#you're barely old enough to understand | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

verstappenverse · 15 days ago

Text

Home Was Always Here

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Reader

Summary: You were too young then, but years later co-parenting your daughter together in the public eye might finally bring you home to each other. (Requested)

4.5k words / Masterlist

You never meant to raise a child in the spotlight. Definitely not at seventeen, and certainly not with Max Verstappen, Formula 1’s youngest rising star at the time. Barely eighteen himself when you sat on the bathroom floor with shaking hands and two pink lines staring back at you.

You hadn’t even been together that long. You hadn’t planned a life. You hadn’t had a chance to figure out who you were yet. But suddenly you were expected to grow up fast, faster than either of you knew how.

What followed was a blur. A whirlwind of press conferences and pacifiers, grid walks and midnight feedings. Red Bull contracts signed on no sleep. Max learning to shave the same year he learned how to swaddle a newborn. The world met your daughter through grainy airport photos, Max pushing a stroller in one hand and wheeling a carry-on in the other, with you by his side, makeup-free and hollow-eyed, a quiet kind of desperation clinging to both of you. Still kids yourselves, trying to raise one.

The headlines didn’t help. Neither did the noise. Every parenting choice you made got picked apart by strangers on the internet. You were either too young or too careless, too in love or too naive. None of them knew what it was like, how hard you held onto each other at first, how tight Max gripped your hand in the hospital, how he blinked back tears when he first held her.

You tried. God, you tried.

But it’s hard to stay together when you're growing up in different countries, with entire continents and careers pulling you in opposite directions. He had a world championship to chase. You had a newborn to raise. Max chose F1, not out of malice, but necessity, and you chose to protect your daughter from the chaos the best way you knew how.

Quietly. From the sidelines.

Somehow heartbreak became part of the routine. A thousand small choices that led you here. Separate, but never fully apart. Not with her between you.

Never with her.

Now almost a decade later, chaos is a permanent houseguest.

Max never stopped being Max. He’s a world champion now. A household name. The kind of icon whose face is printed on t-shirts, cereal boxes, and wall-sized banners at every European airport. And your daughter, Sofia, is eight years old and growing up fast.

She’s got his eyes, the same sharp blue that narrow when she’s focused and sparkle when she’s proud of herself. She’s got your fire, your timing, your habit of crossing her arms when she’s annoyed. She walks through the paddock like she owns it, chatting with engineers, stealing snacks from catering, slipping into garages like she was born there. She waves at the cameras without hesitation, poses with Lando's sunglasses on and Charles’s cap turned backwards, and calls them “Uncle” with the casualness of someone who doesn’t understand how famous her family really is.

Everyone on the grid loves her

Which is both sweet and fucking terrifying.

Because there's no hiding anymore. Not from the cameras. Not from the journalists who track her growth the way they track Max’s stats. Not from the fans who’ve practically watched her life unfold in real-time. And not from the people in the paddock who’ve started to notice the way you and Max still look at each other when you think no one’s watching.

There’s no space left to pretend. No more safe distance.

Especially not now.

Not when she’s old enough to ask questions. Not when Max lingers a little longer after pickups. Not when the line between co-parents and something more starts blurring again, and every smile feels a little heavier than it should.

Not when your daughter keeps looking at the two of you like she’s waiting for something to finally happen.

You and Max haven’t been together in six nearly seven years, yet somehow it’s never really felt like a clean break. Not with Sofia between you. Not with the way you’ve navigated life side by side, always tethered by something deeper than romance, responsibility, love, history. Her.

You’ve co-parented better than most. No court battles. No ugly headlines. Quiet, careful coordination and a shared, unspoken promise, she comes first. Always.

Sofia has never known a day where one of you didn’t show up. Never felt the sting of absence, never had to pick between you. Birthday parties, school recitals, first bike rides, dentist appointments, you did everything you possibly could manage together. Even when you weren’t together.

You moved to Monaco to make things easier. For her, yes, but maybe for Max too. You told yourself it was about logistics, about support systems and shared routines. But deep down, part of you just didn’t want her growing up with only half the picture.

You stood below the podium when Max won his first championship as a father. Camera lenses flashed, confetti fell, and as he lifted the trophy and pointed to the area where Sofia stood clapping beside you in oversized earmuffs, the world saw a proud dad.

Only you noticed the way his eyes lingered on you for a second. Like some part of him still remembered what it meant to win with you in the crowd.

Since then, there have been countless little moments.

Fingers brushing when passing her water bottle. Hands grazing as you both reach for the same backpack strap. Silences that stretch too long when you’re alone at school pick-up, both watching her from opposite ends of the sidewalk. Conversations that start about your daughter but end with too much softness, too many what-ifs sitting in the space between your words.

And now every time he hands you her lunchbox or smooths her hair behind her ear, you feel it, that familiar knock in your chest.

It starts at Zandvoort.

The weekend is muddy, chaotic, and wet. The sky can’t decide if it wants to drizzle or pour, and everything smells like damp asphalt and tension. Sofia is bundled up beside you in her oversized Verstappen-orange raincoat, rubber boots splashing through every puddle like it’s a personal mission. She’s grinning, carefree, holding your hand and dragging you toward the paddock entrance with the kind of joy only a child can carry through the rain.

Max is late.

You check your phone again. No message. No call. You try not to spiral, try not to wonder if it’s traffic, or if it’s her. The girl. The one from the blurry photos online in those low-rent gossip pages, the soft-launch story post on her Instagram that could be his arm, and sly comments under tagged pictures. You haven’t asked. You haven’t had the nerve.

Because asking would mean admitting you care. And you’re not sure you’re allowed to.

You tuck your phone away just as Harry, one of the Red Bull engineers you’ve chatted with a handful of times this season walks up. He’s charming in that easy, carefree way. Nice enough. Funny enough. The kind of guy who brings you coffee when he sees you in the hospitality tent and knows how to make Sofia laugh by pulling silly faces behind the pit wall.

He grins when he sees her. That same crooked half-smile he always wears.

“You need backup out here?” he jokes, already crouching beside Sofia.

You open your mouth to protest, but she giggles and splashes him before you can stop her. Water hits his jeans. He laughs. You do too, despite yourself.

It’s harmless. He’s harmless.

And then Max arrives.

Hood up, team jacket soaked, shoulders tense, jaw tight, he clocks the two of you instantly. He stops a few steps away and just stares. He doesn’t say hello.

He looks at you.

Then Harry.

Then back at you again.

No words, but the tension curls between your ribs like smoke. Your hands fall to your sides. Harry pretends not to notice.

In that three-second silence everything shifts.

The air thickens. Your smile falters. Your hand slips from Sofia’s as she notices her dad and races toward him with a loud, “Daddy!”

Max finally moves. Bends down and scoops her up with practiced ease, burying his face in her rain-wet hair for a moment.

When he stands back up, his eyes are back on you. There’s a question in them, or maybe a warning, you can’t tell which.

Harry clears his throat. “Well. She’s got a hell of a kick,” he says with a grin, nodding at his soaked pant leg.

You force a polite laugh. “Yeah, she’s a menace.”

Max doesn’t smile. Doesn’t speak to Harry at all.

“She was asking for you,” you say, just to say something, tucking a damp strand of hair behind your ear.

Max nods once. “Yeah. Sorry. Got held up.”

You nod too, and that’s it.

You don’t ask if the girl is here. If she’s in the motorhome waiting. If Sofia’s going to meet her today.

Because you don’t know if you have the right.

Because for all the years you’ve spent raising a daughter together, showing up side-by-side, holding her through every scraped knee and test result and birthday candle… you still don’t know where you stand.

And that uncertainty? It burns more than you’ll ever admit.

That night, Max texts you.

I don’t like him around her.

You stare at your phone in bed, lips parting, blinking twice before replying.

Harry? Why?

Just don’t.

You exhale through your nose, dragging the duvet up to your chin like it might shield you from the heat rising in your chest. You type three different responses and delete each one.

Too defensive. Too cold. Too revealing.

You settle on something neutral. Careful.

She’s around the crew all the time. You like Harry don’t you? What’s this about?

You watch the screen for a while, waiting for the three little dots to appear. They don’t.

Eventually, you put your phone down. Try to sleep. Fail miserably.

He doesn’t respond. Not until the next morning, when he sends a photo of Sofia eating waffles and smiling up at him from across a hotel breakfast table.

Your heart clenches.

She’s in his hoodie. One of the old ones. The ones you used to sleep in when she was still an infant curled up in your arms.

She asked if we could all live together again.

You stare at the message so long your eyes burn.

It hits harder on weekends like this. The quiet ones with no race and no travel. A rare, shared weekend in Monaco, Sofia bouncing between your apartment and Max’s like it’s all one big home she doesn’t realise is technically split in two.

You’ve just dropped her off at his place. She’s old enough now to want to pack her own bag, though she still asks you to double-check that she remembered her toothbrush. You did, and she did, and now you’re standing in Max’s hallway holding a half-eaten granola bar she insisted she didn’t want anymore.

He takes it from you without a word, tosses it in the bin.

You’re still in the doorway, jacket slung over your arm, not really sure why you haven’t left yet.

“Drink?” he asks casually.

You hesitate. Then nod.

You follow him into the kitchen, watching as he moves around like this is normal. Like you still belong here in the quiet moments, not just the race-day chaos.

He hands you a glass and your fingers brush. You both ignore it.

Sofia’s music plays softly from her bedroom here, some upbeat pop song you don’t recognise but can picture her dancing to. You smile. Max catches it.

“She’s been asking again,” he says after a beat. “About why we don’t live together.”

Your heart sinks, warmth fading.

You nod slowly. “She asked me last week if people can get married twice to the same person. I think she thought we were secretly divorced.”

Max huffs a laugh, but it’s more breath than sound.

“She’s getting older,” you say. “It’s not like when she was little. She notices things now.”

He nods, jaw tense. “Yeah.”

You sip your drink to give your hands something to do. “It used to be easier,” you admit, your voice quieter now. “When we were too tired to feel anything else. When she was up every three hours and all we cared about was keeping her fed and breathing and not breaking her.”

Max smiles at that, tired and nostalgic. “We were zombies.”

“Mm.” You nod. “Now we have time to feel things again… and I don’t always know where to put them.”

It hangs in the air between you, heavy, and awkward, and true.

“She asked me if I’d be happier if you were around more,” he says after a while. “She said I get smiley when you’re here.”

Your heart skips a beat.

You laugh, but it’s a small, nervous sound. “She’s very observant.”

“She’s you.”

You look up at that. And he’s already looking at you.

He clears his throat. “I was thinking of taking her to the karting track this weekend. You know, just to see if she—”

“Wants to try?” You smile. “She’s going to love it. She’s been talking about it nonstop.”

Max grins. “Yeah?”

“She’s nervous though. She wants you to be proud of her.”

He softens. “She doesn’t have to do anything for that.”

You nod, trying not to get swallowed by the look on his face. The one that reminds you what he was like when he was yours. What he’s still like now, when he forgets he’s supposed to keep a distance.

You force a breath. Look down at your drink.

“She asked if I still loved you,” you say before you can stop yourself.

Max stills. Slowly puts his own drink down.

“What did you say?”

You hesitate.

“I said I love you both. That we’re a team.”

It’s the truth. Just not the whole truth.

Max swallows hard. “She’s too smart for that answer.”

You meet his eyes. “Yeah.”

Sofia’s voice cuts through the quiet.

“Can I wear your old helmet dad?”

Max blinks. Looks toward the hallway.

You both let out a breath at the same time.

“Yeah, baby,” he calls. “Be right there.”

You move toward the door, because the moment’s already fading, and staying would only make it worse.

“Thanks for the drink,” you say.

He nods, stepping aside to let you pass.

You leave, but his voice follows you softly.

“Hey—”

You pause in the doorway. Look back.

There’s a question in his eyes, something half-formed on his lips. He opens his mouth—

But then he just smiles. Small. Sad.

“Tell her she can bring the pink hoodie next time,” he says. “I know she ‘forgot’ it on purpose.”

Your lips twitch.

“Yeah,” you say, the smile tugging at your mouth before you can stop it. “She’s been leaving things behind lately.”

Max nods, eyes flicking to yours.

Then the door closes and you leave, again, with your heart too full of things you still don’t know how to say.

You tell yourself it was just nostalgia. Zandvoort always does that, rains down memories with every drop, stirs up old feelings in the static between thunderstorms and pit stops. You convince yourself it’ll pass. That it was just the weather. Just the setting. Just Max being Max.

But then Monza happens.

You’re in the paddock, headset on, eyes locked on the screen as Max flies through Sector 2 with clinical precision.

Sofia stands next to you, bouncing on the balls of her feet, hands gripping the barrier. She’s wearing her little Verstappen cap, slightly crooked, and her cheeks are painted with two messy Dutch flags. Every time the crowd erupts, she flinches forward and you instinctively reach out to steady her, your hand wrapping protectively around her arm.

“Is Daddy winning?” she shouts over the noise, practically vibrating with excitement.

You glance at the delta on the screen and smile. “He’s flying.”

Max crosses the line with a dominant lead. You clap. You cheer. Sofia shrieks with joy, bouncing so high her hat nearly flies off.

You barely hear the anthem over the roar, but you know it by heart. You’ve heard it more times than you can count. You watch as Max steps onto the top step of the podium, champagne bottle in one hand, trophy in the other.

And then he looks out at the crowd.

Eyes scanning thousands of faces and somehow he finds you.

You.

The moment holds. Just long enough for your heart to trip.

Because it’s not the look of a man acknowledging the mother of his child. Not the polite gratitude of a co-parent in the crowd. It’s not professional. It’s not routine.

It’s something else.

It’s softness. It’s gravity. It’s a quiet ache buried beneath pride.

It’s want.

When he lifts the trophy high, chin tilted slightly your way, it feels personal. Like something unspoken. Like a line he’s too afraid to cross but too drawn to ignore.

Your fingers tighten on the railing. The haze of the crowd and the flares curls around you and for a moment, despite the chaos, you forget how to breathe.

Later you’re all at the afterparty.

Nothing extravagant, a casual gathering on the rooftop lounge of the team hotel, a mix of mechanics, engineers, a few drivers, and the people who’ve quietly kept the weekend running behind the scenes. It’s low-lit, the music mellow, with fairy lights strung overhead and the scent of champagne lingering in the air.

You’re tucked into the corner of a cushioned bench with a glass of wine watching Max move through the space like he always does, confident, collected, comfortable. Every so often someone stops him to offer congratulations. He smiles, claps backs, exchanges a few laughs. It should be mundane.

But she’s here.

The girl.

You’d only recently confirmed she wasn’t his girlfriend, at least not officially. Someone on the comms team had mentioned it in passing. “Nothing serious,” they’d said. “Just a friend… apparently.”

But the way she’s looking at him?

It’s not friendly.

She’s tall. Stunning, in that effortless way. The kind of woman who turns heads when she walks into a room without meaning to. She’s laughing at something Max says, leaning in just a little too closely, fingers grazing his forearm like she’s staking a claim.

And Max?

He laughs politely. Responds. But he’s not looking at her.

His eyes flick to you. Again. And again.

Every few minutes, like he’s checking you’re still there.

And every time, it’s like your skin prickles beneath your dress. Like the air gets thinner and your wine gets warmer and your resolve slips further through your fingers.

You try to ignore it. Try to sip your wine and nod along to a mechanic’s story beside you, but your mind keeps drifting back to him. To her.

To the way his jaw tensed when she touched him. To the way his gaze lingered on your bare knees when you crossed your legs. To the heat that simmers just beneath the surface of everything, unsaid and impossible.

Someone sits beside you. You glance over and it’s GP. His expression is soft, patient, as always. A little amused, too.

“You okay?” he asks gently, tilting his drink toward you in quiet solidarity.

You nod, too quickly. “Yeah. Just tired.”

GP follows your line of sight straight to Max. Then back to you.

He sips his beer once before saying, carefully, “Still in love with him?”

You freeze, the words hitting you like cold water.

“What?”

He shrugs, not unkindly. “Sorry if that was too direct. I’ve known you both since you were kids. It’s kind of obvious.”

You open your mouth. Close it. Swallow.

You can’t say yes… but you can’t say no either.

So you say nothing.

GP chuckles under his breath. “He’s an idiot if he doesn’t see it.”

You look up sharply at that.

“He’s not an idiot,” you say, almost defensively. “I think he’s… he’s scared.”

The words leave your mouth before you realise how much truth they carry, because he is. You know that. You know the way he loves, recklessly, protectively, all or nothing. And you know what’s at stake.

But the thing that takes your breath away is realising so are you.

Scared of losing what you’ve worked so hard to preserve. Of breaking the fragile peace you've built for Sofia. Of stepping over a line you can’t come back from.

But more than anything, you’re scared of never knowing, of never saying it out loud. Of watching someone else stand next to him someday and wondering what might have been if you'd only been brave enough to try.

Baku is different.

You’re staying in the same hotel.

You should be asleep, but your mind won’t rest. You’re pacing emotional circles around yourself, heart tight, questions louder than the silence of your hotel room.

Your phone buzzes just after midnight.

You up?

You reply before you can second-guess.

Yeah. You?

A minute later, there’s a soft knock at your door.

You open it slowly.

He’s standing there in sweatpants and a hoodie, socks on the hallway carpet, his hair messy, like he’s been lying awake too long. There’s something raw in his expression. Something he’s not hiding anymore.

Your heart stumbles against your ribs.

“She asleep?” he asks softly, glancing past you, even though he already knows the answer.

You nod. “Out cold.”

He steps inside. The door clicks shut behind him, the sound impossibly loud in the quiet room. But he doesn’t move to sit. He just stands there in the middle of your space, hands stuffed in his pockets, like if he lets them out, the truth might spill all over the floor.

He looks at you like he’s been holding something in for years.

“I can’t do this anymore,” he says, voice low but steady.

Your stomach twists. “Do what?”

He gestures vaguely, frustrated, tired, exposed.

“This. Us. Pretending I’m okay seeing you with someone else. Standing next to you and acting like I don’t feel it every time you laugh at someone else’s joke. Watching Sofia grow up and knowing I never gave us the chance to be more than this.”

He pauses. Breathes hard through his nose.

“I keep trying to be okay with it. With being just the co-parent. Just the friend. But I’m not. I haven’t been for a long time.”

He looks down, like he can’t bear to meet your eyes.

“That I still—” He stops himself.

You take a step closer. “Say it,” you whisper, barely more than a breath.

He swallows hard, lifts his gaze, and finally lets it out.

“That I still love you.”

The words fall between you like a confession and a surrender all at once.

“That I never stopped.”

You don’t even realise you’re crying until he moves toward you, thumb brushing beneath your eye with the gentleness only he’s ever managed. Your chin trembles under his touch.

“We were kids,” he says. “We didn’t know how to hold onto each other and raise a child and survive the world watching us.”

You nod, tears falling freely now.

“I didn’t mean to let you go,” he continues, voice cracking. “I just… didn’t know how to stay without hurting you more.”

You let the words in. Let them wash through the years of silence, of near-misses, of what-ifs.

“I love you too,” you admit, voice trembling. “I thought you didn’t want it. I thought maybe you’d moved on.”

“I never did,” he says quietly. “I didn’t know how to say it, and I didn’t want to mess up what we have.”

You give a small, tearful laugh. “We’re already messy.”

He smiles at that. A real one, crooked and full of memory.

“Yeah,” he breathes. “But we’re a pretty great mess.”

There’s a silence then, heavy and fragile and filled with everything you were never brave enough to speak.

And then you kiss him. It’s the kind of kiss that doesn’t demand anything. That doesn’t ask for forgiveness or explanation. It just is. Steady. Familiar. Home.

His hands find your waist, like muscle memory. Your fingers curl into his hoodie, anchoring yourself to the only thing that’s ever truly felt safe. In that moment it all falls away, the years of longing, the fear, the distance.

You’ve always belonged to each other.

You wake to sunlight filtering through the hotel curtains, casting soft stripes of gold across the carpet and the coffee table littered with empty glasses and a crumpled blanket. Your neck is slightly sore from how you’ve slept curled into Max on the couch, his arm still around your waist, your legs tangled like they never forgot how to fit together.

You stir first, quietly, unsure of whether to move.

Max doesn’t open his eyes, but his grip tightens for a moment. Just enough to say don’t go yet.

And then, from the hallway, bare feet on the carpet. A small gasp. Then stillness.

You both look up at the same time.

Sofia stands there in her pajamas, clutching her stuffed bunny to her chest, one brow slightly raised in that very adult way she inherited from you. Her hair’s messy, cheeks still warm with sleep, but her eyes are sharp. Too sharp for her age.

She looks between the two of you your curled bodies, the hoodie you’re wearing that she knows is her dad’s, the blanket pooled around your knees.

She blinks once.

Then again.

And tilts her head. “Are you guys… boyfriend and girlfriend?”

Your heart skips.

Max shifts beside you, slow and careful. You glance at him, and he glances at you, both of you holding the moment in your hands like it might break if you breathe wrong.

Nervous. Soft. Honest.

Max sits up a little straighter, patting the couch beside him. “Come here for a sec?”

Sofia walks over, climbs into the space between you like she’s done a hundred time. Her eyes flick to the way Max’s hand rests on your knee. She notices. She always notices. She’s a very perceptive eight year old.

He pulls her into his arms and looks down at her, so careful.

“Only if you’re okay with it,” he says.

Sofia stares at him. Then at you.

Then breaks into a grin so wide it knocks the breath from your chest.

“Finally,” she says, matter-of-fact. “I thought you guys were gonna be weird forever.”

You laugh, caught somewhere between a sob and a sigh, burying your face in your hands as Max chuckles under his breath.

“I mean,” she continues, shrugging, “you already do everything together. You just don’t kiss.”

Max raises his eyebrows, and you can’t help but laugh harder, warmth spreading through your chest like sunrise.

“And you’re really okay with it?” you ask, wiping your cheeks.

Sofia nods. “Yeah. I like it when we’re all together. That’s my favourite.”

She says it so simply. So easily.

Like love was never that complicated to begin with.

You were always endgame.

Even when it didn’t feel like it.

Even when the world watched your lives play out through blurry headlines, rumours, and YouTube compilations. Even when the paddock whispered and your hands stopped reaching for each other out loud.

Even when it hurt.

Now you’re not pretending. Not holding your breath. Not keeping your heart behind your teeth.

You’re together. For real.

For her. For each other.

For good.

Taglist: @shigarika @bunnisplayground @thecoolpotatohologram @ymrereads @alexxavicry @gigglepre @esw1012 @satorinnie @percysaidnever @osclerc @sainzluvrr @autumn242 @shadowreader07 @joyfulpandamiracle @inmynotes63 @athanasia-day @embonbon @waterdeeply @shadowsoundeffects13 @fastandcurious16 @odegaardlia @skzvibes-blog @iambored24601 @e10owmaks @painfromblues @brokenvines-wiltingflowers @leo-twins-3107 @rxx-eegh @treatallwithkindness @lewishamiltonismybf @mara1999 @armystay89 @ramonaflwsr @zazima @valevv30 @mischiefmxnxgedhp @yoonessa @wordskeeper

2K notes · View notes

cipheress-to-k-pop · 30 days ago

Text

bloodlines (m.r.)

Pairing: Mattheo Riddle x Reader

Word Count: 13.2k (wow)

Summary: When a centuries-old vow comes into fruition, you're bound to the boy who once swore he'd never love anyone — especially not you.

A/N: I actually hate this😭

Week 3 of @acourtofchaos's Festival of AUs

@obsessedwithceleste hope u like it pookie <3

The crackling of the fire in the hearth was the sole sound that stirred the stillness, each pop and hiss echoing through the chamber like a whisper of fate. Draped in heavy maroon velvets, the man in the high-backed chair let out a weary sigh, his gaze sharp as steel as it settled upon the figure opposite him.

"How am I to know you’ll keep your word, Salazar?" He asked, "You've never been one to turn away from glory — especially when it's for your own name."

His companion, cloaked in darker hues, paused. A slow, sly smile crept across his face — thin, deliberate, and far too familiar. Godric couldn't help but think of his companion’s namesake — all that was missing was a forked tongue singing sweet lies.

"Then let us bind our names as one," Salazar said at last, his tone smooth as still water, "What glory comes to Slytherin shall then be glory to Gryffindor as well."

Godric narrowed his eyes, fingers running through his beard. A humorless breath escaped him, half laugh, half warning, "You’ve no daughter, Salazar."

"Not yet, that much is true," The other replied calmly, "Yet that is the very point — a safeguard. Let us seal the pact with magic: when our descendants are come of age, they shall wed. Should they fail to do so… then let their bloodline be forfeit."

Godric regarded him in silence, the fire casting shifting shadows across his face. After a long pause, he stood.

"Very well," He said, "You have a deal, old friend."

***

Potions was hardly the class you needed to attend when you were this sleep-deprived. Snape gave out instructions quick and fast and one after the other — and it was difficult enough to catch all of them while wide awake. In your current state, it was a blessing you were understanding every second word.

You’d been plagued by nightmares all night — visions of a dark room barely touched by light, the hiss and rattle of a snake’s tail, and a searing golden thread weaving itself through your chest, leaving a burning trail in its wake as it tied a tight knot around your heart. You woke up feeling like something ancient had looked directly into your soul.

The classroom buzzed with low murmurs and the occasional clink of glass as students moved about, carefully preparing their assignments. You stood at your workstation with Hermione, watching your cauldron bubble gently as she measured out powdered moonstone.

“Careful,” She muttered, “Snape said too much will make it foam—”

Before you could respond, there was a loud laugh from the back of the room.

“Oi, Nott — your stirring looks like a troll having a fit!” Blaise teased, shoving Theo lightly from behind.

Theo rolled his eyes, scoffing, “You wish your potion looked half as decent, Zabini—”

But Blaise gave him another nudge — harder this time, more of a shove.

Theo stumbled back, and before you could react, his shoulder slammed into yours with full force.

You gasped and staggered forward, crashing into the classmate standing in front of you. You hit Mattheo Riddle square in the chest — hard.

And then — everything went wrong.

The moment his skin brushed yours, the room exploded in light. A brilliant, blinding pulse of gold erupted between you — not fire, not lightning, but magic, raw and ancient and alive. The light burst outward in a shockwave that swept through the room.

Every cauldron detonated at once.

Glass shattered. Potions hissed and spilled across the floor. Shrill screams echoed off the stone walls. Smoke and sparks filled the air.

You and Mattheo stumbled apart, dazed and breathless — and yet, the golden thread of light still shimmered faintly between your fingertips.

Everyone in the classroom froze.

Hermione had her wand half-raised, eyes wide. Ron was crouched behind the table, shielding his potion-splattered notes. Harry looked between you and Mattheo like he’d just witnessed the first sign of the apocalypse.

“What the hell was that?” Malfoy demanded from across the room, brushing sludge off his robes.

“Did you see that light?” “She cursed him—” “No, he cursed her—!”

“Enough!” Snape bellowed, storming out of the smoke cloud, looking more furious than you’d ever seen him.

But before he could speak further, another voice cut clean through the chaos like a blade.

“Miss (L/N). Mr. Riddle. You will come with me. Now.”

Professor McGonagall stood in the doorway, as if the castle itself had summoned her the second it happened. Her eyes were sharp as steel behind her spectacles, and the look on her face made your stomach twist with dread.

Mattheo didn’t say a word. He just shot you a glare — like this was somehow your fault — and stepped past the wreckage toward the door.

You followed in stunned silence, the echo of that magic still buzzing in your bones.

You had no idea what had just happened. But it had changed something. And you could feel it — whatever this was… it would never be the same again.

***

The heavy oak doors to the Headmaster’s office creaked open on their own, and you stepped inside behind McGonagall, your nerves fraying with every step. Mattheo Riddle trailed a few paces behind you, shoulders squared, jaw clenched like he was ready to bite someone’s head off.

Professor Snape was already inside, arms crossed and eyes narrowed. He didn’t even blink when you walked in — just tilted his head like he was mentally cataloguing your sins.

But it was Dumbledore who drew your attention. He stood in front of his desk, hands clasped, that same maddeningly calm expression on his face.

"Ah. Miss (L/N)," He said warmly, "And Mr. Riddle. Good. You're both here."

You barely had time to open your mouth before he added, with a small twinkle in his eye:

“And… a very happy birthday, (Y/N).”

You blinked, “Um… thank you, Professor?”

The silence that followed was thick. Heavy. It wasn't the usual eccentric kindness you were used to from him. There was something off about it. Something purposeful.

You glanced nervously at McGonagall, who was avoiding your eyes for once, lips pressed into a thin line. Snape still hadn’t moved.

“…Did I do something wrong?” You asked, voice quiet, “Because I didn’t—”

“You didn’t,” Dumbledore cut in gently, “You’ve done nothing wrong.”

You exhaled — a brief flicker of relief — before his next words sent your stomach plunging.

“But you have… reached a rather important day. One that has long been awaited.”

Your eyebrows furrowed, “What are you talking about?”

Dumbledore turned, walked behind his desk, and drew out a drawer. From it, he retrieved a scroll of ancient parchment — so old and brittle that it looked like it might crumble if you breathed too hard. Strange runes glowed faintly along the edges in gold and green ink.

“It may surprise you,” Dumbledore said slowly, unrolling the scroll with care, “to learn that you are not the first in your family to attend Hogwarts. In fact… you are of a very old line. One that traces directly back to Godric Gryffindor himself.”

Your mouth parted slightly, “Wait—what?”

“And Mr. Riddle,” Dumbledore continued, without looking at Mattheo, “descends from another of our founders — Salazar Slytherin.”

Mattheo scoffed, crossing his arms, “Yeah? So what?”

Dumbledore’s eyes lifted, suddenly sharper — older, “So… a pact made a thousand years ago, in secrecy and desperation, has finally come to pass.”

“A pact?” You echoed, staring at the glowing scroll, “What kind of pact?”

McGonagall’s voice cut through the silence — tight and grave, “A magically binding agreement. Between the founders themselves. A vow that, should descendants of their lines be born in the same generation… they would be joined. In marriage.”

