, unsure if it’s a warning or a plea. “but you’re not.”

he smiles — small, sharp, real.

and it hurts.

“neither are you.”

your nails dig into your palms. not to strike — to ground yourself. to remind yourself of who you are. what you are.

but you still don’t move.

because he’s right. and that’s the most dangerous thing of all.

his hand moves. slowly. carefully. like he’s not afraid of what you’ll do. like he already knows you won’t do it.

fingertips, gentle and sure, brushing a stray lock of hair away from your cheek.

you freeze. not out of fear, but because your body doesn’t know what this is.

not a blow. not a bind. not a blade.

softness. intention.

a touch that asks.

your claws don’t rise. your lips don’t sneer. your instincts stutter like a skipped heartbeat.

he sees it.

you see him see it.

and then—

you vanish.

no smoke. no fire. just gone, like the breath before a scream.

you don’t know where you land.

somewhere cold. sharp. concrete pressed against your knees, the metallic stink of rust and rainwater thick in the air. the underbelly of the city — wet stairwells and broken lights and no one to watch you unravel.

you crumple against the wall, breathing too fast.

your hands dig into your scalp, fists tangled in your hair as if you could tear the thoughts out at the root. your claws scrape your own skin. you hiss, you growl, you shake.

“no, no, no—”

your voice cracks. you bite it down.

you can’t do this.

you can’t feel this.

you are gwi-ma’s creation. his shadow. his flame. you are the perfect thing. a vessel for his power. a blade that smiles.

you don’t get moments.

you don’t get him.

“you’re not real,” you whisper to yourself, rocking against the wall. “you’re not hers. you’re his. you belong to gwi-ma. you belong to the fire. you don’t—”

your breath hitches.

“—you don’t feel.”

but you did.

when he touched you. when he looked at you like something worth knowing. not controlling. not worshiping. not destroying.

knowing.

your stomach twists.

if gwi-ma finds out…

if he sees what’s slipping through your seams…

you won’t survive it.

he’ll devour the part of you that even thought about love.

and you—

you’ll let him.

because that’s the rule.

the one burned into your soul.

you’re not allowed to feel. you’re not allowed to want. you’re not allowed to be anything but his.

so you press your forehead to the wet ground.

and you stay there, shaking in silence. not broken.

not yet.

just cracking.

and so, you don’t go home.

you don’t rest.

you don’t breathe.

you hunt.

the first soul goes down easy — a man at a corner store, drunk on something artificial, eyes glazed over before you even speak. his soul is stale, bitter. you rip it from him like it’s nothing.

because it is.

you feel nothing.

you say that to yourself over and over, voice echoing in your skull like a chant. you feel nothing. you feel nothing. you feel—

the second one is better. younger. louder. she fights. she screams. you shut her up quickly. leave her slumped across a park bench, her phone still lit up with a half-finished text.

your heart is racing now. not from pleasure — from panic.

you want to blame him.

you want to call this revenge.

revenge for what, though?

for feeling something?

for the way your name almost sounded like desire in his mouth?

the third soul is warm. rich. full of memories you don’t want.

you take it anyway.

you hope it numbs you.

it doesn’t.

your hands are trembling when you corner the fourth one — a woman walking her dog, earbuds in, humming a song too sweet for this hour. her soul glows behind her eyes like soft candlelight.

you raise your hand.

you whisper the words.

you want her gone.

and then—

“that’s enough.”

his voice cuts through the dark like a blade.

you don’t turn.

you know it’s him.

your pulse skips. your claws flex. your breath catches halfway out.

he steps forward — not rushing, not shouting. just approaching, like he belongs here. like he knew you’d come undone this way.

the woman falters. the dog barks once. she keeps walking, oblivious, spared by the tension thick in the air behind her.

you lower your hand, slowly.

“following me now?” you say, your voice not quite as sharp as you want it to be. “didn’t get enough last time?”

“no,” he says honestly. “i didn’t.”

you finally turn to face him.

he looks steadier than you remember. lips cut tight. eyes dark. the bruises are still there, but now they look like part of him. like he earned them. like he’s proud to wear what you left behind.

and you?

you look feral.

your hair is windblown. your eyes wild. your body buzzing with stolen life you can’t even taste.

you don’t feel powerful.

you feel cornered.

he sees that.

and it makes you want to rip his throat out.

or maybe collapse against him.

“four in one night,” he says quietly. “trying to forget something?”

“trying to shut you up,” you snap.

he steps closer.

you don’t stop him.

“you were shaking,” he says. “when i touched you.”

“and you were bleeding.”

he smiles — faint, dangerous. “and you stayed.”

you laugh, sharp and breathless. “you’re not worth this.”

“then why are you falling apart over me?”

his words land like a fist in your gut.

your eyes flash — hurt, fury, panic — and for a split second, he sees it again.

the crack.

not wide. not open.

just real.

and he steps into it.

“you don’t have to be what he made you,” he says. “you don’t have to keep—”

“don’t.”

your voice breaks — not with weakness, but with terror.

you take a step back.

and for the first time…

he doesn’t chase.

he waits.

his footsteps are careful now. no more taunts. no smugness.

just a quiet approach, like he’s not sure you’ll let him near again.

his presence burns at the edge of your awareness like light through stained glass. warm. persistent. wrong. you back up another step, your body trembling with something far older than fear — something trained. something planted.

his voice is low, unsure. “hey. look at me.”

but you can’t.

your hands are already clawing at your scalp, digging into your hair, fisting through the strands as your knees give beneath you and you crumple to the cold concrete. your body rocks forward once, violently, as a tremor rips through your spine.

and then—

the voices come.

not whispers. commands.

they shove into your skull like knives, cold and humming, smooth as silk and cruel as hell.

“you were never meant to be soft.”

“remember what you did. remember why you belong to me.”

“feel that guilt? that sickness? good. that’s all you get.”

you snarl — low and guttural, in a voice that doesn’t sound entirely human. a growl that scrapes your throat raw as heat builds behind your eyes. the pain is unbearable. your body jerks again, like something is pulling your limbs from the inside. like you’re being reshaped all over again.

your mouth opens — to scream, to beg, to curse — but what spills out is a mix of sound so unnatural it echoes wrong against the city walls.

“get… out—”

one word in your voice.

the next, not.

your eyes flicker open.

one is still yours — wide, raw, the color of ash. the other gleams molten gold, bright as a dying star, flickering like a flame in a hurricane. the veins around it glow faintly, pulsing beneath your skin. your face is slick with sweat. your lips twitch with words not your own.

jinu stops only a foot away. he looks at you like he’s never seen anything so tragic, so dangerous. he should be afraid.

but he kneels.

not in surrender — in solidarity.

“you’re fighting him,” he says, voice steady, watching you rock and twitch and splinter. “you’re still in there. you’re—”

“shut up—” you hiss, but it’s not entirely you anymore. your voice fractures halfway through, shifts lower, layered with something deeper. monstrous. bitter. “you don’t get to fix me—”

you clutch your skull harder, patterns flickering beneath your skin. not just glowing — writhing, like snakes made of smoke. they shift violently across your throat, over your collarbones, down your arms. they pulse between dark blue and deep, gwi-ma’s color — that awful blackened violet that stains everything it touches.

memories bloom across the back of your mind like bruises.

a man you pushed in front of a train when you were still human.

a child you ignored as they cried behind a locked door.

a lover you betrayed for nothing but your own pride.

you see it all — not as faded moments, but raw. new. gwi-ma’s voice digging them in deeper, forcing you to relive them.

