#i just start to get quite and barely say anything

[booksandteaandtears]

Teaching Hospital

Michael 'Dr. Robby' Robinavitch x f!prosecutor!reader

Summary: You're a prosecutor and end up in the Pitt with a dislocated shoulder. You're a teaching case for Javadi and Dr. Robby supervises. Supervision turns into flirting quite easily

genre: pure fluff, smart and older female reader, flirty!Robinavitch, reader takes the first step, Dana is a wingwoman, Javadi is scared she'll mess up

about 1.4 k words

masterlist and I wrote a part 2

You had walked into the Pitt, your left arm supporting you right, two cops trailing you with worry. You'd told them several times already that it was your own fault for deciding to hop aboard their patrol. After two decades of relying on police investigations in the courtroom, you had wanted to see more of the process, but you were regretting it now.

You knew a lot of police work was dealing with rowdy drunks, even around noon on a weekday, so you'd stayed back when the cops had stopped outside a bar downtown. You had been so focused on what was happening in front of you that you hadn't seen the guy coming from your right. And now you were in a busy ER, holding your arm because it felt like it was going to get ripped from its socket.

Once you'd been triaged, given a sling and the doctors had decided you weren't badly injured, the cops you'd been with apologised and continued their shift. Your jacket had been cut open to access your injury, so the remaining half was draped over your right shoulder. The painkillers started to work after a while. You sat on a sticky plastic chair, surrounded by the nightly clientele of the Pitt, wishing you'd brought your laptop. You made do with your phone, pinching your eyes to read through the case you'd been sent that morning.

You were so caught up in it, that you didn't notice a deep voice calling your last name until he was right in front of you. A pair of soft brown eyes was looking at you, with a nice looking face to match. "Shoulder that needs resetting, that's you right?" He asked. "Sure, yes, sorry!" You apologised. "I got caught up in work, barely notice anything around me when I get into it." The doctor laughed softly at you and gestured towards an open bed. "You take a seat, I'm going to get a medical student and then we'll get about putting your shoulder back in the right way." You nodded and shuffled yourself on the bed awkwardly, trying not to make wild moves and make your arm worse.

The doctor came back with a petite girl who was smiling sweetly at you, but you could see the fear in her eyes. "Right," the bearded doctor said, "I'm Dr. Robinavitch, this is Dr. Javadi, our med student. She put a hip back in place last week, so she'll be trying your arm this time, this being a teaching hospital and all. I'm just here for support." Javadi cleared her throat and looked at the chart. "You've been given pain medication when you came in, correct?" You nodded and smiled at the girl. She was radiating anxiety and you could see her swallowing her fear. "It says here you were trailing with the police when someone knocked you down, is that correct." You nodded again. "And you work as a prosecutor here in Pittsburgh?" You sighed, "Yup, I got myself into this mess trying to get some hands-on experience." Dr. Robinavitch smirked from behind his med student. "Guess you're not trying that again anytime soon?" You laughed, wincing slightly as you moved your arm. "I'll be sticking to court for the next while, I think."

You smiled back at the doctor while Javadi prodded around your shoulder softly. His brown eyes focused on the student's hands, giving soft directions on what she should feel for. You were enjoying yourself, spending some time looking at him. Smart, ambitious men had always been your type. Bonus points if they looked cute. You startled and gave a small moan when Javadi prodded a particularly tender part of your shoulder, and she jumped back in worry.

You tried to make light of the situation to take some of the stress away. "Don't worry, Dr. Javadi, if you hurt me I'll only prosecute you for injuring a public official." You smiled up at her and saw that your joke did not have the desired effect. All the blood had left Javadi's face.

Dr. Robinavitch cleared his throat and Javadi turned to face him. "Go get the type of sling she'll need, take a breath, then you'll put it back." Javadi nodded and rushed off. "Sorry," Dr. Robinavitch said, "teaching hospital means teaching moments sometimes." You smiled up at him. "That's alright, Dr. Robinavitch, that's how we all were, those first years on the job. I called a judge mom in my first month, was about to quit then and there. Glad I stuck to it though." He laughed. "Dr. Robby." You raised your eyebrow. "What?" "It's Dr. Robby. At least for people who tell me their embarrassing stories within ten minutes of meeting me." You smiled at him and tasted the name on your lips. "Dr. Robby it is." You could swear you saw his ears go slightly red.

Robby tried to focus on something that wasn't your face because he could feel his ears turning red. Unfortunately for him, that was the moment the remains of your jacket slid of your shoulder, and he was staring at your collarbones beneath the spaghetti straps of you tanktop. Great, now his whole face would be turning red. You shivered and tried to grab your jacket from the floor, pulling a face as you twisted your shoulder. Robby reached forward on instinct and gently guided you upright again. He zipped his hoodie down and draped it over your shoulders. "Here, take mine. Yours isn't worth much and I've got an extra in my locker." The smell of laundry, cologne and something manly hit you. You liked it. "Thanks, I'll give it back before I leave." You said, smiling up at him once more.

Dana caught Javadi rushing back from the supply closet. She startled again and looked towards the charge nurse expectantly. "You just stay here for a minute longer, darling." Collins stopped next to Dana, both looking towards your bed, where Dr. Robby had rolled his chair slightly more towards you. "Do my eyes deceive me..." Collins started. "Or is Cap flirting with that poor girl?" Dana finished. "I think you're right. He's actually smiling at her. Oh look, she's flirting back, putting her hand on his arm. Poor sad boy, he's turning bright red. And my god, is that his hoodie that she's wearing?"

Javadi came back and set your shoulder expertly, earning her a nod from Dr. Robby and many thanks from you. You were sorry when they were called into an incoming trauma, leaving a nurse with you to discharge you. You tried to hang around for a while, but soon came to the realisation that they needed the bed. You hung near the desk for another ten minutes, hoping that Dr. Robby would emerge from the trauma room soon.

"You waiting for Robby?" A blond woman stood next to you, sipping a cup of coffee. "Yeah, just wanted to give him my thanks." The woman pulled up an eyebrow. "I thought Javadi treated you?" You sighed. "You caught me. Just wanted to ask Dr. Robby some questions." "Questions about what? Anything to do with that hoodie you're wearing?" Dana took a sip and stared at you. "Well, I guess straight forward is your way, ma'am. I appreciate that, 'cause it's my way as well. I have two questions mainly. If he's single, and if yes, if he's free for a date somewhere this week. I have a nice bottle of wine that needs opening but I can't really make it work with this arm." You pointed at your sling. The nurse smiled back at you. "I think a bottle of wine is just what that man needs. Can't help you with his schedule, I'm no personal assistant, but I can give you his cell number if that's of any help?" She winked at you. "Just tell him Dana gave the number, cause he's too much of a chicken to have done it himself. And tell him I like you and your straightforward ways." You flashed a bright smile at her. "Will do Dana, thank you. I'll tell him you're the best wingwoman I've ever met."

You were still wearing Dr. Robby's hoodie when left the Pitt, clutching a post-it with his phone number in your good hand.

[kanescrochet]

Shades of Silence

Simon 'ghost' Riley X Overlooked!Reader

1130 words

pure fluff

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The first time she spoke to Ghost, she was holding a clipboard and a cracked radio, trying not to cry.

The comms van had fried again. Nothing unusual. Just one more thing she couldn’t fix fast enough, one more failure in a long string of being not-quite-good-enough. The others didn’t even glance at her anymore — she was background noise in ill-fitting fatigues, frizzy hair tied back with a pencil, eyes hollow from too many nights of not sleeping.

But Ghost stopped.

He stood a few paces away, silent beneath his skull mask, unreadable as always. She wasn’t even sure he’d noticed her until he spoke.

“You alright?”

It was the most anyone had said to her all day.

She blinked. Nodded.

He didn’t press. Just stood there a little longer. Not like he was judging. Like he was… giving her space to come back to herself.

She expected him to leave. Instead, he crouched beside the van and looked under the dash.

“Relay’s fried. You’ve got a spare?”

She hesitated, then knelt beside him, brushing dust from her knees.

“Yeah. In the kit. Just didn’t think anyone’d care.”

“I care if it’s going to get us all killed.”

There was no edge in his voice. No scolding. Just fact.

They fixed it in silence.

When they were done, he stood and gave a small nod. “Good work.”

Then he left.

It was the first time she’d felt real in weeks.

He didn’t seek her out. Not at first. But she started noticing him — not the way everyone else did, not with awe or fear. She saw how he lingered in the corners of rooms, how his gaze tracked exits, how he never really relaxed, even when he sat. He looked like a man stitched together with caution and regret.

But he was also the only one who ever called her by name.

Not “hey you” or “tech” or “supply.” Just her name. Like she wasn’t invisible.

She didn’t know what he saw in her. She was awkward, soft-bodied, quiet. People didn’t flirt with her. They barely spoke to her unless they needed something. But Ghost… he looked at her like he noticed things other people didn’t. Like when her hands trembled or when her eyes were darker than usual from crying in the motor pool.

He never asked.

He just started showing up more.

Once, he handed her a protein bar and didn’t say anything when she muttered thanks without meeting his eyes. Another time, he stood next to her during a debrief, his silent presence making the room feel less like it was caving in. And once — after a mission went south and they lost a man she barely knew but still felt the loss of — she found a note on her desk.

“You don’t have to carry it alone.” No name. Just that.

But she knew it was from him.

They weren’t close. Not officially. No one would’ve called it anything.

But people started looking.

Because Ghost, who didn’t talk to anyone, lingered near the quiet girl in comms. And she, who never smiled, started looking less like she was bracing for the world to break.

They spoke in fragments. In glances. In moments that didn’t look like anything to someone on the outside.

But to her, it was everything.

He didn’t ask her to be anything she wasn’t. He didn’t expect her to be bubbly, or sexy, or less of herself. He didn’t flinch when she admitted she hated mirrors or avoided eating in front of others. He just accepted it. All of it.

“You don’t talk much,” she said once, when they sat beneath a flickering floodlight at the edge of base.

“Neither do you,” he replied.

“I’m just not good at people.”

He turned his head, eyes unreadable behind the skull.

“People aren’t good at you. That’s different.”

She didn’t know what she saw in him at first.

At a distance, he was cold. All mask and menace. The kind of man who stepped into a room and made everyone instinctively clear a path. He didn’t laugh. Didn’t chat. Didn’t offer comfort.

But she watched. She always had been a watcher.

And what she saw — slowly, quietly — was something else.

He was the first to enter dangerous zones and the last to sleep. He always positioned himself near the exits in case something went wrong. He walked the perimeter twice, even when no one asked him to. He memorized the names of the rookies and corrected anyone who got them wrong. He carried guilt like a second skin, even if no one could see it — but she could.