The word hit the room like a curse.

“A marriage,” Dumbledore confirmed, “Written into the fabric of their magic itself. Designed to activate when the conditions were… finally right.”

You stared at him.

“No. That’s — that’s insane.”

“I would be inclined to agree.” Snape muttered dryly.

Dumbledore continued, unshaken, “The spell lay dormant for centuries. Until today.”

“Because we — because I touched him?” You asked, turning toward Mattheo, who now looked two seconds from spontaneous combustion.

“Because you are now of age,” Dumbledore said gently, “and the pact recognizes you both. When your magic met his — it awakened.”

Snape finally spoke, voice cold, “You both witnessed the first sign today. The flare. The bond. Arcane magic, woven into your blood, has reawakened. You can no longer deny it.”

You stumbled back a step, hand pressing over your chest like you could still feel the thread of it under your skin — humming, burning.

Mattheo was the first to break the silence. His voice came out low, sharp, “So that’s it? I’m supposed to marry her because two dead men thought it was a good idea a thousand years ago?”

He scoffed, disgusted. “Are you all completely mad?”

Dumbledore held up a hand, “For now, I only ask that you both take this seriously. This magic is older than all of us — and it is already in motion.”

You swallowed hard, your voice shaking, “…And what happens if we don’t?”

Dumbledore hesitated — and that alone made your heart stop.

“It is my belief,” he said quietly, looking straight at you, “that if the vow is not fulfilled…you may lose your magic. Possibly… even your life.”

Your breath caught.

No. No, no, no—

Your stomach dropped so hard it felt like you might vomit. Your lungs refused to expand. You barely heard McGonagall calling your name as your knees gave slightly.

Mattheo let out a humorless laugh, “Then let her die for all I care. I’m not marrying her. I don’t care if the whole castle burns down.”

And then he stormed out, slamming the door so hard that several portraits shouted in protest.

You stood frozen, tears burning your eyes. Even though you hadn’t wanted this marriage either, something about his words — how easily he said it — made something inside you crack.

“Am I really going to lose my magic?” you asked in a whisper, “Am I going to die?”

McGonagall was at your side instantly, her hand warm on your back as you began to sob, trying and failing to breathe through the panic.

Your first day as an adult. And already… you’d been sentenced to death.

***

The entrance to the Slytherin common room slithered open with a hiss, the chill of the dungeons seeping into Mattheo’s skin as he stepped inside. The low greenish light cast shadows across the stone walls, the usual scent of damp earth and smoke curling in the air.

“Oi, there he is — the man of the hour,” Blaise called from the corner, lounging on a leather sofa with Theo and a few others scattered around, “Thought you'd get stuck in detention for the rest of your life. Was worth it though — we got to leave class early.”

Mattheo forced a scoff, striding toward them with the practiced swagger he wore like armor, “The old crones are all senile.”

Theo snorted, “What happened anyway? She bumped into you and you lost your mind ‘cause her filthy hands doth not touch the pure skin of Mattheo Riddle?”

A few of the others laughed. Mattheo didn’t. He just dropped into the seat next to Blaise, jaw tight.

“I bumped into her. That’s all.”

Blaise raised an eyebrow, “Bumped into her and what, set off a bloody fireworks show? Draco took four showers to get the Bubotuber pus out of his hair.”

Mattheo’s fingers tightened around his wand, “I said it was nothing.”

But even as the words left his mouth, he could feel it again — a dull tingling in his head, a sharp kind of pain right behind his eyes that made him screw them shut.

He raised his wand, needing a drink of water.

“Accio.” He muttered, aiming at a glass across the room.

A spark of light flickered. The glass wobbled. Then nothing.

Theo blinked, “Mate, what the hell was that? You losing your touch?”

Mattheo frowned, “I’m just tired. Had one of the most bizarre conversations of my life.”

He gripped the wand tighter — too tight — and tried again.

“Accio.”

A more violent spark this time — and then CRACK. The glass shot across the room like a bullet and slammed into the stone wall behind them, shattering into a million pieces. A few people flinched. Someone swore.

Mattheo didn’t look at the shards of glass.

He was staring at his hand.

It was shaking. Barely — just a tremor in his fingers, almost imperceptible — but it was there.

“Mattheo?” Blaise’s voice was cautious now, “You alright?”

Mattheo’s lips parted, but no sound came out.

Something was wrong. It was the way his magic felt. Like it wasn’t entirely his anymore. Like something was tugging on it — pulling threads loose in places he couldn’t see.

He stood abruptly.

“I’m going to bed.”

And without another word, he stalked off toward the dorms, leaving the others exchanging uneasy looks behind him.

***

The warm glow of the Gryffindor common room wrapped around you like a fragile shield as you pushed open the portrait hole. The chatter and laughter of your friends filled the air — Ron sitting cross-legged by the fire, Hermione quietly reading a book, and Harry leaning against the armrest, eyes lifting as you entered.

“(Y/N)!” Hermione’s smile faltered the moment she saw your face, “Are you—?”

But before she could finish, something inside you broke loose. The tight control you’d clung to shattered, and tears spilled unbidden down your cheeks.

You stumbled forward, unable to stop yourself, and Harry was instantly at your side, arms wrapping around you with steady strength. You leaned into him, your body shaking as sobs wracked your frame.

“Shhh, it’s okay,” Harry murmured softly, his voice gentle as the warmth of the fire, “Whatever it is, it’s okay.”

You didn’t speak. You couldn’t. You let the tears fall, the hurt and fear and confusion pooling in your chest and spilling out at last.

Ron and Hermione watched quietly, giving you space, their eyes full of concern but never pressing for answers.

***

The first light of dawn crept faintly through the narrow, green-tinted windows of the Slytherin dormitory, casting long shadows across the cold stone walls. Blaise sat up on the edge of his bed, nudging Mattheo’s shoulder with a lazy, “Oi, Mattheo, time to get up.”

There was no response.

He frowned and gave the shoulder another shove, “Wake up, you bloody tosser, or we’re gonna leave you here.”

Still nothing.

Theo, pulling on his uniform, raised an eyebrow, “He’s out cold or something?”

Blaise frowned deeper, reached out, and gently rolled Mattheo onto his back.

They both froze.

Mattheo’s face was ghostly pale — the usual sharp lines softened, drained of color. His eyes remained shut tight, breathing shallow and uneven.

But it was the dark crimson stains that stole Blaise’s breath — blood soaked the pillow beneath Mattheo’s head, seeping into the white sheets, splattered around the bed like a grim painting. Fresh, vivid, unmistakable.

Blaise’s voice dropped to a whisper, “Fuck… is that blood?”

They leaned closer, horror rising as trickles of dried blood traced haunting paths from his ears, nose, and the corner of his mouth.

Suddenly, Mattheo began to cough — a wet, painful hack that shook his whole body. He tried to sit up but couldn’t. His coughing turned into choking, a gargling, desperate sound as he struggled against the blood flooding his throat.

“Get a professor!” Blaise yelled, panic sharpening his voice.

Theo didn’t hesitate — he bolted from the room, racing through the dungeons to find help.

***

You pushed open the doors to the hospital wing, your heart thudding hard in your chest. Professor McGonagall’s owl had found you at dinner— a curt summons with no explanation, only urgency in the hurried scrawl of her handwriting.

The room was quiet. Too quiet. The soft clinks of vials and the distant rustle of linens were the only sounds as you stepped inside. The smell of antiseptic and iron hit you all at once — sharp, metallic, unmistakable.

Your pace slowed as you spotted them.

McGonagall. Dumbledore. Snape. And Madam Pomfrey.

All gathered around a single hospital bed.

The pit in your stomach grew deeper with every step as you approached.

It wasn’t until you rounded the bed that you saw who lay in it.

Mattheo.

Your breath caught.

He was barely recognizable. Pale — deathly pale — with dark shadows under his eyes and dried blood flaked around his mouth and nose. His usually sharp, arrogant features were slack with exhaustion. Soaked cloths were piled on the table beside him, stained deep crimson. A silver basin sat on the floor, half full with water and flecks of blood.

You stared, frozen, mouth parting in disbelief.

“…What—” Your voice cracked, the word barely a whisper, “What happened to him?”

No one answered at first. Madam Pomfrey wrung out another bloodied cloth and dabbed gently at the side of Mattheo’s mouth. He flinched but didn’t stir.

You looked at McGonagall, your voice harder now, “Professor?”

McGonagall exchanged a glance with Dumbledore, then stepped forward.

Dumbledore sighed quietly, folding his hands before him, “The effects began soon after the vow was unfulfilled.”

Your stomach dropped.

“What?”

“When Mr. Riddle rejected the vow — forcefully — the binding magic retaliated. Violently.” McGonagall said, her voice tight with strain.

You blinked, “Wait — so this is because he said no?”

Snape nodded, eyes cold and grim, “The pact is ancient, arcane, and sentient in its own way. It punishes defiance.”

“And if… if we don’t go through with it?” You asked quietly, the words sticking to your throat like ash, “He’s going to die?”

No one spoke at first.

Then Dumbledore nodded, solemn, “Yes.”

You stared at them, waiting for someone to laugh. To say it was a test or a joke or some horrible misunderstanding.

But they just stood there, faces lined with worry and exhaustion.

Your hands curled into fists.

“So let me get this straight,” You said slowly, your voice rising, “He tells me to drop dead — literally — storms out, acts like I’m some sort of plague, and now I’m supposed to what? Save him? Marry him? Because he decided to spit in the face of something he didn’t understand?”

Snape arched a brow, about to respond, but you cut him off with a sharp shake of your head.

“No. I’m not doing this. He made his choice. He wanted me to die instead. He said it himself — let her die for all I care. So where’s that bravado now, Riddle? Hm?” You looked at him again, still unmoving, still barely clinging to life, “You wanted me gone. So why the hell should I save you?”

No one tried to stop you when you turned and stormed out of the room, fury choking your throat.

But as you stepped into the corridor, just before the doors swung shut behind you, you heard voices behind you — low, urgent.

“…his breath is getting fainter.”

“At this rate, I’m not sure he’ll make it through the night.”

Your steps faltered.

And for a moment — just one — the triumph you thought you’d feel turned into something much heavier.

Like guilt.

Like dread.

But you walked away anyway.

***

The Gryffindor common room was quiet, the fire long since reduced to embers. You sat curled up on the armchair closest to the hearth, knees to your chest, the hem of your pajama pants twisting around your ankles. You hadn't moved in hours.

You couldn’t sleep.

Every time you closed your eyes, all you could see was Mattheo — pale, barely breathing, the blood, the stillness, the weight of it all pressing in around you like a vice.

You told yourself he deserved it.

You told yourself you were right.

But then you remembered the way his lips were tinged blue. The way Madam Pomfrey’s hands shook when she dabbed the blood from his face. The way no one — not even Dumbledore — had been able to hide the fear in their eyes.

And then there was the way your heart had twisted in your chest when you heard them say he might not make it to morning.

It was past midnight now. The castle was silent.

You stood before you could think, arms wrapping around yourself for warmth as you padded barefoot through the corridors, the stone cold beneath your feet. You didn’t even bring a robe. Just your pajama pants and an old sweater. You didn’t care.

You just… had to see him.

The doors to the hospital wing groaned softly as you slipped inside. The lamps had been dimmed, casting long shadows across the rows of beds. Only one of them was occupied.

Mattheo.

“Miss (L/N)?” Came a voice from beside him, but you couldn’t even make eye contact with your professor — your eyes were locked onto the boy lying in the bed, on the verge of death.

He hadn’t moved.

His skin was even paler now, his breathing barely visible beneath the thin blanket draped across his chest. The basin beside the bed had been cleaned, but the faint scent of blood still lingered in the air.

You stood there for a long moment, arms still crossed tightly over your chest.

“I’ll do it.”

The words came out quieter than you expected. Like a secret. Like a surrender.

Your voice trembled as you took a step closer, “I’ll marry him.”

You looked over at McGonagall, throat tight, and nodded.

“I’ll do it,” You said again, “If it’ll stop this. If it’ll save him.”

Dumbledore appeared from the adjoining room, his eyes tired but gentle, “Are you sure, my dear?”

You looked down at Mattheo — at the stubborn furrow in his brow, still etched there even now. At the way he looked like a ghost in his own body.

“No,” You whispered, “But I’d never forgive myself if he died and I knew there was something I could’ve done to stop it.”

“You’re going to have to cast the spell yourself, Miss (L/N),” McGonagall said softly.

You nodded, eyes still locked on Mattheo.

You sat in the chair beside his bed and reached out — slowly, hesitantly — to take his hand.

It was cold.

But you held it anyway.

The silence in the hospital wing was thick — like the room itself was holding its breath.

Mattheo didn’t stir as you sat beside him, his hand heavy and cold in yours. Madam Pomfrey stepped back, her hands clasped tightly. Dumbledore watched you with a strange sorrow in his eyes. McGonagall stood beside him, her expression unreadable. And Snape... Snape looked like he already knew how this would end.

You looked down at Mattheo’s face — pale, drawn, lips parted ever so slightly as he struggled to breathe. If someone had told you a week ago that you’d be holding his hand like this, whispering a marriage vow to save his life, you would’ve laughed in their face.

But now…

You swallowed hard, lifting your wand with your free hand. It shook.

“What do I say?” You whispered.

Dumbledore stepped forward. “Repeat after me. Word for word. The spell will bind your magic, your life force, and your future to his — should he survive the bonding.”

You nodded, your grip tightening around Mattheo’s fingers.

Dumbledore spoke first, slowly and clearly, “I offer my name, my will, my magic, and my blood…”

You repeated it softly, every word a thread stitching itself into the air, “I offer my name, my will, my magic, and my blood…”

“…to be bound in life and fate to the heir of Slytherin…”

Your chest ached as the words left you, “…to be bound in life and fate to the heir of Slytherin…”

“…until death unbinds us, or destiny releases us.”

You could barely breathe as you whispered the last line, your throat tight with tears, “…until death unbinds us, or destiny releases us.”

Your wand pulsed with heat.

The tip glowed softly — a deep crimson — and then dimmed as the magic released into Mattheo’s chest in a slow, golden ripple, like sunlight spilling through water.

You felt it then — not a physical tug, but something… inward. A lurch in your core. A sudden pull between your body and his. Like your magic had reached out and fastened itself to his, anchoring to something inside him you couldn’t see.

A soft gasp escaped his lips.

You froze.

Mattheo’s hand twitched.

Then — a cough. Wet. Weak. Painful. His eyes cracked open, red-rimmed and glassy, and they locked onto yours.

“…You?”

His voice was barely a breath. But you heard it. Felt it. And then he passed out again — but this time, his chest rose just a little easier. The color returned, faintly, to his cheeks. The trembling in his hand stilled.

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding, your wand falling to your lap.

It was done.

The pact was sealed.

You were married.

You dropped his hand, a sob racking through your body, “What have I done?”

McGonagall’s hand rested gently on your shoulder, her voice low but steady as she tried to ground you.

“You did something extraordinary tonight,” she said softly, “You saved a life, Miss (L/N). And that is never something to be taken lightly — no matter the circumstances.”

You nodded numbly, eyes fixed on the folds of your pajama sleeve. Your fingers were clenched, digging into the fabric, trying to stop the tremor still moving through you.

You hadn’t let go of the weight of what you’d done — not yet. The spell still lingered in your veins like fire and ice, like a tether. You hadn’t spoken since.

Not until a low, ragged breath tore through the silence.

And then a voice — hoarse, furious:

“What the fuck did you do?”

You froze.

Mattheo.

You turned slowly toward the bed, where he was now sitting upright — or trying to, at least. Sweat glistened on his forehead, and his breathing was still shallow, but his eyes were wide and dark with realization. With rage.

He was staring straight at you.

“No,” He muttered, shaking his head like he could undo it just by refusing to believe it, “Tell me you didn’t. Tell me you didn’t go through with it.”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. You just sat there, stunned, heart pounding like a war drum in your throat.

“I—” You tried to speak, but your voice caught.

He swung his legs off the bed, swaying with the effort. His skin was ghostly pale, but the venom in his voice was unmistakable.

“You had no fucking right,” He spat, “You just wanted to play the hero — and now I’m the one chained to a decision I didn’t make.”

“Mr. Riddle,” Snape said coolly from across the room, “had she not acted, you would be dead. Is that what you would’ve preferred? That we stand by and let you bleed out?”

Mattheo didn’t even glance at him. His eyes stayed locked on you — like you’d cast the killing curse instead of saving his life.

“You think I should thank you?” He snapped, “You think shackling me to you makes you noble? It doesn’t. It makes you soft. Weak. All of you are fucking insane.”

You flinched like he’d struck you.

The silence that followed stretched taut — unbearable.

And then, barely above a whisper, your voice broke through.

“You’re right.”

Mattheo blinked.

Your hands clenched tighter in your lap, nails digging into your palms, carving crescent moons into your skin.

“I shouldn’t have done anything,” You said, louder now — your voice rising with every word, like something was building, choking you, “I should’ve turned around and walked out of this damn hospital wing. I should’ve let you bleed out, just like you wanted. Would’ve saved us both a lifetime of regret.”

McGonagall called your name — gentle, warning — but you didn’t stop.

“You think it makes me weak?” You hissed, tears blurring your vision, “Fine. Be grateful someone so weak was destined for you. Because no one else would’ve ever willingly bound themselves to you. No one else would’ve looked at what you are — the person you are — and still chosen to save you.”

Mattheo’s glare deepened. His jaw was clenched so tightly you thought his teeth might crack. His hands trembled at his sides — too weak to ball into fists, though you could see him trying.

But you weren’t finished.

“I’m cursing my ancestors for tying me to a monster like you,” You said, standing as you wiped at your face, trying to chase away the tears that refused to stop, “You hate this so much? Then do something about it. Go throw yourself off the Astronomy Tower.”

You paused — your voice cold as ice.

“Then maybe you’ll finally be good for something.”

The room went deathly still.

You didn’t wait for a response. You turned and walked out, each footstep pounding like thunder down the hall, your hand clamped over your mouth to muffle the sobs clawing their way out of you — fury burning in your chest.

And behind you, no one said a word.

***

The next few weeks at Hogwarts felt like walking on glass.

Despite the long list of grievances — the near-lethal bickering, the glares that could freeze hell over, and the occasional hex cast under the table — there was one thing you and Mattheo Riddle agreed on:

The marriage bond was to remain a secret. Or so help you, you’d Obliviate the entire school.

But silence didn’t mean peace.

In fact, ever since the night in the hospital wing, things had gotten worse.

You’d gone from mutual avoidance to open warfare. The moment your sleeves so much as brushed in a corridor, the air would shift — like the castle itself was bracing for impact. Even the portraits had learned to duck when you passed.

Your professors were at their absolute limit.

McGonagall had nearly taken her hat off in frustration during Transfiguration, and Snape — who normally relished assigning detentions — looked ready to swallow an entire cauldron of Felix Felicis just to avoid your next row.

The problem was: detention didn’t help.

You and Mattheo would just end up arguing behind closed doors. Or worse — he wouldn’t even show up. And if he didn’t show, why the hell should you?

Snape had tried to separate you. McGonagall had tried silent partnering spells. Flitwick had attempted a rotation chart. None of it worked.

Because the truth was simple: You two weren’t combustible. You were already on fire.

And the next explosion was only a matter of time.

It was supposed to be a simple lesson.

“Today, we’ll be practicing small-to-medium object-to-animal transfigurations,” McGonagall announced crisply, the chalk behind her scribbling across the board on its own, “The object must retain its original mass, and the animal must be fully functional.”

You weren’t even looking at Mattheo.

A single brush of shoulders in the corridor was enough to spark full-blown arguments. The professors had resorted to full-on assigned seating just to keep you apart.

Naturally, your desk was at the very front of the room.

And Mattheo’s?

Two rows behind and off to the right.

Far enough to ignore. Close enough to still feel him.

You gritted your teeth and raised your wand.

The matchbox on your desk trembled once — then, with a small pop, sprouted whiskers and legs, fur rippling across the surface like ink in water. It let out a high-pitched squeak and bolted.

Right off your desk.

The mouse-thing tore across the floor, weaving between desks like a heat-seeking missile until—

It launched itself onto Mattheo’s parchment, knocking over his inkpot and scrabbling up his sleeve.

His reaction was instant.

Mattheo shot to his feet, chair crashing backward with a loud bang, “Are you fucking serious?”

You stood too, wand half-raised, “It was an accident!”

“Every spell you cast ends up ruining lives,” He snapped, voice like shattered glass, “Why should today be any different?”

The class froze, eyes darting between the two of you.

Blaise’s jaw tightened. Hermione’s lips pressed into a thin line. Even Ron glanced nervously toward McGonagall, who remained impassive but clearly tense.

Your throat tightened like a vice.

“You’re one to talk about ruining lives,” You spat, stepping forward, heat flashing under your skin, “Next time I’ll let your skull hit the floor and see how noble I feel.”

“Oh, I’m the mess?” He scoffed, closing the distance, “I’m not the one who decided to play God—”

“You’re right. You’re not capable of caring about anyone but yourself.”

His eyes flashed, “I’d rather Avada myself than give a shit about you.”

“Do us both a favour and go ahead, Riddle!”

Your wand was in your hand before you even realized it.

“I swear to Merlin—”

Mattheo’s wand was already raised, aimed directly at you, “Do it. Go on. Every Gryffindor dreams of taking out a Riddle. Let’s see if you’ve got the nerve. Put me out of my fucking misery.”

“ENOUGH!”

McGonagall’s voice cracked through the room like lightning.

With a single flick of her wand, both of yours went flying — clattering across the stone floor.

She strode forward, every inch of her trembling with fury.

Neither of you said a word.

“Outside. Now.”

You turned first, jaw clenched tight. Mattheo followed a beat later, shoulders stiff with rage.

And as the door slammed shut behind you, you both stormed off in opposite directions, breaths ragged — not looking at each other. Not speaking.

But the silence buzzed louder than any scream.

Because neither of you said it aloud. But in that moment, you both knew: Something was going to break soon.

And it wouldn’t be the bond.

It would be you.

***

Snape had been more successful than usual at keeping you both apart during lessons. Your workbenches were set far, far away from each other, and all the tools and ingredients you’d need were already placed before class began. While it was completely unlike him, Snape had gone through the painstaking effort of making sure you’d never have to leave your bench—and thus wouldn’t run into each other.

Mattheo was halfway through slicing the stubborn boomslang skin when the knife slipped from his fingers. A curse barely whispered under his breath. He glanced down at the thin line of blood trickling from a cut on his palm.

“Are you bleeding?” Lorenzo’s voice cut through the quiet classroom, unexpectedly loud.

The noise struck you like a jolt to the chest. Your heart hammered in your ribs, and without thinking, you whipped your head around, eyes scanning the room in sudden panic.

For a moment, your breath caught in your throat. Was he sick again? Coughing up blood like last time? Was he hurt worse than before? Why? You had cast the spell, fulfilled the vow. Why was he bleeding? Was it because your magic was wearing off? Were you losing your magic?

Mattheo caught your frantic gaze from across the room. His brow furrowed as he watched the flicker of worry on your pale face—completely out of place among the usual sharp barbs you threw his way.

Why are you looking at me like that? his eyes seemed to ask.

You looked away quickly, biting the inside of your cheek. Your gaze flicked over his form, lingering briefly on the wound in his hand. Slowly, you sank back onto your stool, exhaling shakily when Harry leaned toward you with a concerned, “Are you okay?”

You just shook your head, forcing a faint smile. Nothing worth mentioning.

Mattheo’s confusion deepened.

He glanced once more at his bleeding palm, then back at you, narrowing his eyes.

The same person who tells me to throw myself off the Astronomy Tower is worried when I bleed?

A sardonic smirk tugged at his lips—bitter and cold. Pathetic, he thought. She’s weaker than I thought.

He shook his head, muttering under his breath, “Hilarious.”

***

The dormitory was quiet, the other girls already asleep — or pretending to be. You lay motionless in bed, staring up at the ceiling, the moonlight tracing pale lines across your blanket.

It was the stillness that made it unbearable. No shouting, no clashing wands, no chaos to hide behind — just the raw, aching silence where your thoughts had nowhere to go but inward.

Your fingers curled in the sheets, heart leaden in your chest.

You’d read about soulbonds. You’d studied the magic. You understood the implications.

But knowing something intellectually wasn’t the same as feeling it. It wasn't the same as feeling that familiar tug in your soul whenever he was around. Not even affection, just recognition. Because deep down, his soul was yours now, and yours belonged to him.

Your husband.

Could you ever fall in love with someone else? Could you be touched, kissed, adored by anyone else without this bond protesting? Could you ever stand before another person in a white dress and vow yourself to them, when somewhere, in the deepest part of your soul, you were already tied to Mattheo Riddle?

Was this all your life was going to amount to? Would you ever be able to have children? A family?

Your chest tightened, a quiet grief building behind your ribs — not because you wanted him, but because now you might never get to choose.

Not really.

Not freely.

You turned to face the wall, eyes burning.

You hadn’t even wanted this. You had only done what was necessary. You’d cast the spell. You’d saved his life. You’d paid the price. And now the rest of your life might not be yours to live.

***

Mattheo slammed the door behind him hard enough to rattle the frame. His dorm was dim and cool, shadows sprawling over the stone walls like claws. He paced across the room like a caged animal, rage simmering just beneath his skin.

Every time he closed his eyes, he felt his soul reach out of his body, looking for his other half. His magic was writhing in protest—one part of him aching to return to his wife, the other wishing the bond had never been forged at all."

He grabbed a book off his desk and hurled it at the wall. It hit with a loud thud, scattering parchment.

No.

He wasn’t going to be tied to this. He wasn’t going to be one of those cursed bastards in old fairy tales, shackled to a girl because of some ancient, romanticised magic.

It wasn’t fair.

You weren't fair. Always so self-righteous. Always so brave, so noble. Like you were above it all. Like saving him meant you got to own his future.

He sneered, dragging a hand through his hair.

He’d go out with someone else tomorrow — hell, two people, maybe. Just to prove it meant nothing. Just to remind himself that he still had a choice. That no invisible string could dictate who he was or who he wanted to touch.

And if some part of his chest felt heavy beneath that anger — if his stomach clenched at the memory of you going pale with concern, like you cared about him — well, he wasn’t going to fucking think about that.

Mattheo pulled off his school robes with more force than necessary and threw himself onto his bed, staring at the cracked ceiling.

This was just magic.

He didn’t believe in fate.

***

The greenhouse was muggy and buzzing with low conversation, the scent of damp moss and pollen thick in the air. You were partnered with Hermione — thankfully — while Mattheo was stationed several tables away, buried in a hushed conversation with Theodore and Lorenzo.

It should’ve made you feel safe — that distance — but your skin still prickled every time someone said his name. Every time he laughed like nothing between you had cracked wide open.

Professor Sprout bustled through the rows of tables, cheerfully guiding everyone toward the trays of unmarked magical plants, “Careful, class — some of these are… temperamental. I want you to handle them gently. We provoke nothing, understood?”

You nodded absently. Beside you, Hermione was flipping through her textbook, muttering classifications under her breath. Somewhere behind you, Mattheo’s voice filtered through the noise — low, unmistakable. Like smoke curling through your awareness.

You didn’t look. You didn’t need to.

Your soul already knew he was there. You could feel him. Feel his magic.

And it was driving you insane.

Your eyes scanned your workstation, landing on a thick-stemmed plant with curling, faintly shimmering leaves. It looked harmless. Almost pretty. Distracted, your hand reached toward it—

“Wait—!” Hermione started, too late.

The plant struck fast. Its leaves snapped open like jaws, revealing rows of tiny, sharp teeth.

You flinched back—

But not fast enough.

A hand caught your wrist and yanked.

Mattheo’s grip was unrelenting as he dragged you away from the plant’s snapping maw. The force of it knocked you into him, your chest colliding with his shoulder.

The scent of mint, smoke, and fresh grass hit you like a punch to the gut.

You froze.

Mattheo didn’t look at you. His hand stayed firm around your wrist, holding it up like it had personally offended him. His eyes were locked on the plant, jaw tight.

“For fuck’s sake,” He muttered, low and sharp, “Fancy losing an arm, do you?”

Your jaw clenched, “I didn’t ask you to—”

But your voice faltered.

Because your skin was touching.

And the moment it did, the air around you pulsed.

Raw magic cracked through the greenhouse like thunder. The floor trembled beneath your feet. Pots exploded. Vines twisted violently from their containers. One of the plants let out a shriek that made your bones vibrate.

Professor Sprout spun around, eyes wide, “What in Merlin’s name—?!”

Students shouted and scrambled back, clutching their wands as chaos erupted.

“Bloody hell,” Theo muttered somewhere to your right.

The plant that had nearly taken your hand shattered its entire pot in a final, violent explosion — soil and ceramic fragments flying.

And in the middle of it all, Mattheo did the last thing anyone would’ve expected.

He didn’t let go.

He pulled you closer.

One arm locked tight around your waist as he turned into you, shielding your body with his own like it was instinct. His back took the brunt of it — shards of ceramic and clumps of dirt pelting his robes and shoulders as the pot burst behind you.

You couldn’t breathe.

For one suspended second, the rest of the world vanished — the screaming vines, the spells, the panic. All you could hear was your heartbeat pounding in your ears.

Mattheo’s jaw was clenched, his eyes still fixed forward.

But his grip told you everything you didn’t want to understand.

Then, almost as if realizing what caused the chaos — who caused it — his body tensed even more. And suddenly, he let go like he’d touched flame.

You stepped back just as quickly, as though the heat between you hadn’t seared itself into your skin.

The distance snapped back into place.

He didn’t speak. He didn’t even glance at you. Just turned on his heel, stalking back to his workstation with his robes covered in dirt, hair mussed, and jaw tight — like nothing had happened.

But something had.

You watched him go, eyes falling to the soil on his back from where he’d pulled you close.

Then you looked away.

Neither of you spoke of it — not to each other, not to anyone else. But under your breath, the bond whispered what you both refused to say:

Husband. Wife.

And the magic remembered.

