#i dont know…..if im happy with this………..

[spoopdeedoop]

ykw yeah. all my cbenchtrio cookie run lobby showcases in one post if you even care

[oldermenfucker]

i saw your robby post. i dont have much ideas about an au or anything but i do have a smutty idea thats been eating away at me for so long and i havent had the time to write it out. so im gifting it to you (if you may be interested!)

HE PUTS HIS COCK IN BUT HE DOESNT MOVE AT ALL (even if youre begging) AND WANTS TO GET YOU OFF ON HIS COCK BEFORE HE FUCKS YOU???? you also get so overwhelmed by the way hes stretching you out that you cant control your eyes going cloudy and some salty tears falling down your flush face. but his hands are soothing and cooing at you and just like major praise kink yk? anyways yeah okay love you byyeee (gets shy now) whejsjke xoxo

His Good Girl | M. Robby

summary: the request on the top🤭

warnings: 18+ mdni! Smut, p in v, cockwarming, Robby has a fat cock it’s canon, praise kink HEAVY HEAVY PRAISE KINK!!, lots of cooing, reader calls him sir & doctor a few times, THE GLASSES STAY ON, heavy breeding, just Robby using that filthy mouth teheee

word count: 2.4k+

an: We shall have a spring wedding my love YOU GENIUS YOU ABSOLUTE GOD PLEASE OMG THIS IS SO FUCKING DELICIOUSSSSSSS!!!!! please don’t get shy I love this thank you THANK YOU I LOBE YOU TOO BABE!!!! Aaaaaaaaaaaa please send more thots and ideas I’m always BEGGING to brain storm with others about this delicious man😩

When you arrive home from work, you are exhausted. It’s near nine p.m., your feet ache, you are hungry, and you want nothing more than to jump into your boyfriend’s arms without a care in the world.

  You fiddle with the keys in your hand, slowly opening the door in case Robby is sleeping, but when you hear the low sound of a song playing through the house, you relax and let the warmth welcome you.

  “Hi,” you announce your arrival, dropping the keys on the shelf on top of his wallet, kicking off your shoes, and dropping your bag next to his backpack before you walk towards the kitchen.

  “Hey, beautiful,” he replies, watching as you grab a glass of water from the kitchen while he leans back on the couch with several documents on the coffee table in front of him. “How was your day?”

  You try to act nonchalant, you really do, but with the way his nose looks under those thick black reading glasses makes you swallow the drool that gathers in your mouth, you know you are anything but unbothered.

  He narrows his eyes at you, watching curiously as you purse your lips, running your tongue against your cheek while you stare at his face, and it finally dawns on him what got you in such a state.

  “Don’t tell me it’s the glasses again,” he pushes the matter, totally enjoying how you squeeze your thighs together when he raises his eyebrows at you. But it is the glasses, again. They are the bane of your existence, and you can’t go a day without thinking about them, replaying the memories you two have made with them on his face.

  He chuckles, his chest rumbling with both affection and desire, his bambi eyes darkening with each second that you look at him with your mouth agape, as if you are begging him to do something about it silently.

  “Come here,” he pats his lap, dropping the pen he was holding on the stock of papers as he repositions himself, spreading his long legs while he waits for you to come. His eyes drag over your body, watching you closely as he stretches, giving you a peek of his soft skin and that happy trail that leads to what you need the most.

  He throws his head back and laughs when he watches you bite your lip at the sight, making your way between his legs before he reaches out and grabs your hips, squeezing the flesh in his large palms.

  “One inch of skin is enough to make you wet, huh?” He asks, his voice teasing and cocky, because he knows what effect he has on you.

  “How do you know I’m wet already?” You tilt your head, trying and failing to mask that in fact you are dripping, “But no… your skin is enough to get me going, Doctor Robinavitch.”

  “You know exactly what to say, don’t you?” He grins again, pushing your pants down along with your panties, nodding at your shirt so you can strip yourself. Robby leans down, pressing open-mouth kisses along your stomach, nibbling on the skin as he helps you step out of your pants, “Come on, honey.”

  You pull the fabric of your shirt off, grinning at Robby, who makes a sound of ‘woohoo’ in a very hushed and raspy tone when his eyes fall on your covered breasts before you mount him and sit on his lap, wrapping your arms around his neck to pull him closer.

  He rest his head on the back of the couch, grabbing the back of your neck to pull you closer, smashing his lips into yours. You moan into the kiss, the taste of his granola bar evident on his tongue as he pushes the muscle into your mouth, exploring you eagerly.

  You can feel his hard length against your thigh, and you can most certainly shape the outline of how huge he is even through his sweatpants. Rolling your hips down, you elicit a deep groan from him, breaking the kiss to pull on his sweatpants.

  “You can’t look this good and expect me not to pounce on you,” you whisper, lips hovering over his as he raises his hips enough to push the pants down, sighing in relief when the chill air of the room hits his heated cock.

  Your mouth waters at the sight of Robby’s thick member resting heavily against his thigh, already hard and ready to burst. You look back at him, finding him blushing and rubbing the back of his head as he smiles sheepishly at you.

  “Just when I thought you couldn’t get any sexier—“ you gasp when his hands move to the globes of your ass, squeezing them in his tight grip.

  “Be a good girl and don’t keep me waiting,” he pecks your lips, holding you up when you reach between your bodies to grab him by the base, lining up the fat tip with your soaked entrance. “That’s it, baby. Look at me when you sit on it— there you go…”

  You bite your lip as you hold eye contact, lowering yourself on his thick cock gently, his fingers digging harsher into your asscheeks the more you take him in. 

  You really try to maintain eye contact, but the feeling of him splitting you open when you take him fully inside your cunt makes your eyes roll to the back of your head. He is nestled so deep inside your gummy walls that it makes your head spin, leaving you breathless and needy for more.

  You rest your hands on his shoulder, fixing your knees next to his thighs but with each little movement, his cock reaches deeper inside you, making your lips part in quiet gasps and whimpers.

  Robby stops you before you have the chance to move more. He grabs your hips, keeping you seated down on him. 

  “Not yet, baby,” he groans when you clench around him in his deep voice, one hand moving up and down your back while the other grabs your jaw to move your face towards him, looking up at your darkened eyes.

  “Why?” You breathe out, pouting slightly when he only smiles and presses your cheek together, pushing your lips out more, “Please, I wanna ride you–“

  “No, no, honey,” he tutts when you whine, grinding your hips down to feel him more, but his hands squeeze you hard enough to warn you, “You can’t do that now.”

  “But why?” You whine again, and he pulls you down on him, chest to chest with your belly rubbing against the soft podge of his stomach, “I thought about doing it all day, Robby…”

  “Very tempting, beautiful girl,” he threads his fingers through your hair, holding your face to the crook of his neck as he whispers in your ear, “But I wanna make you come on my cock before I fuck you.”

  You literally vibrate with excitement when he says it, knowing full well what an entertaining night you are going to have, but a bit of pushing never hurts you, right?

  “But I really wanna ride you, please—“

  “Ah uh,” he shakes his head, kissing your chin as his free hand begins to rub circles on your thigh, “Be a good girl for me, yeah? Keep me warm and wet, sweetheart. I had a long shift, I deserve a sweet treat, don’t I?”

  You nod helplessly, burying your face in his neck when he bends forward a little, somehow his cock managing to push even deeper inside you with such a slow movement.

  “So big,” you say dreamily, wrapping your arms around his head, nuzzling your face against his like a milk-drunk cat, “Feels so good, Michael.”

  “Yeah? Imagine how much better it would feel if you come like this,” he presses his cheek back into yours, enjoying your warmth as your walls quiver around his cock in delight, “Oh, sweetest girl,” he pulls your head back a little by his fingers in your hair so he can look at you, “You’re already on edge, I can feel you shaking.”

  You can’t utter a word; your brain is getting foggy with lust, senses overwhelmed with his scent, you can’t even think about anything but Michael and his deliciously big cock filling you up completely.

  “Look at you,” he coos, his glasses moving on the bridge of his nose as he looks where you are connected, his thumb rubbing mindless shapes on your navel as it travels down closer to where it needs more attention, “Taking me so good, honey. I wanna stay inside you forever.”

  Your walls spasm around his girth so beautifully that it draws a deep groan out of his chest, his fingers tightening on your body. He helps you straighten your back, his breathing now heavier as he takes in the state of your face; all flustered, pouty, and needy. You look fucked out already and he hasn’t even touched your cunt yet.

  “Aren’t you the prettiest girl in the world?” he groans as you shift to hold yourself up by your hands on his shoulders. He reaches behind you, unclasping your bra with ease before he pushes the straps down, leaning up to kiss the path they take to fall from your shoulders.

  It is torture, you are sure. Because with each subtle movement, a wave of pleasure shoots into your core, making it much harder for you to keep your composure and not push him against the couch and ride him till dawn.

  “You’re killing me, Michael—“ you gasp as he sucks a red mark on top of your breast, finally getting rid of your bra. He grins and keeps his mouth attached to your skin, gently biting the curve of your breast before he moves to your nipple, pulling it into his mouth as he starts swirling his tongue around the tightened bud.

  You throw your head back; the pleasure slowly builds inside you with his tongue lapping at your flesh and his throbbing cock inside your tight and very welcoming pussy.

  Moaning out his name, you feel his thumb finally making its way downward, rubbing just above your buzzing clit softly — he must be torturing you. There is no other explanation for how much he is taking his time exploring your body as if he hasn’t done it a million times before.

  “Best fucking pussy, baby,” he lets go of your nipple with a lewd sound of ‘pope’ before he rests his bearded chin on your chest, looking at you with a glint in his eyes that you can see the adoration in, “Keeping me all warm, you have to see yourself really. All stretched out and pretty for me.”

  “Please, sir—“

  “Oh, baby,” he leans back, keeping you straight with his hand playing with your nipple, gently tugging at it and watching you moan in delight, hips bucking to get some friction desperately but he stops you by his long fingers grabbing your hip, “Enjoy this, baby, then I’ll fuck you until I have to get ready for my next shift, yeah? A pretty girl like you deserves to be taken care of for hours, don’t you think?”

  You nod immediately, bringing his hand that is dangerously close to your clit up to your mouth, wrapping your lips around his thumb as you wet it for him, coating it in spit before you guide it back to where it was.

  “Good girl.”

  You smile shyly, looking at him from beneath your lashes. He looks so good with his glasses on, and you can see his eyes much better this way, those soppy brown orbs that are hooded with pleasure. His hair is messy, his beard even worse but this cozy look he has got is enough to make your pussy pulse in need.

  “Look at you, baby,” he coos again, pressing down on your clit with his thumb, rubbing fast circles just on the right place that makes your legs shake around his thighs, “You’re such a good girl for listening to me. Maybe I should tie you up one day and only speak dirty to you until you come? What do you say?”

  You can only nod, your mouth opening in a silent scream as the knot in your lower stomach tightens with each circle he draws over the bundle of nerves.

  Robby watches you closely as you fall over the edge of your peak; you barely hold yourself up by your hands on his belly, back arching as your cunt clenches around him, wetness dripping from where you are connected to each other.

  “Yes, yes,” he moans as well, and you feel his stomach tightening, “hmm, you gonna make me come too, baby. Fuck, you’re so beautiful—“

  He is cut off by you crashing your lips into his, salty tears dripping down your eyes as your orgasm drags out as he keeps his finger attached to your puffy clit, making sure you gush around him until there is nothing to give.

  You feel him twitching inside you, and in a second, you pull back to stare into his eyes through the glasses as the warmth of your cunt envelopes his senses completely.

  Robby comes with a groan, filling you up to the hilt with his seed, his hands flying to your waist to keep your pelvis pressed into his. He holds onto you tightly, throwing his head back as he pumps you full, and you take advantage of the sight of his Adam’s apple before you lean in and pull the skin of his throat into your mouth.

  “Jesus fucking christ,” he laughs breathlessly, pulling you up from his neck by a hand behind your head, looking at your tear-streaked face before he kisses down the dried path, “You did so good, honey.”

  “That was… something,” you drop down on top of him completely, letting him hold you close in his embrace, “Were you serious about it?”