He didn’t speak his care. He showed it.

In the way he passed her water when she looked like she hadn’t eaten. In the way he never touched her without giving her time to see him coming. In the way he noticed her silences weren’t the same every day — and treated them accordingly.

He moved through the world like a man who’d been broken more than once, and who was now determined to be unbreakable. But it wasn’t pride that made him that way.

It was protection.

Of others. Of himself. Of whatever small thing inside him hadn’t yet been shattered.

And maybe that was what drew her in — not the danger, not the mask, not the image.

It was the effort.

The quiet, constant effort he made to keep others safe without asking for anything in return.

She didn’t want someone who swept her off her feet. She wanted someone who wouldn’t drop her.

And Ghost never did.

He didn’t ask her to smile. Didn’t try to pull her out of her shell like a project. He simply… met her where she was.

And she, in turn, learned to meet him in his silence.

Their conversations were short. Muted. But heavy with meaning.

He said her name like it mattered. Not sweetly. Not gently. Just intentionally. With respect.

When she was having a bad day — really bad — she didn’t have to say a word. He could tell. And instead of asking what was wrong, he’d sit beside her without speaking. Sometimes that was all she needed.

He never told her about his past. But she saw enough to fill in the blanks. The scars. The way he startled if a door slammed too loud. The way he stiffened when someone raised their voice. The way he refused to talk about certain cities, certain names, certain dates.

She didn’t need to know everything.

She just needed to let him be.

And that, more than anything, was what made him stay.

He wasn’t used to being left alone without being left behind.

But she did both.

And he came back. Every time.

[mrsbarnesblog]

HIII! can you write a fic in which Rafe and reader are like friends w benefits who are also roommates, and she’s been ignoring him for a while and he’s loosing his shit trying to figure out why. And one night he confronts her and she reveals that she’s pregnant and he’s so ecstatic that he knocked her up that he fcks her. I imagine him like telling her how he wanted to knock her up while he’s talking her through it, basically revealing how manipulative he can be. LOVE UR WRITING, would love to read your take on this! 💌

words: 1.4k

warnings: p in v, creampie, breeding kink, possessive and dark-ish Rafe, dub-con

a/n: thank you for your request, anon <3 my first time writing something like this, so i hope you like it

Rafe knew you well enough to understand that your sudden quietness and distancing from him meant something serious. Over the last year, when you two were roommates and half of this time you spent at a borderline of something you could name as ‘friends with benefits,’ he noticed patterns in your behavior that became a norm. The way you talked too much, the way you liked wearing his clothes, lying about not being able to find yours, or the way you had always sneaked into his room in the middle of the night. 

But he was fed up with your sudden change, when you didn’t even spare a glance at him, always locking yourself in your room and saying something about being tired. 

Rafe didn’t even knock on your door when he decided to end it, because there was nothing he didn’t see before, nothing you could’ve possibly been ashamed of. You were lying on your side, facing the wall, looking so small and vulnerable. 

“You’re ignoring me.” He said simply, standing in the middle of your room with his hands in the pockets of his sweats. He saw your sigh, the way your body slightly tensed at his words. “You can’t ghost me forever, you know that? Just say what happened and I’ll fix it.” 

You debated for a few seconds because, truthfully, he was right—hiding the truth was pointless. It only made you stress more than you would’ve preferred, and it was probably better to rip the bandage off and deal with Rafe’s reaction. 

Before you could think of a better way to say it, you had already rolled over, sitting at the edge of the bed, facing him, as the words instantly slid off your tongue. “I’m pregnant.”

He blinked once. Twice. His mouth slightly opened as his eyes burned a hole in your face, and your stomach tightened with anxiety. You expected Rafe to get angry, storm away, start screaming—anything. But you didn’t expect to see a one-sided grin spreading across his face.

“You’re pregnant? With my kid?” He stepped closer, being dangerously calm and relaxed, as if it was something casual, something he actually anticipated. 

“Whose else would it be?”

“Shit, baby.” Just like that, Rafe was kneeling in front of you, shirtless, spreading your thighs enough to make some room for him. His eyes were dark, roaming over your body, fixating on your belly, even if he couldn’t even see it through the shirt. Your mouth went dry and you felt your heart beating faster because you couldn’t quite understand what was going on.

He grabbed the back of your neck, pulling you into a heated kiss. He was greedy, missing the way you tasted after you ignored him for so long. Your hands grabbed his forearms, barely able to keep up with his sudden wild pace. You moaned into his mouth, not even sure yourself whether you wanted to push him away and ask what was happening or push him closer to release some pent-up tension. 

“You think I didn’t want it?” Rafe growled against your lips, pushing you back down on the bed and crawling up your body, until he was fully seated in between your thighs, his cock painfully hand against you. “You think I didn’t fuck you raw every time because I wanted to pull out?” Your heart was beating in your ears as pure shock washed over you at his words. Rafe didn’t stop though, didn’t even let you process it, as his hands were already pushing your shorts and panties down your legs. 

“Rafe, what—“

“I wanted to knock you up.” You felt his grin against the skin of your neck, his hands working on pulling his own pants down, too eager to feel you wrapped around him again. 

Your breath stuttered. “What?”

“You heard me. You wanted it too, didn’t you?” Rafe whispered, slightly pulling away and settling in between your legs. He smiled at the sight of your bare and slick pussy, seeing how you unconsciously parted your legs for him like you always did. Like your body knew what you needed even before you could process it. His hands were trailing up your sides like he’s already imagining them swelling. “You think I didn’t notice when you stopped asking me to pull out? Think I didn’t clock that little pout when I grabbed a condom that one time?”

“Rafe—”

“You wanted it. Just like I did. You liked the idea of me ruining you for everyone else. Of me making you mine.” He mumbled, grabbing his cock and dragging it up your soaked slit, then pressing further and sliding into your perfect wet hole. 

You should’ve pushed him away, should’ve yelled at him, but instead your eyes rolled back at the familiar stretch, your legs moving up on instinct to wrap around his hips. 

“Fuck, baby.” Rafe groaned, bottoming out with a sharp snap of his hips, like he belonged there, like he’d made it home in you months ago and now he was just settling back in. “You feel tighter. S’cause of the baby, huh?”

You whimpered, your hands clawing at his back, the words catching in your throat, unable to form any coherent thought. You hadn’t touched him in more than a week, hadn’t let him this close, and now he was inside you, stretching you the way he used to every night, making your body feel like it was floating.

“I knew it.” He rasped, biting softly at your jaw, your cheek, anywhere he could leave a mark. “Knew I did something to you. You kept coming back to me like a little addict, all needy and sweet, and now look—” He looked down, pushing your t-shirt up to show your still-flat belly, his eyes going up and down from it to the way your pussy was swallowing his cock. 

You gasped, nails digging into his back, as he picked up the pace, pounding into you until the bed creaked under your bodies. “I didn’t think—”

“You didn’t need to think.” His voice dropped to a growl. “I was already planning it. Dreamed about this. Knockin’ you up so you’d never leave. So you’d have to be mine.”

The words hit you the way you didn’t expect, with your core separately tightening around him and dragging a ragged growl from his lips. You were panting now, your legs trembling, the burn of it all nearly too much.

“Say it.” He grunted, thrusts growing sharper, rougher, making you whimper helplessly. “Say you wanted it. Say you wanted me to fill you up.”

“I wanted it.” You cried out, body arching beneath him, the truth spilling just like your tears. “I wanted you…fuck! Rafe, I wanted you.”

He kissed you hard for that, swallowing every sound, every breath, holding your face so you couldn’t move away. “That’s my girl.” He rasped, forehead pressed to yours. “Fuckin’ meant to get you pregnant.”

Your walls clenched around him so tight he choked on a moan.

“Meant to make you mine. Knew the second you let me hit it raw, it was over. Knew your body wanted this.”

“Rafe, I—I can’t—” You whimpered, dragging your nails down his sweaty spine, pleasure crashing over you in a sudden wave, your body giving in before your mind could even catch up.

“That’s it.” He gasped, pushing his cock into you in another sharp thrust that was borderline painful, pace faltering as he chased his own high, face buried in your neck. “Gonna fuck you through it. Gonna come so deep you’ll feel it in your fuckin’ belly.”

And then, as your body started convulsing in shocks, you felt the warmth flooding your insides. Rafe’s hips jerked against you, filling you with cum and then fucking it into you until all you could do was whimper at the feeling. His body went still, pressed heavy against yours, his arms trembling as they held you close.

For a long second, the room was silent but for the sound of your breathing. Then he kissed your cheek, soft this time, lingering.

“You’re not sleeping in your room anymore.” He whispered, brushing your hair off your face. “I don’t care if we’re just roommates, friends, or whatever bullshit label we gave it before. I’m taking care of you from now on.” He touched your stomach slowly this time, then looked up at you with a crooked smile. “You’re mine. Both of you.”

[fic-girlie]

Hi! I'd like to request something for pre-jackson! Joel or post-qz!Joel (somewhere along his journey to Jackson!Joel I guess) where he comes across a group of smugglers for a trade and he notices a girl (reader) with them and how she seems scared and uncomfortable. She's being held by them against her will and abused after they killed her group and took her. Joel notices and saves her and she joins him on his journey. She's a little scared of him at first, thinking he's another man who'll hurt her, but then she warms up to him and knows she's safe

Beneath the silence

Pairing: pre-jackson!Joel Miller x f!reader Summary: He finds you scared and captive. You don’t trust him—until, slowly, you do. Warnings: hurt/comfort, mentions of violence, mentions of blood, protective Joel, happy ending

You’d been walking for days before your group was caught. It had started as five of you, huddled close in the cold, all clinging to some frayed thread of hope that the next place might be safer. A town, a settlement, a few friendly faces—anything but the endless woods and freezing nights. But hope is a dangerous thing, and you learned that the hard way when the gunshots rang out. They weren’t infected. That would’ve been almost easier to accept—at least the infected didn’t play with their food. These men weren’t hungry for flesh in that way. They just wanted to take. They killed two of your friends outright. The other two tried to run, were dragged back screaming. You didn’t run. You couldn’t. One had already grabbed you by the hair and yanked you down into the dirt before your body could decide to fight back.

The first few days after that blurred together in a haze of pain, fear, and confusion. You’d slept tied up, eaten nothing unless one of them felt like tossing you a scrap of jerky, and flinched every time someone moved too close. You kept your eyes down, hoping that if you stayed quiet enough, still enough, invisible enough, you might make it through. You weren’t naïve enough to think you’d survive forever, but maybe they’d trade you, abandon you, get bored. You had to believe something different was coming.

