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cr4yolaas · 10 months ago

Text

the weight of words — alhaitham x mute! reader

notes: based off of this tiktok i found a long while ago featuring a poem that serves as the base for this fic <3 i feel like this is very poorly written / rushed and it lacks a good flow but i wanted to get it out asap bc i didn’t have any more energy to write it LOL

tags: italics represent handwritten notes, reader is implied to be rlly smart / top of the class, implied depressive episode (reader), self deprecation (reader), fluff → angst → fluff, may or may not be an inaccurate rep. of mute individuals, ooc alhaitham, not proofread

this was a little more irksome than he wanted to admit.

at the very top of the akademiya, far away from prying eyes, sat a student bathed in sunlight. from a distance, he observed. you held a book in one hand and an apple in the other, while your legs dangled off of the ledge. he couldn’t discern much from your backside.

but what bothered him the most was that you were seated in “his” spot. the spot he always crept away to during lunch, mainly for its isolation and breathtaking view.

without hesitation, alhaitham approached you. he tapped on your shoulder and stared with an intensity akin to the blazing sun in june. “excuse me,” he began. “i normally sit here. i would greatly appreciate it if you moved to another place, as i’m most accustomed to this spot.”

a silence washed over as you stared up at him. your lack of response left him annoyed — did you find this funny?

however, as you set down your book and snack gently, alhaitham found himself surprised for the first time in a while.

a notebook sat on your lap as you wrote rapidly. the man watched quietly.

i’m afraid not. there are countless other spots up here, and i just happened to get to this one first.

a sigh slipped from his lips. while he wasn’t unfamiliar with stubborn personalities around campus, this particular interaction seemed to interest him more than it irritated him. alhaitham nodded and sat beside you, much to your surprise.

he listened as you flipped your page and began writing again, this time taking up less space on the paper.

why do you like sitting here? you passed the notebook to him.

he wrote much slower in comparison to you, however, his handwriting bore an elegance you had not seen before, as if each letter carried a song in the ink. you found it beautiful.

the lack of noise.

his short response made you smile — simple and straight to the point. another thing you deemed wonderful.

he did not hand the notebook back to you, but instead, continued to write. i dislike unnecessary sounds. they serve as useless interruptions. up here, i find that in comparison to the chatter of students, the ambience is soothing. alhaitham placed the notebook in your lap gingerly and looked into the distance, his gaze absent yet his thoughts reverberating.

you continued this back and forth with him for the entirety of the lunch break. the lines engraved on your palms spilled over with ink smears, and you found your dominant arm growing weary. you did not write your goodbyes on the paper, therefore leaving your conversation unfinished. you left with a smidge of warmth in your heart and a smile on your face in hopes of meeting him again the next day.

from afar, you could see the way he sat leaning slightly more towards one side, and the occasional tapping of his fingers against the table as he wrote. he drank from a small mug of what you presumed to be coffee, but rather than holding the handle, he gripped the cup from its mouth. another intricacy that piqued your interest.

he noticed your stare after a few seconds, eyes of jade and clementine meeting yours. without a word, he relocated to your table, sitting directly across from you. “hello,” he greeted softly. “i didn’t know you frequented this place either.” his gaze flickered over to your notebook peeking out of your schoolbag, and when you pulled it out to respond to him, he found himself getting uncharacteristically excited.

i don’t, actually. i wanted a change of pace, but i’m not sure how much i’m enjoying it. you pushed the book across the table to him.

is it too loud to study? that’s surprising.

you looked up at him questioningly for a moment before jotting down your reply. i’m not studying. i’m just here to read. his lips upturned noticeably at your words, an expression you wished to carve into the crevices of your memory for eternity. he was painstakingly beautiful.

alhaitham didn’t respond for a handful of seconds, instead opting to look outside the window to his left. strands of sunlight draped themselves onto his perfectly crafted face and fell between each strand of hair. a view that compared to the one at the top of the akademiya.

a conversation of short responses — ranging from questions about your darshan, to your favorite season, to the books you enjoyed reading — ensued, the evidence splayed onto the paper. you appreciated his company, for it was rare that anyone sought to talk with you.

he asked another question, his curiosity seeping out endlessly. why do you communicate like this?

a thin-lipped smile etched itself onto your lips. the ink of your pen ghosted atop the paper, your hesitation evident. i was born mute. i have no voice, therefore i cannot communicate in a normal manner.

you grew increasingly anxious as he looked at you with an expression that was terrifyingly unreadable. your hands rested atop the notebook, keeping it away from him for reasons you didn’t understand quite yet.

“that’s okay,” he spoke, the baritone of his voice cutting through your shared silence. “i don’t mind it. actually, i think i prefer it. over the grating voices of the other scholars i know, at least.” he went on about his senior, a friend in kshahrewar who apparently could never keep his mouth shut in his presence. you merely listened, soaking in his words and absorbing each syllable that spilled out of the cracks between his teeth. your confession rendered you utterly silent, but seemingly, he paid no mind.

again, your conversation ended without a proper goodbye. your notebook sat still on the table. moments after his departure, you stayed in your seat, contemplating the complications of this newfound acquaintance.

alhaitham’s life revolved around routine and quiet. he needed both to go about his day in an efficient and satisfying manner; otherwise, he would end up feeling rather unfulfilled and bothered.

perhaps that is why he found himself so drawn to you. in comparison to many of his classmates, who were incessantly obnoxious and needlessly talkative, you were quiet, not just vocally, but in every other aspect. your handwriting was consistent and each letter looked just as neat as the other. your responses were similar to his in that they were direct and honest. and, oddly, you radiated a warmth that he could not see in anyone else.

his next encounter with you wouldn’t be for a handful of days. he knew you were a student, thus resulting in his confusion — he had never seen you around campus until that day.

he ran into you during one of his lectures. you sat right beside him in a seat that wasn’t usually occupied. he began to question you with pen and paper, as usual.

since when were you enrolled in this class?

i always have been. this isn’t a necessary class for my darshan, it’s just an extra period for me to increase my credits. i don’t come to class very often.

he quirked a brow up. you fiddled with your pen.

interesting how i haven’t heard of you until now. alhaitham smiled softly at your muffled giggle, one that he had not heard until then. the noise swarmed his chest with a lightness he could not replicate.

you might have fallen too soon.

alhaitham was a simple man, yet alluring all the same. you had snuck away his perfections and imperfections in a different notebook. for instance:

3 - straightforward and direct

21 - prefers tea over coffee

44 - can’t sleep without a weighted blanket

your ever-growing infatuation for him began to blossom in the cavities of your stomach, and soon, it would infect everything above. you could not bear it — nights spent in solitude, where he would discuss his interests (which were minimal) until you fell asleep; afternoons spent in comfort, where you would share a slice of cake to celebrating a particularly difficult exam. he consumed your very being, the neurons that invoked muscular response and the veins that carried your blood here and there; all of it was him. and yet, you could not meaningfully share this with him, your silence embedding your heart in a crevice far away.

it seemed that he got to it first, anyways.

alhaitham asked you a simple question — if you were capable of speaking for a day, what would you say? he had begun carrying his own memo book to conversate — another addition to the list.

you sat in silence for a brief period before writing, every thought and feeling and idea that has ever encountered my mind would leave my lips.

he wrote, then i will give you just that, and more.

when you began dating alhaitham, you found that he was much more eager to “speak” to you consistently. he would write in his same font and present to you a variety of inquiries, ranging from plans for the day to what you wanted for dinner. he was the epitome of a loving man, a far cry from the tales of coldheartedness and brutality you’ve heard of him. and yet, something began to gnaw at your lungs as he did so.

alhaitham was your voice to speak through — he was the monotonous ramblings, the heavy whispers, the gentle laughs; he held all of those for you. seemingly, life became far more breathable.

but your love was just as restricting as it was kind. to speak is to suffer, but to not speak at all is beyond that — it is torture. nights were spent staring at alhaitham’s sleeping figure, questioning whether he truly felt the affection you expressed. gifts, contact, quality time; what good was it if you could not do something as simple as converse with him? it extended beyond him, as well — for reasons unknown, it grew increasingly difficult to communicate with your new professors and classmates, the downturns of their lips as you pulled out a notebook gut-wrenching. you questioned if alhaitham felt the same.

you began to spiral.

a rapid set of knocks arrived at your door at a questionable hour. the sun hung high in the sky, albeit obscured by your curtains. a soft buzz rung in your room.

“i know you’re inside,” a voice spoke from the other side of the wood. he knocked again.

you made no move to open the door, nor to approach it, nor to get up from your bed. in response, the hinges creaked and heavy footsteps neared.

“why have you locked yourself in here?” alhaitham asked, his tone indiscernible. you didn’t see it, but you heard him shuffling around your bedroom. “where is your notebook?”

it was silly. he spoke as if you could respond, and you weren’t sure if you were supposed to be sorrowful or upset.

he pulled the blanket from off of your head, his face indifferent as he witnessed your disheveled state. “i’m not sure what’s going on, but i can assure you i will wait until you’re well enough to speak to me again. i will always wait.” alhaitham set his own memo book and pen beside your pillow. a warm hand held yours, a signal of reassurance. “please get better as soon as you can.”

he turned around to leave, and you could not bring yourself to reach out for him. what would you do? would the words crawl out of your throat, akin to a miracle? or would you plead at him with desperate eyes in hopes he’d read your mind? you did not know. every instance would inconvenience him in some way — that you could not bear.

you did not step foot outside for another week. alhaitham (and kaveh, much to your surprise) had left meals and gifts next to your door, all of which remained untouched. you were in stasis.

each thought had been replaced by a fog so asphyxiating that it had drowned every word the moment it rose to the surface. a bubbling exhaustion boiled in you. you wished to speak, to express anything at all, to apologize for inconveniencing those around you, and to apologize to alhaitham for putting him through such an obstacle.

as if sensing this desire, he arrived at your dorm again, this time with a more gentle appearance and a large bag behind him.

you reached out for the notebook he placed beside you a week prior. why are you here?

he kneeled down beside you, paying no mind to your disheveled appearance, and spoke softly, “i’m sorry.” if it were fitting, he would have laughed at the instantaneous furrow of your brows. “i should’ve realized. and in failing to do so, i have failed you.” alhaitham took the notebook and pen from your grasp, and with an unrivaled delicacy, he held you.

“i would give up my own voice if it meant i could spend an eternity with you,” he began. “i do not care if you lack a voice of your own. you’re still embedded in my heart all the same.”

you had not written to him for days. and yet, he understood everything. he read the words displayed in your features with a familiarity no one had demonstrated.

