#The contact it's an anchor he needs it to stop the shaking of his hands | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

houseofaegon · 4 days ago

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LET ME MAKE IT UP TO YOU ╱ BOB REYNOLDS X READER

+18 SMUT MINORS DNI 𓏲 ◟ ♡ ˖ ࣪ no use of y/n, first time oral m!receiving, praise, overstimulation, eye contact, spitting on it (yummy) . light dom!reader

author's note: i just can't stop thinking about how much bob would love getting his dick sucked for the first time after a long day of training—so i had to write this short little drabble 'cause i can't get the picture out of my head. just him being so vocal and a whimpering needy mess. gawwwddd i want him so bad. me next me next!!!

BOB was still trying his best to catch his breath, sweat slick on his skin, chest rising and falling in heavy, uneven waves. The training session with YOU had been brutal. Not just physically—it was the way you barked at him, pushed him harder than usual. You hadn't meant to be so sharp. You hadn't meant to scream at him the way you did. But you had to. Someone had to. You just wanted him to be better, to get stronger. Not that he wasn’t—god, he was. He was strong and powerful, but always holding back so much. And you say the way he hesitated in the field. The way he second-guessed his own strength. Overthinking. Doubting. You needed to shake him out of it. You needed him alive.

And now—now he was here, still trembling, sitting at the edge of his bed like he’s not sure if he did good or if he fucked up beyond repair.

"I'm sorry," you whispered, your voice softening. "You didn't deserve that. I shouldn't have yelled at you like that."

He looked up at you slowly. “I... I get it,” he says, voice rough. “You were just—trying to help.”

“Still,” you murmured, stepping in close, standing between his legs as he looked up at you with those big, blue eyes. “Let me make it up to you, Bob. Please.”

His lips parted, but no words came out. Just a shaky breath as you lowered yourself to your knees in front of him. His training pants were already loose, and when you pulled the waistband down, he gasped.

He was already half-hard—like his body was waiting for you. Like it knew what was coming before he did.

“W-wait, I—” he stammered, hands lifting like he’s not sure whether to stop you or hold on for dear life.

You cut him off with a look. “Let me take care of it. Let me take care of you.”

And then you spit into your hand.

He moaned—a shocked, punched-out sound that made your core throb. His cock twitched, leaking already, and you wrapped your slick palm around him, slow and steady, dragging it from the base to the tip.

“Oh shit,” he breathed out, hips twitching. “That feels really good.”

You smiled teasingly, just a little. “Yeah? I barely just started.”

He groaned, head falling back, breath coming faster as your strokes picked up. Your mouth hovered just above the flushed head of his cock, your spit glistening on him.

“You’ve never had this before?” you asked, voice low, teasing.

He shakes his head, jaw clenched. “N-no. Not like—fuck—”

“Then relax,” you whisper. “I’m gonna blow your mind. No pun intended,” you winked.

He chuckled softly. And then your mouth was on him—wet, warm, slow—his moan hitting the walls like a prayer.

“Fuck,” he gasped, voice shaking, fingers curling into the sheets behind him. “Oh fuck—oh my god—”

You hummed around him, tongue teasing under the head before you sank lower, slowly, steadily, letting your lips stretch and slide until he hit the back of your throat.

He choked on a groan, thighs trembling. “Shit, that feels—oh god—it feels so good—”

His hand hovered near your head, hesitant, not quite touching you. He doesn’t know if he’s allowed. Doesn’t know if he’ll survive it if he does.

You pull back with a slick sound, stroking him with your fist as you meet his eyes.

“You can touch me, Bob,” you said, breath hot against his spit-slick cock. “It's okay.”

That’s all he needed.

His hand sank into your hair, shaking as he held on—not rough, not guiding, just anchored. Like he might float out of his body if he didn't.

You take him again, deeper this time, your spit mixing with his precum, dripping down over your knuckles as you stroked the base.

“Oh fuck, oh fuck—please—yes,” he groaned softly. “You’re—fuck, you’re so good at—oh my fucking god—”

His voice cracked on a moan, breath catching, every muscle in his body straining like he’s holding on for dear life.

“Feels like—shit—feels so good. Fuck. I can’t—I can’t—”

You kept going. No mercy. Sucking and stroking and swallowing him down like you’ve got nowhere else to be but here, with him falling apart under your mouth.

He whimpered

Actually fucking whimpered.

“Fuuuuuuck, oh god—oh god—shit, you gotta slow down, I’m—fuck, I’m gonna—”

You pull back just enough to speak, voice raspy and thick with heat. "Shut up and take it."

He moaned—high and wrecked and gone.

“Fuck fuck shit, okay, okay I’ll shut u—oh my fucking god, yes, just like that—just like that—”

His head fell back, mouth open, whole body twitching with the effort of not thrusting into your throat. You looked up at him, eyes wide and teasing as you hollowed your cheeks around him.

“Holy shit, if you keep doing that I’m gonna come—ah shit—yes! Fuck, I’m gonna come—”

He’s panting, begging, voice shredded with desperation.

“Please, please, can I come? Fuck, fuck, oh shit—”

You didn't stop. You just hummed with his cock in your mouth, the vibrations making his entire body shiver.

And Bob fucking broke.

You kept sucking, stroking, moaning around him—because you want it. You want all of him.

“Fuckfuckfuck, oh my god—yes—” he screams, high and raw, hips jolting despite himself. “I’m coming—I’m—fuck—I’m coming—oh shit—”

His hand tightened in your hair. He came hard, spilling down your throat in hot, messy spurts, sobbing out moans as he trembled under your mouth. His thighs shook. His abs clenched. He sounded wrecked—wild, feral, like he’s never felt anything this good in his entire life.

You kept sucking. Kept milking him through it.

“Ahh—fuck—fuck please—too much—oh god—” he whimpered, eyes wide and wet and desperate. “Too good—fuck, baby, please—please—I can’t—”

You finally pulled off, spit and cum dripping down your chin, and he was still twitching, still panting like he ran a marathon. His cock twitched again when you wiped your mouth with the back of your hand, slow and deliberate, watching him like you own him.

He looked at you like you had just destroyed him—and rebuilt him better. He was still shaking. Eyes glazed. Lips parted.

“…Is this your way of saying sorry?” he rasped, hoarse and completely gone.

You crawl up his lap, straddling him, pressing a kiss to his jaw.

"Yeah, it is," you whispered. "Next time, I'll really blow your mind."

taglist ⊱☆⊰ @the-a-word-2214 @favestxrboy @uraesthete @abbysbenchpr @sammystarswrite @pey2618 @qardasngan @lunaoieoie @orithyia-eriphyle @amatiswayland @madzzz6958 @all-by-myself98 @dark-silhouette @ghost-ghost-13 @wyvernthekriger @gayfiretruck @watermeezer @lvmxla @novausstuff @mommymilkers0526 @natureartisian @feralgoblinbabe @misaki-evans @menrsluts (if you want to be tagged in my future works lmk! <3)

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undyingdecay · 11 days ago

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thinking about the themes of worship with bob a lot. him eating reader out but she's standing up against a wall and he's kneeling on the floor, looking up as if to a god

all of it is so messy yet intimate.

he sinks to his knees like it’s instinct. like gravity isn’t pulling him down—but you are.

your back hits the wall with a soft thud, fingers curled against the brick for support. he’s already between your thighs, pressing slow kisses up the inside of your leg, lips hot and reverent against your skin.

“let me,” he murmurs, voice already wrecked. “please. i need to—fuck, i need to taste you.”

you nod—barely—and he exhales like he’s been granted something holy.

when his mouth meets you, it isn’t hurried. it’s slow. intentional. a devotion disguised as filth. he laps at you like he’s parched, but every motion is soaked in focus—tongue flat against your clit, working you open with a rhythm so patient it makes your knees buckle.

“that’s it,” you whisper, one hand in his curls, the other gripping the back of his neck. “right there, baby…”

he groans into your cunt, and the sound vibrates through you like a blessing. he’s loud about it—messy. spit slicks your thighs. his chin is wet. every time you shift or twitch, he tightens his grip on your hips like he can’t risk you slipping away. his tongue moves like he’s memorizing you—again and again and again.

you glance down—and he’s already looking up.

eyes glazed, pupils blown wide, sweat glistening at his temple. his mouth is parted, panting softly between strokes, like he can’t decide if he wants to breathe or die right there at your altar.

“you’re shaking,” he says softly, lips swollen, chin glossy. “are you—close? can you do it on my tounge, please?”

“yeah,” you breathe, thighs twitching around his head. “don’t stop—just like that, bob.”

and something in him breaks.

he lets out a choked sound—almost a sob. then dives back in, hungrier now, tongue dragging deeper, sloppier. his hands are everywhere—palming your ass, gripping your thighs, grounding himself in your flesh like he’s afraid he’ll float away if he doesn’t anchor hard enough.

he starts muttering, half-senseless. “so good—taste so good—fuck, i love you—i love this—i love you—”

it’s worship. in the truest sense. on his knees, begging at your temple, lips drenched in offering.

you come with your head tipped back, mouth parted around his name, hips grinding into his tongue like the only thing that matters is how deep you can bury him in you.

and he stays there. mouth still working through your aftershocks, eyes fluttering closed now like he’s gone somewhere else. he doesn’t care that his face is a mess. that he’s soaked through his boxers from grinding into the floor untouched.

this is all he’s ever wanted. not just sex—but closeness. contact. meaning.

and it’s messy, and it’s raw, and it’s a little bit sick the way he clings to your thighs like he’ll break if you pull away.

but when you brush his hair from his damp forehead, tilt his chin up to look at you properly, all he says is:

“did i do good?”

like a man praying for absolution.

and all you can do is kiss him. spit-slick and breathless.

because yes.

god, yes.

#.ᐟ.ᐟ #robert reynolds #bob reynolds fanfic #bob thunderbolts #robert reynolds x reader #bob reynolds x reader #bob reynolds smut #robert reynolds smut #⤷ robert reynolds

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subliminalwish · 3 months ago

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A Blooming Predicament

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3

Pairing: Sylus x Reader Summary: You chanced a glance on a dark alley on your way home, expecting to see a lost stray needing shelter from the rain but the one you ended up taking home is currently bleeding on your couch. Content: reader is not MC, reader is female, this is a slow burn, mentions of gunshot wounds, bleeding, and administering first aid, depictions of blood, wound care, implied crime & organised violence, mild language and dark humour, reference of alcohol, written under the influence of medication - some inconsistencies are possible. A/N: My apologies for the delay - I'd been incredibly sick. This chapter is much longer than the other two, and a lot of my time was spent trying to condense this while still keeping the pace. I hope it's not too much! Thank you so much for reading.

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You wish your hands would stop shaking so much.

His breath on your neck is warm but shallow, ghosting over your skin — faint, like sighs on velvet.

At least you can tell he’s still alive.

He hasn’t spoken since you dragged him out of that alley. Neither have you.

The intoxicating scent of charred spice burns into your lungs.

He’s so tall, doubled over you as you struggle to support him on your journey back to your apartment. Stark against the chill of the rain, the heat where his weight rests against you spreads — soaking your clothes, clinging to your skin, promising stains that might never wash off.

It’s fine, you tell yourself. You’re used to stains. The faint dusting of pollen. Fingerprints on glass. Smoke clinging to fabric. Streaks of green from crushed stems. The kind that lingers long after it should be gone.

You press on, stumbling through your building’s doors haphazardly. You’re a mess of aching muscles, trembling fingers, and the weight of him, draped over you like some exotic scarf.

Something grips you by the waist. Anchors you. You look down to see his large hand pressing you even closer to his body. Strong, despite the injury.

“What floor?” comes the sudden gravelly whisper fanning over your neck, your skin puckering in goosebumps on contact.

You tell him.

“Hold on tight.” That’s the only warning before the floor disappears beneath your feet, and for a split second, you think: this is a terrible way to die. The world vanishes in wisps of black and scarlet, weightless and soundless. The walls dissolve; there’s no sense of up or down — only him, warmth pressing against you, grounding you in this abyss like the only real thing left.

Solid footing returns as abruptly as it was stolen. Your knees buckle slightly at the sudden impact; the world reappears around you. You’re at your apartment level.

“How —” you start, but he’s already dragging you to move.

“Which door?” There’s a strain in his voice that wasn’t there before.

The stupid questions can wait.

——

He crashes onto the couch with a quiet groan, tipping his head back on the backrest as his eyes flutter shut.

Yours dart around your apartment until you find what you’re looking for. You’ve never had a half-dead man bleeding on your couch before, but you’re sure there’s at least something in your little first aid kit that can help. Gauze, antiseptic, an old roll of bandages. Ibuprofen, for the mild inconvenience of being shot.

You make your way back to his side, your attention now on the ruined fabric clinging to his skin, torn where the wound is worst, stained in deep red.

Your grip on the edges of the kit tightens, your heart pounding in your ears, your vision narrowing to the spreading blotch where skin meets couch.

A slow inhale, and then —

“Have you ever done this before?” His deep voice pulls you back, almost startles you — hoarse at the edges, tight with pain. Tempered with something softer. The sound catches at something in your chest, and you hate the way it makes your heart clench. His eyes are open by just a crack, a hint of red peeking through, locked on yours. His head is still tipped back as he takes measured breaths.

“Not at all.”

He shifts, a familiar smirk with a tinge of exhaustion on his lips as he moves to tear the tattered shirt off him.

“Follow my lead.”

Your hands move on autopilot, following his instructions without question. His voice is calm. Too steady for someone who’s bleeding out. You hold on to that low timbre for your life, the subtle shifts of his body, tilting into your touch when your fingers brush against exposed skin.

“You need to press harder.”

“You’re doing fine.”

“Use this next.”

“Breathe .”

Somewhere in between the stitching and the bandages being pulled taut, your heartbeat evens out, matching the smooth rumble of his voice, his mere presence keeping you from falling into the void.

Time blurs at the edges. You sit back after carefully securing the wrappings, your eyes scanning over his bare torso and its now-rhythmic rise and fall, to the rest of him for a final check.

“You catch on quick,” he says warmly, a tone of pleasant surprise with the undercurrent of something you choose to ignore. You don’t know what to say to that, lowering your gaze to your hands now resting on your lap, the tremors from earlier fading without a trace. You flex them before looking back at your handiwork, the gauze wound tight around him, keeping him from unraveling —

So why does it feel like he’s the one who’s holding you together?

——

“This… might fit,” you say, almost apologetic as you hand him your largest hoodie. He takes it with one hand, glancing at the wrappings around his torso before giving you a look.

“I don’t want to ruin your masterpiece,” he says smoothly, making you roll your eyes as you grab the hoodie back. He leans over expectantly.

