#Low noise instrumentation

[alx2psson]

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[ihangelic]

PAS DE PUNK ╱ h.taesan

you and taesan go together like classical music and rock: not at all. but similar to the way taesan keeps getting piercings, there’s something about the way he gets under your skin that you kind of like— and you’re too proud to admit why you keep coming back for more.

pair ; punk!taesan x ballerina!reader

genre ; smut (with plot), fluff?, rock band au, enemies to lovers

warnings ; fem!reader, taesan has piercings (including tongue), arguing (flirting), some jealousy, ‘make me shut up’ kiss, confessing of feelings, petnames (mostly princess), lots of mentions of taesan’s hands & rings, dom!taesan, bratty/sub!reader, thigh riding, praise, degr*dation, bre*st play, begging, a little sp*nking, no prep, piv

wc ; 8k

playlist ; smells like teen spirit by nirvana / sugar we’re goin down by fall out boy / a little death by the neighbourhood / punk rock princess by something corporate / she’s kinda hot by 5sos / good girl by thomas larosa / s*xtape by deftones / closer by nine inch nails / all i really want is you by the marías

✉️ 𓂃 ₊˚⊹ note ; happy new year!! idk if it’s unhinged to make a playlist for a smut fic but i couldn’t help myself ><. i avoided using lesser-known ballet terms for non-dancers to understand (aka me), but also tried to make it enjoyable for dancers to read. hopefully i was successful lol.

! . . . COPYRIGHT OF IHANGELIC

dancing along with the music of l’oiseau bleu is practically impossible when it sounds like a rock concert is taking place in the room just across from you.

lowering to stand flat footed in your pointe shoes, you raise your hands to your face, pinching your nose bridge in frustration as you try and resist the growing urge to pull your hair out.

the obnoxious sound of drums, a bass’s low rumble, and an electric guitar’s higher tune rings in your ears— drowning out any of your more rational thoughts until you’re left with only rage.

you try your best to block it out, to take a moment to breathe and try to get a controlled hold over your emotions— and you think it may work after you cover your ears with your own hands, the sound of the instruments still audible but sounding more distant. then the teeth gritting noise of a cymbal pierces through the barrier of your hands and it’s almost like it’s a sound effect for the way your train of thought shatters, letting out a sigh that sounds much more like an animalistic scream before stomping over to your phone and turning off the music.

power walking out of the dance studio and to the very unfortunately placed neighboring rental space, you don’t even have to turn the knob as you look through the glass door. the raging bitch face you wear is absolutely effortless as you mean-mug all three ‘problems’ in the room; ‘problems’ that drip in leather, distressed or patched fabric, spikes, and way too oversized jeans. you’re about to feel acquainted with the three men as this situation seems to occur more and more often.

foam panels are stuck to the walls; black cords are neatly coiled or in squiggly lines across the floor; and of course there’s guitars, a drum set, and microphones everywhere.

finally you catch the eyes of the long, blond haired drummer— and that gives you enough incentive to open the door and barge in like you own the place.

“could you be any louder?” you rhetorically ask, but it goes unheard as two of the men sing passionately into their microphones, eyes closed and hands working the strings of their guitars while the drummer keeps playing his drums— all while staring at you with a relaxed, barely inquisitive face.

“could you be any louder!” you shout, the end of the sentence awkwardly fading in volume when there's a screech from one of the guitars and everything goes quiet.

the two seeming vocalists turn their heads to look at you, all three men now staring while you stand, clearly bothered as your hands are on both sides of your hips and your chest heaves with deep breaths of frustration.

“well…” the dark haired, taller one begins— and your expression only sours more as you’re already familiar with how snarky and full of himself he can be. “you’re the one yelling.”

you let out an appalled scoff, unable to help the way your eyes roll as you’re angered even more by how that only seems to make the man smirk.

“if someone has to yell just for you to hear them that means you’re the loud one.”

“you sure about that, princess?” he asks, quirking a pierced brow. your impending explosive response must be visible as the shorter statured one interrupts for damage control.

“w— we’re sorry!” he starts, speaking on his friends behalves. the blond’s expression never changes as he stares at your fuming face, while the darker haired looks like he’s about to protest— but the other continues before he has the chance. “look..we got off on the wrong foot and…”

the way his hands float in front of him, bass hanging against his chest by the strap— it only adds to how lost he looks on what to do, and it makes you feel kind of bad. (for him at least.)

you’re about to start apologizing when he’s suddenly reaching his hand out towards you.

“i’m riwoo.” he introduces, then gestures over to the other two men. “this is taesan and leehan.”

“…y/n” you say somewhat sheepishly, a bit of your shame coming back at the politeness of the bassist you now know as riwoo.

previously you’d only knock aggressively at their door to ask them to shut up, a few times popping your head in when that didn’t work to snappily ask them to please try and keep it down at least a little. you’ve never actually had a full conversation with them before— or an argument...whatever this exchange of words could be classified as.

“unfortunately we can’t really be any quieter. we have to practice for a gig we got coming up—“

“isn’t your little dance school supposed to be closed now anyway?” taesan abruptly interrupts, yet again grinding your gears with the snarky way he says the words ‘dance school’.

“it’s closed for classes, but the rooms can be used for practice up until eleven pm.” you provide smartly, catching yourself before you scrunch your nose in disgust at him.

“we try to keep the noise at a minimum if we’re here at prime hours,” riwoo cuts in again, attempting to explain gently. “but past that…” he trails off, shoulders shrugging as he gives you a sympathetic look.

you process his words, how he really is seemingly trying to help you out here, before sighing softly as your hand raises to press into your increasingly aching temple.

“do you have to use your amps?” you ask, raising a hand to point at one.

“did you not hear him? we have a show to do, we need to practice as best as we can. so yes, we have to use our amps.” taesan firmly states, over enunciating like you can’t hear. his brows are slightly furrowed as his previous amusement is completely gone, a flame of annoyance now in his eyes.

you let your hand defeatedly fall and slap against your bare thigh, taesan’s eyes glancing down at your leg for the smallest of moments before looking back up to glare at you.

“who the fuck do you think you are?” you bite at him, sick of his selfish attitude as you turn your body fully in his direction, crossing your arms.

“wxnder.” he dryly states, making your head tilt in confusion and absolute impatience.

“huh?”

“wonder— but like, with an ‘x’. that’s our band name.” leehan provides, throwing you off as you’re momentarily sidetracked by how deep and smooth his voice is. (are all these men vocalists? also, with an ‘x’— how cheesy can they be?)

“you should come watch us perform.” he smiles widely, eyes creasing and everything. you’re yet again thrown off as he speaks to you with such casual friendliness as though you haven’t practically yelled at all of them and continue to seethe at his guitarist like you want to rip his throat out.

“uh, i…”

“i’m sure miss priss has other things she’d rather do, like dance to swan lake in a feather tutu or something.” taesan finishes your sentence for you, conjuring a string of curses to lace your tongue.

“shut the f—“

“bye, twinkle toes.” he waves you off dismissively, grabbing the neck of his guitar by his multiple ringed fingers as he directs his attention back to his instrument and mic.

“it was nice meeting you, y/n.” riwoo adds somewhat shyly, adjusting the strap of his instrument as well— though much more apologetically.

“see ya’, y/n!” leehan calls before picking up his drumsticks and twirling them in his hands, looking up to taesan for his cue. you watch him cock his chin, the sudden rhythmic pounding of leehan’s drums making you flinch before taesan and riwoo start playing their strings again.

riwoo’s voice starts out soft before slowly raising in volume and you’re shocked by his melodic vocals that contrast so satisfyingly well with the rock instrumentals.

still disgruntled but more off put than anything, you don’t know what more to do than shuffle out of the room, shutting the door behind you as you stare at the air in front of you.

well, guess it’s time to find some earbuds that are sound and pirouette proof.

ㅤㅤ──────────────────────

you got it. you got the lead role.

all the extra (maybe slightly excessive) practicing, late nights and frustration (which would be a lot less if there wasn’t a band next door) paid off.

you’re playing as princess aurora for your dance studio’s performance of ‘the sleeping beauty’, which will be showing at a local theatre next month.

jaehyun, your good friend and fellow dancer who’s always making you smile and lightening sullen moments during classes— is your dance partner, playing as prince désiré.

the second the both of you found out you got lead roles, jaehyun was practically bouncing off the walls with excitement, insisting that you go out tonight to celebrate.

which is why you find yourself by jaehyun’s side at ‘sundown lounge’, your favorite bar and hang out spot.

“you look good, by the way!” jaehyun attempts to speak over the loud karaoke, leaning a little closer to your ear as you weave through the crowd.

“thanks!” you turn your head to smile at him over your shoulder, hoping your iridescent eyeshadow twinkles under the lights how you wanted it to.

“you do too.” you compliment before someone’s elbow is jabbed into your stomach, squishing yourself against the wall as you and jaehyun try to make it to the bar to order some drinks. “why is it so busy tonight?”

“i don’t know, maybe it’s happy hour!” jaehyun suggests hopefully, but when you finally reach the counter his theory is proven wrong when you’re told everything’s its original price. regardless, you sip on a strawberry margarita while jaehyun holds a glass of something that looks like muddy water before deciding where to sit.

“wanna go there, near the stage?” he asks, pointing over to a table that’s very near the performance area. you’d rather not have to hear a drunk girl sloppily sing a britney spears song right in your ears but jaehyun finds it hilarious, often unable to resist curling in on himself while giggling uncontrollably— and that always makes you laugh. so you nod your head, jaehyun grabbing your hand to make sure he doesn’t lose you in the crowd before leading you to the table.

there’s only two more songs played before the dj hops on the stage, speaking into the mic. “karaoke will be ending as it’s time for the band of tonight to take the stage. give us a few minutes while the performers are setting up!”

some people in the crowd hoot and holler excitedly as jaehyun turns his head to you. “i wonder what type of band will be playing tonight, last weeks was pretty good.”

“it’s punk rock!” a girl excitedly butts in from the table right next to yours, having accidentally overheard your conversation.

“a rock band?” you ask, somewhat groaned in annoyance as you now have a personal vendetta against the genre. but your tone goes completely unnoticed by the girl as her eyes continue to sparkle with enthusiasm.

“yeah! their music’s really good and they’re all super hot, my favorite one plays the electric guitar.”

“what’s their name?” jaehyun asks, curiosity evidently sparked.

“wxnder!” she answers, and your brows furrow with the familiarity of it. where have you heard that name before?

the girl’s head turns at a sound and her mouth drops open, a small uproar caused as some people in the crowd shriek and cheer. the unexpected noise has you flinching before looking towards the stage— and your jaw drops too, but not in a good way.

“you’ve got to be fucking kidding me...” you say to yourself in shock, watching as riwoo sits down his amp and plugs it into the wall.

“what?…what!” jaehyun whisper-yells, grabbing onto your arm to try and get your attention.

leehan appears next, sitting down behind the drum set that’s already on stage and wagging his head to adjust his hair, causing another small wave of squeals.

then a broad back covered by a black leather jacket abstracts your view, and he doesn’t even need to turn around for you to know who he is— but he does anyway. the way taesan almost immediately catches your gaze amongst the crowd is infuriating, smirking while glancing down at how close your table is to the stage before looking teasingly into your eyes again.

and it makes you pissed, unbelievably so— yet you feel your cheeks burn as you can’t help but think about how hot he looks, the stage lights glinting off his lip ring and drawing your eyes towards them.

have his lips always been so…plump?

taesan winks at you before looking down to tune his guitar, hands gripping the neck of it. veins pop out from the contours of his knuckles; long, thick fingers adorned with silver rings picking at the strings.

fuck…

“y/n?” jaehyun tries again, and you finally respond with the shake of your head, downing the remainder of your drink like it’s a shot.

“it’s nothing.” you insist.

after a few minutes of setting up, tuning, and making sure everything’s in order; taesan introduces the group (not that he exactly needs to, since it seems the bar is full of their fans), saying that their opening song will be ‘take my tears’, a song he wrote himself.

usually you and jaehyun talk throughout a band's live performance, as they’ll be playing all night— but you can’t seem to look away as you listen to the lyrics and how they perform.

it’s entrancing— much different than when you’re trying to ignore them through the studio walls. the song is somewhat emotional, beautiful; yet it also has such a fun and freeing feel. or maybe it’s just the way they sing it— how taesan sings it, his body grooving and head nodding to the beat of their sound. the lyrics aren’t what you’d expect from him— the guy you thought he was, and it leaves you wondering what more there is to him that you wouldn’t expect.

your heart skips a beat, and you’re not sure if it’s just the thrill of the rock music or if it’s because of him; the annoying, pompous punk who suddenly looks so sexy when he’s performing. (and never any other time. definitely not.)

you’ve just finished your second margarita and are a little buzzed by the time their set is finished, the night passing faster than you realized.

jaehyun is eating on a basket of fries, yapping away so fervently that he doesn’t even notice how you’ve gotten up from the table and are approaching taesan— who again locks eyes with you as he walks down the steps of the stage to meet you halfway.

“so, what did you think?” he asks, a little out of breath from the long performance, having had no breaks in between songs.

he stands closely so you can hear him— and it’s enough for you to smell his cologne; to see the way sweat clings to the skin of his neck; deep breaths coming out in puffs as his chest expands. something about it all has an effect on you— or maybe it’s something in the air, because taesan doesn’t even try to hide the way his eyes rake over your body, admiring your legs in your denim mini skirt.

“you..you guys were amazing.” you compliment, sounding a little out of breath yourself.

taesan makes a ‘hm’ sound, faintly smiling at you while biting his lip— and you swear you see the glint of metal on his tongue.

your body heats up as you wonder if his tongue is pierced too, what kind of things he could do to you with it, what it would feel like against your skin— before you frantically try and dismiss the increasingly dirty thoughts, reminding yourself that the man you’re fantasizing about is right in front of you.

“i didn’t think you’d actually come.” taesan says, speaking in a teasing tone that you swear seems flirty paired with the slight quirk of his brow.

“how’d you even know we’d be here? did you stalk us, princess?”

okay, surely that was flirting, right?

you’re about to playfully roll your eyes, paired with a smart little comment and deny that’d you’d ever be interested enough to ‘stalk’ them— until the girl that spoke to you about wxnder earlier suddenly appears, putting herself between you and taesan.

“you were absolutely amazing, taesan.” the girl croons, confidently placing her hand on his forearm as she leans all up in his personal space.

and you expect him to shrug her off, either politely or not-so politely establish some distance between them. but again, he surprises you— in a way you absolutely hate.

he smirks at her, in just the same way he did to you just moments ago— and leans even closer to her face, unneededly close.

“aren’t you sweet. thank you so much.”

“no problem.” the girl smiles cattily, clearly enjoying the attention.

something in your heart burns, and that familiar feeling of uncontrollable annoyance comes back even worse than before.

“do you think i could get your autograph?”

“sure, princess.” taesan answers lowly— and that does it.

without even feeling the urge to look back and see that girl all over him, you’re gone, picking up a drunk jaehyun by his arm.

“wh— where are we going?” jaehyun drunkenly slurs, eyes glossed over as they look at you.

“to get an uber home.” you answer firmly, eyes hard as you once again weave through the crowd.

you feel eyes on your back, but you ignore it until you get to the door, turning your head as jaehyun leans half of his body weight against you. even amongst all the faces, you and taesan’s eyes meet easily, his arm now slung around the girl’s waist as she whispers something in his ear.

his lips are in that same smirk— like he’s taunting you, and you scoff, dragging jaehyun and yourself out of the bar.

you can’t believe you were actually feeling into him— but you surely don’t have to worry about that now.

he’s just confirmed that he is in fact what you thought he was: an absolute ass and a cocky player who sings on stage to get girls in his bed.

well, fuck him. he can get his dick wet with anyone he wants but it sure as hell won’t be you.

ㅤㅤ──────────────────────

the very next day you’re back at the dance studio, rehearsing for the upcoming performance.

jaehyun whines the whole day, saying that it’s somehow your fault that he got drunk off his ass— but despite that, he does incredibly well during class. you do also, but unbeknownst to you, your friend wonders why you seem so tense— like something has been bothering you all day.

“shouldn’t you go home and rest, y/n?” jaehyun asks you at the end of class hours. everyone else is packing up their totes and leaving, yet you’re stood at the ballet barre doing leg exercises.

“i’ll be fine. practice makes perfect.” you insist, keeping your eyes on your form in the mirrored wall.

“well..just don’t overwork yourself, okay?” jaehyun sweetly tells you, and you flash him a thankful smile through the mirror.

“don’t worry, yunie, i wont. see you tomorrow.”

if it weren’t for the absolute beast you’re known to be in the studio, jaehyun would force you out of your pointe shoes and drag you home himself— but you don’t seem even a little bit tired, and it appears as though you have some steam to blow off.

so jaehyun and you exchange goodbyes before he leaves you in the empty classroom. (yes, completely empty— aside from the lady at the front desk. no one is as obsessive as you to want to stay even another second practicing when you already have for the whole day— on a saturday night, no less.)

you spend the next thirty minutes going over the steps you learned today that you don’t have down perfectly yet, having small cool downs in the form of stretching in between.

‘entrée d’aurore’ is still playing on your phone when you hear the distant voices of what must be the front desk lady and someone else speaking. you wonder if somebody has returned to get some extra practice in as well, and as you hear footsteps approaching, you remain sitting on the floor doing toe touches.

the door to the classroom opens, echoing slightly in the big, empty space— you lift your head to see someone who definitely is not a part of the sleeping beauty cast.

“y/n?” taesan says somewhat quietly, eyes looking around the big room that only holds one ballerina, who looks small in comparison to the high ceilings and vacant space.

your eyebrows furrow, somewhat irritated to see him while also being surprised— not only by his presence but by the unfamiliar way he almost looks sheepish: barely taking a few steps inside the classroom, looking around like he expects someone or yourself to scold him and kick him out.

“…don’t tell me you auditioned.” you joke, although it’s said casually. your eyes only scrutinize him for a second before you look back down to your own hands as you stretch them across your straightened legs and to your toes.

taesan has seen you a handful of times when you’re in your casual practice wear, but what you’re clad in for an official performance class is a little different. you’re wearing a black leotard with a little mesh skirt, a cropped shirt overtop, tights, and black leg warmers.

you look..really cute. even when you’re pretending to ignore him.

“no. the lady at the front desk said you were in here.” he explains lamely, all his usual snarky remarks not coming to his thoughts as he watches you in your element.

“good. i don’t want to see you in tights anyway. not your aesthetic.”

“sure you don’t.”

your head snaps to look at him before you can think not to react, cheeks heating up as you see the twinkle in his eyes and the small smile he tries to conceal by pressing down his lips.

you sigh as though you’re bothered— because you are— obviously…and get up from your floor stretches to walk over to the ballet barre again. taesan follows you.

“i don’t know why you’re here but i’m practicing. you should leave.”

“who was that with you at the bar last night?”

your cold indifference is broken at the unexpected question, your expression clearly confused as you look at the man standing beside you in the mirrored wall.

“what, jaehyun? he’s my friend. he wanted to go out to celebrate our castings. y’know, for the performance i’m trying to practice for right now?”

“so it was a date.” taesan remarks, eyes hardening right in front of you— and there’s that angered burn in your chest again, your hands squeaking from how tightly they hold onto the barre as your expression turns sour.

“who i date isn’t any of your business to speculate. i haven’t asked you what you and that fangirl got up to last night, have i?” you snap, raising a challenging brow at him— but it only makes him shake his head in unbelief, staring at you like you’re an absolute idiot.

“what? y/n, i don’t even know her name.”

“yes, well, i’m not surprised over that. i’m guessing it’s not very important for you to learn a girl’s name— as long as you’re in between her legs by the end of the night.”

his hand is on your shoulder, turning you around to face him abruptly as he stands closely, right in front of you.

“what the fuck is that supposed to mean? you think i fucked her?”

“i don’t want to know what you di—“

“shut the fuck up.” taesan orders, his fingers curling over your wrists making you wonder when they got there in the first place.

“make me.” someone (you?) says, and then you feel the cold press of taesan’s lip ring against your mouth.

it’s firm at first: the way his lips slam into yours, how both of your expressions still look pissed off at each other, even with both of your eyes closed. but eventually you seem to realize that taesan is actually kissing you— and then you’re melting into him, sighing as you feel his touch soften in response.

his kiss quickly turns demanding, lips moving against yours in pursuit of your taste. you squeak when his teeth bite at your bottom lip, not knowing you’ve fallen right into his trap until his tongue has already seized the opportunity and invaded your mouth. turns out you weren’t wrong when you thought you spotted a ball stud piercing on taesan’s tongue, you can most definitely feel it when he brushes it against your own appendage.

your head is pushed against the mirror from his vigor and you whimper, never having felt so dominated simply by a man’s kiss; taesan explores your mouth like he owns it, like it’s his, and it makes your core pulse, a flicker of neediness growing.

the rough groan he lets out as his hands move to roam and grasp at your waist hints at his possessiveness, fingers pressing into your skin through the thin material of your leotard.

“didn’t fuck her. didn’t want to.” he murmurs between the eager movements of his lips. “just wanted to make you jealous.”

“wh— why?” you manage breathily, taesan pressing his body against yours as your hands move to brace yourself on the barre.

“because i like you, y/n.” he smiles and huffs in disbelief at your denseness.

“i want to take you on a date— whether you let me between your legs or not.” he smirks, referring to your earlier harsh remark and making you cringe at the reference.

“i…i’d like that.” you say shyly, looking at him through your lashes. “the date— and..and the other thing too.”

“the other thing?” taesan repeats, confused as you only avoid his gaze, not further explaining— but funnily enough, your sudden bashful attitude is what makes it click in his mind.

“princess?” he experimentally calls, pleased when you automatically lift your head to look at him. his tongue unconsciously peaks out to play with his lip ring as he cockily grins, hand creeping up from your waist to pinch your chin between his fingers.

“why don’t you be a big girl and tell me what you mean?”

your nose crinkles, a pathetic attempt at defiance amidst your embarrassment. taesan’s other hand pinches the tender skin of your thigh, causing you to flinch and whimper at the slight pain as he makes a disapproving sound under his breath.

“come on, y/n. be good or i won’t give you what you want.”