The man who finds you doesn’t look like a savior. He’s got the kind of face that blends into shadows—scruffy, scar-lined, tired. You’re not sure who he was meeting the smugglers for, only that they were excited. Said something about a good trade, a clean deal. Something to make up for the hassle of dragging you along. You sit in the snow behind them while they talk, knees pulled to your chest, arms looped tight around them to keep the shivering down. Your wrists are raw where the rope bites into them. You don’t try to make eye contact with the stranger. He’s just another man, and men like him don’t save girls like you. You’re not even sure if you count as a person anymore, not really.

But Joel notices. He hears them laughing, making offhand remarks that don't quite sit right. One of them gestures vaguely over his shoulder at you, says something like, "She ain’t much to look at now, but you’d be surprised what a little obedience training gets you." Joel doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t scowl. His face stays a mask. He’s good at that—turning his emotions into something no one else can read. But his jaw tightens. His fingers twitch against the rifle strap on his shoulder. He looks at you then, really looks, and something shifts. Your lip is split. There’s a bruise blooming beneath your eye. You’re too thin. Too quiet. Not once do you raise your head to meet his gaze, but you feel it, heavy and sharp, like sunlight through bare branches. He knows. He’s seen this kind of thing before. And he knows exactly what kind of men they are.

The deal goes south fast. Later, you’ll wonder if he planned it that way or if it just happened. All you know in the moment is that one second they're laughing and spitting tobacco into the snow, and the next there's a dull thud of metal against bone. Then yelling. Screaming. You flinch, crawling backward through the slush as one of them falls, then another. Someone grabs for a weapon. There’s the crack of a shot, loud and final, and then stillness. Just the breathless silence of snow settling around dead bodies and a man standing over them, panting through clenched teeth, rifle still raised.

He turns to you slowly, blood spattered across his coat. You scramble back even further, heart hammering, the rope still looped around your wrists. You want to scream but your throat’s dry. He lifts his hands, palms open, not coming closer. “Ain’t gonna hurt you,” he says, voice low and steady, as if he’s said it before. Maybe he has. Maybe there are more girls like you somewhere, and he’s said that to them, too. But you don’t move. You can’t. It’s like your bones have locked up. So he crouches, a few feet away, letting the rifle hang loose by the strap now. “You got a name?”

Your lips don’t work at first. When you finally speak, it’s a whisper, barely there. You don’t even know why you tell him. Maybe because he asked like it mattered. Maybe because no one’s asked in so long. When he hears it, he nods, like that’s all he needed to know. “I’m Joel.”

You don’t say anything else, and he doesn’t push. Just cuts the rope, slow and careful, like you’re a wild animal that might bolt. You nearly do. You think about it. But there’s nowhere to run. You don’t know where you are. And you’re so tired. Joel watches you rub your raw wrists, eyes flicking to the bruises on your arms. His jaw clenches again. He doesn’t say it out loud, but it’s clear—he knows exactly what they did to you.

You walk with him because you don’t have a choice. Not really. He offers you a coat. You don’t take it at first. Pride, maybe. Or fear. But then he drops it on the ground beside you without a word, and when he walks off, you pull it around your shoulders and pretend it’s not the warmest thing you’ve felt in days. You keep your distance, trailing a few steps behind, watching his back for any sign he’ll turn on you. But he doesn’t. He doesn’t ask questions. Doesn’t touch you. Doesn’t even look at you more than he has to. He just walks, and keeps walking, and when you get too tired to go on, he lights a fire and gives you the better half of the food.

The first time you speak more than a word is three nights in. You’re both camped in an old barn, curled up on opposite sides of a fire. You can’t sleep—your body’s too tense, waiting for a shadow to move wrong or a voice to whisper your name. Joel sits with his back to the wall, polishing the rifle, eyes half-lidded but always alert. “Why’d you do it?” you ask, voice rough from disuse. His eyes meet yours in the firelight. “Why save me?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just stares at the flames like they might hold the words he needs. Then: “Didn’t sit right. What they were doin’.” That’s all he says. But there’s something in his voice, a kind of bitterness, like he’s seen that same kind of wrong one too many times and decided he couldn’t walk past it anymore.

You don’t thank him. Not then. You don’t know how. You’re still trying to believe he’s not just biding his time, waiting for you to let your guard down. But every day, he proves you wrong. Quietly. Steadily. He teaches you how to shoot, slow and patient, never raising his voice when you miss. He shows you how to set traps, how to spot infected tracks, how to tell if a building’s been cleared. He doesn’t treat you like you’re broken, but he never pushes, either. When you flinch, he backs off. When you cry, he pretends he doesn’t hear. When you finally sleep without waking up screaming, he doesn’t say a word—but you catch him glancing over, just once, with something like relief in his eyes.

It’s weeks before you realize you’re not afraid of him anymore. You’re walking side by side through a burned-out city, the sun just barely breaking through grey skies, and he reaches out to steady you when the rubble shifts under your boots. You don’t flinch. You don’t jerk away. You just look up at him, and he looks back, and something passes between you—trust, maybe. Or the start of it.

You still have nightmares. Some nights are worse than others. But now, when you wake gasping, Joel is already up, murmuring quietly, handing you a canteen of water. Once, without thinking, you reach for him. Just a hand. Just something solid. And he lets you hold on, lets your fingers clutch the edge of his coat until you stop shaking. He doesn’t ask you what it was about. He never does. And you’re grateful for that more than anything.

One night, curled up near the fire with your back to him, you whisper, “I thought you were gonna be like them.” It takes you a second to realize you said it out loud. Joel is quiet for a long time. Then he says, “I’ve been worse than them, once.” You turn to look at him, but he doesn’t meet your eyes. Just stares into the fire again, face drawn tight. “Done things I ain’t proud of. Things I won’t ever be forgiven for.”

You sit with that. Turn it over in your head. Then, softly, you say, “You’re not them.” He looks at you then, and for the first time since you met him, you see something break in his expression. Not weakness. Not guilt. Just… grief. Like he’s been holding something inside for years, and your words cracked it open just a little.

You don’t know where you’re headed. Joel talks about a place out west. A settlement. Somewhere safer. You don’t ask what he’s looking for there. He doesn’t ask what you lost. Maybe someday you’ll tell each other. Maybe not. For now, it’s enough to walk together. To sit beside him at night and feel warm. To know that, for the first time in a long time, you’re not alone. That you’re safe. And that the man beside you, no matter how hard the world has tried to shape him into something cold, still has enough left in him to protect a girl like you.

And maybe that’s more than enough.

[c4tluver02]

thinking thoughts about taking steve with you to go clothes shopping and letting him pick stuff out for you to try on and he sits on the Boyfriend Bench™️ (although he’s not necessarily the boyfriend… yet) and oops suddenly he cannot breathe you look So Good in clothes that He Picked Out and then the next outfit you come out in, steve has all the clothes you want to try on sitting right over his lap? how odd!

i also think you would clock him ogling you because poor stevie’s brain doesn’t work quite right when he sees a pretty face and it doesn’t occur to him that you could totally see him checking you out by looking at him in the mirror… tragic, really 🤧

shopping trip

wc: 2.4k

summary: You asked your best friend Steve to help you pick out and outfit for your date. Being the amazing friend he is, he helps you in more ways than one!

cw: r is shorter than Steve, fem!reader, friends to lovers!, a little possessive steve tehe, nothing rlly :)

a/n: anon….. ooooo this was ssoooo good!!!!! i’m so sorry it took me so long to get out, i hope u enjoy it :D

Steve was just trying to be helpful, really.

You had recently been asked out on a date by some guy at a coffee shop. One normally you and Steve frequent but unfortunately he wasn’t there that day. Maybe that's why that guy made a move on you, Steve thinks. A cute girl like yourself, all alone because Steve had to cover for Robin.

That night you had called Steve to tell him all about your daily endeavors as you two normally do, and you managed to slip this guy's name in right at the end. When Steve was all sleepy-eyed and barely registering anything but the sound of your soothing voice. But hearing the retelling of how some guy charmed you enough for you to say yes to a date? Now that knocked Steve out of his sleepy state right away. He asked the normal questions like where the two of you were meeting and when just in case. For safety reasons, of course.

But deep in Steve's mind was him cursing himself for not saying no to Robin and coming to drink coffee with you. That’s how he ended up here, with your honey sweet voice coming through his home phone asking for him to go shopping with you. You wanted something that would be nice and who better than your best friend to go with you? The person who you call nightly even if you saw him earlier that day, and who gives you kisses on your head when you cuddle into him during your sleepovers. The definition of a great best friend.

However, the minute Steve picked you up in his dark red car he knew he was in trouble. It started with how sweet your Stevie was for helping you despite him having to work the next day, but quickly turned into how excited you were to finally go on a date. That this guy asking you out must have been the universe telling you something or whatever. Steve thinks he must have been going 90 on the freeway just to get this whole thing over with.

When you did arrive at the mall the first few stores were a bust. Nothing really popping out to you nor Steve. You did ask for his help after all, he was just wanting to make you happy. And the puppy dog eyes paired with the frown you sported wasn’t his favorite compared to your perfect smile and gorgeous laugh. He was sure he wouldn’t be asked for help ever again if he couldn’t fix this.

Luckily once you walked into the next store there were immediately some things you liked. A lot of flowy and short dresses ready for the spring weather to take over Hawkins. The two of you split off naturally to find separate things. Steve has known you long enough to find things for you that he’s sure you’d like, again a duty of being friends.

When you found a few items of clothing you met back up with Steve while he was looking through the men’s section.

“Didn’t know you were needing a date outfit too?” You joked playfully. Steve had no intention of buying things for himself on this trip but it doesn’t hurt to look.

“I was just lookin around, you ready?” He’s talking about the long awaited fashion show.

This wasn’t your and Steve's first shopping trip, over your many years of friendship you’ve had many fashion shows.

You nod and walk towards the fitting rooms, Steve sits on a bench that's placed right in front of your small room. The door is traded for a velvet curtain, the fabric is heavy to hold its place but leaves gaps 0n the sides. If Steve weren’t here to watch for creeps you probably wouldn’t even bother staying to try things on. But thankfully he’s sat right in front, ready for the curtain to open with you showing off a nice dress.

His lap is full of the clothes you have to try on, there being no hangers in the fitting room for you to place them, Steve was put on clothes duty. He didn’t mind, and if it was another way he could help make your life easier he would do it in a heartbeat anyways.

“Steve, can you hand me the white tank top from the pile?” You ask poking your head out of the curtain.

The fabric of the curtain is pressed to your chest making it completely modest but when Steve stands up his height betrays him. The big gap above your head allows for his eyes to see the mirror behind you.