By some miracle, you ease him into the hoodie. The fabric stretches just a little too much in places, snug against him. You try not to think about it.

He lets out a satisfied sigh and leans back, now far more relaxed than when he first staggered into your flat hours earlier. “Thank you. I’ll be sure to return it.”

“No, it’s fine,” you say a bit too quickly. “You can keep it.” It’s probably for the best.

Desperate for something to do, you head to the fridge. “Um. Do you want something to drink?”

“Some whiskey would be nice.”

“I’m not giving you any liquor.”

“Then forget it.”

You scowl at this strange stray you’ve taken in, his size dwarfing your couch as he claims his territory between your blood-stained throw pillows.

You grab a glass of water and set it on the coffee table with a pointed look. He doesn’t even glance at it.

“Is there someone you can call? Do you need to borrow a phone?” you ask as you move back to sit on the adjacent chair.

He’s already pulling his own device out and dialing on the cracked screen. “I’m sorted, but thank you.” There are bloodstains on the phone, too.

You fall silent as you hear the other line answer in one ring.

“Boss!” shouts the person on the other end. They sound relieved.

“The deal is off. Wrap it up. Now. Meet me at the usual place when you’re done.” He doesn’t wait for them to respond, ending the call and putting his phone away in one fluid motion.

You wish you moved to the other room — the less you hear about any of this, the better.

“Looks like I’m your problem for a little longer,” he says gently, looking at you now with a softened expression. He waits for you to react.

“Just until the sun fully sets,” he adds. “I don’t do well in the daylight.”

You automatically glance out your window at the gradually darkening cityscape. The rain has long stopped, the world outside shrouded in a light sheen from the drizzle.

You nod, unsure why it matters whether he leaves now or after the sun sets. But something about the way he says it — the way he looks at the sky — makes you think you don’t want to know. And the less you know, the better.

A minute passes. Then, his voice cuts through the quiet — low, almost lazy, but there’s something behind it.

“Why did you help me?”

You blink at him. You should probably give him a real answer.

“Did you want to bleed out in that alley? I can put the bullets back.”

That earns you a soft huff, something like amusement curling at the edges of his breath.

“I meant at the flower shop.”

You don’t reply right away. You could tell the truth — that you didn’t want to be collateral damage, that you like your life quiet and uncomplicated, and a shootout in a flower shop tends to disrupt that. But saying it outright feels too honest. Too callous.

So instead, you shrug, feigning nonchalance. “Seemed like the least messy option.”

A pause. Something amused flickers across his face, there and gone in an instant.

With nothing left to say, you both settle into silence, your guest occasionally humming an unknown tune.

There’s little need for words when the air between you is already thick with unspoken things.

You can still smell the sharp, metallic bite of blood underneath molten amber, settling at the back of your throat, refusing to let go.

As the sky outside finally deepens in hue, he gets up with purpose, his movement effortless, as if he hasn’t been close to death just hours before.

“Thank you for your hospitality. I won’t forget this.”

You hope he does.

He opens the window without offering an explanation. Sits at the edge on the sill and casually leans out to assess the view below before looking back at you with a long, measuring look.

“I’m sure we’ll meet again soon.”

You hope not.

He says it with so much certainty, as sure as the setting sun.

Something about the way he moves makes your stomach lurch, your instincts screaming before your brain catches up.

He’s leaning too far back. Too far into the gaping maw that is your window.

“Hey —”

You’re already on your feet before you even realize it.

“Can you not —”

He tilts backwards completely. Your window swallows him whole. He vanishes from your sight, rips your heart out of your chest and drags it with him.

“Hey, wait!”

You lunge forward, half your body slipping past the frame. The dizzying drop yawns beneath you. Your eyes follow the trail of hazy smoke and black feathers descending rapidly toward the empty street, and seconds later, he materializes onto the pavement, looking up at you with that same slow curve of his lips that makes your chest tighten.

You watch him walk away, his silhouette vanishing into the dark. The ruined couch, the lingering scent of iron mixed with warm spice, and the tattered afterthought of an expensive shirt are the only proof he was ever here.

You aren’t the type to get caught up in things that don’t concern you.

But if there’s anything worse than making a bad decision, it’s pretending you didn’t already make it.

You look around now at the aftermath of your choices decorating your living room, clean-up on your mind.

You’re used to stains. The rust-dark imprint of a thorn prick. The inescapable perfume of crushed petals. The faint, bitter tang of torn leaves. Blood and viscera are just different shades of the same thing. The kind that lingers long after it should be gone.

Some whiskey doesn’t sound so bad right now.

——

You didn’t wake up this morning expecting to get mugged by a bird.

One second, the shop keys are in your hand. The next, they aren’t.

A rush of black feathers, a flick of talons. The haunting, sharp echo of a triumphant caw. The weight of metal is stolen from your fingers before you can process the theft, before your breath can even catch up with the crime.

You blink up at the sky, dazed. The shop keys glint between its claws like a prize.

The city moves around you, indifferent. People pass by, eyes fixed forward, their worlds sealed off in invisible walls. A car horn blares in the distance. Someone laughs. The morning air is thick with damp concrete and yesterday’s regrets. You push past the early morning bustle, past people too preoccupied to notice you chasing after an airborne thief. A few glance up at the sound of ruffled feathers, but nobody in Linkon asks too many questions.

It swoops low, wings outstretched, dancing just out of reach before darting forward again. You swear you hear it cackle.

It winds through the city, taking you through twisting paths and narrow passages. Leads you down familiar streets, past shuttered cafés and flickering neon signs, past lampposts that hum with the last traces of their glow. It keeps ahead of you by mere feet, never quite out of reach, never close enough to catch.

Then, without warning, it folds its wings and drops.

You skid to a stop.

It lands right on the wooden sign hanging above Larkspur & Ivy, perching neatly on the edge. For a moment, it does nothing — just stares, head tilted, considering you. Flicks its tail with a self-satisfied ruffle of feathers.

Then, slow and deliberate, it unfurls its talons and lets your keys slip through.

They clatter onto the pavement.

The crow lets out a single caw, sharp and bright in the morning hush. Almost like laughter.

You crouch to pick up your keys, but your gaze snags on the bird.

Up close, its feathers are too smooth. Sleek, polished. A glint of metal. The light catches strange on its body, edges too sharp, movements too precise. And when it tilts its head, you hear it — a mechanical whir, the faintest click of shifting plates beneath the feathers.

Red rubies for eyes, like molten glass, glowing against the grey morning like a warning carved into the skyline.

You feel like you’ve seen that shade of red before.

You exhale, slow. Linkon has its ghosts. Some of them just wear different disguises.

The crow watches you expectantly. Lets out another raucous caw. Flaps its wings once, then takes off into the sky, vanishing into the city sprawl.

Your fingers tighten around the stolen thing, thumb tracing over it absently before you slip the key into its place. The sky is empty now. The shop’s door unlocks with a hollow click, and the scent of flowers greets you like a well-worn memory.

Behind you, two men walk past the shop. Eyes flicking your way, exchanging a look, quiet and knowing, as you busy yourself among the oleanders and poppies.

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4linos · 2 months ago

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the stranger you loved.

lee minho x fem!reader

synopsis: you don’t know him anymore. but minho knows you, every laugh, every tear, every promise. and he’s not giving up.

warnings: angst, hurt/comfort, car accident, amnesia.

wc: 2838

[part 2.]

It was supposed to be an ordinary evening. Nothing out of the norm, at least, that’s what Minho thought when he laced up his shoes for dance practice, falling into the rhythm with the others as they cycled through choreography and light-hearted banter. You were always on his mind, of course, he’d checked your last message, smiled at whatever silly thing you’d said, and pocketed his phone again with no real expectation that something could go wrong.

Until it did.

Halfway through their dance routine, Minho’s phone buzzed on the speaker dock. It was odd, he never got calls during practice unless it was urgent. He didn’t recognize the number, but something in his gut told him to answer. And from the moment he pressed the phone to his ear, everything stopped. His heart. His breath. The world.

“Are you Lee Minho?” a firm, professional voice asked. “You’re listed as an emergency contact for L/N Y/N. There’s been an accident—”

His blood ran cold. “What?”

“A car crash. They’ve been transported to the emergency department. We need you to come to the hospital immediately.”

The rest was a blur. Minho’s breath caught as his knees went weak. He didn’t even say anything to the members at first. Just turned pale, hands trembling as he stared at the floor. Hyunjin called after him as he stumbled toward his bag, but Minho didn’t answer. Didn’t have it in him to form words. Only when Chan caught his arm did he choke out the most haunting, broken sentence:

“It’s Y/N. They were in a crash. The hospital—they said it’s bad. I need to go—right now.”

No one questioned it. Minho was already halfway out the door, running like his legs had minds of their own. His chest ached, every step a scream through his body. He didn’t even feel the rain when he made it outside, didn’t feel the way his hands fumbled with his keys as he jumped into the car. All he could think was please, please be okay.

When he arrived at the hospital, he didn’t have to ask for directions. The expression on his face was enough to have the front desk nurse standing immediately.

“Where is she?” His voice cracked as he rushed forward. “Where is Y/N?! Is she okay?”

“She’s—she’s in surgery. Please, sir, you need to calm down—”

“Don’t tell me to calm down! Just tell me what’s happening! Is she going to make it?! What happened?!” His voice was ragged, on the edge of shattering completely. He felt like he couldn’t breathe. His hands were shaking uncontrollably.

“We don’t know the extent of the damage yet. She suffered significant trauma, especially to the head. They’re doing everything they can.”

That phrase “everything they can” echoed in his skull like a death sentence. They didn’t know. Which meant he didn’t know. Which meant you could be—

He collapsed into one of the stiff hospital chairs, gripping the edge like it could anchor him to a reality he no longer trusted.

It wasn’t long before the rest of the members arrived. They looked just as shaken, frantic, and unsure as he had. Chan found him first, gently placing a hand on Minho’s back. He’d never seen him look so lost, so fragile. Not Minho, not the one who held everyone else up when things got hard.

“Hey,” Chan whispered. “She’s strong, okay? We’re gonna get through this.”

But Minho didn’t respond. He couldn’t. All he could do was stare at the surgery sign above the double doors. Waiting.

Time was meaningless in those moments. Could’ve been hours. Could’ve been years. His phone had long since died, and he hadn’t even noticed. Nothing mattered except that damn hallway, and whether or not someone would come through it with good news, or the worst news of his life.

And then, finally, the doors opened.

A surgeon approached with a face that gave nothing away, and Minho stood so fast his chair screeched backward against the floor. The others stood too, holding their breath.

“You’re here for Y/N?” the doctor asked.

Minho nodded, his voice gone.

“The surgery was successful,” the doctor said, finally offering the first sliver of light in hours of darkness. “There was significant head trauma, but we were able to control the bleeding and reduce the swelling. She’s in the ICU now, sedated, and stable. She’ll need to stay for a few days for observation and recovery.”

The air left Minho’s lungs all at once. His knees nearly gave out again, this time from the release of tension.

“She’s okay?” he asked, like he couldn’t believe it. “She’s really… okay?”

“She’ll need time. But yes. You can see her now, she’s still resting, but the nurse will take you.”

He looked to the members for half a second, eyes wide and glassy, searching for something. Support, maybe. Permission.

“Go,” Seungmin said softly. “She needs you.”

“Go,” Chan echoed. “We’ll be right here.”

Minho didn’t wait. Couldn’t. He followed the nurse like a man possessed, heart pounding, limbs stiff from sitting so long or maybe just from the terror still coiled in his chest. The hallways were too long, too sterile, too cold. But when the nurse opened the ICU room door, everything stopped again.

There you were. Pale. Motionless. Tubes running from your arms, wires monitoring your heart, your head bandaged carefully. You didn’t look like yourself, not completely. But your chest was rising and falling. And that was enough.

Minho moved to your side like he was afraid you’d disappear if he blinked. He sank into the chair next to your bed and reached for your hand careful, so careful like you were made of porcelain.

“You scared the hell out of me,” he whispered, his voice barely more than breath. “Don’t ever do that again.”

Tears slipped down his cheeks before he could stop them. But he didn’t care anymore. You were alive. And no matter how long it took, he’d be right here. Every second. Until you woke up. Until you knew he was here. Until you knew just how much he loved you.

Minho didn’t leave your side.

Not when the nurses dimmed the lights in your ICU room.

Not when visiting hours officially ended.

Not when the staff gently reminded him, again and again that you were sedated, and it could be hours, maybe even days, before you woke up.

He sat by your bedside, hand tightly wrapped around yours like a lifeline. Your skin was cold. Too cold. And you still weren’t responding. You hadn’t moved once since they brought him in. Machines beeped softly beside you, every sound too loud and not loud enough.

The nurses told him, kindly, that they’d watch over you, that he should go home, rest, eat something. But he couldn’t. He wouldn’t. He’d never forgive himself if you woke up and he wasn’t there.

“I’ll sleep here,” he murmured once, half a promise, half a plea.

But he didn’t sleep. Not really.

He dozed off once or twice in short bursts, head slumped against the edge of the bed, still gripping your hand like it anchored him to the world. Every time he started to drift off, he forced himself awake again. What if you woke up and needed him? What if the first thing you saw was a stranger in a white coat, and not someone who knew you, loved you?

He couldn’t bear that thought. So he watched you. For hours.

Even when the hospital’s midnight quiet stretched unbearably long, and the only sound was the occasional shuffle of rubber soles in the hallway or the soft exhale of your breathing. He watched you, eyes burning, body aching, emotions worn thin and raw. He whispered to you sometimes. Just little things. Stuff you liked. Songs you loved. Memories you shared. He told you over and over again how much he needed you to come back.

“I should’ve been there,” he whispered once around 3AM, forehead resting against your hand. “If I had just called earlier… if I had told you to wait, or picked you up myself—”

He shook his head, tears threatening again. “I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”

Eventually, the first hints of morning light began to creep through the slats in the blinds. His body ached. His throat was dry. But his fingers were still laced with yours.

He hadn’t moved.

Not even once.

He couldn’t.

And then, just as the exhaustion began to drag his eyelids down again, your hand moved.

Just a twitch. A slight shift in his grasp. But it was real.

Minho jolted up like he’d been struck by lightning, eyes wide, heart hammering in his chest.

“Y/N?” he said, voice cracking. “Hey — hey, are you—?”

Your eyelids fluttered, slow and heavy. Then they opened.

For a second, he just stared, stunned, overwhelmed with a flood of relief so sharp it nearly knocked the wind out of him.