  “About what? Fucking you till sunrise or tying you up?” He smirks, his eyes glimmering devilishly, his hands caressing your spine slowly.

  “Both,” you stroke his chest over his shirt, “Cause those were such huge goals for an old man like you.”

  “This old man made you come so hard you started crying,” he pinches your side, kissing your forehead, “Behave now, you were such a good girl just a second ago.”

  “I’m always a good girl,” your smirk matching his, “But you must keep the glasses on. Nonnegotiable.”

  “You got a deal.”

[latenightwithpizza]

oh goodness, i don't even know WHERE to start. im just so happy you kept going with this absolutely fantastic piece!! so heartbreaking raw and angsty, i want to strangle mattheo and kiss him and give him a hug and then shove him off a cliff, i feel dizzy from all the emotional whiplash you have given me! but i love it sm!!!! the way reader is struggling so much with their situation but is still being selfish by leading rowan on because she can't fully have mattheo god they're both so fucked up in their own ways, AND I DONT EVEN KNOW WHY yet for her!! so beautiful leo, you always kill it, your writing is one of my favs to devour and i truly wanted to highlight every line in this whole piece!!! 😭🤍🤍🤍

Also just love this timeline of this fic, of it being set when they go back to a rebuilt Hogwarts for the 8th year!!!

Mattheo Riddle had become a ghost before the war had even ended, had already lost his entire sense of self. That moment—when he watched his father turn to literal dust—he couldn’t differentiate between whether the stirring he felt was grief or relief.

FUCKING BEAUTIFUL the not being able to differentiate between grief and relief. Sure he hated his dad but that's all he’d ever known in a way, god that must be so hard to have that taken away, the familiarity and to be left completely alone now even tho now hes free. 😭😭😭😭 The boy you remembered—the one who used to tilt his chair back during lectures and talk shit under his breath—he’s gone. What’s left is quieter. Harder to read. OMG this breaks my heart so much to see mattheo reduced to this walking zombie of a boy FUCKKKK

It wasn’t gentle or romantic. Just a pathetic attempt from both of you to bury the feeling of emptiness lodged into your hearts. 💔💔💔 UGHHHH god i want them to have love so badly!!! The months passing by in an unyielding ocean of grievance and lust, the current never failing to pull you under. No labels. No expectations. Just bodies and silence.

THE METAPHORES SCREAMINGGG they always hit so good!!! 🙌🙌🙌

Despite your better judgment, despite the voice in the back of your head telling you to wake up and face reality, you’ve catalogued each of those moments in the most ornate corners of your brain.

God i feel so much for the reader, not her trying to convince herself that she needed this as well. That it was really a business transaction, a mutual need and nothing else!! poor baby i love the way you've explained how she can't escape the memories and moments with him no matter how much she might wish to forget and move on 😭 The problem was, that need had a different definition for you than it did for him. SOBBING OMG

There’s an odd kind of comfort in knowing that you’re still able to feel, in knowing that your heart still works, and you’ll take whatever pain comes along with the pleasure to prove it.

OMG i love this line so much the ‘knowing that your heart still works’ the fact that i yet have no idea what has happened to the reader for her to crave this kind of attention and love has me dying to know more. Like something must have happened in her life for her to connect with mattheo in that same level as him!! The storytelling leo is so beautiful, im absorbed!!

“How’d you sleep?” he asks with a smile that came too easily. Peacefully, with another boy in my bed who fucks like a—

PLEASE LMFAO yeah fucks like a what A FUCKING WHORE

He grins, all sunshine and sincerity, and you hate yourself a little more than usual. Because you know you’re going to cancel at the last minute. You always do.

READER using rowan is so mean, the fact she knows he'd be so good to her yet she craves that wild and rougher side with mattheo fucking hell and to know she'll use rowan anyway because she can't get these sweet moments with mattheo, its all so twisted and complicated and mean but i kind of love it

You’ve kept your distance, save for the occasional glance in his direction—you can’t help yourself. But every time your gaze finds him, he’s never looking back.

YOUR BREAKING ME LEO !!!!! </3 him not looking at you NO why is he not yearning for her!!

And maybe you are that transparent. Like someone’s cracked open your spine and flipped through your insides. Public display. Exhibition. Autobiography of your worst decisions.

AGAIN LOVE YOUR WRITING SO MUCH !! 😭😭😭 EEEH so excited this is far as the preview sneak i got and the way i was NOT PREPARED in the slightest for what came next !!

also the fact she only has the courage to approach in drunk </3 Being sober means remembering everything, and you refuse to take that chance. i want to cry for her but also so true, having that intoxicated confidence is like no other

gives you a look, one that says you’re not fooling anybody, and it’s enough to make your stomach twist. // You slip your arm from hers, gently but firmly, like peeling off a bandage that’s clinging too tight.

LOVE this whole section SO FRICKEN MUCH, like pansy is suffocating her with that whole 'told you so'. and reader knows everything pansy is saying is right but still chooses to be a dumbass and ignore the warning signs, literally shes hanging on by that tiny thread that theres something there with mattheo so badly she's willing to hurt herself in the process

The sight hits you like a fucking punch to the gut, jealousy slithering up your spine and coiling tight around your ribs until you feel like you can barely breathe. Your hands tighten into fists without you realizing, the stupid watch in your pocket starting to feel like 50 pound weights, dragging you down every moment you were still standing.

OBSESSED, i love the way the jealousy is described and that watch being a metaphor for so much eeeh!! Not him ignoring you and you just watching him kiss her neck THIS FUCKING BITCH MATTHEO. I can feel her embarassment dripping off the page, its like when reader does something cringe and i just wanna look away like GIRLIE STOP ABORT ABORT 

“Why not?” His voice is low, dangerous now, eyes narrowed as he leans in. “Because he’s the one who takes you on real dates? The one you’re actually proud to be seen with? While I get what—sloppy seconds in the dark when you’re drunk enough to forget you don’t give a shit about me?”

WHAT mattheo!?!? You’re actually jealous and wanna go on dates with usss Lowkey kicking my feet at this, like yes baby boy you've been spying on us enough to know we're kind of seeing someone twiring my hair 🤭🤭🤭

“No?” He leans in again, voice like poison. “I know you kept that watch for a week. Slept with it on your nightstand like some pathetic little souvenir. I know you came here in a skirt that screams look at me, Mattheo, and now you’re pissed that I did.”

OKAY I TAKE IT BACK, EXCUSE ME 😤🤬didn't have to call us out like that lmfao the way id die if someone humilated me like this; "Slept with it on your nightstand like some pathetic little souvenir.” 

STOP WHY IS HE SO INFURATING BUT SO HOT IM SCREAMING  His expression darkens. He lifts the watch, holds it between two fingers like it’s meaningless. “Yeah. Well. It was just a fucking watch.”

“Fuck you,” you whisper. He takes a step forward, chest nearly brushing yours. “You already did. Again and again. Until you were shaking so hard you couldn’t even see.”

BITCHCHHHCHC WHY IS THIS SO FUCKING HOTTTT ‼️‼️‼️

“You think Rivers would still look at you the same,” he murmurs, “if he saw the way you drool on my cock?”

UM UMUMUMUM IM WET

“That’s it,” he grits, hips starting to move. “Take it. Fucking take it like a good girl.” PURRRRRING “Still think I’m the problem?” he asks softly, venom sweet in his voice. // “Yes,” you whisper hoarsely, voice raw from his cock. Wrong answer. He slams his dick back in without warning, so deep his balls are practically pressing against your chin. Your throat constricts in protest and the noise you let out is one of pure, unadulterated shock, but it only spurs him on. 

im sorry the whole blowjob scene chefs fucking kiss!!! He’s so fucking maddening right now but i relate to the reader sm much right now fucccck

THE SPITTING !!!! “That’s it,” he growls, watching you like a man possessed. “Fucking swallow it. All of it. Like you’re proud.” YES DADDY 😫😫😫

And the look on his face when you do… God, it’s like you’ve just handed him your soul. HES GOING TO THINK THESE MF THOUGHTS AND THEN act like there aint something going on i swear this man

Your hand trembles as it slides down between your thighs, slow and uncertain, and he watches you in the mirror like a hawk, gaze burning into every inch of you. You suck in a breath as your fingers reach your cunt, slick and hot and already pulsing. // “Fuck,” he mutters. “Come on, baby, make yourself feel good.”

Especially when he groans, low and raw, like he missed this. Like he’s been starving for you.

BRUHHHHH

Because this isn’t just about getting you off anymore. // This is him, laying claim to every last piece of you in the only language he knows—sex, sweat, spit, and everything he’s not brave enough to admit out loud. 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭

why does this make me want to cry, like come on matty its okay come here lemme give u a hug 🫂

He suddenly looks so fucking broken, so vulnerable. You want to reach for him, wipe the tear from his face, ask him what the fuck is going on inside his head. You want to ask him why he’s so fucking cold one minute, and then this the next.

Not him shedding a tear whaaat im so conflicted!! 😫

YOU SHOULD GO WHAT the FUCK MATTHEO U CANT BE SERIOUS 😭😤😖

His fingers trace a line down your spine, his touch almost affectionate, but it doesn’t last long. The coldness creeps back in, wrapping itself around his words like a familiar shroud. “You should go.”

WHILE HES CARESSING OUR BACK GTFO 🤺🤺🤺

And as you step into the cold air, your chest aches, but you don’t know whether it’s because you want him to chase you or because you know he won’t.

THE ENDING LINE LEO BRUH NOOOO WHAAAT, the way i cant wait to skip over to part two. God the way you threw me around there, diagloue, descriptions, emotions never fail bb you truly have a talent and once again so proud of u for continuing to pour your heart into this!!!! 🤍🩵 I’m so hooked, like this could go so many ways but I’m praying for a happyish ending 🙏

WICKED GAME. mattheo riddle.

mattheo riddle x fem!reader. part one. → part two.

summary ; after the war, nothing feels real except him—you’re not together, not really, but that’s never stopped you from crawling back to him when it burns too much to feel nothing at all. it’s cruel and addictive, and things change when your hypocrisy begins to bleed through. words ; 9.5k warnings ; sexual content, angst, toxic situationship, fingering, unprotected p in v, mattheo’s rough, creampie, oral m! & f!receiving, throatfucking, overstimulation, f!masterbation, voyeurism (?), swearing, hair pulling, orgasm denial, dirty talk, degradation, spitting, choking, pussy slapping, spanking, dp (fingers + cock), squirting

navigation. masterlist.

His back is to you when you open your eyes. 

You watch as he slides on his jeans—the same blue denim he was wearing last night when he showed up at your door. Listen as his shoes tap against the wood floor. There’s a certain rhythm to it, almost mechanical, like he’s done this a thousand times before. Muscle memory. 

He bends down to pick up his shirt from the floor, his movements slow, careful. You can almost hear the thoughts running through his head, though you know better than to ask. He’s good at keeping things to himself, as good as you’ve learned to be. 

His muscles flex as he reaches up to slide the shirt over his head, and your eyes catch on the scars littering his back, the faint red lines and the faded, angry stains left upon his spine, holding memories of the days that brought him to this point of roboticism, and despite your best efforts not to think too hard about it, your heart clenches painfully in your chest.

He glances over at you, and for the briefest second, there’s something in his eyes. Something soft, something different, though you can’t quite place it. Then, just as quickly, it’s gone, replaced by that familiar mask.

“I’ll see you soon,” he says, his voice low, but there’s nothing in it. No affection. No real meaning. Just words.

You nod, eyes following his every move as he heads for the door, but you don’t say anything. Because what is there to say?

He leaves, and the silence that follows feels heavier than it should. You stay there for a few moments longer, listening to the sound of the door clicking shut, before you finally let out the breath you’d been holding.

Last night still lingers—on your skin, in your throat, between your legs. You feel it in the ache of your limbs and the hollow in your chest. It wasn’t supposed to feel like this. It never is.

Mattheo Riddle had become a ghost before the war had even ended, had already lost his entire sense of self. That moment—when he watched his father turn to literal dust—he couldn’t differentiate between whether the stirring he felt was grief or relief. 