Your red bra was normally hidden by the black long sleeve you were wearing. Now it’s bright color was all Steve could see, it was only your back but it was enough for his face to flush. He couldn’t believe his reaction was this severe. Steves seen plenty of bras in his life, even boobs. And yet here he was stuttering a ‘n-no problem’ when you thanked him and took the top while you closed the curtain.

He was thankful you didn't linger and ask about his small malfunction, maybe you hadn’t caught his reaction. Hopefully you didn't catch his reaction, he’s acting like a victorian boy who just saw an ankle for the first time.

When you come out the red bra that was plaguing Steve's poor mind was still peaking through but at least a little covered now. The white top didn't do much to hide the fact that you had a red bra on, but it didn't show the details of it.

“So? Whatcha think?” You ask, doing a small twirl.

This was an outfit you picked and Steve thought you looked good in it, it was a simple tank top and skirt. In any normal circumstance he’d tell you to get it but this wasn’t normal. This dude didn't need to think, let alone see, what type of bra you were wearing.

“I think it’s nice, maybe not first date worthy?” He doesn’t want to come off harsh, you do have a few more outfits to try on anyways.

“Okay, fair enough. Next outfit please.” You have your hands out ready, this time it was an outfit picked by Steve.

You thank him and return to change. And when Steve feels that same tank top you were wearing hit his head you let out a laugh.

“Did it get you?” The giggle was loud and you couldn’t see the eye roll but you heard the huff coming out of him. It was enough to tell you that it did in fact hit him.

“Are you changing in there or sling shooting clothes at me?”

“You’re not talking and all this changing is making me hot.” You say but the last part comes out with something close to a whine.

It immediately made Steve's ears perk up and he would say something immature about you being hot if you hadn’t called him out in the first part of your sentence.

“‘M sorry, I think I am just tired. And I don't wanna work tomorrow.” He says leaning his head against the wall.

The gap is teasing him in the worst way possible. Everytime you move you touch it and Steve’s waiting for the moment it shows just enough. Maybe he’s awful for thinking like this about his best friend but he doesn’t have much time to fight with himself because you open the curtain wide.

The full length mirror in front of you shows Steve sitting and his head laid back. You are on your tippy toes trying to imagine the whole look with heels. And to say Steve did a great job isn’t an understatement. The dress you have on fits you extremely well, accentuating everything that it needs to.

In the mirror you can see Steve taking you in. His full attention is now on what’s in front of him and the idea that his reaction could be seen by you isn’t one he’s thought about yet. But his eyes travel all over you, starting at your chest lowering to where the corset meets the fabric around your ass.

You slowly turn to face him so he has time to recover from his blatant starring.

“I really like this one.” Steve says finally looking at your face.

“Yeah? You don’t think it’s too much?” The smile on your face defeats the worried question. He looks totally infatuated with you, the idea of hiding you away from your date is no longer in his thoughts. Only the way it presses your boobs up in the most perfect way and the length of it hitting your thighs is what takes up his mind.

“No, no, not at all. It’s actually perfect I think.” He says it so factually it makes you laugh.

“Well you did pick it out, maybe you’re a little biased.” This time you turn to look at yourself in the mirror. No longer watching Steve, just taking in if you actually like the dress.

“I only get the best things for you, c'mon you look amazing.” Now he’s getting up and stepping into the small dressing room with you.

When he gets close enough you lean back just enough that his chest meets your back. Your head leans against his chest and you look at him in the mirror, he’s still looking at you and then finally feels your eyes watching him.

He gives a sheepish smile, suddenly feeling caught even though he wasn’t really doing anything necessary wrong.

With his hands on your waist he spins you around to face him and now the room is feeling even smaller. It’s as if his hands are on fire since they burn right through your dress, the heat of his palms so easily felt on your hips.

“Okay well if you think it looks so good I guess I have to get it?” The smile on your face makes Steve smile. Your head is tilted and he can tell changing clothes made you warm because your cheeks are red. Well they’re red because his hands are still on you, burning like lava actually, but he doesn’t need to know that.

“Yeah I mean we could keep going if you don't feel good— or maybe jeans would be more comfortable?” The fact that you haven’t said you actually like it is quickly getting to his head. Maybe he was too lost in his own infatuation that he didn’t realize you weren’t feeling it. The last thing he would want is for you to feel pressured to get something just because of him.

“Stevie, if you say it’s good I trust you. Plus I actually really like it. You did good.” You end with the sentence with a wink and place your hands over his.

He barely has time to register the way you looked winking, were you being seductive? The feeling of your hands on his erases his thoughts and he lets you go. Slowly backing out to return to his seat on the bench where now another man was sitting. He also had clothes near him but instead he was constantly checking his watch, like he was waiting to get out of there. Steve stood with all the clothes, patiently waiting for you to get out. The guy was full of huffs and puffs but when Steve closed his eyes he tried his hardest to re-visualize what you looked like with the dress on. Maybe that’s the last time he’ll see you in it. God he hopes that’s not the last time he sees you in it. He could be for you to wear it for his birthday, but is that a relationship type of thing?

“Ready to go?” You ask with the dress in your hand, your regular clothes back on.

“Yeah, let's go.” Steve grabs the dress from your grasp with one hand and interlocks his other with your own. He doesn’t know if it’s the way this whole experience made him feel or if it’s this guy who stole his spot on the bench eyeing you down that made him do it but he quickly brings the two of you to the check out desk.

Placing the dress on the counter he slips his wallet out of his pocket. You almost missed it due to the fact that his hand is still holding yours.

”Steve you really don’t have to, I mean I dragged you down here—“

“I picked it for you, my treat.” The fact that you are wearing a dress he picked and paid for on your date does something to him, the possessiveness within him lighting up easily.

”Boyfriends should always pay.” The girl at the front counter says with a giggle.

Neither of you correct her but instead leave with a polite wave. Hands still intertwined you wonder if this will make him crack. This stupid date isn’t supposed to go through, Steve just wasn’t getting any of your previous messages. You were hoping this whole trip would break him to tell you not to go but now you leave in his car with a dress he picked, paid for, and still has his hand tightly wrapped around yours with no word.

The ride to his house is silent besides a few lines of songs being sung out loud. When you do arrive at Steves he finally lets go of your hand to get out of the car. Both of you get out and before you even have a chance to open the back door to get your dress out Steve stops you.

”Are you sure you should really go on this date?” He asks leaning against the door you were about to open.

You take a second to think about his question, it wasn’t him outwardly asking you not to go but it was close enough.

“Y’know now that I think about it I really don’t know anything about this guy.” You say biting your nail, with a faux worried expression.

”I mean he could be a total douche, or worse like some killer they haven’t caught yet!” Instead of grabbing for your hand he goes to your waist. Both of his hands pull you into him, and his legs spread to let you in closer to him.

Like it was the most natural thing, you wrap your arms around his neck. “I think you’re right, it’s best I stay here with you” His eyes are on your lips as you say it.

“Yeah, I think that's a good idea.” Steve says before giving you a slow kiss. It’s soft and gentle, he tastes like the mint gum he was chewing before the mall. It’s everything you thought and more it would be with Steve.

The dress will still get used, just for something else.

[cuzxai]

side effects - nsfw

spencer reid x afab!teader

a/n: youre exposed to sex pollen in the field. 5k words… im sorry😭

The warehouse had been cleared by the time you arrived—agents already sweeping for evidence, bodies already bagged, the sting of gunpowder still clinging to the humid air. You and Spencer were last to respond, mostly for paperwork and profiling, wrapping up what the rest of the team started. A simple cleanup, they said. Nothing dangerous.

No one had warned you about the broken vial in the corner. It was barely noticeable—just a cracked glass container, its liquid contents long evaporated into the air. You barely remembered brushing past the table it had been resting on but the chemical team flagged it almost immediately. “Unidentified compound,” they said. “Possibly synthetic. Possibly hormonal.”

They didn’t use the words sex pollen until they got the preliminary analysis back but the moment you heard the phrase, your stomach dropped. That shit never ended well in any field report. And by then, it was already too late.

“You’ll start feeling the effects within a few hours,” the hazmat technician told you, holding a clipboard and avoiding your eyes. “It’s uh… fast-acting. Intense. And it mimics extreme heat symptoms. We’re required to isolate anyone exposed. Just until it wears off.”

“Great,” you muttered. “So I get to sit in quarantine while my body tries to fuck itself.”

Beside you, Spencer shifted uncomfortably.“Someone will be assigned to supervise in case medical intervention is needed,” the tech added, flipping to the next page. “Or if symptoms become… unmanageable.” You didn’t ask what that meant.

You expected to be sent to some sterile room in Quantico. Instead, Spencer offered his apartment. Hotly. Quickly. The moment the idea was brought up, his hand was already half-raised and his voice had that eager, slightly-too-fast edge to it.

“I can do it,” he said. “We’re coworkers. I mean—we’re close. I know her. It’s better than sticking her in a glass box with strangers, right?”

You had no argument for that. Just heat blooming in your chest as you glanced at him—soft curls, worried eyes, fingers twitching by his side. They agreed. No one questioned it.

You’d been at his apartment for three hours. Three. The early onset effects were supposed to have hit by now. And sure, maybe your skin felt a little too warm under your shirt. Maybe you’d showered longer than usual, just to stand under something cool. But you didn’t feel crazy. Not like the stories went. No desperate writhing, no begging for touch, no burning arousal that left you breathless. You just felt… irritated. Restless.

Horny in a way that wasn’t quite urgent but definitely persistent. Like a low hum beneath your skin. A knot that wouldn’t untangle.

“I feel fine,” you said, for the third time. “You don’t need to babysit me, Spencer.”

From his kitchen, he raised a brow. “You’re quarantined for a reason.”

You flopped back onto his couch, groaning. “I could be home, in my own bed. But instead i’m rotting away in your living room.

“You’re not rotting.”

“You don’t know that.”

He leaned on the counter, glass of water in one hand, hair pushed back from his forehead. There was something almost amused about the way he looked at you—like he knew better but was letting you burn yourself out. “Do you want anything to eat?”

“Unless it’s a cure for vague, medically induced horniness, I’m not hungry.”

That earned a real smile. The faintest quirk at the edge of his lips. He set the glass down and crossed the room, arms folding in front of him, his frame tall and lean and calm as ever.

“You’re going to feel worse before it gets better,” he said gently. “The symptoms build.”

“And you are not helping,” you mumbled, thighs shifting where you sat.

He tilted his head. “How am I not helping?”

“Your voice is annoying,” you lied.

Spencer’s brows ticked up slightly. “That’s new.”

“Everything you say makes it worse.”

