futac00chi3

[futac00chi3]

My name is Abed.

I’m a survivor from Gaza, holding on to hope in a world that has fallen apart around me. 💔

The life I once knew — my home, my family, my sense of safety — has been shattered by war. Today, I live among the ruins, trying to find a path forward through the rubble and heartbreak. 🏚

Every moment is a battle against fear and uncertainty. What was once ordinary — a safe place to sleep, a future to dream of — now feels like a distant memory. 🕊️

I share my story not to seek pity, but to keep hope alive — to believe that even in the darkest places, kindness can still find a way. 🤍

If my story touches your heart, please consider sharing it or offering support. Every voice, every act of care, brings me one step closer to safety. ✨

Thank you for taking the time to listen. 🙏

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sharing ! 🫶

[futac00chi3]

THE LAST OF US X THE MAZE RUNNER THOUGHTS

content : TLOU x TMR thoughts, because I have so many ideas and can only write one LOL, so here are my other ideas. some knowledge of The Maze Runner needed? but you can go in blind tbf although mind the spoilers (for the movies, I don’t remember much from the books).

featuring : ellie, dina, abby, jesse & more ! x reader under the cut.

⋆.˚ Jorge!Joel and Brenda!Ellie, except Ellie is an old WCKD test subject. She (somehow) escaped before being put in the Maze, maybe with some help from the Right Arm, and ended up in the Scorch with Riley, her best friend at the time. They travelled aimlessly for a few days before both got bit by a Crank, but Riley is the only one who turned, leaving Ellie alone. She ends up meeting Joel, ex-Right Arm member, currently in cahoots with a guy who brings Immunes back to WCKD, he’s set on bringing her back there and get her out of his hands. Except, he starts to tolerate her the more they look for this guy, Joel can’t help but see Sarah, his daughter who also got taken by WCKD, in Ellie. Joel end up stopping at a city with Ellie and never leaving, instead trying to look for the Right Arm. (maybe the Right Arm is run by Tommy and Maria …)

⋆.˚ Gally!Abby because hear me out! First of all, her being a builder makes the most sense to me, she’s buff and has probably been here for a long time, she probably ran the Maze in the early days and now focuses on building stuff. But also Thomas!Ellie, Abby hating Ellie because she comes and wants to change everything, wants to take the lead and disobey every rule that has ever been made. I also think that her being part of Lawrence’s crew makes sense, like, it’s just RIGHT, her meeting Owen and everyone at that moment.

⋆.˚ To go back to Thomas!Ellie, I think she fits Thomas a lot, I do think that she would want to matter, to make things change even if it’s only been a few days since her arrival, the Maze would a 100% intrigue her. Although I don’t really know who would fit Theresa LOL, I don’t think Jesse fits her at all, or any of the characters we know for that matter. But then consider Newt!Dina…. the angst potential, Dina turning into a Crank minutes before Ellie learns she could have saved her all along, Minho!Jesse watching is ex-lover and best friend dying when he finally saw her again, unable to do anything, oh I’m unwell.

⋆.˚ The only thing I don’t like about Thomas!Ellie is that you can’t really fit Riley into the narrative, and she’s a very important part of Ellie’s character, Ellie would never regain her past memories and making her a part of the Glade would be pointless because Ellie would have never been close to her. Which is why I bring to you Minho!Ellie and Nick!Riley (the First in command before Alby), although I’d imagine Riley to be more of a character that ‘haunts the narrative’, maybe she got stung by a Griever while on a run with Ellie, she saw things and flashbacks that nobody believed and died with people thinking she’s crazy. Except everything she said while delirious ends up true, and you see it more and more as the story progresses. Or maybe she would be like George equivalent, first in the Glade, dies brutally and unexpectedly, marking everyone for life.

⋆.˚ Before going into x reader territory, here’s some of my headcannons for every TLOU character that I can think of : in the Glade : Dina, Jesse and Ellie would all be runners, with Dina sometimes helping with the animals, but their primary job would be running. As for the WLF Abby would be a builder, Mel a medjack, Nora too, Owen could also be a builder ? But runner would fit too. Manny reminds me of Frypan, he has the same humor in dark times vibes you know, although I don’t think Frypan would spit on his enemies, he’s too kind for that. Jordan looks like someone who would have stayed behind with Gally and dies that way. Marlene would be an ex-WCKD member who founded the Right Arm, the Fireflies equivalent I’d imagine. Joel would be Jorge equivalent no doubt, Tommy and Maria could be Right Arm members. I think Tess would be a smuggler at first like Joel, and then tried to help some Immunes taken by WCKD escape and died that way. More random but I think the Glade Ellie and everyone is in would be different that the one in the movie, in the game, there's a lot of buildings and I always get lost finding the way, a Maze that reflects that would be interesting : tall rundown buildings with levels that changes everyday.

⋆.˚ Alright x reader time ! I have too much ideas lol. Thomas!Ellie and Teresa!Reader doesn’t really work unless we forgo the whole only girls in the Maze with one last boy thing. But if we do : Reader showing up in the Box shouting Ellie’s name before passing out, people getting suspicious, especially Abby who wants to exile Ellie before it’s too late. (Reader climbing up the watchtower and decking Abby and Jesse with rocks and stick.) The angst potential is through the roof, Reader remembering things from the beginning of the Flare and betraying everyone, calling WCKD on them because she can’t live with the knowledge that she could still do something to help the infected. The betrayal on Ellie’s face when she realizes that Reader is the one who ratted them out, who got Jesse captured and tortured in WCKD headquarters. Reader dying saving Ellie, as a way to atone for all the wrong she did.

⋆.˚ So I already mentioned Brenda!Ellie so let me expand on it a bit. I think Ellie would still be Immune, like Thomas level of Immune so she couldn’t be the one to get bitten like in the movie. But then consider : Reader who got bit. They meet like in the movie, Reader comes from a Maze, got out and ended up at the WCKD facility, thought they were safe (they weren’t) and escaped to the Scorch with some other Gladers. They spot a settlement on the third day, the people seems welcoming enough, until they realize that Reader & co are WCKD property and they could get a good sum if they bring them back. And that’s how they end up tied upside down over a giant hole, waiting for WCKD to rip them again. Cue Joel and Ellie helping them (I imagine Joel telling Ellie to hide the fact she’s Immune), Joel sees it as the best way to finally search for the Right Arm again. Long story short WCKD arrives (again) and attacks everyone, they get separated during their escape and Ellie and Reader end up stranded, left alone to find the others, Ellie leads them through the buildings, and Reader gets bit, making Ellie promise not to tell anyone. When they do arrive at the Right Arm and Reader collapses from the infection, Ellie would a 100% reveal she’s Immune so the medic can do the antidote from her ! blood.

⋆.˚ I have so much thoughts on Brenda!Ellie ARGHHH. Skipping a few chapters but both ending up at the Safe Haven, they both lost a lot, both striken with grief and not knowing what to do with themselves after everything. So they bond over it, there’s no threat anymore, but survival instinct dies hard, and it’s easier to cope when there's two of you. (Maybe a kiss or three behind the new medical hut, stolen fruits as date gifts, maybe they find a guitar and Ellie teaches Reader just like Joel did, oh I'm sick.)

⋆.˚ I’m going to stop here because I have a runner!Ellie x builder!Reader oneshot brewing. Would love to hear your guys’ thoughts tho.

first time posting on tumblr, kinda nervous. likes, comments and reblogs are always appreciated ! [:

[futac00chi3]

would anyone be interested in an ellie x reader maze runner AU ? i want to start writing again but idk LOL ( also if y'all have some ideas feel free to share eheh)

[futac00chi3]

my womanhood has never been threatened by a trans woman. i have never felt threatened by the existence of trans people. i am disgusted and repulsed by the actions of the uk supreme court. trans rights are human rights.

[futac00chi3]

𝐫𝐢𝐩𝐜𝐨𝐫𝐝: 𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠. (𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐦𝐞)

summary. | next chapter (tba). you're expecting—and ellie is sick in love. one thing inhibits her: she thinks it isn't requited.

reader discretion is advised. mdni. fluff. a punch of angst: one instance of abuse. mentions of previous. pregnant!reader. jackson!loser!ellie. damaged relationship with a man explicit (for the plot.) the pining creeps in. strangers to lovers (in the future). requited but assumed unrequited love. cheesy romance scenes. evident undertones of addiction: substance mention, cannabis, strained relationships (ellie and joel common occurence. reader and their scumbag bf too). a realistic motherhood. depression. apprehension. you get it. wc: 4.3k. series masterlist.

note.

based on this anon i got. shoutout to @serqphites fr. art in header creds to @nramv. thanks to @s-4pphics for proofreading this one for me! join the discord to see content such as this in creation.

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐬 

It is the thought that stomachs you.

“Shit,” you curse and bite the mouth that does. Mindless thing. “He’s gonna murder you, damn idiot.”

Control is contraception. You kneel your head to the faucet, its trickle the thing that embraces your ears; if you could crawl out of one, you would. Here is said to be simple. Here is an embellished free port. These people, neighbours and founders—elders, to be exacting for spiteful whims, sold the idea that you would have support and homes to crash in outside your own if it did ever crumble to the ground. Bandages to bleed in. But the shameful wound is open, unclosing. No one wants to account for a burden that isn’t their consequence.

You had a dream in the palm of your hand.

But what is wanted—is not for sale. You just assume control over disorder. It happens to a girl at least once, right? That dreadful blue in the sound once you learn for sure that you lost to it: to nature.

You wash the vacant spot.

Fucking pregnant.

It felt possible the first run to the toilet. Then, too terrible to be a lie the third roundabout. Vomit litters the porcelain basin.

Cat figured something was up before you caught this nauseous spell. She mentioned and argued that your constant trips to the bathroom were irregular, and you made light and nodded in a sunlit direction. Capering under its false pretense. “Yeah, what about it?” you segued, but not without heel-stumbling. Frou-frou foxes in Midsummer fires, your all-differentiating, all-time repeat from the Cocteau Twins; the radio thrummed with its rounding lulls and ethereals around a crowded living room, a whirling concoction for your hapless intoxication. Bird without its wings.

So is it the alcohol, or the condition—hurling you over the toilet bowl?

Either consequence creeps up from intestinal serpentining, as you pull apart your own single-headed carelessness. Who to blame, other than the carrier, right? Shit, well, a condom was used. You made with that precaution. So, are you the luckless one percent, or is the old-world hiding something important about fucking contraception? Can one girl be—ill-fated to this? You cocoon against the cupboards, slipping down the hinges, the knobs and indents. “Shit,” repeats your stunned mouth, quieter this time. 

The walls seem to listen; a disagreeing wind quivers the window.

Even if you weren’t a statistic: the abandoned alcohol, now advantaged and emptied, returned to its fine-china neighbors in your father’s parlor, is evidence. Chastisement waiting to scream. He hates parties—and with much less than a tolerant grunt, hates girls who attend them. It seems sensible; Cat is a regular host, and he chastises your friendship. 

Not her. You, being her friend.

Cat sighed, mashing the butt of her cig into a bisected can. The nutritions label was faded. “You’re a damn wreck,” within amusement, she scolded. But it was not without a heartstopper. She laughed, “If you end up pregnant, ‘m not watching the little shit. Get enougha’ that out of daycare to take it home with me as well. Damn it.” and it tore your stomach open; the organ pummeled into your serpentine guts, and the deafening throb frightened itself higher. You could taste what wanted to come up.

You swallowed. “Pregnant?” Concentrated on the purple under sienna-brown eyes. Distraction meant the world, in that moment.

She nodded—and shrugged, an unsure note. “Just a hypothetical.” 

Fuck you, psychic.