***

The steps up to the Astronomy Tower were slick with night dew, the stone worn smooth beneath Mattheo’s boots. The sky was a deep navy above them, scattered with stars, and the wind tugged at their robes as he and his friends climbed — Theo, Blaise, Draco, and Lorenzo trailing behind, their laughter low and easy.

“If we get caught, I’m throwing you all under the bus,” Draco huffed, “Making me leave my silk sheets for a smoke. I don’t even smoke! We’re not girlfriends going to the toilets together — why do I have to be here?”

Mattheo barely heard him.

They were nearing the final bend of the stairwell when he stopped short, his hand shooting out to halt Blaise mid-step.

“What—?” Blaise started, frowning.

Mattheo didn’t answer. His head tilted, brows drawing tight.

A voice floated down the stairs.

Yours.

The wind nipped at your cheeks, but you didn’t mind. It was quiet up here — calm — and that was rare these days.

You sat cross-legged on the ledge, a Chocolate Frog wrapper fluttering beside you. Harry leaned nearby, arms folded against the cold, chewing on a Bertie Bott’s bean with an expression like he’d swallowed a lemon.

He spat the offending thing over the ledge.

“Haz!” You exclaimed, grinning, “Was that dirt-flavored?”

“Vomit!” He cried, chugging his hot chocolate — and immediately burning his tongue, “Oh Merlin—hell—it was vomit-flavored!”

You burst into laughter — a belly-deep kind of laugh, bright and contagious, ringing through the tower like wind chimes in summer. And something about it hit Mattheo like a punch to the ribs. It flared through him like wildfire, warm and sickening and wrong. He didn’t know why it mattered. He didn’t care.

He shouldn’t care.

Harry blinked, turning to look at you — really look, “There’s that smile.”

You tilted your head.

He smiled, “Haven’t seen you smile like that in weeks.”

You grinned, “Really says something about your joke-telling, doesn’t it, Haz?”

He scoffed, bumping your shoulder, “You only laugh when I’m in pain.”

“Seriously though,” He said, softer this time, “What’s going on with you lately?”

You tried to play innocent, “What do you mean?”

He gave you a look, “Don’t do that. You know what I mean. What’s going on with you and Riddle?”

Mattheo’s lungs went tight.

“It’s very hard for you to hate someone, (Y/N),” Harry continued, “I should know. Despite everything those snakes do, you still manage to stay cordial with Berkshire and Zabini.”

“But you,” Harry said, nodding at you, “you’re practically on the verge of murder when Riddle walks into a room. What did he do to piss you off that badly?”

You sighed, shoulders sagging, “He’s an ass.”

Harry didn’t argue.

“He’s rude, arrogant, violent… thinks the world owes him something.” You paused, chewing your lip, “But the more I think about it… the more I feel like I owe him an apology.”

Mattheo’s pulse stuttered. His jaw clenched. He didn’t know why he was still standing there. Why hadn’t he turned around? Why were his feet not moving?

But his heart was pounding.

Harry blinked, “You? Apologize to Mattheo Riddle?”

“I know,” You groaned, resting your head against Harry’s shoulder, sipping your hot chocolate, “It sounds insane. And he’s still awful. He says the nastiest things and looks at me like I’ve ruined his life.”

“I hope there’s a but coming or I’m taking you to St. Mungo’s for a psych evaluation.”

You laughed softly.

“But,” You admitted, “I think I was wrong too. I didn’t ask for any of this… but neither did he.”

Silence. Just the wind and the sound of distant owls.

“He’d be lucky to get an apology from you,” Harry said finally, “But if he throws it in your face, I’ll hex his eyebrows off.”

From the stairwell, Mattheo turned without a word, brushing past the others. His expression unreadable. His hands clenched.

“Mate?” Lorenzo whispered.

Mattheo didn’t respond.

He lit a cigarette with a flick of his wand, the smoke curling from his lips as his eyes fixed on nothing.

“Let’s go somewhere else,” he muttered. “This spot’s taken.”

***

The courtyard was cold and quiet, moonlight catching in puddles across the cobblestones. Mattheo walked fast, hands buried in his coat pockets, cigarette burning low between his fingers. His friends trailed behind, boots scuffing against wet stone, all of them exchanging looks like they were watching a wounded animal pace in circles.

“So,” Blaise drawled, jogging to catch up, “you gonna tell us why you just froze like you saw a bloody Dementor?”

Mattheo didn’t look at him, “Didn’t.”

“You did,” Theo said, grinning, “I thought you’d been Petrified for a second. And then just stood there. Listening.”

Mattheo exhaled through his nose, jaw ticking.

“Oh, come on,” Draco groaned, dragging his feet, “You stopped us cold like you’d been hit with a Stunning Spell. And then just stood there listening to Potter, of all people, like he was singing you a bloody lullaby.”

Mattheo scowled, “He was being loud.”

“Oh yeah, loud enough to make your heart stop apparently,” Blaise said, his grin growing, “Or—oh, wait—was it her voice that got you all twitchy?”

They all knew it was you that had him pausing. It was obvious, but they wanted to stretch this out as long as possible.

Draco made a scandalized noise, “Was that what it was? Is little Matty catching feelings?”

Mattheo shot him a glare sharp enough to cut through steel, “Don’t call me that.”

“She said she owed him an apology,” Lorenzo sang, clutching his heart, making the others guffaw, “Oh, their lovers’ tiff finally coming to an end.”

“She also called him an ass, arrogant, violent, and someone who thinks the world owes him something,” Blaise added helpfully.

“Sounds like foreplay to me.” Theo commented.

Mattheo didn’t dignify that with a response. He took another drag off his cigarette and kept walking.

“You’re acting weird.” Theo called after him.

“You’re acting like she matters.” Lorenzo added.

“She doesn’t.” Mattheo said coolly.

Blaise snorted, “You stood there for ten minutes listening to a private conversation. Be serious.”

“She was loud." Mattheo repeated.

“You’re deflecting.”

“I’m leaving.”

Mattheo threw a middle finger over his shoulder without turning around.

***

Your conversation with Harry had left you with one undeniable truth: you owed Mattheo a long-overdue apology.

The more you thought about it, the more you realized how ambushed he must’ve felt—going from dying to waking up magically bound to a girl he didn’t even like. If you were in his position, you would’ve been upset too.

'I probably wouldn’t have said he should’ve died… and I definitely would’ve reacted differently after learning he saved my life, but I digress.' You thought, gathering up your books as you prepared to leave the library.

It was almost curfew, and you didn’t need another reason to land yourself in detention. At the rate you were going, expulsion was starting to feel like a real possibility. Yet another reason to apologize to Mattheo and smooth things over.

The only issue? You couldn’t seem to actually apologize.

Not for lack of trying—you’d made several attempts—but every time, you froze. Mattheo was always surrounded by his friends, who, you were fairly sure, still didn’t know about your secret. And even when he was alone, you’d chicken out—whether out of pride or the fear that another argument would explode before you got the words out.

As you made your way toward the exit, your eyes caught on a familiar figure hunched over a table.

Mattheo Riddle. Asleep, head down on his Charms essay.

He was alone. Relaxed.

This was probably the best time to say something, you thought. But just as you reached out to touch his shoulder, you paused. Would he be the type to bite your head off for waking him?

Instead, you slowly sank into the seat beside him and decided to wait until he woke up.

So this is my husband, you thought, eyes scanning his face. His dark curls fell over his forehead, brushing his nose and making him scrunch it every few seconds with an unconscious little sniffle. You almost reached out to brush them away before stopping yourself, opting to lean your cheek against the table instead, so you could get a better look.

He was handsome—no denying that. Of course, that was only when his face wasn’t twisted in a scowl or a sneer aimed at you.

Thick lashes fluttered against his cheeks. A scar ran across his nose—one he’d gotten during a fight back in fourth year. You still remembered the chaos of that week, how everyone buzzed with gossip, applauding his opponent for landing a permanent mark on the Slytherin prince.

Your heart clenched at the memory. People had cheered over him getting hurt?

That didn’t seem right. Then again, he wasn’t exactly known for his kindness either. Maybe that was why.

You sighed, letting your eyes drift closed, lulled by the soft scratching of quills and the low crackle of the fireplace. Your breathing began to slow, your body relaxing next to his.

A few minutes later, Mattheo stirred.

His eyes opened slowly—and the first thing he saw was you. Sleeping beside him. Peaceful. Your face mere inches from his own.

He didn’t move at first, just stared.

You looked so calm… so soft. Your lips slightly parted, lashes brushing your cheeks. His gaze moved to where your hands nearly touched on the table. His pinky brushed against yours, and at the contact, something warm bloomed inside him—like drinking something hot and sweet on a cold day.

Then, from the spot where your skin touched, golden butterflies began to shimmer and rise. They floated gently up, delicate and radiant, then dissolved into glittering dust that rained over the two of you like pixie dust.

It was in that moment your eyes began to flutter open, the warmth rushing through you, tugging you gently back to consciousness.

You met his gaze—those deep, stormy eyes lit with gold, reflecting the butterflies as they danced around you.

Silence fell over the moment, thick and delicate like a spun sugar spell.

“I’m sorry,” You whispered, your voice barely audible, “For everything.”

His eyes softened, “I know. I’m sorry too.”

You slowly pushed your hand closer, not quite holding his, just letting your fingers rest against his—craving his touch a little longer.

***

The corridors were bathed in shadows as you crept beside Mattheo, the glow of torches casting golden light across the stone walls. It was past curfew—well past—and your shoes squeaked louder than you wanted with every step.

Your hand still tingled from where it had touched his. You tried not to think about it. Tried not to think about the butterflies, or the way his voice had softened when he told you he was sorry, too.

Mattheo was walking close—too close—but neither of you said anything. His shoulder brushed yours once, and both of you stiffened like you’d been hit with a jolt of electricity.

“This is such a bad idea,” You whispered, glancing behind you, “We’re going to get caught.”

“Then move quicker.” Mattheo muttered, though you could hear the smirk in his voice.

You rounded a corner—and froze.

Footsteps.

You both ducked into the nearest alcove, pressing into the shadows. Filch’s voice echoed down the hallway, muttering about rule-breakers and “ruffling Mrs. Norris’ feathers”—which didn’t even make sense, because she was a cat.

You were both holding your breath, your back against the wall, Mattheo right in front of you. Too close again. His hand twitched, like he was going to reach for you, steady you—

You shuffled back with a hissed whisper, “Don’t touch me!”

His brows rose, and you could see his smirk even in the dark, “Why? Scared I’ll bite?”

“No,” You snapped, “I’m scared if you touch me, this entire corridor is going to light up like a bloody fireworks show.”

His grin faltered. A flicker of remembrance crossed his face—the butterflies, the sparkles, the magic. That same electricity was crackling between you now, humming beneath your skin like the promise of a storm.

“…Right.” He muttered, glancing away.

You both fell silent, pressed against your opposing walls, hands braced against the stone, breaths so shallow so that your chests wouldn't brush. Filch’s footsteps faded down another corridor.

When it was safe, you stepped out of the alcove. Mattheo followed—quieter now.

As you reached the entrance to the Gryffindor common room, you paused, blinking. Mattheo had followed you all the way there—even though the Slytherin common room was in the opposite direction. He clearly knew that, with the way he was now standing still, waiting as you whispered your password and the portrait swung open.

You turned around to find him watching you with an unreadable expression.

“Goodnight, Mattheo.”

A beat of silence. Then, “Goodnight, (Y/N).”

“Get back safe, yeah?”

He chuckled, “Should be easy without you jumping at every bloody sound.”

You let out a soft huff of a laugh, offering him a small smile before stepping through the portrait hole. It closed behind you with a gentle thud.

The Fat Lady raised an eyebrow and smiled down at Mattheo, “Someone’s in love.”

He scoffed, “Don’t be daft.”

“Tell that to the lovesick grin on your face.”

It was only then he realised he was smiling. And that his heart hadn’t quite stopped racing.

Fuck.

***

The Astronomy Tower was quieter than usual, the moonlight casting soft shadows across the stone floor. You’d come up for some air, textbook in hand, hoping the cool night would lull you into drowsiness. It hadn’t.

You didn’t expect company—not at this hour, anyway.

“Merlin’s sake,” A voice drawled from the stairs, “why are you always here?”

You looked up to find Mattheo Riddle squinting at you, cigarette already between his lips, brows raised like you were the one interrupting him.

“I could ask you the same thing.” You shot back.

“I asked first.”

“And I’m ignoring you first.”

He scoffed, “Hilarious. You think you’re so clever.”

You shrugged, eyes drifting back to your book, “You can smoke here if you want. I don’t mind.”

You expected him to roll his eyes and leave—maybe mutter something smug under his breath. But he surprised you by stepping forward instead.

He moved to sit on your right, but you quickly lifted your hand and waved him off, “Not there. Sit on my left.”

He blinked, “What? Why?”

You gestured lazily at the breeze wafting through the open arches, “Wind’s blowing that way. I’d rather not get a face full of your lung rot.”

Mattheo rolled his eyes but, to your mild surprise, moved without argument, settling beside you with a muttered, “Bossy.”

You ignored that, flipping a page in your book.

He caught sight of the title and groaned, “Please tell me you’re not actually doing homework at midnight.”

You gave him a small smile, “Can’t sleep. Figured reading this would bore me enough to pass out.”

He took a drag from his cigarette, exhaling slowly, “Suppose that’s one way to do it.”

Silence fell for a moment—not uncomfortable, just quiet. Then, casually, you said, “I didn’t expect to see you in the library the other day. Didn't think you knew where it was.”

He smirked, “Charms essay’s due Monday. Figured I’d get it out of the way early.”

“That’s… surprisingly responsible of you.”

“Well,” He shrugged, “I’m going to that Hufflepuff thing by the Black Lake on Sunday. Didn’t fancy writing it hungover.”

You nodded, “Right. Forgot that was happening.”

Mattheo glanced at you, curious, “You’re not going?”

You shook your head, “Nah. Can’t swim. Bit pointless standing around while everyone else is diving in.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then, quietly—almost too quietly—he said, “You should go anyway.”

You turned to look at him.

The moonlight lit up the edge of his face, the glow catching in his curls and the smoke curling from his lips. His eyes were on the sky now, not on you.

"Maybe I will."

***

The party at the Black Lake was in full swing by the time you arrived with your friends. You wore a hoodie over your swimsuit, sleeves pushed up, sunglasses perched on your nose, and your hair pulled back into a lazy bun that still somehow looked effortlessly good.

You hadn’t even planned on swimming—you just wanted to be out, feel the sun, maybe dip your feet into the water. You hadn’t thought twice about who else might be there.

Until you saw him.

Mattheo.

He was already waist-deep in the lake, surrounded by a cluster of Slytherins and a few Ravenclaws, laughing at something Theo said, water glistening on his shoulders. You weren’t looking at him. Not really.

You were looking in his direction.

At least that's what you told yourself.

You peeled off your hoodie as you neared the shore, tying it loosely around your waist before sitting at the rocky edge. Your legs dipped into the cool water, toes wiggling beneath the surface. You laughed at Ron and Harry as they cannonballed into the lake, sending up twin waves that splashed a few nearby Hufflepuffs. Hermione plopped down beside you with a fond eye roll, choosing to keep you company rather than swim—knowing full well you couldn’t.

And that was when Mattheo noticed you.

It was subtle—just a pause in his sentence, the flick of his eyes toward the shoreline. His laughter dimmed, something warm rushing through him despite the chill of the lake. Like sunlight breaking through glass.

Theo cracked another joke that made the group laugh again, but Mattheo didn’t join in. His eyes flicked back to you. Not obviously—just every few seconds. Like he couldn’t help it.

Like he was trying to figure out when the hell he started noticing the curve of your hips, the way your skin shimmered slightly from sun lotion, or how the sunlight kissed the top of your cheekbones.

And you?

You didn’t look at him once.

At one point, you stretched your arms back behind you, tilted your head toward the sun, letting it soak into your skin. Just for a moment. And when you sat back up, your eyes flickering over the lake to find him again.

Mattheo was gone.

Underwater.

Fully disappeared.

He resurfaced a few seconds later, farther out now—like he’d needed to cool off, or distract himself, or maybe just stop thinking.

You pulled your legs out of the water and wandered off with Hermione to get something to drink, tossing your hair over your shoulder as you left.

He watched the whole time.

You had just stepped away from Hermione to grab another drink, the sun warm on your skin, the breeze tugging at the hem of your hoodie where it clung to your still-damp legs. You didn’t even register the footsteps behind you until it was too late.

“Come on!” Someone called—a Hufflepuff boy you vaguely recognized from Charms, “You haven’t even been in the water yet!”

Your eyes widened, “Wait—”

And then you were airborne.

You hit the lake with a splash, the cold shocking through your bones, clamping around your lungs. Panic seized your chest like a vice.

Your arms flailed, legs kicking uselessly. You bobbed to the surface once—twice—each time barely catching breath before slipping under again. Your hands slapped helplessly at the water’s surface.

And then—

Strong arms. A chest against your back. That comfort and warmth that spread through you almost immediately that made you want to melt.

Mattheo.

You realized it only as you were pulled above water again, his arms locked around your waist as he powered you toward the shore. He dragged you up onto the rocks like you weighed nothing, water cascading off both of you.

You collapsed to the stone, coughing violently, lake water pouring from your mouth as your lungs fought to breathe.

Mattheo was crouched beside you, one arm bracing your back to keep you upright.

But there were no butterflies. No sparks. No golden shimmer between you.

Just him. You. And that familiar warmth pulsing in your chest.

Someone stepped forward, reaching to help—maybe the boy who’d thrown you in.

Mattheo saw red.

He grabbed the outstretched hand and shoved it away, his voice sharp and venomous, “Get your fucking hands off my wife.”

The guy froze mid-step.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Mattheo snarled.

“It—it was just a joke! She wasn’t even that far out—”

“She can’t fucking swim, you twat!”

Silence rippled across the party. Heads turned. All eyes on you.

Mattheo glared at the boy like he wanted to throw him in and hold him down. He hadn’t moved his arm from your back. “Watch your back.” He growled.

You reached up with a shaking hand and pressed your palm to his chest.

“Mattheo—hey—” You rasped, still hoarse, lungs raw, “Calm down. It was an accident.”

His eyes dropped to yours, his jaw clenched tight. Slowly, his expression softened.

He brushed a soaked strand of hair from your cheek, voice lower now, “You alright? Do you need to see Madam Pomfrey?”

You shook your head, “Don’t be such a worrywart. I’ll be fine.”

He let out a slow breath, something cracking open in his chest at the sight of you like that—drenched, shivering, eyes still wide with shock.

“I’ve got you.” He whispered.

And that’s when it hit you.

There was no magic reacting between you. No sparks. No glow. No reminder of your bond.

Maybe it was because you felt the pull without it. The weight of his hand on your back, the panic in his voice, the fury in his eyes when you were in danger.

Before, the magic needed to show you. To remind you your souls were tied together.

Now?

You already knew.

You stared your hand on his chest for a second. “There’s no spark.” You murmured.

Mattheo just looked at you, something unreadable in his eyes, “We don’t need one.”

***

You were wrapped in a blanket by the fire in the Gryffindor common room, a warm mug in your hands, now fresh out of the shower and in warm clothing, when Hermione sat beside you with a look. Ron and Harry flanked your other side like they were forming an intervention.

Hermione’s eyes narrowed, “Alright. Spill.”

You blinked innocently, “Spill what?”

“Don’t play dumb,” Ron said, “You nearly drowned and he pulled you out like bloody Prince Charming—”

“—and then threatened to murder a Hufflepuff on your behalf.” Hermione added.

Harry leaned forward, “You two have been fighting for weeks and now he’s—what? Your personal lifeguard?”

You shrugged, sipping your cocoa, “He was there. It’s not that deep.”

“Not that deep?” Hermione echoed, “He carried you out of the lake like it was a scene from Pride and Prejudice.”

Ron frowned, “You were holding his hand. Voluntarily.”

You pulled the blanket tighter, “I almost died, Ronald. Excuse me for not being picky about which hands I grabbed.”

Hermione still looked skeptical, “(Y/N) he literally called you his wife. There's something you're not telling us. Next we're going to find out that you're married and have 3 kids.”

You choked on your drink, “Excuse me?!”

“You heard me,” She repeated, smug now, “You’re blushing.”

“Because I'm cold! Because an idiot threw me in the lake and I almost died!” You declared, indignant.

“You’re a terrible liar.” Harry muttered.

***

Meanwhile, in the Slytherin dungeons, Mattheo was toweling off his hair, clearly having just changed out of his soaked clothes, when Theo, Draco, Enzo, and Blaise all rounded on him.

“So,” Draco said casually, “You gonna explain why you went full bloody Gryffindor with that dive and rescue?”

Mattheo didn’t look up, “She can’t swim.”

“Yeah, we gathered that,” Blaise said, “but most people don’t growl at the guy who pushed her in like they’re about to duel him at dawn.”

Enzo snorted, “You literally threatened the bloke who threw her in. I reckon he started crying because he doesn’t want the infamous Mattheo Riddle to rearrange his face.”

Mattheo tossed his towel aside and flopped onto his bed, “He’s lucky I didn’t drown him.”

“Oh, he’s in deep,” Theo laughed, “Pun intended.”

“Funny.” Mattheo muttered.

“Look,” Blaise said, “if you like her—”

“I don’t.”

All four blinked at him.

Mattheo sat up, “I said I don’t like her. End of.”

Enzo raised a brow, smirking, “Right. Because you just protect every girl and call her your wife like it’s nothing.”

Mattheo’s jaw clenched, “It was a slip of the tongue. Nothing more.”

Theo added, “Didn’t even flirt with anyone at the party.”

“I wasn’t in the mood.”

Draco smirked, “He didn’t want to flirt with anyone else besides his wife, guys. This is adorable.”

But Mattheo had already stopped listening to them.

He stared at his hand.

No magic.

But definitely a spark.

***

Hogsmeade looked completely different when you were on your own, with no distractions from friends pulling you along. Your eyes wandered over the little town, taking in all the unusual shops you’d never visited before.

A familiar voice cut through your thoughts.

“Wow, wandering Hogsmeade alone, huh? That’s kinda sad, (L/N).”

You frowned, “Well, Hermione and Ron are on a date, Harry and Ginny are on a date, so I have no one else to keep me company. I would’ve been on a date myself, if someone hadn’t declared me his wife in front of the entire student body.”

That was true. You’d planned to go out with a cute Ravenclaw from your year—but he’d bailed last minute. Didn’t say why, but you knew. It was because of Mattheo’s declaration, and how he’d practically threatened the boy who’d thrown you in the lake. Not just that, girls kept coming up to you, apologizing for flirting with Mattheo, not knowing you were—something. You had to firmly deny it. You weren’t dating Mattheo Riddle. Not at all. You were secretly married, bound eternally by your ancestors. But dating? No way.

Mattheo’s brow raised as he stepped beside you, “You had a date?”

You raised an eyebrow. “Yeah? Is that a problem now? You didn’t seem to mind chasing after anyone in a skirt before.”

“That was before.”

“Before what?” You pressed.

He hesitated. A beat passed.

Then another.

“Nothing. Doesn’t matter.”

Your brows furrowed, “Sounds like it matters to me.”

His throat bobbed, “Does it?”

Your breath caught. This was the moment. Say it. Say you care. Say you feel it too.

“…I don’t know,” You whispered, “Does it? To you?”

Mattheo looked at you, really looked at you—and for a split second, the truth shone in his eyes. The thing he wanted to say.

“Forget it.”

Your chest sank.

“Right.”

You let out a small breath, softer now, “Thanks, by the way, for saving me that day. I meant to say it sooner.”

Without waiting for a reply, you leaned in and kissed his cheek.

Then you turned and walked away, heart pounding, leaving the words hanging between you.

***

You stepped nervously into the office, the heavy door clicking softly shut behind you. Professor McGonagall sat poised behind her desk, her expression unreadable—but not unkind. Dumbledore reclined slightly in his chair, hands folded, his twinkling eyes settling on you both with quiet intent.

“Please, have a seat.” McGonagall said crisply.

You obeyed, heart hammering, and slid into the chair beside Mattheo.

“We’ve noticed a... shift between the two of you,” Dumbledore began, his voice gentle and measured, “From frequent discord to something far more... cooperative.”

McGonagall nodded, “It appears you’re managing your circumstances with considerably more maturity than when this began.”

You swallowed, “Yes, Professor. We’re trying.”

I’m actually falling in love with the person who tried to curse me to death not too long ago, if that’s what you mean by maturity.

Mattheo shifted beside you—silent but steady. His presence grounded you, even as tension lingered in the air. You kept your hands clasped tightly in your lap.

“As you're aware,” Dumbledore continued, “this bond you share is highly unusual, and it will require careful thought and handling. We wanted to begin a conversation about what the future might look like.”

McGonagall leaned forward slightly, her gaze steady, “We’re speaking not only of the magical implications, but also the emotional and academic ones. Your lives are going to be affected by this, one way or another.”

Dumbledore offered a soft chuckle, “But know this—you’re not alone. We’re here to support you both, in any way we can. That is why we asked you here.”

McGonagall added, “Think of this as the beginning of an open conversation. A safe space to ask questions or raise concerns—without judgment.”

You glanced at Mattheo. His brow was furrowed, lips pressed into a thin line, but he met your gaze.

Then McGonagall continued, carefully, “It’s important to consider all possibilities. Including how you might feel about the idea of... other partners.”

Your breath hitched. Your gaze flicked to Mattheo.

He didn’t speak. But his jaw clenched. His shoulders stiffened.

Other partners?

When this began, you’d imagined—hoped, maybe—that someday you could fall in love with someone else. That the bond wouldn’t define your life. That maybe this could just be something you learned to live with... and move on from.

But it had never occurred to you that Mattheo might have thought the same.

Your stomach twisted. The idea of him with someone else—smiling at them the way he sometimes looked at you when he didn’t think you were watching—sent a sharp pang through your chest. Laughing with someone else. Touching them. Loving them.

No. You didn’t want that.

Dumbledore’s gaze softened. “Unfortunately, despite our efforts to investigate the depth of your bond, we still don’t fully understand all the implications. Which is why it’s best to be prepared. Bonds like yours... they can be complex.”

You nodded mutely, eyes fixed on your hands. A heavy ache bloomed in your chest—low and insistent. You weren’t ready to imagine a future where he wasn’t yours.

Even if you were never truly his.

***

You left the office in silence.

Neither of you spoke as you walked down the spiraling staircase, the echo of your footsteps louder than anything else. The corridor was quiet, dim with late-afternoon shadows filtering through tall windows. But the silence between you was deafening.

Mattheo’s hands were shoved deep into his pockets, his jaw tight. You kept your eyes ahead, refusing to let him see the storm behind yours.

Other partners.

The words echoed like a curse. The ache in your chest hadn’t faded—it had only sunk deeper. You didn’t know what was worse: the idea of loving someone who didn’t feel the same… or the thought of watching him fall for someone else.

Then, just as you turned a corner, Mattheo stopped walking.

“So,” He said stiffly, gaze still fixed on the stone floor, “you ever think about it?”

You blinked, “Think about what?”

He didn’t look at you. His voice was low, carefully neutral, “Moving on. Being with someone else.”

Your heart skipped. You stared at him, caught off guard, “I—I don’t know. I did… at the beginning. When all of this felt like a curse.”

He nodded, slow and almost imperceptible.

You hesitated, “What about you? Have you thought about being with someone else?”

A pause. Longer than it needed to be.

His jaw flexed, “I don’t know.”

You nodded too, trying to mirror his indifference even though your stomach had begun to twist into knots, “It’s okay if you have, Mattheo. I mean... it’s only natural, right? We didn’t choose this.”

“You’re right,” He said quietly, “We didn’t.”

You stopped in front of the Gryffindor common room. The Fat Lady eyed you curiously from her portrait, but didn’t say a word.

Mattheo offered you a small, hollow smile—the kind people give when they’re pretending not to bleed—and turned to leave.

You watched his retreating back. You knew you were going to cry the moment you were alone, so what did it matter?

“But,” You said loudly.

He stopped. Turned.

You swallowed the lump in your throat, forcing the words out before you lost your nerve, “But I think I’d still choose you… if I had the choice now.”

Silence.

It blanketed the space between you, thick and charged.

Mattheo didn’t move. Didn’t speak. But something in his eyes fractured—like a crack through glass, sudden and sharp.

He stepped back toward you, slow at first, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to. His voice, when it came, was quieter than you’d ever heard it.

“Don’t say that if you don’t mean it.”

You shook your head, “I mean it.”

He looked at you like he was trying to memorize you—like he didn’t quite believe it, but desperately wanted to.

His throat worked as he swallowed hard. “You make me crazy,” He said, almost helplessly, “You drive me up the fucking wall, and half the time I want to strangle you.”

A faint laugh escaped you—wet and shaky.

“But the thought of you with someone else,” He whispered, “Makes me feel like I can’t breathe.”

Your heart stuttered.

He stepped even closer now, “So no. I haven’t thought about being with anyone else. Not really. Not since you.”

The air was thick between you. Charged. Magnetic.

You stared at him, wide-eyed, “Mattheo…”

He raised a hand, hesitated—then tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. His fingers brushed your cheek, lingering just a moment too long.

“If I had the choice,” he said, “I’d still choose you too.”

Neither of you moved.

And then, slowly, cautiously, you leaned into him—your forehead brushing his, your breath mingling with his in the narrow space between you.

His eyes dropped to your lips.

You didn’t speak.

You didn’t need to.

His hand slid from the back of your neck to cradle your jaw, thumb brushing softly against your cheek. You tilted your face toward him, heart thudding so loudly it drowned out everything else.

And then he kissed you.

It wasn’t rough or rushed like you thought it might be. It was slow. Gentle. Like he was afraid you might disappear if he moved too fast.

You melted into him, fingers curling into the front of his robes as he pulled you just a little closer—close enough to feel the shudder in his chest when you exhaled.

When you finally pulled away, your forehead rested against his again, both of you catching your breath in the quiet.

He didn’t let go.

