#ANYWAY UNRELATED BUT I LOVE HOW I WAS OUT FOR MOST OF THE DAY AND WHEN I CAME BACK TO CHECK TUMBLR

[kalosian-woods]

Um. Form your scene subvert ask thing. I bestow upon thee XY084 ("Adventures in Running Errands!") or XY037 ("The Cave of Mirrors!")

“Ash! We’ve been looking for you!”

The boy turned around, his face feeling like it froze in place for a few seconds. His body too. Maybe even his mind, right? It sounded like his friends… but it couldn’t be, right? He fell through the portal. Or the wall. Or…

He glanced behind him, feeling his brow furrow. The smooth surface of the crystal winked at him. His face flushed, and his chin ducked into the collar of his jacket. He didn’t like looking at his reflection much, after all. “’M here,” he mumbled, voice seemingly louder than it actually was and bouncing off the walls.

Somehow his friends find him, incredulous looks etched on their faces as they finally meet. There was Clemont, looking strangely winded, and little Bonnie next to him, shooting her brother an annoyed look… and…

Ash turned his gaze away, that rising feeling choking up his throat once more. He couldn’t bear to hear what she has to say—

“Thank goodness you’re okay, Ash!”

His heart stopped. “Huh?”

Her shoes shifted forward, her voice tapering off in an uncertain question. He knew that there was something wrong with this place, but it couldn’t have been that wrong, right? “You know you’ve got to stop running off like that!”

And there it was. Somehow he felt his breath flow out of him again, the reprimand a soothing action. “Iwasjust… I dunno where Pikachu is.”

“Pikachu?” Clemont rubbed his chin in thought, his glasses glinting. Ash expectantly turned to Bonnie, waiting for that praise that she always lauded her brother with, but somehow… that was absent. Strange. “We could probably just stay put and wait for him to come to us, instead of running about in here.”

“You… think?” Geez, was everything strange around here? Clement passing off an opportunity to show off his speed? So unlike him. “I mean, I guess. I just don’t want him to be in trouble, of course.”

“Don’t worry!” Bonnie cheered, pumping her hand up. “You know Pikachu can handle himself in a fight!”

An angry burst of lightning that struck all around it, eyes narrowed and teeth clenched and that screechy laugh filled the air, burnt ozone stuck in his nose.

Ash shrugged, looking down again as he shoved his hands into his pockets. “That’s not what I’m worried about,” he mumbled under his breath, before closing his eyes.

There was such a strange feeling of wrongness permeating the space around him. His breath felt stilted, like the very air was wrong.

But his shoulder felt empty. He opened his eyes and stared at the ground, clear as diamonds. “I’ve… gotta find Pikachu.”

The group in front of him glanced at each other, and it was all fine until the looked back at him. Shifting the bag on his shoulders, Clemont awkwardly added, “Are you going to lead the way then, Ash?”

“Wha? I—”

“Are you actually okay?” Her voice again. Ash stiffened and bit his lip, feeling the pressure spread through his body.

Okay (she is never this considerate). “I’ll do it,” he finally said, shaking away that temporary paralysis as he shuffled his way forward, keenly feeling those eyes marking his back. It’s strange, it’s weird, and he would honestly prefer it if they would stop trying to trick him out now of all times, especially since he let them find him instead of leaving them as he said he would.

But for now? The silence was its own gift. It allowed him to think, to map out the area in his mind, to try to feel out where his partner may have gone,

After all—

Sharp claws scrabbling on his body, pointed teeth bared in a savage grin as he looked up at the Legendary and roared.

—It was never a good thing to leave Pikachu alone.

[luckyashes-art]

you ever feel hungry enough for crumbs that you consider making things yourself

[skeletalheartattack]

i saw a Zarbon statue at GameStop today and thought of your blog

*spits out whatever i'm drinking* i think i hauve to go to gamestop

[thesewordsareallihavetogive]

Flesh Wound - Dr. Jack Abbot x chef!reader

Summary: 2.5k words. Dr. Abbot's wife's cancels date night after suffering a kitchen mishap. In an effort to avoid adding to his stress, she takes herself--and her bloody hand--to the Pitt without telling him.

Warnings: canon-typical gore, blood, graphic descriptions of wounds, & knives. Colorful language, per usual. Implied age gap. breaking select grammar rules because I can. not beta read.

a/n: This got away from me and is longer than necessary lmao. I’m not in love with it, but I need to get it out of my brain and drafts so it stops plaguing me. Enjoy my first Pitt fic! Divider credit!

“Fuck!” you hissed. The kitchen came to a standstill around you; your cooks, dishwashers, and wait staff suddenly focused on the angry gash on your hand.

Abby’s was your pride and joy. Back in the day, culinary school felt like a gamble and then some. Today, you thank your lucky stars that it panned out well. The restaurant you’d built from the ground up was often featured in local publications and had grown into a neighborhood hub—it was a success from the day you first opened the doors to the public.

On days you didn’t stay at work for the full evening rush—like tonight, when you had your silver fox of a husband waiting at home with a pint of Ben & Jerry’s and the full Netflix catalogue at your fingertips—you at least made sure to come in for a couple hours in the afternoon to help set up and ensure your staff had all the support they needed for a successful night.

Amid prep work for a new dish you were piloting, you looked away at just the wrong moment when your name was called, resulting in the unmistakable piercing feeling shooting through your hand. You’d nicked yourself. Well, more than nicked yourself, because you were now bleeding at a rate that would have Javadi passed out cold on the floor.

This certainly wasn’t your first knife injury and probably wouldn’t be your last. You haphazardly cleaned up your station as best you could while holding pressure to the wound with a towel. Accidents happen to everyone, no matter how long they’ve been in the industry. That didn’t mean it wasn’t embarrassing to slice your palm open in front of the staff who were supposed to look up to you. 

You bit your lip and willed the tears to stay at bay after closing your office door. You tried taking deep breaths as you sat on the edge of your desk. In for 4, out for 8. In for 5, out for 10.

It didn’t help much.

This hurts like a bitch, you cursed through the unrelenting stinging. It was worse than any other kitchen injuries you’d had in recent memory. You remembered your husband rambling about how the hands were one of the most highly vascularized parts of the body. When it bleeds, it bleeds, he said to you. You were acutely aware of that now.

The bleeding wasn’t showing signs of stopping anytime soon, even after you’d soaked through two hand towels. Jack had taught you quite a bit of first aid and then some over the years, but even you recognized that you couldn’t patch yourself up. When a little fuzzy feeling began to sink in, you knew it was time to seek medical attention from a professional who wouldn’t spiral at the mere notion of you being harmed.

Sure, you could’ve called your trauma doctor husband, who seldom went anywhere without his ‘go bag’, but that would make too much sense. You didn’t want Jack to worry about you. He did anyway, but you didn’t want to add to his stress. The salt and pepper hair suited him well–you frequently reminded him when you carded your fingers through his curls–but if he went full-on gray, you might be accused of grave robbing.

“Doctor Abbot speaking,” the man grunted in greeting. The trauma doc hadn’t looked at the caller ID before answering. Or maybe his mind was still filled with the post-night shift sleep haze.

“Hey, honey,” you smiled through the phone despite your barely contained anxiety. The fresh towel you left the restaurant with was quickly turning crimson. The walk to Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center was 15 minutes, and you prayed that you’d make it there before the towel was soaked through or before you passed out—whichever would come first.

Your voice washed over Jack like warm honey. His shoulders relaxed and he sighed deeply. Per usual, he hadn’t realized how tense he was until you dissolved his stress.

“Hello, my beautiful wife,” he flirted through the phone, the corners of his lips ticking up into a smile. Several years into your relationship, he could still make you blush.

“I know we planned to stay in tonight and watch a movie, but I’m gonna have to stay at the restaurant late. We got slammed, and I need to make sure the team has everything they need.” That counted as a white lie, right? Jack and his wife didn’t keep secrets. But this time, what he didn’t know couldn’t hurt him, you rationalized. You would tell him once you were all stitched up, snuggling at home with him, and not pale as a ghost. You would tell him when you could laugh about it, at how silly the oopsie you made in the kitchen was. Right now you were not laughing.

Abbot nodded, though you couldn’t see it. Your dedication to making sure your staff were taken care of was admirable; you were always so attentive, caring, and considerate. But selfishly, Jack would’ve given his other leg to spend a night with his wife. 

It wasn’t like you both weren’t used to taking rainchecks. Sometimes chefs called out sick and you had to step up, or put out metaphorical and literal fires. Other times, Jack’s pager seemed to be determined to set a record for most received messages.

“That’s okay, sweetheart. We can do something tomorrow.” It was a promise they’d hold each other to.

Years in service to the military and working in healthcare–emergency medicine, no less–meant he was used to change and could be flexible, to say the least. Nevertheless, that didn’t mean he wasn’t going to be miserable to everyone around him until he saw his wife again.

Keeping a low profile at the Pitt was damn near impossible given your reputation.

The ER staff were well acquainted with Dr. Abbot’s wife, the pretty lady who brought them food. It started when you brought Jack dinner, and then Dana too. Sometimes Robby if you caught him at the right time. Eventually, you’d occasionally drop off catering-sized orders from Abby’s to be shared amongst the Pitt staff, just because.

A concerning majority of the providers, nurses, techs, RTs, and radiology staff survived 13-hour shifts on protein bars and far more milligrams of caffeine than was considered safe for human consumption. (It was a good thing they had plenty of 12 leads and crash carts full of pharm goodies for when a staff member inevitably developed a caffeine-induced dysrhythmia.) When the smell of Dr. Abbot’s wife’s food filled the Pitt, they knew they were in for a treat.

“You got any food for us, Mrs. Abbot?” Lupe asked as you approached the thick registration desk glass, before her eyes fell to your hand cradled against your chest. Definitely not catering.

Unfortunately for you, the third towel was fully saturated by the time you made it through the lobby’s double doors. The fuzzy feeling from earlier was quickly advancing to woozy.

Lupe and Dana brought you straight back from triage, effectively bumping you to the top of the queue. Maybe it wasn’t entirely according to hospital policy, but they’d never hear the end of it from Abbot if he found out his wife was stuck in a waiting room while she bled out.

“Everything is still attached, but the cut’s deep,” you relayed to Dana, who hummed as she peeled back the towel to assess the damage.

“Your husband know you’re here?” Dana asked, raising an eyebrow at you expectantly. She knew the answer based on the fact that Abbot hadn’t tore through the damn building to get to you. Yet, anyway. She more so asked to give you a chance to reflect on your dumb decision to not inform your husband.

“I don’t want to stress him out. Please don’t tell him?” You pleaded.

“I won’t say anything, but I can’t control what happens when he sees his last name on the wrong part of the status board.” Her emphasis on when made it clear that it was only a matter of time, not if.

Of course he would pick up a shift once his evening freed up. He was a workaholic, but so were you. Birds of a feather.

When Doctor Robinavitch and Javadi pulled back the room’s curtain, Dana did the talking–nausea was setting in along with a wicked headache. You refused to look at the laceration at this point, eyes trained on the ceiling tiles above you.

“BP is soft,” Robby observed. Dana nodded while holding pressure to the wound with gauze. “Let’s start some IV fluids to get it back up; you definitely had some blood loss today.” Not helping, you thought as another wave of nausea rolled through you.

“She said she doesn’t want Dr. Abbot to know, and I’m not about to get in the middle of that. Plus, provider-patient confidentiality,” Robby finished with a shrug to Dana at the nurse’s station.

“Who doesn’t want me to know what?” Abbot asked, cosmic timing seemingly on his side. He was here far earlier than he needed to be for his shift, but he had nothing better to do Better than sulking at home, missing his wife. He’d still miss her while he was working, but at least he’d have an active distraction. His grip was firm on the strap of his camo backpack slung over his shoulder.

Robby groaned and his eyes scrunched shut as he slowly turned to face the night shift attending. Dana answered the nurse’s station phone within a nanosecond of the first shrill ring, leaving Robby to fend for himself.

Abbot looked at him expectantly, his patience quickly waning. Robby shook his head and vaguely nodded his head backwards, simply sighing “room 4” before getting back to work. Jack didn’t press for more info, just crossed the Pitt with long, purposeful strides. His heart dropped and the world around him slowed when he saw his wife laying back on a gurney, hooked up to IV fluids with gauze around her hand.

He didn’t bother to knock before entering, yanking the curtain open with an abrasive tug. He immediately started scanning you head to toe and noted the color drained from your face, a bloody rag in the biohazard bin, and the remnants of a suture kit in the waste bin.

“Baby, what the hell happened?” Jack asked, wild eyes bouncing between the vitals monitor to your tired form. You squeezed her eyes shut and cursed the fact that PTMC was the closest ER to Abby’s.

“I told Robby not to call you,” you grumbled. Your husband grunted.

“He didn’t call me. I picked up a shift.” You knew Jack wasn’t upset with you directly. Seeing you in the same department where patients regularly coded and trauma alerts rolled through at light speed to the trauma bay unnerved him.

You felt a twang of guilt in your chest. Jack wouldn’t have come in on his first night off in a while if you hadn’t canceled date night. And date night wouldn’t have been canceled if you’d just been paying more attention in the kitchen. You extended your unaffected hand to your husband and he grasped it in an instant. 

His tense shoulders and tight jaw gave him away. You hated to see him needlessly stressed, but it also warmed you in an odd way—how lucky you are to have someone care for you so deeply. Someone as weathered and worn as Jack, who has seen his fair share of trauma and then some, loves you to the point of worry. What a privilege that is.

Jack’s shift technically didn’t start for another 20 minutes. He had every intention of spending those minutes right by your side.

Saved by the bell a few minutes before shift change, Robby came back in for rounds, tailed by Javadi (who, to her credit, did not pass out at the sight of copious blood flowing from your hand earlier). “Hey, love birds,” Robby greeted with a grin. Abbot’s lips stayed pressed in a thin line while you smiled weakly back at the attending and the med student who followed him around like a little duckling.

Dr. Robinavitch gestured for Javadi to present the case to Dr. Abbot. The poor girl looked like a deer caught in headlights at the harsh stare Abbot pinned her with. Her gaze bounced from your joined hands back to the attending before she cleared her throat and began. Javadi described the depth of the laceration and the amount of stitches required, topical TXA, IV fluid bolus and subsequent drip for hypotension. Jack forced air from his nose before inhaling again, squeezing your hand tighter.

“Princess will be in shortly with your discharge paperwork and home care instructions,” Robby winked as he left you and Abbot by yourselves. Jack snorted. There was no way in hell you’d be caring for the wound yourself, not if he could help it.

“Why didn’t you call me?” Jack’s voice was quiet. He wasn’t mad, but rattled. You twisted your mouth to the side, feeling a bit of shame. This wasn’t how you imagined your evening going.

“Technically, I did… on my walk here…” you offered. It sounded weak even to your ears. Jack deadpanned. It didn’t land well. You sighed and rolled to face your husband fully. “I didn’t want you to worry about me,” you whispered, hoping your voice wouldn’t betray you. Jack pressed a lingering kiss to your forehead.

“I’m always going to worry about you, sweetheart. Because I love you.” His fingers traced your jawline. Jack, who woke up with night terrors well over a decade after the war-torn atrocities he’d seen, gazed at you tenderly. You had half a mind to make a ‘Tis but a scratch joke, but figured that might send him over the edge.

“I love you too.” It wasn’t a reply, it was a promise. Jack kissed the back of your hand, your fingers intertwined until he had to go.

Dr. Robinavitch hung around until he was satisfied with your blood pressure so he could drive you home. Even if you had politely declined, he would’ve stayed. Abbot certainly wouldn’t have let him hear the end of it if his wife had to take a taxi home from the ER. Robby guided you toward the exit, holding your bag and his. Gotta keep our patient satisfaction scores up.

Jack doffed his gloves while he jogged to meet you before you reached the door. He blindly tossed the blue nitrile gloves in the direction of the nearest waste bin, not bothering to check if he made it in. But they had, because of course they would. Cocky motherfucker.

Jack wordlessly pulled you to him, one arm wrapped around your waist, the other hand holding your head to his chest as he kissed the top of your head.

“Take it easy, okay?” The two of you could’ve been slow dancing in a burning room, but Jack wouldn’t have noticed. He tuned out the constant buzz of the Pitt and focused solely on you. You offered your free hand up for a pinkie promise.

If the med students and interns saw Dr. Abbot go soft—oh so whipped for his wife—and make a pinkie promise, they knew better than to say anything about it.

a/n: Reblogs & comments are much appreciated 🥰

Find more of my writing on my master list.

Turn on post notifications @thesewordsxupdates to get notified when I release new fics.

[tojiphile]

ONE PIECE LIVE ACTION MEN + DICK HEADCANONS & SIZES

a/n. i wrote this last night at 5am while sleep deprived so the further it gets the more wack it gets LOL

cw/tw. f!reader, rough sex, blowjobs, dirty talk, slight exhibitionism, body hair, skinny penis, unprotected sex, for 18+ readers

MONKEY D. LUFFY

— 6.5” but thinks he’s average, so he doesn’t stretch it out with his abilities. not too girthy, but he makes up for it with his unrelenting stamina. it curves up against his stomach and leans left slightly. a little bit messy because he tried to shave it once and nicked himself, so he just settled with the hair. honey-toned towards the base and a deep red at the tip, especially when he’s raring to go.