The guilt was beginning to make itself felt. You relapsed, in a heartfelt confession, to a state of adolescence this evening. “You’re so goddamn selfish!” It is one thing to be treated as innocent; Mateo could be condescending at times, but to be spoken at like a cruel, bird-brained and intentioned child, and with innocence, crushed you. He argued that wanting to keep this pregnancy—after you gave him the boot—was not your moral to preach while consequences were afoot. “Do you really think you have it in you to be a mother?”

Fetal termination exists, still, in the apocalypse. At life-threatening costs. That was reason enough to let nature take its pathological course.

One tremble. “Yes.” You are a child again.

You can see it in his lineaments. He flinches his person in disgust, hundred somethings held under his tongue. “If you want to believe that.” The air is too pure for him. He rifles the cartridges on his wardrobe for a lighter, joint in the opposite hand. He takes a drag, hides his face with the pungent result, and espies the resentment shining your under-eyes with less care than before; these are just crocodile tears to him. “Sure,” he shrugs.

Then his attention drops a little lower than your chest, a brief change of heart. You feel the need to crawl inside your arms. More than ever.

He points with the smoldering dog-end. Silence snaps. “Not mine.” Flicking it to enunciate himself. The discarded state of him, and his disclaim, leaves a bitter taste in your mouth—if not the entire esophageal hole. Your lungs: filled with his exhaust. “Go find some other dude to blame. M’sure you had a couple who..” The joint finds its purpose again. “Might happen to look a little more identical,” he accuses.

You left before the air became his.

Time does not bring relief; the emptiness in your bed does anything but suffer silence. The growing hours are loud, and Jackson is still a paradise to some who are convinced it has its comforts.

You all have lied.

𝐭𝐫𝐮𝐞 𝐟𝐚𝐢𝐭𝐡

“Of course he went and narced on her to her father!” 

Jackson is outside the rest of America. Yes, it craters in national alpines, but it was a roadside seedling at the end of the last generation. Wood rotted to cordyceps in its neighbors; this place was given a second life. The standing tables here in the one and alone bar—the famous, aliased Bison—are so red, so wood-strong, so anointed with caring hands, you can catch a glimpse of yourself in it. 

Cat treats it with the same purpose as if it were decades ago, and nothing ever happens here; she slams her lighter and pint glass down on it—pissed to express the least of the most. “Who else does shit like that?”

Despite the fact that Cat is virtually your sister from another mother, you went to Jesse about the argument first. He isn't a volatile pipe bomb with ears and earful intentions that create more harm, not good; she absolutely fucking is. One mention, and her fingertips are spitting fire. Cast iron doesn't even get near hot enough as the hands that share a piece of her trouble-starved mind.

But, she found out regardless. Not that you should ever stop her from; on some occasions, she has the right.

Jesse left your big news out of it, though. Not his right to tell.

“His corner of the town,” Jesse adds, his soft fingers around his glass, and up to his splitting mouth. He glances round the booth in search of all attention. Sure of it, he piled on. “Got a lotta assholes with the same notions in mind.” Chuting a sip of wine—a drink which lost its romantic significance to casual consumption, on par with beer—down his gullet.

Slow, agreeing nods pass around until another lip chips in. “Fucking dick.” Ellie, with the fullest glass, and untethered fingers tapping about the rim, has her head resting low on one fist, doubled over the curl-leaf surface. 

Jesse scoffed. “Tell me about it.” Sardonic sort of response—to her short, but symptomatic one. He leans in his corner and trains the attention on her, a question in his squint. “Say, Ellie, you dealt with him on occasion, right? When he collaborated with Eugene. All that weed?”

She hates to hear it. “Just one time.” In her head—her head when it escapes out here into social wilderness—she was a good girl. Clean, rectified, an adolescent state of mind, and it has the whole world to do with Joel and learning to forgive. It is the least bit detectable on the outside, but she really is doing better than before. Rough-faced or not. “What about it?” She looks up, at last, the perfect shrug to her cross-question.

“Was she even there?”

Ellie crumpled up having to account for that one time; wrinkles in the brows, a snagged or yawning mouth, post-insomniac ripples and redness in her optic profile. Imagine an irate basset hound.“Reno?” She means your given alias: Reno, or Nevada, your origins. And she is Boston, or Massachusetts. “No, not at all.”

“See, he makes that shit up all the time,” Cat interludes. “First it was Justice, then it was me who he ratted out to Maria. Stopped trading with him after.” 

Jesse has not traded once, or thought to smoke pot once, but he agrees. “Mhm.” A man of no judgement—when it comes to friends.

Sunset is climbing and pushing to stoop in the apertures of the table. The lithe, gold tadpole-ends creeping in, beating over faces, and so the restaurant had its lights switched on to make up for those recalcitrant pockets; soft, water-black mottles in the deeper corners. Ellie laced fists, cupping one around the other, and a particular string of light dug for this vulnerable formation. She has a heap to process in her own head; the sudden silence, deafening.

Shifting to his elbows, Jesse rests his well-slept eyes on her—a sore sight. “Gonna finish that?” He points, withheld fingers stretching for his own glass.

She clicks her tongue to her teeth. “Nah,” responding with whatever is left in her, a breath or a reaching-more. The glass grates as she hardly straightens her fingers to push it aside. “Tastes different.”

The claim draws out the doubt from their faces. “Tastes the same as before,” Jesse professes as he rolls the last droplets of his wine past his lips and along the columns of his throat, replacing his grip with the full glass of scotch, sunlight streaming through the liquid with blonde lines against nectar-gold. Her choice of spirits. “I best be joinin’ Seth in the kitchen. Have fun, ladies.” He crawls knee-first from the booth.

Cat shoots an astonished sneer, one he cannot see or sense in his bones as his legs were haste to vault the counter. 

Ellie does, though. And she is too low-spirited to guess what for and laugh; a strange demeanor. “Hmm?”

“He'll be drunk on the job,” she clarifies. “But, I guess it's up to who cares. Not enough for me to keep watch.” And she, too, sidles out from the cornered booth, leather brushing against denim. Watching Jesse vanish behind the crowded bar made her suppose it's that time; the fading sun calls you home, and when it does, you go home. Nothing more to it in Jackson. “See ya, geek.”

She waves with an unprepared hand. “Yup. See you too..”

The jog home was not without its usual discomforts. Paths, loved still by a residual winter, were hard not to slip on. The unhesitating side-eyes were too common to dash out of their sight. Ellie is aware of what has them wringing their necks just to look at her, but as it continued, she just accepted it. 

Her hoodie is half-sufficient. “Fuckin’ warm up already,” she curses, digging both fists into her pockets for warmth outside the steeple church. She notices three distinct paraphernalia in her pocket when her knuckles hit the seam: the larger, thicker one is obvious—Joel's watch. She inherited it on her own terms when he wasn't there. “Ow! Shit!” The cracked dial case nicks her for her mindlessness.

Second one is a mechanical lighter. Last time she wore this hoodie, she was squinting back the tears after telling Joel she didn't need his fucking help.

Ellie pinches the thinner, paper-textured item, and pulls it out with no clue to what it might be. This should be a simple guess.

Old feelings rush when she sees it in-between her fingers.

“Fuck.”

The word goes quiet in the night. Surrounding sycamores rustle, listening, and they respond with the eerie wind that rouses through their crown-shying bough. Invisible hands dislodge the strand from behind her ear.

Something shifts in her to listen in return.

She raises her chin. Gazes into pitch-blackness with a racing heart; her trees are there somewhere. Under the hole of light up there.

Ellie believed, from a very naive and insignificant age, that she was born and fell from the bough of a tree. The idea has some flesh and blood to it; her mother is unknown to her. She has the head of hair of the autumn sycamores, burning oranges, and delightful greens. Too green yet; left without the hour to decide what living meant and what her reason was to begin doing so—to live. She was given a gun before she was given a purpose. At least to her, matured and ripened, that is how it seems. Little bit careless considering her important condition; did Marlene think it through? Looking up into the same blanket of nothingness, she ponders whether reigniting this bad habit would still get her to the moon or not—if the world ever returned to pre-apocalypse.

From the hour you're born, you begin to die.

Simone de Beauvoir.

“Make it seven?” quoting herself, she slots the pointed end of the joint in-between her fresh-licked, rose-kissed lips and hopes she suffers no bite from it in the future. “Fuck it.” The watch becomes the last thing in her pocket. Flick, flick.

Her lungs fill with nostalgia.

“Ah..”

And puff.

She purses her mouth into an open ring, the somber, but lit against its will, night stolen from her sight in a cloud of white. It ebbs the stress in her she had not noticed was beginning to pulse again, searching for her heart with a pair of circling fingers. She palms her chest down. Maybe this is what the wind was telling her.

Ellie is nowhere near stoned, but swears she can feel it slowing. Easing her into something good, this time around. It feels good to have faith in something true.

Silence bends, not snaps. It fits in the gentle start of sobs, a dreadful blue sound, enough to interrupt her star-watching. She pierces around the grassplot for a source and sees the woman of the hour. 

Guitar strums pick up in the wind.

She recognises who it is.

The sniffles reel her over. You see a pair of slow-strolling converse, scratching the ground upon steps, before you see the person. She stands an illuminated silhouette under stelliform, globe-string lanterns, the same ones from the winter dance a week ago that no one has thought to disassemble, several feet from your place on this bench. 

Her heart has no reason to be thumping.

Strange, the smoke coming from her mouth, like a gun, is not unsettling—it should be. It parts when it clears. “Hey.” Her hesitant voice pricks your skin with goosebumps. Thinned-out, mint eyes at first glance harsh, but gentle at the second; the tired under-beds of purple is a prevalent stigma, but the shining pupil crawling over her iris struck this overwhelming sense of being understood. The soft structure of her face clasps them. 

She looks at you like she has no clue what you are, but in the same glance has been raptured with an idea of what you could be. Creature to creature.

Watching, for a long time.

You wipe the cold under your nose onto your sleeve. Hesitant as she is. “Oh, have I taken your spot?” The first thing that comes to mind rolls from your tongue. You begin to collect yourself without an answer.

She stutters, her mouth ahead of her thoughts. “No, n-no! You're totally fine.” Hand freeing from her pocket to pause you. 

She seems sweet.

Her curious eyes drop to where your arms are tangled—sheathed around yourself. You haven't moved them since.

Ellie cannot handle these lingering pre-spring conditions, even in her getup. The white avenues are gone but the winds have fought abating, the worst of the weather at night. In your case, a thin cardigan, she can only imagine.

She thumbs her hem. “Are you cold?”

You register that it might seem that way shooting a once-over glimpse of her collar—blue plaid poking through. To be honest, the cool air slipping under and around the hemlines hasn't occurred to you until she made a scene of it.

“Here,” she quietens, rustling in her layers. The slate-grey hoodie is folded outside-in and being offered before you can protest your independence. Nothing but misunderstandings have come between you and her. Charitable ones. “Keep it. I need to clean out my wardrobe, as others would say, anyway.”

It is a small, nothing-much distraction, but you wonder who others are to her. Good, or damaged too?

Someone once said: it's more trouble to refuse help where it is cost-free. You decide to trust that sentiment and crawl from your arms, reluctant to reply. “Too many hoodies?” Letting a glint of light peek through, you let something slip identical to a laugh. It sounds so unfamiliar.

Hers sounds perfect. “No, uh—sneakers, actually. Been told I have too many pairs.” She laughs again. You adjust the hoodie around your waist.

Your ears ride on the grace of that laugh. Replay, replay, and replay it in your head to the point your eyes are staring absent-minded and the colors on her person begin to remind you of a sycamore in autumn. Her deep-auburn burns with the lantern glow, the collected bundle of mane under the hind of her head an incurious shadow still. You wonder if it comes from her mother, or her father: the fire. “Yeah, been there.” Your answer has no substance to it either; you have nothing but a couple worn-out pairs. Your mouth is just saying things—the mindless thing.

