#weak!reader

[quarterlifekitty]

“Just the tip”

cw: includes some dubcon/noncon depending on interpretation

Gaz is saying it to tease you when he’s just barely inside of you. “Is that enough for you, love?” He can feel you pulse around him as you whine, just short of begging.

Soap is saying it when he’s drunk, you’re drunk, and you definitely shouldn’t be doing it. He’s promising you don’t have the go all the way— just a little, just to help him get it out of his system, ok?

Ghost is just straight up tricking you. Told you he’d take it slow tonight, but then he snaps his hips against yours so hard that your ass flesh of your ass ripples. “Can’t believe you keep fallin’ for that one, birdie.”

Price is condescending as all hell. He’s talking to you in that babying way when you’re horny and desperate. “Just the tip— that’s all she needs, yeah? This sweet little pussy… Aw, does that feel better, darl’?”

König really meant it in the moment that he said it. He knows you’re anxious about taking him— and for good reason. But once he finds himself inside, how is he supposed to resist? You’re just too sweet. Too warm. Too wet. Too tight. Too breathtaking beneath him. He’s only a man, liebling.

[luvlyycy]

"it's sticky."

gojo hums, watching the sticky substance spreading from his fingertips and right back to your hole. you whine as you clasp two hands over your face, embarrassed.

cute.

he stuffs two fingers back into your pulsing cunt, pressing against that one spot that makes your head spin, his other hand curls around your head propping it up so he can give you a kiss.

"such a cute sticky pussy." he mumbles against your lips, smiling when he feels your pussy twitch and pulse around his fingers.

[simonbrain]

simon who sees poor little you hiding behind a tree, watching your village get massacred by a band of vikings and decides to take you with him on his way home as a little treat :(

as hard as you try to escape, yelling at the brute to let you go, he delivers a sharp smack to your ass and props you on his shoulder more securely. "be still, woman. we're almost home." he grunts, ignoring your quiet sobs and the pounding on his back.

when he sets you down inside, you don't speak to him, still worried sick to your stomach about your family and still feeling a little embarrassed about how he smacked you earlier. you don't eat the food he puts in front of you, which only annoys him. "eat. now." he says, grabbing your face and pushing your cheeks together, holding a spoon of whatever stew he made in front of you. you scoff, shaking your face away from his grip and reluctantly taking the spoon from him. while you both eat in silence, you try to ignore his intense stare. simon doesn't say anything about how you've eaten almost your whole bowl of rabbit stew.

when it's time to go to sleep, you nervously stand in front of him, watching him climb in. he nods at you to follow, opening his arm and making space for you. you hesitantly climb in beside him, squeaking when he pulls you into his chest. despite your head screaming at you to escape while he sleeps, your heart feels a little warm and fuzzy, and you find yourself falling asleep in this strange man's embrace.

[yuwuta]

satoru puts his glasses on your face whenever he thinks you’re giving him bedroom eyes in public bc he really cannot stand to think about it or you for too long or he’ll be walking around hard in his pants for the rest of the day. the thing is, you’re not even trying half the time, but that doesn’t stop him—you flirt with him a bit too much, bat your lashes the wrong way, or even smile at him a little too long and he’s already feeling warm in the face and satoru knows he doesn’t have the self control to stop his thoughts so he has to stop you. he’ll promptly stick his sunglasses on your face and turn away with a sigh like they’re some kind of last minute sexual deterrent. 

it’s not because then, if satoru thinks too hard, he gets stuck on the image of you in his glasses, of you in his clothes, of you in anything that belongs to him and that’s way worse then you smiling prettily at him or saying his name or touching his arm. so, then he has to kiss you, and then take his glasses back, so he has something to hide the burning blush on his face.

[shlutmeow]

when i noticed caitlyn did the knee thing, i couldn’t- i replayed this scene more than once. vi’s reaction? oh im weakkk. (not mine; art cr @/salmonzouju)

[luvxkdrama]

— unspoken

pairing : yeon sieun x reader

warnings : none, pure fluff

word count : 1.4k

summary : even though Sieun wasn’t the boyfriend to openly hold your hand on the street or hug you in the school hallways, he showed you love in the most unspoken ways. And you cherished these moments more than anything.

a/n : i just finished watching whc2 and i’m so happy with the ending. I loved this kdrama so much.

—

Sieun’s house was always a little too quiet, but you never minded. It made moments like this feel more intimate. The low hum of his desk lamp he specially moved to the living room, the occasional rustle of pages, the soft clicking of pens—it was a quiet kind of closeness you grew to love. And truthfully, you’d grown used to this silence ever since the two of you started seeing each other.

Today wasn’t any different. You sat cross-legged on the floor across Sieun who was flipping through a practice exam booklet with furrowed brows, highlighter in hand, fully immersed in the quiet rhythm of studying. His brows always furrowed when he studied, and something about that little detail made you want to stare longer than you should.

You had your books open too, a pencil twirling between your fingers, but most of your focus was on him. You weren’t even pretending to study at this point—just watching how his eyes moved, how his lips pressed together in concentration and how his hoodie sleeves were pushed up to his elbows.

“Is something wrong with the exercise?” he asked suddenly, catching your gaze without even looking up from the page.

You blinked, caught, but you nodded anyway. “Mhm.” you replied, nodding even though you hadn’t read a single question. “Totally confusing.”

He closed his book gently and moved beside you, taking your textbook without waiting for permission. You scooted a little closer, heart racing more from his closeness than from any actual academic confusion. You leaned in, resting your chin on your palm and you lips tugging into a small smile.

“What part?” he asked, eyes scanning the question.

“All of it.” You answered.

He started explaining, quietly, patiently. His voice was smooth, his finger moving across the page as he broke down each step. But you didn’t catch a word—your focus stayed fixed on him, not even glancing at the formulas.

“You’re not listening,” he said flatly after a few seconds, eyes flicking to meet yours.

“I am,” you lied, grinning.

He narrowed his eyes just a bit, not annoyed, but definitely unamused. “Then tell me what I just said.”

“…Something about the square root of something?” you blurted out, leaning slightly closer with a dramatic sigh.

Sieun exhaled, almost a laugh, but not quite. More like a breath caught between amusement and surrender. He didn’t respond. Just shook his head softly and went back to explaining.

Your story hadn’t exactly started with a confession. There were no butterflies-in-your-stomach speeches or dramatic realizations. It just… happened.

You weren’t even sure when it shifted from one-sided pestering to a relationship. Maybe it was all those late library study sessions, or the times you shared your snacks during break, or how you always waved at him even when he never waved back—at first.

The truth was, you’d kind of forced yourself into his quiet little world. Bit by bit, like sunlight creeping in through half-closed blinds. You didn’t knock, you just sort of let yourself in—loud, bright, and annoyingly persistent.

He resisted, of course. Gave you those flat stares, dry responses, and more than once told you to stop talking so much. But then came the little moments—how he started waiting for you outside class, the way he sat just a bit closer at lunch, how he texted you first just once and never really stopped.

So when he kissed you for the first time, it didn’t feel like a surprise. It felt like something that had been waiting to happen all along. Quiet, slow, and certain.