— he wants to do it in every position, on every surface. he has you bent over the dinner table, one leg up and slamming into you mercilessly. he has you spread eagle in the bathtub, legs locked behind his back as he stuffs you full. it’s almost as if his dick is made for you, the curve perfectly abuses your g-spot as every orgasm overwhelms you, and you’re left a sobbing, babbling mess. he wants to know if he’s doing well, and he gets his answer when you chant “s— so, ah! good, fuck, d— don’t stop!” like a prayer.

RORONOA ZORO

— long, fat and heavy. he’s blessed with a stunning 7.3” length, though if anyone asks, he rounds down to make them feel more at ease. veiny. the mushroom tip is flushed purple, and it’s rests nicely on your tongue!! probably messy down there, he doesn’t see the point in shaving or trimming, but if you ask nicely, he’ll grunt, roll his eyes, and do it for you.

— you insisted that you didn’t need any prep, but as you straddled him, lining up your cunt with his cock, you soon realised your mistake. you have to spread yourself open, face scrunching up, and slowly sink down. he loves the feeling of your pussy walls fluttering as you start riding him. when your eyes flutter shut and your hips stutter, he takes control—holding you tight by the waist and fucking into you until you’re screaming.

SANJI VINSMOKE

— 6.4” and so so pretty. slender, with a pale shaft that leads into a rosy pink at the tip. it curves up and to the right. the carpet matches the drapes. he keeps it neat, though he probably doesn’t grow much hair anyway. he trims it once every few days, but he’ll never admit to it. smells the best AKA smells really clean, like soap.

— he goes crazy when you maintain eye contact and drop to your knees. you take his cock in hand, lifting it to run your tongue on the underside, tracing a prominent vein. you swirl your tongue around his sensitive head and his whole body is shaking, knees buckling as he chases that familiar high.

USUPP

— coming in at 5.8”, he makes up for it in his thick girth. when he jerks himself off, he can barely wrap his hand around it. he’s soooo sensitive that the wind can blow and he’s be hard. fat fat fat mushroom head that’s olive, golden-hued, and always oozing precum. heavy heavy balls. he might be clumsy and inexperienced, but his size alone is enough to make you drool. trims sometimes but only when he thinks he might get lucky.

— his hand grips your hair as you worship his cock, working magic with your mouth. as you jerk him off, you give small kitten licks to his leaking tip, tasting his salty precum. you whisper, “i want you” and before you know it, he has you pinned under him, rutting his thick cock into you desperately. his eyes are fixated on the way your cunt swallows him, and only strangled groans escape his lips.

BUGGY

— sorry buggy simps but he’s definitely a shower not a grower, though he still does comes in at a nice 6”! also, it’s ya boy, skinny penis. built like a tree branch but at least it’s really veiny, AND he knows how to talk you through it. so really, it might not be the most impressive but with his confidence when he’s fucking you? he’ll fuck you out and make you believe he’s 8” and 5”.

— he loves admiring your sopping cunt as it swallow him whole, your princess parts stretching to to accommodate his cock. he likes to fucks you. he presses you up against a window and fucks you from the back, choking you with his forearm and practically purrs, “taking me so well, ya dirty slut, fuckin’ cunt was made for my cock.”

SHANKS

— he doesn’t act like it buuuuuuut monster cock. it’s 7.8”, thick, and curved so much it slaps against his happy trail. let me tell you that when he sun tans, he does it naked. he lathers that horse cock up with sunblock and spreads eagle on the sand, hands behind his head, so he’s bronzed and beautiful. trims when he feels like it or if you ask, he doesn’t really think much about it.

— he doesn’t look like he’s putting in much effort when he fucks, barely breaking a sweat, but he has you writhing, hands gripping the sheets, eyes hazy and choking on your own spit. he knows what he’s doing to you. his thumb finds your clit, rubbing in delicate circles making you cum over and over again until you’re absolutely wrecked. when he’s close, he picks up the pace, grunting heavily, hips stuttering as he spills his seed inside of you. when he pulls out, he takes the time to finger fuck his cum back into you, your body shaking as you work through the aftershock.

[matcha3mochi]

PROTOCOL Pairing: Doctor Zayne x Nurse Reader

author note: love and deepspace is my addiction guys LOL anyways enjoy!!

wc: 3,865

✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦

Akso Hospital looms in the heart of Linkon like a monument of glass, metal, and unrelenting precision. Multi-tiered, climate-controlled, and fully integrated with city-wide telemetry systems, it's known across the cosmos for housing the most advanced medical AI and the most exacting surgeons in the Union.

Inside its Observation Deck on Level 4, the air hums with quiet purpose. Disinfectant and filtered oxygen mix in sterile harmony. The floors are polished to a mirrored sheen, the walls pulse faintly with embedded biometrics, and translucent holoscreens scroll real-time vitals, arterial scans, and surgical priority tags in muted color-coded displays.

You’ve been on the floor since 0500. First to check vitals. First to inventory meds. First to get snapped at.

Doctor Zayne Li is already here—of course he is. The man practically lives in the operating theatres. Standing behind the panoramic glass that overlooks Surgery Bay Delta, he looks like something carved out of discipline and frost. His pristine long coat hangs perfectly from squared shoulders, gloves tucked with methodical precision, silver-framed glasses reflecting faint readouts from the transparent interface hovering before him.

He’s the hospital’s prized cardiovascular surgeon. The Zayne Li—graduated top of his class from Astral Medica, youngest surgeon ever certified for off-planet cardiac reconstruction, published more than any other specialist in the central systems under 35. There's even a rumor he once performed a dual-heart transplant in an emergency gravity failure. Probably true.

He’s a legend. A genius.

And an ass.

He’s never once smiled at you. Never once said thank you. With other staff, he’s distant but civil. With you, he’s something else entirely: cold, strict, and unrelentingly sharp. If you breathe wrong, he notices. If you hesitate, he corrects. If you do everything by protocol?

He still finds something to critique.

"Vitals on Bed 12 were late," he said this morning without even turning his head. No greeting. Just judgment, clean and surgical.

"They weren’t late. I had to reset the cuff."

"You should anticipate equipment failures. That’s part of the job."

And that was it. No acknowledgment of the three critical patients you’d managed in that hour. No recognition. No room for explanation. He turned away before you could blink, his coat slicing behind him like punctuation.

You don’t like him.

You don’t disrespect him—because you're a professional, and because he's earned his reputation a hundred times over. But you don’t like how he talks to you like you’re a glitch in the system. Like you’re a deviation he hasn’t figured out how to reprogram.

You’ve worked under strict doctors before. But Zayne is different. He doesn’t push to challenge you. He pushes to see if you’ll break.

And the worst part?

You haven’t.

Which only seems to piss him off more.

You watch him now from the break table near the edge of the deck, your synth-coffee going tepid between your hands. He’s reviewing scans on a projection screen—high-res, rotating 3D models of a degenerating bio-synthetic valve. His eyes, a pale hazel-green, flick across the data with sharp focus. His arms are folded behind his back, posture perfect, expression unreadable.

He hasn’t noticed you.

Correction: he has, and he’s pointedly ignoring you.

Typical.

You take another sip of coffee, more bitter than before. You could head back to inventory. You could restock surgical trays. But you don’t.

Because part of you refuses to give him the satisfaction of leaving first.

So you stay.

And so does he.

Two professionals. Two adversaries. One cold war fought in clipped words, clinical tension, and overlapping silence.

And the day hasn’t even started yet.

The surgical light beams down like a second sun, flooding the operating theatre in harsh, clinical brightness. It washes the color out of everything—blood, skin, even breath—until all that remains is precision.

Doctor Zayne Li stands at the head of the table, gloved hands elevated and scrubbed raw, sleeves of his sterile gown clinging tight around his forearms. His eyes flick up to the vitals screen, then down to the patient’s exposed chest.

“Vitals?” he asks.

You answer without hesitation. “Steady. HR 82, BP 96/63, oxygen at 99%, no irregularities.”

His silence is your only cue to proceed.

You hand him the scalpel, handle first, exactly as protocol demands. He doesn’t look at you when he takes it—but his fingers graze yours, cold through double-layered gloves, and the contact still sends a tiny jolt up your arm. Annoying.

He makes the incision without fanfare, clean and deliberate, the kind of cut that only comes from years of obsessive mastery. The kind that still makes your gut tighten to watch.

You monitor the instruments, anticipating without crowding him. You’ve been assisting in his surgeries for weeks now. You’ve learned when he prefers the microclamp versus the stabilizer. You’ve memorized the sequence of his suturing pattern. You know when to speak and when not to. Still, it’s never enough.

“Retractor,” he says flatly.

You’re already reaching.

“Not that one.”

Your hand freezes mid-motion.

His tone is ice. “Cardiac thoracic, not abdominal. Are you even awake?”

A hot flush rises behind your ears. He doesn’t yell—Zayne never yells—but his disappointment cuts deeper than a scalpel. You grit your teeth and correct the tray.

“Cardiac thoracic,” you repeat. “Understood.”

No response. Just the soft click of metal as he inserts the retractor into the sternotomy.

The rest of the operation is silence and beeping. You suction blood before he asks. He cauterizes without hesitation. The damaged aortic valve is removed, replaced with a synthetic graft designed for lunar-pressure tolerance. It’s delicate work—millimeter adjustments, microscopic thread. One wrong move could tear the tissue.

Zayne doesn’t shake. Doesn’t blink. He’s terrifyingly still, even as alarms spike and the patient's BP dips for three agonizing seconds.

“Clamp. Now,” he says.

You pass it instantly. He seals the nicked vessel, stabilizes the pressure, and the monitor quiets.

You exhale—but not too loudly. Not until the final suture is tied, the chest closed, and the drape removed. Then, and only then, does he speak again.

“Clean,” he says, already walking away. “Prepare a report for Post-Op within the hour.”

You stare at his retreating back, fists clenched at your sides. No thank you. No good work. Just a cold command and disappearing footsteps.

The Diagnostic Lab is silent, save for the low hum of scanners and the occasional pulse of a vitascan completing a loop. The walls are steel-paneled with matte black inlays, lit only by the soft glow of holographic interfaces. Ambient light drifts in from a side wall of glass, showing the icy curve of Europa in the distance, half-shadowed in space.

You stand alone at a curved diagnostics console, sleeves rolled just above your elbows, eyes locked on the 3D hologram spinning in front of you. The synthetic heart pulses slowly, arteries reconstructed with precise synthetic grafts. The valve—a platinum-carbon composite—is functioning perfectly. You check the scan tags, patient ID, op codes, and log the post-op outcome.

Everything’s clean. Correct.

Or so you thought.

You barely register the soft hiss of the door opening behind you until the room shifts. Not in volume, but in pressure—like gravity suddenly increased by one degree.

You don’t turn. You don’t have to.

Zayne.

“Line 12 in the file log,” he says, voice low, composed, and close. Too close.

You blink at the screen. “What about it?”

“You mislabeled the scan entry. That’s a formatting violation.”

Your heart rate ticks up. You straighten your spine.

“No,” you reply calmly, “I used trauma tags from pre-op logs. They cross-reference with the emergency surgical queue.”

His footsteps approach—measured, deliberate—and stop directly behind you. You sense the heat of his body before anything else. He’s not touching you, but he’s close enough that you feel him standing there, like a charged wire humming at your back.

“You adapted a tag system that’s not recognized by this wing’s software. If these were pushed to central review, they’d get flagged. Wasting time.” His tone is even. Too even.

Your hands rest on the edge of the console. You force your shoulders not to tense.

“I made a call based on the context. It was logical.”

“You’re not here to improvise logic,” he replies, stepping even closer.

You feel the air change as he raises his arm, reaching past you—his coat sleeve brushing the side of your bicep lightly, the barest whisper of contact. His hand moves with surgical confidence as he taps the air beside your own, opening the tag metadata on the scan you just logged. His fingers are long, gloved, deliberate in motion.

“This,” he says, highlighting a code block, “should have been labeled with an ICU procedural tag, not pre-op trauma shorthand.”

You turn your head slightly, and there he is. Close. Towering. His jaw is tight, clean-shaven except for the faintest trace of stubble catching the edge of the light. There’s a tiredness around his eyes—subtle, buried deep—but he doesn’t blink. Doesn’t waver. He’s so still it’s unnerving.

He doesn’t seem to notice—or care—how near he is.

You, however, are all too aware.

Your voice tightens. “Is there a reason you couldn’t point this out without standing over me like I’m in your way?”

Zayne doesn’t flinch. “If I stood ten feet back, you’d still argue with me.”

You bristle. “Because I know what I’m doing.”

“And yet,” he replies coolly, “I’m the one correcting your data.”

That sting digs deep. You pull in a breath, clenching your fists subtly against the side of the console. You want to yell. But you won’t. Because he wants control, and you won’t give him that too.

He lowers his hand slowly, retracting from the display, and finally—finally—steps back. Just enough to let you breathe again.

But the tension? It lingers like static.

“I’ll correct the tag,” you say flatly.

Zayne nods once, then turns to go.

But at the doorway, he stops.

Without looking back, he adds, “You're capable. That’s why I expect better.”

Then he walks out.

Leaving you in the cold hum of the diagnostic lab, your pulse racing, your thoughts a snarl of frustration and something else—unsettling and electric—curling low in your gut.

You don’t know what that something is.

But you’re starting to suspect it won’t go away quietly.

You sit three seats from the end of the long chrome conference table, back straight, shoulders tight, fingers wrapped just a little too hard around your datapad.

The Surgical Briefing Room is too bright. It always is. Cold light from the ceiling plates bounces off polished surfaces, glass walls, and the brushed steel of the central console. A hologram hovers in the center of the room, slowly spinning: the reconstructed heart from this morning’s procedure, arteries lit in pulsing red and cyan.

You can feel sweat prickling at the nape of your neck under your uniform collar. Your scrubs are crisp, your hair pinned back precisely, your notes immaculate—but none of that matters when Dr. Myles Hanron speaks.

You’ve only spoken to him a few times. He’s been at Bell for twenty years. Stern. Respected. Impossible to argue with. Today, he's reviewing the recent cardiovascular procedure—the one you assisted under Zayne’s lead.

And something is off. He’s frowning at the scan display.

Then he looks at you.

“Explain this inconsistency in the anticoagulation log.”

You glance up, already feeling the slow roll of nausea in your stomach.

Your voice comes out measured, but your throat is dry. “I followed the automated-calibrated dosage curve based on intra-op vitals and confirmed with the automated log.”

Hanron raises a brow, his tablet casting a soft reflection on the lenses of his glasses. “Then you followed it wrong.”

The words hit like a slap across your face.

You feel the blood drain from your cheeks. Something sharp twists in your stomach.

“I—” you begin, mouth parting. You shift slightly in your seat, fingers tightening on the datapad in your lap, legs crossed too stiffly. Your body wants to shrink, but you force yourself not to move.

“Don’t interrupt,” Hanron snaps, before you can finish.

A few heads turn in your direction. One of the interns frowns, glancing at you with wide eyes. You stare straight ahead, trying to keep your breathing even, your spine straight, your jaw from visibly clenching.

Hanron paces two steps in front of the display. “You logged a 0.3 ml deviation on a patient with a known history of arrhythmic episodes. Are you unfamiliar with the case history? Or did you just not check?”

“I did check,” you say, quieter, trying to keep your tone professional. Your hands are starting to sweat. “The scan flagged it within range. I wasn’t improvising—”

“Then how did this discrepancy occur?” he presses. “Or are you suggesting the system is at fault?”

You flinch, slightly. You open your mouth to say something—to explain the terminal sync issue you noticed during the last vitals run—but your voice catches.

You’re a nurse.

You’re new.

So you sit there, every instinct in your body screaming to speak, to defend yourself—but you swallow it down.

You stare down at your datapad, the screen now blurred from the way your vision’s tunneling. You clench your teeth until your jaw aches.

You can’t speak up. Not without making it worse.

“Let this be a reminder,” Hanron says, turning his back to you as he scrolls through another projection, “that there is no room for guesswork in surgical prep. Especially not from auxiliary staff who feel the need to act above their training.”

Auxiliary.

The word burns.

You feel heat crawl up your chest. Your hands are shaking slightly. You grip your knees under the table to hide it.

And then—

“I signed off on that dosage.”

Zayne’s voice cuts clean through the air like a cold wire.

You turn your head sharply toward the door. He’s standing in the entrance, posture military-straight, coat half-unbuttoned, gloves tucked into his belt. His presence shifts the atmosphere instantly.

His black hair is perfectly combed back, not a strand out of place, glinting faintly under the sterile overhead lights. His silver-framed glasses sit low on the bridge of his nose, catching a brief reflection from the room’s data panels, but not enough to hide the expression in his eyes.