Her mouth line shrinks from its last laugh. She now smiles small, with a feature she can't wipe off curling. “Yeah.” She catches your timid voice and echoes it, glancing down before she releases the joint in her fingers to the ground, squashing it under her sneaker. She twists it around, a mix of earth and ash scraping.

It blows a kiss of smoke.

Reminds you of those stump puffballs—mushrooms, bubbling in the depressions of dead or decaying wood, that puff green when puttered at by an early curiousness. One enveloped the tip of your shoe with it when you were little: stretching your underdeveloped leg that managed to reach once through a metal fence peeled at the sides, making squeamish cries when the thing of nature fumed. Memories do return full circle.

She leans an inch on her toes, still absorbed with the ground. The orange roots of her lashes catch that same fire. 

Who is she?

For a small town, you should know; there are a few hundred faces in Jackson. But hers is not one you can remember. It seems misplaced. Her brown freckles are symptomatic of the sun. She lets quiet drapings of stress hang from her tear corners to her anti-brows, not so conventional for her age, but unafraid. Her stares are soft, and don't make you feel like a gullible child or a faithless woman.

She looks like she was born in the springtime, but made for October.

“Thanks, again.” You tire restless from that word. Said too often, heard too often. When will there be more? 

You notice her half-arm tattoo right as it gets concealed, the strange comfort pulling her ruched, blue sleeves to her wrists. She pins the hems into her palms with her fingers. “It's nothin’,” she humbles. Her lips and nostrils are redder when she abandons her focus from the ground. No doubt she burns without trying in the summer. “Uh, I should be going—now.” She sidles in a direction and you feel urged to follow with your eyes. She uses her arm in a nervous toss to demonstrate where she is headed. “Do me a favor and get home safe, yeah?”

“Of course.” You watch with a farewell smile, a sweet shape creeping on your lips you can't stop. Maybe, you don't want to. Then, remembering one thing important to you, the so-called sweet mouth curses again. “Fuck, her name!”

You hope the two of you stumble into each other again, on some distant morning or near night. And learn her name, just not at your lowest.

Those guitar strings stop with no one around.

𝐜𝐚𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐞𝐱𝐜𝐮𝐫𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧

Late night dislodges from the space ahead and is punctured with light. Slipping through the door, closing it behind, a home of damaged goods that should feel familiar and smell of floral nothings repulses you at the entrance. You catch it as soon as it hits—alcohol, marijuana.

Mateo. 

Your throat burns from the scent.

His presence becomes known through a sharp shout. “Fuck took you so long?” It stabs through the house, the walls thin enough to not be considered in this, or his, material world. 

His rage begins to beat, one foot after the other, on the hardwood floors, and your hand returns to where it felt it was needed. Hoodie fabric—that smells nothing like here, or him—is palmed in-between. Your heart pumps with fear and knowing; God is not restless to punish, but a darker, closer, corporeal counterpart is and he steals you from this life on earth, and he tells you that you have not suffered enough. The stranger in this hoodie is your tether. 

But, after that fleeting conversation with the girl in the common acres, you feel you have known her for ages—and you're dating a stranger.

Swallow your pride and knowledge. He will smite you for it. “Um, Cat.” Quick, quick, the lump goes. But slow, slow, the lie creeps and is hesitant to be heard, afraid of its flaws. You turn to the kitchen before his ugly, three-headed emergence, running a hand over the budding holes of flowers. Jesse cut them from his garden, a secret congratulations from him and his mother. “She went to Bison and called me along. Time gotta-'head of us in there. Sorry, baby,” you stall, trembling.

The drunken stench gets worse. You cough but the air is all the same.

His footsteps take a pause at what you sense to be the fridge, a thimble distance. The kitchen, entrance, and couch are all subsided into one long room and aren't interrupted with inessential walls. Trailer gradient. It is not so glamorous as it is discreet; months into the relationship you noticed its perfect usage for taboo practice. The earth tries to return to itself as paint peels from the walls.

He converges with the eerie silence. 

It is his discontinuation that turns you around. Otherwise, his hands fallow and large would be and in each press would be apologies you have heard in timeless befores. This time—out of all times—he just stares at you, head to toe, without one. Checking, like, to see if you're all there.

No. He is looking at you like you have done something wrong.

Scrunching up, you blurt. “What?” Quiet. Weak. But you regret your tone as it leaves your throat. The gestures blow your cover wide open.

He knows. “Somethin’ up?” And that is his cue to creep with inertia, his unwillingness to confront a potential problem, his face you cannot read. His alcohol kisses are disguises and his blows to your soul are the realest emotions he has stirred in you, post-beginning. Your nights begin with expectation.

He will either be enraged or lethargic.

But he stops crawling too close to the sun and reaches the rest with his hand, pinching the sleeve of the hoodie, rolling it together. His face shifts and unfortunately—you can read it.

Fuck.

He has his idea. “Where did you get this shit from?” You wish he drank himself to bed; his breath is hot, biting and in your senses and he does his part to fill each nerve. He has your arm, but he could very well have your heart, too. In his grasp. “No, better question—who did you get it from?” 

Cold sweat. You answer on high alert.

“Cat!”

He chews it up. “No.” Shakes his head, pins the sun closer in on itself. The counter pinches your lower-spine. “She doesn’t do weed no fuckin’ more. This smells of it. Who does it belong to, huh! One of mine?” 

Yelling is nothing compared to his gaping volume. 

Your eardrums wobble. “No,” refuting, you open yourself to him. Open to his open-ended judgement. He out-reprimands—until it clicks. “Are you sure it isn't just you?” 

He is just projecting.

Where did that come from?

Mateo fumes. His seams come apart. “Yeah, is it just me?” His rhetorical disturbs the somehow sound of nothing, but the hope that it would be yelling and nothing else—bangs against the cupboards. He holds your head in the side of it.

The impact disorients you from this kitchen.

You expect to meet a floor next.

As soon as the sharp pain leaves, it returns. He uses the lightheaded silence he created as a second reason to wrangle you a sweep over, aiming your head—or the whole, his anger is extensive—into the fridge. “Stupid bitch!” The door handle gets you in the stomach before he can.

It escapes your throat with a bubble of nothing to come out.

“Hope that solves your morning issue.” And it stops there. On the cold, slate tile. You have been here before.

Made swollen sounds.

You clutch for the floor. The floor that exists in your mind; too flat for any percievable grasp, your fingers find themselves in your palms, indenting. You press and tighten, searching for pain, but her sweatshirt is long and loved enough to protect those parts of your hands. 

You regret having a mouth.

Small room, big conniption. You feel a little too seen retrieving your tears through these wordless-oath, congested inhales. Being in here is suffocating. Outside was bigger; omnipresent, not so wall-to-wall, not so focused on your problems.

But you catch her scent. Not the thing he smelled. Her scent.

Unnostalgic.

Wearing a little bit of some-stranger-else does have a coalescing effect. Some chemical change. Rewiring.

Does she?

fic taglist: @sabrinathewitchh982 @baptismbaby @acidblum @naomqq @mariesmagix @azteriarizz @violetszn @morticeras @angitial @futac00chi3 @raid-ar @monki-nat

perm taglist: @whore4abby @tlougrl @mina-281 @beabeebrie @fleshunger @elliewilliamsisactuallymygf @nicolicht @xinyaya @sawaagyapong @reinersbigolboobies @brunettedolls-blog @syrenada @p4ison1vy @nil-eena @hi2647 @rarestdoll @narieater @hrtmal @eudaemoniaaaa @ellie-07063 @luvfaeri @carleenaelaine @kissyslut @beemillss @elsmissingfingers @maleelee @seraphicsentences @ravyaryn @sunnsh1ne

comment to be on either!

[futac00chi3]

Abby, Ellie, Sevika, and Vi all lined up and ready for me when

[futac00chi3]

on my hands n knees begging for a vi x reader fic where they keep getting interrupted which leads to desperate, whiny, quickie

I’LL BE QUICK | hockey player!vi x fem!reader, fluff, smut (mdni), wc: 6k+ | masterlist

content warnings: college/modern!au, smut (+18); vi being a needy/horny/whiny brat, service top?vi, bottom!reader, semi-public sex, kissing, fingering (r!receiving), oral (r!receiving), overstimulation [idk what else i’m missing help]

note: first request!! ty for requesting!! i’ve been so excited to write for vi it was killing me. wrote it as modern au iydm as i could think of a more ways they got interrupted/where they would do it lol

Vi swears it’s not her fault—how could it be, when you look the way you do? She doesn’t think anyone could blame her, not really, not when you manage to completely undo her without even trying. You don’t even realize you’re doing it, that you’re so effortlessly pretty that she is left utterly useless whenever you’re around.

And God forbid you actually notice her staring—when you glance up at her from over your laptop, giving her that small, knowing smile, like you know exactly what you’re doing to her.

And she tries to keep it together, she really does, but you make it impossible.

It’s not just about how you look, though that’s definitely part of it. But she loves how you carry yourself, how smart you are, how dedicated you are. You’re an excellent student—always organized, always ahead of your deadlines, always balancing ten different things like it’s nothing.

And Vi knows she’s smart too; she wouldn’t have made it into this school, wouldn’t be holding onto her hockey scholarship, if she weren’t. But there’s something about the way you approach every little thing, like you know you’re capable of anything, that makes her want you even more.

It’s intoxicating, being around someone like you.

And maybe it’s selfish, but she loves the fact that you’re hers—that no matter how busy you both get, you still make time for her, still let her pull you into her arms, kiss you senseless, or fuck you so, so good.

These days, the problem is time.

There never seems to be enough of it.

Between your rigorous schedule and her demanding practices, you’re both constantly being pulled in different directions, and it drives Vi crazy. She hates how little time you get to spend together, how often she finds herself lying in her dorm room late at night, thinking about you and wishing you were there with her, laying in her bed, your clothes forgotten on her floor as she pushes your knees apart, listening to those delicious whines of yours while she inches her face closer… and closer… and closer to your wet pussy.

Vi groans loudly, annoyed she cant have you now.

And it doesn’t help that you don’t even share a dorm. You’ve each got your own roommates, which means that even when you do manage to carve out a few hours together, there’s always the risk of someone walking in.

It’s maddening, really—trying to navigate your relationship around other people’s schedules, stealing kisses in empty hallways and brushing your fingers together under the table in the dining hall, never able to just be with you the way she wants to be.

And then there’s the fact that she can never stop wanting you. She loves making you feel good, loves the way your body reacts to her touch, the way you whisper her name in that breathless, needy way that makes her heart race.

But no matter how much she wants you, something always gets in the way.

Maybe it’s your phone buzzing with a reminder about a study session, or the alarm on her watch going off to remind her she’s got practice in ten minutes. Maybe it’s the sound of your roommate’s key turning in the lock, making you both scramble to look presentable before they walk in.

Whatever it is, it always happens just when things are starting to heat up, leaving Vi groaning in frustration as she pulls away from you, her forehead resting against your shoulder as she mutters something about how unfair this all is.

And you—you always laugh softly, pressing a quick kiss to her lips before telling her that there’ll be other nights, other moments, other chances.

But Vi doesn’t want other nights. Not when she wants you now.

She had been frustrated since that time she was sat next to you in your dorm room, alone and studying.

The soft hum of your room’s desk lamp filled the most of quiet, broken only by the sounds of pages flipping and your voice drifting lazily into her Vi’s ears. You were perched on the carpeted floor, leaning slightly over the low table scattered with textbooks, notes, and half-finished assignments. Vi sat next to you, her legs stretched out in front of her, one elbow propped on the table as she twirled a pen between her fingers.