Sieun had long returned to his side of the table, diving back into his book with the same silent intensity he always carried. His eyes flicked across the lines, and the only sound in the room was the soft scratching of his pen as he scribbled notes.

You, on the other hand, lasted a solid thirty minutes before your patience cracked.

With a loud sigh, you dropped your pen and slid down until your back hit the floor. You sprawled out like a starfish, letting your arm flop to the side as you stared up at the ceiling.

Sieun glanced over, pen paused mid-word, looking completely dumbfounded. He didn’t say anything at first, just raised a brow and blinked slowly like he was trying to process whether you had actually just given up and collapsed on his floor.

“…What are you doing?” he finally asked, voice flat but clearly confused.

“I’m tired of studying,” you groaned, throwing an arm over your eyes. “I didn’t come here to write equations till my brain melts.”

“Then why did you come?”

You peeked at him from under your arm, a small smirk curling on your lips. “To spend time with you.”

Sieun blinked again, this time his gaze lingering on you a little longer before looking away. You thought maybe he was going to ignore it like he always did, brush past your teasing, but his hand paused on the corner of his page, like something in your words stuck.

“You could've just said that,” he muttered, eyes back on his book—but you saw the way his ears tinted just slightly pink.

You grinned, crossing your arms over the table now from your seated spot on the floor. “You’re blushing.”

“I’m not.”

“You totally are.”

“You’re annoying.”

“But you still love me” you teased.

He looked at you then—deadpan as always. “Delusional.”

You just laughed. It was so easy being around him, even with his wall up. Maybe especially because of it. Each word he gave you felt earned. Each look, every small shift in expression—it all meant something.

“So what exactly does that mean? How do you want to spend time with me?” He blinked, leaning his back slightly against the couch.

You looked at him for a second, then without a word, stood up and moved around the table. He followed your movement with his eyes, and before he could say anything else, you plopped down beside him. Close—closer than usual.

Then, gently, you leaned your head against his shoulder, letting out the smallest content sigh. Both of your arms wrapped around his, holding it close like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Like this,” you murmured. “This is enough.”

There was a beat of silence. The kind that hung heavy, not uncomfortable, but full of something else. Sieun didn’t move, didn’t say anything right away. You could hear the soft click of the clock on the wall, the hum of the fridge in the kitchen.

And then—you felt it.

A quiet shift.

His shoulder barely moved, but you felt it. A small pull at the corner of his lips.

You turned slightly to look up at him.

“Are you… smiling?”

Sieun exhaled through his nose, subtle but unmistakable.

“You’re imagining things,” he said.

But the faint curve on his lips betrayed him.

You grinned and tightened your grip on his arm just a little. “You so are.”

“Don’t get used to it,” he muttered, eyes flicking away, his smile not leaving his lips.

You stayed like that for a while—curled up beside him, your head on his shoulder, arms wrapped around his. At first, it was quiet��comfortable, easy. But it didn’t take long before you started talking. Random stories, the kind that didn’t need a point.

Sieun wasn’t the most talkative, and you still carried most of the conversation, but he listened—really listened—and when he spoke, it was warm, thoughtful, a little dry but always sincere. He’d answer with a soft laugh, or a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. Sometimes he’d shake his head at your teasing remarks, and other times, he’d quietly add his own take, making you laugh.

It was one of those moments where time didn’t feel real. Just the two of you, tucked into the corner of his quiet world, talking about nothing and everything.

Even though Sieun wasn’t the boyfriend to openly hold your hand on the street or hug you in the school hallways, he showed you love in the most unspoken ways.

And you cherished these moments more than anything.

[tojisun]

simon’s so possessive :(( so naturally he had to show some pictures you two took to his squad. just, y’know, to stake his claim.

(you two know he’s got the exhibitionist streak in him since the first time you two fucked in his car, in an empty parking lot, and he came within the first few minutes. it was so sudden, so intense, that simon had to resort to fingering you because he’s gotten so sensitive that a next round wasn’t even an option. you tease him about it constantly, only to end up on your knees as simon fucks the giggles out of you.)

the pictures start off ‘simple’—shots of your tits in one of his favourite set of lingerie, with his cum staining your chin while pools of it build up along your cleavage; or of simon’s hand loosely wrapped around your neck, your supple skin a beautiful contrast underneath his expanse of scars and tattoos.

the recent one is this: simon’s sitting in front of the mirror, his bulk covered by your body. you’re facing away from the camera, something johnny loudly complained about of course, but you’re bare. you’re stripped naked and stuffed with his cock, and the insinuation was enough to silence their grumbles.

his squad sees everything that simon allows them to see—the plane of your spine to the globes of your ass—and then, they break.

pitiful pleas spilling, filling up simon’s inbox. even price seemed to have trouble with hiding the tides of his own desire, and, well, is that not something?

(you and simon indulge them, of course. the pictures become more bold, more revealing, until simon’s got them adjusting themselves from underneath their slacks when he shows them a little slip of a video.

it’s not even that conspicuous; it’s just simon’s hand squeezing the pudge of your belly. but the pose, the angle—it’s what made their breaths run ragged. the way simon’s hand is tilted just enough to make it look like he’s fully covering your groin, leaving them nothing to salivate over but the stretch of your skin and the softness of your fat.

it’s not like that wasn’t enough, not when it even had price calling off their briefing and rescheduling it later in the afternoon instead because none of them could focus.

simon devours the sight they make, all reduced by you, unable to even deny how much pleasure he’s gaining from this. he licks the backs of his teeth and sends you a short message.

“want to make a film for them?”

not even a minute passed by before your reply came in.

“i thought you’ll never ask.”

simon can’t even stop the bark of laughter that tumbles from his throat, his eyes glinting with deep interest.

he knows just what to make you wear for that film.)

(it’s price’s boonie, one he snagged from their captain’s office.)

[peachsayshi]

sukuna is sitting under a tree, his eyes observing his son whose running towards him. he's calling out to his father, his feet tinted green from the grass.

"look!" his son squeaks as he approaches the monster king. "it hurt!"

sukuna arches his brow and looks down at his son. his hair is pinker underneath the sunlight, his cheeks tinted in a rosy flush. his palms are open and inside is a butterfly, its wing broken.

"looks like it," sukuna responds quite matter of factly, bringing one large hand to massage the top of his son's head.

his son pouts, and looks down at his hands again in disbelief. "but it can't fly..." he says, his voice so tiny and sad.

"no," his father confirms coldly, "it can't."

there's a slump in his small shoulders, and his son gazes back up at him from underneath his lashes. his big eyes watering slightly, his nose scrunching in a little sniffle. "can uruame fix it?"

the cursed king's heart sinks. parts of you mirrored in his child's reflection.

he has no patience for humans, except the ones that the's claimed as his own. it doesn't matter if he think it's stupid. that uruame shouldn't waste their time on something as trivial at this. but whatever his little prince wants, he will get. so, he scoops his son up in one arm, watching as his own blood cradles the small butterfly in his hands.

he kisses the top of his head, "let's ask and see..."