Hazel-green. Pale and piercing

He’s not looking at you. His gaze is fixed past you, locked on Hanron with unflinching intensity—like the man has just committed a fundamental breach of logic.

There’s not a wrinkle in his coat. Not a single misaligned button or loose thread. Even the gloves at his belt look placed, not shoved there. Zayne is, as always, polished. Meticulous. Icy.

But today—his expression is different.

His jaw is set tighter than usual. The faint crease between his brows is deeper. He looks like a man on the verge of unsheathing a scalpel, not for surgery—but for precision retaliation.

And when he speaks, his voice is calm. Controlled.

His face is unreadable. Voice flat.

“If there’s a problem with it, you can take it up with me.”

The silence in the room is instant. Tense. Airless.

Hanron turns slowly. “Doctor Zayne, this isn’t about—”

“It is,” Zayne replies, tone even sharper. “You’re implying a clinical error in my procedure. If you’re accusing her, then you’re accusing me. So let’s be clear.”

You can barely process it. Your heart is thudding, ears buzzing from the sudden shift in tone, from the weight of Zayne’s voice cutting through the tension like a scalpel. You look at him — really look — and for once, he isn’t focused on numbers or reports.

He’s solely focused on Hanron. And he is furious — not loudly, but in the way his voice doesn’t rise, his jaw locks, and his words slice like ice.

Just furious—in that cold, calculated way of his.

“She followed my instruction under direct supervision,” he says, voice steady. “The variance was intentional. Based on patient history and real-time rhythm response.”

He pauses just long enough to let the words land.

“It was correct.”

Hanron doesn’t respond right away.

His lips press into a thin line, face unreadable, and he shifts back a step—visibly checking himself in the silence Zayne has carved into the room like a scalpel.

“We’ll review the surgical logs,” Hanron mutters at last, voice clipped, his authority retreating behind procedure.

Zayne nods once. “Please do.”

Then, without fanfare, without another word, he steps forward—not toward the exit, but toward the table.

You track him with your eyes, unable to help it.

The low hum of the room resumes, like the air had been holding its breath. No one speaks. A few nurses drop their eyes back to their datapads. Pages turn. Screens flicker.

But you’re frozen in place, shoulders still tight, hands clenched in your lap to keep them from visibly shaking.

Zayne rounds the end of the table, his boots clicking softly against the metal flooring. His long coat sways with his movements, falling neatly behind him as he pulls out the seat directly across from you.

And sits.

Not at the head of the table. Not in some corner seat to observe.

Directly across from you.

He adjusts his glasses with two fingers, expression cool again, almost as if nothing happened. As if he didn’t just dress down a senior doctor in front of the entire room on your behalf.

He doesn’t look at you.

He opens the file on his datapad, stylus poised, reviewing the surgical results like this is any other debrief.

But you’re still staring.

You study the slight tension in his shoulders, the stillness in his hands, the way his eyes don’t drift—not toward Hanron, not toward you—locked entirely on the data as if that can contain whatever just happened.

You should say something.

Thank you.

But the words get stuck in your throat.

Your pulse is still unsteady, confusion mixing with the low thrum of heat behind your ribs. He didn’t need to defend you. He never steps into conflict like that, especially not for others—especially not for you.

You glance away first, eyes back on your screen, unable to ignore the twist in your gut.

The room empties, but you stay.

The echo of voices fades out with the hiss of the sliding doors. Just a few minutes ago, the surgical debrief room was bright with tension—every overhead light too sharp, the air too thin, the hum of holopanels and datapads a constant static in your head.

Now, it’s quiet. Still.

You sit for a moment longer, fingers resting on your lap, knuckles tight, back straight even though your entire body wants to collapse inward. You’re still warm from the flush of embarrassment, your pulse still flickering behind your ears.

Dr. Hanron’s words sting less now, dulled by the cool aftershock of what Zayne did.

He defended you.

You hadn’t expected it. Not from him.

You replay it in your head—his voice cutting in, his posture like stone, his eyes locked on Hanron like a scalpel ready to slice. He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t even look at you.

But you felt it.

You felt the impact of what it meant.

And now, as you sit in the empty conference room—white walls, chrome-edged table, sterile quiet—you’re left with one burning thought:

You have to say something.

You rise slowly, brushing your palms down your thighs to wipe off the sweat that lingers there. You hesitate at the doorway. Your reflection stares back at you in the glass panel—eyes still a little wide, jaw tight, posture just a bit too stiff.

He didn’t have to defend you, but he did.

And that matters.

You step into the hallway.

It’s long and narrow, glowing with soft white overhead lights and lined with clear glass panels that reflect fragments of your movement as you walk. The hum of the ventilation system buzzes low and steady—comforting in its monotony. The air smells of antiseptic and the faint trace of ozone from high-oxygen surgical wards.

You spot him ahead, already halfway down the corridor, walking with purpose—long coat swaying slightly with each step, back straight, shoulders squared. Always composed. Always fast.

You hesitate. Your boots slow down and your throat tightens.

You want to turn back, to let it go, to pretend it was just professional courtesy. Nothing more. Nothing personal.

But you can’t.

Not this time.

You quicken your pace.

“Doctor Zayne!”

The name catches in the air, too loud in the quiet hallway. You flinch, just a little—but he stops.

You break into a small jog to catch up, boots tapping sharply against the tile. Your breath catches as you reach him.

Zayne turns toward you, expression unreadable, brows slightly furrowed in that ever-present, analytical way of his. The glow of the ceiling lights reflects off his silver-framed glasses, casting sharp highlights along the edges of his jaw.

He doesn’t say anything. Just waits.

You stop a foot away, heart thudding. You don’t know what you expected—maybe something colder. Maybe for him to ignore you entirely.

You swallow hard, eyes flicking up to meet his.

“I just…” Your voice is quieter now. Careful. “I wanted to say thank you.”

He doesn’t respond immediately. His gaze is steady. Measured.

“I don’t tolerate incompetence,” he says calmly. “That includes false accusations.”

You blink, taken off guard by the directness. It’s not warm. Not even particularly kind. But coming from him, it’s almost intimate.

Still, you can’t help yourself. “That wasn’t really about incompetence.”

“No,” he admits. “It wasn’t.”

The hallway feels smaller now, quieter. He’s watching you in full. Not scanning you like a chart, not calculating — watching. Still. Focused.

You nod slowly, grounding yourself in the moment. “Still. I needed to say it. Thank you.”

You’re suddenly aware of everything—of the warmth in your cheeks, of the way your hands twist at your sides, of how tall he stands compared to you, even when he’s not trying to intimidate.

And he isn’t. Not now.

If anything, he looks… still.

Not soft. Never that. But something quieter. Less armored.

“You handled yourself better than most would have,” he says after a moment. “Even if I hadn’t said anything, you didn’t lose control.”

“I didn’t feel in control,” you admit, a breath of nervous laughter escaping. “I was two seconds from either crying or throwing my datapad.”

That earns you something surprising—just the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth. Almost a smile. But not quite.

“Neither would’ve been productive,” he says.

You roll your eyes slightly. “Thanks, Doctor Efficiency.”

His glasses catch the light again, but his expression doesn’t change.

You glance past him, down the corridor. “I should get back to my rotation.”

He nods once. “I’ll see you in the lab.”

You pause.

Then—because you don’t know what else to do—you offer a small, genuine smile.

“I’ll be there.”

As you turn to leave, you feel his eyes on your back.

[1x1x1x1x1x1x1x1]

HII, could you do reader x killers where reader is the oldest killers? like when they got teleported into the cabin by the spectre everybody already knew them lol

((edit: this is an older post so the characters are defo OOC since i didnt know how to write for them that well,,,,,just putting this out there))

AHH THIS IS SUCH A NICE REQUEST TO START OFF!!

REQUESTS ARE OPEN!!

ty anon and i hope you enjoy!! reader is gender neutral

possibly OOC!!

Forsaken Killers x Older!Killer!Reader

1x1x1x1

oooh they know YOU alright

you were kind of a idol to them (before his corruption) for a while actually,

now that you were here?? it was certaintly something!

She tries more doing rounds, trying to impress you in a way. (even though you arent always watching) Just trying to make a good image of himself

Once when a round ended, and they were teleported back to the cabin, she saw you watching the tv with others!! Cheering him on. That made him feel the hatred that she always feels burn down just a bit. Not for long tho.

John Doe

yeesh, tough one

His corruption is basically making him a wild animal, yet you treat him like a normal human (compared to the others, at least)

He definetly feels the fondness, yet his mind twists it out to be something comepletly unrelated

When he DOES figure out what hes feeling, its not really for long.

He will forget about it tomorrow, anyways.

Jason

He does enjoy your presence around him, (even if he doesnt show it)

Definetly looks up to you in a way

and his mother speaks good about you! you must be worth his time then right?

Youre also one of the only folks that sits down and tries talking to him AND understands him, it just makes it way more easier

Noli

this guy DOES NOT shut up does he?

probably a lot of contrast, since hes one of the most immature killers while youre the opposite

he will definetly go out of his way to annoy you, play random sound effects, quote random shit when hes around (that he KNOWS you wont understand)

once when he got particularlly annoying and you had enough, you grabbed him by the neck and told him something along the lines of 'shut the fuck up.'

THAT made him lose it over you

Even though he got a bit of less annoying day after day, he still messed with you. Now trying to get closer to you each time.

C00lkidd (PLANTONIC!!)

he sees you kind of as a grandparent actually

he probably spends the most time with you in the cabin, either bothering you or begging you to play some game with him (this will either be tic tac toe or tag, no inbetween)

he definetly shows you all of his drawings! you manage to be in almost every one of them, along with some burger guy.

loves watching you on the TV as you chase the survivors, he hopes he can be as c00l as you one day!

extra!!

Mafioso

He enjoys your presence.

When you first showed up, he was quite skeptical about you, doing some glares, making sure you wont pull anything stupid. But after a while, he realized youre the only other -kind of- sane person here, it does get quite lonely.

He did ask Eunoia if you were in any debt, but you seemed pretty clear of it all

He enjoys spectating you on the TV, cant help but be impressed by your abillities.

He will realize his feelings for you quicker, and not be an absolute idiot about it, courting and other stuff DOES come into the picture, just later on.

hope you enjoyed!!

[stxneflxwers]

heart of spades.

⋯⁂ summary. it's aventurine's birthday.

⋯⁂ a/n. this was fun to write, despite that it's rather short!! pls enjoy <3

⋯⁂ cw. tender angst. recollections of aventurine's past (re: avgin massacre). reader luvs aven lots. phone call / facetime call. sweet ending.

⋯⁂ obligatory tags. @tojiswhore-aventurinesslut ; @aventurineswife (hiiii 👋👋 im evil btw)

…it’s raining. 

dreadful, he thinks. 

he hates the rain.

like a storm cast over the bank of a river, his mind floods with memories of that fateful day so many years ago. it didn’t just rain, it poured – all while those haunting screams echo in his mind, even now. he can even still recall the dark of night consuming his vision.

he still wonders how he’s managed to stay alive until now.

he wagers that a decent portion of his will to live is nestled within you. only you. his sunshine. he isn’t as sunny as most would portray him to be – the sun doesn’t just survive, it lives. but you – you live, casting a bright glow on his darkness, allowing him to shine a little bit longer.

his train of thought is derailed the moment someone comes by to his hotel room, dropping off a package from you. how funny, he was just thinking of you moments ago— oh, he remembers now. it’s his birthday.

fuck.

sometimes he wishes you’d treat this day like any other, but then he remembers that you put him through a lot (of love). both sugar and spice. right now, it’s evidently sugar. maybe too much sugar.

after thanking the subordinate that left the package in his care, he carefully unwraps the brown paper and unties the silly bee-printed ribbon. regardless of how silly it is, he thinks he’ll keep it. just in case (of what? he doesn’t know either.)

he doesn’t notice, but his shoulders feel so much lighter while he sits on the hotel bed, rummaging through the small birthday gift. a smile cracks on his face when he discovers the ingredients for his favorite coffee order. medium roast, subtle hazelnut flavoring, steamed milk, and a single droplet of honey.

you’re sneaky, he thinks. but he knows someone has to get back at him once in a while. it may as well be you.

oh, there’s even butter cookies in the package… you spoil him too much. then again, he can never spend enough on you (you beg to differ.)

without another beat of hesitation, he begins to put the coffee together. as routine as it may be, he’s thankful for the brief period of respite from his tormented mind. at first, anyway. and then the thoughts return, unbidden and unrelenting. he would grimace if he wasn’t already used to all of this bullshit—

—he nearly drops the small glass jar of honey. he catches it just before it rolls off the countertop in the kitchenette. he sighs tersely, pinching the bridge of his nose as he feels an oncoming migraine – no surprise there. aside from the emotions that storms bring, the humidity and pressure changes never fail to give him a low-thrumming headache.

once the coffee is finished, steamed milk poured on top and honey stirred inside, he stands at the sliding patio door. 

he simply…watches the storm. perhaps, in a way, he’s witnessing. but witnessing what? maybe witnessing the echoes of his past coming back to tear away at his flesh, his soul – if he dare believe in such a concept. all he can do is watch like a helpless, hopeless bystander.

ring-ring!

the sound of his phone buzzing nearly makes him throw his mug at the door. can’t he have a semblance of peace? just this once. please. please, gaiathra—

instead, he shakily sets the simple black mug back down in the kitchenette, and pulls out his phone. he leans back against the nearest counter as he answers the call – it's you.

you and your angelic voice.

“hey!” you chirp, “wanna facetime? i wanna see your handsome face, birthday boy!”

handsome face? sure, he’s handsome to most, but he looks like total trash right now – the dark circles under his drooping eyes more evident than ever. hell, he can hardly even keep a smile on his face.

he holds back a sigh, at the very least.

“...hey,” you say before he responds, “c’mon. i don’t care if you look ‘bad’ right now. i just need to see you. please?”

“alright, alright,” he relents too easily this time, but you do have so much sway over his heart, as usual. he turns on the front-facing camera, the tiniest of smiles curling his lips – still rather performative, if you had to say anything about it. “better?” he asks, too quietly.

“much better,” you have your own camera turned on, a sunny grin on your face. “i love seeing you regardless of how you look! you know that, right? if not, i’m happy to remind you.”

“...i know,” he mutters, “just…hard to believe you truly don’t care about my performance anymore—”

“i never did care about your performance, aventurine!” you pout, “i’m not here for the performance, i’m here for the actor underneath it all.” 

he licks his lips nervously, tasting remnants of coffee and dryness.

“...sorry, i’m not angry, i promise,” you soothe, “hmm… let’s see… did you get the package? how’s the weather?” you pivot the topic – for his sake.

“i did, and thank you for the gift, as well. you must’ve known that i’d need a pick-me-up this time,” he chuckles breathlessly, hardly even audible. “and… the weather? seriously?” he teases a little, but really, he’s reluctant to answer. he knows it’ll worry you—

“aventurine.” you say, but it’s a tender kind of firm.

“...well, it’s raining pretty hard. headache included.” he finally answers, quieter this time, losing all of the performative gleam in his expression.

“i see,” you nod, “...would meds help? do you have any? more importantly: have you been drinking water?” ah, typical you, that’s where your mind jumps to.

…he’s definitely not been drinking enough water. not that he wants to admit that.

you know better, though.

“i see that guilt!” you accuse with worry, “please, drink some water. i will remind you every five minutes tonight until you tell me you did it.”

“and…you’d believe me? do you look up when someone tells you ‘gullible’ is written on the ceiling, too?” he sighs, his joke falling flatter than a board.

“i’d believe you without hesitation.”

“...”

he’s at a loss for words. he often is when he’s alone with you. maybe it’s for the best.

“...and…by the way, happy birthday, aventurine!” you chirp, your grin returning full force.

“i—” he sputters, “...thank you – for spending it with me. despite everything. despite…me—”

“i would do it a thousand times over.”

[elsecrytt]

Your Heart is Spilling out, Babe

Pairing: Satoru Gojo/Reader

Summary: You and Satoru are friends with benefits. No feelings, that was the agreement from the start. Neither of you want anything more. Even if you did, it wouldn’t work out, anyways. Not that you care if it would.

Tags: fwb, smut, angst, YEARNING, requited unrequited feelings (or ARE they) but jk it’s totally no feelings, commitment/abandonment issues, not that it matters because you totally don’t have feelings anyways

“Mmmh… that’s it for me tonight. You can shower before you leave, if you want.”

“Oh? I can’t stay the night?” He asks, “Just gonna pump and dump me? So mean~”

A hum. “Knock yourself out. But you can’t shower in the morning, you’ll wake me up.”

“What a coincidence,” he lays down next to you, “I’m a late sleeper, too.”

You don’t say anything more, eyes already closed.

Satoru’s arm presses your form against his, just barely.

When he wakes up, you’re still laying there beside him, unmoving.

He leaves.

At first, Satoru tries to tell himself it’s a happy coincidence.