“And I don’t think he explained it very well, honestly,” you said, absentmindedly brushing your hair out of your face as you scanned your notes. “He kept going off on this tangent about historical context, which, honestly, is fine, but it didn’t really help me understand the actual analysis part. Do you think the midterm essay will—”

You paused mid-sentence, suddenly aware that Vi hadn’t responded in a while. You glanced up at her, and sure enough, her blue eyes were fixed on you, but not in the way you’d expect from someone actively listening.

She wasn’t looking at your notes, wasn’t even pretending to follow along. No, her gaze was focused on you, eyes drifting down to where the hem of your skirt meets the bare skin of your pretty thighs—her eyes a little too intense, a little too amused, and far too obvious for her to deny it.

“Vi,” you prompted, drawing out her name as you raised an eyebrow at her. “Were you even listening?”

“Hm?” she hummed, clearly unbothered as a slow smirk tugged at her lips.

She didn’t even try to cover up her distraction, and instead of answering, she leaned forward slightly, kissing your shoulder as her hand brushes against your knee.

You rolled your eyes, returning your attention to your notes. “You know, this is going to be on the midterm. You could at least—”

But you didn’t get to finish, because her hand was suddenly sliding just above your knee, her fingertips brushing lightly against the skin of your thigh. You stiffened, your words faltering as you glanced at her. She didn’t look guilty, not in the slightest. If anything, she looked like she was having the time of her life, her smirk growing as she noticed the way your breath hitched.

“Vi,” you said again, this time a little softer, your tone caught somewhere between amused and warning.

“Mmhm,” she replied nonchalantly, like she hadn’t just started trailing her fingers higher, pushing the hem of your skirt up with an almost maddening slowness. “You were saying something about… historical context?”

You huffed a quiet laugh, sitting back slightly and shooting her a knowing look. “I think we’re having trouble focusing, Violet.”

“Can you blame me?” she asked, her voice low, her fingers now drawing lazy circles against your thigh before slipping underneath your skirt completely, the tips of her fingers playing with the soft fabric of your panties.

You bit the inside of your cheek, fighting back the grin that threatened to spread across your face. “We’re supposed to be studying.”

“I am studying,” she quipped, her tone light and teasing as her hand crept a fraction higher and her face coming close, feeling her breath against your neck. “I’m just… multitasking.”

Before you could respond—or give in to the way your heart was starting to pound against your ribs—the sound of a knock echoed through the room. It wasn’t loud, but it was enough to make both of you freeze. Your head whipped toward the door, your face heating immediately as you scrambled to push Vi’s hand away.

“Hey, you in there?” your roommate’s voice called from the other side of the door.

Vi groaned quietly, leaning back and dragging her hand through her hair, her smirk quickly replaced by an exaggerated pout.

“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” she muttered under her breath, slouching back against the table like the universe had personally conspired against her.

You shot her an apologetic look as you stood, smoothing your skirt back down and trying to look as composed as possible.

“Yeah, just a second!” you called out, your voice a little too high, a little too hurried.

Your girlfriend just shook her head, the corners of her lips twitching like she couldn’t quite decide whether to laugh or glare at the door.

Then, it happened again.

It had been a long, exhausting week, another one where your schedules never seemed to line up. Between Vi’s practices and your mounting workload for your classes, you barely had time to breathe, let alone spend time together. So when Vi got that text from you that your roommate just left for her classes, she showed up at your dorm that Saturday afternoon, sweaty from an early morning workout but unmistakably eager, you didn’t even think twice before pulling her inside and shutting the door behind her.

She looked good—too good. Her hair was damp from her shower after the gym, and she was wearing that snug black hoodie that you loved, the one that clung to her frame and her muscles just enough to drive you a little crazy.

Her hands were on your waist the second the door clicked shut, her lips brushing against your temple, then your jaw, then lower, like she’d been starving for your touch all week.

And, she practically was.

“You missed me,” you teased, your voice light as your fingers slid up the front of her hoodie.

“Mhmm… missed you,” she murmured against your neck, nodding her head as her hands grip your hips, tugging you closer before grabbing a handful of your ass. “Been thinking about you all morning. All week, actually.”

You laughed softly, your heart fluttering at the way her voice dipped, low and warm. She backed you toward your bed, her movements a little less teasing than usual, a little less patient. It wasn’t like her to rush, but you could feel it in the way her lips moved against yours when she kissed you, in the way her hands tightened around your waist. She’d been waiting too long for this, and she wasn’t shy about showing it.

The backs of your knees hit the edge of your bed, and you sank down onto the mattress, Vi following you immediately. She slid one knee onto the bed, her weight pressing you back gently as her hands trailed up your thighs, bunching your oversized shirt as they went. You could feel her smirk against your lips, her breath hitching slightly when your hands tangled in her hoodie to pull her closer.

And then—like some cruel joke—her phone buzzed.

She ignored it at first, too focused on the way your body shifted beneath hers, too caught up in the way your lips parted for her. But when the buzzing didn’t stop, her forehead dropped to your shoulder with a frustrated groan.

“Don’t,” you whispered against her ear, a quiet plea as your fingers slipped under the hem of her hoodie. “Just let it ring.”

She wanted to—God, she wanted to.

But she knew better.

“It’s probably my coach,” she muttered, the irritation thick in her voice as she reluctantly sat up, pulling her phone from her pocket. Her jaw clenched when she saw the name on the screen, and she ran a hand through her hair, looking at you with an apologetic grimace.

You watched her, sitting there with her phone in hand, clearly torn between staying with you and answering the call. “Vi,” you said softly, placing a hand on her thigh, “it’s okay.”

“It’s not okay,” she snapped, though the frustration wasn’t directed at you. She tossed her phone onto the bed and dropped her head into her hands, exhaling sharply. “I swear the universe has something against me or something.”

You could see it in her posture, the way her shoulders slumped, how her fingers curled into her hair like she was holding herself back from punching something. She didn’t say it outright, but you could tell how much this bothered her, how badly she wanted to stay.

“I’m sorry,” she said finally, her voice quieter now, rough around the edges as she looked up at you. Her eyes softened when they met yours, guilt flickering behind her frustration. “I swear I’ll make it up to you.“

You leaned forward, brushing a soft kiss against her cheek, and smiled. “I know, baby.”

But as she left, throwing her hoodie back on and muttering under her breath about how ridiculous the timing was, you couldn’t help but notice the way her jaw tightened when she glanced back at you one last time. She looked like she was already planning how to make up for it, her frustration tempered only by her determination to make you feel as wanted as she knew you were.

Vi didn’t know how much longer she could go without having you.

It just kept happening. Again and again.

All the way up to the day of her big game.

The noise from the rink was still echoing faintly through the hallways of the arena, cheers fading as the crowd filtered out, but it all felt distant compared to the weight of Vi’s eyes on you. You were waiting outside the locker room as usual, leaning casually against the cinderblock wall as players and staff rushed past you, voices loud in celebration.

The door swung open, and Vi stepped out like she’d been looking for you the entire time. She spotted you instantly, her eyes locking on yours, and you couldn’t help the small smile that curved your lips. She looked a little flushed, her hair damp and sticking to her neck under her hoodie, her bag slung over her shoulder.

But there was something else too, something in the way her gaze didn’t move from you for even a second. It was heavy—her eyes dragging over you, slow and warm, like she couldn’t help herself.

You pushed off the wall and walked toward her, your voice light.

“Hi, superstar,” you teased, hoping to coax her into her usual cocky grin.

She didn’t smile. Vi’s lips stayed pressed in a thin line, and the way she looked at you sent a shiver down your spine—hungry, focused, like you were the only thing in the world that mattered.

“You did so good, Vi,” you went on, trying to fill the quiet. “I heard everyone’s waiting for you at the party. They’re probably already chanting your name. It’s like…”

You trailed off as Vi took a small step toward you, close enough that you could feel the heat radiating off her.

She didn’t say anything at first. Just looked at you—her eyes roaming your face, dropping to your lips, then back up again.

Slowly, she shook her head, almost as if she was answering a question you hadn’t asked.

“Vi?” you murmured, tilting your head. “What’s wrong?”

Her voice was quiet, but the rough edge of it hit you square in the chest.

“I need you.”

It was so soft, so desperate… you wouldn’t be lying if you said that it almost sounded like she was about to cry.

Your breath caught, the words landing heavy on your chest. You blinked up at her, trying to process what she’d just said, but Vi didn’t let up. She stepped in closer, so close that you had to tilt your head back to meet her eyes. Her hand reached out, fingers brushing over your wrist before curling gently around it.

“Vi…” you started, unsure of what to say. You could hear the distant hum of people talking, laughter spilling from somewhere down the hall. “Everyone’s going to be looking for you. It’s your party—”

“I don’t care,” she cut you off, her voice low, breathless and strained.

She brought her free hand up to cradle your jaw, her thumb brushing softly along your cheek before letting it fall to your waist to pull you in a bit closer.

“Please… I’ll be quick, baby, I promise. Just…” Her voice wavered as her eyes searched yours, almost pleading.

You swallowed hard, the intensity of her gaze making your pulse race. You could feel the heat of her hands on your skin, could see the desperation written so plainly on her face. Vi didn’t usually let herself get like this—didn’t let her restraint snap—but tonight, it was barely holding together.

“Please,” she said softly again, leaning in to peck your lips softly as another way to convince you.

You didn’t have time to respond before Vi gave your wrist a soft tug, leading you down the hallway with an urgency that sent a thrill straight to your core. Her grip wasn’t rough, but there was no mistaking the purpose behind it.

The sound of the arena faded with each step as Vi pulled you into a quieter hallway, finally stopping when she found an empty room—a storage space of some kind, dimly lit and empty of everything but shelves of sports gear.

The door clicked shut behind you, and before you could even turn to say something, Vi was on you—her hands gripping your waist as she pushed you back against the wall. Any words you might have had died on your tongue, cut off as Vi crashed her lips against yours in a kiss so fervent it sent a shiver straight through you.

She kissed you like she’d been starving for days, her lips moving against yours with a hunger that made your knees weak. The soft whine that left her throat was barely muffled by the kiss, high and desperate, a sound that sent a jolt of warmth pooling in your stomach.

God, if the universe took this away from her again, right now, she’d probably let the world burn.

Her hands roamed eagerly, gripping at your hips, sliding around your waist as if she needed to feel you.

You tried to speak—tried to gasp out something teasing, anything to break the tension—but Vi didn’t let you. Her lips moved down to your jaw, trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses to the sensitive spot just below your ear.

“Vi…” you managed, breathless, but the sound was cut off as her hands splayed across your lower back, then trailing down to grab your ass.

“Fuck, baby, you’re killing me,” Vi muttered against your skin, her voice low and strained. She kissed her way back up to your lips, pressing her body flush against yours as she did.

Her thigh slid between yours, drawing a soft moan from your lips that only made her whine again in response—higher, needier.

“Violet,” you breathed again, half scolding, half pleading, your hands reaching up to curl into her hoodie.

“I can’t help it,” she whined softly, pressing her forehead to yours for just a second as her chest rose and fell, her breathing heavy and uneven. “You—fuck, you always look so good. I can’t stop thinking about you.”

Her voice cracked slightly, her desperation bleeding through as she dipped down to kiss you again—slower this time but no less needy. Her lips lingered, moving with purpose, her tongue brushing teasingly against yours.

Your fingers curled tighter into her hoodie, trying to hold onto something, anything, as Vi made a quiet, almost pleading noise into your mouth, like she wasn’t just kissing you—she was begging for you. Her hands slid down to your thighs, gripping just above your knees as she pressed herself closer, her body impossibly warm against yours.

“Please,” she whispered softly against your lips, the word barely audible but heavy enough to make your head spin. She pulled back just enough to look at you, her flushed face inches from yours, her eyes dark and wide.

“I need you so bad.”

Her voice cracked again, and it was almost her undoing. Vi looked desperate—like she was barely holding herself together, like the sheer sight of you had unraveled her completely.