[ponderingmoonlight]

Gojo watching 'How to Be a Better Husband' videos in secret so he'd be ready if you ever said yes

Satoru Gojo isn’t exactly known for being serious. He’s loud, playful, and the absolute embodiment of overconfidence dripping from each and every pore. So when you walk into the living room and see him hunched over his phone, intently focused on something, it’s strange enough to make you stop in your tracks.

You peer over the back of the couch, curious. His earbuds are in, and his eyes are glued to the screen. You can’t hear the sound, but the title of the video makes your brows shoot up and heart skip a beat.

“How to Be a Better Husband.”

Your first instinct is to laugh. Satoru watching something like that? The man who can't even remember what day of the week it is, let alone handle responsibility in any meaningful way? The man who never fails to make fun of you, who never gave you the feeling that your relationship is this serious before?

But as you watch him sit there, shoulders tense and gaze unwavering, a strange warmth curls in your chest. Is this...really how he feels?

He pauses the video to take notes - actual notes. Scribbling them down on a notepad with the same intensity he usually reserves for strategizing in battle. You blink, feeling heat shoot up your cheeks.

What’s more shocking is the care written all over his face. His usual cocky smirk is gone, replaced with concentration, like this is something he doesn’t want to mess up. And maybe that’s what hits you hardest. The fact that he’s trying. That he’s preparing for something you haven’t even agreed to yet.

You haven’t said yes to marriage, haven’t even had a real conversation about it. But here he is, studying for a future he’s hoping for, one where you’ve chosen him. He’s already thinking of how he can be better, how he can be enough for you.

The thought stirs something deep in your chest.

“What are you doing?” you finally ask, your voice teasing but soft as you lean over the back of the couch.

He jumps slightly, pulling out one earbud as he looks up at you, a sheepish grin spreading across his face.

“Oh, y’know… just, uh… preparing.”

He waves his phone in the air, as if that explains everything.

“Preparing for what?”

You tilt your head, pretending not to notice the blush creeping up his neck.

“For… when you marry me, obviously.”

He grins wider, but there's a nervousness underneath it, like he's half-joking but also completely serious.

“Gotta make sure I’m husband material, right?”

You raise an eyebrow.

“And watching YouTube videos is going to make you a better husband?”

“Hey, don’t knock it 'til you try it. These guys have great tips.”

He taps his phone, the confidence slipping back into his voice, though his eyes still flicker to you like he’s waiting for your reaction.

You shake your head, smiling despite yourself.

“Satoru, you’re ridiculous.”

“Yeah, but you love me anyway,” he teases, sliding his arm around your waist as you lean over the couch.

His tone is light, but the way his eyes hold yours for a moment longer than usual - it makes your heart flutter.

And he’s right. You do love him. In all his chaotic, larger-than-life glory. But this? Seeing him like this, quietly working to be better for you? It’s a different side of him, one that makes you realize just how much he’s thought about a future with you.

You press a soft kiss to his forehead, and he blinks up at you, surprised.

“What was that for?”

“For trying,” you say quietly.

"You’re already enough, you know."

His grin softens, and he pulls you down into his lap, wrapping you in his arms.

“Good to know. But I’m still watching these videos. Just in case.”

You chuckle, resting your head against his shoulder.

“Whatever makes you feel prepared.”

Satoru hums, content. “I want to be ready for the day you say yes.”

And the way he says it. Like he knows that one day you will makes you realize that maybe, just maybe, you’re starting to feel the same way.

[k1mbe3rly]

+ yeon si-eun nsfw alphabet too plsss

Yeon Si-eun NSFW alphabet

A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)

He doesn’t do much after sex since he’s also tired, maybe just a few head kisses and cuddles with you but definitely after he’s done sleeping or waiting for you to wake up he’ll clean you up since he’s already not tired that much

B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

His favorite body part about you is just your body and face, he’s dating you because he truly likes you and has a huge interest in you, also deep down he’s super in love with you but doesn’t know how to explain it to you, he admires you from afar

His favorite body part are his hands, he likes how skilled he can be during fights and impresses himself sometime

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

He pulls out, or he just wears a condom and cums inside of it while still in you

D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

he doesn’t have much of a dirty secret only that he would tell Suho about it

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

he’s not experienced, he was a virgin when he met you but once yall did it he slowly started knowing what to do and what makes you feel good

F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)

missionary, he likes to be face to face with you so he’s able to see every expression and is able to read what you like and don’t

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

no goofiness, he’s straight to the point and if you crack a joke he just stares at you and goes back to kissing your neck or whatever he was doing

H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

he doesn’t really care about groomed but he does shave every now and then and doesn’t let it get too long

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

he doesn’t do much he just gives you kisses to let you know he loves it since he rarely shows emotion

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)

he doesn’t jerk off and if he does it’s rare

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)

he doesn’t have kinks just plain sex

L = Location (favorite places to do the do)

The bed

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

Nothing really gets him turned on maybe just dirty talking and seeing you play with yourself

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

anything to hurt you or anything that makes him uncomfortable

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

he loves to eat you out, it’s his favorite thing to do but he gets nervous to ask so he just does it in the middle of the moment

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

He can go slow and fast, but usually he goes at a medium speed, when he’s mad he goes fast and rough

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

he will do quickies, just not a lot of them

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

he can take risk but he doesnt mind that much

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

he can last a long time, but usually he knows you get sensitive and overstimulated so he usually stops on the 4th round

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

no toys

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

He doesn’t tease

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

he’s quiet, he doesn’t make much noise and he usually holds them in

W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)

He would force his bullies to watch or send them videos

X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

A good big veiny 7 inches

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

Low, he doesn’t really have much thoughts about sex nor gets horny since he so focused on school

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards

Sieun is the type to not even fall asleep, he just watches you drift off and lays there next to you and waits for you to wake up

[asxgard]

Companionship | pt. 8

Dr. Michael “Robby” Robinavitch x f!reader

Previous | Next

Summary: An ER visit and a long awaited conversation.

[ Series Masterlist ]

Note: a variation of the hospital scene has been in my head since the beginning, and the one that convinced me to start this in the first place. Obviously it changed a bit after I figured out where it took place in their relationship. Thankful to be finally sharing it with y’all! The scene after that? Uhhhh👀😭

Special shoutout to @cherriready for being so extraordinarily amazing and helping me with the end bits!!! Thank you for letting me vent about the show and this series💜

Word Count: 2.6k

Warnings: age gap, ANGST, feelings, still avoiding those feelings, hospital setting, medical inaccuracies, foul language, little to no comfort

not beta read

Michael was thankful this shift was nearly over, just under two hours to go and he could go home to crash. He really needed it, spending sleepless night after restless night, thoughts turning over and over in his head. He should not have cared so much, or felt so deeply about not talking to you. You should not have mattered nearly as much as you did.

But he had laid in his bed night after night, thinking only of you. Feeling stupid. Feeling perverted. Feeling like he wasn’t good enough. You had walked out, after all. You were the one who had stood and chose to leave.

So why did it feel like it was all his fault?

He remembered the warmth of your lips, how your eyes had held him so tenderly, how soft your hands had been. The rush he had felt when you finally connected. Like something had finally clicked into place.