Neither did you.

And in that small, stolen moment outside the common room, the world felt… still.

Like maybe—for the first time since the bond was formed—you weren’t fighting fate anymore.

You were choosing it. You were choosing him.

***

Forever Taglist:

@simonsbluee

@haniscrying

@superheroesaremyjam113263

@writers-whirlwind

@paankhaleyaaar

Mattheo Riddle Taglist:

@redeemingvillains

#mattheo riddle #mattheo riddle x reader #mattheo riddle imagine #slytherin boys x reader #mattheo riddle angst #mattheo riddle fluff #mattheo riddle x you #mattheo riddle oneshot #mattheo riddle fanfic

2K notes · View notes

m-ayo-o · 9 months ago

Text

can't come!

nsfw; reader can't come, guess who helps her! (aged up 21+) <3

You've had trouble with this all of your adult life.

And right now it's getting more than a little frustrating.

You're pent up. Needy.

Unable to come.

Through no amount of touching, fingering, licking or fucking can you achieve an orgasm.

You feel pleasure, sure. It's amazing.

But your girlfriends so often remind you that this kind of pleasure is different.

"It's not the same, trust me.."

"You'd know if you had an orgasm"

"Maybe you should try a vibrator?"

And with all of their help and advice in the world- hell, one particularly close friend even offered to.. you know.. do it for you- you still can't come.

Maybe it's just not possible???

But your current boyfriend seems to have a plan in mind.

You know what he can do to you, with his hands and mouth.. and the way he fucks is just gentle and rough enough to make you whimper and bite into his shoulder.

But still no O.

So one day he sits you down and explains something to you.

About his 'power'.

Sure, he's told you about it before. You know what the deal is. He's a fucking sorcerer with the most beautiful markings on his face and he can barely speak to you without being concerned he's going to hurt you.

I can do it.

If you want me to.

He types out on his phone screen and shows you.

"You can do.. what? Toge?"

Let me show you.

Lie down please.

He has been so cautious with you- a non sorcerer.

A cute, sexy non sorcerer, who he cares about a whole lot.

He didn't want to scare you off with the way his mouth works.

So he lays you down gently and gets you warmed up, kissing you, touching you, feeling between your legs and starting to dip his fingers under your panties.

He drags them down slowly and gives you that look, asking for permission to take this a little further. You nod and watch him smile, kissing your thighs and ending up with his lips grazing your clit.

Such a familiar place- he studies your body and spreads your lips with his tongue, eyeing you up and down to see your reactions.

Then he hears that short, sharp breath when his tongue connects.

It never gets old.

But now, this time will be different.

"mm--" he hums into you and you loosen up, spreading your legs a little wider.

He gets closer.

"mm mmhmm--" you can hear the excitement in his soft moans. And he gets so greedy, his grip on your thighs getting tighter, spreading you open a little wider.

More. More. More.

He needs more of your body, more of those sounds.

"mmhh-" fuck, he's going to lose his mind in a second.

But no. He's gotta focus.

Now he can feel your body reacting to every tap and dip of his tongue.

Your breathing is getting so shaky, your face is flushed and your legs feel so tense.

With any girl he's been with before, this would be his cue to push her over the edge. A few more taps of his tongue would do. Maybe he could slide his fingers through your pussy lips, dipping them in to give you something to grip around.

But no.

You're close.

But you're not there.

So he pulls his lips off you with a sloppy, wet, sucking sound.

He disconnects his tongue but replaces it with his fingers.

Soft pads grazing your entrance, enticing you to get even wetter.

He looks up at your pretty face, your eyes half lidded, full of lust and desire.

So much desire.

To...

"come"

The word falls from his lips so casually.

But the power behind it leaves you reeling.

"ah- ah- w-w-w.... wait- Toge- oh--"

Your body is overwhelmed by the trembling.

He holds onto your legs to stop the shivering and shaking, watching you enjoy your first orgasm.

He wants to tell you what a good girl you are.

How pretty you look right now.

He wants to ask how it feels, although he's pretty sure he understands from the way you're moaning, nearly screaming his name and grappling onto the sheets of your bed.

"Toge- Toge---" you pant out his name, breathing laboured. You're on your way down, but you can still feel the pleasure tingling through your body, especially focusing around the bundle of nerves it all came from.

And you're amazed.

How did he do this?

Why.... Why hasn't he done this before???

"Toge--" your breath is returning to you slowly, just enough oxygen getting back into your brain to form a sentence-

"Toge- that was.. that was ah- amazing--"

He watches you sigh and collapse into the bed.

Weary that you're a beginner to all this, he debates for a few seconds before opening his mouth again.

But fuck it, the demons won today.

"come"

He does it again.

And again.

Needless to say, your first experience with this new found pleasure is unforgettable.

And your boyfriend? You might just have to hang onto him, seeing as he's the only person who can make you come.

toge

#jujutsu kaisen #jjk x reader #jjk smut #jujutsu kaisen smut #female reader #21+ toge #toge #toge inumaki #inumaki toge #inumaki x reader #toge x reader #this was inspired by someone's freaking tag that i read haha #getting a little unhinged #with toge #u opened Pandora's box

3K notes · View notes

saatorus · 2 months ago

Text

for all the people who've suffered an emotionally abusive father :)

“I’ve told you multiple times, I don’t always have the time to coddle you. Don’t you understand? I get home from a tiring mission and you’re being like this—”

You try to tune it out. You try, you really do. But it’s hard not to feel a little bit of anger — no, hurt — at how insensitive your husband, Satoru, is being. You had waited all day for him to come home. Today was your goddamn fifth wedding anniversary. You had decorated the living room with fairy lights, made his favorite dinner, even wore the soft blue sweater he liked — the one he once said made you look like “something out of a dream.”

And yet, the moment he stepped through the door, it was like none of that mattered. His shoulders were tense, his hair still damp from a rushed shower, the scent of lingering sorcery clinging to him like smoke. You had wrapped your arms around him, pressed a soft kiss to his cheek, whispered a “Happy anniversary, love” against his skin.

But he had just gently pushed you off.

Not harshly, no. Satoru was never cruel. But it was enough to make you freeze. Enough to stir that little ache in your chest you’d worked so hard to quiet over the years. Enough that it led to all this.

“I never asked you to coddle me, I was just—”

“Well, I was obviously indicating you give me some space. I don’t always have to kiss you and touch you. I get so tired sometimes and—”

“I know,” you interrupted, your voice barely above a whisper. “I get that you do. I just thought… I thought maybe today, of all days…”

Your voice cracks. You hate that it does.

Satoru exhales through his nose, running a hand through his hair in frustration before suddenly—falling silent.

Just like that.

Not another word. He turns his back, walks into the bedroom without so much as glancing at you again.

And it’s that silence that cuts deeper than anything else.

Because suddenly, you're not standing in your shared apartment with your husband. You're eighteen years old again, sitting on the bed in your room with a weird sense of despair coiling in your stomach, watching your father turn away after another minor argument he claimed wasn't worth his breath. Sitting there, trying to figure out what is wrong with you. You remember how he would go days– no, weeks, even months– without speaking to you, how you’d tiptoe around the house trying to be good, better, perfect — all so he’d finally look at you again.

It’s not the same, you know it isn’t.

But your chest tightens all the same. The air feels thick. Wrong.

And just like that, the old panic sets in. The kind that gnaws at your ribs and wraps around your lungs like a vice. You swallow hard, gripping your hands tightly in your lap. You’re back in a place you swore you'd never return to—feeling like a burden, like your love was too loud, too much. Like your father all over again, who’d shut down and ignore you for ages if you ever stepped even slightly out of line. You blink away the sudden sting in your eyes and sit on the edge of the couch, your fingers twisting in the hem of your sweater. You try to breathe, to rationalize, but the panic builds quickly, threatening to tip into something messy and raw.

And then suddenly—he’s there.

“Wait, what’s wrong? Baby—hey, talk to me,” he says quickly, eyes scanning your face. “Did I…? Shit. I messed up. I know I did. I’m so sorry.”

You look up at him, startled by the urgency in his voice. His blindfold is off now, and his cerulean eyes are wide, frantic. He drops to his knees in front of you, resting his hands on your thighs.

You shake your head, tears clinging to your lashes. “No, I’m sorry too. I didn’t mean to cling or make it harder on you. I know you’re tired from missions, and I should’ve just… I could’ve wrapped everything up. We didn’t have to celebrate. I just thought maybe even a few minutes would’ve been nice.”

“No, no, no, don’t say that,” he whispers immediately, voice cracking. “You didn’t do anything wrong. Don’t ever apologize for loving me. Please.”

You try to look away, but he gently cups your face, thumbing away the tears on your cheeks.

“It’s just… when you went quiet,” you murmur, “it brought me back to a place I hate. My dad used to do that. Walk away. Shut me out. Make me feel like I was nothing. Like I didn’t deserve even a word.”

“I’m so sorry,” he says again, this time softer. “I didn’t realize—I just thought you were being clingy, and I was tired, and I snapped, but that’s not an excuse. You didn’t do anything wrong. God, I just realised it’s our anniversary and I…”

You don’t realize you’re crying until he cups your face gently and wipes a tear away with his thumb.

His expression crumples, heartbreak swimming in his eyes. “God, baby, I didn’t know. I didn’t mean to—fuck, I never want to make you feel like that. Ever.”

“I know,” you whisper. “You’re not him. But sometimes, my heart forgets. I just wanted to celebrate with you,” you whisper, voice trembling. “And when you shut down like that, when you go quiet… It makes me feel like I’m back there again. Like I’m that girl who was never good enough, never worth talking to.”

His expression falls.

“Baby,” he breathes. “No. No, no, no. You’re worth everything. You’re worth so much more than I can ever put into words. I’m so sorry for making you feel like that. I swear to you, I’ll never walk away like that again. Not from you. Never from you.”

He pulls you into his arms tightly, like he’s scared you’ll slip through his fingers. You bury your face into his neck, inhaling the scent of his skin, letting the warmth of his embrace slowly thaw the ice that had begun to creep into your heart.

“I love you,” he murmurs into your hair. “So much. I know I’m a pain in the ass sometimes, but I love you more than anything. Even more than sweets. Which is saying something. Like I’d ditch Kikufuku f’you—”

You laugh through your tears, and he grins like it’s the best sound he’s heard all day.

He pulls you into his chest again. “Never again,” he murmurs, voice thick with emotion, “I’ll never walk away like that again. Not even when I’m tired. Not when I’m angry. You are never too much. You are everything.”

“I love you,” you whisper.

“I love you more,” he replies instantly, nuzzling your temple. “More than anything. And I know I don’t say it right every time, but I feel it every second I’m breathing.”

You stay like that for a while, wrapped up in each other, until the silence finally feels safe again.

Eventually, he pulls back and flashes a small, sheepish smile.

“Come on,” he says, standing and lifting you up bridal-style, ignoring your surprised squeak. “Let me make it up to you. We’ll re-do the whole night, yeah? Lights, candles, that ridiculous playlist you made—”

“The one you said sounded like a 2005 prom?”

“Exactly. I hated it. Let’s play it right now.”

He sets you down gently on the bed, then kisses your forehead, your cheeks, your nose, and finally your lips — soft and slow, like a promise.

“You’re everything to me,” he says against your mouth. “And I’ll spend the rest of my life proving it.”

This time, when he pulls you into his arms, there’s no tension in his shoulders. Just warmth. Just love.

And despite the rocky start, the night ends just how it was meant to: with candlelight dancing across the walls, soft music playing in the background, and Satoru Gojo curled up beside you, feeding you spoonfuls of lukewarm curry and whispering “I love you” between every bite.

Flawed, but perfect. Just like the two of you.

And the rest of the night passes in the glow of fairy lights and bad music, wrapped in the comfort of knowing that even in the moments where things falter — you always find your way back to each other.

yes this is entirely self indulgent and yes my father has been ignoring me for an exact month and yes this is a slight trauma dump but for anyone in a similar situation just know that you're never alone, and it will get better, i love you

#gojo x reader #jujutsu kaisen #jjk x reader #satoru gojo x reader #gojo satoru #gojo satoru x reader #jujutsu gojo #satoru gojo x reader angst #gojo x reader angst #satoru gojo x reader fluff #gojo x reader fluff #satoru gojo #jjk fluff #jjk angst #jjk x reader fluff #jujutsu kaisen fluff

2K notes · View notes

gojosconsort · 3 months ago

Text

FUCK YOU (ON THAT BIKE) ♡ // SUKUNA

⁀➷ CONTENT. you thought you could bug sukuna while he’s working on his bike and get away with it. big mistake—he’s about to fuck you raw on that leather seat ‘til you’re crying his name.

♡ PAIRING. afab!reader x boyfriend!sukuna

♡ WARNINGS. mdni. choking (a little), spanking, finger-fucking (mouth), degradation, dacryphilia, manhandling, creampie, hair-pulling, spit, tears, sweat, grease (sorry), motorcycle sex, bratty!reader, sukuna being sukuna (sorry, not sorry)

♡ WORD COUNT. 2,400

you’re sprawled out on the shitty old couch in BOYFRIEND!SUKUNA’S garage, legs kicked up over the armrest, scrolling through your phone like it’s the only thing keeping you from dying of boredom. the air smells like motor oil and stale cigarettes, and the faint hum of some trap beat leaks from a busted speaker in the corner.

sukuna’s over by his pride and joy—his matte-black motorcycle—hunched over it with a wrench in his tattooed hand. he’s been at it for hours, tweaking shit you don’t even pretend to understand, and you’re starting to get antsy.

“yo, how long you gonna fuck with that thing?” you call out, not even looking up from your screen. “feels like i’ve been sitting here forever.”

he doesn’t answer right away. just grunts, like you’re a fly buzzing around his head he’s too busy to swat. you roll your eyes, tossing your phone onto the cushion beside you, and sit up. the leather of his jacket you’re wearing—stolen from his stash—creaks as you move. it’s too big for you, swallowing your frame, but you like how it smells like him—smoke, sweat, and his cologne.

“sukunaaa,” you say again, louder this time, dragging out the last syllable like a brat. “c’mon, i’m bored as hell. entertain me or some shit.”

he finally looks up, those sharp red eyes fixed on you. his jaw’s tight, grease smeared across his cheek, and his black tank clings to his chest from the heat and even when he’s annoyed, he’s hot as sin. maybe especially when he’s annoyed.

“you see me working, yeah?” he snaps. “shut your damn mouth ‘fore i give you somethin’ to do with it.”

you smirk, hopping off the couch and sauntering over to him. the concrete’s cold under your bare feet, and your shorts ride up your thighs as you move. you know he’s watching, even if he’s pretending not to. “what, you gonna put me to work? i ain’t touchin’ that greasy-ass bike.”

he snorts, tossing the wrench onto the workbench with a loud clank. “you couldn’t handle it anyway, princess. too busy runnin’ that mouth.”

“maybe ‘cause you’re takin’ too damn long,” you shoot back, leaning against the bike’s seat, arms crossed. you’re close enough now that you can feel the heat rolling off him, see the way his veins pop under his skin as he flexes his hands. “thought you were good with your hands, big guy. guess not.”

that does it. you see the shift in his face—the way his eyes narrow, lips curling into something mean and dangerous. he steps toward you, slow and deliberate, and before you can blink, he’s got you caged against the bike, one hand slamming down on the handlebars beside you. the metal groans under his grip.

“you wanna push me, huh?” he growls, leaning in so close his breath hits your face. it’s hot, smells like menthol and alcohol, and your stomach flips. “keep talkin’ shit, see where it gets you.”

you tilt your head, grinning like an idiot ‘cause you love this—love how easy it is to rile him up. “what you gonna do about it, ‘kuna? spank me?”

his hand’s on you in a second, rough fingers grabbing your jaw, tilting your head back so you’re forced to meet his glare. “you’re fuckin’ annoying, you know that?” he mutters, but there’s this spark in his eyes—and you know you're winning. “can’t even let me finish my shit without actin’ up.”

“maybe i just want your attention,” you say, voice all syrupy and fake-innocent, batting your lashes at him. his grip tightens, and you can feel the calluses on his palm scraping your skin.

“oh, you’re gonna get it,” he says, and then he’s moving, shoving you back against the bike so hard you stumble. the leather seat digs into your ass, and he’s on you before you can catch your breath, one hand fisting in your hair, pulling you closer.

“sukuna—!” you yelp, half-laughing, half-shocked, but he cuts you off with a hard kiss, biting your lip hard. it’s messy, nasty, and you’re already soaked, thighs squeezing tight like that’s gonna hide it, but then he shoves his knee between them.

the denim of his jeans scrapes against your flimsy shorts, and he grinds his leg right up against your pussy, slow and deliberate, pressing in ‘til you can feel the friction burning through the fabric. it feels so good, teasing, and you can’t help the little moan that slips out, muffled against his lips.

“shut the fuck up,” he snarls against your mouth, tugging your head back so your neck’s exposed. his teeth graze your throat, sharp and mean, and you whine, hands scrambling to grab onto his shoulders and nails digging into the hard muscle under his tank while he’s still working his leg against you, grinding that thick thigh right where you’re throbbing. the pressure’s got your hips twitching, chasing it without even meaning to, and you’re damn near panting already. “you wanted this, yeah? fuckin’ beggin’ for it with that smart-ass mouth,” he says.

“didn’t... ngh—didn’t say that,” you gasp, but it’s a lie and he knows it, that bullshit excuse dying on your tongue as his knee presses harder, rubbing up and down, making your head spin.

he smirks like he’s about to ruin you and love every second of it, then he’s spinning you around fast, shoving you down ‘til you’re bent over the bike, chest slammed against the seat. the leather’s warm from the sticky garage heat, clinging to your skin through your thin-ass tank top, and your tits are pressed so hard against it they’re practically spilling out, making your nipples perk up even more against the rough leather.

“bullshit,” he says, kicking your legs apart with his boot, spreading you wide like you’re his to play with. his hand cracks down on your ass, a sharp, stinging smack that makes you yelp, the sound bouncing off the garage walls, and you hear him chuckle—like he’s getting off on it.

he hooks his fingers into the waistband of your shorts, yanking them down just enough—barely past your ass, fabric bunched tight around your thighs, pussy dripping and on display. “look at you, fuckin’ dripping already,” he mutters, smearing a rough hand over the wet mess between your legs, “needy little slut.”

you whimper, pushing your hips back toward him, ‘cause yeah, you are needy—have been since you walked in here and saw him all sweaty and pissed off. there’s something about sukuna when he’s like this, rough and unfiltered, that makes you stupid for him. “just fuck me already, asshole,” you mutter, glancing over your shoulder at him.

his eyes flash, and then he’s yanking his jeans down. his cock springs free, thick, heavy, veins bulging under the skin, tip already leaking a fat bead of precum that glistens in the dim garage light, and fuck, it’s so long and girthy.

he steps up close, smirking at how you’re bent over, ass up, and grabs your hips with those big, rough hands, fingers digging in ‘til it stings. you’re already a mess—needy as fuck, whimpering soft and pathetic under your breath, little “please, ‘kuna” sounds slipping out ‘cause you can’t help it, you want him bad.

he doesn’t rush it right away—nah, he’s a fucker like that and you hate him for that—shoves his cock between your folds first, sliding that fat length back and forth, teasing you with it. the tip catches on your clit, smearing his precum all over your slick pussy, and he grinds it there, slow and mean, letting you feel every inch of him rubbing up against you ‘til your whimpers get louder, needier, hips twitching desperate for more.

“fuckin’ wet for me,” he mutters, then he pulls back just enough, pushes your soaked panties to the side with a flick of his thumb, and slams into you—bottoming out in one brutal thrust that splits you open, making your whole body lurch forward against the bike.

“fuck—!” you cry out, hands scrabbling against the bike for something to hold onto. the stretch burns, sharp and overwhelming, but it’s so good, the kind of pain that melts into pleasure fast. he doesn’t wait, doesn’t ease up—starts fucking you hard and fast, hips snapping against yours with a force that makes the whole damn motorcycle rock.

“this what you wanted?” he growls, leaning over you, one hand wrapping around your throat. his fingers dig into your skin, not choking yet, just holding you there, keeping you pinned. “huh? fuckin’ take it then.”

“y-yeah,” you moan, voice breaking as he hits that spot inside you that makes your legs shake. the bike’s shaking too, creaking under the weight of his thrusts, and you can hear the wet slap of skin on skin, the filthy sound of him pounding into you. it’s nasty, raw, everything you love about him.

he tightens his grip on your throat, just enough to make your head spin, and you’re gone—clawing at the seat, gasping his name like a prayer. “sukuna... fuck, ‘kuna, don’t stop—”

“fuckin’ loud,” he says, but you can tell he loves it, loves how your so messy for him. his other hand slides down, smacking your ass again—once, twice, ‘til it stings—then grabs a fistful of your ass, pulling you back onto him harder. “gonna make you scream, brat.”

and he does. he fucks you like he’s trying to break you, each thrust deeper, rougher, hitting that sweet spot over and over ‘til your vision blurs. your thighs are slick, dripping down onto the bike, and he laughs when he notices. “messy fuckin’ slut,” he says, reaching down between your legs and smearing something onto his fingers before shoving them into your mouth. “taste yourself.”

you groan around his fingers, sucking on them like he wants, lips stretched tight as he shoves two thick digits into your mouth, pumping them in and out like he’s fucking your face with them. they’re rough, calloused, tasting like salt and grease, and he’s not gentle—thrusting deep ‘til they hit the back of your throat, making you gag.

your tongue flattens against them, spit pooling at the corners of your mouth, and you can barely keep up, slurping messy and loud. he’s watching you, eyes dark and hooded, loving how you choke on it just for him. “fuckin’ nasty,” he mutters, voice hoarse, and he pushes them deeper, curling them against your tongue ‘til you’re whining around the intrusion.

you suck harder, hollowing your cheeks, and he curses under his breath, hips stuttering against you, cock still buried deep inside. “shit, you’re tight—gonna... ughh... fuck—” he cuts himself off with a growl, yanking his fingers free with a wet pop, a string of spit trailing from your lips to his hand before he he pulls out of you just long enough to flip you onto your back. the bike wobbles, but he steadies it with one hand, throwing your legs over his shoulders.

“look at me,” he says, slamming back into you, and you do—eyes locked on his as he fucks you senseless. his face is flushed, sweat dripping down his jaw, and he looks like a goddamn animal. got your legs hooked over his shoulders, one hand gripping your thigh so tight you’re gonna have bruises shaped like his fingers tomorrow, the other braced on the bike to keep it from tipping over while hips bullies his cock into, the wet slap-slap-slap of skin on skin echoing in the garage louder than the trap beat still buzzing in the background.

his cock’s thick, stretching you open every time he buries it to the hilt, dragging against your walls in a way that’s almost too much, the head hitting that spot inside you over and over ‘til your toes curl and your vision starts to white out. his muscles flex under his tattooed skin with every roll of his hips, like he’s claiming you, breaking you apart just ‘cause he can. “gonna cum for me?”

“y-yeah,” you whimper, nails digging into his arms. “please, ‘kuna—”

he grins and then his thumb’s on your clit, rubbing tight, fast circles that make your whole body lock up. it’s too much, too fast, and it sends you crashing over the edge hard. you scream, just like he promised, voice tearing outta your throat raw and desperate, back arching off the bike so far you nearly slip.

your orgasm rips through you—messy as fuck, intense, a hot flood that leaves you trembling, thighs soaked, and tears spilling down your cheeks ‘cause it’s overwhelming as shit. your chest heaves, little sobs breaking free between gasps, and he doesn’t stop—keeps fucking you through it, cock slamming into you relentless, dragging out every shudder and twitch, crying his name in wet, broken hiccups. “s-sukuna... fuck—‘kuna—”

“fuckin’ good girl,” he mutters and then he’s coming too, burying himself balls-deep with a guttural groan that rumbles through his chest. you feel it—hot, thick spurts filling you up, spilling out around him ‘cause there’s nowhere else for it to go—and he doesn’t pull out right away, just stays there, hips pressed flush to yours, panting heavy and ragged.

he leans down, your tears are still streaming, salty and warm, but hen his tongue flicks out licking a fat stripe up your cheek, tasting the wet mess of your cries. “fuckin’ crybaby,” he murmurs, but he loves it and you whimper, half-embarrassed, half-gone from how fucked-out you are, his breath hot against your skin as he stays buried inside you, his cum dripping down steadily between you legs.

when he finally lets go, you’re a wreck—sprawled out on the bike, legs trembling, his cum leaking out of you onto the leather and he smirks. “marked my shit up,” he says, nodding at the bike. “guess you’re good for somethin’.”

you laugh, weak and breathless, barely managing to lift your hand to flip him off, fingers shaky. “fuck you.”

“fuckin’ act up again, huh?” he shoots back, zipping up his jeans with a lazy tug. he steps away, leaving you there sprawled like a used rag, and grabs the wrench off the workbench like nothing happened, crouching back down by the bike to mess with it again while his cum’s still dripping out of you onto the floor next to him, and he doesn’t even glance at it—just keeps working.

you pull yourself together, sorta, hair a sweaty mess sticking to your face and flop back onto the couch, limbs heavy like they’re made of lead. “still bored,” you say, just to fuck with him.

he glares over his shoulder. “keep it up, and round two’s gonna be worse.”

you grin. “promise?”

————— ୨୧ —————

⁀➷ masterlist

#—amy writes : ryomen sukuna ★#ryomen sukuna smut #sukuna smut #sukuna x reader smut #jujutsu kaisen smut #jjk smut #jjk x reader smut #ryomen sukuna x reader #ryomen x reader #ryomen sukuna x you #jjk x reader #divider by cafekitsune

1K notes · View notes

writtendaydreamm · 3 months ago

Text

Allergies and Accidents

Summary: Y/n and Langdon's son has an allergic reaction at school and is rushed to the ER

Author's note: There are not enough Langdon fics on here so I tried my hand at it with this little scenario that came to mind. I have no medical knowledge so please don't expect accuracy with the medical details lol but I tried my best.

Check out my masterlist for more Langdon fics!

1:03 PM

McKay noticed Y/n immediately. Familiar faces are always the easiest to spot here - they’re the ones you never want to see. She came through the entrance frantic and pale faced, trying to squeeze through the mess of people packed into that waiting room tighter than sardines in a can.

“Alright guys, do a round and make sure no one’s dying before they get into a bed,” McKay instructed the row of interns following behind her like little ducklings.

Making a beeline to y/n, she eyed her up and down assessing for any possible injuries. No visible cuts or wounds. No signs of trauma or pain. Other than the obvious fact the poor girl was about to have a full blown panic attack, she looked fine.

“Cass! Oh thank god,” Y/n exclaimed, grabbing onto McKay earnestly. She had a vice grip and was not letting go until she got some answers.

“What’s going on, are you alright? What are you doing here?”

“It’s not me,” Y/n said, holding back a sob. “It’s Theo.”

12:31 PM

Typing up his report on the college kid with pancreatitis in South 12, Robby settled into a chair. He thought to himself it must’ve been his lucky day. He barely got a chance to use the restroom let alone a chance to sit down. It was almost unheard of.

The thought alone must’ve jinxed him as Dana called out for him the second he got comfortable. He gave her a tired look over his glasses thinking, what now.

“EMS rolling in with a 6 year old male. Anaphylaxis. Low BP, dropping O2.”

“ETA?”

As if on cue the automatic doors slid open for two first responders wheeling in a young boy. He was wheezing, gasping for air. Jumping into action, Robby, Perlah, along with 2 interns opened up a room as the EMS gave their report.

“Six year old male, Theo Langdon. Severe anaphylaxis, failed EpiPen at school.”

The name caught Robby off guard. No, it couldn’t be. Eyes dropping down to get a better look at the boy as they transferred him from the stretcher onto the bed, Robby’s jaw went slack. Perlah who had come to the same realization looked at him wide-eyed in shock.

“Alright, we’ll take it from here, thanks guys,” Robby dismissed the responders before addressing their new patient.

“Hey bud, it’s Dr. Robby. I know you're struggling right now, but we’ve got you, okay.” Pressing his fingers along the boy’s throat assessing the swelling and looking for signs of a possible tracheal deviation. No deviation yet which was good, no need for immediate intubation. Using his stethoscope against Theo’s chest and throat, he listened closely for stridor and absent breath sounds. “Get him on continuous pulse ox, full cardiac monitoring. O2 status?”

“88% on 15L non-rebreather,” Perlah replied, adjusting the mask on the boy’s face.

“I do not want to intubate if possible, but if it drops below 85%, we have no choice. Get RSI meds ready in case we lose the airway.”

Pointing at one of the interns, Whitaker, Robby ordered him to step out, find Dr. Langdon and keep him away from this room by any means necessary. The intern hesitated, clearly confused by the request, and honestly a bit offended that he was the one to be sent off over the other intern. Gathering what guts he had, Whitaker spoke up.

“Dr. Robby, I’d really prefer to stay-”

“And I’d prefer that Dr. Langdon not walk in and see his son like this,” Robby countered without a beat.

A flash of understanding spread across Whitaker’s face as he rushed out of the room to do as instructed. Robby spared a quick glance out the doors watching the young intern weave his way through the bustle of the ER floor in search of said doctor. No matter how long you’ve been on the job or how much trauma and gore you’ve dealt with, nothing will ever compare to the sickening feeling of seeing a loved one here. And the last thing they needed in this room was another Langdon in distress.

Wrapping his stethoscope back around his neck, Robby stood up determination setting in. He was not going to let anything happen to Theo. Not in his ER. They needed to open his airways and stabilize him fast.

“Nebulized racemic epinephrine stat.”

12:40 PM

Walking back to the nurses station, Dr. Langdon was feeling quite pleased with himself.

A woman had been rushed in with a ruptured spleen and internal bleeding after a bad car crash. Distended abdomen, severe blood loss, BP dangerously low and on the decline. She was losing too much blood too fast. She was going to crash. She wouldn’t have made it to the OR if he hadn’t acted as fast as he had to stop the bleeding and relieve the abdominal pressure.