After all, isn’t it? His problem has always been the women (and men) who give him a certain kind of look before he gets up to leave.

The ones who text him back first, who read everything instantly, who always want to meet up again. The ones who always, inevitably, start to want something more.

Like him giving them the fuck of a lifetime with someone who could be a real-life supermodel and happens to be the greatest sorcerer on earth wasn’t enough. Granted, they don’t know about the sorcerer thing, but still!

It always turns out like this:

Things are good for a while. Sex is good, he gets attention when he texts them, they both understand this is totally casual, no commitment.

Sometimes he even brings up another hookup he’s going to, just to drive the point home, and he cheers them on when they’re getting some somewhere else, too.

(He’s got no reason to be insecure, after all. He would be anyone’s first choice.)

From there, he can admit some of it is his fault. It’s hard, being as irresistible as he is. Being so devastatingly good-looking and even better in bed.

Having so much humor and personality in his amazing texts (never mind that most of them just react with an emoji or a short haha or an unrelated compliment – he drinks it all up just the same).

They start to text him first, which is impressive, considering what a spammer he is. He likes to text them to fill his time, to talk to someone, have his notifications filled with messages of people who want him.

So what if it’s an ego boost? Isn’t that what they’re using him for, too?

But when they start texting him themselves, when they return his style of badgering, it’s not random and rambling. It’s affectionate, personal. They’ve gotten attached, and they want him to be, too.

It’s all nonsense like Saw this and thought of you, and You’re the most beautiful man I’ve ever met, and I want to meet up again soon.

He has to stop spamming with memes or selfies or random observations throughout his day, stop talking about shops or cafes he’d like to visit. Sometimes he has to mute their notifications, because when he spams other people, they feel comfortable spamming him.

And then it’s just a matter of how long he spends lying to himself. Because as much of an ass as he is, it’s cruel to let them get attached to him when he can’t really open up entirely. When he doesn’t want anything serious.

In fairness, he had told them from the start. He usually breaks it off only after a few days. He always sends them a message and just blocks them – it’s cleaner that way.

Answering any desperate Please, we can still be friends or No, let’s just hook up again, would give them hope for things he can’t give them.

But you?

You text him You’re the most annoying man I’ve ever met, and leave him on read for two days.

Satoru thinks he’s in love.

Not literally, of course, but in love with the relationship he has with you, which is perfect.

Everything about it is perfect, except for that it’s not going on all the time.

You respond to his memes with your own. Chat with him about cafes and desserts and even keep a handful at your home to treat him with. You text him cat pictures, sometimes return selfies if he’s lucky.

Usually he gets those when he sends the thirst pics, sitting there with a grin that scares Ichiji, absolutely giddy as he watches you type, stop typing – he knows you’re looking for something special to send him back.

It’s surprising, how well he just knows things about you. Maybe that was to be expected, though, with your chemistry.

Sex with you is like nothing he’s ever felt before.

You have this way of tensing up, expression shifting as you’re right about to cum – he thinks by now he’s conditioned by it, that just seeing you make that face could get him over the edge.

He’s fucked hot people before but no one like you. Seeing the same clothes from your cute little selfies slip off, it’s like unwrapping a present he can’t wait to eat up. Makes him salivate like a box of chocolates, like the one truffle package you got one time and made him eat on his knees with his head in your lap, out of your hands.

Fucking you is one of his favorite things ever, right up there with kikufuku and making fun of his coworkers (and students!). You’re a beautiful bend of reactive and pliant, so fun to tease and edge and so rewarding to please.

God, fuck, he wants you. He wants you all the time. All his other hookups are silenced in favor of you, boring conversations abandoned in favor of debating tiramisu and tres leches, and all other sorts of inane things.

What your favorite school subjects are, oddly enough (he supposes he was asking for it, telling you he taught high schoolers).

You like literature, he likes math, and when he hears you talk about it, he almost wants to read some of those novels you like so much. Non-sorcerer politics has never meant anything to him but it matters when he hears you talk about it.

It’s like hearing about a whole separate world with its own struggles. Your opinions are so well-thought out, he can tell just how much you care, and something hums along aside him as he asks questions, nods his head, really listens to what you have to say. It feels so surreal to hear someone whose goals are not so unlike his, when he thinks about it.

Maybe that’s where some of this fondness comes from. Maybe it’s humbling, thinking you want to change your world just as much as he wants to change his, and the only difference is how much people listen.

He can’t imagine not wanting to listen to you. People should listen more. You should run everything, he jokes.

(He’s joking. He’s joking. You don’t know enough to get why he says that twice.)

And then it’s not serious again – when was it ever, really? You talk about your favorite manga and anime and tease each other for your tastes. Maybe talk about episodes or movies you’ve seen together.

He’s admittedly a bit of a movie buff – it’s a real victory when he convinces you to watch one of his old favorites. When he finds out you watched it, he’s excited the whole day to hear what you thought.

You debate what animals you would be; you are definitely a cat – aloof and independent – and you’re quite insistent that he’d be a husky, energetic and annoying and – probably other words you say before he sends you a picture of his dick and you facetime him with some more interesting conversation.

Your days – weeks, months, really – they go on like that, they’re great. Everything is perfect, really.

So when he hears you casually mention you’ve got other dinner plans – when his mind instantly supplies we’re just casual, tease her and hope she gets lucky – the wretched, dark twist in his gut is wholly unexpected.

And he knows instantly. Immediately, really, because he’s just too smart not to.

He knows he doesn’t want you going out with other people. Touching them. Showing them the same faces you show him.

But if he wants you to be his, then he has to ask. And you – you make him wait to hear back.

You never reach out to him first. You open the door with a cool expression, like your heart doesn’t race at the sight of him like his does (he can see it is, he can see it, but his soul is withering at your look like you couldn’t care less).

Satoru doesn’t usually have to ask, not for anything.

People beg to be able to fuck him. They spam when he ghosts them, begging for scraps. He doesn’t have to ask for attention, people shower him in it.

Everyone wants him. They love him. They don’t abandon him along with all their morals and tell him to kill them if he doesn’t like it.

They beg him to stay, and he is the one who leaves.

He’s too much for them. Too much for anyone. You wouldn’t be able to hand him, anyways.

And he can leave any time he wants, he just… doesn’t want to.

(He never wants to leave. He wants it to stay like this, forever. But when does it ever turn out like that?)

Besides, you’re – you also want it to stay casual. Like he told you from the beginning. Probably trying to save your feelings from getting hurt – and can he blame you? Really, with his looks, anyone would be scared to lose him.

So this was just… a happy coincidence. You didn’t want it serious, he didn’t want it, either.

“Mmmh… that’s it for me tonight. You can shower before you leave, if you want.”

Satoru’s lip twitches, but it doesn’t manage a smile. It almost feels like you’re kicking him out.

But he knows you’re not, because even if you were the one person on earth who could resist his irresistible charm, he just gave you some absolutely mind-blowing sex.

“Oh? I can’t stay the night?” Satoru teases, “Just gonna pump and dump me? So mean~”

He says it playfully, casually, because it is casual. It wouldn’t bother him if you told him to fuck off right then and there. It wouldn’t.

You hum noncommittally. “Knock yourself out. But you can’t shower in the morning, you’ll wake me up.”

If he’s relieved that he can stay, it’s because he’s as exhausted as you are. Because you make him feel good, so fucking good, like he’s on top of the world. Having to leave would just be a mood killer.

“What a coincidence,” He purrs, laying next to you on the bed, “I’m a late sleeper, too.”

He is not and never has been. He sleeps three hours a night wakes up by 5am.

It’s never bothered him before. His dreams are not a place he wants to be. But they’ve never hurt him when you were there.

He wraps an arm around you, holding you against him, just barely. Not too tight.

You don’t say anything more. You lay there and let him hold you while you fall asleep.

When he wakes, you’re still laying there beside him, unmoving.

The thing is, you’re awake. He knows that. You’re a light sleeper. Always have been.

He knows you hate morning showers yourself, and always do it at night. Knows what you like for breakfast, how to make it. That you like to sleep in because you have trouble sleeping.

He knows what you think about late at night because you text him about it, because he’s always there texting you, because neither of you can sleep and someone ends up calling and whispering secret scattered thoughts in hushed tones and –

And he honestly doesn’t know, if it’s you or him that slips in the I want to touch you right now, or Want me to kiss it better. Who turns it into sex so things can’t get to be too much.

Satoru would really, really like to think that it’s him, but the truth is that he’s reaching the limit of how believable his lies are, even to himself.

He knows, he knows he knows he knows that if he stayed, you would let him –

(If he repeats it enough it will surely become true.)

– but you both agreed no feelings.

Besides, it’s not like he wants to stay, anyways.

(Why won’t you ask him to come back?)

You know what Satoru is the moment you meet him. It’s not like he’s made any secret of it, either.

A whore. A man-whore, if you will. A player. Whatever it is. He slept with people, drank in all the sex and attention and then went on his merry way.

You get it. This wasn’t the first time you’d met a pretty boy who fucked around, not by a long shot.

He says all casual, no feelings, you smile and nod, and you go back to his place fully expecting to be disappointed because pretty boys usually suck in bed.

And then he fucks you within an inch of your life.

He eats you like a man staved. Hands roving over your skin, groping and squeezing in a way that would be violating, if his beautiful eyes weren’t wild and desperate.

His body is toned and smooth and perfect, unmarred skin that he presses to yours like he’s trying to staunch the bleeding of some invisible wound.

You’ve never felt like this before. Sex has never been this amazing. He props his stupid pretty face up on his elbow and he gives you that stupid charming boyish smirk and asks you if you want to go another round, red-faced and eager. It’s overwhelming and exciting and amazing –

And it’s terrifying, because it’s always like this for him, isn’t it? He just came in and gave you the fuck of a lifetime, but this is just another lay for him.

(But he’s having fun. It’s good for him, too. So why don’t you take what you can get?)

So when he saves his number in your phone, That was awesome, babe, we should do this again sometime, you don’t put a lot of weight into his words. You roll his eyes when he blows you a kiss goodbye, but you don’t delete his number.

Even when he wakes you up with some silly cat meme (god, you hate morning people), somehow you find yourself smiling. You let him know he can get his dick sucked any time if he meows cute enough and woah, maybe you’re coming on too strong –

He sends you an attachment of himself wearing cat ears, striking an obnoxious pose, with a fake tail that he holds by the end in his mouth.

Satoru Gojo, that’s the name. And you do suck his dick, like you promised, but he comes to you determined to get in character, meowing at you, pressing his face into your hands, rubbing into your side, nuzzling your panties while he looks up into your face with a smirk.

It’s a fight to get him on his back and his legs open wide enough for you to settle in. He meows again like a kitty, and purrs like one too when you take his cock into your mouth, hands threading through your hair. Giggling at his own antics.

Your eyes water when you take him, deep, moaning and feeling him shudder at the feeling, long legs squirming on either side of you. He pulls away suddenly, with a pop, laughing when his dick hits the side of your face and you glare at him. Sticking out his tongue.

He looks so young. So heartbreakingly sweet and charming. He pulls you in to settle you on his cock, face-to-face this time, his smile melting into something soft and tacky, sticking to your lips as he kisses his precum away. Infectious delight.

Satoru holds your hands in his, palm to palm, as you ride him in his lap. Face tilted up to look at you with a blush on his cheeks. Blue eyes wide like they have to be, to take you in, as if they aren’t themselves oceans you have to stop yourself from falling into.

You can’t look into his eyes when you cum, when he cums. You’re not sure if he’s looking either.

But you feel him, oh, do you feel him – hands squeezing yours as if in warning, face buried into your neck, a moan that vibrates throughout the both of you.

When you wake up, the next morning, you don’t even mind the fact that he’s still next to you, cuddled up, right beside you. You don’t mind, until you feel him stiffen suddenly, like he’s realized you’re awake, immediately pulling away.

That’s… you’re not sure what it is, since cuddling was obviously okay, so why does he not want to do it while you’re awake? It is too close? Too intimate?

He’d held your hands while he stared deep into your eyes and rocked gently into you last night, but cuddling would be too intimate?

But he smiles that smile before he leaves, stumbling a little bit while he gets dressed, in that goofy way that lanky tall men sometimes do. You even overlook the fact that he’s renamed himself in your contacts. ~ Satoru ~ My Kitten.

Stupid. Stupid, stupid (you’re smiling already), unbearable man. You want to hit him in the face, with your face. Very hard.

Casually, of course. It’s casual between you. No feelings at all.

But then he starts texting you all the time. He double, triple, quadruple texts, with the infuriating shamelessness of someone who’s never been ignored in his life.

Like he’s never worried that the other person is losing interest. He carries himself like it, too, like he knows everyone wants him, and unfortunately, he’s right.

So you tell him he’s annoying and you don’t look at your phone again. Not until he shows up on your doorstep with that pout on his impossibly pretty face.

And you don’t turn him away. Why would you? If he’s going to offer himself on a platter, why not eat up?

You’re just being realistic here. If you fucked him once and never heard from it again, it would still hurt almost as much as it will now. You’ll just be a little lonelier without your texting partner, but you’ll get over it.

There’s other fish in the sea. Even if none of them are as pretty as him, none of them make them laugh like you do. You’re not exclusive. He can see other people, so can you. You’ve made it a point not to ask.

You don’t like what he’s doing now. How he pauses long, makes you wait before telling you to have fun on your date.

How the next time you see him there’s something strange in his eyes, something that leaves him with clawing hands, hungry mouth, eager to leave his marks all over you.

Satoru doesn’t stop texting you, doesn’t stop selfies, thirst traps, prodding little questions and jokes, doesn’t stop obnoxiously demanding (begging?) for your attention.

At first it was an ego boost. Now, it’s terrifying.

Because now he likes you, doesn’t he? He’s interested now. Having fun. Making you feel like he’s jealous, acting like he’s on withdrawal if he goes too long without you, making you feel like someone as beautiful and rich and funny as him could possibly be in love with you.

But he told you in the beginning. Something casual.

Maybe these feelings are real in the moment. But one day they’ll fade, and everything will be yanked right out from under you.

You’ll wonder why he’s getting distant these days. You’ll remember that you never made it official, and sweat over the possibility that he’s seeing someone else. At the end of the day that’s all you’ll be able to do; worry and worry while you’re too afraid to ask.

You’ll wonder what you did wrong. What you did to lose him. How you could go from someone so fascinating, someone he so thoroughly adored and fucked like he was making love, to an afterthought and a stranger, unless you did something wrong? Unless you made a mistake, somewhere along the line?

The mistake of getting attached to him in the first place.

Fuck that. Satoru can develop feelings on his own fucking time. He’ll lose them just as quickly, you can tell.

This isn’t anything more than a hookup to him. He’s an attention whore who likes to hear himself talk, and you’re dumb enough to entertain him because you’re lonely and easily amused, at least when it comes to him.

There’s nothing real here.

You still don’t know where he actually works, outside of some nebulous high school teaching situation. Where he lives. What he does most of the day, what his parents are like. Where he’s from, even. You don’t know if he’s seeing anyone else. He could be married with kids, for all you know.

Not – not that you care. Not that you give a fuck what he’s doing, who he’s fucking, where he is when he’s not with you. You don’t care about him past his dick and what it does to you.

If you did care, you’d only suffer for it. So you draw the line.

You don’t need him, and you want to keep it that way. You don’t want to get attached, and neither does he. So you try to keep him at arm’s length.

Close enough to touch but not so close that your foolish, eager heart can leap out of your chest and into his hands.

Would he still give you that boyish grin when he rejected you? Laugh and let you down gently? Would he say yes and hold your hand while you walked together to the guillotine, the painful end to a relationship that wasn’t supposed to happen anyways? Would he skip away while your heart seized and trembled on the executioner’s block?

He’d look pretty even with blood on his face, you’re sure. But you wouldn’t come out so nicely.

So you don’t ask him to stay. You don’t ask him for anything. You take what you’re given and you savor it, but you try – oh, god, do you fucking try – to find someone else, something else to occupy your time.

But he’s just too good. You want him. And you don’t get to have him if you ignore his texts and don’t answer when he’s at the door. You don’t get to fuck him if you won’t even let him see you.

So even if you look away, even if your answers are short, even if you don’t let him stay (not that he even wants to) – you have to let him in.

And unlike you, he’s got self-respect. He’s got other options. If he can’t have you, he’ll just fuck other people, so you can’t push him away too much. You have to make him want to come back. You have to make him want to give you more.

But you can’t control what Satoru wants, and that is the problem.

It’s out of your hands, locked securely in his ribcage where you can never get to it.

He doesn’t talk about his life, his history, doesn’t even complain about work during off hours.

Really, it’s already over, isn’t it? Has been, ever since the beginning. You’re just waiting for the inevitable end.

“Mmmh… that’s it for me tonight.” You say, tired. So tired, and warm. Satoru always leaves you like this; loose-limbed and floaty, high enough to feel the drop. “You can shower before you leave, if you want.”

“Oh? I can’t stay the night?” Satoru asks, teasing, “Just gonna pump and dump me? So mean~”

You close your eyes, trying not to think of what his face must look like.

