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littlepuddingsworld · 11 months ago

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Okay, this is going to sound insane, but please hear me out.

In the 19th century, there were doctors who specialised in curing "female hysteria", which was often just misdiagnosed sexual frustration (Whenever women were too out of control for men to handle, it was diagnosed as hysteria. So it was basically anything, sexual frustration included...). The cure was fingering...yeah. It was relatively normalised to, as a doctor, finger someone's wife...quite a way to make a living. There was basically a handbook written in Latin about how you do it (oil up your hand, insert here, there will be muscle contraction, the lady in question will breathe heavily before ultimately having a hysteria paroxysm (this is a former medical term for orgasms btw)). Obviously, there were mixed opinions about giving another man's wife an orgasm, however, the Catholic doctors concluded that it cannot have been sexual, since there was no penetration. "It's our duty as doctors to cure these poor women of their hysteria, Sir 🫡"

FUN FACT: Since some doctors would experience wrist pain from the...hard manual labour, they invented a device that does it for them: The vibrator. When the vibrator was first used in pornography, the doctors said NOPE and left their profession behind. In 2011, there was a period romcom made about this called Hysteria. It's not even that bad, unironically. Oh and by the way, the name hysteria is derived from the Greek word hystera, meaning uterus, hence why only women were diagnosed with hysteria.

Anyway, getting to my point:

Imagine a yandere thinking that you're being incredibly hysterical, emotional, out of control and then proceeding to sit you down and curing you of your hysteria the old-fashioned way...

They either do it knowingly, or are just too oblivious to even realise that what they are doing is...not quite the correct solution for the problems they caused you in the first place...

Just wanted to share this with someone...take it as you will...

,,, to be honest, I knew about the hysteria, but I didn't know about the fact that a vibrator was created that way,,,, sexy big brain<3333 i love your words so much, mercury kissed you at birth,,,, very brainy, very many cerebral convolutions, I love it,,, come here to kith kith pretty pie—

𝐁𝐈𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐈𝐂𝐒 𝐎𝐅 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄

your husband is so sweet, so adorable — especially when he's on his knees in front of you, purring something about how he should help you, as if it's not his personal fault that you feel like this.

... ♡ unhealthy relationship, misconception of the century / time, hierarchical society, mild sexism? (more classism?), mild maledom elements, mention of religion, forced marriage implied, male pregnancy mentioned because no pregnant reader, unethical treatment methods?; doctor!noble!husband x darling!reader

dubious consent (dubcon) -> consensual sex, crying, mild sadism/masochism, mention of degradation (g.), hair pulling (g.), oral sex (r.), mild fingering (r.), praise (r.)

If THEODORE had been told that he was "mistreating his darling spouse", he would have

agreed.

It was logical: if he treated you well, then would you enter into a frenzy of emotions, scream and look as if you were about to faint before falling at a table made of pleasantly smelling wood, — Theodore knew that you love this variety; almost all tables, chairs and other wooden utensils was of this sort, — completely exhausted, unable even to drive away your narrow-minded husband, only waving a fragile palm in his direction, as if desperate, while he took your fan, straight from the hands of the best chinese craftsmen, and gently fanned you, letting you hang head? Of course not.

You, his breathtaking spouse, were so touching and gentle, full of spring charm and a few drops of exquisite, expensive coquetry, like the first flowers in spring — delicate, almost transparent, not at all like the luxury of scarlet roses that gardeners grow every season, or the exuberant scent of lilac and juniper, especially in July. Not at all. Your charm was subtle, unique, corresponding to the rumbling of the first rivers or the first drop falling from the roofs after the melting of the snow. You have never been a socialite — never; parents were rich enough to support you and your siblings, but not rich enough to live in idleness and not worry about money.

You were introduced at the first ball and attended others from time to time, but most of the time you couldn't afford to walk around with "old dresses", not wanting to be considered poor or shame family by not being able to buy new clothes. Theodore understood perfectly well — being from a not-so-rich family, somehow coping with this whole world, you simply could not afford to live bohemian, expensive and shameless out of fear that money was too little, as if you did not even think that you could just marry someone rich and sponsor with their help your family. Theodore didn't blame, having heard about you for the first time from the mouths of other dandies who follow every new "coquette fan", more than an eloquent sign of finding a partner, though; "too conscientious and didn't understand how this world works" or just a prude,

but now, he understands that you just knew your worth and waited for someone like

him.