You could see it in the way her hands trembled just slightly against your thighs, in the way her lips were swollen and parted, like she’d been kissing you for hours instead of minutes.

You opened your mouth to say something—anything—but Vi didn’t give you the chance. She kissed you again, harder this time, her hands sliding up under the hem of your shirt, her fingers grazing your bare skin. Every quiet moan you let out, every sharp inhale, only seemed to make Vi whine more—desperate, pleading little sounds that escaped her lips like she couldn’t help herself.

She sighed when she finally broke the kiss, panting softly as her forehead rested against yours again.

“Been wanting to fuck you for weeks...” Her voice was strained, so thick with need that it made your breath hitch.

Vi’s hands slid upward, her palms were warm against your skin as she pushed your shirt higher, her breathing shallow and uneven as though she was holding herself back. But when her hands finally cupped your tits, her restraint shattered.

“Fuck…” she whispered, almost like she was talking to herself, her voice husky and breathless.

Her thumbs brushed over the peaks of your breasts, and the moment her fingertips rolled softly over your nipples, you gasped, your back arching involuntarily.

Vi groaned in response, the sound deep and raw, her lips brushing against the curve of your neck as she pressed herself closer to you. Her fingers teased you again, rolling your nipples between them. She was trembling now—excitement coursing through her veins at the thought of finally being inside you, all wet and warm, all because of her… oh, fuck.

“V-Violet—“

“I’m here, baby.”

She worked her way across your neck and down to your collarbone, her mouth hot and unrelenting as she left a trail of hickeys that you knew would be impossible to hide. Her teeth nipped at your collarbone, making you gasp, and she chuckled softly against your skin—a low, breathy sound that only made you squirm against her more.

But her hands—her hands were just as impatient as her mouth. They trailed down from your chest, slipping under your shirt to tease the bare skin of your stomach.

She gave your tits one last squeeze before moving lower, her fingers dragging purposefully over your thighs and slipping beneath your skirt. Vi’s touch was rough and hurried now, her breath hitching as she hooked her fingers into the waistband of your panties, tugging them down impatiently.

You let out a soft whine as the cool air brushed against you, your hands gripping at Vi’s shoulders to keep yourself steady. She smirked, straightening just enough to pull your panties free before shoving them into her back pocket like a prize.

Her eyes flicked up to yours, dark with hunger, and the corner of her mouth quirked up in a teasing grin.

“I’ll keep these safe for you,” she murmured, her voice low and possessive, her fingers brushing over your thigh.

Vi’s smirk faltered the second a hand slid up, brushing over the soaked heat between your legs. Her breath hitched, and she froze for half a second, like the realization of just how wet you were short-circuited her brain. Her fingers pressed against your pussy more firmly, teasing, slipping through your wet folds.

“You’re so wet for me,” she murmured, the words coming out like a growl, low and desperate.

Her lips found your neck again, kissing and biting as her fingers finally moved, slipping inside you with eagerly. Vi groaned at the way you clenched around her, her forehead pressing harder against your skin.

“You feel so fucking good,” she rasped, her voice strained, her fingers curling slightly as she started to move.

Vi’s lips curved into a sly grin as she felt how tight you were around her fingers, the heat of you gripping her so perfectly it made her groan low in her throat. She eased another finger inside your pussy with a soft moan against your neck. The stretch made you gasp, muffling the sound against her shoulder, your fingers digging into her strong biceps as your body trembled beneath her.

Her fingers moved faster now, thrusting and curling inside you, hitting that spongy spot inside you that made your body jerk and your breath catch in your throat. She couldn’t hold back her groans as she felt you grow wetter around her fingers, the slickness making her movements effortless as you drenched her hand. The sound alone—the wet, obscene noises and squelches of her fingers working—had her biting back a moan of her own.

You whimpered softly against her neck, your lips brushing her skin as you whispered, “Vi, d-don’t go too fast, I’ll be too loud.”

But Vi wasn’t listening. She didn’t stop, her fingers curling just right, the angle of her wrist shifting as she drove you closer to the edge. Her lips brushed against your ear, dazed and lost at the feeling of you.

“No… wanna hear you,” she murmured, shaking her head softly. “Need to fuck you like this… please…”

Your response was a broken moan that you immediately tried to smother against her neck, your face buried in her skin as your body shook. Your muffled cries vibrated against her. She didn’t slow down—if anything, her pace became more deliberate, her fingers thrusting deep and curling just right, her thumb brushing over you in a way that made you jerk in her arms.

You couldn’t respond, couldn’t do anything but press yourself tighter against her, hiding your face in her neck as tears pricked at the corners of your eyes, your muffled moans and cries slipping past your lips no matter how hard you tried to hold them back. Your hands clutched at her shirt, desperate for some kind of anchor as she drove you closer and closer to the edge, her fingers relentless.

She slid her thumb up to press firmly against your clit, circling it with just enough pressure to send a sharp jolt of pleasure through your entire body. You gasped, hips jerking involuntarily as her name slipped from your lips in a breathless cry.

Vi groaned, her forehead pressing against yours again as she whispered, “That’s it, baby. I’ve got you.”

Her pace quickened, her thumb working in tandem with her fingers, brushing and circling your clit. You could feel the pressure building rapidly, your hands clutching at her shoulders, nails digging into her skin as your body writhed beneath her touch.

“Vi—” you whimpered, but she only groaned again, her thumb pressing harder.

“Come for me,” she whispered, her voice raw and wrecked, the need in her tone making your chest tighten. “Please, baby. I want to feel you.”

Her thumb circled faster on your clit, her fingers curling deep inside you, brushing that spot that made your hips buck. Your entire body tensed, and Vi could feel it—could feel the way your walls tightened around her fingers, the way your legs trembled against her.

You jerked again, your hands flying up to grip the back of her neck as your orgasm crashed over you, soaking her hand. Your cries spilled out in broken moans against her shoulder as you buried your face there, trembling uncontrollably.

Vi groaned at the feel of you, her fingers slowing but never stopping, working you through your orgasm.

“Oh.. fuck,” she murmured, her voice thick and low as she pressed kisses to your temple, her free hand running soothingly along your back.

She didn’t stop until you were shaking, your body softening against hers, completely undone. Only then did she ease her hand away, holding you close, her lips brushing against your ear.

Vi pulls back slightly, her chest rising and falling as she watches you with hooded eyes, her lips still parted as though she can’t quite catch her breath. Her hair is slightly disheveled, her jaw tight, and the flush on her cheeks deepens as her gaze sweeps over you—your trembling legs, the way your chest heaves, your swollen lips.

It’s enough to make her look intoxicated, drunk on the sight of you.

Your breaths come unevenly, and you try to regain some semblance of composure as your hands smooth down your skirt—though it does little to cover the disheveled state you’re both in.

With a breathy laugh, you tease, “Your friends are probably wondering where you are by now.”

You press your hands against the wall for balance, trying to steady yourself, but your legs feel weak, unsteady.

Vi blinks slowly, her expression soft yet utterly dazed, like her mind is still stuck on you and nothing else. Her fingers twitch at her sides, and she shakes her head, a small smirk tugging at her lips.

“They can wait,” she murmurs, her voice low and rough, her eyes still fixed on you as though she’s already made up her mind. “A little longer.”

Before you can respond, before you can even process what she’s doing, Vi drops to her knees with a quiet thud, her hands gripping your hips as she looks up at you, eyes dark with determination.

You start to stammer, “Vi—w-what are you—” but the words dissolve into a sharp gasp as she tilts her head forward, burying her face under your skirt.

The heat of her breath against your sensitive pussy is enough to make your knees buckle slightly, and you have to press a hand to the wall for support.

“Oh my god—” Your words trail off into a moan as her lips move with purpose, her hands sliding up to grip your thighs, holding you in place as she starts working you over again.

Her tongue drags along your sensitive folds hungrily. She’s relentless, almost feral in her need to keep going, and every sound you make seems to spur her on, her grip tightening, her pace quickening as if she can’t help herself.

“Vi—” you gasp, your fingers tangling in her hair as your body presses back against the wall for support.

The world outside this storage room feels a million miles away, irrelevant in the face of her overwhelming need to claim you, to pull more of those beautiful sounds from your lips. She clings to your thighs, her fingers digging into your skin as though she’s afraid you’ll slip away, pulling you closer to her face. Her breaths come heavy and uneven, breaking between every flick of her tongue, and you can feel the soft, frustrated whines vibrating against you.

She buries herself deeper, pressing her sexy nose against you, brushing against your clit as her tongue moves faster, more purposeful, and the sounds she makes—those low, needy whimpers and breathless moans—send heat pooling in your stomach.

“Vi—W-Wait—” Your voice cracks, your hands instinctively reaching down to tangle in her messy pink hair.

You tug lightly, trying to pull her back just enough for you to catch your breath, but it only seems to spur her on. She lets out a guttural noise, muffled against you, and tightens her hold on your hips, keeping you pinned against the wall as her tongue delves deeper.

She’s not just eager; she’s ravenous, her tongue lapping at you with a reckless kind of determination. She drags her lips along your folds, pausing to suck gently, then harder, her moans spilling against your skin like she’s losing herself in the act. Her hands slide down, fingers curling just under the curve of your ass, pulling you further into her mouth as though she needs more of you, as though she can’t get enough.

“Tastes so good… fuck,” she mumbles hoarsely between movements, muffled by your pussy.

She tilts her head slightly to look up at you, her pupils blown wide with need, her lips slick and glistening, and her expression is nothing short of worshipful.

You can only moan in response, your body arching involuntarily as she sucks hard on your clit, sending a white-hot jolt of pleasure through you. Your knees buckle, but she’s quick to adjust, one arm moving to support you as she keeps her pace relentless. Her mouth never falters, never stops, even as her breaths turn shaky, and you can feel the tension in her body like she’s wound up so tight she might break.

She starts to whine again, this high-pitched, needy sound muffled against you, and it makes your whole body burn with want. It’s almost too much, the way she’s devouring you so completely, so thoroughly, her desperation written in every trembling moan and ragged breath.

You feel yourself getting closer all over again, the knot in your stomach tightening with every passing second, and you can’t even form the words to warn her.

Vi seems to know, though, because she presses harder, faster, the vibrations of her needy whimpers pushing you over the edge.

You cry out, your voice breaking as another orgasm racks through your body, and she groans deeply against you, her fingers tightening their grip as she keeps going, drawing every last bit of your release from you. Even as your legs tremble and your body tries to pull away from the overwhelming sensation, she doesn’t stop, her tongue still flicking against you with unrelenting hunger.

“Vi—” You whine, tugging weakly at her hair, your head falling back against the wall.

She finally slows down, her lips lingering as though she can’t bear to part from you just yet, her breaths coming hot and heavy against your skin. When she finally pulls back, her chin is glistening with your cum, her lips swollen and parted as she looks up at you with a dazed, almost drunk expression, her chest heaving. Vi stays on her knees for a moment, her hands still gripping your thighs as she looks up at you, her chest rising and falling with every heavy breath.

She’s grinning, wide and wolfish, her lips shiny and swollen, her cheeks flushed, and there’s a satisfaction in her eyes that only comes from getting exactly what she’s been craving. Her pink hair is a mess where your fingers had tugged and twisted, strands sticking out at odd angles, but she doesn’t seem to care.

If anything, it makes her grin even smugger.

She wipes her chin lazily with the back of her hand, the movement slow and deliberate, like she’s savoring the moment.

“Told you I’d be quick,” she says, her voice husky, tinged with a playful rasp. “Though, honestly, I think I deserve extra credit for being that good under pressure.”

You groan, your face still warm from the aftermath, and roll your eyes as you push at her shoulder lightly with your knee. “You’re impossible, Violet.”