“this is who you are,” he says inside you.

“this is what made you mine.”

your mouth opens, gasping, desperate — and jinu’s hand is suddenly on your shoulder.

not forcing. not binding. just there.

and somehow, that makes it worse.

your body stiffens. your vision blurs. your skin flashes between patterns, struggling to settle. your breath tears itself from your lungs.

“don’t touch me—” you spit, eyes wide.

but jinu only softens his grip.

“you don’t have to go back to him.”

“i can’t leave—” you choke, nearly sobbing now. “you don’t get it. i’m not like you. i don’t get to choose. i was made for this—”

“then unmake it,” he says, quietly but with fire in his eyes.

your gaze snaps to him.

his hand is still on your shoulder, thumb pressing gently against the pulse at the base of your neck — not to threaten, but to remind you: you’re here. you’re still in control.

your breathing slows, just barely. the glow in your eye dims. the patterns steady into something gentler — still dark, but pulsing like a slow heartbeat. your hands twitch at your sides. you’re shaking. exhausted. furious.

and your voice, when it finally returns, is hoarse.

“i wasn’t supposed to feel anything.”

he leans in — forehead almost touching yours, heat radiating from him like forgiveness.

“but you did.”

and the worst part?

you don’t hate it.

your breath catches and for the first time, it isn’t because of pain.

it’s because he’s still here.

not recoiling. not frightened.

not disgusted by the thing trembling in front of him, half-feral, half-formed, flickering between creation and catastrophe.

your hands twitch at your sides — claws flexing, fists tightening, teeth biting down so hard it aches in your skull. but you look at him.

really look.

his eyes are warm. brown. lit from within like dusk and somehow, they don’t dim when they land on you.

not even now.

you try to speak. your throat fights you, but the words crawl their way out anyway.

“please,” you whisper. your voice is cracked. broken in places you didn’t know could break.

jinu’s fingers twitch where they rest on your shoulder. his brows draw tight — not with pity, but purpose. he sees what this costs you.

you’re on your knees. your skin is burning. your body is betraying itself with each breath, and still, you whisper again.

“please. help me.”

he doesn’t hesitate.

his hand slips down, finds yours — the one still twitching, still curling with the urge to destroy — and wraps around it slowly, gently, like he’s teaching it how to hold instead of hurt.

his fingers press into your palm, warm and steady. your claws twitch once… then retreat. your skin hums, glowing faintly.

“then let me show you,” he says, voice low. firm. kind. “i’ll show you how to feel.”

he laces your fingers together, one by one.

“i’ll show you how to love.”

and the tears start before you can stop them.

hot, sharp, silent.

they fall in twin streams down your cheeks — one side glowing with soft, purified blue, the hue flickering in slow, soothing waves beneath your skin. the other burns bright violet, that deep gwi-ma darkness pulsing like a warning flare.

you are split in two.

but still whole.

and jinu…

he doesn’t look away.

his eyes trace every shattered, shining inch of you — the broken sob in your throat, the gold in your eye, the trembling lips and trembling hands and the way your very soul flickers in colors no mortal heart should ever see.

and his expression never changes.

not for the blue.

not for the violet.

not for the agony or the fear or the way your teeth grit through the sobs you won’t let yourself release.

he looks at you like you’re sacred.

his thumb brushes the back of your hand.

his forehead leans against yours.

“i’m not afraid of you.”

“you don’t scare me.”

“you’re still hers. not his.”

your breath catches again.

but this time —

it’s the first breath that feels like it belongs to you.

copyright © t4kalcvr 2025 all rights reserved

💬, HERES MY TOP REQUESTERS BEAUTIFUUUUUL IDEAAA !! AHHHH !! villainous reader x hunter jinu 😛 ON FORWARD TO OUR NEXT REQUEST !!! (the readers almost as crazy as my ex girlfriend lol) also i do have ideas of my own but i’m trying to cut down my requests by a few before we actually get to thooose because yalls ideas are absolutely magnifique ! 🤌🏼 ANYWAYS ENJOY !!! also my mira cant know fic STAY POPPIN LIKE WHAAAAT ?

update : guys i think im hitting a mental health block. i won’t be working on stories tonight probably. um. i don’t feel okay. and im just gonna be straightforward about it lol. but hopefully its just tonight. yeah? i just feel like i can’t breathe. but still feel free to request 🫶🏼

update 2 : part two requested !!

ko-fi 🎧

look here for more reads 📚 !!!

🔖 : @sukunasrealgf @sinamew @valentique @theshadowsden @loreleis-world @mysteris-things

[cosmetologynerd]

what if.

[cosmetologynerd]

This isn't right.

[cosmetologynerd]

THE TWIN SIN

𝐉𝐈𝐍𝐔 𝐒𝐀𝐉𝐀 word count :: ( 2,510 ) genre :: dark romance, guilt-ridden intimacy, forbidden lust, && secret desire. content contains :: extremely spicy read 🌶️, infatuation, riding, cunnilingus, sibling betrayal, infidelity(?), dubious morality, manipulation, emotional seduction, internalized shame, reader & rumi are twins. PART TWO !!

𐔌՞꜆. ̫.꜀՞𐦯

you don’t know how you got here.

how it started.

what thread you pulled from the universe to make everything unravel like this.

out of every possible reality, every version of the future that might have protected you from this fate — this is the one you ended up in.

his mouth between your thighs.

his hands gripping the edge of your hips like you’re something sacred.

like you’re something sweet.

like you’re something that was his to begin with.

but you’re not.

and neither is he.

he was never yours to take.

he’s rumi’s.

and this isn’t some nowhere rooftop hidden by red neon haze and moonlight.

this is her room.

her bed.

her mirror still facing the wall like it knows what’s happening behind it.

the air is thick with something unspoken. incense and breath and sweat. shame curls in the corners like smoke. the sheets underneath you are soft and wrong. your legs are parted and trembling, and his name is nearly falling from your lips in the form of a prayer.

god, you’re disgusting. you think it as he licks deeper. slower.

you feel it throb beneath your skin like a curse.

because you know this isn’t just a betrayal. it’s something worse.

not just treason. blood-deep treason.

and yet—

you tilt your hips.

you let him devour you.

his hands trail along your thighs like he’s memorizing a story he’ll never be allowed to tell. like the skin under his palms is a holy text, and tonight is the only night he gets to read it.

you should’ve stopped this the first time he looked at you too long.

the first time your pulse skipped when rumi wasn’t looking.

the first time he said your name and it didn’t sound like hers.

but you didn’t.

and now you’re here.

his mouth is sin and silk.

his tongue, slow and reverent.

his breath — warm, shaking slightly — fans across your skin like he knows he shouldn’t be breathing this close to your soul.

and the worst part?

you like it more because it’s wrong.

because you’re not supposed to be the one beneath him.

because this shouldn’t feel like the only place you’ve ever belonged.

your hands find his hair, trembling.

his name catches at the back of your throat, and you try to swallow it.

but he looks up at you — eyes low, mouth wet, lips parted against the inside of your thigh — and it’s over. you’re gone. you’re ruined. you’re his.

just for tonight.

just this once.

because if this is what betrayal tastes like,

then maybe you were never loyal to begin with.

he doesn’t stop.

your thighs tremble beneath his grip, your back pressed into the sheets like he’s pinned your guilt there permanently, and still — his mouth works at you like you’re his first and final salvation. like you’re the answer to a question he wasn’t brave enough to ask out loud until now. and when you arch, breath caught between your teeth, he groans into your skin — low and hungry — as if the sound of your need is what he’s truly been chasing all along.

you hear it before you feel it — his voice, low and breath-warm against the damp skin of your inner thigh, speaking through the heat like a god who knows he’s already been worshiped.