“Oh my god,” he gasped. “You’re awake—you’re finally—”

His hand fumbled for the nurse call button and pressed it hard, exactly like they told him to. He leaned in immediately after, lips brushing your forehead, then your lips soft, desperate kisses.

“I missed you,” he murmured against your skin. “I was so scared. I thought— I thought I lost you. You have no idea how worried I’ve been, Y/N. I should’ve been there. I should’ve protected you. I’m so, so sorry you had to go through all that. I love you—”

But then you blinked.

And stared at him.

And didn’t say a word.

The moment lingered, too long, too still. Minho’s heart began to slow, unease clawing at his chest.

“…Y/N?” he said again, softer now, trying to meet your gaze. “It’s me. It’s Minho. You’re safe. You’re—”

“Who… are you?”

Silence.

It crashed into him like a sledgehammer.

He blinked, sure he misheard. Then he let out a short, nervous laugh, too high, too forced.

“What? What are you talking about?” he said, trying to play it off. “Stop messing around, babe. It’s me.”

But your eyes didn’t change. There was no spark of recognition. No teasing smile. No warmth.

The door flew open and nurses poured in, followed by a doctor who immediately checked your vitals, looked over the machines, started asking you questions.

“Y/N, do you know where you are?”

You shook your head slowly.

“Do you know what day it is?”

“…Wednesday?”

“It’s Sunday,” the nurse said gently.

The doctor leaned forward. “Can you tell me what year it is?”

You tilted your head. Your eyes darted to Minho, as if maybe he’d help you guess right, but your voice came out unsure.

“...2022?”

Minho’s stomach dropped. It was 2025.

“No, no, no—” he whispered, voice hollow. “Please…”

He took a step back, like he could physically distance himself from the weight pressing down on his chest. Like that would make it easier to breathe.

But it didn’t.

The doctor’s expression turned serious. They asked you a few more questions, simple ones your name, your birthday, the name of the current president. You got most of them wrong. They explained, softly, that you’d suffered a severe head trauma, and memory loss even temporary wasn’t uncommon.

Temporary.

That word clung to Minho’s hope like a thread. But right now, it felt anything but temporary.

Because you were looking at him like a stranger.

Because everything he knew, the life you shared, the love you built wasn’t reflected back in your eyes.

Minho couldn’t speak. Couldn’t move. He just stood there, his world crumbling quietly around him while nurses continued their checks, their soft reassurances doing nothing to stop the sharp, slow break of his heart.

He had stayed awake for you. Waited through hell and back.

And now you were here.

But you didn’t know who he was.

It felt like the world was playing a cruel trick on him.

You were right there, alive, breathing eyes open, heartbeat steady, but it was like you were someone else entirely.

Minho had never known a silence so loud, so suffocating, as when you first said those words.

“Who… are you?”

They were innocent. Unassuming. A genuine question from someone waking up in a haze.

But for Minho, they were a dagger to the chest.

Still, some part of him, the part that loved you more than he’d ever loved anyone clung to hope. Maybe it was the drugs. The trauma. Maybe you were still foggy. It wasn’t over. It couldn’t be over.

So he tried again.

He waited until the nurses had finished checking your IV, gently adjusting the machines monitoring your vitals. He slowly stepped forward, each step feeling heavier than the last. He kept his voice quiet, as if saying it softer might make it easier for you to remember.

“Y/N…” he whispered, carefully reaching for your hand. “It’s me. Minho. You still don’t remember?”

Your hand twitched in his.

And then you pulled it away.

Like his touch burned. Like he was a stranger.

The nurses exchanged a quick, sad glance, their movements slowing around the bed. One of them gave Minho a soft, regretful look, but it didn’t make the ache in his chest any less sharp. He felt cold all over. His fingers curled into his palms to stop them from trembling.

“No, no, it’s okay,” he said quickly, eyes locked on yours, voice cracking. “You’re just tired. You’ve been through a lot. I’m sure it’s just temporary. Just… please try. We live together, remember? We’ve been together for years. You love me. You—”

The doctor cleared his throat, cutting him off. “Let’s just run a few more cognitive tests. I want to get a clearer idea of the scope here.”

“What does that mean?” Minho snapped, his voice rising now. “You said she was okay! You said the surgery was a success. So why—why can’t she remember me?!”

“Mr. Lee,” the doctor began gently, “this kind of head trauma—”

“Don’t talk to me like I’m stupid!” Minho nearly shouted, stepping forward, his composure hanging by a thread. “You said she’d recover. You told me everything was going to be okay!”

“I understand you’re upset, but this isn’t uncommon with traumatic brain injuries—”

“Then fix it!” His voice broke entirely now, breath hitching as the tears finally came. “Please… just tell me she’ll remember…”

You flinched slightly at his raised voice. And then, in the quiet that followed, your own voice trembled into the space between you.

“…Can he please leave?”

It felt like time stopped.

Minho froze, every bone in his body turning to ice. Your voice wasn’t angry, it wasn’t cruel. It was confused. Frightened. You didn’t know who he was, and his grief looked like a threat.

You were scared of him.

That realization split him down the middle.

The doctor gave a small nod to the nurses, who gently approached, but Minho shook his head. He backed up slowly, holding up his hands.

“No. It’s okay. I’m going,” he whispered. “I don’t want to scare you.”

He turned without another word, walking stiffly out the door, and the moment it clicked shut behind him, the weight hit.

Minho paced the sterile white of the waiting room like it was a cage, back and forth, fists clenched, unable to sit, unable to stop his thoughts from racing. The same words kept echoing in his head on a loop.

She doesn’t know who I am.

She doesn’t remember me.

She asked me to leave.

When the door opened again, he nearly tripped over his own feet rushing to meet the doctor.

“Well?” he demanded, desperate. “What’s happening to her? Why doesn’t she know me?”

The doctor gave him a solemn look and sighed, folding their arms. “She’s suffering from retrograde amnesia. It’s a condition where the brain, due to trauma, forgets information that was stored before the incident. In Y/N’s case, we’re seeing significant memory loss, personal memory, especially. She’s retained basic facts, but she doesn’t remember her relationships.”

Minho went still. “You mean… me.”

The doctor nodded.

“For now, she doesn’t remember you.”

Minho felt like the floor disappeared from beneath him.

“What do you mean, for now? So she might? Or she might never?”

“There’s no clear timeline for recovery. Sometimes memories return gradually. Sometimes not at all. It depends on how the brain heals and that’s something we can’t predict. I’m sorry.”

Minho backed up a step. Then another. He slumped into one of the cold plastic chairs, burying his face in his hands.

He had stayed all night. Kept vigil like it would bring you back to him. He’d whispered promises to you in the dark, kissed your hand like it was sacred. He had pictured you waking up and crying tears of relief, pulling him into a hug and asking where you were. He had begged for this moment.

And now that it was here… it was worse than anything he’d imagined.

You were alive.

But you were gone.

masterlist.

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enviedear · 2 months ago

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❝ all i'm in is just skin ❞ ♬.ᐟ 44.4 envieFM | 18+ mdni

JASON TODD

“there ‘ya go.” JASON TODD’S voice is low. lower than regular, plush and hypnotizing. you suppose—in this instant—that he may have hypnotized you. must have altered your brain’s natural chemistry by simple gaze.

his lips leave soft, wet kisses on your calf. his left hand anchoring the sole of you foot to the dip at his shoulder. his other hand—his right hand, scarred, meaty, and large—is toying with your heat. the pair of you are almost impossible close. almost.

his movement’s are purposeful and he watches over you, studying your writhing and breathy moans. you’re giving him all the signs of wanton need, the need to feel him—fully. having him so close and still not getting what you truly crave is growing unbearable.

you finally think to speak, to voice your want, “jason…please, come closer.”

his fingers pause their movements at your clit, only to lull into gentle circles. maddening, slow. enough to make your hips twitch, but not enough to satisfy.

“closer?” he echoes, lifting his eyes to yours. they’re dark, the cerulean drowned in shadows and something else—desire, maybe. constraint.

he kisses your calf again, slower this time. then your knee. the inside of your thigh. each kiss feels like a promise you don’t know how exactly to cash in on.

“baby...” he murmurs, voice thick, “i’m right here.”

you shake your head, or maybe just whimper—it’s hard to tell. your thoughts are smudged at the edges, overcast with need. you try to reach for him, but he presses your leg just a bit higher, spreading you further. it’s gentle. controlled. and he keeps eye contact the entire time.

“you want all of me.” he says it like it’s fact, not question. his fingers dip, tease, withdraw. “say it.”

“i do.” you gasp. “i want all of you, jason. please.”

he smiles—slow and profane, “then let me give it to you—the right. way”

his fingers slip inside you then, barely deep enough, curling, teasing into you. his hand brings your toes toward his lips, kissing. behaving entirely like a madman—pushing his limits, stopping just short of where you’re throbbing for him. maddening.

he pulls his fingers from you with a slick, deliberate drag, like he’s almost reluctant to let go—but even more determined to give you exactly what you asked for. his eyes flicker up once more, studying your lust-longed face, the way your chest heaves, the way your lips part around breathless pleas.

“look at you, baby.” he murmurs, voice heavy with want. “fuckin’ gorgeous like this. needy. all for me.”

you watch him, wide-eyed, lips parted, starved for more, your entire body trembling with the ache of not having him.

and then, finally—finally, he shifts. presses his hips closer, lines himself up against you with the kind of vigor that makes your head rush.

“let me make you feel good...” he breathes, like a promise. like a warning. “just like you need it.”

the stretch of him is instant, overwhelming. your lower back arches, a gasp catching in your throat as he pushes in slow, slow, deep—inch by inch. his little hums and whimpers are treading the line of guttural and soothing.

“holy—” he draws it out, dropping his forehead to yours. “you feel… fuck, you feel perfect, baby.”

your fingers claw at his shoulders, desperate for something to hold onto, to anchor yourself with as your body tries to adjust—tries to take him in fully.

“you okay?” he breathes, brushing his nose against yours. “s'it too much?”

“no,” you whimper. “just right. needed it, needed you.”

he kisses you. hard. filthy. his hips drawing back just an inch before rolling forward again—resonant and unhurried, like he’s savoring every second of being inside you. it has your eyes closing, half shocked by the pleasure, half invigorated. your small sounds raise, morphing into loud mewls and praise.

“that’s it.” he mumbles against your lips. “tell me how bad you wanted it. how much i had you whining for it. show me how good i make you feel, hm?”

writer's note .☘︎ ݁˖ hey—this is part of a new format i'm trying out—link below for more info! lmk if you like it <3 wanted to try a smut scene w no buildup or plot bc it's an art form i've never perfected but always loved. idk i just always wanna add baseless lore to the smexx for no good reason LMAO. i hope you liked it—if so, consider reblogging and/or commenting <3

🖇️ masterlist | askbox | recent works — ♬ 44.4 envieFM .ᐟ

#⤸ enviedear #jason todd x reader #dc jason todd #dc red hood #jason todd #jason todd smut #redhood jason todd #red hood #redhood x reader

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eyesaremosaiics · 5 months ago

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to know that you're mine.

Travis is a rude asshole, except when someone shuts him up by making him cry. And of course, who else should do that besides his pretty girlfriend? — afab reader, pretty much just smut.

“Come on, I didn’t think you'd get upset! I was just pointing out the obvious.” Travis’s voice breaks through the thick tension in his room, his face still morphed into a scowl from how you tugged him away from the rest of the group.

Walking towards him angrily, your arm twitches with the desire to smack him. However, you somehow manage to stop yourself from doing so. Instead, you merely sigh. “Just…stop talking. Okay?” He obviously wants to say something else, but decides not to when he sees you getting ready for a 'nap'. He nods silently, waiting for you to tell him what to do.

"Come on, lay down." Noticing his patient silence, you give him what he wants. Instructions. Following your order, he begins by removing his coat, then his outer pants, before moving to his scarf. His face is already flushed by the time that he sits down on the bed in his boxers and turtleneck, looking up at you awaiting your next command.

After changing out of your own outer layers, you turn to where you think Travis is laying, only to see that he's still sitting up. "Babe, lay down."

His eyes flicker up to yours, nodding as he remembers your instructions. With a small nod, he lays back, his head resting on the pillows. "I'm sorry." His voice is barely a whimper, looking up at you, admiring how your body looks in your own turtleneck and sweatpants.

Climbing onto the bed in order to straddle him, you see how nervous Travis looks. The sight is pitiful, him looking so sad when you're upset with him. "Don't look at me like that." Your voice is mocking, hiding how adorable you find him when he acts like this.

"'m sorry." His voice cracks.

"Stop apologizing." You move forward on his lap, feeling the outline of his length through his boxers, smiling softly at how his lips part to form an 'o' from the stimulation. The sight only makes you reach a hand down, tracing his tip through the thin material as you hold eye contact with him.

Travis lets out a breathy moan, trying his best to keep himself under control for you. His brows knit together as he watches you begin to unzip his fly, your painted nails easily unbuttoning the top. His hands move to hold your hips, wanting any sort of anchor to ground him, but you quickly swat his hands away with a stern expression on your face.

"No touching," Sliding his belt off of Travis's hips, you buckle his wrists together above his head, though not to the headboard. He doesn't need to be that uncomfortable. A small chuckle escapes your throat as you finally notice tears welling in his doe-like eyes.

Without saying a word, you reach a hand into the fly of his boxers, his tip already poking out before you even wrap your hand around him. Pressing a hand to his chest so he doesn't squirm, you slowly expose his aching dick to the cold air of the room. Travis's breathing is loud, letting out whines and whimpers no matter if you're touching him or not.

Tears finally begin to fall from his eyes as you allow his erection to just be there, not touching it whatsoever, just looking at him expectantly. "Please.." It's a whine, a plea for help, and it's just too cute to ignore. Placing a thumb on his tip with gentle care, you begin spreading the precum all over his cock. Once it's fully coated, your fist slowly moves.

You continue the movements until he moans exactly what you want to hear, "Please—I'm almost there." Stopping your fist as soon as the words leave his mouth. You don't want him to come so early, it's not time yet. With a small shake of your head, you let go of it, only making him cry more out of desperation.

"We've done this before, you know the rules." The response is simple, making Travis all the more frustrated with the lack of release. After a moment, you go back to touching him, running your hand up and down his dick. The movements stop again as soon as it's clear he's about to come.

Three times this process repeats, the head of his cock now an angry red while his face is streaming with tears. Taking pity on him, you lean down and kiss him gently as a motivator. "Aw, babe, you've lasted so long!" While the praise is genuine, it holds mockery in it, making fun of Travis for typically coming too fast. You reach behind him, letting his hands free from the belt.