758 - willing to help me heal.

alhaitham sat across from you, his back hunched over his work and his face framed with a mix of feather-gray hair and wispy sunlight. he wrote with an unmatched fluidity, as if time were escaping him.

he let out a sigh as he set down his pencil and sat up straight. “why must you sit with me if you’ve finished this assignment weeks ago? it’s as if you’re mocking me.”

it’s entertaining. he grabbed the notebook from your side of the table and wrote haphazardly, contrasting his smooth technique before.

it’s really not. i feel as if i’m being ridiculed and observed under a microscrope. it’s horrible, he teased.

you’re smart, anyways. you’ll survive.

afternoons in the akademiya’s library were once suffocating and exhausting. to be surrounded by peers who could only sneer and misjudge and question was unpleasant. now, as you sat with your lover in a soft silence, you felt at peace.

#genshin impact #genshin #genshin impact x reader #genshin x reader #genshin fanfic #genshin angst #genshin fluff #genshin smut #genshin impact angst #genshin alhaitham #alhaitham #alhaitham x reader #alhaitham fluff #alhaitham angst #alhaitham smut

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sashiavi · 9 months ago

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Imagine being tagged team by Al haitham and corrupted Al haitham 😍😍😍😍😍 bbg ain't gonna walk for weeks

Oh mannn I haven't thought of Corrupted Alhaitham in so long thank you so much for bringing him into the forefront of my brain <33

Getting bent over the desk in Alhaitham's office at the Akademiya, chest aching hard, pressure building up in your ears from the awkward position. Corrupted!Alhaitham pinning you tight to the wooden surface, fucking up into your gushy cunt from behind.

Archons, you drool and spit all on Alhaitham's important paperwork, ink bleeding across the pages in splotchy drips. You're unable to handle yourself, too fucked out at the brutal thrust of Corrupted!Alhaitham's hips.

The door to the office creaks open - but you don't even acknowledge it - not until Corrupted!Alhaitham wraps his fingers around your throat and forces your dumb head up from the desk, squeezing tight on your neck.

"Looks who's here.." His pace never falters, keeping his cock wrapped up all nice n warm in your pretty cunt.

Alhaitham struts in, he would barely bat an eye, already having heard your dribbly whines down from the Akademiya library. With long strides he's over the room in no time, elbow rested on the desk, his fingers coming up to squeeze hard at your cheeks, smushing your lips in a drooly pout.

"Don't get too worked up now." He'd deadpan, barely a flick of emotion licking at the end of his words.

Corrupted!Alhaitham would cackle a growley laugh, watching as his counterpart slaps the pink, pre pebbled tip of his cock on your forcefully pursed lips. He juts his hips in hard stacattos, forcing your body to slide up on the hard mahogany desk.

You moan and whine, stopping short when the fat, blunt tip of Alhaitham's cock kisses up at the back of your throat.

Archons they would use you.

Corrupted!Alhaitham with a fist full of your hair, forcing you to throat at the other's full and fat cock while he ruined your poor pussy. He'd bully and abuse, hand pressing hot pressure on your head, fingers tugging and stinging against your hair as he pulls and pushes you up and down, up and down. He'd ignore every gag, drink up all your whines while his own thick length stretched and fucked you out.

Alhaitham with a hand on the edge of the desk, humping his hips up against your lips while his Corrupted counterpart compelled your pretty mouth to take him nice and deep. He'd meet your nose with his pelvis, purposely urging an embarrassingly wet gulk and gag up from your throat. Your eyes would meet his, glossy and tear struck, face hot with pressure, cheeks stained and drenched in fat, hot tears. Gods, just one look and he's almost gone.

The poor desk creaks and rocks with the force. Corrupted!Alhaitham mounts up on your pussy, body over your own, hips angled just enough to fuck up your cunny, impossibly deeper than before. His thick, pudgy tip presses into something all too taboo, ruining you with a hot sting and stretch. His force rocks your achey clit all up on Alhaitham's desk, smearing your pretty slick all over his documents, surely permanently ruining them for him. The friction is delicious, forcefully bringing your poor self up to an orgasm of a lifetime.

The hot squeeze of your cunt on Corrupted!Alhaitham's cock is enough for him to yell, grinding his hips into your ass cheeks, relishing in the sweet, milky confines of your red and puffy hole. He'd laugh with delirium, watching you spray dumbly over the desk and everything around, sticky squirt covering his front, dripping to the floor.

He'd follow in suit, thick rod blowing hot ropes of cum all up in your pussy, humping and grinding hard into your aching core. He'd force you to milk it all up, clench n squeeze on his cock, let him breed up your cunt as a treat for behaving for him.

Alhaitham can't help but pull out of your throat, watching you cry out as you cum, fisting his cock in his hand, paying special attention to his drooling wet tip. Your pretty glossy eyes, barely registering his presence in front of you, your tongue lolling out in a pitiful whine, dragging up on his silken slit, all forcing him to cum all over your pretty face. He'd squeeze his cock tight, aiming his hot pulses of cum over your lips and mouth, tapping his sensitive head over your tongue, relishing in the automatic response of you Kitten licking at him.

They'd even scold you after for making such a sticky mess on all of Alhaitham's important things. It's not your fault, you'd cry. And they simply wouldn't care. It seemed a punishment was in due.

Property Of: SashiAvi ;3 ♡

#ʚ•*°SashiAvi Writes°*•ɞ #genshin impact x reader #genshin smut #genshin x y/n #afab reader #genshin impact smut #alhaitham smut #genshin impact #alhaitham x reader #genshin x reader #alhaitham #corrupted alhaitham #corrupted!alhaitham x reader #alhaitham x reader smut

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daddy-suguru · 2 years ago

Note

piercer!suguru giving you a brand new piercing 😫😫😫

✑ tags: f!tattooed!reader, piercer!suguru, light fingering, cockwarming, friends with benefits, cockwarming, heavy praise,

You had swung by his shop after closing. For the nipple piercing you’ve been on the fence about and finally settled on getting. After he sent everyone home, cleaned after they cleaned up everything but Suguru's personal room.

You adore having these private, after-hour appointments with Suguru. Fucking your tattoo artist for ink and body jewelry wasn’t something you would go for. But you happily fuck Suguru without getting ink and body modifications.

Wearing his art and his obsession with the clit piercing you could only trust Suguru to give are both perks. And Suguru freely admitted, seeing his art on your skin made his cock throb. Which was a first for him.

It was better than any other marks he could try to create during sex. The black and colorful ink is long-lasting, leaving parts of himself with you.

Granted you didn't have to be naked to get just your nipples pierced. But having Suguru standing between your legs. While slowly pumping two thick gloved fingers inside you, helps calm you down.

Cupping your cheek, reassuring you, “I'll be quick." Kissing the top of your head, sliding his hand down your neck. Grabbing your shoulder and pushing back. You lay down, slipping his fingers out of your pussy.

Tell him, "Sugar I know you'll make my nipples look cuter. It's just the pain. They are sensitive." Suguru pulls his shirt off over his head, dropping his sweatpants. Showing he wasn't wearing underwear all day.

No wonder the picture of his cock imprint was more mouthwatering than normal.

He smirks and insists, "Trust me I know how sensitive they are." Wrapping his hand around his cock, smearing your slick over it. As he glances over at the small table next to you. Where there are fresh gloves, clean wipes, needles, and your nipple rings.

Your pussy is throbbing, missing his fingers. Pointing out to Suguru, "Too bad you can't play with them for a while after this. I'm going to miss your mouth and hands." He is attentive, making even the nastiest fucking have a hint of sweetness with how he worships your body. With your nipples, he is a menace, and obsessive.

He climbs onto the table, while you spread your legs for him to settle in between. With his hand wrapped around his cock, he smears your wet lips. While he confesses,

"I've been looking forward to seeing you all day. I love my job, but knowing that I have an appointment with you makes it a drag. Though the guy who got the tattoo of you as a pinup girl was kind of fun."

Suguru has plenty of his art on display in his shop, with some of those pages deticated to your face and body. All of which he would rotate out with new drawings monthly. Always keeping the more sensual ones to himself. Which he had plenty of, since sometimes after sex he loves drawing you while smoking a cigarette.

Pleading with Suguru, "Please, can we cock warm while you pierce me? I want your fat, throbbing cock to help distract me." He slowly pushes his tip past your lips. Spreading your legs, watching your pussy take him.

His mouth drops into an o as his eyes flutter shut. Falling forward, bracing himself with his hand. A smirk stretches across his lips, and he groans, "Fuck you feel too damn good!" He grabs your thighs, wrapping them around his waist.

He warns you, "Just as long as you are a good girl and keep still for me while I pierce you." Changing out his gloves for new ones. He rips open the cleaning packet. Softly massaging your nipple while cleaning them simultaneously.

Softly rolling his hips, dragging his cock head along your sweet spot. Before softly nudging your cervix, grinding your grind against his navel. You recall,

"What happened to 'be still'?" He sets the cleaning wipes aside. Stilling his hips as you pout. While he grabs the clean needle, and clamps as he excuses himself with,

"Couldn't help myself, princess. She's so wet, sucking me in." Pinching your left nipple with the clamp, pushing the needle through. Groaning, "Fuck baby girl I felt that in your pussy. She's too tight."

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buryustogether · 2 years ago

Text

lilac - chapter 3

miguel o’hara x f!reader

summary: your boyfriend doesn’t have the time anymore. good thing both miguel o’hara and spiderman do.

wc: 5.2k

tags/warnings: domestic dispute, unhappy relationship, pining, mentions of kidnapping, mentions of violence, allusions to suicide, mentions of strip clubs

author’s note: got a lil carried away with my emotions for this one ngl

Your pink pen pressed harshly down on the science quiz you were grading, smearing a pit of the sparkly ink as the searing noise of an electric guitar being tuned submerged your little apartment from the floors to the ceilings. You glared up from beneath your brows, a predator chained just inches from her prey, as Ferris and his band of four barked and howled between themselves in your living room. From your perch at the tiny dining table, you watched them, your knuckles paling around your pen. They had moved the furniture around to make room for their equipment, shoved your couch, your armchair, your coffee table - fuck, even your television stand - against the walls so that they could spread out and practice for a gig the drummer had managed to score; probably by going down on the manager of the place, but you’d never say that out loud.

Unless they provoked you - which, with every ticking, prolonged minute that passed, you were getting closer and closer to your inclined tipping point.

Sniffing quietly, you shook your head and tried to go back to grading your quizzes. So far, your class had done a fairly good job. A few percentages below eighty, but not many. No matter what score they got, however, you were sure to place a sticker on the corner of the page. Of course, as you had expected, Gabriella O’Hara’s score was a perfect hundred. A small smile graced the corner of your lips. She was a bright kid, you’d give her that. While she needed a little extra help in mathematics from time to time, she practically excelled in every other subject. You scribbled out a little note praising her for a job well done before beginning to move on to your other papers.

