#like this doesn't even really cover half of it but it's a start

[flofaiiry]

okay,, in regards to this post:

What if Jack is having a Whitaker kind of shift? He's been covered in far too many bodily fluids that were not his own, on multiple occasions throughout the span of his 12-hour shift.

He feels so yucky that he just takes a shower at the hospital before he leaves and gets in his beloved truck. idk if on-call rooms have like. en-suite bathrooms but let's just say they do!!

Jack doesn't bother to reserve the room or lock the door since he'll just be in and out, but apparently another employee had the same idea (I'm biased towards RNs and NPs, sue me) & they're so exhausted they don't notice or hear the shower running.

The RN/NP/whoever starts stripping out of their own soiled scrubs, just as Dr. Abbot opens the bathroom door, steam rolling out after him, with just a towel secured loosely around his waist...

brain goes brrr <33

OKAY YOU SENT THIS SO LONG AGO AND I COULD NOT STOP THINKING ABT IT AND HOW TO POSSIBLY DO IT JUSTICE????? anyways let me try.

imagine jack & peds nurse or something not er and she decides to use the emergency staff's on call room bcs they never have time to be in them anyways and they're usually empty so u go in one and start getting undressed then this absolute specimen of a man comes out half naked with a fucking entourage of steam like he's some god or something. you both apologize profusely and offer to leave so the other can have the room but somewhere in there he makes a comment about his day then you make one about yours and now somehow you're sitting on the tiny little bed next to this doctor you've never really seen and talking about everything and nothing and all things in between and then before u know it he's kissing you and taking the rest of your clothes off and mumbling something into the crook of your neck about needing stress relief and to be honest- even though you've just met this man- so do you!! so you tug off his little hospital issue towel and just let him stress ball the fuck out of u. u both fall asleep after that, your respective 12 hour shifts finally catching up to you and when you wake up he's just... gone :( but you refuse to let sex that good just walk out the door so you start using that on call room more often in hopes to catch him in there again and you do and then the post work hookups become a little routine!!

[ruebossanova]

professor o'connell: the mini series - 12

college prof!billie x student!reader

word count: 3.8k

warnings: older!billie x younger!reader, slowslowslow burn, eventual smut, college life, hella tension, quiet/shy reader

masterlist

----------------------------------------------------------------

the room was half-lit when she arrived.

sunlight filtered through the narrow upper windows, casting a pale wash across the floor. chairs scraped gently as a few students shuffled in early, filling the back rows first — as always.

but liora didn't sit in her usual spot.

not second row. not center.

today, she drifted to the fourth row, two seats from the wall.

a little distance.

a little less obvious.

she opened her notebook slowly, pretending to reread something. the ink on the page looked faint. old. like it had been written in another voice entirely.

her heart had been louder last week.

now it was quieter.

or maybe just further away.

the door opened at 10:01.

billie walked in, hair half-tied, headphones still draped around her neck. she wore a slate-gray sweater and black jeans, one sleeve pushed up, the other half covering her hand. there was a new mark on her wrist — a tiny smudge of ink, like she'd forgotten to cap her pen.

she looked tired.

or focused.

liora couldn't tell.

billie set her laptop on the desk, didn't look up right away.

but when she did —

their eyes met.

just once.

just long enough for liora to look down again.

billie cleared her throat.

"alright," she said, voice clipped but even. "everyone find a partner. this week we're doing lyric essays — more prose, less performance."

a shuffle of motion.

voices rising, chairs scraping.

laughter somewhere near the windows.

liora didn't move.

she just waited, pen in hand, until someone tapped her desk and said, "you need a partner?"

she looked up.

not billie.

not anyone she really knew.

just a classmate with a soft voice and warm eyes.

she nodded once. "sure."

behind the desk, billie opened a document on the projector.

never looked back at her.

not once.

and liora spent the next forty minutes pretending her own name didn't feel foreign when billie didn't say it.

"okay," billie said, tapping the edge of her laptop. "this week's exercise is close-reading through emotional tonality. i want layered tension. not plot. not action. just mood and heat."

she clicked, and a new slide appeared on the board.

lyric essay prompt what do you want to say — without ever saying it?

the room murmured quietly.

"you'll work in pairs," billie continued. "one of you writes. the other responds. your voices should blur. twist. contradict."

liora blinked at the screen.

her partner — lena — leaned in. "do you want to be the one who starts?"

liora hesitated. "sure."

from the front of the room, billie began calling names. matching people in groups of two.

"hayley and jordan. emily and kai. miriam and chloe..."

lena glanced at her phone.

liora didn't move.

then billie said, "liora and lena."

the name hit wrong.

too sharp.

too quick.

like she was reading a roll call — not remembering a person.

liora didn't look up.

but she felt it.

the hollow shape of her name without weight.

without intention.

lena nudged her gently. "that's us."

liora nodded.

billie kept reading.

her tone never shifted.

liora scribbled something in the margin of her page:

it doesn't sound the same when you say it like that.

she didn't know if she meant her name.

or the silence.

the library was packed.

midterms. study groups. soft chaos.

liora and lena stood in the entryway for a full minute, scanning for an open table. nothing.

"wanna try somewhere else?" lena asked, already halfway back toward the door.

they ended up at a café a block off campus. loud music. low ceilings. tin chairs that scraped like nails against tile.

they picked a corner booth. lena slid in first, dropped her bag, and ordered an oat milk latte with caramel and a shot of espresso like it was muscle memory.

liora got a hot tea she wouldn't drink.

"so," lena said, unzipping her laptop. "this whole lyric essay thing. how do you wanna play it?"

liora blinked. "play it?"

"like, what angle. relationship? heartbreak? unrequited something?"

liora gave a non-committal shrug.

lena leaned back. "you're the introvert type, huh?"

"is it that obvious?"

"yeah, but in a cool way. brooding but not annoying."

liora cracked a smile. "i'll try not to be too brooding."

"you can brood a little," lena said. "just not, like, full nick cave."

liora laughed — softly, reluctantly.

their drinks came. steam rose between them.

"you've done this kind of thing before?" lena asked.

"kind of. not like this."

"i have. once. with someone i was dating at the time."

liora's hand paused on her notebook. "yeah?"

"mhm. she was a TA. scandalous, right?"

liora didn't answer.

lena grinned. "we broke up mid-project. submitted two versions of the same essay. totally different interpretations."

"ouch."

"actually kind of cathartic."

liora stared down at the blank page in front of her. wrote:

what do you leave out when you're trying to sound fine?

"you good?" lena asked.

"yeah," liora said. "just thinking."

"about the prompt?"

liora nodded.

but what she was really thinking about was the click of billie's pen at the front of the room.

the shape of her name said flat.

the way her eyes didn't lift once.

"can i ask something?" lena said.

liora blinked. "sure."

"your piece last week — the performance one. was that real?"

liora looked up.

the café around them buzzed — espresso machine, indie playlist, people laughing too loud behind her.

"yeah," she said quietly.

"cool," lena said. "you write like it is."

but liora wasn't listening anymore.

she was wondering if billie was still in her office.

or if the light in music room four had been left on.

campus was cold by five.

sky already dimming, clouds hanging low like they were waiting to fall apart.

liora didn't go back to her dorm.

she didn't text lena.

she walked.

through the side path near the gym. past the sculpture garden where cigarette butts hid in the gravel. down the long sidewalk that looped behind the music building — the one no one really used unless they knew what door they were looking for.

her feet knew.

they moved without her asking.

the hallway inside buzzed with faint overhead lights. scuffed linoleum. smell of varnish and copper.

she passed practice room one. then two.

then stopped in front of four.

the door was closed.

but light spilled out underneath — warm and gold, same as always.

her chest tightened.

for a second, she let herself think it was billie.

for a second, she hoped.

she stepped closer. angled her head toward the narrow glass window in the door.

someone was inside.

but not billie.

not anyone she recognized.

just a student. headphones on, back turned. playing something soft on a keyboard. hoodie pulled up. lost in their own world.

it should've been fine.

but something about it — the wrong silhouette, the right room — made liora's stomach twist.

she reached out.

let her fingertips press lightly to the glass.

not knocking.

just contact.

just—

proof.

then pulled back.

turned.

walked the hallway in reverse, slower now.

one hand curled in her sleeve.

the other still buzzing with the cold of that single, silent moment of touch.

the vending machines were tucked in a hallway no one really used.

liora hadn't meant to be there.

she just didn't want to be anywhere else.

her feet dragged slightly, the way they always did when she wasn't ready to go home.

she turned the corner.

and stopped.

billie stood in front of the vending machine, one hand pressed to the glass like she was trying to will the snack to drop. her other hand held a five-dollar bill, already half-wrinkled from failed attempts.

her hair was down. loose. shadowed in the fluorescent glow.

she looked up at the sound of footsteps.

they both froze.

"hey," billie said.

not warm.

not cold.

just neutral.

"hey," liora echoed.

billie turned back to the machine, fed the bill again. this time it took.

the bag of trail mix dropped with a mechanical thunk.

liora's heart stuttered.

billie crouched, grabbed the snack, stood again.

they stood there.

no conversation.

just air.

billie tucked the snack into her coat pocket.

"how's the essay coming?" she asked, without looking up.

"fine."

a pause.

"your partner—she seems nice."

"she is."

another pause.

longer this time.

billie shifted her weight.

"i should—"

"i miss talking to you."

it came out fast.

too fast.

billie stilled.

not dramatically.

just—

like a thread had been pulled.

she didn't turn.

didn't answer right away.

just stood there, the shape of her back taut under her coat.

then:

a slow nod.

small. almost imperceptible.

but real.

then she walked past.

not fast.

not far.

just enough.

liora didn't turn around until the hallway was empty again.

and even then, it felt like something had been left behind — mid-sentence.

her dorm was quiet.

roommate gone for the weekend. lights dimmed to low amber. her desk lamp flickered once before staying steady.

liora sat cross-legged on her bed, laptop balanced against her knees.

she opened the recording.

week three lecture. lyrical interpretation and tonal inflection.

the one where billie had compared ellipses to emotional silence. where she'd said:

"sometimes the most honest thing a song can do is stop talking."

liora let the video play.

billie's voice filled the room.

same voice.

same tone.

same little half-laugh at her own bad joke about enjambment and cigarettes.

but it landed different now.

sharper.

tired around the edges.

like the same track run through a different filter.

liora listened.

watched the way billie's hands moved — tracing the desk edge, tapping a pen. all the quiet choreography of someone used to being looked at, but rarely seen.

she hit pause.

opened her notebook.

wrote one line:

maybe it's not about distance. maybe it's about defense.

stared at it.

then underlined the word defense twice.

her pen hovered.

but she didn't write anything else.

didn't press play again either.

she just sat there.

surrounded by echoes.

she skipped class.

woke up, sat on the edge of her bed, stared at the time — 9:47 — and made no move to get dressed.

by 10:04, she was outside, hoodie pulled low over her eyes, headphones in, hands shoved deep in her pockets.

no music.

just white noise.

low hum. a soft crackle. the sound of nothing, engineered.

campus curved around her in slow loops. lawn to walkway to loading dock. she walked behind the science building. past the maintenance shed. across the quad where no one sat this early.

everything was gray.

air thick with morning chill.

leaves underfoot made a dull, wet crunch.

her thoughts stayed loud.

she adjusted the volume, turned the static up.

didn't help.

her feet moved on instinct — same path she took when she wanted to disappear but didn't know how.

she passed the music building.

slowed.

but didn't stop.

kept walking, headphones loud now.

still just static.

just—

nothing.

but even that nothing had shape. rhythm. pressure.

like it was saying something beneath the noise.

a pulse, repeating:

call her. call her. call her.

she pulled her hoodie tighter.

didn't call.

but she did pull out her phone.

opened the last message.

stared at the little dot of her own unread reply.

typed one word.

then deleted it.

typed three more.

deleted again.

locked the screen.

kept walking.

her fingers stayed curled in her sleeve the rest of the way home.

⸻

the room was half-full when liora walked in.

she clutched her notebook close to her chest, scanning the rows on instinct—her usual spot still empty, second from the front, one chair off-center. safe. neutral.

but someone was already there.

not in her seat, but close. leaning casually over the desk, dark curls tucked behind one ear, bold eyeliner sharp as a sentence. her lips were painted plum-dark, like she didn't care what people thought—like she already knew they'd look.

nova.

liora had seen her once or twice before. she was in the class, sat in the back usually. always with music in her ears. never talked much.

today, she looked up and smiled—like they were old friends or something close.

"hey," nova said, shifting her bag to the floor beside her. "mind if i steal this seat?"

liora blinked. "uh—sure. go ahead."

"cool." nova dropped into the chair beside hers, legs crossed, one boot bouncing lazily. "you're liora, right? the one with the violin essay."

liora's throat tightened. "i—yeah. that was me."

nova grinned. "i loved that piece. it was messy as hell, but in the right way. like, it felt real. not like you were trying to impress anyone."

"i wasn't," liora said before she could stop herself.

nova's smile widened. "yeah. i could tell."

liora glanced down at her notebook, flipping it open just to have something to do with her hands.

and that's when billie walked in.

the room quieted a little—not dramatically, just enough. her steps were unhurried, her hair tucked under a beanie this time, rust-red plaid shirt rolled to her elbows, silver rings catching the overhead light.

she looked like she always did.

except she didn't.

she scanned the room once—like she was counting bodies.

then her gaze stopped.

not long.

barely a second.

but it landed on nova.

then flicked to liora.

expression unreadable.

and moved on.

liora didn't breathe.

not fully.

billie dropped her bag beside the desk, flipped open her laptop, and tapped at the keys like they hadn't looked at each other. like nothing was different.

but liora saw it.

the way her fingers slowed for half a beat.

the way her mouth pressed into something close to tight.

"alright," billie said, voice level. "new project drop today. i'll explain it once, and only once. so if you're not caffeinated, take notes."

a few students laughed.

liora didn't.

nova leaned in slightly, shoulder brushing hers.

"she always this hot and intimidating?"

liora's pen froze on the page.

nova smiled sideways.

liora didn't answer.

from the front, billie clicked to a slide.

didn't look up again.

but she heard.

she absolutely heard.

nova didn't move back to her usual seat.

next class, she dropped into the chair beside liora without asking, coffee in one hand, phone in the other, eyes rimmed in gold shimmer.

"morning," she said, voice soft but certain.

liora gave a small nod, tried not to seem surprised. "hey."

"got you something." nova slid a wrapped muffin across the desk like it was casual.

"what—why?"

nova shrugged. "you looked tired last time. figured you probably don't eat breakfast."

"i don't," liora admitted, then caught herself. "i mean—thanks."

nova grinned. "see? i'm already helping."

liora smiled, despite herself.

and from the front of the room, billie watched.

not openly.

not pointed.

but her posture was different. shoulders stiff under that dark green sweater, jaw set in a way it hadn't been last week.

when she started the lecture, her voice was calm.

precise.

too precise.

"lyric tension," she said, writing the words across the board in quick, sharp letters. "it's not about conflict. it's about restraint. what you're not saying. what you're barely holding back."

nova leaned over and whispered, "she always teach like it's a threat?"

liora smothered a laugh.

billie kept writing.

chalk cracked faintly against the board. her hand stuttered just slightly before continuing the sentence.

nova leaned closer.

"what do you think she's not saying?"

liora glanced at her.

then quickly away.

her heart thudded once. not because of nova.

because she could feel billie's eyes before she saw them.

twenty minutes later, they were doing in-class exercises—partnered again, at nova's insistence.

liora tapped her pencil, thinking. nova watched her.

"you do that a lot," nova said.

"do what?"

"press your lips together like you're swallowing whole paragraphs."

liora smiled faintly. "maybe i am."

nova reached over, touched her arm briefly. "dangerous. someone might still hear them."

liora didn't flinch.

but her breath caught.

and from across the room—

a snap.

quiet.

but clear.

billie's pen broke in her hand.

plastic cracked under pressure.

she didn't curse.

didn't react.

just stood, walked to her bag, and pulled out another.

liora watched her from the corner of her eye.

watched the way her fingers flexed like she was shaking something off.

like she was trying not to look back.

the air outside was colder than expected.

crisp enough to flush liora's cheeks as she stepped out of the building, notebook clutched to her chest again like armor.

nova fell in beside her before she reached the steps.

"you always walk this slow after class?" nova asked, adjusting the strap of her tote bag.

"guess so."

"you do a lot of things slow?"

liora gave her a look. "what are you trying to ask?"

nova grinned. "absolutely nothing appropriate."

liora laughed, surprised by the warmth of it.

they crossed the walkway toward the quad. wind tugged lightly at the ends of liora's braid.

behind them, on the second floor, one of the classroom windows was cracked open. the blinds drawn halfway.

billie stood behind it.

she didn't move.

just watched.

watched nova walk too close.

watched the swing of her hand, how it almost touched liora's coat sleeve.

she didn't see liora glance back.

but she did see her smile.

brief. small. like a reflex.

that was enough.

billie turned.

moved back from the window like it burned.

inside, her hands went straight to her desk—papers shuffled too fast, her coffee knocked over, lid catching the corner of a half-finished note she hadn't meant to leave out.

it read:

"don't let her catch you watching. you'll never stop."

downstairs, nova said, "so, coffee?"

liora blinked. "what?"

"you drink it, right?"

"sometimes."

"how do you feel about 'sometimes' being right now?"

liora hesitated.

and then:

"okay. sure."

but her voice wavered.

just slightly.

nova didn't notice.

but if billie had still been at the window—

she would've.

liora arrived seven minutes early.

she told herself she was just being punctual.

not nervous.

not hopeful.

the door to billie's office was already cracked.

she knocked anyway, fingers curled just enough to keep them from shaking.

"yeah," came billie's voice — low, even, but clipped.

liora stepped inside.

the room was warmer than usual. smelled faintly of eucalyptus and something herbal. the windows were cracked just slightly, letting in cold air that didn't reach far enough.

billie wasn't at her desk.

she was leaning against it. arms crossed, one ankle hooked over the other. sleeves pushed up to her elbows. no laptop today. no distraction. just her.

her eyes flicked up when liora entered.

they didn't soften.