With a long breath, Michael tried to get back to work. Maybe check out triage, or chairs and just grab anyone to take you away from his thoughts. He stopped by Central to check on a few patients, turning around to make his way back towards chairs.

And like the universe had finally taken pity on him, there you were. Hair pulled from your face, one hand held upward. Still in your work clothes: a pair of chinos, a light blue sweater and a jacket slung over your other arm. Any thoughts he had been having about anything crash landed. He had to be seeing things. He had to be seeing things; if you were here, then something had happened and you were hurt. That thought moved his heart into his throat — couldn’t he have just gotten more nurses if the universe had taken pity on him?

Then you looked up, your unmistakable eyes met his and his heart stopped.

—

Michael was on you in only a few long strides, next to you in only a blink. Taking your hand — gently, but firmly — into his, he looked over your wound with careful eyes. You held your breath, watching him, assessing him. His eyes, focused and unreadable, lips in just a hint of a frown, his hands warm and rough against your own skin.

It had been nearly a week since you had seen each other, and worry sank low into your gut. How had you ended up at the hospital he worked at? You were never supposed to be anywhere near his professional life. That was the deal.

…was there even still a deal?

“Dr. Robby?” Dr. McKay asked tentatively, glancing between you.

Robby? Who the hell is Robby? Is Michael a fake fucking name—

“Sorry, this is Doc—”

“I got it.” Michael—Robby—muttered, releasing your hand.

Dr. McKay’s eyebrows furrowed, “Boss, I think—”

“VIP, I got it.” He said again, harder this time, looking at Dr. McKay and not allowing any room for argument.

Dr. McKay’s eyebrows raised, glancing back at you, you were still staring at Michael dumbly. Giving a curt nod, Dr. McKay handed over the tablet and walked back towards the waiting room. You only spared her a glance before you moved into the room, Michael on your heels.

“What happened?”

Mild anger flared in your chest, “Was Michael a fake name, was nothing real?”

His eyebrows came together and his frown settled deeper onto his face, “What?”

“Robby.” You stressed, annoyed.

Realization flashed over his face, “No, no. It’s short for Robinavitch. Michael’s my first name.”

“Oh.”

Michael Robinavitch.

Well, at least it felt like you were on a more level playing field; all of your information was on that tablet now in his hand. At least now you knew his full name and where he worked. But did it matter?

Michael moved to close the door, before turning around and just looking at you. He was wearing a blue hoodie over his scrubs, a stethoscope around his neck. You hated how your mind went to how good he looked. You squirmed under his gaze, glancing over your shoulder at the exam table.

“What happened?” Michael tried again, stepping closer.

You looked at him, and let out an embarrassed sigh. “I was chopping vegetables for dinner. Knife fell, tried to catch it. Clearly caught the wrong end.” Your lips pulled up momentarily, finding it so stupid.

He nodded. You got onto the exam table, minding your injured palm, and looked back at him. The air between you felt tense enough to cut with a knife, both of you resorting to awkward movements that had once been behind you.

Michael sat on the wheely stool, scooting closer to you, reaching for your palm again. “Let me see.”

You held your palm out to him and he held it delicately in his hands. He turned to pull the tray toward him, a few things scattered across it, but you kept her focus solely on him. You hoped any of his expressions might give something away to what he was thinking, but he was painfully neutral.

“You’ll need a few stitches and then I’ll get you outta here.” He said, not looking up from your palm, grabbing some blue latex gloves.

You frowned, not thrilled this was how your night was turning out. But whatever divine deity was out there had decided to hand him to you on a silver platter. You swallowed thickly, anxious mind running rampant on all the things you could say to him.

“Pin prick and some burning.”

You noted the needle and glanced to the other side of the room until it was done. Your heart was racing and you feared he might have heard it. The last thing you needed was for him to know the effect he had on you. The air was heavy with all the things unsaid and you had the urge to run again, but his hold on your hand never wavered.

“How have you been?” You finally got out, cheeks hot.

His eyes flicked up to meet yours before looking back down to his work. “I’ve been okay.”

It stung, it had no right to, but it hurt somewhere deep in your chest.

“Good, I’m glad.” You bit out, rougher than normal.

He paused for a long moment, needle hovering over your open palm before resuming the stitches, his movements calculated and precise. You looked away from his face and swallowed your feelings. They were bitter as they went down.

“I’m sorry about the other night.” Michael told you quietly, still not looking at you.

“I’m sorry for leaving. I should’ve stayed.” You whispered back to him, hoping maybe he’d catch the hint this time.

Michael’s eyes quickly snapped to yours, holding you steady in his gaze. You did your best to hold it, captured by how soft his brown eyes were — pulling you deeper. It could have been hours that you held like that, his hand on yours making a heat crawl up your spine.

“Dr. Robby—”

Both of your eyes snapped to the opened door, the bubble bursting. The man who had interrupted was leaning into the room, hands on either side of the doorway, one leg slightly bent and the toe of his shoe tapping against the tile. His brown hair was swept up in a nice style, blue eyes flickering between you and Robby.

You released a breath the same moment Michael opened his mouth to speak.

“What?”

The man blinked, “MVA inbound, three minutes out. Do you want me to finish this?”

Michael frowned, “No, I got it, Langdon. I’ll be there in a minute.”

The man—Langdon—studied you carefully for another moment before turning and walking back down the hall. You watched him go, your breath stuck in your throat. You inhaled shallowly, trying to keep your feelings at bay, but you picked up the scent of him. Sandalwood and vanilla, and the burn of antiseptic.

“Don’t let me keep you,” you said, looking away from him, “I’m sure anyone could finish up.”

“Let me take care of you.” Then he coughed awkwardly, “I’m almost done, anyways.”

You nodded, trying to savor the feel of him just a little longer and hating yourself for it.

Michael hummed, “I’d like to…talk tonight, if you’re available?”

You looked at him and blinked, “We can do that, yeah.”

A small smile cracked at the corners of his mouth. “Good, I can come to yours so you don’t have to travel with your hand. But you can still come to mine, if that makes you more comfortable.”

Your face burned at his consideration, “Oh, thank you. Yeah, I’ll text you my address.”

He finished, placing the needle back onto the tray table and removing his gloves, “I’ll have a nurse come in and go over wound care, but then you can be discharged. Take Tylenol as needed, but don’t exceed 1500 milligrams in a twelve hour period.”

You nodded, “Thank you, Michael.”

Michael stayed a few moments more before lingering in the doorway, looking like he wanted to say something. He only spared you a last glance before rushing back the way he had come, likely to assist with the MVA.

The nurse who had come in to go over a few details on your wound care was an older woman, with blonde hair tied up and a smile that made you feel at ease. She introduced herself as Dana.

You visibly relaxed after Michael had walked out, but your mind was still reeling from your interaction. Dana made a few notes in her chart, eyeing you occasionally from the corner of her eye in an expression you couldn’t quite read. It made you tense up, like your secrets were spilling all over the floor.