From the living room, another glass-shattering, skin-crawling shriek was raised from Ferris’ guitar. You twitched in your seat, subtly raising your eyes to watch the band. Your boyfriend was downing his second beer of the day, despite it being barely eleven in the morning, and he had his feet propped up on some chick’s - the new keyboard player, because the last one stormed out of the group after realizing what a bunch of asswipes they were - and idly strummed a lazy medley on the taut strings of his guitar. It was hooked up to the speaker, so every note that he twanged out was amplified tenfold.

Downstairs, your neighbor knocked against their ceiling with a broom. Telling you all to shut the fuck up, no doubt.

Taking a deep breath, you put on your best smile - which looked more like a grimace, actually - and cleared your throat. “Babe,” you said tightly, drawing Ferris’ attention away from the keyboard player. He regarded you with a roll of his head and hand on the strings to stop the vibrations. “Maybe it’s time to pack it up. You’ve been…” You hesitated. “Practicing for almost two hours now. Why don’t you save some of the music for the paying customers tomorrow instead of the neighbors?”

To your chagrin, like he was dumping fuel across the little flame that had flickered to life in your chest, he shrugged a shoulder and went back to his guitar and the girl across from him. “We’ll leave when we’re done,” he replied nonchalantly, eyes never meeting yours again. “Still got some more songs to run through.”

“Yeah,” you scoffed and went back to your work. “You look real fucking busy.”

“If you’re so tired of listening to us,” your boyfriend snapped suddenly, “why don’t you find somewhere else to go? This is my place too, you know.” He exhaled a venomous sigh and downed another swig from his bottle. “Always on my ass.”

By now, the rest of the apartment had gone silent. The other band members glanced between the pair of you, movements suddenly stiff with tension they had no idea how to release. It felt like no matter what they did, it would light the fuse on either one of you.

Feeling your cheeks heat and your palms become sticky with embarrassment, you swallowed thick and nodded your head slowly. Then you stood, began to gather your papers, and stuffed them into your purse.

“Hey,” said the band’s drummer, a pudgy guy with thick lenses that had, actually, always been nice to you despite their leader’s obvious intentions, “if you need us to clear out, we can. We can find another place to set up where we’re not bothering you.”

You released a short huff, sounding more akin to a snarl than anything else. It seemed your judgment in men really was shit; you’d chosen the wrong fucking band member. “That’s okay,” you spat as you tugged on your shoes and checked that you had your keys. The drummer’s face flashed with guilt and you felt bad for a moment, but then your eyes flickered to where Ferris had wandered into the kitchen to fetch himself another drink. Like a raging wildfire, the flames in your ribcage roared and seared your insides, making them feel like you’d implode upon yourself if you stayed here - in your own damn home - any longer. “I’ll go somewhere else.”

With that you exited your apartment and slammed the door behind you, not stopping your frantic escape from Ferris’ snarls and rolling eyes until you hit the street down below. Before you on the road, traffic moved at a sluggish pace. Horns blared and street lights flickered. Shop fronts gleamed in the sunlight and bells over doors jingled. As you took a long, deep inhale that granted your lungs a wave of fresh air and your eyes with a certain wetness in the corners, you realized your crumbling relationship with your boyfriend was such a trivial little thing in this city. Nothing was going to stop, halt in its tracks, just because your world was falling apart.

Life went on. There was nothing you could do to stop that.

Plopping yourself down on the bus stop bench, you placed your head in your hands and tried to keep yourself from crying anymore. You couldn’t let anyone else see you cry, because what if they did, and they turned out to be like Ferris? Told you that you were being dramatic, that you needed to pull yourself together and be a girl? Fuck, you didn’t think you could handle someone else telling you that. You didn’t need anyone else against you; it already felt like the entire world was.

What you needed, desperately, terribly, pleadingly, was someone else in your corner.

In your pocket, your phone chimed with an incoming text. Wiping away the tears sitting heavy against your lids, you pulled it out. It was an unknown number; your cyber security app had blurred the message, waiting until you accepted to see it. You swiped on the blurred screen, then clicked open the message.

Hi, it’s Miguel O’Hara. I hate to cross any lines here, but Gabriella is having a hard time understanding the homework assigned for this weekend. I tried to help, but it’s beyond me. Some sorry excuse for a geneticist I am, right? Anyway, I was texting to ask if you’d be able to meet us somewhere today and help Bri. I was thinking the public library? We’re going to be headed to the park afterward for soccer practice… you’re welcome to come along. She’s eager to show you a new trick she learned yesterday. Again, excuse my forwardness. We understand if you’re not available. :)

You sniffled slightly, rereading the text over and over again, trying to stuff down the fluttering feeling arising past the flames inside you. Your head snapped up and you were on your feet in less than a moment, hailing the first taxi that passed you. When you climbed inside, the driver asked you where to.

“The public library,” you said, and managed a smile at him in the mirror.

Half an hour later, you sat at a desk in the middle of the study section of the New York Public Library, already having drawn out fresh sketches and examples of the mathematics homework you had assigned for this weekend. Your foot bounced with anticipation under the table, and you found yourself constantly glancing over your shoulder at the wide, arched doorway that let into the private section.

You’d tutored students outside of class before, so you shouldn’t have been so excited. You’d met with them in diners and cheap restaurants, outdoor pavilions when the weather allowed, hell - you’d even sat with them outside their cramped apartment buildings on overturned milk crates and used cardboard as a back for the worksheets while their parents were busy working three jobs and balancing five other kids on their hips at the same time. You weren’t one to judge; you knew how hard it was out here for some people. You were a teacher; it was your job to love and nurture and teach your kids, no matter who they were or where they came from.

So you shouldn’t have been this excited to tutor one of your students. Even if she did have a smoking hot dad.

Small, quick-paced footsteps - like thunderclaps along the ground in the nearly-silent room - pricked your ears and turned your attention to the doorway. A wide, easy grin broke across your lips as you spied Gabriella breaking away from her father’s side to rush toward you and your table. In her arms she carried a wrapped bouquet of flowers. When she reached where you had risen from your seat, she pressed her face into your belly in lieu of a hug.

“Hi, Miss Y/N,” she said, rather loudly, then presented the flowers like they were sterling silver encrusted with diamonds and jewels unimaginable. An ear-to-ear smile stretched from one of her ears to the other. “These are for you.”

Miguel arrived behind her, a backpack slung over his shoulder and a gentle grin of greeting gracing his beautiful face. He tilted his head at you for a moment, then ruffled his daughter’s hair and said, “What are they for?”

“A thank you,” Gabriella rushed to say as you accepted the bouquet. “For coming to help me.”

You tried to squash the butterflies that fluttered through your stomach when he smiled at you, instead pushing your focus to the flowers clutched to your chest. They were fresh blooms, a collection filled with pinks and purples and a few yellows here and there. “Well, thank you so much, sweetheart,” you said as she rounded the table to go and sit by her father. “They’re beautiful.” You took your seat again and carefully set the gift beside your purse. “And you don’t have to thank me. I was already out today anyhow, so it wasn’t any trouble.”

“Really?” said Miguel. He pulled the bag from over his shoulder and gave it to Gabriella for her to begin pulling her schoolwork out. He quirked one of his thick brows, his sad-looking eyes meeting yours. Jolts of excitement, and pleasure, and adoration went sprawling down your spine all at once, like back to back shocks of raw, untamed electricity. “I figured you would have been staying in during a tourist weekend like this.”

You wanted so badly to tell him just what you were doing out, why you weren’t at home enjoying your two days of free time between your two jobs - one that required every bit of your soul and heart during the day, and another that required every bit of your body during the night. You wanted horrendously to confide in him the troubles plaguing you like an illness only he could cure you from, wanted him to secure those thick, sinewy arms of his around your form and hold you tight, assure you in that husky tone that everything would be alright.

But instead, all you said was, “Can’t let tourists drive us locals from our stomping grounds, can we, Mister O’Hara?”

The corner of his mouth quirked upwards, his eyes stuck upon your form even after you’d pulled your attention to the worksheet Gabriella had pulled out.

For a long while, the three of you sat at that table in the library. You taught Gabriella the maths lesson over again as many times as she needed it, helped her with the more challenging problems on the worksheet, then made up a few on the spot to give her for the extra practice. You even tilted around your textbook so that Miguel could see it and gave him a rundown of the next few lessons so that he could help her the following week, should she need it.

It was perhaps an hour or so later when you sat back in your chair, watching as your student set to work on the few practice problems you’d given her. You shut your eyes for a moment, exhaling a long breath, and allowing your brain to shut off for a moment. You’d succeeding in getting Ferris and his stupid, stubborn fucking attitude off your mind for a time, but now you were faced with the realization that sometime today, you’d have to go back home. You’d have to see him again, most likely get into another argument that would lead to one of you sleeping on the couch the next couple evenings.

Most likely you.

“How are you doing?” came Miguel’s voice from across the table.

You thought for a moment he was speaking to his daughter, looking over her work, but when no reply came, you opened your eyes and realized he was talking to you. You blinked a few times, watching as he smirked kindly and crossed his arms over the table. Fuck, he was so easy to look at. He was wearing a t-shirt against the sunny day today, giving you a generous view of the muscles in his arms. They sloped down to his elbows, and further still to wrists wrapped in Gabriella-made friendship bracelets, to large, wide hands that were callused at the fingers and bruised at the knuckles. You wondered briefly if he boxed during his workouts.

Sliding your hand up your face, you gave him a tired smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes. Despite only speaking to one another a few minutes every time at pick up and drop off, you felt you could talk to him better than even the girls at your nighttime job. “I’m alright,” you said, then added, “Just… tired, is all. Lots on my plate right now. Work, stuff at home, the whole ‘masked vigilante swinging around the city’ thing. Well… you know how it is.”

It was not the last detail that seemed to faze him. It was the second. “Is everything okay?” he asked, tilting his head to the side slightly, like that of a curious puppy. The lines beneath his eyes deepened a bit, the untamed hair atop his head slipped to his temple. “Sorry if I’m overstepping a boundary, or anything like that. I just -”

“No, you’re alright.” You reached out to finger at a petal on one of the flowers in the bouquet, fondly brushing the delicate thing as if it would disintegrate if you handled it any rougher. His eyes followed your movements deftly. “And, everything’s… okay. Sort of… okay.” You sighed and pulled away from the flower, instead opting to rub at your temples. “Just drives me out sometimes, you know? Everything… happening in those walls. Sometimes it gets too much.”

“You’re never out on the streets, are you?” Suddenly his gaze had turned serious and stony, his mouth set into a hard line across his chiseled expression.

You swallowed thick, feeling the dropped baritone of his voice hit the bottom of your belly and head south to your core. You shifted slightly in your seat, crossing your legs over one another to mask the subtle movement. “No, never.” Forcing yourself to chuckle, you dropped a hand to the desk. “You don’t have to worry about me, Mister O’Hara. I’m just fine.”