"you're early."

"so are you."

"hm."

liora set her bag down in the corner chair. didn't sit.

neither did billie.

"what'd you need help with?" she asked.

"i'm still outlining," liora said. "the piece is... complicated."

"how so?"

"it keeps changing."

"what's it about now?"

liora hesitated. "wanting something you can't have."

a pause.

billie nodded once. like it was a passcode.

she pushed off the desk, walked slowly to the bookshelf, ran her fingers along the spines but didn't pull any out.

liora's eyes followed her.

billie didn't look over.

"nova seems nice," she said finally.

liora blinked. "what?"

"nova. the girl with the purple boots and the silver nose ring." her tone was razor-flat. "she's been... friendly."

"she's in the class."

"mhmm."

liora crossed her arms.

"is that a problem?" she asked, quiet.

billie turned, leaned back against the bookshelf now.

her expression was unreadable.

"no. just interesting."

"why?"

"because you don't want her."

liora's breath caught.

billie tilted her head. "do you?"

"what does it matter?"

billie stepped closer. not fast. not loud.

just—

closer.

"it matters," she said, voice low now. "because you don't look at her the way you look at me."

liora swallowed.

hard.

"how do i look at you?"

billie didn't answer.

just took one more step.

now they were close.

closer than office hours allowed.

close enough that liora could smell her shampoo. hear the sound of her breathing, shallow under control.

billie's eyes didn't move.

"say it," she said.

liora's voice came soft. "you say it first."

billie reached up.

brushed a strand of hair behind liora's ear — slow, deliberate.

her fingertips lingered a beat too long.

but just as liora leaned in—

a knock.

sharp. two taps.

they both froze.

billie stepped back first.

fast.

like the floor had shifted under her.

"come in," she called, already halfway to her desk.

liora stood there, stunned, heart ricocheting.

the door opened.

a TA poked their head in. "sorry, quick question about the syllabus—"

liora didn't hear the rest.

her ears were ringing.

she grabbed her bag.

slipped out while the door was still halfway open.

never looked back.

liora didn't walk far.

just around the side of the building, down the narrow brick corridor between the library and the lecture hall. it was always cold there, shadowed from sun. the wind funneled through it like breath through teeth.

she stopped.

leaned against the wall.

tried to slow her pulse with shallow, even inhales.

it didn't work.

the sound of billie's voice still echoed—low and sharp and close enough to scrape.

"because you don't look at her the way you look at me."

liora clenched her hands in the sleeves of her coat.

tried not to remember how close they'd been.

how natural it felt, the tilt of billie's face toward hers. the scent of her skin. the weight of her words—heavy, quiet, true.

it wasn't just attraction.

it wasn't just crush.

it was—

"dangerous," liora whispered to herself.

but she didn't move.

back in the office, billie sat behind her desk again, her hands unmoving on the keyboard. the TA had already left. the door was closed. silence pressed in.

she stared at the blank document on her screen.

didn't type.

didn't breathe right.

you say it first.

liora's voice had been soft, but there was steel in it. that steel unnerved her.

not because it was too much.

because it was exactly right.

she touched the edge of the desk.

her fingers tingled where they'd brushed liora's skin—barely, gently—like a question she hadn't earned the answer to.

almost.

she didn't let herself finish the sentence.

across campus, liora sat on the edge of a stone planter, pulling leaves apart one by one. her phone buzzed once.

a text from nova.

you okay? didn't see you after.

she stared at it.

typed nothing.

deleted everything.

set the phone down beside her and leaned her head back against the wall.

in the distance, wind carried the smell of rain.

not yet.

but close.

she closed her eyes and whispered, "almost," just once.

then didn't speak again for a long time.

her dorm room was dark when she got back.

she didn't turn on the light.

just dropped her bag on the floor, kicked off her shoes, and sat on the edge of the bed with her back to the window.

her phone buzzed again.

nova.

hey. dinner? or should i take a hint?

liora stared at the screen.

thumb hovering.

not because she didn't know what to say—but because she did.

and none of it would be fair.

instead, she opened a new note.

typed:

"i think you'd burn me alive, and i'd still lean in."

she stared at it for a long time.

then typed another line:

"and the worst part is, i'd call that warmth."

then deleted it.

but kept the first sentence.

just one line.

unread, unsent, unsaid.

it stayed on her screen as she sat in the dark, curled up with her knees pulled close.

outside, campus was starting to sleep.

but liora wasn't.

at 10:12, she pulled on a hoodie and walked.

nowhere in particular.

just down the path toward the lecture hall, then past it, to the back steps of the english building. the lights inside were mostly off.

except one.

third floor.

billie's office.

liora stopped at the edge of the quad, half-shadowed by a leafless tree.

watched the glow through the blinds.

could see her silhouette, faint. unmoving.

maybe writing.

maybe thinking.

maybe—

liora turned before she could imagine anything else.

walked back the long way.

never looked over her shoulder.

the quad was soft with fog.

not heavy, but enough to dull the edges of trees and buildings, enough to muffle footsteps. liora stood near the bench under the old elm, sipping from a paper cup, its heat barely reaching her fingers.

she'd been standing there for ten minutes. maybe fifteen.

just... breathing.

trying to forget the weight of unsaid things.

then nova appeared.

from nowhere, like she always did. bright scarf, high ponytail, confident walk.

"hey stranger."

liora looked up.

offered a tired smile. "morning."

nova stepped closer. not too close—but close enough. hands tucked into her coat, breath visible between sentences.

"wasn't sure you were still speaking to me," she said lightly.

liora blinked. "why wouldn't i be?"

nova shrugged. "you kinda vanished after class. and you didn't text back."

liora hesitated. "yeah. sorry. i just—had stuff."

nova studied her for a moment. "can i ask you something?"

"sure."

"are you avoiding me?"

liora met her eyes.

said nothing.

nova laughed, but it was soft. a little sad.

"damn. okay. points for honesty, i guess."

liora opened her mouth to explain, or apologize, or something—

but nova held up a hand.

"no, it's fine. you don't owe me anything. but..." she tilted her head, grin tugging at the edge of her mouth again, gentler this time. "are you free later? we could grab dinner. no pressure. i promise not to flirt if it makes you nervous."

liora hesitated.

half a second too long.

and that's when she heard the footsteps behind her.

steady.

measured.

and then—

billie's voice.

low.

intentional.

sharp enough to carve:

"you should tell her the truth."

liora froze.

nova turned slightly. "excuse me?"

billie didn't stop walking.

just passed them on the path like she was on her way to class, hands in the pockets of her dark coat, hair braided back, expression unreadable.

but her jaw?

tight.

nova glanced between them, her brows rising.

"was that your professor?"

liora's heart was in her throat.

"yeah."

"wow."

nova tilted her head. "she always like that?"

liora stared down at her shoes. "no."

nova watched her another second.

then offered a small, lopsided smile. "you've got stuff, rai. i get it."

liora swallowed.

nodded once.

nova turned to leave, calling over her shoulder, "but if you ever want a break from the complicated... i make great coffee."

liora stood there a long time after she left.

and the fog didn't lift.

not even a little.

----------------------------------------------------------------

tags; @bxllxebxtch @st0nerlesb0 @dousleepanymore @mxmsuki @billiescation @angellvk @bilswifee

[dirkxcaliborn]

I stumbled upon a video about rhythm heaven which led to watching several hours of rhythm heaven videos which lead to listening to a streamer play rhythm heaven whenever I'm walking somewhere or like need something playing in the bg while I'm at my desk and also I started playing rhythm heaven and now rhythm heaven songs play on loop in my brain between every thought

[racke7]

Got the results of the MRI.

No signs of anything bad.

Hmm...

[flqwerjo]

─── 𝑻𝑜𝑜 𝑴𝑢𝑐ℎ ?

˚.❀𝑷𝐴𝐼𝑅𝐼𝑁𝐺 ─── Bf!Riki x Reader

˚.❀𝑺𝑌𝑁𝑂𝑃𝑆𝐼𝑆 ─── your boyfriend is just so big :(

˚.❀𝑮𝐸𝑁𝑅𝐸/𝐶𝑊 ─── smut drabble(mdni), belly bulge, size difference/reader implied smaller than him , unrealistic fictional smut (!!), first time having sex together, size kink, protected sex ˚.❀𝑾𝑂𝑅𝐷 𝐶𝑂𝑈𝑁𝑇 ─── 0.9k

                               𝒄ℎ𝑒𝑐𝑘 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑜𝑢𝑡ᵎᵎ (˶˃⤙˂˶)

Today was the night , the night you and your lovely , caring boyfriend were going to try and have sex again. Yes , again. The two of you had been dating for around 4 months , having promised to each other to take things slow — that already failed within the first month when just kissing turned into a heated make out session . Your boyfriend was just too irresistible and his kisses always had you yearning for more , plus , he was a very good kisser. You soon figured out that he wasn't only good with kissing your upper lips , but your other lips too.

Yes , again , the two of you had promised to take things slow — but some promises were just meant to be broken. Around the second month mark , the two of you decided to slowly explore each other's bodies to see what the other likes and doesn't like — in the sexual aspect , now he knows your body like the back of his hand.

But there was one promise the two of you stayed to without breaking it — having sex together when the both of you were ready for it and wanted it. You were ready and so was he , he just forgot how much smaller you were than him and so did you — you were barely able to handle two of his fingers at once when he fingered you for the first time :(

You've tried once , twice, even thrice — but it never worked whenever he tried to put his cock past your tight hole , the furthest he had managed to go was the tip of his cock barely inside you.

"Are you sure Princess ? We can try another time , I can just eat you out again if you want ?", the palm of his hand was warm against your cheek as he gently caressed it , his eyes focused on your face instead of your pussy that was hovering right above his cock. It was one of those times again where the two of you tried to have sex , try to fit his cock inside of your tight little pussy — you were starting to get frustrated , you really wanted him , no , you needed him.

So , you've decided to try and be on top. "No.. I want to try again...", you mumbled under your breath as you grabbed the base of his cock , his eyes closing upon feeling your touch on it before he opened them again to look at you , his eyes studying the expression on your face — you were so frustrated that your eyebrows were furrowed , lips formed in a little pout. Your boyfriend didn't spend at least an hour stretching your pussy out with his fingers and making you cum a couple times with his tongue just for it to not work again.

You lowered your hips a little until the head of his cock was pressing against your entrance , rubbing the tip between your sticky folds to lubricate his latex covered cock with your arousal before you took a deep breath and pressed his tip against your entrance. You bit your bottom lip slightly as the small burn started to make its appearance , the head of his cock slowly stretching your hole as it pushed inside of you. The stretch was bearable and the pain hadn't hit you yet so you kept going until the head of his cock has disappeared inside of you.

Riki's eyes were watching you like a hawk , his breath hitching when he saw the tip of his cock slowly go inside of your tight heat. Your hands rested on his chest now to brace yourself as you continued to lower yourself down , a quiet wince out of pain leaving your lips as the stretch was starting to burn and sting the more you took of him.

"Almost there Princess... you got half of me inside you..", Riki encouraged as he put his hands on top of yours , rubbing his thumbs into the back of your hands gently. And you kept going , your nails scratching his chest slightly as you finally bottomed out , a whimper coming from you as you felt just how deep he was pressing inside of you. "You did it Angel... did such a good job for me", Riki mumbled as he gently grabbed the back of your head and pulled your head down to him so he could kiss your forehead gently."It's so... big...", you breathed out , your voice breathless and trembling as your words came out as a whisper.

His other hand grabbed your waist just to hold you , slowly caressing from your waist to your stomach which made him pause in his tracks. You didn't pay much attention to it and slowly started to move your hips as you got used to the stinging pain that slowly started to feel good the more you moved — rolling your hips back and forth before you leaned over and placed your hands next to his head as you slowly started to lift your hips up and down.

Your movements confirmed what he was feeling , the low moan of a curse vibrating in his chest. "Fuck... angel , I can feel myself inside you whenever you move... I'm all the way up to your stomach", his words made you pause and move back , hands resting on top of his thighs so you could take a look at your belly and there it was — the subtle bulge showing through your belly and fuck , it was just making you wetter and feel more aroused , the feeling of arousal was mutual for Riki. He had to collect all the self restraint in his body to not slam your hips up and down just to see his own fucking cock move inside of you.

"Fuck.... cover my eyes , If I'll keep watching you ride my cock like you own it and watch myself move inside of you , I'll cum too early."

[dark-night-hero]

Imagine being Sylus' non-mc significant other.

Imagine you knew that loving Sylus meant walking a fine line between devotion and danger. You knew that his world was carved in shadows and half truths wrapped in kisses. A voice that could make you forget your doubts.

Imagine you always told yourself it was just the nature of his work, the late nights, the missed calls, the way he always seemed to have somewhere else to be. You love him. Because while you never had his mornings. You always had his midnights.

Imagine the way he would often disappear for days and return with eyes darker than usual and in some rare nights, he would come home with bruises blooming just beneath his skin but when he looked at you, his eyes soften. Like being with you was enough.

Imagine the world you've built in the cracks he left open slowly and carefully. A world where danger lived just outside your window but with love, his love, was kept in your heart every time he whispered your name like a confession. He let you believe you were his only truth.

Imagine at first, it was just the silence. The kind that didn't feel like peace but absence. The kind of pause before a lie, the dead space where love should live. Sylus had always been a guarded man. The kind who touched you like you were fragile but spoke like his words were bullets.

but Imagine, that was just part of his charm. The mystery and quiet restraint behind his smirks. Not until she started showing up. MC. At first, she was just a ghost in his schedule, an excuse.

"Work" He say, turning away from you in bed, phone lighting up his face. "Can't talk about it." You nod, moving closer to him in. You did not push the topic because that's what trust looked like, right?

Imagine then came the little things. A strand of hair on his coat. Perfume that wasn't yours. A coffee order on his receipt you had never seen him drink. The subtle way his tone changed when he was tired softer, more honest, but only when talking to someone else.

Imagine you did not bring it up. You didn't want to be paranoid. You didn’t want to be that person. The kind who checks phones or asks too many questions. But the truth has a way of bleeding through, no matter how hard you cover it.

Imagine that night, after a few weeks of not seeing each other. You cooked him dinner. You even wore the clothes he liked. You thought maybe, just maybe, he'd finally open up. Instead, he walked in distracted, checking his phone. He did not even look at you.

Imagine the way you asked him who he was texting. One that was meant to sound casual, but your voice cracked halfway through. He paused. Just for a second. That second told you everything. "It's MC."

"Don't." He said, eyes flickering up to yours. "It's not what you think." That was the first time he didn't lie smoothly. The first time he looked like the villain everyone said he was. Not because of the crime, the guns or the secrets. But because he looked at you with guilt.

Imagine you knew why he stayed the night. It was not out of love but because he doesn't know how to leave you gently. So you lay beside him awake until dawn, breathing in a man who loved someone else in front of you. And when the morning come, you did not say goodbye. You just lay there and felt him when he left.

Imagine that's how you learned the painful truth. You weren't his secret weapon. You were just his secret shame. And all the danger in the world doesn't compare to the pain of being loved second.

[ⓒdark-night-hero] 2025°

: the other au doesn't really cound as the main non-mc so. So here's one for him. IM SORRY DON’T COME AFTER ME- BYE

[haveihitanerve]

My favorite thing about the bats is that… they are gothamites. And sure they scare the shit out of people… but they are in Gotham. Superman is loved by his people, Flash is adored, people pray to Wonder Woman, Green Arrow is feared. But the Bats? The Bats are like all of Gotham's weird older brothers/sisters/parents. Superman and Green Lantern are visiting Batman in Gotham and all of a sudden he gets smacked in the face by a banana and they turn and find a group of teens skateboarding away and one kid calls over his shoulder ‘eat the fucking potassium you absolute brick.’ and Batman doesn't even do anything. Barry is chilling with Nightwing when a girl runs beneath the building they are sitting on and screams “Nice ass Night! But get it the fuck down here, my cats stuck in a tree.” And Nightwing does a flip off the building and just?? helps her?? Wonder Woman and Black Canary are passing through Crime Alley on their way to the Batcave and spot Red Hood standing in an alley, being lectured by a woman who is half his size and she ends the lecture by throwing two sandwiches at his face and walking away. Red Hood just takes his hood off and starts eating. Superboy is helping Red Robin defeat Scarecrow and while they’re hiding, waiting for him to walk into their trap, RR is casually conversing with a Gothamite about Hogwarts Houses, and when he says the Gothamite looks like a Gryfindor he pops his head out and screams “Yo scarecrow hes right fucking here!” J’onn is heading to the Manor to discuss League business with Bruce when he spots Robin(Damian) fighting Riddler all alone and is about to intervene when three teenagers show up and just fucking deck him instead. Damian doesn't thank them, just glowers, and one of the guys goes “you're welcome you fucking brat.” And the girl even smacks the back of his head and goes “manners.” Clark is sent to go find Tim and Steph and Damian and finds them at this girls birthday party, in full costume, eating cupcakes and drinking punch, jumping on the bouncy house and is like “errr, B-Batman needs you home.” And as one the entire birthday party group went “Fuck Batman.” Spoiler was spotted painting these guys nails, Black Bat was seen teaching calculus to a group of teenagers, Batgirl(Babs) was running after a group of kids screaming “Give me back my laptop you fucks!” Just- just the batfamily and Gothamites being annoying to each other and appreciative yet bitches. 

Bus driver: stop getting thrown at my fucking bus, i got places to be and my insurance only covers so many shatter windshields and person sized dents  Batman: I don't really control where I get thrown Bus Driver: well you better fucking start otherwise theres gonna be another fucking villain on these streets *drives away and almost runs him over* Superman: *gaping* yo-you're just gonna let him do that? Batman: *shrugs* Gotham insurance aint what its cracked up to be Superman: *staring dumbly*

[jensthwa]

show & tell (SMG x reader).

part of the love's an uncharted path universe ★.

SUMMARY:

You have known Mingi since you both were fourteen. You’ve been by his side through thick and thin and you would do anything for him, really, considering he’s your other half. When he has an unfortunate bed experience and asks for your help and you say yes, he starts considering that, maybe, you’re just the best friend a guy like him can have.