Dana sent you on your way shortly after Michael had left, with specific instructions and a timeframe to come back to get your stitches removed. You felt awkward, knowing you might have to come back. Add in the way Dana was looking at you like she could read all your secrets like they were written on your forehead, you were happy to head home.

You pulled out your phone and sent your address to Michael, anxiety churning in your gut.

—

Since getting back to your apartment, you had only snacked on a few things after cleaning up the mess you had left. You were grateful no blood had gotten on the kitchen rug. You attempted to tidy the best you could with one working hand, not knowing when he would arrive.

You pulled out the Visa card and stared at it for a while. You went to a kitchen drawer, pulled out a pair of scissors and cut it in half, deciding you were done with it, no matter what Michael had to say tonight. You struggled with using your non-dominant hand, but it halved easily enough. Placing it back in your wallet to put into the shredder at work, you let out a long breath of air, putting it in your pocket.

Michael texted around 7 to ask if you wanted him to bring food.

Only if you haven’t eaten.

He showed up with Thai food, having remembered your order from their time previously. It warmed your heart, and your stomach was thankful for him, grumbling impatiently.

Michael looked around your apartment, taking it in. It was considerably smaller than his, with a rushed paint job and lackluster appeal. But hey, it was cheap.

You sat across from him at your dining table, the kiss lingering in your mind and making your hand ache more, even after taking two Tylenol. Your heart was pounding and your mouth felt dry, worried any comment would be a complete misstep.

Did he want you in the way you were thinking? Was this going to be his way of letting you down easy, over your favorite Thai food? Did he want to scold you for forgetting the agreement? Did he want to apologize for doing the same? Did he want to say fuck it and throw caution to the wind?

Your stomach churned uneasily, flickering your eyes to his face and back to your to-go container. The quiet was eating you alive.

Michael opened his mouth to speak, but each time thought better of it and closed it, attention going back to his food.

“How’s your hand?” He finally settled on.

Your eyes moved up to meet his, “It’s…fine. A nice doctor patched me up real good.”

A smile flickered on his lips, “Just nice?”

“He seemed to know what he was doing.” You said, eyes not wavering, a smile of your own hinting at the corners of your mouth, suddenly feeling bold. “He was handsome, too.”

You immediately noticed the blush blooming on his cheeks.

He cleared his throat, “Yeah?”

The smile grew on your face, “Yeah.”

His big brown eyes glanced away from you and back to his food, “Let me see your hand.”

You raised a careful eyebrow, but gave your hand to him, palm facing up. It was still well bandaged from when Dana had wrapped it up for you.

“Dana tell you everything—”

“She did. I wrote it all down.”

He nodded, placing your hand back on the table and letting go.

“So…you wanted to talk?” You ventured, hoping he would speak his mind first so you wouldn’t embarrass yourself.

“Well…the agreement. I think some wires got crossed—”

“You do?” Hurt bloomed.

Michael met your eyes, a long pause extending between you. He looked so unsure, eyebrows pinched together, lips pursed.

“I’d like to think this is more than just the agreement now.” You said softly, not looking at him.

“Oh, please, you wouldn’t even be here if I wasn’t paying you.”

You recoiled like you had been slapped, getting to your feet, your eyes snapping to his, “You really think that?”

“You mean to tell me you would’ve seen me somewhere and come up to me? A man almost twenty years older and what? Flirted with me?” He stood from the table, his tone harsh.

“Would you have?” You rounded back at him, knowing he never would have even considered it.

“I don’t want to pretend this could ever be more than it is. It’s unfair to both of us.” He said, frowning, shoving his hands into his sweatshirt pockets.

“Pretend?” Your voice was shrill, a laugh escaping your throat. “We’re way past pretending.”

“Do you want me to still pay you, then? Still pay for your companionship? Maybe some nice clothes—”

“Fuck you.” You snarled, grabbing your wallet from your pocket. You threw the two pieces of the Visa card at him, watching as they landed beside his shoe.

They landed with the weight of a brick rather than a flimsy piece of plastic.

Michael looked dumbly down at it.

“If that’s what you really think of me, take the stupid fucking card and get out.”

Surprise bloomed across his face, and something strikingly similar to regret, or insecurity, you couldn’t tell. You didn’t care. It took all your strength not to shove him out the door.

You had been so stupid thinking tonight might have gone differently, like your stupid, far-fetched fantasy might’ve come true. Your heart began to ache, taking away all the pain in your hand.

Michael leaned down quietly and picked up the pieces of the Visa card, eyes glossed over and unreadable. You watched him silently, breathing heavily and trying to calm your racing heart. Trying not to scream. Trying not to cry in front of him, but it burned your eyes.

He walked past you without a word and stepped out of your apartment, closing the door behind him — he didn’t slam it, but it rattled through your apartment like he had.

You crashed to the ground and sobbed.

[ Next ]

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I’m so sorry😭

but hey, the worst is over (mostly)

[quarterlifekitty]

Weaknesses: preening

Things you do that make them so proud of themselves

Gaz loves it when you tell him he’s the first person who’s done something for you. First to buy you a bouquet, first date to pull out your chair for you, first man to offer to change the sheets for you after making you cum all over them. Man loves raising your standards.

Soap’s tail is wagging whenever he fixes something and you take notice. He’s always been a tinkerer, and doing little fixes and repairs is one of his favorite acts of service. So yeah, when you noticed that dial on the stove isn’t sticking anymore? That the refrigerator stopped making that weird noise? He’s pleased as punch.

Ghost feels his chest puff out when you ask him to talk to someone for you. Sometimes when you’re anxious, sometimes when you just don’t know how to be mean to someone who’s being an asshole. Being your guard dog is his favorite thing.

Price is most happy when he recommends something to you, thinking you’ll like it, and you do. This can be food, a movie, a sex position— anything. He just likes the affirmation that he knows you so well.

König is on cloud nine when you tell him you miss him, or that you’re waiting for him because there’s something you just can’t do without him being with you. He loves being needed, so when you need his presence alone? That’s a high he’s never coming down from.

Nikolai likes it when you use him to hide. Whether it’s from an unfamiliar person or merely the sunlight coming in through the bedroom window. He loves to be your shelter, for you to grab his hand or put your face against his shoulder or get behind him. And yes— he insists on holding the umbrella for you both.

[muntitled]

Boa

Pairings: Geum Seongje x Fem!Reader

Summary: You're just a kid, caught in a gangster’s crosshairs. What happens when you don’t deliver like you should…

Warnings: Language, Dom!Seongje, Gangsterism, Bullied!Reader, Coercion, Bullying, Extortion, Mentions of Rape, Smut +18 (mdni), Dark fic, Dubious consent, Public Sex, Exhibitionism, Desperate Sex, Humiliation, Degradation

A/N: I'm not responsible for the media you consume. I wrote this for me so...

Ever since you've started working for him, you've learned to get extremely acquainted with the floor.

"I'm sorry, Sir…” your voice is brittle as you try to make yourself heard in the suffocating internet cafe, “I'm short on delivery today..."

Hardwood. Tile. Linoleum. It's become all too familiar to you. The floor is all you see in his presence.

You never looked Seongje in the eyes unless he addresses you first. He likes that, you suspect.