“Knock yourself out. But you can’t shower in the morning, you’ll wake me up.”

“What a coincidence,” He purrs, laying next to you on the bed, “I’m a late sleeper, too.”

Satoru’s arm around your form presses you against him, just barely. Not too close. Never too close.

You don’t say anything more. You lay there and let him hold you while you fall asleep.

You can feel it when he wakes up. How his breathing changes, how he stiffens and tenses against you, you tumble out of sleep instantly, lashes fluttering.

You shut them closed again. Relax yourself. You don’t have to get up. You don’t want to get up.

Why isn’t he leaving yet? What’s taking him so long?

There’s this tension that creeps into your chest. Like you can feel each individual breath he takes. Waiting for him to say something, shake you awake – but why would he? And why would you want him to?

You know what this is. You’ve always known.

So you lay there, still, breathing calm and even, until he leaves.

(…Come back. Please come back.)

[hard-core-super-star]

i'll be home for christmas [K.Bishop]

pairing: top!kate bishop x bottom!reader

summary: even though you wake up alone on christmas day, kate finds a way to make it up to you the only way she knows how.

warnings: SMUT, MINORS DO NOT INTERACT -> kate is technically the top but also very needy; very brief daddy kink; vibrator use; some grinding; fingering {R receiving}; lots of praise; went crazy with the dirty talk, my bad; slight overstimulation; AFTERCARE; NOT proofread 😅

wordcount: 2.4k

a/n: would it really be a rubix fic if it wasn’t posted far later than originally planned? the answer is, sadly, no. christmas time always reminds me of kate so of course, i had to write a little something before the year ended. this fic does technically take place on christmas but shhh, i’m only…five days late 😭 anyway, I already have my first fic of the new year planned out and i can’t wait to share it with you all. i don’t want to get too sappy here but, from the bottom of my heart, thank you so much for all the support this year. you have no idea how much it means to me. anyway, hope you enjoy <3

* * * * * * *

As much as you loved Kate's unrelenting devotion to her job, you absolutely hated how consistently she had to leave you. Especially during the holidays.

Sure, it wasn't the end of the world, you could survive a few weeks without the archer, but it didn't mean it wasn't difficult. Although maybe that was your fault for watching so many silly romcoms. In your defense, Yelena had never seen most of them, and you couldn't pass up the opportunity to watch her completely berate the stupid men in said movies.

Spending time with the Russian was entertaining, especially when she took you to the Rockefeller Center just to tell you how dumb your girlfriend was when they fought there, but it wasn't what you were craving. The freezing days and loud streets only served to make you miss Kate more than you thought possible. It wasn't even about the holiday, not really, it was simply about how much you hated being without her.

You understood why she preferred being away for most of December, though. Christmas and the weeks leading up to it hasn't been the same since her mom went to jail. What happened wasn't her fault, but that didn't stop her from feeling guilty. As difficult as it was, all you could do was let her work through things on her own. It wasn't your place to tell her how to feel about the situation.

That being said, it still sucked to wake up alone on Christmas morning. Kate was supposed to fly in before the 25th, but the mission got complicated, and she had to stay a few extra days. She'd gone silent after letting you know she'd have to stay a few extra days so you had no way of knowing when she'd be back.

So, even though it felt incredibly depressing, you made your peace with spending the day by yourself, lounging around in your girlfriend's clothes, eating junk food and watching silly movies.

It wasn't until the sun had started to set on what had been a pretty lonely day that you heard the sound of the front door opening.

In an instant, you jumped up quicker than Lucky, barely concealing your excitement as you rushed to the front door.

Standing there, looking exhausted yet handsome as ever, was your favorite archer.

"Kate!" You run right into her, causing her to drop her bags in order to wrap her arms around you. "You're back!"

The sound of her warm chuckle fills your ears as she picks you up. "I couldn't leave my favorite girl without her present."

You wrap your legs around her waist, even though she's more than capable of using her strength to carry you. "I thought it was the other way around."

"Oh, I'm not your present, baby," she says. "I got you something."

Her words shouldn't be surprising, considering how much she loves spoiling you and yet you find yourself gasping. "When did you even have time for that?"

Your reaction is exactly what she's looking for and you feel her smile against your skin as she presses a string of kisses to your temple. "A lady never tells."

"You're such a dork," you mutter, leaning forward to bury your face in her neck. It's mainly to hide your embarrassment, even after all this time you haven't gotten used to receiving so many gifts from her. It's also an excuse to be close to her. There's no denying how needy you are for her affection.

"I'm your dork, though."

Despite her words, nothing about her attitude screams dork right now. Sure, she's always a little dorky, but there's a particular fire in her gaze that you instantly recognize. One that makes your stomach fill with butterflies.

Without a word, Kate carries you to your shared bedroom, her hands roaming up and down your back and sending sparks of excitement wherever she touches. Her intentions are more than clear, but you pretend not to notice, instead indulging in the warmth of her embrace.

"I'm surprised you haven't asked what your present is, princess," she teases before sinking down onto the bed with you in her lap. "Do you not want to know?"

"I'm kind of busy," you reply with a teasing tone of your own.

The archer huffs, but before she can complain too much, you're attaching yourself to her skin. Her huff turns into a groan as you attack her neck with kisses and soft bites.

One of her hands drifts up to tangle in your hair, holding you against her while you continue your ministrations. "Someone's a little eager for some time with me, huh?" 

You know she's simply being a tease because she can, but she's just as desperate to be with you. Maybe even more, considering the way her hips can't seem to stay still. You can't lie, though, you love watching her slip into a more dominant personal, even if you both know she's way needier than you most days.

You're fine with pretending for the night. It'll be your Christmas gift for her.

"You've been gone for weeks, can you blame me?" You ask, a pout pulling at your lips.

The second she feels you pout against her neck, she tightens her grip on your hair and pulls your head back. You barely manage to suppress a whimper at the feeling. "No, I can't. I've left my good girl needy for far too long, haven't I?"

Even though you secretly crave her dominance, you can't stop yourself from pushing her buttons a little bit. It's far too fun.

"Are you gonna make it up to me..." You trail off with a rapidly growing smirk. "Daddy?"

"Fuck," she groans, her grip tightening on you for a few seconds. "You're the worst, y'know that?"

You shrug. "I thought I was your good girl."

"Good girls are patient, baby," she reminds you as her hands make their way to your waist once more. She gives you a teasing squeeze, her hips subtly grinding up against you. "And that's not you, is it?"

"You're one to talk," you reply with a scoff. "I can feel you trying to hump me."

The noise she makes this time is closer to a whine than anything else. There's something about the push and pull you have going on that drives you absolutely wild. As much as you want her to simply drop you onto the mattress and rail you until you're sobbing, you love this side of her. The one that so desperately wants to please you in any way you want.

"Oh, shut up. Just let me be in control...pretty please?"

Teasing her is tempting, but you're far too needy by now to keep the nonchalant act up.

"You're always in control..." You trail off, going right back to peppering kisses across her jaw. "...Daddy."

"That's what I like to hear, princess...do you want your present now?"

All you do is nod and before you know it, you're wrapped up in one of Kate's "brilliant" ideas. And wrapped up is a very literal way to put it.

 The real present, you quickly find out, is the set of purple lingerie now hugging your body. Her present, though, is tying you up with matching rope, pretending like the knots she makes are cute little ribbons. To top everything off, she pulls out your favorite vibrator, wordlessly turning it on and slipping it under the waistband of your new, lacy panties.

"You look so pretty like this, angel," Kate says, her eyes practically shining with glee as she watches you squirm for her. "My pretty little princess all tied up and perfect for me."

"Kate," you moan, your back arching almost subconsciously.

If she notices your slip, she doesn't comment on it. Instead, she reaches a hand out to soothe your squirming thighs. "Shhh, let me enjoy the view, baby. Just stay right there for me."

You watch with wide eyes as she takes her phone out, a breathtaking smirk on her face while she circles the bed, taking picture after picture of your vulnerable form. Knowing her phone is incredibly secure and fortified does little to quell the warmth that spreads along your face.

You know that's exactly why she does it. Because even though you'd never admit it, you love being on display for her. Showing her just how good you can be for her.

She takes her time, though. Watching as your hips buck more and more, as your legs shake with the effort of keeping yourself in place so the vibrator doesn't move away from your clit. As sweet as she is, she loves getting you like this.

"Katie, please," you whine once you can't take it anymore. As good as the vibrator feels, you need her. Need to feel her skin against yours and hear her voice in your ear as she makes you fall apart for her.

"I know, baby, it just feels so good, doesn't it?" Her words are soft but no less teasing. "You don't have to hold back, let me make you feel good."

She drops her phone before climbing onto the bed and crawling her way up to you. Her fingers trace a teasing path up your thighs before landing on the wet crotch of your panties.

"Such a messy girl," she mutters, more to herself than anything. "So wet for me."

You nod mindlessly, shifting your hips toward her. She takes the hint and presses her palm against the vibrator, making sure it's pressed right against your clit.

The sudden pressure makes you gasp and there's no way to stop your orgasm from crashing into you. If you had any thoughts left, you would feel embarrassed. Unfortunately, there's nothing but pleasure in both your body and mind, even as you cum far too quickly for your liking.

Kate doesn't seem to mind, though, considering the way her eyes eagerly drink up the sight of you. "Fuck, look at you, such a good girl for Daddy."

Her casual use of the title makes you gasp. Your walls clench desperately around pure air as she draws out more pleasure from you.

Even though a part of you wants to ask for a break, your body has other ideas. It's like you have no control over yourself or the way you keep bucking up into Kate's hand.

"Dirty girl." The archer chuckles as she leans down to press kisses to your neck. "I guess you're needier than I thought."

"Shut up-" You gasp, squirming underneath her in a shitty attempt to get closer to her.

Her hand sneaks inside your underwear just to turn the vibrator off and leave you shaking. "What was that? Is someone being a bit of a brat?"

The only response you can form is a whine. "Kate."

"Try again," she murmurs against your skin, her soft kisses turning into sharp nips.

Your squirming does little to quell the desperate flames your girlfriend has ignitied inside you. "Please, Daddy. I need more."

"Mmm, good girl. You sound so pretty when you beg for me."

She's technically going easy on you, but you can't tell if it's because you're needy or because she's needy. Either way, it doesn't seem to matter and, thankfully, the result is the same.

The result being her hand removing the vibrator and replacing it with her fingers.

Her touch is so soft it borders on teasing as she rubs slow circles on your swollen clit. You don't need much of a buildup after the strength of your last orgasm, but that doesn't seem to matter to her.

"You have no idea how much I missed you," she says, seemingly unaware of her torture. "How much I thought about you like this. Underneath me, making the prettiest noises for me."

"Don't tease."

Your slightly bratty tone seems to fly over her head. Or maybe she's just too excited to get her hands on you to really pay attention to your distate for her antics.

"I'm not," she replies. "I'm just taking my time."

You open your mouth to argue with her but she beats you to the punch by plunging two fingers into your tight heat. Your gasp gets buried by her loud groan and the sound has you clenching far too hard on her digits.

She feels it too because she drops the slightly infuriating, albeit extremely attractive, act and focuses her efforts on the thrust of her fingers. Her movements speed up, but she makes sure to stay close to you, peppering kisses on whatever part of your face she can reach.

The duality in her movements, the push and pull between her sweet side and her dominant side, has you plummeting toward the edge faster than you can even process.

Kate knows, she always seems to know, and she works you through the overwhelming sensations. Her pace doesn't let up, though, pushing you closer and closer to your release in the way only she can.

"Come on, baby, I can feel you clenching around me. Don't hold back, princess, cum for me."

Her words seem to be exactly the shove you need and before you know it, you're knee-deep in your second orgasm of the night. The pleasure quickly becomes overwhelming, though, and you trash around slightly, wanting to soak in the aftermath wiithout any extra stimulation.

For all her teasing and impatience, the archer is right there when she notices how sensitive you become.

"Shhh, hey, breathe for me, you're okay, princess. Everything's okay."

Her fingers make quick work of the rope tying you down and before you know it, your positions are flipped. She lifts you into her arms, carefully placing you on top of her and allowing you time to ground yourself, even as you still tremble with the aftershocks of so much pleasure.

It takes a little while for the ringing in your ears to fade, and even longer for your limbs to stop feeling like jelly, but Kate doesn't seem to mind. She simply holds you close, her arms wrapped snuggly around your waist.

"Kate," you mumble as you shift until your head is comfortably resting on her shoulder.

"Hey you, welcome back," she says, her voice like a warm caress. "How're you feeling?"

"Mmmm, sleepy."

"Yeah, I can tell." She chuckles. "Does this mean you liked your gift?"

"I loved it," you correct her. "And I love you."

"I love you more, y/n."

This time, you don't have the strength to correct her. Instead, you simply soak up the feeling of being in her arms again. 

[m4rv3l-girl]

Hi, I was wondering if you're okay with the idea I'm going to present if not totally cool, thank you anyways. So ppl seem to write smut or funny scenarios about Bucky being caught while he's helping himself thinking of y/n BUT what if y/n was helping themselves to thoughts of Bucky and he heard/saw her accidentally. Idk if you'd make it funny or smutty, just an idea. Sorry if it's bad, just thought it was fun to flip the script for once.

Caught in the act

Warning: Mentions of sex. Masturbation.

The compound was quiet. Too quiet.

Bucky Barnes had learned to trust his instincts, and right now, they were telling him something was off. Not in the “Hydra is infiltrating the base” way, but in the “where the hell is everyone?” kind of way.

Stark was off-world, Steve was doing whatever the hell Steve did in retirement, and Sam had dragged most of the team out for a long-overdue night off. Even Natasha had given him a knowing smirk and muttered something about “alone time” before slipping out the door.

Alone time. Right. Bucky had plans for that himself—something about a beer and mindlessly flipping through whatever crap was on TV. That plan changed when he walked past Y/N’s room.

Her door was cracked open. Just a sliver. He wouldn’t have noticed if he wasn’t hyper-aware of everything about her. It was a problem. A deep-rooted, all-consuming problem that started the first time she smiled at him like he wasn’t broken, like he was just Bucky. And now, he was stuck—caught between wanting more and knowing he shouldn’t.

He hadn’t meant to stop. Not until he heard it.

A sound. Soft, muffled. A sharp inhale followed by something dangerously close to a whimper. Bucky froze in the hall, every nerve in his body standing at attention. The part of him still wired for combat wanted to break down the door and assess the threat. The part of him hopelessly in love with her knew exactly what that sound was.

It wasn’t pain. It wasn’t distress. It was pleasure. Pure and raw and—

His stomach dropped.

Y/N was moaning. His name.

Bucky swallowed, throat dry as he stood frozen in place. He should walk away. Hell, he should run. But he didn’t. He couldn’t. Instead, he shifted, inching toward the barely-open door like a damn fool.

The sight nearly knocked him flat.

Y/N was sprawled across her bed, tangled in sheets that did little to cover her. Her breasts were sat exposed to the air and her nipples were pulled into taut peaks. One hand clutched desperately at the fabric, while the other was tucked beneath the sheets - a grinding motion between her legs.

Bucky jerked back before he could see more, heart slamming against his ribs. Jesus Christ.

His name. She had been saying his name. Not some vague, desperate plea but his name, clear as day. It sent his mind spinning, heat pooling low in his gut as he realized exactly what she was doing.

The realization was a gut punch. A hard, unrelenting surge of something he wasn’t ready to name because if he did - if he let himself really feel it - he might do something reckless. Like go in there.

And yet, he didn’t move. Not even when she gasped, voice breaking on a needy whimper, not when she arched against the mattress, not when he heard her breathless, desperate murmur.

“Bucky..”

He had to go. Now.

He forced himself back, willing his body to move, but his traitorous metal arm knocked against the doorframe. The quiet clang might as well have been an explosion. He barely had time to curse before he heard her gasp, the rustling of sheets as she scrambled upright.

“Wha—?”

Busted.

Bucky squeezed his eyes shut, cursing himself six ways to Sunday before forcing himself to turn back. Y/N was staring at him, face flushed, lips parted, breathing heavy. Every sinful detail was burned into his mind, permanently etched behind his eyelids.

“Bucky?” Her voice was unsteady. “Did you—how long were you—?”

Too long. Way too long.

His brain short-circuited, caught between apology and self-preservation. “I—I didn’t mean to—”

She looked like she wanted the ground to swallow her whole. “Oh my God.”

“I was just walking by.”

“Walking by?” Her voice pitched higher, the embarrassment hitting full force. “And you just—decided to stop?”

“No! I mean, yes—” He groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “I heard my name.”

Silence.

Y/N’s eyes went wide. “Oh.”

Bucky had been in some truly horrible situations in his life. This was a whole new level of hell.

“I’m gonna go.” He took a step back. “You just—do whatever it was you were—”

“Oh my God, stop talking,” she groaned, dropping her face into her hands. “Just go.”

He nodded. That was the plan. Get the hell out of there, pretend this never happened. And yet—

He didn’t move.