Before you realized what was happening, Miguel had reached out to brush his long, thick fingers over your knuckles. Your skin was suddenly alight with a blaze you didn’t even know existed. He leaned forward slightly across the table, lowering his voice so that only you heard it in the cage between your ribs. “It’s alright to ask for help, you know,” he murmured quietly. You were caught in his gaze, unable to pull yourself away. “If you ever need something, some place to stay… our door is open.”

Your tongue had ceased its ability to work, your heart its ability to beat properly. You could only stare at him, wide-eyed, as he settled back in his chair. Miguel O’Hara had just offered you his home. Fuck - he knew. He had to have known. Maybe he could see it in your eyes, hear it in your voice when you whispered; maybe it trembled too much. Or maybe he could just sense it, feel it from the bottomless pit in your soul screaming out for someone to pull it back into the daylight.

Just when you trusted yourself to speak again, both your and Miguel’s phones alerted at the same time. Across the study section, other devices went off, as well. Simultaneously, you pulled out your cells and read the messages scrawled across the screens.

“Jesus,” you muttered upon scanning the message. A kidnapping had just taken place not a block from the library. Car details and plate numbers were attached, along with an urging for anyone with information to call the authorities. “This city gets worse every day.”

Miguel glanced up at your words, hesitated, then looked down at Gabriella. She was still busy with her work, tongue stuck out gently between her pink lips. You sensed him tense from across the table.

“...Miguel?” you asked, tentative to use his first name. “Is everything okay?”

After a short, brief moment, he seemed to make up his mind about something. He stood from his chair so abruptly that it squealed softly against the tile floor, throwing the backpack over his shoulder and rounding the table. “Excuse me just a second,” he said, already heading toward the doorway. “I have to make a call. Ten minutes, tops.” Then he was gone, jogging too quickly and hurriedly to be making a phone call - or so you thought. You wanted direly to follow him, see what he was doing, but you couldn’t. You had your student to take care of.

Inhaling shortly, you turned to Gabriella only to find her staring at the doorway her father had disappeared through. You were quick to find something to change the subject. “These flowers are so pretty,” you told her and nudged the bouquet slightly. She met your eyes, your gentle smile, and it seemed Miguel’s sudden absence was wiped from her mind. So was the inner workings of a nine year old.

“I got to pick them out,” she said proudly, then went back to her worksheet. “But it was Daddy’s idea to get them for you.”

Your heart skipped a beat in your chest. You did your best to maintain your smile, trying not to grasp at your chest and stop the oncoming heart attack making its way through your systems. It had been Miguel to get the flowers? “Yeah?” you said in a small voice.

Oblivious to your strained tone and the excited bouncing of your leg under the table, the little girl nodded and hummed. “Uh-huh. He like-likes you. He told me so.”

Holy fucking goddamn son of a bitch.

You cleared your throat because you knew if you talked about this any longer, you would explode into a little cloud of confetti. Then you’d never even get to see him again, look at him in this new light because fuck, was it a new light. It was a new light you could dance under, twirl and sing and jump under, because no one was going to judge you anymore, and even better, now you could invite him to be under it with you. And you knew you just might have a chance of him saying yes.

And fuck, what a dance that would be.

“Are you excited for the field trip to Alchemax on Tuesday?” you asked her, recalling the months it had taken Washington Elementary’s principal to get permission to bring classes there. She had insisted it was an important place for them to visit, considering all the work they were doing as of late. You guessed your suggestion for a trip to the zoo had been vetoed. “Your dad works there. Maybe we’ll see him. You can brag to all your friends that he’s a fancy scientist.”

“Maybe,” she said, scratching out a wrong answer on her paper. “He works on the seventh floor. I’ve seen his work badge thing. We probably won’t be able to go up there.”

“Here’s hoping we can,” you said to yourself beneath your breath.

Ten minutes passed since Miguel’s sudden disappearance, and then another. Thirty minutes was just approaching, as was the beginnings of sundown, before you sensed him approaching you from behind. Turning in your chair, the first thing you noticed was that he was out of breath, sweating at his temples and down his neck slightly. God, he looked good like that. But then your rational side kicked in. Had he been running somewhere?

“I think that’s enough homework for today,” he said as he reached the table and ruffled Gabriella’s hair again. She batted his hand away, but nonetheless began to pack up her things. As she did so, he switched his gaze to yours, tilting his head in that way he did. “We’re going to head to the park, kick a ball around for a while. You’re welcome to join us, if you like.”

Numbly, because now that you knew he not only liked you, but like-liked you, you heard yourself accept and follow them out the doors of the library and onto the street. The deep purple sky felt a bit brighter than before, and the steps you took together, side by side, seemed a little closer than necessary. The sidewalks were cramped, sure, but not enough so that your hands needed to brush every few seconds. Not enough so that your shoulders bumped when you stepped off curbs to cross roads.

The park was quiet this time of day, occupied only by a few elderly couples leaning against walking canes and teenagers out past their curfews sprawled out on benches making out like they knew they were going to die tomorrow.

How long had it been since you had kissed Ferris? The saddest part of you knew that you couldn’t recall.

For hours, you sat on the sweet-smelling grass of the park’s lawn and watched Miguel and Gabriella scrimmage, kicking around a ball worn by years of scuff marks and green stains from fields. The breeze blew their matching hair this way and that, the dying sunlight illuminated their identical smiles as they round about one another in only a way a parent and a child could know one another. You cheered when either scored a goal. You laughed when they called one another names. And when they urged you to come join, even though the night was throwing itself over the sky and the stars were beginning to wink down at the park, you got to your feet and played.

You realized, through your aching laughter and the grass stains on your knees, that you hadn’t been this happy in a very, very long time.

That night, after you had wished Miguel and Gabriella a goodnight and walked home, after you had found Ferris crashed out in bed and the dishes still in the fucking sink, you found yourself sitting on the rooftop of your apartment building. It wasn’t quite silent up here, not with the helicopter chopping in the distance, or the occasional honk of a car down below, or the dog barking three stories down, but it was better than facing the quiet of your own home. You knew you would go mad in between those damned four walls, listening to your boyfriend snore and the clock in the kitchen tick and the floorboard creak when you walked to the bathroom.

You couldn’t face the quiet, not after the wonderful, deafening, blaring joy of this afternoon.

You let your legs dangle off the edge of the rooftop, sitting back on your hands and staring at the glaring screen of your phone. Your thumb ached slightly from scrolling through anything and everything you could find to keep yourself distracted. The newest clean energy replacement from Alchemax. The latest from politics. The child that had been kidnapped this afternoon, now home and safe, thanks to Spiderman snatching the kid from the backseat before plowing the speeding car with the kidnapper into a metal gate.

There came the soft, muted noise of a weight landing on the power box on the rooftop behind you, and you whipped around to find a familiar - but no less startling - red and blue figure sitting perched on the metal edge. Spiderman tilted his head at you, balanced on the balls of his feet despite the hulking frame of his muscles.

“Just came to check up on you after the other day,” he said through the mask. His eye lenses moved as his eyes roamed your figure. “Didn’t know you were this far gone.”

Clicking your phone off anxiously, feeling your heart thunder in your ears, you gave a little laugh and looked down at the drop beneath your feet. “I think if I was ready to end it,” you joked in return, “I’d go for something a little less traumatizing for pedestrians.”

Spiderman was still for a moment. Then he extended his wrist, and a string of web shot across the rooftop to stick to the space on the lip beside you. He used it to yank himself across the tarmac of the roof, landing again on the balls of his feet on the edge. He shifted himself, resting his forearms overink his thighs, and turned his masked gaze to the city before you both. Golden lights twinkled from skyscrapers and apartments and office buildings, creating a constellation of life between windows. The night air was crisper up here - as crisp as it could get, what with the smog from arsonist fires and churning factories and gas emissions - and the stars seemed to shine just a touch brighter.

“So… how are you doing?” the vigilante asked, keeping his gaze on New York. “After the robbery, I mean. Something like that, it can… stay with you.”

There came a fluttering in your heart. But rather than express such a sensation, because you had every right to be wary about giving yourself away anymore, you said, “It wouldn’t be the first thing like that to happen to me. And I’m sure it won’t be the last.” You lifted a hand to the star-lit city, crowded to the rim with life and hatred and love. “We’re in New York. What more can you expect from a city like this?”

For a long while, neither of you said anything more. It was strange being so close to the man everyone had been talking about for the couple weeks he’d been active - so close you could lean right over and pull that mask off. But you kept your distance.

Spiderman took a breath and said, “Couldn’t sleep?”

You shrugged a shoulder. “As if I typically sleep at this time anyway.” Then you turned to face him again, locking your ankles together over the edge of the rooftop. The breeze swayed your hair back and forth, like you were suspended underwater. The tension in your lungs certainly felt that way. “Did you enjoy the show the other night?”

He was still for a moment. For two. Then he met your gaze through his mask, his eye lenses narrowing. Even through the cover that hid his face, the heat of his eyes scorched holes through you. “What do you mean?” he asked.

Feeling slightly bolder than you had a moment ago, you lolled your head at him. “You know what I mean.” You sniffed, leaning back on your hands. “Did you follow me? Or was it just a coincidence that Spiderman showed up to my club the day he saved my ass?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“...Sure.” You felt a flutter of embarrassment within you, of doubt and guilt. What if that hadn’t been Spiderman that night at The Menagerie? What if it was some other guy, with some other scar on his collarbone, and you had gotten it all wrong? Despite your sudden worry, you refused to let your confidence waver. “So… do you make it a habit of checking up on every person you help?”

For the first time, you watched and listened as he cracked a smile and chuckled. The lenses over his eyes narrowed as his cheeks rose and his mouth spread into a smirk. You watched the bit of mask over his lips stretch. “You got me there,” he drawled in that low, husky tone of his that made you cross your legs a bit tighter, squeeze your thighs tighter. “Just… couldn’t really get you off my mind. You’ve got courage, saying no to that guy. That’s admirable.”

You felt your cheeks flush. Spiderman? Calling you brave? What an ironic sense of humor the universe had.

“I guess someone has to stand up and say no,” you murmured into the breeze.

“Yeah. Someone has to.”

Moments turned into seconds, and those turned into minutes. You almost wished you could stay like this forever; here, on the rooftop with Spiderman, with the breeze rustling your hair and the car horns beeping and the rest of the world forgotten.

But all too soon, it was over.

Spiderman rose to his full height in a seamless transition, turning his head to face the street away from you. “Should get back now,” he said, then switched his gaze down to you. You wondered, behind that mask, what color his eyes were. “Sure you’re not going to jump?”

You felt yourself smile. “Promise, Spiderman.” You watched as he nodded his head, then prepared to catapult himself off the building and swing onto the next one. Before he could, however, you called out. “And hey,” you said, drawing his attention, “if you ever drop by the club again, ask for the Monarch.”

He stared at you for the longest moment. Then he turned, stepped off the lip of the rooftop, and disappeared.