The first time you saw him outside of Hogwarts was in a Muggle pub just off Diagon Alley. It had been a couple months since the end of the battle, right around the time you’d returned to a rebuilt version of Hogwarts for an eighth year. You hadn’t expected to see him at all, let alone there—half-drunk in a booth, sleeves rolled to his elbows, eyes darker than you remembered. He looked up when you walked past. Didn’t smile. Didn’t speak. Just lifted his glass in a sort of salute, like you were two survivors nodding across the wreckage. 

You weren’t close, back then. Not really. Before the world went to ashes, you ran in the same circles—shared friends, shared classes, shared the occasional smirk across the room—but that was it. He was always a little too reckless for you to trust. And you were a little too careful, too quiet, for him to notice.

But war changes things.

The boy you remembered—the one who used to tilt his chair back during lectures and talk shit under his breath—he’s gone. What’s left is quieter. Harder to read. He still walks like he owns the ground beneath his feet, but there’s something broken behind his eyes now. Something lonely. You recognized it the moment you saw him again.

How could you not? It’s the same hollow feeling you can’t escape even in your wildest dreams.

That night in the pub, it was you who approached first, who spoke first. What started with small talk about mutual friends—about who made it out, who didn’t—turned into two drinks, then three, and then suddenly you were closer.

You can’t remember who leaned in first—only the bitter taste of whiskey on his lips and the way his hands slid under your shirt, all rough and desperate, as if he was trying to claw his way back into something real. It wasn’t gentle or romantic. Just a pathetic attempt from both of you to bury the feeling of emptiness lodged into your hearts.

He took you back to his dorm that night, and all you can remember was the way he had you pressed up against the wall, his mouth on your neck and his fingers fumbling with the buttons of your shirt like he hadn't touched another person in years. 

And then it happened again, two weeks later. And again, and again, until it became a pattern, the months passing by in an unyielding ocean of grievance and lust, the current never failing to pull you under.

No labels. No expectations. Just bodies and silence.

He doesn’t stay the night. Except when he does.

And you don’t care. Except you do.

You pull the silk sheets tighter around your bare chest, the scent of him burning your flesh. It’s riddled with vodka and musk and that cheap ass cologne you pretend not to love. Your eyes flutter shut, drifting back to last night, or more accurately, to every fucking night you’ve ever shared with him, honing in on every time he touched you with a certain gentleness that he usually never possessed. 

Despite your better judgment, despite the voice in the back of your head telling you to wake up and face reality, you’ve catalogued each of those moments in the most ornate corners of your brain. The moments when his fingertips glided softly along the ridges of your spine, when you’d moan a certain way and he’d ease the hold he had on your hair, when he positioned you facing him instead of away. 

It was pathetic, really. The arrangement was what it was, and there was no underlying meaning to any of the unspoken rules the two of you set. It wasn’t serious, it wasn’t exclusive, and it never would be, but it seemed the walls around your heart were far too fragile, far too decrepit, to ever stand a chance.

You told yourself you could do it. That it was fine. That you really were just helping each other cope and it was only about satisfying a mutual need. The problem was, that need had a different definition for you than it did for him.

You glance to your side, sitting up with the covers pulled just below your arms. His expensive watch is on the nightstand, forgotten again. He always forgets something, and you’ve started to wonder if it’s intentional. 

Eventually, you force yourself out of bed, wincing at the sensation of your bare feet hitting the cold floor. The clock’s only just ticked past six—feels too early to get up now for a 9AM class, but you decide you need a shower. To wash away the smell of drinks and smoke and the grease in your hair, but mostly, to wash away last night’s activities. To wash him off your skin.

This cycle, it’s never ending, like a wound that scabs but never heals. Maybe a sane person who actually fucking cared about theirself would have called it off by now, but you just can’t bring yourself to do it. Because no matter how much it stings, no matter how bad the fire burns you, it’s still reassuring. There’s an odd kind of comfort in knowing that you’re still able to feel, in knowing that your heart still works, and you’ll take whatever pain comes along with the pleasure to prove it.

Your body feels unfamiliar as you pad quietly to the bathroom, like it doesn’t quite belong to you anymore, your limbs heavy with leftover sleep. You let the door click shut behind you before turning the water on hotter than you should, letting the steam rise and drown out the thoughts bouncing around your skull.

You step under the spray without waiting, eyes shut, letting the heat burn away whatever’s left of last night. It doesn’t work—but you stay there anyway.

By the time you drag yourself out, the mirror is too fogged to show your face, and your fingers are wrinkled from how long you stayed under. You dry off without thinking, dress even faster, and force yourself out of the dorm before your mind can drag you back.

The Great Hall is already buzzing with chatter when you arrive for breakfast but making conversation is the last thing you want to do.

Unfortunately for you though, things never work out in your favor. That’s made clear enough by the sight of a handsome boy in blue robes waving you over. Groaning internally, you give in and trudge over to him and his friends—not that you have much of a choice.

“Hi Rowan,” you offer, flashing him a half-arsed smile as you took the seat next to him, fighting the urge to drop your tired head into your hands. 

“How’d you sleep?” he asks with a smile that came too easily. 

Peacefully, with another boy in my bed who fucks like a—

“Fine. Well, actually, I slept well.”

“I’m glad.”

Rowan was sweet. You’d been seeing him for a few weeks now. Nothing serious, but just a bit of fun. Dates, kisses, late-night study sessions that turned into something more. It was easier with him. He smiled at you in the hallways, held your hand under the table, asked questions like he genuinely wanted to know the answer. And he wasn’t bad to look at either—or to kiss. But when you did kiss him, when his hands were on your waist, your mind wandered. You couldn't help wishing his hands were rougher, warmer, different.

He pours you a glass of pumpkin juice without asking, like it’s an ingrained habit now. You thank him with a small smile and start picking at a piece of toast.

Rowan leans a little closer, nudging your shoulder with his. “You look tired. Was it the Arithmancy essay?”

You nod vaguely, reaching for the pumpkin juice. “Yeah, something like that.”

He chuckles softly. “Knew I should’ve stayed to help. I would’ve, you know—if you’d asked.”

You manage a smile, one that doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “I know. You’re sweet.”

There’s a brief silence as you sip your drink, and then:

“I was thinking,” he starts, hesitant. “Maybe this weekend, you and me could take a trip to Hogsmeade? Just the two of us. I feel like I never get you all to myself anymore.”

You nearly choke on your toast.

“I— yeah. Sure,” you say too quickly, blinking down at your plate. “That sounds nice.”

He grins, all sunshine and sincerity, and you hate yourself a little more than usual.

Because you know you’re going to cancel at the last minute. You always do.

Your eyes flick toward the doors of the Great Hall every few seconds, scanning the entrance like your body’s acting on instinct, searching for him even when your mind insists not to.

Rowan’s voice pulls you back.

“Do you have class after this?” he asks, brushing a crumb off your cheek with his thumb. “I could walk you.”

You swallow thickly, nodding. “Yeah. Defense. With Slughorn.”

He laughs. “Isn’t he Potions?”

You blink again. Shit. “Right. Sorry. I meant… I meant Potions.”

You’re falling apart at the seams and he doesn’t even notice. That might be the worst part.

The weekend arrives with a sickening speed, each day bleeding into the next like ink soaking through thin pages. You’ve kept your distance, save for the occasional glance in his direction—you can’t help yourself. But every time your gaze finds him, he’s never looking back. You don’t get the butterflies, the stupid fluttering warmth a younger, more naive version of you might have felt if he’d met your eyes across the room. Mattheo doesn’t give you that satisfaction, and it eats at you because all you want to know was if it was on purpose—if he was fighting the same fucking battle as you or if he honestly just didn’t care.

Too much to dwell on, you think. Too much to dwell on and too little in return. 

Your hands tremble as they gently scoop up Mattheo’s watch from the cozy spot in your nightstand drawer that you’d tucked it into, between freshly washed socks and bras. It felt too intimate, storing something that belongs to him in such a personal space, but you told yourself that that wasn’t your intention, that you were just safekeeping it for him.

Of course, safekeeping would’ve meant more if you’d returned it to him days ago, during one of the countless times you’d crossed paths in classrooms and hallways, and of course you'd thought about it, but you backed down before you even began.

Speaking to him when you weren’t drunk was a risk you didn’t want to gamble.

True, it would give you an advantage; you wouldn’t spew the same utter bullshit and nonsense you usually did when intoxicated. And true, chances were he’d just take the watch and you’d both move along with your days, but fuck, there was also the chance that either he’d ask you something you didn’t want to answer or you’d say something you couldn’t take back.

Being sober means remembering everything, and you refuse to take that chance.

So instead you wait.

You wait and wait until Saturday night rolls around, his watch crammed into your jacket pocket as you stumble down the steps of the dormitories to the common room, where music is blasting so loud it could hardly be considered anything but noise. The air reeks of alcohol and weed, tendrils of secondhand smoke snaking through your nostrils to leave your head throbbing in record time. You haven’t even made it halfway across the room and your skull already feels like it’s cracking open.

The second Pansy spots you—your oversized jacket swallowing your frame, concealing the bare skin shown off by your tiny skirt —she’s practically lunging. Her arm hooks around yours, too tight and too fast, and her breath smells like firewhiskey when she leans in.

“Oh, look at you,” she drawls, eyes glassy, voice syrup-thick. “Looking all dangerous tonight. Who are you trying to kill with that skirt?”

You shift on your feet, uncomfortable. “No one, Pans,” you mutter. “I’m wearing the jacket for a reason.” Your free hand fidgets with the hem hidden beneath the leather, fingers twitching like they’ve got something to hide. “The skirt was the only clean thing I had.”

Pansy’s smirk doesn’t budge. If anything, it grows smugger. She tilts her head, eyes narrowing with a glint that makes your skin prickle. “Mhm. Sure. Nothing to do with a certain someone you’re hoping to accidentally bump into? Saving the view for him?”

God.

You roll your eyes so hard it hurts, but the heat crawling up your neck betrays you. Because she’s right. And maybe you are that transparent. Like someone’s cracked open your spine and flipped through your insides. Public display. Exhibition. Autobiography of your worst decisions.

“Fucking hell, Pansy, give it a rest. Aren’t you the one preaching every day and night about how women don’t dress for men?” 

She blanches, her brows furrowing. “Yes. Doesn’t mean I can’t tell when my best friend’s trying to get a certain boy’s attention.” Her voice is softer than before, like she’s trying to ease you into being honest with her, but she’s still slurring her speech and frankly, the words ‘best friend’ give you the urge to pull away. It only takes a couple beats without a response from you for her to rub at her reddened eyes with a fist and speak up again.

“You know he’s fucked up, right?”

Right. That again.

Like it’s news. Like it’s something you haven’t played on repeat in your brain until the record scratched.

“I’m well aware.”

“He’s not built for relationships.” 

You smile, sharp as broken glass. “Good thing we’re not in one then.”

She sways slightly, like the ground feels just a little softer than usual, and gives you a look, one that says you’re not fooling anybody, and it’s enough to make your stomach twist.

Eyes flicking to the floor, you bounce up and down on the heels of your feet, running your tongue over your teeth. “I came here to loosen up, not be lectured.”

You slip your arm from hers, gently but firmly, like peeling off a bandage that’s clinging too tight. Her fingers linger for half a second before falling away, and you don’t wait for her to say anything else—you’re already moving. Head low, feet light, weaving through the maze of limbs and smoke and pulsing bodies.

The makeshift bar is a disaster. Half-empty bottles, sticky counters, solo cups stacked like some drunken monument to poor decisions. You grab the first clean-ish one you can find and pour whatever’s within reach—firewhiskey, you think, but it burns sharper than usual when it hits your tongue. You wince. Swallow anyway.

Your eyes skim the room. Just surveying. Being observant. Gathering intel like you’re not standing there in a fucking skirt short enough to haunt a Catholic grandmother.

Swallow again. The burn licks up the back of your throat, makes your eyes sting, but it shuts your brain up for a second. So you pour another.

You don’t even like the taste. You never have, but it gives your hands something to do, and something about the numbness creeping in behind your ribs feels... safe.

You glance around, like you’re doing it casually. Like you’re not scanning the room for a face you know too well. 

Your fingers tighten around the cup.

You’re not drinking just to get brave enough to talk to him. That’s not what this is.