"Thank you, thank you—fuck, please just let me... please? You said I was doing good just now, come on." He immediately starts begging, only stopping when you get off the bed to remove your pants. His chest heaves with ragged breaths when he sees you, sitting up as he watches you move carefully. He knows the routine just like he knows the rules. His aching need is at the back of his mind now, only being able to focus on you in front of him.

You take his place where he previously lay, your knees pressed against your chest while you watch Travis hurriedly remove his jeans, pulling one of the blankets on the bed over his hips to keep you both warm. Crawling back towards you, he can't help but suck hickeys into your neck, his tears now making your skin wet.

"Thank you, babe. Thank you—I love you. Do we have any, uh.." He trails off, unable to ignore the painful throbbing between his legs. He glances around the bed, searching for the condoms he got from Coach Ben. When he doesn't see the pack, he turns to you for instructions.

"It's fine, we don't need them." You shake your head, leaving no room for him to question your statement. Instead, he leaves a chaste kiss on your lips before pulling the crotch of your underwear to the side, letting out small whimpers as he lines his tip up. As soon as he's sheathed completely inside, the warm squeeze makes him unable to control himself, already coming inside of you.

More tears stream from his eyes as he apologizes like it's a prayer, saying your name as a mantra while he begs for forgiveness. "Just keep going for me, Travis." Your hand cups his cheek, sitting up so your lips meet his in a passionate kiss. Somehow, it's enough to make him ignore his embarrassment. Slowly, he begins thrusting in and out.

You can only hope that he'll soon be able to last more than a few minutes with you.

a/n—I fear this took litedral days. thank you to the gc for all of the inspiration, and be ready for many more fics on the way.

#ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 .. fanfic!!#travis martinez x reader #yellowjackets x reader #travis martinez smut #yellowjackets smut #travis martinez x you

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oceantornadoo · 5 months ago

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ch8 the wrong john | masterlist | next

tw: dubcon kissing (somnophilia), more pet play dirty talk, multiple holes are used, smut and angst in the same chap bc why not.

john price x f!reader, reader is johnny’s twin

Thankfully, your new boyfriend does not give in to the urge to punch your brother.

“Johnny!” You move out from behind John, in no way afraid of your brother. “You can’t just hit him!” You yell. Johnny’s still as red as a tomato, huffing from the punch he threw. You can tell the captivity took its toll on him, because you’ve never seen him winded from just one punch. Instinct takes over, you and Simon catching Johnny before he stumbles. The doctor from earlier rushes over, telling her radio that they need a wheelchair, stat. The anger slowly drains from Johnny’s face, replaced with a world-weary look. He seems ten years older, a jarring thought since you’re only three minutes apart.

“Johnny, let’s talk about it later, ok?” The wheelchair arrives and you help him into it, Simon fighting off the doctor who’s arguing he needs one too. You try to grab Johnny’s hand but he snatches it back before you can. It’s like a shot to the heart. He avoids eye contact as the doctor wheels him away. Did you just lose your twin?

“Hey, hey, c’mere.” John scoops you up from behind, turning you so you’re against his chest. It’s like a switch has been flipped as the tears flow. You messed up, shouldn’t have let John kiss you in front of your brother. This is exactly what you wanted to avoid. You wanted to give Johnny time to adjust, time to gain his strength back, before slowly broaching the topic in a controlled manner. You did not want a punch to be thrown at 5 am. It was simply too much to handle. John’s fingers dig into the nape of your neck, anchoring you to the moment. He’s so kind, even though he was just punched, and the thought makes you cry harder.

John’s jaw aches, but not as much as his heart does. It’s hard to handle his sweetheart sobbing in his arms, especially since he hasn’t seen her in weeks. The kiss was not his best move, but he blames it on the early hour and lack of sleep. The mission was absolutely grueling, the kidnappers making themselves almost impossible to track. “Almost” because, well, he did get this job for a reason. But now his team is fucked and his new girlfriend has a broken heart he can’t fix. He couldn’t even blame Johnny because if it was his sister, he would have done the same thing.

Kyle went with the doctor, so now it’s just him and his girl on a godforsaken roof on a dreary London morning. He’s been rubbing circles on her back for a while now and can feel the tears slowly stopping, her breathing becoming even. “Feel better?” She shakes her head ‘no’ and he can’t help but laugh.

“How’s your face?” She asks, pulling back out of his grasp to inspect it. Her eyes are puffy and there’s a bit of snot on her nose. She’s beautiful. “‘S ok. Not the first time I’ve been punched.” Soft fingers turn his jaw this way and that. She sucks in a breath as she inspects the damage. “You’re gonna bruise, John.” The bruise won’t show through his beard so he shrugs, then starts herding her into the elevator. He desperately wants to shower and tuck her under the covers, then maybe eat her out later if his jaw lets him. Hopefully an orgasm would make her a little less sad.

Thankfully, John gets his way. He’s not a messy man, his cleanliness only rivaling Garrick’s, but his room is suspiciously much cleaner than how he left it. The floors are practically sparkling. When he asks, his pet mimes a zipper, throwing the key away. John picks her up, ignoring the creak of his joints from sleeping on floors for the past week, and throws her on the bed. “Stay.” She nods, eyes big and wet, and it’s a herculean effort to drag himself away. It’s the quickest shower of his life, a little toothbrushing, and he’s finally where he belongs. With her.

“Missed you, sweetheart.” He tugs her on top of him so they’re chest to chest, her cunt on his lower belly. She’s taken off her sweatshirt and shorts, so it’s just two thin layers of fabric that separate them. “I missed you too. You sure you don’t want ice or something? I’m practically best friends with the nurses now, I’m sure they won’t mind.” He rolls them over so he’s between her tits, right at home. “‘M fine. Go t’ sleep.” She finally gets the memo and hums contentedly, fingers scratching at John’s scalp like he’s her cat. He loves it.

You wake up to the feeling of something scratching you. Your cat is so annoying.

“Bubbles…stop…” The feeling does stop, but as the fog slowly clears from your brain, you realize your cat is nowhere to be found. John’s beard is the culprit, wet with…spit? He’s pulled your shirt up and from the look of it, has been laving at your tits for a while now. “You mistake me for the cat, sweetheart?” You bite back a smile, shaking your head. “Was dreaming. Please, don’t stop on my account.”

Now that you’re awake, John can start giving you the full treatment. He sucks on one nipple, a callused hand squeezes it like he’s trying to get milk out. Your hips move of their own according, bucking against his hairy chest. The pain feels delicious as he bites and sucks. Your hand threads through his hair, grasping on strands for something to hold. He switches to your other nipple but keeps his hand on your tit, pinching one while sucking another. He’s so loud about it, wet and messy in a way that makes you want to hide your face. Your hips fight gravity as they move, the hair on his chest providing friction as you move up and down. You could come like this.

“John.” He gets the memo, his unoccupied hand gripping your waist and helping you grind against him. “Gonna come, baby?” It’s like a spark to your core, the coil inside you growing exponentially with every grind. He’s leaving marks that might bruise, every bite lighting your nerves on fire. Your cunt is sopping, legs straining with the effort of maintaining your grind. Removing his mouth, he pinches both of your nipples at the same time, the effect of it bringing your right to the edge.

“Ya like that? Cunny’s all messy, baby.” You can only nod at his words. It’s desperation, your shirt hiked up to your chin, tits shiny with spit, cunt seeping. His beard is soaked, the hair on his chest matting with your slick. Both hands move your hips against his belly and he bites a nipple at the same time, the action sending you over the edge with a whine. Your empty cunt flutters against him, clit puffy from the friction of his hair. “Fuck, John.” He captures your lips in a sloppy kiss, eating your face as you come down from the orgasm.

John drops your hips, letting your cunt envelop his cock, still in his boxers. You whine at the pressure, a pitiful noise. “Lemme eat then come on you, yeah?” You nod vigorously and he chuckles at the sight.

He licks you from ass to clit, smiling when you jump at the overstimulation. Your body is on the edge of orgasm, an almost continuation of the first. John eats sloppily, tounging the bud of your clit then flattening his tongue over the whole of it. He nearly drags you off the bed so he can be on his knees on the floor, tugging out his cock with one hand while he holds you steady with the other. That hand holding you steady grips the inside of your thigh, his thumb dangerously close to somewhere else. He prods at it, looking at you for confirmation. You nod tentatively and he slides a bit of his thumb in, giving your clit a good suck at the same time. There’s so much pressure and despite being empty you feel full, like you’re about to explode. John won’t shut up, speaking in between occupying his mouth.

“Y’r so trusting, pet.”

“Bet you were lonely without me.”

“Jus’ one more, yeah? Then I’ll let you sleep.”

You nod at the last one, feeling on edge. He slides his thumb in to the first knuckle, keeping the same pressure on your clit, and you lose it, walls spasming at his touch. Your second orgasm washes over you, your body flopping against the bed as the coil releases. John crouches up with his thumb still in you. His cock is hard and glistening in his hand, the sheen of precum all over it. You tug your shirt up from where it’s fallen and he smirks, his beard making it more pronounced.

“That’s a good girl. Good pet f’ me.” His cum is thick and creamy, landing on your sore tits as his thumb slips out, the pressure finally releasing. “Jesus, John.” You're soaked in sweat and cum and slick, courtesy of the man in front of you. He leaves and quickly comes back with a warm washcloth, wiping down your body, then his own. “We can shower later.” You nod, making space for him in the bed. You’re both sweating anyways, so he tugs off the comforter so it’s just you and the fitted sheet.

“You did so good.” He murmurs as you tuck yourself into him. “I like this boyfriend treatment.” You whisper back. He kisses your forehead softly. “Good, ‘cause yer stuck with me.” You kiss his pec, then snuggle in for a few more hours. John holds you until you’re asleep, then quietly slips out and takes a quick shower. The sight of you in his bed almost makes him stay, but there’s someone he needs to talk to.

“Ye here to discharge me?” Soap’s all bravado, but it’s hard to sound intimidating in a hospital gown. John lets him have it, picking his way through the room to sit in the chair near Soap’s bed. “‘m not apologizin’.” Soap mutters. John huffs out a laugh. “Didn’t ‘pect you to, Soap. Glad you’re doin’ better.”

Severe dehydration. Not starved, but close to it. Bruising on wrists and ankles, likely from cuffs. One bruised rib. That’s what the doctor said before he walked in. Simon got the same treatment and he’s resting in the room over, Kyle keeping him company. The outcome is better than he expected, to be honest. Most captors would love to give Soap a beating for every quip, but John suspects being near Simon calmed him down. Another thing he has to thank the Lieutenant for.

The room is silent. There’s only one thing to be said.

“She’s the best thing that’s ever happened t’ me.” Soap doesn’t answer, focusing his gaze on the door. “We met the night ‘fore she came to base. Would’ve seen her again no matter what. Yer sister or not.” Soap blinks and John takes that as a sign to go ahead.

“I know y’ve got a special connection. ‘M not here to break it. ‘M askin’ for the chance t’ love her too.” John laughs to himself. “Well, not really askin’, Johnny. But you an’ I have got a life bond too and I’m tryin’ to respect it.” It’s the first time John’s ever called him Johnny. Obviously, being around his girl is starting to affect him.

“Ye love her?” Johnny’s voice is gravelly, not at its usual level of honey-coated confidence. “I do.” Johnny gives a nod of approval, a minuscule dip of his head. “Christ, ah tried hookin’ her up with Gaz.” His captain frowns. “So Kyle’s good ‘nough but not me?” Finally, Johnny locks eyes with him. “Gaz wouldn’t break ‘er heart. Ye would.” John gives him a sour smile. “She rejected me right before I left to find you, actually. She’s been sayin’ we couldn’t date for months an’ I’ve had a ring in my drawer the whole time.”

Johnny groans. He tries to cover his eyes but he’s still hooked up to the IV. “Can’t believe you’ll be my brother-in-law, Cap. Yer so old.” John scoffs. “Could hook Gaz up with y’r cousin an’ we’ll all be related.” That’s what breaks the ice. Both of the men laugh and John reaches over to squeeze Johnny’s shoulder. “That’s the only punch I’ll ever let you have, Soap. Keep that in mind next time you have a twin squabble.”

Johnny’s brows furrow at the mention of his twin. “I need t’ talk to the lass.” John squeezes his shoulder one more time, then stands up. “I’ll find ‘er for you.”

It’ll be the most important conversation of their lives.

We got john pov! I hope the switches between John and Johnny weren’t too confusing lol.

Just one chapter left…thank u guys for all the kind comments it means the most <3

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spencereidluver · 10 days ago

Text

X is for X-rated

june 09, 2009

summary: The case is finally over. The team’s staying one more night before heading home, and for the first time in what feels like forever, you and Spencer have a room—and a bed—to yourselves.

word count: 850

warnings: smut, sub!Spencer, mutual praise kink, riding, overstimulation, begging, soft domination, intense emotional intimacy, established relationship, unprotected sex

The lock clicked softly behind you, the heavy hotel door closing out the hallway’s noise. For the first time in days, you exhaled fully, no gunshots, no shouting, no sirens. Just dim light, clean sheets, and a small corner of quiet.

Spencer didn’t speak. He dropped his satchel by the dresser, turned to look at you, and just… stared. Not in a distant, head-somewhere-else way. In a way that said he’d been holding it in since the second the case ended. You could see it on him. The tension, the restraint, the barely held-back need.

“You okay?” you asked softly, stepping out of your shoes.

“I missed you,” he murmured.

You raised a brow. “Spence, we were in the same building all week.”

“Exactly.” His voice cracked a little. “We were in the same building. Same SUV. Same crime scenes. I could see you, but I couldn’t have you.”

Your heart stuttered at the rawness in his voice. “Come here,” you said gently.

He did. His hands went to your hips immediately, gripping tight but not pulling. Like he needed the contact but didn’t trust himself not to press too hard.

You reached up and cradled his face. “Tell me what you need.”

He swallowed. “You. All of you. But slow. Please.”

The way he asked was so soft, so sincere. You kissed him. Not hard. Not rough. Just deep and patient and anchoring. Spencer melted into it. He always did.

You tugged him toward the bed, and he let you guide him like it was the most natural thing in the world. When his knees hit the mattress, he looked up at you like you were something holy.

“You want to be good for me tonight?” you whispered, hands slipping beneath his shirt.

“Yes,” he said instantly. “Please.”

You smiled. “Then strip and get on the bed.”

He did. Slowly, carefully, folding his shirt, toeing off his shoes, slipping off his pants and boxers with shaking hands. He climbed back onto the bed, sitting against the headboard like a picture of need.

You took your time undressing. His eyes followed every movement, lower lip caught between his teeth, hands gripping the sheets as he watched you reveal more and more of yourself.