“i— i want you...i meant—”

taesan does anything but go easy on you, eyes dark with mischief as he lowers his head to nibble at your neck. you squeeze your thighs together, looking for relief from the way your pussy now pulses prominently.

his hands move in tandem, one cradling along your jawline while the other brushes up and down your thigh, making you annoyed at your tights with how they keep you from feeling the cold brush of his rings against your skin.

you want them off. you want taesan to take them off. so you admit it.

“want you to fuck me. please, taesan.”

“awe,” he coos. “aren’t you a sweet one.”

you swear the tone in which he says those words turn you into goo, your hands releasing the barre to desperately hold onto his shirt.

“please.” you beg, finding yourself only wanting more praise— more of him— just anything he’s willing to give you.

taesan is able to identify the look in your eyes, staring at your lips and leaning down so slowly, making you whine at his teasing until he finally grants you mercy and kisses you again.

it’s dirtier than before: a lot more spit, moans, and movement from both of your tongues. taesan’s leg leans against the wall between your thighs, and whether it was his purpose to give you relief or not, you take the opportunity and hesitantly grind your core against his ripped jeans.

the pleasure is immediate, sending a tingle up your spine that has you arching against his chest, forgetting any shame as you begin to earnestly grind your hips against him. the thin layers covering your core paired with the roughness of taesan’s denim creates a wonderful friction, feeling how wet you’ve become in your panties.

“shit, you’re such a slut for it.” taesan remarks in genuine awe after breaking the kiss to watch the little show you’re putting on. his eyes take in every movement, from the way you rock against him to how your eyes squeeze shut and you tilt your head back.

the previous song playing on your phone has long since finished as some other tune now plays from your playlist— taesan suddenly becoming aware of it and that he has a girl whimpering and riding his thigh in the middle of a dance classroom.

he abruptly pulls away, the presence between your legs disappearing as you conjure a bratty sound from your throat.

“y/n,” taesan scolds in a harsh whisper. “did you forget where we are?”

“thought you said you’d fuck me if i was good?” you argue, flashing him a defiant expression.

“you think using my thigh to get yourself off without my permission is being good?”

your eyes widen, not expecting him to call you out on it.

looking to the floor and hearing taesan’s responding laugh at your childishness, it only makes the desire to act out against him stronger— you’re just not sure how you can do it in this moment.

“get your things. we can go to my place.” taesan offers, your stomach fluttering at the idea as you do what he says— moving to grab your phone, bag, and change out of your ballet wear.

your heart is pounding out of your chest and what’s between your legs hasn’t calmed down at all either by the time you walk out of the dance studio and sit in the passenger seat of taesan’s car.

and the drive is just as excruciating.

the man seems hellbent on teasing you by not giving you a drop of attention, keeping his eyes on the road while some rock song plays through the speakers. and you know he knows what he’s doing, how you can’t keep his eyes off of him, because the corner of his mouth is subtly turned.

you see no reason to hide it since he’s already aware, so you stare at him— once again admiring how hot his hands look wrapped around the steering wheel, the contours of his jawline and perfect side profile illuminated by the low hanging sun.

your eyes keep wandering— down, down, down until you get to his lap, where you see the large bulge tenting his pants.

your mouth waters and your hands twitch, wondering if he’s really as big as he looks and hoping you’ll get to find out by the end of tonight.

then you’re struck with an idea, recognizing the perfect opportunity you have right now— and you reach your hand out confidently to grope him over his pants.

you’re so proud at the way it makes taesan softly gasp under his breath, back stiffening at the unexpected touch. you mold your hand over his clothed dick, rubbing and gently squeezing— in all the right ways apparently, as you feel him twitch in your hands— even through the thick denim fabric.

“y/n, stop it.” taesan grits, and you hear the squeak of what you guess is his hands gripping tightly around the steering wheel. you don’t look at him until after you’ve located the head of his cock, rubbing over it with your thumb and meeting his fiery glare with a teasing bite to your lip— clearly pleased with yourself.

taesan is visibly pissed at your blatant act of defiance, but he gives you one more chance in the form of a threat.

“you’re not very patient, are you, princess? keep touching my dick like that and you won’t even get to see it out of my pants.”

your hand immediately stills— the man releasing a huff of disbelief when you pull your hand away completely to lay both of your hands on your lap, avoiding his gaze as you stare ahead.

not another word is shared, taesan enjoying the way you nervously squirm in your seat as he finally pulls into his apartment’s parking lot.

“stay.” he simply orders once he’s parked, and you’re left confused as he exits the car, only to watch him come around and open your door for you— even going as far to unbuckle your seatbelt and keep a firm hold around your wrist as he leads you up the stairs of his building. it makes butterflies flutter in your stomach yet your insides twist with nervous anticipation— because he does it all with the same stern eyes he spoke to you with as he threatened not to fuck you.

when the key is twisted and his front door lightly squeaks open— his residence somehow looks exactly how you thought; dark, moody, vintage rock posters and memorabilia hanging on the walls.

you expect him to be cheesy and press you against his door the moment it’s closed, but he doesn’t— instead walking over leisurely to his couch and sitting down, legs widely spread in an oddly commanding and powerful way.

your eyes widen at the arousing image, feeling yourself become sheepish as taesan lets his eyes roam over your form without shame.

“why do you look so shy now? you were such a disobedient little slut in the car.”

you swallow, hardly able but trying to hold eye contact with him as your face heats up in a delicious sort of shame.

taesan sighs as though he’s annoyed with your silence, patting one thigh with his hand.

“come here.”

“…h— huh?”

“don’t make me say it again, y/n.” he orders— and next thing you know, your body is moving to straddle the leg he’s directed you to sit on.

“there we go. guess princesses can take orders sometimes, hm?” he rhetorically asks, but you’re nodding your head anyway.

taesan just stares at you for a bit, admiring how pretty you look sitting and waiting for what he’ll do next, so different from the bratty attitude you had during the car ride.

then his hands rest on your bare waist, giving him easy access as you had disregarded your leotard before leaving the studio, now only wearing your cropped shirt and athletic shorts.

you’re unable to conceal the shuddered inhale you take as taesan’s hands creep upward, seeing him smirk at the sound before his hands slip under your shirt and reach your tits.

“no bra?” he teases, biting his lip as his fingers pinch at your hard nipples.

“n— no,” you struggle out, flinching lightly as taesan plays with your tits without any restraint, like your body is his toy. the contrast of his cool rings against your heated skin causes goosebumps to rise on the surface of your arms, chest pushing further into his hands. “didn’t think there was any p—..point.”

you watch as taesan shakes his head like he’s disappointed, yet he’s smiling darkly.

“dirty girl.” he remarks, giving a firmer pinched tug to your hard bud and forcing a whimper to escape from between your lips. “just take everything off then.”

you’re quicker to do what he says this time, only letting your sudden shy attitude make you hesitate for a moment before getting up from his lap to discard your clothing to his floor, keeping eye contact with taesan as best as you can manage— as he seems pleased when you do. he lets out a hungry exhale when you take off your shirt and your tits are revealed to his eyes, hand leisurely jerking himself off over his pants by the time your shorts are removed— leaving you only in your underwear.

“is that a thong, princess?” taesan asks breathily, eyes slightly widening in what you think might be surprise.

“yeah? it’s…it’s what i always wear underneath my leotard.” you confirm, somewhat confused— until taesan speaks again, hand moving up and down his dick faster.

“fuck, just— just didn’t expect such a prissy girl like you to— shit, i don’t know. you’re so hot.”

you smile— and it’s equally sexy and cute in a way that makes taesan feel like he’s going to go insane if you don’t get back on his lap right away. your fingers slip beneath the band of your panties to tug them off, but he stops you before you can.

“don’t. keep them on, wanna see you make a mess in them for me.”

a part of you— the bratty side— wants to say you already have, the dark spot from your leaking arousal evidence of it. but you don’t, the desire to listen actually winning over as you remove your hands from your hips and straddle his thigh again. you hover this time, not fully sitting down as you’re embarrassed for him to feel your wetness directly against his bare skin, which are revealed through the large holes in his jeans.

but taesan catches on immediately, tutting fondly as his hands squeeze at your hips.

“all the way.” he drawls, like he’s giving a ditzy dog a command they’re struggling to understand— and it makes your stomach flip, hurrying to do as he says.

you know he feels it, how your panties clinging to your wet pussy lips press against his thigh— and as he bites at his lip, drawing your eyes to his twinkling piercing yet again— your face burns as you’re sure he’s probably looking at the glistening residue you’ve surely left on his skin.

“good girl.” he mutters roughly, you whining in response as your hands fist into the material of his shirt.

you feel like such a slut, sitting on a man’s lap almost completely bare while he’s fully clothed, your needy pussy slowly drenching his thigh in your juices; and you sound like one too as taesan leans down to suck your nipple into his mouth.

you gasp and stutter— unsure of what you’re even trying to say as taesan chuckles around your bud, continuing to flick and roll his pierced tongue over you. the contrast of his warm appendage and the occasional brush of round metal against your skin makes you sensitive, hole clenching around nothing with every other swipe of his tongue.

“like that?” he whispers before switching to give your other breast attention.

“yes,” you quietly moan, wrapping your arms around to grip and play with the hair at the nape of his neck, subsequently pushing his face deeper into your tits.

he likes that— if his responding groan is anything to judge by, his hands pulling your hips forward and drawing a more unabashed sound from your lips at the movement.

“use me. get your little pussy off on my thigh.”

“fuck— yes,” you obey, rocking your hips and finding a rhythm.

“shit. that’s it, baby.” he coos, his hand suddenly reigning down against your ass a contrast to his soft tone as it leaves your skin tingling with heat. “just a few little touches is all it takes to get the brat out of you, huh?”

you scoff at that— though it’s interrupted by a moan when taesan flexes his thigh. shame burns your skin and his little remark makes you want to act out again, but all you can do is grind your pussy against him, gasping and going faster whenever your covered clit gets brushed over just right.

your hands that are still tangled in his hair pull to disconnect his mouth from your tits, leaning down to kiss him instead. taesan doesn’t scold you for the demanding gesture— but he does lift a hand to grasp it over your throat. he doesn’t squeeze, but the simple act makes you feel so good and dominated— and his other hand which gropes at your ass and snaps the string waistband of your thong has you falling further into delirium.

“please— please, tae. wanna cum.”

“then cum.” he says simply, and when you finally open your squeezed shut eyes, he’s staring at your desperate face with amusement— and just like that, you’re pissed.

“taesan! i can’t! not— not enough!” you whine, not even able to think about how pathetic you sound.

“you’re cumming by my thigh or not at all. this is what you get for acting like a fucking whore while i was driving.”

you whisper out a sigh, and it’s so broken and helpless as you rock your hips earnestly against him that he almost feels bad— but the bigger part of him is proud; proud in a dark and twisted way at how he’s dwindled the ballerina down to nothing but a mindless slut that’s practically crying with the need to cum.

another spank is delivered to your ass and you flinch, taesan’s hand around your neck getting a little firmer as he forces your teary eyes to look up at him— and you feel like a dog in heat as your hips never stop their efforts to bring you to release.

“please.” you beg, and taesan’s eyes turn hazey at the beautiful sound.

“come on, princess. i know you can do it for me.” he encourages— and turns out that’s all you needed.

taesan gets an up close view as your eyes roll to the back of your head, mouth dropping open in a silent cry as he feels you ruin your panties even further.

his thigh is dripping as you keep rutting your hips against him, letting out small whimpers as you work yourself through your high. taesan grants you mercy at the very end, helping you grind your hips before eventually slowing you to a stop.

then he’s picking you up and carrying you into what you can only assume is his bedroom— because in the next moment he’s laying you down on a black comforter-covered mattress and stripping off his clothes.

you’re panting, still catching your breath— but you still manage to make a somewhat teasing comment as the man’s bare chest is revealed to you.

“no tattoos?”

taesan looks up at you right after pulling his shirt over his head, black hair disheveled and brushing over his eyes as he smirks silently at you and combs it out of his face.

“i thought all emo’s had tattoos.” you tack on— and that gets him to respond.

“emo?! i’m not emo, i’m fucking punk!” he argues, somewhat offended but mostly amused as he works on removing his jeans.

“emo, punk, metalhead. it’s all the same thing.” you offhandedly say.

“…i’m about to go soft.” taesan threatens.

“kidding!” you laugh, sitting up on your elbows— and the smile is completely wiped off your face when taesan removes his boxers and his dick is finally freed, slapping against his abs.

“shit..” you whisper to yourself, watching as taesan rolls a condom on before climbing on the bed and caging you underneath him with his body.

“need me to stretch you first, princess?” taesan sweetly asks after peeling off your drenched panties, hand brushing up and down your hip soothingly.

as much as you want his sexy fingers in your cunt— you can’t wait any longer, spreading your legs for him as you flash him your best puppy-dog eyes.

“no. please just fuck me, taesanie. need you.”

“god…” taesan sighs, not making you wait anymore as he lines his head to your entrance before pushing in slowly. “oh, fuck. you’re so tight, princess.”

your chest heaves as he pushes into the hilt, your hands gripping against the sheets.

“move. fuck me hard, please. want it rough.”

you think you hear taesan mutter something about you being a dream before his pulling out till just the tip is stretching your hole— and slamming back inside.

you both turn a little animalistic and desperate, learning how the other feels and bodies being taken over by the pleasure of it. taesan’s cock stretches you out so good— he fucks you so good. the rocking of his bed frame hits against his wall, and you have a fleeting thought about if the walls are thin and if he’ll get a noise complaint— before all that is forgotten as taesan takes hold of one of your thighs and bends it against your chest.

“feel it, baby? feel how fucking bad i want you?” taesan groans between his teeth, hand squeezing tightly around your leg unconsciously— and you secretly hope it leaves mark indentations from his rings; tiny bruises from his fingers you can admire the next day.

you only can respond so his deeply uttered words with a broken moan, and taesan only fucks you harder.

“that’s it, princess got what she wanted.” he coos, eyes surprising you by how they turn a little soft— though the movement of his hips certainly never do. “always give my princess what she wants.”

you whine at that, grabbing him by the shoulders to ask for a kiss.

“fuck, you drive me crazy, y/n.” he breathes before leaning down to yet again give you what you ask for.

“but i like that about you.” he finishes between kisses.

your thighs are trembling in pleasure, sweat is lining your hairline and glistening from taesan’s chest— and you can’t take it anymore, wrapping your legs around taesan’s waist as your nails dig into his back.

“can i come, please? oh, fff— please?”

“such a good fucking slut when you got a cock in you, huh? can’t believe my princess likes it rough.”

his hand manages to squeeze between your bodies despite how tightly you cling to him, his fingers finding your clit and tracing shapes over it.

“cum, baby. get it all over my sheets.”

your body going stiff before trembling uncontrollably against him, all while your pussy clenched around his throbbing cock— it brings taesan to release as well, pressing his mouth to yours to swallow each other's cries of pleasure.

the come down is slow, taesan rolling over and pulling your body on top of his so he doesn’t accidentally fall against you in exhaustion.

your deep breaths puff warmly against his neck as he cradles you on his chest, hands swirling patterns over your back absentmindedly.

“that was…amazing.” you say around a sigh, enjoying the comforting aroma of taesan’s cologne imbedded into his sheets.

“yeah…are you done?” taesan asks, still breathy yet curious— and you raise your head to look at his face.

“you want to go again?”

“well,” taesan starts, somewhat sheepishly— yet his eyes hold that constant playful sparkle. “just thought you might be curious what it feels like to get eaten out with a piercing.”

your eyes widen, clearly shocked by not only the question but at how correct he is.

“come on, princess. you’re not slick. don’t think i didn’t notice you staring at it when we were at the bar. plus, you did say you wanted me between your legs—“

“can you stop bringing that up!?”

note ; and for anyone wondering, yes, taesan went to reader’s ballet performance. (and yes, he got jealous watching her and jaehyun dancing on stage together…part two material?🤭)

all taglists (perm/fluff/smut) are open if anyone would like to be added! age must be in bio/somewhere on pinned post if you want to be tagged in perm/smut taglist.

[custom-fic-studio]

Trafalgar D. Water Law x female reader

Still Here

The room is too quiet.

The only sounds are the soft scrape of metal instruments against a tray, the gentle drip of antiseptic, and the faint hum of tension radiating off Law’s body like heat off a storm.

You’re seated on the edge of the med bay cot, legs dangling limply, shirt already peeled away to expose the bruises blooming across your ribs. There’s a gash across your thigh that refuses to stop weeping.

He hasn’t spoken since he started patching you up.

Not once.

His jaw is tight, eyes shadowed beneath dark lashes, and every movement is sharp. Controlled. The kind of restraint that only comes from someone trying not to feel something too big.

You flinch when he presses gauze to your side — not from the pain, but from the heat of his palm. You’re hyper-aware of him. Of everything.

He’s never looked at you like this before.

Like he’s terrified.

Like he’s furious.

“You’re mad,” you murmur softly, watching him work.

He doesn’t look up. “No.”

“You are.”

He ties the bandage a little too tight. “You took on a ship of Marine officers by yourself.”

“I had to—”

“You didn’t.” His tone is calm, but beneath it, his voice trembles with something sharp. “I could’ve handled it.”

“I know,” you say, breathing through the sting, “but you were protecting the crew. Someone had to draw their attention.”

He finally meets your eyes.

And it almost breaks you.

There’s so much in them. Fear. Rage. Relief. All tangled in a storm behind that golden stare.

“I could’ve lost you.”

You smile through the ache in your chest. “I’d do anything for my captain and my crew.”

His shoulders slump — a sharp exhale escaping him like he’s been holding his breath since the fight.

“You idiot,” he mutters, setting the last of the supplies aside with a clatter. “Don’t say shit like that.”

You reach for his hand, fingers brushing his gloved knuckles.

He flinches — just slightly.

But doesn’t pull away.

“I mean it,” you say gently.

He pulls his gloves off slowly, tosses them onto the tray, and takes your hand in his.

You expect him to scold you again.

He doesn’t.

He leans forward — slow, measured — and kisses you.

It’s not careful.

It’s not soft.

It’s desperate.

His mouth crashes into yours with heat and hunger that steals the air from your lungs. His fingers slide up to cradle the back of your head, careful to avoid your bandaged wound, while his other hand fists the edge of the cot beside your thigh.

You make a small, wounded noise — somewhere between surprise and desire — and his grip tightens.

“Tell me to stop,” he mutters against your lips, voice wrecked. “If you’re hurt—”

“I’m fine,” you whisper, breath shaky. “Don’t stop.”

That’s all it takes.

He lifts you — one arm under your knees, the other behind your back — and lays you down fully on the cot, lips never leaving yours. His coat hits the floor. His shirt is gone a moment later.

And then it’s just him.

Warm skin. Broad shoulders. Scars and ink and desperation.

He kisses you again — slower now, but deeper. Possessive. One hand cups your cheek while the other skims down your waist, fingertips ghosting over every bruise, every scrape.

“I hate seeing you like this,” he growls softly. “Bleeding. Broken. Because of me.”

You arch up slightly, gasping when his mouth dips to your collarbone, sucking gently where skin is still unmarked. “It wasn’t because of you. I made that choice.”

He doesn’t argue.

He just kisses you again — lower this time. Across your sternum. Down your ribs. His hand slips between your thighs, spreading them carefully, reverently, before trailing up the inside with torturously slow precision.

“Law—” you breathe, voice trembling.

He shushes you softly, fingers brushing against your center — finding you wet, swollen, already aching for him.

“You’re sure?” he asks again, voice low, raw.

“Yes,” you whisper. “Please.”

The way he groans at that word — please — it’s almost animal.

He sinks to his knees at the foot of the cot, dark eyes locked onto yours, and for a moment, he just stays there — hands gripping your hips gently, breathing ragged, gaze drinking in every inch of you like he’s still convincing himself you’re alive, that you’re here.

Then, without breaking eye contact, he leans in and presses a kiss to the inside of your knee — featherlight, reverent.

He pulls you forward with careful hands, guiding your thighs over his shoulders with a tenderness that makes your breath hitch. The feeling of his skin on yours, his fingers pressing into the softness of your hips, is enough to set every nerve in your body alight.

His breath ghosts over your inner thighs, warm and shaky — and when his mouth finally touches you, you jerk in surprise, a soft cry leaving your lips before you can stop it.

It starts slow.

His tongue moves in languid, exploratory strokes, savoring you. Not rushing. Not greedy — yet.

You clutch the sheets, gasping as he begins to map you out with growing focus, coaxing your body open with nothing but his mouth and an unrelenting devotion that leaves you trembling.

Your hips roll forward on instinct, chasing the rhythm he builds with each passing second, and he groans at the way you react to him — the way you open for him, the way your moans grow needier with every breath.

He doesn’t stop.

Not even when your voice breaks. Not even when your legs start to shake.

His hands hold you firm — possessive, grounding — and when your hand slides into his hair, tugging hard, he only grips you tighter and devours you deeper, like your pleasure is the only thing that matters.

By the time he pulls back, his lips are wet, his chest is rising fast, and his face — flushed and wrecked — looks like he just walked out of a battlefield and into heaven.

He presses a final kiss to the inside of your thigh, slow and lingering, before standing over you again — eyes blazing, jaw tight, hunger barely held in check.

And when he sees you looking up at him — lips parted, eyes glassy, still gasping for air — something in him snaps completely.

And this time, he doesn’t ask for permission.

He just gives you everything.

His belt hits the floor.

You reach for him, eyes glassy, lips parted — body aching, nerves still sparking from the way he worshipped you only moments before.

“Please,” you whisper again, voice trembling with need. “I need you.”

That breaks him.

There’s no teasing smirk. No clever remark. Just the sound of his breath catching, and the way his gaze darkens as he sheds the last of his restraint.

He doesn’t tease.

He doesn’t stall.

He just gives in.

With one long, deep stroke, he thrusts into you — and the both of you cry out at the contact. The stretch is overwhelming, your body already so sensitive, but the fullness of him, the slow grind of his hips against yours — it feels right. Like everything inside you was waiting for this, for him.

He groans — low and guttural — as he sinks all the way in, his forehead dropping against your shoulder as he exhales through clenched teeth. “Fuck…”

You wrap your arms around him instinctively, your legs trembling as they hook around his waist, anchoring him close. There’s no space left between you — just the heat of skin, the stick of sweat, the way your hearts pound against each other like drums in sync.