This is you having fun. Being normal. Loosening up, like you said.

Right?

You take another sip.

He’s not even your boyfriend. You’re not his. There’s no label, no promises, no rules. Just... blurred lines and late nights and moments that mean too much and not enough all at once.

Your mouth tastes like sugar and regret. You chase it with more alcohol.

But then you catch a glimpse of him. He’s got a short brunette in a little black dress pressed up against the wall with his hands on her hips, the top button of her shirt undone, and worst of all, his mouth on her neck. 

The sight hits you like a fucking punch to the gut, jealousy slithering up your spine and coiling tight around your ribs until you feel like you can barely breathe. Your hands tighten into fists without you realizing, the stupid watch in your pocket starting to feel like 50 pound weights, dragging you down every moment you were still standing.

Jealousy slowly bubbles into rage, and you don’t know what pushes you to do it. Be it the alcohol, or bravery, or just pure fucking stupidity, you stomp over, effortlessly pushing through the countless bodies in your way, the hurt giving you power enough to do so. 

“Mattheo,” you croak out when you’re closer to him, fingers twitching with a lethal mixture of fury and anxiety. He doesn’t budge, lips still firmly attached to her neck, leaving a trail of red splotches and saliva.

Heat floods your entire body, up your ears and cheeks and neck, leaving you embarrassed for having called to him in front of all these people only to be ignored. Either he didn’t hear you because he’s completely entranced by this girl, or he disregarded you on purpose. Either way, it burns.

“Mattheo,” you call, louder this time. 

His eyes snap up, searching his surroundings before landing on yours, hooded, glazed, like he’s not really there. But the second he sees you, something in his expression shifts. Brief and barely visible, but there.

“…What?” he mutters, voice low and rough. He doesn’t move away from her. Doesn’t drop his hands from her hips. The girl turns slightly, confused, but he doesn’t even acknowledge her. His gaze is still locked on you, half-dazed, half-aware, like he’s trying to decide whether to fight or flee.

Stomping over, you fish the watch out of your pocket, eyes never leaving his as you get closer. “You fucking forgot this,” you snarl, shoving the dumb thing against his solid chest, hard enough to make him stumble and to make the girl yelp. Without wasting a single second, you turn the fuck back around and walk away.

“What the fuck?” he mutters under his breath, his hand clasping over the watch as to not let it fall before completely disregarding the girl to follow you through the crowd.

You pray that he’ll lose you in the swarm of people, but of course, he doesn’t. He catches up just as you hit the corridor past the main room and grabs your arm—not hard, just enough to stop you, to turn you around—and the look on his face is equal parts confusion and condescension and anger. Like you just ruined his night.

“Are you fucking serious?” he growls into your face, the watch still clutched in his fist. “You come storming in, start throwing shit like a lunatic—”

You yank your arm out of his grip. “Oh, I’m the lunatic?” You laugh, short and humorless. “Sorry, didn’t realize interrupting you sucking face with some random slag made me the irrational one.”

He scoffs. “She’s not random.”

“Yeah? What’s her name then?”

He opens his mouth then closes it. Shrugs like he can’t be bothered to come up with a proper answer. “Does it matter?”

You glare at him, lip curled. “No. Of course not. Why would it? You’ve got a whole fucking lineup, don’t you?”

“You’re one to talk,” he sneers. “You playing house with Rowan fucking Rivers now? Letting him leave his shit behind too? Or do you just shove it under your bed like a good little whore and keep rotating us in?”

The slap would’ve landed if he hadn’t caught your wrist.

“You don’t get to fucking talk about him,” you seethe, struggling against his grip. “You don’t get to say anything.”

“Why not?” His voice is low, dangerous now, eyes narrowed as he leans in. “Because he’s the one who takes you on real dates? The one you’re actually proud to be seen with? While I get what—sloppy seconds in the dark when you’re drunk enough to forget you don’t give a shit about me?”

“You don’t know anything,” you snap, shoving him. He barely moves, just smirks wider, crueler.

“No?” He leans in again, voice like poison. “I know you kept that watch for a week. Slept with it on your nightstand like some pathetic little souvenir. I know you came here in a skirt that screams look at me, Mattheo, and now you’re pissed that I did.”

You take a step back, voice shaking. “I kept it because I thought you’d come back for it, you prick.”

The silence that follows is blistering. It’s a truth you’ve only just admitted to yourself for the first time.

“You left it in my room on purpose, Mattheo.” Your voice is trembling now, shaking with everything you won’t say. “Don’t act like I imagined that.”

His expression darkens. He lifts the watch, holds it between two fingers like it’s meaningless. “Yeah. Well. It was just a fucking watch.” He lets it drop to the floor between you, doesn’t even flinch when it hits with a metallic clink.

You feel something splinter in your chest. It’s quiet for a while; you can’t even think of what to say anymore.

“I know enough about you,” he says again, and the venom in his voice feels like a slap all on its own. “I know you like it when I fuck the good girl out of you and you still act like I’m the one who should feel dirty.”

It’s a low blow and he knows it, to make you sound like such a needy, sex-depraved little girl, but you know he’s not wrong. Being with him makes you feel alive—that’s how you ended up in this position to begin with. Because you made each other feel real.

“Fuck you,” you whisper.

He takes a step forward, chest nearly brushing yours. “You already did. Again and again. Until you were shaking so hard you couldn’t even see.”

You shove him. Hard.

He lets you.

But then he grabs your arm, pulls you into a corner, out of view, and slams his hand against the wall beside your head, caging you in like a goddamn threat.

“Don’t act like you don’t want this,” he says low, voice almost shaking now. “Don’t act like you came to this party looking like that for anyone else.”

Your mouth opens to argue, maybe, or scream, or slap him again, but he doesn’t give you the chance.

Because suddenly his mouth is on yours—hard, bruising, possessive—like he’s trying to prove a point, or make you forget every name that isn’t his. And you let him. You bite back. You kiss like you’re angry, because you are, and he tastes like smoke and firewhiskey and everything you can’t have but take anyway.

He’s already dragging you up the stairs to his dorm before you can even blink.

He slams the door shut behind you and you barely have time to catch your breath before he’s on you again, his mouth hot and desperate, hands roaming like he needs to memorize the shape of your body all over again just to spite himself. Your back hits the wall with a thud, and he swarms into you, one hand fisting your hair and the other gripping your hip hard enough to bruise.

“You’re such a fucking liar,” he growls against your mouth, biting at your bottom lip until you gasp. “Walking around with that innocent look, like you don’t fuck like you want to ruin me.”

You dig your nails into his shoulders, dragging him closer, refusing to let him think he’s the only one holding the reins. “You ruined yourself,” you spit. “Don’t put that on me.”

He laughs, low and cruel and breathless. “Still acting like you’re better than this,” he whispers, pressing his body flush to yours so you can feel just how hard he is, how much he wants. “Better than me.”

You don’t answer. You kiss him instead, messy and open-mouthed, biting down on his tongue just enough to make him hiss. He grabs your throat, not to squeeze, just to hold you there, thumb stroking along your jaw with a gentleness that contrasts his actions.

“You think Rivers would still look at you the same,” he murmurs, “if he saw the way you drool on my cock?”

Your breath catches, humiliation and arousal burning through you simultaneously. He sees it, the way your body betrays you, and it only makes his grin sharper, hungrier.

“Knew it,” he mutters. “Knew that mouth wasn’t just for smart little comments and pretending you’re not fucking dying to be used.”

He tugs you deeper into the room, pulling off your jacket and revealing the skirt you wore underneath. His eyes narrow; the implication is clear. So is the command in his voice when he says, “On your knees.”

Your heart stutters, but you obey, mostly because you’re too proud to hesitate. The carpet bites at your knees as you kneel in front of him, evading his gaze because he’s watching you with a look that makes your skin feel too tight.

“Take it out,” he says, voice low and sharp. “Since you came all this way.”

You glare up at him, but your fingers are already working his belt loose, pushing fabric aside, your hands far steadier than you feel. He’s hard, flushed, already leaking at the tip. You swallow hard, shame heating the back of your throat, and he fucking sees it.

He’s thick and hard, and when he hits the back of your throat, you gag, but don’t pull away. He holds there a second too long. Then pulls back. Then thrusts again—harder this time, hand fisted in your hair.

“That’s it,” he grits, hips starting to move. “Take it. Fucking take it like a good girl.”

You whimper around him, hands curling against his thighs for balance, spit slicking your chin as he thrusts deep, over and over. It’s brutal and filthy and not even a little bit gentle.

“You pretend you’re too good for this,” he breathes, cock dragging against your tongue. “Pretend you like him so much, but you never gag on his cock like this, do you?”

Your eyes water. Your throat clenches. You want to hit him, bite him, shove him back and scream, but you don’t. You just moan, low and broken, like you're agreeing with him.

Because part of you is.

“You like when I use you like this,” Mattheo hisses, slamming in again, making you choke. “When I fuck the lies right out of your pretty little mouth.”

He doesn’t stop until your mascara’s smudged, your mouth swollen, and you’re gasping through your nose with tears running down your cheeks.

Only then does he pull out, cock wet and twitching, your saliva glistening down his length.

He watches you pant for breath on your knees, lips red and parted, cheeks flushed.

“Still think I’m the problem?” he asks softly, venom sweet in his voice.

You glare up at him, breathing hard, heart thudding so violently you swear it might crack your ribs open.

“Yes,” you whisper hoarsely, voice raw from his cock.

Wrong answer. He slams his dick back in without warning, so deep his balls are practically pressing against your chin. Your throat constricts in protest and the noise you let out is one of pure, unadulterated shock, but it only spurs him on. 

His hands find the hand of your head, wrapping strands of hair around his fingers and moving your head back and forth on his own to meet the thrust of his hips. He’s too strong for you to stop him, not that you even want him to, so you let him fuck your face like a damn fleshlight.

“Cumming,” he groans. “Get ready to swallow every fucking drop— I’m gonna check.”

And after a moment, you feel ropes of warm, salty liquid shoot down your throat, coughing a little as he finally lets you come up for air but still doing your best to swallow. His thumb and forefinger harshly grab your chin, tilting your head up to look at him.

“Open.”

Oh. He wasn’t kidding when he said he’d check.

Your lips part slowly, tongue out, breath still hitching from the aftershocks. Your throat is sore, your eyes glossy, but you hold his gaze steady even as your jaw trembles from the effort.

He leans in, one hand still gripping your chin, eyes dark as sin. His thumb drags your bottom lip down further, admiring the mess he’s made. His cum still glistens faintly on your tongue.

“Good,” he murmurs, low and rough. “Good fucking girl.”

The praise hits something dangerous inside you and you swear your body betrays you all over again. You don’t move, don’t speak, just keep holding your mouth open like he told you to, letting him see every bit of you wrecked and obedient. “Keep it open.”

You blink up at him, confused for only a second—until you see him curl his lip, tilt his head slightly, and then—he spits.

It lands right on your tongue, warm and wet and humiliating.

And your whole body clenches with how fucking turned on you are.

“That’s it,” he growls, watching you like a man possessed. “Fucking swallow it. All of it. Like you’re proud.”

You do. You swallow every drop—his cum, his spit, all of it—and then open your mouth again without being told, just to show him.

And the look on his face when you do… God, it’s like you’ve just handed him your soul.

You barely have time to brace before he’s yanking you up from the floor by the hair, your knees scraping the rug as you scramble upright, unbalanced. Your face is hot and slick and wrecked, your mouth still tingling from how thoroughly he used it, and your body stings with humiliation and heat and something even worse: want.

He spins you around and shoves you toward the full-length mirror propped up against the wall. You catch yourself just in time, palms flat against the wood paneling on either side of the mirror’s frame. Your reflection stares back at you, wide-eyed and flushed, mascara streaking down your cheeks, lips red and swollen and shiny with spit.

Mattheo crowds in behind you, pressing his chest against your back, trapping you with his body. His mouth hovers just above your ear.

“Look at you,” he growls, voice thick. “Fucking look.”

Your throat is raw. Your heart pounds. You look.

“Mouth wrecked. Face ruined. Drool all down your chin.” His eyes meet yours in the mirror, unblinking. “And your thighs have been pressed together since the second you knelt down. What, sucking my cock got you wet?”