You didn’t bother leaning over, watching him spring a web from his wrist to flip through the air and parade down the street above the cars and streetlights. Instead you looked back to the city’s skyline far above yourself, silhouettes of buildings framed by a rich violet horizon.

Perhaps one day, you would see what it looked like without all this smog and the army of dark clouds hanging over it.

But for now, you were content with watching it darken until it was nothing but black and purple.

tags: @mooomeadows @twentysomethingwereyote @screamforyani @fangirlreice7 @axdjelx @ornamentalnecromancy @faust-pda @ilikethemoon28 @mrm-pachypoda @wadafrick @natthernandez @bakgoktski @soupsexsunsalutationsss @roxannarichie @lovagirlxxx @soggyeyeballsss @yoyoyoyoyo55555 @sophipet @quantii @lavnderluv @cookiezxx @euphorica @its-a-polyglot @nicalysm @maxi-ride @exzidss @crappwr0m @femme-is-dead

(strike through means blog could not be tagged)

#miguel o’hara smut #miguel o’hara #miguel o’hara x reader #miguel o’hara x you #miguel o’hara x y/n #atsv miguel o’hara #miguel o’hara atsv #atsv #across the spider verse spoilers #atsv x reader #atsv miguel #miguel atsv #spiderman atsv #spiderman 2099

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deancasbigbang · 3 months ago

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Title: Paging Doctor Novak

Author: Salamitsunami1

Artist: WitchyWorm

Rating: Explicit

Pairings: Dean/Cas, past Dean/Lisa, past Dean/Rhonda

Length: 40000

Warnings: Graphic and accurate depictions of medicine, medical emergencies, and medical procedures. Past unfaithful Dean. Minor character death

Tags: Rom-com, Top Castiel/Bottom Dean Winchester, Happy Ending, Hospital AU, Sexual Tension, Doctor Sexy M.D., Getting Together

Posting Date: October 31, 2024

Summary: Dean Winchester is many things — a nurse, an in-charge on the medical-surgical floor, and a big fan of the ladies. What he’s not is a commitment kind of guy, and he’s definitely not a night duty kind of guy. Things change when a hook-up-gone-wrong gets him lumped on night duty for an entire month, and to make matters worse, he’s been lumped on night duty with a brand new intern. As with all interns, Doctor Castiel Novak is cocky at best and dangerous at worst, but for some reason, and maybe it’s just the way his ass looks in those teal scrubs, Dean’s got a soft spot for the guy. Or a really hard one. Either way, it’s not long before Dean’s new roster is the least of his concerns; he wants that dorky doctor guy, and fuck, he wants him for real.

Excerpt: Being in charge, Dean’s job is simple — keep on top of any patients coming up from the ER or down from the OR, page the doctor when there’s a problem, and call the doctor when there’s an emergency. That’s how he ended up in Frank Devereaux’s room with the phone to his ear, and because the on-call doctor is almost always an intern this late at night, he’s willing to bet that whoever picks up isn’t gonna know Frank’s ass from his esophagus. “Hello?” “Hello?” Dean questions. “Is this the on-call doc or a Wendy’s?” “This is Doctor Novak.” “Right. Well, this is Dean from med-surg. I’m calling about Frank Devereaux in bed two. He had a lap-chole yesterday, got back to the ward about six hours ago. His pain’s currently a nine out of ten, he’s just vomited up a whole lot of bile, and I’ve got a real bad feeling.” “Okay,” the intern says, like a question. “Would you like a consult?” Dean sighs wearily. “That’s why I called.” “Of course,” the intern says. “I’m on my way.” The phone call hasn’t exactly filled Dean with confidence, and it only gets worse when the intern stumbles onto the ward — his hair is all over the place, his stethoscope is hanging unevenly around his neck, he’s wearing these teal scrubs that are about a whole size too small and therefore clinging to every inch of him, and he’s wearing them with a pair of fucking Converse high-tops, of all things. All interns are cocky, that’s a given, but the cockiest of all is the surgical intern. Each and every year, guaranteed. “Hello,” he says. “I’m looking for Dean.” Dean glances down at his own name tag. Unfortunately, it’s still right where he pinned it to his scrub top, so it seems the new intern might not even be able to read. In the interest of being nice, he forces a smile. “You found him.” “Oh. Hello, Dean,” the intern says. “I believe we spoke on the phone.” Dean only nods, waiting for the intern to introduce himself, but he does no such thing. No, this guy just stands there, he runs his fingers through his bedraggled hair, and so now there’s a smear of ink on his forehead where it’s rubbed against whatever’s written on his hand. Pointedly, Dean says, “And what did you say your name was again?” “I’m Doctor Novak.” Dean looks Doctor Novak up, down, then back up again. Taking him apart. He’s got bags under his eyes and cracks in his lips. Doctor or not, this guy’s a fucking mess. “Well, doc,” Dean says, probably against his better judgment. “Frank’s this way.”

DCBB 2024 Posting Schedule

#dcbb 2024 #fic preview #2024 promo #deancas #destiel

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sorrowsofsilence · 11 months ago

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Diagnosis • Sebastian

Pairing: Noah Sebastian x Fem!Reader

Words: 4.1k

Warnings: Smut (18+, fingering, female!receiving), PnV pls wrap it b4 u tap it, male!recieving, choking, doctor x patient (this idea may make you uncomfortable so pls don’t read if it does- in irl it makes me uncomfortable lol- but this is pretend and Dr. Davis is made up.)

Prompt: You had no idea your past highschool school hook-up would be your substitute doctor during your annual check-up; but let's just say you were in desperate need of a physical.

Author note: LOL I AM GOING TO HELLLLL - but also I've seen so many Dr. Davis ideas I had to create one myself; so thank you to especially (@valiantroeagleangel) whose work inspired me. You are wonderful. And shout out to some sexy phrases by @loveisanimaginarydagger3000 - I’m weak

THIS IS A FANFIC USING REAL PEOPLE IN A FICTIONAL SITUATION! I AM NOT IMPLYING THAT THIS PERSON WOULD DO THIS IRL OR ACT LIKE THIS! ITS FICTION!

You picked at your fingernails nervously as you sat in the waiting room, your leg bouncing up and down rapidly.

Something about Doctors’ offices always made you nervous, especially when it involved a doctor that wasn’t your own. You were getting a routine check-up and your first pap smear, scheduled with your regular doctor, but she had a last-minute family emergency. This meant you were going to be inspected by someone else, and that thought made you slightly uneasy.

You played with the mask that covered your nose, pinching at the metal band that rested on the bridge before tugging at the string.

The old woman next to you watched your anxious wading with curious eyes, and you simply shifted in your seat, avoiding her gaze.

Your name was finally called and you followed the nurse, allowing her to check your height, and then leading you into a room located at the end of the hall.

She sat you down, your legs crunching beneath the paper as she placed the blood pressure bump along your arm, squeezing until it tightened and let go.

“Your blood pressure seems to be a little high?” She said, eyebrows furrowing.

You rubbed your hands nervously between your thighs, “I’m just a little anxious.”

Her eyes smiled, indicating a soft grin beneath the mask she wore, “You’ll be just fine. Dr. Davis is a fantastic doctor.”

His name rang off her tongue, piquing your interest. Davis. You knew someone with that last name in high school.

“You can take your mask off in here by the way. Just set it on the side.” She nodded before leaving and you sat there for a few more moments, nervously shifting in your seat.

After a few minutes, you heard a soft knock on the door and you sat up straight, anticipating the man who would be taking care of you today.

The door opened and a man with soft chestnut hair that fell slightly in front of his face walked in, thin-framed glasses sat promptly on top of his nose, covered by a black mask. He hadn’t looked up from the clipboard that was in his hands as he kicked the door closed with his foot gently, tattooed fingers holding up the top page as his eyes skimmed rapidly over the words.

“How’s it going? I’m Dr. Davis.” His voice fell from his lips in a firm but gentle tone and your eyes widened in surprise as you remembered the faint lisp at the end of his ‘s’, and the twang in his accent.

“Hi,” you whispered as you absorbed his image, eyes skimming over his white coat that draped down his long body. The light-blue button-up sat tightly against his neck. You swallowed gently at the ink that crawled just above the collar, sinched between a black tie traced with binary code as the pattern.

“Y/N Y/L/N?” He asked with a curious tone, gaze immediately leaving the page as his orbs met your own, and your heart raced as his ochre eyes bore into yours.

His professionalism dropped slightly as his eyes skimmed over your face in recognition, and your lips parted slightly. He stood still, frozen in remembrance before he coughed, setting the clipboard on the counter and taking a seat next to his computer.

Noah Sebastian Davis is your doctor.

He immediately avoided your gaze as your face began to warm, and you crossed your legs, feeling vulnerable under his authority as he sat there, distracting himself with his computer.

Your high school hookup is your doctor.

“Well,” He began typing, a soft waver barely evident in his voice, “It’s been a long time.”

“Thirteen years,” You licked your lips quickly, smiling shyly as you stared at your legs, glancing up every so often to steal a look at your doctor. You felt even more nervous than before as the man who sat in front of you eventually turned, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose as he watched you intensely.

“Look, let’s just keep this professional. If you’re more comfortable with someone else I can get another doctor in here.” He said monotonously, leaning over his lap as his elbows rested on his knees.

You mustered a small smile as your chest hammered, eyes grazing across the tattoos embedded into his fingers Memories of the way they used to dance along your skin left your stomach swirling.

“It’s alright, I don’t mind…” Your thoughts trailed off as you looked at the ground, “if you don’t mind?”

Dr. Davis maintained strict eye contact, his voice proper and fixed, “It’s my job to remain professional and competent. I strive for nothing but efficiency, and I’ll have you in and out Mrs. Y/L/N.”

“Miss,” You corrected quietly, picking at your nails again.

Something flashed across his eyes at the realization, and your ears flushed as you adjusted yourself on the examination table.

He turned on the chair again, fingers tapping on the keyboard.

“Let’s go through some medical history to clarify things under your files. It seems you usually have Dr. Thomas, am I correct?”

You hummed in confirmation, nodding along.

“Any health concerns to bring up in your visit today?”

You shook your head, “Just a routine check-up and a pap smear.”

Dr. Davis nodded along, shifting in his seat at the mention of a pap, his hand reaching to pull against his collar as if loosening the tension that was building within the room.

“Any issues regarding mental health?”

You shook your head.

“Eating and drinking well?”

You nodded.

“Any allergies?”

You shook your head.

“Sexually active?”

You noticed his voice hither slightly, as he glanced over at you briefly, before fixating his eyes on the computer again.

“Not like, regularly.”

He shifted in his seat, nodding.

“Multiple partners?”

“Uhm,” you began to stutter nervously at his questions, “A few. Not frequently changing.”

