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ladyfocalors · 4 months ago

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The Prefect's Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Rulebook

summary: After yet another rule violation by Grim, Riddle hands you a comprehensive guide to Heartslabyul’s regulations expecting you to finally learn and teach Grim. Instead, you retaliate by writing your own unofficial rulebook about Riddle himself, filled with exaggerated (but surprisingly accurate) observations. He inevitably gets his hands on the book. Riddle is left flustered and scandalized, especially with the last rule.

pairing: riddle rosehearts x gn!reader

warning: secondhand embarrassment experience.

word count: 2.4k

i had so much fun writing this. probably one of my favourite fics i have written. it's fun to write about my beloved riddle <3

It all started with a tart. Or rather, the lack of one.

You and Grim stood in the lounge, both of you equal parts guilty and unapologetic. Well, you were mostly guilty by association, considering it was Grim who had eaten one of Trey’s tarts without permission, but in Riddle’s eyes, you were both responsible.

"Grim," you sighed, standing before Riddle Rosehearts with his face red, arms crossed, eyes burning with irritation. "What do you have to say for yourself?"

Grim, hiding behind you, peeked out from behind your legs, ears twitching. "I regret nothing," he declared. "That tart was mine!"

"It most certainly was not!" Riddle snapped, his voice sharp. "That was my tart, specifically prepared for me. And not only did you eat it, but you also violated Rule #89 ‘Never eat a tart without the Queen's permission’, and Rule #27 ‘Do not break into the dormitory kitchens after hours’ and Rule #53–"

Grim huffed. "Ya make it sound worse than it is."

"You ate the Housewarden’s tart in front of him and ran to me," you muttered, reminding him of his crime. You were surprised that Grim hadn't been collared yet.

"A mistake anyone could make," Grim said stubbornly.

"A mistake that you made," you deadpanned.

Riddle inhaled deeply, clearly exercising a lot of restraint to not collar Grim. Then, he presented you with a book, quite a massive book.

"This," he declared, "is the Heartslabyul Rulebook."

You took it, nearly dropping it due to its weight. No dorm rulebook should be this heavy, you thought. "This thing could kill a man."

Grim peeked at it over your shoulder and immediately recoiled. "Ugh! Words! Too many words!"

"That is exactly the issue," Riddle snapped at him. "You do not read the rules, and as a result, you break them." Riddle then turned to you, his face no longer red. "As the Ramshackle Prefect, I expect you to look after your dorm members. Therefore, I expect you to read this book in its entirety and teach Grim to behave himself in my dorm."

You blinked at him. This seemed hardly fair. Why did you have to be punished?

You opened the book to have a look.

Rule #1: Always respect the Queen’s Decrees.

You promptly closed it.

"Yeah, I’m not doing that," you said.

Riddle frowned.

At first, you did try to read the rulebook, but between all your other work, assignments, and the endless errands you had to run, it simply wasn’t feasible. Not to mention how utterly ridiculous some of the rules were.

So instead of reading his rulebook, you wrote your own. For fun.

Grim was pleased with the outcome.

It had started as a joke, something to vent your many grievances about the amount of rules in Heartslabyul, but you quickly realized something: your rulebook wasn’t about Heartslabyul.

It was about Riddle, which Grim had helpfully pointed out.

"Myahaha! Look at this one! ‘Rule #23 – Riddle can and will recite the rules you broke.’ That one's good! Let me add some too!"

And so, The Prefect’s Unofficial Guide to Riddle Rosehearts was born.

The Prefect’s Unofficial Guide to Riddle Rosehearts

(Compiled by the Ramshackle Prefect, with essential additions and doodles from Grim. Rules may be ignored at your own risk. Side effects include but are not limited to: exasperation, lectures, punishments, and possible collaring.)

Rule #1 – Anything is legal when Riddle has his back turned. (Grim wrote this.)

Rule #2 – Riddle will scold you for running in the halls, even if you are running to avoid being late for a meeting with him. (It was a no-win situation. You’d be scolded for being late or scolded for running. There was no escape.)

Rule #3 – Riddle has a ‘stern nod’ and a ‘very stern nod.’ Learn to tell the difference. (One means ‘I am disappointed in you.’ The other means ‘You will be collared in five seconds.’)

Rule #5 – If Riddle goes silent mid-sentence, he is either (a) so angry he can’t speak, or (b) realizing you have a point but refuses to admit it.

Rule #12 – If you see Trey baking tarts, congratulations! You are in the presence of Heartslabyul’s unofficial MVP. Do not let Riddle (or anyone) see you sneaking one.

Rule #18 – If you notice Riddle's face is turning red, you have exactly three seconds to mentally prepare for whatever comes next.

Rule #23 – Riddle can and will recite the rules you broke.

Rule #28 – If you compliment Riddle out of nowhere, he will malfunction like a broken automaton. (Highly effective distraction technique.)

Rule #31 – If Ace says, 'Housewarden Riddle will never know,' Housewarden Riddle will absolutely find out.

Bonus Section:

Rule #31.1 – If Ace says, 'I have a great idea,' walk away. It is neither 'great' nor 'an idea.'

Rule #31.2 – If you try to hide something from Ace, he will immediately become interested.

Rule #34 – Riddle pretends not to have a sense of humour, but he does. (It’s just deeply buried under layers of responsibility and rule enforcement.)

Rule #38 – Trey has a 70% success rate of calming Riddle down. (Cater has a 50% success rate. Ace and Deuce have a -500% success rate.)

Rule #41 – Riddle secretly likes animals, but will deny this if accused. (He takes good care of the hedgehogs and adores them.)

Rule #53 – If Riddle ever finds out I like him, I am done for.

You weren’t sure why you wrote that last one. It was a joke. Mostly. (It felt easier to admit on paper rather than to say it. It was most definitely not a joke.)

The rulebook remained a harmless source of entertainment between you and Grim. You had your fun, and Grim even doodled in a few pictures of angry Riddle before resorting to drawing himself.

It should have remained a private joke. It really should have. But, of course, nothing involving Grim remained a secret for long.

It was another ordinary evening in Heartslabyul, where you had reluctantly agreed to a study session with Ace and Deuce. The plan was simple: Ace and Deuce would attempt to get their grades up, you would try to prevent them from slacking while trying to study as well, and Grim would… probably not study.

Riddle had allowed you all to use one of the study rooms, though not without a warning about ‘proper conduct.’

You had meant to be careful, really. You had every intention of keeping your very unofficial, very embarrassing rulebook far away from prying eyes. You just hoped nobody looked through your stack of books, among which laid your rulebook you had accidentally brought. Unfortunately, for you, Grim had other plans.

Grim huffed, then pawed through the stack of books on the table. "There’s too many words in here! I wanna read something fun."

"You’ll think studying is fun when you see your test scores improve," Deuce said, diligently copying notes and actually putting in an effort.

"Nyah! Where’s our rulebook? I wanna add another one about Riddle’s scary angry face!"

You immediately froze and, like a shark smelling blood in water, Ace perked up.

"Rulebook?" he echoed. "Wait, wait, wait. Is it another one of Riddle’s? Man, you’re actually reading that thing?"

Deuce actually looked impressed. "That’s really responsible of you, Prefect."

"It’s not the Heartslabyul Rulebook," Grim piped up, completely missing the way you were silently willing him to stop talking. "It’s hench-human’s rulebook! The one ‘bout Riddle!"

A beat of silence.

Then, with alarming speed, Ace lunged for your stack of books before you could even stop him. (Rule #31.2 was being displayed right in front of you.)

"HEY–"

"Hold on, hold on," Ace said, flipping the thin book open. "This is– ooohhh. You wrote an entire guide to our Housewarden? With rules?" He barked out a laugh. "Rule #1: Anything is legal when Riddle has his back turned."

You snatched for the book, but Ace twisted out of reach.

"It was a joke! Give it back!"

Deuce, peeking over Ace’s shoulder, frowned. "I don’t know if this is a good idea–"

"‘Rule #31: If Ace says, Housewarden Riddle will never know, Housewarden Riddle will absolutely find out.’" Ace read. "Hey, what the hell! That’s slander!"

"It’s true!" you snapped.

Ace ignored you, flipping further. "‘Rule #38: Trey has a 70% success rate of calming Riddle down. Cater has a 50% success rate. Ace and Deuce have a -500% success rate.’"

Deuce looked offended. "Hey, why is mine also negative?"

Ace grinned. "Because you’re the one who keeps making it worse by apologizing wrong and getting us caught."

"I– wait. I do not!"

"Stop arguing and give it back–"

"Prefect, Ace, Deuce," came the voice of Riddle Rosehearts from the now open door.

A terrible, horrible, no good, very bad silence followed.

The three of you went completely still, and Grim decided he would hide behind you.

This was the worst possible outcome ever. In Ace's hand was your silly book, in plain sight, and there stood Riddle in the doorway with his brows furrowed. Riddle’s eyes flicked to the book in Ace’s hands. Ace immediately noticed and hid it behind his back, but it was far too late.

"Ace," Riddle said, stepping forward. "What are you hiding?"

"Uh… nothing?" Ace tried, clearly lying.

"Nothing," Riddle repeated flatly. His gaze sharpened. "Ace Trappola, hand it over. Now."

Ace, being Ace, grinned as if he could still salvage the situation. "C’mon, Housewarden. Maybe this is one of those things you're better off not seeing–"

"If you don't hand me the book, it's off with your head!"

Ace immediately caved, sighing. "Alright, alright. Here." He handed over the book, and you had never felt such levels of anxiety in your life. Not even facing overblots made you feel the level of panic you felt now (that was an exaggeration but, still).

Riddle took it, immediately glancing at the cover. Then he flipped open the first page. Then the second. Then the third.

You watched, frozen in place, as Riddle continued reading, his expression shifting between scandalized and exasperated.

Then he was at the last page. You could tell the exact moment he read the 53rd Rule. His face went from normal to red in an instant.

Oh no.

You squeezed your eyes shut for a moment and then opened to meet Riddle's blue-gray ones.

“I see,” Riddle said, his voice carefully even but his face red. "Is this true?"

You considered your options.

Lie. (Too late, he’s already read it.)

Run. (Where? He knows where you live.)

Pray. (The Great Seven can’t save you now.)

You picked option 4. Deflection.

"You were not supposed to read it," you said, your voice steadier than you felt.

"So I gathered," he muttered. He looked at you then glanced at the audience.

"Ace, Deuce and Grim," he said. "I expect a 2000 worded essay about the need of study ettiquette and rules."

Ace groaned. "Aw, c’mon, Housewarden–"

"2500 words," Riddle amended, not even hesitating.

Deuce sighed but nodded, already resigned to his fate. Grim, however, let out a dramatic wail. "But I didn't even do anything!"

"Then you may explain, in 2500 words, why you are a menace to the dorms."

Grim gasped. "Wha– ME?!"

"Now leave," Riddle said, and Ace wasted no time grabbing Grim and Deuce by the collars, dragging them toward the door.

"Good luck, Prefect," Ace called, grinning like a traitor before the door shut behind them.

And then, silence.

You were alone with Riddle. You could hear the pages of the rulebook crinkling slightly under his grip. He wasn’t saying anything. Oh no.

Riddle took a deep breath, and exhaled. His face was still tinged red, and you had no idea if that was a good sign or if you were about to be executed on the spot.

"Why," he finally said, "did you write this?"

You hesitated, rubbing the back of your neck. "It was just a joke. Grim and I wrote it for fun."

"Fun," Riddle echoed, a slight twitch in his brow. "So, you thought it would be fun to create an entire guide about me?"

"When you say it like that, it sounds weird."

"It is weird!"

You winced. Was it Rule #18 red or Rule #5 red? Either way, this was not looking good for you.

(Back in your world, you used to laugh when your friends talked about the embarrassing things they did and noticed about their crushes. You thought it was ridiculous. Now the tables have turned and you feel like you want to throw up.)

"Look," you said, shifting uncomfortably, "I didn’t mean for you to see it. I mean, it’s not like you don’t do all those things–"

Riddle inhaled sharply. "That’s not the point!"

There was another terrible pause. You could feel your soul slowly trying to escape your body.

Then, he huffed, closing the book with a thunk against his palm. "So," he said, eyes locking onto you, "Rule number 53."

Your stomach flipped in a very bad way.

"That one was a joke," you blurted out.

He raised an eyebrow. "Was it?"

You swallowed. "Mostly?"

His lips pressed into a thin line. "Mostly," he repeated. He tapped his fingers against the book, thoughtful. "I find it strange, Prefect. You wrote a rather detailed guide about me, yet you conveniently included that rule."

You remain silent.

"I am asking again. Is it true?"

You opened your mouth. Shut it. Opened it again.

"...Yes."

Riddle stared at the floor. His fingers curled slightly. You silently braced yourself for the rejection. All you had to do was not cry and act as level headed as you could.

Then, after a long pause, he muttered, "I think I should make my own rulebook."

You blinked. "Huh?"

He looked up, red-faced, but determined.

"Rule #1 : If the Prefect likes me, they are not done for."

You felt your face burn. Embarrassment rising up again.

"Rule #2," he continued, flustered, "If the Prefect insists on writing about me, they should expect me to read it and respond accordingly."

You could feel yourself sweat. "Riddle–"

"And Rule #3–"

He hesitated, then turned away, mumbling, "...They should expect me to like them back."

Your heart soared and you almost cried in relief.

Riddle sighed, covering his face. "This is the worst rulebook ever."

But there was a small, shy smile peeking through his embarrassment.

#[𓇼] The Steambird's latest #twisted wonderland #twst #twisted wonderland x reader #twst x reader #riddle rosehearts #twst riddle #riddle rosehearts x reader

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guardianlegends64 · 4 months ago

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[Open RP] Alternative Love Life Universe of Sunny Day Jack In “Double Love in Neptune University”

[Note: This is an Alternative Love Life Universe and the Beginning of Sunny day Jack As Music and Vulgar Words and also romance are also Allowed but Only those who are 21 or older can RP]

In the Great but a chilly Weather of September and the Beautiful City of London there were Two Men walking to their First day to University and these two men were named Joseph and Elijah as these two were both half brothers and they were talking how Joseph will create his very own show as Elijah Wanted to be a successful Singer but also wanted to help and support Joseph’s idea on creating his show After They’re Both were Finished with University…

Both Joseph and Elijah were going to the biggest University in the whole City of London and which is Ultimately and Extraordinarily and Uniquely Hard to enter or to be selected to be in the University but both Joseph and Elijah Worked Together Incredibly and Extraordinarily and with great potential and Talents That they were Selected to be in Neptune University!

Though The Two may have some Incredible Similarities and resemblance but just a Few Key Points of Comparison and with a Unique precision of eyes and ears can make a difference between the two of them!

Both men have the Same Height [11ft], Age [30] , eye Color[Blue], The Same Hair Color [Black], Same Haircut [Straight], Incredible Strength and Physic! Many people think that they’re twins but Just a Closer Eye and unique hearing would make a great difference!

Both Men are Exponentially Wealthy but do not spend as much because they don’t want to spend on Any Essential and Needed Items just yet…

The Two continue to walk on their way to University as they meet many other students who were also Selected to Neptune University and those Students were Surprised to see them…

Both Elijah and Joseph Have very Special Talents and Secrets that no one ever knows about because no one has ever seen their talents with their very own eyes and ears…

When the two Entered the University they firstly encountered a Group that were Picking And Harassing and Bullying on a student on the First Day of University…

Elijah and Joseph never Liked those who bullied and Harass others and the innocent who can never fend for themselves as Joseph cooled everything down and talked about ever messing around with any other students is incredibly uncool as a few of the bullies were intimidated by his presence before others try to talk back with Fierce Expressions until Elijah walked in and asked if there was a problem and trying to say anything about his half brother as the whole group was deeply afraid and intimidated by their Presence and Powerful Aura the group of Bullies walked away with no words…

Joseph Chuckled and Elijah just smiled as the student Thanked them for the save…

Then the Two Started Exploring the University and as they were almost done exploring the entire building… they then were on their way to their Dormitory in which they came across with someone that Catches their very own eyes and someone that they never seen or met before in their lives and that someone was a female student with Very Magnificent color of eyes that she also caught her eyes on them too as it was Synced but until…

Some Student with a Toxic Personality interrupted the connection and Synchronization and was starting to act Inappropriately and Forcing to Speak with The Female Student as Both Elijah and Joseph heard her saying…

“(Your OC’s Name):Leave Me Alone!”

Then Elijah and Joseph intervened and they were going stop the Toxic student who was Acting Inappropriately trying to Forcefully greet The Female Student as the Toxic student’s Name was Atlas and who Had a Dark Aura and as there weren’t any Teachers around as Joseph and Elijah who had to step in and stop him from ever proceeding with his actions and behavior as Atlas Questioned them angrily from interrupting his Conversation but then Realized that it would become too difficult and it would bring A Ton of Unwanted Attention as Altas then Walked away Grumbling angrily as Elijah and Joseph Looked at him Knowing that he will come back…

Elijah and Joseph Reassured The Female Student to see and just to be sure that she’s Safe and Sound as they both noticed that she’s nearly the same age as they are…

“Joseph: Hey You’re alright There?”

“Elijah: That guy didn’t do anything inappropriate to ya did he?”

The two Asked Her Politely and calmly as The Female student then spoke and Said to them…

#sunny day jack #alternate universe #romance #Drama #Elijah Ultimate #Alternative Life

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vyzz-undercover · 7 months ago

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[Squad Damocles/f!serf]

(11,000 words) (OOPSIEEEE MAXED IT AGAIN)

CONTENT WARNINGS:

•intercourse [M/M/M/F]

•oral sex (m & f receiving)

•discussions on the codex

•discussions on reproduction

•essentially a bukkake

•vaginal fingering

•dubcon (via power imbalance)

•definitely size kink

•mild fear elements

———————————————————————————————————

i live despite god, cato chapter 6 will be coming soonish ANYWAYS PSPSPSPSPSP heeeeere kitties kitties!!!! @moodymisty, @mothiir, @sinistermojo, @kit-williams, @primarisly-marooned, @thevoidscreams, @the-raven-lady, @lemon-russ, @blasphemme, @grimdark-raccoon, @pluvio-tea, @cosmic-cryptid-from-beyond, @ma1dmer, @egrets-not-regrets, @bispecsual, @scriberye, @sinistermojo, @undeaddream, @historitor-bookshelf, @vivacious-hyena, @gallifreyianrosearkytiorsusan. If you want on or off lmk!! I HAVE BAD MEMORY ILY!! ALSO SPECIAL FUCK YOU TO MY DEAR @triassicnautilus WHO IS TO BLAME FOR THIS FIC!!

———————————————————————————————————

It is by no means an offhanded consideration.

Your familial line and ancestors have served the highest echelons of the great Angels for hundreds of years, and yet—of all of your far more worthy, servile kin—you're the first in generations to be sequestered to a new voidship.

It's terrifying.

You're not even sure if you're being demoted in status, because you drift between duties like they hadn't really planned to have you just yet.

When the head serf of the Barge finally has you delegated to a Primaris—it is to Lieutenant Demetrian Titus, of Second Company.

It has been less than a week, now. To say nothing of the fact he hadn't even acknowledge you in his dormitory, at first.

He has made no comment of your presence besides a huff. It's to be expected, as is his right. Your duty is to serve with or without order. But it's certainly not entirely unpleasant being freed of demands —pointedly, he appears to be largely self sufficient. Your new Lord sets his rest attire aside for you, folds sheets to be washed; and, once, brought his cot down from the wall when he saw you struggling at the task.

It takes three days of this for you to notice stern green eyes lingering.

Like most of the Adeptus Astartes who are more often called to active service, there's scant bric-a-brac to be organised in his lodgings.

Perhaps due to the fact that none of the souvenirs of his long service are small in any way.

Much rather, everything your Lord owns is each a hulking testament to his might in war. Like the intricate pauldron hung on the side wall that is the size of your ribcage, and the length of fine red fabric fitted within that which is almost the height of you.

Nonetheless, your Lord begins to try snag your gaze; despite the fact you most often keep your head bowed.

It begins first as you rise to your tippy-toes to dust off the chainsword upon a small outcrop.

It's a tap on his chest armour, that you turn to catch the sound of. Then, when you return with a small crate to stand upon to better reach the shelf, it's a rapt of gauntlet'd fingers on his hip-plating; and a curious focus in his eyes as you spin around to heed the noise.

Lots of little things to coax you to glance at him.

His strange plans pay off, more often than not. It's very difficult to ignore the out of place song of ceramite and steel being drummed against.

This all entertains your Lord, apparently. He doesn't go so far as to laugh or anything, Throne forbid; but he does huff a little from his nose while keeping a neutral, unchanged face. And to that ends, it's difficult to believe a great being as he would stoop to such.

But the Astartes aren't as stalwart every waking hour as the average individual would believe.

Your Lord included, it seems.

On the fourth day, he starts speaking to you.

Nothing more than, 'Good, serf.' when you neatly fold his sheets under the thin mattress and press the wrinkles flat. His voice is a steady lilt, stoic and rugged, and all you can do is nod doltishly.

Then it worsens. It worsens into fully fledged questions, that you shudder and hesitate to answer. At first, it's a stray comment of asking why you have hair still, and that too is a surprise—the serf's on this Battle Barge appear to be clean-shaven on their heads, and yet nothing has been asked of you to undertake such yet.

Then the situation nosedives.

"Where were you stationed, prior to this?" He asks as he's unclad, seated on his cot in a loincloth as you mop.

You haven't dared look at anything more than the skin below his knees as you labour. Even his calves dwarf you, they may as well be one of your thighs.

"I–" you begin, stammering. "I was previously assigned upon the Primarch's Flagship, my Lord."

"Truly? To whom?"

"My mother is indentured to the Chapter Master, as were her parents," you say softly, and clutch the handle tightly.

His brows furrow before asking, "And you were bade sent here? By Lord Calgar, of all people?"

You cock your head, and you aren't sure why his tone is accusative; nor can you parse out the confusion in it. The fact remains your family served on the flagship, the point of who matters not more than simple competence pedigree.

"Nevermind," he sighs, and tips his head down.

You realise you're actively looking at him a bit too late.

He is very handsome, ruggedly so. It is a fact you've viciously tried to repress acknowledging since your assignment to his service—he is as all of his kind is—tall, mighty statue given flesh, built for warring on a million worlds and excelling at such a leviathan task; yet there's a softness to your Lord in the warm, yellow-red candlelight not afforded to him under the harsh hallways lumens.

His chin is darkened with light stubble, and his usually sternly knitted brows are steadily becoming calm and flat. The harsh lines on his face aren't at all as unnerving when they're countered by the thoughtful expression he now wears.

"I believe you may be a sort of gift from him," he supplies dryly.

"A gift, m-my Lord?" You stutter, unseated by the hulking, unclad form of the Primaris Lieutenant so close.

"Titus," he corrects softly, leaning in; and the room is a little less frigid with him practically breathing on you.

"My Lord T-Titus," you adjust, and he snorts good-humouredly.

"Close, but not quite," he tuts, "You may call me Titus."

You lower your head nervously, keeping your gaze down; ultimately receiving an eyeful of his large chest and navel. The scars littering his flesh are a hodgepodge of livid cicatrix, old tissue, and the healed over pitted marks of bullet holes. He has a light dusting of hair across the span of his pectorals, patchy with the aforementioned damage.

Then it deepens to a darker, coarser shade down his dense abdomen, arrowing lower, and lower and—

"Calgar's privy to much," he chuffs, then reaches a large hand up and you're greeted to the sound of a palm scrubbing against stubble. "My predilections, too... worryingly."

You hesitate, completely bemused by the admission—you have no clue what your Lord is talking about. Point of fact, there's a need to reply hanging in your heart; but you stifle it down.

He seems to recognise this, and sighs.

There's a fey, strangled sort of anchor in his voice as he says, "Is it a stretch to say you've been with an Astartes before?"

You cock your head again, "I have served my whole life, my Lord Titus, I assure you that I am—"

He snorts, "Not that kind of service."

"I–I don't understand," you stutter.

"Have you bedded another?"

You hesitate, and feel very real fear seize your mind as you speak, "I-I—If you mean intercourse, such has not been sanctioned for me, m-my Lord."

He stares at you with a deep contemplation, and you can feel your heart thundering in your chest at the lie of omission.

"You can answer truthfully," he says.

Swallowing around the dryness in your throat once more you mumble, "Once, m-my Lord."

"We are evenly matched in that contest, then."

Eyeing the Lieutenant in place of further responding offers you little respite from the heat and panic boiling in your veins.

"If it's to your liking," he starts, "I could indulge you?"

You blink, "My Lord?"

"I'm not going to see you punished should you decline me," he says with that same terribly earnest tone, "I'd only ask you not to speak of this proposition occurring with any others."

There is something in the way the he speaks, the way his voice slips lower, into rougher and barer territories that vaguely resemble what you imagine your Lord might've-been propositioning you as a mortal man that is utterly staggering. It isn't even about what he is saying—it's more about how he is saying it.

The naked urgency is strange, and you're terrified and entranced all in one.

He pats what little space on the side of the cot his bulk doesn't consume and you take a half step before freezing on instinct.

He repeats the gesture and you drag your feet, cautiously approaching before perching yourself beside him and being swallowed by his seated form in the candle-light's shade.

His hand raises, and you shrink slightly.

Your Lord seems to recognise the worry and lowers it a little, only to leave it hovering over your tunic'd leg.

You imagine the great Angel sees you as some shivering wet animal at his mercy, somewhat. You eye his huge hand nervously but ultimately sigh out your nerves and relax a little.

If this was a test of some sort, surely the guillotine would have fallen by now—not that the thought eases you in any way.

His hand tentatively settles on your thigh, and you're shocked at the sheer heaviness of the thing. It's a pressure all it's own, and so heated that you're hyperaware of the warmth suffusing through your garb onto your skin.

It drags up, ever so slowly, and you inhale shakily—stunned by the strength in just one hand most definitely being more than you have in your entire body.

You feel like you should be squirming with the thrill of the gesture, moving against that huge limb; but are too frozen by the gravity of the situation to act.

"I will need an actual answer, however," he remarks belatedly, smoothing his calloused palm back down your thigh.

A cold, wild animal horror sinks in beside something wretchedly simmering as you dither, finally replying with, "I-I would, should you wish it, my Lord."

"Titus," He raises a dark, scarred eyebrow lazily, correcting you once again with a light sigh, "Calgar has schooled you on your manners a bit too well, it seems."

You frown, at shameful odds with maintaining discipline despite your Lord's repeated protest, and avert your eyes again. Trying to play off the shiver his voice so close inspires in your spine.

A choked grunt escapes him not long after and you meet his gaze haphazardly.

Only to be met by an uncanny sight, and heavy, clogged-engine laughter.

Your Lord's lips have skinned back over his teeth at you in a large grin. Charming as the gesture should be, it is certainly not something a fellow baseline would call a particularly friendly expression—maybe due to the fact it felt strange seeing so much emotion at once from him. It looks more akin to a beast in human skin baring it's fangs, and just as animalistic. The back of your brain screams there's a threat of being mauled.

It is a somewhat fey thing to witness, despite the fact it appears to be a genuine display of mirth. And when it falls away to a closed smile, it's much better to behold—the age lines on his face crinkle just right to make him just that little bit more attractive.

"We'll get there," he chuckles. "But first, you will need to be stretched."

That sounds painfully ominous.

You scowl a little in confusion and parrot the word, "...stretched?" back at him in an almost unconsciously quiet voice.

He hears it, and his brow raises a tad.

"You can't fit me ordinarily."

The breath you take in is almost choked with hind-brain panic, mind crafting a series of impossible sizes—crushing and rending, turning your insides to paste. Worse than the time you'd seen a servitor veer into the pulleys of the lift platforms.

"Move further up on the cot," he huffs,

You oblige, and slide back a little; ruining your earlier efforts of fussing with his sheets.

He lifts himself off the cot, kneeling, and breathes in solemnly; his face pinched a tad.

"Settle," comes the Lieutenant's affirmation, "I'll make sure you're unharmed... now, if you allow me see what I'm to be working with?"

You nod shakily, and the massive hand previously upon your thigh splays you out. His other joins it on the converse and mimics the gesture, spreading you.

He shuffles closer to the cot's edge on his knees and chuffs, "Lean back, and put your legs up on me."

Stuffily, you obey, resting your calves on his broad back as you sidle astride his head.

"Very good," your Lord hums; and Holy Terra, you can hardly believe that you're feeling his warm breath dance across your skin. You have a feeling of what he's planning to do, it's unfathomable—nor can you bear to watch one of the great Angels do this.

One of his huge hands cups your hip as he hikes up your tunic's hem to keep you still, nudging it up, and up, until you realise he's trying to coax you into disrobing—to which you oblige with a flustered timidity.

Emperor have mercy, you can't fathom the looming act, and it's consequence—so with scant preamble, you quickly cover your face with both palms.