After all, in a world where divorce can only happen after death, and infidelity is punished by an enraged spouse with a knife, how could you easily marry someone? You were so alluring, like ripe peaches filled with juice — naturally, not everyone can and should touch your delicate, perfumed hands and caress skin so soft that no overseas silk can compare.

Theodore was sure that there were words about you: "If the cost of their kiss was hell, // then I will kiss their lips, // so that in hell I can brag to the devils // that I was in heaven without even entering it." Because you were paradise, it didn't matter if you smiled, cried or screamed — or were "not a couple who deserved," but only because you could have become the monarch's spouse right away, but he found you earlier.

He had no doubt that you were special — definitely to him. Therefore, he did not think long before he came to your parents to take you to his estate, in the sweetly itchy haste of first and only love, kissing your hands and touching the slightly trembling fan with thin fingers while you looked down in frightened amazement, while your parents confusedly exchanged glances, not understanding why he came to "court you". Theodore did not ask if you had someone — after all, if you had, you would rather slit your throat than let another touch your thin fingers, because he would have done exactly the same in your place if he were still a dependent young man (now, of course, he was not — having studied at a very prestigious university, where his parents also studied, he was more than an enviable independent bachelor and knew it). And if earlier he was afraid that, what if!, was not "normal", then when saw you, he knew that he had been waiting for you all this time — and you were undoubtedly waiting for him too.

If, in order to be with you, he had to refuse the sky, the sun and the moon, he would do it without hesitation. This is love — Theodore had no doubt that you yourself understand this.

Your parents, however, soon dispelled his prejudices. You didn't just "didn't understand it" — you weren't like that, but Theodore, hesitating only for a few seconds, realized that you just weren't like everyone else. While others were blinded by love, like him, you couldn't be like that — you just didn't understand it, didn't feel like that, and your parents were only afraid that your "defect" in the marriage market would make you lonely for the rest of days.

Theodore, however, did not think so: you were the same age as him, he was childless, unmarried, rich and educated, had an estate with intelligent and trained servants, good sources of income, a lot of free time, did not have the habit of drinking a lot of alcohol or tobacco, — and the fact that you were allegedly "not sensual enough" was, of course, stupidity. He wasn't going to use the fact that you can't pick up a knife to kill an unfaithful spouse! And I wasn't going to cheat! He won't do any harm! Yes, you may be a little... very very little defective-ish, but isn't love blind? He will accept you at any cost, even with such a... 'setback'.

... Of course, it is wrong and even abnormal that you cannot kill someone who is cheating on you, and are not ready to die just to be with someone you love, and that it is wild for you to give up everything for your beloved... But Theodore understands that you are already too perfect, and it's okay to have flaws. He's not thirteen anymore.

As long as this is not passed on to children, everything will be fine, please, don't worry, ma joie, — he gently whispers to you, touching gloved fingers, stroking fingers gently, looking into your very happy face ? — I'll accept you for who you are, even with this. With everything. Because you and I, being whole by ourselves, become more than just "ourselves" together.

And it was true, don't get him wrong! His pedigree was good, he was, uh, "thoroughbred," and his family tree was beautiful, worthy of your hand. Theodore was not self-confident, but he was confident, buying everything you want, not walking through salons and entertainment houses and not being in any dubious circles, his entourage was only intelligent people who had an education and could both write and read, and not in two languages, and there was no one in his circle someone of the same gender, and he wasn't squeamish or suspicious. After all, what else can you worry about? But you were worried. Over time, it's even a little noisy.

You shouted, sometimes threw yourself, behaved strangely, as if he was not a refined learned man who was your shadow and wrote poetry to you, not forcing you to do anything even after your approved marriage, but a brute or an invader. Did he take you away without permission? Perhaps using his status in society to a little and influence your parents with children who have not yet appeared to the beau monde, and used a little influence to convince these people that he will help your siblings in the future to find a better match than they can now count on — but then why does he need it: status, influence, reputation, — if he can't even convince his love to stay with him? Otherwise, you can't blame—

... Oh wait.

You can.

Theodore realizes with annoyance, sitting hs office with a book in hands, writing notes in diary, and adjusts his glasses: he had completely forgotten — you're "not like that." You're different. Your parents told him. You understand love differently, you look at your partner differently, you cannot understand the concept of love itself... Theodore used to think that they just raised you wrong, but now he understands what they meant: that the feelings that ordinary people spend on a partner, you leave inside, letting them accumulate, and when you realize that you can no longer, you emotionally explode and behave as if something is wrong with him or you — it's obvious! You just can't do it any other way! Of course, why else would you be unhappy with your situation? After all, it's natural that your family hardly communicates with you or that you can't spend a lot of time outside the house — everyone lives like that, except the unmarried! You just don't understand it!