It was a routine check-up, you reminded yourself. Doctors asked these questions.

You shrugged, eyes skimming up towards him again as his eyes bore into you once again, your abdomen clenching as his gaze darkened.

“How many since me?”

You coughed, caught off guard as you stared at him in disbelief, “P-pardon?”

He didn’t repeat the question, but instead continued typing, clicking away at your file.

“Three,” You then said, watching him carefully and he hummed in response.

“Anything else you think I should know?” He asked, returning to his cool, professional composure.

You shook your head again, watching as his chest heaved slowly as he stood up. He grabbed the stethoscope that hung around his neck, and you watched as he placed the ends in his ears before standing in front of you, maintaining a distance.

“Let me check your lungs… can you take your jacket off?” He asked, watching you carefully as you peeled off the layer, placing it to the side.

Dr. Davis then sat next to you on the examination table and your heart began to pick up pace at the proximity of his body, his cologne melting into your senses.

His shoulder brushed against yours as he leaned behind you to place the end of the stethoscope on top of your back.

He asked you to take in a deep breath, and you inhaled swiftly, attempting to exhale in a slow, controlled pattern; but the breath that left your lungs was shaky and uneven.

“Sorry,” you whispered, and he ran the stethoscope across your back again, this time placing it underneath your shirt, the cold metal causing a shiver to run down your body.

“Three more,” He asked gently and you obliged, each breath faltering again as your heart raced.

There was no doubt he could hear the thump of your heart pick up as his warm fingers gently skimmed your skin as he controlled the stethoscope; knowing how nervous his proximity made you.

He pulled away, staring at your flushed face before leaning behind you to grab an ear otoscope.

“Just going to check your ears,” he said as his warm hands pulled along your ear, his warm breath creating goosebumps along the skin in your neck as the hairs stood up.

Your stomach butterflied as he then grabbed a wooden popsicle stick, standing in front of you now, placed between your legs.

“open,” he commanded and you obliged, sticking out your tongue and making an ‘ah’ sound.

Dr. Davis held underneath your chin to look up at him as he placed the wood on top of your tongue, pressing down slightly. Your abdomen clenched as a rush of emotions ran through your body, making eye contact with the tattooed doctor as he stared back, not even looking at the back of your throat as your mouth was agape, open widely for him.

You wanted nothing more than to reach up and pull against the fabric of his mask, greedily wanting to expose his lips to see the rest of his face and smile, to see how handsome he had gotten with age.

Your chest heaved as his fingers slid from underneath your chin, trailing down your throat with firm but gentle fingertips, the tension between you building as seconds passed by. He pulled back his hand, along with the popsicle stick, and your mouth closed slowly as he took a step back.

As he turned from you, the way he slid his hand into his pocket to readjust himself didn’t go unnoticed, before he faced you again, nodding curtly.

“I’ll let you get undressed from the waist down. You can place this blanket over yourself, I’ll be back in a few minutes.” He averted his gaze as he opened the door, closing it gently behind him.

You let out a breath as your mind began to race. The way your mind kept tracing back to years of messing around with him in high school sent your stomach into a lustful spiral, the warmth of his inked fingers relighting years of memories he engraved into your skin.

Noah had given you years of orgasms, some of the best you ever had. None of your other lovers had compared to him, and your body knew this, sparking complete excitement at his presence once again.

You shifted on your feet embarrassed at this, peeling off your jeans as you folded them neatly on the chair. You slid off your black panties, placing them on top of your pants before lying down on the bed, the cool air causing you to shiver.

Or perhaps, it was the fact Noah was going to be extremely close to your intimate space after so many years of deprivation.

You two hooked up on and off for years during adolescence, never forming a relationship beyond that; even though you always wanted to.

You always had feelings for Noah, but you knew he wanted nothing more than to fuck you senselessly, and then part ways. No strings attached.

After high school graduation, you two parted, never speaking to each other again. You had always wondered what he had gone off and set to do, and being a doctor was honestly the last thing you’d think he’d do. Noah had always been extremely smart, but it still came as a complete shock when he was the one who walked through that wooden door just fifteen minutes prior.

You covered yourself with the thin blanket and a moment later Dr. Davis came through the door again, glancing at your exposed legs before turning to grab a pair of gloves from the counter.

You watched him intensely as he pulled the latex over his fingers, almost drooling at the thought of them running along your folds. You shook away the thought, knowing that you would be completely dripping by the time he would be sitting between your legs, examining you.

The last thing you wanted was for him to know the effect he still had on you, even after all these years.

He made eye contact with you again, tugging at the tie around his neck once again as he took the chair, rolling it to the edge of your feet. Before sitting he pulled out the stirrups.

“You can rest your heels on here,” He pointed to the plastic, and you noticed how his ears began to flush red, his chest rising and falling quickly as he glanced into your eyes once again.

When he looked away you glanced down at his black slacks, swallowing harshly at the bold outline of his erection that was extremely evident, through his tight pants.

You swallowed as you slowly lifted your legs, exposing yourself to the man who now sat at the end of the bed, the thin blanket sliding down your thighs gently, leaving your body on display for Dr. Davis.

“Fuck.”

The word was barely audible. He had whispered it so quietly through gritted teeth, but you still managed to hear the four-letter word, and it sent another rush of warm lust through your body.

“I-I’m just going to examine you before inserting the speculum.” Dr. Davis’ professional tone faltered briefly, and you wanted to look down at him so badly.

You knew that he was aroused, but you had no idea how badly Noah wanted to tear into your pussy right then and there.

For years Noah wondered what happened to you. After years of dedication to med school, he didn’t have much time to form relationships, and he usually had a quick fuck here and there to tie over his cravings. He reminisced frequently about how good you felt wrapped around his cock, all of his past flings never making him feel quite how you did.

This morning when he agreed to substitute at the clinic he had no idea what to expect. You were the last thing he thought would happen, and the second he read your name on that piece of paper as he entered your room he felt his mind begin to spiral.

How was he supposed to remain professional around you?

His biggest regret was never pursuing anything further with you years ago, worried that if feelings got involved he would lose the best thing he ever had. In turn, he fucked himself over in the end, because he had lost you either way; but now, you were right here in front of him, naked and on display.

The second he saw you sitting on the exam table he felt an immediate rush to his pants, his mind racing as he began to sweat, the room suddenly feeling stuffy and tight. He couldn’t help but watch your lips as they parted when you talked, memories of them wrapped around himself as your tongue slid up and down his length leaving him unable to concentrate as he attempted to read your file.

He watched as you shifted nervously in front of him when he checked your lungs, heart racing rapidly under his touch. He wanted to rip your thighs apart, slipping his fingers into you, wanting to leave you begging.

Noah wanted to pull his name from your lips; leaving you worshiping him, needing him.

He kept reminding himself that he was a professional now and that it was unacceptable to push the boundary of client-patient professionalism. There was a code of conduct and ethics he was required to follow; but he wanted to forget years of practice, just to get a taste of you.

You lay there, trying to keep your heavy breathing quiet; but you immediately gasped as one of his covered fingers spread you open, barely touching your skin, afraid to go further.

You closed your mouth tightly, biting the inside of your cheek as you scolded yourself.

Don’t fucking moan, don’t fucking moan. He barely touched you.

“I’m going to insert the speculum now,” He said quietly, and you heard him whisper another sentence to himself, “God, you don’t even need lube…”

You knew that he knew how turned on you were by just his presence alone, and you closed your eyes as Dr. Davis inserted the plastic into your body, the feeling of fullness causing you to chew on your bottom lip.

Dr. Davis clicked the hinges as the speculum opened you up, and you covered your mouth with your hand, something Noah had noticed.

“Are you in pain?” He asked gently, and you shook your head.

“N-no, I-I’m okay.”

He hummed again, and it was quiet for a moment.

There was a lack of movement for a second until you felt a gloved finger brush across your clit slowly, and you furrowed your brows in anticipation.

Fuck, that had to be an accident, right?

You tried to think rationally about the situation, but your thoughts trailed to dirty places, silently pleading that Dr. Davis would press against your intimacy again.

Noah had listened for your reaction as he sat before your legs that held you splayed open for him, his mind battling. He swallowed hungrily.

You felt his fingers brush against you again and your thighs jolted to his touch, before you felt the pad of his finger press firmly against you, tracing small circles as he tried drawing a moan from your lips.

Your mouth fell open in satisfaction as your body clenched, Dr. Davis’ fingers rubbing faster and faster.

You couldn’t help it as a gentle whimper crawled from your chest, and with furrowed brows, you bucked your hips into his touch; giving him the permission he desperately wanted.

You felt the speculum being removed, and seconds later a wet swipe trailed up along your folds.

“Oh my god,” You whispered and Dr. Davis hummed, his lips latching onto your sweet spot before two gloved fingers slid into you, curling upwards.

You began to moan again, pulling the blanket away to see the brunette devouring your body. He looked up at you with lustful eyes, his mask pulled underneath his chin.

You ogled upon seeing his entire face, brows furrowed with desire as he remained stone cold.

“If you moan loudly one more time I’ll stop.” He said as he began licking your body once again, eyes fixated on your own.

“Y-yes.”

“Yes, what?” He said, pulling his mouth away as he continued to pump his fingers in and out rapidly, taking his thin glasses off and placing them on the table.

“Yes sir.”

“Good girl,” he praised, burying himself between your legs again in famish, devouring you feverishly with complete craving.

Your legs began to shake from his praise and you covered your mouth with your hands as your hips pushed into Dr. Davis’ touch, completely engulfed with euphoria.

You didn’t know that he was palming himself through his slacks as he ate you out, desperate for friction, desperate for you to be the one touching him instead.

“Cum.” He demanded, and in a second his tongue swiped along your folds you felt the knot that he built release, elation washing through you as you choked back a desiring cry.

Your free hand gripped Dr. Davis’ hair as you pulled him closer, rubbing yourself along his face as he ate you until it became too much, pushing him away.

He stood up, mouth agape and wet from your release as you watched him with yearning, both your chests heaving.

He hastily began pulling off his white coat, throwing it to the floor as you watched him loosen his tie. Sitting up you beckoned him over and his fingers gripped your throat, pulling you towards him as his forehead rested against your own.

You looked into each other’s eyes as unspoken words danced between you, both of you needing each other but too afraid to speak.

He held you firmly for a moment before pulling your lips to his own, kissing you completely with need and hunger, forcing you to taste yourself

You groaned quietly into his lips as your tongues ran along each other, your fingers shaky as you began unbuttoning his blue dress shirt.

His fingers tightened around your neck as your hands trailed to the hem of his black pants, tugging at his waistband as you pulled apart his belt, sliding the zipper down slowly.

He moaned softly as your fingers slid along his abdomen, threatening to dip in to grab where he needed you.

“You’re in no position to tease princess, remember that,” He squeezed your neck again as he towered over you in authority, and you smiled.