It's kept you alive this long so you must be doing something right.

"I got assigned a kid to tutor and..." you clear your throat, not daring to make direct eye contact, choosing instead, to keep your eyes trained on the dirty, cold floor.

The internet cafe is the very last place you'd want to be on a Friday evening. You were caught right in between two challenging essay due dates- one for English and one for AP English. Both hung gravley over your head, threatening to set off your sympathetic nervous system and have you fainting from academic stress. Seeing him was the very last thing you needed.

"That tutoring time fucked with my system and-" despite all your achievements, despite the academic prestige and the boundless knowledge… in Seongje's presence you feel insignificant.

A bug he's letting scurry around for no other reason except his enjoyment. You didn't want to get stomped on. You saw what happened to the other kids under his thumb and it kept you up at night. All that blood. All the merciless sadism.

You aren't dumb enough to hope an exception would be made for you.

"I'm sorry,” you conclude, and for a second, you get no response. He plays his game. His friends remain silent.

That's all until he pushes the bridge of his glasses up further against his nose. A calm, quiet sigh leaves his lips.

“Before you started working for me, do you know what you were?" Seongje doesn't take his eyes off the screen. His fingers run deftly over the keys as he speaks to you without ever really acknowledging you, "You were in an alleyway, about to get raped by Eunjang scum."

"Yes, Seongje, I know-"

"And in return for my kindness, what did I ask of you?"

"FUCK- COVER ME BRO!" Your eye snaps up to the source of the loud and sudden burst of energy. Your frightened and pitiful eyes find a boy seated adjacent to Seongje and his goons. He's bent over his screen, clearly not a part of the group. Clearly far too young.

Your heart sinks when you realize Seongje's eyes are trained on the boy too.

"Ya…” Seongje raises his voice a decimal above the cacophony yet it has you flinching. “Too loud,” he says to the boy, “Didn’t anyone teach you shut up when adults are talking?” he asks monotonously to the boy- a child really- still mourning the loss of his avatar on the screen. He doesn't pay Seongje any mind.

Of course he doesn't. He's a kid.

How could he have known?

He came to an internet cafe to play a game with his friends.

It's the boy's innocence that hurts the most.

He doesn't know that the monsters under his bed are very real.

They walk where he walks.

They don't hide.

They move about freely.

Your heart makes like the titanic and sinks.

"Excuse me for a second." Seongje addresses you politely, finally giving you a fleeting glance before pushing himself out of his gamer chair. You see his entire row of friends (if that's what one could even refer to them as) remain unfazed as Seongje rounds the table to stand directly behind the young boy.

He’s bigger, far bigger as he pushes the rims of his glasses up, staring directly at you

"I know you're smart so you're probably aware that your fuck-up won't be tolerated-” he says to you, despite slithering his arm around the boys neck like a boa as he squeezes. Everyone keeps their eyes trained to their computers. Your fist curls at your side. You want to look away but you can't because you're speaking to Seongje. You wouldn't want to aggravate him further by showing him his mindlessly violence bothers you. So you try not to flinch.

You try not to let the casual violence scare you. How nonchalantly he speaks while an elementary school boy flails in his arms, begging to be released from the headlock making his lips turn blue

“You knew there'd be a punishment,” Seongje is still speaking to you. You hold your breathe in solidarity with the boy choking in his arms, “-for fucking up your delivery-” crimson blossoms onto the little boys face but Seongje keeps his eyes on you, appearing unfazed by the boy flailing like an animal in arms, "And yet you came anyway. That's the kinda work ethic, I like-” he smiles, “I like it alot-"

Eventually, after what feels like forever, he lets go of the boy. You finally breathe as well, watching as the kid slumps forward ingesting the air in horrid gasps.

Seongje bends forward, patting the boy on the back.

"No more interrupting when I speak, yeah?" Whether the boy was new to this particular internet cafe, it was unclear, but you hoped to whatever divine being that he wouldn't dare come back.

"So I'll let it slide-" He turns his attention back to you and you watch, still shaken up as Seongje leaves the little boy to make his way back to his side of the table. When he breezes past you he smells like nothing. Like his eyes, everything about him is empty.

"Thank you, Seongje-"

He nods before adding, "After you get on your knees." The goon sitting nearest to you, all the way at the end of the table, his fingers hover over the keys, and just like before, the room is rid of all air.

"Excuse me?”

He pulls out his chair for you, like some mimic of a perfect gentleman he opens his arm, gesturing you in.

"I want you on your knees, under the desk.” His words hang above you all. It has tears threatening to spill. Bile rising.

“What’s with the face? Its not like I’m asking you to suck my dick,”

"Seongje, I need to get home-"

"If you can't do it yourself I'm more than happy to help."

That has your legs moving into action. In your periphery, it feels as though everyone's watching you. A thing in psychology called the imaginary audience. When you're so self-conscious you concoct this idea of being the center of attention… only this time, it's real. You know they're all watching you. You know no one will do anything about it.

"Under the desk you go," he chuckles before sitting down and pushing his chair back in. You back away, creating intense distance between you. Your back hits dirty wires and your knees press hesitantly down onto the grime just to achieve a more comfortable position. Everything you see is his legs, his friends legs and you're suddenly hit with the overwhelming urge to cry.

You want to scream at him to let you go. He's hijacked you from your endless pile of homework and yet the very thought of standing up for yourself causes a sea of nausea.

So you sit there in the dark, not knowing when this punishment would conclude. When would he let you go home? That sends you into another spiral. You've heard Seongje could game for 24 hours straight. Maybe more if he was in close vicinity to food and a bathroom. You knew this internet cafe would close eventually, that gives you the smallest sliver of hope and so you do your time.

Never once does he acknowledge you- the girl under his desk. Unbeknownst to Seongje, you catch one of his fellow gang members sneak multiple glances at you under the table. They all do. Like they enjoy seeing you under here. As time passes, and you slip further and further away from the stress, you realize that down here, on the floor, under his desk, the world is small. It's quite comforting actually and that wasn't the trauma talking.

You've always liked small spaces.

It definitely beat dealing with whatever he had going on up there half the time.

Slowly, your body begins to shut down. Your energy plummets from all the stress and all the thoughts. This is the first time you've been forced into a spot for too long doing nothing. No essays. No tutoring.

Due to tendencies from your childhood that you should've gotten rid of, you find yourself curling up against his leg. He stiffens and you snap out of the exhaustion long enough to reel back. Especially when you see his hand reach under the table. Your heart hammers in your chest, not a single word spoken as his hand searches for something. You move a bit closer until his hand catches on your hair. You wince as he drags you closer, pushing your head against his leg as you had done.

He leaves you there. You try to regulate your breathing as you feel him adjust in his seat above you.

You shift as well. Not your head. He clearly wants you there. But your legs are uncomfortable. You try to kneel and it's ridiculous because your head never leaves his leg.

No position seems comfortable enough until he stretches his leg out, right in between yours and you're made to straddle it. Above you, his fingers are still hitting the keys and you try to disassociate from the fact that his leg is pushing against your cunt. You try to sneak a peek at the surface, his glasses are trained on the screen. Not knowing whether it's your exhaustion making a reappearance but you could've sworn you hear the words, "good girl," release from him in a low drawl.