“The peritoneal lavage. The IV vasopressor. That was really quick thinking. I mean you didn’t even hesitate,” Mel thought out loud, joining him at the counter. “I’d never seen that much internal bleeding managed outside the OR before.”

“Yeah?” chucked dryly, “Well, get used to it.”

Only half listening now as Mel rambled on, he pulled out his phone and in an instant whatever high he was on after working on that patient was brought crashing down seeing his notifications.

15 missed calls, all from Y/n.

“Well do you think she’s gonna make it? In the OR I mean?” Mel asked, oblivious to the fact the man beside her was on the verge of mentally spiraling.

“Um, it's in their hands now,” he answered absently, gesturing over to the OR as he walked off leaving Mel to swallow whatever she was about to say next.

He didn’t mean to be rude, but whatever Y/n was calling about had to be something urgent. 15 missed calls. She never called him during his shifts. She’d text if she needed to tell him something. But even then sparingly and about little things, like needing to grab eggs and milk on his way home, or to update him that she and the kids got home safe. She never called. Not unless something serious was happening. His mind raced with the worst case scenarios as he paced down the hallway, phone pressed tight against his ear. Maybe she got into an accident again - she was always getting into little accidents and incidents. Or maybe she was having car trouble? But they’d just gotten both their cars serviced and paid a pretty penny for it too. Was it the kids? God he hoped it wasn’t one of the kids.

“Hello, Frank?”

“Hey baby, sorry I missed your calls. I had this patient crashing and-”

She didn’t give him any time to finish, cutting straight to the chase.

“Theo was rushed to the ER.”

12:49

“Vitals,” Langdon demanded, bursting into the room pushing right past Whitaker.

Really? Robby looked at Whitaker who could only shrug apologetically. He had tried his best to keep Langdon away, but the poor intern was no match for the senior resident who just moments ago had threatened to lay him out on the ER floor if he didn’t move out of his way. And Whitaker knew by the look in Langdon’s eyes, he was dead serious.

“You can’t be in here Langdon,” Robby shook his head, adjusting the ventilator settings, tweaking Theo’s oxygen flow.

“The hell I can’t,” Langdon bit back, moving towards his son. But Whitaker held his arms out, trying to block him from getting any further into the room.

“I swear if you don’t get your hands off me, you’ll be in a bed next,” Langdon said through gritted teeth.

“Do not threaten my interns,” Robby warned pointedly.

But the words fell on deaf ears as Langdon continued, asking how Theo’s airways are looking? If he’s getting enough steroid coverage. If they checked for biphasic anaphylaxis.

“You’re not his doctor right now,” Robby said, beginning to lose his patience, “You’re his dad. And you need to step out if you can’t control yourself.”

Langdon threw his head back in frustration. He was both for crying out loud. He was Theo’s dad and a doctor. And he’d be damned if he didn’t use his skills and knowledge to ensure the best treatment for his son. He was about to protest again when suddenly the machine's steady beeping began to go off, the alarms spiking. A cold panic coursed through Langdon’s entire body as that dreaded high pitched beeping filled the room.

“You need to push fluids faster. He's in distributive shock,” Langdon stressed from the foot of the bed watching the monitor show Theo’s BP dropping.

Robby cursed under his breath, adjusting the IV line. Although there were no rules against having family members in the room while patients were being treated, at times like this Robby really wished there were. Dealing with overbearing parents in the room was one thing, but an overbearing parent that happened to be a doctor as well was another.

“Fluids are running. Normal saline wide open. We can handle this.”

“He’s not responding fast enough,” Langdon pushed, “If this is progressing into refractory shock, you need to start the pressors now.”

Perlah turned to Robby, “Do you want to escalate to vasopressors?”

“Get the vasopressin push ready, but hold for my call,” he shot a sharp look at Langdon having had enough of him trying to control the room, “Don’t wanna jump the gun. We’re not panicking here.”

“Not panicking? My son could code, and you’re not panicking?”

“That’s it. Out. Now,” he snapped, raising his voice to meet Langdon’s.

“No,” he doubled down.

“Then I will have you forcibly removed and written up for insubordination.”

“Robby, please. That’s my son,” Langdon pleaded, running his hands through his hair, trying not to get a grip.

“And we’ve got him,” Robby assured. “Now, go. Let us do our jobs. Go.”

With a sharp exhale, and one final look at his son, Langdon turned to leave pulling his phone out to call Y/n.

1:07 PM

Following McKay through the double doors into the ER, Y/n gripped the strap of her shoulder bag tightly. She was putting on a brave face, but the worry in her chest grew heavier and heavier with each step. McKay tried her best to soothe the poor mother, but being a mother herself, she knew there was nothing she could possibly say to make Y/n feel any better about this situation.

Langdon, who had been pacing outside of Theo’s room, closed the distance between them the moment he saw her. Without a word, he wrapped his arms around her into a tight hug. Y/n let out a deep sigh, melting into him. Her heart that had been beating like a jackhammer was calmed by the the comfort of his presence and the warmth of his embrace. Pulling back to take a look at Theo, she couldn’t see a thing. The room’s curtains had been drawn.

“How is he,” she asked looking up at him, brows furrowed tightly together, worry etched across her face

Langdon had never seen her look so helpless before. She’s the strongest woman he knows - juggling a fulltime job of her own all while taking care of the kids and picking up the slack at home whenever he was late or working overtime. Even with her plate piled high, she was always composed, always cool under pressure. But all of that composure and coolness had flown out the car window as she sped from work to the hospital after getting that terrible phone call from their son's school. Before him now she was just a mother, scared and worried sick.

It was a good thing Y/n hadn’t gotten here any earlier than she had, that she didn’t have to see Theo struggling like Langdon had. Admittedly, he lost himself a bit back in the room seeing Theo like that. He knew looking down at her now he needed to keep it together. He could not give her any reason to stress or worry any more than she already was. Every other day of the week, she was his rock, their family’s rock. For once, he needed to be hers. He took a breath choosing his next words carefully.

“He’s gonna be alright,” Langdon said, pressing a tender kiss to her forehead.

She listened as he went on trying his best to assure her of just that, telling her that Robby was taking good care of Theo. That he’s in good hands. That they see kids come through with anaphylaxis all the time. That he'll be okay. And though he sounded confident, Y/n knew him better than that. She had the sense that he was trying to convince her of all that just as much as he was trying to convince himself.

Taking a seat on one of the nearby chairs, Y/n shook her head in confusion. They’d taken every measure they could think of to ensure something like this would never happen. They’d informed his teacher of the allergy, and sent out letters to the parents in his class informing them as well. And even in the case he did consume anything with nuts, they always sent him off with an EpiPen and always ensured that it was still effective.

“I don’t understand. The school said they’d given him his EpiPen.”

“It’s not foolproof babe,” Langdon sighed, running a hand over his face.

It was unfortunate but true. While potentially life saving, EpiPens are not 100% effective if not properly administered. They could’ve taken it out too early or maybe misfire, he explained.

“So you’re telling me this was what? Some sort of user error?” Y/n scoffed at the irony. It just goes to show no matter what you do or how prepared you are, you can’t control what happens out there. As hard as you try, you can’t protect your kids from everything.

“The better question is what idiot parent brought treats for the kids and didn’t bother checking for allergies,” Langdon said, growing upset at the thought. It was clearly stated in their parent handbook, all treats must accommodate any allergies and tolerances. Otherwise, don’t bring any. How stupid, careless, and dangerous. “You know, I bet it was those fucking Fultons. They don’t know how to follow basic instructions.”

About to go off on a tirade about the Fultons - whom he could not stand, for multiple reasons, but most recently because the father had cut Langdon off during morning drop off the other week - when the curtains pulled open.

Y/n stood up moving closer, getting her first look at Theo since she’s been here. He was lying still, eyes closed with an oxygen mask on his face, an IV still in his arm. Langdon placed a hand on her back, in part to comfort her and to ground himself, as a wave of relief washed over him seeing Theo stable and out of critical danger.

Robby stepped out to speak to them. He and Langdon locked eyes, a silent understanding passing between them. Any of the tension they had in that room was eased and forgotten. As a father of sorts himself, Robby knew where Langdon was coming from.

“Is he okay? Is he awake? Can he talk?” Y/n asked, the words just flowing out of her mouth as Langdon rubbed her back.

“He’s okay. He’s breathing on his own now, still on oxygen, but his vitals are holding steady” Robby assured her, before turning to Landon who looked at him expectantly, “His airway swelling has gone down significantly. No sign of biphasic reaction-”

“Residual bronchospasm? Signs of delayed reaction?” Langond interjected before he could even finish. Robby shook his head, more amused than annoyed.

“This thoroughness,” Robby said sarcastically, patting Langdon’s chest with the clipboard teasingly, “is why he’s one of my best residents.”

The pair chuckled, both knowing full well how Langdon can be sometimes. Robby went on, letting them know that they’re keeping a close eye on Theo, watching out for any secondary complications. His lungs sound clear and O2 are improving but they’re keeping him in the PICU overnight to make sure he’s in the clear.

“Can we see him now?” Y/n asked.

“Yeah. Of course. He’s still under some sedation, but should be up soon,” he told her, gently guiding her into the room.

1:30 PM

Theo had come-to for a little, just enough for Y/n and Langdon to let him know he's okay now, that they’re here with him, before his heavy lids closed again, falling back asleep. His little body surely exhausted after all it had just gone through.

Sat on either side of their son, Y/n and Langdon watched over him quietly. His gaze wandering over to his wife, he could see the toll this had taken on her. It was the middle of the day but her eyes looked worn, and hollowed like she'd pulled an all-nighter. And her lips, that were always smiling and laughing, were pressed into a tight frown. Her brows knit together so tight, the 11 lines on her forehead looked more like 1,111. The stress of your loved one being in the ER will do that to you. Weigh you down, wear you out, and age you a year in an hour. He sees it all the time. But he hated seeing it on his wife.

“He takes after you y’know,” Langdon started.

She perked up a bit at the sweet sentiment thinking maybe he was referring to their physical resemblance, or maybe the similarities in their personalities, or the little quirks Theo picked up from her. But when he said that she and Theo were both accident-prone, her mouth fell open at the jab.

“That’s not funny Frank,” Y/n rolled her eyes, chastising him.

“Oh come on, it's a little funny,” Langdon continued to joke, seeing her straight face start to crack. “I mean, god forbid, but if I'm not wrong Theo only needs one more ER visit to tie with you.”

She hated that he was making light of such a thing, but what she hated more was the smile she was fighting to hold in. She shook her head trying to fight back her own laugh but just couldn’t do it, not once she heard his. It felt good to laugh, even if it was hushed and contained as they tried not to wake Theo. She needed this. He needed it too. They both needed something to lighten the mood, to let out the long breath they’d both been holding in.

“No but seriously, take that back. Theo and I are not accident-prone,” she pointed out as their laughter died down.

Langdon nodded, agreeing that it wasn’t right to say Theo was accident-prone. His visits to the ER were never his fault. The first time was when he was just a baby for a fever that wouldn't go down. The next was a couple years later when he was a toddler for an allergic reaction as they hadn’t yet figured out he was allergic to certain types of nuts. And today, well, he wound up here thanks to some other kid’s parents' negligent disregard for the health and safety of all the kids in Theo’s 1st grade class.

Y/n, on the other hand, she definitely was.

“I am not,” she fought back, arms crossed, unwilling to admit to this.

“Babe, really?” Langdon asked, brows raised.

“Maybe I’m a little clumsy,” Y/n admitted reluctantly, “But I wouldn’t say accident-prone.”

Langdon scoffed. “Y/n, we literally met in the ER because you were in an accident.”

It was his third year of med school doing his rotation in Emergency Medicine. At this point he had already intended on pursuing Emergency Medicine and all of the hands-on experience he was getting only solidified that. It was the end of his shift but two buses had just come through - one from a car crash with two non critical patients and the other a factory worker coming in after a gruesome work related accident. Of course, he’d decided to stay hoping to get in on the much more exciting case with the factory worker. But by fate or dumb luck, whatever you wanted to call it, he wound up with Y/n’s case instead - cue their meet-cute.

“Then 4 weeks after that you ended up in the ER again,” he added now counting on his fingers for dramatic effect. “Then there was the time you fell trying that new-”

She interjected with "ah," holding up a hand to stop him from going any further. She did not need to be reminded of that particularly embarrassing incident he was about to bring up. She got the point.

“But hey, if you didn’t get into those accidents we never would’ve met. Never would’ve dated, got married, had our kids,” he said genuinely, his voice softening as he brushed a gentle hand over Theo’s head.

With fond memories of their time together, of how they ended up where they are now playing through both their heads, the air in the room felt lighter and so did the weight on their shoulders. A comfortable silence filled the room and for a moment, everything seemed to settle down when Y/n gasped suddenly.

“Shit, what time is it,” she asked, rummaging through her purse.

Jolted by her sudden outburst, Langdon hurriedly pulled out his phone for the time. 1:42.

Y/n let out a groan. She'd been in such a panic when she arrived, she couldn’t be bothered to waste another minute in the hospital’s parking structure going aisle to aisle hunting for a parking spot. So instead she haphazardly parked in the 30-minute parking stall for pick-ups and drop-offs. Y/n moved to get up but Langdon said he’ll take care of it.

“Are you sure,” Y/n asked, as he took the keys from her hands. Truthfully, she was glad he offered, not wanting to leave Theo's side just yet in case he woke up again.

“Yeah, you stay. Need some fresh air anyway," he said massaging her shoulders for a second, before leaning down to joke into her ear, "Besides, all this talk of you getting into accidents, I don’t really feel like letting you get behind the wheel right now."

"Asshole," Y/n muttered, shoving him away playfully but not before he could press a sweet kiss against the side of her head.

Watching as he left, she chuckled to herself. Maybe being accident-prone had its perks.

#the pitt #langdon x reader #frank langdon #frank langdon x reader #dr langdon x reader #thepitt x reader #dad!langdon x reader

1K notes · View notes

hard-core-super-star · 3 months ago

Text

i touched you for only a fortnight [W.Maximoff]

pairing: sugarmommy!wanda x reader

summary: after hearing that someone's been flirting with wanda, you start questioning your place in her life. luckily, your relationship is one of the main things she's secure in.

warnings: mentions of dom/sub dynamics; allusions to sex but no smut yet; jealousy + insecurity; legal nonspecified age-gap; sugarmommy!wanda deserves her own warning tbh

wordcount: 2.2k

a/n: HI SO, i very randomly decided to make what was supposed to be a solo fic into a series so...this is the unofficial first part. don't get impatient with me, next part will be full smut, i got too attached to the story to rush a smut scene here. i think this is my first official wanda fic so i'm very excited to see how this goes. let me know your thoughts, hope you enjoy <3

* * * * * * *

You're not entirely sure how you ended up in this situation.

One day, you were a broke college student, barely hanging on by your teeth and the next, you were Wanda Maximoff's newest obsession. Everyone and their mom knew about the CEO, about the rumors that followed her wherever she went. She was rich, ruthless, dedicated in a way no one could match. She was a force to be reckoned with but most of all…she was your sugar mommy.

You wish you could say it had all been accidental, coincidental even. But it wasn't. At least, not fully.

A few months ago, your best friend had talked you into going out to a club with her. Kate was many things, mainly economically stable and with far more connections than a normal 22-year-old should have. Of course, that was due more to her mother than the brunette's charming personality.

You didn't fully understand why she was so adamant about acting like she wasn't a rich kid. Or rather, a privileged rich kid. It was refreshing, but it was a little hysterical considering she pretty much relied on her mother's riches for…everything.

Still, you appreciated how down to earth she was. Even when she dragged you into a ridiculously crowded club with drinks you couldn't afford. She didn't seem to mind, though, considering the ease with which she handed the bartender her credit card.

You hadn't expected anything interesting to happen that night. You assumed all you'd really do was get drunk and babysit Kate so she didn't run her mouth and get into a fight with the sleazy guys that always found their way to you.

Fate had other plans for you, it seemed, because Wanda Maximoff was there that night. And she was instantly drawn to you…and the way you slapped a sleazy guy for blatantly placing his hand on your ass.

She stepped in before security could even try to kick you out and she offered you a drink for your troubles.

It'd been unexpected but you had never been one to turn down a beautiful, slightly scary, woman. You didn't know it then, but accepting her offer was the best thing you'd ever done for yourself.

And not just because Wanda was even quicker to spend money on you than Kate.

So, as weird and uncharted territory as it was, you slowly got used to being the older woman's sugar baby. To spending your free time with her, to bringing her lunch when she forgot to take a break in between meetings, to giving yourself over to her every night in as many ways as you could handle.

Of course, that didn't come without its challenges. The biggest of them being your insecurities about your place in her life.

It didn't seem to matter how many times she reassured you that she wanted you, you knew being her sugar baby wasn't the same as being her girlfriend. You had no right to feel jealous when she went out for drinks with other CEOs. No right to be upset when people flirted with her at the club.

Just because you knew that, though, didn't mean you didn't get upset. You were grateful for Wanda, and even more grateful for the kindness she showed Kate by giving her a job at her company, but that gratefulness wasn't enough to quell the jealousy that crept up on you sometimes.

Especially when your lovely best friend added fuel to that fire.

It's late when you hear the front door of Wanda's penthouse open. You've spent the majority of the day by yourself, having been told not to visit the older woman at her office because of some important meetings she was going to have. You, being the obedient lover she knew you to be, did exactly as she asked despite how bored and lonely you got.

Things would have been fine had Kate not told you how flirty Wanda's assistant had been all day. It seemed every time Agnes made some sort of suggestive comment, your best friend was close enough to send you a message about it.

And to top it off, the older woman hadn't replied to your texts in a few hours. So, needless to say, watching her come home extremely late, after a long day apart, does little to help you feel better.

It takes no less than a minute for Wanda to walk into the living room, her fingers already unbuttoning the white blouse beneath her dark red blazer. "Why are you still awake, angel?"

As distracting as the sight is, you don't let it steal your thoughts away.

"Where were you?" You ask, already hating how soft your voice is.

"Where do you think?" She replies with a well-placed tilt of her head.

Even though her tone makes you want to back down, you hold your ground, not yet ready to continue without an answer. "You're back late. You never come back this late when you're at the office."

Your words make her pause. Her eyes scan your face as she comes closer, a sigh stuck in her throat. "You know these meetings run late sometimes. I went to get a drink afterward to unwind. Why are you so upset, sweetheart?"

"Kate said your secretary was making moves on you," you say, feeling your shoulders relax as you finally give a voice to the thoughts that have been plaguing you all day. "That you let her flirt with you."

Despite how soft she's trying to be, Wanda rolls her eyes. "Kate's an idiot."

"But she's not a liar," you reply before you can think better of it.

This time, the older woman isn't able to stop the flicker of annoyance that passes through her face. "Watch yourself, sweetheart. What's that supposed to mean?"

You barely manage to hold in a groan. Complaining would only make the situation worse for you, considering how little she lets you get away with when you're obviously upset.

"That she wouldn't make something up just because…" you trail off, almost not wanting to ask your next question. "It's true, isn't it?"

Wanda sighs, easily sliding onto your lap. Your hands instantly come up to grip her hips, greedily pulling her close to you, your heart pounding in your chest as you wait for her answer. "Yes, darling, it's true. Agnes was in a bold mood today, but I shot her down every time. She knows I'm taken."

Her words help soothe your jealousy somewhat but they're not enough to overshadow your insecurities. "Are you? Because I'm not your girlfriend."

"y/n," she says, her eyes narrowing slightly. "What are you trying to say?"

Even though you know she's not upset with you, her tone still makes you shrink into yourself. You had been so confident earlier, so sure of what you were going to say to her, of what you were going to ask, and now…it had all evaporated with one quick raise of her eyebrow.

"Nothing," you sigh. "It's stupid."

Wanda doesn't let you hide. Her hand comes up to cup your face, tilting your head back so you're looking up at her. "It's not stupid. You're jealous, aren't you, sweetheart?"

The softness in her voice does little to erode your insecurities. If anything, it makes you want to hide even more. To run away and pretend you never even brought up the idea of being more than…a pastime. Because maybe if you could escape the conversation, you could escape the reality. The very real possibility that she didn't want you to be anything more than her favorite toy.

"Why would I be jealous?" you respond, trying to muster up the rest of your courage. "I don't own you or your time."

The redhead sighs again, knowing it'll take more than a few well-placed words to get through to you. "What's with the attitude, hmm? What's going on in that pretty little head of yours?"

You recognize her words for what they are. The opportunity for you to be honest. To unload everything that's been overwhelming your mind since you realized how hard you'd fallen for the older woman. The fears, the insecurities, the uncontrollable need for her.

You almost don't want to admit it. Don't want to further complicate a situation that's gotten so out of your control. It was supposed to be temporary. You were supposed to be temporary. But you can't imagine a life outside of the one you've somehow built with her.

"I don't know," you finally say. "I just hate the thought of Agnes thinking she can flirt with you. She can't."

"She can't?" Wanda repeats, a hint of amusement seeping into her tone. "Why not, angel?"

She's toying with you, you know that. Turning you in circles until you're too confused to avoid answering her questions. Maybe it should feel manipulative, even cruel, but all it does is show you how well she knows you. How good she is at coaxing answers out of you by being soft and patient.

No one would believe you if you told them how sweet the ruthless businesswoman is. How easy it is to make her melt and give in to your every whim.

It would be ridiculous if you weren't the one wrapped right around her finger.

"Because…" You trail off with a huff. "You know why."

"Come on, baby," she tries again, her fingers caressing your jawline and making sure you keep your eyes on her. "I need to hear you say it. Please? For me."

All you allow yourself is a whine at first. Just the smallest sign of weakness. Of the brat Wanda secretly loves taming.

"Because you're my domme," you say, that hint of petulance still lingering in your tone. "You're supposed to be mine, not hers."

The corners of her mouth quirk up just enough to show how entertained she is by the exchange. In her defense, she does what she can to keep her expression serious, as if you're not just acting like a brat because you're jealous.

"I am yours, darling," Wanda replies. "You don't have to worry about Agnes. Or anyone else for that matter."

Her words manage to cut through the thick fog in your head left behind by your constant worries. They're not enough to fully erase your insecurities but it's a start. A start to the conversation you should have already had.

"You really mean it?" You find yourself asking.

You want to hate yourself for sounding so insecure, but you can't. The hard truth is, you need to hear her answer. Need to hear her put a label to what you two have. A label that goes beyond the sweet petnames she has for you.

"I do," she says, her voice dropping its usual teasing edge. "I don't want anyone else but you. I'm yours just as much as you're mine."

The words go right to your head, giving you a rush you've never felt before. It very quickly dawns on you why the older woman likes it so much when you say those words. Why it always makes her look like she's on top of the world.

"Say it again," you mumble, the softness in your tone making you feel particularly vulnerable.

The smile that grazes Wanda's face is nothing short of affectionate. "I'm yours, angel. You're the only one I want to be with."

Your hands on her hips slide around until your arms are around her waist and you're pulling her impossibly closer. You practically lunge forward, your lips seeking out hers and crashing into them.

It's not the most romantic kiss you've ever shared by any means, but the intensity behind your movements only makes it better. Especially when she kisses you back with that same passion.

Almost instantly, you're left wanting more.

"Wanda," you whisper against her lips. "I need you."

"I'm right here, baby. You can have me."

Her words would usually be enough to melt you until all you could think about was having her on top of you. Tonight, though, the desire you're suddenly hit with is different.

You need to touch her. To feel her against you. To hear her say your name over and over again until there's nothing left except the two of you.

You're not entirely sure how to express that need, though. Far too used to your usual dynamic and how easy your submission flows.

"Not like that," you say, your cheeks flushing.

Wanda simply stares at you with those same sharp eyes that hold a sea of affection you can't even begin to understand. "Is that right? You want to touch Mommy tonight, hmm?"

You nod, already feeling breathless from the thought of getting to touch her.

To show her you can be good in a different way.

* * * * * * *

taglist: @boredandneedfanfics @rosekjsses

#wanda maximoff x reader #wanda maximoff x female reader #wanda maximoff x you #wanda maximoff #mommy wanda #wanda maximoff fanfiction #sugarmommy!wanda #elizabeth olsen #avengers fanfiction #marvel fic #mcu imagine #wlw fic #writing

1K notes · View notes

lemonlover1110 · 1 year ago

Text

𝐒𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐭

Toji Fushiguro

Pairing: Toji Fushiguro x f!Reader

Summary: You're too sweet to Megumi and it drives Toji insane.

Warnings: MDNI, Fluff, Smut, Oral Sex (f. receiving), Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, Breeding Kink, Creampie, Gagging

Discord +18 - Twitter - Ko-Fi

“Can we eat the cookies now?” Megumi looks up at you with hopeful eyes, and you smile at him before humming in response. Though Toji prohibited you from giving Megumi a cookie before dinner, you can’t say no to the sweet boy.

You think you’re being sneaky, watching out for Toji before giving him the cookie. Megumi’s eyes light up, and he snatches the treat from your hand. You ruffle his hair, a laugh leaving your lips before offering, “Do you want some milk too, honey?”

“Please.” He responds, and you can’t help but smile at him. If Toji were to catch you doing this to Megumi, he’d get so mad at you. You do understand, after all, you are breaking Toji’s rules.

You can’t help it though. Who wouldn’t be weak if the cutest little boy asked for cookies? Toji’s passed out on the couch anyway, it’s not like he’ll find out. It’ll look odd when Megumi barely touches his dinner, but lying is the easy part.

“You can’t tell your daddy, okay?” You tell Megumi, giving him the glass of milk that you offered. He nods in response, though it’ll definitely slip later. Megumi just has to eat the cookie fast enough before the old man wakes up–

Even though you haven’t heard him yet, he’s watching you. Toji has soft eyes as he sees you treat Megumi so sweetly, and how Megumi isn’t scared to ask anything from you. It’s partially because you spoil him, so maybe he shouldn’t be too surprised that Megumi goes to you for anything.

“Don’t tell me what?” He clears his throat, and your ears get hot, knowing that you’ve been caught red-handed. You hide your hands behind you as if you were a child, even when you have nothing in your hands to hide.

“Nothin’.” You try to play it off as if Megumi isn’t holding the cookie and a glass of milk. Toji rolls his eyes, going over to Megumi and taking the cookie from his hands. He shoves the cookie into his mouth, and it makes Megumi’s bottom lip quiver.

“I said no cookies before dinner.” Toji’s words are barely comprehensible since his mouth is full. Megumi lets out a cry, running to you and hugging you. He looks for comfort in you since his evil daddy stole his cookie and ate it.

You kneel down and hug Megumi, kissing the top of his head. Toji crosses his arms and rolls his eyes at the sight. His heart flutters though, and while he knows that he loves you and wants a future with you, right now he’s thinking he wants more. He has the want of something more, and he doesn’t want to wait until however soon the future is.

“I’ll give you two cookies after dinner, Megumi. Your dad is such a meanie.” Your hand runs up and down Megumi’s back, attempting to comfort him. Your words of reassurance help,

“He’s getting no cookies, and you’re on timeout too.” He tells you after he swallows the food in his mouth, and you roll your eyes.

“Toji, I’m a grown woman.” You remind him, and he sticks his tongue out at you.

“No more cookies tonight, and that’s final.” Toji makes it clear before walking away, leaving you to soothe his crying boy.

What you don’t know is that Toji isn’t mad, he’s just thinking about how you make such a great mother… His thoughts embarrass him because they’re filthier than he’d like to admit.

After putting Megumi to bed, Toji claims that he’s going to have a serious conversation with you. You’re reasonably scared at what he has to say, knowing that you’ve overstepped your boundaries. It takes you by surprise that when you get to the bedroom he locks the door before he engulfs you with kisses.

Is this the punishment Toji was talking about?

Before you know it, Toji is between your legs. His tongue runs through your folds while he pumps two fingers into your cunt. You’re biting down your lip as Toji makes you feel so good. You have to be especially quiet tonight, but you know he’s going to make the task unnecessarily difficult.

His tongue begins to flick your clit, and your chest gets heavier and heavier with every breath you take. The effect he has on you is pathetic, though you certainly don’t mind when he makes you feel like you’re on cloud nine.

“Toji…” You’re as quiet as you can be when he curves his fingers so they hit just the spot. Your lips are parted as the lowest moans leave your lips. He’s doing everything in his power to turn you into putty. “It’s so good, Toji. Fuck–”

Your thighs are squeezing his head, getting too lost in your own pleasure to care. Toji doesn’t care too much either; if this is the way that Toji dies, then he sure was a happy man during his lifetime. This is the way he wants to go, after eating his favorite meal one last time.

You’d think that after breaking his rules Toji would be mad, but this is the way he punishes you? You’re almost seeing white as pleasure consumes your body, if this is the way that Toji is going to treat you when you go against his wishes then you’ll misbehave more often.

You’re moaning his name, getting louder by the second. It’s such a sweet sound to his ears, but he can’t risk you being too loud. He takes his fingers out, flicking your clit a couple of times before rising from between your legs. There’s a taunting smirk on his lips when he stands up from the floor.

“My sweet baby, you can’t be too loud.” He warns you, his hand going under your chin and lifting your face so you have to look up at him. You bite down your lip as you nod in response. You watch him take off his shirt and pants before reaching into his drawer for the bottle of lube.

He grabs your legs, putting them over his shoulders before coating his cock with lube. He kisses your ankle as he slowly strokes his cock, making sure to tell you, “You’re so perfect, baby.”

“I need you so bad, Toji.” You sound needy. Your pussy is clenching over nothing, needing him inside of you badly. You have no idea what came over him all of a sudden, dragging you into the bedroom and putting you on the bed– You just know that you love this.

“Beg for it, baby. Use your voice.” Toji tells you, and you roll your eyes. He’s so complicated sometimes, but you’ll give in.

“Please give me your cock, Toji. Fill me up, please please please.” You’re whiny, making sure he hears what he wants to hear. He can’t help but chuckle as he runs the tip of his cock through your folds.

“I’m gonna put it in then, is that okay, baby?” He says as he pushes the tip of his cock into you. He stretches you out, and gives you a moment to adjust when he bottoms out. His hands are holding onto your thighs, nails digging into the supple skin as he praises you, “You feel so good around me, baby.”