He starts slow — deep and heavy, each thrust measured and full, dragging against every sensitive place inside you until you can’t help but moan into the curve of his neck.

But it doesn’t stay slow for long.

“Don’t do that again,” he growls — each word marked by a hard, perfect thrust that knocks the air from your lungs. “Don’t ever fucking do that again.”

You gasp his name, voice cracking. “L-Law…”

Your nails dig into his back, clawing at him like you’ll fall apart if you don’t hold on. “I-I won’t,” you choke out, tears welling in your eyes from the intensity — from everything. “I promise. I swear—”

His thrusts grow more frantic, hips snapping harder, deeper, breath ragged.

“I need you here,” he pants, mouth brushing your ear. “Alive. With me. Don’t make me watch you almost die again.”

His voice breaks on the last word — and your heart shatters.

You hold him tighter, lips brushing his jaw, and he takes you even deeper, the angle brutal in its precision — hitting something inside you that leaves your whole body arching off the cot.

You come undone with a cry, back bowing, voice shattered as you scream his name — and Law follows, a curse torn from his throat as his hips lose rhythm, stuttering, buried deep as he spills inside you with a groan that sounds almost like relief.

But he doesn’t move. Not yet.

His hands are trembling as they cup your face, his forehead resting against yours, breath hot and uneven as he tries to slow the storm still raging inside him.

Your fingers thread through his damp hair, and you close your eyes, both of you still locked together, chest to chest, heart to heart.

For a long moment, there’s nothing but silence.

Then, softly — barely audible — you whisper, “I’m still here.”

And he holds you even tighter.

[valeisaslut]

what is rockstar!ellie and popstar!readers favorite albums or songs to have sex to and is it different the type of sex it is???

(MDNI)

OKAY NONNIE. I SEE YOU BABE.

when you were together, music wasn’t a detail. it wasn’t background noise.

it was ritual.

sex was just another kind of performance—intimate, electric, and scored like a fucking movie scene. you didn’t even have to think about it. one of you would press play without a word, and it would begin. always. every time.

the moan that escaped your lips when Ellie slid her hand between your thighs? framed by a drum kick. the snap of her hips against yours? timed to a bassline. the gasp when you dragged your nails down her back? right on cue with the bridge.

that performer nerve in both of you always acted up. and you both loved it.

ELLIE’S VIBE? hot, cocky, heavy.

she had ZERO shame about putting The Fireflies songs in rotation. if it was about you, even better. she lived for the drama. that smug little smirk would curl across her lips while her voice rasped through the speakers.

"this one’s about that night in Paris," she’d mutter in your ear, teeth grazing the shell as the intro to “Buzz” kicked in. “you remember that balcony?”

yeah. you did. you remembered the cold iron railing digging into your back, the skyline behind your head, ellie’s hand between your thighs, whispering “don’t look down” like it was a fucking dare.

“Rocket Queen” played during the kind of sex that left marks. your own moans melding with the ones in the song. bruises blooming like ink across your skin. her voice low and filthy as she mouthed every lyric into your shoulder. hips snapping right along with the guitar solo. fingers digging into your thighs like she was holding herself in place.

when Deftones came on, she’d slow it down. plant a hand over your throat, lean in close, and keep eye contact like she was testing you. like she wanted to see what broke first—your breath or your pride.

picture "beauty school", "cherry waves" "hearts/wires" and "be quiet and drive".

and when “I Wanna Be Your Dog” (Joan Jett version) hit the speakers? Forget it. you were both done. she fucked you like she meant it. like you were hers. like the lyrics were instructions.

and of course "closer" by nine inch nails and "angel" by massive attack were in the rotation. self explanatory.

but the Joel song incident? PURE DEVASTATION.

you were mid-fuck—her buried deep inside, breath ragged against your chest—when an old acoustic Joel Miller track shuffled on. your moans melded with the first verse.

and you both froze.

"fuck, fuck—turn that off!" she muttered, scrambling across the room half-naked, tripping over her jeans to skip the track.

you were wheezing with laughter. she was not amused.

sex to Ellie’s music meant dominance. bruises. nails in your hips. teeth on your neck. whispering “mine” and "take it" like a threat. pulling your hair just to hear you whimper. keeping rhythm like her body was an instrument and you were the encore.

YOUR VIBE? softer. but no less powerful.

yours was intention. you liked control too—but yours was silk, not chains.

you liked music that made the room feel thick. velvet songs. desperate ones. you liked knowing exactly what a song would do to her before you even pressed play.

"can you put something less loud? maybe not scream in my ear while I’m coming?" you’d huff, straddling her lap, fake annoyed. ellie would grin—“fine. but I’m picking the next one.”

“Do I Wanna Know” and “I Wanna Be Yours” had her unraveling underneath you. "basic as hell", she said, but they always hit. hands tight on your hips, breath caught in her throat as your fingers slipped under her tank top.

“Needed Me” by rihanna was power. your pace slow and unrelenting while riding, holding her jaw in your palm while she begged—really begged—for you to stop teasing.

but “Take Me to Church”?

you’d arch your back like a goddamn divine offering, hips rolling in time with the chorus, sweat glistening down your chest, your hair sticking to your temples. ellie would stop breathing. every single time.

and when your unreleased demos came on? the ones you wrote only for her? soft vocals. bare lyrics. rough mixes that never made it to your team’s ears?

she’d drop to her knees. put her mouth on you like she was starving. and when she came, it was your voice in her ears—only yours.

sex to your music meant never breaking eye contact. tangled hands and tangled limbs. gasps turned into sobs if the moment got too intense. her voice whiny with need, whispering “again, baby, please—just one more”

and then there were the SHUFFLE NIGHTS.

when you both gave up and let the playlist choose chaos.

when The Weeknd transitioned into Metallica and neither of you blinked. when “Wicked Games” came on and you were breathless on the carpet, half-dressed, laughing into her mouth. when she bit your thigh during a Led Zeppelin riff and you accidentally moaned through a Lana verse.

when you came with her guitar solo ringing in your ears and her grin looking downright feral.

those were the best ones. no performance. no power plays. just raw, chaotic, messy, real love.

and now?

It haunts both of you.

you can’t listen to “Do Not Disturb” without flashing back to the way her mouth moved over your stomach like she was worshipping every inch.

she can’t hear “Take Me to Church” without seeing you on top of her, haloed in moonlight, riding her slow like penance.

your unreleased songs?

still on her phone. still in her bones. still hers.

[mihanisms]

Fuck. Caleb has no idea how he ended up in this situation. The last thing he remembers is your pretty, doe-like eyes, wide with mischief, and that perverted smile curling at your plush lips, hypnotizing him.

"Trust me, baby. You’ll like it."

He’s not so sure about that now.

The ropes on his arms feel foreign—usually, it’d be you bound up, whining and pleading for more from him. But now, he’s the one spread out, wrists tugged above his head, muscles twitching under the restraints as he watches you beneath him, breath shallow. His cock stands flushed and aching between his legs, contrasting the cool, glistening metal resting against his tip.

"Relax, Caleb," you murmur, trailing your fingers down his stomach, light and teasing. "You trust me, don’t you?"

He does. God, he does. But the unfamiliar weight of hesitance is coiled tight in his gut, warring with the sharp edge of anticipation. The slick press of the instrument at his slit is so delicate, nearly innocent. His fingers flex against the bindings, jaw tightening as heat builds low in his stomach.

He swallows hard, throat drying up. "Baby, I don’t- Fuck- I-I don’t even know what I’m doing…"

"That’s okay," you purr, watching the way his body shudders. "You don’t have to. I made sure to do aaaaall my research before this. It won’t hurt….too much?"

Caleb lets out a sharp exhale, his fingers curling into fists against the restraints. His heart is hammering against his ribs, his voice rough around the edges. "Not sure that’s making me feel any better, honey." 

You only smile, tilting your head as you give the dilator the slightest push forward. His jaw clenches as the cool metal dips past the tight ring of his slit, and oh, fuck, that’s….that’s different. His hips stutter, his body caught between retreat and curiosity. His cock twitches, betraying him, and he glares down at the rod teasing the entrance of his cock like it’s personally offended him. 

You hold it still between your fingers, the gleaming silver catching the light, and Caleb watches it with wide, cautious eyes like it’s a weapon you’re driving into his heart. Catching the emotions swirling on his face, your smile turns softer, lips finding his inner thigh. “It’s thinner than you think. I’ll go slow. Just focus on what you feel, alright?”

He doesn’t answer—can’t answer, too busy trying not to flinch as you let the weight and gravity do most of the work, easing the rod in millimeter by millimeter. His cock jolts in your grip, and his hips shift instinctively like he doesn’t know whether to push away or into you.

“‘S okay?” you ask quietly.

Caleb nods quickly, his hands gripping the sheets on either side of him. “Yeah. Yeah, just…fuck, it’s cold.”

Then, the rod really begins to sink in. His jaw drops, lips parting in a half gasp, half moan as the pressure builds—it’s not pain, but it’s also not pleasure. Not yet, at least. It was more like a bizarre, alien stretch that lights up nerves he didn’t even know existed. With every slow inch, a sensation crawled up from deep within, growing fuller, heavier, and Caleb was heaving even without being touched properly.

“I- God, baby-” He breathes heavily, pupils blown wide. “Wh- What the hell is that?”

“I don’t even-” he groans again as you press just a little deeper, until the rod slips past the tightest part and settles in like it belongs there. His thighs jerk, but your grip steadies him. “S’mthing like this should hurt, right? It’s not supposed to- Ah fuck- Fuck baby, feels like it’s in my stomach.”

You grin. You have him right where you want him to be. “That’s your prostate saying hi, Colonel.”

Caleb laughs, but the noise breaks in the middle. “...Tell it to back the fuck off.”

You hum, amused, wrapping your hand around the base of his cock. “Hm. That wasn’t your safeword, was it?” you ask sweetly, giving him a slow, deliberate stroke.

He jolts. Hard.

“Hey-” His jaw tightens as the sound shifts inside him with your movement, pressing against the slick, sensitive walls of his urethra. It’s like there’s a pulse inside him now—like the pleasure is coming from within, surging outward from the center of his cock in waves.

Your hand glides up, mercilessly, expertly- overly patient. Waiting for him to surrender. His length pulses helplessly in your grip, and a fresh bead of precum pushes out around the sound, thick and shiny.

He lets out a ragged breath. “Okay, okay- I get it. New kink unlocked. Ten out of ten. We can stop now, and try this another time when I’m more prepa-”

But you don’t stop. You give him another pump, firmer this time, and watch the way he tenses, words caught in his throat. You hum again, pleased, your hand trailing up to the head of his cock. ”Still not your safeword,” you remark sarcastically, thumb circling the sensitive spot just beneath the head. Not enough to push him over. Just enough to remind him how badly he wants it despite all his hesitation and denial.

He growls. Actually growls, eyes snapping to yours. “You’re mean.”

You pout, mockingly innocent. “You said I could try anything I wanted.”

“I didn’t think you meant torturing me with a goddamn sword in my dick.”

You laugh and start moving again—but this time slower. Languid. Mean, like he complained about. The rod shifts with every stroke, pressing deeper, drawing out tight, involuntary spasms from the depths of his body. He’s gasping now, body tight like a livewire, trapped between frustration and desperate need.

“Baby-” he whines, voice breaking on his next words as his head falls back against the headboard. “Baby, it feels weird feels so so weird-”

You stop.

Caleb feels like he’s about to die.

His breath is uneven, the flush on his ears quickly spreading to his cheeks. “Baby, please, ‘m losing my fuckin’ mind-”

You squeeze enough to make him twitch again. His hips try to buck, but the restraints hold him down, and it drives him up the wall. The metal glides with his motion, brushing something deep—too deep, he thinks—and he chokes on his own moan. 

“I want you to lose your mind,” you mumble, kissing his thigh before gently sinking your teeth into his skin. “That’s the whole point.”

He’s trembling—has been, for a while, and your bite does nothing to soothe the storm of sensations traveling through his nervous system.

You can feel the tension radiating off him in waves, his entire body vibrating with the struggle between wanting more and being overwhelmed. The storm inside him is palpable, and you can practically taste the need rolling off his skin.

“Caleb,” you coax, voice dripping with honeyed seduction. “Just let go. You’re already doing so well.”

He shakes his head frantically. “No, no, no- I can’t. I can’t-” The words tumble from his lips, desperate and pleading. His arms strain against the bindings, his body instinctively searching for more friction, more release. The dilator inside him throbs with every movement, and the heat in his stomach builds dangerously close to a breaking point.

Your hand moves with deliberate slowness, tracing the length of his cock while the sound nestles deep within him. He’s close. Too close. The tension builds, unbearable. “You can. You just have to let yourself feel it.”

Caleb’s breath hitches in his throat as you pick up the pace just a little, reveling in the way his body responds. Every jerk, every shudder, is a testament to your control over him.

“Please,” he gasps out, his eyes squeezed shut. “I can’t- Haah-! Please! Just wanna-”

But you hold him there, poised at the edge. You can see the desperation etched into his features, the way his body strains against the restraints as he fights for a release that feels so close yet just out of reach.

“So close.” Your thumb presses down just on the head of his cock, leisurely circling around the handle of the sounding rod. He whimpers, the sound a mixture of frustration and pleasure that has you wanting to draw out more. “So close, baby. Just a little more. You can take it.”

He arches as you drag your hand again, the combination of your motions and the metal creating a tension that has him throbbing with need. “Please!” he cries, the word spilling from his lips in a rush. “I’m begging you, just let me-”

You tighten your hold just enough to keep him on the edge, your thumb moving in a teasing rhythm that’s driving him up the wall. “But I want your eyes open, baby,” you coo softly. “Want you to see how pretty you fall apart.”

Immediately, his eyes dart open to meet yours, a mix of need and disbelief swirling within their purple depths. “You’re killing me,” he pants, voice laced with desperate longing.

“I’m not killing you. We’re just playing, baby. Finding out what makes you tick, hm?” You lean in, lips pressing a kiss to his cock as you apply a bit more pressure on the dilator.

Caleb’s body betrays him, the muscles in his thighs tightening, his cock pulsing beneath your grip. “Can’t hold it- can’tholditcan’tholditican’tican’t-”

“You’re not supposed to,” you mumble, voice muffled by the kisses you press along his length. As you drag your tongue over his entire cock, the rod shifts deep inside him simultaneously, and the combined sensations finally push him over the edge.

He comes with a keening, high-pitched sound, his torso lifting off the bed, cum spilling in thick, hot pulses around the metal, the orgasm tearing through him so deep and measured it looks like it hurts. Repeated cries of your name leave him, tremors running through his hips and legs as his cum drips down onto your fingers.

You hold him through it, feeling the heat radiating from his body and the overwhelmed shudders as he rides out the waves of pleasure. “That’s it, baby,” you murmur, caressing him gently, letting him bask in the bliss longer than he thought possible. “Just breathe.”

You slow your movements, allowing him to come down slowly, savoring the feeling of him still trembling against your touch. He collapses back onto the bed, panting hard, eyes glazed over  as he tries to process what just happened.

Caleb’s chest heaves as he lies there, boneless and completely undone. His wrists strain weakly against the restraints, more out of reflex than any real attempt to move. Sweat slicks his skin, clinging to the line of his throat, and his lashes flutter with each heavy, ragged breath.

You watch him, quietly captivated. The rise and fall of his body, the dazed look in his eyes—like he just survived something holy and horrible and gorgeous all at once. You reach up and carefully undo the bindings, careful not to jostle him too much. His arms drop with a groan, and you catch one before it hits the bed too hard, guiding it to rest along his side.

He doesn’t speak. Just breathes. Stares at the ceiling like it might have answers.

The sound still rests deep inside him, barely shifting with his post-orgasm twitches. You’re patient with him, waiting until the sharpness of his gasps fades into something slower before you finally—gently—slide the rod free. Caleb hisses, the feeling more sensitivity than pain, and his whole body shudders once more as you place the tool aside and press a soft kiss to the base of his cock.

“You,” he finally rasps, his voice hoarse. “What just…”

You giggle quietly, wiping your fingers clean before shuffling up beside him, one hand sliding across his stomach. “C’mon baby,” you whisper, lips brushing his collarbone. “Didn’t I tell you you’d like it?”

He turns his head slowly to look at you, pupils still blown wide. He looks completely wrecked—and utterly in love. “You’re insane,” he whines, laughter bubbling up despite his exhaustion. “I think you just broke me.”

You smile, brushing your fingers through his hair, heart racing at how much he’s surrendered to you. “Good. That was the idea.”

Caleb lets out a rough, shaky breath and pulls you down into him, his arms wrapping tight around your waist like you might float away if he doesn’t. “You’re evil,” he mumbles, lips brushing against your skin. “I have no idea how you roped me into that.”

You smile and nuzzle back, fingers tenderly squeezing his skin. “Because you love me. Aaaand….you didn’t safeword.”

“I was- I was this close, pipsqueak.” His protest is weak, gesturing with his thumb and forefinger apart before letting his arm flop limply over your body again. “But I couldn’t even remember it. You broke my brain. I hope you’re proud.”

Another quiet giggle escapes you and he huffs, nuzzling further into your neck like he’s trying to crawl under your skin. “I’m not moving,” he declares, the words muffled by your skin. “I deserve cuddle compensation after being pushed to my limit.”

“Oh yeah?” you tease, rubbing soothing circles into his back. “But you’re not denying liking it.”

He exhales a breath that sounds suspiciously close to a contented sigh and mutters, “Greedy girl.”

But he doesn’t let go. Doesn’t even try. He just melts into you, warm and limp, clinging to you like a man whose entire soul has decided this—your arms, your breath, your heartbeat—is the safest place in the world.

[bluebells-and-dragonflies]

God, the intimacy of Astarion feeding from you.

Astarion drinking from your neck as he pulls your body closer to his in bed, his chest up against your back, his arms wrapped around your waist. It's a casual thing, now, his whispered can I? and your answering nod, as much a part of your bedtime routine as your bath or his curl care. You sigh as his fangs pierce your skin and his fingers flex against your stomach. His breath hitches when the taste of you hits his tongue, and that's familiar too, the physicality of it, the noises he makes low in his throat as he drinks, the way he grows warmer against you as your blood begins to flow through his veins. Nothing else makes you feel so heady, so intoxicated- so comforted.

Astarion drinking from your wrist when he’s starving for it and can’t wait to get you more comfortable. Pulling him into an alleyway one night on the way home from the Elfsong because you can see how badly he's craving in the way he can't keep his eyes off of the pulse point in your neck. He seizes your arm with both hands (can I? Yes-), bringing the soft skin on the inside of your wrist to his lips. He has just enough presence of mind to kiss the heel of your hand distractedly before he bites, fangs sliding through your skin and into the vein. The sound he makes can only be described as a growl, something feral and possessive (and you'll never tell him that it turns you on, since he would be insufferable about it- a promise to yourself that lasts exactly as long as the space between the moment and the next time you're tipsy and want him).

(NSFW Below!)

Astarion drinking from your inner thigh, one hand holding your leg steady and the other cupping your cunt. You groan, eyes shut in pleasure, as his thumb comes to rub your clit. The pain of the bite is barely pain this way- it collides with the pleasure in your belly and sends you almost out of your mind, overwhelmed with sensation and heat. He takes you all the way there, takes just enough from you to have you relaxed and pliant and soaring somewhere above your own body, plays you like an instrument with all the knowledge of you he's gathered over the months, the years. He knows when you're close, knows to crook his fingers inside you just so, knows the reaction he's going to get when he pulls away from your thigh for just a moment and looks up at you with dark eyes and tells you to come for him, he wants to see it, you fall apart so beautifully and it's all for him, isn't it, tell him how good he makes you feel and when you climax with his voice in your ear and the scent of blood on the air he has the audacity to laugh at how well he understands you, your body.

He's soft, after, softer than he'll ever be with anyone who isn't you. He licks you clean before he takes you to the bath, carrying you with the strength your lifeblood gives him. It's the least he can do for you, with everything you've given him: not just your body, but your trust, your closeness, and he will never stop being grateful.

[hy6erion]

I really love your Jayce being jealous + overstimulation request you had done! Can I request the same prompt for Viktor, JayVik, Silco, and Ekko please?

𝐉𝐞𝐚𝐥𝐨𝐮𝐬 + 𝐎𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐮𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧

𝐕𝐢𝐤𝐭𝐨𝐫, 𝐉𝐚𝐲𝐕𝐢𝐤, 𝐒𝐢𝐥𝐜𝐨, 𝐄𝐤𝐤𝐨 (𝐬𝐞𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐥𝐲) 𝐱 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

⇢ 𝐟𝐞𝐦! 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫, 𝐞𝐱𝐩𝐥𝐢𝐜𝐢𝐭 (𝐦𝐝𝐧𝐢), 𝐟𝐮𝐫𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐛𝐞𝐥𝐨𝐰

𝐣𝐚𝐲𝐜𝐞 𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐨𝐧

𝐕𝐢𝐤𝐭𝐨𝐫

⇢ 𝐝𝐨𝐦! 𝐕𝐢𝐤𝐭𝐨𝐫, 𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠

He saw the way someone else touched your arm. The way you smiled too long. Viktor doesn’t throw tantrums—but he’s meticulous, quiet, and when he gets like this… you know you’re not leaving the bed for a while.

You were halfway through undressing when he pulled your wrist—not roughly, but firm enough that your breath caught. The door clicked shut behind him.

“You seemed… entertained tonight.” His voice was even, but the pause before entertained made something low in your stomach tighten.

You glanced at him, saw the way he set his cane aside. The way he watched you. Slow. Dissecting. He didn’t need to raise his voice to make your pulse pick up. He never did.

“I was just talking,” you say.

“Mm.” He steps forward. “That’s not how it looked.”

And then he’s kissing you—not hard, not soft. Just deliberate. He crowds you back toward the bed with frustrating control, lips brushing yours, tongue sliding in slow and calculated. No rush. Just steady pressure and the heat of his body following yours down until your back hits the sheets.

His hands are warm, decisive, slipping between your thighs as he kneels. You’re already wet and he hasn’t done anything yet. You feel ridiculous.