What a wretched day to've forsaken briefs in favour of a longer garb. Now, you're stuck stark naked on the Angel's bed, and you can feel he's—he's kneading your waist, then squeezing your hip—you're so beyond forsaken it's laughable. You're doomed. But your insides are twitching at the contact, and the feeling of his worn palm taking a moment to grope your thigh has your nerves aflame with anticipation. What a great shame to have brought an Astartes so low, to have him disgrace himself in—oh, no.

A wide band of slick muscle drags upward, and the sensation is nigh ecstasy. The heat of his mouth is divine, and—and rolling against your clit.

Your Lord rumbles contentedly when your legs jump and you almost choke trying to hold back a ragged, stunned moan.

His huge tongue worms into you, big nose jammed against your clit; his mouth several times larger than your own forced to practically eat at your cunt—going at you with an almost desperate eagerness before raking up again and humming against your tender little nub.

"Are you aware you're in season?" He says, still smothering himself to your sex, and it is so offhanded it's jarring; like a finger stuck in a door hinge.

A flabbergasted whine is all you can offer in answer.

He steals another greedy lick of your entrance, "I already knew by how you smelt—but I can taste it too," he notes smoothly, and laps at you again.

Your Lord pulls away and you grow enough backbone to glance between your fingers. He has a blank look on his stern face, pupils blown out, rolling his tongue around his mouth before he apparently frees himself from whatever haze overtook him.

His chin and chops are wetted with clear, slimy lubricant—your slick—and he takes a deep breath.

It's a little mind boggling seeing his other hand rise up from beyond your view. Why is it already glistening slightly? Had he been...? Surely not, surely...

"Your turn with this, I suppose," comes the straightforward, depraved confirmation of your suspicions.

The hold already on your side turns into a vice; and then there's massive digits tracing your entrance.

"It's alright," he rasps, "It's only two."

—then you're crammed full of a Primaris' ring and middle finger.

The sheer size of just that alone is insane, but most of all, it's brilliant. And yet, somehow everything gets even better.

Your Lord's mouth claims its' place back on your clit and sucks.

A garbled whine, and the bliss has you shaking like a leaf.

His fingers stretch your walls as he scissors them out, only to curl in sharp, precise motions; as if your cunt is some weapon he's searching for the trigger mechanism inside of.

Wound too tight, it all comes to an embarrassingly quick end with you letting out a ragged sob, bucking sharply in surprise. Absolutely stunned into orgasm as your core muscles cinch up, keening.

Unfortunately, set on his goal, your Lord does not let up immediately—holding fast and unmoving—and is only disengaged when, cotton-mouthed to words by overstimulation, you blindly flail, stamping your heels into the massive span of his upper back.

He looks a little confused as he releases you, as if he'd been in some sort of trance again.

Blinking a few times and righting himself, he clears his throat, "We should... learn to coordinate that better," he admits, his voice a little rougher, "Tap three times to stop. Two to slow. Once to continue."

There's a short lapse of speaking after that as you ogle his face lingering between your thighs; until you abruptly realise he's waiting for your answer.

"Y-Yes, my Lord."

A big, dark brow raises, "I believe you're simply misbehaving, now."

Your stomach leadens as panic sinks its' claws into you and with a blubbering whine you stammer, "N-No, no... please, my Lord—I mean, my Lord Titus, I-I am not, I swear—"

"It's only a joke," he huffs, and his dark brows arch down a hint in a somewhat sympathetic manner. "Do... do I really frighten you that much?"

You swallow harshly and stutter, "I-I-I—I am a serf, my duty is humility."

It's not the right answer, that much is obvious. It's strange to say that some sort of childish disappointment passes over his features.

"You'll settle in time," he says softly, more like a prayer than anything.

His hands manoeuvre you onto your belly, so your ass is poised high at the edge of the cot for easy access.

Your Lord is tall enough to mount you on his knees like this, and it's clear that's his intent when a thick cock slides experimentally between your thighs.

You try to look behind you to see just how big a thing is to be rammed into you—but he clicks his tongue like you're some unruly little creature, and that's all the discipline you need to be dissuaded.

"You'll only spook yourself," he sighs lowly.

A fat, rounded tip prods at your entrance, wet and hot.

"I'll be gentle as I can," he continues.

You strain to fit even that, and then the burning starts.

Your Lord groans, his hips hitching forward in little motions as you shake, fighting to keep yourself presented on steady knees for him as he presses deeper.

The pain is incandescent, and you cry out—

"Breathe," your Lor—Titus urges, sounding strained himself, "Breathe."

You squirm, and there's a burning at your rim as he pushes a little deeper; it's a painful reminder of your own lacking size compared to him.

"Almost there," he all but growls, then you hear him raggedly ask, "How... how are you faring?" but you're nowhere near up to the task of responding.

Still, attempting to be dutiful, you try—and all that comes out is a seizing gasp.

You are far too preoccupied with twitching on the scalding slab of Primaris currently giving your insides a stern word to manage a sentence.

In your panic, you manage to smack some part of him twice, even if you have no idea what you're hitting—dragging your hand across wall-sturdy muscle.

Titus stills.

You freeze in fear, waiting for a reprimanding that never comes.

He takes a deep breath in and grits out, "It's alright, it's a difficult fit," to which you whine dumbly, and Titus continues, "I am... larger, than I once was," he says softly, pausing to groan when a shudder sends you squeezing on him, "You're still taking me very well."

He is large, that is true; but he's also warm. So terribly warm, he's almost fever-hot inside of you.

The pain abates in the interim as the pleasure of you steadily acclimatising replaces it, and slowly, you ever so carefully tap him once to continue.

Titus shimmies and you squeal at the burr of electric sensation that makes your mind melt for a half-second, only for your ass to coincidentally scud backwards into his hips with a sticky plap.

You're struck daft when a sudden shrill of lightning sparks up your spine as you feel him bottom out at last, hitting your cervix, blinding you for a heartbeat.

You whine loudly at the sensation.

"All in," he rasps, breathing harshly as he rocks his hips to keep you pliant. "You've done it, hush... it's all inside, little one."

Your cunt's tingling around every inch of him, clenching down—trying desperately to decide wether to buck back against him or scramble off and run for your life. You doubt you could manage the latter. Despite his strange insistence on altruism, there's no way you'd have the nerve to deny the great Angel, lest the Emperor Himself punishes you for it. But you're surely not about to complain about the situation when you're enjoying it so thoroughly.

It's dazzling having him so deep, it feels more akin to being impaled than simply filled.

His balls sit snug against your vulva, heavy against your clit; and you moan—rolling your hips back against his in a moment of delirious bliss.

Titus groans appreciatively, and you strain to tip your head into the big hand petting you while your chin is tucked into the crease of his elbow.

"You're tough for such a small thing," he begins with an airy huff of satisfaction, "I was stunned the last time I managed to fit in a baseline..." he hums, then apparently something seizes his humours and he grumbles, "...let alone now after crossing the Rubicon."

His voice rumbles in his chest where it's pressed to your back, like the purring, hardworking systems of some mighty machine spirit. But the strain behind his cadence plays havoc with your mind, and the sinking realisation you've got him hilted inside your truly takes root.

Your thighs shake, and the room feels stuffier—he feels impossibly closer, and your body is boiling despite the cold press of armour interface ports against your skin as he thrusts back and forth; to say nothing of the fingers fussing your hair out of your face—he's–he's so agonisingly tender.

"Are you finishing on me?" You hear him say, but you honestly cannot even tell if you're cumming because everything is a buzzing lurch of cramping electricity. "Good, that's... very good. Throne, you're—"

You're barely cognisant of him straining forward to a stop; but your body judders with satisfaction, and the rest of his words melt together in your ears into an insensible baritone as you struggle through dazzling ecstasy. It steals the air out of you, nigh agonising bliss sharp and rising from your belly—scrambling at the huge forearms now keeping you in place while he continues fucking into you, weakly crying.

When you return to having a functioning body, you're hyperventilating; and leaving a smear of drool across the interior of Titus' elbow.

Slowly becoming audibly cognisant beyond just the ringing in your head to the wet slapping sound of him chasing his own end in your cunt.

"You'll... you'll have to forgive me for being a little quick, on the first... round," he rumbles against your ear, panting as he nails you right through your afterglow. "It's been... so long, since..."

Titus doesn't even manage to finish his sentence. Instead, he snarls out a low, subharmonic sound and his hips slam forward into you. He's bending you up underneath him; forcing you to let him stuff himself to the base. You feel his balls sandwich against you, and you hear the sopping wet squish of him bottoming out.

His cock throbs inside you, and you're left warbling a dazed whine rife with pleasure addled pain at the sudden roughness.

Hot spend fills you and you keen, acutely aware of it spilling over and dripping out between.

The sensation of having it so deep and yet still too much to contain is playing havoc with your hindbrain, and in that fucked-out state you exhaustedly rock your hips.

A soft grunt is your reward for the effort.

"Careful, careful..." He grits out, panting as his hand draws a smooth, comforting line down the side of your leg before he manages, "You'll get more, just... give me a moment. I promise you, there's plenty where—"

You hear the sound of steel parting, and the white lights of the corridor near blind you.

"Brother," Titus says sharply.

You sober nigh instantly as your stomach proverbially drops to the floor, and your head snaps to the doorway shutting behind the form of a tall, darker Primaris.

"Brother," he receives in answer, "What are you doing?"

"Entertaining... a guest," Titus clears his throat against your ear and tips his head back a little, leaving you clearly shaking in mortification.

He still graciously keeps his body covering yours, and you try to hide under the mass of it.

"I was not aware this sort of entertainment was sanctioned," the other Primaris says, taking a deep inhale and making a strange face—hold on, you–you know this Astartes. You had served in his arming staff temporarily for a day while your judicator had been shuffling positions to keep you busy on the Barge prior to your Lord's arrival and your assignment. You remember the first letter. It was a C—perhaps Cato? No, it began with a digraph—like the end of the word stomach. Chrysion? No, no—it's Chairon—his name is Chairon.

"I ask only that you don't involve the Chaplain," Lord Titus groans, seemingly exasperated. "Just petition the Chapter Master and be done with—"

"No," Chairon interjects flatly as he exhales.

Titus' breath catches, "...no?"

"I want to understand why," he receives in answer, snorting a bit before taking another gulp of air and making the same strange face.

A long, tense silence—and you ought to be terrified and flee, but you can't do much more than squirm weakly on the fat cock stock stiff against your cervix. He still hasn't gone soft, why hasn't he gone soft? Is–Is this what he meant by first round? The frightening stamina of an Astartes in battle is one thing, but it extends even to this? How many rounds have you signed yourself up for?

Chairon harrumphs, "I've never heard of this sort of thing happening, so I want to understand."

Titus huffs hard through his nose like a sort of equine and regards his battle-brother with a knowing tone, "You want a turn then, I assume?"

"If you're willing to allow it," Chairon answers, then looks to you. "And if she's up to the task of two."

You hear Titus hum lowly, and then he gently—ever so gently—cups your chin and tips your head up to see his face.

"Are you?" He rasps, "We'll be mindful not to harm you, should you... accept, such a task."

It's painfully difficult to even think about denying Titus when his big, pupil-blown green eyes meet your own. Your insides ache where he's still buried, but nonetheless some brainless, whorish urgency sends you swallowing harshly and nodding, "Y-Yes, my Lord."

"Go on," Titus chuffs, clicking his tongue at Chairon as a gesture to sit.

Chairon lowers himself down on the thin mattress with one leg off the side of the cot and the other tented up on it, thighs spread.

"I ought to pull out, now."

"No," Chairon huffs, "Not yet, I have an idea."

"Very well," is Titus' answer.

You blanch, and the urge to curl up and simply die nearly overcomes you. You're still—you're still full of your Lord, in every sense of the word, what more can you fit?

Chairon slides himself a little closer until you're practically nosing at his loincloth.

A big hand tilts your chin up and stuffs a thumb between your surprise-parted maw, depressing your tongue.

"You have very pretty lips," Chairon hums as his metal hand pulls his garments away for you.

With a little pressure, you're being guided close to his mostly flaccid cock like a fish by the hook. Then his thumb leaves your mouth and you glare at the length presented to you.

You look up at Chairon's face next, and he raises a brow. So, in turn, you press a soft kiss to the side of his shaft; watching intently when he inhales sharply at the act, pursing his lips for a second.

Then he smiles.

He has a smile that makes you want to melt despite the fact he's an Astartes. It's warm, and suits his fuller cheeks—it's more personable in appearance than you would ever admit aloud out of shame.

You fluster and glance down, taking the head of him into your mouth. He's still huge, regardless of the fact he's mostly half-soft.

Your reward is a thoughtful hum, and a big hand petting your head.

"Lieutenant, do you wish to continue...?"

Titus apparently needs no further invitation.

You're being driven into anew, whining around the steadily hardening member in your mouth and time, for a moment, loses it's bearing. All your mind can bother to focus on is red hot pleasure and heat on your tongue, your own airy, cock-stifled sounds and two syncopated sets of groans and grunts.

"Her mouth's nice and warm," you hear Chairon moan above you.

There's no stall to Titus' pace of thrust as he pants, "I wouldn't know."

"Care to try?"

You have no idea how long you've simply been content in having them both sink in you, but you suddenly return to awareness when you hear Titus' curt, "Gladly."

Then you're suddenly being manhandled like a doll, the cock in you slips out with a pop—as does the one in your mouth—and the room spins as they lift you and change.

You groan in confusion, and paw for the familiar figure now afore you, glancing up.

Titus' hand combs through your hair softly and he chuffs that strange subvocal sound that makes you entranced for a moment.

"Deep breath," your Lord says, and then to your surprise—Chairon's cock presses into you.

It's actually largely easy to take, after having had Titus in you for so long. Chairon's is not as thick as to send you aching, yes, he's big of course, but it's a perfect, pleasurable size inside—and judging by Titus' length now a few inches from your face, it makes sense why he needed to stretch you.

It's practically a bottle of wine, how on Terra did you manage to—

Your thoughts wither as you're forced to moan heartily; namely due to Chairon bottoming out and settling against your cervix.

He moans back, and a huge, warm hand strokes down your spine, heat thudding in your face at the sheer show that he's enjoying you.

Then you're yelping, and something bitterly chilled is on your flesh, sending goosebumps arcing up your back as you flinch.

"Are you alright?" Chairon starts abruptly, and you groan at the freezing steel now pawing at your side.

Titus scowls as he finds the issue before you can voice it, "I think it's your augmentic."

"Really?" Chairon tuts, and leans down to ask, "Is there something the matter with my hand?"

It's clearly a lighthearted accusation, but you haven't been properly subjected to this sort of teasing by a Primaris until today, and you whine.

"It's—it's c-cold," You stutter, and nose against Titus' thigh for comfort; a little uneasy by the confrontation.

Chairon pouts, "I'll keep it's use to a minimum, then."

You swoon at the meagre kindness, and feel your already scalding face boil over as excitement rises.

Titus simpers down at you and remarks, "Is that to your liking?"

You nod and seek a closer hold on his leg for leverage, squirming a little before settling. Your cheek rests against the high point of Titus' thick leg—every so often able to sneak a lick of him.

Titus tuts, "She's very sweet."

The cock in you jerks when the hulking Primaris inside you laughs.

"She smells it, too," Chairon coos, "Don't you, sweet little thing? You smell like you're practically sugared."

You whine needily at the words, Titus' huge cock plastered against your cheek as you leer forward desperately and lap pre-cum from the tip.

"Because she's currently mid-cycle," Titus says flatly. "Her hormones are trying to convince you to breed with her."

Chairon hums thoughtfully, "Fortunate for her that we are, then—still, I'm glad to know that's what that is."

Titus pets you as you continue licking him, one hand carefully managing your hair as the other holds his length to better allow you getting it in your mouth.

Chairon bottoms out again and your body shakes, a trying whine escaping around the cock on your tongue as you relish the sensation.

"You're doing well," Titus rasps out at you, hips making small circles that let him dip into your mouth in short pumps.

Your reaction is wantonly pathetic, if you're completely honest with yourself.

It's a desperate, nasally whimper and a sudden eagerness to please that sends you letting his cock-head bump your epiglottis. Holding for a second despite the ache of your jaw and swallowing before inching yourself away; sputtering a little and moving the heavy swell of his member to warm your tongue instead, sucking on him.

Titus groans in approval, and his hand pets just that much more; earning a sigh when you try stuffing more of him in your mouth again.

Chairon's thrusts steady as he simply takes his time, pacing himself; it's all the better to give your Lord Titus a nice, wanting hole to fuck at his own pace.

"I completely understand... why you were doing this, now," Chairon hums, his pelvis skewing with a slight jerk.

All pretence of steadiness are banished as he starts grinding downward into you, causing a wave of hypersensitivity to stagger you daft.

You clench down hard with a flinch of surprise. Pleasure swelling out of the blue to a crescendo, tipping you over the edge only moments later. The roll of your orgasm ripping through you has your legs locking stiff for a moment, your internal muscles tensing on the intrusion.

Chairon inhales sharply, holding himself perfectly still as your insides cinch down hard around him erratically.

It's certainly not the only finishing happening though, because the cock in your mouth is suddenly painting the inside of your mouth and gullet as you hastily try swallow it down.

Your hear Titus hiss, and the hand in your hair tightens when his thighs start shuddering through heavy throbs of spend.

It feels for a moment as if it's going to come out of your nose there's so much. What doesn't go down your throat definitely tastes wholly unpleasant, but the resumed affections nullify any complaints you have.

You cough and carry on a little at the rapid succession of events and hide your face in Titus's lap again; half-consciously licking your spend stained chops where hopefully neither of them can see.

"My... apologies," Titus is still panting as he says, "I... I should have warned you."

A soft whine is all you can offer.

"Are you well?" Titus asks, tone a little ragged.

You practically shiver around Chairon's cock, and the sound you let out is long-suffering, but not enough.

His voice turns serious, "I need an answer."

A moan flees your throat, "Less—less than before, m-my Lord," you whimper, breathing hard, "But, I'm okay, I'm—n-ngh... not injured."

The grunt he makes in return is an amicable noise, and Chairon seizes your hips with his flesh hand. Lifting you to line up better with his rutting, trying valiantly to ease the pressure.

Oh, that's so much better on your internal walls—the pressure is bliss, and everything is warm and fuzzy and soft; you shut your eyes, moaning—and then you hear the familiar thunk-thunk-click-vshhh of the door opening.

"Titus, you've returned! I'm so glad to hear of your—" a voice starts, then rightly hesitates.

The silence is deafening.

"Chairon?" the blonde Primaris barks suddenly, "What... what are you... what is the serf...?"

You hear Chairon blubber for a moment before laughing in astonished horror, "I'm not even going to try explaining this."

"Gadriel, this is perhaps not a good time," Titus sighs.

The blonde Pri—Gadriel, looks at what little he can of you past your Lord's form and sneers.

The expression only deepens as he scowls, "What are you both doing?"

Chairon lets out a long, trying breath and you feel him lean back a little, yet still remaining inside you as he says, "At least let the door shut before you set about interrogating us, Sergeant."

Gadriel blinks and takes a step in, and promptly sets about putting himself in the furthest corner from the spectacle as possible.

"It reeks of molasses in here," the Sergeant huffs.

Chairon harrumphs, a little strained, "We have been at her a while..." then the attention turns on you, "...she's enjoying herself."

"And that's what the stink is?"

"That," Titus answers, "And seminal fluids."

"To what ends?" Gadriel grumbles and crosses his arms over his chest. "Procreation?"

"There's no restrictions on it in the Codex, believe me."

The look on the Sergeant's face is somewhere between intrigue and confusion, "I've never even heard of it happening."

"It does," Titus offers.

"Really?" Gadriel says.

"I wouldn't have guessed before either," Chairon scoffs.

"From time to time the odd one of us engages in it," your Lord digresses over them both, "But it's under absolute discretion."

"Interesting," the blonde hums.

"Sit," Titus says this time.

Gadriel pouts, "I think I'll stand by, for a while, Lieutenant."

"Suit yourself," Chairon scoffs.

It's distantly amusing watching the trio of great Angels bicker like baseline teenagers.

You might've even dared to laugh at the sheer absurdity, if not for the fact the instant you're about to start you're promptly being fucked stupid again—a heady plap, plap, plap of balls against your vulva and pelvis against your rear.

You try to hide your face in Titus's warm lap, but you're still visible to them all and it's mortifying. Squirming on the heated drag of a cock in you with nothing to shield the fact you're loving every second of it, you toss your gaze aside and accidentally meet the Sergeant's.

He's—he's definitely standing by, and he's certainly watching.

There's a growing redness on his patrician face that proves he's aware of the lewdness of the situation.

"How does it..." Gadriel starts, only to hesitate; failing to feign only vague interest. "How does it feel?"

"Warm and wet... and tight," Chairon rasps, and strokes a huge hand down your back.

Titus hums in agreement, "Very tight."

"Especially when you..." Chairon bucks forward, bottoming out and stealing a gasp from you as your cunt shivers around the sudden effort.

Gadriel's gaze half-lids with the distraction of the sound.

He shifts his weight between his feet irritably, and you can—on some strange level—tell you've got yourself into a looming predicament.

Three. You're to take three Primaris, sooner or later.

Evidently all the so-called inhuman warriors need to return to baser wants and lusts is an example and free reign.

"Where did you even get her?" Gadriel asks, and takes a step closer, keenly looking at your face as you drool on Titus' lap.

Too many eyes on you at your most vulnerable sends flustering, even if your cheeks blaze at the thought.

"I second that," Charion huffs out a wry, short laugh and pets you again, "Where, Lieutenant?"

You whine in embarrassment, insides clenching—there's an infinite torment to the moniker that sends your heart into your throat with lust so wanton you can hardly bare it.

"Lord Calgar apparently knows my tastes all too well," he says lowly above you.

His hand outstretches and cups the whole side of your head including your cheek in one huge palm.

You can't bring yourself to stifle the urge to moan at that, and lean into your Lord Titus' touch like a lovesick dog. "I'll make sure you're not hurt, hm?" Titus rasps, then, to your dismay, decides he's to extricate himself for the time being and starts to scud off the cot.

"Your turn, Gadriel," Chairon huffs at the Sergeant.

You can't really say how quickly he sets about swapping himself in place of your Lord Titus in front of you, because for some reason you blink and the Sergeant is there.

Quite frankly, you weren't sure how long you'd even blinked for. You might have dozed off for a few seconds as far as you're aware.

The cock in front of you is long, smooth, and pretty; with a thatch of dirty blonde hair. Which seems to match it's owner to a fair sum, and it's also already hard. Which is somewhat surprising, given the fact you'd had to mouth at—

"Get on with it, serf," Gadriel says with a stiff jaw; and sits a little more forward, thighs spreading, presenting himself. Big, sturdy quads that would surely be a perfect temporary cushion to rest against.

His cock's heavy with blood and leaning leftward, and you lap at the side—dragging your lips from the base lined by dark blonde hair to the flushed, leaking tip.

You slowly start pumping him with a small hand in a steady jerking motion as you keep the tip of his cock on your tongue.

"Not so bad, then?" Chairon ruts forward, and the push coaxes you to take the Sergeant into your maw.

"Not so bad," Gadriel groans, and a large hand cards across your scalp to fist rudimentary reins out of your hair.

He lets out a choked noise, hips jerking forward in shallow movements in time with the bobbing of your mouth.

It's too large of a thing to even manage more than a few inches, and when the Primaris currently hilted in your cunt decides he's simply got to start grinding himself against your cervix, you're nigh slack jawed on the cock in your mouth.

Big thighs judder beneath you as you let too much too far in all at once, and Gadriel makes a sound you only have a split second of sensibility to associate as an Astartes whining. Then you're gagging around him, tears in your eyes—before he rears back a little and angles himself against your soft palate, a hot flush thudding on your face when he sighs appreciatively.

You moan, and then you're being filled again; only this time it's from the back as nigh molten hot spend spills into your cunt.

Chairon makes an almost inaudible groan, subvocal and menacing; and then smoothes a war-calloused palm down your back.

A shiver races up your spine, innately aware of the feeling as Chairon lets his balls drain as deep as he can.

You're dazed and sensitive as he slackens against you, chuffing softly, "That... that was good."

"Let me have a turn," Gadriel huffs at him, to which he's obliged.

Without complaint, Chairon tentatively withdraws, moving you on top of the Sergeant as he settles on his back.

You swallow the excess drool pooling in your mouth, focus fixated on the sheen of sweat on his scarred face; raising yourself a little with a splayed hand resting between his large pectorals.

"Up, serf—" he rushes, and sneaks a hand between you both to hold himself straight, trying to quicken you sliding down onto his cock.

You can't entirely reign in the shrill whine that escapes your throat.

He's—he's a lot.

You slump against his chest and groan impotently into his large pectorals.

He's too long, and gravity is damning you.

It feels as if he's slamming into your diaphragm instead of your uterus.

Then you're being treated to a ride.

And Throne of Terra, the Primaris Sergeant is rough.

Rabid, even.

A particularly poorly executed thrust jams into your cervix so hard it makes you yelp, blindly clawing at the Sergeant's forearm twice.

He does not heed it, nor feel it, apparently; and continues rutting, head thrown back, heaving in great gulps of air—using you like a toy.

"Gadriel," you hear Titus interject, "Slow down, she's much smaller than you."

Titus' words sends heady attention rushing south despite yourself, and your insides squeeze around the Sergeant, matching the well-fucked ache that thrums through you.

"Can't, feels... ngh—" He bites out in answer, snorting harshly as the grip on your thighs grows bruising.

It hurts, but your mind is suddenly screaming harder, harder, harder—namely thanks to the fact your clit slams into his huge pelvis on the downstroke.

You slap his deltoid and claw down the skin pointlessly.

He sits himself up in reaction, with you in tow.

Your vision smears to colours and shapes for a moment and then you're limbless, being made to bounce on his lap.

He's heaving into against your small shoulder, using you to satisfy himself like a free hole to fuck to completion—and by Terra, he's dragging you along to the same place.

It all happens absurdly fast.

Your insides feel swollen and electric, then they're suddenly jerking, finishing with a quick, wet splash—and everything's stickier where the cock inside you sits.

For a second you can't breathe, it's torment.

But fuck, if it's not amazing.

There's a heavy moan afore you, laden with rumbling subvocals—then finally an airy, pitched keen—and you're pressed flush to the Sergeant despite the fact he can hardly fit all in.

He bucks, and tucks his head against you; and you feel a big slick tongue drag across your shoulder as his cock knocks into where your cunt ends again—sending you sobbing against the huge, scarred span of his chest.

Boiling, overfilling spend leaks out between, adding to your Lord's and Chairon's earlier expenditures in your cunt.

"T-Throne... that's—good," Gadriel strains momentarily, shivering as he grits his teeth and rides out his fulfilment.

Tears have blurred your vision again as your mind reels to understand that you've just been fucked to apparent incontinence. You've just had your insides over-screwed and bullied into squirting on a Primaris, Emperor help you.

Apparently, despite your horror—none of them seem to care.

A few droplets stray from your cheeks and land on the Sergeant's skin. He makes a strange, confused chuff before he realises what's happening.

"W-Why...?" Gadriel pants, attempting to gather himself before he adds, "Why are you... crying, serf?"

You sob weakly, face buried against the hulking swell of one of his pectorals.

"...are you hurt?"

You shake your head.

He inhales harshly, lifting you off him weightlessly with a wet, slick sound of you both disconnecting.

Gadriel's eyes glue to the cum sloughing out of you. It's mostly his, currently—and there's a foreboding look of rabid hunger on his face that almost makes you want to shut your legs.

Suddenly, another set of huge hands join the Sergeant's, holding you aloft as Gadriel moves to stand.

The metal of the right is frigid, and the pressure mechanisms are a tad too stiff to be considered gentle; but the other is warm and tender.

You glance up, and find Chairon softly looking down at you; his big brown eyes crinkled at the edges in a muted smile as he says, "He's too rough with you, isn't he, sweet thing?"

Chairon's lovely smile makes you dopey with sudden charm. It's an infectious sort of look, full of doting that makes you ogle him dumbly; trying to reciprocate with a tired, cock-drunk flutter of your lashes.

"You need to be more careful with her," Chairon glances at Gadriel and clicks his tongue before turning back down at you. The discipline seems purely theatrical, though—and that fact is wildly apparent when you hear the Sergeant scoff.

Then, Chairon is tilting his chin down to fuss over you; his wide jaw nudging your temple, nuzzling into you. Your heart jumps, and it's–it's painfully gratifying having a great Angel do such a thing. Even if you're being buttered up before finally being asked; "Do you still want more?"

You strain up to nose against the large Primaris' jaw, panting as you mumble in agreement.

"I believe that's a yes," Titus hums somewhere to the right, and your vision swims as it tries to find him.

Lo and behold, he's leaning against the wall of the small habitation, glaring low on your body over the rim of a water cup.

Chairon makes a similar sound and adjusts his handhold on you to your legs; splaying your thighs, presenting you.

"We've made a mess," he huffs amusedly.

Peering down yourself if absolutely lurid. Given how you're folded slightly, you can see the sticky lines of leaking semi-opaque white smeared down your thighs, and feel seed leak from you.