You don’t respond. He laughs, low and cruel, and his hands trail down, slow and mocking, sliding over your waist, the curve of your ass, gripping the hem of your skirt and hiking it up just enough to reveal the way your legs are trembling.

“This what Rivers gets?” he sneers. “This pretty little mess? Or do you clean yourself up for him, act sweet and shy and fuckin’ pure like you don’t choke on my cock every chance you get? Think he’d still hold your hand if he knew what you looked like with your mouth stuffed full of someone else’s cock?”

You blink, furious and humiliated, and maybe just a little aroused by the heat in his voice, the roughness of his grip, the fact that his cock’s already starting to harden again against your hip. Swallowing hard, you still refuse to speak, but your silence damns you more than any answer.

He smirks.

“Take your clothes off,” he says simply, stepping back and folding his arms. “Slow.”

Your breathing falters, but your hands move.

First your shirt, inch by inch, over your head and off your arms. Then your skirt, unbuttoning at your hip, sliding down your thighs and pooling at your feet, then your panties. You don’t rush, not because you’re trying to be seductive, but because there’s something humiliating about doing it this way. Slowly, while he watches, while you watch in the mirror. You’re down to just your bra, skin flushed, legs bare. 

Mattheo’s eyes drag over you like fire.

He walks you back toward the bed until the backs of your knees hit the mattress. You sit automatically, and he moves behind you, knees bracketing yours as he settles on the edge and tugs you back against his chest.

His breath is hot at your ear as his hands drift up.

One finds the clasp of your bra and undoes it with a single practiced flick. The straps slide down your shoulders, and you make a move to shrug it off, but he stops you, his hand coming around to cup your breast through the lace before it falls away completely.

You suck in a breath.

“You know, every part of you is prettier when it’s ruined,” he says, his hand squeezing once before letting the bra fall away altogether. “Even this.”

Your head tilts back against his shoulder, eyes fluttering closed for just a second, but then his other hand slides under your thigh, hooks beneath your knee, and yanks your leg up, holding it back so wide you can see the slick mess between your thighs in the mirror. He does the same to your other leg, locking them open from behind, his arms under your knees, your cunt completely exposed.

“Eyes on the mirror,” he mutters. “Not done with you yet.”

You blink at your reflection, the slow creep of vulnerability tightening your chest. You’re fully bare now, curled against Mattheo like some kind of obscene doll, his hands splayed possessively over your body like he owns it, like he owns you.

“You know what I want,” he murmurs, voice rough against your temple. “So do it.”

You hesitate again and his palm tightens under your knee, jerking your leg higher, further apart, until your muscles strain with the angle.

“Do it,” he says again, quieter this time. More dangerous.

Your hand trembles as it slides down between your thighs, slow and uncertain, and he watches you in the mirror like a hawk, gaze burning into every inch of you. You suck in a breath as your fingers reach your cunt, slick and hot and already pulsing.

“Fuck,” he mutters. “Come on, baby, make yourself feel good.”

You press your fingers against your clit, drawing slow, tentative circles, but it’s not enough—he makes it feel dirty, degrading, like something shameful when he’s not the one doing it to you. But his eyes are fixed on your hand now, on the way your legs twitch under his hold, on the stutter in your breath.

His palm slides up to your chest again, this time tweaking your nipple between two fingers with a twist that makes your hips buck—and then he’s gone again, gripping both legs now, holding them wide, making sure you stay open as you push a finger inside. You don’t even realize you’re whining, begging under your breath—please, please, please—until you hear him laugh softly, right in your ear.

“Pathetic little slut,” he breathes. “You’re going to cum just from your own fingers? From being watched?”

You nod without meaning to, the pressure mounting too fast, too sharp. You’re close, so fucking close, and your body’s about to give in.

But then, his hand lashes out and grabs your wrist, yanking it away from your cunt just seconds before you tip over the edge.

You choke on a sob, hips rocking up into nothing, your cunt clenching around emptiness as the orgasm dies, suffocates, fizzles out in your gut like ash.

“No,” he growls into your neck, dragging your hand up and away. “You don’t get to cum yet.”

You whimper, chest rising and falling like you’ve run a marathon, still trembling in his arms. His grip on your legs doesn’t loosen. You’re still spread open, still flushed and dripping and unsatisfied, your cunt throbbing from the denied release.

He brings your hand up to your mouth, still wet from between your thighs.

“Open,” he says again, voice a whipcrack.

You do and he shoves your fingers between your own lips, slow and punishing, until your taste coats your tongue.

“Now be a good girl,” he says, breathing ragged against your ear, “and fucking hold it in.”

Your fingers are still in your mouth, tasting yourself on your tongue, when he finally lets go of your legs and shoves you forward onto the bed. You land on your elbows, breath catching, and before you can adjust, he’s dragging you back by the hips, forcing you flat on your back, knees bent and spread wide as he looms over you.

“Fucking mess,” he mutters, looking down at your slick cunt, still flushed and leaking from earlier. “And this is what you’re trying to give to someone else?”

His thumb drags along your inner thigh, deceptively slow, just skimming the edge of where you need him most, but not quite touching. You squirm under his gaze, shame prickling hot over your skin.

“You think Rivers could ever make you look like this?” he sneers. “Think he could make you drip like this, just from talking down to you?”

You don’t answer because you know he’s not waiting for one.

Instead, he grabs your thighs and spits—a sharp, wet sound—and the slick hit of it lands right on your cunt, warm and filthy. You jolt, moaning despite yourself, and his grin turns sharp and mean.

He licks a slow stripe through your folds, tongue flat and dragging, and your hips buck immediately. You can’t help it; you’ve been denied, teased, ruined already, and the wet heat of his mouth is unbearable. Especially when he groans, low and raw, like he missed this. Like he’s been starving for you.

He doesn’t start soft, doesn’t build up. He dives in with a filthy kind of hunger, tongue working in tight circles over your clit, then flattening to lick deep into you like he’s trying to clean out every trace of anyone else.

His hands push down on your thighs, holding them wide, fingers pressing bruises into your skin. You’re panting already, arching into his mouth, and he moans against you like he likes how desperate you are.

“Fucking taste of you,” he growls, voice muffled against your cunt. “Could eat this for hours. Make you forget every single thing but me.”

You whimper, fingers knotting in the sheets.

He pulls back just enough to spit on you again—louder this time, wetter—his saliva mixing with your slick and spreading as he drags his tongue through the mess. The sound alone makes your stomach twist.

You try to squirm away, overstimulated from earlier, nerves already frayed—but it’s useless. His mouth chases you with unrelenting hunger, tongue circling your clit, then sucking on it hard enough to make your legs jerk.

“Stay fucking still,” he growls, and when you don’t, he lifts one hand—crack. Slaps your pussy once, hard.

You cry out, thighs shaking, but he doesn’t give you time to recover. He slaps you again. And then again. Three times in total, each one harder than the last, until your whole cunt is aching and wet and flushed.

You blink through the haze of pain and pleasure, cunt throbbing where he hit you, but you don’t dare close your legs. His mouth is back on you in seconds, licking over the sting, soft for one moment before he starts sucking your clit again like he’s trying to draw every last sound out of you. His nails dig into your thighs. He growls something you can’t even understand because your mind is fucking splitting—

And still, he doesn’t let up.

Not yet.

His mouth is relentless, tongue lashing over your clit like he’s angry at it, like if he sucks hard enough it’ll undo the fact that you ever even thought about being with someone else.

When he pushes two fingers inside you, it feels like too much. They’re thick and rough and he doesn’t give you time to adjust; just starts fucking them into you, curling them with practiced precision until your back arches off the bed and your scream rips through the room.

“Yeah?” he pants, barely coming up for air. “You gonna cum? Gonna soak my fucking face like the little slut you are?”

Your hands fly to his hair, tugging hard enough to hurt, but he only groans louder, the vibration shooting straight through your core.

“I said fucking cum,” he growls, fingers driving in even faster. “Now.”

And you do.

It slams into you like a wave, knocking all the air from your lungs. Your thighs clamp around his head, your entire body tensing as pleasure crests so violently it almost hurts. You cry out, raw, broken, and fucked-out, and your cunt clenches hard around his fingers, gushing as your orgasm tears through you.

You thrash, moaning his name like it’s a curse, trying to twist away from the overstimulation, but he’s got you pinned. One arm locked around your thigh, the other keeping his fingers buried in your cunt, his whole body pressed between your legs to keep you spread open for him.

“Fucking look at that,” he growls against you, his voice thick with pride and something almost reverent. “You fucking squirted, baby. All over me. Shit.”

Your body convulses again when he spits on your pussy, again, mixing it with your slick as he keeps working his fingers in and out of you.

“I’m not stopping,” he mutters, more to himself than to you, like he can’t stop. “Not until you’re shaking. Not until you forget every name but mine.”

Your legs tremble around his hands, your breath coming in broken gasps, your vision blurring with tears from how good it feels, how fucking much it is.

And through it all, Mattheo doesn’t ease up.

He just keeps devouring you.

Like he’s trying to crawl inside your body.

Like he wants to tear every trace of anyone else out of you—until there’s only him left.

Your second orgasm hits fast, brutal, not even a minute later. It crashes into you mid-sob, a breathless, splintered sound that makes Mattheo groan like you just fucking fed him. Your nails rake down his scalp, your legs spasm around him, and it doesn’t matter how much you squirm or whimper or cry out—he keeps going.

Because this isn’t just about getting you off anymore.

This is him, laying claim to every last piece of you in the only language he knows—sex, sweat, spit, and everything he’s not brave enough to admit out loud.

He finally lifts his mouth from your cunt, lips swollen and glistening, and you gasp at the sudden cold air hitting your slick skin, but there’s no relief because his fingers are still moving inside you, slower now, deeper, like he’s exploring. Learning you all over again. Your hips twitch when he curls them just right and your voice breaks completely.

“Mattheo, I— fuck, I can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” he cuts you off, low and rough. His voice is almost affectionate now. Almost. “You will.”

His other hand strokes your thigh, deceptively gentle, before landing another sharp slap to your overstimulated pussy. You jolt, a pathetic little noise escaping your throat.

“So sensitive now,” he murmurs, like it’s the most fascinating thing he’s ever seen. “Could cum just from my fingers, couldn’t you? Just from this.”

He adds a third finger.

You cry out, legs flying open wider on instinct, your walls fluttering as your body betrays you again, greedy, eager, desperate even when you’re already spent.

“You feel that?” he breathes, pressing against the spot that makes your whole body seize. “That little flutter? You’re so fucking close again, aren’t you? Gonna make a mess all over my hand this time, too?”

Your answer is a strangled sob and a frantic nod.

But just as your stomach starts to coil, he pulls his fingers out.

You whine, hips lifting off the bed in desperate protest, but he presses a firm hand to your stomach, holding you down.

“Don’t fucking move,” he growls. “You’ll take it when I give it to you. Not a second before.”

Your body trembles under the weight of it, your thighs twitching, breath ragged, heart pounding so hard it hurts, and for a moment, it’s quiet, the kind of quiet that makes your skin crawl.

Mattheo sits back between your legs, hand dragging slowly down your stomach, through the mess between your thighs. His fingers are wet with you. You. He stares at them like they’re proof—proof of how much you want him, how much you’ll always come back, no matter how many names you let slip from your mouth in the dark.

He drags his hand up, smearing slick across your hip, your ribs, up to your throat, gripping it again, just tight enough to make your breath catch.

Then he leans in, nose brushing yours, voice low and gutted.

“You let him touch you?”

You blink up at him, wide-eyed, mind still trying to catch up. “What?”

He squeezes your throat once, firm, unforgiving.

“Rivers,” he spits. “Did you let him see this pussy?”

“No,” you gasp, voice thin. “No, I— Mattheo, I didn’t—”

“Did he taste you?”

You shake your head, tears stinging your eyes, and it’s not just fear or arousal or shame—it’s the ache underneath it all. The ache that says this still matters to you. That some part of you wants it to matter to him, too.

His grip on your throat softens for a second.

Then he shoves your legs open and flips you over onto your stomach.