“Can you move, Toji?” You have to ask him, and he begins to thrust. His movements start off slow, but they’re enough to leave you breathless.

Toji is utterly in love with the sight in front of him, something which confirms his earlier thoughts. Everything you do drives him insane, even when you’re just mindlessly moaning in his bed– In your defense, you’re doing a little bit more than that. He’s groaning with the way that your pussy wraps around his cock. No matter how many times he fucks you, he’ll never get bored of the feeling.

Two of his fingers go into your mouth, reaching far back and making you gag. He reprimands you, “I told you not to be too loud.”

His other hand goes to play with your clit, and he senses just how good that makes you feel. It’s a good thing his fingers stop you from being too loud, he doesn’t need a brat coming in and ruining his fun. Though he does say, “You want me to make you a mama?”

Your eyes go wide but you clench around him, which is all the answer he needs. “I’ll give you one of your own, baby. Don’t you wanna have my baby?”

You shut your eyes, and hum in response to his question. You should not be even more turned on by his proposal. Megumi is more than enough right at this moment, but just the thought of having his baby drives you wild.

“I’ll give you your own, baby. I’ll get you pregnant.” Toji watches as pleasure consumes you and you reach your climax. He takes his fingers out of your mouth, grabbing your hand and putting it in place of his fingers.

He picks up more speed, the idea of knocking you up driving him insane as well. He’s been thinking about it all night, you’d just make the sweetest mother to his kids. It’s not just sex talk, Toji is dead serious about this.

“Gonna come inside, okay? I’m gonna fill you up.” He tells you as his movements become sloppy. You’re frantically nodding, nearly coming again at the mere thought of him stuffing you with his cum.

He groans, throwing his head back as he cums inside of you. When he pulls out, Toji lays down next to you. With heavy breathing, two fingers go down to your cunt, pushing his cum back into you.

“You’re actually serious?” You ask him, and he hums in response. You grab his hand and bring his fingers to your lips, rolling your tongue around them. A string of saliva connects your lips with his fingers when you pull them out of your mouth. You proceed to kiss his lips before telling him, “That won’t help.”

“Doesn’t hurt to try.” He responds, and you chuckle.

“What came over you, anyway?” You question, and a smirk comes to his lips. He shakes his head, refusing to tell you.

He won’t let you know that seeing how great you are with kids, specifically with Megumi, makes him want to get you pregnant.

5K notes · View notes

hcneymooners · 5 months ago

Text

⋆ do you love me enough that i may be weak with you?

caitlyn x morally ambiguous!fem!reader x ambessa. men & minors dni.

synopsis: you are in competition with caitlyn for ambessa’s attention. you will follow her, to whatever end. no one draws you in like ambessa does. or so you tell yourself, even as caitlyn's lingering gaze makes your heart stutter. she’s almost desperate to be friends, but you don’t trust that girl by any means. to entertain her is to enable weakness. but, then again, have you ever truly been strong?

cw: a lot wow. age gap, older woman/younger woman, you're the youngest but in your twenties, canon divergence au, toxic relationships, unhealthy relationships, power imbalance, power dynamics, impact play, body worship, dirty talk, bdsm dynamics, sub!reader, brat!reader, dom!caitlyn, dom!ambessa, voyeurism, exhibitionism, masturbation, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, tribbing, vaginal fingering, cunnilingus, vaginal sex, face-riding, slightly dub-con in some parts, kissing, so much kissing, non-sexual intimacy, shower sex, hate sex (but is it really), sexual punishment, implied mental health issues, implied manipulation, you are all up to no good, polyam but is it really we'll see, caitbessa is not in love but they use each other, slight violence (fighting, training, & reader is hurt though not by caitbessa.), enemies to lover, rivals to lovers, slightly dark but not too much, guys i even wrote this properly no lowercase.

wc: 10.03k

soundtrack: give up - fka twigs, careless - fka twigs ft. daniel ceaser, holy terrain - fka twins, your girl - lana del rey (unreleased), & oh my angel - bertha tilman. order is intentional.

notes: this was supposed to be 7k. i need to be locked up. dedicated especially to @megalomaniacz for being the beautiful mind behind the caitbessa note that started it all. definitely one of my favorite things i've ever written.

A COIN’S FIRST SIDE. — CAITLYN.

You do not understand her incessant need to look at you.

The day has broken dark and cold. Your body aches with the rigor of being destroyed and depleted timelessly by Ambessa's experienced hands. It is only the three of you in the early morning - you, Caitlyn with her delicate bones wrapped perfectly in binding and sequestered underneath her uniform of buttery, dusky leather, and Ambessa with her arms bare, her face exposed by the careful braiding of her hair that reveals every subtle shift of expression.

It is this, over and over, until your body shudders into collapse. Yet—minute victory or sudden death—Caitlyn must look at you. Even when it's her turn, with her arched back pressed hard into the textured bamboo of the mat, her face crushed against the hollow of Ambessa's palm, she is looking at you. Those eyes, relentless and searching, track your every movement. It drives you utterly insane.

The weight of her gaze feels like another opponent entirely, separate from Ambessa's ruthless instruction. You tell yourself it's determination that keeps you standing, keeps you coming back day after day to this dance of dominance and submission. But there's something else, something in the way Caitlyn's breath catches when Ambessa's fingers ghost over that perfectly formed bruise on her collarbone—the one you gave her yesterday. Something in the way Ambessa's eyes darken when she notices you noticing.

You leave it. You cannot think of it.

Yet it follows you from the training grounds, through the winding corridors where shadows pool like old bruises. Back to the quarters you share with her, where even the air feels thick with unspoken things. It follows you.

Caitlyn's presence fills every corner of the space you're forced to call home, from the precise way she arranges her rifle components to the lingering scent of gunpowder and leather that clings to her sheets. You are aware of that incessant staring, of the way her eyes rove over your naked chest; your small breasts are cupped dutifully in your hands as you unwrap yourself with a harsh breath.

Teacup tits, she'd called them when she’d once had you pinned against the wooden floor. It had been a day without mats; a day of endless testing. She had leaned in close, teeth gleaming like jewels as she held your stomach down with her hips. She had been sitting on you, and you had floundered then froze at the comments. You didn’t know she could be so brazen, so dirty-mouthed. This follows you too.

You've learned to move around her—around each other—in careful orbit. You are like twin moons, two violent girls with cheeks pressed against each other in the night, caught in some larger gravity - Ambessa's gravity - never touching but always aware. Always watching.

The way she strips her gloves off finger by finger after training makes your teeth clench. You tell yourself it's irritation, not fascination when she unwinds the bindings from her own chest with methodical precision. Tell yourself you don't notice how the morning's wounds are already blooming across her shoulders, masterpieces in indigo and blue that match the ones Ambessa left on you last week—it doesn’t make it less true.

And Ambessa—sometimes you catch Ambessa watching too. The way her eyes linger on Caitlyn's throat, on the marks her own hands left there. It sparks something warm and dangerous in your gut - not envy, you insist. Never envy. Just hunger, the same hunger that drives you to push harder, to prove yourself worthy of Ambessa's attention, maybe both of your intentions. To prove you're stronger than whatever weakness Caitlyn stirs in you with her endless watching.

But later the envy cannot help but be itself, and you retch into your hands and sink from the vibrations of your anger. You do not trust her. You’ve seen her with that girl, the reckless pink-haired one, and she knows that you’ve seen her. But you are keeping this secret for reasons you don’t understand.

And in the dead of night, when sleep eludes you, you hear Caitlyn's breathing change rhythm across the room. You wonder if she lies awake thinking of the way Ambessa's fingers traced that lesion on her hip today, the one that matched the shape of your knuckles perfectly. Wonder if she knows you're awake too, caught in this web of wanting that none of you dare name.

🕸

She is desperate for you, in a way that you do not understand. It is easier when she is quiet about it.

There is an evening where she is loud—where everything is loud—and it rattles you. There is an incessant buzzing, maybe cicadas, and in the beginning, you are enjoying it because it reminds you of home and the way your feet fall into wet earth in the heart of the warm season. But then slowly, you begin to lose your mind and the buzzing is in your teeth and you now feel slightly detached from the world and your body is nothing but heat and you are almost lapping at the screen between the open dormitory window and the world and—

You crawl out of bed. You wear nothing but a sleep shirt two sizes too big, the chest open so that your sweat-laden skin gleams like a body of water. It belongs to Ambessa but it was your father's first until she swallowed your homeland and stole you away. You took it back and she said nothing. Maybe she was impressed with the voracity with which you bit and scratched her in the dark, massive cave of her bedroom.

So, yes, you crawl out of bed. You are swamped in ivory fabric and you drag your feet as you roam the halls. There is movement and it scares you, but you muzzle your mouth with your hand so that your scream dies between your teeth. It's only another guard. You keep moving.

Now, you are in the kitchen. You rummage through spaces until your fingers alight on the thick sphere of a pomegranate. You yank and now it is yours; hard and red in your hands. You turn, and she's there.

Caitlyn moves like water in the dark, all fluid grace even in her own sleep clothes. Her eyes catch the moonlight streaming through the high windows, turning them to pale fire. You clutch the pomegranate tighter, your nails breaking the skin. Juice runs down your wrist.

"Let me," she says, and she's closer now, close enough that you can see the light sheen of sweat on her collarbones. It satisfies you that she is warm too, that she is touchable. Her fingers brush yours as she takes the fruit, and you let her only because you're transfixed by the way she reaches for the small cheese knife on the counter, the way she tests its edge with her thumb. You hope for blood but there is none.

You don't remember moving, but suddenly you're against each other, a dance of hands and breath and barely-contained violence. She pushes, you pull. You spin her toward the table, but she turns it, uses your momentum to send you both sprawling across its surface. Your back cracks against the stone like a bone. Her face crumples momentarily at the sound of your pain, but then she is herself again. The pomegranate rolls away, forgotten until it isn't.

You think of another table, a wooden one from when you were younger. You think of hiding beneath the heavy oak with her, your breaths shallow and hushed as you press close to her side. You were younger then, small enough to fit between her knees, your hands gripping hers like a lifeline. Above, Ambessa’s boots thundered across the floor, her sharp commands reverberating through the room.

“Where are you?” she’d barked, voice like a stone through a window.

But Caitlyn had only grinned, leaning in to whisper, “Don’t breathe."

It's different now. You no longer fit.

She lands on top of you when you hit the floor, pinning you with her hips. The knife glints in her hand, but she just smiles, that same smile from the training mat, the one that makes your stomach clench with disgust and desi—no. She reaches for the pomegranate, and you watch, breathless, as she begins to peel it with delicate precision.

"I'll show you how," she murmurs, and then she's leaning down, pressing her mouth to yours with bruising force. Her teeth catch your lip, and you taste copper, sharp, and sweet like pomegranate juice. When she pulls back, your blood is dark on her mouth, and she licks it away like it's nothing, like this is nothing, continuing to peel the fruit with steady hands.

You buck your hips and she sets the knife down, next to your wrists where your veins gather and bulge like snakes. She holds you down with her core, and you can feel the heat between her legs. There is a moment where you freeze, and she smiles with delight. You buck again and she slams you back down, using a hand around your throat to keep you beneath her like a lamb. Her other hand comes up—the knife, you think in fear—and loiters against herself. Then it moves down, quick and smooth, to raise her slip of a nightgown and bare her creamy thighs. She shifts so that she is atop your stomach, and pushes the shirt up until it’s beneath your breasts.

She isn’t wearing undergarments, or maybe she is. Maybe they are just thin. Either way, you can feel her against the skin of your belly, warm and weeping. You still aren’t moving, but you are slicking in return. You want to bite her, dig until she releases some sort of sound.

Then there is a sound - a sharp intake of breath - and you both turn.

Ambessa stands in the doorway, her expression unreadable in the darkness. For a moment, she watches, her head tilted like she's solving a puzzle. You look back at Caitlyn—who seems unrepentant about her half-nakedness. You put it together, the idea that they have seen one another like this before. The envy is riotous. You ache to kiss Caitlyn again if only to vomit in her mouth.

It’s as if she knows and so she leans in, holds the side of your head as she feeds you pomegranate seeds from the cavern of her own mouth. Eventually, she is no longer feeding, only taking. She presses harder and harder until you let out a yelp of discomfort. It feels, if you aren’t mistaken, like a claim.

Ambessa gazes at the two of you for a moment longer, then she turns away. Her footsteps echo down the hall, leaving you with the taste of blood and fruit and Caitlyn's smile against your mouth.

You regain your strength; you throw her off.

🕸

You don't sleep.

Your body vibrates with fury, with want, with the phantom press of her against your stomach. The dawn breaks grey and sullen through the window, and when you dress for training, you notice Caitlyn watching you again. But it's different now - you see the tremor in her hands, the way she swallows when you bend to lace your boots.

The training grounds are empty. No Ambessa. The message is as clear as a blade against the skin, and you want to scream. Instead, you strip and step into the shower block, letting scalding water pound against your shoulders. You hear the door open, close. Her footsteps on the tile.

"Don't," you say, but your voice lacks conviction. You're too tired to maintain the walls between you.

"You think she's punishing us." Caitlyn's voice is closer now. You hear fabric hitting the floor. "She's not. She's giving us space."

You turn, ready to snarl, but the sight of her stops you. She's different in daylight - less predator, more girl. There are shadows under her eyes that match your own. Water beads on her collarbone where last night's sweat had gleamed.

“Get away from me.” She doesn’t. You try again. “Space for what?”

The question comes out raw.

She steps under the spray with you, and you don't stop her. You watch the way the water falls over her, the spread of the moisture against her staunch skin. She is so angular, so prismatic. You feel as if the world refracts off of her. The water is running cold, so her breasts are erect and straining toward you. You think of drinking from them, more the effort of it, of the space between them where your mouth would fit.

"For this," she says but doesn't touch you. "For whatever this is. I'm tired of watching you pretend you don't feel it too."

"You don't know what I feel."

“I think you are a lonely creature.”

The heat between you evaporates like ash against the wind. Your mouth twists, and she steps toward you. She understands she has misrepresented herself and her intentions. You feel a familiar prickling. Tears.

“Is this how you see me? A cowardly animal?” Your voice is flat, and she balks with her hands flexing nervously against her thighs.

“No. No. I only meant—if anything we are both animals. We have been trained as such at least.”

“You aren’t making this better for yourself,” you say, turning away. “And you don’t know me in any way.”

"I know you taste like pomegranates."

You turn back to look at her, incredulous. “I had just eaten one, you little fool.”

“I know you let me kiss you before you threw me off.” Her smile is small, almost sad. “I know you've been keeping my secret about Vi.”

The name hits like a slap. You rise to the bait.

"Why her?"

"Why Ambessa?"

You have no answer for that. The water runs between you, and for once, you let yourself really look at her. At the desperation in her eyes, the way she’s holding herself like she's afraid you'll bolt. Maybe you've both been hungry for the same thing all along.

Still, it eats at you. This odd way she is pretending to be meek and mild. She is soft in the same ways you are, with the same dips in her hips and calluses along her palm. You think of the panther-like movements of her muscles as she readies a shot.

Something gathers underneath your tongue, and suddenly you are wailing. Loud and long. You rush at her, but she is waiting for you. She dips, and rams into your stomach as she flips you onto the tile. Though she is fighting back, she’s careful with you. Your head is cupped by her limber fingers as she sends you down.

You kick and catch your foot on her side. With a gasp, she’s down too, but a hand still manages to grip at the fine bones of your ankle and yank. It hurts, and you make a terrible noise. She releases you as if you’ve burned her, and you twist to get out from underneath her.

You’re on your belly now, flopping like a fish, but she makes you stay. She wrestles you up so that your back is bent as you press against her chest. You feel her fingers crawl like spider legs down your chest. She fondles, gropes, your tits. She is starved and erratic, pinching your nipples until they are standing on their own.

Your skin is slippery with soap, so Caitlyn digs her nails in for grip. Then the action stops and her hand descends into the apex of your thighs. You try to jerk, try to send her off but she knows this now. She is understanding. That’s even worse.

She holds you, exactly as you need, and gets two fingers inside of your cunt. She curves them, tries to pull you inside out. You let out another noise, but it is less terrible. She works at you until you cannot remember language, only a deep animalistic noise of ‘uh uh uh’, a rhythm. Her thumb swipes against your clit and you’re there, the pleasure like a blinding fire.

You still try to leave her; you try to crawl. She rolls you over and bullies herself in between your legs until she can place her cheek along your heaving stomach. You begin to cry. You’re unsure why, but maybe Caitlyn knows because she only strokes your inner thigh to soothe you. She looks up at you, hair black with water.

“It can be like this, always. You only need to—”

You shove her and scramble back until you’re sitting on your own. She still watches you, cheek to the tile now.

“No conditions,” she says, reworking her words. “Only us.”

You close your eyes and see pink. You open them and think of your general.

“There will always be her.”

Neither of you knows which woman you’re speaking of.

A COIN’S SECOND SIDE. — AMBESSA.

Sleep does not come that night either. You only try because when there is no session to distract it, your body aches for a bed.

You lie awake, counting the beats between Caitlyn's breaths across the room, replaying the way her cheek pressed against your belly, her lips ghosting over skin as she spoke. The way she looked at you like you were something both precious and perilous, desired and dangerous all at once. Your body still aches from her attention.

A sound draws you from your thoughts - the soft click of your dormitory door. Through barely-opened eyes, you watch Caitlyn rise like a phantom, pulling on a robe. She doesn't look back as she slips out.

Your feet are moving before your mind catches up.

You follow her through corridors you know by heart, the same path you took for that damned pomegranate. But she goes deeper, down halls you've never dared explore. When she stops at a familiar door—Ambessa's door—your heart clenches.

They speak in whispers you can't quite catch, but you see the way Ambessa's hand cups Caitlyn's face, the way Caitlyn leans into it like a cat being stroked. Your stomach twists violently. But then:

"She's ready," Caitlyn says, just loud enough, still soft. "She just doesn't know it yet."

Ambessa's laugh is low, rich like honey. "Oh, little one. She's been ready since I took her. We're just waiting for her to admit it."

You don't stay to hear more. But in the morning, when the summons comes—delivered by a guard who won't meet your eyes—you know they were expecting this too. They've been moving you like a piece on a board, and only now do you see the game.

You go anyway. You always do.

You press your lips together to avoid commenting on the way they stand separately like this will erase what you overheard yesterday. Ambessa stands at the center of the room, her presence devouring the light. It bends around her, as though the universe itself cannot decide whether to confront or flee her. Caitlyn is there too, poised and watchful, her gaze darting toward you and away again.

You look at her with an apathy you designed to get you through burning cities and crumbling countries. You wear your mother’s jewelry today: a septum ring with delicate chains of gold stretching across your cheeks, glinting over your ears. Ambessa’s eyes catch on it, a flicker of distaste passing over her face. Your fingers twitch, but you don’t remove it.

Caitlyn moves toward you, her steps tentative. You step back, forcing her to stop and speak first. Always assume power. This is what they have taught you.

“Do you find it fun,” you ask, head tilting, “to be careless with me?”

Caitlyn halts, her expression caught between guilt and something softer. Regret, maybe. This may be your delusion. Ambessa remains impassive, her gaze fixed on you with an unsettling intensity.

“Little one,” she begins, the shared nickname making you flinch. “You should be grateful. I’ve only eased you into a better space. This insipid competition for my attention is draining. I need my best soldiers to remain the best, to work with one another fluently.”

“You’ve been awful to me,” you say, your voice directed at Ambessa but your eyes locked on Caitlyn.

The mask you wear shifts, and you let your anger surface.

“Do not call me her name. I’m nothing like her.”

Ambessa’s expression betrays a flicker of disagreement, but she inclines her head, a mockery of deference. “As you wish, little one. What do you think, Cait? Do you agree?”

The nickname hits like a physical blow. Ambessa smiles wickedly. Cait. You used to call her that, back when you were little girls, not yet twisted. You saw her as some kind of beautiful flower, one that had learned to tremble tall amongst the trees.

“You could have spoken to me,” you say finally, your voice sharper now. “You didn’t need this...elaborate scheme of seduction.”

“Love is a good enforcer,” Ambessa says, her tone rich with amusement.

“You wouldn’t know love if it spat in your face,” you snap.

The room freezes. Caitlyn stiffens, but Ambessa’s expression darkens, her presence swelling like a storm. You meet her gaze, unflinching.

“Get out,” she says, her voice quiet but deadly.

Caitlyn hesitates, her body angling toward you as though to shield you. Her hands twitch, almost childlike in their uncertainty. “She’s only angry. Let me—”

“Get out,” Ambessa repeats, her tone slicing through the air.

Caitlyn turns to you, desperation softening her features. “Listen to me,” she murmurs, stepping closer. “I meant it. All of it. With you. I only—”

You think of the evening before. Your throat works until you have something to say; your hand moves before you can think, shoving her back. The memory of her warmth lingers on your palm like a curse. You try to lose it.

“Get out,” you whisper.

She stumbles, her expression crumpling into something fragile. You swallow hard, forcing yourself to stay cold, and distant. Caitlyn hesitates for a heartbeat longer, but then she turns to leave.

“You always try so hard to be good,” you push out.

She pauses, remains facing away from you.

“I meant it,” she says again. “With you.”

She goes, the door clicking shut behind her.

Ambessa doesn’t speak. She doesn’t need to. The silence between you is a battlefield, and you know you are primed to lose.

“Do you want to have me to yourself, or do you only wish to be my favorite?”

The question surprises you. However, you shouldn’t be surprised by anything Ambessa does. Her voice is calm, and measured, but it holds a challenge. There waits a quiet dare for you to step into the space she’s carved out for you.

Your throat tightens, words lodging there like a trap. You hate the way your body reacts to her—the warmth that spreads under your skin, the treacherous pull of her presence. It disgusts you. It thrills you. You feel weak.

“I don’t want either,” you say, though the answer feels thin. A lie.

Ambessa’s mouth curves into something sharp, more predator than a smile. “Liar.”

Your hands clench at your sides. “I refuse to play this game, least of all with you.”

“Oh, but you are, little one.” She takes a step closer, the sound of her boots deliberate, echoing in the cavernous space between you. “You’ve been playing since the day you first looked at me with that fire in your eyes. When I took you away.”

She clarifies as if you can’t quite recall. It grates at your nerves.

“You hate me, and yet you can’t help but ache for me. Do you think I haven’t noticed?”

Your pulse quickens, the air between you crackling with tension. You hold her gaze, refusing to look away, even as heat rises in your cheeks.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” you say, but the words lack conviction.

Ambessa tilts her head, her gaze dragging over you in a way that feels invasive, consuming. “I don’t need to flatter myself. I see you. At first, I thought you might take after me in a way meant to replace your mother.”

She reaches forward, fingers the cold along the ridge of your cheekbones.

“I see the way you tremble when I’m near, the way your apathy tastes so much like desire,” she continues.

She steps closer, and you step back instinctively, your spine meeting the cold stone wall behind you. You hate how small you feel under her gaze, how she makes the air around you feel heavier, suffocating.

“You’ve used me,” you bite out, your voice shaking but firm. “You’ve used Caitlyn, too. You pit us against each other like we’re pawns on your board. Is that all we are to you?”

Ambessa’s expression doesn’t falter, but something flickers in her eyes, something unreadable. “You’re more than that, but useful as pawns when it’s needed. Both of you. But you’re still mine.”

Her hand moves, slow and deliberate, until her fingers brush your jaw. The touch is barely there, a whisper against your skin, but it sets every nerve alight.

“You hate it so much when we touch you,” she says softly, her voice a low rumble. “But it’s that hate that keeps you sharp. That’s why I keep you close. Why we—I— can’t let you go.”

You want to pull away, to spit something venomous, to remind her that you’re not some plaything for her amusement. But you don’t move. You don’t speak. You can’t.

“Caitlyn wants your approval,” Ambessa continues, her thumb grazing the corner of your mouth now. “She craves it. But you... you want something deeper, don’t you? Something darker.”

You flinch.

“I want nothing from you.”

Ambessa leans in, her breath warm against your ear. “Then why are you still here?”

“Because you summoned me.”

“Because you wanted to come,” she counters, her voice soft but unyielding.

You try to defend yourself, but she’s moved past this now. Instead, her hands come to the bend of your hips and lift you with an easy effort that makes your legs widen around the bulk of her body. With quick steps she moves you to the chaise just off to the side of the room, sitting you on top of it. The world is blurring; she is moving too quickly for you to dispute.

Ambessa’s hands are firm as she strips you bare and traces the shape of you. Like Caitlyn—or maybe Caitlyn, like her—she cups a tit in her large hand and squeezes. This version of it is more painful, different from its softer sister movement in the shower.

She leans forward, opens her mouth, and swallows that loose circle of fat. You arch into the heat of her lips, moan low and reedy as she suckles at your nipple. Her teeth trap bits of skin between them, marking you purposefully. She pulls off and takes your other breast inside of her again to be teased and tainted by her bruises.

You rock gently, chasing the feeling. This time when Ambessa’s mouth leaves you, she presses your tits together and appraises them.

“She said this was one of her favorite parts of you.” When she finds your confused gaze, Ambessa smiles. “Cait.”

You tense at that, and she chuckles. The sound infuriates you. Still, you do nothing as she sinks lower, her breath approaching the swollen pearl of your clit. Without a word she latches on to you, lapping idly at you as if you aren’t already dripping down her chin. She holds you as your body stutters, pleasure arcing through you like thousands of arrows.

Ambessa is measured in this too. She sucks your folds into her mouth, laps at you carefully as she grips your ass. She makes you ride her, clit bumping against her strong nose as you follow her instruction. She draws back from you once, only to spread you apart and spit crudely into your cunt. She watches it travel down your slit, slicking you with her saliva, then she spits again and pushes it in with a finger.

Before she continues she glances at you and gives you another order.

“Say her name.”

You say nothing, mind racing. She slaps your ass, hard.

“Say her name. As you used to.”

You understand now. Again, you ride her tongue but when your mouth opens it is not her name that you say.

“Cait,” you moan, legs falling open even wider.

Ambessa adjusts you, slings your legs over her wide shoulders as she consumes you. She shakes her head, burying herself in your cunt as she leads you over the edge. Over and over, she laps at you until you’re panting hard like you would when sparring. This is sparring in another form.

“Oh, fuck,” you whisper. “Oh, fuck. Fuuuuck, Cait. Please.”

“Mmhmm,” Ambessa hums over your clit, and that’s the end of it for you.

You let out a sharp, shrill scream and attempt to bow over yourself with the strength of your orgasms. Ambessa refuses to let you, forcing you back and keeping your legs spread so that she can watch your cunt flutter wildly as you cum.

“There you go,” she murmurs.

“Yeah,” you answer, dazed and nonsensical.

Your pussy spasms, pink and oozing juices like a wound. Your thighs strain with the stretch of remaining open. You think of the shower floor.

“Caitlyn,” you gaps. You can’t stop pulsing. “Yes. Fuck, Cait.”

There’s a thud outside, against the door as if someone has fallen.

Ambessa removes her hands. The silence stretches between you, taut and electric. Finally, you find your voice, though it’s hoarse and trembling.

“If you think I’ll ever belong to you, you’re wrong.”

Ambessa’s smile returns, wicked and knowing.

“You are brave, but you already do, little one. You just haven’t admitted it yet. What do you think we speak of waiting for?”

The absence of her touch feels colder than it should. She steps back, giving you space, but her gaze remains heavy on you, a reminder that you are never truly free of her.

“Go,” she says, her tone dismissive. “Think about what you want. And when you’re ready to admit it, you know where to find me.”

You don’t wait for her to say more. You rise and make to leave, hands grappling over your clothes. You feel discombobulated like a puppet with its strings cut. You only manage to slide your shirt back over your head and it dusts the tops of your thighs.

Ambessa only watches your struggle. You hate her. You want her. You don’t know where one feeling ends and the other begins.

You tug the door open and step back as Caitlyn spills back against the floor, hand still between her thighs and shining with her own pleasure. Her chest is heaving, her skin pink with the rush of lust and physical exertion. Her legs splay beneath her like a doll’s.

She pulls her fingers out with a wet ‘schleck’ and tucks them into her mouth, cheeks hollowing as she looks up at you—unashamed. You say nothing, only bend down and tug her fingers from her mouth. You put them in your own.

THE COIN, FACE DOWN. — CAITBESSA.

The dormitory is devoid of you. Caitlyn is unsurprised.

You are unused to being touched. You don’t know how to be wanted.

Still, she worries. More accurately, she spirals. The ache of your absence gnaws at her in the quiet moments, like a phantom limb she can’t stop reaching for. She doesn’t know where you’ve gone.

Ambessa is losing herself too, albeit in a different way. Caitlyn wonders if she has ever truly lost something before.

The world continues to turn. They train, a familiar ritual that feels increasingly hollow. Their strikes are sharper now, their parries more reckless. Ambessa’s movements carry an edge Caitlyn hasn’t seen before, a fury barely leashed. She fights like she’s trying to exorcise something, and Caitlyn is often the target of that rage.

A blow to her stomach knocks the wind out of her. A strike to her face nearly cracks her jaw. Caitlyn knows better than to show weakness, so she grits her teeth and pushes back, delivering her own brutality in return. She delivers as well as she receives.

She kicks Ambessa in the mouth once, the impact jarring up the toned meat of her leg. The older woman’s lip splits, blood dripping down her chin, but she doesn’t flinch. In response, Ambessa hurls Caitlyn into the corner of the room. She skids across the mat, hitting the wall with enough force to rattle her bones.

Ambessa isn’t looking at her, stays crouched on the mat with her hand pressed to her mouth. Caitlyn struggles upward, sliding to rest against the wall. The fight had been nothing more than an outlet, and Caitlyn, nothing more than a tool. Caitlyn struggles to her feet, leaning heavily against the wall. The guards in the room avoid looking at them, the air too charged, too dangerous.