You can only imagine how egregious it looks from your Lord's perspective.

Strangely, Gadriel groans at the sight.

"Can..." he starts abruptly, "Can I have her again?"

Chairon laughs, "You've only just finished, she needs a break."

Gadriel grumbles, but gets distracted when you squirm a little and he says, "I... I could give her a break—" but abruptly hesitates and looks over his shoulder, "—unless you want her now, Lieutenant?"

Titus harrumphs, "I'll have her afterwards."

The Sergeant nods, and looks back at Chairon before asking, "Can you keep her up like this?"

"Only if I get her tongue next," he counters.

Gadriel huffs, "Haven't you already?"

"You're to be in her cunt twice," he claps back rather swiftly, "Why can't I do the same with her maw?"

Gadriel snorts sourly, "I'm not going to be just yet, I..." he hesitates, "I have a plan."

Chairon hums, "What sort of plan?"

"Just be careful with her," You hear Titus grunt from the sideline, and then—then you're being lifted a little higher, spread a little wider—and the blonde Primaris gets to his knees.

Two big thumbs spread your labia and you squeal, dithering at the fact he's fondling you in your current dishevelled state.

"If her mouth on us is pleasurable, then the converse must be the same..." he mumbles.

A loud, dry humoured, sarcastic huff from Titus is quickly followed by, "Impressive deduction, Gadriel, you've discovered cunnilingus."

Gadriel shoots a petulant pout over his shoulder at his Lieutenant, before your wriggling drags his attention back.

"You want to...?" Chairon hums.

Gadriel nods, "I just like the sounds."

"Fair enough," says Chairon.

"Now, where do I..." the blonde starts almost inaudibly, seemingly more to himself than anything.

Titus takes a ling sip of water before clearing his throat, "There should be a nub at her upper flesh, that's the female equivalent to our glans."

The Sergeant nods, then turns his big blue eyes up to yours.

"Can you show me, serf?"

You whine and chew your bottom lip, "L-Lord?"

"You'll show me, won't you?"

Your mind can't even begin to think to decline nor argue with him. Swallowing your useless shame, you tentatively move your hand and spread your own folds to give him a target.

Your skin is slippery with slick and cum and hard to properly get a hold on, but you manage and he grins.

It's not as vaguely friendly as Chairon's, nor as strangely brutish as your Lord Titus'... but it's still a little unsettling. Even if it's eager.

"Good, serf..." is the last thing he says before wet warmth is practically locked on your clit.

An airy whimper leaves you, and your body jackknifes pointlessly at the sudden acute pleasure.

You shudder bonelessly in Charion's arms, and you're only vaguely aware you're tugging two-handed at Gadriel's hair while you squirm.

His tongue curls against it, rolling in nigh tidal attenuation; making your hamstrings pull taut and shudder lax. He's not as precise in his torments as Titus, but the enthusiasm makes up for it.

Both Chairon's organic hand and mechanised one grip under your thighs, while Gadriel's firmly keep your hips still.

Throne of Terra, you can feel your own heartbeat reverberating through you against his tongue.

Your fingers dig into his scalp but it just makes him lap just that little bit faster, only for him to discover that sucking makes you cry out. Your abdominal muscles start to hurt at the strain of your body being tormented while reaching down to tug, as do your hips from being so wide.

Your left's fingers find cold metal instead of hair in a mindless haze and you hiss, and try to find a hold.

Gadriel's suddenly open-mouthed against your cunt, keening with a groan.

His scarred chin is saturated with cum and slick, and he's bright red across the belt of his cheeks and sloping nose; he looks dazed periodically, like a slavering hound going at it's cut of meat.

One hand moves from your hips, and a finger prods at your perineum—then jabs you in the arse entirely on accident.

To your surprise, there's enough of his semen coating you that half of it slides in with lubricated ease; still, you yelp loudly.

It burns almost as much as it stings and the stretch of just his finger is maddening, but it starts to disappear in an instant when he licks your clit again.

Chairon grumbles, "What did you do?"

"I..." Gadriel pants, huffing in bemusement as he licks his lips and pulls away from your cunt. "I only put a finger in?"

Titus groans and claps a palm to his own forehead, "In the wrong hole, Gadriel."

The blonde pouts, looking up to Chairon with open confusion, "Should... should I pull it out?"

Even squirming with a Primaris' ring finger up your ass, it's surreal to be treated to the spectacle of them bickering once again.

"It's not my rear," Chairon laughs a little and looks down at you, straining and thudding hot in the face.

Gadriel blinks and realises himself, then meets your gaze.

"Is this painful for you?"

You manage a quick, "F-Fuh—feels a lil w-weird, m'lord."

"How's this?"

His finger curls inside your guts and by sheer blind luck pokes right into the back of your uterus. There's only a membrane and a thin bit of muscle between the two channels, afterall; and the shiver of surprised bliss that assails you doesn't go unnoticed.

Gadriel's breathing quickens, "Is that better?"

You nod shakily as he repeats the gesture, and then ogles up at you from between your spread legs.

His middle finger suddenly crooks to fit into the hole he intended, and you're overwhelmed at the feeling.

It's a combination you can't even begin to explain, new and odd, but addictive and then you're crying out something—something you're barely even cognisant of saying, a high pitched; "P-Please, please—"

Gadriel all but groans at the words, drawing his fingers out and rearing up to lick your abdomen; trailing his mouth up to one of your breasts and dragging a wide band over one with his tongue before groaning.

Before you can even moan, Gadriel's crowded himself against you and his cock is sloppily pressing back into you.

A sob rackets out of your throat, and your eyes swim in their sockets for an instant. Head thrown back against Chairon's clavicle as you heave in desperate gulps of air.

You're hyper-aware of the two sets of massive hands now holding you in place, and the huge cock sawing in and out of you; kissing your cervix on every thrust. This position is easier on your insides, but not by much. Gadriel is still a fraction too long to manage sheathing himself without your mild discomfort.

Both their eyes are locked upon your face, one pair of brown and one pair of blue—both half-lidded and focused on the surely fucked-out expression you're wearing.

It's pure, utter debauchery; and you paw mindlessly at the Sergeant's pectoral, gasping as he grows more and more frantic.

"She's... she's s-still so tight," he groans.

Chairon laughs lowly, "Never thought you'd be brought so low by something so tiny."

Gadriel's too preoccupied to meaningfully argue beyond curling his lip derisively.

Time blurs into delirious moments of aching and bliss, and Gadriel is much less feral in his pace than the last time—every thrust is easier, as your body begins to learn to take it. Or at least, you're certainly getting there—even if there is probably another agonising orgasm on the dusty blonde's cock.

You're only cognisant of being spoken about when Chairon's smooth voice offers, "Put your thumb on it—"

Gadriel snarls, "I... I know."

You blink, and glance downward, confused—and then you're fighting uselessly against the massive vices holding you open.

A reedy, straining shriek tears from your throat as the Sergeant's finger depresses your clit.

Your struggles make the overwhelming sensation so, so much more intense; and you may as well be getting electrocuted for the abrupt sensation you experience. It's as if you're being doused in ice and steam and promethium in one fell swoop.

They're beasts scenting weakness like blood on the gale in that moment, for all intents and purposes.

Chairon rocks you forward into Gadriel's hips and you're overfull of cock and shaking—dragged insensibly into your finish with another scream.

Every nerve in your body is a live wire as you try to fight the severity of it, mindless to the fact you're clawing at skin that's too invulnerable to even hope to mark.

They force your crest higher and higher, Charon still fucking you into the Sergeant's animalistic rutting, even as you cramp and squeeze helplessly.

Lungs several times larger than your own gust out a rapid series of breaths, and abruptly there's a long moan reaching your ear—and fresh heat in your cunt.

A weak, exhausted moan leaves you as you're carefully relieved of the massive cock inside you and deposited on the cot, on your back—only for Chairon to take his place near your head like he had to begin with.

Except this time you're on your back, and his cock is already at your cheek.

Meanwhile, Titus moves your thighs to bracket his hips as he kneels; sliding himself in place, seating balls-deep.

A whimper tears from you at the heavy sensation of being filled so soon again, and you moan when he slowly pulls out, only to slide back in. The pace is tender but firm, keeping you alert to the stretch but not suffering from it. Your body has had what feels like—and what very well may have been—hours to get used to having an Astarte in it.

You mouth at the side of Chairon's length with a daft sort of hunger; drooling across the blood-fat shaft before tilting your head to let him angle the swollen tip of himself in.

"That's it," he huffs, and pets your cheek.

You can taste your own slick, plus he and Titus' cum, and it's still not an entirely pleasant of a tang on your palate—but the big hand raking soft strokes through your hair riles you to continue.

It's clear he's high-strung after having to help Gadriel with you to no service to himself, and it's all the better to give him that attention.

You're getting tired, but regardless, you offer your tongue to Chairon and try heartily to let him take what he can; and he's more than happy to apparently just use your mouth to keep the head of him nice and warm while he strokes the base of himself.

His breathing starts to stutter as Titus gains pace, and you're actively tipping your head forward into his thrusts to let him stuff more of himself into your mouth.

The thrill of having the two of them panting like beasts is sending you spiralling, bucking your hips up against your Lord's pelvis in time with his thrusts in a sloppy, uncoordinated desperation that he rewards with a moan each time.

You hear Chairon keen, heaving through his nose as his hips jerk forward; groaning heavily as he finally finds his end.

A fat, heated spill of cum on your tongue makes you whine and double down your efforts, swallowing the Primaris' load.

"Hah, there... you go," he grind, teeth gritted and sneering a little.

Chairon pets you again before he runs a thumb across your lips to wipe away the few ropes of his spend that you hadn't managed to wolf down. He promptly sits himself back and continues carefully patting you while Titus manhandles you closer beneath his frame.

You glance down to watch your Lord's cock disappear inside you, pulling free and then sinking back in before repeating the action; eyeing big sturdy hips made for supporting a huge cock.

The Emperor surely is all knowing given his proportioning of His Angels.

But you aren't given a chance to think further on the matter as you're suddenly being folded under Titus.

Squirming, you're deaf to the sounds being driven out of you as you're locked in place by a body infinitely stronger than your own.

You paw at his chest, whimpering nonsense and he groans—and you're all but stunned daft and pliant by what he says in answer.

"That's it, one more... good, very... very good," he pants, fucking just that little bit harder.

You're helpless to your own orgasm, crying openly when it's claws sink into you. It's too much, it's far, far too much and this is as far as you can go—anymore and you feel like you'll dissolve into the cot. And you can't even stop yourself from sobbing your Lord's name as the tide of it nigh smothers you.

"Finally..." He groans loudly and his rhythm deteriorates almost immediately to choppy little bucks—and with a last bit of effort, he keeps you pinned and held down despite your overstimulated squirming and his load is emptied right into your womb like it's always meant to've been there.

Titus keeps you like that for a moment as you barely scrape your sense off the proverbial floor. Legs twitching where hooked over his hips, all the while you cunt's milking him for every drop he's got.

"I think... I think you've had... enough, hm?"

Titus lifts himself away and pops loose of your sore, puffy hole with an audible wet slide and a frothing mix of cum layered on his cock.

A soft groan escapes you as the weight and toll of exhaustion sets in, drowsy and well-fucked almost to the point of limpness.

"Up," you hear Gadriel harrumph.

Despite the fact you feel like you're about to pass out, you try valiantly—and get about a forth of the way there, leaning forward while resting back on your elbows as Gadriel takes a seat beside you, with a mug of water precariously filled a bit too high in his huge hand.

Gadriel thrusts the cup close to your face, sending a few drops over the cusp and onto your chest, trailing down a cum splattered chest.

You and he both ogle the water dumbly for a moment in surprise, flickering your gaze between him and it a few times for good measure.

He pouts and his cheeks redden a little as he mumbles, "Drink, serf."

You lap at the side for a second and manage to gulp down a mouthful, swishing it about for a second before swallowing.

You get three more sips as he steadily tilts the cup into your mouth, before he decides you've had enough kindness for the time being and pulls it away.

Titus hums, "Up you get, little one."

You fuss, and try to rise once again.

"There we go," Chairon tuts as he lifts you by the arm as you struggle to stand, supporting you effortlessly.

The care is flattering, even moreso seeing as they've apparently drawn a line in the sand for your apparent usefulness as a seminal dump.

Titus has long since settled back into a kneel again at the side of the cot, petting your thigh like he's trying to calm a skittish stray animal.

He reaches sidelong for the discarded fabric of his loincloth, before promptly deciding it unfit; and reaches for a stray corner of the half sloughed off bedsheet, tearing a large piece away.

You start at the sudden display, half in belated surprise and half in concern for the state of his bed—it's your duty to make sure it's in good keeping foremost, and—

"Hush," your Lord says with a small chuff, "Don't worry about that, just stay still."

Gadriel lowers the cup towards Titus and he dips the edge of it in the water before carefully dragging it across your cheek.

The three of them are very much ogling you, and it's very hard not to dither and fluster at the attention as you're methodically wiped clean. Especially when the cloth dips between your thighs and drags over your abused, sensitive sex, making you whine.

Titus chuffs, "Sore?"

You nod sheepishly as your insides cramp, and rub your legs together, accidentally making a show of liquid leaking out of you.

"Poor sweet thing, look at you drip..." Chairon interjects.

You dare a soft, impish smile which your Lord mirrors.

But the comment makes Gadriel almost instantly tilt his head to watch your overfilled cunt weep their combined slurry of cum; to which he decides the best thing to say is, "Shouldn't have bent over for us so easily."

In your weary, near fucked-to-delusion state, the urge to frown sourly like a petulant child supersedes any decorum, and you're met by a husky snort of amusement from your Lord.

"Some of that's yours, Sergeant," Titus remarks dryly.

Chairon begins laughing as Gadriel's face colours a pretty, endearing pink.

#SHARING IS CARING BROTHERS #demetrian titus #warhammer 40k #demetrian titus x reader #ultramarines #sergeant gadriel #warhammer fanfic #sergeant gadriel x reader #chairon x reader #space marine x reader #writing #calgar fr said my bad you got sent to inquisition cringebox heres a creechur that may be to your tastes as an apology #do i think this is happening in the background of cato fic? maybe #would it make it funnier catos stressing? yes.#katya: the whole hallway smells like cuhhhm #reader insert #warhammer 40k x reader #i was gonna write leandros walking in but i JUST COULDNT FIT ITTTTT

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amoristt · 5 months ago

Text

trust i seek, and i find in you.

part 2 (x) part 3 (x)

「 ✦ seong gi-hun / reader ✦ 」

tags: sfw // gi-hun is tooth-rottingly sweet, violence, canon thru the canon cuz idc let me live, reader is a angry wet cat a/n: this is kinda like a pilot fic cuz theres gonna be three parts to this hehehe and relationship building is hardddd this chapter is kinda mid but trust me the next two r peak

This wasn’t part of the plan.

He wasn’t part of the plan.

Your goal from the moment you’d arrived- win at any cost.

Even after the first round of Red Light, Green Light you remained determined. You slapped your palm over the glowing blue button despite the open cries and protests of the opposing side and sauntered back into your corner of the dormitory, disappearing in the sea of bodies. Being sent home was only a minor setback- you were all too quick to jump head first back into the games knowing damn well it could cost you your life.

You didn’t care. That just meant either you died, or you left richer than you could ever even fathom. A win-win in your book, and the first had been easy enough. If it truly was just simple children's games, surely, you’d have a good chance of outplaying your competitors. You grew up more often in the streets playing with the scrappy neighborhood kids than you did inside your own home. There were very few games you hadn’t played, and honestly, gotten quite good at in your youth.

So you had thought.

Truthfully, dalgona had shaken you up. Even though you’d chosen a circle by triangle, a lucky guess, you never quite had honed up your fine motor skills. Games that required decent aim, mind games, or even the more physical games like tag? Sure. Wrestling? In the bag. You were confident. But having to carve out shapes in thin sugar, and doing it timed while gunshots popped off all around you?

You remembered how bad your hands shook the entire time, your mind screaming at your lungs to just fucking breathe properly so you would stop trembling like a leaf. Distress and agitation only mounted when you noticed many of your competitors finishing, panic setting in. All you had to do, was be gentle.

But you had never been gentle a day in your life.

Sweat had gathered at your forehead and you on the precipice of losing your cool when the timer only had a mere 3 minutes left. You were definitely dead. You were sure of it. Your hands were too shaky, your pressure control was essentially nonexistent. The only sound you could hear was your own heart thundering in your ears, beat by beat.

Then, you saw him for the first time.

A man with dark, thick hair lifting his honeycomb to the light before licking along its backside frantically. At first, you didn’t know what you were looking at. But then you realized how after every lick, he’d hover it over the light overhead again. It stunned you- how had you not fucking thought of that? You, along with most everyone who was leftover, started to do the same. The sugar was sweet on your tongue. You barely even registered it.

Your shape was free in less than 40 seconds, and you showed it to your guard for approval before you were escorted out of the room. As you went, you passed the man by, who was still hard at work. Though contradictory to your goal, you hoped he’d make it in time. Your breath left you in a sigh of relief when he’d wandered back into the dormitory afterwards, alive and well.

After everyone that had survived filled the room, you took one look around and realized how much… Larger a majority of your competitors were. Women were far and few amongst all the men. It made you nibble at your lip, anxious. Sure, you were tough enough, a little rough around the edges, but brute strength was brute strength. And already, groups were forming, with one in particular that made you squirm. A larger man with tattoos sprawled over his neck and into his face, equipped with a bad attitude, and lackeys nipping at his heels everywhere he went.

You needed to make some buddies if you were going to make it. But who would openly accept you? You’d done very little to even make contact with anyone, being liked enough to settle into a group. Who could you approach?

Then, it dawned on you.

And you knew the perfect ice breaker.

When you’d found him in the endless ocean of people, you felt a twinge of hope ring through you. His dark hair was stark under the bright lights. He was smiling, laughing, with a group of people. Though it was a team entirely composed of men, one of them was an old man, meaning that they weren’t favoring power and sheer size over all else. Maybe they’d find use in you, too. It was probably your best shot, so, you swallow down your anxiety.

Though it took a couple seconds to build your confidence, you managed to leave the comfort of your bed and cross the massive floor of the dormitory. When you stood before him, his and the eyes of three other men you’d never seen before burning holes through you, you don’t think there was a time in your life you’d truly felt that small until then. There was so much at stake.

“Um,” You started, fidgeting with your sleeve. Talking was never your strongest skill. “I just wanted to say thank you, uh, for the dalgona game. I probably wouldn’t have made it out if you hadn’t, started, y’know…”

Your voice died in your throat. Not a single one of them made a peep. It made you want to turn around and scamper back into your little cave. Fuck it. Who needed friends. And you’re about to, too, when the man suddenly erupts into a smile so boyish, so genuine it almost takes your breath away. Up close now, you could see him better. Some light facial hair, rosy cheeks, and a curl to his disheveled hair.

He was cute.

“You’re welcome, it was nothing, really!” He said, and his voice was so kind. Maybe integrating wouldn’t be as hard as you’d believed initially- this man had a warmness about him. Something inviting. But you knew that you needed an in, a reason for them to let you stick around. It wasn’t going to be strength, that was for sure. Maybe speed, but you weren't even sure if any games would require that. And though you had street smarts, your analytical skills were less than impressive.

So, you take a chance, and you decide to use some of that good-natured temperament against him.

“Um, if you don’t mind,” You’d forced out, trying to maintain an even tone. “I never really got to play games as a child, my, uh, my mother was very strict. She preferred I spent my time inside and, y’know, coloring and stuff.” You feel like a fucking idiot, word soup falling from your lips pathetically. “...I’m a bit at a loss for what’s to come. Could I, maybe… Maybe hang around you guys?”

Almost everything you had said was a bold, outright lie. But you needed an in.

There’s mixed glances all around. The curly haired man's eyes immediately flick to the man on his left, who sat proud with an intimidating glare. He didn’t bother to hide the way he sized you up, glancing up and down. The old man had seemed far away, a smile painting on his lips that you couldn’t quite understand.

Suddenly you’re 8 years old again, standing before a group of your classmates trying to kindle some forms of friendship moments before they’d shoved you in a locker.

You’re sure your plan was fried, when a darker skinned man turned towards you.

“Of course! I don’t really know the games either, myself, so…” His voice was just as kind as the curly haired mans, maybe even kinder. His eyes were warm, his expression light as the sun. “We can all help each other.”

The curly haired man leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Alright! What’s your name?”

Once you offered your name up, albeit hesitant, everyone's names were traded. Well, more like they’d given into your request. It was a trust thing, and maybe if they’d attached a name to your face, you’d have better luck melding in. You tried to memorize them all. Cho Sang-Woo, a curt business graduate from SNU. Ali Abdul, a factory worker from Pakistan- which explained why he felt he was at a disadvantage. The elderly gentleman who didn’t really seem to be all there, couldn’t seem to recall his own name. It made this unsettling pity build its home in your belly.

And then Seong Gi-hun, who sung everyones praises except his own.

You didn’t miss the way Sang-woo sized you up as you sat among them. But, you did miss the way Gi-hun’s eyes rarely left you as you got to know your new acquaintances. Ali, in particular was more than happy to have you around. He was sweeter than you’d anticipated, asked you all sorts of questions about your life.

You lied more often than you didn’t. After all, this was all just strategy.

My parents are alive. My favorite food is bulgogi. My mom is strict, but only because she cares.

I grew up in a very loving home.

Gi-hun asked why you were competing. You felt your throat tighten.

So I can show everyone I’m not a fuck up, your mind screams. But instead, you say, “To make my parents proud.”

He seems to like your answer. So does Sang-woo, resonating. You could only assume he was doing the same. That’s when you knew you were in.

It turned out, you were just in time, too. Not even an hour later did you witness a fight break out- that scary man you’d seen earlier with his backup absolutely beating on a different man you’d never seen before, waiting any moment now for a guard to intervene, only for the man to die in his spot on the floor. They came and took his body away in a timely fashion. You remembered shrinking in on yourself. That was also the moment you realized that Sang-woo and Gi-hun were much better people than you- because while they sauntered from their spots to check on the poor man beaten to a pulp on the floor, you wanted absolutely nothing to do with it.

You remembered the grave expression on Sang-woo’s face when there was no pulse to be felt. How Gi-hun knelt beside him and tried to call for help in vain. The guards paid him no mind despite the way he demanded they do something, anything. A man just died for god's sake at the hands of player 101- how could they just allow this to happen?

Nothing but empty stares in response.

Money dropped into the bank held high overhead. Surreal.

It made you pale in the face, the sinking reality that killing your competitors in cold blood was not only allowed, but encouraged.

You remembered your ride back to the games, watching the smoke fill the car and telling yourself, you could do this.

You’d made a serve lapse in judgement.

The rest of that evening, before lights out, was… Tense. This lingering dread that hung thick in the air and threatened to suffocate you. You fidgeted with your cuticles and the sleeve of your tracksuit, trying to ignore the way 101 and his lackeys watched you. Ripples of fear were starting to shake your reflection in the waters of your mind. You dug small lines into your fingers, picking at the skin around your nail beds until they sprouted dots of blood. As the minutes tick by, your heart rate increases.

You’re so caught up in trying to keep your breathing level that you don’t hear Sang-woo begin to speak. It’s only when Ali glances at you and holds a stare do you suddenly perk up.

“Stay close when you go to sleep. Anything could happen tonight.”

You hate his tone. It scares you- god, it’s been a long time since you’d felt scared. It’d been a long time since you felt self doubt. Sang-woo’s expression is expectant, so you nod quickly in affirmation, trying to mentally lean on the fact that he’d told you to stay nearby. You could be protected.

His eyes flicker between you and 101’s group.

��Those guys are definitely up to no good. If anyone gets attacked, we have to stick together and fight.”

Gi-hun’s line of sight found yours, his lips drawn into a frown, before he began to grab the old man's attention to let him know to keep his guard up. That poor old man. He had no idea what was coming. And, as if the size of Gi-hun’s heart wasn’t big enough, you watched him stagger to his feet and approach the woman who’d been deemed a pickpocket. You didn’t need to hear what was said, you already knew he was trying to look out for her.

He was so pure in nature you almost felt like your very presence was tainting him.

Here he was going out of his way time and time again, throwing trust in every direction, meanwhile you couldn’t even bring yourself to trust them enough to be honest about something as puny as your favorite food. Guilt made teeth gnash into skin, chewing away at the inside of your lip and cheeks.

From beside you, the old man shifted. He looked… Tired. Vacant. You lean towards him.

“Uh, sir,” You murmur. “If anything happens, I’m on the top bed. I’ll jump down.”

It takes a long while for him to answer you. Gears are turning in his mind almost visibly, but then he smiles.

“You remind me of- ah- what was her name?”

You tilt your head. “Who?”

He hums in thought. “Let’s see… Her name was… Was…”

If you felt like shit over his condition before, this was an entirely new low. Why the hell was he here? Would he be shown mercy, or would he be plucked from the herd? How could anyone be so savage?

Another bout of nerves trickles down your spine.

“Oh, nevermind.” Waving the thought away, he rests his elbows on his lap and leans towards you, voice hushed. “You remind me of someone in my youth. She was a funny girl.”

You can’t help but chuckle, raising a brow. “Funny?”

“Funny.” He sighs in thought. “Always telling stories.”

Even though his voice is far away, and even though he’s clearly not in his right mind, some weird feeling settles in your gut. Like you’d been caught, somehow. So little had been said but you stared at him, bewildered. What was he on about? Did he know you were lying? How?

“Well… Regardless, be careful tonight, yeah? We’ll come find you.”

There he goes, waving his hand again. It’s almost like he doesn't believe you. Or maybe he just doesn’t understand how dire the entire ordeal was.

You try to gag down that weird feeling, but it’s hard, uncomfortable. Instead of letting it wrack your brain, you decide to just chalk it up to him being a senile old man and leave at that. There was no way he knew anything about you. This man was a total stranger. There's movement in the corner of your eye and you’re all too relieved to focus on something else.

Gi-hun stands before you.

“Where are you sleeping?” He sits next to you and leans forward. You point to the top bed, and he sighs in relief before pointing to the highest bed neighboring yours. “I’ll be there. If you’re attacked-”

“Find you guys.”

He lingers over your face for a couple seconds, before he turns and stares forward. “Are you worried?”

“No.” Your voice leaves you too fast, too forced. Wringing hands, bleeding cuticles. You swallow it all down. The same as you’d done your entire life. “Are you?”

At first, he thinks on it. But you already know the answer. He nods once. “I think things are going to go bad, tonight.”

There’s a heavy silence that befalls you, thickening the gap between yours and his shoulders. You stare at the floor. “...I hope not.”

Then, Gi-hun blurts something out, something that’s supposed to be genuine but only in the way he would mean it.

“You can move your pillow to my bed.”

Instantly, your cheeks are warm. “E-Excuse me?”

The crazy thing is that he doesn’t even register what he’d said as anything other than innocent. He just stares at you with expectant eyes and an expression so sincere it has you second guessing your reaction. But then, those eyes widen.

“Wait- Wait, not like that. I just meant that- You know, so that way you wouldn’t have to worry!” He’s stammering and rambling. “Not next to each other, no, more like, if you slept one on one end and I’d sleep on the other.”

It’s almost alluring. You kind of want to say yes. He’s swallowing hard and his face is red by the time he lets up enough to let you actually answer. It leaves you in a gentle rejection.

“Thanks but, no thanks.”

“Of course, of course.” His expression is strained as he watches everyone climb into their beds. The nerves are getting real, now. Time was moving faster than you could keep up with.

“Lights out in five minutes.” A voice echoes from a speaker. You feel your stomach drop.

Standing up, you hide the way your hands shake, just a little.

“You know where we are.” Gi-hun murmurs.

“Thank you.” You breathe.

The climb up to your bed just before lights out felt like it took an eternity. Step after step up the stairs that suddenly seemed deadly hard, climbing onto your bed at the top bunk, observing for what could be your last time. Suddenly everything your eyes could see was dangerous. It felt like the zero hour- that any second now, all of this hush-hush would erupt into an inferno of violence. Your entire life you grew up proud of your ability to hold your own. Prided yourself that you didn’t need anyone- you didn’t need anything.

And yet, when you lay down, the very first thing you do is share glances with Gi-hun from his bunk. You feel exposed, cold. Vulnerable.

If you’re attacked, find them.

Gi-hun nods at you, a silent pact. You nod back.

The lights drop out and bathe you in darkness.

You wished you had said yes.

That night, it was a scream that set it all into motion. A scream that sliced through the darkness and had you launching up from your spot.

Your eyes frantically searched the room, seeing movement at every corner, every bed. Violence. Absolute chaos. A dozen screams echoed off the walls, shrill enough to make you cover your ears as you peeked over your bed to watch down below. Merely a few feet down laid a body, blood spilling from their throat and soaking into their clothes, their bed sheet wrapped around their head. Player’s tripped over the corpse as they fought to escape their attackers.