“You look a mess already,” you teased softly, crawling up to straddle him. “You okay, baby?”

“I’m… overwhelmed,” he admitted, cheeks flushed. “But in a good way.”

You cupped his face and kissed him again, rocking your hips slowly against his. He was hard and already leaking against your thigh.

“Sensitive tonight?”

“I’ve been hard since the way back to the hotel.”

You chuckled, pleased, and kissed his throat. “Poor thing,” you murmured. “You’ve been such a good boy.”

Spencer whimpered.

You kissed your way down his chest, stopping to suck marks into his skin. He arched beneath you, trembling already.

“You’re perfect for me,” you whispered. “So beautiful.”

His hands fisted the sheets. “Please. Touch me.”

“Not yet.”

You traced your fingers down his stomach, stopping just above where he needed you most.

“You want to cum already, don’t you?”

“Yes,” he gasped. “So bad. Please let me—”

You cut him off by licking a long stripe up the underside of his cock before swallowing him down.

Spencer cried out, one arm flinging over his eyes like he couldn’t handle it.

“Fuck—thank you—God, I love your mouth—”

You moaned around him, and he bucked involuntarily.

“Don’t come,” you said as you pulled off, your voice calm but firm. “Not yet.”

His entire body shook. “I-I’ll try. I’ll be good.”

You straddled him again and kissed him breathless. “You are good. The best. My sweet, boy.”

He nodded, dazed. You didn’t even tease him further. He’d waited long enough.

You reached between your legs and guided him inside you slowly, sinking down inch by inch until he was fully seated in you, trembling like a leaf.

“Oh my God,” he choked. “You feel so good. I’m not gonna last.”

“That’s okay,” you whispered, starting to move. “Just let me have you.”

Every roll of your hips drew a new sound from his throat. He clung to your waist like he’d fall apart without it.

“You’re doing so well,” you praised.

“I love you,” he breathed. “So much. You feel so so good.”

You kissed him, letting his words sink into your chest like honey.

“Please—I need to.”

“You can cum, baby,” you whispered. “Cum for me.”

Spencer cried out and spilled inside you, his entire body shaking with the release. The moment he did, the pulsing of his cock, the desperation in his voice, you could tell he needed this.

You stayed like that, trembling and tangled, for a long while.

Eventually, you eased off of him, cleaned up quietly, then returned to bed and wrapped your arms around him. He curled into you immediately, face tucked into your chest, his hand tangled in yours.

“You okay?” you whispered.

“I feel…” He paused, “like I finally exhaled.”

You kissed his forehead. “That’s the point, sweetheart.”

“I love when you take control,” he mumbled.

“I know you do.”

“I love you.”

You smiled and squeezed his hand. “I love you.”

_____

next chapter: Y is for You (Spencer's POV)

other parts: Spencer Reid A-Z Masterlist

view the masterlist in a calendar version!

_____

a/n: I was originally gonna make this a more agressive scene, however I felt like we needed some soft needy spencer

_____

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monicfever · 1 month ago

Note

how do u think ben poindexter would act as a partner of a reader with mental problems? (it can be any type, depression, bpd, ocd) Do you think the relationship would be too chaotic considering that normally the reader is his "anchor" and not the other way around?

ben poindexter with a partner who struggles with mental health. 𝜗𝜚 headcanon’s

r e q u e s t e d ♡

includes ᝰ .ᐟ depressed!reader ,, anxiety!reader ,, anger issues!reader ,, ocd!reader ,, bpd!reader ,, bipolar!reader ,, psychopathic!reader ,, did!reader ,, adhd!reader

⏜︵ DEPRESSION . 𐂯

at first, he doesn't get it — but he feels it.

dex is someone who thrives on structure, discipline, and clarity. depression doesn’t fit into that mold, so at first he might react with frustration or confusion. he won’t understand why you can’t get out of bed or respond to messages, but he feels something’s wrong — and it stirs this deep, primal panic in him. he doesn’t like things he can’t fix.

hypervigilance kicks in hard. he starts watching you closely. if you’re sleeping more, eating less, avoiding eye contact — he notices every shift. it’s not even intentional at first, his brain is just wired that way. but eventually it becomes obsessive. he might track your routine without realizing it's intrusive. he just wants to understand how to help.

he becomes weirdly tender. ben is used to people leaving. the thought of losing you, especially when you're already emotionally distant, triggers all his abandonment issues. so suddenly he's doing small things — cleaning the apartment, bringing you your favourite things, sitting silently beside you.

he’s not great at boundaries. if you're pushing him away during depressive episodes he doesn’t always respect that space. he thinks “giving up” is betrayal — because that’s what was done to him, so he’ll push back. he might force interaction ("you need to eat something") thinking he’s helping, when really he’s not reading the room.

the guilt eats him alive. when he does snap (because let’s be real, he’s not emotionally consistent), he regrets it almost instantly. he’s not emotionally equipped to handle the weight of his trauma plus yours, and that makes him feel like a failure. it cycles into self-hatred: why can't I be what they need?

quiet protector mode. he becomes obsessed with shielding you from things that could “make it worse.” he’ll walk on eggshells around you when he thinks you’re fragile. if someone at work talks badly about you? they’re getting a very polite, very terrifying conversation in a back alley. he might not say "i love you" often but he'll absolutely threaten your ex behind the scenes.

tries to become your "routine." his brain thrives on predictability, so he tries to be yours. he brings coffee at the same time. texts you reminders. suggests daily walks, just five minutes. he’s not always gentle, but he’s steady in his own way.

there are days you can’t shower, can’t talk, can’t stop crying. you half expect him to walk out, slam the door, say this is too much. but he doesn’t. he sits on the floor beside the bed, back against the wall, eyes on the ceiling. you’re not a burden, he says once, so quietly you almost miss it.

he’s not the best at emotional language. he fumbles with words like “hope” or “healing.” but he’ll run a thumb over your knuckles when your hands are shaking. he’ll wrap you in his jacket when you won’t stop shivering. sometimes, when he’s sure you're asleep, he’ll whisper things like i need you to stay.

he takes your symptoms personally sometimes. he’s not perfect. if you ignore his texts, cancel plans too many times, part of him spirals — they don’t want me anymore. it’s not fair, but it’s real. he needs reassurance almost as badly as you do. when you’re both struggling at once, it can get stormy fast.

he doesn’t try to fix you. not once does he say just be happy. instead, he asks what do you need right now? even if the answer is nothing. even if it’s silence. he stops trying to “cure” your sadness and starts just existing with it. with you.

would it be chaotic? yes. very. especially if you’re the one who usually grounds him. the imbalance can create friction, confusion, emotional dysregulation on both sides. but dex craves connection, even when he’s awful at it. if anything your depression might force him to slow down, listen, and care in a way he’s never had to before.

⏜︵ ANXIETY. 𐂯

he doesn’t flinch at panic.

your hands start to shake. your breath shortens. maybe your chest is tight, and your brain's telling you the world is about to end. ben doesn’t panic with you. he doesn’t say calm down. he just kneels in front of you, steady eyes, quiet voice. you’re okay. i’ve got you.

he becomes your external voice of reason. doesn’t dismiss your spirals — but he challenges them. no, they’re not mad at you. you didn’t mess it up. you’re not a failure. he says it like it’s fact, because in his eyes, it is. when your brain lies to you, he’s the wall it can’t push through.

he knows routine calms you. he sticks to rituals. texting you good morning. calling at the same time every night. keeping your favourite tea stocked. it’s not that he’s overly romantic — he just understands that consistency is comfort. he’ll give you that stability with military precision.

crowds? overstimulation? he handles it.

big, chaotic spaces stress you out? he’ll put himself between you and the crowd without you asking. hand on your back. eyes scanning constantly. it’s second nature to him. he doesn’t just keep you safe — he makes you feel safe.

sometimes he forgets how intense he can seem. his tone gets sharp. his jaw clenches when he’s trying to be patient. sometimes that accidentally triggers your anxiety. when it happens, he pulls back fast.

he talks you down with brutal honesty. if you're catastrophizing, he'll look you dead in the eye and say, that's not going to happen. not to be dismissive — but because he needs you to feel grounded. sometimes it works. sometimes it doesn’t. but you always believe that he believes it.

he memorizes your cues. fidgeting, pacing, biting your nails, avoiding eye contact — he notices all of it. he doesn’t make a big deal out of it, but if he sees you spiraling, he’ll distract you fast. a question. a joke. a hand on your thigh. anything to stop the freefall.

your emotions don’t scare him. not when they’re loud, messy or irrational. he’s lived with his own intensity his whole life — he understands what it’s like to feel too much, too fast.

you apologize for everything. for “ruining” things. for “needing too much.” it hits him hard every time. don’t say that, he says, voice tight.

grounding you becomes instinct. he doesn’t even think about it anymore. when you're shaking, he grabs your hand. when you start zoning out, he says your name. when you forget how to breathe, he mirrors his breath with yours. it’s like muscle memory — his way of pulling you back to earth.

⏜︵ OCD. 𐂯

he recognizes it instantly.

before you even tell him, he knows. the checking, the tapping, the washing, the mental loops — it’s all painfully familiar. he doesn’t look at you like you’re weird. he looks at you like, shit. you too?

when you confess your rituals — the embarrassing ones, the intrusive thoughts. you expect disgust. or at least confusion. instead, he just nods.

sometimes your compulsions trigger his and vice versa. you need things clean, he needs things exactly placed. you wash your hands too much, he lines up the soap bottles by size. one of you starts, and the other spirals. it can get tense. sometimes you end up snapping at each other.

he doesn’t try to fix you but he does monitor you. he clocks every behavior shift. every time you do a compulsion more than usual. he won’t call you out right away, but later, when you’re both quiet, he’ll say i noticed you checked the lock nine times instead of five. not judgmental — just observant. it’s his way of keeping you safe. of loving you in his own controlled way.

you share intrusive thoughts. sometimes, in the dark, you tell him the things your brain says. the violent flashes. the terrifying urges. things you’ve never told anyone because you thought they made you dangerous. but ben? just says, i have them too.

hyperfixation nights. you both get caught in loops, cleaning, organizing, researching some obscure fact for hours. sometimes you’re side by side on the floor at 2am, surrounded by half-sorted junk, too deep in it to stop. you don’t talk. you don’t have to. there’s a strange comfort in the mutual obsession.

he’s gentle with your rituals — to a point. he’ll flip the light switch six times if it calms you. he’ll check the stove, touch the doorknob, run through the “safety” list with you before bed.

meltdown territory is dangerous. if you’re both overwhelmed at the same time it can get bad. yelling. pacing. doors slammed. not because you’re mad at each other, but because your brains are both screaming for control.

you yell. over nothing. over a shirt being out of place, over a phrase that felt “wrong,” over rituals that weren’t “done right.” he yells back. both of you so desperate to maintain control in the only space you feel safe.

when you spiral, he mirrors — and it kills him. you start pacing. your brain floods. he feels it like static under his skin. he doesn’t know how to help, so he does what he knows: control. “you need to sit down.” / “do the thing again, it’ll feel better.”

sometimes he feeds into the loop without meaning to — trying to soothe you, even when it reinforces the compulsion.

⏜︵ BPD. 𐂯

lovebombing is the default setting. he doesn’t fall in love slowly, neither do you. it’s intense. it’s fast. texting 24/7. staying up all night. he says things like i think i need you to breathe. you believe him. you build an entire future in your heads before the first fight even happens.

then — the splitting. he says something wrong. he looks at you weird. you don’t answer a message fast enough. suddenly, you hate him. he’s cold. distant. cruel. but at the same time? you’re sobbing. checking your phone. hoping he texts.

he's the same. one second: you're perfect. next: you're just like everyone else who left. it's a war. every day. between i can’t lose you and you’ve already destroyed me.

the abandonment fear rules everything. didn’t text back in 10 minutes? you spiral. he goes quiet for a day? you’re convinced he’s done with you. but when you pull away, even slightly? he’s showing up at your door, eyes bloodshot, voice shaking.

fights escalate fast. it starts small — a tone, a word. then suddenly you’re screaming. throwing things. saying things you don’t mean but feel in that moment. he yells back. sometimes punches walls. sometimes storms out. neither of you can stay gone.

impulsive affection. tattoos. gifts. kissing him mid-argument. climbing into his lap after saying you hated him. he matches it. hand gripping your jaw like he can’t decide whether to kiss you or strangle you.

you both need constant reassurance. “do you love me?” / “are you mad at me?” / “are you gonna leave?” he asks as much as you do. maybe more.

you trigger each other constantly. you both fear rejection. both fear being “too much.” sometimes you self-destruct first — just to beat him to it. he does the same thing. it’s exhausting.

the threat of leaving hangs over everything. “maybe you’d be better off without me.” / “i’m just gonna ruin you.” you both say it. neither of you go.

even when you’re halfway out the door. even when your bags are packed. something always pulls you back — a shaky voicemail. a familiar song. or just the unbearable silence that feels like dying.

the mood shifts are violent. he kisses your forehead and tells you you’re perfect — then suddenly he’s pacing, snapping, calling you clingy.

you both test each other all the time. ignoring texts just to see if he’ll double message, picking a fight just to feel close again. threatening to leave, not because you want to — but because you need him to say “don’t.” and he does the same. “go then.”

you spiral at the same time. when you’re upset, he’s upset. when he’s triggered, you are too. there’s no one to pull the other out — just two people drowning in each other’s panic. he says “why do you always do this?”you scream “why don’t you care enough?”

you call him cold. manipulative. broken. he tells you you’re crazy. too much. impossible. and then you’re both sobbing, curled up in the hallway, whispering “i didn’t mean it.”

jealousy is brutal. he looks at someone too long — you’re spiraling. you talk to someone else — he shuts down completely. neither of you know how to handle the fear of being replaced.

silence is a weapon — and a punishment. when he shuts down, it feels like abandonment. when you go quiet, it’s because you want him to beg you to stay. neither of you know how to ask for love directly, so you withhold it.

you destroy each other and then bandage the wounds.