Something in his tone has you shifting over his leg. Your cunt warms against his leg and you fight the urge to buck against him. All you had to do was remember who it is that you're currently touching. That conscious reminder has you once again hellbent on doing your time with concrete resolve.

That resolve breaks.

It shatters when he eases his back against the chair, enough to once again slither his hand down towards you.

He curls his fist into your hair and tugs.

He pushes you down and lifts you up and you mindlessly follow his movements until you realize he's coaxed you into riding his leg.

He lets go of your hair, satisfied when your hips move out of their own accord.

You hate how good it feels to quite literally be beneath him. You look up and you whimper oh so quietly when you see that small smile play on his lips while his eye remains on the screen.

He's given you new instructions now and so you don't dare to stop moving your hips against him. Despite the damp spot forming on the seat of your underwear. You're not sure what it is that allows you to lose yourself so easily. Perhaps it's all the expectations that melt away when you're doing something so pitiful. You're breaking for him and he's letting you. You're not in control of anything and there's freedom in that.

“F-Fuck-” you didnt mean for the words to slip. There are still other people here but you also couldn't help the wave of pleasure that pushed up so suddenly. Your clit is moving against the fabric of his pants just right and your eyes threaten to roll to the back of your head.

The second that whimper escapes your mouth, he stiffens again.

You watch as he leans back again, this time his hand isn't reaching out for you. It's to ghost over the bulge forming in his pants. Somehow that spurs you on more.

You grind against him desperately and before he can take his hand away, this time you reach up for him.

You watch him closely. The glare from the screen reflects on his glasses. His jaw, tight.

He controls the game easily with one hand, while you bring the other into your mouth.

You're not sure where this other side of you came from. This vixen who rolls her tongue out and forces his index and ring finger into her warm mouth.

He becomes more and more restless… His breath hitching. Seongje's fingers hit the keys more aggressively, while his right hand forces his fingers further down your throat. His hips buck upwards and you can see the damp spot forming where his cock is straining against his pants. He's about to cum in his pants and you're about to cum on his leg and it's far too much for you.

You know his friends are about. You try to preserve even a sliver of dignity but it all goes out the window.

“Fuck-” he spits out, slamming his fist on the table before abandoning the game. There's a fire in his eyes as he sits back to watch you peer up at him with complete and utter desperation.

“What a fucking slut-” he snarled, cleaely audible enough for not only him but his friends too. It has your mouth snapping open. Your back arches as you try to watch him watching you cum on his leg.

You've never held his attention for this long and it sends you off the edge.

“S-Seongje-” you barely squeak out as your cunt spasms against his leg. You rut uncontrollably, spurred on by the name That fell from your lips as if your body needed a reminder of just who it was making you cum. Your tormentor.

It has you seeing stars.

For all of 11 seconds.

Until it comes crashing down on you. Your pitiful act has you reeling. Mind spinning.

You don't want to look up at him but you have nowhere else to look. Your heart sinks when you see a smile form slowly across his lips… Somehow you knew you'd never be rid of him.

[twentyfivemiceinatrenchcoat]

"ahh… that was a close call."

the wind nips at your skin. you're held in place, supported by a larger build — his arm looped around your body, steady, as the curse in front of you wails, fizzles and swirls into an orb on his open palm.

geto cradles it, for a moment. a perfect marble. it’s pocketed, swiftly, as he helps you stand up.

"t-thank you."

a smile. when he lets go, you almost stumble. unsteady on your feet; embarrassed, because a second-grade shouldn't have spelled any trouble for you. you're familiar with techniques of concealment, but you still didn't see it coming, and the gash from its sharp talons would have been in your flesh by now if your classmate hadn't reacted — a splat of crimson on the cobblestone of the temple grounds.

"you should be more careful," he hums, and you wonder if he knows how much it stings. he must, because his next words are softer, a kind tilt of his head. "are you alright?"

"yeah," a shallow breath. "i'm fine."

a breeze curls around your spine, counts the vertebrae. cold. goosegumbs blooming across skin. you shiver, hugging your midriff with your arms in a pitiful attempt to shield it from the evening air sneaking in through the torn shreds of your uniform, sharp cuts through sturdy polyester. you'll have to ask for a new one, but that's a problem for later — right now, you just feel exposed.

geto lips part in a silent oh.

then he reaches for the golden button right above his heart. you watch him fidget with it, until he's slipped it through the gap, his own uniform unbuttoned — the soft muscles of his arms twitching idly as he lifts them enough to take it off. you've never thought of what he wears under it, if he wears anything at all. the button-up beneath shields you from those improper thoughts, a pure, uncreased white.

"here."

when you look up, he's got the jacket folded over his wrist.

offering it to you.

"… are you sure?" you ask, with mismatched blinks, meekly receiving the bundle of black cloth. geto nods, still smiling. "won't you get cold?"

"i'll be fine," he insists. "it's a little big, but it should keep you warm."

under the shade of the plum tree behind him, its branches flecked with burgundy, buds long past bursting into soft, foam-like blossoms, the brown of his eyes is barely visible. they're dark, abyssal, something like the surface of a frozen lake.

but still warm. somehow.

(you're long past agonizing over why it is you feel so safe around him.)

geto turns around, his broad shoulders on full display — the expanse of his back, the skin at the nape of his neck, loose strands of ink-black sticking out from his bun. he slips his hands into his pockets, and hums:

"you can change. i won't look."

your heartbeat sputters. it's not like you don't believe him — he's not like gojo or shoko, geto can be trusted with things like this — but it's still embarrassing. cautiously, you eye his uniform, held in place against your chest. standard, smooth fabric, a night sky expanse kind of black to hide bloodstains and grime. geto's is clean, though. geto doesn’t bleed at all.

(a boy blessed by god. favoured by the world. that's what your parents would have called him.)

with a shake of your head, you discard the thought — the voice in your head saying he's not even from a clan and he's still better than you, isn’t that funny? just turning around, sheepishly, finding it hard to look at him. glancing left and right, just to be safe, but no one. gojo still isn't back. a stroke of luck; you'd rather not have him see you in such a shabby state.

you're glad it was geto.

once you've shrugged off your tattered uniform, all that remains is to drape yourself in his own. and you do; you stick your arms through the gaps, fix the collar, and button it up. it's warm, soft, you're practically drowning in it, waves of polyester like a blanket around your shoulders — and it smells like him. rich and sweet, a hint of something earthy, homemade herbs and wooden oil. laundry detergent. it makes heat bloom at the nape of your neck, a pinprick, the feeling of him surrounding you.

when you turn to look at him, his back is still facing you. you wonder what he's thinking about.

"i'm done."

geto was right, you think. it is big on you. the hem cuts off right above your knees, the sleeves dwarfing your hands and slipping down your wrists when you lift them up to rub the dust from your eyes. it makes you feel smaller than you really are, somewhat shy.

but it feels nice. nuzzling against the collar, absently, a soft smile blooms on your lips — tuft-like petals dancing just behind you, with the swaying of the evening air. you inhale it, taste the sweetness, burnt incense and clusters of soon-to-be fruit.

with gentle eyes, you lift your head, and there he stands. just watching you. watching your lips part.