Before you could even move, you felt your world flip upside down.

Actually, it was your entire bed. Gravity fell through and you were sent tumbling to the floor, hitting the hard ground with a crack that sent waves of pain rippling down your sides. You gasped for air, struggling to regain your footing. You pressed your palms flat down to heave yourself up onto your knees but your right arm slipped in something wet, something warm. You smacked your chin off the floor and felt blood pill and drip down your chin from your lips. All you could taste was copper.

Flashing lights blinded you, bodies moved from every direction.

When you finally managed to bring yourself to your knees, and then to your wobbly feet, you could only vaguely get an understanding of the devastation before you.

Bodies everywhere. Blood spilling and pooling at every step. You brought your hands up and a crack of white light revealed what you had slipped in, exactly what you were afraid of. Crimson red dripped down from your palm into the ditch of your arm. You felt sick.

You were scared.

Another flicker of pulsating light allows you to take in your immediate surroundings. Other than the blood, you see beds and pillows scattered amongst the floor.

Your first thought is to hide. To crawl underneath a bed and wait it all out praying no one dragged you away kicking and screaming.

But then, you see him.

You see Gi-hun trapped between the bars of a tipped over bed frame, struggling to break free, wide eyes darting from left to right in his frenzy. Without even thinking, you dash for him. You pay no mind to the people laying at your feet, or the way that you almost slip on your way over in yet another puddle of blood. All you care about is making it to him. His knuckles are white with the force of trying to pry the frame off of him to no avail. You press your foot up against the standing frame he’s laying on and grab onto bars of those holding him in place, and then you heave with everything you’ve got in you. It lifts just enough for him to wriggle out from under its hold, ducking and crawling between the bars until he’s free and scrabbling to his feet beside you.

You take a moment to assess him, grabbing his shoulders, grabbing his arms.

He’s okay.

You don’t even think to assess yourself. But he does it for you. He touches your bleeding chin and you swat his hold away.

“I’m fi-”

In a blur, you’re ripped by your hair backwards and sent skittering on the floor. Your head cracks back and you can’t tell if the flashes are coming from behind your eyes or in front of them anymore. In a disoriented haze, you find yourself suddenly lifted.

You don’t even know what’s happening. Everythings a blur and your head is aching something awful and warmth is dripping down the backside of your neck. You manage to force your eyes open and then you see her- player 067. She’s gripping you by the collar of your shirt in one hand, the other wedged underneath your arm. Blood spatters the side of her face. Her eyes are dark and dangerous.

Initially, the first thing you can think to do is rip yourself out of her grasp. So, you try. You shove against her chest and flail until she inevitably loses grip and you barely manage to launch backwards without falling over. She’s staring at you, ready. Waiting.

Fear seizes you as you realize you can’t fight her like this- barely even conscious. Moving like a drunk and unable to comprehend the riot.

Her voice manages to reach you, however, in one shout.

”Duck!”

Okay, you comprehend that. You send yourself to your knees on the floor with your arms instinctively crossing over your head to protect yourself. There’s a zip in the air, then the unmistakable sound of metal colliding with metal. Over your shoulder, with just a glance, you see a dark figure standing behind you and raising a metal pole to try their chance at a second time. The light glints off the bar as they prepare to crack it back down over your head.

You hurl yourself out of the way from the floor, kicking the person in the shins. They fumble forward, gripping their leg with a hissing groan of pain, giving you a chance to rush to your feet. 067 grabs you by the fabric of your tracksuit and yanks you until you’re upright, and then she’s shoving something hard and metal into your grip.

Then, she’s gone, disappeared into the flashing lights and oceans of chaos. A small, broken bar sits heavy in your hands.

You don’t get the chance to think before you react when you feel yourself grabbed at the shoulder and spun around, face to face with a man twice your size. He rears a fist back.

There’s a microsecond of calm. Like you finally woke up.

You knew how to fight. You’d done it your whole life.

You dodge his swing, jumping back, before you bring the pole up and swing it directly to the side of the man's skull. He loses his balance, grabbing at his head, and you take the chance to plant the bottom of your foot on his stomach and ram your heel into his gut. He spits out a groan and stumbles but the fucker just won’t go down.

So. You hit him again.

Thwack right over the head- and that does it. He crumbles to the floor in a heap of writhing limbs. It’s not the worst thing you’ve ever done.

All your senses come flooding back to you at once.

Gi-hun.

Sangwoo. Ali.

You spin on your heels in search. You can’t be alone like this.

The old man.

Where the hell were they?

You pass by bunk after bunk, ducking and sauntering. Your nerves are starting to spill into your throat. With each second, a body drops, and you can’t find a single one of your friends.

“Gi-hun!” You cry into the darkness, lost in the endless cries and pleas of a dozen others. “Sang-woo!”

You needed protection.

You find yourself in a small opening, three standing bunks and one tipped on an angle, forming a barrier. Just beyond the make-shift wall of beams, movement shifts just where your eyes struggle to reach. Two hulking figures with broad shoulders, ready to lunge at any moment, lurking, waiting for you to slip up and hop within reach from the otherside of the tipped over bunk. Another figure closes in on the opposite side of you, the only other opening. You recognize him- the man you’d kicked in the leg. A viscous grin playing over his lips as he closes in on you. You’re being circled. You ran right into a corner like a cat before snarling hounds.

If you’re attacked, find them.

“Sang-woo!” You cry, holding the bar to you, swinging every time the man steps too close. If he gets his hands on you, it’s over. “Sang-woo!”

You have to get out of here.

An arm shoots out from the barrier of bars, one of the two men swiping as you back away from the third. Your eyes can’t keep up with all of them. You’re outnumbered. You’re injured. You have to make a break for it- you have to. Your group is nowhere to be found and at this point you feel like they’re definitely dead. You have to save yourself, dash as far as you can get and pray that you’re lost in the flashing lights.

But then you realize what you’re looking at through the jungle of bars.

You realize that the bed they’re looming over is where the old man had slept. There’s a mass underneath all those tipped over crossing beams, smothered and crushed by the weight of the frames. The unmistakable fabric of the tracksuit is just barely visible underneath it all. Your breath stops.

He could be dead.

You don’t have time.

He could be injured.

You’ll die if you stay here.

They’ll kill him.

They’ll kill you. Think of yourself.

Think of yourself.

But you don’t.

You don’t think of yourself when you leap towards him.

You dive under and drag him out.

Only to discover all that remains is his mattress and pillow. His jacket crumpled in a pile, abandoned. Your stomach sinks into the bowels of your guts.

A hand shoots through the gaps of the bars and grabs you by the shoulder, yanks and rams you into the beams of the frame once, twice, until your head bounces off the metal. Your hands unclench, the bar falling from your grasp and clanging onto the floor. When you’re let go, the force sends you toppling down once more, the ground just as hard and uninviting as the first time you met it.

You don’t get a second of reprieve. The third man pounces on you.

His massive hand latches onto your ankle and rips you towards him, your belly dragging over the tiles, your arms swinging wildly, scrambling to find purchase on anything you could get. His other hand grabs your other leg, flipping you onto your back.

There’s weight so heavy on your shins and thighs you really feel like you may be crushed under it, thrashing and clawing blindly as the lights flashed and disoriented you even further. You catch your nails into something soft- hair, you realize, and you grab so tight it hurts your knuckles and you wrench to the side in a frantic attempt to pull off your attacker.

There’s a satisfying crack when his head rams into metal. For just a second, for a blink of an eye, you have hope.

But you were wrong.

He hauls your hand away from his hair, taking chunks with it before striking your shoulder until it was numb with vibrations traveling all the way down to the tips of your fingers. You cried out and punched at his shoulders, his chest, anything you possibly could with your other arm. You kicked, you writhed. All for naught.

There’s hands on your throat, squeezing. You still and grapple at his wrists as fireworks explode behind your eyes. His grip is impossibly tight- your face is hot and it feels like your eyes are going to burst right from your skull.

You can’t even scream.

He isn’t budging.

You were going to die.

Choked and wretched gasps weasel their way from your lips. Your body goes numb, starting in your toes and fingers. Drool slips down your chin. Flashing images and faces from your life fill your vision.

Your childhood friends. A teacher that actually meant something to you.

A photo of your dad that your mom often cried over.

The sounds of chaos and bloodshed seem far away.

Your childhood cat.

No one would notice you were gone. No one, except your little group. Gi-hun.

Your friend's house. The sun poking through leaves overhead.

You don’t have it in you to fight anymore. Your arms fall heavy at your sides as the last bit of your life is choked out of you.

What a lousy life you had lived.

----

When you finally get the chance to breathe again, you suck in a breath so greedy and gulping that it sends you sputtering into wet coughs. You feel again- and it’s cold and everything hurts but you can feel. Your legs are kicking uselessly at the floor, your heels slipping in blood. You claw at your throat, wheezing and gasping. A hand appears in your hair, another sliding underneath your upper back and jerking you up. That man still towers over you, toying with you. Blindly, you press your hands to his chest and you shove as hard as you could possibly manage.

It does absolutely nothing.

“No!” You bark, voice hoarse. “Get off of me!”

A third hand grabbing your wrist. You wail. When was this going to fucking end?

“No!”

There’s so many voices you can’t even comprehend it. They’re all far away and echoing like you're underwater, drowning. That’s exactly what it feels like. Drowning- sinking and suffocating and barely managing to pop your head over the surface just long enough to wheeze in a breath of life and start all over again.

You’re being touched everywhere and you just want it all to stop- every time you try to wrench yourself away it seems another grip just stops you. You’re covered in fucking hands and you can’t do anything to get them off of you. You just want this to be over with. Waves are crashing over your ears.

You think you hear your name among them.

It’s faint, but it’s there. You know the voice. You’re dreaming, you think.

You’re dying.

“It’s me!” The man is holding your face in his hands. “It’s me!”

When you finally manage to open your eyes, you expect to see the man towering over you. Evil. Unrelenting.

But it isn't. You see Gi-hun.

There’s blood on his suit, cuts on his face. Fresh bruises are already appearing along his cheeks. His face lights up when you meet his vision.

“There you are! It’s me!” He wraps himself around you like a shield. Bright light beams and shines into your eyes. There’s guards and guns as far as the eye can see.

If this was the afterlife, you’d obviously been sent to hell. But, then again, there’s arms wrapped around you, petting down your back and cupping the back of your head. You can’t recall a time in your life you’d been held so… Tenderly.

So maybe it’s heaven.

You’re still numb, buzzing. Nothing feels real anymore. From over his shoulder you can see two figures- Ali and Sang-woo you realize, both wielding pipes and guarding. Ali in particular white knuckling a pole almost the same size as you.

You’re alive.

Holy shit, you’re alive.

To your right, you see her again. 067.

She’s beaten and bruised up, but she sits back on her haunches and watches you regain whatever composure you were able to scrounge up. She gives you a single nod.

Thank you. You nod back. Your ears ring.

Oh, Gi-hun is still talking to you. He’s running his hand through your hair. It feels like you can breathe again.

It’s me. You’re okay. It’s me.

Maybe it is heaven, after all.

When he pulls back, you’re cold. Again. You don’t realize the way you chase him, arms coming out to grasp at his biceps, desperate to keep him there. You’re barely only some-what conscious, still reeling with the after effects of being mere seconds away from meeting your maker. He holds your hands in his, and then you notice the blood. It’s all over him, it’s all over you. Your hands, your arms. Down your shoulders and soaking into the collar of your track suit. There’s a metallic tang of blood on your tongue, too.

Blood, blood, blood.

“You hit your head,“ He says, noticing the way your breath sucks in sharply at the sight. “It’s just a cut And this-” His thumb swipes over your lower lip, a sharp sting in his wake. You hiss and recoil. “You’re good. See? You just bit your lip.”

You aren’t sure why he’s talking you through your own injuries, as if you can’t feel them pulsating and rocketing surges of pain up and down your spine. You aren’t even sure why you’re alive right now.

“I’m good,” You echo him. You don’t feel good. “I’m good.”

Gi-hun rests a hand on your cheek, turning your head left and right, assessing you. He drags his thumb down your cheek bones, before he gently pats you. His eyes are tender, thankful. Pretty.

“Get up.” Someone demands, their voice deep and testing. It’s a guard, you realize, standing feet away. Ali, Sang-woo, and 067 stand with their hands up, weapons discarded on the crimson splattered floors. Gi-hun hops to his feet and drags you up with him a little too fast for you to handle, your legs unable to hold the entirety of your weight. He hoists you up by the waist.

“She’s hurt.” He tells the guard, as if they’d cared. As if they’d help.

When the person steps to you, tall and brooding with a O bore onto their mask, you almost think that maybe they would. But then they simply pat your pockets and move on just as fast as they’d arrived. Bodies are being carted out in coffins. There’s so much death it’s hard to believe.

101 eyes you from the other side of the room and sneers.

You don’t even care. Your head is pounding, your neck hurts. But you’re alive, so he could kindly go fuck himself.

Along the distant wall, standing on a top bunk, you see the old man. It almost brings tears of joy to your eyes. Everyone’s alive.

And once everything settles, the bodies dragged away, the guards filtering out, the remaining competitors regrouping to their little corners, you find yourself sitting among steps with everyone else. Tired, and sore. Gi-hun is saying something that you can’t quite tune into. Something about his bed tipping. You offer little to their conversations, eyes distant and vacant, reliving the night. Surprisingly, Sang-woo is what drags your attention back to the present. He reaches over Gi-hun and pats your arm.

You’re embarrassed that you jump.

“Thank you, by the way.” He says, and it’s the first time you’ve seen him look at you without this… Skepticism in them.

“For what?”

He notions towards Gi-hun. “For being on our side. I’m glad you’re not injured too badly.”

For a long, long moment you just stare at him. Your skin is warm. Maybe because your head was swimming. Maybe because now you were realizing you weren’t just sitting amongst them purely for survival.

“Well, thank you too, for,” Your fingers reach up mindlessly and graze over the sore spots on your neck. “Being on my side. I would have died.”

Over light conversations, trust building, Gi-hun calls it, you learn 067’s name. Sae-byeok.

Thank you, Sae-byeok.Even if I thought you were trying to kill me at first.

“How’s your head?” Gi-hun suddenly asks. When you fail to answer quick enough for his liking, he knocks his knee against yours. You aren’t sure what to say. It fucking hurts, but you’d make it.

Why did your chest feel so tight every time he asked? It was making your head pound even worse.

It takes you the rest of that morning to realize you’d never truly, in your life, felt cared for. The thought makes your heart seize up in your chest. Makes your blood flash hot and cold at once.

This was not the plan.

#gi hun x reader #gi-hun x reader #seong gi-hun #squid game #squid game 1 #player 456 x reader #seong gihun x reader #gihun x reader

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iniquitousyearning · 2 years ago

Text

MATTHEO RIDDLE- Beg For Me

Chapter Seventeen-Info: You and Mattheo have been butting heads for months, since you were assigned as his tutor, and one day during a session full of tense bickering, he has enough.

(This will essentially be a toxic book where we are Theos fucktoy. No love here, very minimal fluff.)

Tags: 18+, DARK THEMES, Sexual Harassment, Asshole!Berkshire, Extreme Depictions of Violence, Blood, SMUT, PIV, Virgin!Reader, Loss of Virginity, Dom!Mattheo, Sub!Reader, Oral Sex, Multiple Orgasm, Dirty Talk, Praise Kink, Degradation Kink.

****FIND THE REST OF THE CHAPTERS HERE.

Emerging from the closet, you and Mattheo shared one more fleetingly charged moment, your eyes locking in a silent exchange laden with unspoken emotions. With a subtle nod, you both returned to your seats, seamlessly slipping back into the roles you had mastered--the poised Ravenclaw and the bad, rebellious Slytherin. The transition was flawless, but beneath the composed exteriors, a storm of emotions raged.

As the game progressed and the night drew on, your eyes locked with Mattheo's from across the circle more times than you could even begin to count--and as the rest of the room remained blissfully unaware, you were acutely attuned to the dance of hidden desires, an intimate connection that thrived in the shadows.

The game of truth or dare continued, growing more wild with each passing round, until most people involved became to tired to continue. In the midst of all of this, Emily and Tom seemed to hit it off, engrossed in their own conversation which seemed to have started before you had even returned from the closet with Mattheo--and as much as the sight was slightly confusing, you were profoundly grateful for the unexpected friendship between them. It undoubtedly relieved the pressure of having to engage with Tom.

As the night wore on, exhaustion settled deep within your bones. Berkshire, thoroughly intoxicated, was gently escorted to his dormitory by Malfoy, his usual disgusting arrogance now replaced by a drunken stumble. Despite the lingering adrenaline from the evening's events, weariness tugged at your limbs, pulling you towards the comfort of your dormitory.

While Emily and Tom remained engrossed in their conversation, you seized the opportunity to excuse yourself quietly. With polite smiles and casual goodnights, you bid farewell to the remaining members of the circle. Each step you took felt heavier than the last, your energy waning with every movement. The echoes of laughter and conversation faded into the distance as you navigated the familiar corridors, the subdued glow of torchlight guiding your way.

Taking a moment to escape the confines of the castle, you stepped into the tranquil courtyard, leaning against the railing and seeking solace under the vast expanse of stars. The night air embraced you, carrying with it a soothing whisper of tranquility. Breathing in deeply, you let the cool breeze wash over you, attempting to shed the lingering tension from your bones after the intense evening you had just endured.

And in the midst of your attempts to find serenity, the peaceful atmosphere shattered like fragile glass, stumbling footsteps making their way toward you. As you glanced over, you watched an inebriated Berkshire stumble his way into the courtyard, bringing himself dangerously close to you, his usual arrogance magnified by the influence of alcohol. His eyes, glazed and unfocused, fixated on you with a disturbing intensity.

"Shit...what do we have here?" he slurred, his words laced with drunken confidence. "A little bird all alone in the night...don't you know it's fuckin' dangerous to be out here all by yourself?"

Your disgust was palpable as you shot him a withering glare. "Save your pathetic lines for someone who cares, Berkshire," you retorted, your voice dripping with disdain. "The only thing dangerous is my dwindling patience at the mere sight of you."

"Why're you such a bitch, huh?" he slurred, his words carrying the stench of alcohol. His proximity was uncomfortably close, his breath hot against your skin. "Must be 'cause you secretly like me, right?"

Your jaw clenched, a mixture of annoyance and disgust bubbling within you. His words were as repugnant as his alcohol-laden breath. The tension you had been trying to relieve was now replaced by a different kind, a sharp pang of frustration at having to deal with his inappropriate behavior.

"I suggest you find your way back to your dorm," you retorted, your voice firm despite the rising irritation. "Your delusions won't make your company any more welcome."

Berkshire's drunken persistence grated on your nerves like nails on a chalkboard, his obnoxious confidence seeming to inflate with every word you uttered. Before you could process it, he closed the distance between you, his movements erratic, invading your personal space. His clammy hand shot up, gripping your jaw with a force that made your teeth clench, forcing your eyes to meet his in a cruel display of dominance.

"Why won't you just admit it, huh?" he slurred, his words punctuated by the reek of alcohol on his breath. His bloodshot eyes bored into yours, his arrogance seemingly impervious to your clear discomfort. "You can't deny the attraction, sweetheart...I see it in the way you look at me when you think no one's watching."

Your patience snapped like a taut rope. Anger flared in your chest, hot and searing. With a swift movement, you pushed his hand away from your face, your voice cutting through the night with icy precision, a steely resolve in your voice that should have been enough to ward off any sane person.

"Let me make this abundantly clear, Berkshire," you said, your tone as sharp as a blade. "There is no secret admiration, no desire, and certainly no fucking attraction. You're nothing more than a nuisance, and I have no patience for your delusions. Now, back the fuck off before you regret testing my tolerance any further."

Despite your unwavering stance, Berkshire's drunken laughter reverberated through the courtyard, a disturbing echo of arrogance undeterred by your resistance. He jeered, taking another step toward you, his movements unsteady but determined. The cold, unforgiving metal of the railing you had been standing in front of pressed into your back as he cornered you, his breath reeking of alcohol and menace.

Panic clawed at your throat, but you refused to show weakness, your eyes meeting his with a defiant glare. "Berkshire, what are you-"

Ignoring your words, he advanced further, backing you up against the railing until there was nowhere left to retreat. Your heart thundered in your chest, the weight of his aggression bearing down on you. And then, in a moment of terror, he grabbed you, his grip surprisingly strong, squeezing tighter than you had ever expected. Your breath caught in your throat as his fingers dug into your arms, pain flaring through your limbs. The situation had escalated far beyond your control, and the realization struck you like a physical blow.

"Let me go," you demanded, your voice strained but resolute, despite the fear tightening your throat. But Berkshire only tightened his grip, his fingers digging into your skin, his drunken gaze wild and unpredictable. "Enzo, fuck, stop..."

"Shut the fuck up," he growled, he breath grazing over your neck as he pressed himself against you. "You're such a fucking-"

Before Berkshire could finish that sentence, a familiar voice--one usually somewhat smooth and composed, cut through the air with a terrifying intensity.

"Berkshire…if you don't get your fucking hands off of her," the threat in his tone was unmistakable, a promise of unspeakable consequences if ignored. "I fucking swear-"

But Berkshire, lost in his drunken rage, remained heedless, his eyes glazed over with a dangerous mixture of anger and entitlement. “Shut up, Riddle…she fucking wants me…”

You caught Mattheo's eyes from over Enzo's shoulder, ones that once held a glimmer of restraint now blazed with an uncontrollable anger that seemed to ignite the air around him. His usual composure shattered, replaced by a raw, primal fury.

In a heartbeat, Mattheo closed the distance between him and Berkshire, his movements fluid and almost supernatural. His hand shot out like a striking serpent, fingers wrapping around Berkshire's throat like an unyielding vice. The grip was tight, a clear message of the danger Berkshire was in.

“I warned you,” he hissed, and with a swift, powerful motion, Mattheo ripped Berkshire off of you, sending him crashing onto the unforgiving stone ground, a stunned gasp escaping his lips upon impact--Mattheo’s throat was shredded with anger as he growled, “I fucking warned you…”

You stood frozen, your lungs burning as you desperately gasped for air, your vision swimming with a heady mix of fear and relief. Mattheo, his eyes ablaze with fury, descended upon Berkshire like a vengeful deity. His arm darted out, fingers clenching Berkshire's collar in one hand while the other transformed into a merciless fist.

“Stay the fuck away from her…you don’t fucking look at her, you don’t even fucking breathe near her…do you fucking understand me?” Mattheo didn’t wait for a response, the first punch landing with a sickening crack, the sound reverberating through the courtyard like a thunderclap. Mattheo jostled Enzo in his grip, practically spitting his words against his face. “No one gets to fucking touch her…no one except me…fucking no one…”

A momentary pause hung in the air, a fleeting heartbeat of stillness, before Mattheo struck again. And again. And again. He was possessed, every punch a release of the pent-up rage that had been simmering beneath the surface, each blow fueled by a primal instinct to protect, to defend, to punish the one who dared to harm you.

Berkshire's face transformed into a grotesque mask of crimson, his features distorted by pain and fear. The courtyard seemed to pulse with the rhythm of Mattheo's anger, the sound of his blows drowned out by the rapid thudding of your heart--and it wasn't until Draco Malfoy, his normally composed demeanor replaced by wide-eyed shock, entered the fray, that Mattheo's onslaught finally came to a halt.

Malfoy, his strength surprising for someone so slender, managed to pull Mattheo off Berkshire, the latter struggling like a wild animal, his rage still burning brightly, his chest heaving with exasperated fury.

"What the fuck happened here?" Theodore dropped to his knees next to his fallen friend, a mixture of concern and disbelief etched on his features as he met your stunned eyes. "Are you okay?"

"I..." you stammered, your voice barely audible, your mind struggling to comprehend the violence that had just unfolded before you. The shock had rendered you speechless, your throat dry and constricted, words caught in the whirlwind of your emotions. "Yes...I'm okay..."

While you attempted to spit out words, Mattheo's heaving form, still seething with raw anger, ripped himself free from Malfoy's hold. With a voice that carried the weight of his fury, he spoke on your behalf, the words sharp and cutting through the air.

"Berkshire thought he could lay his fucking hands on her is what happened," his voice was cold, each word laced with contempt. "After I warned him...I warned him how many fucking times..."

Mattheo's aura, once magnetic and enticing, was now a tempest, an embodiment of wrath that crackled in the air around him. The atmosphere seemed to vibrate with his intensity, as if the very stones beneath your feet could feel his fury. It was a chilling reminder, mostly to you, that beneath the composed facade, there was a force to be reckoned with, a protector who would stop at nothing to shield you from harm--and that thought did inexplicable, disgustingly shameless things to your fucking body.

Draco Malfoy, his usual cool composure momentarily shaken, stepped away from Mattheo, his eyes assessing the situation with a discerning gaze.

"Let's get him to the hospital wing," he suggested to Theodore, his voice cutting through the tension. Nott, too, recognized the need for immediate action, nodding in agreement, before briefly meeting your eyes. "I'm sorry about him...there's no way he hasn't learned his lesson now...fuckin' sorry little prat..."

You nodded in response as the two of them lifted Berkshire, supporting his battered form between them. As they glanced between you and Mattheo, it was as though a silent understanding passed between Draco and Nott. Their glances met, a knowing look shared, acknowledging that there was something more beneath the surface of this situation. They sensed the unspoken connection, the invisible thread that bound you and Mattheo together, but they chose not to pry. Instead, they respected the unspoken boundaries, allowing the complexities of your relationships to remain your own.

Meanwhile, Mattheo turned his attention back to you, his eyes a tumultuous blend of emotions, the storm within him slowly subsiding as he registered the shock lingering in your eyes. With a soft yet determined expression, he stepped closer, his presence becoming a comforting shield against the aftermath of the confrontation that had left both of you shaken.

"Raven, I'm so fucking-" he began, his voice thick with regret and unspoken apologies.

"I'm fine, Mattheo." You cut him off, your heart pounding in your chest, the sight of his breathless, bloodied and dishevelled form doing dangerous things to your cunt--and you knew, more than anything, you just wanted to be alone with him. "Please just take me back to your dorm."

His brows furrowed in confusion, but the desperation in your eyes didn't leave room for questions.

"What-" he started to inquire, but you took a step closer, your neck arching slightly to catch his dark, penetrating gaze.

"Take me back to your dorm," you repeated. "Please."

Upon hearing the raw desperation in your voice, Mattheo nodded, his fingers gently finding yours as he immediately led you down the hall and through the empty corridor to his dorm. The moment he pushed the door open, allowing you to step inside, it felt as though the temperature in the room had increased to a million bloody degrees. The air was thick with unspoken tension, a potent mix of fear, desire, and the undeniable pull that had always existed between you, intensified now by the events of the night.

As you cautiously stepped into his dorm, your eyes were drawn to the familiar sight of the astronomy book lying open on his desk. The memory of the last time you had been in his dorm flashed in your mind--the same book, sitting untouched on his desk, an odd object in the midst of his carefully curated chaos.

"Why do you still have this out?" you questioned, your voice laced with curiosity and a hint of suspicion.

The question hung in the air, laden with unspoken implications. Mattheo hesitated, his stormy eyes locking onto yours in a moment of vulnerability.

"Can't a man indulge in the mysteries of the stars whenever he fancies?" he retorted with a smirk, attempting to deflect the gravity of the situation. His voice carried a hint of playfulness, but the tension beneath the surface was palpable. "Or perhaps stargazing is an art reserved solely for beautiful little ravens, hm?"

"Is it because of me?" Your stare bore into him, a mix of curiosity and suspicion flickering in your eyes. “Is it because of me that you have this book?”

He didn't deny it; instead, after a long, silent moment, he simply nodded, almost impenetrably, his gaze never leaving yours. It was a silent admission, a confession that hung heavy in the charged atmosphere of the room. In that moment, the undeniable pull between you became almost tangible, the invisible thread connecting your hearts growing stronger, defying the boundaries you had desperately tried to impose.

You stepped toward him. "Did you miss me, Mattheo..."

Mattheo met your gaze, his expression enigmatic yet stoic, a mask of his usual arrogance and charm slipping back into place. His silence lingered for a moment, the air thick with unspoken tension.

Then, in a voice that held a depth of emotion he was trying to conceal, he replied, "Maybe I did, Raven..."

You moved closer, the air crackling with need as you closed the distance, your heart pounding in your chest. When you finally stood before him, close enough to feel the heat radiating off his body, you dared to reach out, your fingers brushing against his cheek. His skin was warm, and beneath your touch, you could sense the subtle tremor that betrayed the restraint he was exercising. Your breath caught in your throat as you tilted your head, your lips hovering just millimeters from his.

"Don't be shy, Mattheo..." you murmured, teasing him with your fingers as you trailed over his jawline. "Why don't you show me how much you missed me..."

Mattheo's jaw clenched under your touch, his dark eyes smoldering with an intensity that matched the simmering desire between you. You sighed when his hands, strong and possessive, found their way to your hips, pulling you closer with a magnetic force that left you breathless. His restraint wavered, the barrier between temptation and surrender growing thinner by the second.