Something simmers in Caitlyn’s stomach, a volatile mixture of anger, frustration, and something softer she doesn’t want to name. She refuses to puncture it, afraid of what might spill out. She is already suffering enough, diseased with the spores of her affection for you.

And Ambessa.

The thought churns in her mind, dark and poisonous. Ambessa has become an obsession she doesn’t want to admit to, a shadow that looms too large since that moment in the room. Caitlyn hates her, resents her, envies her. She knows what you taste like, what you’d like. She too has been inside you. Caitlyn now has nothing; they are disgustingly equal.

But beneath it all, she respects her. And that’s what makes it worse.

When Caitlyn finally speaks, her voice is strained, biting. “Do you always break your toys this quickly, or am I just special?”

Ambessa’s gaze finally lifts, sharp and cutting. She wipes the blood from her mouth with the back of her hand and smiles, a malignant curve that doesn’t reach her eyes.

“Special?” she echoes, rising to her full height. “You think too highly of yourself, Cait. You’re simply better than most.”

The nickname grates, a reminder of the intimacy they share now—unwanted, unavoidable, tangled in you. Caitlyn clenches her fists. “Don’t call me that.”

Ambessa takes a step closer, her presence suffocating, magnetic. “You’ve been insufferable since she left,” she says, voice low and dangerous. “Do you think I don’t see it? You miss her like a dog misses its master.”

“And you don’t?” Caitlyn fires back, the words cutting deeper than she intended.

Ambessa’s expression darkens, and for a moment, Caitlyn wonders if she’s gone too far. But then the older woman smirks, cruel and knowing.

“I miss her,” Ambessa admits, her tone a blade. “But not like you do. You ache for her because she is a twin to your pain, a foil to my approval. I ache for her because she belongs to me.”

The words twist in Caitlyn’s chest, sharp and unbearable. “She doesn’t belong to anyone,” she snaps.

Ambessa chuckles a low, bitter sound. “You’re wrong. [Name] belongs to both of us, and that’s why you hate me.”

Caitlyn’s breath catches, and she doesn’t deny it.

Without you, they writhe like snakes, their weight pulling them into collision after collision. The mouth of the snake swallows the tail. The hatred between them is palpable, a toxic undercurrent that fuels their every interaction. And yet, when the nights grow long and the ache of your absence becomes unbearable, they find themselves drawn together.

It’s not love, not even close. It’s desperation, a way to drown the pit you’ve left behind. Their intimacy is suffocating, a visceral reminder of everything they can’t have.

When Caitlyn’s nails dig into Ambessa’s back, it’s not out of affection but frustration. When Ambessa’s teeth scrape Caitlyn’s collarbone, it’s not passion but punishment. They use each other because they can’t have you. After all, the emptiness you left is too much to bear alone.

It’s never enough, no matter how fierce. Because they don’t want each other.

They want you.

Still, they try.

🕸

Again, the shower.

They’re slightly cruel to one another. It fuels the high.

Caitlyn snaps back to the moment as Ambessa needles a nail into the mottled skin beneath her shoulder blade, where a bruise sits thick and spreading. She hisses in pain, tits pressing further against Ambessa’s own. There are three thick fingers in her pussy and they fuck her in the way she needs.

Despite the embarrassment, she lets her head fall onto Ambessa’s wide shoulders as she chases her orgasm. Her cunt is like water, dribbling down Ambessa’s wrist as she carves Caitlyn out. Again, a nail presses into the bruise.

The motion is harsher this time around and Caitlyn cries out, throwing her head back so that her hair brushes the middle of her spine. Ambessa continues to toy with this patch of marred skin, teeth clamping on the wide skin of Caitlyn’s neck as the younger woman twists and shudders around her.

“Good fucking girl,” Ambessa mutters, fucking her faster.

Caitlyn bounces to meet her, slamming herself down until her belly tightens and roars. Ambessa lifts her further, suctions her mouth around one of her perky tits, and digs deeper into the pink tight nature of her. Caitlyn roots a hand in her hair and slides the other down her body to collect pieces of that foamy, white ring gathering around Ambessa’s hand.

Slick with herself, she rubs tight, quick circles around Ambessa’s clit. The older woman’s cunt is large, folds heavy and leaking. Caitlyn feels her tremble and she moves faster, breath coming fast as the spray of the water slides down the crack of her ass.

With a muffled grunt, Ambessa cums. As she does, she bites deeply into the meager flesh of Caitlyn’s collarbone. Caitlyn whites out, eyes rolling back briefly so that she’s swaying and focusing on a blurred ceiling. Their orgasms warp and connect; they refuse to stop touching one another as if it will keep reality at bay.

The comedown is almost irritating, and in a frenzy, Caitlyn clutches Ambessa to her chest. This does nothing.

She kisses Ambessa feverishly, practically mauling her, because the echo of your cunt is on her lips. Ambessa holds her, returns the kiss, then breaks it.

“No matter how hard we try, she is not here.”

Caitlyn closes her eyes and her face pinches in pain.

“And where is she? Gone, and you are doing nothing to find her.”

This close, Caitlyn can see Ambessa’s face twitch and melt into something revealing. Something rocks through her at the sight and she detangles their bodies.

“You cannot find her.”

The statement is accusatory, so much so that Ambessa surrenders and turns away. She shuts off the water; Caitlyn remains shivering.

THE COIN, POCKETED. — YOU.

Your mouth tastes like metal and smoke. The streets of Zaun pulse beneath your feet, virulent and alive, and you can barely remember how many days it's been since you left them. Since you left her. Them.

You've gotten yourself into trouble - the kind Ambessa would have prevented, the kind Caitlyn would have shot through. Blood trickles down your side from where the knife caught you, and your vision swims with chemical fumes and exhaustion. You don't know where you're going anymore, just that you're going.

The world tilts sideways. You stumble and catch yourself against a wall slick with condensation. A familiar laugh echoes from somewhere above - it stops your heart, then starts it again too fast. You know that laugh.

When you look up, they're there on one of the suspended walkways - Caitlyn and that pink-haired girl, Vi. They haven't seen you yet. Vi has her hand on Caitlyn's waist, casual, proprietary. Something in you breaks and mends and breaks again.

Then Caitlyn turns her head, and her eyes find yours like they always have. The world stops. You try to run—you always try to run—but your legs give out. You thud to the ground. Mind heavy. Heart heavy.

You hate her more than anything else in the world. You wish that was true.

You hear the clatter of boots on metal as she descends, and then she's there, gathering you up as if she hadn’t been entangled a moment before. She hooks a hand into your hair, and claws you into looking at her as she squeezes your face hard. Something inside of you understands that the action isn’t intentional, not this time.

She bends, hair falling from her hurried bun, and swallows you—grime and all. Her kiss tastes devastating and strains with relief, and you're too weak to fight it anymore. You push back, this time into her, and force her to hold you. She squeezes you tighter, moaning almost obscenely as she relapses and languishes in your feel, in your taste.

Here is her sweet girl. Her sweet fucking girl.

“Cait,” you moan.

She pulls away and strokes your baby hairs away from your forehead as you let out a feeble, wounded noise.

"Vi," she says, not looking away from your face, "help me. I need to get her back to Ambessa."

"This is your runaway?" Vi's voice is rough, knowing. "The one you've been tearing yourself up over?"

Caitlyn's hands tighten on your arms. "It's important for the mission that we-"

"Save it, Cupcake." Vi's laugh is different now, sadder. "I know what love looks like on you."

That training, that beloved animal comes back in full force, and Caitlyn looks up from beneath her lashes. Her face contorts and it’s the strangest she’s ever seemed to Vi. She reaches up, hooks a hand around Vi’s jaw, and drags her down.

“Get it together, Violet. This is not your moment.”

Vi blinks at her, equal parts disturbed and titulated. Caitlyn lets her go, places that same hand on the peek of skin between the hem of your shirt and your linen pants. Why would you ever wear linen when running away? She looks back up again, traces Vi’s expression—analyzes it.

“I can love you both. I’ve done it before.”

Vi's laugh catches in her throat. You watch through half-lidded eyes as something passes between them— understanding, maybe. Or resignation. Your blood is making patterns on the ground.

"Fine," Vi says, and then she's lifting you like you weigh nothing, careful of your wound. "But if this gets me killed, I'm haunting you both."

“If she dies because of our procrastinating, I’ll do something worse than haunting,” Caitlyn snaps.

Caitlyn's hand doesn't leave your skin as you move through the undercity. You drift in and out of consciousness, catching fragments: Vi muttering about shortcuts, Caitlyn's fingers pressing against your pulse, the way they work together like they've done this before. They probably have.

"Stay with me," Caitlyn keeps saying, and you're not sure if she means now or forever. Maybe both.

You think of Ambessa waiting, of how her hands will feel on your skin again, of how she'll look at you like you're something wild she's finally caught. You think of Caitlyn's desperation in the shower, that fucking shower and it’s cold water—of her mouth against your stomach. Of how they both break you apart and put you back together wrong.

"She's burning up," Vi says somewhere above you. Her voice sounds almost gentle.

"We're close." Caitlyn's voice shakes. "The extraction point is-"

"I know where it is." A pause. "You really love her that much?"

"More than is safe."

You want to tell her that nothing about any of you has ever been safe. Instead, you let the darkness drag you into its arms.

When you wake, you're in Ambessa's chambers. The sheets smell like her - lime and mango and earth. Caitlyn is curled against your side, her breath evening out against your neck. And there, in the doorway, Ambessa stands watching you both with hunger in her eyes.

"Welcome home, little one," she says, and steps inside.

THE COIN, MELTED INTO GOLD — CAITLYN & YOU & AMBESSA & YOU &.

Ambessa moves like smoke in the water.

The room holds its breath as she approaches, and you feel Caitlyn's arm tighten across your middle—not protective, possessive. They don't look at each other. They never do. Their hunger is only for you.

"Did you think you could run from us?" Ambessa's voice is silk over steel, very careful in the moment. She sits on the edge of the bed, and the mattress dips with her weight. Her hand finds your ankle, thumb pressing into the hollow where your pulse beats rabbit-quick. "From me?"

You try to answer, but Caitlyn's mouth is suddenly on your neck, wet and wanting. She bites down, marking you, claiming you and Ambessa's grip tightens in response. They're going to tear you apart.

You realize, distantly, that you want them to.

"She's hurt," Caitlyn murmurs against your skin, but her teeth don't gentle. "We should-"

"We should punish her," Ambessa cuts in, and your body betrays you with a shiver. Her hand slides higher, past your knee. It makes you realize that you’re in nothing but a simple pair of baby blue cotton panties and a skimpy bra. Your tits spill out at the bottom. "Shouldn't we?"

Caitlyn makes a sound like drowning. Her fingers find the hem of your shirt and ghost over the bandaged wound at your side. "Yes," she breathes, and you feel yourself sinking, sinking. "But she's ours to punish."

"Ours," Ambessa agrees, and the word feels jagged.

You're losing yourself in them. A thought floats up through your hazy mind: that they refuse to acknowledge each other even as they work in tandem to break you down, to unmake you piece by piece. Their synchronized destruction should be beautiful to watch if you can remember how to open your eyes.

"Look at me," Ambessa commands and your body obeys before your mind can catch up. Her hand cups your jaw, thumb pressing against your lower lip. "She trembles so prettily for us, doesn't she?"

Caitlyn's answer is to drag her nails down your spine, making you arch into the touch. The pain blooms like ink in water, spreading out until you can't tell where it ends and pleasure begins. You're caught between them - Ambessa's unyielding strength and Caitlyn's desperate need - and you're not sure you want to escape.

"Tell us why you ran," Caitlyn whispers, but it's not really a question. Her fingers trace the edges of your bandages again, a reminder of what your foolish escape attempt cost you. "Tell us what you thought you'd find out there.”

"Freedom," you manage to gasp, and Ambessa's laugh is dark honey, sticky-sweet, and dangerous.

"Oh, little one." Her grip tightens, not quite painful. Not yet. "You're only free when I allow it."

She speaks only of herself, but you know the notion pertains to both of them. You know they're right. You've always known and it leaves something bitter in your mouth. That's why you ran - not to escape them, but to make them chase you. To prove they would. To ensure they'd punish you when they caught you.

And now they have.

"Please," you breathe, though you're not sure what you're begging for. More? Mercy? Neither?

"Please what?" Caitlyn's voice has gone rough with her aching. Her teeth find your shoulder again, and you shudder. "Use your words."

But Ambessa's hand is sliding into your hair now, pulling your head back to expose your throat. "No," she says, and you can hear the smile in her voice. "I don't think she gets to speak anymore tonight. I think she’ll bore me with her useless whining.”

The whimper that escapes you makes them both pause, just for a moment. Just long enough for you to feel their satisfaction ripple through the air like heat waves. You might die this way, you’re realizing. They may build you up one final time, only to slit your throat at the time of climax.

Ambessa is practically stone with her tempered fury, and Caitlyn is antsy with her need. You never realized how much you riled them in the same manner they did you. Ambessa goes on to say more, filling the silence with something sick and cruel but Caitlyn has had enough now.

She lurches up, rolls you over so that she sits atop just like the night she first kissed you. The night where it all burst. There’s a moment where she has a hand on your chest, pushing down as if resuscitating you. You don’t understand it until you look down and see the way the pressure makes your breasts surge and spurt from underneath your bra. She pushes again and again and again until you’re taking halting, broken sips of air. Over and over, your tits spill until she grows crazed and snaps the fabric off of you.

Ambessa only watches, though you notice her thighs spreading. She looks soft, her hair unbraided and haloing her face. She wears nothing but a silk yellow robe which displays her figure lovingly. Your cunt grows warm, tender.

Catilyn taps your cheek, brings you back to her. You can’t remember if the button-down she wears is yours or Ambessa’s. Maybe both. You wince at her weight on your stomach and she moves up and over your face.

There’s no time to prepare for the way she comes down on you, her groan thunderous as her pussy settles on your parted mouth. You fall into line, give her what she wants.

Still, you are to be punished, so she sits for a long while. Just smothers you. Occasionally she grinds, filling your nose with her musk. You can feel her soft curls around your lips, and you arch up as if to crawl inside of her skin. This gets her to move, a slow rocking that amps up as you settle into making out with her pouring pussy.

You kiss her here, over and over, dragging your tongue into the affair until she’s riding you. Your tongue slips in and Caitlyn quivers with a whimper as she rides your face harder. You bring a hand up to hold her, to prevent her from slipping but she smacks it away.

“No,” she pants. “No—oh, fuck me. Holy shiiiit.” She bounces liberally, selfishly. “No touching.”

Caitlyn leans forward, supporting herself as she fucks down on you with fervor. You’re so distracted with getting her to fill your throat with her pleasure that you mistakenly lose focus on where Ambessa is. Which is why the press of her cunt against your own absolutely blindsides you.

She’s climbed atop the bed during the desperate coupling between you and Caitlyn, removing your panties so that your pussy winks at her voraciously. True to her nature she decides to take, to conquer you. You grip Caitlyn tightly, so tightly that she squeals and cums at the pain.

You forget to let go, buck wildly as she creams over your nose and chin. It settles on you like sugar; she takes a long finger and dips it in—soft and sweet. You suckle at the pad of it, taking the digit into your mouth and moaning around it as Ambessa slides your cunts together.

You can’t tell if you are one body or three or three-in-one. You feel enmeshed in the both of them. Your blood is theirs; your cunt is theirs. Maybe it is less togetherness and more possession. Ambessa groans deeply as you gush against her, the squelch both loud and quiet. Caitlyn is now off to this side—this you know. She has her other fingers playing with herself, shifts down to let them puncture her.

She shoves another finger into your mouth and you gag, let her hit the back of your throat. Drool is coalescing and running over them. The sight makes Ambessa open you further, and hold you down as she slides your clits together over and over—harder and harder.

Your babbling makes the both of them smile, dark curves tinged with their sadistic pleasure. Again, the possession. Ambessa shoves Caitlyn aside and crawls over you to hook her thicker digits into your mouth. She drags you, your head lolling, as she reaches down and rubs your clit.

You scream, silent with your mouth open wide as you cum. This is not enough. It is never enough. She is back on you, like a lioness on a gazelle. Her pussy swallows yours, and Ambessa forgets you as she leads herself to that approaching golden horizon.

When she crests, she falls on you and you do nothing but accept her weight. You lay there, do this for what feels like years, until Caitlyn weasels behind you. Then you do it again.

🕸

You wake with a start, disoriented by the weight pinning you to the bed. Caitlyn's arm drapes loosely over your waist, her fingers curled like she’d been holding you even in sleep. Ambessa’s warmth radiates from behind you, her breath slow and even. The sheets smell of sweat and sandalwood, of something heady and unnamed.

The sheet clings to your skin almost oppressively, a reminder of last night’s twist of limbs and pleasure. You slide out from between them, careful not to disturb their slumber. Ambessa stirs slightly, her arm shifting, and you hesitate. Caitlyn murmurs something unintelligible, and you freeze. When neither of them wakes, you slip free.

You take Caitlyn’s robe from the chair by the bed, pulling it around your shoulders. The fabric is sheer, nearly useless, but it smells of her. You step onto the balcony, and the cool morning air kisses your skin. The horizon is painted in hues of gold and rose, the sun stretching its fingers across the sky.

You lean against the railing, the chill of the metal biting into your palms. The fortress sprawls below and blends into the distant city, a patchwork of shadows and light. For a moment, it feels like you’re the only person in the world. But the ache in your chest reminds you that isn’t true.

You are loved. You are wanted. And it terrifies you.

You wrap your arms around yourself, trying to make sense of the ache in your chest. The robe clings to you, and the light hits your body in a way that feels exposing, even with no one watching.

A soft sound pulls your attention, and Caitlyn steps out onto the balcony, her hair a tumble of dark waves over her shoulders. She’s still half-asleep, her bare feet silent on the stone. When she sits beside you, the space between you feels both unbearable and necessary.

"Couldn't sleep, baby?" she murmurs, her voice rasping in the quiet.

You shake your head, eyes fixed on the horizon. You ignore the goosebumps that rise at the pet name.

"I don’t know what to do with so much love," you say finally, your voice trembling. "From you. From her. It’s… too much."

She doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, she reaches out, her fingers brushing your forearm. You flinch, and she pulls back, pain flickering across her face.

"Baby," she says softly, and the word lands like a stone in your chest. "I will undo this. I will make your living easier."

You exhale sharply, the sound halfway to a laugh. “Will I always have to share you?” you ask.

You don’t look at her.

Caitlyn hesitates, then glances toward the bed where Ambessa shifts, her hand moving as if searching for you in her sleep. You glance over instinctively, the motion so natural it betrays you.

“I could ask you the same,” she says finally. Her tone is steady, but there’s a thread of something deeper woven through it—something sharp and sad. Your gaze flickers to her, then back to the bed behind you. Ambessa shifts again, her brow furrowing, and you instinctively turn to her. The action is so ingrained, that you don’t realize what you’ve done until Caitlyn speaks again.

“She pulls at you,” Caitlyn says, not unkindly. “I see it.”

You want to deny it, but the words stick in your throat. Instead, you say, “And you don’t?”

Her lips curve into a wry smile. “I pull at you too. But she’s… something else.”

You swallow hard, the weight of her words settling over you. “You didn’t answer my question.”

Your breath catches, and for a moment, neither of you speaks. The city stirs below, oblivious to the ache of your small world.

INTERLUDE: THE LIONESS, WITH THE COIN IN HER MOUTH.

Ambessa lies still in the bed, her breathing measured and even, but her mind sharp and alert. She hears the murmur of voices from the balcony, the quiet cadence of Caitlyn's voice mingling with yours, a soft harmony in the cool morning air.

Her eyes remain closed, yet her thoughts stray to the image of you wrapped in Caitlyn’s robe, the rosy light of dawn casting faint halos around your figures. She imagines the tension in your body as Caitlyn reaches for you, the way you’d shift, hesitant, but never pulling away entirely. It’s a dynamic Ambessa understands all too well: the push and pull, the magnetic sway you hold over both of them.

You’re the thread that binds, fragile yet unbreakable. It’s maddening. It’s beautiful.

Ambessa shifts slightly, her fingers brushing the cool sheets where you once lay. The absence is temporary—she knows this. But the way you linger in her mind is something she can’t easily reconcile. She has always been a woman of precision, of control. Yet you are beginning to undo her in ways she cannot name, cannot stop, that she believed herself too old for.

Through the door left ajar, your voice carries faintly. When you and Caitlyn return, Ambessa will let you come to her. For now, she waits, her lips curving faintly, as if in a private, unspoken promise.

“You’ll come back to me,” she murmurs under her breath, a whisper carried only by the stillness of the room.

And outside, the sun climbs higher, gilding the world in its light.

RE: THE COIN, MELTED INTO GOLD — CAITLYN & YOU & AMBESSA & YOU &.

Caitlyn leans back, her eyes tracing your face. "We grew up together," she begins, her voice softer now. "Trained together. They taught us to kill, to win, to survive. But you…" She pauses, swallowing hard. "You were always my half. I can’t promise much, but when the pendulum swings, I will choose you to save. Every time."

Her words settle heavy in the space between you. You lean your head against her shoulder, letting the warmth of her presence ease the sharp edges of your doubt.

Caitlyn tilts her head, resting her cheek against your hair. "You’re half of me," she murmurs.

From inside, Ambessa’s voice calls softly, "Come back to bed."

Caitlyn shifts, pressing a kiss to your knuckles, then your nose, and finally your lips. It’s a lingering kiss, tender and unhurried as if she’s trying to pour every unsaid word into you.

"You’re my girl," she whispers against your mouth. "I love you, baby."

The declarations are so soft you almost think you’ve imagined them. But the look in her eyes tells you otherwise.

Ambessa calls again, her voice low and expectant. Caitlyn straightens, her hand falling away from yours. She glances at the door, then back at you. She stands, offering her hand to you.

"Come," she says simply.

You hesitate, the ache in your chest a living thing. But you take her hand.

The sun exposes as it further moves toward its high point, casting the balcony in streaky light, but you feel no warmth. Only the quiet weight of something you can’t name, pressing into the spaces between your ribs.

And behind you, the world goes on turning.

“Come,” Caitlyn says again, her tone gentle but firm.

You go.

⚚ wives taglist: @s-4pphics

⚚ special taglist: @blackdykegirlblogger @bibi-e @hell0-ki55y @suibiaan-l @astarcalledtala @iluvwomensm @whuppincream @rottngrl3 @16novvs @sillygirl-lol @petalsnhoney @simmplerussiangirl @ambessaswifey @ambessas-doll @marvelwomenarehot0 @baeumonde @abbyslvrrr @sevslefthand @milfshotss @sevikas-whore @poteitalouca @foreverdolled @azteriarizz @helaenabugmom @p3arlier @depressedqueersocialists @iliterallyhavenoideawhattosay @rios-st4rs

2K notes · View notes

briarpatch-kids · 4 months ago

Text

Something I don't think many people who don't have complex rehab powerchairs realize is that the cripple tax for us is so much higher.

I'm going to preface this with the statement that if you have a CRT powerchair, it's generally because you will literally die without one. There really is no "suffering without" if you don't have one, insurance or government schemes will not pay for it if you won't literally die without. Pretty often with "some people NEED wheelchairs and can't get by without them" type posts, the tags are filled with "i need this but just get by without" so I wanted to make sure people understand under no uncertain circumstances that people die waiting for approval of these and there is no getting by without if you have one. Some people do need them and get by without, but they are in the "this would vastly improve my life" need category rather than the "I will either get this or die" need category.

Anyways, once you're in the complex rehab category of disabled, the price of being disabled goes up by a MASSIVE amount. I am just barely in the complex rehab category, and my powerchair costs $23,000. This doesn't include the seat cushion or positioning equipment which likely adds another $1,000 minimum. It also doesn't include maintainance (last year mine was over $1,000 in parts cost before labor) Back when my needs were only a custom ultralight wheelchair with the basic seating options, I paid $3,500 for it so you get some context in how much the price SKYROCKETS once you get complex. Off the rack "standard" wheelchairs start at around $250.

My ventilator costs $500 a month in rental for just the box, you cannot buy one only rent. This doesn't include monthly checks, or all the tubes and masks and parts I need, I'd be willing to bet that adds on another couple hundred bucks.

My shower chair? It's a specialized one because I can't use the usual ones and that costs $2,000.

Additionally, because I need a caregiver, that adds another $1,800 a month to my price of living. I am in a special cost saving program that pays my spouse to do my bathing, dressing, and toileting so that would be higher for anyone else as well. This is not for 24 hour care, it's for bathing, dressing, and toileting.

My wheelchair van that I need in order to go anywhere beyond a mile from my house (like the doctors office) and was bought used at an age old enough to vote, that we were given a special discount and tax breaks for, cost us $7,500. If you don't get an ancient shitbox (said with love) like we have, they're around $65,000.

The bathroom remodel we had to do so I could pee and get showered was $17,000 and did not include anything high end, it was the cheapest we could do that met my needs.

The wheelchair ramp was $15,000 before labor to set it up.

None of these costs were optional, they weren't "improve my life" types of costs, they are "this is the minimum I need to live" costs. I know people who have even higher minimum costs to live, I'm pretty low on the "complex rehab" disability scale.

Tl;Dr whatever you think the highest cripple tax costs are for severely disabled people, quadruple them.

#long post #long text post #cripplepunk #cripple tax #wheelchair user

1K notes · View notes

couldeatthatgirlforlunch · 8 months ago

Text

I Can Feel It in My Bones

Synopsis: Being Invincible’s pet is cruel, but you manage to find comfort in it.

Pairing: Yandere!Sinister!Mark Grayson X Gn!Reader

Tw: 18+; Mentions and descriptions of mass murder (this is a version of Mark that joined Omni-man and the viltrumites); Mentions of kidnapping and being chained; Mentioned and implied dubcon/noncon; Implied Stockholm Syndrome; Hurt/little comfort; Mentions of threats; All characters aged up; English is my 2nd language.

Word count: 500

Requested? No.

Extra notes: I might write more about this, and other fanfics with Mark and Rex, love my babygirls

General masterlist

You have your own suite. Well, it's not exactly yours, it's Mark’s room, but he barely spends time there, since most of his time is spent destroying Earth and intimidating civilians, alongside Omni-man. Meanwhile, you're always chained to the foot of his bed, just enough freedom to go to the bathroom and wander through almost all the expanse of the room. You can't even reach the door, not that it would change anything, there’s no one around to help you, much less someone brave enough to go against Invincible’s wishes.

Omni-man and Invincible like to talk as if you aren't in the room, as if you're invisible. You know the former doesn't understand why his son keeps a pet since it's death will come before Mark can even look like a 30 year old human. You're the pet. But he shrugs it off when Mark reminds him that not everything is about work, and if he can do whatever he wants to humans, then he wants to have a pet.

Mark is cruel. He always reminds you that the only thing stopping him from harming and killing you is your pretty face. That you only get to eat because he likes your body healthy. That you only get to shower and brush your teeth because he wants to breathe in a nice smell when he’s close to you. That you're only kept in his room and not at one of the slave’s camps because he likes to fuck you.

And you know it. You know it in the way he sometimes doesn't allow you to wear clothes. In the way he doesn't treat you like a person, more like a playtoy or decoration. In the soreness left when he's done.

But sometimes, sometimes you get confused. Because he lays his head on your chest when he wants to take a nap or just feel comforted. Because he keeps you in his room when you know he could just throw you in a cell. Because once in a while he asks about your old interests, and gets excited about things you had in common. Because he gives you things to entertain yourself. Because sex with him is good even when it's not consensual. Because he has a pretty smile. Because he doesn't look like the sadistic dictator who destroyed your city and killed half the people you knew, when he takes his mask off.

You wonder if he still keeps this human side of him because he simply grew up like that and it's too ingrained in his personality, or because he misses his mom and his friends.

It doesn't matter in the end, you're doomed in and out of this room. You're only human, he's a viltrumite. He was made to be a conqueror. You're gonna die faster than he can blink. He's gonna find another pet. At least, you can have some comfort if you keep him happy.

Like, comment and reblog 🥰

#yandere mark grayson x reader #mark grayson x reader #invincible x reader #invincible tv show #invincible animated series #invincible comic #mark grayson #invincible #omni man #tw yandere #cw yandere #tw suggestive #tw angst #tw abuse #tw kidnapping #tw threats #tw stockholm syndrome #masterlist

2K notes · View notes

ch0llies · 5 months ago

Text

EARNED IT | MATTHEW STURNIOLO PT.2

read part one here

brothersbestfriend!matt x innocent!reader

You're an 18-year-old high school senior, the innocent little sister of Matt's best friend. Which means off-limits in every way. But 22-year-old college hockey player, Matt can't ignore the way you cling to him, asking dangerous questions with trusting eyes. You don't understand the fire you're playing with- but Matt does. And he's burning to teach you what happens when you get too close.

story warnings: oral (fem reviving), masterbation, lowkey corruption kink (if u squint), brothers best friend, pet names (sweetheart, angel), age gap (four years), etc. all characters are of age. If any of these topics upset you...don't read!

word count: 6k

ib: @ariestrxsh ‘s young god

You pause in the doorway, your breath catching at his words. Earn it? Your stomach twists. Matt watches you with that lazy, knowing smirk that makes your skin itch.

Your fingers tighten on the doorframe. “How do I… earn it?”

Matt’s smirk deepens. He steps forward, closing the space between you just enough to make your pulse stutter. His hand lifts, fingers brushing your jaw, barely touching but enough to make you feel dizzy.

“You’ll know,” he murmurs, voice low, teasing. “When you deserve it, I’ll give it to you.”

Your breath shudders, heat crawling up your spine. You don’t even know what you’re asking for but the way he’s looking at you, the way your entire body is reacting, makes you desperate to find out.

You swallow hard, shifting on your feet. “But-”

Matt just chuckles, shaking his head as he backs away, hands sliding into the pockets of his grey sweatpants. You look down. His arousal is gone now, or at least, hidden well enough that he’s in control again. Unlike you.

“Go to bed, sweetheart.”

His voice is final, dismissive, like he’s already won whatever game you didn’t realize you were playing.