⏜︵ BIPOLAR. 𐂯

he lives for your manic highs.

when you’re manic, you’re everything he craves — fast, fearless, chaotic, alive. you talk a mile a minute. you touch him constantly. you pull him into ideas, into danger, into motion. he’s addicted to it.

follows you everywhere like a shadow, wild-eyed, smiling like this is what love’s supposed to feel like. you make him feel chosen. he forgets you’re burning out until the crash hits.

the lows devastate him. when the mania fades, and you’re quiet, distant, numb — he doesn’t know what to do. he takes it personally even when he shouldn’t.

you stop laughing at his jokes, and he thinks they don’t love me anymore. you sleep all day, and he thinks i broke them. he doesn’t mean to make it about himself — he’s just scared. he’s never good at stillness.

starts tracking your patterns. notices when your speech speeds up, when you don’t sleep, when your ideas start getting bigger and riskier.

he notices when you go flat. start pulling away. lose your appetite. he won’t always say something, but he’s watching. when he does speak up, it’s never “are you okay?” it’s “you’re going fast again. is it time to slow down?”

sometimes you love him for it. sometimes you hate him for it. he always takes the blow.

when you're manic, he tries to keep up — but he gets lost in you. you start a hundred projects. rearrange furniture at 2am. plan road trips you’ll never take. he says yes to all of it. not because he agrees — because he wants to ride the wave with you. you’re radiant. unstoppable.

but deep down, he’s waiting for the moment it turns. and when it does, he breaks with you.

he struggles with your depression. doesn't understand how you go from lighting up a room to barely getting out of bed. he wants to help. he needs to help. but he doesn’t know how. brings coffee. puts on your favourite movie. sits at the edge of the bed and quietly says, “you were laughing last monday. i miss that.” it’s not a guilt trip. it’s a confession.

you spend too much money. say the wrong thing to the wrong person. disappear for hours without answering. it freaks him out. not because he doesn’t understand — because he does. he’s impulsive too. he’s self-destructive. he knows what it’s like to lose control. when you spiral it scares the hell out of him.

he loves your fire — but fears your collapse. when you’re loud, wild, electric — he worships it. when you’re low, unreachable, quiet — he feels helpless. the duality confuses him. hurts him.

he's bad at stability but he's loyal, he’ll never be the calm, steady type who knows exactly what to say. but he won’t leave. not when you cry. not when you break. he’ll stay in the mess. in the flatline.

the moment you start rising again? he’ll be the first one to hold your face and whisper, “there you are.”

sometimes your mania and his instability clash — hard. you’re too fast. he’s too reactive. you say something impulsive. he takes it as rejection. he lashes out. you spiral harder. fights get nuclear. you both say things you regret.

the manic episodes sometimes turns on both of you. he’s always in love with it at first. your energy is infectious. you’re glowing. talking fast, touching him constantly, laughing in that way that makes him feel like the only person alive. you pull him into impulsive ideas — road trips, tattoos, new furniture, wild sex, quitting your job. at first? he’s high on you.

but then you stop sleeping. you stop eating. you snap at him for “slowing you down.” you disappear for hours, come back wired and shaking. he tries to intervene — gently at first. “baby, you haven’t stopped in two days.”

you scream at him. accuse him of controlling you. “you’re scaring me.” he whispers, and you laugh. then the crash hits. you cry for hours, inconsolable, paranoid, terrified.

the depressive episode where you push him out. you haven’t moved from bed in two days. he brings you water. you don’t drink it. he tries to touch you — you flinch. your eyes are hollow. voice flat. you say things like “you should leave. i’m not good for you.” it rips him apart. you try to be cruel — not because you mean it, but because you want to test the bond. his hands shake. his voice cracks. he stays. sits on the floor by your bed. you fall asleep with your hand in his hair, barely holding on. he holds back twice as hard.

you try to leave during manic spirals. pack a bag in the middle of the night, tell him you’re going to “start over.” he panics. full-on panic mode. “don’t do this. you don’t know what you’re doing right now.” you’re wild-eyed, stubborn, glowing like fire. “i’m fine. i’ve never felt better.” he knows it’s not true — the fire is burning too hot. you’re not sleeping. not thinking straight. not safe. he tries to grab your hand and you rip away. “you’re trying to control me. you’re just like everyone else.” he lets you go. but not far. he tracks your location. texts every hour. waits for the moment you crash. hopes for it to be soon.

⏜︵ PSYCHOPATHIC. 𐂯

at first, ben doesn’t realize. he’s completely pulled in by your intensity, your control, the way you look at the world like you’ve already figured it out. he mistakes it for strength.

but slowly, the edges start to show. the way you fake empathy like it’s a language you learned, not something you feel. how you manipulate people with surgical precision just to see what happens. it both unnerves and fascinates him—like watching someone dissect a soul with a smile.

if you’re violent, it does something to him. he’s terrified and completely obsessed. you don’t lash out like him — you hurt people on purpose, with a clear head. you don’t spiral, you choose.

you’re not his anchor in the traditional sense. you don’t ground him — you pull him further. not with softness, but with gravity. you become his obsession, not his comfort. he craves your attention like it’s oxygen, even when he knows it might kill him.

arguments aren’t loud. they’re cold, calculated, full of psychological traps. you know how to cut deep without raising your voice. when he loses control, you don’t flinch. you just watch, and it drives him mad — because you’re not afraid of him, not moved by him. he needs to matter to you.

if you threatened to leave or humiliate him, he could absolutely snap. he might hurt you — not because he wants to, but because his emotions run so violently high he can’t stop them. when it’s over he’ll break down in front of you, begging, bleeding, apologizing like a child caught in a nightmare.

your lack of emotional response becomes addicting to him. you’re the only one who doesn’t recoil when he shows his worst. you don’t comfort him, but you don’t abandon him either. you stay. and in his mind, that’s love, even if it’s not.

if you manipulate him, he lets you. he wants so badly to be important to you that he’ll twist himself into whatever shape you want. kill for you. lie for you. destroy himself and everyone else if it means you’ll keep looking at him like that.

ben doesn’t know how to love in a healthy way, and you don’t love in the traditional sense at all — so what you have isn’t so much a relationship as it is a collision. you don’t comfort him, you study him. he mistakes that focus for affection.

when you compliment him, it’s rare — but when you do, it’s calculated. it hits him like a drug. he spirals, obsessed with earning another one. he starts doing things not because they’re right, but because he thinks it’ll make you look at him the way you did that one time.

you encourage the worst in him — not with words, but with your presence. you never tell him not to hurt someone. you just let him make that choice. and when he does, you don’t flinch. you clean the blood off his hands like it’s nothing. and he falls harder.

ben’s jealousy is absolutely feral when it comes to you. he knows you don’t feel attachment the same way he does, and it kills him. every interaction you have with someone else, no matter how meaningless, twists something deep in his chest. he wants to be your one exception — the one person who means something to you.

he constantly tries to pull real emotions out of you. he wants to see you feel something, anything for him. he pushes buttons, breaks things, starts fights — just to provoke some proof that he matters. and if you so much as raise your voice or look a little too long? he clings to that moment like it's sacred.

when he’s spiraling, you don’t try to calm him. you just watch. sometimes that makes him worse — there’s no comfort, no softness, just those cold eyes and that quiet mind. other times it grounds him. you don’t lie. you don’t pretend to care. you just are. and that’s more honest than anything he’s ever had.

he fantasizes about being the only one who truly gets you. the one person you’d kill for, spare for, stay for. he clings to any sign that he’s different to you — more than a pawn, more than a means to an end. he’s desperate to matter.

⏜︵ D.I.D. 𐂯

at first he’s confused. he’s never known anyone with did. he doesn’t understand how one body can hold more than one person, and it messes with his sense of control. he doesn’t like not knowing who he’s waking up next to — at least in the beginning.

but he’s also weirdly respectful. once he realizes the alters are real people, not just “parts,” he starts remembering names, patterns, even small preferences. he’ll write down what snacks each alter likes, what topics to avoid, what calms them down. he treats each one with a kind of soldier-level precision. like, “okay, this is your protocol. i’ve got it.”

he actually feels safer once he gets used to them. he’s so used to his mind being a minefield, and now he’s with someone who’s honest about the chaos. he likes that. he likes that nothing’s hidden, even if it’s messy. he doesn’t have to pretend to be normal around them, because they get it.

he totally has favourites but lies about it. he'll act like he doesn't, but the way he lights up when a certain alter fronts? obvious.

if you have them he's intensely protective of the littles. he doesn’t care how old the body is — if a young alter fronts, he’s instantly softer. he’ll crouch down, lower his voice, offer his jacket if they’re cold. if anyone dares to look at them weird in public, he goes full murder-eyes.

arguments can get intense. especially if an alter doesn’t trust him, or if someone fronts who isn’t aware of his darker side. there might be yelling, slamming doors, confusion. but ben hates leaving things unresolved. he’ll sit outside their door for hours, forehead pressed to the wood, talking through it.

sometimes he does spiral. especially if he thinks he’s hurting them. and that’s the part where it gets complicated — because they’re usually his anchor, his reason to stay human. and when he sees them struggling he doesn’t know how to help. he panics.

it becomes a give and take. sometimes he grounds them. sometimes they ground him.

you prank him sometimes. switch mid-convo and pretend you don't know who he is. act like it’s the first time you’re meeting. he falls for it once, never again. but he plays along anyway. “oh, hey, i’m ben. i kill people for the government. wanna get lunch?”

sometimes, after a bad day, he’ll crawl into bed, wrap himself around you, and whisper, “don’t care who you are right now. just need you. s’that okay?”

⏜︵ ANGER ISSUES. 𐂯

okay first of all, dex is into it. not in a weird fetish-y way, but he’s drawn to fire. always has been. so when you snap? raise your voice? throw something across the room because you feel too much and can’t hold it in? he doesn’t flinch. he relates.

sometimes it’s explosive. you scream, he screams back. neither of you back down. neighbours hate you. walls have been punched. vases broken.

he doesn’t try to “fix” you. that’s important. ben knows what it’s like to be treated like a problem. so when you’re angry, he lets you be. sits with you through the fire. sometimes you’re pacing, yelling, cussing out the world — and he’s just there. arms crossed.

when he’s angry, you’re the only one who can talk him down. you just mirror his fire. you don’t try to quiet him, you match him. “you wanna break something? cool. let’s go smash plates in the backyard.” and you do. and it’s cathartic. you scream together until your voices crack.

but then there are soft moments too. you’ll lash out at the world, storm into the bedroom, slam the door — and he knocks gently before coming in anyway. he’s holding your favourite hoodie. or snacks. or just his stupid face. “done? or you wanna go another round?”

he keeps your triggers memorized like a hit list. people who talk down to you? gone. someone makes a snide comment in public and you start to boil? his hand’s already on the small of your back. grounding. “not worth it, baby. let’s go.” he deals with it later.

there’s this comfort in knowing you’re both made of sharp edges. he’ll cup your face after a rough episode, look you dead in the eye, and say, “you’re not crazy. you’re just loud. i like loud.”

if you feel guilty afterward he doesn’t let you spiral. “you think i love you less because you lost it for a minute? get over yourself.” (and then he holds you like the world’s ending.)

you don’t want to hurt him — but sometimes it happens before you can stop it. something small goes wrong, you’re already on edge, and dex says one wrong thing? you explode. words sharp enough to cut, your tone goes nuclear. the second it’s out you hate yourself for it.

dex goes stone cold silent. still. unreadable. it’s the same expression he wears right before he kills someone. and that scares the hell out of you. not because you think he’ll hurt you — but because you know what it means when he shuts down. he doesn't raise his voice back — at first. he just stands there, lets you say what you’re gonna say, and waits. sometimes you storm out. sometimes you break down crying two seconds later. sometimes you both just sit in the wreckage for a while.

when he finally does speak, it’s low and controlled. “you can be mad at the world, but don’t take that shit out on me.” he’s right. and that kills you.

if you snap at him specifically too many times he’ll encourage therapy. not in a pushy, judgmental way — just, “you need help for this. we both do. i’ll go with you if you want.” and sometimes he does. sits in the waiting room with his legs bouncing and a death grip on his phone, waiting to hear how it went.

unfortunately he’s not the best at not taking your words to heart sometimes, and your anger mixed with his bpd can push him into his own episodes.

⏜︵ ADHD. 𐂯

let’s be honest, you drive him kinda crazy. the clutter drives his ocd insane. you leave a cup out and he’s twitching. you abandon five different projects around the apartment and he’s pacing like he’s trying not to commit a crime.

silently starts cleaning. aggressively. like wiping down surfaces at 2am with murder in his eyes. "i'm not mad at you. i just need this fork to not be facing that way."

at first it causes friction. you feel judged, he feels overwhelmed. you don’t mean to be messy — it’s just how your brain works. and he doesn’t mean to be controlling — it’s how his brain survives. it takes a few fights, a lot of deep talks, and one shared therapist before you both find a rhythm.

eventually, he creates “safe zones.” like: “this drawer? chaos zone. do whatever you want in there. but the bathroom counter is sacred. do not mess with my system.” and you’re like, “deal. but i get one chair to pile my stuff on. non-negotiable.”

he builds you routines to help you function. not in a patronizing way — more like, i know how your brain forgets things. let me make it easier.

you stim with his hand. absentmindedly running your fingers over his knuckles or nails when you’re anxious. he pretends it annoys him, but if you stop, he’ll nudge you, “you good? keep doing the thing.”

whiteboards, timers, little checklists. he even sets your meds next to your phone so you can’t miss them. “you don’t need to say thank you. just take them.”

your impulsivity stresses him out but also fascinates him. you buy random shit on a whim, change plans last minute, jump into conversations without thinking. and ben’s like: “…you terrify me. but also i’ve never been bored since i met you.”

he gets flustered when you stim by fidgeting with his perfectly organized things. like twisting his pens, re-stacking his books, tapping your foot against his desk. he’ll groan, drag a hand down his face, and give you a fidget toy.

you learn to compromise too. you try harder to put stuff back where it belongs, especially the things he’s sensitive about. not because he makes you — because you love him, and you see how much it costs him to exist in disorder.

sometimes you have really hard days — executive dysfunction, sensory overload, total burnout. you end up on the floor in a pile of blankets and regret. dex lies down next to you. hands you a snack.

he’s never annoyed by your forgetfulness. just quietly compensates. always has your meds ready. always keeps water nearby. always says, “yes, i heard that story before. tell me again anyway.”

he becomes your executive function. you forget appointments, lose your keys, double-book your day? he’s already fixed it. didn’t even tell you. you’re like, “wait, wasn’t i supposed to—”and he stops you before you can finish. “handled it.” he doesn’t want credit. he just wants you to breathe.

your hyperfixations become his hobbies. you’re into puzzles this week? cool, he’s suddenly better at them than you and weirdly smug about it. laser-focused. you’re into baking? you catch him at 2am measuring flour like he’s assembling a rifle.

you help him too. when his rituals become obsessive, when he’s cleaning the counter for the fifth time in ten minutes and whispering under his breath — you come up behind him, gently take the rag from his hand and guide him to sit with you.

you make his world less sterile. it’s not all white walls and symmetrical furniture anymore. there’s colour. life. movement. and yeah, it’s messy. but so is love.