"Salazar fucking save me..." Mattheo's voice was a raspy whisper, a plea and a challenge rolled into one, his vulnerability veiled behind a facade of arrogance. "Who the hell are you..."

You leaned in, your lips hovering dangerously close to his, your eyes locking onto his with a daring intensity.

"Sorry to break it to you, Riddle," you purred, your voice a seductive melody that echoed in the charged space between you. "But I'm afraid not even your maker could save you now..." a teasing smile tugged at the corners of your lips, your breath mingling with his. "Better start counting your blessings..."

"Blessings, huh?" Mattheo's lips curved into a half-smirk, his voice low and dangerous, sending a shiver down your spine. "I'd much rather count the seconds until I can taste those sweet fucking lips of yours..."

His words sent a jolt of desire through you, your heart pounding in response to his brazen confidence.

"Gods, you really are a changed man, aren't you?" You murmured, fighting your smirk as his fingers tightened their grip on your hips. "You were never one to wait for permission before..."

"Raven," his voice was a low, raspy whisper, the intensity in his eyes burning brighter. "You're really testing my fucking patience here...and you should know I'm not a patient man..."

Your smirk grew, heat flushing your cheeks, your fingers tracing a tantalizing path along the underside of his jawline, now, teasingly slow.

"Maybe I enjoy testing your limits…maybe I want to see how far I can push you..." you muttered, your voice laced with playful defiance. "Or perhaps I just like watching you squirm, Riddle...perhaps I want to hear you beg for me..."

Mattheo's patience snapped like a taut wire, his eyes narrowing with a mixture of exasperation and desire.

"Look at you, huh...all fucking smug..." he growled, his voice edged with playful frustration as he peered down at you. "You've kept that pussy from me for over two fucking weeks and now you want to tease me like this? Did you forget how bloody fast I can make you crumble for me..."

Your defiant facade began to crack under the intensity of his gaze, a shiver running down your spine.

"Gods, maybe I did..." your voice barely above a whisper, the defiance replaced by a flicker of vulnerability. "Maybe I need you to remind me..."

"Shit...there she is...there's my good fucking girl..." he murmured, his tone a mixture of reverence and desire. "...tell me what you want, Raven..."

A sigh of satisfaction slipped past your lips as his hands tightened their grip, his touch searing into your hips as though he was trying to hang on to his last shreds of willpower. With a trembling voice, you met his dark, penetrating eyes, wetting your lips as you let yourself drown in their depths.

"You," you whispered, your voice a husky admission. "I want you."

He exhaled. "Then fucking have me."

In a whirlwind of desire, his lips crashed onto yours, sending your senses into a frenzy. Your eyelids fluttered shut as both of you inhaled sharply through your noses, trying to catch your breath amidst the electrifying kiss. His hands, strong and possessive, tangled in your hair, pulling you closer with an urgency that matched the racing beat of your heart. Your lips parted in a soft groan of surrender, inviting him in, and his tongue slipped between your teeth with a hunger that bordered on desperation.

His lips moved over yours, claiming every inch as though he needed you to survive, and your fingers found solace in the dark waves of his hair, gripping them tightly. Mattheo responded with a primal sound, a low grunt of satisfaction that resonated between your entwined bodies. With a swift motion, he spun you around, his lips never leaving yours, walking you backwards until the backs of your knees met the edge of his bed. The kiss deepened, his mouth exploring yours with a deliberate slowness, his fingers continuing their sensual dance through your hair, pulling you impossibly closer, melting the space between you.

Mattheo's tongue danced a tantalizing dance inside your mouth before he withdrew, leaving a lingering connection between your lips. In that moment, silence enveloped both of you, rendering you nearly motionless, lost in a whirlwind of emotions, unsure of what to say, think, or do. You felt the undeniable hardness of his arousal pressing against your belly, causing a flicker of anticipation to ignite within you. Your hands instinctively moved towards the hem of your shirt, but he halted you with a gaze as hard as stone.

"No," he said, his voice low and commanding. "Let me."

A flush of scarlet painted your cheeks, but you nodded in silent consent, your throat tight with anticipation. His fingers bunched the fabric of your shirt, lifting it up and off of you. As you raised your arms, granting him permission to undress you further, he completed his task with deliberate care. The fabric landed on the floor with a soft rustle, discarded and forgotten, while his eyes roamed over every newly exposed expanse of your skin.

It was a ritual you knew you’d never tired of, the way he looked at your body as if it was a masterpiece, a gift he hadn't been prepared to receive.

Under the intensity of his gaze, a cascade of warmth flooded through you, your skin tingling with awareness. His hands skillfully moved behind you, unclasping your bra with practiced ease. He pushed it off your shoulders, the fabric gliding down your arms, his fingers skimming over the surface of your skin, leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake.

He paused for a moment, his eyes meeting yours in a silent question, before gracefully sinking to his knees in front of you. His warm breath ghosted over your belly, holding your stare as to ask for permission before he hooked his thumbs under the rim of your pants and panties, peeling them down your thighs, revealing your sensitive sex to him--inch by torturous inch.

A shiver rippled through your nerves, sending a thrill down your spine as his molten-gold eyes held yours with hunger that seemed to consume everything in its path. His gaze didn't waver for a single moment, even as he expertly removed your shoes and tossed them aside carelessly. As he rose, his palms trailed over the contours of every curve, his touch igniting a trail of electric sensations in their wake. He towered over you, a commanding presence that left you breathless, and one of his hands delicately cupped your face, his thumb tracing the outline of your lower lip with a gentle intensity that sent your heart racing.

"Lie back," he murmured.

Your fingers quivered with anticipation as you nodded, succumbing to the electric tension in the air. Slowly, you eased yourself back onto the mattress, adjusting your position so you could lie flat against the soft bedding.

Mattheo prowled around the perimeter of the bed, his intense gaze scorching your skin, leaving a trail of heat in its wake. Each step he took seemed deliberate, his movements exuding a raw, primal energy. After a moment, he paused, his fingers deftly working on the buttons of his bloodied dress-shirt. With a fluid motion, he peeled off the fabric, revealing the chiseled contours of his chest. His pants followed suit, dropping to the floor until he stood before you in just his boxers.

From this angle, the sight of him made your cheeks flush and your breath hitch in your throat. The raw masculinity and confidence he exuded was both breathtaking and overwhelming, leaving you yearning for more as he loomed over the bed, the outline of his throbbing cock straining the fabric of his boxers doing unspeakable things to your body--the sight of it against the background of hard, tense muscle made you clench, and you bit your lip to hide a moan that was sneaking its way out of your mouth.

And even though you knew he noticed, he said nothing, even as his knee dropped into the mattress, even as he shifted, crawling over you, until he hovered above you, looking more fucking angelic than he ever had before, looking like a man filled with devotion, passion and need.

"Mattheo..." fear was mixing with the pull of lust. You'd never seen him like this. "Matty, I--"

"Shh," he said, pushing a strand of hair away from your temple. "Relax for me, princess..."

You drew in a shaky breath, and nodded--and his lips pressed into yours, plush and wet, before he moved, leading a tingling line of kisses down your cheek, to your jawline, to your neck. Leaning in, he caressed your throat with his warm mouth and you gasped, back arcing into him. In response, Mattheo purred, laying layer after layer of soft, wet marks on your sensitive flesh. One large hand slid down your arm while he kissed his way to your breast, nuzzling his cheek into the valley of your chest before drawing a nipple between his lips.

A cry escaped you, your hips bucking into his abdomen. "Oh, Gods..."

"Shh," he said again. "Relax, angel..."

The nickname he called only made you want to writhe more. Your mind internally fucking screaming with need. Taking a deep breath, you nodded anyway.

"My angel," he repeated, planting slow, soft kisses on your stiffening bud. "My fucking sweet little angel..."

He took your nipple into his mouth again, moaning while he suckled it swollen, his hands painting pleasure on your swathes of naked, aching skin. You whimpered, nibbling on your lip to silence any sound, hands slowly slithering their way through his messy, yet beautiful fucking hair. As you tightened your grip on his strands, a groan slipped past his teeth, and he flicked the tip of your peak with his tongue before releasing it, mouth making a hot trail along your navel, his hands massaging up and down the outside of your thighs.

"You're doing so well," he whispered into your stomach. "You're so fucking beautiful..."

"Matty..." you whined, his words creating a storm of bliss in your chest. You didn't know what else to say.

"Keep being good for me..." he kissed his way to the mound of your pussy, holding a rumble in his chest as his lips grazed the top of your slit. "Are you ready?"

Are you ready? He just fucking asked if you were ready. As you gazed at him, his pink lips glistening with saliva, eyes smoldering with desire, the answer became crystal clear.

"Yes," you said. "Yes, I'm ready."

Without further hesitation, Mattheo lowered his head between your legs, your entire body jolting in pleasure as he licked a broad, flat band up your sex, feeling your fingers twirling in the curls of his hair. His mouth was hot and eager as he showered your folds with deep, heavy kisses, sending shivers of delight throughout your entire being. Mattheo's hands held your thighs in place as he slicked his strong tongue in between your slit, each touch sending waves of pleasure coursing through your core. Your eyes were fixed upon him, unable to look away from the sight of him worshipping your cunt with his mouth.

"You taste incredible," he cooed, leaving soft kisses along the crease of your thighs. "You know that I thought about this little pussy everyday, don't you?"

Your breath hitched. "Y-you did?"

"Mmhm."

He returned to working his tongue along your inner-folds, gathering your juices along the tip, humming while he swallowed--he was deliberate, taking his time to memorize every bit of your pussy, to draw as much cum from your core as he could. You whined, your clit desperate for attention.

"Matty..." you pleaded, "please..."

Mattheo's gaze met yours as he hummed, sealing his lips around your swollen nub. The intensity of the pleasure collided into you, causing a wracking sob to escape your lips as your eyes closed in ecstasy. His grip tightened on your thighs, tugging you closer to his face. As he sucked on your clit, he gradually built up the pressure, block by block, pushing you towards the peak of orgasm.

Your hips relentlessly rolled into him, urgent moans filling the air as you fell further and further toward overwhelming bliss. "Fuck, Mattheo...Gods..."

His hands left your thighs, exploring your body, gripping and kneading any inch of flesh they could find, until they finally rested on your breasts, thumbs tracing small, gentle circles on your hardened nipples.

"Oh, fuck," you said, "fuck, fuck..."

As the intensity of your pleasure peaked, any words leaving your lips devolved into incoherent wailing. You teetered on the edge, straining against a wall of unrelenting bliss that threatened to overtake you completely. Then, with two hard sucks, Mattheo eased you over, drawing out your climax long and slow against his mouth. Ecstasy consumed you, numbing your skin as your limbs shook and trembled. Every sensation was intensified as he pulled you through wave after wave of pleasure, groaning as your juices coated his lips, your core throbbing and pulsing at his chin.

It felt like an eternity before he finally released you, dragging his tongue up the top of your slit as he panted and gasped for breath alongside you. The aftermath of your intense orgasm left both of you struggling to regain your senses.

Your head rolled along the mattress, lids fluttering open, hands petting at his hair. "Fuck, Mattheo...that was..."

"Shh." He licked his lips, gaze liquefying your center, and returned his focus to your belly, kissing a steady path to your sternum, his hands still stroking at your skin. "I need you to know how much I missed everything...and I mean fucking everything..."

"Oh," was all that left your mouth, teeth pinching your lip when it began to tremble.

"From your perfect fucking tits to your filthy little mouth..." one hand started to palm at your breast, the other still gliding up your side as he inched forward. "From those delicious fucking thighs to that pretty little pussy..." he was at your neck, now, rasping into it, the heat of his body enveloping you. "Every inch of you is fucking perfect...fuck the drugs Raven, you are my insatiable goddamn addiction..."

Every syllable that escaped his lips seemed to caress your very soul, igniting a wildfire of longing within you. His words were like a spell, weaving around your heart and wrapping you in a cocoon of desire. You craved him in a way that transcended the physical, a hunger that went bone-deep. It wasn't just the touch of his skin against yours that you yearned for; it was the merging of your essence, the melding of your souls into an ethereal dance of passion. You wanted to dissolve the boundaries between you, to lose yourselves in a realm crafted solely for your bodies, where every touch and sigh was a symphony of fervor.

And as you met his gaze, there it was, in his eyes--an unnamed emotion that pulsed between you, an unspoken truth that bound you together in a way words could never encapsulate. It was a force beyond reason, an irresistible pull that drew you closer, time after fucking time again.

"You once called me a plague but fuck...you have no fucking idea..." his voice, raw with desire, clawed its way out of his throat. "I haven't even fucked you, Raven...how the fuck have you done this to me?"

Your heart skipped a beat, fingers instinctively curling in his hair. "Do you want to?..."

Mattheo hesitated, as if time itself hung suspended. His eyes searched your face, seeking the truth in your words, and then, he answered, his voice a low rasp,

"Of course I do..." he breathed. "But after what happened tonight-"

"No," you cut him off, your body moving restlessly beneath his. "After what happened tonight, I only want you more...I've never fucking wanted you so fucking badly, Mattheo...it was you who defended me, not Tom, not Zabini, you...it's always been you..."

Mattheo's jaw tensed, his eyes darkening, his chest heaving. "You want me to fuck you..." he said, as though he was trying to make himself believe it. "You want me to take your virginity..."

You nodded, a silent confirmation of your desire, but Mattheo's fingers found their way to your jaw, his touch surprisingly gentle, yet firm. He held your gaze, his eyes searching yours for any hesitation, any uncertainty.

"Say it, Raven," he murmured, his voice low and commanding. "You know I need to hear you say it. Tell me you want me to take your virginity."

Your breath caught in your throat, his proximity overwhelming your senses. With a shaky inhale, you met his intense gaze, your voice coming out as a mere whisper, "I want you to take my virginity, Mattheo."

"Fucking hell..." he breathed, the desire in his tone making your core scream. "You know that means-"

"I'm yours." You cut him off. "Even though all of this could fuck up my entire future, I don't care...I'm yours...I submit my sanity to the disaster that is sneaking around with you, Mattheo...I don't want the safe option, I don't want soft or subtle...I want dangerous, I want messy, I want sins...I fucking want you..."

"Salazar fucking save me..." he breathed after a long moment of staring at you, shifting himself to pull down his boxers, his throbbing cock springing free, smacking against his belly. "You really are a little fucking devil..."

You clenched at the sight of his dick, head glistening with precum, twitching insistently as he shifted, looping an arm under your neck and cradling your head, his face nestling into your neck while his other hand directed the head of his dick against your wet folds, slicking itself along your wetness, your entire body tensing at the foreign sensation.

He was so fucking big...you weren't sure if, "are you even going to fit...you're so fucking-"

"Shh, Raven." Mattheo huffed against your neck, angling back to meet your eyes, that devilish smirk plastered across his lips. "I'll make it fit."

At his words, you clenched again, unable to deny the intoxication of his primal arrogance, his eyes fixed on your face as he angled himself at your core now, the anticipation radiating off of him only fuelling your hunger, sending thrills through every inch of your body.

"Relax," he breathed, eyes boring into yours, the hand behind your head keeping you in place. "And look at me...I want you looking into my fucking eyes as you feel yourself stretching out for me..."

With a nod, you held his stare, and slowly, deliberately, he pushed himself inside of you, inch by inch, letting you gasp and wince while his thick length stretched you open, until he was fully sheathed within your tightness. The sensation was overwhelming, stretching you to your limit, beyond anything you ever thought possible, and Mattheo only seemed to grow harder with each gasp that left your lips. With him completely seated inside of your cunt, you felt him pulsing at the hilt, felt his already urgent need to cum inside of you. But instead of moving right away, he jerked you closer to his chest, his lips softly grazing yours as he brought his hand to cup your jaw.

"Are you okay?" His voice was torn, shredded, nearly unrecognizable.

You nodded, holding his eyes. "I'm okay."

"Shit, Raven..." a deep groan left his chest as he exhaled, pulling out and plunging back in as slowly and carefully as he had the first time. "You're so fucking tight...fuck..."

You mewled--between the passion in your chest and the newfound sensations between your legs, your head was spinning, something was close to bursting. His skin was so hot against you, and you gripped him tighter, another moan leaving your chest, chin shaking beyond your control, the pleasure and pain commingling in your mind as you surrendered to his skilled touch--Mattheo stared at you through it all with gleaming eyes before he smothered your lips with a kiss, burning and short.

"Is this what you wanted?" The low thunder of his voice melted in your ears, and he murmured your name. "Tell me..."

Your fingers dug into his skin, your voice torn between gasps. "Yes, Mattheo..." you mewled. "It's all I've wanted."

He leaned forward, lips feathersoft on yours, kissing you, still easing his cock into you with careful rolls of his hips. The grip at your head soothed your scalp--and you could feel it, could feel yourself blending with his body as he pushed deeper and deeper inside of you, could feel your pulses pounding in pace, could feel the unspoken, intangible harmony coiling in your blood.

"Who else can make you feel like this, hm?" His embrace constricted you, now, stilling you while he rocked deep into you, stuffing you full, his free hand travelling down your belly, grazing over your clit--and you choked, whimpered, limp in his arms. "Tell me who this tight little pussy fucking belongs to..."

The pleasure was overwhelming, earth shattering, entirely all encompassing. Your lids fluttered, your brain spinning. "Oh, Gods...oh my fucking-"

"Look at me, Raven..." he ordered, voice torn. "Look at me or I'll stop."

Reluctantly, you opened your eyes, nails biting into his skin, heart pounding in your throat as you felt your sanity dangerously fucking close to shattering, your entire body encompassed in a pleasure that you've never known, a pleasure that only Mattheo fucking Riddle could give you, one that burns you from the inside out, one that shatters every inch of your resolve, leaving you bare before him.

"Tell me..." he whispered, his fingers twirling your clit. You could tell he was close, too. "Fuck...fucking say it…”

"You," you mewled, lost in the melted chocolate swirls of his irises. "It fucking belongs to you, Mattheo...fuck...only you..."

"Shit..." he groaned your name, sucking at your shoulder, tongue leaving hot lines on your neck. "You love being dirty for me..." his fingers whirled your clit faster. "You love being my nasty little slut, don't you?"

"Yes, yes, Mattheo..." you wailed, body trembling beneath him. "I love it..."

"Fuck--" A feral kiss bruised your lips, his cock splitting you with long thrusts. "That's it..." he muttered your name against your mouth. "Cum--cum for me, let me feel you..."

You shattered. "Gods--Matty! Fuck..."

Euphoria rended you wide, tearing at the seams of your sanity, and you fractured, convulsing with the sheer strength of your climax. Your walls spasmed around his dick, milking him hard, and Mattheo held you, mouth meeting yours as he came, hips hitting you with every rush of rapture as he quickly followed after you, spilling his release inside your cunt. This seemed to last for minutes, the aftershocks of bliss rippling through your bodies at once while you remained there catching breath, still connected.

You were wilted, spent, a collection of skin and cum and sweat, and when Mattheo finally pulled out, he slumped down on the mattress beside you, pulling you back into his chest, nothing but the collective sounds of your exhausted panting filling the air, neither of you willing to move even though you knew you couldn't stay here all night--but your drooping lids didn't care, your body succumbing to slumber without giving you a choice.

And as you drifted off, you couldn’t help but question how a boy who once had been the bane of your fucking existence, had now become the centre of it.

———————-

Find eighteen here->

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raven-at-the-writing-desk · 1 month ago

Note

Do you consider Ruggie to be a vice housewarden? Personally, I do but I wanted to know what you thought!

Personally, I don't consider Ruggie to be a vice dorm leader. (Ruggie doesn't view himself as a vice dorm leader or even as Savanaclaw's second-in-command either! He just refers to Leona as the boss and everyone else, including himself, as a grunt.)

I understand why some people do see Ruggie as a vice dorm leader though. After all, the guy's often seen supporting Leona in various ways. In Jack's Dorm Uniform vignettes, Jack states that "[Ruggie helps] the housewarden/dorm leader with everything, above board or below. So [Ruggie's] basically our number two."

And indeed, it is true!! Ruggie does a TON for Leona. This includes, but is not limited to: doing role call for their group (Vargas Camp) doing his laundry (Ruggie Labwear vignettes), repairing his clothes (Leona School Uniform vignette), fetching his food (Jamil School Uniform vignette, book 2), shopping for his new outfits + accessories (Vargas Camp), serving as his spy (Beans Day, but there are many other instances, like Blazing Jewel), and (of course) waking him up and reminding him to turn in his assignments for class (too frequent to name specific instances).

It's also very telling that Leona willingly relinquishes control and oversight of Savanaclaw--his dorm, essentially his kingdom--to Ruggie right before the Ferrymen haul Leona off. He trusts Ruggie enough to "be in charge of Savanaclaw 'til [he gets] back", which is very similar to how dorm leaders sometimes have vice dorm leaders fill in for them in their absence--something which occurs quite often with Malleus and Lilia, as Lilia often subs in for Malleus at ceremonies and meetings.

There was even a mistranslation in Jack's Beans Camo vignettes in which Azul mistakes Ruggie as Savanaclaw's dorm leader. In the original JP text, Azul says, “同じ寮の後輩でしょう”, which more closely translates to “he’s (Jack’s) an underclassman/junior in your (Ruggie’s) dorm!” He uses 後輩 here, which is kouhai, NOT 寮長 (ryocho), which is dorm leader/dormitory manager.

Now, the reason why I don't personally view Ruggie as a vice dorm leader is that while he does do a lot for Leona, these are not really... dorm leader-esque responsibilities??? They're more like regular occurrences or chores, so Ruggie comes off less as someone of close standing to Leona and more like he's just an errand boy. None of the actual vice dorm leaders tend to their dorm leaders this closely (with the exception of Jamil, on account of being Kalim's actual servant).

Vice dorm leaders have certain other duties that they fulfill. For example, they stand in for dorm leaders when they cannot attend important functions (like ceremonies or meetings, as I said before). They also assist with important dorm-related decisions, like picking out their Halloween costume each year and granting permissions to loan out parts of their dormitory for events. (For more information on the powers and responsibilities of dorm leaders and vice dorm leaders, see this post!)

Thing is, I never see Ruggie doing any of those things. It's always Leona and Leona alone attending meetings and making big decisions, even though he theoretically could sit out and let Ruggie handle it while he naps. Perhaps this is because Leona is arrogant and wants to project the image of him and ONLY him being in charge, but the fact remains that Ruggie isn't really depicted doing vice dorm leader-level work, just everyday menial labor. Leona trusting Ruggie with Savanaclaw in book 6 is an exception and not the rule. He's still supporting and helping out Leona, of course--it's just not in the same way that a vice dorm leader would. And Leona still puts a lot of his trust in Ruggie; that strong bond can still exist, even without the formalized relationship of a dorm leader and vice dorm leader.

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ldrfanatic · 1 year ago

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If the World Was Ending

Theodore Nott x Fem!Reader Part Two of Craw Home to Her

A/N- after weeks it's finally here! This isn't a direct songfic like the first part, however, it's accompanying song is If the World Was Ending by JP Saxe

Slight alteration to the original timeline of events of Half-Blood Prince

crawl home to her (part I) works slytherin boys masterlist

After that party in the Slytherin Common Room, you and Theo had begun dating. And for the entire month of January, a perfect Valentine's Day, and everything was perfect. Now, with Spring Break is rapidly approaching, the war is becoming more and more real. Everyone in your small circle knew of the tasks that had been assigned to you and a few other children of prominent Death Eaters in preparation of their takeover of Hogwarts at the end of the year.

Draco had begun to stress and look worse for wear as the weight of this secrecy from Hermione started to settle in. Mattheo, who had the worst of the lot of you, had given up on his usual banter with Potter and had been holed up in the boys' dormitory for the past two weeks or so.

Though there'd been an uptick in the moods of Theo and yourself in the midst of your new relationship, the novelty and puppy-love air had dampened when a letter from Theo's father arrived a few days ago requesting a visit home in the upcoming spring break. While your parents had been relatively silent since giving you your assignment, you knew that they'd want a progress update soon, and you hadn't even worked up the stomach to begin at all.

The thought of betraying your classmates and professors at Hogwarts had become sickening to all of you.

Still, sitting here in Theo's arms under a large oak tree at the Great Lake, you couldn't find it in yourself to feel scared or sad. There was a soft and sweet bubble of love around the two of you with a warm air that seeped into your bones and warmed your soul. Theo pressed a sweet kiss to your temple and when you turned to meet his eyes, you were unsure how you never realized that Theodore Nott was in love with you. Especially if he'd been looking at you like that all this time.

"You know I leave next Tuesday, love?"

The deep rumble of Theo's voice in his chest felt like a lightning bolt through your body that had electricity simmering at the tips of your fingers and your toes. How you'd never realized you were also madly in love with Theodore Nott you were also unsure of. Had your body always reacted to him this way? The thought of being away from him for 10 days made your heart sink a little lower than you'd anticipated. You and Theo had been each other's light as the skies darkened and the air turned cold. You could predict now that your mood would suffer significantly from a lack of Vitamin Theo.

"I'll miss you."

"And I you," His arms tightened around your torso and pulled you further back into his chest. "have you heard from your mum yet?"

You shook your head and tried not to think about the rage you'd certainly face if you didn't start on your task soon. You'd never particularly been friends with Katie Bell, but the thought of cursing her made you a little queasy. Especially when it meant the end result was weakening Dumbledore so that Mattheo could deliver the final blow.

Still, Draco and Theo both has worse jobs than your own. Draco was still working on the Vanishing cabinet and adjusting to his new dark mark bestowed to him by his aunt, and your mother, Bellatrix LeStrange. Theo had been tasked with enlisting the help of the Acromantula and Centaurs in the Dark Forest and it wasn't going very well. When he'd returned the other night, he'd had arrow cuts all over after rapidly fleeing the scene when his meeting with a group of centaurs turned sour.

In short, you'd been given an easy and simple task with minimal danger. But you'd been given it because it was essential. Should you fail to deliver this curse to Dumbledore, when Mattheo advances on him, he will surely lose, and the Dark Lord will descend upon the entire lot of you with a fury unknown.

"You'll be fine. And the curse won't kill Bell, she'll just be a little rattled."

You whipped your head upwards to your boyfriend and flashed him a bewildered look. "They asked me to use Imperio, Theo! That's an unforgiveable."

"I know. But in the grand scheme of things, we'll all be otherwise occupied before this whole thing is over."

You settled back into his embrace without another word.

You knew he was right.

But you just couldn't stomach it.

Turns out you were right. You couldn't stomach it.

You tried to be as quiet as possible as you deposited the contents of your stomach behind the Three Broomsticks. Thankfully, the bustling sounds of Hogsmeade during Spring Break were cover enough for the sounds of you retching.

But it was done. Katie Bell had been successfully cursed, given her mission, and sent on her way to the Headmaster's Office.

It was the last few days of Spring Break and Theo was supposed to return soon. Your nerves ad been on edge since he'd left. Now that you completed your task, you felt a little better but you wouldn't be able to relax until Theo was safely back into your arms. Only two more days and he'd be back.

After what turned out to be an unsuccessful attempt to curse Katie, you went back to your dorm room and tried to ignore the growing feeling of dread inside of you. Once your mother heard of your failure through Professor Snape, you were pretty much done for. You didn't attend Dinner that night and instead decided to remain holed up in your bed with your curtains drawn shut. You weren't exactly in the mood for sympathies.

However, your plans to sulk for the evening were interrupted quite suddenly by Pansy Parkinson. "Y/n get up! They're here."

You rolled over halfway and stared bewildered at your friend. "Who's here?"

"The Death Eaters."

A chill ran straight down your spine. They weren't supposed to be here until the end of the year. They weren't supposed to come until Theo came back. Still, you flung yourself out of bed and quickly pulled on your tennis shoes and a jumper to protect you from the cold air. When you finally exited the common room, it was pretty clear where the Death Eaters were. Students were tearing off in waves away from the Great Hall. You could hear your mother's manic cackling and curses fired into the crowd caused even more panic.

You masked your fear with an emotionless facade and began shoving through the crowd towards your mother trying to appear as mean as possible and firing meaningless spells into the crowd.

As soon as your mother could see you, she bound towards you with a grin. It was hard to tell if she was angry or excited. It was always hard to tell. "Daughter! You've done so well. The Dark Lord will be so pleased. Dumbledore is dead!" You tried to smile and look happy with the news but your chest tightened further. Dumbledore was dead, Theo was missing, and you were now back into the clutches of your insane mother.

Part of your heart sunk at her words. You'd never particularly cared for your mother but it was always The Dark Lord will be so pleased or The Dark Lord is proud or The Dark Lord cares for all of his disciples and never her saying those things to you. She was never pleased, never proud, and she never cared. Harry Potter came suddenly around the corner of the corridor and fired a stunning curse that hit Crabbe's father dead center in the chest.

Your mother's face instantly turned from pleased to enraged and she let out the cruciatus curse in a bellow. You didn't see the remainder of the encounter as she and the other Death Eaters took off after Potter. A temporary relief calmed your heart. Snape hadn't said anything to your mother. At least not yet. Maybe you could convince him not to say anything.