“she doesn’t sound like you.”

it’s the only thing he says at first. and it splits you open. not physically — not just — but somewhere deeper. somewhere ugly. somewhere that should have never been allowed to bloom.

“she’s softer when she speaks,” he murmurs, and his mouth begins to move upward again, painting your skin with heat and reverence. “but you… you burn.”

his tongue flicks once — slow, deliberate — and you nearly cry out. but you bite down on the sound. you bite down on the guilt.

he laughs softly, like he hears it anyway.

“do you think i don’t know what this is?” he says, eyes finally meeting yours. he’s above you now, hovering, hand sliding up your side with the same kind of touch you give delicate things you’re about to destroy. “you think i didn’t choose this? that i just tripped and fell between your legs?”

his words are velvet-edged, dipped in something bitter and red. the sound of them shouldn’t be beautiful. but they are.

your breath catches when he leans in again — not to kiss you, not yet — but to speak directly against your lips. his hand settles over your throat. not tight. not forceful. just resting there. a reminder. a symbol. a promise.

“don’t lie to yourself,” he whispers. “you wanted this the moment you saw me watching you.”

you did.

you wanted it so badly you couldn’t breathe during rehearsals. so badly you walked slower past him, pretending not to look. so badly that when he said your name, just once, with that voice, you nearly said his back like a secret.

your eyes close as his mouth finally meets yours again — not soft this time. not reverent.

hungry.

his kiss is deeper now. less prayer, more possession. more promise. his tongue slips past your lips and your hands dig into his back, pulling him closer, hating yourself for how badly you need this — need him — even when you know he’s not yours. even when you know he’s hers.

but in this bed, right now, with the door closed and the sheets twisting beneath your bodies, he is yours.

and when he kisses down your collarbone again, when his fingers slide beneath the last barrier of fabric between you, you stop wondering if you should.

because you already have.

you already did.

and you’re going to keep doing it until there’s nothing left of you to give.

this is no longer about guilt.

or betrayal.

or who he belongs to.

this is about the way he says your name.

about the way his mouth ruins you.

about how, for the first time in your life,

you feel chosen.

you lose track of time.

you don’t know how long you’ve been lying there beneath him — lips swollen from the way he kisses you, fingertips tingling from the way he holds you, eyes half-closed beneath the weight of everything you shouldn’t be feeling. the night stretches long and slow, and he moves with it — like time obeys his hands. like every second only ticks forward when he decides it should.

his kisses soften now. no less hungry, but quieter in their need. like he’s tasting you in pieces — memorizing one sigh at a time, committing the shape of your pleasure to memory. and you let him. you let him press his mouth to your chest, your shoulders, the bend of your throat. you let him trace patterns over your stomach with lips barely parted, breath warm and deliberate, as though he’s spelling out your name in a language only the dark can hear.

the sheets are a mess beneath you, twisted and tangled, pulled up in some places, kicked off in others. the room smells like skin and want and the faintest touch of perfume that doesn’t belong to either of you — a reminder of rumi that lingers cruelly in the corners. and yet, when his fingers lace with yours — gently, almost shy — you forget all about her again.

he turns your hand over, brings it to his lips, and kisses the inside of your wrist like you’re something holy.

“you feel like a sin i’ve waited years to commit,” he whispers against your skin, the words barely a breath, the meaning sinking straight into your bloodstream.

you should be pulling away. you should be crying, screaming, repenting.

but instead—

you smile. slow. aching. like the truth of that line cracked something open inside you.

you pull him down again. you meet his mouth with your own. and now, you’re the one kissing him like he’s yours. like this moment — all of its guilt and heat and hunger — belongs to you and you alone.

he lays beside you eventually. one hand beneath your spine, the other brushing the hair from your cheek. your legs remain tangled. your bodies, flushed and glowing and breathing the same air, sink into the silence like it’s a shared secret.

no one speaks for a long time. but the conversation continues in touches. in kisses too soft to carry guilt. in fingertips ghosting over collarbones and jawlines and ribs. in a kind of intimacy that aches more than it satisfies — because you both know how wrong it is.

because you both don’t stop.

you don’t ask if this means anything.

you don’t ask if he’s going to leave her.

you don’t ask what happens next.

you just exist together, curled in the warmth of what should never have happened, hearts still racing, skin still damp, and breath still hitching every time his mouth finds a new place to worship.

the night presses on around you.

and in its hush, you realize—

this is no longer just temptation.

this is ritual.

this is ruin.

this is everything you were never supposed to feel.

and he — sweet, silent jinu — is no longer hers.

not here. not now.

not in this room where the mirrors are turned to face the wall, and even your reflection is afraid to look at what you’ve become.

his mouth finds yours again, soft at first — slow, reverent — until something hungrier stirs just beneath the kiss. you feel it in the way his fingers press into the curve of your spine. the way his breath catches when you shift your weight. the way his hands — once so careful — begin to tremble with the effort of restraint.

but this time, you’re not content to be still.

there’s something alive beneath your skin now. something restless. something unholy. and it rises with each breath you take against his mouth, until you’re no longer kissing him — you’re claiming him.

you shift above him, palms pressed flat to his chest, legs bracketing his hips, and for a moment — just a moment — you hesitate.

because the guilt still flickers in your chest like a dying match.

because it still whispers her name.

because this is the moment when everything changes.

and you change with it.

his hands slide to your waist, gripping tight. grounding you.

his eyes search yours — not in fear, not even in lust, but in that same quiet awe he’s held since the first time he touched you.

you move.

and the moment your body meets his — the second your hips sink and you feel all of him fill the hollow that shame used to live in — the guilt vanishes.

like it was never even there.

like it was just another lie you told yourself to feel clean.

you exhale. slowly. fully. as if your lungs had been waiting for him to enter them.

jinu gasps beneath you — low and guttural — and his hands clutch at your hips with a desperation that makes your spine arch. his name stumbles from your lips again, not as a confession this time, but as a command. your fingers curl into his chest. your body begins to move. and the two of you fall into a rhythm that’s more sin than salvation.

you ride him like the world doesn’t exist outside this bed.

like you’ve always belonged here.

on top of him.

above her.

inside this chaos of skin and betrayal and unbearable longing.

his grip tightens. his head falls back against the pillow. his voice is a ragged whisper of your name, and every time he says it, it sounds like he’s forgetting hers.

and still, you don’t stop.

you can’t stop.

because in this moment — in this godless rhythm, in this dizzying heat, in this selfish, stolen spiral — you don’t feel like the bad guy.

you feel like the only thing he’s ever wanted.

and worse —

you feel like you were meant to be wanted this way.

you don’t know what pushes you closer — his mouth or his voice. his lips move against your skin like a spell, like every word he’s ever said is meant to burn into the space just beneath your collarbone. and the way he’s looking at you, even now — it’s soft. it’s ruinously soft. like you’re the only thing he’s ever been gentle with.