“This is wrong.”

“So wrong.” He mumbled before kissing you in desperation again, your minds fogged with nothing but lust and arousal.

Dr. Davis’ hands pulled your shirt over your head as he pulled back, taking in the image of your exposed body, ready for him.

His covered fingers found their way to your core once again, slipping in and out as you pulled down his underwear, his body hard and ready to devour you.

You licked your fingers, smiling up at him as he watched with lustful eyes, before grabbing hold of his erection, pumping up and down as he thrust into your hand in eagerness. He pulled his fingers in and out of you quickly, your mouth falling open as you watched each other, pleasing one another.

“Spread your legs, baby,” Dr. Davis pleaded, and you opened your thighs farther.

“That’s it… Wider,” He whispered, before pulling his hands away from you, wrapping them around himself as he positioned his body to yours.

Dr. Davis didn’t hesitate any longer before he pushed into you, a loud whimper leaving you. His eyebrows furrowed angrily as his gloved hand covered your mouth, pushing you back into the wall.

“Be fucking quiet,” He said through gritted teeth, his chest heaving as he continued to thrust into you, filling your body, claiming you as his own.

He tore into your skin with his motions, the feeling of him pulling out before pushing back in deeply causing your legs to clench shut. He pushed them open with the hand that wasn’t covering your mouth.

“I said to spread them,” He scolded, fingers digging into your thigh before he slapped the top of your intimacy, earning a yelp from you as your body jolted from the contact.

He remained cold and composed, attempting to keep up his professional facade that was beginning to crumble before you. His eyes squeezed shut as he pushed your thighs back towards your chest, opening you as he fucked your body with possession.

You watched his head tilt back, exposing the tattoos on his neck as his lips fell open in complete satisfaction.

Your body felt perfectly wrapped around him, years of need ready to release into you.

Dr. Davis wanted to flip you over so you stood in front of him, one leg lifted onto the bed as he gripped your ass and pounded you; but he knew that right now, he needed to watch your face contort in pleasure for him, from him.

Your body clenched around him, “Dr. D-Davis,” You whimpered, still trying to remain quiet so as to not be heard by the rest of the clinic.

“Noah,” the brunette growled, bringing you into a kiss and you nodded, murmuring his name back to him against his lips in a plea.

He was close to his release, but he held back, waiting to pull another orgasm from you before he would bring you to your knees, ready to cum down your throat.

“You can do it, that’s a good girl.” He praised and you melted at his words, letting go as he thrust into you one more time, your body completely enveloping him as your mouth was covered by his hand once again to mask your screams. Your body shook through the orgasm Noah offered you.

He slid in and out slowly, before pulling away. His fingers were threaded through your hair as he guided you to the floor, placing you on your knees.

You took him into your mouth mercilessly, sucking and bobbing along his length before he gripped your face, pulling you closer.

You gagged along him, tears forming as a deep growl rumbled from his chest, signalling he was close.

Seconds later Noah’s release coated the back of your throat, and you swallowed his orgasm, looking up at him in commitment.

“You’ve always been mine to ruin,” He said, panting as he pulled you off of him, and you sat on the ground, smiling up at him.

The two of you got dressed in silence, the hormones lingering in the air as he pulled off the gloves, grabbing his prescription notepad and a pen.

“I wasn’t able to get a good enough sample to send off to the lab,” He said, scribbling away, “I’ll need you to meet me at my office this weekend.”

Dr. Davis handed you the note and you looked at the paper, staring at the phone number and address as he nodded toward you, opening the wooden door and leaving the office.

hshshgsghshghsshgh ok i am a mess

Tags: @sammyjoeee @cookiesupplier @th4t-em0-k1d @dsireland86 @whenthesummerdies @spicywhenspeaking @gretaswhore28 @veronicaphoenix @lma1986 @calleyx13 @somewhere-diamond @talialovesmiw @auratheopossumwitch

#bad omens #noah sebastian #bad omens cult #bad omens band #noah sebastian davis #metalcore #dr davis #Dr. Davis #noah sebastian smut #noah sebastian fanfiction #noah sebastian x reader #smut #bad omens smut #Doctor Noah Sebastian

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impyssadobsessions · 1 year ago

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DPxDC idea/prompt Pen Pals

(Probably more idea but you can run with the concept... im so srry XD) Basically Danny and Damian are pen pals- until Damian receives a letter with Lazarus Water and Blood smeared on the page.

WHAT IF Danny and Damian were pen pals before Danny's accident. A school project for 8th grade. Damian was reluctant to participate but due to it being a grade and being pestered by his siblings that he would just scare the kid off anyways, he deciding to partake in this pen pal. Danny whose not suffering at school, just living a normal life at the moment, is being teased by Dash saying his pen pal could smell loser before even opening the letter. Asking Danny if his parents even let him open the letter or blast it thinking its a ghost. Which makes Danny who wasn't into this idea of writing a stranger more determined to do it. Besides they might only get one letter and teachers drop the subject. They might not even get it. So what the heck. Turns out they become the only ones that constantly wrote each other- even mailing it in person once the school ended the program. (Damian having a post box set up for letters)

At first it was awkward. Danny commented/asking if Damian really was their age or some teacher pretending to write back instead of sending out the letters. If so. He sucks at it because what kid writes perfectly grammar letters and big words to convey something is cool. Guess its better than pretending he knows slang. Damian furious writes back, offended! Also asks if he isn't younger, because everyone with basic english should know to capitalize their letters! This goes back and fourth. Danny writing back every chance he got, and Damian doing the same, even being told not to at the dinner table. It goes from offended at each other to being curious. Danny asking Damian more advice on english because it isn't his favorite subject. Damian asking more about how to sound like his age. Then it devolves to animals. Danny wishing he had one, but his parents didn't want one getting into the lab. Damian happily sending picture of his animals. Danny talking more about the stars.. etc. Until Accident happens- Danny starts having trouble writing the letters. His pen with phase through his hand and replies between them got longer. Danny justifying this by saying he's having trouble with schooling this year. Damian also been unable to send as many replies because he's been busy with teen titans and other heroics. Though he's encouraging Danny saying Danny is far smarter than that school even is aware of. Until one day, after months of not being able to reply. He finds Damian's letter again. It makes him feel better. Even if Damian didn't know him... this person still believes in Danny... Though Danny feels guilty about it- it compels him to write him again. He was about to finish the letter when he gets blasted by a ghost. He returns from the fight, beaten and bloody. He picks up the letter and sighs at the green stain left on it. Folding it up he stuffs it into his bag. Next day after hurrying off to school, his mother finds the letter after it had fallen on the floor. She read a little bit of it and immediately recognize it was to Danny's penpal. She takes the opportunity to try her knew anti-ecto spray and mails it for Danny. "Boy just like his father. So messy. I'll have to give him a lecture about ecto-contamination again." Damian just returned from a mission from Teen Titans, been gone for three months. Alfred informs Damian he had received a letter from his anonymous pen pal in his absence. Damian had almost forgotten about the pen pal- thinking his pal just didn't want to answer anymore. So eagerly he goes to his room to open the letter, but immediately blood drain from his face as his eyes zoomed back the feathery ink to the green blotch of lazurus water.. having almost evaporated.. leaving a water stain that glowed... and more importantly.. the human specks of blood that was revealed with the driest parts of the stain. Damian immediately rushes to the cave.. only to find out his paranoia was right.... and was it his fault his friend was harmed? Also the idea of Damian talking to Phantom in his robin suit. Asking how Daniel Fenton was.. and Phantom surprised and slips out a "Alive as much as he's dead." Damian glaring and Phantom corrects, "He's fine. He has parents that are ghost hunters is all." Stressing his situation complicated. Phantom just so shocked his pen pal is a hero- annnnd also cursing his mom for sending a letter like that. HE KNEW IT WOULD SEND IMPLICATIONS!

but idk if I figured out a good way for Damian to see the smeared letter. I just think it be fun. Also Damian thinking he's to blame for league going after the fentons when he wasn't. At least not as early as he thought. He's very focused on saving/protecting Danny Fenton.. which makes Phantom's job harder.

#danny fenton #dpxdc #dp x dc #danny phantom #damian wayne #robin #dc crossover #dcu #dcxdp #pen pal au #long post

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inkskinned · 2 years ago

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"it's so embarrassing you like that popular thing" "oh ew that geeky/strange thing is so cringe lol" "oh it's kind of weird you get excited about that harmless shit"

dude i love how ironic and jaded you are and that's so cool and sexy of you. and i am so so glad to tell you - you won!! we all had a meeting and we decided that you won, and we are writing your name on the inside of a burger king crown. the marker smeared, sorry, but we knew any form of real effort is ugly to you. but anyway. congrats! you are officially the coolest, most ironic, most jaded person in-the-world-right-now. we would throw you a party but you would think it was totally boring - and besides, we're weird so we wouldn't have been coming. we would have brought our love of beetles and of baking and of little canapes. we would have brought our artsy videogames and pages of writing. we would have written a poem with you, our hands covered in ink, and spread out a canvas to dance on, the night so lurid and pink.

but do not worry. we will not throw the party. we will just get you a ringlight and that crown i mentioned. it is a nice crown, except for where one of us dropped it.

the vote was a really hard one because we had so many cool ironic people to pick off the shelves. all of you have hands that rot fruit, how strange is that - you can't look at something without destroying it for other people. you like it when you can squeeze a person into a pinpoint - all us small ones scampering our little feet around our ugly joys. the vote was also a hard one because we kept our voices down because you don't like it when we talk too loud. you were on your phone at the time, talking to people other than us. you are a ghoul of every moment - half in, half out, you resent us for being here without shame or embarrassment.

so good news! we have invented an island for people like you. you get to go there and speak into the air things like if you still like watching harmless twitch streamers in 2023 you're fucking boring. you will say things like liveplay podcasts are fucking ugly and it's kind of awkward they try to make everything gay. on the island we made you, all of your words will have weight. they will form in the air like icicles, large white behemoth letters that will crumple in anvils around your feet. maybe we will send someone there once in a while to sweep, but honestly you might be there for a while, alone, waiting. we are busy being outside looking for mushrooms and flapping our hands and humming. we are busy kicking our little heels while we watch cringey tv. we are busy - sorry! as an apology, we have pre-filled the island with every bland, mediocre, unscented thing we could find. the island has the texture of american cheese. the island has an ocean that never gets angry. the island is perfect for you, trust me. you will be so happy there - as happy as you can be, ironically.

we want to say we are sorry for doing harmless things that you find annoying, childish, or unappealing - but we are not sorry. we thought we could help you, because we don't mind laughing at ourselves, but it turns out you are allergic to color and noise and atmosphere, so this is the best that we can do for now. we are all making a big shirt that says i voted in the ironic monarchy. we got you one that is just a fast fashion buttondown. i am so excited for you and this island and the big life you have won. you have a cool jaded grey life and miles of irony to roam. i love you! be well.

now leave us alone.