Y/N peeked up at him through her fingers. “Why are you still here?”

Good question. A great question. But then she licked her lips, and something in him snapped.

“Doll,” he rasped, voice lower than he meant, “were you really thinking about me?”

She squeezed her eyes shut, shaking her head like that might somehow erase reality. “I will literally throw myself off this balcony.”

A smirk tugged at his lips. A dangerous, self-satisfied thing. The heat still thrumming in his veins overpowered his better judgment. “You know I’d catch you.”

Y/N groaned. “Go away.”

He should. He really, really should. But when she peeked up at him again, all flushed and guilty and absolutely wrecked, his resolve crumbled.

“Or,” he mused, stepping closer, “you could let me help.”

Y/N’s eyes shot open, meeting his. “What?”

He shrugged, trying for casual, but the heat in his gaze belied his nonchalance. “Seemed like you were having a bit of trouble there. Maybe I could—assist?”

The blush that painted her cheeks was like a neon sign flashing in the quiet of the room. She pulled the sheets to cover her face. “Buckyyy…” She whined with pathetic anger.

He couldn’t help but laugh a little, the sound rich and warm, sending a shiver down her spine. “I’m just saying, if you want a hand…”

Her head snapped up. “What? No! That’s—” But she didn’t get to finish. The words lodged in her throat when she saw his expression. He wasn’t joking. He was dead serious. And, oh God, she was seriously considering it.

“Come on, Y/N,” he whispered, closing the distance between them. “You know you want to.”

The room grew hotter, her breaths shallower. He reached out and brushed the hair from her forehead, his touch sending sparks along her skin. She didn’t dare move, didn’t dare look away from those piercing blue eyes.

“What if someone finds out?” she managed to ask.

His smile grew. “Then I guess we’d be in a bit of a jam, wouldn’t we?”

But she could see the hunger in his gaze, the same one she felt in her core.

“Was that the first time you’ve touched yourself thinking about me?” Bucky's voice was a gentle rumble, his hand now cupping her cheek, his thumb tracing the line of her jaw.

Y/N's eyes went wide, and she rolled off the bed with a thud, landing in an embarrassed heap on the floor. She curled into a ball, the sheets pooling around her, face burning hotter than the sun. “I can’t believe this is happening.”

He followed, his booted feet silent on the plush carpet. “What? That you want me?” He crouched beside her, his hand brushing over her bare shoulder, sending a shiver down her spine.

“No, that you’re actually here, and that you saw..” she mumbled into the floor. “That you’re not disgusted by me. That—”

“Disgusted?” He interrupted, voice sharp. He tugged the sheet down, forcing her to meet his gaze.

Her eyes searched his, looking for any sign of disdain or pity. But all she found was heat, a smoldering intensity that made her heart race. “Well, I wouldn’t blame you if you were. I’m—”

“You’re beautiful,” he cut her off, his voice gruff. “And the fact that you were thinking about me while you were pleasing that perfect body…I never want to unsee that.”

Her eyes searched his, a mix of shock and something that looked suspiciously like hope. Bucky’s thumb brushed her bottom lip, his gaze never leaving hers. He leaned in, close enough that she could feel his breath on her skin.

“What were you thinking about..?” he whispered, his breath fanning over her.

Y/N’s eyes widened even further, and she swallowed hard. She had never felt so exposed, so vulnerable. But she knew she couldn’t lie to him. Not now. “You,” she murmured, the admission slipping out before she could think better of it. “I was thinking about you, and us, and—”

He didn’t let her finish. Bucky’s hand found hers, and he gently pulled her to her feet, the sheet slipping away to reveal her nakedness. She should have felt shy, embarrassed, but all she felt was the weight of his stare, the heat of his body.

He stood up, towering over her, and she had to crane her neck to meet his eyes. “Us?” he echoed, the word thick with meaning.

Her heart thudded in her chest, the air between them thick with anticipation. “Yeah,” she said, her voice a mere breath.

“What exactly?” He asked, almost out of breath.

Y/N looked up at him, her cheeks aflame, but she didn’t back down. “You know what. Us together. Like—uhm…” She stumbled over the words, her heart hammering.

Bucky’s grip on her hand tightened, his eyes searching hers. “Like what?” he prompted, his voice softer now.

“Like making love,” she whispered, her voice trembling with the weight of her admission. She watched his expression, waiting for the rejection, the amusement. But instead, she saw something good flicker in his eyes. Desire. Need.

He took a step closer, his chest brushing hers. “Is that so?” he murmured.

Y/N nodded, feeling the warmth of his body against her own, the heat from his gaze searing through her.

Bucky’s thumb stroked the inside of her wrist, his touch feather-light but leaving a trail of fire in its wake. “And here I thought you were just passing the time while everyone was out.”

“It’s not just passing the time for me,” she managed to say, her voice barely above a whisper. She searched his face, looking for any sign of doubt, but all she found was an intensity that mirrored her own.

For a moment, the world outside of Y/N’s room ceased to exist. There were no missions, no alien threats, no superhero personas to uphold—just her and Bucky, standing in the quiet embrace of the night. The air grew thick with tension, each breath they took charged with the electricity of possibility.

His free hand came up, cupping her face, tilting it back until their eyes were locked. His thumb traced her cheekbone, sending shivers down her neck. “I’ve done it too.” he said softly…

——————————————————————————————————

Hope you enjoyed it, Hun. I really liked writing this. 🫶

Maybe a part 2..? 🤔

[milawritess]

in the crooks of your body, i find my religion – gojo satoru

pairing: Gojo Satoru x Reader synopsis: even with your relationship in teethers, Satoru remains an unyielding force, and a pillar of strength that steadies you in your darkest moments tags/warnings: angst, fem!reader, swearing, depression, reader is struggling, loss of identity, loss of powers, very light smut (MDNI), gojo being obsessed with you word count: 2.1k previous entry: i next entry: iii series mlist

Just like he promised, he never left you.

He was with you on the easy nights and the hard ones too. Even during your worst storms, ones that threatened to crumble you from an unrelenting wave, he was there, grounding you, loving you.

And slowly, over time, you began to gain more confidence. Eventually, you gained enough confidence and started venturing out of the estate more. It began with short walks around the block, followed by longer strolls to your favorite restaurants. Satoru remained by your side—his words, his quiet strength pushing you. He wanted you to get stronger, and little by little, you were.

He’d always carry you if you pushed yourself too far, hoisting you onto his back merrily. It would infuriate you, how something as simple as walking could drain you so quickly, but he never let you dwell on it. Most of his energy was dedicated to making you laugh, and somehow, he always succeeded.

One day, he even brought you and the kids to the Shinto shrine. It was out of the blue, but he refused to let you rot away any more than you already had.

"We're doing this," he had insisted. "No excuses!"

You were happy that you did it, happy that you found enough energy to make it through the day. The walk to the shrine felt like an impossible task at first, but you did it. You remembered the weight in your chest seeming warmer and lighter as you watched them, realizing you were the center of all their prayers. Satoru bought you two en-musubi omamori charms. The kids followed suit, picking out their own charms for you.

It was only when you got home, you let a few tears escape your eyes. Satoru teased you, of course, but not without peppering kisses all over your face and murmuring, “you deserve this.” You deserved all the love, sincerity, and kindness they had to offer-

But you didn’t. You didn’t deserve it. 

“Ah. Here you are.”

“Go away, Satoru.”

“Good thing I don’t need an invitation,” he says, sitting beside you on the bench. “Why kind of guy would I be if I left you to sulk alone? What if I want to sulk, too, huh?” 

You look away. “I’m not sulking…”

“Riiight,” he says, leaning back and draping his arm over the cold metal bar behind you. “And I’m not ridiculously handsome. It’s alright, sweets. We all tell ourselves little white lies when we’re sad.” 

Your lip twitched despite yourself. “Shut up. You’re insufferable.” 

He hums pleasantly. “Hm. True.” He gazes at you with a small grin. “But yet you love me anyway.”  He's quiet for a moment as he eases down on the bench beside you. "You're going to get cold," he warns. "You don't want to go back inside?"

"No, not yet," you grumble a little defiantly. You weren't in the mood to be coddled, even if he was right.

But, you hate how he falls silent. There's no fight, no argument—none of the pushback that you had braced yourself for. He just sits there, looking off into the distance. Your belly stirs with guilt.

He didn't deserve your attitude. He should be the one that's mad, not you. How has he so accepting of what you’ve given him lately? He was always so devoted, so firm and stable like still water under moonlight. He deserved more of you, and yet you gave him less and less.

It wasn't fair.

You walked out in the middle of the night after you found him passed out on the couch. He was exhausted—exhausted of you and all of your insistent bullshit. So you threw on a coat before tiptoeing out. You didn't go far. You were outside of the estate on a black bench, but still. You couldn’t imagine him doing this to you—just leaving without a word. Waking up to him just gone? To have him just disappear? It would be your own worst nightmare. He was the light in your eyes, the warmth in your bed, and the silence between what you thought and left unsaid.

There were only a handful of times he ever left you in the night for emergencies, but he would always leave something behind: a note, a text, a kiss with the promise of his return. And you always stayed up awaiting his return.

You offered no such decency tonight. No assurances. 

You just... left.

You suppose it was only a matter of time before he found you. 

The guilt gnawed at you, clawing at your insides. “You’re not mad?” You whisper. 

He was quiet for a moment before answering. “I am. But, you were only leaving to get fresh air. Just wake me up next time. I’ll go with you, y’know.”

Your brows knit together. “You hardly sleep as it is.”

He sighs, his head falling back to the sky. You wonder what he could see up there with his eyes. “I’ve gotten used to it after the years.” 

You could smell the petrichor before the first rain fell. You feel the first drop on your shoulder and the next on the top of your head. When a droplet lands on your nose, you scrunch instinctively. “It’s going to rain,” you warn him gently, softer than the patter of water droplets on wet earth.

Eventually, you find the strength to glance over at him. He feels your eyes, your gaze speaking a thousand words you could never voice. You hope he sees it all; the I’m sorries, the I love you’s, and the please stay with me’s. 

He glimpses at you from the corner of his eye, a lazy grin stretching across his lips. With just a look, he tells you everything you never knew you needed to hear. The rain begins to fall harder, dampening his hair and streaking down his cheeks like the ghost of unshed tears. Yet, his smile never falters.

That smile. That damn smile. It was that same soft, mischievous lilt that drove you utterly mad and hopelessly in love in equal measure.

He looks so perfect.

“Eek! What are you doing?!” You suddenly exclaim, jumping up from your seat on the bench. You’ve never seen the rain touch his skin, never seen rainfall dampen his clothes, drip from his eyelashes, or pool in his collar. 

“What?” He asks, light and teasing. “It’s not fair if you’re the only one getting soaked in the rain.”

“Okay, okay!” You jump to your feet, reaching over and tugging at his arm for him to stand. “Let's go inside!”

He doesn’t stop smiling for a second as he grabs your hand. “Promise not to run off on me again?”

“Yes! Yes, I promise. Let's go!” 

You were his peace—the person he ran to amidst the chaos, even if at times, you were the chaos. He loved you, and that was all that really mattered. A little bit of rain wouldn’t hurt him. 

You didn’t think you could fall in love with someone twice, but he was everything you ever wanted—the perfect blend of hellfire and grace gathered at heaven's gate. You loved his wordless devotion, his unwavering commitment, and how his eyes always seemed to gaze right through you. He showed up when you needed him the most and understood things about you that you’ve yet to admit to yourself. His smile made you dizzy; it both enrages and enchants you so effortlessly. 

You can’t help but admire him. You’re not sure what makes him look so good right now—so perfect, so utterly right.  It aches, it fucking aches, but he was addictive. He was the fire you were missing, the gas and heat that lit you ablaze. 

You’re too lost in him as you peel his wet clothes off his damp body. You were still so mad—so fucked in the head—but how long have you denied him? Denied yourself?

You were the voice that urged Orpheus to look back, the hushed whisper of forgiveness in Eurydice as she descended. If death ever found you, you hoped he would speak your name and watch as you drew air between two lungs, releasing the breath that carried you back to him. 

You feel it in his bones as he gives in to you; feel it in the desperate way he grips at your clothes. “Are you sure?"

“Yes,” you breathed life into him. “I need you, Satoru.” 

After all the things he did and all the things he didn’t do, Gojo Satoru never thought the sun would shine on him again. He would never deny you. His very soul demands you. It terrified him that something as simple as your walk could bring him to his knees. To him, your very essence was soaked in cherry wine, and like always, he got drunk on your footsteps.

He wasn’t perfect, but he was by far the kindest thing that has ever happened to you. The world had turned its back on you long ago; it told you that you were destined to cast shadows of darkness, to turn meadows of gold into raging infernos not even the gods could conquer. 

Satoru saw the evil in you and strummed out the good with his perfect fingers. He saw your ichor—saw how it burdened you—and told you to collapse. Crumble. Be born again into something new. 

He begged you to tell him all the horrible things you’ve done, only for him to love you anyway. He chose you then, and he chose you now—a bond forged of heaven's grace and smoke and ash. He was woven into the fabric of your being, into your heart and veins. 

The taste of him strings, but it hurts too good. 

You desired him violently. You wanted him to call you pretty, to say that, even after all these years, you were worthwhile. And he does.

You don't know how he came to love you or why. You were convinced he was nothing but another angel falling from grace with you. Maybe a part of him knew that you would be his undoing. And yet, as he parts your legs, he kisses you with a spellbinding ferocity that has you coming undone. 

If you were falling, he was falling with you. 

He is devastation—the icy bite of a raging blizzard, yet the blaze of a thousand suns. There was no escape from Satoru’s gaze, no rescue from his embrace. He sees all of you—feels every inch. You are all he desires.

“Look at me, baby—watch me, that’s it, look at what I do to you.” 

You were his. Irrevocably his, you think as you cling to him, crying his name with each thrust. 

Maybe you always were.

-

When all was said and done, your cool body pressed to his warm one, you finally told him the story you swore you’d never voice. It escaped from you in halting, hesitating breaths, each detail slicing through the fragile air between you two.

Each word was a death blow to his soul. He would gently shake his head as if denying the horrors you described, rejecting it, could undo the pain you endured. He stared at you with such misery and grief, searching your face for a sign that perhaps it wasn’t nearly as horrid as you had described, but there was no reprieve, no comfort in the truth. 

You could feel the weight of his grief. You could hear how his heart skipped several painful beats, his breath cutting through his chest with sharp and uneven breaths. You could see how his face twisted with an agony so deep you knew he would be forever scarred. 

And then, he pushed himself away from you—just enough to look at you in your entirety. 

“I used to hate my cursed technique,” you told him, voice fragile and trembling. There was no stopping the tears that blurred your vision. The confession seemed too great, but the ache in your chest demanded release. There was no containing this agony that’s left you so cold.  “But it was there, protecting me when I needed it most. When the world got too big or too small, I wouldn’t be so alone. But I’m-" you tremble. “I’m scared. I’m so scared without it."

Your words shook the air, like dying embers faint and fleeting. The only man who could ever bear your flames held you close as if his warmth could replace everything you lost. You swore it nearly did. He cradled you to his chest and swore on his life, his final breath, that he would never leave you in a world so cold again. 

And you believe him. 

-

a/n: two post in one night? wth am i on?...

sorry for any typos or grammatical errors. i really need to go to sleep now lol

next chapter the trio will make an appearance hehe :)

as always likes, comments, and reblogs are much appreciated <3

[jacquitries]

A Bludger to The Head | O.W.

You've never really liked Quidditch but maybe a certain Gryffindor keeper would change your mind?

𓆘 𓆚𓆚𓆚𓆚𓆚 𓆘 𓆚𓆚𓆚𓆚𓆚 𓆘 𓆚𓆚𓆚𓆚𓆚 𓆘 𓆚𓆚𓆚𓆚𓆚 𓆘

You’ve never really liked Quidditch. You have already attended quite a few games at the International Quidditch Tournament all thanks to your family but it almost always follows the same, boring, predictable pattern – whoever catches the snitch wins the game. It was absurd. Now that you’re attending Hogwarts, you didn’t think that idea would ever change. Hence, why you decided to stay with Madam Pomfrey in the hospital wing, awaiting any injured players to come from the very first game of the season. If memory served you right, it would have been Gryffindor vs. Slytherin.

“Thank you for helping out today, Y/N. It’s always a joy having you around.” Madam Pomfrey said as she took note of all the healing potions in her cabinet while you jotted everything down. 

“It’s a pleasure. I’ve never been fond of Quidditch anyway.”

She stopped inspecting the healing potion in her hand and turned to face you. "Oh? Where is your school spirit? Back in the day, I used to dawn my house attire complete with face paint and all! Those were the glory days."

You chortled. "While it does sound like fun, Madam Pomfrey, I'd rather stay here in this glorious wing with you." 

"Pish-posh, sweetheart. While I do love having you here, I could handle myself quite fine. It seems I would just have to ban you from this wing come the next game." She cheekily replied.