PAIRING: best friend!mingi x afab reader.

GENRE: childhood best friends to ?

WORD COUNT: 8k.

WARNINGS: SMUT ☽ (MINORS DNI) attempt !!! at comedy, wooyoung being a little shit, hwa being the voice of reason, sex talk, pet names (love and also dude and bro but in a sweet way), mingi scaring the sense out of you, descriptions of female anatomy, kissing, dirty talk (sort of), teasing, a little bit of voyeurism, fingering, squirting, almost getting caught, unresolved feelings.

NOTES: had to do a lot of research for this one, so i figured nothing better to post as my first fic here! this is 100% self indulgent, as all fics should be, and i think i've re-read it so many times that if you find a typo or something that just doesn't make sense, you can blame it on english not being my first language i guess lmao. i hope you enjoy it and if you do feel free to send to my askbox/reblog/type in any feedback or thoughts! <3

POSTED: july 18th 2024.

masterlist. / part two.

“Delete her number right now!” 

“She's such a bitch for saying that to you…” 

“And over text too? Wow.” 

“Yeah, no, I didn't like her from the start.” 

Wooyoung’s living room comes to life once again that morning, voices echoing and insults flying out, all towards the girl Mingi’s seeing. 

Was seeing. You're sure she's out of his usual rotation with the lovely shit show she just caused. 

You stay silent, your eyes fixed on your best friend's expression, on his red cheeks and apologetic eyes because everyone told him that girl was bad news. 

He should've listened to you when you told him you liked her friend better. She was a sweet girl, clearly had a thing for Mingi. 

Unfortunately, Mingi has a type. And that type always ends up breaking his spirit one way or another. 

But you stay silent, letting your friends have their little rants about how much of a bitch she is for hurting Mingi's ego like that, until he covers up his face with his hands and lets out a frustrated whine. 

“That's enough, everyone. I think he got it.” You smile a little and everyone turns to you, Yunho’s chest heaving and everything but Seonghwa (who also kept his mouth shut all this time) interferes before anyone else has the chance to start again.

“You know you shouldn't feel ashamed for that, right?” he asks Mingi, who slowly lowers his hands to his lap and looks at you for a brief second. You nod, confirming what Hwa says “No one is born knowing everything and she shouldn't expect you to know how to make a girl squirt.” 

“Jesus Christ,” Mingi whines again, closing his eyes “Don't say it like that.” 

“How else should I say it?” Seonghwa is confused but he laughs a little bit and turns to you. 

Being the only girl in the room, you think everyone it's expecting you to pick your friend up and join them in their insults but you can't (for Mingi’s sake). Instead, you let out a sigh “I mean, it's hard to even make it happen on your own without any help, Mingi. I don't know what the fuck she's on but…” shrugging, you extend your arm to pat him in the shoulder two times “Hwa’s right.” 

“So you do know?” 

“Woo—” Hongjoong reprimands right away and you turn to Wooyoung, confused.

“Huh?” 

“You said that it's hard making it happen,” he explains, smiling because he just found a new target for the next few days “So you must know.” 

Talking about sex with them was never difficult, it didn't make you uncomfortable whatsoever but you know what Woo is doing. 

You look down at Mingi before answering though and his eyes are glued to the carpet, begging for the topic of his unfortunate encounter with that bitch to die on everyone's tongue. 

So you take mercy on him. 

“Oh. I mean… Yeah.” You shrug once again, leaning back against the cushions on the couch while Wooyoung claps like he just heard the most hilarious joke ever. 

“You truly are amazing.” 

Rolling your eyes, you get up from your comfy seat “Sure. But it took a lot of practice and the whole ordeal was frustrating for me, so, again, I don't know what the fuck she was on,” you say again, smiling down at Mingi before taking a few steps towards the door “It's noon already, by the way.” 

“Shit.” Woo gets up quickly from his spot on the floor and everyone else follows suit. 

“Alright, everyone out! We have a midterm to cheat on.” San calls out and everyone takes it as their sign to actually leave (not just hang around the apartment) and continue with their days. 

This reunion was a little impromptu, just because Wooyoung texted everyone begging to come over and hang out with him and San before their online philosophy midterm. 

“And by that he means that you need to stay,” Wooyoung hugs Seonghwa hard, almost begging him with his eyes “We didn't study… Don't look at me like that! Please?” 

“I'm not doing your fucking midterm for you!”

You chuckle, leaning on the door and waiting for your ride home to get his shoes on. When you look down at him again, Mingi mouths a thank you and you blow him a kiss. 

When you get downstairs, you swear you still hear Wooyoung begging his senior to take the test for him. 

Everyone is quiet in the car. You can tell they're tired from exams and life in general, so you don't press them with questions and just let the music play in the background while you look out the passenger window and, eventually, at Mingi. 

His grip on the steering wheel lets you know he's a little more affected than he let on back there. But, again, you say nothing. 

You know better than to pressure him into telling you his feelings. 

Mingi and you have been friends forever. He lived a few houses down from yours, becoming your first friend when you moved to the city. You both were fourteen when it happened, so you've known him long enough to know what happens when he gets his heart broken. 

Not that Mingi loved that girl or anything, but he never really took embarrassment well. He didn't when the first girl he liked rejected him in front of the whole ninth grade class and he didn't when his pants ripped in the middle of the stage while performing a routine with his dance team on senior year. 

You stood by his side every single time and every single time he waited to sit down and let everything out, collect his feelings and talk to you through his frustrations. You really loved that about him, because he never said anything he regretted just because he was upset at the moment. 

Maybe that's why you two have been friends for so long. Opposites attract, or whatever your mother told you one time. 

In reality, you think it's because you two complement each other well. 

He knows when to speak his mind and you're kind of impulsive, heart on your sleeve and sharp tongue ready to defend your and your loved ones honor if needed. 

That's why it takes a lot of strength for you to not pull up that girl's number from his phone and give her a piece of your mind. 

One by one, you drop your friends off in different parts of the city and when it's time to go into your own house, you circle the car and Mingi rolls his window down.

He reads the look you give him a little too well, so he opens his mouth to stop you but you shake your head. 

“Call me, come over or just let me know if you need anything,” you start before he says anything “If you need me to beat her up, I can do that too.” 

He huffs out a laugh “You don't even know how to fight, love.”

You sigh at the nickname, he's been using it since the time you told him you had a crush on his friend, way back in highschool, and that you were positive you were going to get together and he would call you love because that's what good boyfriend's do. 

Turns out, you weren't exactly his friend's type. Neither were the other girls in your school. 

“I don't give a shit, I'll do it,” You two smile to each other fondly for a few seconds and then you tap the top of the car “Thanks for the ride, dude.” 

“You’re welcome, bro.” He rolls his eyes, annoyed because he hates when you call him that, but waits for you to get inside either way. 

And in the solitude of your room, you wait. 

You distract yourself with papers that are due in a few days, you start studying for your finals even though they're months away and you even go downstairs to say goodbye to your parents when they leave for a fancy dinner with their colleagues before you hear your phone ring. 

Mingi's FaceTime comes right on time, because you were getting really anxious from the radio silence on his end. 

“I have a small query for you.” He puts on an accent that makes you grimace immediately and he laughs at you. 

“Ew. Never do that ever again,” you beg, going back upstairs to your room “Go ahead.” 

“How do you do it?” 

“Excuse me?” 

“How the fuck do you make yourself squirt, love?” 

Oh. 

Definitely not the conversation you were hoping to have with him. 

It catches you off guard and you stammer your response “Um… You— I mean, it's not really a thing I can explain.” 

“You have such a way with words, though.” 

You stare at him through the screen, annoyed, and he just laughs again “Don't make me come over and beat you up.” 

“Alright, alright,” his giggling dies out and you distract yourself from the heat you feel creeping over your cheeks while putting away your statistics prep for the quiz you have next week. There's a bit of silence and then you hear him sigh “I do really want to know, though.” 

“If you're asking me this to then go over to her house and prove her wrong, I'm not telling you shit.” 

“No! No, that's not it at all,” he defends himself quickly when you turn your head to the camera, scowl in your face “When she asked me to do it, I really did try to make her, you know…” 

“You said squirt so freely a minute ago, Mingi,” you tease, smiling, but at his expression, you give in “What exactly did you do?” 

“I tried to, you know, do it like they do it in the movies,” he demonstrates his point with his free hand, his middle and ring finger down on his sheets, pressing and moving side to side “And she was enjoying it and she came, but nothing really… came out.” 

“Wow, first of all: you make her come and she has the nerve to give you shit over text? I hate her,” you shake your head, disappointment written all over your face “and second of all, that was a terrible mistake.” 

“What? Going like this?” He does it again and you roll your eyes, laughing a second later. 

“No, dude, trying to porno your way into making her squirt.” 

“Oh.” His movements on the sheets slow down and you grimace again. 

“Please stop doing that,” you beg and he snaps out of his thoughts to look at you through the screen. You take your phone and move to the bed, resting your head against the pillows with a huff. 

You ponder for a moment. You're sure telling him what he wants to hear it's not really a threat to your friendship, but it's also something that's very personal and intimate. You can talk about sex with Mingi and the other guys, sure, what doesn't mean you tell them about your sex life. 

Maybe that's why Wooyoung was so excited earlier today, because you spilled something that involves you directly and not something vague and general like you usually do. 

“Would it give you peace of mind if I explained it to you?” You ask, your voice barely a whisper as you sit straight on the bed. 

Your best friend takes what feels like a lifetime to respond and, when does, it's in a hushed tone as well “Please.” 

You groan and you comply either way, trying to find the right words to even start “Okay, I'm going to be very technical about this.” 

“I wouldn't expect anything else from you.” 

His teasing tone makes you glare at him for a few seconds before dismissing it with a click of your tongue “The very first thing you need to make sure happens, is that you wash your hands—” 

“Yes, Y/N, I'm not a virgin,” he huffs this time, annoyed “I know all of that, just skip to the part where I make her squirt.” 

“Jesus, fine! I also want to clarify that this works on me and I'm not really sure if it'll work on anyone else, alright?” he nods and you look away from the screen because you're not sure how to look him in the eyes “The first thing that I do— The first thing that you need to do,” you correct yourself quickly “Is make sure she's comfortable. And I mean, the space. Towels, water bottles… She needs to hydrate a lot.” 

“Hydrate… a… lot…” You turn your head to the screen and your jaw goes slack at what you see. 

“Are you writing this down?!” 

“I’m making sure I don't forget anything!” 

“You're unbelievable…” You let out under your breath and take a deep one before resuming the, apparently, class “Squirting can be confused as peeing and—” 

“Shit, hold on.” He interrupts and you hear his mom’s voice at the door, asking him something you can't really catch through the shitty airpod audio “It's just Y/N… I'm not really saying anything so I don't understand how I'm being too loud for— Yes ma'am.” 

You try not to laugh because he's literally being scolded right in front of you. 

Old habits die hard, and Mingi's mom loves to put him on the spot. 

Your laugh dies hard as well, because the next words, for some reason, make your heart drop to your ass. 

“She's telling me to either cut it out or go to your house, so… I'm coming over.” 

“Oh, I— Hello?” Your lockscreen mocks you because the call literally ended before you could tell him to go and fuck himself “Shit.” 

You don't know why you panic, but you do. You tidy up the room, you change your pajamas into something more presentable and you try to remember what you were telling him before he pulls open your bedroom door. 

“Mingi! Fuck, you scared the shit out of me “ you're panting, hand over your chest. 

He’s also panting, like he runned to get to your house, but he looks dumbfounded by your reaction “Your mom literally gave me the spare keys in your presence.”  

When he steps closer, you notice he's wearing cologne and that his hair it's a little wet, still, so you figure he took a shower before calling you tonight. 

Which means he probably wanted to sleep everything off, like he usually does, but whatever this is made him call you. 

“Yeah! But I thought you— Nevermind.” He shrugs and gives your hair a kiss before he moves to sit at your desk, the same way he usually does when he steals your laptop and notes to complete his assignments for the few classes you share. 

God. Somehow, you wish he was doing just that so it brings back some sense of normalcy. Maybe then, your heart can calm down enough for you to understand why this specific situation has your senses going insane. 

You sit back down on your bed and try to get your heart back to its place in the meantime. 

“They're not home, right? I didn't see your dad’s car.” 

“Company dinner.” 

“Ah.” He nods and you both fall in uncomfortable silence. It shouldn't be awkward, but it kind of is, even if you laugh when he pulls out the notebook he was writing on from underneath his oversized shirt and steals a pen from your pencil case, it's still a little weird. 

You gulp. 

“So, squirting can be confused as peeing.” He recalls the last thing you said with a smile and then he turns to look at you for a second “Go on.” 

You're grateful he's taking notes all of the sudden. He's turned to you, so you have a clear view of his back and you can freely take a grounding breath before continuing “It can make you feel very uncomfortable if you think you're going to pee yourself and that's really why most women don't squirt in the first place.” 

“You sound like you're reading a textbook.” He confesses with a laugh. 

“I told you, I'm being very technical about this— Besides, I did my research when I was trying to…” you gulp again “You know.” 

“You said squirt so freely a minute ago.” Mingi teases you the same way you teased him earlier and you squint your eyes in return. 

“Very funny. Anyways… Yeah, when you feel that, you usually tense up. You need to relax before even making it happen,” he nods, writing it down quickly “I also read that, depending on the person, you can confuse the liquid with, like, usual… arousal? Yeah, arousal” you sound more confident the second time you say it, unsure on how to call it because you never really explained anything related to your vagina to anyone else. 

He turns to you, confused “So… If she doesn't squirt a lot, how can I tell if she did it?” 

“I guess you'll notice it in her reaction?” You shrug and then cough a little to try and get rid of the sudden lump on your throat “I mean, it's not my case, so I wouldn't… I wouldn't know that.” 

Mingi, because -you guess- hates you, just raises a brow and looks you over one time before turning back to his notes. 

“A-anyways,” you cough again “It's all in her g-spot. It happens because it gets stimulated and that g-spot it's like…” you, once again, try to find the ideal words to explain “It's like the upper wall of the vagina? No, no, that's not right,” you see him draw a line over what he clearly wrote down on the paper and you laugh, apologetic “It's more like the, uh… Like the front wall of it.” 

“Front wall?” 

“Y-yeah?” you offer, nervous and unsure “I mean… Ugh, let me explain again. Something that you need to take into account is that you can only find it if she's really, really turned on.” 

“O… kay.” 

“Sort of like when you get hard we, uh, also get hard. Just differently,” you notice he's no longer taking notes when you turn to him again and the room is suddenly very hot. 

The AC’s on, right? 

Fuck. 

“And apparently it only really shows up when you're really aroused. The g-spot, I mean,” Quickly, you're up from your bed and walking around it, fetching your water bottle and taking a big gulp of it with your eyes closed. 

Mingi clears his throat a second later. 

“So it feels hard to the touch or…” 

“Not really, um… It kinda feels like a berry.” 

He laughs “What?” 

“Yeah, it's kind of soft but it has a texture to it too. And we, uh… have this gland that fills up with the liquid— Kind of like a prostate gland! Yeah, that's what that article said,” putting even more distance within Mingi and you, you sit back on the bed, just on the other side “If you try to do it before it fills up, you end up with nothing. That's what frustrated me the whole time I was learning how to do it.” 

“You didn't drink enough water?” 

“No, no— It fills up when you get really turned on. And when I was trying, I was trying way too hard and didn't, uh… I didn't do a lot of foreplay before trying, s-so.” You nod, finishing the explanation in a softer voice. 

Your cheeks feel hot and you swear your upper lip is sweating a bit. Why would you even say that? 

“Y-you didn't touch yourself enough or…?” 

“Exactly, I didn't, I just… Tried t-to stimulate it. Wasn't even wet enough so I used, uh, lube.” 

“Oh… Lube. Sure, okay.” He nods again, and then moves his hand over his face, looking away for a second “And then?” 

“I'm not really sure how to… Give me a second.”

What were you even telling him before exposing yourself like that? Before the tension in the room skyrocketed in a suffocating way? You're not sure. 

Oh, foreplay. Okay, what's next? 

“Fingering,” you say out loud when you remember and at the sudden word Mingi turns to you, eyes wide and you stumble over your words yet again “Y-you need to finger her to stimulate the g-spot, duh.” 

“Don't duh me, Y/N, I'm learning!” 

“Sorry!” 

“Okay! Now what do I do when… fingering.” 

That makes you frown. You're not really sure what to tell him next. So you look straight ahead and, unintentionally, move your ring and middle finger the way you do when you're touching yourself. 

In the silence of the room, you audibly hear Mingi’s breath hitching and that draws you back to reality. 

When you look at him, his eyes are solely focused on your fingers. 

“I don't really know how to explain this next part.” You sound apologetic, your lips tensing into a straight line. 

A bit passes. 

And then another one and another one where Mingi looks at you with a weird, foreign expression on his face. 

So you open your mouth to apologize to him, but he beats you to it. 

“Then show me.” 

You swear you never even heard him sound like that before. Or maybe you have, the tone of voice similar to when he just wakes up, low, grouchy, as if his throat might be dry. 

It just never affected you this way. 

“W-what?” you blink hard, a few times, trying to focus on whatever the hell is going on. 

“Show me how you do it… I-if you want to.” 

“Mingi!” 

“I just— Look, you don't have to,” he says right away “If you don't want to, you can forget I ever asked but I'm so… curious”, he says, getting up from your desk chair and planting his knee into the bed “And I'm also really butthurt over what happened. I want to learn but I don't really have anyone else to ask.” 

“What about, uh… Minseo! Yeah, what about her?” you offer quickly, also getting up. 

“San's ex?!” 

“I don't know any other woman that you also know, Mingi!” 

He gulps and breathes heavily, gathering his words, his thoughts, just like he always does and you remember: This is Mingi. Your Mingi. The Mingi you've known for years and care about more than anything. 

“I'm asking you because I trust you,” he says, looking you over once again “And because if I fail, you're not… going to make fun of me for it.”