As you ran through the castle, you'd noticed dead bodies of classmates that'd been slaughtered by the Death Eaters' rampage. Still, no sign of Theo. You begun to fear for your boyfriend. There's no way that Nott Sr. would come to the castle on this mission without Theo. You were so lost in your head, you didn't see Hermione until you slammed into each other and knocked heads. Your movements mirrored each other as both of your arms shot up to rub at your temples.

"Y/n! Have you seen Draco?"

You shook your head sympathetically and wrapped the brunette into what would probably be the last hug you ever gave Hermione Granger.

"I've got to go, but Theo's looking for you. I just passed him outside of the Charms classroom running around like a madman." She sprinted away from you but turned momentarily to shout after your own retreating figure. "If you see Draco, tell him I love him!"

You took off towards the Charms classroom with a new fervor. Please Salazar let Theo be okay. Finally, you heard his voice. "Y/n?! Y/n!!"

"Theo! Theo I'm here!!"

The moment you laid eyes on Theodore Nott your heart stopped. He was covered head to toe in bruises and his skin had paled since you saw him last. He looked downright awful. But that didn't stop you from launching yourself into his embrace and squeezing like the world depended on it. Draco, Mattheo, Blaise, and Pansy were all rallied behind him. Pansy was tucked into Blaise' side. Draco had his wand drawn and was frantically checking every door in the corridor no doubt looking for Hermione.

"She's not here, D. I ran into her maybe five minutes ago. She asked me to tell you that she loves you. Then she took off towards the East Wing of the castle."

Draco immediately started sprinting in the direction you'd come from with Pansy and Blaise hot on his tail.

You recentered on Theo who pressed his forehead down into yours.

"What has happened to you Theodore Nott?"

"It doesn't matter. It doesn't matter if the sun were shining or if the world was ending, I will always be right here. With you."

You stared up at him. "The world is ending, my love."

You pressed your lips against his.

okay okay done for now. should I just make this into a series at this point?

WC 1739

2.7.2024

#slytherin #slytherin boys #theodore nott #theo nott #theo nott x reader #theodore nott x reader

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decentwritings · 9 months ago

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Chapter 3

Summary: You’re unable to grasp the luck you have. You were raised to run from danger, to go the opposite direction of bad influences. So when you somehow find yourself right in the center of it, you discover that running wasn’t exactly what you were taught. It only took GhostFace and a pretty girl to remember that.

previous part <- -> next part

You manage to sneak off when the group disperses, jogging to your dorm to grab your shower essentials. The shower is long and refreshing, and super soapy because you believe you couldn't get rid of the horrible smell.

Once showered, you get dressed in some of your most comfortable clothes and lay back on your bed. You hope to catch a few hours of sleep before anyone realizes you're gone.

You shut your eyes, and it only feels like a second before you open them again. The sun is still up, and you roll over to check the time, groaning at the one hour of sleep. You decide it isn't enough, because it's not, and you roll back over, attempting another round of sleep.

Again, you aren't sure how long it's been when you open your eyes, and the sun is still up, though you can see its need to end the day as it sets slowly. You wake up this time because of a noise somewhere in the room. You rub the sleep from your eyes, sitting up slowly, scanning the room.

If it's GhostFace, could he at least give you the courtesy of killing you in your sleep? The urge to lie back down is heavy, but you fight it, figuring the group should see your presence at least once more today.

You take your phone off its charger and open your drawer full of junk. Your sister gave you pepper spray before your first day at Blackmore—nearly seven months ago. It's expired. But you're not sure if it's illegal to use expired pepper spray, so you pocket it anyway. You also grab the utility knife you took from your brother's pack-out gear when you helped him with a job one day. He had like ten, so you were sure he wouldn't miss one.

The knife is still sharp and has a little shine to it. You clip it to your waistband, then shut the drawer. With a sigh, you mentally prepare yourself for the day and head out of your dorm.

The halls are eerily empty, but you figure it must be exam day for most of the students. You don't bother questioning it anymore, walking down the hall as you catch up on the notifications on your phone.

Three messages from your mom, informing you of her day and one asking about yours. The last message is to call her when you get free time. You have another message from your sister, who gives you instructions on how to give your nephews (her dogs) their medication. Then you check the messages Danny has left you, which are way more than he usually sends.

Where are you?

Sam said you left

Answer your phone

If you don't call in the next hour and you're not dead, I'll kill you myself

Your cousin says the nicest things. You roll your eyes and click the phone button to call him. The phone doesn't even ring, and you hear Danny's voice instantly.

"Where are you?" He shouts over the phone and you have to pull the phone away from your ear from how loud he is.

"Good morning to you, too, dear cousin," you respond with an eye roll, exiting the dormitory. You shield your eyes from the sun, preparing yourself for a long walk to your car.

"Morning? It's nearly six o'clock," Danny informs you, and you glance at the clock on your phone. You hum, surprised; he's right. "Where the hell have you been? I called you five times."

You run across the street, avoiding cars coming down the road. You ignore a honk from one of them, raising a peace sign at the driver before walking off.

"Dude, I didn't sleep last night," you say, reminding the man with a huff. "I don't sleep, I get cranky. And me cranky is basically GhostFace without a mask," you shake your head.

The line is silent for a long minute, you check to make sure he's still on the line.

"That's not funny," Danny says eventually.

You shrug. "I wasn't trying to be," you mutter, glancing at the strangers waiting for the light to change beside you.

The whole being suspicious of everyone is becoming second nature really quickly. You just hope it doesn't turn into paranoia.

"Look, I'm heading over to pick up my car and then going to your place," you inform him, finally able to cross the street. You pass by a bodega and are really tempted to go in and get yourself a sandwich. With self control, you don't and continue your walk. "Relax. Tell your girlfriend to calm her–"

"Don't finish that sentence," Danny interrupts, voice firm.

You raise your hands in surrender, passing an alley after peeking in it for anything lurking. It's broad daylight but you never know, right?

Danny orders you to stay on the phone with him until you're at your car. You ramble about random things, and you can tell he's not listening with the constant "mmm-hmms" he gives you. You don't mind, finding it endearing of his worry for you.

You gasp at the sight of your car, finally earning his full attention.

"What?" Danny shouts, worried.

You practically skip over to your car, unlocking it as you do. "My baby," you sniffle, close to tears. "She's okay," you whisper, relieved.

The line goes silent again.

"You're an idiot."

You shrug, hopping into the driver's seat. You check in the back for any GhostFaces. When it's empty, you turn back and turn your car on.

"Alright," you rub your hands together, excited. "I'm heading to your place. Do I need to pick up snacks or something?"

"No. It's not some party," Danny sighs, and you can imagine him pinching the bridge of his nose. "Just go to Sam's, stay there. Don't leave. Understand?"

You nod, then pause. "Wait, I have a class at seven-thirty," you tell him and hear him sigh again. "Does that mean I won't be able to go?"

"Go to my apartment," he says, "Now." He demands, annoyed.

You raise your hands in surrender. "Okay, okay. Geez," you mutter. "Excuse me for worrying about my college education."

Danny tells you his shift ends in a couple of hours, to not embarrass yourself while with the Carpenters and their friends. You reassure him you will be nothing but a perfect guest. He doesn't comment on it and says his goodbye.

When you're at the red light, you catch a glimpse of someone in the corner of your eye. You recognize the boy as he heads down an alley, glancing at his surroundings. But this isn't the way you were; the way you were checking no one was following you. No. He was glancing around to make sure no one was watching him.

You forget for a moment you're driving, until you hear a honk behind you. You glare at the driver through your rearview mirror then look back, searching for Ethan. He's disappeared and you can't figure out how he vanished that quickly.

You shake it off, not wanting to jump to conclusions. Mindy offered a great possibility for the boy and you didn't believe it because...well, he is the shy and dorky roommate of Chad's. Which makes it the perfect cover.

Damn, Mindy's theories are contagious.

You find a great parking spot just a block over from your cousin's apartment building. You triple check to make sure your car is locked then head over to the building. The sun was beginning to set behind you and you begin to believe this day may end without any incidents.

After situating yourself at Danny's place, you go across the hall and knock on the Carpenter's door.

You see an eye through the peephole. You raise a brow. "If I were GhostFace, why would I knock?" You question, confused.

The door takes a while to open, you assume because of all the locks you hear needing to be unlocked.

Mindy appears behind the door a minute later. "Wow, you really have never seen a horror movie," she says, allowing you entry to the apartment. "A fake knock is horror movie 101."

You shake your head then shrug. "I don't see the appeal," you explain, greeting everyone briefly with a head nod. Tara offers you a smile and you can't control the smile that you return. "If I wanted to get scared, I'll just go to my sister's early in the morning. You wanna see horror? You should see her without makeup," you shiver at the thought.

Sam exits the kitchen, and you think; you think, you see her sigh in relief.

"Good, you're here," Sam says, and points a thumb over her shoulder. "We have pizza."

You nod, then pause when you hear noise occurring behind a closed door. You stare at the door then back at the group of friends. They don't seem at all fazed.

"So my knocking was concerning, but that isn't?" You question as you point at the closed door.

"Oh, that's Quinn," Chad explains, waving his hand dismissively. He enters the kitchen, leaving you with still no understanding.

Tara laughs at your expression, waving you over to join them. You notice Anika comfortable position on the couch, but don't question it. You follow Tara into the kitchen, taking a seat at the end of the table.

"She's...sex positive," Tara explains further. "She has a guy over almost every night."

You lean back to look at the closed door. The sounds practically echo throughout the apartment. You struggle to drown it out, but you try your best to as you return your attention to the table.

You do a double take, noticing a missing person. "Where's Ethan?"

"He's got a class," Chad answers, probably knowing his roommate's schedule.

You have to bite your tongue, wanting to tell them you do too but you decided not to go. Well, Danny basically told you not to go but you didn't plan on going anyway. You hated your Visual Literacy class with a passion.

"Eat," Tara slides the pizza box towards you.

You thank her, grabbing a slice. As you chew, you hear Chad scoot his chair closer to you.

"So, Y/N, right?" You nod, mouth still full. He smile then glances at Tara briefly. You aren't sure what that was about but don't question. "Tell us about yourself. For starters, why English?"

You swallow the food in your mouth. "Umm," you see the others staring at you, awaiting your response. "Well, I just need a degree. It's looking like you can't get a decent, well-paying job without a bachelor's so..." you shrug.

Chad hums. "Valid point," he comments. "Any hobbies? Do you play any sports? Do you even like sports? Ooh, do you like videos games?" He asks excitedly.

After swallowing again, you nod. "Yes, yes, yes and yes," you answer, unsure if he expected more than just the one word. And when he blinks, waiting for you to continue, you assume he does. "My current hobby is just fixing up my dad's old Toyota Chaser, still debating whether to sell it when I'm done or not."

"You're fixing a car?" Mindy leans over to ask, eyes squinting in confusion.

You chuckle and nod. "Yeah. My dad was a mechanic, so he taught me how to fix the basics," you shrug, taking another bite of your pizza. "Then I got tired of the basics, so we ended up learning how to add mods to cars. I just sold my old Subaru WRX—the most mods I've ever done on a car. She came out—" you let out a wolf whistle.

"Then why did you sell it?" Tara asks, the question clearly on everyone's mind.

You suddenly lose your appetite and set the rest of your pizza down on a napkin. Clearing your throat, you shrug. "Needed the cash. Where's your bathroom?" you ask, standing up to avoid more questions.

Sam furrows her brows. "Second door on your right," she answers gently.

You give two thumbs up and head in that direction. Once you're out of earshot, Chad looks at the group.

"Nice job, Tara," he says, shaking his head with a scoff. "You scared your crush."

Tara narrows her eyes at him. "It's not a crush."

"She'd have to actually interact with them for it to be anything," Mindy huffs, only to get a kick under the table. She winces and rubs her leg with a frown. "I'm just saying, you practically begged Anika to invite them to the party and you didn't even give them the time of day."

"At least we know you two have the same type," Chad quips, pointing between Mindy and Tara as he grabs another slice. Mindy giggles at his remark, the sisters' reactions more amusing than expected.

Tara hides her face in her hands, feeling heat rise to her cheeks.

Meanwhile, in the bathroom, you're struggling to recompose yourself. Lately, you haven't had time to process what happened almost a month ago. The past couple of hours have been a rush of emotions, full of firsts and new friendships. You splash cold water on your face, staring at your reflection in the mirror. Tara's question about your car stirred up feelings you've tried to suppress, forcing you to confront something you've been avoiding. Your sister has been handling it better–sort of, taking her anniversary vacation a month early, while your brother picked up a huge job building a mansion for some millionaire in California. All of you have escaped your hometown—except your mother, who stayed behind, clinging to some connection to your father.

You take a deep breath, trying to push the thoughts away before anyone notices how long you've been in the bathroom.

You feel your phone vibrate in your pocket and pull it out to see a message from Danny. He's letting you know he's leaving work and expects to arrive in about twenty minutes. He mentions wanting to grab something to eat before heading home. You reply, reassuring him that you're with the Carpenters and to be careful, before slipping the phone back into your pocket and exiting the bathroom.

Anika waves at you from the couch, but her smile falters when she sees your expression. "You alright?" she asks, patting the spot next to her.

You sit down beside her with a sigh, your eyes flicking toward the muted TV. The news is on, and it strikes you that this is the first time in years you've actually paid attention to a newscaster. "It's been a crazy couple of hours," you say with a shrug. "I also think this is the longest I've been outside the dorm in a while. Feels weird. Is New York always this packed?" you ask, adding a hint of playfulness to steer her away from worrying.

Anika shoots you a knowing look but doesn't push. You can tell she plans to ask later—and you know you'll have to face it then.

Your attention is suddenly drawn to Quinn's room. Her screams grow louder, more intense than before. You share a glance with Anika, and without exchanging words, you both know what the other is thinking. But neither of you says anything, turning your attention back to the TV, both silently choosing to stay quiet for now.

The TV is muted, but you find yourself reading the captions to keep your mind busy. Then, your phone vibrates again. This time, Danny's calling. You excuse yourself and stand to answer.

Before you can say anything, he shouts, "Get out, quick!" You pull the phone away from your ear, startled by his volume. "He's in the apartment! Tell Sam—"

A sudden, heavy thump against the apartment door makes you freeze. Instinctively, you turn toward the sound as the others rush out to join you. Another thud shakes the door, rattling the locks and hinges with each blow.

The door rattles violently, each strike louder than the last. You freeze for a second, unsure of where to move first, before Sam takes charge. You want to hide, run but you're frozen where you stand.

"Everyone get back!" she commands, pulling you behind her. Her eyes dart to the nearest weapons—a lamp, a chair—anything within reach. Tara's fingers curl around your arm, tugging you back toward the windows.

The door splinters as the locks give way, and a large figure forces his way into the apartment. Your heart pounds in your chest as Sam rushes forward, grabbing the nearest heavy object—a bat leaning against the wall—and swings without hesitation. Your hand itches to reach for the knife on your waist but you think its just a pin compared to the knife GhostFace has.

You're suddenly aware of the grip on your arm, and its Tara's, who's staring at her sister in worry. It was obvious to you that Sam took the big sister role seriously, but to see how serious she takes it makes you summon that bravado from hours ago. You thought it was all used up but apparently its still there.

You grab your knife and flick it open, rushing forward to help Sam. The adrenaline surges through your veins, pushing you forward. Sam swings the bat again, but the intruder anticipates it this time, blocking it with his forearm before shoving her back.

Sam shoves you hard, her voice full of urgency. "Run!"

Your instinct is to stay and fight, but Tara's grip on your arm tightens as she yanks you backward. Before you can argue or even think, Chad's hand locks around Tara's wrist, dragging both of you toward the hallway.

The echo of Anika's scream cuts through the chaos, freezing your blood. You whip around, heart pounding in your chest. They aren't behind you.

Without thinking, you come to a dead stop, yanking your arm free from Tara's grip.

"Y/N, wait!" Tara's voice is frantic, but you're already sprinting back up the stairs, adrenaline pumping through your veins, faster than you thought possible. Your legs burn, but you don't stop.

You hear Tara calling your name, but it's drowned out by the roar in your ears. Reaching the apartment again, you jump over the broken door, breathing hard, and your eyes dart around. The first room you burst into freezes you in your tracks.

Quinn is there. She lies motionless, her body lifeless, and the sight makes your stomach churn. Your mind screams at you to stop, but it only pushes you forward. You force your gaze away, barreling through the hallway.

You spot GhostFace pushing against a bedroom door. Sam and the others have to be on the other side.

Instinct kicks in.

Your eyes land on a chair near the wall, and without hesitation, you grab it. Charging forward, you swing with everything you have. The impact sends GhostFace stumbling back, crashing to the ground. His knife skitters across the floor, spinning out of reach.

GhostFace stumbles, trying to regain his footing, and you seize the chance. You dive for his knife, fingers just brushing the handle when he yanks at your ankle, pulling you down hard. You crash to the floor in front of him, and as he swings his fist, you barely manage to block it with your arm.

"Shy and dorky, my ass," you mutter through gritted teeth, seeing the surprise in his eyes through the mask.

He freezes for a moment, just enough for you to shove him off and scramble to your feet. Your body aches from the fall, but adrenaline pushes you on. Your eyes dart toward the window, and you see Danny rushing Sam and an injured Mindy into his apartment. His gaze locks with yours, filled with a plea—run.

But you can't. Not now. Not when everything you've suspected has just been confirmed.

GhostFace, however, isn't done. While you were distracted, he regains his knife, standing with that signature menacing tilt of his head, glaring down at you.

You throw your hands up in frustration. "What? I don't know what follows!" you shout, exasperated.

He doesn't respond—not verbally, at least. Instead, he lunges, slashing at you with his knife. You dodge one strike, but the second is too quick. The blade slices through your abdomen, sending a wave of pain shooting through you.

You let out a sharp breath, staggering back and clutching your wound, teeth clenched as blood seeps between your fingers. The pain is intense, but you force yourself to stay upright, glaring back at him with defiance despite the throbbing ache.

You hate to admit it, but you're glad your brother got you into anime.

"Come on, Ethan," you taunt, shifting your weight cautiously to the left as he mirrors your movements to the right. "End this now. Take the mask off."

Either he's stubborn or you're wrong, because instead of revealing himself, he lunges again, knife sparkling in the dim light. You try to evade the slashes, but your patience runs thin, and it makes you sloppy. As you attempt to block the knife from reaching your chest, it lodges into the palm of your hand instead. A scream rips from your throat, raw and uncontrollable, as pain radiates through your body.

He twists the blade, and you whimper, barely keeping your feet. The world around you blurs as adrenaline and pain mix, but then you hear it—a shout from down the hall.

"Police!"

You want to call out to the officer, to warn him, but your voice fails you. Instead, summoning every ounce of strength left in you, you push him away. He stumbles back, momentarily off balance, and when he regains his composure, you catch a glimpse of what you think is a glare beneath the mask.

In a surprising move, he dashes past you, and just as the realization hits, you feel your legs buckle. Darkness creeps in, and your vision fades as you collapse, everything going quiet.

#jenna ortega #tara carpenter x reader #tara carpenter #sam carpenter #scream vi #scream 6 #jenna ortega x reader #the unwitting hero

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weskie · 8 months ago

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The Future of a Past Life (Albert Wesker x gn!Reader)

1700 words, domesticity, themes of corporal punishment, recollections, established relationship, somehow fluffy, part of the lover, leader, liar series | Fic Directory

“What was your childhood like?”

“So what exactly made you think to do this?”

You appear caught off guard by such a question. Good. You should be.

Wesker had asked you to stay and eat with him after you’d surprised him with lunch from the sandwich shop he frequents. It was the least he felt he should do. Simply taking it and ushering you out felt wrong. How you’d discovered his preference was a mystery, though it would not surprise him if one of the team’s blabbermouths had spotted him there. He wasn’t shy about how often he frequented the store, but why should he be?

“Well, just…” You start, head nodding from side to side as you try to formulate your answer. You’re a peculiar thing to him. Always have been. “I heard you’ve done two all-nighters already this week and thought it would be nice.”

He’s already thanked you, but he hums another expression of gratitude before biting into his sandwich. He’d never tried this one in particular before. A ‘wedgie sandwich,’ you’d called it. Essentially just an Italian sub mashed between thin pizza dough. Messy, but certainly something he would get again.

“How much was mine?” Wesker asks, wiping away a dribble of sauce that had leaked onto his fingers. Gift or not, feelings of indebtedness were not optimal.

“It’s a mystery.” You smirk.

“Then I’ll call the shop and ask for the prices.” He replies, lip quirking just the tiniest bit as he slowly reaches for the rotary phone. You don’t budge. Maybe you know that he doesn’t know the number off the top of his head. The phone book is in the cabinet behind him. He could find it, but he decides not to. “Fine,” he relents. “I’ll just have to return the favor sometime.”

You often sit with him while he works. There wasn’t much for you to do around the facility given the different varieties of research were far beyond your expertise. You were Alpha Team’s field medic and the one in charge of maintaining their firearms back at the station. Virology was beyond your understanding. At least for now.

Sometimes you occupied yourself by trying to further your knowledge of him, asking questions that had been too far off the table of whatever it was that you two had been prior to what you were now. It was fine. You’d ask; he’d answer. You’d share; he’d listen. But then you inquired about… that.

“What was your childhood like?”

He’d decided to work at the kitchen table while you cooked. Your occasional banter was not unwelcome and he’d been meeting it with apt replies despite how absorbed he’d been in test results and future trial concepts.

Ink bleeds from where his pen had halted on the paper. Like a dark void staining the present, growing with each passing second that he doesn’t lift it. What should he tell you, hm? Should he tell you anything at all? Would it be wrong to regale you with the tales of his youth? He doubts you’d ever betray him. And, even if you did, so what? Other than a broken heart, there was little you could do to him.

“I…” He begins, but he doesn’t quite know where to start.

His bed was beside the window. A privilege of the school’s top students. The dormitory had cleared out entirely. They’d all gone home for the holiday. To their families… Everyone but him, of course.

He’s spending his eleventh Christmas alone. He’d done exactly the same for the past ten. What was one more?

Flakes of snow swirled beyond the glass. The cold bite of the wind leaked through the old seals, chilling him beneath his wool blanket. Albert tried his best to calm the chattering of his teeth and shivering shakes that rattled his body, but he couldn’t. The dorms always froze terribly in the winter. Normally the collective body heat of the others helped warm the room enough to be bearable.

It was forbidden to take another's bed, but the thought always left his skin crawling anyway. The others were unkempt and strange. Poor hygiene was a punishable offense, but it seemed to matter little in the eyes of the staff. Only rare cases of such were ever met with discipline. The occasional booger picker didn’t go unnoticed either.

He’d rather freeze than sleep in another’s rotten bed. He curls in on himself to conserve body heat. Tears bite at his eyes.

His body is numb when he wakes the next day. His legs refuse to stand. He hardly registers the chill of the floor.

Discipline…

To not rise this very instant is to be late. To be late is to miss the morning headcount. To miss this is to violate the rules.

Obedience…

Violations are acts of disobedience. Such acts beget punishment.

It takes every ounce of willpower to get on his feet and stumble to the bathrooms.

He must warm up enough to function. He has no choice. The heat of the shower burns white hot against his reddened skin.

Wesker makes it early to the morning headcount.

“I was raised in a boarding school.” He says cooly, pen still bleeding into the paper. Wesker’s eyes are locked onto the glass of water you’d placed in front of him long ago. Condensation drips along the sides and settles into the wood grain of the table. Your kindness to him will leave behind a mark on the furniture. “I lived there year round.”

There��s a pang of something in his chest when you turn from the stove to look at him. You’re wearing some silly ruffled maid apron that you thought would be far funnier than one of a more standard design. He has to clear the tightening of his throat before continuing.

“It was alright.”

A wooden yard stick slams down onto his bloodied knuckles for the umpteenth time.

He’d gotten into a fight. Another one of the boys, Andrew Haines, had accosted him in the courtyard. It wasn’t his fault the lad made a fool of himself in class. If he hadn’t wanted to be shown up by Wesker and his correct answer, he should’ve gotten the question right in the first place. That the teacher berated his classmate’s subpar performance was no fault of his own.

One sucker punch was all it took for Albert to sock him right back. The supervising staff, of course, only witnessed the second hit. They were never truly watching. Only when commotion began did they ever pay any attention, but it was always too late by then.

His assailant got off scot free.

“You will learn quickly that fighting is not tolerated here.” The headmaster grits, teeth bared behind an ugly mustache as he brings the ruler down once more.

Wesker swallows harshly, but he doesn’t react. Why give him the satisfaction? It hurts, of course. It hurt very much the same as the time prior when he’d been met with the wooden paddle after correcting his teacher in mathematics class.

The trick is simply not minding that it hurts.

“Impudence will only get you so far, young man. You should be thankful that we care enough to correct this behavior.”

“Yes, sir.” He answers. “Thank you, sir.”

Whack!

“Recite the tenets.” The headmaster waves the yard stick in his face.

“Through discipline, we find strength.”

Whack!

“Through obedience, we excel.”

Whack!

“Through unity, we gain power.”

The headmaster doesn’t stop until the stick breaks. Excessive pain for stoicism in the face of punishment.

“Damn you, boy!”

Typical.

Wesker’s fingers drip crimson all the way to the bathroom. It hurts terribly, stinging something fierce when he runs cool water over the broken skin. Antibacterial soap scalds his trembling hands like fire.

He meets his own eyes in the mirror. There’s something missing in their icy stare. Not even the pain touches them.

“I was at the top of my class.” He continues.

He is seventeen years old, hailed as the best and brightest of his peers. Doctor Albert Wesker…

He stands at the window next to his bed. His permanent privilege even in a new school.

He’s got his eyes locked on the moon. He wonders what it must have been like when Armstrong first stepped upon its dusty surface. A whole world away…

Away from the nearly silent sound two beds over of his classmate suffocating on his own blood and bile. His peer’s death will not spawn a monster.

The real one is working in the basements below.

“Mm, that’s not surprising.”

When did you come so close? Shouldn’t you be worried about the– oh. You moved the pan to the oven already. He knew that. He saw you do it. So how did you catch him off guard like that…?

You lean against the table and bring a hand to his cheek. The scent of lemon tickles his nose and he can’t help but bask in your touch. It’s so very warm compared to the chill of his memories.

His knuckles tingle…

“Are you okay?”

“Of course.” His answer comes too quickly and you shoot him a raised brow. He’s not used to talking about it. What was the point? No amount of rehashing it would change the past. Even then, was it something he’d want to change?

“Your eyes get brighter when you’re upset, you know.” You tilt his face toward you slightly, just enough to bring his gaze back to yours.

Perhaps he should start wearing his glasses around you again.

“And there’s this.” You say, tapping at his paper with your free hand. You’d noticed the ink stain. “I… If that question made you uncomfortable, I’m sorry.”

Part of a successful relationship is the willingness to share with the other person. What kind of partner would he be if he denied you that which you’ve so willingly given to him? He shakes his head.

You didn’t make him uncomfortable. You never have.

“I was an orphan.” He blurts. But you already know this. The night he showed up at your house after your parents died, he’d bumbled through a weak apology that his ability to empathize was less than stellar. “I spent a lot of time alone. The others were… different.”

He was different. Stronger. Smarter.

Better.

Somehow his hands find their way into yours. Your thumbs smooth over the backs of his knuckles. It’s like you know how to soothe him without actually knowing. There were no marks there to indicate past damage. No scarring. Perhaps later in the evening he’ll confess the worst of it to you.

“Hmph, but I earned the title of Doctor before I’d even turned eighteen.” His lips quirk. It’s a humble brag compared to his other accomplishments. “Academia can be a very beneficial friend. However, I did find myself involved with the football team as a running back for a time.”

You chuckle warmly and squeeze his hands. “I unfortunately don’t speak sports, but it sounds like you were an amazing kid.”

He’s received such praise countless times in his life, but it feels different coming from you. It always has.

“I received many awards.”

Your sweet laughter enchants him somehow, as does the quick kiss you press to his lips. “Someone sounds humble.” You tease.

“Humility is my middle name.”

The beep of the oven interrupts another round of soft giggles from you. Frankly he’d rather allow dinner to burn and keep you where you were, but he can’t quite complain. Never in his life has a relationship gone so far that home cooked meals were able to become an occurrence. Domesticity has never been his speed, but he finds that he’s got quite the sweet tooth for it when it comes to you. He supposes there will be many firsts with you.

He’d like to experience all of them.

#albert wesker #albert wesker x reader #albert wesker x you #wesker x reader #wesker x you #resident evil

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maisiesgrove · 8 months ago

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. ᭢ 🦢 Yandere! College Frat Boy

a//n :: first post on this blog heh. might or might not be projecting my type of guy. feel free to suggest / req yanderes or him!! I really want to write more about him. He is a soft yandere, so like.... sorry if you expected more LMAO. There might be some grammar mistakes, sorry for that!

minors dni !!1!!!

wrns // tws :: rumors, stalking. light yandere behavior.

word count :: 1.8k words

g/n reader x frat boy ( Kaelum Bianchi)

— The university you had just enrolled in was quite a prestigious one, with multiple connections already established to said college. Many doctors, politicians, and those high in the social ladder have their daughters and sons put through here, be it through bribing or the extremely harsh exams.