Because you are so emotional, so sensitive, so responsive, that, naturally, you need special care and care, and not a sidelong glance from your husband, who behaved so coldly, only supporting, but not helping you in any way! After all, he studied at the best university, was one of the best students, even had an internship and, of course, corresponded with his comrades, learning new ways to deal with diseases and disorders. After all, what kind of "good husband" is he if he can't even help his gentle, easily excitable spouse cope with their, he's not afraid of that word, illness?

You just don't understand...

“... Darling, we need to make one thing.”

You are gentle, soft, not submissive — both in clothes and under them, and although you may consider him a little pathetic when he whispers it to you, burying cold nose in your thigh like a lost dog, but after shouting and throwing things, you are no longer so full of destructive energy. Holding him tightly by the hair, you look down with pursed lips, but do not answer anything — and in expensive clothes, with jewelry, sleek and clearly not deprived of the love and affection of a bohemian husband, you look like a deity that descended from heaven.

Theodore knows that he must decontaminate for sure, but what can a spouse hide from a spouse, right? After all, you are more than a "single whole", especially when he is sitting on his lap, no problem as long as you are sitting on a chair made of your favorite wood, soft and comfortable enough, allowing him to carefully get rid of excess clothes without disgrace, looking at how thin lips touch your skin in a respectfully pious way.

Even your heavy breathing from the outburst of emotions sounds like music that should be played in the church if they want the heavenly ambassadors to descend.

Is he too "sugary"?

No, he's just a realist.

“Darling, please...”

You don't push away even when fingers gently touch your thighs like feathers, just frowning a little harder. But not by pushing it away. You are smart, you always have been, and, of course, you yourself understand that you are sick, and only he, as your husband and doctor, can help you. It's natural. Why do you need another men- or women- another doctor? How dare someone else touch you? Only you can touch him and only he can touch you. He's yours — a husband, a doctor, anyone. As soon as you become healthier, he will definitely be your lover — and maybe one day you will take a child or will he carry it. After all, how dare he sleep with you and use you, so gentle and airy, like a messenger from heaven, while you are so deeply ill, not even really knowing what love is and how to react to it?

“Darling... It's just a little help. Just say the word and we'll stop anytime. I don't want to harm my spouse, you know... Besides, you can always stop me by force.”

You yourself spread your warm, soft, almost plush thighs while he meekly looks up from the bottom, trying to unobtrusively encourage you to let him just look a little. Theodore was not an expert on issues related to sex life or the influence of genitals on human behavior, — although, undoubtedly!, it was important, but he preferred less dirty things, — but now, kneeling in front of you on a soft carpet, stroking your skin, it did not seem something vile or dirty, animal, but for some reason pleasant and... airy-natural; the very sight made him want not to wince and turn away, but not to look away, even when you pull his hair harder, frowning, clearly not too willing to continue this, but it's better than if he drags you to someone else.

You knew yourself that your husband sometimes got too involved with the human body in a not too, uh, "harmless" sense, but it was never dangerous or illegal, unless against the law of god, so you let him correspond with 'friends' and 'colleagues', studying new diseases and learning more about experience and practice. But if you knew that one day you would be the subject of research, you would definitely throw his ink and letters into the fireplace — along with other things.

“Mi único... I want to help... Do you know what hysteria is? This is when a darling behaves very much... emotionally because of the internal tension. And so we have recently come up with a... new way to deal with similar diseases. It can help our marriage... Te quaeso?”

Theodore is not an idiot; rather, he feels like a trainer or a tamer, gently pushing and touching, without making any sudden movements while you look at him, gradually relaxing the tense body, letting his fingers, slightly slippery from oil and disinfectants, touch the delicate skin of the inner thigh, massaging and stroking, not hurrying. He doesn't have much experience — practically none, you never shared a bed even after the "wedding night", — but there is enough theory and ideas how to use it, especially when thin, slightly cool fingers slowly touch the skin under stomach, stroke as lightly as possible along a sensitive line, kissing with warmed lips the skin. If he could, he'd love to just open his mouth and eat you, or at least nibble — but he's not the type who eats his darling and then walks around saddened widowers and widows without the opportunity to remarry, he's a more sophisticated type and definitely not that creepy, even if the way you are you pull his hair as fingers gently circle around, rubbing and stroking, using precum for better contact, makes his eyes water and his mouth open slightly, breathing, feeling too ambiguous even for a "husband", let alone the role of the "doctor" in which he was.