Fingers drag through your slick. He watches your face, eyes low-lidded behind those lenses.

“Still thinking about him?” he murmurs.

You don’t answer. You can’t. Not when two fingers slide in all at once—curling just right, just deep enough to drag a breathy noise out of you. His rhythm is smooth, practiced, knuckles grazing in slow, perfect strokes that make your legs shake already.

But he doesn’t stop there. His thumb circles your clit—soft at first, then faster, tighter.

“Keep your legs open.”

You try. You really do. But the buildup’s fast—too fast—and when your body tenses, he doesn’t stop. Doesn’t even slow down. Just keeps fucking into you with those fingers, precise and relentless.

“Vik—fuck, wait—”

“No.”

You come once. Clenching down around him, hips twitching.

But his mouth just brushes your inner thigh and he keeps going. Keeps his fingers moving in the same steady rhythm like he’s tuning an instrument. Making sure every part of you remembers who you actually belong to.

When your back arches off the bed a second time, he still doesn’t stop.

“Good,” he mutters, eyes locked on the way your body trembles. “Again.”

⇢ 𝐬𝐮𝐛! 𝐕𝐢𝐤𝐭𝐨𝐫, 𝐠𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠, 𝐫𝐢𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠

You saw her looking at him. Laughing a little too long at something he said. Touching his arm like she had any right. And Viktor—sweet, oblivious Viktor—had no idea. That’s fine. You’ll remind him who he belongs to.

You barely close the door behind you before you’ve got him against it. Your fingers twist in his shirt, dragging him down for a kiss that doesn’t ask. It takes.

He kisses back, caught off guard, hands fumbling for your hips, breath sharp. “Did I—do something?”

You laugh once, low in your throat, pulling his shirt loose, teeth dragging along his jaw.

“Oh, not you,” you murmur. “Her.”

Viktor’s brows pinch. Confused. “Who—”

You cut him off with your mouth again. Your hands push him backward toward the bed until he sits, eyes wide, already flushed. You straddle his lap, grinding just enough to feel him harden beneath you.

“She touched your arm,” you mutter against his neck. “You didn’t even notice.”

“I—”

“But I did.”

You grab his wrists, pinning them to the bed above his head. His pupils dilate. He’s breathing harder now, but he doesn’t fight it.

“You’re not allowed to be that fucking pretty,” you whisper against his ear, biting just enough to make him twitch. “It’s not fair.”

He moans—soft and helpless—as you grind down, slow and steady. Your hands tighten on his wrists.

“You’re gonna take everything I give you tonight,” you whisper, teeth dragging over his throat. “You don’t get to come until you’re begging. Understand?”

He nods. Too fast. You press your hips down harder, and his head falls back with a gasp.

You’re in control. Every grind. Every kiss. Every desperate sound he makes into your neck. You ride him slow and deep, pinning his wrists the whole time, whispering filth in his ear until his thighs shake, eyes fluttering.

And when you finally let him finish—only after your second orgasm—you stay on top of him, still moving, watching him squirm, overstimulated and needy and panting under you.

Just to make sure he remembers.

𝐉𝐚𝐲𝐕𝐢𝐤

⇢ 𝐝𝐨𝐦! 𝐉𝐚𝐲𝐕𝐢𝐤, 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐞𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞, 𝐩 𝐢𝐧 𝐯

You didn't mean to flirt. You didn't even realize you were doing it—but Jayce saw it. Viktor heard it. Now you're pinned between the two of them, body burning from both ends, and they've got something to prove.

Jayce is behind you. Viktor's in front. And you? You're not going anywhere.

"Look at me," Viktor says, voice calm but sharp. "I want to see your face while he fucks you."

Jayce's hand is on your waist, his breath hot against the back of your neck. He's already inside you-slow, deliberate thrusts that push you forward onto Viktor's chest. Every movement forces a gasp out of you, muffled against his skin.

"I didn't do anything," you manage to choke out.

Jayce just laughs. "That's not what it looked like."

Viktor's fingers tilt your chin up. His gaze is steady, unforgiving. "You smiled at him like that. Same as you smile at us."

Jayce snaps his hips forward-harder this time-and you jolt. A moan slips out before you can stop it.

Viktor catches it with his mouth. He kisses you like he's trying to swallow the sound, tongue sliding in deep, slow, so fucking controlled. His hand is between your legs now, fingers rubbing tight circles around your clit with mechanical precision.

"She's already close," he mutters against your lips.

Jayce groans. "Good."

You try to hold on. Try not to give in too fast. But Jayce is fucking you hard now, thighs slapping yours, and Viktor won't let up with his fingers. Their rhythm is maddening-perfectly synced, no mercy.

Your first orgasm rips through you. And they don't stop.

Jayce doesn't slow down, arms braced tight around your waist, grunting as he drives into you again and again. Viktor kisses you through every twitch and shake, fingers never leaving your clit, relentless in their pressure.

By the second climax, your voice is wrecked. Your legs are trembling.

"I-can't-"

Jayce leans in close to your ear, voice low, rough.

"You can. One more."

Viktor's mouth is at your throat. "One more for me, love."

You don't even remember the third one.

Just heat, pressure, the sounds of skin and breath and the low, hungry noises they both make when you fall apart for them. Again.

And still-Jayce's grip doesn't loosen.

Viktor's hand doesn't still.

Because neither of them is finished with you yet.

⇢ 𝐬𝐮𝐛! 𝐉𝐚𝐲𝐕𝐢𝐤, 𝐫𝐢𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠, 𝐎𝐍𝐄 𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐢𝐟 𝐯𝐢𝐤𝐭𝐨𝐫 𝐰𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚 𝐜𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐚𝐫

They were both laughing too much at her joke. Jayce with that easy charm, Viktor leaning in a little too close. Maybe they didn’t notice it—but you did. And you’re going to remind them who gets to have them begging.

Jayce has always been eager with his hands. Viktor, less so—until you push him hard enough. And tonight, you’re not pulling any punches.

You’ve got Jayce on his back, flushed, panting, wrists pinned above his head. Viktor kneels at the edge of the bed, flushed down to his chest, lips parted, watching you with something like reverence—and something hungrier than that.

“You’re so fucking easy,” you murmur against Jayce’s throat, dragging your nails down his ribs, savoring the way his body arches under you. “Laughing at anything with tits and a decent smile.”

He groans, hips jerking.

Viktor lets out a low breath. “You know that’s not—”

You cut him off with a sharp glance.

“Don’t worry, I’m not forgetting you either,” you say. “You smiled at her like she meant something.”

You pull Viktor forward by the collar, fingers wrapping around his throat just enough to make him swallow. He goes quiet fast. They both do.

Jayce is rock hard, twitching against your thigh, and you reach down, stroking him once—then twice—just to hear him whimper.

“You get to come when I say.”

He nods, breathless.

You push Viktor down next to him and climb on top, making them watch as you ride Jayce, slow and grinding, every movement deliberate. Viktor’s hand curls against the sheets—he’s hard, untouched, watching your mouth open around a moan you don’t even try to hold back.

You lean in close, pressing your lips to Viktor’s ear.

“You get your turn after he begs me.”

Viktor groans—low and needy—and Jayce’s whole body is trembling under you. He’s close. Too close.

“Don’t come,” you whisper.

“I—I can’t—” he pants.

He does anyway.

You pull off, slow, deliberate, leaving him shaking.

Then you turn to Viktor, grabbing his jaw.

“Your turn.”

And he shudders. Because he knows you’re going to take your time with him. Make him say your name over and over until he forgets how anyone else ever made him feel anything.

𝐄𝐤𝐤𝐨

⇢ 𝐝𝐨𝐦! 𝐄𝐤𝐤𝐨, 𝐨𝐫𝐚𝐥 (𝐟 𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐞𝐢𝐯𝐢𝐧𝐠), 𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠

He watched you flirt with someone you thought was harmless. Just a little too friendly. Ekko didn’t say anything at the time. But now? He’s got you on your back, legs shaking, and he’s not letting up.

Ekko’s mouth is on your thigh, breath hot against sensitive skin, fingers digging into your hips like he’s holding back from something dangerous.

“You think he could do this to you?” he mutters, voice low and ragged.

You’re already soaked—shaking from the second time he made you come on his fingers alone. But he hasn’t stopped. Won’t stop.

“Ekko—fuck—please—”

“Nah.” He licks a slow stripe up your slit, tongue pressing into you deep enough to make your hips twitch. “You had so much to say to him earlier. So smiley. So sweet. Where’s that energy now?”

His hand spreads you wider. Fingers slip back inside—deeper, rougher this time—and his mouth is right there again, lips slick with you as he groans low against your skin.

“You’re not gonna think about him when I’m done with you,” he grits out. “All you’re gonna feel is this.”

You clench around his fingers, thighs trembling—and then it hits. Your third orgasm rips through you fast, body writhing under him, too much, too soon—but Ekko doesn’t stop.

He grins into it.

“You’re still squirming,” he teases. “Guess that means I’m not done.”

He keeps going until your moans turn to gasps, until your nails scrape into his shoulders and your voice is hoarse from begging. And when he finally pulls back, face wet, eyes half-lidded, all he says is:

“Mine.”

⇢ 𝐬𝐮𝐛! 𝐄𝐤𝐤𝐨, 𝐫𝐢𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠

He swears the other girl’s “just a friend.” But she touched his chest. Laughed at every joke. Tried too hard to be close. And Ekko? Didn’t push her away fast enough. You’re not mad. Just… motivated.

Ekko’s wrists are pinned above his head, back arched off the mattress. His mouth is open, chest heaving—completely at your mercy.

You’ve got him spread under you, thighs shaking, pupils blown wide as you roll your hips slow and tight. He’s deep—so deep—and you don’t let up.

“You didn’t tell her to back off.”

He groans, breath stuttering. “She—she wasn’t—”

“Wasn’t what?” You shift your angle, dragging a desperate whine out of him. “Wasn’t touching you on purpose?”

He chokes on a moan, trying to buck up. You plant your hands on his chest, holding him down.

“You don’t get to touch me until you learn who you fucking belong to.”

You clench hard around him and his head falls back against the pillow, curls damp with sweat, breath catching in his throat.

“I do—I know—I swear—”

“Then prove it.”

You move faster now—deliberate, controlled, working him right to the edge again and again. Each time he starts to fall over the edge, you stop. Grind just slow enough to pull him back. His arms flex against your grip but he doesn’t fight you. Won’t. He wants this. Wants you in control.

When you finally let him come, it’s a mess—his whole body going rigid, moaning your name like a confession. You ride it out, overstimulating him until he’s gasping under you, eyes rolling back, too wrecked to speak.

You lean down, lips brushing his ear.

“Next time she touches you, think about this. Think about how it felt when I fucked you until you forgot her name.”

𝐒𝐢𝐥𝐜𝐨

⇢ 𝐝𝐨𝐦! 𝐒𝐢𝐥𝐜𝐨, 𝐨𝐫𝐚𝐥 (𝐦 𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐞𝐢𝐯𝐢𝐧𝐠), 𝐝𝐞𝐞𝐩𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐨𝐚𝐭

You were too friendly with someone at the club tonight. Now? You’re on your knees—and he’s going to keep you there.

He doesn’t shove you down. Doesn’t have to.

Just a slow, sharp tug at your hair as he guides you to your knees in front of him, his belt clinking softly in the quiet room.

“You had a lot to say to him tonight.” His voice is low, deliberate. A rasp that slides against your nerves like a knife against silk. “Thought you’d forgotten who you came here with.”

You open your mouth to answer but he’s already stroking himself—long, slow pulls—making you watch.

The head of his cock glistens, flushed dark, and when he finally lets you get close enough to taste, he doesn’t ease you into it. He drags the thick weight of it over your lips first, smearing precum across your mouth.

“Open.”

You do.

He presses in—slow at first, enough for you to feel the stretch of him, the weight of his gaze never leaving your face. His hand stays tangled in your hair, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth almost affectionately.

Almost.

The first thrust is shallow, testing, but he doesn’t stay gentle. Each roll of his hips forces you to take more, your throat tightening around him as he pushes deeper.

“That’s better,” he murmurs. “So much quieter like this.”

You whimper, spit pooling at the corners of your mouth, breathing through your nose as he fucks your mouth with devastating control. He pulls out almost completely before driving back in—again and again—his breath hitching only slightly when you moan around him.

It’s messy. It’s rough. And he doesn’t let you stop.

Even when your eyes are glassy and your jaw aches, he holds you there, praising you in that low, wrecked voice:

“Take it. Be good for me. Show me you still know who you belong to.”

When he finally comes—deep in your throat, hips stuttering against your lips—he holds you there a moment longer, groaning rough and low as you swallow around him.

Only when he’s sure you’ve taken every drop does he release you, thumb wiping the spit and tears from your flushed face, gaze sharp.

“Now. Try smiling at someone else.”

⇢ 𝐬𝐮𝐛! 𝐒𝐢𝐥𝐜𝐨, 𝐨𝐫𝐚𝐥 (𝐦 𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐞𝐢𝐯𝐢𝐧𝐠)

You didn’t like the way that woman put her hand on his arm. Her smile. Silco brushed it off—but you didn’t. Tonight, you’re going to remind him exactly who makes him lose control. And it’s not her.

Silco’s sharp tongue goes suspiciously quiet once you’ve pushed him back into the leather chair, hands braced against his thighs.

You kneel between his legs, slow, deliberate, letting your nails scrape along the inside of his thighs just enough to make his breath catch.

“What?” you murmur, teasing the bulge in his trousers. “Nothing to say?”

His jaw flexes—tight, controlled—but he doesn’t move. Doesn’t dare.

You take your time. Fingertips dragging over the outline of his cock through the fabric, feeling him twitch under the lightest pressure. When you finally free him, he’s already half-hard, flushed and heavy against your palm.

You could be kind. You could sink down and swallow him deep. But you don’t. Not yet.

Instead, you trace the underside of his cock with your tongue—just the tip of it—feeling him pulse under the delicate flicks. Every muscle in his legs tenses.

“You let her touch you,” you whisper, breath hot against his sensitive skin. “Let her laugh at everything you said.”

He exhales through his nose, hands clenching into fists against the chair.

“And you liked it.”

You wrap your lips around just the head, suckling lightly, tongue flicking the slit until he curses under his breath—an ugly, bitten-off sound.

You back off with a wet pop, grinning.

“Don’t worry, love. I’ll make sure you remember who takes care of you.”

This time you take him deeper—slow, stretching your throat around him inch by inch until your nose brushes his stomach. His hips jerk despite himself, breath ragged, chest heaving.

But you don’t stay. You pull back, leaving him throbbing and wet, cock twitching in the cold air.

You repeat the pattern—tease, taste, pull away—until he’s panting, flushed dark to his ears, biting his lip hard enough to leave marks.

When you finally let him fuck into your mouth, you hold him right at the edge, letting the weight of his need break down the last of that careful control he wears like armor.

And when he finally comes—spilling deep down your throat, hips jerking helplessly—you stay kneeling, eyes locked on his ruined, desperate face.

That look? That helpless shudder?

No one else gets to see it but you.

[rosachae]

she plays bass | megan skiendiel x reader

⁍ song: she plays bass - beabadoobee ⁍ requested: yes ⁍ genre: band AU. non!idol megan x musician!reader. a little bit of angst, a little bit of fluff ⁍ a/n: thank you again for the prompt, anon! i hope this is what you were looking for. ⁍ wc: 5.3k ⁍ warnings: none that i can think of. ⁍ synopsis:

y/n falls. hard. just, not for the right girl. megan had long gotten used to being on the sidelines while she watched y/n pine after her best friend. if she couldn't call y/n hers, then she supposed being her confidant was the next best thing.

hyunjin’s garage always smelled like the ghost of gasoline and febreze. sharp and synthetic, like something trying too hard to cover up something worse. the cement floor was stained with oil spills from years ago, smudged into abstract shapes no one had bothered to clean, and every surface had a fine layer of dust that clung to fingers and instrument cases alike. wires snaked across the ground like vines, half-taped down with mismatched duct tape that peeled at the corners. an old fan groaned in the corner, doing very little besides moving the heat around in slow, humid circles.

y/n wasn’t sure which scent she hated more, the fuel or the floral, but they both clung to her clothes by the time she left. it was loud, so loud her ears buzzed between songs. the garage was hotter than it had any right to be, the fan hopeless against the summer bleeding in through the open door. kai had just broken another one of the cheap sticks they bought in a plastic-wrapped bulk pack from the club, splintered wood rolling across the floor like tired confetti.

she sighed and leaned against a crooked amp, watching hyunjin fumble with the aux cable again like it was some ancient artifact.

“dude,” hyunjin groaned, sliding off his stool and letting the aux cord fall to the floor with a defeated clatter. he grabbed a bent sheet of chord progressions from the amp and started fanning himself dramatically, like a wilted victorian heiress. “quit breaking my sticks. that’s the third one this week.”

kai didn’t even blink. “i’ve got rhythm and rage. sue me.”

“you’ve got weak wrists and commitment issues,” yuqi muttered from behind her mic, barely looking up as she tuned her guitar with one hand and sipped from a sweating iced coffee with the other. “we have a gig on friday. i’m not dragging your pretty ass out of another mess with mr. choi. he already hates it when you break his equipment.”

“mr. choi loves me,” kai said, flashing a grin that had absolutely no basis in reality.

“mr. choi has a heart condition,” hyunjin deadpanned, blotting his forehead with a faded bandana. “every time you walk in, he clutches his chest like he’s halfway to the light.”

then hyunjin let out an exaggerated sigh, dramatic enough to ruffle the sheet music still clutched in his hand. “anyway, is anyone going to acknowledge that i’m dying? of heatstroke? of being underappreciated? of being too hot for this mortal realm?”

y/n didn’t bother looking up from her bass, fingers still working through a scale she barely needed to think about. “you’ve been saying that since junior year.”

“and i’ve been right since junior year,” hyunjin shot back, fanning himself harder. “consistency is a virtue, y/n.”

all y/n could do was roll her eyes. honestly, she wasn’t sure how she managed it—spending hours holed up in hyunjin’s sweltering garage, surrounded by a chaotic blend of egos and inside jokes that grated on her nerves more often than not. still, they were her people. loud, messy, ridiculous— hers.

maybe that’s why she put up with the heat, the noise, the endless bickering over broken drumsticks and who drank the last of the lukewarm soda.

she figured she could overlook it all. for now. a small, reluctant grin tugged at the corner of her mouth before she buried it behind the low thrum of her bass.

especially hyunjin. for all his self-proclaimed glamour and melodrama, he was her best friend. they’d basically grown up side by side. sandboxes, scraped knees, and all. his mom still lit up like a marquee sign whenever y/n came over, insisting she stay for dinner, fussing over whether she’d eaten, if she was warm enough, if she needed anything at all. sometimes y/n swore hyunjin’s mom was secretly waiting for the day he’d turn around and admit they were dating. but that was never their dynamic. never had been.

they both liked girls. y/n, truthfully, wasn’t quite sure if that was a problem or perhaps the glue that held them together. it turned their friendship into a quiet battlefield of shared crushes and unspoken one-upmanship, always dancing on the edge of competition. they clicked a little too easily, probably because they were cut from the same cloth. same dry humor, same impulsive streak, same incurable weakness for a certain kind of girl.

it was a curse. or a cosmic joke. probably both.

y/n still got shivers thinking about chaewon, the girl from high school who had the misfortune of being exactly their type. soft-spoken, pretty, polite. practically a walking bullseye. they both zeroed in on her like moths to a chandelier, oblivious to the disaster unfolding in real time.

chaewon transferred schools halfway through senior year. honestly, it was probably the best thing that ever happened to her.

y/n still wasn’t sure how she lasted as long as she did, stuck between two emotionally chaotic teenagers who spent most of their free time either teasing each other or trying to one-up the other’s flirting. but through it all, nothing ever shifted between her and hyunjin. they were friends. chaotic, codependent, sometimes insufferable—but just friends. always had been. always would be.

this was i don’t care. the band that wasn’t supposed to be a band. born from a running joke they said out loud one too many times, sparked by a half-finished song y/n left in hyunjin’s car. something raw and messy that yuqi covered on a whim, recorded in one take, and posted to instagram with the caption: we’re sad and hot and broke. somehow, it took off.

now they had real gigs, a decent local following, and an accidental manager– yuqi’s cousin’s girlfriend’s sister, who claimed her marketing minor and “a vision” were all they needed to blow up.

it wasn’t that they weren’t good. they were. talent wasn’t the issue. but the soul of the thing had always been the chaos.  the late nights in hyunjin’s garage, the impulse decisions, the fact that he once made a logo on canva at 3 a.m. and printed it on t-shirts without telling anyone. that was the band.

it was noise and laughter and friendship and half-eaten takeout on amps. it was making something that felt like them. unfiltered, unpolished, real. nothing had ever been that serious. and maybe that’s what made it work.

until, of course, the friday night show where everything changed.

__

megan skiendiel had a lot of opinions, most of them half-baked and delivered with the kind of timing that made people pause mid-sentence. earlier that day, she’d announced that 80s synth-pop deserved a cultural renaissance while buried elbow-deep in a crate of dusty vinyls at the record shop. a few hours later, she’d loudly speculated that their coworker jake was obviously into lara, citing the fact that he kept offering to cover her saturday night shifts like it meant something.

megan said things like they were gospel, as if the world would catch up eventually.

“it’s not because he’s nice,” megan said, tossing a cracked duran duran record back onto the shelf. she straightened up, brushing dust from her hands, her voice full of certainty. “he’s got crush energy. you can see it in the way he hovers. limp-wristed, overly eager, always offering to help with the trash like it’s some romantic gesture.”

lara didn’t even look up at first, just clicked her pen and made a note on her clipboard before glancing over, one brow raised. “so basically you, but with worse shoes.”

megan gasped like she’d just been shot. “excuse you. these are vintage.”

lara finally looked down at the scuffed platform boots on megan’s feet, the left one with a barely visible patch of duct tape near the sole. “those are a hate crime,” she said flatly.

megan clutched her chest like lara had just insulted her entire bloodline. “they’re from a thrift shop in sapporo,” she declared, eyes wide with the kind of faux betrayal she’d perfected over the years. “i had to elbow a grown man to get them. he had biker gloves on, lara. biker gloves. it was life or death.”

lara gave her a once-over, slow and unimpressed. “yeah, well, something tells me those boots were meant for that man. all gruff and dusty and slightly unhinged. they look like they’ve seen a bar fight.”