— You had taken the latter, and the professors gave you a schedule that seemed pretty normal. All pretty mundane classes throughout the day depending on your electives and course.

— In one of your mandatory classes was Kaelum Bianchi, one of the boys that partied till no end in the weekends yet passed with stellar grades. With slightly curly golden hair, an almost sunshine grin, and a wonderful figure. He was obviously a social butterfly, always chatting and yapping to the professors of whatnot and students even more. You were quite suspicious of him. Did he somehow seduce the teachers, or was he just a genius? You couldn't lie, your interest was piqued.

— From his end, you were already someone he had taken note of from the start. Yes, he was popular. Everyday he had some random girl compliment him and confess to him, (he admits it felt nice being praised and 'loved' by random girls and boys he could care less of, though he does reject them) he couldn't quite understand why you were somehow a little bizarre. You were attractive, sure. Extremely, even. He couldn't count how many times he bit his lip trying to look away and control himself. You clicked the pen absentmindedly whenever you understood the lesson too well, or were simply bored, You made eye contact with him at one point, and merely smiled. Yeah, you were odd.(you weren't, he just wasn't used to people not liking him at the beginning) There was an air around you, and at one point, a few weeks after you had first enrolled, he had enough of simply looking from afar, and made a move. You studied well, and while he knew you didn't have any connections. he'll just change that.

— You sat near the exit of the class, as usual, when suddenly an ashamedly charismatic man decides to make the empty seat next to yours his now. You didn't have much friends, and when he makes slightly fulfilling small talk between classes— not too much, and he pipes down whenever you take notes—, you couldn't help but laugh at his remarks. You missed the way his eyes turned smitten at your lips curling upwards, and the way he grips the wooden table as if resisting temptation to lean in. At the end of the class, you had most of his friends' socials and his, and he asks you to come to one of his major halloween parties at his place. There were some colleges that only allowed in campus-dormitories, but since the demographic of the students were all practically rich kids with their own homes and apartments, they let that tradition diminish.

— You agreed, and he grins, nodding before watching you head out. That night, he stalked all your socials, quickly finding out what your hobbies were, what your music taste was, who you were online essentially. Multiple of his friends questioned him when he had texted you with compliments, wondering if this was a fling or a crush. They were a little confused, but mostly supportive, especially with the way he talked with them about you 90% of the time ever since that night. They agreed to be his wingmen and help you with anything if they saw you. He was extremely popular throughout the entire campus, and if word came out that he suddenly didn't like you? No one liked you either.

— You continued to hang out with Kaelum and talk. During class, at the restaurants and mall nearby, the parks, even near your own apartment by random. That last one was a bit creepy. Yeah, he lived 30 minutes away from your house and in the opposite direction of school, so him simply being on a walk was a little too weird of an excuse. But he was one of your closest friends, hell, you stayed in his house more than your own. And you had to admit, you had a little bit of a crush on him, so you quickly brushed it off. I mean, he would never stalk you, right?

— More time passes before the party, and he suddenly gives you an array of gifts. It ranged from cute gag gifts, heartfelt ones, to randomly luxurious ones. There was a time where he gave you a permanent bracelet that cost in the hundreds of thousands. "Give it to someone you truly love." His mother had mumbled when she gave it to him, and he took it to heart. When he gave it to you, that same pressure didn't really apply. When you looked at the delicately adorned jewelry, he simply stated. "If you don't want it, I'll just get you something else, okay?" While he was sentimental, he didn't except you to be the same. He would still love you nonetheless. Of course, you were grateful and ruffled his hair in gratitude. He smiled, 'jokingly' kissing your hand in return.

— Many things and activities that seemed like what only couples did, felt casual between the both of you. He knew how to lighten the mood, and to weave through the boundary of just friends to something more. After a while, he couldn't bear hearing you call him just a comrade. He could hear and feel the "ooh....damn." and pitiful glances of his brothers at the frat whenever he got bro-zoned. For the second time, he decided on making his move.

— It was Friday night, the day of the party, and Kaelum swore he was about to pounce on you. He could feel his own self control breaking down simply looking at you. The metallic taste of blood inked in his mouth from biting his cheek too hard. He smiles, complimenting your outfit and leaning in closer to you than normal. The house was extremely big, with many rooms and blaring music and lights. There were 3 floors, filled with random people, presumably his friends. His sole focus was on you though, and as both of you danced late at night. At one point, when the lights flashed off for just a second, he suddenly kissed you. It was brief, and if you didn't feel his hand hold your chin so gently, you wouldn't believe it was real.

— Shocked was all you felt. Practically the king of all social gatherings in one of the most influential schools in the country? Kissing a little nobody like you? Yeah, right. He was probably just doing a bet. And with the way three new frat members were laughing, it basically confirmed it. You began to run away from the party, dumbfounded and face red. You couldn't tell if it was from the alcohol or the kiss, though. You could hear Kaelum running after you, and you felt embarrassed.

— He, on his end, felt heartbroken, and most of all, hurt. Did you not like him the way he liked you? The countless nights after parties he thought about you, wanting to feel you. He wasn't a player, and even less so when you came into his life. Was it something he did? Something he lacked? He could give you anything you needed in your life. He was the epitome of generational rich, a nepo baby essentially. Just give him the word, and he'd give it all to you. Or was it because you had someone else in mind?

You were ashamed and were fighting the urge to cry as you made your way to the backdoor of the mansion. It was an area that a lot of people did not know even existed, but Kaelum showed it to you on one of those nights you stayed at his place. Damn him, you thought. Even if you felt betrayed, you still loved the guy. You were about 4 steps out before a voice stops you in your tracks. "Do you like someone else?" Kaelum caught up to you frankly quickly, with his long frame and sporty background. You looked back at him, and you felt his hand grip your shoulder tightly. You rolled your eyes. "I'm not one of your side links, Kaelum. Stop following me." You could see the way his brows furrowed, his eyes blinking in confusion. He steps closer.

"I never said you were my side?- Who said that? Was it one of my friends?...No, they aren't that stupid to piss me off. No, I got it. It must be those three new little shits I saw earlier. Oh my god, I'll fucking kill them-"

Don't. You did this for a dare right? Kissing me?" The second you said that, he looked offended, like a puppy that got kicked in the rain. A slight pout was on his lips, and he leaned down, almost in a submissive manner.

"No. No, what? What are you on-... sigh, sorry. Didn't mean saying that. I would never do that, especially not to you. I'd rather kill myself than do anything that could hurt you. I look for you in every class, and in every corner of our college. I need you, ___. In a way that I don't think is healthy." At this point, you were already in his embrace. It felt suffocating, almost. "So please, don't leave." You couldn't dare to reply. Part of you was happy, but another part of you felt like if you did leave him, he would've ruined you.

— You stayed there, outside near the back entrance of his house the he only showed to you. In an embrace only just a little bit too tight and reliant, with a boy completely obsessed with you.

— He ends the party earlier than usual, time being 1am, and for the rest of the night, you stayed in his bedroom, having had a cold shower, watching movies with a seemingly infinite supply of food and drinks provided by one of the family's in-house maids. He popped in from time to time, checking in on you and talking casually. Only thing that changed was now his eagerness to touch you.

— Outside, while saying goodbye to the partygoers, Kaelum spreads rumors about the three new frat boys. It was scary, how fast he had changed personalities. Horrible words of gossip spread quickly through each and every college group, and even the most lonely people knew of the "crimes" those three had committed. By the next day, no one wanted to be acquainted with them, and the majority of those in your classes outwardly became friendly to you, seeing you as an innocent victim to their 'harassment.' You only glared at Kaelum, to which he responds with a whistle and shrug.

creds to reve on tumblr for lace header

creds to zuolirio on Pinterest for 2nd header.

#yandere x reader #yandere imagines #yandere #yandere x y/n #yandere head canons #yandere headcanons #yandere hcs #yandere scenarios #‧₊˚ ☁️ maisiesgrove #✧.*maisies yanderes !!1!#yandere male #yandere male x reader #yandere oc #yandere oc x reader #soft yandere #🎉kaelum bianchi

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izzysink · 5 months ago

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𝐰𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐞𝐧𝐝 𝐠𝐢𝐫𝐥𝐬

𝒔𝒕𝒓𝒂𝒏𝒈𝒆𝒓 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔 𝒙 𝒇𝒆𝒎! 𝒕𝒊𝒎𝒆 𝒕𝒓𝒂𝒗𝒆𝒍𝒆𝒓 𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓

𝑤𝑜𝑟𝑑 𝑐𝑜𝑢𝑛𝑡: 𝟷𝟽𝟺𝟿 ✎ 𝑠𝑡𝑎𝑡𝑢𝑠: 𝑢𝑛𝑒𝑑𝑖𝑡𝑒𝑑 ✎ 𝑚𝑎𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑙𝑖𝑠𝑡 ✎ 𝑝𝑎𝑟𝑡 𝟷 ✎ 𝑝𝑎𝑟𝑡 𝟸 ✎ 𝑝𝑎𝑟𝑡 𝟹

𝑖𝑛𝑠𝑝𝑜 = @lanalosty0uu - you should totally check out their steve x reader time travel fic here on Tumblr!

I'm currently undecided on who to pair the reader with atm lol 🌝 but that means that it's kinda up to you 🫵 :0 if you have a character you'd like for the pairing, drop a comment and if I like them or feel it fits with the story I'll use them!! but!!! I won't write poly so you've gotta pick one 😔 ik ik it's a hard choice babes I know you can do it!! can you tell I like exclamation points

“I’m heading out! I’ll be back after my comp-sci class!” you call to your friend Hannah from the door of your dorm at Hawkins Community College, waiting a moment for a sleepy response from the pile of blankets at the end of your roommate’s bed. You shut the door, not bothering to lock it because you knew Hannah had a class pretty soon anyway. You whistle down the small corridor of the singular dormitory for HCC, checking your bag for the essentials; laptop, phone, charger, wallet, keys.

You’d never expected to end up in Hawkins. Your parents had envisioned you going to an ivy league since you were little, enrolling you in extracurriculars and tutoring as soon as you could read and write; but you didn’t really want that for yourself, you weren’t the best at school - not the worst, but you weren’t yale level, like your parents wanted. After your parents insisted you only apply for places like Harvard and MIT, it didn’t surprise you that by the end of senior year you had no college to drive off to like so many of your friends. You had scrambled to find a place at any college that would take you, scraping the barrel for empty spaces, until a college from the middle-of-nowhere-Indiana, Hawkins, accepted you and your average test scores for a computer science course.

Walking to the campus, you check your phone, giggling at the bickering of your friends on the group chat and the tiktoks Hannah sent you last night. Hawkins Community College has its own campus, but it uses the old high school building as well (a new building was made for Hawkins High in the 2000s, and the old one went out of use until the community college picked it up and refurbished it for the Arts building).

You didn’t have any arts classes, but there was a little known shortcut through the old high school building to the main college campus, and you had made the route your little ritual of the week. It calmed you to walk through the old halls and be saturated in that old school smell and oil paints, getting to see unfinished paintings hung on the walls to dry or works in progress sat against the wall. There was a corridor on the way to the shortcut that was lined with shelving units, all stuffed full with bowles and sculptures and mugs. Your favourite little ritual was to see which ceramics had been kilned, picked up, or painted each week you had your comp-sci 101 class.

This week, the swirling set of green plates you’d been eyeing for yourself had disappeared, whisked away by their creator. In their place sat an array of little figurines, you guessed they were for a board game of some sort with their angry poses and weapons, axes and magic wands held delicately in their hands. You were entranced in the precision and detail of the mini figures, quiet admiration floating in your mind as you continued on to your class.

The shortcut was just through a door on the left, it led into a small, little used drama room that had a back entrance door to the yard of the lecture building of Hawkins College. Checking your bun in the glass of the old classroom door, you made sure your claw clip was still in place as you opened the door and–

A chorus of sound burst from the dimly lit room, a small group of high school boys sat around a table in matching black and white shirts, a boy your age with a mop of curly hair sat at the head of the table on a plush armchair. The table was filled with dice and figurines and pens and paper, you guessed it was DnD, you had a couple of friends back home who played, and you’d even sat in on a couple of sessions with them before deciding it wasn’t for you.

As soon as you were noticed, all sound stopped, their faces turning to you in surprise. “Oh my god I’m so sorry,” you said, inching past the table towards the back door, “I didn’t realise this room was being used, I’ll be out in a moment don’t worry,” you flash a sheepish grin to the hoard of teenage boys gaping at you. Insecurity bubbled in your stomach a bit, they’re like 12, you thought, snap out of it, you’re in college now!

Nobody replied, which you thought was a bit rude, but oh well, you had a degree to earn, and you probably wouldn’t see them again anyway. You opened the back door to head to the IT building, but when you stepped outside, it felt like you were sucked into an 80s time capsule, neons and shoulder pads and straight leg jeans assaulted your eyes from every corner. Also, why were there so many teenagers? The high school was a 20 minute walk away from the college. You got a couple of odd looks from some seniors, all decked out with massive hair and even bigger earrings, you could tell some cheerleaders were judging your outfit, which, rude, you thought you looked pretty cute today. You were wearing some baggy low waist jeans with the mini Ugg boots you’d gotten for Christmas a few months earlier, as well as a baby tee with a cute cat graphic on the front. To top it all off, you’d worn your favorite jacket and some little hoop earrings.

Walking backwards, you went back into the minor safety of the inside, at least the drama room had less kids having an 80s phase. You paused once the door shut with a click, looking around confusedly at the room you hadn’t noticed when you walked through seconds prior. You were pretty sure that whiteboard wasn’t there before, the same with that rack of costumes and those desks piled in the corner. The thing that caught you off guard the most was the writing on the whiteboard. There, marked in neat red pen, was the date 10/03/1986.

The hell?

You tried to ignore the boys sitting around the table who were obviously staring at you as you fished your phone out of your bag, checking the date, yeah, 10/03/2025. You looked up and down from your phone to the whiteboard a couple times before awkwardly walking back to the other door. You’d take the long way then.

You opened the door before immediately closing it again.

Hell. No.

“You okay there, princess?” your head snapped up to meet the eyes of the guy at the head of the table. Looking at him more closely, he looked like a total 80s metal head, crazy hair and rings on each finger. You mouthed a response, not really knowing what to say, I’m stuck in an 80s revival high school, surrounded by teenagers with big hair and all of the dates on the walls say it's 1986 when last time I checked it was 2025 and I’m late to my comp-sci class and-, you get the point.

Since you figured you didn’t have anything else to lose you asked, “sorry, um- where am I?” A younger boy, you guessed a freshman, with baby fat and a mess of curls made a face at your response, “Hawkins High?” he answered with a lisp blinking at you confusedly as you panicked over the new information. How could you have gotten from your college to a building 20 minutes away?

Scratch that, what the hell was going on?

“Okay, thanks,” you say distractedly as you think of what to do next, you look back to the eldest boy, you really needed to catch his name, “Do–” you were cut off by the bell, a lethargic pickup of footsteps outside the door telling you that it was lesson time next, not the end of school.

A chorus of groans rang out in the room as the boys got up dejectedly to get to their next class. You were swept up in the wave of kids exiting the room before you could get another word in edgewise and you found yourself back in the middle of an 80s tornado as the boys dispersed to their respective classes.

The one who had sat at the head of the table leant against the wall as you stood in the middle of the corridor, marveling at the disappearance of your favorite pottery shelves, instead replaced by school lockers and wall decals with various Hawkins High memorabilia. Students swerved around you, giving you odd looks and confused faces, you were clearly in the wrong place.

When the corridor emptied and the halls quietened, the boy spoke up, “I take it you’re not from around here? I’m Eddie,” you spared him a glance before introducing yourself. Don’t get you wrong, he seemed sweet and all, but your mind was a little preoccupied to engage in small-talk.

You decided to at least leave the school, it would be really awkward if a teacher found a college student just wandering the halls, but then again, looks like we’re in the 80s now, and from what your parents had told you about growing up in the 80s, most people wouldn’t care that much about some rando in the school.

You thought it better not to test your luck. “I’m… gonna go,” you tell Eddie, not waiting for a response before beelining it back the way you came. Navigating the hallways, you couldn’t help but feel a sense of wonder at how different everything looked, how there was still art on the walls, but done by different people, there were club posters smattered around the school, basketball tryouts were next week apparently, and the walls were almost pristine compared to the paint and grime smudged college block it had become almost 40 years in the future.

You sped-walked through the front office, trying to make it seem like you weren’t not supposed to be there, and burst into the midday sun, tension melting out of your muscles immediately once you escaped the high school.

You stood there for a few minutes, wondering what to do. You didn’t want to even think the utterly stupid idea that kept prodding at your mind. Worried that if you allow yourself to question it that you’d go insane. Not that this situation wasn’t already insane.

You heard your stomach rumble. Well, food didn’t seem like such a bad start.

𝑠𝑒𝑛𝑑 𝑟𝑒𝑞𝑢𝑒𝑠𝑡𝑠! 🤍

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tedwardremus · 10 days ago

Note

McGonagall/Sirius/Rosmerta + earlobe kiss 😏

"Mr. Black, this is detention," Professor McGonagall said crisply as she unclipped her tightly wound bun, letting her dark hair fall in a sleek wave down her back. "And in detention, you will do exactly as I say."

Sirius gulped and lowered the chalk he’d been using to scrawl lines on the board.

“Well, my mother does say I need to learn respect for authority…”

McGonagall poked his shoulder firmly with the tip of her wand.

“I’ve no doubt you’ll do well with today’s lesson,” she said coolly. “You’ve always been a quick study—bright, capable. But you lack one essential trait: the motivation to please anyone but yourself. We’ll have to work on that.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Sirius said, standing a little straighter, doing his best to ignore the spot where McGonagall’s wand had jabbed him.

“To assist with today’s lesson, I’ve invited a guest speaker,” McGonagall said, nodding toward the classroom door.

In walked Madam Rosmerta, the barmaid from Hogsmeade, whom Sirius had shamelessly flirted with on more than one occasion in pursuit of stronger drinks than he was technically allowed.

“Well, well,” Rosmerta said with a knowing smile. “Always a pleasure to see you outside the pub, Mr. Black.”

“Don’t start handing out marks yet, Rosmerta,” McGonagall warned dryly. “He hasn’t pleased anyone yet.”

“But I’m sure he will,” Rosmerta replied, glancing at Sirius as she perched gracefully on the edge of McGonagall’s desk, one leg crossing over the other, the skirt of her robe sliping a bit and revealing a bare smooth leg, “He is such a good boy after all.”

McGonagall gave Sirius a little shove toward her desk. “This is a collaborative project, Mr. Black. To earn full marks, you’ll need to participate fully. You do like being at the top of the class, don’t you?”

Rosmerta crooked a finger at him. “Top of the class and center of attention, that is your favorite position, is it not?”

Rosmerta closed the distance between them and kissed him, long, heated, and tasting of whiskey and cigar smoke. It was grown-up, confident, undeniably sensual. And it confirmed what had already been said: Sirius did like being the best. So he kissed her back with equal hunger, gripping her waist as her mouth trailed along his cheek, then his jaw, and finally tugged lightly at his earlobe with her teeth.

“Hands here,” came McGonagall’s voice—cool and instructive, guiding him on how to touch Rosmerta, where to place his hands, how to move.

Another bite on his ear. A moan escaped.

And then—

Sirius jolted upright in bed, panting and sweaty. The Gryffindor dormitory was dark, moonlight pooling across the floor. Peter was snoring. Remus was still. But James was sitting up on his own bed, arms folded, brow raised.

“Another nightmare?” James asked, voice low.

“Umm. Not sure,” Sirius muttered, running a hand through his damp hair.

James narrowed his eyes. “It wasn’t another sex dream with the house-elf, was it?”

Sirius chucked his pillow at him. “It wasn’t a sex dream! Kreacher kissed me. Assaulted me. It was traumatic. And you promised not to bring it up!”

“Ah, young love,” James sighed, hugging the pillow to his chest with a blissful, exaggerated expression.

“Shut up, Prongs. You’re the one moaning the name of a girl who called you a big-headed toerag and turned you down in front of the whole school.”

“That was last year,” James said loftily, waving a hand. “Evans and I are in a much more promising phase now.”

“Yeah, sure,” Sirius muttered, flopping back down and pulling the blanket over his head. “I’ll be sure to invite Kreacher to the wedding.”

#harry potter fanfiction #sirius black #minerva mcgonagall #madam rosmerta

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iniquitousyearning · 2 years ago

Text

MATTHEO RIDDLE- Beg For Me

Chapter Six-Info: You and Mattheo have been butting heads for months, since you were assigned as his tutor, and one day during a session full of tense bickering, he has enough.

(This will essentially be a toxic book where we are Theos fucktoy. No love here, very minimal fluff.)

Tags: 18+, Sub!Reader, Dom!Mattheo, Dirty Talk, Toxic Behaviour, Blackmail, Degradation Kink, Jealousy, Possessive Behaviours, Manipulation, Angst, Violence, Aggression, Blood, TomRiddle, Slapping.

***FIND THE REST OF THE CHAPTERS HERE.

"Emily, are you sure I look okay?" You said, your voice a mix of stress and anxiety. "Did you get my baby hairs? The ones in the-"

"Yes, I got them." Emily said, cutting you off as she took a few steps back, focusing her attention on your uniform now. "You look perfect. Beyond perfect."

In the soft glow of your dormitory's lamplight, you moved toward the mirror, your reflection illuminated with a warm, golden hue. You released a long, tension filled breath as you eyed your appearance, your Ravenclaw uniform clinging to your form with tailored precision, the royal blue fabric complementing your complexion and accentuating your confidence. The pleats of your skirt fell in perfect symmetry, and your tie was knotted with care, each fold a testament to your attention to detail.

As you met your own eyes in the mirror, your irises sparkled with determination and purpose. Your makeup, subtle yet enhancing, highlighted your features without overshadowing your natural beauty. With a final, approving nod at your reflection, you took a deep breath, steeling yourself for the meeting ahead. You wanted to make sure that every element of your appearance spoke volumes about your professionalism and attention to detail. Confident and composed, you spun back around, meeting your blonde-haired friend with a subtle smile.

"Emily, I can't express my gratitude enough," you sighed, your voice tinged with a mix of appreciation and unease. "I can't fathom why I'm so terribly nervous about this."

"It's Tom bloody Riddle; anyone would be nervous," Emily replied, her tone holding a touch of amusement as she lounged on her bed, her eyes fixed on you. "You know, he could be really good for you."

Your breath caught in your throat, and your eyes widened in surprise. "What do you mean?"

"I'm just saying," she continued, sensing the growing tension in the room. "It's astonishing how you've spent seven years at Hogwarts without really getting to know him. You and he, you're like kindred spirits--both quiet, effortlessly brilliant...I could see you two hitting it off."

You felt a shiver race down your spine at the very idea, yet you quickly dismissed it with a forced, light-hearted chuckle. "Now, that's quite a leap, my friend."

"Make sure to remind me of my prediction when it comes true," she teased, a smirk dancing on her lips as she stifled her giggles. "Off you go now, don't keep Tom Riddle waiting.”

With a grumble of a goodbye, you took a steadying breath before pushing open the door of your dorm room and entering out into the bustling corridor. The familiar buzz of students filled the air, everyone seemingly lost in their own little world as you briskly made your way down to the library, your stride full of a tense determination. As you finally entered, your eyes scanned the room in search of Tom, and when you spotted him--engrossed in books, his demeanour calm and composed at a table in the far corner; your heart rate involuntarily increased.

But then, you spotted movement out of the corner of your eye--and when you shifted your gaze toward it, your pulse plummeted, heart stopping dead in your chest.

Mattheo Riddle, the man who, in his entire seven years at this school, had ventured into the library fewer times than he could count on one fucking hand--was surrounded by his friends on the far couches, a bright-eyed brunette girl seated dangerously close, her eyes glued to him as if he held the universe in his hands. The scene sent a jolt of conflicting emotions through you--creating a visceral reaction that made you want to retch.

You blinked, unable to believe your eyes, witnessing the source of both your irritation and inexplicable attraction, appearing utterly untroubled amidst his social circle. The sight should have been inconsequential--a mere blip on your radar, considering your vehement dislike for him and everything he's put you through.

Yet, as he met your eyes from across the room, that familiar, breath-stealing, devilish smirk teasing the corners of his perfect fucking lips, it felt like a punch to the gut, a twisting turmoil in your chest that you couldn't quite comprehend.

You knew you shouldn't care about who he was with or what he was doing. After all, you despised him, his arrogance, and the way he seemed to effortlessly entangle you in his web. But the inexplicable pang of jealousy clawed at your insides, leaving you both irritated with yourself and unsettled by the intensity of your emotions.

Trying to shake off the feeling, you clenched your fists, reminding yourself of your purpose here--to meet with Tom Riddle and discuss the mentorship guild. Despite your internal turmoil, you focused on the task at hand, determined to ignore the distractions and maintain your composure, and began to make your way across the room toward Tom.

Straightening your posture, you took a deep breath to steady your nerves. As you approached him, you cleared your throat to announce your presence.

"Mr. Riddle," you greeted, your voice steady despite the chaos inside you. "Thank you for agreeing to meet with me. I've heard great things about the mentorship guild, it's been a longtime goal of mine to be a part of it."

Tom's eyes, a sharp contrast to his brother's, held a depth of intellect that seemed to penetrate your very soul. His appearance was the polar opposite of Mattheo's--clean kept, professional; gelled hair and fresh robes--all attributes you'd never find on his messy haired, couldn't-care-less sibling. Tom regarded you with an assessing gaze, nodding appreciatively.

"I'm pleased you're interested," he replied, his voice smooth and composed. "Let's find a quiet spot to talk, and please, call me Tom."

With those words, you gave him a small smile before following him through the isles of shelves and towards the back of the room, reserved only for quiet studies, leaving the unsettling sight of Mattheo and his entourage behind, unable to ignore the heat of his eyes on you from across the room as you moved. In the hushed confines of the library's quiet study area, you settled into a seat across from Tom, the anticipation of the conversation ahead mingling with a sense of relief.

Away from the prying eyes and distracting presence of Mattheo, you felt a newfound confidence building within you.

"Thank you again for considering me, Tom, you have no idea what this opportunity means to me," you said, your voice steady as you met Tom's gaze. "I've always admired your achievements and your approach to academics. I believe I can learn a great deal under your guidance."

His eyes, a captivating shade of deep brown, held yours in an unwavering gaze. "Please, the pleasure is all mine," he replied, his tone dipped in charm. "I've heard remarkable things about your intellect and dedication, Dumbledore spoke very highly of you. I anticipate our collaboration to be mutually beneficial…I have high hopes for what you can achieve."

Your cheeks warmed under his gaze, and you offered a grateful smile. Encouraged by his words, you felt a surge of motivation. "I'm eager to contribute in any way I can."

Tom's eyes glinted with approval. "That's precisely the attitude we value. With your potential and determination, I have no doubt you'll find your place within our guild."

As the conversation progressed, you found yourself immersed in discussions about your academic aspirations, the guild's objectives, and the various projects they were involved in. With every word, you felt a sense of belonging, as if you had finally found a community where your intellect was not only recognized but celebrated.

As you observed Tom while he spoke, it was clear that he was someone you could relate to on a profound level. Like you, he poured his heart and soul into his studies, the pursuit of knowledge a shared passion. His quiet confidence mirrored your own determination, and his dedication to academic pursuits resonated deeply with your own values.

In Tom, you discovered a like-minded soul, someone who, like you, appreciated the sanctity of the library's quietude and the solace found in the pages of a well-worn book. While Mattheo's antics might overshadow his brother's achievements, you recognized Tom's brilliance as a beacon of inspiration, a reminder that there were others in Hogwarts who shared your unwavering dedication to intellectual pursuits.

As the discussions came to a close, Tom straightened his posture in his chair, adjusting his pristine Slytherin robes.

"It's truly refreshing to meet someone as passionate and driven as you," Tom said, his eyes lingering on yours for a moment longer than necessary. "I believe you have a lot to offer, and I truly look forward to seeing your potential unfold."

You offered a grateful smile, though his lingering gaze left a trail of warmth beneath your skin. "Thank you, Tom. I'm admittedly quite antsy to prove my dedication."

With a charming smile, Tom leaned over the table toward you slightly, his gaze locked onto yours with an intensity that sent shivers down your spine.

"I must admit, I'm not only intrigued by your dedication to intellect," he said, his voice dropping to a husky whisper. "There's something else...something undeniably alluring about you."

"Is that so?" You murmured, head tilting.