“Please... d-darling...” He chirps something slightly hoarsely, stroking, caressing, breathing every other time, as if you are holding not by the hair, but by the throat; when his fingers tremble slightly, you hiss, making him blush slightly shamefacedly, as if from your swearing, — but he tries not to break the rhythm, ignoring, as befits a refined well-mannered husband. Do well-mannered husbands use their fingers on their spouses? Theodore doesn't have that much experience to respond, especially when you flinch slightly, curling your toes, — and he wants to bite just to remove this strange shameful, almost perverted feeling of a mixture of lust and guilt inside, clearly not too approved by religion, but when you start breathing shallowly and harder, closing your eyes, Theodore moves his fingers faster, watching your face.

Is that right? You don't hold him so tightly, but don't take your hand away, and his fingers are so slippery and wet that he's almost ashamed, as if it's all his juices, and he definitely should at least look away, but this is scientific curiosity, just curiosity, even when he changes his position, sinking lower shamelessly, feeling himself for a moment, it really was some kind of fallen man from entertainment houses, with an implicit gurgling feeling in the lower abdomen, listening only to your breathing and slightly squelching sounds. Theodore hardly breathes, looking at his fingers, trying for a moment to distract himself with the fleeting thought "good that cut nails" — but when your... your bare foot touches his shoulder, it seems so perversely seeing your calves that he does not know where to look — freezing for a moment, his eyes are drawn only to you, even if it looks so... sweetly vulgar, completely wrong, — but you're already married, so it's okay even if you're not like that, right? It's okay when he sees something below your neck and bare arms, it's okay when you squeeze his hair tightly again, it's okay when he hears your hot, loud breathing, as if you're breathing directly into his red ears, although he can't even look up from the way you're holding him.

Your fingers are strong, dexterous, squeezing his strands so hard that he can't move anywhere, but for some reason he is too pleased with this than he should be, even when Theodore feels like you are pushing him even closer shamelessly, as if he is not your, actually, noble and high-minded husband, who is now plays the role of your doctor, helping you with your "hysteria", but some kind of fun boy!

Outrageous!

“D-darl-!~”

You hiss something, almost growl — and pull too hard, forcing Theodore to briefly let out a distant sigh without resistance — and obediently open his mouth, hastily removing his fingers so as not to interfere before he finds a new, more comfortable place. His eyes are slightly watering from the mild pain, but when he does not see a shadow of the old irritation or anger in your face, he obediently sticks out the tip of his red tongue, not trying to shirk his doctoral duties — or is this already a marital duty? Theodore doesn't know, he's not sure, — especially when you hold him even tighter, not listening to what he says, knowing that if he really was "against it", he would have already got out, and not looked at you like a fawn at a hunter, as if it wasn't because of him that you were here, with legs spread apart and heavy breathing from the heaviness in the lower abdomen.

Is this really what he was taught at university?

A boy for fun.

The corners of your husband's eyes turn red, but he does not try to say anything or justify himself, — why should he? — making inarticulate sounds, but only moving his head, hesitantly holding your hips as much as he could do it respectfully and unobtrusively; after all, he is a learned man, even if he was kneeling like some kind of animal or a slave.

When Theodore awkwardly, clumsily moves his tongue, trying to make sure that you feel good, for some reason the world feels much brighter and sharper, — especially when the heat gets stronger, making you tremble slightly, feeling a wide tongue and thin flexible fingers, as if they are perfect only for this, but there is less air in your lungs than you need to continue dirty deservedly whisper to him how low he has sunk, from his 'writing letters to the best doctors he studied with' to kneeling in front of his spouse.

It's not that you're going to stop him or let him change his position, of course, but just force him to continue doing what he's good for, while he's almost meowing, almost purring, not trying to pull away anymore.

... It's not that he's wrong, though.

You definitely feel better after a little therapy.

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creaturefeaster · 17 days ago

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Heyyy does Taylor get freaky in a spicy way with Zack? Or does he get more freaky in the weird way???

i am begging you, whoever is sending these asks, for some actual descriptive terminology. what is "spicy freaky" meant to imply? what is the "weird" way to be freaky?" how am i meant to know what you think is weird? it's entirely subjective.