“they’re lived-in,” megan snapped, offended but not surprised.

“they’re tragic,” lara corrected, scribbling something on her clipboard before adding, “you look like you stole them off a trucker with emotional baggage and a fifth divorce.”

megan scoffed. “it’s called edge, lara. ever heard of it?”

“not when it’s flaking off the soles,” lara muttered, deadpan.

megan grumbled.  “you’re lucky i believe in nonviolent communication.”

they were opposites in a way that just worked. where megan was all impulse and noise, lara had a sharp-edged charisma, the kind that made people pause and take a second look. they'd been inseparable since high school, partners in crime, co-conspirators in chaos. now, they ran the town's only indie record shop, a place that felt like a hipster’s fever dream, filled with dusty vinyl and the pervasive scent of incense and intellectual pretension. they’d already given up trying to convince yoonchae to join part time while she finished her senior year. the poor korean girl was too buried in coursework to even think about it.

with a sigh, megan pushed past the mess of records on the next rack. some kids had come in earlier, scattering vinyls like confetti, leaving chaos in their wake. but as she dug through the disarray, something caught her eye. something she’d never seen before. there, buried beneath a pile of mismatched album covers, was a record that felt out of place. the cover was stark white, almost blank, with an almost minimalist design. ‘i don’t care’ was printed in lowercase, as if the title itself couldn’t care less—simple, effortless, and unpretentious, like it wasn’t trying to make a statement.

“never heard of them,” she mumbled, turning it over. “should i?”

lara shrugged. “local maybe. looks cool.”

so they played it.

and god, the bassline. the low hum that thrummed right through her chest. a voice that sounded a little messy and a lot emotional. lyrics like inside jokes you weren’t quite in on but wanted to be. megan leaned against the counter, eyes wide.

“we’re going to their show.” 

__

it was one of those club venues that tried too hard to be cozy but ended up just being loud and sticky. the floor clung to your shoes, the lights pulsed a relentless red for no real reason, and the bartender wore a look that suggested he hated everyone under thirty-five on principle. megan, though? she was right where she belonged. she couldn’t quite remember how she’d talked the whole group into coming out tonight, but low and behold, there they were.

"okay," megan practically shouted over the music, nursing her overpriced drink and scanning the stage like she was looking for hidden treasure. "which one do we think writes the lyrics?"

lara hummed. her eyes scanned the stage, no particular keen interest on her face. then she perked up as if the answer came to her in a dream. "oh, definitely him. he’s got it.”

megan followed her line of sight to the guy on drums. his dark brown hair bounced with sweat and clung to his forehead, pure concentration cemented across his face. she didn’t need to know what ‘it’ was. he was lost in the rhythm, eyes closed as his hands moved like they had a mind of their own. she couldn’t deny that there was something a little too intense about him. 

before megan could reply, manon chimed in. the swiss girl leaned over, glass in hand and a fun loving grin painted across her lips. "it has to be the keyboard guy."

sophia and daniela had practically run to the dance floor the moment they’d entered the club, drawn in by the pulsing beat and the chaos of bodies moving to the music. sophia, already a few drinks in, was swaying slightly as she made her way back to the group, a wide grin plastered on her face. she wiped her hands on her jeans, clearly more tipsy than usual. 

“what’s going on?" she asked, her voice laced with mischief, slurred. "are we picking which one of them cries in the shower?"

daniela, just behind her, looked like she was on her way to catching up to sophia’s buzz. she leaned against the bar, still catching her breath, eyes sparkling with curiosity. daniela squinted at the stage, then turned to look at keyboardist. "i’m voting for him too.”

megan grinned. "i think we’re all in agreement then. cheers to keyboard guy."

the set was already halfway through when megan saw her. she wasn’t sure how she didn’t notice sooner, but when she did, her heart thumped.

she wasn’t flashy, wasn’t trying to draw attention. she didn’t jump around or put on any kind of show for the crowd. but when megan’s eyes landed on her, everything else seemed to blur out. the girl was holding her bass like it belonged to her. like it was a part of her, like it meant something. her fingers moved with a calm precision, her face focused but distant, like she was lost in a world that was all her own. megan couldn’t help but watch, her heart suddenly a little too loud in her chest.

there was a look in her eyes, almost like she was listening to a secret only she could hear, and when she smiled, it wasn’t big, wasn’t one of those stage smiles people perfected. it was crooked, soft, like it happened by accident. it was the kind of smile that made megan forget to breathe.

“you’re staring,” lara said, leaning in slightly with a knowing grin.

megan blinked, realizing she hadn’t said anything for a few seconds. her hand was still clutching her drink, but it was starting to slip a little. "i’m admiring,” she corrected quickly, her voice coming out a little more flustered than she intended. “huge difference."

lara didn’t say anything at first. then, with the kind of dry humor megan knew too well, she added, “sure, romeo."

megan's cheeks flushed and she quickly looked away, trying to act like she hadn’t just made a fool of herself in front of the whole bar. but she couldn’t stop the way her eyes kept drifting back to the girl, as if there was something magnetic about her presence that megan just couldn’t look away from.

little did megan know, that would be the start of everything.

the crowd was still howling when y/n unplugged her bass, the last notes still humming in her fingertips. sweat clung to her collar, the adrenaline thrumming beneath her skin like a second heartbeat. hyunjin was already off his stool, dramatically twirling a drumstick and tossing it into the crowd like he was born to do it. the four of them slipped offstage, ducking into the narrow backstage corridor that smelled like beer and electrical wires.

someone’s drink had already spilled on the floor. the walls were lined with peeling posters, curling at the corners. the sound tech gave y/n a nod as she passed, and she returned it with a crooked grin, cheeks aching, the kind of post-show daze that made everything feel like it was moving half a second behind.

then came the chaos.

“oh my god, you—” a sharp voice broke through, right before a blur of limbs barreled past the security guard like a wrecking ball in lipstick.

y/n blinked.

a girl in a halter crop top and low-rise jeans launched herself forward– tall, pretty, absolutely hammered, her glossy lips moving faster than her brain. she headed straight for kai, arms outstretched like she’d just spotted a long-lost lover across a war zone.

kai, to his credit, looked horrified.

before security could step in, four other girls came flying in after her, looking every shade of mortified. manon and daniela managed to grab sophia by both arms, hauling her backward with a practiced desperation.

"we are so sorry—" manon started, breathless, still grappling with sophia like she was trying to wrangle a wild animal.

before she could finish, sophia whipped her head back in protest and caught manon square in the nose.

“ow! what the hell—”

“she has this thing for keyboardists,” daniela finished, like it was an explanation she’d given one too many times. she tightened her grip as sophia tried to lunge again.

“i swear to god, sophia, if you get us banned—”

“i just wanted to talk to him!” sophia whined, slurring a little as she dug her heels into the sticky floor.

kai blinked at them, shell-shocked, holding his keyboard like a shield. he only lowered it and shuffled away the moment he was sure manon and daniela successfully wrangled sophia out from backstage.

y/n stood frozen for a beat, trying to process what the hell she’d just witnessed. then she laughed. sharp and startled, the sound of someone caught between disbelief and secondhand embarrassment.

hyunjin leaned in. “that’s gonna be us one day,” he said, nodding sagely.

“stormed backstage by strangers?”

“groupies, y/n. we’re building a brand.”

“right,” y/n muttered, tugging her strap off her shoulder. “well, your brand just pissed off security.”

she raised a hand, waving security off when they moved to come over.

that’s when two other girls stepped forward. not charging like their friend, not slurring or flailing. megan looked like she’d sprinted halfway there and only just remembered to slow down. her hair was a little windblown, her expression wide-eyed and caught somewhere between panic and awe. lara, on the other hand, was all cool detachment, hands tucked into her jacket pockets, eyes scanning everything like she was cataloging it for later.

y/n straightened slightly, unsure whether to brace or laugh again.

“hi,” megan said, breathless. “um. sorry about our friend. she gets flirty when she’s drunk.”

“she almost ate kai,” hyunjin hummed, biting back another laugh.

“believe me, we know,” megan stammered, embarrassed, rocking back and forth on the balls of her feet.  “sophia once hit on a waiter mid-order. it’s a full-time job trying to keep her from getting banned from establishments.”

“well, thanks for wrangling her,” y/n said, her voice steadier than she expected. “and for coming. to the show, i mean.”

but then y/n’s eyes trailed over to the girl standing behind her. she was stunning. tall, dressed in tailored black, sleek hair and gold jewelry catching the low light. there was something about her that immediately made y/n want to straighten her back. magnetic. she looked confident, the kind of confident that made you feel like she knew exactly who she was, and didn’t care if you didn’t.

“you guys were great,” lara said, flashing a smile. “really. we just found your record at the store and figured why not come check it out.”

“music store?” hyunjin perked up. “which one?”

“garrison’s. we both work there,” the first girl said. “i’m megan, by the way. this is lara.”

y/n repeated both names in her head. megan. lara. 

however hyunjin, naturally, latched onto the pretty one.

“lara,” he said, already dialing it up. “you have a beautiful name.”

y/n nearly snorted.

“how about we get you girls a drink?”

__

to megan’s bad luck, both y/n and hyunjin seemed taken with the very pretty, very social girl standing beside her. it was obvious. painfully so. and yet, she couldn’t help herself. she kept gravitating toward y/n anyway.

hyunjin was shameless about it. all charm and theatrics, practically ignoring megan in favor of lavishing attention on lara. but y/n… y/n smiled at her. offered to buy her a drink. asked for her name. it was friendly. casual. meaningless, probably. 

but it meant something to megan.

in that moment, she decided that if both of them were going to fall for her best friend, she’d rather it be y/n. if it had to be someone, let it be the one who smiled gently. who asked questions. who noticed. besides, she always believed what people said—if your friends can’t stand the person you’re dating, maybe that’s a red flag worth listening to.

maybe that was the real problem. megan got along with y/n a little too well.

megan and y/n became good friends. it started simple. megan showed up to shows, bought the merch before it was cool, called y/n’s bass lines sick even when they both knew the sound system was trash that night. they hung out between sets, shared fries at late-night diners, argued about which the smiths album aged the worst. it was easy. it was enough.

then, the love came slow. like a sunrise. subtle, steady, then suddenly everywhere.

megan realized it a year in. their friendship already carved deep, unshakeable. they were mid-set, stage lights flaring red and gold. megan stood in the crowd, bass thudding through her chest.

and then y/n looked up. their eyes met, and something in her splintered. after that, it hurt. a little bit, every day. a slow undoing. a soft ache she learned to live with.

but she never left.

at some point, maybe five months after they met, hyunjin and lara started dating. five months of half-flirting and inside jokes that weren’t so inside anymore. five months of megan watching y/n pretend she didn’t care.

the band had gotten bigger by then. not international– god, not yet– but local enough that strangers started recognizing them in line for coffee. their sound was sharp around the edges now, tighter, cleaner. more people were paying attention.

but still, y/n was pissed. quiet about it, mostly. but it lived in her shoulders, the way they hunched a little tighter when lara laughed at hyunjin’s jokes. in the way she stopped volunteering stories about her day whenever lara was around.

“i was the one who listened,” she told megan once, voice low like it was a secret. “to all her dumb little tangents. about which incense gives her migraines, or how her dog only eats if the bowl’s rotated a certain way. he wasn’t there. he didn’t even know the dog’s name.”

megan nodded, said nothing, and let her vent.

“i gave her my coat that night,” y/n added, quieter now. “when she shivered. he didn’t even notice she was cold.”

it was just something she needed to let out. and megan… megan made space for things like that. a quiet pocket of the world where y/n could be soft, small, furious, grieving, without ever having to say sorry for it.

it was always megan who showed up. not just for the gigs or the late-night diner runs. but at 2am, when everything felt too loud, too much. megan, who picked up the phone without hesitation. who sent stupid memes until y/n laughed again. who knew when she needed silence and when she needed to scream. who carried gum and painkillers and the exact words y/n needed to hear tucked somewhere behind her tongue.

megan knew every version of her. the messy ones. the moody ones. the ones that cried at shampoo commercials and flinched at confrontation. and she loved them all. quietly. stubbornly. without asking for anything in return.

because they were friends. just friends.

so megan kept her mouth shut. swallowed her feelings like bad medicine. because y/n was already hurting, and megan knew– intimately– what it felt like to love someone who didn’t love you back. she’d never wish that kind of loneliness on anyone. least of all her.

still, it was megan who listened. who stood in the sticky venues with bad acoustics and worse lighting. who cheered the loudest, even when the set was off. it was her y/n called when the world tilted sideways. it was her y/n trusted with the fragile parts, the ugly truths, the things she couldn’t tell anyone else.

megan never missed the details. how y/n took her coffee, which hoodie she wore when she was spiraling, the playlist she avoided when she was heartbroken. megan paid attention like it was a religion. like y/n was a language she was learning by heart.

she loved y/n in silence because it was safer. because it was easier than risking everything. because some part of her still hoped that one day, maybe, y/n would choose her.

for now, she settled on simply being. 

__

two years had passed. the band got louder. not just in sound, but in presence. local fame turned regional. “i don’t care” started slipping onto playlists they’d never heard of, getting tagged in stories by strangers from cities they hadn’t played yet. they still rehearsed in hyunjin’s garage, still argued about setlists, still tripped over the same tangled cords. but the rooms got bigger. the lights got brighter. the noise followed them home.

through it all, megan was constant.

y/n couldn’t pinpoint when it changed. maybe it was always there, just quiet. maybe it was the way megan always had gum when her throat went dry before a set. maybe it was the way she cheered—arms in the air, mouthing every lyric like it mattered. maybe it was the night y/n crashed on her couch and woke up to tea already steeping, a blanket tucked around her shoulders like it had always been there.

she remembered calling megan when she found out about hyunjin and lara. she hadn’t cried, not the way she expected. just sat on megan’s floor with a pint of mint chocolate chip between them, watching reruns until the theme song blurred into background noise. megan leaned her head on her shoulder. y/n didn’t flinch. didn’t pull away. she just leaned back.

it stayed with her. for days. for weeks.

then it started happening more.

megan, humming along to rough cuts that weren’t even mixed yet. megan, lip syncing the bassline with a wink, like it was just for her. megan, dancing in the front row like no one else in the world existed.

and something in y/n started to unravel.

she started noticing things. the curve of megan’s smile when she was teasing. the way she always smelled faintly like coconut shampoo and old records. the way she made everything—music, heartbreak, life—feel easier just by being around. and then one day, in the middle of a show, y/n looked out into the crowd and found her.

megan. grinning like she had a secret. eyes bright. mouthing along to every word.

y/n forgot her next chord for half a second.

that’s when she knew. not all at once. not in some dramatic epiphany. but in a quiet, steady way.

then came the jealousy. sudden, sharp. it happened that night at manon’s rooftop party. it wasn’t like y/n to care who megan flirted with. she always chalked it up to megan being magnetic. of course people wanted her. megan was loud, energetic, silly and charismatic in her own socially awkward way. but it was charming. it was a sort of way that made her feel real. a type of authenticity that she found herself craving. 

the energy was charged, an intimate gathering between friends. the whole time, she found herself watching her. when megan laughed at something a girl in a  yellow dress— sophia— whispered in her ear, she felt herself stiffen. she recognized her briefly from the time she barreled backstage at their first big gig and the time she awkwardly apologised to kai a few months later. sophia was pretty. painstakingly so. watching it happen before her felt like a punch to the ribs.

“you good?” hyunjin had asked, nursing a warm beer beside her.

y/n didn’t answer straight away. just stared across the rooftop, jaw tight.

“is that megan jealousy?” he asked, tilting his head.

she still didn’t say anything.

“oh my god,” hyunjin whispered, turning to her in slow motion. “it is.”

y/n sighed, leaning back against the railing. “shut up.”

“i won’t. you’re pining. this is pining. this is textbook.”

“i’m not pining.”

“you’re glaring at a girl for speaking to your best friend. that’s at least two stages past pining.”

y/n groaned.

hyunjin leaned closer, voice soft. “why haven’t you said anything?”

she stared down at the street, lights blurring in her vision. still, she masked her internal worry with a quick joke and a teasing grin.

“why’re you interested so suddenly, hwang? gonna fight me for this one too?”

hyunjin chuckled good-naturedly. his eyes briefly glanced over to lara, the desi girl dancing with a younger korean in the middle of the dance floor. then he turned back to his friend with a shrug.

“you’ll get no push from me. you should go for it, y/n. what’s the worst that could happen?”

and she thought about it. about all that could go wrong.

they were friends. megan was phenomenal. what if she ruined it? for now, she’d wait. she’d bite back her jealousy.

though sometimes, the heart simply wants what it wants. 

the confession came later. sooner than she expected. it wasn’t planned—just spilled out, raw and real, like most things y/n did when she finally let her heart speak louder than her head.

it was after a show. one of their best. the kind that left your lungs burning and your skin buzzing. the energy clung to them like static.

megan found her side stage, eyes bright, hair a mess, smile even messier.

“you guys killed it—”

“i love you,” y/n said. blurted, actually. no warning. no buildup.

megan blinked. “wait—what?”

“i love you,” she said again, steadier this time. her voice still shook, but there was no taking it back. “i know you’re with sophia, and i know this might screw everything up, and i’m sorry if it does. but i’m in love with you. i couldn’t keep pretending i wasn’t.”

megan didn’t move. didn’t speak. just stared, eyes wide and unreadable.

“it’s okay if you don’t feel the same,” y/n rushed on, heart racing. “i just… i needed you to know. because you’ve always been there. you’ve seen the worst parts of me and never walked away. and somewhere in all of that, i fell for you. hard.”

silence.

then megan stepped forward, slow but certain, and cradled y/n’s face in both hands.

“i’m not dating sophia,” she said softly, almost like a secret. “you could’ve just asked.”

she laughed then—a quiet, breathless sound—and shook her head. “idiot.”

and then she kissed her. not just a kiss. the kiss. the kind that unraveled something deep in her chest, slow and aching and warm. the kind that made the noise of the world drop away, like a stage going dark after the final chord.

it was everything megan had imagined. every half-dreamed moment, every day she spent loving y/n in silence. for as long as she could remember, it had been her. from the first late-night walk, the first shared laugh, the first time y/n looked at her like she saw her. megan had loved her then, quietly and completely, like it was stitched into her bones.

and now, y/n had chosen her. out of everyone. not lara. not anyone else in the crowd. her.

the kiss tasted like every unsent text, every time megan had almost said something and swallowed it down instead. it tasted like hope. like relief. like a door finally opening after years of standing in the hallway.

all the waiting had led to this. all the almosts, all the quiet pining, all the nights she convinced herself to be content with friendship. it washed away in a single, breathless moment.

because y/n was kissing her like she meant it. like megan had been the one all along. and god, she had.

outside, the crowd screamed for an encore. but y/n?

she already had everything she needed.

[dollyswishingwell]

ᯓ★ˎˊ˗ Mama’s Princess P.7

𝒲𝒾𝓈𝒽 𝑔𝓇𝒶𝓃𝓉𝑒𝒹 𝒻𝑜𝓇 ˙⋆✮ Rafayel, Zayne, Xavier, Sylus, Caleb

𝒢𝑒𝓃𝓇𝑒/𝒲𝒶𝓇𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔 ˙⋆✮ fluff, for this person who recommended this thank you, made it almost headcanony, not that much mamas girl in this, lowkey a dad and daughter bonding fic

> ࣪𖤐.ᐟ It’s a daddy daughter dance

Masterlist

𝙍𝙖𝙛𝙖𝙮𝙚𝙡 °‧🫧⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

“I’m not going,” Rafayel declared from the bathtub, arms draped dramatically over the porcelain like a drowned Victorian widow. “It smells like glue sticks and abandonment trauma in that place.”

You didn’t look up from your mascara wand. “She asked for you. Specifically.”

Rafayel blinked at the ceiling. Then muttered, “…Fine.”

—

Three hours later, he was standing in the preschool auditorium wearing a sheer lavender button-up, pearl cuffs, and glitter in his waves, glitter, while his daughter twirled around in a custom-made seafoam tutu with a cape that trailed behind her like a royal decree.

The gymnasium reeked of juice boxes and low self-esteem. He hated it here.

“I feel ill,” he whispered, crouching beside her.

She was gnawing on a sugar cookie and beaming at you across the room. “Mama’s pretty,” she said dreamily.

Rafayel made a noise like a kicked crab.

—

Then the music started.

He rose, hand out. “Shall we, my pufferfish?”

She stared up at him.

Then, horror of horrors,

She ran to you.

“I wanna dance with MAMA!” she wailed, cheeks puffed. “Not Daddy! Mamaaaa!”

The crowd turned.

Rafayel’s arm dropped.

You gave him a pitying smile. “She’s just shy—”

“No,” he said, dead-eyed, backing into the shadows like a disgraced villain. “I get it. I’m not the favorite. I’m just the guy who makes couture capes and fries shrimp.”

He sulked in the bleachers the rest of the night, swiping glitter off his sleeves like betrayal.

—

Later that night, you woke to find him curled around both of you in bed. The toddler drooled on his bare chest, tiara still skewed on her head. He stared at her like a ghost.

“She said you’re her favorite.”

You kissed his temple. “She also called a pigeon her ‘real dad’ last week.”

A pause.

He muttered, “…I’ll take second place.”

But he tucked her in tighter anyway.

𝙕𝙖𝙮𝙣𝙚 ⋆꙳•❅‧*₊⋆☃︎ ‧*❆ ₊⋆

Zayne adjusted his tie in the car mirror, dead silent. His dress shirt was crisp, coat tailored, glasses polished within an inch of their life.

“She said we had to ‘match,’” you reminded, fixing his boutonnière, a tiny satin heart your daughter taped to his lapel. It was crooked. It would stay crooked. He didn’t flinch.

“I’m aware,” he said flatly. “She also said I’m not allowed to wear black because it’s ‘boring and sad.’”

You kissed his cheek. “You’re a vision in beige.”

He didn’t smile.

But his ears were pink.

At the dance, he held her little hand like it was a surgical instrument. Gentle, precise.