You cry out in surprise, hands scrambling against the sheets, but he doesn’t give you time to think. He pulls you up onto your knees, dragging your hips back until you’re arched, exposed—humiliated in the most obscene way. Your face is half-buried in the blanket, flushed and wet, and you can just barely make out your reflection in the mirror across the room.

You look wrecked.

Mascara streaked down your cheeks. Lips red and bitten. Hair wild from where he’s been fisting it all night.

And your thighs are trembling, still parted, slick with arousal.

“Look at yourself,” he snaps, fisting a hand in your hair to make you lift your head. “So fucking beautiful.”

You do look. It’s unbearable.

“You see that?” he murmurs, dragging the head of his cock through your folds. “See what I’ve done to you?”

You shudder as he presses in just a little, enough to stretch you open around the tip, but not enough to satisfy the ache. Not yet.

“You used to act like you were better than this,” he whispers, and his voice is low, hoarse, almost reverent. “All those books. All that fucking perfect posture in class. Just fooling everyone else.”

He shoves forward, burying himself in you in one brutal thrust.

Your mouth falls open in a silent scream as your body clenches around him, raw and slick and too sensitive, but fuck, you’re full. So full it almost hurts. He doesn’t give you time to adjust. He just starts to move, deep and rough, hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise.

Your eyes flick up again, dazed, catching your own reflection, and the look on your face is almost unrecognizable. Pleasure, pain, possession, and everything in between.

He wraps his hand around your throat, pulling your upper body back against his chest. Your spine arches, your tits bouncing with each harsh thrust, and he watches all of it, obsessed, with his eyes locked on the mirror.

"Say it," he snarls, hand tightening at your throat. "Say who you fucking belong to."

You gasp, pulse hammering against his grip, and he spanks you hard when you hesitate. The sting ripples through your thighs and up your spine.

“Try to run and I’ll fuck you into the floor,” he warns, lips brushing your jaw. “Now say it.”

Your chest rises and falls in stuttering gasps, throat working around the pressure of his grip. His cock pounds into you from behind, fast and unforgiving, and the obscene slap of skin against skin drowns out every last rational thought in your head.

“I— I belong to you,” you choke out.

He growls low in your ear. “Louder.”

“I belong to you, Mattheo.”

The hand on your throat tightens, but you see his eyes flash with something deeper. Something you’ve never seen before.

“Fucking right you do.”

He shoves your thighs farther apart, hand sliding from your throat to your mouth, stuffing two fingers between your lips until you're choking again, but on him this time, gagging softly as your tongue flicks against the calloused pads.

His other hand smacks your ass again, harder, the sting blooming bright across your skin. “Can’t even keep your legs closed,” he spits, hips slamming into yours. “So fucking desperate for it— this is what you need, isn't it?”

You nod, moaning around his fingers, mouth drooling, legs trembling beneath you. Every muscle is strung tight, a storm of overstimulation building beneath your skin, burning you alive from the inside out.

Then he pulls his fingers from your mouth and drags them down between your legs, slipping them in alongside his cock, stretching you, fingering you hard while still fucking you deep.

You scream.

He clamps a hand over your mouth this time, muffling the sound, and still doesn’t stop. The rhythm of his hips falters just long enough for him to pant in your ear, “Gonna make you squirt all over me. Gonna ruin this bed, this carpet— fucking everything.”

Your orgasm builds fast and brutal, a hot knot in your gut pulled tighter and tighter with every brutal thrust, every curl of his fingers inside you. You cum with a sharp, guttural cry, convulsing around him, the force of it knocking the breath from your lungs. Your thighs tremble, your vision whites out, and then you feel it.

Liquid gushes out of you, soaking the sheets, his hand, his thighs.

He groans like he’s been punched in the gut. “Fuck yes. Just like that. Look at yourself, baby. Look at the mess you made for me. So perfect, you’re so perfect.”

Your reflection stares back at you from the mirror: eyes wild and glassy, mouth open, chest heaving. You don’t even recognize yourself anymore.

But Mattheo does and he’s fucking obsessed.

He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t even slow down.

His hips keep snapping forward, unforgiving, his cock slick with your release, his hand back at your throat now—not tight, not angry, but there. Holding. Anchoring.

“Mine,” he breathes, voice cracked and wrecked against your shoulder as he finally cums, spilling deep inside of you. “You’re mine, you understand me?” 

You can’t even speak. Just nod frantically, tears running down your cheeks. And then you feel a little splash on your bare shoulder, so faint you almost think you’re imagining it, but you look up to see his face in the mirror, small tears evidently falling down.

It’s unclear whether the fluttering in your chest is from heartache or hope or pleasure, but it’s there, and it reassures you that he must be feeling something. At least a fucking sliver of the suffering you’ve been dealing with, at least a fraction of the feelings you’re harboring for him.

He suddenly looks so fucking broken, so vulnerable. You want to reach for him, wipe the tear from his face, ask him what the fuck is going on inside his head. You want to ask him why he’s so fucking cold one minute, and then this the next.

But you can’t. Not now. Not with your body still trembling beneath his, still so raw, so exposed. He’s still inside you, still holding you in place as he leans into you, his face resting against your neck.

“Fuck,” he breathes out, his voice hoarse and barely there. His chest presses against your back, his grip on your throat loosening, fingers brushing softly over the delicate skin. “I hate this.”

You let your head fall back onto his shoulder, feeling the weight of his confession. You want to tell him that you hate it too, but it’s a lie. Part of you thrives in this chaos, this connection that burns and stings, even when it destroys you both.

His breath is still shallow, and for a moment, you both just stay there, silent, eyes locked on the mirror. He shifts slightly behind you, and for the first time in what feels like forever, he lets out a shaky breath that sounds almost... genuine.

“I didn’t mean to,” he whispers. “I didn’t...”

But his words fizzle out, swallowed by the distance that still stands between you two, even in the most intimate of moments. The words hang in the air, unspoken, a fragile thread that snaps the second you try to hold onto it.

His fingers trace a line down your spine, his touch almost affectionate, but it doesn’t last long. The coldness creeps back in, wrapping itself around his words like a familiar shroud. “You should go.”

It’s not a command, not really. It’s just the unspoken truth of what you are. What you always have been in this twisted dance; temporary. A passing fucking storm.

You turn your head slightly, catching his gaze in the mirror one last time. The rawness of his expression still burns in your chest, and for a fleeting second, you almost feel like he might say something else. Something more.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, he lets go of you completely, pulls away, and it’s like the warmth he’d offered you was never there to begin with.

”I should go?” 

“… Yeah.”

Hm. Okay.

With shaky legs, you stand, slipping out from his grip and collecting your clothes. You force yourself to dress, your hands trembling, but your heart still pounding in your chest.

Before you leave, you glance at him one more time, his eyes averted, his jaw set, the wall around him already back up. You don’t say anything; you don’t need to.

You walk out of the room, the door clicking softly behind you.

And as you step into the cold air, your chest aches, but you don’t know whether it’s because you want him to chase you or because you know he won’t.

© leona-hawthorne 2025. please do not copy, translate or repost any of my writing.

reminder that reblogs, feedback, and comments are very appreciated and make me smile :)

part two

[elswhore]

thinking about rich ceo abby all sharp suits and cool confidence, who would burn the world down just to see her bratty wife smile. mdni.

today, she’s gone all out—rented the entire damn mall, cleared it out for you to have your pick of anything and everything.

the marble floors gleam under the skylights, racks of designer clothes and shelves of sparkling jewelry laid out like a private kingdom.

her black amex is burning a hole in her pocket, and her patience? Its hanging on by a thread.

you have been at it for hours, flouncing from store to store, tossing aside gucci bags and sneering at diamond necklaces like theyre cheap trinkets.

abby trails behind, her tailored blazer brushing against displays, her jaw tightening with every sigh you let out.

shes trying—god, shes trying—to keep that calm, indulgent smile plastered on her face, but your attitude is testing her limits.

“i dont even like all of this.” you groan, flopping dramatically onto a velvet chaise in the middle of chanel.

your sundress rides up just enough to catch her eye, and you know it.

you’re being a bitch, and you’re not even sorry.

“this is boring, abby, can we just go home?” her eyes narrow, and for a second, you think you’ve pushed her too far.

she steps closer her polished loafers silent on the floor, and looms over you, the air shifts, heavy with the weight of her presence.

“boring?” she repeats, voice low. “i shut down a whole fucking mall for you, princess, and you are bored?” you pout crossing your arms, doubling down because you’re spoiled and you know she’ll cave.

“it’s all the same crap, i dont want it.” abby’s laugh is sharp, humorless, shes had enough.

in one fluid motion, she grabs your wrist, yanking you up from the chaise and pinning you against the nearest wall, her body caging yours.

the cool glass of the display case presses into your back, and your breath hitches as her hand slides up your thigh, fingers digging into the soft skin under your dress.

“ungrateful little brat,” she murmurs, lips brushing your ear, her voice dripping with heat.

“you think you can whine and pout while im out here dropping millions to make you happy?” her free hand grips your chin, forcing you to meet her stormy gaze.

“im gonna remind you exactly who’s in charge.” your heart races, a mix of defiance and thrill, but before you can snap back, her mouth crashes onto yours, all hunger and no patience.

it’s messy, possessive, her teeth grazing your lip as she kisses you like she’s claiming every inch of your attitude.

you squirm, half-fighting, half-melting, but she’s stronger, her hands already tearing at the hem of your dress.

she spins you around bending you over the chaise you were just lounging on, your hands braced against the plush fabric.

“abby!” you gasp, half a protest, but it’s cut off by the sharp smack of her hand against your ass.

the sting makes you yelp your body jerking forward, and she doesn’t give you a second to recover before she’s yanking your panties down, leaving them tangled around your thighs

“you wanna act like a spoiled bitch?” she growls, her fingers sliding between your legs, finding you already wet despite your complaints.

“then ill fuck the attitude right out of you.” her voice is rough, raw, and the sound alone makes you whimper.

she doesn’t tease, doesn’t ease you into it, her fingers plunge into you, curling hard and fast, and you cry out, gripping the chaise as your legs shake.

the mall’s empty but the echo of your moans bounces off the walls, mingling with the faint hum of the air conditioning.

abby’s other hand fists your hair, tugging your head back so you’re forced to arch, her lips brushing your neck as she whispers.

“this what you needed, huh? my spoiled fucking princess needed to be put in her place.” you try to snap something back, but it’s incoherent, swallowed by the way her fingers work you, relentless, her thumb circling your clit just to drive you insane.

she’s merciless, pushing you toward the edge so fast your head spins.

“abby—fuck, please—” you manage, voice breaking and she laughs, dark and triumphant.

“please what?” she taunts slowing just enough to make you squirm. “you gonna be good for me now? or do i need to fuck you stupid right here in the middle of chanel?”

your answer is a choked moan and she takes it as surrender doubling down until you’re trembling, coming apart on her fingers with a cry that’s half her name, half a plea.

she doesn’t stop not until you’re a shaking mess, slumped against the chaise, gasping for air.

abby pulls back, adjusting her blazer like she didn’t just ruin you in a designer store.

she smirks wiping her fingers on a silk scarf from the display, then tosses it aside.

“pick something out.” she says, voice back to that cool, controlled tone, though her eyes still burn.

“or im dragging you to the next store and fucking you in the dressing room.” you glare, still catching your breath, but theres a spark in your eyes now, a challenge.

“fine.” you mutter, grabbing the nearest bag, a sleek overpriced thing you know she’ll pay for without blinking.

“but it better be quick.” her grin is feral, and as she loops an arm around your waist, steering you toward the next boutique, you know you’re in for it.

[soft-0bscenities]

The things he'd say while he was inside me, woof 😔

Boy, oh boy, am I a sucker for a talker..