#im not mad or anything just so thats stated clearly #its just way too vague to answer #taylor is really adamant about following rules and adhering to the status quo.#but he's a crackpot underneath that shell and zack can crack that shell you know?#i wanna add. the only reason im giving these asks the light of day is because i want so badly to say #yeah taylor is a freak. but if i just say that... that doesn't imply anything except for what the reader thinks a 'freak' is #which is not a debate i want to be throttled into under the bait of vagueness.#i also just want to make it clear i get a lot of asks with current slang that i do not always understand #i am almost 30 i am not in the social sphere that uses Spicy. idk what that means when its used like that #please be descriptive with me <:3

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meiplays · 22 days ago

Text

Sunday Nights with Jensen

🛼🌆🌻📼 🛹

Pairings: Jensen Ackles x Reader (female!reader)

Genre: SFW, Fluff, Light Smut (Kissing, Heavy Makeout), Slowburn, Secret Romance, Frat Boy Jensen vibes

Warnings: Cheating (with a clueless boyfriend), Reckless Behavior, Inexperienced Reader, Heavy Kissing

Word Count: ~1,200-2,000 words

sᴄᴏᴛᴛʏ ᴅᴏᴇsɴ'ᴛ ᴋɴᴏᴡ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ғɪᴏɴᴀ ᴀɴᴅ ᴍᴇ

ᴅᴏ ɪᴛ ɪɴ ᴍʏ ᴠᴀɴ ᴇᴠᴇʀʏ sᴜɴᴅᴀʏ

sʜᴇ ᴛᴇʟʟs ʜɪᴍ sʜᴇ's ɪɴ ᴄʜᴜʀᴄʜ ʙᴜᴛ sʜᴇ ᴅᴏᴇsɴ'ᴛ ɢᴏ

sᴛɪʟʟ sʜᴇ's ᴏɴ ʜᴇʀ ᴋɴᴇᴇs ᴀɴᴅ sᴄᴏᴛᴛʏ ᴅᴏᴇsɴ'ᴛ ᴋɴᴏᴡ

.•♫•♬• .

Summary: Your boyfriend thinks you’re just hanging out at home on Sunday nights — but really, you’re sneaking away to the back of an old van to share reckless, messy, unforgettable moments with Jensen Ackles. You’re inexperienced and nervous, but Jensen’s frat-boy charm and wild kisses make you forget all your doubts. Sunday nights are your secret, and you never want them to end.

AN: this is the last of my drafts for awhile! Ive been posting them like crazy- anyways I heard this song again and knew I had to write this!

Sunday nights were sacred. But not for the reasons your boyfriend thought.

He probably figured you were chilling at home, watching Netflix or texting his friends, totally innocent and predictable. Meanwhile, you had a secret. A reckless, thrilling, can’t-keep-hands-off kind of secret.

Jensen Ackles was waiting for you behind that old van parked behind the school gym — the one nobody really cared about anymore. Your hideout. Your escape.

Your phone buzzed as the last light faded, and you almost dropped it when you saw his message:

Back of the van. 7 PM. Don’t be late, or I’m dragging you out by your hair.

God, that smug little threat made your stomach flip.

You grabbed your jacket, slipped out the door, and left your boyfriend none the wiser. His laughter floated up from the living room as you closed the front door, heart pounding in your ears.

The walk was short, but every step felt like a lifetime.

Jensen was leaning against the van, sleeves rolled up, grin wide as hell and eyes sparkling like he’d just won the lottery.

“Late,” he said with a teasing smirk.

“Traffic,” you shot back, sliding into the van next to him.

The van smelled like old leather and Jensen’s cologne — sharp, warm, and absolutely intoxicating. The space was cramped, the walls closing in, but all you could focus on was him.

Before you could think twice, his hands were on your waist, pulling you flush against him.

His lips slammed onto yours — sloppy, desperate, messy in the best possible way. You weren’t exactly experienced, but Jensen’s reckless kisses made you forget everything else.

Your hands fumbled on his chest, fingers trembling, trying to match his urgency.

His fingers tangled in your hair, tugging gently as he kissed you like he couldn’t get enough — like this was the only thing that mattered.

His mouth traveled down your jaw, to your neck, teeth grazing lightly and sending shivers down your spine.

You caught your breath, cheeks burning. “Jensen, this is crazy.”

He chuckled low in his throat. “Exactly.”