“that’s it,” he whispers, kissing your jaw between breathless praises.

“you’re perfect when you lose yourself. don’t hold back for me.”

but it’s not him you’re afraid of. it’s not what you’ll do to him if you let go.

it’s what you’ll do to yourself.

your heart is racing faster than your hips. your body’s already begging to fall apart. you feel your climax creeping closer like a truth you can’t outrun — and just when you think you might finally let go—

click.

a door.

and then, her voice.

“y/n? i’m here to pick up my boots!”

your blood turns to ice.

jinu’s eyes snap to yours — gleaming, wicked, alive.

and then he flips you.

fast. fluid. practiced. like he’s done this before.

like he’s wanted this before.

you’re on your back in seconds, and he’s inside you again before you can even whisper his name. his hips move, slow at first — cruelly slow — and then deeper, deliberate, timed with the sound of her footsteps down the hall.

you reach for his shoulder, nails digging into his skin. your mouth falls open, but he catches it in a kiss. each thrust presses your body deeper into the mattress, and each time he fills you, he kisses you again — soft and suffocating — just enough to keep your moans caught between your teeth, not erased, just… contained.

“don’t stop now,” he whispers, lips brushing your cheek. “you’re so close. let her hear what she’s missing.”

you shake your head — you try — but your body doesn’t obey anymore. you’re not in control. not of the pace, not of the sounds you’re making, and definitely not of your pulse, which is slamming behind your ribs like it wants to confess everything.

you hear her voice again.

“oh! here they are!”

closer. too close.

she’s only feet from the door now, and jinu knows it.

he leans in, lips brushing your ear as his pace changes — not rough, not fast, but measured. calculated. just enough to make your stomach tighten, your thighs quake, your voice tremble.

“you’re going to cum with her right outside that door,” he says, voice all silk and sin.

“you’re going to stay quiet for her, but not for me.”

you bite your lip so hard it might bruise. your hands grip the sheets.

your eyes blur.

you hear rumi step back, her footsteps receding down the hall…

but he doesn’t stop.

not even as the door shuts softly again.

not even when the danger has passed.

because for him — this was the point.

the tension. the thrill. the sweetness of knowing you chose him — loudly, violently — when no one else was supposed to know.

and for you?

there’s no guilt anymore.

only the crashing flood of yes.

copyright © t4kalcvr 2025 all rights reserved

💬, HELP MY SECOND ONE IN ONE DAY ?? theyre just so ughh 😍 and that whole sister concept got my head AHHHH ENJOY THIS ONE NEXT TO MY BABY ONE EHEHHEHEHEHE!!! 😋 (pls request things guys) GUYS DO I MAKE A PART TWO ???!!!

ko-fi 🎧

look here for your next read 📚 !

permanent 🔖: @sukunasrealgf @sinamew

[cosmetologynerd]

Some JinuRumi for the soul AUGGGGGH ✨️

[cosmetologynerd]

Local man thinks the woman trying to kill him asked him out. He shows up anyway.

[cosmetologynerd]

loserboycore

[cosmetologynerd]

clora's fav time to tease seb is when they're busy or in public and he has to restrain himself......girly knows what she's doing😇 (from my vellmore oneshot^^)

[cosmetologynerd]

The Sallow List

pairing(s): Sebastian Sallow x Reader

words: 6.3k

summary: Sebastian Sallow sneaks into your dormitory and finds a list hidden in your bed, one filled with names of girls who want him. All except yours.

When you find him reading the list, offended and curious, he decides to prove exactly why your name belongs at the top.

warnings: contains nudity, sexual themes and mature content that is not advised for younger viewers. descriptive smut. sebastian being competive and possesive. idiots in love. all characters are aged up!

a/n: you could also find this Ao3 too.

dedicated to @kelseyreads22 for the light peer pressure. and my discord peeps for never failing to support the stupid feral shit we all just agree with all the time lmao. you could join us for laughs and content here's the link too. enjoy xx

“What?”

Sebastian Sallow sat mortified on the edge of your neatly made bed. A crumpled parchment with scribbled writings clenched on his hand, still in a blend of a confused and deafening expression.

He hadn’t planned to be there, in your dormitory. Let alone, holding his find. He’d only planned to enter your common room and ask for something, but when he saw the dormitory door slightly ajar, curiosity took the best of him.

And he knew the parchment was yours. It was your bed. It smelled like you — the faint hints of your scent that had lured him in since your arrival the fifth year.

The stemming scent that kept him up late nights when the wind slept and his mind didn’t.

The thought alone ticked Sebastian, and he brought his senses up, his eyes flickering back on the bloody list.

Yes, a list.

Girls. Every name written like some twisted Quidditch scoreboard.

Some from every house, some he’d recognized, and some that he never expected to see there.

The most quietest ones held the most pride in signing this list.

The Sallow List

Sebastian didn’t need much context behind it. The doodles beside the signatures were enough.

— Cressida Blume,  his hair looks really soft

— Gracie, his voice?? His moans are probably so deep.

— C. Greengrass, his lips are so pink. They have to be kissable!!!!

— Lenora, I seen how fast his fingers move when he has a quill…what else could they do?

“Ergh,”

It felt invasive to read, but it was a list about him. Curiosity ran thick in his blood, especially on something about him. Something that was in your property.

A slow, vexed frown began to form on his face after re-reading the scribbles. The thickset of his brows furrowed as he looked for one name in particular. Yours.

You weren’t on it.

It felt too ironic for him to know you held this list in your belongings, yet, no evidence of you was there.

He even flipped it over, then back again, convinced he might’ve possibly missed it, knowing you and your small writing he often made fun of — but you weren’t on the list.

And it bothered Sebastian’s ego.

All these girls wanting to snog him, but the one whose bed he was currently sitting on; the one he’s seeking wasn’t among the names.

How annoying — how pesty of you to orchestrate such a thing like this and not be on it.

“Typical,” Sebastian murmured to himself. You always knew how to wind him up without even fucking trying — always with him, but still out of reach after all these years.

The pulse trip you gave him of endless ventures he’d spend with you. The almost ‘what-if’s’ but too cowardly to admit, so instead, he’d spend his growth cycles just wanking himself with your scent and hoping for the best.

The consequence? Your name not being on the list.

You entered breathlessly into your dormitory without notice. Everyone had gone to Hogsmeade for the weekend, including yourself, but you’d forgotten your coin pouch, so you ran back.

When the door swung shut, your steps creaked toward your side before finally finding the person in your space.

“Oh, shit—Sebastian?”

You weren’t even phased by his arrival. The patterns you’d learned about the Slytherin man throughout the years stuck with you, so his presence wasn’t ghostly.

What was ghostly was looking at the crumbled parchment you had sworn was hidden well beneath your pillow, now sitting still over his long fingers, in his possession.

Oh shit.

The list.

The fucking list.

Sebastian didn’t flinch. Hell, he didn’t even bother to act like he’d been in trouble. He had mastermind too many times getting caught by Scribner — but with you finding out he found the list? He just threw a smirk.

“W-What are you doing? Where did you find—“ You didn’t mean to stutter, but the list was a limited item you hid from him for years. An inside joke he now knew about.