Vi stands up slowly, stretching her back as she towers over you again, but her grin never fades. She leans down, bracing one hand against the wall beside your head, her face hovering close to yours, her lips quirking in that trademark cocky smirk.

“Impossible to resist, maybe,” she teases, her voice dropping low, brushing a kiss over your jaw before pulling back just enough to meet your gaze.

You shake your head, exasperated but unable to fight the small smile tugging at your lips. “You’re so full of yourself.”

“Full of you, actually,” Vi quips shamelessly, her tone dripping with cheekiness, and she snickers at the way your face heats up again.

You roll your eyes, trying to catch your breath, but her playful expression makes it hard to keep your composure.

“Can I have my panties back now?” you ask, your voice strained but teasing, as you reach down to try and adjust yourself, realizing they’re still tucked into her back pocket.

Vi looks down at the waistband of your panties for a second, feigning deep thought as she taps her chin, her smirk never leaving her face.

“Mmmm,” she hums, looking up at you with a glint of mischief in her eyes. “No.”

“Are you serious?”

“I’m dead serious.”

And she really was.

Because the whole night, she didn’t let you forget—whispering in your ear about how you were bare underneath your skirt as everyone else danced around you, her breath warm against your skin.

Her playful smirk never left her face as she leaned in close, whispering about how you looked so much better without them, her fingers grazing the edge of your skirt as if to remind you of just how good she made you feel.

ty for reading ! | masterlist

[futac00chi3]

bff vi!arcane

queer! fem reader x vi from arcane

summary: you and vi are really close best friends, but she doen't know something quit important about you.

a/n: I can't get vi out of my mind.

it's almost impossible to be best friends for more than 5 years and not be close. you and vi went through a lot of fucked up situations together, being there for each other every day, getting to the point of living together after finishing college. some of your and her friends find it kinda suspicious, teasing both of you every time about being in love. everyone could see the way vi looked at you, with glistening eyes, and how you would do everything to make her happy and safe, from cooking her favorite food to take care of her wounds when she fought with random people when you two went out from drinks. but vi and you were oblivious of these things, continuing to believe you acted like a normal pair of best friends.

"I think I need a nap, vi" you yawned, feeling your eyes growing tired.

"my god, cupcake, can you at least cover your big mouth?" vi stood up, grabbing your arm to get you out of the couch.

"big my ass" she looked you up and down, with a smirk on her face, entering your room.

"I mean, it kinda is"

"that's why everyone think that we are a couple, vi! you're such a tease" you laid down under a blanket, moving closer to the wall, "big spoon or little spoon?"

"yeah, right, I'm the one asking about being cuddled or being the one who cuddles, genius" vi moved closer to you, turning around and grabbing your free arm, placing it on her waist, "which, by the way is a stupid question, I prefer being the little spoon, you should know it by now"

a laugh left you lips, getting even closer to vi, your faced buried in her neck, breathing slowly, "right, sorry about that" you squeezed her a little tight.

"does it bother you? the couple stuff, I know some people can feel uncomfortable and shit" her back got stiffer, almost like she was afraid of the answer.

"oh god, no, never"

"okey, I just thought it may be weird for a straight woman, that's all" your eyes got bigger and a loud laugh interrupted the silence of the room. "why are you laughing, you weirdo?"

"You must be joking!" vi turned around, almost being completely under your body, "vi, you really think I'm straight? like, heterosexual?" you whispered, a big smile decorated your face, looking at violet like the just said the most strange thing in the world.

"yeah?" her face showed how confused she was, "you are not? I mean, you didn't say you weren't, how would I know?" her eyes wonder your face, looking confused by how entertained you were by the situation.

"I'm not straight, vi, that's outdated" your finger tapped on her nose, getting on your old position again. "I'm queer, I think, at least, I just know I'm not straight." your fingers played with her shirt, "what about you?"

"haha, you are so funny, cupcake" vi closed her eyes, an involuntary smile forming on her face.

"we can talk about boys latter, if you want"

"oh, yeah, we can do that, pretty"

[futac00chi3]

the blind leading the blind-er

relationships: simp!thomas x oblivious!reader (romantic), gally x reader (platonic, besties), minho x thomas x newt (platonic, besties) minho x gally if you squint (romantic)

warning! contains: cussing, maybe softie!gally, thomas loves his strawberry lip balm, horrible sexual jokes (about three or four, maybe five. i can't be bothered to do the math, sorry, y'all), thomas sleeps in just his boxers because i said do, KISSING (i poured my fucking heart out during the kissing scene. you're welcome)!!

summary: when a tiny little crush starts to turn into something so much more, thomas is too awkward to say it out loud, so he keeps giving not-so-subtle hints. of course, minho, his best friend keeps reassuring him that you picked up on his hints. (you didn't.)

prompt: "relationships don't really work like that, minho." "and names shouldn't work the way they do, 'cause why are you named after isaac newton? i thought he was supposed to be smart or something."

it was genuinely agonizing, in thomas' best friends' opinions. the poor kid had tried everything. truly everything. and yet, you still weren't catching up on it, as much as he tried. it was almost depressing to watch.

but at least he had them, his best friends, minho and newt, by his side?

right after leaving the maze, thomas spotted you talking to gally, not too far away from him and minho, who was standing next to him, drinking from his canteen. minho offered it to him and thomas, still panting, gladly accepted it.

"y/n is so checking you out right now," minho whispered into thomas' ear, grinning as he watched thomas almost spit out the water.

meanwhile, you were talking to the builder, about ten feet away from the runners. sure, you ocassionally found yourself glancing at thomas, but you weren't exactly checking him out. he tried to swallow the disappointment he felt at the realization, but hey, you were still looking at him. as long as it was him who you were looking at, he'd take it.

"totally checking you out. see?" minho nodded in your direction. yeah, not checking him out, sadly.

thomas rolled his eyes and handed the canteen back to him. that was his only response.

minho threw an arm around him, the canteen in his other. "come on, we got work to do," he reminded. with that, the two headed to the map room, where only the runners were allowed.

while they did their job, you helped gally carry some wood for a new project he was working on. something about replacing the unsteady chairs in the map room, you recalled him saying. the high-pitched scream coming from the building as you passed by it pretty much confirmed it.

gally groaned beside you, continuing to walk. he, along with you, tried to ignore the audible string of curses that likely came from minho who had previously been sitting on the flimsy chair.

you were about to open your mouth to say something, but gally beat you to it, a guilty expression on his face, "he's okay, i promise."

"didn't sound like it."

"he will be okay," he corrected himself.

ִֶָ𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ ★ ་༘࿐

you watched as gally searched for the sketches he drew for the new chairs - hopefully ones that don't end up collapsing under minho, bruising his poor butt.

"need help?" you offered.

"no, i know where they are," he answered, sounding frustrated. you guessed that it was because he, indeed, didn't know where they were.

he let out a defeated groan. "i don't know where they are," he announced, confirming your suspicions.

"fuck it, i'll just draw new ones.."

a beat. "and the papers are in the map room. great."

"i'll come with you if you want," you suggested, knowing that he and thomas didn't really get along. not to mention that minho would probably be mad at gally for the whole chair situation.

"fine," he agreed. once he got up from his previous kneeling position, he walked out the door of his hut, you right behind him.

already fearing minho, he reached out, gently knocking. very unlike the usual gally who'd probably kick down the door rather than actually attempt to knock.

shuffling was heard from inside the building, and much to gally's dismay, it was minho who opened the door.

"we need papers," the builder said, looking down at the runner. (minho is our short king 'cause i said so.)

"papers to draw sketches for the new chairs i was about to make to replace the old ones," gally explained. that seemed to shut minho up before he could even open his mouth to protest, thankfully. he turned around, walked over the remains of the currently very-not-intact chair, and searched for the papers that gally requested.

thomas, who was leaning on the table, smiled at you before returning to his work. though, with you there, standing in the doorway, looking like a painting as usual, he could barely focus.

minho rolled his eyes, and handed gally the papers that they - the runners - usually used for the maps of the maze. "this doesn't mean i forgive you, by the way."

"great," gally replied sarcastically and turned to leave. you jogged to catch up with him, arms crossed over your chest.

as you left, only then was he - thomas - able to focus. kind of.

minho closed the door behind you, rolling his eyes. "seriously?"

"what?" he asked, puzzled.

"that," minho said, as if that would clarify anything. either minho was bad at explaining, or thomas was dense as fuck. could've been both, though.

"meaning?"

"you were staring," he pointed out, "the whole fucking time."

"no, i wasn't," he denied.

"yes, you were."

"i wasn't," he insisted.

"you were, thomas."

"no."

"yes."

"no."

"yes."

"no."

"no."

"yes."

minho burst out laughing. "see? you said it yourself, shank."

"not fair.. you tripped me up," thomas whined.

"but you did say it, thomas," minho shrugged.

"because you tripped me up!"

"cry about it."

ִֶָ𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ ★ ་༘࿐

in the gardens, during lunch, you'd help gally with the designs for the chairs and such. apparently, multi-tasking wasn't exactly your forte, as you forgot about the food sitting next to you and instead focused on how the chair sketches were looking.

surprisingly, gally even let you help him with the chair-making once you those were done. as you were about to hand him the wood not-so-professionally thrown over your shoulder (don't do that, dumbasses!!!), your hand slipped and you ended up injuring your arm, which he tended to. he was used to having to patch up most of his builders if they got hurt - if it was a particularly bad injury, like a fractured bone, he let the med-jacks take care of it. thankfully, you just scraped your arm, which only resulted in gally scolding you like an overprotective brother. not that bad, no?

the whole chair-making thing took a few days; gathering the materials, cutting the wood, assembling, securing everything in place, sanding and prepping the almost-finished chairs, painting. how minho and thomas had the patience to wait for the new chairs, you had no idea. but, at least, these were more sturdy than the previous ones that were currently broken, in the corner of the map room, pretty much abandoned by a still angry minho.

"now we just gotta get these to minho and thomas," gally stated, looking at your creation. the chairs turned out way better than you both expected them to, honestly.

"wait, what?" you blinked once, twice, and thrice, finally processing his words. "i'm not carrying eight fucking chairs across the entire glade!"

"who said you're carrying all eight of them, genius?"

"wha-"

"come on," he encouraged with a small grin, one of the chairs already in his grasp. so, you did the same, rolling your eyes.

"dude, wait up!" you called.

"keep up, loser," he called back.

in the end, gally ended up carrying five of them, leaving you to carry the three other chairs that were left. how generous.

once you brought all eight chairs into the map room, minho eyed your handiwork. "fancy," he commented.

thomas, who had been leaning on the wall the entire time, rolled his eyes at minho. surely, he couldn't still be mad, right?

thomas turned to you and gally. "he meant to say 'thanks'."

you nodded with a small grin hidden behind your hand. with that action, thomas' brain partially malfunctioned. it was almost pathetic to watch, but at least it was entertaining.

"mhm, no problem," gally said, finally snapping thomas out of whatever thoughts he was having.

as you and gally turned to leave, thomas was met with minho's expression of 'dude, what the fuck was that?'.

"before you say anything, don't."

minho, under his breath, muttered: "i'm not sayin' anything."

moment of silence. "yet-"

"minho! shut up!"

"'shut up'? what do you mean? i'm as silent as a corpse is," he protested.

thomas internally facepalmed.

ִֶָ𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ ★ ་༘࿐

you were dragged to dinner by gally, complaining about how harsh his grasp was on your still injured hand all the while, which he apologized for.

but did he ease his grip?

yes. eventually. he'd be a bad friend if he didn't.

like usual, you were sitting with him and a few of your friends, consisting of the builders that didn't piss him off.

"what's up with you and minho?" you questioned, referring to how the runner was looking at gally. surprisingly, he didn't seem angry.

gally stiffened at that. he gave minho a glance, making the boy turn back to his friends.