She stomped her feet with wild abandon, glitter shoes flashing, curls bouncing. Zayne followed her lead stiffly, like someone trying to dance without disturbing a sleeping cat.

Other parents whispered.

Your daughter stared up at him mid-spin.

“You dance like a robot.”

He blinked.

She tugged his sleeve. “But you’re my robot.”

His face didn’t change.

But you swore you saw his mouth twitch.

After the slow song, she abandoned him entirely. Ran to you.

“Mommy,” she said between giggles. “Daddy tried to twirl. It was terrible.”

Zayne sat on a tiny plastic chair off to the side, arms folded, expression blank. The tape-heart on his lapel had fallen off.

You brought him a juice box. He took it without looking.

“She called me terrible.”

“She also said you’re her robot.”

Zayne’s glasses slid down his nose slightly. “I suppose I’ll take that over being replaced.”

Pause.

He glanced at the dance floor.

Then at you.

“…Do you want to dance?”

You smiled. “Absolutely.”

He didn’t flinch when your daughter climbed between you, tiny arms curled around his leg.

Zayne just held you both, coat sweeping the floor.

𝙓𝙖𝙫𝙞𝙚𝙧 ⋆⭒˚.⋆🪐 ⋆⭒˚.⋆

Xavier arrived in a full white suit.

Why?

Because she said he looked “like a sleepy prince.”

His silver hair was braided with little flower clips. Not by you. By your daughter. He had no say. He simply blinked once and said, “Okay.”

He carried her in one arm and a paper bag of lemon cookies in the other. They both wore glittery stickers on their cheeks. Also not his idea.

They lasted eight minutes into the dance.

Eight.

You were helping at the photo booth when your daughter came trotting up alone, curls bouncing, tutu fluffed.

She pointed one tiny hand behind her. “Papa’s sleeping again.”

You looked. Yep.

Xavier had found a beanbag chair in the corner of the auditorium, folded himself into it like a dead swan, and passed out, arms crossed, mouth slightly open, dreamless.

There were children climbing around him. He didn’t stir.

Your daughter pouted at him for the next half-hour.

She didn’t want to dance without her Papa.

So naturally, she dragged him by the hand onto the dance floor when he finally woke up.

He blinked, disoriented.

“You’re late,” she scolded.

Xavier bowed with a serious nod. “Forgive me. I was… unconscious.”

They slow-danced like two ghosts, her standing on his feet, his hands holding her up gently.

She leaned in and whispered, “You’re not allowed to sleep at my wedding.”

He froze.

“…I’ll set an alarm.”

𝙎𝙮𝙡𝙪𝙨 ✮ ⋆ ˚｡𓅨⋆｡°✩

“Do I look like a man who attends dances held in public school gyms?” Sylus asked, arms spread dramatically, already in a custom-tailored black-on-crimson suit.

You deadpanned. “You bought the school yesterday, Sylus. You own the gym.”

He smirked. “Precisely. That’s why I shouldn’t be seen in it.”

—

But the moment his little girl appeared at the top of the stairs in her feathery black tutu and matching crow pin, Sylus fell silent.

She looked exactly like him, silver curls, red eyes, smug little tilt to her chin.

He knelt and offered her his hand like she was royalty. “Shall we show these mortals what grace truly looks like?”

She nodded. “But I wanna do spinny moves.”

“…Fine.”

—

The second he stepped onto the glitter-covered gym floor, a dozen moms swooned. A dad visibly panicked.

Sylus ignored all of it, twirling her with theatrical flair while muttering to his earpiece, “Make sure no one posts footage. I will destroy the internet.”

She tugged his sleeve mid-dip. “Daddy. You’re scary.”

He blinked down at her. “Good.”

“Noooo,” she giggled. “You have to smile! Like this!”

She showed him, wide teeth, big cheeks, crinkle eyes.

He looked… unwell.

“…Horrifying,” he muttered. But he did it. Just for her.

—

By the third song, she spotted a little boy in suspenders dancing alone.

She marched up. “You dance with me now.”

The boy looked terrified. Sylus appeared behind him like a shadow. “She asked nicely.”

The child nodded frantically.

Sylus returned to your side, arms crossed, eye glowing faintly. “If he steps on her toes, I’ll ruin his lineage.”

You sipped your punch. “Normal dads just threaten curfews.”

He raised a brow. “She deserves a throne, not curfews.”

—

Later that night, she fell asleep in his arms in the back of the car.

Sylus stared down at her small, sparkly form. Quiet for once.

“…I’d tear down empires for her,” he said, barely above a whisper.

You leaned against him. “She just wants a plushie throne.”

He smirked. “Done.”

𝘾𝙖𝙡𝙚𝙗 ⋆｡ ‧˚ʚ🍎ɞ˚‧｡ ⋆

He arrived in full Farspace Fleet formal uniform.

Yes, the one with aiguillettes, gloves, boots, and tactical perfection.

Why? Because his daughter had looked up at him with those big purple eyes and said,

“Dress like a prince pilot general man.”

And so he did.

—

The gymnasium was decorated with streamers and tissue paper stars. Caleb entered like it was an off-world battleground, scanning exits, calculating fire code violations, and quietly making a note to replace the ceiling tiles with reinforced anti-quake material.

You leaned against the snack table and whispered, “Are you going to debrief the DJ too?”

He glanced at you.

“He’s already been briefed. Twice.”

—

His daughter, in a starry blue gown and tiara, stood on his polished boots with her arms up.

“Daddy,” she said very seriously, “tonight is our night but mommy has to dance with us too.”

He didn’t blink. “Understood, Commander.”

You sigh from across the room. “not even one day of peace for mommy”

She stuck her tongue out at you.

Caleb leaned in and whispered, “Operation: never exclude mommy.”

—

They twirled.

Caleb, dancing with perfect, stoic elegance, gently lifted her and spun her like she was a moon orbiting his gravity core.

The other parents were stunned.

Someone muttered, “Is that guy in the military or—?”

You didn’t correct them.

You did take a video.

—

Later, she napped on his shoulder while he stood guard by the door.

A teacher approached and asked if he wanted a picture printed for the school’s bulletin board.

He said flatly, “Only if it goes in the tactical archive as well.”

You snorted. “The what?”

He looked at you over her tiara. “The black vault. Where I store everything precious.”

You melted.

She snored softly.

Caleb didn’t move an inch.

[kxsagi]

Hi, I'd like to request a Rin fic please ! The basic idea would be a kind of college AU where Rin has a neighbour in his apartment complex that plays an instrument (piano ? violin ?). Normally, it should bother him to no end because it disturbs his peace. But somehow...everytime he hears his neighbour playing, he can't help but listening to their sound... Hence, a nice reveal later ? I don't know if I'm very clear, English is absolutely not my first language. Thaaanks !

“𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞”

a/n: no you're totally okay!

i love piano music and i’m so passionate about it sometimes because my sister has been playing piano for nearly a decade

but freaking tik tok keeps putting nocturne over stupid memes and now i can’t listen to it as seriously 😭

little rant: my favorite song on the piano is “believe” from polar express it’s so beautiful, but i also love the theme song from the 80’s movie somewhere in time (hence the title), which is about a man who time travels backwards and meets the love of his life (though the ending is really sad i can’t lie 😭)

the first time it happens, rin thinks he’s going insane. 

he’s just gotten back from class – tired, pissed off, hoodie drawn halfway over his face – and is halfway through untying his shoes when the sound hits him. 

a piano. 

not loud, but not background noise either. it slips past the thin apartment walls like warm light under a door: persistent, gentle, and somehow… aching. 

he frowns, eyes narrowing as he straightens up, bag slung loosely over his shoulder. he’s used to the quiet in this building. this is a complex full of students too broke or too antisocial to cause trouble, and he likes it that way. 

but this… this is new. 

and somehow, he doesn’t hate it. 

over the next few weeks, the pattern repeats. 

rin doesn’t even know which unit it’s coming from, not exactly. just that it drifts in when the sky turns soft and low and orange. sometimes it’s a slow melody, full of longing. other times it’s sharper, emotional in a way that almost pisses him off, like it’s trying to say something he can’t name. 

most days, he finds himself sitting by his desk and… stopping. his pencil stills. his eyes trail away from the textbook. and he listens. 

to you. 

you, the girl next door, though he doesn’t realize it yet. you’re in the unit directly across from his, and you always leave the window cracked open when you play. not to show off; you just like the breeze, the way it lets the sound float naturally. but that tiny opening is all rin needs to hear you clearly, more clearly than he’d like to admit. 

he learns your sound before he learns your name. your rhythm, your pace, the way you sometimes repeat a phrase like you’re unsure. the way you trail off, then start again without frustration, just patient, steady, like you’re untangling a thought out loud. 

rin listens, and listens, and listens. he doesn’t know why it doesn’t bother him. 

he used to get annoyed when people tapped their pens on desks. this should’ve been unbearable. a piano player next door in a paper-thin apartment complex? 

but all it does is make him pause, blink, and lean just a little closer to the window. 

he doesn’t figure out who you are until he runs into you one morning, quite literally. 

his headphones are in, he’s sipping a vending machine coffee, and then bam! 

textbooks go flying. his coffee splashes. your water bottle rolls. 

“… shit, sorry,” he mutters, already crouching to help you gather your stuff. his gaze only flicks up for a second, and stops. 

you’re pretty. you’ve got a scarf looped loosely around your neck, and your hair’s twisted up with a pencil. your fingertips are red from the cold and when you give him a smile, he forgets what he was about to say. 

"it's okay," you say, breathless, but amused. “we’re both half asleep anyway.” 

he hands you your thermos. you smile again. 

and just as you're about to leave, he notices what you're holding: an oversized sheet music folder under one arm, a tote bag printed with faded piano keys slung over your shoulder. 

piano. 

it hits him instantly. you’re her. you’re the sound he's been chasing every evening without knowing it. 

his eyes widen for a second, just a fraction, and you catch it. 

“... what?” you ask, blinking. 

rin clears his throat, turns away. “nothing.” 

but he knows now. and for some reason, that fact sits in his chest like warmth instead of fire. 

from then on, it becomes harder to ignore. 

he hears you practicing and he feels… off. like he’s waiting for something. like he’s stuck in a pause between two sentences. when the music plays, it fills his room with a strange kind of comfort. it’s beautiful, yeah. but more than that, it’s familiar now. 

like a secret he’s sharing with you. 

and one day, when he hears the music stop abruptly and doesn’t start again, he finds himself annoyed. 

he opens his window, glances out. your curtains are drawn. no soft tune. no hesitant scales. just silence. 

and it bugs the hell out of him. 

he doesn’t expect to see you again that night in the laundry room, bent over a dryer with earbuds in. he doesn’t even think. he just walks over. 

“you didn’t play today.” 

you blink. pause your music. “huh?” 

“your piano,” he says, more awkwardly this time. “you didn’t play.” 

you look surprised for a second, then you smile – soft, like it snuck up on you. “you can hear me?” 

“you leave your window open.” 

“oh,” you laugh, a little embarrassed. “yeah. i just… didn’t have time today. midterms.” 

rin nods, leaning against the dryer. 

a beat of silence passes. then: “... you’re really good,” he says, eyes lowered. “i like listening.” 

you stare at him. 

then your voice softens. “you… do?” 

“don’t make it a big deal.” 

“i’m not,” you giggle. “you just don’t seem like the type.” 

rin groans under his breath. “what type?” 

“the type to say he likes piano music.” 

“it’s not the piano,” he says, a little too fast. “it’s you.” 

your breath catches. and then, quietly, your smile returns. 

“well, maybe i’ll leave the window open a little wider next time,” you murmur, brushing past him with your laundry basket, the scent of roses trailing in the air behind you. 

rin stands there in the hum of the laundry room, watching you walk away. 

and for the first time in a long while… he doesn’t mind the noise at all. 

© 𝐤𝐱𝐬𝐚𝐠𝐢

[pseudowho]

Sanguis et Vinum

Higuruma Hiromi's not afraid of blood.

Warnings: 18+, smut, period sex

+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+

"Feeling good?" A dulcet whisper against your neck, hot and wine-rich. You moaned softly in affirmation, fogging your glass as you took another sip, the red wine velvety as it coated your tongue.

You straddled Hiromi's lap; he, perched at the edge of the sofa, massaged your lower back, belly and hips with warm oiled hands, your panties rolled down low, your tank-top curled up under your breasts. You couldn't help but rock and sway as his hands smoothed, liquid and malleable, over your body.

It was the heaviest day of your period, and you were feeling every minute of it. You offered Hiromi a sip of wine from your glass; he accepted gratefully, his hands never slowing around your belly and back.

Hiromi played you like an instrument, responsive to your sighs, the subtle press of your skin against his palms and fingers, the scented oil heady. He looked up at you in unabashed adoration, and felt his arousal bloom, a vine starting as a blush along his neck, creeping downwards.

"I love you, like this," Hiromi confessed against your collarbones, pressing a kiss there, staining the skin softly with wine. You smiled, eyes closed, and tangled your hand in the hair at the nape of his neck. Hiromi shuddered as you tugged it, sending prickles down his spine, the vine coiling as he felt his cock begin to harden beneath your lap.

Unable to resist, Hiromi nipped and licked at your chest, his tongue wine-stained and sanguine, and moved down towards your breasts. You wanted him so viscerally, your belly and clit thrumming with need and pain, creating an odd aching duality in the pit of your stomach.

Yet...no. It was too taboo. Gross. Embarrassing.

You sighed, murmuring, regretful; "Hiromi...you know I can't..." Hiromi made a noise of gentle disagreement, nipping the tank top between his teeth, pulling it down to expose one breast. You watched him, mesmerised, when he sucked your sore nipple into his mouth, lapping, licking.

You panted, involuntarily pressing Hiromi's mouth closer with a tug on his hair, and he felt his cock twitch, tasting you on the flat of his tongue.

"Hiromi," you breathed, warning, "I can't-- I want to, but--" Hiromi let go of your nipple with a wet pop, and you felt a twang of disappointment. He answered, nuzzling his aquiline nose lazily across your breast.

"You want to?" He pressed, hovering his opened mouth over your nipple again, holding your gaze. His tongue darting out to lick your nipple again made your pussy throb with need, your belly cramping, a deep and sultry ache.

"I'm no boy," he argued, "I'm not afraid of a little bit of blood," pressing you closer onto his lap by your lower back. You slipped down, your panties thicker with the presence of a pad, but nonetheless feeling his cock, hard and twitching, against your pussy. You felt a warm whoosh of blood seep out of you and onto your pad, and jumped a little as you felt it overflow, leaking through to leave a patch of sticky blood on Hiromi's groin.

You moved to stand, and Hiromi strapped you to him with corded forearms. He felt the damp spot of your blood seep through, sticky, and he shivered, his oiled hand now coming up to roll your other nipple between his fingers, his mouth still working to convince you, silver-tongued.

You felt lightheaded, your pussy so sensitive, the ache in your belly adding a delicious masochistic edge to the pleasure. Feeling you could be brought to orgasm by nipple play and dry humping alone, you weakly offered another retreat, and Hiromi chuckled against your breast.

He rutted up against your pussy, and you jolted, slopping wine down your arm. Taking the wine from you, placing it gently on a table, Hiromi licked languidly up your forearm, sipping the wine off you, leaving wet-mouthed nipping kisses on the inside of your wrist.

You felt drunk now, your pleasure positively Dionysian, and you nodded lightheadedly when Hiromi whispered against your neck; "Bedroom. Now. You need this."

Lifting you, still straddling his lap, Hiromi carried you to the bedroom, kicking the door open. The bedroom was barely lit, shadows dramatised by the flicker of candles. As he dropped you onto the bed, leaning over you, humping against your clothed pussy, you realised he must have fully intended to seduce you like this.

Eyes hooded, drinking in the erotic shadow-puppetry your moving bodies made against the wall, you allowed Hiromi's hips to chase you up the bed until your aching body settled against plush pillows, and perfectly crisp white sheets.

As if reading your mind, Hiromi rested his nose against yours, nuzzling slowly; "We're going to make artwork tonight, darling."

"Hiromi, you...are you sure?" You drank Hiromi in as he knelt back, raising his arms to yank his t-shirt over his head. You gulped as he stripped his pyjamas, his pink-tipped cock bobbing out to rest against your clothed pussy. Hiromi gripped his cock, pumping it as he reached under you, pulling off your panties in one swift tug. You moved to close your legs and Hiromi made a sharp noise of reproach.

"Oh no you don't," he ordered, eyes zeroing in on your pussy, bloodstained, thrumming with anticipation, "you're...so beautiful."

You saw his pupils dilate more, already blown, his eyes beetle-black and glinting in the candlelight. Kneeling between your legs, forcing your knees apart with his own, Hiromi continued to stroke himself from ball to tip, before slipping two fingers between your bloodied pussy lips.

In the dark, the blood looked black, its gore reduced to shades of grey. With the flicker of candlelight, the frame-rate of movement in the room seemed to shift, and Hiromi and you sink into a black and white cinematic masterpiece.

His fingers dipped into your fluttering hole, coaxing you to rock your hips upwards as he stroked the front of your plush walls. You shuddered, mewling, so sensitive as he thrusted two fingers into you with tender, soft strokes. Hiromi brought his thumb upwards, pressing against your clit, alternating the pressure until you moaned and squirmed beneath him. Your belly ached, desperate to feel Hiromi deeper, to feel his fingers soothe you.

"Please...Hiro--" you begged, pressing your pussy up against his hand, your moan ragged as you felt his fingertips brush your desperately sore cervix. Hiromi felt a trickle of pre-cum down his fist as his knees weakened at the glassy-smooth surface of your dimpled cervix on his fingertips.

Hiromi gulped, shuddering as he threatened to spill into his own fist, "We'll start gently," he pressed, maintaining your gaze as he released his cock, stroking your cervix with deft fingertips and lowering his mouth to your pussy, "because you're hurting...and when I fuck you, I want you softer than feathers."

You moved involuntarily away from his mouth, conditioned to be disgusted by your own bleeding, and Hiromi growled in displeasure, his freed arm cuffing round your thigh to yank your pussy back towards him. With a quirked lip, and a playful look of warning, Hiromi nuzzled between your swollen lips, drawing your clit into his mouth as his fingers continued to thrust gently inside you, so deep that he soothed the cramps in your belly.

Your vision popped with pleasure, and you twisted against the sheets, pressing your face into fluffy pillows, crying out in ecstasy. Hiromi rutted his cock between his belly and the sheets, edging himself, his mouth coppery with blood, mixing in a bitter bouquet with the tannins still on his tongue.

He had dreamt of making love to you through your blood and pain for so long, that what was once a fleeting curiosity had become a kink, eagerly awaiting fulfilment. Feeling your thighs flex around his head, feeling the clenching of your swollen pussy against his fingers, tasting the salty tang of blood and wine, had his head reeling, and he thrust into his own wet patch between his belly and the bed, his hips stopping and stuttering to take himself to the edge and back again.

"I'm gonna-- fuck, 'Romi-- gonna cum--" you cried, your hand tangled in inky black hair, humping his mouth and nose. The elastic band in your belly stretched, stretched, stretched...and released with a twang as you arched off the bed, mouth open in a silent cry, your body hot with incomparable pleasure.

Hiromi groaned into you, fingertips grazing your cervix so your orgasm spread all the way from clit to sore, cramping belly. He felt blood seep out around his hand, spreading into the sheets beneath you. Still, he continued, easing his caresses as he brought you down from your high.

You trembled, one hand rested on your belly, the other arm flung above your head, your skin still fizzing with divine joy. Hiromi withdrew his fingers from you, your pussy clenching, reluctant to let him go. Wiping his fingers on the sheets, you vaguely heard the opening and closing of a drawer, your eyes flicking open as you heard a familiar buzz sound through the dark room.

You moved to sit up, and Hiromi moved over you instantly, caging you in, pinning your arms above your head. His weeping cock rested on your belly. With the light behind him, you could barely see his face, his eyes flinty in the dark.

"You're obviously not soft enough for me to fuck, yet," he hummed, pressing open-mouthed kisses to your neck, "if you're still trying to sit up." You felt the thick round tip of the wand buzzing against your thigh, sliding agonisingly slowly down to your core.

As the vibrator slipped between your folds, pressing firmly against your clit, you almost screamed with the overstimulation, and Hiromi moaned, teeth pressed to your collarbones as you convulsed. You sobbed with pleasure, feeling the cramps in your belly build, feeling blood seep out of you.

Hiromi lowered his mouth to your breasts again, rolling your nipple with a shudder against his tongue, pulling back so it pinched between his lips, before licking it in again. You felt a drip of pre-cum run down your waist, so wordless with pleasure, that you were totally unable to tell Hiromi you were about to cum again.

You came with a pained sob, your thighs trembling with exertion, and pleasure stabbed through you, dragging you along through a second orgasm. Hiromi cooed, talking you through it, his lips moving against your nipple.

"Good girl, good girl...almost there...just one more...gorgeous." You whimpered, his body hot on yours, still pinned down. He rolled the vibrator in circles, wide, to slow, to wide again, over your clit, making your pleasure vague and distant, then sharp and sweet, and back again.

As Hiromi edged you away from your second orgasm and towards a third, you felt your body become floppy, loose, pliable, as if made of rubber, heavy on these soft pillows. Hiromi ghosted the tip of the vibrator down against your clenching hole, and you cried out, greedily wishing to claim your pleasure back.

"Shhh...trust me. I wouldn't leave you like this," Hiromi hushed, his voice low and sandy against your ear, "hold my hand." Hiromi released your wrists just enough for you to grip his long-fingered hand between his own, and he stayed nose-to-nose with you, as he sunk the wand into your pussy until the vibrations rumbled against your cervix and deep into your womb.

You came with a gasp, your orgasm ruinous and so sudden, that just the lingering flesh-memory of the wand against your clit sent you over the edge. You juddered, whimpering Hiromi's name like a prayer, blinded by pleasure. After what felt like an eternity, Hiromi slipped the wand from you, switching it off and discarding it onto the sheets as he stroked your hands in his, kissing your neck and mumbling soft reassurances into you.

You were warm, fluid and malleable as warm water by the time Hiromi settled between your legs, stroking his wet cockhead between your puffy lips. Hiromi thrummed with anticipation, shoulders clenched, his abs twitching with the exertion of holding back for so long.