A beat passed. The air shifted. His mouth parted like he was going to speak—but he didn’t. Just studied you for a second. The flush rising in your cheeks. The way your arms crossed too tightly over your chest. And your thighs—pressing together. Trying to ease the ache building between them. The knot that was already tightening.

“You’re annoying,” you muttered, avoiding his eyes.

Spencer’s smile twitched again.

“I’m not the one clenching my legs together every time I talk.”

You glared. “Fuck you.”

His voice dipped an octave. “That might actually help.”

Your breath hitched. His expression stayed soft, almost unreadable—but there was something behind it. Something careful. Curious. Watching you like a scientist, like a profiler, like a man trying to read something far more dangerous than a casefile.

“I’m kidding,” he said after a moment. “Mostly.”

“You’re such a dick.”

Spencer walked back to the kitchen but not before throwing one last look over his shoulder—sharp and deliberate. You could still feel it after he turned away. You shifted again on the couch. Your shirt clung to your skin. Everything tingled. Maybe you weren’t fine after all.

You wanted to pace the apartment like a caged animal, restless in a way that doesn’t feel like arousal—but it is. It’s in your skin, your breath, your nerves. It’s in how warm the couch feels under your thighs, how every fabric that brushes your body feels like too much and not enough all at once. You’re not squirming, not really. But your hips shift a lot. And Spencer sees it.

“You okay?” he asks again. He’s in the armchair across from you, nursing a tea he hasn’t taken a sip from in twenty minutes.

“I’m fine,” you bite back, the words sharp—not at him, not really. You’re just uncomfortable. Hot. Frustrated.

He watches you with that too-big brain of his, eyes sweeping your body like he’s reading symptoms off your skin. You’ve shed your jacket. Then your socks. You sat in a tank top. Now you’re curled into the corner of his couch, arms crossed under your chest, thighs clenched tight like a pressure valve.

You know he notices. Of course he does. You catch the flicker of his gaze down your body—quick, cautious, reverent. And when your hips shift again, slow and subtle against the cushion, you see him swallow.

“It’s warm in here,” you mumble, mostly to yourself, rubbing your palms down the sides of your thighs like it’ll help. “I feel… itchy. My skin’s buzzing.”

Spencer nods, slow. “That lines up with the early stages of arousal-inducing pheromone exposure. Symptoms are typically mild at first—”

“I know what the report said,” you interrupt, huffing a breath. “I was there. I read it. Twice.”

He doesn’t take it personally. “Just making sure you remember.”

You throw your head back with a groan, eyes squeezing shut. “I remember. I also remember it saying the effects can be psychosomatic, which means this might all be in my head. Which means you don’t have to babysit me like I’m gonna spontaneously combust.”

“No,” he says, firmer than before. “That’s not what psychosomatic means and you’re not leaving.”

You blink at him. “Seriously?”

“Yes. You’re not driving in this condition and we don’t know how your symptoms will progress. I’m not risking you being alone.”

There’s something final in the way he says it. Something that makes your stomach twist and not in a bad way. You press your thighs together tighter, annoyed by how easily that helps.

“…Your voice is different,” you murmur, surprised by the words as they come out. “When you talk like that.”

Spencer blinks. “Like what?”

“Like you’re in charge.”

He shifts in his seat. “I’m not trying to be in charge.”

“I didn’t say it was a bad thing,” you murmur, mouth dry. “I just said it’s different.”

Your heart thumps once, hard. You see the flicker in his jaw when you look at him again—his leg bouncing, his knuckles pale around his mug. He’s trying to be good. So good. But you’ve worked with him long enough to know the signs of when he’s not entirely in control of himself. And this is starting to look like that.

You lean your head back against the cushion and sigh through your teeth. “God, I feel like I’ve had five espressos and a daydream I can’t stop.”

“That… might actually be one of the effects,” he says, tugging at his collar.

“Oh my God, stop talking like a doctor Spencer.”

He shuts up. A beat passes. Then another. His eyes flicker toward you. You watch him over the edge of your arm.

“…Sorry,” you say, a little sheepish. “I’m just—I don’t know. I feel weird. And your voice is not helping.”

Spencer’s brows knit. “I am a doctor. And… my voice?”

“It’s just—it’s like everything you do feels hotter right now and I don’t know if that’s you or me or the pollen or what but—” You cut yourself off. “I think I’m going insane.”

His eyes stay locked on yours. You can see the moment something shifts in him.“…You pressed your thighs together when I told you no,” he says, so quietly it almost doesn’t register. “Didn’t think I noticed.”

Your lips part. You hadn’t expected him to say that. You hadn’t expected him to notice that, not out loud. And now it’s hanging there in the air like an admission. The tension between you thickens like syrup. And suddenly you realize you’ve stopped breathing. “I didn’t mean to,” you say.

Spencer hums, something low in his throat. He sets his mug down, eyes on you like you’re something fragile and glowing. “I don’t think you meant to feel like this either,” he murmurs. And you don’t know if he means aroused or frustrated or aching but he’s right. And it’s getting worse.

“You’re not touching yourself, are you?” he asks, a little hoarse now. “That’s what they said not to do. Until the effects pass.

Your whole body burns. “No,” you whisper.

“But you want to.” He says it like a statement. A soft, knowing one. Like he already has you figured out and doesn’t need you to say it.

Your voice comes out thin and barely audible: “Yeah.”

Another beat. Then quietly, almost tender— “Don’t.”

Your body shivers. He’s not even touching you and you can feel him. The weight of his voice. The way he’s watching you. The way your hips shift again, slower this time, like gravity is pulling you toward something.

“Spence…”

“Don’t,” he repeats, softer. “Not yet.”

Your thighs clench again. You can’t stop. Every word he says sinks straight into you. And you don’t even realize your nails are digging into the couch cushions until his eyes dip down to your hands.

“You’re not okay,” he says. “You just think you are.”

“I’m fine,” you whisper. Your voice breaks on it. You last all of five minutes.

Five minutes of shifting on the couch, of pressing your thighs together so tight they ache. Five minutes of trying to breathe normally, trying to ignore the slow, electric hum beneath your skin. Five minutes of Spencer watching you like he’s memorizing every twitch of discomfort, every unconscious move you make to relieve the pressure building between your legs. It’s unbearable. And it’s only getting worse.

“I need to go to the bathroom,” you blurt out, standing too fast.

Spencer raises a brow. He doesn’t argue but you can feel his eyes on your back as you walk away—fast, too fast. You don’t even turn on the water. Just lock the door, shove your pants down, and sit on the closed toilet lid with your head thrown back and your hand already between your legs.

You’re soaked. And it’s instant, the relief of pressure from finally touching yourself—but it’s not enough. Not even close. You rub slow and firm circles, breath catching, hips rocking with every pulse of heat that crashes over you. Your thighs shake. Your toes curl against the floor. You bite your lip to stay quiet but it only makes it worse. You try to speed up, fingers moving faster, sloppier. But no matter how close you get, it won’t happen.

Your breath is a mess. Your body is screaming for something it can’t reach, and it hits you: the report warned about this. That once the arousal sets in, your brain stops registering solo touch the same way. That you need external stimulation to reset the chemical overload.

And you’re not alone in the apartment. You don’t know you’re moaning until you hear it echo against the tile. And then you hear him on the other side of the door.

“Are you okay?”

Your heart stutters. “I’m—fuck. I’m fine.” The silence after that is so loud, you think maybe he’s walked away.

“You’re not fine.”

Your breath stutters again. “Spencer—“

“I can hear you.”

Shame burns hot across your face but your hand doesn’t stop moving. It can’t.

“You said you were fine but I know you aren’t,” he murmurs through the door.

“I’m sorry,” you say weakly.

“I’m not mad,” he says gently. “But I think you’re past the point of pretending you can do this alone.”

You don’t respond. Not with words. Your legs are trembling, your hand still moving between them but you already know it’s not going to work. You’re panting like you just ran a mile, back arching off the seat—and still nothing.

Another knock. Softer. “I can help,” Spencer says, voice low.

You should say no. You should tell him it’s the pollen talking. You should warn him that once this starts, it won’t stop. You want to tell him that it’ll ruin everything between you. But your hand’s already reaching for the lock.

You barely get your pants all the way back up when Spencer gently pushes the bathroom door open, his gaze dark and steady. You try to pull your sweater down over your thighs like it’ll hide anything—but it’s useless. He saw you. Heard you. And he knows.

“C’mere,” he murmurs, voice lower than you’ve ever heard it, fingers curling lightly around your wrist. You don’t even hesitate—you let him lead you out, your heart hammering against your ribs, your body so wound up it almost hurts.

Spencer leads you through the hallway, the short walk to his bedroom feeling longer than any distance you’ve ever traveled. His hand stays on you the whole time, thumb stroking slow circles against your wrist, soothing and claiming all at once. The bedroom door clicks shut behind you and then there’s nothing separating you from him. No reason to pretend, no rules, no shame. Just the gnawing, burning need.

Spencer tugs you toward him until your chest brushes his. His hands settle lightly on your hips, the heat of them sinking through the thin fabric of your clothes. His forehead drops to yours, breathing you in. “Been wanting to touch you all night,” he murmurs, his voice fraying at the edges. “You know that? Sat there watching you squirm, pretending you’re fine—” His hands trail down your sides until his fingers find the hem of your pants again. “—when you’re really falling apart.”

You let out a shaky exhale, grabbing at his shirt like it’s the only thing keeping you standing. Your skin feels hot and tight, hypersensitive, desperate for something to soothe the ache. “I can’t—I can’t think straight,” you breathe out, pressing closer.

“I know.” He ducks his head to kiss along your jawline, slow and savoring like he’s tasting something he’s been denying himself for far too long. “You’re burning up. Need me to take care of you, huh?”

“Yes—” it leaves you before you can even think, a desperate little whine slipping from your lips. Your hips buck forward slightly, brushing against the hardness tenting his pants and the soft groan it pulls from him makes your knees go weak.

“You’re so wet already, aren’t you?” he whispers, one hand slipping between your bodies to cup you through your pants. The pressure makes you gasp, you press into his hand shamelessly. He chuckles low in his throat, all fond and wrecked at the same time. “Fuck, you’re dripping through your clothes.” You whimper, face going red. The humiliation burns but it’s nothing compared to the need clawing at you. Spencer gently nudges your chin up until you’re looking at him. His thumb traces your lower lip, slow and careful. “You gonna let me help you, baby?” You nod, already too wrecked to form words.

“That’s not good enough,” he breathes and suddenly you’re shoved back onto the bed, Spencer following you down until he’s hovering over you. “Say it. Tell me you need me.”