His hands explored your sides, rough but gentle enough to make your skin burn.

“This is… wild,” you whispered, voice shaky.

“Boyfriend doesn’t know, right?” Jensen teased, that cocky grin never leaving his lips.

“No clue,” you admitted, heart hammering.

He laughed, then kissed you again, even messier this time — clumsy and real.

The van felt too small, too tight, but that just made every touch, every breath, every second between you more intense.

You tangled your fingers in his hair, pulling him closer, lost in the reckless thrill of it all.

When you finally pulled back, breathless and flushed, Jensen caught your hand and squeezed it.

“Sundays are ours,” he said, voice low and sure.

“Deal,” you whispered, smiling wide.

The second Jensen said, “Sundays are ours,” the last bit of control you had over yourself snapped.

Before you could stop him, his hands were sliding down your sides, fingers pressing firmly against your hips as he yanked you flush against him. The cramped van gave no room to move, but that only made every inch of contact feel amplified—more urgent, more desperate.

His lips smashed against yours again, sloppy and wild. There was no slow build-up, no teasing. Just raw, heavy need. Your mouth opened instinctively, tongue tangling clumsily with his, breath hitching in the heat of it all. His stubble scraped your cheek as he kissed like he wanted to mark you, leaving no doubt that you were his secret.

Your hands scrambled up to his thick hair, tugging lightly, desperate to keep him close even as your knees shook beneath you. Jensen’s grip tightened on your hips, holding you steady as you shifted to grind against him—unthinking, reckless, and thrilling.

The world outside disappeared. The only sounds were your ragged breaths, the rough scrape of denim and leather, and the frantic thump of your hearts.

His mouth traveled down your jaw to your neck, teeth grazing and nipping just enough to make your skin tingle, sending sparks of fire racing through you. You moaned softly, head falling back as his hands slipped beneath your jacket, fingers tracing hot, electric paths over your bare skin.

You were inexperienced, sure, but Jensen’s urgency made you forget all hesitation. You clumsily pulled his shirt up, fingers trembling as you brushed your palms against his warm skin. His muscles flexed under your touch, solid and real.

He groaned, voice low and rough. “You’re driving me insane.”

You laughed breathlessly, the sound shaky but full of exhilaration.

Your hips pressed harder, grinding against him in that cramped space, the friction sending jolts of heat through your body. Jensen’s hands slid lower, sliding under your shirt to cup your waist, fingers digging in possessively.

The kiss became sloppy, breathless—teeth clashing, tongues exploring with messy desperation.

You felt yourself melting into him, dizzy and overwhelmed. Your hands wandered, seeking every inch of him as if you could memorize him through touch alone.

Jensen’s breath was hot against your skin as his lips found your collarbone, teeth nipping lightly and leaving a burning trail. You gasped, fingers tightening in his hair, legs trembling beneath you.

Your heart was pounding so hard it felt like it might burst, but you never wanted to pull away.

Time was a blur. The urgency, the heat, the messy grind of your bodies was a chaotic dance — frantic, raw, and reckless.

Just as the tension reached its peak, Jensen pulled back slightly, resting his forehead against yours.

“You’re mine,” he whispered, voice rough with something deeper than desire.

You nodded, breathless and dizzy, voice barely a whisper. “And you’re mine.”

For a moment, all that existed was the two of you — tangled, messy, and consumed by the wild, reckless fire that only Sunday nights could bring.

The world felt slow and soft now.

You were stretched out against Jensen’s chest, tangled in his arms like a secret you didn’t want to let go of. Your hair was messy, your skin still flushed from the reckless heat of what had just happened.

Jensen’s breath puffed out in slow, satisfied bursts as he leaned back against the van’s cold metal, one hand resting lightly on your hip, the other holding a cigarette. The faint glow of the ember pulsed in the dim light, smoke curling lazily around you both.

His voice was low, rough — the kind of quiet that only comes after chaos.

“Damn, you’re something else,” he murmured, his fingers tracing soft circles on your skin.

You smiled tiredly, eyes half-closed. “You’re reckless as hell.”

Jensen chuckled, dragging on the cigarette, the smoke swirling between you like a veil.

“I’m just messing with you,” he said. “But yeah, Sundays are definitely our thing now.”

You nuzzled closer, resting your head against his broad chest, listening to the steady thump of his heartbeat — grounding, real.

Then, your phone buzzed quietly on the van floor.

You bent to grab it, eyes widening when you saw the time blinking back at you.