"I...I'll be gentle, I'll be so gentle, I promise," he insisted, begging, taking your lazy smile as consent, before sinking into you, bottoming out with a twitching groan. Hiromi laid over you, desperate to be closer, holding your thighs up to clasp his hips.

You let him move you this way, totally pliable in his grasp, Hiromi's rhythmic, rocking hips casting shadows like ocean waves against the wall. You watched the shadows, feeling his cock move deeply within you, feeling the kiss of his cockhead against your plush walls like a balm, soothing you, sedating you.

Hiromi watched you, your candlelit profile, the happy glow on your face, your willingness to be helped by him, lighting a fire within him, and his delayed orgasm crept up his spine with urgency. You felt Hiromi's thrusts hesitate, his hand clasped in yours threatening to untangle, to move to your tender, spent clit again.

Certain that your completion could be achieved through the intimacy of him cumming inside you alone, you held his hand tight, and rocked your hips up to him, replacing the movements lost by his hesitation. Hiromi gasped, given permission to finish, and rolled his hips to meet yours, feeling himself overwhelmed by an innate desire to fill your belly with his seed.

"--perfect, so perfect, thank-- thank you-- fuck, I can't last--" Hiromi's hips stalled with a sandy gasp, feeling the ecstatic rush of his cum through his cock, buckling into you as his face crumpled with pleasure, moaning short sharp moans into your neck. You rolled your hips lazily up around him, the warm balm of his seed in your belly like a lotion, deep and soothing.

Lying in your arms as you trailed your fingertips down his back, Hiromi pressed one long, grateful kiss to your temple, before kneeling back, uttering a husky whine as he pulled out of you. Watching the slow drip of bloodstained cum drip out of you made his cock twitch weakly, another spurt of cum dripping out onto the stained sheets.

"Just...wait here," Hiromi insisted, standing on shaking legs. You lay back, cushioned on clouds, humming to yourself in your delicious afterglow. You heard the patter of the shower, and allowed Hiromi to return and grip your hands, leading you, eyes closed, until you felt the sweet embrace of water down your curves.

Hiromi had pre-prepared, and he pressed a hot flannel to your belly, urging you to hold it there while he cleaned you both with a soft sponge. The water beneath you ran pink. You delighted in the massage of Hiromi's clever fingers across your scalp.

A few minutes later, warm and sated, aching and floating above your own body, you stepped to the bedroom with Hiromi. His hand hovered over the light switch, a curious grin on his face. You caught his eye hesitantly, able to see the white sheets only in shades of black and grey.

A flick, and the room basked in light. You pressed a hand to your mouth, the bedsheets rumpled and decorated with blossoming petals of vibrant red, smears and fingerprints, all evidence of your lovemaking. Hiromi sidled up behind you, resting a chin on your shoulder, nuzzling into your temple.

"Art," he whispered, "we've made art."

+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+

Hiromi coming up for air:

[societyfolklore]

Remember Me

Title: Remember Me

Pairing: Dark!Peter Parker x Female Reader

Summary:  Set Post No Way Home - Peter Parker has been forgotten by everyone he once held dear. Isolated and fraying at the edges, Peter fixates on a girl from his past- you when you show him the smallest kindness and unknowingly becomes the center of his unraveling.

Word Count: 4.4k

Warnings: /Explicit Content / 18+, Minors DNI, NON CON Dark psychological themes, Dubious consent / Non-consensual sexual content, Power imbalance (physical strength), Emotional manipulation, slight Obsession / Stalking mentions, Mentions of grief, trauma, and emotional isolation, Unreliable perspective / Twisted logic from a traumatized Peter Parker.

A/N:  Trying out a Peter Parker idea…. Poor broken puppy.. HE DOES MESSED UP THINGS!

Peter hadn’t expected much from life these days.

Not since the spell. Not since May. Not since he had handed over everything to keep the world safe and got nothing in return but silence.

His days weren’t truly quiet, not with his thoughts always moving, his body never really resting. He was still Spider-Man, after all. The world might have forgotten Peter Parker, but he hadn’t forgotten how to move through it. Silently. Restlessly. Like he was waiting for something to make the noise stop. A small, dim apartment in Queens, the constant hum of the city outside his cracked window. A phone that never rang. A fridge that hummed louder than his thoughts. Jobs that paid by the delivery, not the hour. No health insurance. No one to miss him if he crashed his bike during a run. No one even to know.

He kept his head down. Moved through life like smoke. Weightless. Invisible.

But he had started cutting through the park sometimes. It was faster. Trees made the ride cooler. And lately, there was music.

A flute.

At first, he had just noticed the melody drifting through the trees, soft, familiar. Something warm and bright in a life that had gone so dull. Like a hand reaching out from a dream.

The second time, he had found the source. You were perched on a low stone wall near the fountain. Your case was open for coins. Your eyes were closed, expression peaceful. Hair catching sunlight. Fingers dancing over the instrument like it was an extension of your soul. Something about you tugged at the edge of his memory. You looked familiar, but with everything that had happened, he wasn’t sure. Everyone was older now. Changed. Maybe he had saved you once as Spider-Man. Maybe you'd passed in the halls at school. The thought gnawed at him as he stopped nearby and unwrapped a sandwich. He ate slowly, watching you from the shade, trying to place the echo of your face in his fractured past.

It became routine. His rides were slower. He started adjusting his breaks to match your playing schedule. Sometimes you weren’t there, and he circled the park twice just to make sure. When you were, he lingered. Sitting on benches. Pretending to scroll his phone. Pretending he wasn’t waiting for your eyes to find his.

One afternoon, you played something different.

Something familiar.

Peter had frozen mid-ride, his bike wobbling to a stop. His heart had stuttered.

He knew that song. Knew it.

Marching band. Sophomore year. That fall when everything still made sense. Autumn games and stiff uniforms. Cracked lips from trumpet practice. Your flute somewhere nearby in the bleachers. Maybe you’d laughed at something he’d said once or maybe you’d just laughed, and he had told himself it was because of him. He wasn’t sure. The memory was soft around the edges, blurred with time and magic, but it clung to him all the same.

This was why he had recognized you. Not the park. Not a blurry face in the crowd. But this—this moment. That song. That memory.

It had hit him hard. Like he was sixteen again. Like the world hadn’t fallen apart.

Without thinking, he had dug into his pocket and tossed a few coins into your case.

You had glanced up, caught his eye.

You smiled.

"Hey you."

Just that. Casual. Offhand. Warm. Like it was nothing.

To Peter it was everything.

He had walked away before you could take it back, his heart thudding like he had just jumped off a rooftop.

~#~#~#~#~#~#~

He kept coming back. Every day now. Delivery or not, Peter Parker found a reason to pass through the park. Sometimes he told himself it was coincidence, that he was just taking the most efficient route. But he knew better. He wanted to see you. To hear that music. To catch a glimpse of something warm and alive in a world that had turned so cold.

Sometimes, when you packed up early, he followed you at a distance. One afternoon, he’d trailed you all the way back to your building after catching a glimpse of you while patrolling rooftops. He told himself it was for your safety. That it wasn’t weird. That it didn’t mean anything that he sometimes perched on a nearby rooftop and watched your window glow into the evening, his fingers clenched around the edge of the ledge like the bricks might give him something to hold onto. Something real.

Some days you said hi. Just a word, a glance, a smile that lingered too long in his memory. Sometimes you just nodded, focused on your playing, brow furrowed as your fingers danced with precision and grace. Once, a gust of wind had scattered your sheet music across the grass and he had dropped his bike without a second thought, sprinting to help catch it before it was ruined. You had laughed, cheeks pink, breathless from chasing pages. You’d thanked him, called him a lifesaver, your eyes lighting up like it was the most natural thing in the world.

His face had burned for hours after.

He memorized everything about you. How you sat. The curve of your fingers. The way you tucked your hair behind your ear when it got in the way. The snacks you liked, trail mix and peach rings. The way you hummed softly between songs, completely unaware you were doing it. He knew which shoes you wore on long days, the chipped polish on your thumbnail, the gentle sway of your body when you played with your eyes closed.

You’d become his routine. His comfort. His obsession.

Eventually, he had asked you out. It had taken him three tries to get the words out. His voice had cracked the first time, failed him the second, but the third time, on a cooler Thursday afternoon you had looked up, surprised. Hesitated just long enough for panic to bloom in his chest. But then you had smiled. That smile. And said yes.

He hadn’t slept the night before. His mind had raced, imagining every possible conversation, every touch, every look. What you might wear. What he should say. How he could make you see him- really see him. Not just as some awkward stranger with delivery bags and a nervous laugh. But as someone who mattered.

You had noticed him before. The boy on the bike. Cute in a scruffy, slightly awkward way. He looked about your age, maybe a year older. He wasn’t the only person who passed by regularly., there were the lunchtime walkers, the young moms with strollers, the joggers who circled like clockwork. But something about him stood out. The way he lingered. How he always seemed to stop nearby when you played.

Busking was never just about the money. It was about watching people. Sharing your music. About trying to make life feel normal in times that never quite felt normal anymore. Not since the Blip. Not with aliens, mad Titans, Avengers, and heroes flying overhead like they belonged more than you did.

He stopped a lot. First it was just a few coins in your case, then a note or two. You’d noticed him, sure. The cute boy on the bike who looked to be about your age. He lingered more than most. One of the reasons you busked was to people-watch, to share something gentle in a world that never quite felt gentle anymore. Music helped life feel normal. Whatever that meant now. Not with aliens, Blips, mad Titans, Avengers and heroes turning the sky upside down.

You’d spotted him watching you more than once. Eating lunch nearby. Pretending not to glance up every time you played something new. You hadn’t thought it meant anything. Just someone you noticed. Like the regulars on their lunch walks or the young mothers who pushed strollers past you every day.

It wasn’t until your music flew away- pages lifted suddenly by a strong breeze and he darted out, catching them with sharp, impossibly fast movements that you thought for half a second the Matrix had glitched.

But when he talked to you afterward, all you saw was someone painfully shy. Awkward like a puppy that hadn’t gotten used to his own growing legs. So why wouldn’t you say yes to a coffee date? What harm could come from a single cup of coffee?

The date had been... okay. Not bad. Not great. Just... stilted. You talked, filling the silence because he didn’t. He watched you too intently. Laughed at odd moments. Gave you compliments that were strange, thoughtful, but almost unsettling in their precision.

At one point, somewhere between the coffee cooling in your cup and the awkward silence that had stretched a bit too long, he asked, "Do you still get a chance to draw?"

You blinked. "Draw? I-" Of course you did. You loved to draw. It was why you were hoping to get into art school next year. "How did you-"

"Oh," he interrupted quickly, shrugging a shoulder, not quite meeting your eye. "Your busking sign. It’s just really nice. Figured you made it yourself. Thought maybe you were into art or something."

It was a plausible excuse. Just enough truth to hold up. But it still left you with a weird feeling you couldn’t quite shake.

You’d chalked it up to nerves. Maybe he was just shy. You’d been kind. You always tried to be kind. He seemed like someone who didn’t quite know how to exist in his own skin, like every word took effort and every pause stretched too long. Something about him made you feel like he hadn’t talked to someone properly in a long time.

Still, by the time you reached your apartment, there was a heaviness in your chest. The air around you felt thick, almost reluctant. You had tried to brush it off, first dates were always weird, right? Not everyone was good at them.

You stood outside your apartment a moment too long. The door was right there, the keys in your hand, but you hesitated. Just long enough.

You smiled. A polite, practiced thing. "Thanks for the coffee. It was nice."

He had leaned in, tentative, eyes flicking to your mouth. You hadn’t expected it, but you didn’t move away.

You had let him kiss you. Just a quick brush of lips. Nothing deep. Nothing serious.

But you could feel the way he trembled like it meant more to him than it should have. Like the contact had cracked something open in him that he’d been keeping sealed too tight.

Then you had pulled back. Shifted your keys in your hand. You didn’t want to be rude, but something about the way he looked at you after the kiss - it had made your skin prickle. Not because it was bad, just... too much. Like he had been starving and you’d handed him a feast.

"Okay, well... goodnight, Peter."

You had turned, voice light but firm. A soft boundary. A cue to end the night.

You reached for the door handle. Just as it clicked, his foot slid into the frame.

"Wait."

Startled, you had looked up. "Peter?"

He wasn’t smiling. His voice didn’t match the quiet boy from earlier. His shoulders were stiff now, jaw tight, hands flexing at his sides like he was holding something back. There was a tension to him you hadn’t seen before, a coiled readiness, barely leashed.

"Don’t go. Not yet."

Your smile had faltered, the keys in your palm digging into your skin now. "It's late. I don’t really know you that well..."

His eyes had darkened. Something sharp flickered behind them, and your pulse stuttered.

"But you do know me."

You paused, unease spreading through your chest. "What?"

He had stepped closer. Not violent. Not yet. But the shift was unmistakable. The energy changed, like a string pulled taut.

"You said hey. You smiled. You looked at me like I was real. Do you have any idea what that did to me?"

There was something unraveling in his voice, something that made your stomach twist.

Your voice had tightened, instinct kicking in. "Peter, I think maybe you should go."

He had shaken his head slowly, like you’d spoken a foreign language. Like you hadn’t understood the part you were meant to play in his mind.

"I lost everyone," he had murmured. "May. MJ. Ned. No one remembers me. No one sees me. I’m no one. But you… you looked at me like I mattered."

Your heart skipped.

Wait- MJ? Ned?

Those names hit like ice water to the chest. They weren’t just names. They were names you knew. Names from your old high school. You didn’t even realize he’d said them all until they echoed inside your skull like a warning bell.

How the hell did he know them?

Your blood ran cold. Your breath caught in your throat.

"Peter-"

His hand brushed your cheek. Too soft. Too deliberate. Like he thought he had a right to touch you. Like this was some scene he'd played out in his head over and over until he believed it was real.

"You do know me. Somewhere in there, you remember. I know you do."

You took a shaky step back. The hallway suddenly felt too small, too quiet, like the world had narrowed into this moment and there was nowhere left to go.

Your voice cracked. "Peter, stop. Please."

But he didn’t. He wouldn’t.

When you tried to close the door, he had pushed it open like it weighed nothing—like you’d never stood a chance against him. The frame creaked violently under his hand, swinging wide with impossible strength. The door didn’t even resist him—it flew back, banging into the wall with a sound that made your breath seize.

You stumbled back, nearly tripping over your own feet, heart slamming in your chest as the reality of just how strong he was came crashing down on you. Not metaphorically. Not some passing thought. Physically. Overpoweringly.

You barely had time to scream. The panic surged like lightning through your veins, cold and disorienting. Your body screamed at you to run, to fight, to do something—but your limbs weren’t listening. Every part of you was frozen, every cell electrified with dread, your thoughts tripping over themselves in a whirlwind of fear. You had never felt so small. So powerless.

The door had slammed behind you. And you were trapped.

Peter grabbed you. His hands were too tight on your arms, fingers digging in just enough to remind you how much stronger he really was. His breath came fast and ragged, the air between you hot and suffocating. He kissed you again. Rougher this time. More insistent. Like he was chasing something just out of reach. Like he needed it to fix whatever was broken inside him.

You didn't kiss back. But you didn’t pull away either.

Because what if you did?

What if he got angrier? What if he hurt you? What if this- this trembling, desperate version of him was the only thing standing between fear and violence?

So you didn’t fight him.

You tried to speak, voice soft and shaking. “We can keep talking, Peter... okay? Just- just slow down.”

“No,” he whispered, his forehead pressing against yours. “No, you need to remember. God, please just remember.”

As Peter's lips crashed against yours again, his hands tightened around your arms, holding you in place. You tried to speak, to plead with him to stop, but your words were lost in the chaos of his kiss. His breath was hot and ragged, his tongue forcing its way into your mouth as he deepened the kiss.

"I'm sorry.. I'm sorry. I need this, need you to touch me. Please... if you can't remember then just touch me.."

You felt a surge of fear as he lifted you off the ground, his arms wrapping around you like a vice. You tried to struggle, to push him away, but he was too strong,. Peter carried you to the bed, tossing you down onto the pillows as he followed, his body pinning you beneath him his hands already push up the skirt you'd been wearing caging you in, her breathing hard in your chest.  "I just need, need you, need someone. Please..." His mouth was on yours again, swallowing any protests, smothering the edge of your voice with something desperate and raw. You could feel his tears now wet trails you hadn't seen fall spilling onto your cheeks, warm and aching. He pulled back just enough for you to catch your breath, but not enough to give you space.

Somewhere in your panic, your chest ached- not from fear alone, but something more twisted. The crushing sense that he wasn’t just dangerous- he was grieving. Drowning in it. And for a moment, that grief wrapped around you as tightly as his arms.

You didn’t know what he’d been through. What he'd lost. But you knew the sound of someone who was breaking. You'd heard it in your own voice, in the city’s silence after the blip, in the news anchors whispering names with trembling lips.

He was so alone. You could almost taste it when his tongue slid into your mouth, trembling and uncoordinated. Not hungry. Not lustful. Just desperate.

You didn’t move. Couldn’t. Your body still hadn’t decided what was safer: running or staying still.

But your mind whispered the same thing again and again.

Make it better.

That’s what you did. You helped. You soothed. You made people happy. You kept the world soft when it went too sharp.

And right now, he needed something soft. Needed something human.

So you didn’t say no.

You didn’t say anything at all.

You felt his body shift above yours, felt the tight restraint in his muscles even as he tried to be gentle—tried to seem gentle. His weight pressed into you, his body tense, like he expected you to disappear if he didn’t hold you still. Like he was afraid you’d vanish like everyone else.

You were scared- terrified- but your limbs stayed heavy. Your mind raced, but your voice was gone. Every instinct told you to stay calm, to stay quiet, to keep this moment from tipping any further. You didn’t know what he’d do if you resisted. You weren’t sure he did either.

He cupped your face with shaking hands. His cheeks were wet with tears that still hadn’t stopped. His voice cracked. “I don’t want to scare you. I just- I need this. I need you. Just this once. Please… just stay.”

You swallowed hard. Every word lodged in your throat. Your fingers trembled where they lay frozen against the bedspread.

“Peter” you whispered

His breath caught, like that was all he’d ever needed. You weren’t sure if you meant it to soothe him or yourself.

He leaned down, his forehead brushing yours again, slower this time. His lips pressed to your temple, your cheek, your jaw- clumsy and reverent and utterly wrecked.

You closed your eyes.

You didn’t fight.

And when he began to move, you let him. Let him pull off your underwear. You didn’t fight when he took off your dress, and you didn’t stop him when he tugged his own shirt over his head, revealing a lean chest that trembled with the weight of what he was doing. His hands shook slightly as he fumbled with his belt, shedding his jeans in a rush like the fabric was keeping him from getting closer to you. You couldn’t look away. Couldn’t speak. Just watched him undress, vulnerable and exposed in more ways than one, until he returned to you like he hadn’t taken a single breath without you under him. 

It felt safer to give him this piece of yourself than to see what he might become if you didn’t.  Peter moved your legs, opening them with slow, trembling hands. His touch was careful but insistent, as if trying to commit the shape of you to memory. His palms skimmed over your thighs, petting softly, reverently, like he couldn’t believe you were real. Mumbled whispers slipped from his lips- fragments of apologies, gratitude, promises not to forget. Not to let go. His breath caught as he positioned himself, voice hoarse and thick with emotion.

He filled you like an invasion. Not rough, no, he was still trying to be soft, trying to be tender- but there was no mistaking the tremble in his limbs or the desperation in the way he pushed into you, like he could bury everything he’d lost inside you and find himself again. It wasn’t pain, not really. But it wasn’t comfort either. It was too much. Too sudden. His body was solid against yours, lean and muscular in ways his awkward posture had hidden.

You gasped when he moved, your breath catching on a sob with the first slow thrust, your body stretching around him in protest. But the ache was fleeting. It was quickly swallowed by heat.

Because it wasn’t just fear thrumming in your veins- it was instinct. It was the softness of his lips, the tremble in his hands, the way his kisses fell like apologies against your skin. It was the way your body reacted, even against your will, to every press of his hips and the quiet, broken noises he made as he whispered your name.

"You feel so good," he breathed into your neck, like it was a secret he couldn’t believe he was allowed to say. His voice cracked as he moved again, deeper this time. "God, thank you. Thank you."

And then, he thrust harder.

Not out of cruelty, but out of urgency. His body moved with more force, more need, like he couldn’t hold himself back anymore. Each push drove deeper, pressing you further into the mattress. Your breath hitched. Your back arched.

It still felt like too much, like your body hadn’t caught up to what was happening—but it also sent lightning through your nerves. That awful twist of panic and arousal tangled in your gut, impossible to separate. Your heart pounded against your ribs, fear and sensation blurring together until your skin felt too hot to hold in place.

"I missed this. I missed everyone," he murmured, though you’d never given him this before. He pressed kisses to your jaw, your throat, your shoulder, feverish and fragile. "Please don’t forget again. Please…"

You couldn’t believe it felt good. But it did. Your body betrayed you with each helpless pulse of pleasure. Every kiss he pressed to your skin made you feel smaller, softer, more lost in a sea of his need.

You wanted him to stop. You wanted him to keep going. You wanted him to be someone else. You wanted this to mean nothing. You wanted it to mean everything.

He clung tighter, hips moving faster, gasping your name into your throat like it was a lifeline.

“God,” he breathed, voice thick and desperate. “You feel so good. I didn’t know I needed this-I didn’t know how much-”

You could barely breathe beneath the weight of him, the rhythm of his thrusts speeding up, deeper now, more erratic. Each push drew a soft sound from your lips you didn’t mean to give. Your body burned with the storm of sensation and fear and heat. It was like standing in front of a fire, unsure if it would warm you or consume you whole.

He pressed kisses to your temple, murmuring between them. “Thank you… thank you… thank you.”

And then, like your body had betrayed you completely, your climax rushed toward you with no warning. Your muscles tensed, breath catching, pleasure crashing over you in a blur of heat and confusion. You weren’t sure if you cried out or just gasped- but he felt it.

Peter groaned, burying his face in your neck as he followed you over the edge. His body trembled with release, his breath hitching against your skin. “I’m sorry… I’m sorry…” he kept whispering, voice cracking under the weight of it.