There it is. 

You soften at that and he seems to relax at your reaction. His demeanor lets you know he's not just saying that because he wants to see you touch yourself, he's being honest. 

So you decide to be honest, as well. In a whisper, because your voice will tremble and give away how strongly you feel about his request. 

“I've never done it in front of anyone before.” 

“So no one has ever make you—” 

“No,” you confirm before he even gets it out and you sigh “I never ask for it and I haven't really… I've only slept with—” 

“Hangyeol.” He nods and scrunches his nose in disgust at the memory of your highschool boyfriend. They never really got along and it was a shame, because Han was a great guy, he just wasn't the one for you. 

“Mingi,” you walk over to him and he straightens up his spine “This could really… I mean, there's no getting rid of me in this lifetime, buddy,” reminding him makes him smile and you do as well, nervous, your body on high alert “But this could mess us up.” You finish in a whisper. 

“I'm not letting that happen.” He says back, eyes scanning your face before zeroing on your eyes “There's no getting rid of me either, love.” 

That nickname is going to be the death of you, you're sure. It makes you suck in air you very much need at this moment. 

Fuck it. 

“I'll… get the towels, then.” You smile a little even though your cheeks are burning and you feel a little dizzy while holding his gaze, but you don't back down. 

Before you move, though, he stops you with his hand holding your waist “I know where they are. Stay here.” 

You could literally melt right now. And you know it's a short trip to the downstairs hallway closet from your room, so you make sure you strip your duvet before things get messy. 

You should go to the bathroom, too, to clean yourself up a bit before Mingi finds out what you find out when you sit on your bed. 

You're so wet. 

And it's so fucking embarrassing, because you're not supposed to feel this way for him, for this.

Because, if anything, this is clearly just an educational experience.

And if Mingi’s excited look when he re-enters your bedroom tells you otherwise, you're choosing to ignore it for the clearly educational experience’s sake. 

“These will do?” 

You take the two mismatched towels and place them on the bed right away, not even looking at him. 

“Yep.” 

You think he nods but you're not sure, you just caught a glimpse of him moving towards your desk while you pretend to fix the towels in the bed to perfection. 

“Okay, so… You need to, uh, be comfy and shit. Drink water, you just did that a few minutes ago…” when you turn to him, he's reading his notes like he's actually about to conduct an experiment and you chuckle before shaking your head “The… The foreplay part should be next, right?” 

“Right…” you drag out, biting the inside of your cheek before he looks back at you. 

“You look really tense, Y/N,” he deadpans, looking down at his notes again “You need to relax so it can happen, right?” 

“You're about to see me touch myself and you think I can relax?” 

“Oh,” he frowns, immediately and then blinks a few times to refocus, you think “I'm not the one doing it?” 

“Uh… Yes? Later? I thought you wanted to see me first, y-you… You asked me to show you…” 

You can feel him think, the gears on his brain twisting and you think he's going to backpedal at any second because he's not really saying anything. Then you see it, the moment the image crosses his mind. 

And the next second you have him in front of you, towering over your form and then he's not.

Getting on his knees, he tentatively places a hand on your knee and parts your legs so you can make room for him to touch the end of the mattress with his chest and raise his chin just enough to make you think he's asking you to kiss him.

Oh God, you want to kiss him. 

His voice is a sweet murmur when he speaks again “Show me how to get you there, love,” he sounds like he's pleading, like he's begging you to instruct him and your breath catches when he moves his hand up your thigh “What do you like?” 

Your mouth moves before you can even think “Kiss me.” 

You don't even notice you're leaning forward until his breath fans against your chin and he tilts his head even more so that your noses touch. 

“How do you like being kissed?” 

You breathe out a laugh, a little annoyed by his constant questioning “Figure it out, Mingi.” And then the last thing you see is his smirk before his mouth presses against yours. 

It's not what you expect. If anything, you expected him to take the lead. Han used to do so, all the guys you've ever kissed did it as well. You don't really know why his patience surprises you, but it does and if your heart could race even more, it would. 

Because he waits for your guidance, waits for you to grab his shirt and jank him closer, waits for you to sigh against him and then returns the gesture when he feels your fingers move upwards and tangle in his dark hair. 

His mouth is complying to yours, his tongue is exploring it and wetting your lips in the process and you've never felt this good with anyone before. 

That's something you'll need to unpack later, but your brain disconnects when your best friend lets out a noise the second his hands touch your waist under your shirt and you forget, for a split second, that the point of this is to have you on your back pleasing yourself for him to learn. 

Because you want nothing more than to hear him make that noise again. 

The kisses grow needy and so do you when he trails a path with his wet lips from your chin to your neck and the next thing you know is that your back is against the towels you laid down before and his mouth is kissing the valley of your breasts over the cotton of your shirt. 

You look down and it takes a second for him to feel you staring before he looks up at you “Should we take this off?” 

Your voice gives away how gone you are when you reply a simple yes and your shirt is on the floor the next instant. 

Now, you're sure this is not the first time Mingi has seen you in your underwear. You both have gone swimming before and he has walked into your room a million times while you're getting ready. You're even sure he's seen you walk out from your bathroom in this specific bra before… But he's staring at you like it's the first time he's been able to trace the way your breasts spill a little bit over the fabric of this old bra you decided to wear today, like it's the first time he's allowed himself to enjoy it. 

Like it's the first time he's allowing himself to feel any sort of attraction for you. 

“Fuck,” you whisper, shallow breath hitting his cheek when he returns his mouth to your jaw “Let me… Come here.” 

You scoot up until your head rests against your pillows and he follows, resting his body weight on his side and chasing your mouth when you turn your face to him. 

You should speed this up. There's no way you're not going to feel like shit if tomorrow you wake up and remember you're letting yourself enjoy this more than you should. 

There’s no reason for you to lose your breath when his fingertips trace softly the skin under your breasts or for your legs to grant him access so quickly when they reach your belly and bypass every other part of your body before going straight in between them. 

And he notices it too. 

“I don't know why I asked you so many questions before,” he starts, turning his hand so that he back of it and his nails start caressing the inside of your thighs through your sweatpants “I know what you like. I pay attention to you whenever we're talking about sex with the guys.” 

You frown, about to remind him that you never speak directly about your own experiences but he continues his ministrations, giving your other thigh attention “I usually watch you closely in case any of it makes you uncomfortable, but I notice your reactions when they speak about something that you like.” 

Oh. Heart on your sleeve, your biggest flaw. 

“Like that one time Woo was going on and on about marking and you couldn't stop fidgeting on your seat…” his nose traces your jaw softly before his teeth take the skin underneath it and you gasp just enough to prove him right “Or that time Yunho said he hated teasing because he's an impatient little shit” he chuckles, his index finding the spot next to your mound and going down slowly until his knuckle graces the crevice where your leg and your hip connect “and you defended it until we had to stop you guys from yelling each other over it…” 

Your breath shakes and your eyes close at the sensation “Mingi…” 

“Am I wrong?” 

You shake your head no and you can all but hear him smile when he speaks again. 

“Of course I'm not.” 

You open your eyes and expect him to look at you the way he does when you're unable to defend yourself against his quips, but he's not. His eyes are following his own actions and his bottom lip is pulled by his teeth when he takes the fabric of your sweatpants and pulls it up, enough to give you some friction where you need it the most. 

“Can I take this off?” 

“Fuck, y-yes.” 

Joining your shirt on the ground, you're left only in your underwear while Mingi is fully clothed and it bothers you out of nowhere. 

“You're so wet already…” he observes and you blush, puffing some air and covering your eyes with your hand. He just laughs “That's a good thing, it means that I'm doing okay.” 

He's doing more than okay. Damn all the experience he has and the way he reads you so well. 

But his sweet tone gives you some clarity and you support your weight on your hand to fix your position on the bed. 

“Alright, let's… resume the lesson before my parents get home.” 

“They probably won't for now. The company dinners last until like… two in the morning, usually, right?” 

“That's when they decide to go out for drinks.” 

“Your mom always wants to go out for drinks.” 

“Let's not talk about my mom right now!” you beg and he laughs again, making you chuckle alongside him and you're glad he's talking all of this -the kissing, the teasing, the sweet-talk and the wet patch on your underwear- so well. 

The awkwardness from before dissipated the moment he got on his knees in front of you and all that followed was this lovely tension you're dying to keep between the two of you forever even though you shouldn't. 

“Show me, love,” he pleads and you sigh, his mouth finding your cheek for a quick second, encouraging you “And then you can show me how to make you feel good, too.” 

You stare at him for a few seconds “Damn, you're good,” he shakes his head and you smile, getting rid of your underwear and pushing the quick moment of embarrassment being bare with him in the room gives you “Remember that this is what works for me, okay?” 

He nods and then props himself up so he can see it better. 

You take a second before your fingers dive into your wet folds and, when you do, you gasp at the feeling. 

You've never been more wet just for kissing and teasing before. What the fuck. 

You do what you usually do when you're alone for a while and try to contain yourself from moaning because Mingi's eyes keep moving from your fingers to your face. Then, you remember you should be talking him through it, as well. 

“You see how I'm building it up?” you start, chest heaving and he hums as his reply “I'm not trying to make myself come but I'm kinda just… edging myself a little bit.” 

“Edging,” he repeats and then hisses when he sees your thumb pressing into your clit just how you like it, making you sigh heavily “I know all about that, that's good.” 

“Y-you do?” 

“You'll be surprised,” he smiles, proud of himself. 

“Okay,” you continue, taking a deep breath “Then you know about prepping, too,” he nods “So, a finger first…” you say, swallowing hard when your middle finger makes its way into your cavity without much effort. 

Dragging back and forth for a minute or so, you're incapable of containing yourself any longer. Air leaves your mouth in pants and your eyes close when you drag the pad of your finger upwards, locating your g-spot with ease because you're used to it.

“And then, two fingers.” 

“Mhm.” 

“Look at the position of my hand. I read that these two fingers work the best because they're longer than the rest, although…” you look at Mingi's hand over your belly. You didn't even notice before this that he was touching you, but he is and his thumb is tracing a pattern that both relaxes you and sends shivers down your spine “I'm sure that it won't be a problem for you, huh?” 

He sends a cocky smirk your way and you would've smacked him if you weren't so… preoccupied. 

Pressing your precious spot and then dragging back and forward, you stop the movements altogether. It felt too good, way more than good and it's a different sensation of what you're used to. 

And it's all because of him. 

You look at his side profile, his eager eyes commiting to memory what you're doing to yourself, probably taking mental notes now that his notebook is long forgotten over at your desk and… 

He deserves this. He deserves to be the one to have this, just tonight. 

You hate to leave what feels like it's about to be your best orgasm in the hands of someone who's just learning, yet alone a man.

But Mingi is not just any man. 

“Mingi,” you call and his curious eyes leave your heat a second later “your turn.” 

“Did you… Did it happen? I didn't see anythi—” 

“No,” you interrupt him, your fingers leaving you and you turn to him, your clean hand finding his face “show me what you learned.” 

His mouth parts, but you have a newfound confidence and a glint in your eyes that is new, so nothing comes out. 

“Prove that bitch wrong.” 

That seems to do it. 

His eyes go from being confused to spark with determination and want and electricity runs through you again because he seems so relieved he gets to touch you sooner than expected. 

Shyness and nervousness buried six feet under, you both smile to each other before you feel him. 

His fingers gathering your wetness, his thumb finding your clit with ease and expertise. 

“Wettest pussy I've ever touched.” You can tell he's a little lost in the heat of the moment but it's okay. So are you. 

Fuck. 

It's been way too long since someone else touched you this way, so you all but melt at the circles he draws on your clit. He paid close attention before, because he's touching you just the way you like it. 

“That feels so good…” 

“Yeah?” he asks, dark eyes finding yours before a particular stroke forces you to close them. And then he gathers enough slick to insert his ring finger inside and you can't help the moan that slips past your lips. 

You lift your hand to cover your mouth, but Mingi clicks his tongue in feign disappointment “I want to hear if I'm making you feel good, love. Don't hold back on me just because this is unconventional.” 

The worries die altogether with that. 

And now that you have free reign to stop containing yourself, you don't know how to stop. 

It's not long before his middle joins his other finger but he doesn't go for it right away. He fucks you slowly, allowing you to get used to the unfamiliar stretch of his way longer, way thicker digits until they slide in and out with little effort. 

His pace picks up after what feels like ages and your hand fists his shirt for the second time tonight, nodding and moaning in encouragement. 

“Deeper,” you instruct “curl them upwards and go deeper, you'll feel it then.” 

He obeys immediately, his chest heaving and his mouth parting in delight when he finds it. The pad of his finger presses down on it tentatively and your grasp on his shirt hardens.

“Is that it?” you nod and he does it again, which earns another moan “What do I do now?” 

Before you completely get lost in the feeling, you decide to drop the step by step bullshit aside and give him the full instruction in hopes that he'll remember it all without fucking up: “What works for me is pressing… Fuck, yeah, just like that a-and then…” you take deep breath “Just a little harder… Yeah, then rub it in a circular motion while maintaining that same pressure… Fuck, Mingi!” 

He's a little too good at following instructions, because he touches you like he's been doing this forever and soon you feel the familiar swell, the usual buildup of it all and he's taking you over the age like it's nothing. 

You forget how to speak, you forget how to tell him what he needs to do next and so, when you finally explode, you take his wrist and place his two fingers over your clit. 

When you move them side by side, he lets out a fascinated giggle but knows exactly what to do. 

A second later, your release is coating your thighs and the towels underneath you and you don't register anything else because your ears are ringing. 

Did you lose consciousness for a second? It feels like you did. 

That was the best fucking orgasm you've ever felt in your entire life. 

And when you come back down, you only register the sound of your breathing and plump lips kissing your face, his fingers stopping their pace once he realizes you're done with it. 

Opening your eyes, you stare at your popcorn ceiling for a second. Then, you look at Mingi who's already staring at you with a what the fuck just happened expression. 

It makes you laugh. Softly at the beginning, post-orgasm bliss takes over but then Mingi laughs too and your whole chest swells with inexplicable pride. 

You don't think twice before kissing him again. When you realize you did it, you pull back and blink at him like he didn't make you see stars three seconds ago. 

“That was…” his eyes do the thing he usually does. You never notice it until now, but he scans your face so frequently you've grown used to it, but now… It feels different. His teeth nip his bottom lip and he shakes his head before speaking “Come here, love.” 

And then he's kissing you again, slow, intimate, beyond the stupid lesson you just taught him. 

But you don't mind it one bit. 

You sit up, getting on your knees on the bed and basically forcing him to do the same. Ignoring the gross sensation of the wet towel underneath you, you pull him further into you until his chest presses against yours, until his hands roam your body and settle on your waist, securing the embrace. 

This time, when you pull away, there's this whole unspoken new thing between you. 

“That was…?” you press, smiling a bit, pulling both you and him back to reality. 

Right now, with you half naked and his hard-on pressing on your belly, it's not the time to discuss your feelings. 

“Possibly the coolest thing I've seen,” he starts, giggling when you roll your eyes “and the hottest thing I've seen, too,” you shrug, dismissing his stare because it's making you feel hot all over your body, again “and I'm really, really grateful you said yes, love.” 

The soft tone he uses to say the last bit relaxes you and you nod, deciding it's not the time to tell him you never even came like that on your own. 

Instead, you decide to grasp this intimate moment and extend it as much as you can. You can see Mingi is not expecting it when you reach his sweatpants and let your shaky thumb trace the outline of his cock. 

Closing his eyes, he lets out a pleased sigh before he grabs you by the back of your neck and rests his forehead against yours. 

“This is supposed to be purely educational, Y/N” 

“Is that what you want it to be?” you softly ask, pulling your hand away but then his hips buck and chase after your touch, making you smile despite the emotions swelling in your chest “Let me help you… Please…” 

“Fuck, don't beg me, love.” 

“Don't make me beg, then.” 

What the fuck are you even doing? 

“Y/N, I—” he stops suddenly and you're too lost in the moment to notice why. 

But then the sound of keys and a door closing downstairs scares the fuck out of you and you push Mingi away without thinking it through. 

He lands with a thud on your bedroom floor, next to your discarded clothes. 

“What the fuck, Y/N?” he whispers-shouts, both shocked and offended, but you're getting off your bed and picking up your clothes and the soaked towels so you don't really care about his feelings right now. 

“Bathroom. Now.” 

You're so blessed for having your bedroom right next to the upstairs bathroom. And so blessed that it is your bathroom and you don't have to share it. You’ll get on your knees and thank your gods afterwards, but right now you can only think one thing.

Don't get caught. 

Lord knows you'll never hear the end of it if Mingi walks out of here with a hard-on. Your dad will kill him, your mom will cheer because she loves the idea of you and Mingi together and you'll probably pack your bags and move away if it happens. 

When you lock the door behind you and make a quick show of putting your underwear and pants back on, you hear Mingi chuckle. 

“We can always tell them we're having a sleepover, Y/N, you didn't have to karate kick me off the damn bed!” 

“Hush!” But he just keeps giggling at your very obvious flustered state.

You're about to rip him a new one when he takes two strides, backs you against the bathroom sink, and catches your lips in a quick, sweet kiss and all your worries dissolve just like that. 

“Guess they didn't go for drinks after all..” 

“You think?” cocking your head to the side, the smile on your lips can't be fought at this point. 

He returns it and leans in for another kiss, longer this time and you sigh against his mouth before pulling away because you really, really shouldn't be doing this right now. 

You hear your mother calling your name and then footsteps up the stairs. A murmured she must be sleeping and a hum from your father before they pass the bathroom door. You truly only relax when you hear their door closing at the end of the hallway. 

“Okay, we're safe now.” 

“When were we ever not safe?” 

“When I was half naked on my bed, Mingi!” 

He shakes his head with a smile and takes a step back. 

You clear your throat. 

“I really did want to help you out but—” 

“Raincheck?” he asks and at your hesitation to say yes, he continues “If you want to. If you don't, it's okay. We… We'll figure it out, okay?” 

“Okay.” 