"thank you, geto-kun."

the words fizzle out in the space between you.

the boy before you offers no response. he stands there, strangely silent, like a marble statue — eyes wide, for a moment, looking you over, up and down, you can see his gaze stray — before finding its way back to your own. his adam's apple bobs.

(is that a flush to his ears?)

"ah," he clears his throat, regaining his ability to speak, a raised fist covering the parting of his lips. "— it's no trouble at all. as long as you're comfortable…”

"i am," you quip. "it smells good."

a moment passes. geto angles his head to the left, away from you, breathing in through his nose.

"i'm… glad."

in the shadows of the trees, the wide temple gate, his neck simmers cherry-pink.

(your cheeks bloom with heat.)

for a moment, neither of you speak. the air feels thick with something, a pleasant awkwardness, the tips of your fingers still buzzing with warmth. finally, he speaks; seemingly composed, a mask slipping back into its rightful place. eyes crescented, half-moons.

"we should head back, then." he turns towards the stairway, leading back to the village, meeting your gaze with a seamless smile. "are you hungry?"

you follow him, pliantly, as he begins his descent. the view from the top of the mountain is breathtaking, clusters of trees parting to expose riverbeds on the ground below, tiny wooden houses, fields of golden wheat; the silhouette of a cityscape at the edge of the horizon. a sparrow takes flight overhead, singing softly. the breeze ruffles your hair, smooths geto's bangs out of the way, gives you a good look at his pupil, the deep sea of cedar surrounding it — flecks of amber, like the first spark of a match catching aflame. when you don't answer, it catches your stare.

"um… a little bit," you sputter. averting your gaze.

geto smiles. you can hear it in his voice, honey-slicked and sweet. "let's stop by a restaurant, then. the one by the station didn't look so bad."

"… sure."

the stairway's steps give out a crunch, when your feet make contact, soiled by dirt and gravel, patches of grass breaking through the slate. you're careful not to lose your balance, with nothing for you to hold on to — nothing but the ripped uniform in your arms, his sleeves, the added length nothing but a distraction. you exhale, softly, fidgeting with the hem.

"… it's a little embarrassing to be seen like this, though…"

a humoured breath. geto turns to look at you. ”you have nothing to be embarrassed about," he reassures you, a solid intonation to his voice. with the way he's speaking, you could almost believe him; his gaze mulling you over, softening, something breezy to the smile on his lips when they part. "really."

… it only makes you feel more exposed.

once you finally reach the end of the trail, feet finding solace on steady ground, a head of white hair crosses your vision. he must have been waiting for you to get back — black frames catching the light of the sun just before it disappears behind molten clouds, blinding your eyes to anything else. gojo, watching the sky. when you enter his line of vision, he snaps his gaze towards you.

"suguruuu…" he whines, loud and petulant. you linger behind, letting geto take the lead, watching as your classmate strolls closer. "what's the deal with this place? the gashapons were all —"

a pause, when his gaze falls on your frame. slides down to your uniform, and then back up, to meet your eyes. he glances at geto, the white of his shirt.

for a moment, his expression is blissfully blank.

then he grins.

"… oh?"

heat sparks at the tips of your fingers, the sides of your neck, all the way to the shells of your ears — gojo looks delighted, looking back and forth between you and geto like a toddler deciding between two bags of candy. it makes you feel small, but geto only rolls his eyes, bumps his shoulder against yours; a gentle, silent don't mind him.

when he walks past his friend, he mutters, just under his breath.

"shut up."

[allimili]

I’m here again to say an angst idea

( OKAY AND I KNOW YOU SAID IN THE TAGS YOU WANT TO STOP DRAWING SAD SMC but I lwk just wanted to let out my ideas rn so it’s perfectly really okay that you don’t want to do this ! ^_^ )

so I feel like after we died, the guilt inside shadow milk cookie is eating him alive and is coping hard so hard that he starts to hallucinate or smth that we’re still here

referencing to the pictures on the top

for some reason I can imagine pure vanilla pulling out an Elysia to see smc’s reaction or something but pure vanilla would NEVER do this ‼️‼️ (I think)

well feel free to skip this request considering I requested quite recently :3

Pure vanilla would never..but Truthless Recluse would...

[iluvsieunsveinydihh]

Title: quiet confessions

pairing: yeon sieun x reader

rating: 🔞,pregnancy kink,established relationship, NSFW, emotional smut

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He sat on the edge of your bed, quiet. More than usual.

You were curled next to him, head resting on his shoulder, trying not to cry. Neither of you had spoken for a while — not really. He had said goodbye to Su-ho, to Si-eun’s few things in the classroom, to the school rooftop. But he hadn’t said goodbye to you. Not yet.

You leaned in and kissed his shoulder. “You can still visit. Call me. Text.”

He didn’t answer. Just stared straight ahead, hands gripping his knees.

Then, out of nowhere, he asked it — voice calm, but low. Serious.

“Can I get you pregnant?”

You blinked, pulling back. “What?”

“I don’t want to lose you,” he said. “If you were mine… really mine… I wouldn’t be scared.”

Your heart pounded. “Si-eun—”

“I know it’s selfish,” he said, finally turning to face you. “But if I leave tomorrow… and you have my kid… I’d have to come back. You’d be mine forever.”

You stared at him. The boy who never said how he felt unless it was breaking him open. The boy who always held back — now asking for something so raw. So permanent.

You swallowed.

“I’m not on anything,” you whispered.

“I know.”

He leaned in. His kiss was slow, shaky — almost reverent. His hands held your face like you might disappear if he didn’t. You kissed him back, just as desperate.

And when you whispered, “Okay,” against his lips…

Something in him shattered.

He moved over you, gentle but full of quiet hunger. There was no hesitation now. No stopping.

Your clothes fell away piece by piece, tossed somewhere in the dark. You wrapped your legs around his hips, feeling his length against your thigh — hard, aching.

“I want all of you,” he whispered into your neck. “I want to fill you up.”

You gasped as he slid his length into you, bare and slow, every inch stretching you open in the most intimate way. He buried his face in your shoulder, groaning softly.

You were already soaked for him, body trembling from the weight of it all — the love, the loss, the need.

His thrusts were deep and steady, hands gripping your hips like he couldn’t get close enough. You could feel every pulse, every twitch. His lips brushed your collarbone, your jaw, your lips again.

“You’re mine,” he said against your skin.

“Yes,” you moaned. “I’m yours.”

“gonna come inside you.”

Your breath hitched. You nodded.

“yes please, do it.”

And he did — his body tensing, stuttering as he spilled into you, warmth flooding deep. You moaned at the feeling, at how full you felt.

He didn’t pull out.

He stayed there, chest pressed to yours, breathing heavy.

After, his fingers laced with yours.

“I’m scared,” he admitted quietly.

You kissed his forehead.

“You don’t have to be. You’re still mine too.”