You stayed still. You didn’t move. Your skin was hot and damp, your chest rising and falling in shallow, uneven breaths. A dull ache throbbed between your legs, not sharp but deep, your limbs tingling with a raw mix of overstimulation and disbelief. Your fingers twitched against the sheets, barely able to grasp the shape of what you'd just let happen.

He wrapped his arms around you like a blanket, holding you so tight you could hardly breathe. You stared up at the ceiling, dazed and sore, your mind numb and scattered. The sticky, wet mess he left inside you had already begun to slide down your thighs, pooling uncomfortably between them. You felt coated, used, like the heat and guilt clinging to your skin wouldn’t ever come off. It made your stomach turn, and still- you didn’t move.

His heartbeat thudded against your shoulder, uneven and too fast, like he hadn’t come down from whatever place he'd gone to. He sighed, nuzzling against your skin like he was trying to melt into you, like you were a lifeline he was terrified to lose.

You swallowed, throat dry. “Peter?”

“Shhh…” he cooed, brushing your hair back from your face with shaking fingers. The gesture was gentle, almost tender, but it sent a chill down your spine. It didn’t feel like comfort- it felt like control. Like you were being soothed the way someone might hush a child or calm a frightened pet. It made your skin crawl even as you stayed still, the weight of his hand too much and not enough all at once. His eyes were still damp, rimmed red with guilt. “It’s okay. You’re okay. We’re okay. Yeah?”

You hesitated, your lips parting before you could find anything solid to say.

So you nodded.

Because you didn’t know what else to do. Because saying no felt too big. Too late.

He pressed a kiss to your temple like a promise, curling around you tighter. His arms were heavy and warm. His breath still trembled.

“I’m here,” he murmured. “I’ve got you. I’m not going to disappear. You’re not going anywhere. Just… be here.”

The words were meant to soothe, but they didn’t.

They curled around you like a net, binding instead of calming. You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding, but your chest still felt tight, like your lungs didn’t trust the air. Your limbs remained heavy, pinned by more than just his embrace.

You didn’t feel safe. You didn’t feel comforted.

You felt hollow.

Like something inside you had gone missing, or maybe just caved in. His embrace was too tight, too warm, and your skin buzzed with a tension you couldn’t shake. You couldn’t tell if you were still holding your breath or if your body had simply forgotten how to breathe.

And you lay there in silence, the ceiling a blur above you, the room too quiet.

You weren’t sure what had just happened.

But you knew it had changed everything. "Not going anywhere.." 

[incognitopolls]

We ask your questions so you don’t have to! Submit your questions to have them posted anonymously as polls.

[humanjarvis]

caleb music headcanons

i'm receiving word about possible pirate caleb x siren reader myth and although that was not in my long and detailed plans for him (i've been playing this game for 2 months) it made me actually write these

caleb doesn’t pay much attention to his music taste. to him, music is mostly background noise—something to help pass the time while he’s studying or cooking

he isn’t very picky about genre; he’ll listen to anything, but low-stress indie songs bring him comfort. he finds new ones by shuffling a 12-hour playlist that updates weekly, but he has two or three bands that he checks up on every few months to see if they’ve released anything new 

has an undiscovered love for techno instrumentals, though

he seems disinterested in music on the surface, but it’s honestly because he cares about your taste in music more than his own

he would listen to the songs you liked when he’d drive you home from school, letting you practically use his dashboard as a punching bag while you impulsively switched between your top playlists. if his infotainment system had been sentient, it would’ve sighed every time you got into the car 

he takes note of your most played artists, looking them up to feel closer to you (and to see if they’re playing a show near you anytime soon—if so, he saves up to surprise you with tickets once or twice a year) ((two tickets. you’re going with him. together.)) 

his research comes in handy when you quiz him on boyband trivia, and the playful grin on his face hides his twitching eye when you gush over how cute you think the leader is 

caleb comes to truly appreciate music when he realizes how much it means to you. he comes home late one night to find you dancing and singing around the living room, bathed in the color-changing mood lights from your floor lamp and wearing the noise-cancelling headphones he got you a few months back 

he’d walked in on one of your frequent “music nights,” as you called them, and he was so enamored by the sight that he rarely missed one after that 

every music night since then, you switched out your headphones for a speaker in the corner of the room and welcomed caleb into your mini-raves. he seemed to have missed the “rave” part of the memo, though; he mostly remained idle on these nights, perfectly content to sit on the couch just watching you, outside of the rare times you managed to pull him up to dance with you 

you, on the other hand, were all over the place—sometimes you’d stand looking forlornly out the window, pretending to be in a sad music video; sometimes you’d make up your own choreography in the middle of the room; and sometimes, during the most energetic songs, you’d crawl all over him in excitement

caleb’s favorite music nights are the ones where you sing for him. don’t get him wrong—he loves having you use him as a jungle gym when a hype song is playing—but he can’t hold back his anticipation whenever a slow song comes on shuffle. each time, you collapse onto the couch next to him, turning your face into his shoulder

while your pulse slows, you begin reciting the lyrics you know by heart, the vibrations going straight into caleb’s chest. he pulls you closer to him and thinks this is an intimacy he’d like to live in forever, you crooning with your fingers in his hair 

pressed flush against caleb’s body, you eventually drift off to the rhythmic beating of his heart, and music night is over, for you at least 

but the night goes on a bit longer for caleb, who’d memorized lines from the ballads you sang to him and secretly downloads the songs after, so that the next time he’s away, he can listen to them and pretend it’s you 

[kabr0ztrousers]

I am also a big fan of minotaurs - u might have gathered that from my last request lol 🙋🏼‍♀️🙋🏼‍♀️ (but ik you are too!!) What about a fem reader who catches/traps a mintotaur and milks THEM for a change?? lots of cum, bondage, maybe a bit of inspection kink? i feel like that would be hot, but pls exercise your full artistic licence. can’t wait to see what u come up with ! 🥵❤️‍🔥

-🪽

Kabr0z Writes episode 110: Bull Milk

Find the rest of the Kabr0z Writes anthology here!

This series also on Ao3!

CWs: bondage; intoxication; somno; semen collection; oral sex

A/N: I'm grateful for the outpouring of suggestions after yesterday's (kinda) double bill! I remind you all, this show runs on requests so if you have an idea, even if you're not sure about it, send it in!

########################################

Alchemy is messy business at the best of times. When you've been given a commission to produce potions of libido and fertility for the local monarch, it only gets messier. Most of the reagents aren't too bad: some garlic oil, some honey, mandrake, powdered bezoar, stuff any self-respecting alchemist's kit would contain. The real problem was the key component. Minotaur cum, freshly squeezed.

That's what brought you to this windswept plain. Nothing but dry grass and dust as far as the eye can see which, on the few moments the scathing wind dies down, is pretty damn far. The plan was simple enough: trap a minotaur and extract semen. Get a hundred or so fluid ounces, then you could get back to the city. The only hard part is actually trapping a minotaur without him deciding you look like his next meal, or his mate.

You'd brought windbreaks with you, long strips of canvas, as wide as you are tall. Setting them up was a nightmare but as the last pole sank into the sunbaked soil, the breaker itself can be tied to them and immediately makes a barrier to the whipping dust. Within hours you'd made a dune, a ridgeline in the plain, invisible from one side, a six-foot drop on the other into a dozen tanglevines. They'd hold a minotaur, no problem. At least for the day or so until they start to rot.

Now just to find a minotaur. It's an audacious plan, It'll only work from one direction, but you had faith. Lying on your dune in the dawn light, you scanned the horizon through a spyglass. Sure enough, the lumbering mountain that is a plains minotaur came across the grasses. You blew on a hunting horn you'd purchased. The roar of a minotaur in rut echoed from your instrument. The one noise guaranteed to bring a raging bull-man tearing towards you. He hadn't seen you yet, minotaurs have terrible eyesight at range, and he's only on the edge of the range of your spyglass.

You ducked behind your dune and waited for the inevitable. The minotaur thundered up the slope, missed his step, and tumbled into the waiting trap. Tanglevines whipped around him, pinning his arms to his broad torso, wrapping his legs together. The beast was felled into a snorting, struggling heap. Your bag opened. A little of the pinkish one, a touch of the green, maybe a dab of the vermilion powder for luck. A quick shake, and you'd made what you reckoned would be enough to settle him down. One way to find out.

You filled a syringe with the mixture, hedging your bets by using a dose on the low end for what you'd really want to give 300lbs of prime beef that's trying its hardest to break free in order to kill and-or fuck you. That loaded into a gun of sorts, and then was poised at the thrashing beastie. A click. A thud. The drug worked fast, and we was quietened.

You stepped up to him, rolling the monster to his back. You'll have to work fast, and in the open air. The horn will have been heard by more than just one, if you're lucky you'll meet a dozen or so heifers looking to join an up-and-coming harem. If you're unlucky, you'll get a beast the size of this one charging you.

You checked his pulse. Still alive. Good! A hammer to the knee told you his reflexes were still working, which is also promising. His breathing was slow and deep, like an induced sleep. Which is, of course, exactly what you've put him under. Satisfied he's still functional and not likely to wake up and murder you, your attention turned to the business end of the beast.

Feral minotaurs only fashion clothes where it's cold. These plains aren't chilly enough to need them, so they don't bother. As a result, his sack was exposed for all to see. Large, pendulous balls, stinking of testosterone and musk. Exactly what you need. You laid your hand on one, watching it droop away from the warmth of your touch. His penis hid within the prepuce, or "sheath" as less scientific minds refer to it. Exposure of the phallus is simple. You grabbed the base of the sheath, grasping the semi-soft flesh within. His cock extended slowly as the beast mooed softly in his sleep. You could only imagine the buxom cow woman he was envisioning as you held him. The cock grew until well over eighteen inches long, and four in diameter at the flare. Your hand struggled to wrap around it even at the thinnest point, just where the meat of the shaft reaches the flared head.

Now for the fun part. You grabbed a length of tubing from your bag, hooking it up to a modified waterskin. The end of the tube slid into the insensible minotaur's urethra, and you got to work.

Your hands rubbed his cock up and down, trying to keep him hard and stimulate him enough to get what you came for. The gentle huffing and snorting from his mouth told you you're on the right path, but you're going to need more... Direct methods.

You abandoned the tube idea. Fitting a funnel to your collection vessel, you sat on his belly. The cock in front of you smelled just as much as his balls, thick musk cut with acidic sweat and stale cum. Once experienced, never forgotten. You steeled yourself, holding on to the cock with both hands as you leant over it. You planted a kiss on the head of his cock.

The whole thing throbbed. Your tongue traced the edge of his sensitive flare. You watched as he oozed great drops of precum, spilling out of him in a sticky, slow moving river. The smell of the fluids emanating from him made you gag, but they also made you wet. One of your hands slid from his cock, sneaking under the waistband of your trousers to get at your moist cunt.

On and on he leaked, on and on you rubbed. You could feel yourself getting closer. You were getting off to this feral beast in front of you. His cock was so hard in your hand, spitting globs of thick, stinking precum that covered your mouth and chin. Your cunt buzzed with sensation, your breath quickened with his. You shifted your hand, focusing on your tingling clit as you crested your peak, sucking his juices straight out of his cock as you groaned into it.

Seconds later, he started to cum. You pulled the cock over, aiming the stream of thick white spunk into the funnel. Pulse after pulse shot into the skin, filling it up gradually as you watched his balls churn. Every pump of the cock in your hand made his balls tighten a little more. The skin passed halfway full, still he showed no signs of stopping. Ever more of his potent seed flowed out of him.

Eventually you got enough, stoppering the skin and letting him pump the last few ropes of cum over his broad chest.

This potion's going to be great

####################################

It's so weird to do a Dominant reader again so soon! Don't worry, back to my usual tricks soon

Once again, thanks for reading and remember, I won't know your request until you send it, and my ask box is open for exactly that

[sawarusi]

abby anderson x reader

Lucky

fluffy fic, bc abby deserves more love. tried to keep her as canon as possible. reader patches abby up and gives her the affection she didn't know she needed

Seattle wasn’t a destination. it was a mistake. at least, that’s what you told yourself when you first saw the skyline - half-drowned, crumbling behind rain and ash-grey clouds.

you didn't mean to come this far.

what started as a two-day lookout run turned into four. and after those long days, you were still empty-handed. almost every store you came across was already emptied. you kept following roads, trails, shadows of trails. it was supposed to be quick run for replenishing medical supplies.

you were the group’s medic. you were supposed to be back days ago.

painkillers, antibiotics, gauze. everything was running low. infection had already claimed one of your own last week. another was coughing blood. someone had to go out. but it wasn’t supposed to be you. you were too valuable for that - too essential to lose.

and yet here you were - soaked, exhausted, lost somewhere in the husk of a city you didn’t recognize until it was too late. you didn’t know you were in Seattle until the signs started showing up. patrol routes, WLF tags on walls, a rusty checkpoint gate.

still, you kept moving. you didn’t have the luxury to turn back empty-handed. by the time you stumbled across a pharmacy, the rain had soaked through every layer you had. your boots were heavy with mud and your limbs were aching with fatigue. the building leaned to one side, part of its frame collapsed under a fallen tree. but the windows were mostly intact, the signage faded but legible - madison pharmacy.

hope has yet again filled you.

you approached slowly, eyes sweeping corners, scanning for movement, traps, anything out of place. a piece of broken concrete served as a makeshift step through the shattered door. you entered and paused, listening for any potential threat. luckily, no clicking noise.

inside, it was silent. dust floated in narrow beams of grey light spilling from a crack in the ceiling. the shelves stood crooked, but, again luck was on your side. although some shelves were looted, you noticed the ones in the back still had plenty of suplies. you rushed to them.

you dropped your backpack next to you and unzipped it with numbed fingers - it was way too cold. you shuffeled through the shelf. you found a sealed bandage roll, four bottles of painkillers. there was even a surgical kit missing half its instruments, but still usable.

you hit the jackpot. you allowed yourself one content exhale. you weren't empty-handed now.

and that’s when you heard it.

a click - a mechanical click.

your breath hitched. every muscle in your body went still. it was a sound of a rifle safety being disengaged.

someone was behind you. and that someone now pressed the rifle's muzzle against your back.

"don't. move."

the voice was low and firm - commanding. it came from a stern and trained woman.

the pressure of the rifle now nudged harder into your back. you lifted your hands slowly, pulse hammering in your ears.

"what are you doing here? it's WLF territory. you're tresspassing. you shouldn't be here"

"i know." you said quietly. that gained a scoff from her. the pressure of the rifle against your spine didn’t ease.

“i'm not here for trouble,” you said. “i'm just looking for medical supplies. i’m a medic.”

"that’s not how this works." her voice edged toward warning now. “you don’t just wander into Seattle and take what you want.”

“i didn’t wander,” you replied. “i just happened to walk straight in. i got lost.”

another pause, heavier this time. she wasn’t expecting that.

“turn around.” she withdrawed her rifle so it wasn't touching you anymore, but she still had your chest at range. you obeyed and turned around, slowly, with your arms still up.

the first thing you noticed wasn’t the rifle. It was the blood.

her shirt clung to her right side, soaked in rain and red. the fabric was torn, bandaged haphazardly beneath her jacket - too fast, too shallow. it was still actively bleeding. not bad enough to drop her, but bad enough to slow her down. her weight shifted unevenly, favoring her left leg. her knuckles were tight around the grip of the gun.

the next thing you noticed were her eyes. not as sharp as you thought, they were fogged by tiredness.

“gosh, you’re bleeding.” you said, voice full of concern.

“keep your eyes up,” she snapped. “don’t think about getting cute.”

“i wasn’t,” you said. “i was thinking about how long you have before that gets infected.”

aflicker of something passed behind her eyes—pain, maybe. Or the first edge of doubt.

“i can patch you up.” you offered. “but you gotta put the gun down.”

she scoffed. “right. and have you stab me the second i do?”

you met her stare. “if I wanted you dead, i’d let the infection do the work.”

another pause. the rain outside beat softly against the broken windows, a dull rhythm filling the silence between you.

finally she lowered the rifle. not all the way. just enough.

“you patch me up,” she said. “then you get the hell out of my city.”

you nodded. “fair deal. get comfortable, this will take a while."

she leaned against the counter, her weight hit it harder than she meant to. "are you trying to make your condition even worse?" you said sarcastically with a raised brow.

she put her elbow of the hand with the rifle on the counter, still hesitant to fully trust you. but at least it was now only pointed to your leg. her teeth clenched, breath sharp through her nose, pain written across her face in flickers she probably didn’t mean to show. her free hand pressed against her side, fingers already sticky with fresh blood.

you dropped to your knees in front of her, unzipping your backpack and taking out the supplies you found moments before.

gloves - powdered and crinkled from being compressed for too long. gauze, still sealed in cloudy plastic. a needle with thread. your fingers sorted through it all without hesitation, the ritual familiar, almost sacred. you prepared everyhing you needed.

she watched you the whole time, silently studying your every move. you tried to ignore it, but the weight of her gaze wasn't helping.

when you gently peeled back her jacket, she flinched. her shirt had stuck to the wound, soaked through in a dark, glistening red. you worked carefully, easing the fabric away from torn skin. she grunted, a low, involuntary sound pressed hard behind grit teeth.

“breathe through it,” you murmured, voice low and gentle. “it’s deep, but looks clean. you got lucky.”

she gave a humorless huff. “doesn’t feel lucky.”

you glanced up - just for a second, eyes meeting hers. sweat was beginning to pearl along her temple, her jaw was locked tight, but not from fear, from pure endurance. she was doing everything she could not to flinch, not to move, not to make a sound.

not to look vulnerable.

her chest rose and fell in careful, practiced breaths. inhale. hold. exhale. like she was trying to control her own pain the way you'd control a trigger pull.

and in that moment, something shifted. she failed to keep the tough facade.

“easy, baby,” you said, hands gentle as you began to clean the wound. “i’ve got you.”

the words were out before you could stop them.

she froze and so did you.

the silence that followed wasn’t sharp - it was soft, fragile. she didn’t react, not really. just blinked once, slowly, then looked away. let it pass. she was processing whether that really happened or she just started to hallucinate from the pain.

you didn’t say it again. but you didn’t take it back, either.

the word still hung in the air like smoke, warm and quiet, curling into the silence between you.

your hands kept moving. you poured antiseptic over the wound. she hissed between her teeth, whole body going rigid for a beat. her hand curled against the counter, white-knuckled, but she didn’t pull away.

"almost done cleaning, you're doing great." you said, the praise was what you said to everyone you patch up, but this time, you said it more genuinely. you looked up at her "stictching's next."

"just do it." she muttered.

but her tone had lost its edge. it was less commanding, and more vulnerable and shaky.

you threaded the needle. hands steady. back hunched. full focus. knees sore from the cold tile. your fingers brushed the curve of her waist as you leaned in and started to stitch. the skin there was warm, a bit feverish. you felt the tension coiled in her body, in the way she tried to breathe around the pain, in how she twitched slightly every time the needle bit through her skin.

still, she didn’t curse or bark. she just endured.

"you're used to it." you said softly. it wasn’t a question.

her voice was dry. "more than I care to count."

"to others, or… to yourself?"

"...both"

the stitches went in clean, fast. your hands worked like they always did - reliable, careful, practiced. you could feel her watching you, again, with that heavy gaze. her head tilted slightly.

when you finished the last stitch, you cut the thread and wiped the blood away with a clean square of gauze. you didn’t speak. Neither did she. you peeled off your gloves and let them drop into your bag. then slowly, you stood up, back aching from being hunched so long, knees cracking from the cold tile.

you looked at her. "all done. atta girl"

she blinked up at you. the words hung in the space between you. 'atta girl'. no one said that to her.

her jaw flexed like she wanted to say something back, but no words could leave her mouth. she didn't know what words to use.

you turned away before the silence could stretch into something awkward and started packing up what little you had left - thread, wrappers, bloodied gauze. you stil needed it back at yor camp.

but you still felt her eyes on you, and still felt the shift in the air.

"thank you..." she said and paused, waiting for something.

"[y/n]"

"thank you, [y/n]. i'm Abby"

"thanks, Abby, for not shooting me on the spot." you replied, half jokingly half serious. at that comment, she put the rifle down on the counter. you stood up and tured to face her "and you're welcome."

“i meant what I said,” she murmured. “you shouldn’t be here.”

“i didn’t mean to be,” you followed. “didn’t even know i was in Seattle until i started seeing your goddamn signs.”

Abby huffed through her nose. “hell of a place to get lost.”

you gave a half-smile. “you tell me.”

for a moment, it was quiet again. not tense or awkward.

“well, [y/n],” she said, tilting her head toward the back exit, “if you’re gonna disappear, that’s the door.”

you didn’t move. neither did she.

“take care of yourself,” you said. “and that stitch job. don’t push it.”

Abby smirked faintly. “you think i won’t tear it just to spite you?”

you rolled your eyes, but there was no heat in it. “you tear it, i’ll hunt you down and fix it again. rougher this time. and without any painkillers"

she looked at you for a long second and crossed her arms on her chest. then, with something like amusement in her eyes, she said, “you’re not what I expected.”

You tilted your head, one brow raised. “what were you expecting?”

“someone scared.” she paused. “someone softer.”

you shrugged. “pfft i am soft.” you looked at her dumbfounded. "and i was scared. but as a medic, whenever i see someone hurt - i help. whether they're an enemy doesn't matter"

Abby definetely wasn't expecting that your response would be this... pure.

she shifted closer - barely a step - and lifted a hand like she might touch your arm, or your shoulder, but stopped herself half-way.

instead, she said “if you ever end up here again…” her voice dropped low, almost conspiratorial. “…don’t come into a pharmacy alone.”

you scoffed "noted." you put on your backpack and twent to the exit.

but before your hand hit the door, she called out “hey.”

you glanced back. Abby looked at you for a beat. her face unreadable.

“…thanks again. for not letting me bleed out."

you gave her a lazy, but a warm smile. “anytime, baby.”

there it was again. was it also accidental this time? nah.

she shook her head, a slight blush creeping onto her face "i better not see you around, baby." but she didn't mean it. she wanted for your paths cross once again, maybe in more safe circumstances.