Your laugh was cut short as a player was suddenly wheeled in by a few other students.

 “Madam Pomfrey! Our keeper’s hurt. He took a bludger to the head and passed out!” One of them spat. You and Madam Pomfrey quickly assessed his injuries. Other than the bruise that was forming on the right side of his head, he was in the all clear.

“Thank you, boys. We’ll take it from here.” Madam Pomfrey stated. As the boys left, you helped her transfer the unconscious player from the stretcher to the bed and took charge in dressing his head wound.

While you were wrapping up the last of his bandages, the boy finally stirred. He looked up at you and stared with hooded eyes. You were about to ask him how he was doing until he mumbled, “You’re the most beautiful angel I have ever seen.” You blushed as he slowly raised his right hand to your cheek.

You couldn’t stop yourself from teasing back. “And how many other angels do you know of?”

He stopped caressing your cheek in confusion. He bolted upright. His face contorted in horror as it dawned on him on not only what he has done but also to whom it was done. “I- I- I-… What I meant to say was…” He covered his face with both of his hands to hide his embarrassment.  

It was safe to say this was not what he had in mind when he planned to finally speak to you in person. His life has always been about Quidditch, not noticing anything (or anyone for that matter) unrelated, until he saw you a few days ago on the courtyard before practice. You were paying no mind to the men swarming around you as you sat and kept your eyes glued to your book. Though you only gave them a smile and a wave as you left in return, all the men ate it up and, to be honest, he couldn’t blame them. He was smitten, too. He could not stop thinking about you that even his team began to notice his mind wasn’t 100% there during practice. The Weasley twins finally understood why after a bit of prodding and convinced him to put a fantastic display of keeping skills during the Gryffindor vs. Slytherin game for you to notice him. Hitting his head with a bludger and accidentally confessing to you after passing out was definitely not the plan. He sighed and slowly looked up to face you. He should at least answer your question truthfully. “In all honesty, you are the only angel I know of.”

You couldn’t help but blush even more. Though you have been showered with compliments before, this was the first time you ever believed someone has said it so sincerely.

Knowing full well you may never give him the time of day again, he used all the courage he could muster after seeing you blush and rambled, “I’m… I’m usually much better at dodging bludgers but ugh… I was trying to find you by the bleachers with no luck–”

“–Oh. I uhm… don’t usually watch the games.”

“Ah, yes! Then, I guess I was lucky enough to find you in the hospital wing? Notwithstanding getting hit by a bludger, of course… Hah.” He replied as he sheepishly ducked his head.

Weirdly enough, you found the awkward silence right after to be endearing. You placed your fingers under your chin and decided to help him out of his misery. “Hmm. I could start watching your games to prevent the incident from happening again? However, I would love to know your name first.” You placed your hand in front of him for a handshake. I’m Y/N.”

You swear he could have had whiplash with how quick he jerked his head upward. He took your hand. “I- I would love that. I’m Oliver. Oliver Wood.”

You spotted red and gold movement at the corner of your eye. “Well, Oliver Wood, while it was lovely meeting you, I believe congratulations are in order.”

He quirked up his brow. “Hmm? For what ex–“

Suddenly, he was bombarded with shouts and cheers as his teammates ran up to him. You just had enough time to weave your way out of the chaos.

 “We won, cap! We won against Slytherin!”  

"Picking Harry was a damn good choice for seeker!"

“You should have seen the looks on their faces!”

“Flint was in shatters!”

While the Gryffindor team talked over one another, Oliver met your eyes across the room and shot an apologetic smile. You couldn’t help but smile back.

Maybe Quidditch isn’t so boring after all?

[cosmicanemoia]

Got to Believe in Magic

Melissa Schemmenti x Reader

This has been collecting dust in my notebook for quite some time now. It is supposed to have two more chapters, but I couldn't get to it. Anyway, I just want to share this here so...

After the said interview, Melissa realizes that you are exactly what she’s looking for… in a tenant.

You find it hard to sleep every night. You have tried everything… literally everything; even the pills (after some time) didn’t help much.

And every morning, you find it hard to get up and start your day. Instead of feeling rested, you just feel more tired than ever.

Your girlfriend had just broken up with you, kicking you out of your shared apartment. You don’t mind staying at some fancy hotel (you are actually loving it), but your bank account really does. You realize that you need to find an affordable place to live or else you’ll be bankrupt (given your teacher’s salary).

–

Melissa had just kicked Jacob out of her home. No matter how she enjoys finding a new best friend in him; she doesn’t like the number of boys Jacob brings into her house.

But of course not after he found a new place ‘to whore’ himself out. Melissa blatantly told him and in turn he could only nod in understanding.

–

Jacob (your fellow 8th grade teacher) told you the whole story of how he got kicked out of his friend’s house, without unnecessary and unrelated details that you could only wish to escape.

After half an hour, he suddenly widens his eyes and grins at you. You just look at him dumbfoundedly and urge him to continue, “what?”

“I just had the most brilliant idea.” he declares, and you just raise your brows as a response. “Aren’t you looking for a place? I’ll recommend you to Melissa.” he beams, and you just simply reply, “Yeah, sure… whatever.”

Jacob rushes over to the break room on the ground floor to find Melissa and tell her the good news. “I just found you the perfect tenant. You’re going to love her. Would you like to interview her?”

“I doubt there is such a thing as perfect, but sure, kid. I need the extra income anyway.” Melissa replied to him.

Jacob then rushes to the break room upstairs from where you are eating. He sees you and grabs you by your shoulder and drags you to where Melissa is. “Woah! What are you doing? I’m still eating.” You asked, and he simply replies, “Melissa agreed to interview you… and you’re almost done. Let’s go.” You scoff and chuckle at him “I didn’t know it would be right now.”

–

That is how you find yourself now having an “interview” ‘more like interrogation’ you thought to yourself in the break room with ‘Ms. Schemmenti’. You recall her telling you not to call her by her first name ‘cause you don’t know each other very well.

After the said interview, Melissa realizes that you are exactly what she’s looking for… in a tenant.

She finds out that you’re quiet and keeps to yourself, not nosy, but not a push-over, and many more qualities she admires and likes… in a tenant.

Melissa turns to Jacob to ask, “where did you find her? Is she a newbie?”

Barbara can’t help but scoff and reply, “she’s not a newbie; she has been here longer than Jacob and Janine.”

Melissa turns to her friend in shock… “you know her?”

Gregory can’t help but chide in, “We all know her. I thought you knew her too– and that’s why you agreed to do the interview.”

Barbara added, “very resourceful woman. She once fixed the leak in our sink when Gerald and I invited her over.”

Melissa, who was dumbfounded, can't help but declare, “how come I’m only hearing about her now?”

Ava barges in before anyone could answer her question. “What are y’all talkin’ about?” She asks as she pours almost all of the sugar available into her coffee.

Jacob answers, “we’re talking about Y/N.”

Ava ooh’ed at the revelation and declares “she sleeps with one of y’all. I see.”

The small group simultaneously says, “WHAT?!” turning their heads in the principal’s direction. Ava shimmies her shoulder in response… she grins and claims “that girl is a beast.” and makes her exit.

Everyone turns to look at each other with confusion written on their faces.

Barbara speaks out, “I don’t know who she’s talking about. She must be mistaken because that woman is nothing but an angel sent from above.”

Melissa scoffs and snides, “yeah, right.”

All their heads turn to Jacob. Melissa asks, “you know something? you guys are close, right?” He replies, “I don’t know. I mostly do the talking; she’s quiet and keeps to herself… Maybe Ava is mistaken.” Barbara adds with her brows raised, “she surely must be.”

The bell rings, signalling that break time is over.

–

“Can I help you with your things?” Melissa offers, but you refuse, “no, thank you. I have it covered.”

“Are you sure?” she asks, and you reply, “I’m sure. Thanks for the offer.”

After a few moments…

“Done already?” Melissa stands at your door frame.

“Yeah. I don’t have a lot of things, so there isn't much to unpack.” You shrug.

“Well, I’ll leave you be. I hope you won’t be a pain in the ass type of tenant.” She jokes, and you humour her, “I’ll try, boss. I’ll try.”

“See you around.” Melissa turns and walks away, and you say, as she leaves, “you too, Ms. Schemmenti.”

You slump in your bed and start trying to sleep, but you can’t help but think… and you don’t know how, but somehow your thoughts have drifted to the woman of the house.

–

You see Melissa Schemmenti at school. You have heard a lot of things about her from Jacob. You sometimes pass each other in the hallways. You’d be lying if you say you weren’t attracted to her… she is a very attractive woman. That attraction never developed into anything more, and you thought that never in a million years would she go for you, let alone notice you. So, you push that feeling out and never think about it again. You smile to yourself. You can’t believe that you are now living under the roof of your former crush. You fell asleep thinking about her.

–

It had been three days since you moved in in Melissa’s spare room. She realizes that you are indeed quiet and that you really keep to yourself. She had just finished cooking, and she thought, ‘what’s the harm?’. She lays another plate and goes to your room. When she got there, she knocked… no answer. She knocks once again and calls out your name, and still no answer. ‘She must be asleep,’ Melissa thought to herself. She knocks more aggressively and calls for you a little louder, but no answer still.

Just when Melissa’s about to try again one last time, she hears the front door open and shut. ‘She wasn’t asleep, she was out,’ she thought to herself. She’s been doing that a lot lately, thinking to herself ever since she met you for the interview, and the contradicting comments she got about you from her best friend and the principal gnaws at her.

“Hey, hun. I was knocking at your door just now, and there’s no one answering.” Melissa greeted you.

“Uh, yeah… I was– um, out.” You scratch the back of your neck and nod in her direction.

You just stood there, staring at each other, and gave her an awkward smile. There is silence, but you wouldn’t describe it as uncomfortable.

“So, what can I help you with?” You break the silence as you walk past her.

“What makes you think I need your help?” Melissa sneered.

You furrowed your brows in confusion, but you weren’t fazed, “uh- I just… you said you were knocking at my door earlier, right?”

“Oh! that,” she chuckles, “I was going to ask if you’ve eaten and if you’d like to join me for dinner.”

“Oh.” You stare at her, and she tilts her head to the side, waiting for you to say something more.

“I would love to. Really, I do. I’ve been waiting to taste you –r cooking, but unfortunately I have already eaten.” You declare, and Melissa depletes a little at that new information, but nobody notices.

You walk towards her and grab her wrist softly yet firmly. You look her in her eyes and say, “maybe next time.”

Melissa beams, and she bears what you just said in her mind. ‘maybe next time.’ she mentally notes to put more effort into it, for when that next time comes.

The redhead doesn’t know anything about you, but she sure does have a good night after that interaction with you. She even forgot her peaking curiosity earlier about where you have been.

–

Ava barges in the break room with a devilish grin plastered on her face, “your girl’s been busy last night, Jacob.”

Everyone turns their head towards the principal. Jacob asked, “what? What girl?”

Ava replied, “Y/N, who else? ” side-eyeing Janine.

Jacob urges her to go on, “what about her?”

The principal rolls her eyes, “I thought you two are best friends? Anyway, a friend of mine sent this to me… ” She shows everyone something on her phone.

Barbara shakes her head, not believing what she just saw. Melissa’s eyes widened at the sight. Gregory and Janine chuckled, and Jacob cheered, “yes, get it, girl!”

Mr. Johnson chides in, “y’all are amused by that? Try going out with her. There’s this one time that I went with her, I thought she abandoned me, but then she introduced me to this hot couple who asked me if I wanted to have a thr–”

The door to the break room suddenly opens before the custodian can finish his sentence, and you walk in. “Hey, Hill, I thought you’d join me for lunch… You know how waiting makes me feel.”

You let your eyes wander and soon realize that they’re all staring at you. “You all looked like you’ve just seen a ghost,” you quipped, “I’m sorry for barging in like that– I should have knocked.”

The room is still silent and awkward. Mr. Johnson decides to break it, “Hey, Y/L/N, are we still on this friday?”

“Of course, Mr. J,” you simply replied. You then look at Jacob and raise your brow at him, “well, are you joining me or not? you know I can’t go hungry.”

“Girl, we know,” Ava quickly affirms, then walks out of the room.

With that, Melissa’s curiosity about you just grows and grows.

Saturday afternoon, you were making yourself a snack. You didn’t notice Melissa in her living room, but she for sure did notice you, with your hair tied up in a messy bun, oversized shirt with no bra (she guessed), and very short shorts. You turn around, and you see your landlord staring at you, making you almost drop your food.

“God, Mel– I mean, Ms. Schemmenti, you startled me,” you remark.

Melissa is pulled out of her thoughts when you speak. “I guess you can call me ‘Mel’ now that you’re living under my roof.”

You smile at her in response, and the redhead’s stomach flutters… so, she thought she must be hungry. “Okay, have a nice day, Mel,” you uttered.

“Wait, stop,” she commands, and that makes you halt. You slowly turn to face her and stride towards her, then you inquire, “yeah– what is it?”

She watches as you chew on your food and how you stuff it still even though it seems full. She lightly chuckles and mutters, “you’re so goofy.”

“Huh?” You respond, and she quickly retorts, her voice now loud and clear, “I said I make a mean lasagna.”

You nod, “I’m sure you do. I heard so much about your cooking from Jacob.”

The voluptuous woman declares, “I’m making them for tonight.”

“Good to know.” You smile and nod at her, starting to turn and walk away, but Mel adds, “you can watch and learn if you want, then have a bite or two when I’m done.”

“Really?” You ask, and she just shrugs, “sure.”

“Cool. I’ll be in my room, just call me before you start. I don’t want to miss out on any process.” you said and walked back to your room.

‘What the hell just happened?’ Mel thought to herself.

The truth is she wasn’t planning on doing anything for dinner tonight. She said to herself that she’ll just order some fast food. She checked her fridge and cupboard and found that all the ingredients she needed were there. She sighs ‘I guess I have to call her now.’

You’d offer to help but decide against it, not wanting to hold her back. So, you just sat there watching the woman of the house in her element. A smile starts to spread on your face, and you mutter, “you’re beautiful.”

“Wipe that grin off your face or I’ll wipe it off for you,” she blushed.

After a few moments, she puts the casserole in the oven and says, “now, we just have to wait for a few more moments.” She clasped her hands together and stood there proudly.

“Just in time for dinner.” you declare.

You moan, “oh god– mmm,” with your eyes closed, and the chef’s face flushed at the sight.

“Mel, wow! This is so good!” You complimented after your first few bites.

Melissa is proud of herself, very evident by the shit-eating grin plastered on her face.

“Did you know that lasagna is one of my least liked foods?” you commented.

“I didn’t know that. You sure seem to be loving it now.” Melissa remarked.

“I am. Yours is the only lasagna I’ll ever eat.” you replied.

“No. Let me wash the dishes. You’ve already done so much today. Making that heavenly food takes a lot of effort. It’s only fair that I do this, so let me.” You argued after you cleaned the table.

You somehow sense that she’s going to fight you. So, you grab her hand and drag her to the living room. You tell her to sit down, and she quickly follows. You open the T.V. and give her the remote. You tell her to wait for a minute, and then you quickly disappear into the kitchen, but you come back as soon as you disappear, now with a bottle of wine (that she had been drinking earlier while she made the lasagna). You pour her a glass, grab her hand, and say, “relax and rest. I promise not to break anything.”

After washing the dishes, you see Melissa sleeping on the couch. You assume she wouldn’t want to wake up on a sofa (because you wouldn’t want it for yourself), so you lightly nudge her shoulder. ‘She looks so serene,’ you thought.

The sleeping beauty slowly opens her eyes and hums. “Let’s get you to bed,” and you help her get in her room.

“Thanks for the marvellous dinner, Mel,” you thank her before you retire to your room.

Morning comes, and Melissa wakes up and sees a cup of water and ibuprofen as she sits up. She smiles to herself and takes a sip from the cup. She didn’t take the ibuprofen because she didn’t have a headache. She just feels warm and fuzzy, ‘it’s a friggin miracle. I didn’t have a headache.’

–

Monday came. The teachers gather at the break room. Ava once again barges in. She types something on her phone. The small group receives a text, and their phones pinged simultaneously.

Mr. Johnson played the video on his phone with his speaker on full volume. It was loud, there was music, and people were cheering.

Melissa opens the message. It was a video of you getting a lap dance from a random girl. She sees red and she doesn’t know why, so she closes her phone with a huff and frowns, but no one notices that.

“When was this?” Barb asked.

“That was saturday.” Ava replied.

“What?!” Melissa questions, “are you sure this is her? ‘cause I was with her saturday.”

“Until midnight?” Ava inquired in return.

Melissa shakes her head no.

“That’s what I thought.” Ava deadpans.

–

You see Melissa in the hallway, so you try to greet her, “hey, Mel.”

Melissa just rolls her eyes at you and huffs as she passes you by.

‘Did she just roll her eyes at me?’ You scoffed.

Later that night, you decided to knock at Melissa’s door to ask and talk to her.

You ask her if you have done something wrong. She says that she’s just pissed off earlier. About what, she wouldn’t tell.