He smiles again “Good, uh…” 

Mingi seems unsure on what to do next. Feeling the same, you decide the best thing to do is to get him out of here. 

Opening the bathroom door, you carefully peek into the hallway, taking his hand in yours and beckoning him to follow you down the stairs, trying to make as little noise as possible. 

“Shit, your shoes…” you whisper. 

“I don't think they noticed if they didn't barge into the bedroom to check on us like they usually do, love.” He returns, in the same tone. 

That does nothing to ease your mind, but he makes sure to put them on quickly and then grabs your shoulders, shaking you in a teasing manner. 

“Quit worrying, Y/N. I can feel you thinking.” 

Of course he does. There's no one, in this world, that knows you better than him. 

It makes your heart flutter and it shouldn't. But you're getting on your tippy toes and stealing a parting kiss before you think about it too much. 

It's irresponsible for you to do so, but Mingi grabs your waist and extends the duration of the kiss and suddenly you don't give a fuck about your parents or anyone else finding out about this… shift in your dynamic. 

“See you tomorrow?” he asks against your lips and you nod. 

“See you tomorrow.” 

And with that, he leaves. 

You lock the door and practically run to your room after. 

What the fuck have you done?

If you read all the way down here: THANK YOU SO MUCH. Any feedback would be greatly appreciated and since it’s an open ending (sort of), let me know if you want a second part! 

© jensthwa, 2024.

[yanderedrabbles]

Yandere Wendigo

Being out on the frontier ain't easy, 'specially not for a woman. And when a stranger wanders in from the plains, you know things ain't never gonna be easy again. 5.4k words. Originally published October 2022.

IT'S MORNING WHEN YOUR DADDY DRAGS A DEAD MAN INTO THE HOUSE.

You're curled up in front of the fire place, half dreamin' and half reading, when they stagger through the door. You notice your daddy first, breathing hard with the effort of keepin' the man up.

"Pa? What happened?"

Snow is thick on his shoulders and trapped in the brim of his old Stetson. But your daddy don't seem to care.

You get to your feet slowly. It's then that you notice the stranger.

A real tall fella, bent over like he ain't got much strength left in him. The winter was cruel to him and what's left of him is all bone, bone and hunger and aching need.

"Get the door to your room open."

Your daddy ain't askin'. That's his rancher voice - all hard steel. Your daddy is commanding you.

You stand still, too shocked to move. It ain't normal. Your daddy never talks to you like you're just one of the cowhands.

"But daddy, I don't want a dead man in my room."

You're whining, you know it. But you can't stop yourself. The stranger is covered in snow and bleeding too. You don't want him on top of your nice clean sheets, don't want a dying thing in the place where you sleep.

"Ain't dead yet. And he ain't gonna die, not if I can help it."

The stranger looks carved outta hunger and little else. Dark clothes and mean looking spurs, he ain't the type of fella you invite into your home.

"But why my room daddy?"

Your father is already dragging the man down the passage, his boots real loud against the wood floor. You follow behind them, your book still hanging from your fingers.

He doesn't wait for you to catch up. Just leans the fella against the wall for a second and opens the door to your room himself.

"But pa-"

Your daddy ain't hearing it. He spears you with a look to tan leather, a real mean glare that shuts you right up.

Your pa ain't ever cruel - not to you. You can't understand it. Why is he getting all worked up about a stranger? Ain't one man just as good as the next? Why go through all this trouble for someone you don't even know?

He drops the stranger on your bed and you flinch. When he speaks, his voice is still hard.

"He's half starved and half frozen. It don't look good and I want you to stay right here with him."

"Me? I ain't know a thing about him!"

Your daddy ignores you, dusting the snow off his hat 'fore putting it back on again. "Feed him and keep him warm, 'til I'm back with the surgeon. You hear me?"

You're staring at your daddy. He's gone mad, you're sure of it. The stranger is just another mouth to feed and you ain't got the food, not with winter already here.

Your daddy is tough and your daddy is smart - he tamed the west, made something out of the wild frontier. You don't like this starved man in your home, but if your daddy's asking you...

You nod slowly, shifting your eyes to the stranger.

"That's my girl." Your pa's voice is kinder and he grins at you. Then he's out the door.

In the silence, you finally take a good look at the man. He ain't much older than you really, but there's a hunger in his face you ain't got.

He's mighty handsome too, but it ain't...

It ain't a safe kind of beauty.

He's got plenty of scars but that ain't what makes you wary. 

There's something cruel in him - in the lines 'round his eyes, in the set of his jaw. He's winter lean. 

What was your daddy thinking? Leaving you to care for a wolf?

You take a deep breath. You can handle this. He's just a man, a man like any other. Ain't no kinder and he ain't no crueler.

But you ain't sure where to start. Lookin' at him is like lookin' straight into a grave. He ain't got no colour to him and his breathing is too slow to be normal.

Well, if you were sick and near dying, you'd wanna be comfortable, right? Get him all tucked away then get something for that hunger, that thirst.

His Stetson is covered with snow but underneath the ice, it's midnight dark. Slowly, you take it off. You're waiting for him to open his eyes, flinch, scream, anything.

But he's still as death and the hat comes off easy.

Underneath it, his hair is a dark blonde. Long enough to brush his jaw and still littered with snow.

The strands cling to his forehead and you smooth them away without thinking. His skin is real cold. Hell, he's probably frozen straight down to the bone. 

You sigh quietly.

His gun belt has two revolvers, both of 'em a bright silver. They ain't just for looking pretty either - the metal is covered in fine scratches from years of use.

You reckon it ain't a good idea to sleep with guns on and you reach forward, your fingers brushing the buckle.

He grabs your wrist.

He moves fast, faster than you've ever seen a man move. You try to jerk away, but he still has some strength in him and his grip is iron. Tight enough to bruise.

"The hell you doin' girl?"

The stranger's voice is deep but rough with thirst, a coyote learnin' to speak. You're frozen - you ain't expected him to be so strong or so fast.

You swallow and slowly drag your eyes up to look at him.

"Takin' your belt off."

It's his eyes that you notice first. Yellow gold and dangerous, he looks like he wants to eat you alive. Coyote eyes your daddy calls 'em.

"Oh really?" His eyes rake you up and down, lingering without an ounce of shame. "And you haven't even asked my name yet."

He ain't a gentleman and there's something in the way he smiles that makes you go cold. It's staring straight down the barrel of a gun, the way he makes you freeze.

"I ain't got a chance to ask your name on account of all the near fainting."

He laughs. It's deep, like his voice. But it ain't a kind laugh. The stranger don't have no kindness in him at all.

"I 'spose that's fair."

He's still holding your wrists but his grip ain't as tight.

"It just ain't a polite thing, touching a man's guns while he's sleeping. You get that darlin'?"

He lies down again and finally let's you go. Talkin' ain't done him no favors and his breathin' is real shallow. His eyes are closed again and you stand up, all slow and cautious.

"I'll get you something to drink."

He don't respond and you hurry away, your back burning the whole time.

Water is everything out on the plains and with winter outside your door, even the well has started freezing. You don't wanna feed the stranger, don't wanna quench his thirst. What good has ever come from having a coyote at your table?

But your daddy told you to do something and you listen to your daddy, 'specially out here. You listen to him 'cause otherwise you'd be dead and gone long ago. Buried out on the prairie like so many others.

Life ain't easy out west and the land belongs more to ghosts than people.

When you return, the stranger's eyes are still closed. Most folks look harmless in their sleep, like their dreams are all they care 'bout. But that ain't true of him.

Being near him is being near a bear just as the snow melts. Any moment, he'll open his eyes and chew straight through your heart.

You clench your jaw and reach out your hand. Your fingers rest on his forehead, then his cheek. He's still icy to the touch and you ain't sure how he keeps breathing.

"That feels real good sweetheart." His voice is low.

He opens his eyes slowly, and when they settle on you, he manages a smile. His teeth are sharp and his lips are bloody, like he's been chewing at them for a real long time.

"I brought you some water."

He sits up slowly but his eyes never leave you.

"Much obliged darlin'."

He reaches for it and his fingers brush yours. You flinch - his touch is cold as the grave.

He drinks slow but his muscles are tight and you know it ain't easy. He's fighting with himself for every sip - the desperate, thirsty part of him just wants to gulp it all down. He would drink a river dry, if you gave him the chance.

When he's done, he looks at you and he smiles. A twisted thing that never touches his eyes.

"You got some food too?"

"I do."

But you ain't eager to share it with him. What was it the ranch hands always said? Don't feed the wolves unless you wanna feed them everything you've got?

Your daddy was wrong to bring him here - wrong to offer him hearth and home when the men were lean and the crows were watching.

You don't move and he watches you. In the quiet, your heart starts to race. What's going through his head, that makes his eyes so dark?

"You ain't much like your pa, you know that?"

His wolf eyes look straight through your soul. You fidget with your dress, tryin' your best to look uninterested.

"Your daddy is a better man than most. But you...well, I reckon he spoils you."

He licks his lips and you realize the bleeding is worse than you thought - he's teeth are red with it.

He continues, "Your daddy ain't taught you enough about the frontier."

Who does he think he is? Lyin' in your bed, drinkin' your water and lecturing you?

"You ain't know a damn thing me."

You're scared of him but you're bitter too, and anger is easier to stomach than fear.

You don't mean to snarl at him, but your blood is up and you ain't good with your temper. Your cheeks are red hot and your heart leaps right up your throat, 'til you can almost taste your own blood. 

"Get your own damn food if you want it."

You turn to leave but his hand grabs the back of your dress and he yanks you toward him. He's strong and you ain't expecting it, ain't got any time to dig in your heels. 

You land hard on the bed, right next to him.

"I ain't done talkin' sweetheart. Ain't your daddy ever taught you any manners?"

He's voice is real close to you ear and he has a growl to him that makes you freeze. He smells of juniper and pine, of icy cold winter.

"Let me go."

You try real hard to sound brave and mean, to sound like your pa when he wants something done. But you ain't your daddy and the stranger is too close and too cruel. Your voice is quiet and afraid, a girl begging a monster.

You hate yourself for it.

"Why would I do that?"

His other hand curls around the back of your neck and he leans toward you, 'til you can feel his breath on the shell of your ear.

"You've got a real temper in you girl."

His voice is rough with somethin' you can't recognize. Hate? Anger?

He ain't a man to be disrespected, ain't someone to take an insult.

You should apologize, say your rage got the better of you. Say you won't let it happen again and that you're real sorry. Ask him to please let you go.

But even in your fear, your pride won't bend. How dare he touch you so easily? You don't belong to him - he ain't got a damn say in how you behave.

You swing around, your nails coming up to scratch his face, dig his eyes out, make him bleed.

But you ain't learnt from the last time.

He's faster than you and he catches your hand in his. His grip is tight and he's skin is rough, calloused from years of gun slinging.

He's face is just next to yours and the dim morning sun casts him in shadow.

"Temper, temper."

He chides, his gravel voice rumbling through you.

You're going to bite his face off, just lean forward and-

And he's smiling.

Not a cruel smile neither. All gold eyes and real deep dimples.

He's dangerous, you know it in your bones. But his smile is all honey, all sunrise gold.

There ain't a lot of men out here, and none who smile at you like that. None who look you straight in the eyes like you're all they've ever wanted.

"Let me go, please."

You ask politely this time. He's too handsome and he's too close and Lord help you, your hearts gonna run right outta your rib cage.

He hums softly. "Ain't happenin' girly. I let you go and you're gonna run right out that door and leave me to freeze."

You want to get away from him, it's true. He's twisting your soul 'round his fingers 'til you ain't sure whether he wants to kiss you or eat you alive. 

You shake your head. "I'll stoke the fire. My pa said to keep you warm."

He laughs, a real throaty laugh. "You always do what your daddy says?"

"Of course."

Why did it have to be him? If your daddy was going around saving strays, couldn't he have found someone else? Anyone else? 

The stranger is a mystery and you hate it. 

His grip tightens 'round your neck. "You ain't gonna run off?"

"Ain't that what I said?"

He's quiet for a real long time. You start thinking he ain't even considering it - he's just gonna keep you here with him 'til your daddy gets back. 

And then he let's you go.

"Alright sweetheart, let's see you keep your word."

You stand up slowly, keeping your eyes on him the entire time.

Your room is the only bedroom with a fireplace and when you've put all the space you can between the two of you, you finally turn your back on him.

You stack the firewood carefully, feelin' his eyes on you the whole time.

"You ain't scared of me, are you?"

You flinch. 

"Why would I be?"

Your voice comes out real calm. It's easier when you ain't looking in his eyes, when he ain't spearing you down with the heat of his stare.

"I ain't sure. I promise I'm real nice darlin'."

You make the mistake of looking at him. He's smiling at you with those sharp teeth and he don't seem nice at all.

You drop your eyes real fast. Your cheeks feel all tingly and you ain't sure why, ain't sure how he does this to you.

Ain't you 'sposed to like men who are kind?

Not this stranger, not a man made cruel from years of hard living. And still...

"You got a name stranger?'

"I do."

You wait but he doesn't say anything more. He's giving you a taste of your own medicine and you loathe him for it.

"How did my daddy find you?"

"Is that really the question you wanna ask me?"

His voice is better, less harsh. But that don't mean he's kind. Don't mean he's good. 

You fiddle with the kindling, staying quiet. 

" 'Cause I think what you really wanna know is 'why.' Why your daddy brought me here, why he wants to save me."

You turn to face him. How did he know? You ain't that easy to read. Hell, most of the ranch hands can't even tell if you're in a good mood, much less guess what you're thinking.

Who is this man?

He has you full attention again and he smiles, runs his hand through his blond hair. 

" 'S what I was sayin' earlier. You ain't know enough about the plains. You can't survive alone out here. You've gotta take care of folks, gotta keep them fed when they need it. Your daddy knows that."

You raise a brow. "And what happens when you don't?"

He laughs but it's bitter as sand. "Hungry folk are dangerous folk."

But ain't he half starved already?

You turn back to the fireplace, finally striking a match. The fire catches quick and the light rims you in gold. 

The stranger watches you - on your knees and haloed in warmth, you're a sight for sore eyes. All those long months on the plains, always tryin' to be one step ahead of death and here you are, a just reward for all his suffering.

You ain't got a clue how hard life is, ain't got any idea how the nights stretch long and lonely. But he'll teach you. 

He'll make sure you learn the danger of hunger unsatisfied. 

"Come sit with me." He says quietly.

You stand and shake your head slowly. Being in here is stifling, makes you wanna crawl right outta your skin.

Is it fear or want? You ain't sure.

"Come sit with me. I don't bite." He ain't smiling no more.

You swallow and cross your arms, fold a little into yourself. He ain't anything you're familiar with. Folks don't order you 'round - not when you're the boss' daughter.

"I don't trust you." You say simply.

He's sitting on the edge of your bed, his revolvers glinting in the cold winter sun. He's a desperado, you ain't got a doubt about it.

"What am I gonna do to you girl? I just want a little company."

He taps his fingers 'gainst his knee, watching you with sharp eyes.

"You ain't got a clue darlin'. Out there, folk shoot 'fore they offer conversation. Is it so bad that I wanna talk to you?"

"Then talk. I can hear you just fine from over here."

He shakes his head slowly. "You grudge me food and water. And now you won't even talk to me. You always this charmin' sweetheart?"

You bristle. He's the one who ain't got any manners at all, not you.

"Fine." You snarl and stalk forward, stopping right in front of him. "Happy now?"

A smile is crawling 'cross his bloody lips. "Still ain't working on that temper, are you darlin'?"

"I ain't your darling! And I ain't got a temper neither."

He reaches out slowly and his hands come to rest on your waist. He don't hold you tight but his fingers are long and they dig into you just a little.

You freeze, not expecting him to touch you. His voice is real low, just shy of a growl.

"Don't me want to call you my darlin'? You'd better stop me then."

You slap him.

You're quicker than him for once and you hit him hard enough to twist his head, the sound cracking through the quiet. Your palm stings and it runs straight up your arm.

He touches his cheek gingerly, his other hand getting real tight 'round you, clawing straight into your back.

Oh no.

You're done for. He's gonna grab one of his guns and end you right now, shoot you straight through the heart. Or maybe he'll do it with his bare hands, just choke the life outta you. Or -

He laughs.

"God damn girl, I bet you've got a mean right hook too."

He grins and rubs his cheek.

"You're a real hellcat, ain't you?"

His other hand is still curled 'round your waist and you step away, pull yourself free of him. You don't trust his good mood. Don't trust his smile when his eyes ain't got no joy in them.

He ain't eager to let you go but there ain't much he can do to stop you - nothing gentle at least.

You've had enough of him - of his entitlement and his anger, of his values that mean nothing to you. You spin on your heel and aim for the door.

"I wish he left you outside to starve."

You ain't gotta share a damn thing with him. Who cares if he dies? What's yours is yours. You ain't gotta give him food or shelter or kindness. Ain't owe him.

Your daddy was wrong. You gotta look out for yourself first.

"Sweetheart I-"

You leave 'fore he can finish, shutting the door and leaning against it. Just tryin' to slow your heart.

He ain't a pious man and he ain't thinking holy thoughts 'bout you.

The first thing you notice when you turn around is the dimness. The fires burnt out, sure. But the sun should be shining through the glass.

You walk into the living room and stare out the big bay windows, your mouth fallin' open. 

The clouds are thick and dark, real storm clouds blowing in from the plains. And the wind has gotten stronger too. You watch it kicking up puffs of snow and hurling it past the glass.

A blizzards blowing in, you're sure of it.

But it's movin' fast, faster than you thought possible. When the stranger came in, there weren't even a breeze.

God, is your daddy gonna be okay? Maybe he's reached town already. Maybe him and the doc are drinking together and waitin' for the storm to pass. Your daddy's tough - he'll be fine. Right?

"You okay darlin'?"

You whirl around, your heart in your throat.

The passage behind you is real dark and you can just kinda see the stranger, a blurry silhouette. He's standing strange and his arms are real long looking. Has he always been that tall?

"I'm...fine."

There's something 'bout his voice you don't like.