“Shit,” you whispered, scrambling to your feet. “It’s almost ten.”

Jensen’s eyes darkened, a slow grin creeping onto his lips as he stepped toward you.

Before you could slip past him, his hand shot out and grabbed your wrist, fingers tightening just enough to hold you in place.

“Break up with him,” Jensen said, voice low and thick with something dangerous. “I want you to myself.”

Your breath hitched, heart pounding as his gaze pinned you like a wild promise — reckless, raw, and completely his.

For a moment, all you could do was stare.

Then Jensen pulled you close, lips brushing your ear.

“Think about it,” he whispered.

You nodded, trembling with the thrill and fear of what that meant.

And as you slipped out into the night, the weight of his words settled deep inside you — impossible to ignore.

...

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morganski-19 · 1 year ago

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The One with Sleeping

Steve wakes up with someone’s arm wrapped around his stomach. Which is odd considering he didn’t have anyone over last night. And he’s on his couch with beer bottles on the coffee table and what looks like two crushed ends of a joint in the ash tray.

But he’s too groggy to figure it all out, and it’s probably just Robin anyway, so he leans his head back down and starts to fall back asleep. Until the other person stirs and sits up rapidly, causing him to fall off of his couch.

“What the fuck,” he grunts, slowly getting up from the ground. At least he’s awake now. “Why did you throw me off the couch Rob-.” Steve stops as he sees who’s on the couch. “You’re not Robin.”

Jonathan stares at Steve with a mix of concern and fear. “No, I’m not.”

“Why were you sleeping on my couch?”

“Why were we cuddling?” Jonathan asks, acting as if it was the more pressing question of the two.

Steve collects himself off the ground. “I don’t know. I tend to sleep cuddle people.”

“You sleep cuddle people. That’s a thing?” Jonathan sits up, running a hand through his tangled hair.

“Yeah. Ask Robin, she has a lot of stories about it.” Steve fixes his shirt, it having twisted weird when he fell off the couch. “Thanks for throwing me off the couch by the way.”

Jonathan makes a sheepish face. “Sorry. You scared me when I woke up.”

Steve sits down next to him. “It’s fine. So, why were you sleeping on my couch.”

“I don’t know,” Jonathan scratches at his chin. “I remember coming over last night for some drinks, and then we got high. We must have just dozed off.”

“Together, on the couch,” Steve reasons.

“You don’t think we, you know. Did anything, right?” Jonathan asks cautiously.

Steve laughs. “No, no we’re good. Even cross faded me knows not to flirt with my friends.”

“Does sober you know not to do that?” Jonathan deadpans. Having witnessed Steve play flirt with Eddie multiple times.

Steve clears his throat, avoiding answering that. “The point is, I wouldn’t have tried anything. Not with you, so we probably just fell asleep and somehow ended up in this position.”

“What do you mean not with me?”

“Oh my god,” Steve rolls his eyes. “Now you’re offended? You don’t even like me like that.”

Jonathan scoffs. “And neither do you.”

“Exactly, which is why I wouldn’t have tried anything.”

“But if it was Eddie, would you have tried something.”

“I’m not answering that.” Steve gets up to clear away the old bottles, carrying them over to the recycling can. “If it was Argyle, would you have?” he finally counters.

Jonathan’s face breaks out in a flush that he tries to hide with a cough. “Can we agree not to mention this is anyone?” he changes the subject. “Say I just stayed over and slept on your couch, alone.”

Steve shrugs. “I guess. What, you ashamed that we cuddled on my couch or something?” Jonathan looks away. “Oh my god, you are. How fucking dare you?”

“What do you mean? This isn’t exactly normal for the two of us.” Jonathan stands.

“Sure. But you wanting to hide it means you’re ashamed. Are you ashamed that you slept with me.”

Jonathan gives him a blank expression. “Please don’t call it that.”

“I am calling it that, because it was true. The two of us, slept on the same couch, together, also while cuddling a little bit. It happens, it was an accident. We use it as a funny story and move on.”

“Or we don’t mention it at all.”

Steve crosses his arms. “Alright, under one condition. You admit that was the best sleep you’ve gotten in a while.”

Jonathan huffs. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I think you know exactly what I’m talking about. Chronic insomniac Jonathan, falling asleep for what looks to be about, oh I don’t know,” Steve looks at the clock on the oven. “Six or so hours, undisturbed. That had to have been a good night’s sleep.”