★ a / n : if anyone feels poorly represented lmk and i can take this down :)

started 4.24.2025. finished 4.24.2025.

( masterlist. )

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er1nne · 20 days ago

Text

dr robby helps you in a time of crisis ♡

author's note : throwback to when john carter needed help putting in a IV, more john carter specific fics to come! enjoy

(do not copy or plagiarize, original work)

The Pitt is wrecked.

Not in the literal, structural sense—but in that raw, unspoken way that lingers after everything goes wrong all at once. The adrenaline’s drained, but the chaos hasn’t cleared. It hangs in the air like smoke—thick, invisible, choking. Voices bounce down the corridor, overlapping—code calls, short tempers, the dull whir of overworked machines. Someone’s arguing about intubation two beds down. Someone else is crying, quietly, behind a curtain.

Your scrubs are streaked with blood and iodine—not yours. You don’t know whose anymore. You stopped keeping track two hours ago. The sleeves are damp, the collar stretched, and you can still feel the ghost of someone’s pulse under your fingertips from the last room you left.

You push into a curtained trauma bay, closing the partition behind you with a soft swish—just to shut the noise out for thirty seconds. The patient on the bed is sedated, intubated, and still. Chart says stable, but barely. You’ve been told to place a second IV. Routine. Simple.

But your hands are trembling.

You breathe in slow through your nose, eyes on the tray. Alcohol swab. IV needle. Tape. You know this. You’ve done it a hundred times. Your fingers twitch slightly as you glove up.

You’ve done this before. It’s fine.

You find the vein. Clean the site. Draw back.

Then hesitate.

Your angle’s off. You know it is. But your body won’t move right. The hum of The Pitt is still in your head, buzzing like static, and your chest feels just tight enough to throw you off.

“Too shallow.”

The voice cuts through the fog before you hear the curtain open.

You flinch—not from the words, but from the timing.

He says nothing else at first—just stands beside you, his presence like an anchor dropped in the middle of the storm. Steady. Centered. The air around him seems quieter somehow, like the chaos of The Pitt can’t quite touch him here. Like it doesn’t dare.

You swallow hard. Your fingers twitch on the catheter, your grip not as solid as it should be. The room feels too warm and too cold all at once, the hum of the vitals monitor sinking into the ringing in your ears.

“I’ve got it,” you manage, voice stiff, barely hiding the shake. Not defensive—just too tired to pretend. You don’t even believe yourself.

“I know.”

He says it like fact. No judgment. No pressure. Just something still, quiet, and sure. Like he does know. Like he’s seen it before.

He steps closer—not crowding, not performing. Just there. And somehow, that’s more grounding than if he’d grabbed the needle himself.

His hand lifts, slow and precise, and his fingers brush the back of your wrist. Barely a touch. Just enough contact to steady the axis of your grip.

“Anchor deeper,” he says quietly. “Let the vein come to you.”

You blink, nod, reposition. Your body listens to him faster than your mind can keep up.

The needle slides in—clean. Smooth. Blood return.

You exhale like you’ve been underwater. Your shoulders ease down from where they’d been locked near your ears. You press the tape over the IV, gentle now, almost reverent with how deliberate your movements are. Like the whole thing could fall apart if you breathe too loud. You peel off your gloves slowly this time, not in frustration or embarrassment—but with care. Like you’re coming back into your body.

Robby doesn’t say told you so. He doesn’t step away. He just stays there. Standing beside you. Watching the monitor with that same unreadable calm—the kind of silence that doesn’t need to be filled.

You glance up at him, eyes flicking sideways.

“Thank you,” you say, softer now. Real.

“Good stick,” he says. Low. Almost too low to catch over the beeping monitor.

It lands soft—like a compliment passed between breaths. Like something he didn’t mean to say out loud, but did anyway.

Your chest eases. Not because of the words themselves, but because of the way he said them—steady, quiet, like he meant it. Like it was okay to take a moment and acknowledge something done right.

You glance at him, just long enough to check for judgment, critique—something. But it’s not there. He’s composed, calm. Just watching with the same quiet focus he brings to everything else. Not clinical exactly, but measured. Level. Like he sees you—not just the task.

You hesitate, pulse steady now but your throat tight. “Thank you, Dr. Robinavitch.”

The name hangs awkwardly in the air between you. Formal. Too formal. You know it the second you say it.

But he doesn’t correct you right away.

He just holds your gaze a second longer than necessary, head tilted slightly—like he’s deciding something.

Then, finally—voice low, deliberate, just above a whisper: “Robby is fine.”

You barely have time to process it before someone calls his name from outside the curtain—sharp, urgent.

He turns toward the voice, already moving, already slipping back into motion. But right before he pulls the curtain aside, he glances back at you with a tight lipped smile—quick, unreadable, and gone in a breath.

And just like that, he disappears down the hall. You let out the air you didn’t realize you were holding.

Just enough to breathe again. Just enough to feel yourself settle. Then you turn back to the patient—heart steady, hands quiet.

But the space beside you still feels occupied.

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evnseokz · 24 days ago

Text

{ ☆ pretty little mess - p.wb }

pairing: pathetic! wonbin x f. reader

contents: dacryphilia, oral (f), sub wonbin, dom reader, dirty talk, pet names baby, sweetheart, good boy, body worship

a.n: i’m ngl oomf said something ab wonbin being the type to be a crier and i haven’t stopped thinking about it since w.c: 1.3k

MINORS DNI

the room is quiet, thick with tension, except for the soft sound of his ragged breathing. wonbin kneels before you, naked from the waist up, trembling like a leaf. his dark hair falls in messy strands over his tear-streaked cheeks, and his eyes — god, those eyes — are wide, red-rimmed, and locked on you like you’re the only thing that matters.

and right now, you are.

his fingers twitch against his thighs, obedient but restless. you haven’t even touched him much, not really. just stood there above him, letting him sink deeper into his need for you with every second that passes. his lips part again like he wants to say something, but you wait — you watch — until he’s the one who finally breaks.

“please,” he whispers, voice hoarse. “i’ll be good. i’ll be so good. just let me—please, let me taste you.”

a sob catches in his throat, and he lowers his head again, forehead nearly brushing your thigh. his hands reach for you, then stop themselves just shy of contact, shaking with restraint. you grip his chin and make him look at you. firm, unyielding.

his lips tremble under your touch. his breath hitches like he’s seconds from falling apart completely.

“look at me when you beg, baby,” you say, tone low and controlled. “don’t hide from me.”

wonbin whimpers, tears slipping freely down his cheeks. there’s something devastatingly beautiful about how undone he looks like this — his face wet, his lashes clumped together, every bit of him yearning for your attention like it’s oxygen.

“i need you,” he breathes. “i want to worship you, i have to. i need your taste, your thighs, your hands in my hair, your voice—everything. i don’t care if you use me. i want you to. just… please. let me serve you.”

that desperate little crack in his voice when he says serve you sends a wicked pulse straight through you. you let your thumb drag along his lower lip, feel the way he leans into it like it’s the only comfort he’s known. he kisses it like it’s sacred.

and he means it. every word.

“you’re such a pretty little mess,” you murmur, running your hand through his hair and fisting it tight at the roots. he gasps, spine arching slightly from the pressure. “is this what you want? to cry for it? to beg until i let you have my cunt?”

he moans at the word like it hits somewhere deep inside him, hips twitching despite himself. he doesn’t dare move closer, doesn’t even dare breathe too heavily. he knows who’s in control.

“yes,” he breathes. “yes, please. i’ll do anything. i’ll take my time. i’ll be so gentle, or rough if you want. i can make you come over and over — i’ll never stop unless you tell me to. i’ll use my mouth like i was made for it.”

the raw, needy devotion in his voice makes your core ache. you step forward, between his knees, and he lets out a choked sound of anticipation. his hands hover like he’s aching to touch you but knows better than to do it without permission.

you undo your waistband slowly, eyes locked on his, and his lips part again, breath shallow and fast.

“take care of me, wonbin,” you say, voice dark with promise. “make yourself useful.”

he lets out a desperate, grateful moan, like he’s just been granted mercy. and when you guide his head where you want him, his hands slide reverently up your thighs, and he presses the softest, most worshipful kiss just above your heat.

then he gets to work — and it’s not just tongue and lips. it’s devotion. it’s prayer. it’s him pouring every ounce of need into each slow lick, each muffled moan against your skin, like he’s trying to memorize your taste, like he’s only ever truly alive when he’s on his knees for you.

you thread your fingers through his hair, anchoring him, and he whines into you like he wants to drown here.

wonbin’s mouth moves with worshipful precision, his tongue slow and purposeful, his nose brushing your skin with every desperate inhale. he’s whimpering softly into you, like the act of pleasing you is overwhelming him, like your taste is wrecking him from the inside out. his hands grip your thighs now, not to guide you — never to take control — but to anchor himself, to keep from floating away as he drowns in the act of serving you.

“good boy,” you murmur, voice silk-wrapped steel as you glance down at him, your fingers tight in his hair. “that’s it. keep going, just like that.”

the praise makes him moan, his hips involuntarily twitching where he kneels, cock hard and untouched. you’d forbidden him from touching himself earlier — he remembers. of course he remembers. he’d nodded like an obedient little pet, even as his cock throbbed painfully in his pants, and now, kneeling here, he’s paying for that mercy.

but he doesn’t complain. he never would. not when his mouth is full of you. not when you’re gripping his hair, pulling him closer, using his face for your pleasure like it’s the only thing he was ever meant for.

his tongue flicks in that perfect rhythm, pressure just right, angle perfect, and then he shifts — just slightly — like he knows your body better than his own. his mouth seals around your clit and he sucks, gently but insistently, with that soft, pathetic moan vibrating through you, and it sends a wave of heat tearing through your spine.

you gasp, fingers tightening, and he whines in return like he needs your pleasure more than air.

“fuck, wonbin,” you breathe, your thighs trembling, your legs nearly buckling. “you want to make me come, baby?”

he nods the best he can with your grip still in his hair, his eyes wide and frantic, lips still latched to your clit like he’ll die if you pull him away.

you grind down slightly on his face, and he takes it, loves it, his moans louder now, hands gripping your thighs harder, like he wants to bury himself so deep in your scent and your taste that he forgets where he ends and you begin.

the pressure builds fast. too fast. he’s relentless now — sloppy, reverent, starving — and your body arches against the oncoming wave, that perfect rhythm pushing you to the edge until you’re teetering there, your breath catching, your head thrown back.

“don’t you fucking stop,” you hiss, voice trembling, on the verge of unraveling. “you wanted to worship me? take it. make me come. now.” and he does.

he moans into you with such intense, raw desperation that it pushes you over. your orgasm slams through you in hot, rolling waves, thighs shaking as you cry out, your grip in his hair tightening as your hips rock against his face. he keeps going through it all, licking and sucking and serving, completely unbothered by the mess you’re making of him — loving it, soaking in it, devouring every second like it’s heaven.

you ride it out on his mouth, breathless and trembling, until the aftershocks make your thighs weak and your grip on him slacken.

wonbin finally pulls back, face soaked, lips swollen, tears still clinging to his lashes. he’s gasping, panting, absolutely ruined — and yet glowing in the afterglow of your pleasure. his cock is still untouched, straining in his pants, twitching with need.

but he says nothing. just stares up at you with that same pathetic, adoring expression.

“please…” he rasps, voice wrecked. “did i do good? can i—can i come now? please, i need it so bad.”

you smile slowly, brushing his wet, flushed cheek with your fingers.

“oh, sweetheart,” you purr. “who said we were done?”

...

#evnseokz #✫ quinn posts #riize hard hours #riize hard thoughts #riize headcanons #riize ff #riize scenarios #riize smut #riize x reader #wonbin headcannons #wonbin x reader #wonbin smut #park wonbin smut #wonbin imagines

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goldfades · 6 months ago

Note

Post loss joe fic?

here's a quick blurb for y'all because i've been busy!

The house is quiet, almost unnervingly so. The soft hum of the heater fills the silence, a faint backdrop to the occasional creak of the old floorboards beneath your feet. You glance at the clock on the wall—nearly midnight. Joe should’ve been home by now.

You try to keep busy, pacing between the kitchen and the living room, straightening things that don’t need straightening, checking your phone for the fiftieth time. It’s not like him to stay out this late after a game, win or lose. Usually, he comes straight home, his mood either buzzing with energy or subdued and thoughtful. But tonight, after that crushing loss, he hadn’t even texted to say he’d be late.

When the sound of the door unlocking finally breaks the silence, you let out a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding. Joe steps inside, his movements slow and deliberate, as though the weight of the game is still dragging him down. He doesn’t say anything at first, just shrugs off his jacket and tosses it over the back of the couch, his usual precision and neatness abandoned.

“Hey,” you say softly, not wanting to startle him. He glances up at you, and the look in his eyes stops you in your tracks. There’s exhaustion there, sure, but more than that—disappointment, frustration, and something heavier, something unspoken.

“Hey,” he replies, his voice hoarse, like he hasn’t spoken since the post-game interviews. He doesn’t head for the couch this time, though. Instead, he crosses the room in just a few long strides, and before you can say another word, his arms are around you.

The embrace is tight—almost crushing—but you don’t mind. His body is warm and solid against yours, the faint scent of sweat and cold air clinging to him from the night. He doesn’t say anything as he holds you, his chin resting against your shoulder, the weight of him leaning into you like he needs you to keep him grounded. You can feel the tension in his frame, the way his muscles stay taut as though he’s still bracing for impact, even now.

For a few seconds, the world seems to stand still. There’s no sound except the quiet rhythm of his breathing, uneven but slowly calming, and the faint ticking of the clock on the wall. His hands press against your back, one sliding up to curl around the nape of your neck, his fingers tangling gently in your hair as if to anchor himself to you. He says nothing, but the way he clings to you speaks louder than words—he’s hurting, and he’s letting himself lean on you in a way he rarely does.

You wrap your arms around him in return, one hand settling between his shoulder blades while the other strokes the back of his neck, your touch as soothing as you can make it. “I’ve got you,” you murmur softly, and you mean it, every word.

Joe pulls back just enough to look at you, his hands staying on your waist, fingers pressing into your sides like he’s afraid you might slip away if he lets go. His face is close to yours now, his blue eyes heavy with exhaustion and something deeper—frustration, disappointment, maybe even a little self-doubt.

“I’m sorry,” he says finally, his voice barely above a whisper. “I didn’t want to bring this home.”

Your brows knit together, and you shake your head gently, your hands coming up to frame his face. “Joe, stop. You don’t have to apologize for being upset. I’m here, okay? Whatever it is, we’ll handle it.”