You squeeze your thighs together, your whole body pulsing with need. “I need you, Spencer. Please.” He grins and it’s all teeth and something dangerous glinting behind his eyes. Hungry and desperate to make you feel as good as he knows you deserve. “That’s my girl,” he mutters, hooking his fingers into the waistband of your pants and dragging them down your thighs slow enough to make you whine. “Fuck, you’re gorgeous. Could spend hours between your legs…” His voice is nearly trembling with restraint, his hands splaying over your bare thighs like he’s grounding himself.

Once your pants and panties are gone, he spreads your legs open and just looks for a moment. “So fucking pretty.” His fingers ghost over your inner thighs, making you twitch and squirm. “Look how messy you are for me already. Been suffering all by yourself, haven’t you?” You nod again, hips jerking up slightly in search of more.

“I’ll take care of you,” he promises, leaning down to kiss just above your mound, maddeningly close but not close enough. “I’m gonna make you feel so good you won’t even remember your own name.” You whimper again, bucking your hips in a silent plea. Fianlly Spencer drags his tongue up your slit, slow and deliberate. You cry out, hands flying to his hair.

“So sensitive,” he murmurs against you, pressing a kiss to your clit that makes you jolt. “Gonna have you coming so many times you’ll forget how to say no.” You mewl, tugging at his hair and he chuckles breathlessly, wrapping his arms around your thighs to pin you down. “No running away,” he teases, voice warm and wrecked. He flattens his tongue against you again, licking a thick stripe up your cunt before swirling around your clit with infuriating precision. Your thighs tremble in his grip, your whole body arching off the bed.

“You taste so fucking sweet,” he mutters between licks. “Could get drunk off you.” You can’t even form coherent words anymore—just high, broken moans spilling out of you as he eats you like he’s starving as if you’re the only thing that could ever satisfy him. And god, you want it to last forever. Your hands fist in his hair, your hips grind against his mouth. He lets you—lets you use him, lets you fuck yourself on his tongue like it’s the only thing keeping you alive.

“You’re so good,” he murmurs against you, the vibration making your whole body shudder. You’re right there, right on the edge when he slips a finger inside you. He moves perfectly to hit that sweet spot that makes your whole body lock up. You moan his name, head tossing back against the pillows and Spencer just smiles against you, like he’s exactly where he’s meant to be.

You’re right there, teetering on the edge. Your thighs quivering around Spencer’s head— when he suddenly pulls back. A broken whine tears from your throat, hips chasing him instinctively but he just chuckles. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. His fingers tighten around your thighs to hold you down.

“Not like this,” he pants with desperate eyes. “Wanna feel you come around my cock.” You barely manage a whimper of protest, your whole body screaming for release but then he’s shushing you, climbing up over you, nosing along your jaw. His hips grinding into yours and making you feel the thick, hard length of him through his sweats. “You can wait a little longer, can’t you, baby?” he murmurs, voice all syrup and sin. “Gonna make it so fucking good for you. Promise.”

You nod frantically, your hands sliding under his shirt. You’re clawing at the warm, solid planes of his stomach. Anything to get him closer, to get him inside you. “Please Spencer,” you gasp, wrapping your legs around his waist like you could pull him in yourself. “I need you—need you so bad.” His breath shudders against your ear as he ruts against you as if he’s barely holding himself back.

“Fuck—” he groans, dragging his pants down just enough to free his cock, hot and heavy and leaking against your bare thigh. “You have no idea what you do to me. Gonna fill you up so good…you’ll forget anything else ever existed.”He lines himself up, the thick head of his cock sliding through your soaked folds—and it’s already almost too much, the anticipation, the need.

“You ready?” he rasps, his voice trembling with restraint.

“God, yes,” you sob, lifting your hips into him. Spencer smirks and starts pushing inside, slow and deep. Splitting you open perfectly as everything else disappears.

You barely have time to breathe before he’s moving, his palms hot and firm around your waist as he lifts you and nudges your hips back, steering you further up the bed like you’re something breakable—precious, even now. Even with the way both of you are trembling to touch, to fuck, to feel. Spencer’s lips brush against your ear as he leans over you and the heat of his breath sends a shudder tearing through your body.

“So tight,” he mutters roughly. His voice nearly unrecognizable, caught between a growl and a plea. “So perfect.” You can only nod, throat too dry to speak— heart pounding a riot against your ribs. You feel him shift behind you, the rustle of his own clothes joining yours in the scattered mess on the floor. You whimper and it makes him groan under his breath. You can feel the way he’s struggling to keep it together, the way his cock twitches inside of you, pulsing with need.

“Please,” you manage and Spencer rewards you by speeding up.

“So wet for me,” he murmurs, like he can’t help but marvel at it. He leans down, mouth grazing your neck. It’s just above the frantic beat of your pulse. “Fuck— you need this, don’t you?” You nod frantically, back arching. You’re chasing the barest hint of him.

“I do,” you whine. Voice breaking with each thrust. “Need this— need you.”Your fingers clutch at the sheets, at anything you can grab as he fills you, thick and heavy and stretching you so perfectly you think you might actually cry. Spencer lets out low, guttural sounds. He’s burying his face against your shoulder as he seats himself fully inside you.

“Fuck,” he hisses, voice cracking. “It fits so good— made for me.” He pulls out slowly and the drag of him inside you rips a broken gasp from your throat. When he thrusts back in harder, it knocks the air right out of your lungs. Your body jolts, pleasure burning through you so hot and fast that your knees nearly buckle. He moving in long, grinding strokes. He’s dragging the thick head of his cock against every sensitive spot inside you. Just fast enough. Cruel, almost. Intentional. Controlled.

Every thrust is a brand, a mark he’s stamping deep into your body. “God, look at you,” Spencer pants against your ear. One hand slides down to press against your stomach, feeling the way he moves inside you. “Taking me so good. You can see it.”

You choke on a whine, barely able to form words. “Y-yeah. You’re so big. I need—”

“I know what you need,” he cuts you off, hips snapping a little harder, drawing a sharp cry from your lips. “You need me to fuck you until you can’t think about anything except how full you are. Hmm?” You nod desperately, hands gripping at him, at yourself, at the bed. Anything you can grab. Your whole body feels raw, wired so tight you think you might snap apart at the seams.

Spencer’s rhythm grows rougher, deeper, the slap of skin on skin filling the air along with the filthy sounds you’re both making—panting, moaning, gasping each other’s names like prayers. And through it all, Spencer keeps talking.

“Wanted you like this for so long,” he groans, voice wrecked. His hands are everywhere now—your hips, your waist, your shoulders—like he can’t touch enough of you at once. “Dreamed about it. Fucking you. Making you feel good.”

You’re barely holding on, your entire body trembling with the effort of staying right on that edge, right where he’s keeping you. When he pulls you up slightly, forcing your chest against his, it’s almost too much. One hand holds you up— the other finding your throat, squeezing softly.

“You’re gonna come when I tell you,” he breathes against your temple. “Okay?”You moan, you’re thrumming with need. There’s sweat slicking your skin. His hand slips from your neck inbetween your thighs, fingers teasing and circling just above where you need him most but not touching, not giving you that last push.

Spencer keeps fucking into you, deep and slow and deliberate. Grinding his hips in just the right way to make you sob. “You feel good?” he murmurs. “You’re dripping all over me. Making a mess.” You can’t think anymore. Can barely breathe. You’re nothing but sensation, tethered only by the sound of his voice, the relentless rhythm of his body inside yours. But still—you don’t come. Because Spencer hasn’t told you to. You want to be good for him. You want to give him everything. Even if it kills you.

Spencer’s thrusts start to falter—still deep, still good but messier now, losing that iron control he’d fought so hard to keep. His breath is ragged against your ear, every exhale a soft, desperate whimper that shoots straight through your blood.

“Spence,” you whisper, reaching back to touch his hip. You’re trying to steady him, to soothe him. “Let me— let me ride you.” He groans, low and broken like just the idea of it shatters whatever composure he had left.

“Please,” he rasps, nodding frantically, barely able to get the word out. “Okay— yes.” It’s clumsy, the two of you scrambling to reposition but it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters except getting closer, closer, closer. You straddle his lap, legs shaky from how much he’s already wrecked you but the second you sink down onto him again—God, he’s so deep—everything else fades away. Spencer’s head falls back against the mattress, a choked moan ripping from his throat. His hands find your thighs, clutching hard enough to bruise— like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.

You move slowly at first, savoring the stretch, the way he fills you so completely. The way his mouth falls open, eyes glassy and wide and so fucking gone beneath you. “Fuck, you’re perfect,” he babbles, hips jerking up instinctively to meet your movements. “So tight, so good, you’re gonna make me come. I can’t—“

“You can,” your hands braced on his chest, feeling the frantic hammer of his heart under your palms. “You’re so deep.” And he whimpers. Actually whimpers, high and broken, thrusting up into you helplessly as you start to ride him harder. You roll your hips, grinding down just right and he loses it.

“Oh, fuck— gonna breed you.” The words tumble out of him in a stream of gasped, pleading sounds, almojst incoherent. His fingers dig into your thighs, dragging you down harder onto him. Trying to chase the friction, the heat. His pretty mouth falls open, desperate sounds spilling out with every thrust. Grunts and moans.

“Taking me so good,” he babbles. “So fucking pretty like this. So wet—feel so good around me—” You speed up, hips snapping faster. Riding him hard now, and you’re both falling apart. Spencer’s cock pulsing inside you so thick and hot you can feel him twitching already, right on the edge.

“You— ah— so good.” you pant, leaning down so your lips brush his jaw, your words a filthy little tease. “Gonna fill me up, Spence?” He gasps, the sound so wrecked it barely sounds human and his hands claw at your hips, yanking you down harder as he bucks up into you wildly now, rhythm lost completely.

“Please,” he groans, high and broken. “Yes— filling you all the way up.”

You nod, whispering, “I want it. Need it.” That’s all it takes. Spencer cries out desperately, jerking up into you for a few last times as he finally lets go. You feel it—the heat flooding inside you, the way he throbs and twitches with every pulse of pleasure. You ride him through it— triggering your own orgasm. It’s loud and messy. You’re slowing your movements just enough to make it last, to draw every last drop.

Spencer’s hands are digging where they hold you. His hips stutter weakly, his chest heaving like he’s been running for miles. When you finally collapse against his chest, both of you boneless and shaking and soaked in sweat— it’s like the entire world narrows to just this—his heartbeat pounding against your cheek, the wrecked little sounds he’s still making under his breath, the way his arms tighten around you like he can’t stand to let you go.

Neither of you speaks for a long moment. Just breathing. Just existing. Finally, Spencer’s hand lifts, trembling slightly, to run through your hair. “Holy shit,” he whispers hoarsely. His voice is wrecked, thin and scratchy like he’s been screaming for hours. “I—I think I saw God.” You huff a weak, breathless laugh against his skin.