The titled smirk didn’t fade from his face. You saw how his eyes laid on the parchment, the wrinkly freckled skin over his lids squinting as he spoke. “Wasn’t aware this was part of the female’s newsletter.”

Your heart dropped, but you passed your saliva and wind a hand up, using a non-verbal Accio spell to get the parchment out of his hands.

Sebastian curved your spell and snatched the paper back to himself.

“Hey,” Your feet worked again, and inched closer to him on your bed, wanting to get the paper from him. “Give me that!”

With a smooth motion, Sebastian stood up from your bed rapidly, and of course, with his ridiculous height advantage, he lifted the parchment enough out of your reach.

“I don’t think so.”

He was tall. And even with the swift motion of holding the parchment upward, you could sniff the manly scent as you tippy-toed a jump to grab it, but it was a fail.

“What is this, eh?” Sebastian asked you.

A blow transmitted out of you mid-dormitory. Your cheeks had been tomato red by now and you’d hope Sebastian didn’t notice the trickle of sweat outlining your forehead as you ignored his question.

“Seriously, Sallow,” You jumped again, but he was ridiculously taller than you. “—give me—“

His gaze was gawking at you. You’d known he was directing his attention at you for an answer, but you’d been busy wanting to take away the list on his hand. “You’re dodging my question.”

“It’s just a stupid list. It’s a joke.” You lied.

It wasn’t really a lie. It started a little after the sixth. Snogging began to occur often in the secretive halls of Hogwarts, and rumored lists would often lure. Considering you were the closest to Sebastian Sallow, one drunk night with the girls led to the list. Thanks to you.

A strange scoff emitted from him. “Oh yeah?” He cooed. There been a roughness in his playful voice that made you feel challenged. He’d always been manipulative for answers, but you didn’t want to give it to him today.

You scratched your forehead with your fingers with a sigh, surrendering to grab the item, and then faced Sebastian.

Both of your eyes met.

It hadn’t been fair really. Besides the height — it was foul to see how stupidly attractive the Sallow man truly was.

A few strands of his brown hair flopped over his forehead, nearly covering the brown eyes that peered at you.

You’d seen him more than any of those girls on the list. None of them were this close to him though. They didn’t manage to see the freckles that kissed the top of his cheeks, or how the color of his brown eyes turned lighter like honey in the light.

You've seen him so much, you could debunk the notes in that list. ‘I want to touch his clear skin’ one would say — but it was flawed with scars that only one would see up close. ‘His lips are so pink, he would be a good kisser’ you couldn’t debunk that, yet.

You passed your saliva, “Why are you stirred up, Sallow? If you read the list, your ego should probably be the size of a quaffle by now.” You spat, crossing your arms and breaking the eye-contact. You only stared at the dent he left on your bed from sitting long.

Sebastian had been in another state though. Not enough names could boost his ego in that fucking list. Not any compliments, not any assumptions — anything, but the one name that wasn’t there.

Wanting to avoid any tension, you began to pace around the space, focusing on what you really came in here for, your coin bag, and pretending like you hadn’t done this cut-off every time there was tension with you and him.

The friendship had been strong. You two have seen the worst and the best out of each other. In battles, in class, in parties — one thing would lead to another, but when there was a hint of something more, usually one pulled away or one became a coward.

“Ugh, where is that damn bag—“

“Does the creator of the list exclude themselves from it?” Sebastian asked.

He stood in the same spot, asking questions, but also watching you waste time to find the coin pouch. He was desperate for an answer. An answer that he wanted to hear and his scheme of manipulation took over. Sebastian wasn’t going to stop until he got it.

You chuckled, “Who said I created it?” Your body bent, going through some drawers at the end of the dormitory.

You were a bit far, but you heard the chuckle from him. It resonated more when nobody else, but you two were the only ones in the dormitory.

“I don’t know, let’s see,” Sebastian said, but there was a tip of annoyance in his tone as he projected his truth to you. “ I found it in your bed. Your pillow. And I know your handwriting by now. The title of the list — it’s your writing.” He pointed his finger at the bolded letters.

You froze at how attentive he’d been. It shouldn’t come off as a surprise, but you had to pause your hand digging in your drawer and blink at his words. There, you stood in place, turning slowly over your shoulder and glinting. “What’s your point?”

Sebastian was pissed at how calmly you took this matter. It was only proving that you really did not care about him finding the list as much as he imagined you to. This ticked him off because he was good with girls. He understood why there was a list. He had his way of words to lure and hypnotize them, but you?

The parchment crackled under his grip and you heard it far and clear but didn’t comment. The list became useless at this point if the main ingredient of it found it.

“My point?”

The Adam's apple in his throat moved a little heavier in visual view, but you didn’t notice because your head turned back to the drawer.

But your heart was beating fast. You’d learn throughout the years to avoid conflict. To hide away your real feelings, so to battle such a topic with someone like Sebastian Sallow — it was tough.

“Sebastian, you have like half of Hogwarts tallied up on that list and you’re still complaining?” You snarled, closing the drawer and taking a breath, your coin pouch nowhere to be found.

“All I’m wondering is why your name didn’t make the list.” He said bluntly.

This caught you now. The need to look for your item died down and all you could do was turn to him.

Sebastian held his stand in the same spot you left him in. In the side of your dormitory bed, the list no longer in the air from his height, but on his side, crumbled up in madness.

You swallowed, your steps taking tardiness as you approached him again.

Only you knew the truth, but the least you could’ve done was sign your name. The risks of prioritizing your feelings first rather than wanting to keep a friendship with Sebastian Sallow were high. You were not going to risk it again.

“My name?” You laughed it off, looking to the side. “Why the hell would my name be there?”

Sebastian didn’t laugh. You didn’t even hear a wince of a scoff or chuckle. He wasn’t matching your energy, so you stopped looking to the side and looked up.

There was a grave expression on his face. Those honey-like eyes you were admiring minutes back became dawn darkness from your words and you raised your brows at him.

Sebastian tilted his head a little and blinked with a mocking questioning. “Am I not your type?”

A nervous laugh spilled out of you. It was not funny. It was more of a laugh of hiding away the truth. You could no longer tell if he was teasing as he always was with himself, or demanding truth.

“Are you being serious?”

“I am.” He narrowed.

The air thickened, but you pursed your lips and then pressed them with a hesitant nod. “I just—I—“ you didn’t mean to stutter, but it was getting to you. “We’re…we’re friends,…and…and…”

“You’d known me more than anyone else in this castle, more than Ominis. I’d guess to boost my ego you could’ve written down a few compliments or so in this list to help. Don’t you think?”

You gulped.

Sebastian stepped closer, barely a hand’s length now between the two of you. He’d now begged himself for you to self-confess. Perhaps, it’s become a mutual feeling now, but you were a hard rock to break. It was impossible.

“And then what, Sallow?” You weren’t afraid of his closeness. You have been close to him many times, but even with an empty room with so much space, this one killed you. “Be part of this list too?”

His jaw clenched at your words. It wasn’t even a tease. You were just asking a question as you stared, but it still bothered him. It wasn’t enough.

“Am I not fuckable enough for you?”

It hadn’t even been a joke anymore. There was no cracked smug over his mouth. No glint in his eyes. Just a cold sting of frustration, pride, and something lower — something he didn’t want to admit.