#spilled ink #writeblr #slam poetry #i started this as a joke and ended up taking after #the poem about all the women in the world meeting in the bathroom #i can't find it to link it directly i've been googling for like 15 minutes if someone can remember #turns out frantically googling the only lines like ''women meeting in the bathroom''#''secret womens meeting you always believed happened" is not useful for . to search??? help :(#also the reason this says harmless so many times is bc like #this is 100% about like #yeah man when ppl are mean about ppl enjoying things like. fuckin lady gaga #like this is so obviously about ppl who steal ur joy for no reason (i WILL steal ur joy if ur a bigot btw)#also yes it's bc someone was like ''liking the mcelroys in 2023 is cringe''#and im like. dude what the fuck literally just let people like things it's LITERALLY not that deep.#like i dont like centipedes theyre one of like the 2 bugs im squicked out by ... but like.#if u really like centipedes. im like so happy for you. i hope you can put socks on ur centipedes #so they can speedclean ur floors. that would be fun and cool!!!#i love u i hope all of you have a weird passion i love you i hope that passion fills your life like soap bubbles

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1800titz · 3 months ago

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COME TOUCH ME TOO | Best friend’s dad

age gap. 11.2K on patreon

second part to LIQUID SMOOTH

You’d catch him over the sink sometimes. Or the stove. At the dinette, shirtless. Big bear, you thought, still only half-awake (starving), staring at his skin, swathed in ink that traversed limb, to torso, to limb. You’d catch the smattering of dark hair pooling over his sternum, and the hair beneath his navel, darker, more wiry, seeping into the band of his pajama pants. And later, you’d wonder if it was the substructure— torn out from you— that you were chasing (the surfeited rift between your ages, the sage wisdom you lacked), or if it was just the shape of him, the way he fit into your life, the subtle domesticity of a morning. The pantomime of a distant daydream. (Pretending this was your life you were living, and not taking a page from someone else’s.)

preview

The bar you’re at feels congested. Sticky, shoulders brushing shoulders, feet bumping feet, and the music is loud enough that you feel it droning along the skin of your bones. Past max-capacity; something you anticipated. Accepted on a Friday night— no sort of discomfort that couldn’t be waterlogged into an unconcerned bliss with enough alcohol.

And that’s what it started as.

One shot to ease the restless hypervigilance (when you shuffled in, sliding between clusters of bodies), that burned at the back of your throat, heat flaring across your crinkling sinuses. Then, a second, that radiated warmth along your chest, under your skin, that settled as a weightless feeling beneath the soles of your feet. Loosened the arc of your shoulders.

(You never buy your own drinks.)

A third, cupped from a stranger’s fingers, with bright, powder blue eyes that lingered on your throat, the line of your jaw when you tipped your head back. Inkpools stuck to your tongue when you smeared it out across your lips, the bridge of your nose rucking. He gave you a wolfish, glimmering grin and told you what a pretty thing you are.

(And you think, staring up at him through the misting crest of intoxicant smog, he’s too young. Feels like a boy— one you can’t re-mold even in the haze of alcohol— in the absence of crows’ feet and shallow smile lines, the glinting, tawdry rhinestone stuck to his incisor. Skin speckled with ink that resembles zealous impulse rather than an aged, carefully-crafted tapestry. You doubt there’s any worthwhile story behind the dice in the nook of his elbow; RICH across the front, C and H tipped perfectly on their southern edges to show the S and K that could fill the word out, instead.)

(You can’t even pretend.)

You seldom find regret in the sea of a familiar gyre (the world spinning, and you, finally, spinning with it), but the spindrift crashes across in a misty fog of discomfort. The riptide lures you out to swallow you whole. You’re not sure when the euphoria mutates into anxiety— maybe somewhere along the fourth and the fifth— but it coagulates in your esophagus, in your stomach. Cakes in the warm, soft spot under your ribcage, until your bones feel like they’re wobbling with the pulse of your heart. Vibrating.

You showed up with a coworker. Admittedly, one you didn’t know too well, to a bar you haven’t been to before. But going out is going out, and a bar is a bar. You don’t need a babysitter, you don’t need to know her well, and you don’t need to scope the the pub, but—

Last you saw her, she was propped against the corner of the bar, and now, as you sweep your bleary gaze over the mass, she’s nowhere in sight. You’re alone. You’re alone, and the world is spinning, screaming, chattering over the pulsing base, and you feel like you can’t keep up.

When you swallow, it lodges in your throat. You feel like you can’t breathe, nearly tripping over your own feet, brushing between tangled musculature, limbs like gnarled, warm roots for you stumble over. And you feel like you’re trying to part the sea to make room for your clumsy steps. Like you’re trying to move mountains.

By the time you make it outside, your lungs are aching, and your shoulders are quaking. You don’t know where it’s coming from— what it is— but it feels like a flame licking its way up under your dermis, and you want to shed your skin off the bone. The gulp of air you take is welcome. Cold. Wet.

It’s raining.

Pouring. The gust drenches your bare legs in spittle off the sky, even under the awning. Helplessly, you pat around for your phone.

And you don’t know what possesses you. You don’t know if it’s a clumsy swipe of your thumb across the glowing screen, or a cruel form of divine intervention, when you scroll and stutter along his contact. It’s a number you should’ve deleted. Haven’t pressed in months.

You flung yourself out of orbit, and seeing his name feels like you’re a piece of star-shed that’s slipped too close— a hair from homecoming. It feels like the inevitable, crushing weight of gravity snagging you into the miserable ouroboros you’ve spent every evening running from. A tidal wave, reborn, swallowing you whole.

And you know the repercussions— the potential there. The consequences of sticking wet fingers into electrical sockets, but you tell yourself, he won’t pick up. It’s too late. You’re too late. Too—

Your finger lingers.

You don’t know what would be worse. Abandonment in another shape, or hearing his voice on the other end of the line.

You call him.

You regret it a split-second too late, staring down at the screen dialing. When you press the phone to your ear, with the rain spitting, the thrum of the bass behind the door— your heart rattling in your ears, your head spinning—

You barely hear the three rings before the line clicks. It’s quiet.

And then—

“Hello?”

You suck in a gust of air. You expected his voice to hurt. To ache— you anticipated, maybe, a lot of things, with variegated hypotheticals spelled out in misty shapes through hours spent staring at your ceiling.

But every chimera crumbles when the words stick to the back of your throat. Part of it is the slurry in your veins, the hard liquor, the way it’s all kicked in, all at once. And part of it is the realization that, despite the biramous conjectures you’ve crafted— the what if’s— it’s the heavy thought that all roads lead to this.

He sounds hoarse. Mean with sleep.

“Um. Hi.” The words sound garbled, like you’re underwater. Tinny, wet, strained.

Eager in the shape of unrequited pining; a mangled fruition of all the nights you’d spent, thumb hovering over the call button, wondering if he’d pick up on the other end of the line, stockpiling the heap of broken wishes. The ones you cradled in your hands like jagged fractures of your rib bones, cracked from how hard your heart was pounding.

(If only he could see the lovelorn tar in your marrow, leaking out in a rotting treacle and pooling in the crevice of your love-line; tragic, broken down a long gap right under the wedge between your pinky and ring finger.)

The awning does a poor job of covering your toes, and they soak in the torrent that spumes from the midnight aether, shimmering against the wet asphalt. Silly, little girl— woman, nowadays— one ear corked with your forefinger to stifle the downpour spitting from the same sky you’d crane your neck and spill orisons at, the other fisting at your phone like a lifeline. Dangling onto the thread off this unspooled hope.

You sound ditzy. Soporific. Lost. You wonder if he picks up on it on the other end of the line. “Are you, um. Are you busy?”

The speaker crackles.

Finally, he rasps from the other end of the line— a thunderclap, like a gunshot, “You’re not callin’ me at one in the morning to ask me if I’m busy.”

“I—“ the words stick to the back of your throat.

Something seals up in your lungs with the breath you try to take.

Bitter recrudesce, a reminder when it wakes back up in the slotted teeth of your heart— an ache, alleviated in his absence after time, that throbs at the sound of his voice. Your jaw quakes on what you want to confess, snarled in your throat. I love you— Please— I’ve loved you since—

Your lip wobbles. Teeth clack, staring at the wet asphalt. “Uh. Sorry.”

You settle for a middle ground— some compromise in the clouded welter of your docket— something you’ve been meaning to say for months.

(Sorry for being a silly, little girl that fell in love with you.)

You’re met with a beat of silence that eats into your marrow. Has your guts twisting, chest tight. Then, (solace) a sigh— surly— oozes across the crackling speaker.

“Where are you?”

The question reminds you why you called in the first place. That you’re sopping up dirty rainwater with your boots on the outskirts of town, outside some seedy bar you came to, to drown your demons (him) in burnt amber. A thunderbolt ripples across the pitch aether, zagging electric chalky across the swollen plumes. All at once, you…

Crumble.

“I’m, um. Ah…” your chin quivers. You nod, “I’m here. At a, um. At a bar. Outside a bar.”

“Which bar? Who are you with?”

The slew of questions nearly makes you laugh.

The concern, there, throttles you and the tension in your shoulders like you expected anything less. You did. And you would laugh if hearing his voice, for the first time in months, wasn’t a sobering maelstrom on your psyche. Despite the way your tongue feels sticky, and useless, like it's caught on the roof of your mouth, you clear your throat.

“Um. It’s called, ah— Southbound,” your eyes slip shut. The wobble at your feet clicks in your knees. “I came with a— with a coworker. But I can’t find her. And I just— sorry. Fuck. Sorry. I got, um. I’m… sorry.”

You set your teeth and stare down at the rainwater speckling the toes of your boots. Gusting against your bare legs, and you don’t realize you’ve been hanging onto the phone with both hands cupped, like a lifeline, until his voice comes through.

“Y’alright?”

He sounds a little more awake. No doubt at the quiver in your tone. The way you can’t cohesively suture the words together. You roll forward on your toes. It’s a miscalculated motion on your part, because you nearly topple forward.

“No. Yeah. M’really— um. I’m a little, um. Drunk. I think. So—“ you slur. Take a breath. “No. I don’t—“

The words come out small. Tired. There’s a crack in your voice, like you’re on the edge of keeling over the precipice. You feel it in the burn at the back of your eyes, raw in your sinuses, when you admit, softly, “…I wanna go home.”

He doesn’t say anything. You take another breath, and feel it against the enamel of your teeth. Expect the sear of ice. Your fingers feel strained on your phone. Crushing. Taut. You think about his next words before he says them. Before the surly crackle from the other end of the line hits you, imagine it— call an uber.

I’ll call you an uber, at best. At worst…

You swallow. The line crackles again.

“Send me your location. I’m coming to get you.”

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