–

Jacob, Janine, and Gregory went out clubbing, and they somehow convinced the two veterans to tag along.

You are at the same club.

Ava is there too, and even Mr. Johnson.

Melissa was the first to notice you, but she didn’t say anything to the others.

Until Barb asked if it was you across the room, and they all agreed that it was you.

You were sitting on a stool, alone, so Melissa decides to approach you, but before she could get to you, another woman hugs you from behind and then sits beside you.

You see Melissa from the corner of your eyes, so you excuse yourself from your best friend to go and talk to her.

Melissa ignored you and went to the bathroom. You followed her, and when you got in, she quickly shut the door and lunged at you and kissed you desperately. She realizes that you aren’t moving, so she stops and pulls away, “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have done that. I know your girlfriend’s just outside…” she whispered ever so softly.

You release a breath you didn’t know you were holding. She was about to walk out, but you grabbed her and pulled her towards you, and kissed her just as desperately.

When you both pulled away for a much needed air, you both sighed contentedly.

“What about your girlfriend outside?” She asked.

“I wasn’t aware I have a girlfriend,” you answered, “but if you mean the woman outside, she’s just my best friend. Do I smell jealousy?”

“I am not jealous.” She scoffed.

“I never said you are… though you looked a little green earlier.” You remarked.

“Shut up and just kiss me again.” She commanded.

Melissa wakes up from her dream. As she sits up, she whispers to herself 'I'm fucked.'

[ikeukiss]

LOVE IS THE BEST MEDICINE | 최수빈

⟢ PAIRING: choi soobin x fem!reader ⟢ WORD COUNT: 2.1K ⟢ GENRE: smut, semi-angst, fluff ⟢ TAGS: established relationship!au, semi-pwp, pet names, makeup sex, chest worship, nipple play, unprotected sex, creampie ⟢ SYNOPSIS: One fight and a few days of space leads to a particularly passionate reconciliation.

It’s so easy to acquiesce to someone begging for forgiveness when they come bearing your favorite snacks.

It doesn’t help that your boyfriend also looks so adorable rain-soaked and pouting, the bag of your most-loved, edible junk dangling on his wrist. He hasn’t said the words exactly, neither verbally nor through text, but you can see in his face that the white flag is raised for you to accept.

“Can I, y’know—” The question dies on Soobin’s lips, his eyes saying all that he needs to at this point. Please let me in. 

I love you and I’m sorry. These past three days have been hell without you.

By the time the bag is discarded on the kitchen counter and your body is intertwined with Soobin on your bed, you can barely recall what the fight was about in the first place. 

From your memory, it had something to do Soobin’s increasingly tight schedule and his inability to spend quality time with you past every other weekend. You went off the rails, as anyone would expect.

The rain outside bears down on your apartment windows. The weather distracted you from the simmering irritation you felt at the texts Soobin quickly answered in between random scenes of the movie still playing on your living room television. It had been infrequent enough that he could kiss away most of your ire, but after the third text from Beomgyu, you’d had enough.

“I can’t believe you,” you grumbled, wanting to rip his phone from his hands and chuck it at the wall.

“What did I do, bunny?” The words came out so nonchalantly, like he had no idea what you were referring to. They made a well of tears form in your eyes, your emotions unrelenting in their sudden assault.

“Are you serious?”

“Yes? Now can you stop talking in riddles, baby?” The chuckle was what did you in, immediately taking the hand he wrapped around your shoulder and yanking it from your body.

“Do you even care about this relationship anymore?” You asked, tears streaming down your face as you jumped off the couch and away from Soobin. You were exasperated that on all the nights he could’ve been splitting his attention between work and play, it had to be during the only night you got to be alone together. 

“How can you even say that?” Soobin said the words with another chuckle, but it was clear in the furrow of his brow that he was growing as angry as you were. He didn’t want the night to be ruined by your accusations and bristly attitude, not when he didn’t know the next day he’d be able to spend another night at your place without interruptions. “Where’s this coming from?”

“If you don’t want to be here with me, then leave, Soob. Clearly, you have more important things to do. More important than me, anyway.” You knew when the words left your lips that you were being ridiculous. But all you were pining for was some reassurance.

Soobin, however, was fed up at that point, unwilling to cater to your ridiculous and covert demands. “Do you realize how crazy you sound right now? I always want to spend time with you, but you can’t expect me not to do what I’m supposed to. It’s my job.”

The second the word crazy pieced the air, you saw red. “So I’m crazy for wanting to spend some time with you without being bombarded by outside influences? God forbid I expect my boyfriend to pay attention once in a while.”

“That’s not what I meant and you know it.”

“Then what did you mean, then? Because all I heard was you sounding like a dick.”

Anger passed over his eyes. He leapt up from the couch and stomped over to your spot in the kitchen to face you head on, his chest rising up and down with bated breaths. “Now I’m a dick for just expressing to you how I feel? That’s a bit hypocritical don’t you think? I didn’t call you a bitch for being unreasonable all day, even though I have every right to with how you’re behaving.”

You take in a shaky breath and cross your arms. “Just get out then, Soobin. If I’m such a bitch and you can’t handle me being honest.”

“Fine, if that’s what you want.” He left you with one last look of pain before slamming the door closed.

You felt intense guilt for handling the situation the way you did, your pride and anger creating a cold war you didn’t want to start in the first place. And you were certain Soobin felt his own level of regret for not giving you the attention you deserved as of late. Not only had those three days let you both to clear your heads, but also allowed you some time to reflect on how to come back together following such a heated encounter.

Clearly, it didn’t take much effort to mend fences the second you saw him on the other side of your door.

You relish in the feeling of Soobin’s lips on your neck and his hands pressed to your bare breasts underneath your hoodie. What’s the point of rehashing past issues, anyway? It doesn’t matter when he’s so loving when he holds you with both tenderness and impatience, needing to feel you close in every possible way.

 He pinches and palms you with little decorum, pleased to hear the gasps and moans that leave your mouth. In spite of the irritation that still lingers from being away from you for so long, he only wants to please you. It’s all he’s ever wanted, even on days like the one a week ago that started all of this. When you both could've pulled each other’s hair out, he still loved you then, and loves you even more now, not willing to spend another second separated from you.

He discards the garment and his own sweatshirt to feel the heat of your skin on his lips. He takes one nipple into his mouth hungrily, still holding onto your free breast with one hand, loving your curves and the heftiness of his favorite parts of you.

“I should still be angry with you,” he grunts, releasing your nipple with a lewd pop and hovers over the other before staring up at you. “But I love you too much.”

“Prove it,” you whisper, moving his hands to the sides of your pajama shorts.

He doesn’t need any reminders to pleasure you, the thought always lingering in the back of his mind despite his desire to remain composed and gentlemanlike in your presence. But, it’s nice to be assured you want it as much as he does.

And you know by now how much he loves you, the days without you building too large of a cavern in his chest for him to stay away. From the fidgeting of your hips in his hold and the writhing of your center against his aching cock, it was evident you couldn’t put up much of a fight anymore either the second you dragged him into your room.

Soobin tastes the wetness between your thighs with eagerness. He loves the way you instantly squeeze your legs around his head, your body’s sensitivity on high. A mixture of pleasure and pain crosses your face at the feeling of his tongue flicking incessantly across your clit and folds. A little over seventy-two hours of separation should not make you so needy, so pathetic for any form of contact you can get.

You can’t feel too bad, though. Soobin shares the same level of desperation when he finally slides inside of you moments later, the taste of you satiating him just enough before he becomes mad with lust.

“You’re so perfect,” he whispers as he slams his hips into yours, his pelvic bones meeting yours with every deliberately slow thrust of his body. “And all mine.”

You nod vigorously, the only reaction you can muster. “Yes, yes, yes,” you agree, quick compliance leaving your lips to go back to focusing on soaking in the sensations you’ve been without. More of him, all of him, but it’s not enough.

Soobin watches the way your chest bounces with every plunge of his cock inside of you, your nipples still erect and glistening from his previous attention to them. He suckles one back into his mouth, needing to feel the bud between his teeth as he continues driving a slow, cruel pace.

If this is how he can release what’s left of his pent-up frustration from the fight, so be it. You’ll just have to take it.

“Binnie, please go faster,” you beg, clawing your nails down his back to prove how torturous his slow lovemaking is for what’s left of your composure.

His devilish eyes stare at yours through his lashes, his lips still ravishing your chest while his hips remain in the clasp of the tempo he’s set. From the tenseness of his jaw and the grip he has on your body, you discern he has no intention of listening to your pleas.

You try to buck your hips into his to feel him deeper and harder, to make what you want happen on your own, but he doesn’t accept it. He presses both of your hips into the mattress with his hands, splaying his fingers out wide to keep you still.

“Just because I love you, bunny, doesn’t mean I’m still not upset,” he says through gritted teeth.

“As if I’m still not mad at you,” you tease, clinging onto his backside to urge him to give you what you need.

“I don’t think you’re in any position to be mad when I’m about to make you come.” Soobin removed his hand from one of your hips to glide his fingers through your wetness, your clit so willing to be touched again.

“Then let’s call a truce,” you gasp, your body betraying you by falling prey to every touch and kiss Soobin provides. “Go faster and I’ll let it go.”

Soobin chuckles and presses a kiss to your cheek. “How about you apologize first and then I’ll do what you want.”

“Fine, fucking fine,” you huff. “I’m sorry, okay? I shouldn’t have kicked you out, now please fuck me, pretty please.”

He kisses you hard, his tongue swiping across your bottom lip before he clamps down on the plush skin with his teeth. “As you wish, bunny.”

Not removing his hand from your clit, he drives into you harder, your bodies slapping together loudly as he increases his speed. He flicks his thumb and index finger against your clit fast, matching the new tempo of his hips beautifully.

Your eyes roll back into your head, practically feeling the tip of his cock in the back of your throat from how deep, hard, and quick he’s thrusting. “Fuck, I’m gonna come, Binnie,” you say, closer to seeing white than ever before.

“Come, sweetheart. Come all over me.”

You whimper as you fall off the precipice, your body trembling as it floods with endorphins from your orgasm. 

Soobin falls apart in quick succession after you, his seed flooding the insides of your walls. Some of it seeps out with the shallow thrusts he gives following his release, but he makes sure to stuff it back in with both his cock and fingers.

He kisses one of your temples, the skin soaked with sweat. “I love you, you know?” He whispers the words into your skin, rubbing his arms over your sides and pecking at your neck with his lips.

“I love you too,” you say earnestly, blushing from his sweet nothings following such intense lovemaking.

But it’s never nothing, especially not after days of worrying he had had enough of you.

You take a hand and place it under his chin, forcing him to look up at you. You choke up when you say, “I really am sorry.”

He smiles and smothers your face in kisses, the final one pressed long and deeply onto your lips. “There’s nothing to be sorry for anymore, bunny. I forgave you the second you let me in.”

He nestles you close to his side, pressing your back to his chest. “I’m sorry, too. It’s you and me, always.”

You smile to yourself and affirm his words with your own. “Always.”

And with perfect ease, you fall asleep in the safety of his arms, knowing all is forgiven and nothing is as important as two hearts realigned as one.

@yvnempire @sjylouvre @mini-mews @jayparked @heesuncore @yoursjaeyun @sungbeams @jenoslutie @loserlvrss @pars-ley @lovetaroandtaemin @wonwovy @hursheys

𝐧𝐞𝐭𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤𝐬 ౨ৎ˚₊

@kstrucknet @k-films @kvanity-main @moadiarynet @lapydiaries @sweetvenomnet @onedoornet @sayxonet @violetanet @svthub @whipped-kpop-creators

[aphroditesmoon]

Hiiii! Love your clarisse oneshots ^^. Could you possibly do one where Fem!reader is the daughter of Hades and has a hellhound as a pet that absolutely adores clarisse? Reader also has a similar personality to clarisse, loves to fight and has a big pride but only lets her guard down around Clarisse.(also possibly has her own electric weapon of your choice)Thank you!!

creatures of the night

clarisse la rue x fem!hades'cabin!reader

warnings: none

a/n: sorry this is so short, hope u like it<3

wc; 1.1k

You would never consider your relationship with your father as better than anyone else's relationship with their own parent in camp.

But when you had been claimed by Hades as well as being gifted a long black javelin with gold wrapped around the sharp edge on the same night you arrived at camp Half Blood, it seemed well established to everyone else and including yourself, that your father acknowledges your existence proudly.

Being one of the people in the small list of forbidden children, had created a fearsome reputation around your presence, and honestly speaking, you enjoy the privileges that come with it.

Although it was hard making friends considering your less friendly personality, some campers stuck by your side anyways. Those who bore you enormous respects and had been intrigued by your mysterious air instead of intimidated.

One of them being the infamous child of Ares, Clarisse La Rue.

Beautiful, strong and hot headed, Clarisse La Rue.

The two of you are often compared as the two sides of the same coin. Your personalities differ from eachother in many ways, but when it came to your goals and aims, you both are usually on the same team.

It's safe to say that you are less hostile than Clarisse. You prefer to keep to yourself whilst she prefered to assert dominance onto the other campers. And yet you are the more feared than her.

Clarisse is commonly brutal and unrelenting, but you usually saved up the worst of your tricks for when necessity calls for it. For now, intimidation worked well enough.

What's funny enough, is how Clarisse herself had a certain trepidation when she first befriended you. She learned soon that you were just another demigod girl just like she was, glory aside.

One of the instances where she felt that she had truly seen you as you are, all the facade dropped down, was when you first introduced her to your hound, Cerberus.

Your father had gifted him to you for your 15th birthday. It was one of yoir proudest moments in life. Demigods are almost never cared for that much by their parents, and so to have your coming of age be recognised by your father was a huge thing.

"Is that not the same name as Hades' own three headed hound?" She asked, staring at it for afar from the corner of your bed.

"I know, that's why I named him that." You explained to her as you're sat criss-crossed on the floor, scratching the beasts' chin.

Cerberus, once he deemed Clarisse as not a threat, rolled down on the ground on his stomach.

"Look at him, such a good boy." You were distracted by your new pet all day, ignoring your poor girlfriend who had come over to your cabin to spend time with you. "He's almost as tall as you." Clarisse spoke sarcastically, picking you on your height.

"That's not a fair observation. Most things are almost as tall as me." You responded, still not looking up.

"Are you just gonna keep standing there staring at me?" You asked her finally, realising just how weird the distance between you two were.

Clarisse was hesitant, frowning at your pet like he was some sort of threat. "I...think I'm good here." She muttered loud enough for your ears. "Oh, come on."

Clarisse shook her head as you complained about her irrationality. "Look at him, he's friendly." And he was, Cerberus had warmed up to you quickly and have not shown a single tendency for violence against your girlfriend.

"Come and say hello to him, Clarisse." You called out to her again.

You hear her sigh from the other side of the room. After a few more minutes pass, her footsteps grow louder as she moves nearer to you.

Clarisse squats down to meet Cerberus and flinched as he lifts his head up to sniff her. You reached for her hand, trying to get him to smell it. She pulls her hand back at first, but after a few more pulls, Clarisse relents and lets the hound give her knuckles a lick. "That tickles." She mumbled under her breath.

"He likes you, see." She gives a resigned look, like she's just going along with what you're saying. "No, I'm serious, look at how nice he's acting." You nudged your head towards Cerberus' head, encouraging her to give him a pet

Clarisse braves herself to give him a few strokes on his ears and found that he particularly likes that notion. "I guess he's not that bad." She admitted at last, pulling out a smile from you. "I told you."

"So what is he then? Some sort of guard dog?" She inquires. The gods would gift their children with tools that can be used, never something useless, like a domesticated pet. And from the looks of it, Cerberus is definitely not meant to be a some cute little friend.

"I don't know." You answered honestly.

"It's not like my dad does a lot of talking to me, but he gave me something from the underworld, something that's set as a reminder of him and his place above. I'd like to view it as some sort of stepping stone. Like I'm one step closer to him because of Cerberus."

It's not surprising that your end goal is to follow on your father's footsteps, no one really knows what the real secret to make their godly parent to care about them is.

It is often assumed that glory was the key, and yet, the best fighters in camp a

re usually the ones who resent their parents the most. You often prayed and hoped that you wouldn't ever have to cross that threshold.

"I'm sure he sees it that way too." Clarisse offered kindly. She knew all too well how much it meant to be noticed by their absent fathers, even if so slightly.

She slso knew deep down that even if your father refused to notice the lengths you would be willing to go for him, she did. And she would break the world in two for you if your father wouldn't. And you would do the same for her.

Clarisse leans her back against the lower frame of the bed, a small smile on her face as she watches you scratch the hound's chin whilst kissing the spot in between his eyes.

It is truly rare to catch sight of either daughters of Ares or Hades' being as gentle and playful as this, and Clarisse is grateful that these kind of intimacies are reserved for small private moments.

That same night, as she sleeps with her arms around your waist, Cerberus laying down by the foot of the bed, Clarisse realises that she would do anything for the bond between the two of you to prevail.