As he asked that, the same list he had crumbled in his fingers crackled under both of you.

Your breaths were higher now and even if you wanted to take your eyes off him, you couldn’t. There was this appalling appearance in you from his question and you knew by now that he’d taken notice of how your chest raised in and out from the nerves.

“I bet if this list said Weasley, your signature would’ve been the first on top, wouldn’t it?” Sebastian dug now. There was a possessive and impulsive timbre in his voice. He hated mentioning the redhead, but he couldn’t stop himself.

Your eyes widened, not expecting him to cross lines now, unplanned. “Are you out of your mind?”

Sebastian’s breath shifted, slower and heavier from your reaction. He looked like he wanted to respond, but it caught between his teeth.

Your eyes glazed on his, then on his flushed cheeks. The little tint of pink that lay on his sides wasn’t there and before you could question anything, you twirled, walking away. “Whatever, Sallow. Just go have fun with the list of names—“

The steps you took from your bed to the door didn’t make it far. Sebastian moved fast, but your Ancient Magic moved faster, sensing his follow and before he could make a stop on you, you turned around facing him.

On unfortunate luck, he’d been close enough for you to step backward and feel your back touch the wall from behind. You took a heavy breath, watching Sebastian lift an arm over your shoulder, flatly on the wall beside you, and bend to stare down.

He’d caged you, so you wouldn’t leave as both of your heights reached the same scale.

It’s like his stare burned into you. Only the sound of his breath blew on your nose from how close he had been. You watched how he lifted his right hand in slow motion, wanting you to watch him show you the crumbled list in his grasp.

The list was fucked at this point. From his anger.

“You think I give two fucks about the names on this list?” He asked you.

You were staring at the paper, but even with that, you sensed his stare stalling at you with every word he said.

The air on the empty setting tightened now. That little humor you were bringing on earlier set off and now things felt serious.

“It’s…it’s a lot of names in there, Sallow.” Your throat itched demanding a sentence to him, but his breath seemed to win over.

“And yours?” Sebastian asked, again. He didn’t back off. He stayed closed, watching you like the truth was buried behind your words.

Your eyes met the frame of his jawline. It’ll pinch with his questions and you weren’t brave enough to stare into his eyes anymore.

But Sebastian didn’t hold his limits anymore. He stepped closer, much closer than he’d ever dared, and lowered right in the inch of your earlobe, his lips brushing on the outline and you shivered.

“What do I have to do,” He murmured in a deliberate struggle. “—to make you write your name in this list?”

The whisper held you under your skin now. This tension coiled between the two of you and the restraint in his voice only made you clenched, not in your throat, but in your core. You’d been afraid if you pressed your legs together, it’d clench faster from his position.

“S-Sebastian…”

“Tell me,” He demanded. “I’d spent the last years doing enough to think you’ll write your signature in such a list about me, yet,” his breath blew inside your ears. “…it wasn’t enough.”

You’d always had your eyes prying on Sebastian Sallow, since the fifth year, but the blockage of friendship and comfortableness layered it.

It wasn’t that he wasn’t enough.

It was that you’d never dared to let yourself want him openly — because if you did…it would never be just 'wanting'.

“Do I have to prove it to you?” Sebastian’s voice cracked over the last word. It sounded like a prayer. To have this blessing of allowing him to take this to his advantage.

Sebastian struggled. He struggled enough in the past years. He couldn’t keep holding back on this very moment. It had been enough in the cycle, and this frustration of rejection — he couldn’t stand it. Not from you.

He couldn’t stand how you stood below him, innocently, pretending like not one inappropriate thought crossed your bloody head this entire time, but he liked a challenge.

There was this competitive thrill for Sebastian Sallow to prove himself right. To have this source of ability to prove something. Persuading something — persuading you.

Pleasuring you.

His nose kept tickling over your ear, and he took the benefit of that scent of yours. To smell the small strands of your hair behind the ear as he kept his eyes closed, waiting for an answer, but also holding in the strained hardness that flexed over his pants below.

His cock twitched with every breath of yours.

“Speak up, sweetheart.” He said roughly, not having the great ability to hold back, but your lack of answers were edging him. “We could answer all those assumptions about me in this,” with one hand he un-crumbled the list again and brought it to your eyes. “…list.”

He was silly, but the butterfly feeling between your legs at the moment said otherwise from his intense tease.

“You don’t wonder how my fingers,” Sebastian read off the list, rephrasing the jotted lines of girls handwriting. “…write so fast with a quill…imagine what else…” his hands journeyed to your hip, giving the first touch before tracking down your skirt. “…they can do?”

Your leg shifted in a twitch from the touch. He’d only rested the warmth of his finger a little below your skirt, into your skin, but you gasped at his words.

“‘His lips are so pink’” He read off. You could still feel his face near your ear, but he came back up and faced you. You’d been a flush of a mess, but Sebastian edged closer as he kept reading. “…how kissable are they?”

A menace. He was a fucking menace.

But he transferred the curiosity to you. You always found yourself wondering how soft his hairs really were. Or if his lips really were —

Sebastian gave up on the silence. His hands let go of the parchment and let it fall onto the floor. Before you could watch the fall of the list, you were blocked by a pair of lips on yours.

It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t careful. It was all in frustration and force. Of wanting something that had been sitting for years. A breath-stealing kiss two parties yearned for enough to make a fair moan from just a kiss.

The one hand that held a list now cradled over the side of your face and a thumb brushed your cheek as you were grounded with a sloppy make-out session that both of you clearly ached for too long.

Sebastian kissed good. Dangerously good.

He held you captive over the wall, his tongue dancing over your own, guiding permission. His brows frowned, not from anger, but from how good kissing you felt. It was an ecstatic feel and it was just kissing.

You were in no help of a stop. Instead, your hands reached in an instinct, clutching at the fabric of his shirt and pulling him closer. Your hands threading through those soft brown hairs everyone wondered about.

It was a hard study between heat and examination. You gripped the hairs, softer than ever — Sebastian groaned into your mouth from the pull and his fingers clutched the side of your hips from resisting.

They were, in fact, really soft.

Your back pressed the bed soon after. The make-out session on the wall quickly transferred back into your dormitory bed and with a soft thud, Sebastian threw you onto the pillow, making you reach for a breath.

“Oh, we’re not finished yet,” Sebastian warned huskily. “Everyone’s at Hogsmeade…and I’m here to prove my point.”

He dove back into your mouth with more need than before. The weight of his hand on the side of your hip found its way beneath your shirt, feeling the raw aspect of your stomach before scrunching it up.

Over grounded mouths, you’d often breathe heavier than usual when the air of the dormitory felt colder on your skin as Sebastian folded up your shirt above your chest and reached over a breast.

His finger traced the middle of your breast, purposely tickling you and triggering the hardness of your nipples. You both watched his actions and you flushed, wanting to return the invasion by bringing your hand downward over his pants and attempting to find his bulge.

He’d been hard and thick. You palmed him lightly, but it was a hard reach from his height to yours. You’d only been able to get a sense of what he hid behind the fabric and you could only now imagine how he would feel inside of you.

You weren’t always stuck in an inappropriate daze. There wasn’t shame in touching yourself in the quietest hours of the night in a bath or empty dormitory. It was easier than admitting how much you wanted him all those years when the sun was up and walls were closed.