Somethin' in it that makes you take a step back. And then another and another, 'til you're pressed right against the window sill. It digs into your back and the chill goes straight down to your spine, dulls its teeth on your marrow.

"What I tell you 'bout leavin' while I'm talking?"

You can just make out his yellow eyes. They're catching the light and glinting like an animal's.

He continues, "You're real slow to learn, ain't you?"

You frown, your heart stuttering inside you.

"No. 'Course not."

He laughs and it runs down your neck like ice.

"You're really somethin', you know that y/n?"

When did he learn your name? You sure ain't told him.

His voice is low but it has winter's bite to it. He talks to you like cowpokes talk to girls after a real long time out in the plains - all hunger and need.

"You're just the kinda girl I like. Selfish, greedy, gotta learn her place."

His eyes trace your body and he smiles at you, that mocking half smile that ain't got an ounce of kindness in it.

"Now come 'ere."

He lunges forward but you're ready for it and you dive outta the way. You land hard on your knees but you scramble up, your blood screamin' in your ears.

Gotta get a weapon or somethin' - he's still stronger than you, even if he's half starved.

Your daddy keeps a Henry rifle 'bove the fire place and you aim for it, movin' fast.

But the stranger ain't no ordinary man. He grabs you from behind and you both go crashing down.

His body is pressed right up against you and he's cold as ice.

"That blizzards keepin' you right here darlin, ain't no running."

His voice ain't human. It's the cracking of bone, the tearing of flesh, the hound dog howling. His voice is hunger and nothin' else.

His hands are pressed into the floor next to your waist and his teeth brush your ear. Even starving, he's lean with muscle and you can feel the hardness under his skin.

His breath is cold and it smells of wintergreen.

He's gonna bite straight through your throat. Rip you apart. Have your heart right between his teeth.

But you ain't dying today.

You snarl and try to buck him off, but he doesn't budge. His weight is pressing you into the floor and you can't take a full breath.

Your ribs feel like they're 'bout to snap inwards, shards of your own bone driving straight through your heart.

You struggle under him and he laughs.

"Keep doin' that sweetheart. I love feelin' you squirm."

His voice is husky and it ain't like anything you've heard before.

The dead fire is right next to you and the embers are still hot, still have some burning red streaking through them.

You reach out and grab one. It's scalds your palm and your whole hand is nothing but white hot pain. But you ain't gonna let that stop you.

You twist around and press the burning ember right in his face.

He shrieks like an animal and leaps back, light on his feet like he don't weigh a thing.

"Fucking hurts." His voice is a hiss, a rattlesnake under your skin.

You scramble up and yank the rifle down, swinging around with your finger on the trigger.

The stranger is in front of you and there ain't nothin' human left in him. He's crouched down on the floor and his limbs are too long - sticking out like an insect's. He ain't got no lips neither. Just ragged, bloody skin like he's eaten straight through them.

Corpse pale and cold as the frost, the stranger in your home was always a dead man.

His teeth are sharp and long and Lord help you, he has so many teeth.

He lunges toward you.

He's fast, faster than anything alive. But you ain't done fighting yet.

His body is in the air when you fire the first shot. The bullet hits him straight in the head and knocks him back.

Black blood sprays across the floor, across the furniture, across your face.

He crashes into the dining table, his spine shattering against the table legs.

You don't wait to check if he's still alive.

You aim for his chest and empty your daddy's rifle. Put bullet after bullet straight into his heart. The sound is thunder and when the firing stops, your ears are ringing.

His blood pools around him, thick as oil. The wendigo is still.

The wendigo is dead.

The blizzard is startin' in earnest now and the snow outside the windows is coming thick and fast. Your shoulder aches from the rifle's recoil and you can't get the shaking outta your fingers. You sink down to your knees, your breath ragged.

They were just 'sposed to be stories.

You keep your eyes on its body, scared of even blinking.

With a heart of ice, it's born in the cold, lean months.

The wendigo devours.

The wendigo is ever hungry.

But the wendigo is dead.

You wait a real long time. Until you heart ain't as loud and the blizzard rages, until the whole house is freezing. The wind screams and the wendigo doesn't move.

You're safe.

You close you eyes. You let yourself breathe. The gun slinger is dead and he ain't gonna hurt you, ain't gonna touch you.

You were right - ain't nothing good ever comes of strangers at your table.

The winter grows angry, but you're safe and you're warm. And the stranger ain't ever gonna have you. You smile. You open your eyes.

He's gone.

He was dead and now he's gone.

You jump to your feet, holding the rifle like an axe. The quiet stretches around you, nothin' but your own breathing to break it.

Where is he?

You keep perfectly still, squinting into the dark corners of the room. The light is scarce and every shadow hides him.

"You ain't getting away from me sweetheart."

You whirl around but he's quick as a cat. He grabs a fistful of your hair and yanks you toward him.

He ain't gentle and he shakes you 'til your jaws rattling. Holds you like a kitten.

He's pressed up behind you and he dips his head low, 'til his lips are right above your pulse.

"So selfish but so warm..."

You scream, try to pull away. But he ain't movin' and all you do is rip some of your own hair out.

He laughs, laughs deep and cold.

"You gotta start listenin' sweetheart. What I just say 'bout getting away?"

He uses your hair like a leash and tosses you straight across the room.

The floor hits you hard and knocks the air clean outta you. Pain spikes white hot right through your ribs.

He's stronger than any man has the right to be. He threw you clear across the room without even tryin'.

He don't wait for you to get up neither. He just grabs your jaw and drags you to your knees. His fingers dig into your cheeks.

He's human again but that ain't a kindness.

His nails - his claws - leave bloody scratches 'cross your skin.

You look up and he's staring down at you with those strange, hungry eyes.

Coyote gold. Wolf gold. Killer gold. 

His pupils are blown out wide, 'till they're all black rimmed in honey. He's staring at you and there ain't nothin' but want in him.

"Your daddy's a good man. He knows the way of the west. But you..."

He smiles that sardonic grin of his. Your bullets ain't left a hole but blood is running down from his hairline. It creeps down into his mouth and his smile is red and cruel. 

"You need to learn a lesson girl."

He pulls you up and you scream. You claw at him, dig your nails in deep 'til your fingers ache.

He holds you like a prize and his eyes drop to your lips. And then lower still.

You're crying, tears on your tongue bitter as poison. It ain't fair. You just wanted to keep yourself safe and fed and warm. You shouldn't be punished for it. 

He runs a thumb across your cheek but there ain't no kindness in it.

"Awww, am I scaring you darlin'?"

He said your daddy was a smart man, a kind man.

Would he have let you go? If you were generous or selfless or good?

He smells of the forest and your head is swimmin' with it. His thumb traces the outline of your lips and his smile is all teeth. He'll shatter your bones like glass if he wants.

He presses his lips against your cheek and whispers to you, his voice cruel as the snow.

"I'll be gentle sweetheart. I promise."

It's then that you realize.

A man's got more than one kind of hunger.

[nereidprinc3ss]

you know the killer doesn't understand

in which spencer is so terrified he's going to hurt you after he gets out of prison that he can barely touch you. an argument ensues.

angst (+ comfort) warnings/tags: established relationship, fem!reader, mentions of violent intrusive thoughts (non-specific), arguing, yelling, use of the word rape, nightmares, happyish ending, mention of showering together, it's a bad time but it's also a good time for us woo i love angsty angst a/n: i miss posting for real so bad i dug up this draft which was mostly finished and polished it up. i think i really like this one and it was based on a request but i lost it:( i hope u guys enjoy this, pls lmk<3

Spencer is by no means happy with his sudden fear of touching you—it makes everything in his life significantly harder and less convenient and he hates that he’s constantly afraid he’s going to break you. He hates watching you hold back from attacking him with a hug when he enters a room like you used to, and he feels terrible every time you ball up on the opposite side of the couch as he reads, waiting for an invitation into his lap but too scared to ask for one (he’ll always hold out his arm for you, though—he’s not cruel.)

You’re adorable in the way you stand at the foot of the bed in your pajamas, arms behind your back like it’s not your bed too, but it makes him feel terrible. This isn’t at all what he wanted for you, and in all honestly he’s thought about ending the relationship because he knows he’s being an absolutely awful partner—but he just can’t bring himself to. Instead, he gestures for you to get into bed, and you curl up under the covers close to him but not against him, and he’ll play with your hair and read for a while because he can’t sleep very well. Eventually he’ll assume the position of sleep, but some sick part of him doesn’t know what to do with the sounds of the city and the fan instead of the sounds of a hundred men rolling and sniffing and shuffling around their echoey cells. He doesn’t understand warmth anymore, or softness, or nice pajamas or fluffy pillows. He’s starting to think he doesn’t understand you. And that’s the worst thought of all. 

So he essentially dozes for the first week, on and off, always exhausted in the mornings but what’s new. When he can’t sleep, he turns his head to watch you breathe—some beautiful, sweet creature dreaming in his bed, unwaveringly loyal to him even though he can hardly stand to touch you for fuck’s sake. You’re beautiful, and it makes him feel better to watch you, even if he can’t touch you. Not now that he knows what he is capable of doing to another person. What if he has some sort of PTSD—PTSS, thank you, Luke Alvez—induced dream and does something terrible to you in his sleep? It’s not like you’re tiny, but he’s stronger, he knows he is, and lately every time you get too close he remembers exactly what it feels like to exert the full force of that strength, and what it feels like when someone else unleashes their own onto him. 

They’re just intrusive thoughts, and in them he doesn’t hurt you intentionally, but he always feels a little bit sick now. He is so, so sick. A bull in a China shop. Spencer knows exactly how breakable humans are—it’s his job to know. If he left so much as one red mark on you by accident, he’s quite sure he’d drill down to a previously unknown rock bottom. And if he reaches that point, he doesn’t know if he’d ever deserve to come back. 

Every day it seems to become clearer that the only humane thing to do is break up with you. But for now he’ll watch you sleep—the delicate rising and falling of your chest, the way you curl in on yourself because you can’t curl into him. In sleep you look so peaceful and content. You never look that way awake, anymore. Not when he’s around, which is pretty much always. At least he can’t disappoint you while you’re asleep. 

Or so he’d like to think. 

Until one night, about a week and a half after he gets home; you whimper in your sleep. It’s so quiet he could’ve missed it, but he doesn’t, and then he watches your smooth brow furrow with worry and he knows you’re having a nightmare immediately. 

Spencer panics—before, he would have woken you up and held you and comforted you until you fell back asleep and it would have been so simple. Now he’s frozen, afraid to touch you but not sure if he can just lie there watching you so afraid and not do a thing about it. 

In the end, you choose for him—and it only takes a few moments. You’re close enough to him that it’s easy for you to close the few inches even in sleep, and maybe you’re slightly conscious but not enough to remember you’re not supposed to touch him. 

He stops breathing as you fold yourself against him, muttering worried nonsense—he catches his name, once—nestling against his chest, one searching arm gently draping over his waist. Every muscle in his body is rigid, and his thoughts—his mind goes… completely fucking blank. 

Suddenly, all he’s known, all he’s ever known, is the smell of your hair, the warmth of you seeping through layers of clothing, and the weight of your arm over him. Everything he ever was ceases to exist, and he’s just this, right now. The person you’d turned to unconsciously for comfort, so sure, so trusting that he would keep you safe. He can feel your breath for the first time in months. Slowly every tense muscle unspools. For the first time in a long time he doesn’t feel dangerous. He doesn’t feel like his entire body is spring loaded and ready to attack at the slightest provocation. Spencer allows himself to hold you, and part of it feels like betrayal because he knows how badly you need this from him while you’re awake but mostly he feels like he could cry. His thumb rubs circles into the middle of your back and your head tucks so perfectly under his chin while he studies the rumpled sheets where you’d been lying a moment ago. He almost feels like sticking his tongue out to gloat at your half of the mattress—haha, look who gets to hold her now—but instead he sighs, shakily, and squeezes his eyes shut. 

You don’t make another sound for hours. 

He’s reluctant to let you go when you begin to stir around six AM, but forcibly holding onto you is so far from what he wants to do that he manages. You roll back over to your own side of the bed, and he continues admiring you from afar until he falls asleep. It’s the best three hours of sleep he’s had in a very long time. 

Of course, you don’t remember it. When you wake up your sadness resumes, and so does the pretending like you’re not sad, but you’re a very good sport—and it helps that he’s feeling much better this morning than he has since he got back. 

“Good morning,” you whisper faintly, still blinking as you watch him longingly from your spot. 

Spencer pushes himself up onto an elbow, and you watch with big eyes as he leans over you, stroking your cheek with his free hand. 

“Good morning. You sleep okay?”

Your brow flickers, and he realizes it’s not a question he asks every morning, and you’re probably distracted by this overt display of affection, but you answer it obediently anyway. 

“I think so. I had weird dreams.”

He hums. 

“About what?”

It’s quiet for a moment as he takes in the exact spattering of microscopically fractured pigment over your irises. Your voice is small when you finally speak. 

“Do I have to tell you?”

That hurts. 

“No. But it might help.”

Coming from him? Ironic doesn’t even begin to cover it. 

You acknowledge him with a small hum of your own, studying him with soft, mistrustful eyes. 

He can’t help it anymore—Spencer leans down and gently kisses you, so tenderly, so chastely, it makes his own head spin. He hasn’t kissed you like that since you picked him up from Milburn. It’s long overdue. 

Which is why he’s not expecting you to start crying. He pulls back immediately, not far, just enough to assess your expression. 

“What’s this? What’s wrong, angel?” He frowns. Your lip quivers in a way that feels like a blow to the chest. 

“That’s not… you’re…”

“What? What is it?”

A fat tear finally traces a path down your cheek and when you speak your voice breaks in the most fragile, devastating way. 

“You’re not being fair.”

He has no neat question to summarize all the bafflement your accusation inspires in his lately cloudy head, but the wildly confused look on his face must be prompt enough.

“I’m trying really hard to respect your space and boundaries and not upset you but my feelings are hurt, Spencer, I don’t know how they couldn’t be. I feel like you don’t even like me anymore. I’m embarrassed around you because I feel like I care about you so much more than you care about me. And then you—and then you wake up one morning and you think it’s okay to act like you love me again but I can’t—I c—” you stop, obviously frustrated—now crying in earnest and lacking the words. “You can’t be mean to me. I know you’ve been through a lot and I’m sorry but you can’t treat me like that. I’m a person, too.”

His chest aches and he swallows down barbed wire.

“I’m not acting like I love you. I do love you. More than I’ve ever loved anyone or anything in my life. That’s not an act.”

It’s not an adequate response, but your words are still spinning in his head until he can’t keep up with them. He’s not used to this, anymore. The language you two had developed is so foreign now. 

Maybe he just doesn’t know how to talk to you. 

Resignation—a too-calm recognition softens the stormy look that has brewed on your face. As soon as it’s gone, and you’re looking at him placidly, he realizes he’s afraid. 

“Well, that’s not enough,” you whisper. 

Spencer feels like he’s been shot as you push the covers aside and slip out of bed. And he knows what that feels like. 

“Where are you going?” And then louder, when you don’t hear him because you’ve already left the room, “Where are you going?”

He follows you through the apartment as you march purposefully for the door, slipping shoes on and grabbing your keys and coat. 

You barely look over your shoulder as you leave, slamming the front door behind you. Things shake from the impact. A mini earthquake. 

Spencer is too stunned to follow you. 

It’s not until a few minutes later when he goes to call you that he realizes your phone is still sitting on your bedside table. He stares at it, tasting metal, because he has absolutely no way to reach you or guarantee your safety. There’s no way for you to call him, or anyone, if you get in trouble—and he fears that you’ll retaliate against him by doing something stupid and dangerous. 

He only just manages to stop himself from calling the police and asking them to start looking for you. Only just recognizes it to be an overreaction. 

Besides, he’s not feeling particularly fond of the criminal justice institution these days. If it came down to it, he’d trust himself and his team over the cops any day.

The team. They’re always a resource. If worst comes to worst, he thinks, robotically making coffee as he tries to talk himself down, and she doesn’t come home before dark, I’ll call all of her closest friends. If she doesn’t come home before the morning—the thought makes him feel sick—I’ll deploy every fucking resource at my disposal. 

Maybe that’s an overreaction, too, but he has to find a way to self-soothe somehow. Planning makes him feel better. Being prepared for the things you never see coming makes him feel better. It’s impossible, of course—but the illusion of control is stubborn and so seductive. 

Thankfully, it doesn’t come to that. 

At around 2 PM, he receives a couple of texts from Garcia that are a massive relief. 

Penelope: She’s at my apartment

Penelope: BE NICER TO YOUR GIRLFRIEND!!!!!!!

The series of emojis that follow (including an octopus?), he doesn’t even try to decipher. He simply drops his phone and sighs deeply into his hands, releasing an extreme amount of paranoid tension that had been tying him into knots. Lately, he’s had this sense that everything is fleeting—that the things he takes for granted are painfully, violently impermanent. It doesn’t take anyone with a degree to figure out why he’s been feeling that way, but it’s so all-consuming he’s not sure how to cope with it. Just a few days ago, he’d been wondering how to break up with you. Now he’s asking himself how the fuck he thought he’d be able to do that when he’s barely functioning after a few hours without you.

It’s a question he still hasn’t answered by the time the front door opens at 10 PM. It’s clear by the deer-in-headlights look on your face that you hadn’t been expecting him like this—leaning over the counter, half-empty mug by his hand, staring at nothing in particular and waiting for you to come home. Neither of you have changed clothing since this morning—not that you could—but you look apprehensive as you close it behind you, never facing away from him. The whole thing is like a teenager being caught sneaking back in by a weary parent. 

For a moment the silent confrontation stretches into the horizon, a non-specific point as neither of you seem inclined to be the first to talk. You just watch him watching you—leaning against the door rigidly as if you can’t get far enough away. But he’s too tired for this. Too worn out. 

“How’d you get home?”

You swallow. 

“Penelope.”

Spencer nods slowly, rolling his bottom lip between teeth and finally looking away. 

“You really should have brought your phone.”

You scoff, peeling yourself from the door. 

“Of course that’s what you’re worried about.”