He exhales deeply, the sound heavy and full of unspoken weight, before nodding almost imperceptibly. His gaze falls to your lips for a fleeting second before he looks away, closing his eyes and letting his forehead rest against yours. You can feel his breath ghosting over your skin, warm and steady now, and it’s like he’s drawing strength from the contact, the quiet intimacy of the moment.

“I just… I hate this,” he admits after a beat, his voice thick with emotion. “I hate losing, I hate feeling like I’m letting everyone down. The team, the fans… you.” His last word is barely audible, but it cuts through the air like a blade.

“You could never let me down,” you say firmly, your hands sliding to his shoulders, gripping them with just enough pressure to get him to open his eyes and look at you. “You give everything you have out there, Joe. No one can ask for more than that.”

He doesn’t respond right away, but the way his jaw tenses and his eyes search yours tells you he’s taking your words to heart, even if he’s not quite ready to believe them. Finally, he nods again, his hands slipping down to take yours, holding them tightly between you.

“I just—” He pauses, shaking his head as if searching for the right words. “I don’t know how to shake it off tonight. Feels like it’s all just sitting on my chest.”

“Then let’s not shake it off,” you suggest gently, squeezing his hands. “Let’s just sit with it for a bit. You don’t have to fix everything right now.”

Joe lets out a soft, almost defeated laugh, his lips quirking up into a faint smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “You always know what to say, don’t you?”

You shrug, your own lips lifting into a small smile as you reach up to brush a strand of hair away from his forehead. “I’m just saying the truth. You don’t have to be perfect all the time, Joe. You’re allowed to feel this.”

For the first time since he walked through the door, something in his expression softens. He leans down, pressing a kiss to your forehead that lingers just a little too long, his lips warm against your skin. When he pulls back, his eyes meet yours again, and there’s a flicker of something lighter there—relief, maybe, or gratitude.

“Thank you,” he says quietly, his voice steady now, and you can tell he means it.

You don’t say anything, just nod and take his hand, leading him toward the couch. Tonight might not erase the weight he’s carrying, but at least he doesn’t have to carry it alone.

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creamhoodie · 1 year ago

Text

You Belong To Me

AN: Short Gojo drabble, he fails at being friends with benefits with you. tags: nsfw, fwb, afab reader, satoru gojo x reader

“What are you doing here with him?” a voice you’d recognize anywhere asks. His fingers run down your bare skin, the open back of your dress giving him easy access.

You look up at him, his eyes blind folded but you know him well enough to recognize when he seems irritable by the rigid line his mouth formed.

“I’m on a date, what does it look like, Gojo?” you reply, taking a sip of your shot that the bartender placed in front of you.��

Strobe lights and techno music filled the nightclub making him look more striking as the lights hit his white hair.

“Since when are we back to last name basis?” Satoru chuckles.

His fingers still grace your back, the brief contact is enough to be electrifying, he knows just as much, seeming almost smug about the effect he has on you.

“Since you interrogate me about my personal life,” you reply.

You look around, your date had wandered off to the restroom a few minutes ago and should be back soon.

“Am I not part of your personal life? As I remember you and I were close just a few nights ago,” he teases.

Your mind flashes back to being tangled in his sheets, him on top of you and you moaning his name as he-

“I remember,” you say, stopping your thoughts in their tracks,”but I also remember the terms of our.. ‘relationship.’”

He laughs.

“You’re mad at me?” He asks. He bends down so he’s right at your earlobe, nibbling lightly. All the while his fingers stay drawing figures into your skin.

“I am not mad,” you reply.

A lie.

Oh yes you knew the terms of your relationship with him well. You had a friends with benefits arrangement with him. He had told you from the beginning ‘I don’t do relationships.’

That did nothing to dwindle the chemistry between the two of you and so several nights of the week you’d stay over at his place. You had reminded yourself, just because he laid kisses down your neck,breathed in your scent, and held onto you as if you were the anchor holding him to this Earth it didn’t mean he loved you.

So it shouldn’t have come as a shock when you saw another woman’s perfume and hygiene items at his place one evening.

“You know what I think,” he places a kiss on your shoulder that sends shivers down your spine,”I think you’re a liar.”

A throat clears making you jump.

Your date is back.

He’s the type of man no one wants to see a woman they're involved with accompanied by. He’s muscular with dark cropped hair. You barely knew him, he had only propositioned you by contacting you through your socials.

“Oh Gojo this is my date,” you say.

Satoru takes his time straightening up, his lips remaining on your shoulder as if he’s almost daring your date to say something about it. He doesn’t.

At last Satoru straightens up and outstretches a hand.

“Nice to meet you,” he says.

Your date goes to shake it but he can’t seem to reach, almost as if there’s a barrier preventing him from touching Satoru.

“Can you give us a moment alone?” you ask your date.

He seems flushed from the handshake mishap and obliges.

When he’s out of earshot you turn to Satoru.

“That was mean of you, toying with him like that,” you say.

Satoru tsks.

“You’re seriously not gonna go home with that guy right?” he asks tugging at a strand of your hair.

“And if I do, what business is it of yours?” you counter.

You guzzle the full shot glass now, it burns down your throat.

“It is my business, because I care about you. Trust me I’m familiar with guys like him and they are no good,” he says.

“And you’re better?”

He laughs.

“In more ways than you can imagine.”

You ask the bartender for another shot but Satoru waves him off.

“Hey-“

“You don’t need any more of that. You’re gonna wind up getting drunk,” he says.

You face him fully now as your annoyance with him is at a peak. You don’t have to see his eyes to know he’s staring at your cleavage.

“Come home with me,” he says, his voice full of heat and lust.

“I’m on a date,” you remind him.

He scoffs.

“The nightclub? Some date. He only wants to fuck you.”

“And you don’t? What are you doing here anyways?” Perhaps he was also here with someone, you wouldn’t put it pass him. Maybe he was here with the mysterious woman whose products were back at his place.

“I’m here because you’re here, and you belong to me.”

____

“Mmm, just like that baby,” he whispers, his fingers spread your folds. He relishes your arousal.

His blind fold, long removed, serves as a sort of handcuff for you, tying your hands above your head on his bed frame.

“Toru.. untie me,” you plead. You long to touch him, his white hair especially which was always so sinfully soft.

“Not yet. You were a bad girl going out like that,” he says stern.

His fingers push upwards, just enough to soak themselves inside of you. When he retracts them, he brings them up to your lips with the simple demand of “suck.”

You do, opening your mouth to taste yourself on his thick fingers. He watches, his blue eyes total flames full of lust.

He pushes his fingers deeper, just down your throat enough to make you gag. He can be so mean when he’s jealous as you’re finding out.

Pulling back his fingers, he begins to undo his belt.

“Toru my arms hurt,” you beg.

“And you didn’t think it hurt for me to see you with someone else like that?” he asks, unyielding.

His pants and boxers have been removed for his big cock to be plopping out, it’s firm already, the tip angry and reddened.

He shoves it against your lips.

“Open up,” he pants.

Your lips open around his shaft and you begin to suck him off. His hands go to your head, hands on each side to stabilize you and force you to take him. He helps you, bobbing your head up and down, his cock hitting the back of your throat. It burns even more than the shot did and tears begin to stream from your eyes.

“You’re so dumb, you’re so dumb baby were you going to let him fuck you? You don’t need anyone else, you have me.”

You wanted to remind him that he’s the one who said he doesn’t do relationships, he’s the one who had told you not to expect exclusivity. But he was full of himself; his statement might have been only applicable for himself, and you were full of him, unable to speak, unable to do anything else but moan in muffles as his cock rammed your throat.

You feel him finish, the saltiness of his fluid running down your throat. He pulls out of your mouth, letting you swallow and recollect yourself.

“Toru, my arms,” you pant, catching your breath.

He goes to untie you, and as your hands slip free you reach for him but there’s an invisible barrier..

“Turn it off Satoru, that's not fair!” you cry out.

“Why should I? You have your little boyfriend to touch don’t you?” he teases.

He’s enjoying this, making you grovel.

“He’s not my boyfriend. He sent me a DM and asked if I wanted to meet up,” you explain.

He lifts a brow and cocks his head to the side.

“How romantic,” he sneers.

“Satoru please. I’m sorry just turn it off,” you beg. You watch as he makes matters worse by removing his shirt, his muscles exposed. He knows that you loved touching them, loved running your hands over his abs and especially his muscled back whilst he was inside you.

“I’ll turn it off when you answer why you went out with him,” he says.

You’re frustrated both emotionally and sexually.

“Because you said we’re not exclusive. You said you don’t do relationships,” you remind him.

He huffs.

“Never bothered you before,” he says.

“Well I just think it’s hypocritical that you get to have women over leaving their belongings but god forbid I go out on a date.”

His eyes widen in understanding at your words, followed by a playful twinkle.

The barrier comes down and he comes up to you, kissing your lips passionately. Your hands run through his hair and he moans. His soft tongue connects with yours and you feel like he may devour you, may swallow you whole.

Suddenly, he repositions you so you’re laying on your stomach and he pins your hands behind your back all in one swift motion.

He leans down so he can speak right into your ear.

“I know what I said. But you’re mine. You belong to me. What I do or don’t do doesn’t change that. You’ll always be mine when I want you.”

Then you hear the ripping of your dress as he discards it and your panties off you completely. You hadn’t been wearing a bra, a fact he had noticed all too well when he had been staring at your cleavage in the club.

You moan as you feel his length drag down your back like a wand all the way down until it was pressed between your wet folds.

“F-fuck..so fucking tight,” he groans as he shoves his way in from the back. “This is my pussy. All mine. Don’t need some idiot ruining what belongs to me.”

He’s bottomed out inside of you and your hands grip the bed sheets as he begins to thrust.

“Satoru.. not so fast,” you moan as you feel his hands gripping your hair.

But he’s grunting, and not holding back.

“Feels so fucking good,” he moans delirious.

The thing about Satoru is he can forget how well endowed he is, well not truly forget he is much too prideful for that, but he fails to understand just how it can feel for you. It’s only when you reach around and grip his wrist that he slows down a bit, laughing. “Sorry baby, I know it can be too much.”

He slides out of you reluctantly and turns you on your back so you’re facing him. He puts you both in an intimate mating press as he slides into your pussy from the front now. He drives himself in so deep all the way into you until it’s at the base.

“Mmm.. that’s it. Can you feel me here?” He asks his hand pressing down on your stomach where his thick dick bulges, your eyes roll back in pleasure.

“Yes, ‘Toru. I feel you,” you cry out.

“Good because you’re mine. You understand that? Get that into your pretty little head only I can fuck you here.”

He gives you a sloppy tongue filled kiss while he moves inside you, slowly and deliberately. You feel every ridge, every detail of his flesh and you can feel his pulse inside of you like it’s your own.

Your hips buck up to meet his thrusts, needing more of him as the two of you kiss.

You’re breathless as his lips move to your neck and still his strokes are so deliberately slow as if he wants you to memorize how he feels.

Your hands go to his muscled back now, loving to leave scratches and love marks and he throws his head back and groans.

“I’m gonna fucking cum, and it’s going right inside of you. I don’t wanna hear any protests, you got it?” He says his eyes are possessive and wild.

You nod, in the mood he’s in right now you doubt anyone could talk him out of anything.

His strokes are faster now, the lewd sounds of wet skin against skin along with your shared moans fill the room.

By the curling of your toes you can feel your own orgasm coming.

“I wanna hear you say you’re mine. Need to hear you say it,” he practically demands.

“I’m yours. All yours Satoru.”

Your grip on him is so tight and he all but explodes into you. It doesn’t seem to stop after the initial burst, a steady stream flowing into you.

“Yeah.. fuck.. milk me,” he moans riding out his high. He’s not selfish in bed however for him true pleasure comes from getting you off so he rides out his orgasm, hitting your sweet gummy spot over and over.

His hands grip your breasts, playing with the sensitive nipples and causing you to gasp in ecstasy. When he leans forward and sucks on your tit that along with his continuous hitting of your sensitive spot causes you to orgasm.

The sensation is like falling off a cliff, a high only he’s been able to consistently bring you to. The two of you lay there for a moment holding onto each other’s sweaty bodies and catching your breath. Of course it is Satoru that breaks the silence.

“Can your little boyfriend make you feel that good?”

______

After cleaning up, you’re in bed with Satoru. This isn’t new of course, he isn’t the type to kick you out even if it is a friends with benefits situation.

The difference is before the two of you would watch tv or be on your phones, or he’d roll over and go to sleep.

Tonight is different.

He had held out his arms and told you to “come here.”

So you lay against his chest as he stroked your hair.

It’s strange at first, but it feels right and so natural.

He clears his throat.

“So listen…will you be seeing that guy again?” he asks, trying to appear nonchalant.

You look up at him.

“No, I won’t.”

He visibly relaxes.

“Good,” he says, the corner of his mouth slipping upwards into a smile.

“And you?” you ask.

He furrows his brow in confusion.

“What about me?” he asks.

“What about your mystery woman? The ones who has her items here,” you say with resentment in your voice.

He shakes his head and laughs.

“I bought those things for you, for when you stay over. I didn’t know what you used so I just bought some luxury brands. I just wanted the place to be stocked in case you ever forgot anything,” he says.

You blush at his words. The only reason you had even gone out with that guy was because you were under the impression Satoru was entertaining someone else.

“And how do I know you don’t keep the place stocked for other women you bring over?” you ask.

His face darkens and is serious.

“Because there are no other women. Not for me. There’s only you.”

He says it with such sincerity you have to believe him.

“Sounds pretty exclusive…” your voice trails.

“I want it to be. Tonight made me realize that I minded, no I more than minded seeing you with someone else,” he says.

“Then how come before you said you don’t do relationships or any of that stuff?” you ask confused.

He sighs and strokes your hair for a bit before answering.

“I have a habit of loving too hard. I can be suffocating, this you know well. I can be jealous. I can be too much. I just didn’t want to stifle you or scare you away. But I don’t want to leave it open ended anymore because that’s not the solution either. I can’t watch other guys try to swoop in.”

His blue eyes look a thousand years old for a moment, then they are back to their playful self.

“So where does that leave us?” you ask.

“It means you are stuck with me forever, baby. Whether you like it or not.”

AN: I am obsessed with possessive, jealous Gojo so I will be drabbling a lot about that. Also I described the date like Toji on purpose as an Easter Egg :)

#jjk drabbles #satoru gojo #gojo x reader #satoru x reader #gojo satoru x reader #jjk x reader #jjk smut #satoru gojo smut #gojo smut #gojo x you #gojo x reader smut #jjk satoru #jjk oneshot #gojo drabbles

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