Jonathan scrunches up his face before giving in. “Fine, ok.”

Steve laughs in victory.

“It was the best night I’ve gotten in a while, you’re right.”

“For me too, actually.”

“Wait. Wasn’t Robin here last night?” Jonathan remembers.

Steve’s eyes widen. “Yeah, she was. Where is she?” He lightly taps on her door before opening it, finding an empty, unmade bed. “Shit, she’s gone.”

“So, she saw us,” Jonathan accepts defeat. “Great. Where do we think she is?”

There is suddenly a loud burst of laughter from across the hall. “Oh no,” Steve groans.

“We’re never going to live this down, are we?” Jonathan asks with a wince.

“Nope,” Steve says defeated. “We go in together?” He turns to Jonathan.

Jonathan nods. “Only way to do it at this point.”

Steve heads across the hall to Nancy and Eddie’s apartment. He nods at Jonathan before opening the door to ruckus laughter.

“There are the sleepy heads,” Robin teases on the couch. Waving her phone in the air. “Hope we didn’t wake you up,” she fake pouts.

Eddie comes out of his room with a picture in his hand, holding it close to his chest when he realized Steve and Jonathan are there. “Oh, hey guys,” he says with a knowing smile.

Nancy starts laughing. “How’d you guys sleep?” she asks innocently.

Argyle sits on the armchair with crossed arms. “Terribly, I hope.”

“I thought this would happen,” Jonathan whispers while pinching the bridge of his nose. “We slept as good as two people sharing a couch do.”

“You admitted it so fast,” Robin barks. Cackling.

“You all already know,” Steve defends. “Also, what the hell is in your hands?”

Eddie tries to cover the picture with his hands. “Nothing.”

Steve walks toward Eddie. “So, I can see it then?”

Eddie runs to the other side of the room, Steve chasing after him. They do a whole back and forth at the kitchen table, Eddie almost running into the counter when he gets away. Steve fails to catch up with him as Eddie does another lap.

Jonathan moves out of the way before he gets run into, walking over to a still upset Argyle. “It really wasn’t that great,” he lies.

“Don’t lie to me,” Argyle says, avoiding Jonathan’s gaze.

Eddie runs into his bedroom, unable to lock the door before Steve gets it open, following him in. There’s a crash, causing Nancy to perk up with concern. But when yelling and sounds of wrestling continue, she sits back on the couch, sipping her coffee.

“Fine, it was the best sleep I’ve had for a few weeks. But it doesn’t mean anything, it was an accident I promise.”

“Are you weirded out by this,” Robin whispers to Nancy.

She just shrugs. “Not really.”

“It was really an accident?” Argyle asks.

“Yes, I really didn’t mean to. I’m sorry.”

Argyle finally looks at him, his face softening. “Promise?”

“I promise.”

“No,” Eddie yells from the bedroom. “Don’t rip it.” Followed by a “Ha, got it,” from Steve. He walks out victoriously with the picture.

“Neither of you are bleeding, right?” Nancy confirms, not really caring anymore. Steve shakes his head.

Eddie comes out of the room, leaning on his doorway, panting. “Please don’t tear it up. It was my last piece of picture paper.”

“Out of all of us, why is it you that has a printer?” Robin asks. Eddie just shrugs.

“What is it?” Jonathan asks, wincing.

Steve walks over to show him. “What you think. Why did you print it out anyway?”

“To put on the wall of many shames,” Eddie says, pointing to the wall covered in pictures of the group scattered along the back wall. Some with pictures drawn on their faces and other various situations they’ve gotten themselves into.

Steve looks at Jonathan, who just shrugs. With a roll of his eyes, Steve walks over and tapes it to the wall.

Tag list (let me know if you want to be added or taken off) @slowandsteddie, @annieofhearts, @cacdyke, @ubpd, @captain--low, @thespaceantwhowrites, @goodolefashionedloverboi, @anne-bennett-cosplayer, @lunaticparisianlady, @apomaro-mellow, @dolphincliffs, @dragonmama76, @maggiebug417, @stevesbipanic, @fearieshadow, @mentallyundone, @eightpackdiaz, @au79burger @bookworm0690 , @practicallybegging, @potato-of-the-lord

#morgan's friends au #stranger things #friends au #apartment au #spicy six apartment schenanigans #steve harrington #jonathan byers #robin buckley #eddie munson #nancy wheeler #argyle stranger things #pre relationship #implied steddie #implied jargyle #steddie #jargyle

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