It’s the same situation as this morning, but in reverse—him following after you down the hall as you storm toward the bedroom. 

“Wh—should I not have been? You scared me—” he says your name, barely catching the door before it can slam in his face. “I was worried about you.”

“Why?” you face him, laughing bewilderedly as if the situation were at all funny. A kind of manic energy crackles from the surface of your skin and in your eyes that renders him unable to think of a reply. “Because you thought I would get raped and murdered and then you’d be sad?”

“Yes!” Spencer yells, eyes widening as he fails to contain his frustration any longer. “That is fucking exactly why I was scared!”

You step forward, getting in his space. It jars him, momentarily—he wants to get away from you. Being angry and so close to you is terrifying. What if he lashes out? What if he hurts you? He’s seen crimes of passion. His blood is freezing in his veins. 

“Of course you didn’t give one single fuck that I left you. You didn’t think for one fucking second that I might be tired of this. That wasn’t what you were scared of at all.” For every inch you near, he backs away. Another scorned, bitter laugh from you that feels like poison coursing through his entire circulatory system. You notice everything, eyeing him up and down as he cowers from you. “What is this, Spencer? If you hate being near me that much, just fucking break up with me.”

You’re close enough that he can see the tears welling in your eyes, but he’d know they were there even if he couldn’t observe them. He would hear it in your voice. He would feel it. But he can’t do anything about it. Right now, he’s paralyzed. 

“If the only thing holding you back is wanting to spare my feelings, just fucking do it. This isn’t better. I don’t give a fuck if it’s hard for you. It’s hard for me, too, but I’m not just going to ignore it anymore.”

There’s no more room. The wall is at is back. 

“Honey, please back up,” Spencer breathes. Last time his back was to a wall, he’d been gagged and beaten. Don’t lash out. She never hurt you. It wasn’t her. 

“Don’t tell me what to do!” you shout, as tears begin to spill over your cheeks. “Either break up with me or stop telling me to go away!”

At that moment, as you break down and your words become muddled with sobs, you raise your fist. 

Spencer watches it approach his shoulder as if in slow-motion. 

On instinct, he catches your wrist.

There’s a lull as he waits for something to explode, for something to go terribly, deeply wrong—

But it doesn’t. 

He realizes his grip is gentle. He realizes you’d never actually hurt him like that. He realizes how little resistance he’d found when he stopped what was sure to be nothing more than a petulant, petty bump against his shoulder—a maneuver that wouldn’t have hurt in the slightest. It was nothing more than a desolate, childlike display of feelings bigger than you know what to do with. 

In the second that it takes him to realize all of this, to realize he is not endangering you in the slightest, nor you him, you’ve begun to truly sob. Standing just inches from him, head angled down as he holds your wrist carefully, you are the picture of a girl who has been running on empty for a very long time and has nothing left to give. Spencer twines his arms around you, tucking your head under his chin and slowly rubbing your back like he’d never forgotten how to hold you. It stuns you, and the tears pause for just a second—before you’re wrapping desperate, weakened arms around him and sobbing even harder, albeit silently, into his shirt. 

“I don’t want to break up,” he whispers, his own voice shaky with understated emotion. “I’m sorry. Please don’t say that. I don’t want that.”

“What’s wrong with you?” You cry, a desperate plead caught between sobs that wrack your body against his against the wall. And he knows it’s not an accusation. It’s not an insult. It’s a question borne of confusion and fear. It’s what a child might ask a sick dog while tears stream down feverish cheeks. And it’s completely appropriate, considering he never tells you anything anymore and he’s only just realizing how scary that must be. Spencer is back from prison but you may as well still be living alone for all that you know about him. He tangles a hand in your hair and holds you against his chest, breathing you like nitrous oxide. 

“I don’t know,” he whispers. The room beyond blurs as he stares at nothing, focused only on the tingly euphoria of feeling you under his hands clashing with the ever-present and crushing shame that he couldn't do it sooner. “I don’t know. I’m sorry.”

“I don’t want you—to be sorry.” Shuddering breaths and gasps still cleave your sentences in half, and Spencer listens so intently he thinks there might be harmonics hidden in the layers of your voice. He clings to every syllable like you’re wielding the word of god in a five-foot-something body. “I just miss you so m—much. I want you to—to love me.”

“I do,” he promises immediately, lips pressing to your ear. “I do love you. So much. So much.”

When you don’t respond, he’s not exactly surprised. He almost asks what he can do, what you need—but is quite sure that’s not the right move. Instead he doesn’t say a thing. Only holds you.

Later, you’ll pull back and he’ll swim in your teary gaze, and then kiss you. He’ll trace silent apologies into every inch of your skin under the torrent of the shower, and he’ll do whatever it takes to make you understand. But for now, for the first time in months, you’re holding each other, and that’s all either of you need.  

[kaivenom]

Hey hey!! Can you do the op dilfs reaction to reader who sleeps naked? 👀

One Piece Dilfs reacting to reader sleeping naked

Characters: Doflamingo, Mihawk, Crocodile, Smoker, Shanks

A/N: I hope you like it, it turns a little NSFW, but what other reason would the reader have to sleep naked?

Masterlist

Dracule Mihawk

I picture him sleeping naked or sleeping with a victorian nightgown, either way he doesn´t seem impressed by your naked body.

He just lays on the bed like a husband dying from influenza and sleeps buuuuut...

He has your naked body next to him and his mind knows so his dreams start to get a little horny.

Unconsciously his body starts to roll to your side and hug you from behind.

You smile noticing that, Mihawk could be very stoic but when he is asleep is when he is really vunerable, and emotional.

He starts dry humping your leg and moving to your crotch.

You just let it be, thinking it's just his unconcious body doing what he needs, but in reality, Mihawk is wide awake.

Donquixote Doflamingo

Many people thinks he will wake you up, WRONG.

He will put a challenge to himself: doing everything he can to you without waking you up.

He is big, really big so it's difficult for him to not wake you up with his mere weight on the mattress, but he tries... every single time.

He some times is able to sink his cock into you and other times he can't even put his hand on you... your sleep habits are very unpredictable.

He sometimes is more respectfull like brusing your inner thights, carresing your breasts, kissing your neck, etc.

Other times he is just all tongue on your cunt instantly and moaning like a mess.

One ocasionally situation when he doesn't try to do anything to you is when he is specially sad/nostalgic about his past.

Then he wakes you up and lays his head on your chest to just ear your eartbeat.

Sr. Crocodile

Spents like half an hour watching you sleep, building up his excitiment to approach you.

He wakes you up with a slight touch.

"Hey brat, what were you thinking going onto bed naked? You wanted to tempt me?"

You woke up slowly, with a smile on your face.

"Maybe"

"Then you have to get a punishmet but right now both of us need a reward, no?"

Simple and direct, just like his deals in job. He just wants to be with you in that moment.

Smoker

A little shocked at first, ¿what if somebody else came into the room instead of him?

But then he stares at you, ass up and just so peacefull.

He starts to feel hot and hard, even if he wouldn't admit it to anyone.

He says to himself that he is a better man and starts to wander around the house, moving and doing stuff, trying to relax his mind.

The thing is that he ends up in the bedroom every couple of minutes.

Everytime examining your body more and staying more.

He tries to shower but when he is about to enter the bathroom, he just regrets it.

He enters the bedroom so disturbed that he woke you up and instantly felt bad, all the hotness was thrown away.

Well, that was until you smiled at him and invited him to join you in bed.

He tried to continue with his rude being but as soon as you touched him, he started to melt in his softer side.

Akagami Shanks

He laughs like really loud and in consecuence, wakes you up.

He then starts to aproach you with a devilish smile.

The bed cracks with his weight and you start considering covering yourself with a blancket, that smile doesn't inspire confidence.

One word, animal.

Don't ask why he got so riled up but you know the how.

Being naked on bed, pretending to sleep, just waiting for him to come and see you.

That thing made a click on his brain and he just couldn't get enough of the view or you.

But all with that stupid grin, half love dork half savage animal.

[ptergwen]

can you do a fic where one of the peters (garfield or holland) is making out with the reader and starts to kiss and bite her neck and the little sounds she makes drives him insane

three strikes

ask box  |  taglist  |  blurb masterlist  |  main masterlist

w/c: 655

warnings: making out, suggestiveness

a/n: i went with tasm!peter hehe, def a fluffier approach to it but so so adorable & i hope you enjoy! keep the reqs coming y'all <3

winter in the city is magical. everything in the park is covered in a light dusting of snow, all the stone pathways and the trees, couples hand in hand and kids playing. then, there's peter. he's looking up at the sky with his tongue stuck out. he's so focused on trying to catch snowflakes that he doesn't notice you digging your hands into the snow, collecting a handful.

something hits peter's chest; a snowball. he looks across the way, where you're smiling mischievously. he brushes the snow off his jacket, chuckling. you're already making another snowball.

"i dunno, babe. i wouldn't do that if i were you."

despite peter's warning, you aim your arm to throw.

"you're playing with fire, you know that?"

"no, i’m playing with snow."

"oh, that's cute. really cute."

you promptly hit peter with the snowball. he raises a challenging eyebrow, and you know you're in for it. you start to run away, giggling, peter chasing after you. he's quick to catch up. he grabs your waist and pins you against a streetlight, breathing out smoke into the cold air through laughter.

"you wanna try that again?"

peter's gaze darts between your eyes and lips. you bite back a grin.

"kind of."

"what a shame. it'd be strike three."

"what happens after strike three?"

"you wouldn't get this."

peter leans in and kisses you. you loop your arms around his neck, deepening the kiss. he hums in content, hands squeezing your waist and lips trailing over to your cheek. he pecks both your cheeks, your nose, just above your lips, peppering kisses all over your face until you're giggling and trying to push him away.

"no, no, no, stop! that tickles!"

peter kisses down your chin and back up, across your forehead, over to your temple. you grin despite yourself, tugging at his locks that are damp with snow.

"i’m serious, pete! stop it!"

"no can do, babe. can't help myself, you're just too damn cute."

peter pecks your cheek a few times, earning a noise of protest.

"so cute i could eat you up."

"nuh uh."

you pull the zipper of your jacket all the way up so it's covering the lower half of your face.

"yeah huh."

peter leaves big, lingering kisses on your forehead, each one punctuated with a mwah. when you realize he's not going to let up, you finally concede. you uncover your face and capture his lips with yours, the only way to make him stop. your nose nudges his, head tilting to look at him.

"are you done?"

"not even close."

peter kisses you again. you kiss him back, smiling into it. he moves your jacket out of the way and continues his kiss attack, this time on your neck. you let him have his fun, enjoying the feeling of his lips on your skin. you squeal when he finds one particular spot and nips at it.

"pete! what're you doing?"

"i told you, eating you up."

he playfully bites at your neck between a series of kisses, arms locked around your waist, drawing the most adorable sounds out of you that he can't get enough of. you thread your fingers through his hair.

"don't forget we're in public, mister."

your tone doesn't match your words, unconvincing, and you're resting your head on the lamp pole so peter has more access. he smirks.

"i know, they're just love bites."

he starts to suck at your neck. the pressure is light, but enough to leave a hickey. you play with his fluffy hair, letting out a noise between a sigh and a moan. you feel the vibrations from peter laughing. you feel something poking at your thigh, too.

"and you're telling me we're in public? whew, i think we'd better get you home."

"you'd like that, wouldn't you?"

peter answers by holding you in place and kissing down your neck, making you breathless from laughter.

tags (join my new taglist!)

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[ddejavvu]

Eddie Munson being totally in love with his best friend, then one morning after a night of drinking and pot, he wakes up with you tucked safely under his arms, in his bed... with no recollection of why you were there. The poor guys just really worried, because he doesn’t want the first.. something to have happened, and not even be able to remember it!

Eddie's initially surprised, but not panicked when he wakes up with a body beside his. He's the town freak, sure, but some chicks are into that, and this wouldn't be the first time he's woken up to feel skin-against-skin. But when he glances down and catches your face- your nose, your lips, your chin tucked into his chest, he blanches.

He's not particularly smooth, and certainly not good in a crisis. He doesn't think to gently ease you off of his chest or replace his arm with a pillow so that you don't notice you're being transferred- no, instead he darts out from beneath you, and your bleary eyes blink open in concern when you hit the mattress below.

"What- Eddie?" You ask, in your sweet voice, the one that Eddie notices is raspy, and if it's raspy for the reasons he thinks it's raspy he'll quit weed for good. And booze- he'll never black himself out again for as long as he lives if he'd missed a night of hearing that voice.

"I'm half naked." He notes, looking down at his bare, tattooed chest, "Are you wearing clothes?"

You nod, peering tentatively beneath the blankets to double check, "Yes? Why wouldn't I be?"

"Well, we- I don't remember anything. And you're in my bed. And I'm shirtless. And I probably had so much last night."

"You did," You laugh, carefree and easy as you stretch out your sore muscles, "You don't remember anything because you were so far gone you tried lighting a pretzel stick. And I was in your bed because you made me watch a horror movie while we were high and I was too scared to be on the couch. And you always sleep shirtless."

All valid points. Eddie scratches lightly at his abdomen, "So you're saying we didn't- y'know? Do anything?"

"Relax. We both kept our pants on."

"Good." He nods, shoulders loosening from weight he hadn't realized was piled on them until it was gone, "I wouldn't have wanted to do that to you while we were drunk."

One of your brows raises, and like most of your facial expressions, this one sends a wave of impending doom over Eddie- he's so fucked- "Would you want to do that to me while we're sober?"

Eddie hopes that his flyaway curls, made even messier by his pillows, cover the pink parts of his face. He's usually a smooth-talker, never one to stutter but he's never managed to smart off to your face- no, in front of you he folds instead.

"I didn't say that." He manages, his hands finding purchase on his hips, "You're putting words in my mouth."

"Are they untrue?" You ask, brow only arching further, as a sadistic grin begins spreading over your face like you may be looking to steal Christmas from the Whos, "Because the only thing that did happen was you woke up with a semi."

"That just happens sometimes." Eddie's telling the truth, but in this particular instance, it could have had something to do with your perfume filling his nose, blacking out his senses, "That doesn't mean-"

"You've still got it." You refrain from glancing at Eddie's waistline, but you don't need to, "It came back when I started teasing you."

"You are ogling me." Eddie states, faux hurt in his tone as he fights a losing battle, "And I can't believe you'd strip me down to such base instincts without considering the deep nuance I hold."

"You'd better strip yourself down for a cold shower," You snicker, turning away and giving Eddie a truly unfair shot of your mostly-bare back where your tank top has ridden down your torso, "Or I think you're gonna nuance all over your pants."

[etherealrin]

⋆˚࿔ thinking about student!satoru...

student!satoru who teases you endlessly during class and is always telling yaga that “he dropped his pen” or “you needed help on a hard question”

student!satoru who you become close with over your many shared classes (you share all of them)

student!satoru who started bring extra snacks to share with you, despite refusing to give any to suguru

student!satoru who could care less about dorm rules and seems to always be over in the girls wing, in your room, talking and laughing

student!satoru who flushes bright pink when suguru follows him one day and catches him red handed, leaving your room

student!satoru who seems to lose his cool whenever you get too close, though he never fails to flirt back with others, his thoughts scramble and fry around you. satoru’s heart sounds like the main drummer of pierce the veil whenever you’re near.

student!satoru who gathers the courage to gift you with flowers he purchases after a mission from a local shop. they’re light blue hyacinths that match the color of his eyes, and if you think that your face is red after receiving his gift, satoru’s cheeks are brighter than tokyo at night.

student!satoru who finally becomes boyfriend!satoru after finally, FINALLY, confessing on a perfectly carefree summer night.

you two lounge on his bed, halfheartedly watching television, but you’re really watching each other. you sneak him glances every now and then, and satoru finally catches one of them.

“staring much?” he teases. the boy even winks at you. heat rushes to your face immediately as you stutter and fail to come up with an excuse. “i don’t mind,” satoru starts again, “after all, i’ve been enjoying the view myself.” he's dangerously close now, you can feel his stupidly hot breath on your neck.

why did he have to be so damn attractive?

you’re frozen in place, in time, as you look upon the brightest and clearest azure eyes you’ve ever seen. you can’t stand it anymore.

“satoru-“ you begin. but satoru doesn't need your explanation, he already knows. so he closes the gap and kisses you, cupping your face in his slender fingers while effectively shutting you up. you stifle a gasp but return the kiss, eyes shut tightly. the unsaid words, tension, and memories burn into your kiss, and when you finally pull away, you’re only sure of one thing. you’re in love with gojo satoru, and you accidentally let the thought out.

“i think i love you,” you breathe, then your hand reaches up to cover your mouth. yeah, you just confessed your love for your best friend, so why did you feel so...right? as if it were destiny for you to belong to satoru, and for him to be yours.

soft, low chuckles come from the pale haired boy next to you. instead of a reply, his lips meet yours again, this time with more urgency as his tongue slips through your half open mouth. and after what seems like an infinity, satoru finally releases you from his arms.

"i loved you first, idiot."

a/n: satoru will never shut up about this btw. he had an ongoing bet with shoko and suguru about whether he could make you confess first. also?? this is actually like, ridiculously old...think i wrote this last year when season 2 came out?

masterlist!

[mintmatcha]

tiktok reader universe

contains mentions of sexual assault. cisfem reader.

.

There's still times when Bakugo can tell your mind wanders during sex. The focus drains from your eyes, your grip goes limp, and your smile slips just a bit. You always come back to him if he says something, but... sometimes he lets it happen, lets you drift away. Maybe the distance is needed.

Even after all this time, you still never sleep over after sex. Tonight, you're a bit more impatient than usual, fixing your hair and wiping your brow right after he pulls away.

"I was offered a job today," you say casually.

"Yeah?" Bakugo loops an arm around the empty pillow that could be yours, if only you'd lean back into it. "With who?"

Instead, he's left to study the curve of your spine as you throw your legs over the side of the bed. He loves the story your body tells, with its scars and marks. Even the acne pocks are a reminder you were once just a teenager, just like he was. His own scars have puckered with age, still the same raging pink they were when they first healed.