His words sparked something inside you that made your pulse increase. You weren't sure what the fuck you were doing right now, but admittedly, you couldn't help yourself. If the Riddle brothers had anything in common outside of their devastating good-looks, it was their effortless bloody charm.

"Indeed, it is," he matched your playful tone, a sly grin playing on his lips. "I'd relish the opportunity to delve deeper into your thoughts...outside of the Thursday evening guild meetings, of course," he said, his eyes glinting with intellectual curiosity. "How about we make it a habit, meeting one-on-one regularly? Tuesday evenings sound splendid, don't you think?"

Internally, a whirlwind of conflicting emotions stirred within you. The idea of regular one-on-one meetings with Tom was undeniably enticing, and would do wonders for your reputation, yet the fear of Mattheo's reaction held you back. As you hesitated, an unsettling vision of Mattheo's disapproving expression flashed in your mind, causing your response to stall.

"I...I appreciate the offer, Tom," you finally managed to say, your voice slightly shaky. "Tuesday evenings should work. I look forward to our discussions."

Your response came out a bit stilted, your internal turmoil seeping into your words, and Tom, ever perceptive, noted your apprehension with a slight eyebrow raise, but clearly chose to dismiss it.

"Wonderful. I look forward to it as well." He said, pushing up from the table and shooting you one last professional nod, "enjoy the rest of your night."

You smiled. "You too, Tom. Thank you.”

And with that, he spun, making his way down the dimly lit isle of the library, your gaze fixated on him until he was entirely out of sight. And once he was, you slumped back in your chair, releasing a stifled breath, acknowledging that his flirtation added a new layer of complexity to the already intricate web of your emotions--but, considering the fact that Mattheo was nothing more than selfish asshole who was currently cuddled up with another girl at this very moment, you refused to wallow in the thought of him any further.

You pushed up from your seat and delved deeper into the library's hushed corridors--the muted ambiance and the scent of old parchment surrounding you as you moved. With purposeful steps, you maneuvered through the labyrinth of bookshelves, gliding down the dim aisle of your choice, your eyes scanning the titles, seeking the specific astronomy book essential for your upcoming exam.

Finally, you came to a halt in front of the S category, your fingers gently tracing the spines as you read their titles, lost in the tranquility of the moment when out of nowhere, a vice-like grip clamped over your mouth, stifling any sound, and you were forcibly pulled backward--your body colliding with a strong, powerful chest, the abrupt impact momentarily jarring your senses.

As the initial shock faded, and the lingering smell of cigarettes and firewhiskey filled your nostrils, calloused palm tightening its hold over your lips, you knew there was only one fucking man that this could be. Mattheo Riddle's unyielding hand muffled any protest, and the fingers on his free hand dug into the wooden shelf beside your head, his silent strength radiating a chilling intensity that left you frozen in fear.

"Playing with fire, aren't you, Raven?" His hot breath danced on your ear as he whispered, his voice laced with a dangerous edge. "You know, playing too many little games might get you in trouble, princess..."

Pinned against the shelf, your fingers clung desperately to its edge, seeking stability as your body pressed firmly against the unforgiving wood. Mattheo's presence enveloped you, a low growl escaping him as he tugged your face to the side, pressing your temple against the row of books, his lips grazing your ear--holding you captive like a fragile little bird, ensnared in the coils of the big bad serpent.

"Tuesday nights, huh?" His voice was deeper than you'd ever heard it, your heart pounding in your throat as you realized he'd must have heard your conversation with Tom--and clearly, wasn't very happy about it. "I knew you'd fall for his fucking bullshit, Raven...you seem to have a knack for falling into traps, don't you?"

Rage coursed through your veins, a primal growl building up in your throat as you pressed against his restraining hand, your thoughts ablaze with a multitude of scathing comebacks. The fervent desire to unleash your fury clashed with the harsh reality that he had more to say, leaving you seething in silence.

"You're delusional if you think he's actually fucking interested in you..." he breathed, pressing his lips directly to your ear now. "You're just his new prey...his new little protégé...take you in and make you feel special, just to discard you once he's done with you..."

A chill crawled down your spine, settling in the pit of your stomach like a lead weight. His words stung, and you struggled against his grip, his fingers digging into your skin, reminiscent of a snake coiling around its prey. Despite your attempts to break free, his hold tightened like a serpent constricting its victim, leaving you feeling trapped and vulnerable--involuntarily eliciting a sensation between your thighs you wished to ignore.

"Maybe that's what you want though, huh?" He taunted, voice dripping with disdain. "Maybe I've already ruined you...maybe you like being a little slut so much now that you're willing to throw yourself at anyone who offers..."

Your groan of frustration mingled with a futile attempt to break free, but his grip on your mouth remained unyielding. The hand that had been braced against the shelf now shifted to your hip, anchoring you firmly in place, his touch possessive, commanding--sending shivers down your spine, even in the face of his despicable words. The sheer force of his hold had an intoxicating allure, leaving you trapped in a whirlwind of conflicting emotions, unable to fully resist despite your burning anger.

"Do you want to fuck him, Raven?" His voice tightened, twisting your head back further to meet his eyes, the painful angle making you wince, your lids fluttering shut as a result. "No, no. Open those eyes. Look at me."

Your stomach churned with unease, and you reluctantly complied, his fingernails digging into your cheek as he forced you to meet his dark, possessed gaze, the smell of alcohol radiating off his breath.

You swallowed. It was a bloody Thursday--why was he drunk on a fucking Thursday?

"Is that what you want?" He muttered, his voice softening, though his grip remained firm. "Because he's going to try...believe me, he's going to fucking try."

In the vice-like grip of his fingers, you growled low, a surge of irritation coursing through your veins like molten lava. How dare he presume to control your actions, as if he held any genuine concern for your well-being? His selfish motives were as transparent as glass, his only interest lying in your submission to his sexual desires. Meanwhile, he shamelessly paraded his affections for other girls, a cruel reminder of his callousness. There was no way you would yield to his manipulative tactics, your determination burning brighter than ever amidst the storm of his toxic influence.

And with a surge of sheer madness, you bared your teeth beneath his palm, sinking them into his rough flesh with a viciousness that mirrored the intensity of your anger, determined to inflict any pain you could in your struggle for freedom--and as your teeth dug into his skin, he recoiled, a sharp hiss escaping his lips as you tried your hardest to draw blood.

His grip momentarily loosened, allowing you a gasp of precious air before he tightened his hold once more--his eyes, ablaze with a mix of fury and surprise, bore into yours, capturing your defiance and turning it into a challenge. With brutal force, he spun you around, your back colliding with the unforgiving shelf; the impact sending shivers of pain racing through your spine, and the back of your head met the harsh wood with a sickening thud--your vision momentarily blurring, your heartbeat echoing in your ears like a war drum, punctuating the silence of the library with the harsh reminder of your vulnerability in his grip.

Your eyelids flickered, blinking rapidly to clear the haze, unveiling his intoxicated form, a menacing silhouette against the dim light. His eyes, blacker than the midnight sky, bore into your face with predatory focus, dissecting every flicker of emotion that crossed your features. Your eyes widened in sheer shock, somehow just now fixating on the new cut over his nose, dried blood trickling down from his nostrils and staining his chin, throat and uniform like macabre tears.

"Yeah, that's right..." he muttered, grin crawling over his lips, "take a good fucking look, princess."

Trapped beneath his unrelenting palm, you pleaded, your voice barely audible amidst the fear that gripped your throat. Desperately, you tried to shake your head, your eyes widening in horror as the sinking, sickening sensation in your chest deepened.

Your heart raced with dread, praying vehemently that the blood staining him had nothing to do with Tom.

"I warned you," he sneered, his head tilting as he leaned closer, his palm pressing your head back against the shelf with savage force, as if he was anticipating your impending reaction. "I told you exactly what I'd do to him if he fucking tried anything..."

Your heart fell, shattered, and scattered into a million shards on the cold library floor. Anguish surged through you, transforming into a fierce, unyielding determination, and without hesitation, your hand left your side, a trembling force of defiance as it harshly connected with his cheek--sending his face whipping to the side, his messy hair bouncing against his forehead with the impact.

The sharp sound reverberated through the silence of the library, and his grip on your lips faltered just enough to allow you to break free. Before he had a chance to do anything else, you gripped his wrist, holding it in place, your chest heaving with the weight of your emotions.

Your voice trembled with a mix of disbelief and anger, words escaping your lips in a choked whisper. "I can't...I can't fucking believe you," you stammered, your heart pounding in your chest like a frantic drum. "Mattheo, do you even realize what you've done?"

He blinked, his cheek tinged with a rosy hue from the impact of your slap. "Do you?"

"What the fuck do you mean?" Your lungs seized, anger threatening to collapse them. "How the fuck am I supposed to explain why you fought your own brother over me? How the fuck am I going to justify that in any way? We aren't supposed to...we aren't-"

Your words cut through the air, heavy with incredulity and a profound sense of betrayal. The weight of the situation pressed down on you, leaving you at a loss for words as you struggled to comprehend the tangled mess he had created.

"He doesn't know it was over you," he muttered, ripping his wrist from your hold. "It's not the first time I've fought my brother, Raven."

"Oh, so it's just one big coincidence that you suddenly pick a fight with him after he meets with the girl who's been tutoring you one-on-one for the last few months, right Mattheo?" You snapped, your words laced with bitterness and frustration, the tension between you hanging in the air like a storm waiting to unleash its fury. "Do you understand that if anyone fucking finds out about us...literally anyone...my post graduate career is fucking ruined, and all of this has been for absolutely nothing? Do you understand how many rules I've broken, how much I've risked, just to allow you to use me however you’d like? And this is how you repay me?"

With a sudden movement, you brought a hand to his chin--your fingernails biting into the skin of his jaw, the sharp edges of your frustration cutting into him as you held him firmly in place. The intensity of your grip mirrored the storm brewing inside you, the forceful pressure a physical manifestation of your raging emotions.

"You have absolutely no fucking right interfering in on my life like this...not while you're cuddled up with another girl on the couch...not when you've made it clear as day that I'm your fucking toy and nothing more." You seethed, your voice cutting through the air like a knife. "You have no right to paint him as though he's some demon when you haven't once dared to look at your own fucking reflection."

Mattheo's eyes met yours, his usual confidence flickering for just a moment as the weight of your accusation settled upon him. "You have no idea what he's like...you can't-"

"I know what you're like." You hissed, dropping your hand from his jaw. "And not many can be worse than you."

"That's where you're wrong." He retorted, spitting the words through barred teeth. "That's where you're absolutely fucking wrong."

"Admit it, right now, Mattheo." You snarled, words like venom as you spat them off your tongue. "Admit that I'm nothing but your fucking toy, nothing but a naive little slut for you to manipulate...admit that I'm-"

Your words hung in the air, abruptly silenced as Mattheo's vice-like grip clamped onto your jaw, the intensity of his hold promising to leave marks on your skin. He pressed your head back against the shelf, your body stiffening in response to his overpowering force. The heat radiating from his frame enveloped you, intensifying the sense of confinement as his free hand slammed onto the shelf beside your head, adding to the mockery of your helplessness.

"No," he growled, his voice low and intense, the frustration palpable in the air. His grip on your jaw tightened, his fingers digging into your skin, and you winced, the pain jolting through you. "You're fucking not."

"Bullshit," you hissed back, your defiance flaring despite the pressure of his hold.

His eyes narrowed, his gaze locked onto yours with a fiery determination. "If you were just some conquest, just some notch on my bedpost, why the fuck wouldn't I have fucked you already, huh?" His voice dropped to a dangerous whisper, the intensity making your stomach twist in knots. "I've had countless chances, Raven...and Merlin knows I fucking want to."

Your voice trembled, the vulnerability seeping through your words like a crack in a dam holding back a tidal wave of emotions. "Want...to...what?"

"Fuck you," he admitted, his grip on your jaw loosening, his confession dripping with both desire and frustration. "I want to fucking rail you, Raven, what the fuck else would I be talking about?"

"But?" you whispered, your voice barely audible, your heart pounding in your chest, desperate for an answer you already fucking knew. "What's stopping you?"

He exhaled, his jaw tensing. "You're a fucking virgin...I've never...I wouldn't feel right if I-"

"Exactly my fucking point," you said, cutting him off, your words slicing through the tension between you. "It wouldn't feel right because I'm just a fucking toy, Mattheo...I'm just a means for you to get your release and then throw away when you're done, what you said just fucking confirms it..please don't stand here and try to pretend otherwise..."

The truth hung in the air, heavy and raw, the silence that followed echoing with the weight of your unspoken feelings, leaving both of you engulfed in a suffocating sense of reality.

"You said you had no interest in taking my virginity." You whispered, reluctantly meeting his eyes. "You fucking said that, before any of this started."

"I know," his throat bobbed as he swallowed. "I know what I fucking said.”

"So, let me get this straight." You spat, eyebrow cocked. "You want me to continue being your toy, breaking every rule in the book in exchange for your tutoring cooperation and improved grades in order to help me impress Dumbledore, while you continue to be with other girls, but get controlling and fucking crazy when your own brother comes near me, even though you know we could never be together and you have zero intentions of making that happen away...yeah?"

As he blinked, remaining silent, you huffed, releasing a frustrated breath. "Can you at least do me one little fucking favour and explain that hypocrisy to me, Riddle? Or-"

Cutting you off, Mattheo's fingers gripped your jaw for what had to be the hundredth time in ten minutes, pulling you into a kiss that felt like an explosion of chaos and passion--the taste of blood, firewhiskey, and the lingering scent of cigarettes filling your senses; a potent mix that somehow pulled a low moan from your throat. His tongue brushed past your lips, exploring your mouth with a fervor that left you breathless, your entire body reeling from the raw desperation in his touch. The world around you faded into oblivion as his hands slid into your hair, anchoring you to him, pressing you against the shelf with an irresistible force, neither of you willing to separate despite your urgent need for breath.

After what felt like an eternity, Mattheo's lips reluctantly left yours, trailing a path of fire down to your jawline. His hot breath, laced with the taste of whiskey and desire, washed over your skin as he panted, and the room seemed to pulse with the aftermath of the passionate exchange. The two of you stood there, heaving, as if trying to fill your lungs with enough air to regain composure--the intensity of the moment lingering, leaving you both breathless and yearning for more, even though you both knew it was a stupid, idiotic, dangerous game you were playing.

"How is it, that the one woman I can never get enough of, is the one I can't have..." he whispered, his voice so low you swore there was no fucking way you heard him correctly. "When I think about it, I guess it's a fitting punishment, for a monster like me..." his hands fell to your hips, softly holding you against him. "To hold something in my hands and know beyond a bloody fucking doubt that I'll never deserve it."

Your lungs stalled, your heart stopped, oxygen fleeing you as though it was running from a fucking fire. He took a step back, releasing you fully.

"You're right, I had no right doing what I did." The words slammed your chest like a fifty pound brick. You couldn’t do anything except blink. "But I couldn't control myself, and it's not your fault, it's mine. I can’t get over myself. Just be my tutor, and let’s forget anything ever happened between us…I hope my brother makes you fucking happy.”

Without giving you a chance to respond he shifted, making his way down the isle and disappearing around the corner before you even had a singular chance to decipher what the fuck had just happened.

————-

Chapter Seven->

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mothiir · 10 months ago

Text

story time with isaiah

I can’t stop writing for these boys I love them.

Cw for caning, descriptions of blood.

—

It has been just under a month, and the Emperor — in His most glorious and unending mercy — has seen fit to continue to conceal your existence from the rest of Isaiah’s battle brothers. He and Reuben benefit from your redemptive labour, as you atone for your extensive sins by darning their socks, polishing their armour, and keeping their dormitory spotless.

With a little satisfied sound, you set aside your mending. You have been piecing Brother Reuben’s hair shirt back together, and your fingers are raw from handling the tough wool. Isaiah smells the iron tang of your blood.

You stretch your arms up over, closing your eyes as your joints click. Isaiah looks up from his current dedication — transcribing the life and times of Saint Celestine onto fresh parchment in his neatest handwriting — and sees that you are relaxing back into your bunk. His brow furrows a little. It is not time for you to sleep, and you show no signs of engaging in contemplation of the Emperor’s many noble deeds — though perhaps you are doing this internally?

“Free time is an affront to the Emperor, little mortal,” he says, dipping his quill into ochre-red ink to outline the title of the newest segment, wherein Saint Celestine engaged in combat with a daemonette of Slaanesh and defeated it. This segment is an especially lengthy one, and well-illustrated, and he wants to do it justice. “Ensure at all times you keep Him in your thoughts.”

”Yes, my lord,” you say, eyes snapping open — a sure sign of guilt. One of your hands protectively rests over the hair shirt, probably recalling the last time that Isaiah had seen fit to bless you with more work. “No need to tear this, lord, I am more than happy to keep the Emperor in my thoughts while uh —“

Isaiah sighs, setting the quill down. Since the dormitory now only holds two Templars, he and Reuben have been able to redecorate, hammering the unused bunks into a workstation, pushed up against the wall. Their trunks serve as an adequate chair, tough durasteel enough to support the bulk of an Astartes — providing the Astartes in question is not armoured.

“I am not going to tear the shirt, girl. I tore those socks because you showed an uncouth amount of joy in finishing your work for the day. And — besides, that is not the subject of discussion,” he says, thankful that Brother Reuben is not here, otherwise he would once again find himself rehashing an old absurd argument. Brother Reuben had objected to ‘his underwear being used as part of a pointless lesson and now she is upset and my feet are cold’.

You had, admittedly, been a little upset — uttering little hitching squeaks, like you were swallowing back sobs — but Isaiah maintains it was an important chance to practice the virtue of patience, and you had restitched all of the socks in record time, so what was the harm done?

Still. Perhaps this is a chance to impart a gentler kind of lesson. Good relations with lesser mortals is an essential part of serving the Emperor.

“Have you ever heard the tale of Saint Celestine?” he says instead. To his surprise, you brighten up.

“Yes, my lord! I saw the latest holo about her before uh — before my world was cleansed in Holy Fire. Though of course it may have been a corrupted version of the story and uh—“

You are babbling. You often do this, and Brother Reuben has assured him that it is not a fault in your genetics, but a natural consequence of your human frailty. Isaiah cuts you off.

”I will teach you one of her many victories,” he says, “and of how her undying faith in the Emperor brought glory to both her and those who fought beside her.”

He turns away from his manuscript, folds his hands in his lap, and begins the tale. Saint Celestine was once a member of the Adepta Sororitas’ Order of Our Martyred Lady…

—

Just over an hour later, he finishes up the tale of how she appeared in glorious golden raiment to the beleaguered defenders of the city of Karlstadt, who were standing proud against the hideous assembled forces of heresy and ruin. How she had drawn her blessed blade and sliced apart the daemons arrayed before her. How she had blessed the inhabitants of the city, before fading into the rising sun like a dream of better times.

“That was beautiful,” you say. Isaiah had been staring off into the middle distance, allowing his eidetic memory to take hold of his tongue — but at your voice he focuses on you, gratified by the adoration in your eyes. The Living Saint is a balm to the faithful, and a scourge to the heretic.

“It is, is it not? Now, you recite it.”

Silence. You blink at him in puzzlement.

”You recite it,” he prompts. “So that you may tell the story to others.”

”Oh — uh — well, once there was…”

”No, no, no,” he says. “That is not correct. You must recite it exactly as I did, with the same words — this is how it was taught to me, and it is how it must be taught to you.”

”The — the exact same words?” you say, starting to grow flustered, your hands twisting into the hair shirt. The movement agitates the wounds on your hands, filling the air once more with the fragrance of your blood, and it gives Isaiah a splendid idea.

“Yes. Do not worry, I will help with your memory — I understand that it is far inferior to mine.”

He looks around for a suitable implement. His warhammer is too heavy; his bolter far too precious. He reaches up to one of the unused wooden shelves and, with very little effort, rips it out of the metal brackets, before splintering it with a single crushing fist.

“…my lord?” you say, sounding nervous. Isaiah smiles in what he hopes is a soothing way.

“Do not be worried. I understand that your lapses in memory are not a sign of heresy, only of your own feeble genetics. This is a method that I was blessed to experience as a neophyte, before my implants worked fully, and it worked very well.”

He extracts the longest piece of wood, and uses his thumbnail to polish it, turning ragged pulp into a more suitable smoothness. He swishes it experimentally. Perfect.

“Now,” he says sunnily. “I will say a segment of the tale; you will repeat it. Every time you get it wrong, I shall give you a little tap with this. The pain focuses your mind, and ensures that next time you will not forget!”

”Uh — I do not think that is necessary my lord —“

You are hunched like a Jerboa about to bolt, smelling of fear. Isaiah sighs.

“Girl, please do not be ungrateful. I am trying to bestow the Emperor’s kindness upon you. Now give me your hand.”

Your arm trembles, but you still extend your palm, fingers curled protectively over it. Just as he is about to begin the exercise, he recalls Brother Reuben’s fury at his torn socks. Ah. Yes. Anything that will hinder your ability to work is probably going to cause issues with his battle brother — and baseline humans take so long to heal.

The soles of your feet? No, he cannot have you unable to stand. Your back? No — you need to hunch over your mending. Your face? Some of the serfs ritually scar themselves as part of their penance.

No. Not your face. That is a little dramatic for something as trivial as learning a story.

And then it occurs to him in a lightning flash — of course!

“Kindly lift your skirt up and bend over the bed,” he says, thanking the Emperor for His guidance. If you struggle to sit down then that is no problem — you can sew standing up! And you can sleep on your front, so it will not even affect your lengthy and inefficient spells of rest.

You make a strange strangled sound.

“My — my lord?” you manage, and that warm feeling kindles once more in his belly. Bringing a waif to the Emperor’s light; imparting unto you stories normally reserved for Astartes. It makes him feel all happy and tingly in a way he usually associates with a battle hard won, or an especially entertaining heretic burning.

“Hurry up now,” he says, indicating the bunk. You look behind you, as if expecting Brother Reuben to materialise with his usual rebukes, but he is busy in the chapel (though Isaiah cannot imagine what possible issue his brother could have with this plan).

Trembling like a new fawn, you bend over the bunk, propping your elbows on it.

“Your skirt too,” Isaiah says, helpfully. “If fabric gets into the wounds it can cause infection, and that is a serious matter for a baseline.”

You inch your skirt up in little shuddering movements that Isaiah finds absolutely hypnotic for reasons he cannot quite understand. You bare plump, tender flesh — thighs sweeping up to the curve of your buttocks, which quiver under his gaze.

“Do you not have any undergarments?” he says.

“I did,” you say, after a moment. “They uh. They vanished.”

How baffling. Humans are absentminded to the extreme — perhaps you mislaid them? He will have to ask Brother Reuben of their whereabouts.

“Now,” he says. His mouth feels odd — a little too dry. He swallows a few times, rolling his tongue against the soft insides of his cheeks, wondering briefly — absurdly — if your skin would feel as soft against the press of his fingers. ”Let us begin.”

—

You start off so well, parroting back the first few sentences he recites for you almost down to his intonation. Alas, you are still only a human, and the mistakes soon begin —

“…for Saint Celestine appeared in —“

Wssshhh goes the instrument, and you squeal. Your buttocks jiggle in a way that would definitely distract a lesser man; but Isaiah is completely devoted to the Emperor’s word, and thus does not take more than forty five seconds to watch them move as you squirm in pain. He thought the strike was gentle, but your flesh is softer than butter, slicing open with the least touch.

“You missed something out,” he says, after his momentary pause. “Try again.”

”I am sorry — ow that hurts — uh — “

This time, you get the phrasing right (‘miraculously appeared’ not just ‘appeared’), and proceed until —

“—her hair of gold — “

Another strike. The flesh of your rear splits like ripened fruit, and you yowl.

“Hair of black, eyes of gold,” Isaiah corrects patiently. It is just as well he has taken you under his wing. The way you squirm and squeak is most immodest, and he is certain that none of the other serfs take discipline with the same lack of dignity.

“Hair of — hair of black, eyes of — eyes of gold —“

He forgives you the stammer, but he cannot forgive the lapse that follows, as you describe Saint Celestine’s armour as ‘radiant’ rather than ‘luminous’. This time, Isaiah is most careful with his blow, and your skin only flares bright pink, rather than splitting asunder. You still whimper and wriggle as though he has made you bleed, which is most unbecoming.

“Do try and endure the pain,” he tells you. “There is no need to be so…squirmy.”

Once again, he thanks the Emperor for guiding you to him, and not to a man with less moral fortitude, because the way the blood slicks over the curve of your rump and glistens would almost certainly lead a lesser man to sinful contemplation.

The next lashes — earned through forgetting four of Saint Celestine’s thirty eight titles — have you blubbering, your face pressed into the blankets. Your buttocks, and the upper parts of your thighs, are streaked purple and pink with bruising, and blood drips down towards the backs of your knees. It smells bright and fresh — somehow more pleasing than the foul blood of xenos or heretics. Perhaps because it was shed by a penitent in service to the Emperor, not one of His enemies? Though Osric and Jean’s blood never smelled quite so…delicious.

Hm. When did he last eat? Maybe he has been fasting overly much. That must be the reason his stomach tightens so.

You burble a slurry of sound into the mattress — even to his trained ear it barely resembles Gothic.

“You’re not even halfway through memorising this,” he chides, and you manage another hiccuping attempt at repeating the conversation between Saint Celestine and her former Battle Sister Augusta. It is a most touching soliloquy on the importance of placing your faith in the Emperor, but —

“—and I will — I will do I must and take Him inside me, and let His will fill me like a flood — nay, like an ocean. His Holy Fire will spill deep inside my body —“

— for some reason it sounds a little different when you say it. His cheeks warm.

Still, the technique is working. He finds he has to hit you less and less as you continue; the pain sharpening your mind, clearing the fog of doubt, permitting the Emperor’s words to penetrate.

Finally, your approach the denouement, where Saint Celestine addresses the Emperor directly in prayer —

“My Lord, I beg of you to fill my humble body up —“

He strikes you without thinking.

“Wha — what did I get wrong?” you squeal, and it takes a moment for Isaiah to focus. He is staring at the jiggle of your thighs as you heave in desperate, pained breaths — by the Emperor’s light, clearly he has not done his job in teaching you how to best conduct yourself, because you are responding to proper discipline like a whore. Your spine arches as you try fruitlessly to escape; your eyes are wet and red-rimmed; your lips slick with spittle. Do you realise what you are doing? Ignorance is no defence against judgement; Isaiah could build a new monastery with the bones of those he has slain whose only crime was ignorance.

Isaiah presses one hand on the small of your back, pressing down just enough to calm your twitching. He feels your heartbeat echo up through his palm; the scent of your blood fills his nose, and saliva puddles on his tongue. He is a Black Templar. His purpose is to slay the enemies of the Emperor; to crush them beneath his boots, to lay waste to their cities and hear the lamentations of their children, before they too are cast onto the pyre to ensure the rot does at the root. He is stronger than you. He is better than you, and your mewling is not effecting him, it cannot be effecting him —

”Keep going,” he says, his voice a low, hungry growl. “Finish the tale.”

” —yes. Of course. Saint Celestine thus spoke to the Emperor: “Fill my humble body up with Your Grace and Your Judgement, and let me then be a vessel for Your Will, bringing Your light to the dark and Your hope to the hopeless. Amen.”

“Amen,” he echoes.

—

He helps you clean up, for he would be a poor teacher indeed if he left you in a puddle of your own blood to contemplate your lesson. He waves away your protests that you can take care of yourself — it is a small matter for him, just requiring a little water and a clean rag. Your flesh is already swelling, puffy and tender, and when he runs his palm from your calf to your back he can feel the difference in temperature: from cool thighs to fever-warm buttocks.

The apothecary insists that Astartes be thorough in their care of themselves. Thus, Isaiah takes care to repeat the gesture a few times, his large hands — each of which easily encircle your thighs — skimming with utmost consideration over your bruised flesh.

“There,” he says, when he has attended to your wounds to his satisfaction. He tugs your skirt down to cover your modesty, pleased that he has fufilled his duty of care to you. “Is it not wonderful to learn the Emperor’s word?”

You prop yourself up on your forearms, turning back to look at him. “Yes,” you echo. “Simply wonderful.”

Isaiah beams at you, absent-mindedly lifting his fingers to his mouth to lick them clean. He has probably been fasting too much; a Templar must remain well fed to best serve the Emperor.

“You can have the afternoon to recover,” he says, magnanimously. “We can commence your next lesson in a ten day — or whenever your schedule allows.”

”Yes, my lord. Thank you my lord,” you say. “All hail the Emperor and His most bounteous mercy.”

”All hail,” Isaiah says, already planning how to best explain this to Brother Reuben — while also making it excruciatingly clear that Brother Reuben needn’t trouble himself with the serf’s continued holy education. No, Brother Reuben can focus his considerable energy in locating the poor thing’s missing undergarments — a role far more befitting his station. “And next time,” he adds, licking the last of the blood from the back of his hand. “Refrain from squirming and mewling like a slattern. Have some self control.”

#the holy trinity #I promise at some point the serf will get fucked just not yet #black templars/reader #my writing

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