“Good,” you whisper back. His arms wrap tighter around you, pulling you impossibly closer. And for the first time since this whole night started—you feel something other than desperation.

“Are you okay?” he asks, shifting enough to pull himself out of you— letting your guys’ mess to spill out all over him. You nod against him and he presses his chin to your forehead, breathing you in like he needs it. “You’re shaking,” he murmurs after a second, thumb brushing the side of your thigh.

“So are you,” you say, your voice soft.

He gives a weak, breathless laugh—a little hoarse thing that barely escapes his throat—and shifts you carefully off his lap, laying you back against the pillows. His hands never leave you. He tugs the comforter up over your bodies, his fingers smoothing the edges near your shoulders, almost absentmindedly like he’s on autopilot. Like he needs to be touching you, even if it’s just fixing the blanket.

He leans in, his nose brushing your temple. “You did so good,” he says quietly, almost a whisper. “You feel so good.”

You blink up at him, heart stuttering stupidly hard against your ribs. “You do,” you whisper back. Spencer’s mouth quirks into the faintest, most exhausted little smirk and for a second he just looks at you like he’s seeing you for the first time. Like he can’t quite believe you’re real. You reach for his hand under the blanket, threading your fingers through his. He lets out a soft, broken sound at that—almost like a whimper—and squeezes your hand tight, clutching it to his chest.

Neither of you says anything else. You don’t have to. He stays curled around you like that, close and warm and steady, until your heartbeat slows and your breath evens out. And even then, he doesn’t let go.

[rustymind]

exhausting days

just imagine...

the past few days were extremely tiring

catching up with your studies and tasks was getting harder and harder, your to-do list growing every day

you felt like you haven't had a good sleep since forever

and of course megumi notices this

he always notices when something's off, especially if it's about you

he doesn't really know how to approach a situation like this

he is your best friend, so he should be doing something, but at the same time he's not really good at these talks

so he doesn't talk

at first you didn't notice anything, just had that weird feeling that something changed

your morning coffee appearing on the counter seemingly out of thin air

your laundry disappearing from the messy pile you threw your clothes in and magically gets in your closet, clean

your homework being already half-made, even though you don't remember starting it

yeah, weird things happened but being as exhausted as you were, noticing it took much longer than it should've

and then, the most of it was still awaiting to come

the gifts

yes, you heard me right, gifts

that's when you finally snap out of your tiredness, realising that you have a secret helper

it starts with a box of chocolate left on your desk, with a small note on it

only your initials, and in the corner: from f.m.

you couldn't believe it was really him

not that you didn't like him, but he just didn't seem like the person to notice such a change in your behavior, and to act like this

but this weird pheonomenon continues anyways

flowers in your doorstep, your favourite sweets in your bag, and all with the same note

megumi hates to see you exhausted because he knows exactly how it feels

you look like life's been sucked out if you and he can't bear to see it for longer

he often thinks about just straight up confessing to you but never does

maybe it would be too confusing for you and make things worse

or maybe he just doesn't want to admit to himself that he's afraid

but it doesn't matter

you slowly but surely get better

starting to observe megumi's actions around you, you can't believe how could you be so blind

he speaks so gently to you

opens the doors

lends you anything you need, from money to pens — anything

and you thought that he was this mystery of a boy! how wrong you were

if you look closely enough you can even see a faint blush on his cheeks when you get closer to him than usual

so when your finals are over, you just simply walk up to him with a wave

"thank you" you say, suddenly a bit nervous. "y'know, for everything."

he averts his eyes, hiding behind an unreadable exterior. at least that's what he thinks. you've learned to read him quite easily.

"i don't know what you're talking about."

he crosses his arms.

a grin spreads across your lips, nodding in fake-believing, as if saying "yeah yeah whatever" and you simply lean closer, pressing a playful, yet soft kiss on his cheeks.

"see you later!"

you say as running away. he definetly wasn't as mysterious as he thought he was, neither were you as brave as you thought you were.

© rustymind 2025 , do not copy , modify or translate my work

this wasn't proofread, i just wrote it because i hate the last weeks of school, i barely have any time for myself. if i have to suffer, so does everyone else.

comments are appreciated!

[pomefioredove]

Hi yes good morning can i get uhhhhhh chocolate cookie n1 with frosting snd sprinkles? Thank you so much

*tips 5 euros*

I'm pretty sure I've gotten every possible combination with rollo at this point 😭

order #1, chocolate with frosting, sprinkles

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ burnout

summary: a break from finals with rollo tropes: hurt/comfort, only one bed chair characters: rollo additional info: romantic, gender neutral reader, reader is not specified to be yuu, not long, not proofread

"I can't think of anything to write,"

You tap the head of your pen on your paper, the blank page that had been tormenting you for hours.

Rollo, comfortably sat at an armchair by the fire, scoffs.

"I doubt that. You never tire of things to talk of,"

"It's not the same!"

He gives you a look that you take to mean impatience- his eyes twitch, as if he aches to roll them, but he restrains himself out of politeness- or of pity.

"You spent the whole of this morning rambling about the windows in the lecture hall, and now that you're asked to write a paper on them, you can't think of anything?"

"...Yes,"

Rollo sighs and beckons you forward with a flick of his finger. You obey, standing beside him like the loyal lapdog you are.

"See here," he says, showing you the book he had been reading (for fun, not for homework). "You can start on page three-hundred and twelve. There's a riveting description of medieval glasswork."

You rest against the arm of the chair, head over his, pretending to follow along as he flips from page to page.

"And here is a series of letters from the blacksmith and the baker, if you need a primary source. I surely have some academic journals on the subject, as well..."

You slump over the armchair, already dreading whatever Rollo was smiling about- you could tell it would be hours of dutiful studying, until dawn, if he could help it.

"You look as if I'm torturing you," he says dryly. You attempt to sit straight, but in vain. The armchair is too comfy, warmed by the flickering fire...

"I don't know how you take all these classes," you say to him. "I'm barely in three and I'm loaded with coursework all week."

He hmphs, closing his book with a heavy thud. "I quite enjoy my classes, thank you,"

"Don't you ever get burnt out?"

"Burnt... out?"

Rollo narrows his eyes at you- he looks into the sweat on your warm face, and then the dancing flames of the fire, and then into your face once more.

"I cannot say I'm familiar with the term,"

You sigh, slipping into his lap and laying across him like a spoiled cat. "Like you just exhaust yourself doing too much, and you can't even think right,"

Rollo makes a face of contempt at your boldness, but does nothing about it.

"I have never felt that way,"

"Really? Not once, you've bitten off more than you can chew?"

"I'm sure you'll find that I eat everything on my plate with no complications,"

You can only see his neck and the underside of his head from where you are. He won't look at you.

You sigh. "You really are perfect, then..."

"Hardly," he says, looking at you again, green eyes flickering with something as greedy and consuming as the fire. His hand rests on your forehead, as if feeling for fever, and it stays there. "I do only what is asked of me. It's my duty, after all."

"You're being humble,"

"I assure you, I am not,"

His fingers dance over your forehead, down your face, mimicking the fluttering movements of the flames. You frown.

"Then maybe you've been burnt out your whole life, and you just don't know it,"

He grinds his teeth; he thinks you can't tell, but you can. "I do wish you'd stop saying that,"

"What? I'm only pointing out the obvious,"

"Not that. That terrible term,"

You blink. "Burnt out?"

His hand goes limp under your chin, resting around your neck like a noose.

"Yes, that," Rollo mutters. "I dislike it. It's... unfitting. If we must continue this terrible conversation, can you not say I'm..."

"Altruistic?"

"No," he scolds, flicking your forehead. "Dutiful."

"Dutiful..." you repeat the word in a reverent whisper. "...Not quite what I had in mind, but if you prefer it..."

"I do,"

"Then, alright. Dutiful,"

"Good," he sighs, slouching in the chair. You'd never seen him so... not... like him.

He's limp, like a wet rag left to dry under the kitchen window. Tired.

"How long have you been awake?" you ask, softer.

"That's none of your concern," and then: "A day."

A day... you raise a hand from perdition and pluck the book out of his pale hands, letting it tumble beneath the chair with another thud. Rollo instinctively tries to stand, but stops himself- he dare not disturb you on his lap.

"I'm not in the mood for your games," he warns, hands tightly curled around the arms of the chair, indenting the cushions.

"I'm not playing," you say. "You're half-asleep. You should rest while the room's still warm."

"Nonsense,"

He scolds, eyes darting towards the teasing dance of the fire.

"Who will put that out? Not you, you know. you'll fall asleep before I even think of it,"

"It'll put itself out,"

"Doubtful,"

He hisses, though he knows you've got him pinned. He can't stand from the seat without pushing you further from him, from his arms and lap, which he refuses to do.

"I have work," he complains. He doesn't move. "Essays to write, exams to study for. You as well. I've not got any less sleep than you..."

"Sleep," you shush him.

"Only if you do, first,"

"Deal,"

He doesn't take kindly to the humorous way you respond to his complaining, but there's nothing more can he do.

He won't move.

You both fall asleep together, his light reading abandoned on the fire-lit floor.

[rhettmotel]

Uh hiii 😝 first time asking you something kinda nervous (jk I am NOT nervous at all)

Sooo how are you doing this nice day/night? I was wondering if you would do something with Bob Floyd! I am an absolute sucker for aftercare so maybe shit was getting real rough 😏 like reader had a rough day and was lowkey becoming super bratty and needed to be put in check and Bob obvi has no problems with that and then like the aftercare is super sweet and fluffy!

(Love your works btw- you have been feeding my obsession 😣) Also! If you need more info or anything just lmk!!

-> Hi I'm doing so good!! I'm feeling better than I have in MONTHS which you can probably tell by the amount that i've been writing in the last few days. Lol Thanks for the request! I'm so happy you're here 🥰 <-

You love Bob's friends, you really do, the daggers were becoming a real family and that made you - by extension - part of the family too. The thing was... you hadn't seen Bob in three weeks so when he said he wanted to spend the night out at the hard deck, you were more than a little disappointed and even a little annoyed. If Bob wanted a night out instead of a night in, fine, but you intended to have fun too.

By the time you got home, you knew what you were in for. The car ride home had been filled with so much tension that you almost choked on it. Even the quiet click of the door behind you made you tense up.

"You were quite the brat tonight, my love. Did you know that?" Bob asks, not stepping forward by standing tall with his back against the door.

Now, you turn around to face him. "Was I?" You ask, voice raised an octave and eyelashes batting. "That's not what I would call it."