"how am i supposed to know that?"

you shrugged. "dunno."

you heard your best friend huff out a breath before resuming what he was doing before. eating his food.

seemingly, frypan was in a good mood, because for dinner, you got to enjoy the taste of the creamy pasta he cooked up - pasta, not stew like yesterday, the day before yesterday, and the day before that. pasta! who the hell doesn't love pasta? (i despise you if you don't like pasta.)

and god, it was so good. most of frypan's food was, so this was expected.

if you weren't counting that one time where he accidentally used spoiled poultry to prepare chicken fried rice that most gladers would've adored had he not used - albeit unintentionally - the leftover meat in the fridge, that is. for every glader - except for thomas and teresa who hadn't been in the glade at the time - that was the most traumatizing thing to experience eating, and the aftermath of it was probably even more traumatizing. you felt bad for the sloppers who had to clean the toilets.

gally cleared his throat, turning your attention back to him. "so," he began, "you and thomas.. what's up with you two?"

you knew that gally didn't like thomas. he made it obvious. you, on the other hand, could never hate thomas. how gally could hate someone like thomas baffled you. sure, he keeps asking an unnecessary amount of questions, is a literal idiot, keeps tripping over the same root in the deadheads over and over and over again whenever you two decide to hang out there. but he's thomas. how could you ever hate him?

you tilted your head to the side, confusion clear in your eyes and overall facial expression. "what?"

"what's up with you and thomas?" he asked again. okay, copycat. very creative question to ask. "i mean, like, why does he always look like he's a second away from turning into a tomato whenever you look his way? it's ridiculous."

"he looks cute like that, what do you mean?" you argued.

"so, you like him?" he guessed, the corner of his lips twitching as if he was holding back a grin or holding back laughter.

"do you like him?"

at the question, he glared at you. "ew, no. he's not my type. and he's an idiot and i hate him. and you're changing the topic," he pointed out. "do you like him?"

"wait, what's your type?" you inquired.

he stammered in response, and minho, who was eyeing the builder for the tenth time that day, suddenly perked up. newt kicked him under the table, and before the second-in-command could tell him to stop staring, minho muttered, "shut up, i wanna hear this."

much to minho's dismay, gally's answer didn't even answer your question. "y/n, i am begging you, shut up. we're not discussing this."

minho looked disappointed to hear that, which didn't go unnoticed by.. well, anyone who was listening in on your conversation.

"why not?"

again, he glared at you. at this point, the whole conversation about you and thomas was long forgotten. the current topic was more interesting to discuss than your crush on thomas and thomas' somehow even bigger crush on you.

you sighed in defeat. "damn it."

"mhm," he hummed.

the rest of dinner was mostly silent, unless you were pestering your poor best friend about minho - each time you did, you could see minho grinning as gally almost spat out the food in his mouth. touched a nerve there, huh?

newt elbowed minho in the ribs, prompting a grunt from the runner. "stop tryin' to spy on them. mind ya business," the blond scolded.

"not even for scientific purposes?"

"you're too dumb for that."

"WHAT?? am not! shuck you, dude!"

meanwhile, thomas was just eating his food, trying his best-est (i know that's not a word, shut the fuck up) to not look at you. but what if.. newt and minho were too busy arguing, gally would probably be eating. nothing could go wrong.

except it did.

"tommy, quit starin' at 'em."

"I WASN'T EVEN-"

"you so were," minho interjected.

"so were you!!" thomas exclaimed. at this rate, if no one turned to look at them, trying to find out why they were arguing, it'd be shocking.

minho lifted a shoulder, "yeah, but i wasn't looking at y/n."

"ew," thomas muttered in disgust. gally, in his opinion, was an asshole, and likely forever would be. most, if not all, gladers knew that.

"come on, he's hot," the asian argued, newt beside him this close to facepalming. but could anyone blame him? this wasn't exactly an appropriate topic to be talking about during dinner, where literally anyone could hear you.

"good night." with that, thomas stood up from the table, going to get his plate cleaned off.

minho looked very offended.

ִֶָ𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ ★ ་༘࿐

slowly, it was getting colder outside. yet, you kept waiting for thomas in the deadheads, where you always hung out.

you were about to head back into the glade to grab one of your old, but warm, sweaters. but, before you could even move your foot to take a step, thomas greeted you, panting.

"hey," he breathed out, pushing his damp hair back. "OH, SHIT-" you heard him exclaim as he inevitably tripped over the tree root. the same one that he always tripped over. it wouldn't be thomas otherwise.

you were quick to catch him, his hand landing on the bandaged part of your arm which you injured during the not-so-little chair-building project with gally. as much as you didn't want him to, he caught your hiss.

"are you okay? did i hurt you?" he asked, worry evident in both his tone and expression, brows furrowed and voice soft.

"i'm okay, i'm okay," you reassured. "are you?"

"mhm! thanks.. and, um, sorry."

a look of realization crossed his face. "fuck, m'sorry. am i late?"

"a little bit, yeah," you admitted. "it's fine, though."

you heard him sigh out in relief as he adjusted his shirt. the shirt clung to his still wet skin - obviously, he was in a rush, but he still somehow managed to be late. now that? that was a skill issue.

"good shower?" at your question, he nodded, still trying to catch his breath. "good shower," he repeated.

he smiled sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck, a little embarrassed with himself for already making a fool out of himself barely a minute into his time with you.

you took in the sight of him. wet, indeed. only not a bit, but a lot. for a moment there, you found yourself questioning whether or not he knew that towels existed for a reason.

"i'm still a bit wet," he added, realizing how bad that sounded a beat later. he immediately wanted to smack himself in the forehead. if he could, he'd apologize about what he said, probably even elaborate on how he meant it in case you took it the wrong way, but he was too focused on you eyeing him. sure, you might not have been checking him out on purpose, but he'd take it either way.

snapping him back to reality was the sentence that left your mouth. if he wasn't blushing before, he definitely was now.

"must've been a pretty good shower if you're still that wet," you said. unintentional or not, you were slowly beggining to laugh at your own quip. it wasn't even that funny, he'd argue.

"come on, i didn't- fuck, i didn't mean it like-" you heard him begin to say, only for him to stop in the middle of his sentence as he looked at you like a deer in headlights. he could only hope his reddened cheeks wouldn't be too visible in the dark as he tried to justify himself. "y/n, you know i didn't mean it like that," he finished, a whine to his voice.

his reaction was priceless. the eyes? the cheeks? the stuttering? all of it and more, you'd pay to see again.

"tomato, tamahto" was your reply.

he pouted, already knowing that you were definitely going to be taking the piss out of him for the rest of the month. no, scratch that - for his entire life. he could only hope that you were going to go a little easy on him, but given how you already found his blunder hilarious, he knew he wasn't going to be getting off a light.

he huffed, crossing his arms over his chest. he wasn't very good at pretending to be mad at you, but it was worth a shot. he didn't last a full minute before he was cracking up too.

"i hate you," he said through his laughter.

"no, you don't," you argued. "you adore me, just admit it."

he was tempted to do as you said. you could tell him to get on his knees, and he'd do it within half a second.

but maybe, just maybe, if he could just not say a word-

"i do, yeah," he admitted. immediately, he slapped a hand over his mouth, a guilty expression on his face.

"thought so."

"shut uppp," he whined through his fingers clasped over his mouth.

"what, now you don't want to hear my voice? i thought you-"

effectively shutting you up before you could finish what you were saying were thomas' lips against yours slightly chapped ones (due to the freezing tempetarures in the glade tonight). for a while, you stood still, taken aback. he was about to pull away, thinking he did something wrong, but then your hands settled on his hips, grabbing and grasping at the fabric of his grey sweatpants as a desperate attempt to have his body pressed against yours. the cold was getting to you and you needed to get warmed up, would be your excuse.

sadly, air was a thing that humans all desperately needed to live. that was the only reason you found yourselves, albeit hesitantly, withdrawing your lips from one another. if you could survive without oxygen, you'd gladly continue.

his hand found itself on your chin, adjusting your face so he could kiss you more. you were his oxygen.

his blunt fingernails clawed at your back to pull you flush against him. it was messy, desperate, and you could've sworn you heard your teeth clashing against his. if you weren't too busy trying to move the way he wanted you to, you'd be worried about chipping a tooth. that, however, was the last thing on your mind. just thomas.

he nipped at your bottom lip, begging for the entrance that you gladly granted him. in comparison to the first, in which you were confused for a moment, this felt way sloppier, more handsier.. not that you minded, you'd love to spend each and every one of your nights like this.

the brunet's back hit the rough tree bark as you pushed him against it, and, not even hesitating, you swallowed the pained moan prompted by your action. you had no clue how it happened, how you went from teasing the boy about a damn shower to being tongue-deep in his mouth. not that you were complaining. it wasn't like you could, mouth too occupied to mutter out a single thing that wasn't a moan.

after a couple seconds of this, you broke for air, panting in each other's faces.

"you taste like strawberries," you commented.

"do you not like my strawberry lip balm?" he rasped out, a pout on his lips.

"i don't," you confirmed. "fuckin' love it. c'mere."

he, without any form of hesitation, obeyed, tongues meeting to continue what you were doing just moments before. his hands, needing something to hold on to, moved under your shirt, taking you by surprise with how warm his hands were unlike yours. yours were cold - freezing, even.

tongues tangled, spit smeared over your kiss-swollen lips, you wished you would never have to draw back, as much as your lungs burned with an aching need for oxygen. meanwhile, your lips yearned for his. you yearned for him. how you were just now finding out would've shocked you in any normal scenario, but now your mind was hazy, all thoughts that weren't thomas blurry.

thomas' fingers dug crescent-moon shapes into your poor, poor back. instinctively, you backed him up against the tree yet again, this time with your hips. thomas was pretty sure he was in fucking heaven.

his head tipped back, and, as if he wasn't letting out enough noises before, he let out something between a sob and a moan. did that stop you guys, though? no. of course not. the gladers could listen in on y'all all they wanted, yet your only focus would be thomas.

his mouth was open, gasping for air, his chest heaving with each harsh breath he took. not a sight you saw often, but certainly something your eyes weren't minding witnessing.

"oh," he groaned, "fuck!"

for a runner, he was getting overwhelmed rather quickly. it was adorable to see.

"was that too much for you?" you questioned sarcastically.

"no," he insisted. "keep going. please. need you, please."

well, he requested it, so.. who were you to deny him what he wanted, much less needed?

too desperate to wait for you to kiss him, he initiated the kiss this time, slipping his tongue into your mouth without a warning. unfair much? you were about to kiss him!

his lips parted from yours, curving up to a smile at the corners. "we should-" he paused, inhaling with a gasp before continuing, "-do that more often."

"we should," you agreed.

eventually, after his breathing returned to normal, he asked, "one more?"

he pouted, giving you those puppy eyes of his. with how close you were to giving in, just because of those eyes, you were sure that before the glade he had to have graduated some sort of 'puppy eyes' school. which you were sure - and you also hoped - didn't exist. "y'know," he continued, "a little 'goodnight' kiss?"

meanwhile, you were still struggling to get the air into your lungs. so, taking your silence as an agreement, he kissed your cheek, his hands which were previously under your shirt cupping your face.

"there," he announced. "now come on, alby's gonna kill us if he catches us here."

he caught your hand in his, leading you back to the homestead.

if someone just popped out out of nowhere and saw how utterly wrecked he looked, he'd cry himself to sleep. genuinely. and to think you haven't even done anything more than kissing.

like the gentleman he was, he walked you to your hut, kissed you once again. apparently, just so you didn't forget how his lips felt. however, the both of you knew that that wasn't the real reason.

walking back to his own hut, he found himself speedwalking the second that gally somehow appeared in the hallway. he didn't feel like explaining anything that happened that night. not that be was embarrassed by it, no, of course not. if the consequences didn't exist, he'd be bragging about it to each and every one of his friends - except chuck, the kid didn't need to be traumatized by that. he knew that he'd get teased, though. he shook those thoughts off and instead, his brain went to you.

that night, he fell asleep smiling to himself.