"Someone with way too much money-" you say. -"who likes what I've done for your image and thinks I can fix theirs."

"And can you?"

You shoot him a grin from over your shoulder. "Is that even a question?"

Truthfully, Bakugo thinks you could do anything if you wanted to. You could lean over and rip his heart from his chest with just your fucking teeth-- and you'd make it look easy. He'd maybe even thank you. He'd definitely let it happen again.

Bakugo gives up on luring you back. "Well, when do you start?"

Your head tilts.

"I don't," you say."I didn't take the job."

Bakugo sits up straighter.

"I didn't want to leave you."

The statement sits warm in his chest, then quickly cools.

"Well, maybe you should have."

That makes you turn. You cock your head the other way, expression neutral, but still gracing him with a closed lip grin. The stare lasts for a long while before you crawl back under the covers and return to his side. Your lips find the side of his neck and your hands grip back to him, hot, heavy, breathless in that way you think he likes. A hum builds in your throat, a rolling, performative sound.

"Pull your cock out," you demand, right into the shell of his ear. "If this is the last time, I want another round."

"What?"

He doesn't have time to react before you're gripping his half hard cock, jerking it up gently. It's still wet with you and buzzing with sensitivity, so much so that he can't help but enjoy it, enjoy you-

"If you're about to break up with me, I want to at least cum one more time."

He loses the remnants of his erection.

"That's not what I fucking meant." Bakugo tries to meet your eye, but you just keep kissing at him, gripping at him. "Just-- stop stroking my cock for a second and be fucking serious."

You freeze, but keep your hand on him.

"I don't wanna work together," Bakugo reaches for your hand. The free one. "I just want to date."

You don't respond.

"I want to take you places and have you meet my parents and-"

God. this is so unlike him. When did he lose his teeth? Did you pull them straight from his skull and hang them from your neck like jewels?

"I want you to sleep over." He means it. "Like a real fucking couple."

The ceiling fan hums with an uneven hitch, catching in the same spot each time. It's an easy fix, but he's been ignoring it for so long that it's almost blended into the tapestry of his home. Click-click-click-click-click: now it's deafening, overwhelming the silence you're choosing to sit in. Just as he's about to open his mouth, you look away from his body and meet his eye. There's no sharp edge to your eyes.

"'tsuki."

You say it like a mother about to comfort a child, with a rounded curve to your tone that he's never heard before. You're trying to dull the blow, but it does nothing. It's a fucking knife to the gut.

"I'm serious. I'm really serious." He points with his whole arm towards the bathroom. "I've had a fucking toothbrush ready for you for weeks now. It's right there, in the fucking package."

You withdraw, smile long gone. The air between you two, trapped under the covers, goes cold.

"The girlfriend thing." You are unrecognizable without your Mona Lisa grin and he's obsessed with it. He wants to consume these rare moments, chew on them until he's full of you and only you, despite how it makes his stomach turn. "It was never real. You know that."

You cover your bare tits with one arm, but leave your pussy exposed. It feels like a reflex more than an actual concern.

"I'm not meant to be a girlfriend. You don't want me as a girlfriend."

Bakugo's quick to close the distance between you, but he pauses when you full body flinch. Your quirk activates for a moment - you glitter out of existence and then immediately back in- like it's unwittingly done. It's another incredibly un-you moment, but one that he doesn't want to drink in.

"I do." He keeps his voice as delicate as he can. "I do. I fucking do."

"I don't know how to do the things you need. I don't know how to be a girlfriend," you say. The corners of your smile return and he can see the wall coming back up. The arch of your back, the way your hand suddenly cups your tit: you turn yourself into someone else, someone's who's happy to be here, in an instant. "I can make myself girlfriend shaped. I can open my mouth and let you fuck it. I can pose for a picture. I can make your friends jealous."

Oh, and that distant look comes back to your face. The dilation of your eye is just... wrong, even as you smile.

"But I'm just something that's girlfriend shaped," you say. "I'm an illusion, a creature, a tool, a hole-"

"Don't ever say that shit again."

It rips out of him too roughly. "A hole? That's-- why would you say that?"

It all seems to hit you slowly, as if you're processing your own words. Like it never occured to you that you were saying something foul.

"Because-" you try to explain yourself.

"You're just a girl," Bakugo doesn't let you finish the thought. He can't. Not when you're above him like that, so guarded and yet so vulnerable, neither predator nor prey. "I hate to break your fucking illusion or whatever, but you aren't this fucking lumbering beast or huntress or, or, or, I dunno, whatever the commission has tricked you into believing."

He tries to meet your eye, but you're ducking away from it.

"You're just a girl." He lets his hands fall back to his lap. The pinky that doesn't work twitches, kicking with it's old muscle memory. The scar tissue itches under it's own tautness. "Underneath it all. You're just a girl."

The mattress creaks under your weight as you shift back. Now, your eyes are incredibly focused, almost pinpricks. You watch him with an unreadable expression, one slowly inching more towards horror with every moment.

"You think I can't see you, but I can." Bakugo stays where he is. "And I think you want to be seen."

Everything moves slowly. You blink a couple times, with this meek nod, swallowing thickly as you listen. Then, you get off of the bed and head towards the door. All of your clothes are still scattered on the bedroom floor, your panties at the foot of the bed.

"Wait." Bakugo scrambles to get to his feet. "Don't- fucking wait."

He says your name, once, twice, three times, and gets no response. Panic and regret swirl in his skull, so violent he almost goes lightheaded. By the time he reaches the hall, you're gone, and he thinks you've activated your quirk to escape him. It's the nightmare he's always had around you, the one where you disappear into the night the second he gets too close.

And then the bathroom light flicks on. With a careful trepidation, Bakugo inches down towards the door, afraid the break the illusion. Maybe, if he moves too fast, you'll really scatter off into the night, a deer under his headlights.

But when he slides into the frame, you're just standing there, holding a familiar little tube.

"This it?" You hold the package in your hand. "My toothbrush?"

"Yeah."

With your thumbs, you crack into the packaging and carefully peel the toothbrush out. You run the head under the faucet, then turn it off.

"Toothpaste?"

Bakugo pulls out the top drawer. With a sullen nod, you take the toothpaste and unscrew the top. Bakugo watches you, both of you completely naked, both of you completely silent. It surprises him how unsexual it feels to be here, postcoital, still sweaty, watching you brush your teeth. After the moment settles, he steps over and grabs his own brush.

You're just a girl, he thinks as he brushes his teeth next to you. He likes that you're just a girl next to him.

The both of you finish up, then you silently pad back to the room. Bakugo follows, a healthy distance, but close enough the he watches you shrug on his sweatshirt before dipping under the covers. Your head rests on your pillow.

Bakugo finds his space on the other side of the bed and you lay there, in the dim overhead lighting.

"It's hard for me," you say.

"Sleeping?"

"Yeah."

Bakugo turns on to his side and almost reaches out. Almost. Instead, he goes back and turns off the light. When he returns, you're nothing but a dark lump beside him.

"That's okay," he says, "You can sleep however the hell you want."

Your silhouette stays still.

"Sometimes I wake up crying," you say. "Or kicking, or just remembering something I shouldn't."

"Remembering what?"

The click of the fan overtakes everything again as you lay there, pulling in even breaths. A moment passes, then another and another. You're silent for too long, long enough that he thinks you've fallen asleep. Just as he's about to give up, you sigh out a winding breath.

"He was a hero," you whisper. "I felt special when he paid attention to me."

A chill he can't place creeps up his spine. He wants to ask what that means, why you're telling him this, but nothing comes out when he opens his mouth. He has to swallow, then cleae his throat.

"Did-?" His voice crackles. "Did someone hurt you?"

Again, you're silent.

"Who?" This time, when you don't respond, he presses. "Fucking who?"

"Someone who retired a long, long time ago."

"Give me a name and I'll fucking-"

"Katsuki."

"Someone raped you."

He had to say it out loud and dispel the mystery behind it. It's selfish, brash, but he needed it- just as he needs this hand around you, holding, cradling-

"That's what happens when you're just a girl." You clutch at his forearm with a want that isn't present in your voice. "People hurt you."

The bite of your nails surprises him.

"It's safer to be something else."

It's his turn to be quiet.

[allthatjazz416]

Hiii do you write for kenma from haikyuu? 👀

OMG HII! I was did write for him in my drafts cause I know Kenma girlies love to send request 🫶. Yes! I do take request right now but he's not really a character I usually write for. But here it is!💗

Kenma NSFW🎮

"Stream's over, baby" Kenma TIMESKIP fic Tags: Fem!Reader! Post-streamSex! SoftDom!Kenma! LazyDom!Kenma! Fingering! Edging! OrgasmDenial! CryingfromPleasure! SlightDegration! DesperationKink! Workcount:1.8k Note: My first time writing about him! Hope you like it divider crdts:@/cursed-carmine

Kenma barely glances over his shoulder when you open the door.

The room’s dim, lit by nothing but the glow of his monitors and the faint RGB ripple under his keyboard. He’s still in his hoodie, headphones around his neck, hair messy from where he’s been tugging it during ranked. You can hear the faint ending jingle of his stream—the soft “thanks for watching” overlay flashing across the screen.

“Done?” you ask, leaning against the doorway in one of his shirts and nothing else. You know what you’re doing. You always do.

He hums. Doesn't even look away from the monitor. “Mhm. Got raided last second, had to say thanks.”

You cross the room slowly. No bra. No panties. His oversized shirt barely covers the tops of your thighs. And when you crawl right into his lap, straddling him backwards on the gaming chair, then he looks.

“...You’re not wearing anything under that,” he says flatly, hands sliding under the fabric like it’s just an observation. His fingers are already brushing the crease where your thighs meet your heat. “Trying to distract me?”

You grind down slowly in his lap, just enough to press against the bulge you already feel forming under his sweats. “Stream’s over, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” he murmurs, thumb brushing your clit like it’s nothing. “Camera’s off. Mic’s muted. Nobody’s watching.”

Except him.

And he’s watching now—eyes half-lidded, lashes casting shadows over flushed cheeks. He leans back in the chair, lazy and loose-limbed like he’s done this a hundred times, but his fingers are so deliberate. Slow, unhurried circles over your clit then he drags that finger down and curls  it inside you, testing how wet you already are.

“You really waited until I logged off just to do this?” he asks, quiet, like he’s teasing. “Could’ve just asked.”

You let out a soft gasp when he adds a second finger, pace unchanging, dragging them in and out like he’s scrolling idly through patch notes.

“You were busy,” you whisper, breath hitching.

He hums again, low and unimpressed. “I’m still busy.”

But his free hand settles on your hip, anchoring you down against his lap while his fingers work you open like he’s got all night. And when your head drops back against his shoulder, whining soft, he presses a kiss just under your ear and says—

“Messy already,” voice low, almost bored. “You really just needed me to touch you, huh?”

You whimper something—affirmation, apology, maybe just his name—and he keeps going like he didn’t even hear it. His fingers curl just right, brushing that spot inside you over and over until your thighs start to twitch. Slow and steady, lazy and precise. His cock throbs against you beneath the fabric of his sweats—subtle, but unmistakable. You feel it twitch when your pussy squeezes around his fingers, like he’s not as unaffected as he pretends to be.

“Bet you were wet while I was still streaming,” he adds, tone unchanging. “Sitting out there, waiting, thinking about this. Should’ve let you crawl under the desk and suck me off mid-match.”

“Kenma—” you gasp, grinding down hard on his lap, chasing friction, but his grip on your hip tightens.

“No,” he says, so soft it’s almost a sigh. “You’re gonna sit still and take it.”

His free hand presses down on your lower stomach, holding you flush to him while his fingers work faster now—just a little. Just enough to make your breath catch. He hasn’t even pulled his dick out. Hasn’t kissed you again. Just fingering you open in the dark, hoodie sleeves pushed to his elbows, face calm and blank while your body starts to shake.

“Don’t cum yet,” he murmurs—not a command this time. A warning. A promise.

Because he’s not even close to done.

His fingers never speed up—not really. They just stay steady. Intentional. He curls them just right, drags them slow, over and over, until your whole body’s buzzing with heat and your hips won’t stop twitching in his lap.

He doesn't; say anything. Doesn’t need to. Just keeps watching your face, eyelids heavy, mouth slack, pupils barely focused. Every breath you take is shaky now. Every shift of your hips pulls a little whimper out of you, desperate for something faster, deeper, anything.

But Kenma doesn’t give it to you.

Not yet.

Your moans start climbing, soft at first, breathy little exhales that grow higher, faster—until your walls start to clench, heartbeat thudding in your throat, right there, the edge curling warm and tight in your gut—

And then he stops.

Just stops.

Pulls out like he forgot he was even inside you. Lets your slick coat his fingers, trails them lazily down your thigh like he’s playing with spilled syrup. Then he lifts one hand, squints at the mess between your legs like he’s reading patch notes or checking a loading screen.

Nothing but silence for a beat.

And then?

Back in.

Two fingers, again. Slower this time. Crueler. The same maddening rhythm, like he’s clocking every twitch, every clench, every shaky little breath.

You can’t help it—you bury your face against his neck, nails digging into the fabric of his hoodie like that’ll keep you grounded. His hoodie smells like clean cotton and energy drinks. His voice hums low near your ear, flat and unconcerned as he circles your clit with the heel of his palm.

“You’re already shaking,” he says, like it’s mildly interesting. “Didn’t even cum once yet.”

You choke on a moan, breath catching when he presses deeper inside. “K-Kenma—please…”

“You’re so loud,” he murmurs, like he’s just noticing it. “Just from this?”

You nod quickly, breathless and ruined. You’re right on the edge again, and he knows. Your hips start to buck against his palm without meaning to, your thighs tense and trembling, right there again—

And then?

He pulls out.

Again.

No warning. No softness.

He slips his fingers out and drags them across your inner thigh, leaving a slick trail of your arousal like it’s nothing. You feel the air hit your swollen, aching pussy and almost whine from the sudden loss. But Kenma just wipes his fingers off on your skin like you’re his napkin. His hand settles on your hip again, like maybe he’s done. Like that was enough.

But it’s not.

You’re throbbing—empty and soaking and dizzy with need.

And he just sits there, the glow of his monitors painting faint lines across his tired eyes as he watches you struggle.

You’re throbbing—empty and soaking and dizzy with need

And he just sits there, the glow of his monitors painting faint lines across his tired eyes as he watches you struggle.

“You’ll live,” Kenma says softly, almost to himself. “You just hate waiting.”

You let out a pitiful sound in response, more of a whine than a word. Your hips keep trying to move—little twitches, half-thrusts against the front of his sweats—but he holds you still with one hand, fingers digging into your hip like a leash.

He brushes his hand back between your legs, lazy, like he’s not even thinking about it—and when he drags his fingers through your folds again, they slip in without resistance.

Hot. Wet. Clenching around nothing.

Two fingers again. Deep. Slow. And your walls pulse around him—gripping, squeezing, leaking down the backs of your thighs. Every thrust is a sloppy slide now, your cunt so desperate to be filled that it pulls at his fingers, greedy and aching.

Your moan comes out broken. High. Like you’re already close again and he knows it.

You cry out—soft and strangled—just from the stretch. Like your body doesn’t know how to take it anymore. Everything inside you pulses around him, slick and sore from being teased for so long.

“You’re so fucking sensitive,” he mutters, almost impressed.

And still, he doesn’t give you what you want. He curls his fingers just a little—presses into that spot deep inside you—and then pulls back. Again. And again. Slow enough that you feel everything. The squelch of your slick. The drag against your inner walls. The brush of his palm over your clit that you swear he’s doing on purpose.

You whine—frantic, wrecked—and bury your face in his hoodie, humping his palm now without thinking, breath hot against his collarbone.

“Kenma—please,” you gasp. “Please, I need it—I need to cum—”

“I should make you do this every night,” he says, tone unreadable. “Keep you warm and wet while I play.”

You moan into his hoddie, half-crying, nails scratching at the fabric of his hoodie. “Kenma, I—please, I can’t…”

“You can,” he says, calmly. “You will.”

He keeps going. Same pace. Same cruel rhythm. Brings you right up again, your whole body clenched, teetering on the edge—

And then stops.

Again.

You sob.

You don’t even mean to—it just slips out, a broken, desperate sound that makes him pause for real. His fingers rest against your inner thigh, still slick with your arousal, while he tilts his head and finally looks you in the face.

“You’re crying?” he says, quiet now. Still calm. But curious.

You nod frantically, trembling in his lap, thighs sticky and sore and clenching on nothing.

His gaze softens—barely. A blink slower than usual. He presses a kiss to your cheek, almost lazy.

“Alright,” he says, like he’s doing you a favor. Like he’s bored. “You can cum now.”

And this time?

He doesn't stop.

Fingers sink back inside you, his thumb pressed right there, rubbing messy circles over your clit as his other hand wraps around your waist and pulls you tight against him. No more teasing. No more pauses.

Just heat. Pressure. Wet, dragging friction right where you need it.

“Go on,” he mutters, breath warm against your neck. “Let go.”

And when your orgasm finally hits—hard, blinding, long overdue—he doesn’t say a word. Just watches. Watches your whole body jerk and spasm in his lap, hands trembling against his chest, mouth open and breathless while you fall apart for him.

Your whole body locks up—back arching, walls pulsing hard around his fingers while your orgasm crashes through you like a wave. Wet. Deep. Unrelenting. You’re crying out his name into his hoodie, hips twitching through the aftershocks, pussy clenching so hard he has to work his fingers just to ride it out.

You’re dripping—absolutely soaking his hand, his hoodie, the cushion of the chair. Still fluttering even after he’s pulled out. Even after he’s licked your release off his fingers, slow and lazy, like it’s nothing.

He presses a kiss to your temple, quiet now. Soft.

“Can feel you twitching still,” he mumbles, thumb brushing your inner thigh. “Didn’t even fuck you yet.”

His other hand slides down between your thighs again, fingers slipping through the mess he made. “Still fluttering,” he murmurs, watching your hole clench around nothing. “Think you’re ready to take me now?”

Part 2? ❤