But now it became difficult when Sebastian, the real Sebastian, pressed against you, kissing you like he’d been waiting for this too. To prove a point of a name.

The thought made your thighs want to press together again, to get the same heartbeat notion between your legs, but now, the body of Sebastian blocked it. You couldn’t press them and he noticed that.

“Open your legs,” Sebastian ordered, feeling your denial.

“I just—oh,”

He moved quickly, pressing the longness of his fingers under your skirt. His touch circled around the thin fabric of your underwear before pressing three fingers lightly over to feel the dampness outside of you.

“Sebastian,”

A breath hitched out of his mouth. He’d lost count of how many times his cock twitched, begging for an out as he found out how soaked you were for him. For him.

“Agh,” He said in satisfaction, almost amazed from the feel. “…they said they wondered what else these fingers,” you felt them nibble the bud of your clit, still with underwear on as he spoke over your whimpers. “…do besides writing fast.”

The touch was gentle, but so powerful. Sebastian had stopped kissing and now paid his full attention to his fingers beneath you, under your lifted wrinkled skirt he dragged up and watched his own fingers trigger your sensitive nerves even more.

And he felt how you clenched with each nub.

It felt humiliating. Humiliating to know that once his fingers moved your underwear to the side, he was going to feel how wet you’d been over the course of the hour. How with such an unnecessary proof of point, you exposed yourself too on your feelings.

“Merlin,” Sebastian fought over himself, not caring about his truth out loud. “I just want to bury myself inside of you like this, but…”

He didn’t say much after, and before you could question his denial need of fucking you, you gave a low whine when two fingers entered between your folds carefully, a slushy sound echoing over the ears from the arousal.

They’d been long. His fingers. Sebastian kept it slow and gentle, examining how far he could go with them. He lifted his head once wanting to see how you’ll react. You were already a beautiful mess, giving gentle moans and biting your lip constantly from his movements.

“…how can I when the sound of your pleasure brings lullabies to my ears,” Sebastian resisted, fingering you faster, “…my cock.”

A thumb reached the outside of your clit, rubbing slowly and you clenched much slowly, feeling the triggering effect of Sebastian learning what pace you moan louder from his fingers.

“Are they,” he would curl a finger inside of you for a ting of tease and you yelp as he spoke. “…really faster than a quill, hm?” He challenged.

What a provocative little shit.

You couldn’t even talk well to insult him. You’d been so lost in his pace that when he removed his fingers from you, a mushy sound electrified and you breathed.

Sebastian lifted over you, and with the small movement of that, you saw the outline of his cock fighting in his pants. His hands reached down his belt and he raised his eyes like a wild animal looking for prey as you watched him.

Embarrassed from catching you eyeing him, you felt colored again and looked away, giving the privacy of undoing himself, but only a bubble of a laugh threw you off.

“I recall someone scribbled,” Sebastian began to remind you of the list of assumptions as he pulled his pants down. “‘I wonder if his cock is as thick as his ego.’”

You kept looking at the opposite perspective, not wanting to see. Also, to hide the blush that crept over you from what he was saying. All you did was blink at the stupid window across the dormitory.

“Darling,” Sebastian threw a pet name on you for attention. He would sometimes throw them in over the years with a silly friendship thing, but now it sounded heavy and with direction.

You licked your lips, but then felt a hand weight down beside you. Your saliva lingered over your throat as you felt that Sebastian had finally hovered over you again, and once you turned around, he’d be right there.

“Don’t you,” You shivered feeling a few fingers trace your collarbone and down the buttons of your shirt, starting to undo them. “…want to know if is as thick as my ego?”

You let him undress you, but it took a good portion of seconds to gain the courage to turn your head at his nude body before yours.

Cock wasn’t the first thing you saw. It’d been his broad chest — the way his tanned skin vibrated perfectly on the freckles that stamped him. They weren’t only on his face, but they reached down his shoulders, onto his back. A few down his abdomen until you saw him.

He was big. You saw the outline, but now in a raw view, you swallowed from the veins that strained out of it. It stared at you, like a mind of its own and it clearly showed the wanting of Sebastian to you. His cock dripped with pre-cum and it twitched from its pink tip, prepared.

It became stupid when you felt the same familiar heartbeat between your legs again, despite him fingering you pleasurably, you wanted more. You wanted him.

“Hey—“

“Get inside me.” You begged.

By now, from the severe distraction of admiring Sebastian’s body, you’d been nude yourself from his help. The buttoned shirt you once wore had been hanging on the tip of another girl’s bed and you shivered.

You overthought your command, sounding needy and stupid. “I mean—“

Sebastian didn’t think twice about your needs. You felt his lips land on yours, but your once-sitting bodies now lay back down over the pillow. His hand sprawled over the side of your face as he went between your legs and played around himself.

You hummed, feeling his tip linger around the outside of your skin. It rubbed over your drenched cunt on its own as Sebastian kissed you passionately.

The temperature felt hotter as Sebastian brought a hand down under your bodies and eyed the moment before taking a glance at you. “Yes?”

“Please.” You closed your eyes.

Sebastian stared at you. In his head, it crossed that he watched you right now, waiting for you to start writing what none of those girls could ever, ever, write in that list.

He didn’t enter you gently.

His entrance was rough and within gasp, he shut his eyes, squeezing them — hoping for the best of his fucking ego to not cum in that very second as you clenched. “Fuck.”

Your nails dug into his back from the shift of his hips slamming into you and gasped loudly, having to break the kiss.

“F-Fuck…” Sebastian went out of you but kept his tip stuck in your entrance. “…I’m trying to be gentle, but—“

“You were proving a point, weren’t you?” You throw in.

It was a dangerous commitment. There wasn’t turning back on what you had said. To prove a point. Sebastian didn’t hesitate on your words and stood by his words.

He crawled his hand under your body, bucking it up a little before he plunged inside of you like a slap. You both gasped and then he began to fuck you endlessly as time depended on it.

His cock buried inside powerfully. Sebastian didn’t play. He would go deeper and deeper with every rapid thrust, wanting to angle himself perfectly to feel the depth of your cervix and mark himself enough for it to remember him forever.

He’d watched as the pretty little mouth of yours parted with each movement. How your breasts bounced perfectly beneath him and he’ll go back to watching himself thrust into you, in and out, deep and deeper, harder and rougher — oh, he loved it. He loved you.

Your moans and expression sent him over the edge. His goal was to satisfy you to bring your name into the list — but it was never really the stupid list. It was just you. His heart had always been on you. And to finally have you tied on him, finally, he wanted to prove all those lost times of just ‘being friends’.

“Oh,” You moaned.

“Y-You’re so…tight around me, you know?” He complimented, bending forward to caress your cheek with his thumb. “…I could feel you…pressing around — shit — my co-cock with each thrust.”

You did clench with each thrust. He’d been so thick and long, that you couldn’t help the feeling of hugging him inside your walls and keeping him there forever.

The bed made squeaking sounds over the dormitory. It was loud and if Sebastian kept the pace he was doing, the bed would most likely hit the wall across the room.

Neither of you could hear the bed as much as the squelching sounds of skin-to-skin in the air. The way Sebastian drilled into you as his balls slapped beneath your cunt over each motion making you whimper and moan.