ִֶָ𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ ★ ་༘࿐

the next morning, he slept in.

"thomas," minho muttered, poking his cheek. thomas, sleeping, turned away, face buried into his pillow.

minho groaned, running a hand over his face in frustration. he was not having it.

"THOMAS, GOD FUCKING DAMN IT!" he exclaimed. he may or may not have woken up the entire glade with that, but at least thomas was up. finally.

"get your ass up. we've got work to do."

"five more minutesssss," the brunet pleaded, glancing up at minho from under his eyelashes.

"five seconds," minho corrected. "up."

thomas let out a loud groan, voice cracking. that, he'd blame on his hormones.

he practically rolled out of bed, slipping on a random shirt he had thrown over the chest in the corner of his room. minho, to be respectful, walked away, arms crossed. "try to make it quick, shank."

"uh-huh!" thomas called sleepily, ruffling his hair up. he bent down to grab a pair of pants, socks already on for some weird reason. since when did he sleep with socks on? shimmying into the jeans he picked out ('cause that ass too fat), he zipped them up, and adjusted his shirt afterwards. oh, and let's not forget the runners' harness.

within three minutes, thomas was out of the hut, still half-asleep, but thankfully not half-naked. with a proud smile, he closed the door behind him. "i exist," he announced.

"attaboy," minho replied, patting his back.

thomas tilted his head to look at minho. "breakfast?"

"mhm," he confirmed, already dragging him by the arm. thomas' half-functioning brain decided not to process that, apparently.

"min?" he called.

"yes, thomas?"

"what's for breakfast?" he was about to give minho time to answer, but then decided he'd much rather play a guessing game instead of letting the older boy talk. "ooh, sandwiches?"

"mmm hmm," minho drawled. "enough with the questions, though. i'm not awake enough for this, okay?"

"oh, okay!"

minho raised an eyebrow. sleepy thomas was definitely more.. understanding than the usual thomas. now minho wanted thomas to be groggy and barely conscious all the time.

"min," he called again, tapping his shoulder. "the ones with chicken?"

nevermind.

minho's voice came out more irritated than originally intended to, but fuck it. it wasn't like he could do anything about it. "thomas, i really, really, really don't know."

"'cause i hate those with chicken," thomas murmured.

"sit down."

before actually complying, he let out a noise of protest. then, he plopped into the chair, head in his hands. coffee would really be appreciated right now.

soon, minho joined him at the table, newt half-asleep next to the him. minho passed something to thomas. a veggie sandwich - thankfully, without chicken. "here."

thomas lifted his head up from his hands, grabbing the sandwich in an instant. "thanks, dude."

"mhm," he replied. newt next to him leaned back in his chair, blond hair tied up into a half up half down man bun, a few stray hairs here and there getting into his eyes.

"your shirt's on backwards," newt informed. minho's eyebrows scrunched in confusion and checked his shirt, only to find that it wasn't his shirt that was backwards. just slightly lifted at his side, revealing his hip, which he made sure to fix.

thomas, meanwhile, was eating his sandwich. once swallowing, he looked at the two older guys, head cocked. "what?"

"your shirt's on backwards," newt glared at minho for stealing his line. "okay, copycat," they said in sync. newt, annoyed yet panicked, flailed his arms around, trying to come up with a response. "stop doing that, you dick" was the only thing he managed to say.

minho looked utterly betrayed.

meanwhile, thomas took his shirt off to put it on. correctly, this time.

"thomas, are you stripping? in front of us? ew, do that in front of y/n, shuck-face," minho grumbled, shaking his head.

thomas groaned, adjusting his shirt. "does that mouth of yours ever shut the fuck up? or do you need someone to shut it for you? huh?"

minho's jaw dropped. "okay, rude."

"drama queen.." and his jaw dropped even more.

"i feel insulted."

"good. that's what you get for not telling me my shirt was on backwards."

"DUDE! i literally just told you!"

"no, i did. i said it first," newt said, a bit more harshly than intended. "sorry, just don't want you gettin' credit for something you didn't do."

he scowled. "you're supposed to be on my side!"

"yeah, and? you fucking copied me. that's so bitchy."

"i'm not a bitch, take it the fuck back."

newt's mouth opened and closed, almost frantically as he tried to come up with something to say, preferably something along the lines of "no". any sort of refusal.

but alby interrupted them as he came into the room, the door slamming shut behind his back.

"people are trying to sleep, if you haven't noticed. slim it," he grumbled.

"sorry," the two gladers said in unison. again. thomas swallowed his sandwich and joined them, saying, "yeah, uh, sorry."

oops.

ִֶָ𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ �� ་༘࿐

usually, after they returned from the maze, they'd catch their breath, head into the map room to work, and then work-out. today was different. today, they spent the rest of the day gossiping with newt, who joined the two runners with snacks freshly picked from the gardens: berries!

and then you and gally joined, to newt and thomas' shock. minho knew that you'd be stopping by, he just couldn't be bothered to tell the others.

when you came into sight, thomas smiled, happy to see you. especially after last night, why wouldn't he be?

"hey, gal!" minho's greeting shouldn't have been as excited-sounding as it was. for a reason he couldn't quite explain - at least, without getting embarrassed about it a second later - gally liked it.

"and hi, y/n," he added.

newt merely waved his hand, a little awkwardly.

you gave them a nod of acknowledgement, mumbling a quiet "hi."

"hey," said gally before turning his attention to what you were initially here for: getting rid of the remains of the broken chair and the other chairs that were on the verge of collapsing, something that in no way was similar to simping over the runners.

once you were done, you, the runners, and newt said your goodbyes and returned to what you were doing before. you, reading a book. gally, calling each and everyone one of the builders slintheads - for him, it was a hobby at this point.

back in the map room, the two runners discussed what changed in the maze, newt listening to them talk. somehow, the topic shifted to minho's beloved hair gel, jeff's perfectionism, alby's short temper, and thomas' love life?

"thomas, dude, i love you. in a platonic way. but you're an idiot," minho said, shaking his head in disapproval. "why don't you just tell 'em? y'know.. then, just make sweet, sweet love to 'em."

thomas' cheeks flushed. he wished he could be anywhere but in this building. ideally on the other side of the glade, as far away from minho as possible.

"relationships don't really work like that, mate."

"and names shouldn't work the way they do, 'cause why are you named after isaac newton? i thought he was supposed to be smart or something." newt rolled his eyes as minho continued, "also, relationships do work like that. it's never too late to admit you've never had one, y'know.."

"tommy, don't listen to him," newt pleaded.

".. why would i ever listen to minho when he's trying to give advice?" thomas mumbled. one time, minho told him to wear a cropped shirt, because it'd look good on him - in minho's words. since minho was his best friend, he listened to him. never in his life would he ever again take his advice. the bullying.. oh, the bullying. that was something he wouldn't wish upon anyone, not even upon his worst enemy.

"shuck you," minho all but exclaimed, pointing at the former runner. he began to point at thomas, too. "both of you. shuck you."

"YOU'RE THE ONE GIVING SHITTY ADVICE!"

minho feigned a frown, pretending to be sad. it looked like he was a severely constipated five year old kid more than anything. thomas and newt being the good friends they were only snickered at his expression, exchanging glances while minho whined, "am not!! i'm deeply hurt by this, and i am so not sitting with you during dinner."

"sit with gally, then," thomas offered, shrugging. newt coughed before letting out a laugh, covering his mouth with the back of his hand. soon, thomas joined him with the wheezing.

to minho, this was not as funny as it was to the other two.

ִֶָ𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ ★ ་༘࿐

apparently, minho took thomas' offer way too seriously and he ended up joining him during dinner. feeling too awkward to have to watch the two flirt over literal beef stew, you excused yourself from the table and sat with thomas, who had been sitting alone, instead.

newt was sitting with alby, discussing something important. what they were talking about, you had no clue and neither did thomas.

not that he really cared, anyways. you were literally sitting next to him, and that was the only thing he could care about. you were sitting next to him. you were sitting next to him!! he knew he shouldn't be as influenced by your presence as he currently was, but it wasn't like he could really help it. he'd been in love with you since, well, forever - forever being the one month he's been in the glade.

he nibbled at his food for a while before swallowing.

"how was work?" he asked.

"well, it was chaotic. as usual," you answered truthfully. "how was the maze?"

he shrugged. "y'know.. the usual, trying not to run into a wall, trying to avoid getting turned into a griver snack."

"fun," you commented, grinning.

"yeah, real fun, having to listen to minho ramble about how mad he is at newt," he complained.

you glanced at the second-in-command, then at the keeper of the runners. "how come?"

"minho copying newt and giving shitty advice."

you tilted your head, puzzled. you figured the advice in question must've been horrible if it got him into a fight with newt, and it must've been a pretty bad fight if minho talked about it the entire run. "what kind of shitty advice?"

thomas stiffened.

silence.

"uh.."

more silence.

"well-"

"spit it out, thomas."

"he told newt that he should cut his hair," he lied. "that he wouldn't have to deal with getting his hair in his eyes when he's working in the garden."

"oh."

"newt loves his hair," he explained. god, he was a bad liar, wasn't he? surely, you'd find out. eventually. right??

"you can't exactly blame him," you said. he breathed a sigh of relief.

"yeah, his hair is gorgeous," he agreed.

"i like your hair better, though," you admitted. he was taken aback for a moment, nearly dropping the cutlery that was in his hands.

"you do, huh?"

"damn right, i do," you confirmed, jokingly ruffling his hair. it was so soft, like cashmere. as you toyed with his hair, he was internally cheering. had he just won in life? because it sure felt like it.

"i'm flattered," he attempted to joke - when, really, it wasn't a joke in the slightest. that might've been the first compliment that he'd ever gotten about his looks in his entire life - well, now, in the glade.

you simply smiled and took you hand back. for a moment there, he was tempted to tell you to leave your hand where it was. had the gladers not been watching, you would've happily listened and even let him put it back where it previously had been tangled in his messy, brown locks.

"sooo, uh, question," he drawled, looking you up and down with a grin, telling you that he was about to say something stupid as fuck. it was thomas, after all - by this point, you were pretty much used to it, and so was everyone else.

"go on," you encouraged as you brought the fork to your mouth to chew on the meat.

"like.. what are we?"

you let out a small yelp as you bit into you fork. as you swallowed, thomas patiently waited for a response, finger rapping against the wooden table. "sorry," he murmured, feeling guilty. "don't answer if you don't want to. just curious, y'know, after last night."

you shook your head in 'it's fine', and thought about an answer that you could possibly give him, only to find out you had no clue what to say. what were you? you wanted him to be your boyfriend, that was for sure. uncertain, you settled for, "what do you want us to be?"

"i want to be yours." it took you off guard - well, not it, as in the sentence itself, but how eager he sounded. you weren't opposed to it, though.

"and i want you to be mine," you confessed. "thomas, will you be my boyfriend?"

immediately, he said, "yes."

if he could, he would've kissed you right then and there. sadly, he had an audience of 40 teenage boys + teresa. he was not going to give them a show that entertaining to watch.

you lifted yourself up from your seat and walked away to get your bowl cleaned off. he promptly followed, basically running after you with a puppy-like look in his eyes. "wait up! please?? come on, i love you!"

"yeah, love you, too, tommy," you called back.

"i'm serious!!" he cried. once he caught up, his hand found yours. you felt him squeeze slightly and you looked at him. he pouted, feigning offense.

"so am i," you reassured.

"good."

[futac00chi3]

• vocaloid art by hidari icon set •

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