[digitalxana]

to be you

[dmbakura]

woke up and first thing i do is be insane about white rabbit again. anyways here's another thread about him, focusing on his fatalistic views and relationship with the makaians he experimented on (this was formatted for bsky so i didnt go into as much detail as i wanted due to character limit and im too lazy to write more so)

white rabbit is a death seeker. like bro wants to die, plain and simple. he's on borrowed time with his artificial demon heart sustaining him. whatever freedom he hopes makaians will gain from bringing down sparda's wall, he knows he's probably going to expire before seeing it

it's pretty obvious with how he interacts with dante and lady. it's not just about killing them (he honestly seems pretty reluctant to kill lady in particular, perhaps thinking death is too good for her/wanting to thoroughly make her suffer first) it's about making them understand him

a lot of his decisions come across as reckless and kind of careless but i think it's by design. he shows a lot of himself to dante and lady, especially by leading them to his room. he wants to be "caught" in a sense. and it also explains why he doesnt just fall back and regroup when it's obvious he has no shot of winning against dante after his army gets decimated. he doesn't have the time or resources to try again (always running out of time!) and figures one last hail mary. and he does succeed! for a moment anyway

all of this is probably why he doesnt even sound particularly bothered when dante kills him, just leaves him with spiteful words about how this world fucking despises orphans and he has no place in it (holy projection batman!) he's completely resigned, and narratively, he's right.

another moment i keep thinking about is when he pulls himself from the river and finds bloodstryke (his last demon soldier). he doesn't look crazed or elated that he still has a shot or anything like that. he looks resigned and sad and empty. even regretful.

and bloodstryke, for a moment, actually looks happy to see him! which makes me think that it's very likely a lot of the makaians he augmented/experimented on were probably completely willing to donate themselves to the cause. why wouldnt they be? they have just as much a reason to fight.

idk we don't actually get too much follow up or fleshing out of his current relationship with the makaians, but to me it reads less like "mad scientist" and more like a weirdly twisted way of "caring" for them. it's not like white rabbit isn't also experimenting on himself and pushing his own body to its absolute limit. he knows what's at stake here.

i dont have a good way to end this thread im just thinking real hard about a lot of areas in the plot that season 1 didn't really have time to linger on (8 episodes is really damn short) and im hoping we see some sort of follow up on these plot threads (even flashbacks or whatever) in season 2 because i just love wrabbit so much and there's a lot of backstory they can utilize with him.

[towasdandelion]

HAI AGAIN <333 I KNOW I WAS JUST HERE . SO PLEASE tell me if i am pitching too many ideas i feel like im in your inbox a lot (┬┬﹏┬┬) THANK U FOR ALL THE WORK U DO (∩^o^)⊃━☆

this is an angstier one so if u arent in the mood PLEASE SKIP SKIP SKIP

what about,,, reader and the ghouls just had an argument, and immediately after they split up to cool off reader is texting them about how they're so sorry and how they want to make up nd they hate fighting with them. like reader is really sensitive to rejection so much so that they're crying at the thought of the ghouls not loving them anymore because they saw the Bad sides of reader T0T

IM SORRY I GAVE THIS TO YOU IDK WHY MY BRAIN MADE A HARD ANGSTY TURN. if u feel uncomfy about it feel free to delete (づ￣ 3￣)づ

(if you do decide to write this you should do whatever characters you want!! i dont want you to get tired of ritsu LMAO) have a good day youre the best (´▽`ʃ♡ƪ)

Hahaha you can stay in my inbox as much as you want! Some coffee or tea? I have cookies too! (⁠｡⁠•̀⁠ᴗ⁠-⁠)⁠✧ I like the idea, as angsty as it is heh. I decided to just pick the ghouls randomly and Ritsu just so happened to be one of them, what a coincidence right? (I really don't mind writing for him!)

They see your bad side during an argument

Jin didn't expect to see this side of you but he's aware how strong emotions can affect the way we behave. He doesn't feel any resentment towards you, if anything he's happy you reached out to him. Of course he wants to make up too. As soon as possible. But first, he needs to tell you how much of a dumbass you are for thinking one petty argument is all that's going to take for him to break up with you. You really don't realize how much you mean to him huh? Well, then get ready to be showered with most expensive gifts a man can find. (Yes, he prefers that over saying it out loud I guess he's not that good with words after all.)

Jiro's eyes widened when you just stormed out like that after coming to an agreement to cool off a bit. The whole argument definitely touched you more than usual. Instead of getting angry, he's going to focus on the causes of your behavior. He feels a bit of relief when you text him. But still, he needs to get to the bottom of this. He needs to feel that he understands you completely. Him not loving you anymore? Just where did you get that idea? Looks like he really needs to have a talk with you. And a cuddle session of course. He's not going to leave until he makes sure you know he will never stop loving you.

Romeo is too stunned for a moment. He never thought you could reach this level of anger. Usually he is the one with a bit of... anger issues stronger reactions. Just as he was thinking about this whole argument, a text from you pops up. Weird or not it makes him smile how you seem to be so embarrassed about getting angry. You're so silly it hurts... But how dare you think he's going to leave you!? He's going to abandon this whole 'cool off' thing just to storm over to you and demand an explanation. Though once he notices you cried, he will soften considerably, offering to hold you until you're ready to talk.

You're scared he's going to leave you after seeing you angry? Then imagine Rui. That guy is terrified. You're so going to break up with him aren't you? And after so much effort put into breaking his curse and finally being able to hold you... A message from you appears and it's all it takes for him to break down, but also to feel incredibly relieved. So you just want to make up too. He's surprised when you tell him you're scared he's going to leave you. How can you think about such thing when you're his whole world, and the reason he pushed forward to break his curse? After you talk it out he will come over and hug you tight.

Ritsu is taken aback but not for long. He will now sit and analyze which words of his were the most likely to make you feel this angry. He almost reached the conclusion but then a 'ping' pulls him out of his thoughts. It's a message from you. Naturally, he's ready to make up at any moment. And it's not only because he possesses good conversation skills. He just hates getting into arguments with you. He'd rather have your daily study session instead of wasting time on petty arguments! Wait, you thought he's not going to love you anymore? I guess carrying mock forms of marriage certificate in his briefcase means nothing hmm?

Sho is already used to Leo's nasty personality, so your outburst doesn't affect him as much. Sure, he doesn't like to argue with you but things happen and he's not going to be hung up on that. You're too precious for him to stay mad so he'd rather focus on making up with and- oh, a text from you. He's relieved to see you're on the same page but then you say something unexpected. You're afraid of losing him. Over an argument like that, really? He will really need to remind you that your relationship and his feelings for you are stronger than that.

[cherrydipp]

hi i saw the show again yesterday so heres everything i remember

ACT 1

- first off. jordan chin stood behind us for THE FIRST TWO NUMBERS. HE WAVED AND SAID HI TO US WE WERE SO HAPPY. we heard him giggle. it was like when talking ben goes idle and he just laughs

- sorry if this is out of order

- henry chet is like fricken jittery he was shaking his legs when he got excited and also was so . cool. i dont care about chet but henry chet made me pay attention

- he was staring at cherry the ENTIRE TIME. and when he got confronted by bob he shrugged and like lowkey got pushed i think by bob.

- when cherry does her tire solo while he was waiting for her to take the drinks he did like a whistle and shook his head cuz he was blown away by her beauty ong

- CHERRY STUMBLED WHEN LIKE SHE LEANS ON BOB BY THE CAR and fell into him and played it off as a hug and kwp GIGGLED

- also she slipped when she ran up to say STOP IT JUST STOP IT BOB!!! like rlly bad i thought she was gonna fall

- johnny kicked dirt at marcia at the end of the fight

- I HAVE THE PERFECT VIEW OF TRIPBIT FIGHT SCENE BRUH DONT EVEN PLAY

- im sorry i doubted u davis paul. u look so tough laying on that car

- davis paul was EYEING down dallas as he say next to cherry ong dont play. he was ready to fight

- twobit almost slipped when he jumps up on the car to say he got one of their hubcaps

- I NEVER NOTICED HOW BABY JOHNNY WAS UNTIL NOW. HE IS ACTUALLY SO ADORABLE AND I GET EMOTIONAL LOOKING AT HIM

- cole trip i could hear him say something but i forgot what he said. i could hear him wolf whistle tho like clear

- THE WAY ALEX DALLY MOCKED MARCIA WAS SO FUNNY HE HAD LIKE A BRITISH ACCENT I WAS CRYING

- dan soda really happy about that soc girl thing he dapped up johnny

- omg during drive in concession trip tried to push johnny or something and marcia IMMEDIATELY shut it down. you could hear her slap him arm away

- during icttyan ace grabs beverlys dress in the background i never noticed that before

- I LOVE THE OPENING SCENE SO MUCH. oh trip got all in twobits business lowkey during that scene

- ACE AND MELVIN WERE GETTING INTO IT DURING THE BUCK MERRIL SCENE DAMNNNNN. okay melvin i didnt know you had game like that.

- when dan soda was cleaning off pony he took the rag and like used it to cover his mouth as a joke it was so silly hehehe

- dan soda doesnt take his shirt off at all ever i didnt know that

- ALEX DALLY IS RLLY GOOD. hes much more outspoken than aramie is. like aramie was like softspoken but he has really good voice and like sounds serious when he talks.

ACT 2

- Alex dally fumbled with his lines a lot but its okay cuz he still ate.

- His voice.. omfg . u guys. he is SO. powerful. run run brother… little brother… actually had me geeked.

- dan soda was super loud during the rumble and so was trip im pretty sure… ugh angry trip i love u… just how ur supposed to be… dan soda shouted something like GET OFF ME YOU FUCKING IDIOT i think. it was him. im almost positive

- devin brill was SO aggresive trying to snatch that jacket from cherry omfg. and colr was also aggressive. i think he like jumped at her i couldnt rlly tell cuz devin was in the way but she flinched back.

- sorry i can get over cherry falling into bob that was so cute u guys dont get it ☹️☹️

- alex during little brother genuinely all of his singing had so much emotion and his acting.

- hoods turned heroes or some number. SOMETHING and i think soda jumped into darrys arms it was so cute

- oh also forgot to mention but dan soda playing around with darry during ggah and him laughing ☹️

- darry crying during the entire last few scenes actually has me so emotional. i love how he is able to show the vulnerability of being an older sibling. it’s like hes full on sobbing yet hes still trying to hide it from his baby brothers and look strong for them.

- the transition into hopeless war when dallas walks off, he said his line about snapping a socs neck RIGHT into cherrys face.

- cherry being right at the front for little brother when theyre all below actually make me so upset. her and ponyboys survivor guilt. both of them thinking they are the reason three boys died. ill never get over it. survivor guilts number 1 victims

- dan soda seemed sad to say bye to cherry when she left after giving pony the clothes.

- when twobit gets jumped and the cigarette burnt on him trip had an evil grin for a moment. why u so evil damn. did u like that.

- I GREW SUCH A LOVE FOR JOHNNY CADE DURING THIS SHOW OH MY GOODNESS. the way sky plays him is so perfect. he always looks so small just like i imagined in the books. curling his knees up and always moving and he flinches at EVERYTHING. his voice kills me everytime he is so amazing. johnny is so ☹️

- oh forgot to mention during the drive in when dallas yells at johnny his leg was anxiously shaking the entire time and he put his hands on it to make it stop.

- aces mic was turned UPPP during hoods turned heroes.