But Sebastian became attentive to the noise of the small bed. Sure, he enjoyed your sounds, but his easily distracted mind didn’t allow him to enjoy it fully — so he cuffed you under his arms and carried you to the nearest wall again.

“Sebastian!” You gasped, feeling your back against the cold wall, but it was soon replaced by heated pleasure again as Sebastian pressed into you.

His chest rubbed over your breast as he held you tightly and made you bounce up and down over him on the wall. “Yes?”

One hand gripped your ass beneath you for a force and the other hand of his rested flatly beside you on the wall, using it as a control to keep himself in balance and submerge every inch inside of you.

You’d won over the list. That list that you’d convinced yourself that with all these girls wanting Sebastian Sallow, your chances would lower — but you’d been wrong. Super wrong.

“D-Do you know…” Sebastian breathed, bringing his forehead against yours. Your breaths were heavy and his sweaty hairs touched yours. “-how long I waited to do this with you?”

You gave a half-laugh half-gasp at his honesty over the sex. You were both sweaty, but as your head bobbed over each other, you couldn’t help, but kiss again, passionately.

“But,” Your body took a freeze when Sebastian let you down and turned you around to the nearest dresser, the same one you were indeed dying to look for your coin pouch. “I feel like I haven’t proven enough…”

He bent you gently, letting your hands grip the edges of the small dresser before he inserted himself from behind.

The sex became rougher.

You felt how Sebastian twirled his fingers over your hair like a ponytail and used it as a control to inject his cock back inside of you harder. He’d watch as your behind bounced with each pump and whimper from his actions.

his voice?? His moans are probably so deep. Someone had written on the list.

They were deep.

His moans were deep.

His cock was deep.

His words were deep.

“Oh, yes,” He’d moan over your ear. “Perfect.”

You’ll clench and he’ll let out rough groans, synchronizing with your moans.

“Oh yeah.” You murmured.

Sebastian didn’t think he’d get harder than he already was, but your sounds bricked him awfully. He’d often had to think about clown suits or Prewett dressed as a banana to keep himself going a little longer, but that just fucked his mind.

As he took you from the back, he leaned forward, moving strands of hairs from one side of your neck and becoming a sucking machine on you. He sucked your shoulder, up to your neck, and when you raised your head to see his actions, he found your mouth, clumsily kissing you.

The kisses became lazier and the movement became aggressive. You’d known that if Sebastian kept the pace he was going in right now, you’d reach an orgasm. More if his hand moved into your clit and rubbed it.

“P-Please…” You begged.

“Please, what?” He struggled. “Tell me…tell me what do you want, sweetheart?” He breathed, his voice blending with the slamming sounds.

There wasn’t an ability to talk. Instead, you responded to the hot breath vibrating near your ear before your head spun and met in a desperate kiss with Sebastian. Tongues tangled frantically and a hand of his snaked over your sweat-licked bodies.

His hand lowered and you tucked your stomach, feeling a steady rub of circles over your clit. Sebastian had read you well, determined to push you on edge with him.

“Was pinning you like this,” Sebastian hissed. “-w-worth it?”

The man had proved his point. From how ecstatic he made you feel right now, you were set to write your signature big and bolded over the fucking list. Hell, you’d even highlight it with your reasonings, but the idea of other women knowing how good Sebastian Sallow fucked didn’t allow you.

Perhaps, you had to make another secret list with him only knowing now.

“Yes, yes,” You pleaded.

With pleads and moans, Sebastian felt his cock draw up tightly, balls clenching as he signaled a finish.

It was chaotically messy. A disheveled moment of both of you reaching a coarse point with curses and final moans.

It was planted that you weren’t going to be able to walk for a while after Sallow’s moves. He made sure he gave his all to you in a short amount of time and you couldn’t envision how he would act in a normal setting of sex.

You found yourself like one of the girls on the list. Wondering with curiosity — if he fucks that good in sneaking minutes, how would he be with all the time in the world?

“Well,” Sebastian tilted minutes later, fully clothed, picking up the list that had fallen to the floor. A small tugging smile crept on him as he held it up to you, all sweaty and all. “—I’m sure you have a lot to say for this list, don’t you?”

His eyes peered on yours. He wanted a definite yes answer to it. The satisfaction of you admitting he pleasured you so well, you wanted to put yourself on this list.

Half-tiredly, your fingers conjured a pen over him, and the list was snatched from his hold before you brought it down to a flat surface on the wall and began to sign.

You made sure your name was big and bolded at the bottom, enough for anyone to see. Sebastian watched with you.

He’s HUGE and he’s mine.

He became flustered at the scribble but didn’t complain. He looked down, smiling to himself like he won the lottery of some sort.

“This list though,” You murmured, making it poof away with your magic. “Would only be visible to me and you now, Sallow.”

Sebastian gave a humming noise at your demanding tone. “Hm, yeah?” 

"Yes."  

[cosmetologynerd]

So uh. Remember when I was a bitch to Peter Parker for years on end….?

How would you feel if I told you I am currently taking all of the angst I’ve ever put Peter through, doubling it and passing it off to my first ever true OC? 👀

Ashes (Infinity War)

In which it all comes crashing down 

Peter Parker x Reader 

Word Count: 3,242

Hey @starksparker remember when I said not to test me?? Yeah, well. You did, so here, enjoy the angst. 

He promised he’d always keep you safe. He was your best friend, childhood, teenage years and every twist and turn that came with it. He was by your side, whispering softly in your ear when things got rough, that he was there no matter what, that you were safe as long as you were his best friend.

“I’ll never let anything, or anyone, hurt you.”

His brown eyes, his toffee curls, his nervous stutter and his nerd t-shirts never failing to bring a smile to your face. He was always there, always smiling, always holding your hand when times got tough, and you always held his.

You held his hand whenever he thought it was his fault his parents left. You held his hand through every argument with Uncle Ben and Aunt May, through every bullies remark, every taunt. You whispered to him the same way he whispered to you. And when Uncle Ben passed away, and Peter locked himself in his room for two weeks, refusing to even answer your texts, you sat outside his bedroom door, pushing his homework underneath it, telling him that you were here when he was ready.

Keep reading

[cosmetologynerd]

xaden riorson sitting on the roof of riorson house waiting for his dad to come home

violet riorson sitting on the roof of riorson house waiting for her husband to come home

[cosmetologynerd]

Violet: Sit down, I'm gonna torture you now Xaden, smirking: kinky. Violet: I think you're sweet and breathtaking. Xaden: What— Violet: You deserve to be cared for. Xaden: Stop, now— Violet: Your feelings are valid and deserve to be heard. Xaden: I need a safeword!

[cosmetologynerd]

Violet, drunk: *points to Xaden* That’s my boyfriend, suckers!

Xaden: Your husband, honey.

Violet: MY HUSBAND! Even better!

[cosmetologynerd]

violet: he’s probably thinking about other girls

xaden: I need to figure out a way to attach the tiny dragon to the big dragon

[cosmetologynerd]

Violet: Okay, I have to tell you the truth. The monsters from the fairytales are real. They're coming to kill us all, and our government is corrupt and trying to hide it from us.

Rhiannon, Ridoc, and Sawyer: Holy shit! Oh, this is such a relief! We thought that you were, like, mad at us or something. YES!!! Let's go do some TREASON!

[cosmetologynerd]

You belong with me. 💚💛💜❤️🩵🖤

Letter on my site :)