You bite your lip, hesitating for just a second longer before turning on shaky legs, stepping out into the hallway and returning to your room.

The next morning you try to act like nothing happened, but the moment you step into the kitchen and see Matt leaning against the counter, coffee in hand, wearing that damn fitted black tank top and grey sweatpants again, you feel your entire body react.

His gaze flicks to you immediately.

He notices the way you freeze.

The way your thighs instinctively press together.

The way your lips part slightly, like you’re remembering exactly what they felt like against his.

He smirks. Like he knows. Like he owns every single thought running through your head.

Your brother, completely oblivious, slaps Matt on the back as he walks past. “Dude, you good? You look like you slept like shit.”

Matt huffs a quiet laugh, eyes still locked onto yours and that’s when you finally notice the deep purple eyebags under his eyes. He always had eyebags, but your brother was right. These looked worse.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, taking a slow sip of coffee. “Didn’t get much sleep. Mind was elsewhere.”

Your breath catches.

Your brother shrugs, already grabbing cereal from the cabinet. “I told you not to stay up. We gotta commute back to campus tomorrow morning. We only got today to get our sleep schedule back in check.”

Matt exhales through his nose, shaking his head slightly.

“Yeah,” he mutters, his smirk growing as he watches you shift on your feet, still burning under his gaze.

You sit at the kitchen table, trying so hard to act normal, to pretend that your body doesn’t still burn from last night. But it’s impossible when Matt keeps looking at you like that- like he knows exactly what you’re thinking, exactly what your body still craves.

“What the fuck?!”

Your brother’s sharp voice shatters the illusion, making you flinch. Your eyes snap to him just as he’s stepping closer, his expression twisted in disbelief, his gaze locked onto you.

No- your neck.

Your stomach plummets.

His eyes widen, his jaw tightening as he glares at the unmistakable mark just beneath your jawline. The dark, deep, evidence of everything you were trying to keep secret.

Panic floods you.

“I-”

“Who the fuck did this?” His voice is sharp, angry, his fists clenching at his sides.

You freeze, heart hammering, throat dry. You can’t say Matt.

Matt is right there.

Standing beside you, silent. His expression unreadable. He’s watching you, waiting- not stepping in, not making excuses, just waiting to see what you’ll do.

You scramble for something- anything- to say, but before you can, your brother scoffs, his lip curling in disgust.

“You kidding me right now?” His voice is lower now, sharp with anger. “You know who gets hickeys?” He takes a step closer, voice cold “Sluts.”

Your stomach drops.

Heat rushes to your face- not from embarrassment, but from humiliation. You shake your head quickly, trying to explain, but nothing comes out.

Matt stiffens beside you.

“Yo,” his voice is calm but firm, cutting through the tension like a blade. “Lay off, dude”

Your brother whips his head toward him, eyes blazing. “Excuse me?”

Matt crosses his arms, jaw tight. “She’s eighteen now, man. She can make her own decisions.”

Your brother laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “Oh, fuck off with that bullshit, Matt. That’s still my sister.” His glare snaps back to you. “And you? You let some random asshole mark you up like that?”

You flinch, your breath shuddering. “I-”

“You have no fucking self-respect, do you?”

Your throat tightens, burns. Your hands tremble as you grip the table, heat stinging behind your eyes. You feel exposed, humiliated, like a child being scolded for something you barely even understand.

Matt’s jaw flexes, his fists clenching at his sides. His whole body tenses, like he’s barely keeping himself in check. But he still doesn’t step in. Not unless you decide you want him to.

Because this is your secret to tell.

Your brother scoffs again, shaking his head. “Fucking pathetic.”

Your chair scrapes loudly against the floor as you shove yourself up, your vision blurring. “Fuck you.” Your voice cracks, half anger, half tears, but you don’t care.

You turn on your heel and storm out.

You hear Matt curse under his breath, hear your brother mutter something, but you don’t stop. You run down the hall, slamming your door shut behind you before collapsing onto your bed, pressing your face into your pillow as hot, embarrassed tears spill down your cheeks.

It was late now. Almost midnight- maybe even one in the morning. You’ve barely moved from your bed since breakfast, too embarrassed, too humiliated to face anyone, especially Matt.

He didn’t do anything wrong. He didn’t defend you the way you wished, but he also didn’t throw you under the bus. He let you decide whether or not to reveal what happened. But still some part of it was just so embarrassing.

The house is quiet, everyone already in bed. You shift under the covers, your oversized t-shirt sliding against your bare skin, your thigh-high socks still hugging your legs, providing some comfort.

The door creaks open.

A dark figure slips inside, moving carefully, deliberately. The door shuts again with a soft click and you hear the lock slide shortly after.

Your heart stammers, your stomach flipping as the shadow moves closer, the dim light from the hallway illuminating just enough of his face.

Matt.

You sit up quickly, swinging your legs over the edge of the bed, your voice a hushed whisper. “Matt?”

“Shhh,” he murmurs, his voice low, soothing.

Your pulse races as he steps closer…. closer…. until he’s right in front of you.

He drops to his knees.

Your breath stutters.

He’s kneeling in front of you, his broad hands and long fingers resting on your thighs, his eyes flickering up to yours, dark and unreadable.

Your lips part, confusion swirling in your chest. “What are you-”

“I’m sorry.”

His voice is soft, rough around the edges, like he’s been holding onto the words all day. His hands squeeze your thighs gently, his gaze never leaving yours.

“For what?” you murmur, genuinely confused.

“For leaving marks,” he says, his fingers tracing lightly over the sensitive skin of your thighs. “I wasn’t thinking.”

You blink, still dazed. “I- I didn’t even know they were there.”

Matt exhales sharply, his jaw clenching.

“I don’t even really know what hickeys are,” you admit, your voice small, unsure.

His lips part slightly, his brows drawing together like your innocence physically pains him. Then, slowly, he drops his forehead onto your thighs, his warm breath fanning over your skin.

“I’m still sorry,” he murmurs, voice muffled against your legs. “It’s my fault.”

Your stomach flutters, your fingers twitching at your sides. You should probably be upset. But all you can focus on is the weight of his head resting against your thighs, the way his hands grip you so gently, as if he’s afraid to hold you too tight.

“It… didn’t hurt or anything,” you murmur.

Matt huffs a quiet laugh against your skin, his breath hot against your bare legs. “That’s not the point, angel.”

There’s a pause, heavy, thick with something you don’t understand.

“What did it feel like?”

Your fingers twitch where they rest against the sheets, your legs pressing together slightly on instinct. You weren’t expecting that question.

“I…. I don’t know,” you stammer, heat creeping up your neck.

Matt lifts his head slightly, his dark eyes flickering up to yours, waiting. “Yes, you do,” he murmurs.

You exhale shakily, your entire body buzzing. You hesitate, then admit, “It… felt like it did yesterday.”

Matt’s gaze sharpens. His fingers flex against your thighs, his grip tightening just slightly. “And what was that?”

Your lips part, but the words won’t come. You’re too flustered, too hot, your thighs squeezing together again as the memory of last night floods your mind.

Matt just watches you.

“Warm,” you whisper, barely audible. “And… and needy.”

His jaw clenches, his fingers sliding higher.

“Where?”

You suck in a breath, unable to say it, so instead, you let your gaze flicker downward. Down to where his hands are still crawling up your thighs, where the warmth is building again, pulsing, aching.

Matt follows your gaze, and when he looks back up at you, his expression changes.

He moves slowly and lowers his head, his breath warm as his lips graze the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. Your fingers dig into the sheets, your stomach flipping, your entire body locking up as he keeps going.

Lower.

Until his nose brushes the soft crevice between your thighs, his face pressing directly against the heat radiating from your core.

Your breath shatters.

Matt doesn’t move.

Doesn’t speak.

Just stays there.

Breathing you in.

Letting you feel it.

Your entire body tenses, frozen in place, your breath coming in short, uneven gasps. His hands tighten on your thighs, keeping you right where he wants you.

He does nothing. Just lets the weight of his presence sink into you. Like he’s claiming you. Without even touching you.

Matt stays still for a moment, just breathing against you, the warmth of his face pressing into the heat radiating from your core. His grip on your thighs tightens, and then slowly he nuzzles his head deeper, his nose pressing against the soft, sensitive space between your legs.

A soft, strained groan rumbles from his chest, vibrating against your skin.

Your entire body jolts, a sharp gasp ripping from your lips as your back arches involuntarily, your fingers gripping the sheets for something to ground you.

“Matt…” your voice comes out breathy, shaking. “Why are you… putting your head… there?”

He doesn’t answer.

Not at first.

He just stays there, pressed against you, breathing you in like he needs it, like the heat between your thighs is suffocating him but he still wants more.

Slowly, he lifts his head.

His pupils are blown, dark and hungry, his cheeks flushed, lips parted slightly as his gaze locks onto yours. His breath is heavy, his chest rising and falling like he’s trying to control himself but he can’t.

His voice is thick, strained.

“Because it doesn’t just make me feel warm and needy.” His grip on you tightens, his jaw clenching. “No… it makes me feel even better than on fire.”

Your lips part, your stomach twisting. “Even better than on fire?”

Matt exhales sharply, his eyes flickering down, back to where his face had just been.

Then without hesitation he drops his head again, his nose pressing into you even firmer this time. His arms slide around you, wrapping around your lower back, his hands gripping your thighs, pulling you closer against his face like he needs to feel you.

You let out a small, shaky whimper as your body jerks forward, pressing even more against him.

Matt groans again, his fingers digging into your skin, his breath hot against you.

“Yes,” he rasps, voice muffled against your thighs. “Even better than on fire.”

Matt stays pressed against you, his warm breath fanning over the sensitive heat between your thighs. His grip tightens on your hips, his fingers pressing into the soft flesh as he pulls you impossibly closer.

And then he pushes his nose deeper.

A sharp, unexpected shock runs through you as he nudges against something sensitive, something that makes your entire body jerk. A moan slips past your lips before you can stop it- a high, breathy, and completely foreign to your own ears. Just like the sound yesterday but even worse.

Your eyes widen immediately, a gasp catching in your throat as you slap a hand over your mouth. Your body tenses, heat flooding every inch of your skin.

“Matty-” your voice is shaky, breathless. “What was that?”

Matt stays still, his nose still buried between your thighs, his breath slow and deliberate as he exhales against the damp fabric of your underwear. When he finally pulls back just enough to meet your eyes, his expression is unreadable.

“What?” he murmurs, his voice low, teasing.

Before you can respond, he does it again.

Another press of his nose, deliberate and slow, right against that same spot.

Your entire body twitches. Your back arches slightly, another sound escaping your throat, softer this time- more desperate.

“That,” you gasp, your fingers clutching at the sheets beneath you, your head tilting back slightly. “That feels really…”

You trail off, your face burning, your breathing uneven as you struggle to even form the words.

Matt watches you carefully, his lips parting slightly, his jaw tight as he exhales through his nose. Then, he leans in again, pressing another slow, intentional nudge against that same spot.

“That’s a spot on girls,” he murmurs against you, his breath hot through the fabric. “It helps you feel really, really good.” His thumbs rub soothing circles into your hips. “Do you feel good when I do that?”

You whimper, the sound soft and helpless as your hands instinctively fly to his hair, your fingers gripping the strands without thinking. Your thighs tremble slightly around his head as another rush of warmth pools deep in your stomach.

A shaky breath leaves your lips as you barely manage to whisper-

“…Yes.”

Matt watches you carefully, his breathing slow and controlled despite the tension crackling between you like fire. His hands, still gripping your thighs, slowly slide up, slipping beneath the oversized t-shirt hanging loosely over your frame. His palms are warm against your bare skin, fingertips tracing soft, teasing patterns as he pushes the fabric up, exposing more of you to him.

“You want me to keep goin’, angel?” His voice is low, rough, thick with something dangerous.

You don’t trust your voice, so you just nod.

Without thinking you press your fingers deeper into his hair, giving the slightest push, an unconscious plea.

His pupils darken instantly, his lips parting as a low groan escapes him. But it’s not just that. It’s the way your thighs instinctively spread wider, granting him more access without even realizing it.

“Fuck,” Matt breathes, his grip tightening on your hips for a moment before he leans back in.

The first press of his nose is slow, testing, just like before.

And then- he flicks it.

A sharp, teasing nudge directly against that sensitive spot.

Your entire body jerks, a gasp breaking from your lips, your thighs twitching around his head. But Matt doesn’t stop. No, he keeps doing it. Slow at first as always, up and down, teasing motions that make your breath stutter and your grip in his hair tighten.

Then he groans. Low, deep, and vibrating against you.

The sensation sends another shockwave through your body, and a soft, helpless moan slips past your lips.

“Yeah?” Matt murmurs against you, his voice thick with need. “That feel good, sweetheart?”

You can’t even respond properly. Just a breathless, desperate whimper as your hips shift slightly, pressing closer.

Matt smirks against you before dragging his nose up, then back down, rubbing slow, torturous circles against you before flicking against that sensitive spot again.

A choked moan rips from your throat, your body reacting before your mind can catch up, your thighs trembling around him.

“Fuck, angel,” Matt groans again, his voice gravelly and wrecked, like he’s barely holding himself together. “You sound so fuckin’ sweet.”

He presses harder, a slow, teasing drag, and your body shakes, another desperate whimper slipping free.

Your head tilts back, fingers gripping his hair tightly, your chest rising and falling in uneven breaths.

Matt lets out another ragged groan, his hands gripping your thighs firmly as he keeps going, his voice muffled but still deliberate-

“Let me hear you, sweetheart.”

And when he flicks his nose just right again, you do.

Matt groans against you, the vibrations sending another sharp wave of pleasure through your body. His hands grip your thighs tighter, his fingers flexing like he’s desperate to hold you in place.

You are a mess.

Your breath is ragged, your legs trembling as he keeps going, dragging his nose in slow, deliberate motions against that sensitive spot. Every flick, every press, every little nuzzle makes your thighs twitch, makes another helpless moan spill from your lips.

Matt loves it.

You can feel how much he loves it. The way his grip tightens, the way his breathing turns heavier, the way his groans slip out with every little movement.

“Fuck,” he mutters against you, voice wrecked. “You’re shaking.”

You are. Your thighs are trembling under his touch, your hands fisted tightly in his hair, your entire body burning.

“Feels so- mhphh- feel so good,” you gasp, barely able to speak through the overwhelming sensation.

Matt groans at that, his grip on you tightening.

“You like that, yeah?” he murmurs, flicking his nose against you again, making you arch. “Like me making you feel good?”

You can only nod, breathless, your fingers tugging at his hair as another moan slips from your lips.

Matt smirks against you before dragging his nose up again, then back down, teasing you, working you up so slowly you feel like you’re going to lose your mind.

“Matty,” you whimper, voice shaking.

He hums in response, the deep sound sending another shudder through your body.

“You sound so fuckin’ sweet, angel,” he groans. “So perfect.”

And then he does it again. A slow, firm press, his nose nudging against you just right, and your entire body jerks, another sharp, desperate moan breaking from your throat.

Matt can feel it- the way your body is trembling under his touch, the way your fingers are gripping his hair tightly, like you need something to anchor you through the overwhelming sensations rolling through you.

His lips part against your nearly soaked through panties, his breath hot and ragged as he presses in deeper, his nose dragging slow, deliberate movements that make you whimper, make your back arch off the bed.

“Oh my- Matt,” you gasp, voice breathless and shaking.

He groans, his grip on your thighs tightening. “That’s it, angel,” he mutters against you, the vibration sending another wave of pleasure through your core. “Let me hear you.”

You barely register what you’re doing. Your body acts before your brain can catch up. Your thighs spread more, giving him better access, and he takes full advantage.

His movements become more focused, more precise, flicking his nose against that exact spot over and over again, pressing firmer, dragging the tip up and down before pushing in harder.

Your breath shatters, a high-pitched whimper slipping from your lips.

“Oh-”

Matt groans deeply, his voice thick with need. “Fuck, sweetheart,” he rasps. “You’re shaking so much.”

You really are, too. Your legs trembling around his head, your stomach clenching with each movement he makes.

“Feels…” You gasp sharply as another flick sends you spiraling, your hands tightening in his hair. “Feels so-”

Matt hums again, the deep vibration sparking another moan from you.

“I know, angel,” he breathes, dragging his nose in slow, torturous strokes against you. “I know. Just let go.”

Your entire body tenses, heat pooling low in your stomach, coiling tighter, tighter. The pressure is overwhelming, so much more than anything you’ve ever felt, building and building until-

A sharp flick. A firm press.

You break.

A soft, desperate cry escapes you as your entire body shatters, waves of pleasure crashing over you, your thighs clamping around his head as you tremble, gasping for air.

Matt groans as he feels you come undone beneath him, his grip firm, his voice wrecked as he murmurs, “That’s it, angel. Let me feel you.”

Your hands tighten in his hair, your body writhing beneath him as he keeps going, drawing it out, letting you ride the high until you’re left breathless, limp against the bed, completely spent.

He finally pulls back, his breath heavy, his lips parted as he looks up at you with pure hunger.

He watches you, his breath still ragged, his pupils dark and hungry as he takes in the sight of you. Of your body trembling, your chest rising and falling in uneven breaths, your thighs still twitching from the overwhelming sensation coursing through you.

Without a word, he leans back in.

Your breath catches as he licks a slow, deliberate stripe up the soaking wet fabric of your underwear, the heat of his tongue pressing firmly against the sensitive spot he had just been teasing mercilessly with his nose.

Your whole body jolts, a small whimper slipping from your lips as he finally pulls away.

Matt exhales heavily, his breath warm against your skin as he lifts his head, resting his cheek against your thigh, his hands still gripping them firmly, keeping you open.

And then he looks up at you, his expression something almost possessive flickering behind his gaze.

“You know how you asked me what cumming was?” he murmurs, his voice low, deep, dangerous.

Your breath stutters, your stomach flipping violently as you suddenly feel it- the way your body is still pulsing, the wetness between your thighs making everything too real.

Your face burns.

You inhale sharply, trying to press your legs closed out of instinct, out of sheer embarrassment, but Matt’s hands immediately tighten around your thighs, keeping them spread.

You let out a small, flustered whimper, your body still oversensitive, still buzzing, and Matt’s lips twitch into a knowing smirk as he trails a single finger along the wet fabric, pressing just lightly, just enough to make your breath hitch.

His voice drops, his tone laced with something smug, something possessive.

“That was cumming.”

Your chest rises and falls as your body continues to hum with the aftershocks of what just happened.

You swallow hard, blinking down at Matt, who’s still resting his cheek against your thigh, watching you with an intensity that makes your stomach flip.

You shift slightly, trying to process everything, your fingers gripping the sheets beneath you as your mind struggles to catch up. “Oh,” you whisper, your voice soft, dazed. “That was the… release you were talking about.”

Matt exhales sharply, his lips twitching into a smirk. “Yeah,” he murmurs, his voice still thick with desire. “That was the release.”

Your body shudders again as you feel it- another slow, warm trickle of something leaking through your already soaking underwear, your thighs twitching at the sensation. You shift slightly, uncomfortable, still feeling so sensitive.

Matt notices.

His eyes darken as he watches the way you move, his grip tightening on your thighs. He pulls them further apart, just slightly, just enough to get a better view of your cum leaking through your underwear.

Your breath catches, your face burning, and you stutter, your voice barely above a whisper. “W-was that what you meant when you said you were going to be inside me?”

The instant the words leave your lips, Matt’s entire body tenses.

His fingers dig into your thighs, his jaw clenching as his head drops for a moment, his chest rising and falling in slow, controlled breaths like he’s trying to keep himself in check.

You blink down at him, confused by his reaction, watching as he visibly composes himself before finally lifting his head again.

His pupils are blown, his cheeks flushed, but when he meets your gaze, he manages a smirk, shaking his head slightly.

“No, sweetheart,” he murmurs, his voice rough, strained. “Not quite.”

You pout, shifting slightly again, still feeling the lingering ache between your legs. “I haven’t earned it yet?”

Matt huffs a quiet laugh, his smirk deepening as he tilts his head, dragging his thumbs slowly up your inner thighs, his gaze locked onto yours.

“Not yet,” he murmurs, his voice dripping with promise as he stands up and kisses your forehead. “Go to sleep.”

You simply nod, closing your eyes and flopping back on the bed, eyes already fluttering shut.

Matt watches you turn over and then walks toward your door.

The moment your door clicks shut, Matt exhales sharply, pressing his forehead against the wood and gripping the door handle hard. His knuckles turn white from the pressure, his breathing still ragged, still uneven. His entire body is tight- burning, aching, straining against the very last threads of his self-control.

Jesus Christ.

He squeezes his eyes shut, trying to steady himself, but it’s fucking impossible. Not after what just happened. Not after you looked at him like that, asked him those questions with your wide, innocent eyes, spread your legs for him like it was natural, like you trusted him with your body in a way that made him feel both honored and fucking ruined.

And then your sweet oblivious little mouth just had to ask if that was what he meant when he said he’d be inside you.

Matt groans under his breath, his jaw clenching so tight it aches. He can still see you, still feel the heat of you against his face, the way you twitched, gasped, moaned for him. His name had slipped from your lips like a prayer, and fuck- he had almost lost himself right then and there.

He had barely. Barely. Held himself together.

But now?

Now, he’s alone.

Now, there’s nothing stopping him.

His hands shake as he shoves down the waistband of his sweatpants, the thick pressure of his arousal almost painful at this point. His cock is aching, flushed and leaking, proof of just how much you had affected him- proof of just how fucking desperate he is for you.

A harsh breath leaves his lips as he wraps a fist around himself, finally getting the friction he needs. His head tilts back slightly, his other hand pressed flat against the wooden door as he strokes himself, letting his mind wander exactly where it wants to go.

You.

Your flushed face, your swollen lips, the way your breath had stuttered every time he pressed against your clit, how you had gasped when you came, how your fingers had tangled in his hair, tugging, holding him there like you never wanted him to leave.

Fuck.

Matt squeezes his eyes shut, his jaw tightening as he picks up the pace, his breath turning uneven, ragged. His hips jerk into his fist, and his mind spirals further- what if he hadn’t stopped? What if he had really shown you what it meant to have him inside you? What if he had been buried between your thighs, licking into you, tasting you properly, making you come again, and again, and again, until you were crying his name, begging for more-

His breath shudders, his stomach tightening, his grip firm as he chases it. He was so fucking close, so wound up, his body on fire, his thighs tensing as a low, guttural groan rumbles from his chest.

It crashes into him fast, hard- his release ripping through him in sharp, pulsing waves as he cups his tip with his other hand, catching the release in his palm so he doesn’t cum on the floor. His hand slows, his chest rising and falling in deep, heavy breaths, his entire body thrumming from the intensity of it.

For a moment, he just stands there, his palm still wrapped around himself, hand full of his cum, and his head tilted backward.

He quickly rushes himself to the bathroom, and clean up. it isn’t until he washes his hands in the sink that the thought briefly crosses his mind. He drags a hand down his face. What if your brother had walked out? Or worse, your father?

But Matt wasn’t truly thinking about that. Not at all.

He exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair, his body still buzzing from the release and somehow still aching for more.

It should’ve been enough. Should’ve. But it wasn’t.

Not even close.

Because the second he dries his hands and leans against the counter, gripping the cool edge with both hands, his mind betrays him, replaying every single fucking second of what had just happened all over again.

The way you looked at him. The way you gasped when he touched you. The way your voice had trembled when you whispered his name, all breathless and needy, like you needed him, like you had never felt anything like that before.

His jaw clenches, his fingers flexing against the counter, his body already stirring back to life, heat curling low in his stomach again.

He groans under his breath, shoving a hand through his hair. His body is still so wired, still so fucking hard, and he knows there’s only one way to fix it.

He turns the faucet on, letting the water run as he braces himself over the sink, staring at his own reflection. His pupils are blown, his skin still flushed, his chest rising and falling too fast.

He can still smell you on his face.

His grip tightens on the edge of the sink, his breath coming out in a slow, shaky exhale.

Then, without hesitation, he shoves his sweatpants down again, his cock already achingly hard once more.

He barely has time to wrap a fist around himself before his hips jerk into his palm, the sensation making him groan low in his throat.

His hand moves so very slow. He was teasing, taunting, and dragging the pleasure out in long, torturous strokes, just like he had done to you.

Fuck, angel, his mind taunts, replaying his own words against his skull. You sound so fuckin’ sweet.

His breathing shudders, his grip tightening. A deep groan rips from his throat, his strokes faster now, his hips chasing the sensation.

But it’s not enough.

He needs more.

He needs to see you again.

His jaw clenches as he yanks his phone off the counter, flicking the camera on and angling it towards the mirror. His pupils are blown, his chest flushed, his cock thick and leaking, his hand wrapped tight around himself.

He groans again, dropping his own dick to grab his shirt, pulling it between his teeth before returning to the throbbing member, pumping it a few times before snapping a few pictures.

After talking that he tilts the phone downward, recording for a few seconds as he slowly strokes himself, watching the way his abs tense as he fucks into his own hand.

He imagines sending it to you as he puts the phone facedown back on the counter.

Imagines your innocent little gasp when you see it.

Imagines your wide, curious eyes as you whisper, Matty, why does it look like that?

Imagines himself teaching you.

A ragged moan tears from his throat, his body tensing, his stomach tightening as the heat coils in his spine, building- building- building-

Until he shatters again.

His breath stutters, his hand slowing, his body pulsing, his release spilling over his fingers in thick, hot waves.

His jaw drops, his head tilting back, his chest heaving as he rides it out, so fucking spent that his knees nearly buckle.

He stands there for a moment, panting, gripping the counter, waiting for his body to stop shaking.

He barely has time to catch his breath before the need creeps back in for the third time. He was so sensitive and so overstimulated that he didn’t think it was even possible to be still hard. But here he was. His muscles were still tense, his skin overheated, his body thrumming with the aftershocks of release.

His cock is still hard, twitching against his abdomen, a constant, aching reminder of what he just did- and what he still wants.

He exhales sharply, running a hand through his damp hair, his jaw clenching as his fingers flex against the counter. The mirror reflects the mess he’s become- flushed cheeks, sweat-slicked skin, pupils blown so wide that his irises are barely visible.

He knows what he’s about to do is reckless.

He knows he shouldn’t.

But that innocent little pout you gave him earlier? The way you whispered, I haven’t earned it yet? The way you looked at him with those wide eyes as if you had no clue what you were actually asking for?

Fuck.

His phone is still face down on the counter.

He grabs it.

His other hand is already sliding down, already pushing his waistband down. He tilts the phone in one hand, aiming it downward as he presses record.

His fingertips skim down his stomach, dragging over his tightened abs, the muscles twitching under his touch. He hisses softly, teasing himself, delaying the inevitable as he traces the sharp lines of his obliques, feeling the tension coil again, deeper, tighter.

His cock jumps, aching for attention, the head still slick and sensitive from his last orgasm. But he doesn’t grip himself yet- not yet.

Instead, he lets his fingers tease, barely brushing the flushed tip, smearing the remnants of his cum across his skin, feeling the hot, sticky slickness coat his fingertips.

A low groan vibrates from his chest as he swirls his thumb over the head, his body jerking at the overstimulation.

“Fuck-”

The sound echoes in the bathroom, rough and needy.

He sets the phone down on the counter, leaning against the wall so his face is now in frame too, his breath coming out uneven as his fingers finally wrap around himself again.

The first stroke is a torturous drag from base to tip. His grip was firm but not tight, just enough to make his hips stutter forward, chasing the friction.

His breath shudders, his stomach tightening as he squeezes just a little harder, dragging his fist back down.

He rolls his hips into his hand, setting a rhythm. Slow but deep, each stroke sending a sharp pulse of pleasure up his spine.

He starts to buck his hips up, his thumb circling the leaking tip before dragging back down along the vein running the underside of his shaft.

His pace picks up, his grip tighter now, his strokes longer, firmer, his abs flexing with every sharp movement.

A growl rumbles in his throat as he tilts his head back, his jaw going slack as his pleasure builds, stronger, heavier, deeper.

His thighs tense as he pumps his fist faster, his breath coming out in harsh, ragged pants, sweat beading at his temple as his body coils tight, tight, tight-

The tension is blistering, a sharp, almost painful heat curling at the base of his spine, twisting through his muscles, spreading everywhere.

His chest heaves, his entire body locking up as his strokes turn sloppy, desperate, chasing the sharp edge of release that’s so fucking close-

“Fuck, Y/N-”

The moment your name falls from his lips, his body shatters.

A deep moan tears from his throat as pleasure crashes through him hard, blinding and nearly unbearable.

Thick ropes of release spill over his fist again, streaking hot across his stomach, dripping onto his abs as his body shakes, his thighs genuinely trembling with the aftershocks.

His strokes slow, his breath stuttering, his muscles clenching and unclenching drastically as he rides it out, his head dropping forward, sweat dampening his hair.

For a few moments, the only sound in the bathroom is his ragged breathing, the soft hum of the ventilation fan, the faint creak of the counter as he braces against it.

His hand is still wrapped around himself, sticky and hot.

His phone screen flickers.

And that’s when he realizes-

The video was still recording.

The entire thing.

The sharp, filthy sounds of his pleasure, the way he groaned your name, the way his body unraveled for you.

And before he can think, before he can talk himself out of it, his finger hovers over send.

And then he presses it.

a/n: yall wanted a part 2 so bad so here you go🧡🧡 lmk if u want a part 3

PART THREE OUT NOW

MASTERLIST

for @mattsobvimyfav

tags: @ilovejohnnieguilbertsblog @mattsturnii @starstrucktyrantinfluencer @watercolorskyy @strangecatpeach @katie1002 @1ovesiick @slut4christopherr @mattgirl4eva @mayalovesturn @chriss-slutt @sturniolohohoho @courta13 @izzylovesmatt @matthewsturnsgf @aaa-mi @bigbeefybitch @hopelesslydevotedsstuff @wastelandzella @yourmother29 @whore4-chrissturniolo @idefinitelyhateu @madisonnxtdoor22 (if u wanna be on the taglist, just comment)

1K notes · View notes