- davis growl when he said BOB didnt need to dieee had be feral. his voice is also really clear

- davis paul who was sweet and gentle when telling cherry to tell the officer who killed bob, but the second she went strictly against him he got SO mad so fast and angry. cherrypaul sibling angst thank uuu

okay thats all bye

[tomatoscribbles]

Honestly please tell us everything you can about the VDL Jack au I’m so invested I wanna pick your brain for all of it 🙏

babygirl you cant open a can of worms and not give me a direction to throw it 😭 i have a million ideas for it but i will try to give an overview

as most RDR time travel aus do, it starts when jack ends up dead and wakes up 15 years in the past for No Real Discernible Reason (things are just allowed to be fun sometimes) and once he realizes WHEN he is he also realizes he has a chance to change things. that if nothing else maybe he can give his parents and younger self a better shot. so with little time to spare he scrambles to prep for mount hagen and intercept the gang there, since its too late to stop the blackwater massacre from happening

from there he ends up saving john before arthur and javier ever head out, partially because he knows it happens and partially dumb luck, and that works as a way to get him a chunk of trust that he otherwise couldnt have gotten in the gang at this stage. he still has his father's old journal - arthur's old journal - and tries to steer things away from the worse events, but the general idea of it is that BECAUSE hes so new and this little temporal anomaly, he finds that he has so little sway it might as well be nothing. eventually he has to reveal himself to john (and that does not go well, then or for a while after), and together they DO change some pretty big stuff, but its not RDR if it doesnt end in disaster and blood one way or another.

thats the rundown of things, and ive got a lot of concepts and scenes within it (jack being forcefully adopted by sean as a drinking buddy and becoming a bit of a trio with him and lenny, jack scaring the pants off of micah and others with how wicked fast of a draw he is, getting along well with the girls in camp (platonic), some bloodier stuff...), but i actually dont want to reveal too much atm because like a clown i AM entertaining making this into a fic of its own. nothing like the scale of my current work, but a multichap nonetheless 👀

if you have more specific questions or ideas im happy to hear them! ^_^

[77qui]

Redraw ts bro...one of my favs (mostly cause the little alejandro but shhh)

heres a redraw for that !! Im so happy you have a favourite with one of my artworks i hope this pleases you

(This is sayaka and kyoko as Tyler and Alejandro if you dont know)

[pseudowriter69]

MAJOR THE HUNDRED LINE SPOILERS UNDER CUT (prologue + most of the coming of age route!! thats it though i have done Nothing else dont spoil ME)

eitaku haunting me. I know eito is going to betray me again because there's no way he isn't, but it's INSANE that takumi is so trusting of him??? like the second he got brainwashed (which im not even sure i believe, i feel like he's been acting) takumi was just like Omg Eito My Bestie... My Number One Confidant... LIKE WHAT ARE YOU DOING...GAY BOY...

first, eito tells takumi to trust his idea for helping nozomi and kurara. takumi does NOT ask him preemptively what this idea is and allows him to announce it to everyone the next day without question. then, eito is like, bring moko trust me. and takumi just does??? he complies??? and of course, this worked out fine, but his blind trust in eito almost killed me.

what really got me was eito telling takumi he's going to go with the squad that's leaving the school to try to persuade them into coming back. i don't think he's gonna kill them out there or anything (they haven't come back yet in my playthrough), but takumi just LETS HIM GO and is like, "tysm for doing this for me" LIKE WHAT ARE YOU DOING....

reminder that earlier in this route if you trust pre-brainwashed eito's plan you fucking get a BAD ENDING

takumi's blind trust in eito probably stems from the fact that he did actually really care and value eito's opinions and help and his general person during the prologue and you can see that in the scene where he tells eito that he's happy that eito was cured of his disorder (even though he probably almost most definitely Wasn't and was just brainwashed idk why takumi assumed that) which almost makes it even more heartbreaking. i do like nozomi, and i think she and takumi could have a very interesting and healthy relationship, but every interaction she has with takumi is so BLAND in comparison to this nonsense with eito!!! AND she should be dating kurara instead. that's the end of my ramble. i can't wait until i go home and finish the route omfg

[peanutheaddd]

For divine au, once Petey has left dm’s body and seen the damage possessing him has caused is he afraid that he’s accidentally killed him at first? Is he afraid that dm won’t wake up? Fellas is it gay to stay by the bedside of the man you possessed and formed a soul bond with while you wait for him to wake up? I imagine that Petey would be very protective of dm for a while after while he’s recovering and would help him tend to his injuries

ur au’s are so good Peanutheaddd they make me so crazy please don’t explode and disappear lmao

AAAAAABSOLKUUUUTTEEELYYYYYYY THANK U FOR THIS ASK YES YES YES A MIIIIOKIM TIME YES!!!!!!!!!!! ohhh my god post possession detey save me save me post possession detey

he knows abt the soul going dormant and the comatose state Yes but he has No idea if dms body can handle all the physical damage he took . and he feels So So So guilty . he is 100% terrified that hes accidentally killed him . and he has no way to tell . yes his heart is still beating but he has No idea if it will Keep beating .

in my head the possession actually ends prematurely . i think dms body Couldnt keep going . like it physically broke down and petey was like wtf happened so he left his body . so theyre lwk still in hot water when the possession ends and petey sees how fucked up he got . so its just thjs shit ass situation where lp is Still at active risk of getting taken by heaven, dm is completely out of commission and they have No idea if hell even Survive the next hour, and peteys lwk spiraling bc this is quite literally the Worst thing that could happen

its important to note here that petey actually doesnt believe that god is alive . he fully believes god has Been dead for a while . i think graces death made him completely apathetic bc he had this mindset of if god was alive then she wouldnt have died .

but its This moment . where hes terrified bc he has no idea what theyll do to his son and he has no idea if dm will live or die . that he prays for the first time in. Forever. and the Only thing hes praying for is lp and dms safety . zero regard for his own safety . and ultimately Thats what wakes god up . love that makes even the worst sinner not only Have Faith again but pray for something in an Entirely sefless manner . Oh my god im sick.IM SICK IN THE HEAD BRO

i dont have the deets yet but essentially god is the one who ends the altercation . but once it ends petey Stil has no idea if dm will live or die . basically the end of the altercation only guarantees that lp will be safe . since it only happened in the first place to try and take him away . so once the altercation ends yes hes So So So relieved lp is safe and will be safe but he cant say the same abt dm and thats freaking him out .

i think he js hauls ass to the church and gets dm to his room . and he just . sits there . doesnt rlly move . and he js keeps watching him . for however long it takes for dm to wake up again .

i actually think the church people and lp tend to him while hes in his comatose state not petey . i feel like petey wouldnt wanna touch him bc of The Guilt. like Hes the reason hes like this so how could ge even think of laying a finger on him .

i also think petey leaves before dm wakes up . like . its js this idea of like Oh theres No Way hed be happy to see me not after what i did to him . so when dm wakes up lp is there and dm is like oh thank god ur ok. bc that means the possession was successful and the altercation ended in their favor but then hes like ?? wheres ur dad . and lp is like 😬😬. bc lp knows damn well this is peteys self sabotaging behavior coming out . and he tells dm this and dm is like holy fuck is that cat stupid bc literally all he wanted after he woke up was to see his kitty cats plural 😭😭😭😭💔💔💔💔

i reckon he gets up to try and find him (which is stupid bc he could be Literally anywhere) and peteys lit js camping outside the church where hes out of eyesight but he can still kinda keep an eye on him and js be around should anything happen .

i mentioend in a prev ask that demons can feel their vessels pain and i thinm pt gets like a body ache and hes like That cant be right. so he looks around and lo and behold he sees dm meandering about outside when he Should be resting and he Knows that hes not fully recovered yet bc he can literally feel how it hurts for him to even walk . so without rlly thinking he immediately confronts him and is like WHAT THE FUCK . GO BACK TO BED BRO and dms response to that is to hug him . and he can feel his heart beat . feel the strength in his arms. and hes like Oh my god. and the relief js completely floods his system . like Oh hes alive . hes well . hes still in one piece .

but theres still this Guilt thats making it impossible for him to let his guard down . the hug goes unreciprocated even tho its lwk all he wants to do at that moment and he goes kinda stiff bc he is So terrified of hurting him again . its so palpable dm can Sense it . all the guilt and the fear . so hes like js stay with me will u ? like damn . 😭😭😭 and at this point peteys lwk weak to him so hes like Okay . I guess .

and then i reckon its js petey awkwardly hovering around the room keeping an eye on dm like a nervous mom and dm having to gradually go pspsps to him and get him to stop being freaked out all the damn time

there is def a scene where dm insists that petey helps him with changing his bandages or smth bc hes trynna ease him back into just . remembering that dms not made of glass and remembering that hes not an inherently dangerous person . and that he fully has the capacity to be gentle . i reckon seeing the injuries kinda makes dms plan backfire bc peteys like Ohhh my god this is literally my fucking fault

seeeeemi unrelated but i think pt also starts subconsciously keeping his wings away from dm which sucks for dm bc he likes peteys wings LMFAO when hes not adrenaline pumped theyre kinda js pleasantly warm

its just this whole sich post possession where dm almost dies and petey starts seeing himself as inherently a dangerous person . even tho their relationship up until this point has been implicitly amicable But more explicitly kinda hostile and antagonistic (enemies to lovers L) dm has to kind of put that aside and be gentler w him js to remind him that he still cares abt him and that he did the right thing and that hes fine and he will be fine . so its js them kinda spending day to day w lp doing whatever . DOMESTICITY WIN!!!!!!!!!! YEAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

and i think thats where my thought process ends for now . #motherfuckign awesome I LOVE MY AU

[typewritingyip]

"Kup had felt older than dirt."

That's the guy, the idea of Kup being young creeps me out, like, the guy is always shown as this old man that borders being senil.

"He hadn't thought of the old man in ages, he'd love to be on an alien planet fighting Quintessons."

Old man being called old and considered old while surrounded by a bunch of idk million year old folks.

"He could remember having to learn how to clean a cockpit on one coated in blood.

It was how he learned he was squeamish."

ಥ_ಥ

"while carrying around his arm a...No, now he was holding the arm of Sunstreaker's suit,"

Why is everyone loosing so many arms

щ（ﾟДﾟщ）

"it had never not pierced the skin of a Quintesson."

"It didn't look like any type of Quintesson he'd ever seen, then again, they didn't typically carry weapons or stand on two feet. "Fuck." And it grinned."

LETS GO YOU DONT KNOW FOR HOW LONG I HAVE BEEN WAITING FOR THIS IM SO HAPPY ∩(︶▽︶)∩

Congrats! I'm happy for you, and wish you luck in law school, you worked for it. Good thing you got to enjoy your week and spend quality time.

Thanks for the new chapter! Take care <3

I meant to respond to this one last night, but it wouldn’t let me respond on mobile.

Kup being young is line, insane in my mind, but here he was young once and who knows what we’ll see in future Arcturus.

Everyone is losing arms for a reason, I swear. Right now it stands at Hound and Sunstreaker.

And I’m so happy you loved the ending! I wanted the build up to be a bit more intense but I also was fighting this chapter a lot.

—

Thank you for the congrats as well! Though Law School does mean there will be delays in Arcturus this fall, I will still be working on it whenever I have free time. :)

[fern-thefox]

its headcanon time. this is mostly all characters because i havent thought of new two time headcanons yet

bluudud has a celebrity crush on guest 1337. guest knows and does not like him back.

noob is a big cat lover. he seems like a dog person due to how happy he always seems (this is after getting used to the forsaken realms and he just started to make the best of it) but hes prefers cats alot more. theyre much calmer and are just cuter

noob really likes vodka. like they arent an alcoholic or anything but if they can drink vodka they will. they just like the taste

guest 1337 treats some of the survivors like his own kids because how much he missed his daughter. what he would give to see her again

007n7 is double jointed. the killers can kinda tell if its a clone or not due to this because the clones arent for some reason

taph makes nests out of blankets. this man is pigeon coded so i know those nests look horrid to. (this is influenced by the fact taph mains make the most diabolical tripwires sometimes)

most of the survivors know asl. the few that dont are two time (the cult didnt teach many things), noob (he could never focus or remember what meant what), and chance (that man focuses on gambling and gambling only

john doe usually cant do anything except kill, but sometimes he has times where his corruption lessens and he can make conversation. these dont happen very often but him and 1x can get along quite a bit when this happens

azure and 1x complain about two time and shedletsky together. their hatred towards their ex partner and creator fuel eachother

c00lkidd cant swim. the killers have had scares due to c00lkidd trying to jump in the pond near their cabin. they have locks on the doors now and hide the keys.

c00lkidd has been getting raised by the killers ever since he got there. the killers dont get why the kid should suffer more then he does (i like to think c00lkidd has chronic pain. the spectre didnt provide medicine for a long time as well so he was just constantly in pain.)

the killers theme songs actually play during rounds. no one knows how they play but they do. if the survivors werent being chased around almost getting murdered everyday they would actually enjoy the themes

alright thats all for today. i hope you enjoy these headcanons that i have provided. im going to go cry in a corner now because i really want chick fil a and still havent gotten it. someone bless me with chick fil a. i beg

[sturniolofruitloop]

What makes you so special?

Bro we BOTH be asking this one… idfk

@dollysturniolo told me to tag you so @munchingmini wanna input anything? 🤣🤣