"No?" Bob tries to frown but you can see the way his mouth twitches, he's trying to hold back a smirk. "What would you call it then, sweetheart? Bending over the bar like you kept doing, Your perfect ass on display for every single Navy man in there to ogle at. Then, just for good measure I assume, you refused to sit in your own seat and kept grinding that same perfect ass against me.”

"Well I had to get your attention somehow, Bobby." you explain, a slightly childish whine in your tone. "I haven't seen you in so long and you made me share you with all those flyboys tonight," you pout.

Bob hums like he's actually considering your argument, but he shakes his head anyway. “You know what happens to bratty little girls, don't you?"

Now it was your turn to smirk, not even trying to look innocent anymore. “They get spankings,” you bite at your lip.

“That’s right, now strip and get over my knee,” He doesn’t give you anymore direction but he moves now, to sit on the edge of your bed, still fully clothed. Bob wasn’t taking it easy on you this evening. The slaps to your bare ass came hard and fast. He didn’t stop until the skin was red and he was sure that you were crying. Sniffling and pathetic, tears dripping onto his khaki uniform.

“Do you have anything to say for yourself?” He asks, pausing in his punishment.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, i’ll be good, I promise.” You sniffle, hiccuping over your own breaths.

“Oh you’re saying all the right words, my love, but… I don’t think you’ve learned your lesson just yet.”

That’s how you ended up face down, ass up on your own bed, screaming and slobbering on your own pillow with your boyfriend driving into you so hard there was sure to be hip shaped bruises on your ass. Bob didn’t stop until you had cum at least three times and left your whole body trembling. Then, things started to calm.

Bob is gentle as he pulls out of you, more focused on your shaking limbs than the demands that was leaking out of your pulsing cunt. “You did so good, sweetheart, you’re such a good girl. I’m gonna go get a warm cloth to clean you up, but i’m gonna come right back. I’m not leaving you, i’m just going across the hall to the bathroom, okay?”

All you can manage is a soft grunt in response. In certain cases, Bobby would make you use your words, but tonight had been a lot, so he takes your grunt, rubbing his hand up and down your thigh before he leaves.

Just as he promised, Bob was back in a matter of seconds with a warm, wet cloth. He makes his way back to the bed, wiping down your sweaty skin as gently as he can. As soon as you’re clean, he climbs into bed and pulls you into him. “How are you doing, Love?”

You peel your eyes open, just enough to look at him. “I feel good,” you answer this time but your words are slightly slurred, “Was I a good girl?”

“Oh, you were the best, sweet girl, you’re always so good.” He takes a moment to run his fingers through your hair and kiss your forehead. “My perfect girl.”

-> I’m sorry if this wasn’t enough smut for you, i’m still pretty new to writing it and I wanted to focus on the aftercare. 😅 I hope you enjoyed! <-

[soakedstar]

✦˚₊‧₊ HAMARTIA ₊‧₊˚✦

(1/1)

✧ synopsis:

he wasn’t supposed to feel anything.

but then he touched a cigarette.

a heartbeat.

a girl who looked him in the eye and didn’t flinch.

and suddenly, falling didn’t feel so wrong.

✧ pairing:

heeseung x f!reader (angel au)

✧ warnings:

explicit content (18+), virgin!heeseung, smoking, oral sex (f receiving), unprotected sex, aftercare, crying during sex, mention of pregnancy.

✧ note:

not me writing one angel au and suddenly thinking i deserve to be worshipped by heeseung.

maybe i don’t need love, maybe i just need oral and for an enhypen member to cry about it mid-sex.

He was not supposed to see her, not like this.

Not with her bare legs folded on concrete steps and smoke curling from her mouth like prayers gone sour.

But Heeseung had always been curious.

Long before he was assigned to this city, long before he was sent to observe the human world, he had already started asking the wrong questions. He’d lingered too long. Looked too closely. Felt too much.

Now he was here. Among them. Watching.

A pair of wings hidden under a coat. A halo broken into light that only children and dying people could still see. He no longer glowed. Not like before.

His mission was simple:

Observe.

Do not interfere.

Report.

Repeat.

But tonight she ruined that.

She wasn’t special, not in the way they told him humans could be. She wasn’t good. She wasn’t kind. She didn’t even smile when she saw him standing in the alley, watching her like a ghost.

She just stared, cigarette between her lips, eyes sharp and tired.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he said.

She looked him over like she was deciding whether or not to laugh. “You a cop?”

“No.”

“Then I can be wherever the fuck I want.”

He said nothing. The wind stirred behind him. She didn’t notice.

“What’s your name?” she asked finally, squinting at him through the dark.

He hesitated.

“Heeseung.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Weird name.”

“It’s not mine,” he said.

She blinked.

“What?”

“It’s the name they gave me. To blend in.”

“Oh,” she said slowly, dragging the cigarette. “So you’re, what, some kind of spy?”

A pause.

He could lie. He always lied. That’s what watchers did, they became whatever humans needed them to be.

But something about her made him feel…

Exposed.

“No,” he said. “I’m just here to watch.”

“That’s creepy as fuck.”

“I don’t mean it like that.”

She blew smoke straight at him. “Sure.”

There was a silence. Not awkward, electric.

She looked at him again, really looked. Noticed the way his body held still like he was carved from something heavy. The way his coat didn’t move even though the wind tugged at her hair.

“You’re not real,” she said.

“I am.”

“You’re not human.”

“No.”

And then she smiled, slow and dangerous.

“Wanna be?”

Heeseung said nothing.

Because for the first time in hundreds of years,

he didn’t know the answer.

She offered the cigarette without a word.

Just held it out, pinched between two fingers.

Heeseung stared at it.

“I shouldn’t,” he said.

“Why not?” she asked, her voice low.

He looked at her, and for a moment, he seemed impossibly old.

“It’s… a sin.”

She tilted her head, amused.

“So is lying. And judging. And breathing, if you ask some people.”

Heeseung didn’t smile. He just kept staring at the cigarette like it held answers to questions he wasn’t supposed to ask.

“You don’t have to finish it,” she said. “Just try. One drag.”

He shook his head, but his feet didn’t move. His wings — hidden under that dark coat — twitched.

“No one gets addicted on the first try,” she added softly. “Just one doesn’t hurt.”

He hesitated.

That was the first crack.

“I suppose…” he said slowly, “just trying it wouldn’t do any harm.”

She didn’t say I told you so.

She didn’t tease.

She just passed it over, filter-first, like it was a sacred offering.

His fingers brushed hers.

Warm.

He took the cigarette, awkward in his grip, like he didn’t quite know how hands worked. Then, after watching her, he mirrored the motion. Brought it to his lips.

She cupped the lighter for him.

The flame flared.

Heeseung inhaled.

The burn hit instantly. His lungs seized. He coughed, violently, body folding in half.

She laughed not cruelly, but with genuine delight. Like something inside her cracked open, too.

“Oh my god,” she said, wiping her eyes. “You’re a mess.”

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. His eyes were watering, his throat raw.

“I don’t see the appeal.”

“You will,” she said.

He looked at the cigarette again. The smoke still rising. The heat still dancing.

He took another drag.

This time, slower. Smoother. The pain was still there but beneath it, something else bloomed. Something warm and wrong and strangely comforting.

She watched him.

“See?”

He didn’t answer.

But he didn’t put it out either.

The cigarette between his fingers was almost gone.

She leaned back against the brick wall, arms crossed, watching him like she wasn’t quite sure if he was a trick of the light.

He looked…

different now.

Less divine.

More curious.

He turned to her.

“What’s your name?”

She blinked at him.

“Why?”

“I want to know.”

She studied him, lips twitching into something that wasn’t quite a smile.

“Y/N.”

He nodded, like he was saving the word somewhere secret.

“Y/N,” he repeated, slower, like he was tasting it. “What does it feel like?”

“What?”

“To be human.”

She tilted her head. “You want a real answer or a poetic one?”

He didn’t flinch. “The real one.”

She lit another cigarette. Didn’t offer it this time.

“Feels like being cold all the time,” she said. “Like your body wants things you can’t give it. Like you miss people you don’t even like. And everything good either ends or hurts you.”

Heeseung didn’t speak. He just watched her like her words were sacred scripture.

She exhaled smoke.

“Also, pizza is really fucking good.”

He almost smiled at that.

“Tell me a story,” he said suddenly.

“What kind of story?”

“Anything. Something from your life.”

She looked up at the sky like she was searching for something interesting. Then she looked back down and gave him the opposite.

“Okay. Here’s one you probably weren’t expecting.”

She looked straight at him.

“The night I lost my virginity.”

He didn’t move.

Didn’t blink.

Just waited.

She tilted her head and smiled, soft and crooked.

“It was at my house. My mom was out of town for the weekend. He was older, like… twenty-three? I was seventeen.”

She paused. Not to think just to let the moment hang.

“We met at a party. Not that night. A few weeks before. I liked how he looked at me, like he already knew what I’d taste like.”

Heeseung’s throat twitched.

“He wasn’t sweet. He wasn’t gentle. He didn’t ask me if I was sure. He just came over and said ‘so where’s your room?’ like it was already decided.”

She tapped ash, watching it fall.

“I told myself I wanted it. That I was ready. That it was better to get it over with.”

Heeseung’s jaw was tight now. His hands in his coat pockets, clenched.

“It hurt,” she said, almost conversationally. “Not just my body. The silence, too. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t kiss me much. Just… did it.”

She looked at Heeseung again.

“He wasn’t cruel. But he was cold. Like he was doing it for me. Or maybe just to me.”

She took another drag. Let the smoke escape slowly from her nose.

“But when it was over, he smiled and said something like, ‘I like knowing I was the first. You’re gonna think about me forever now.’”

Heeseung looked away.

She didn’t stop.

“And he wasn’t wrong. I did think about him. Not because I missed him. But because I hated that part of me thought he was right.”

She let the cigarette hang between her fingers.

“That’s the thing about being human,” she said. “It’s messy. It’s shame and pleasure mixed up in the same room. In the same bed. In the same breath.”

Heeseung looked back at her.

Eyes like glass.

Like something inside him had cracked open.

“I don’t think I was ready to hear that,” he whispered.

She grinned.

“But you wanted to know what it feels like. Didn’t you?”

Silence.

Then he said:

“I still do.”

She thought he might leave after her story.

Most people did.

But Heeseung just stood there, like her words were a storm he had chosen to walk into. Like he didn’t mind getting soaked.

Then, very quietly, he said:

“Can I touch it?”

She looked up. “What?”

“Your heart,” he said. “I want to feel it.”

She blinked, surprised for once.

“Like… metaphorically?”

He shook his head.

“No. Here.”

He stepped forward, hand hovering inches from her chest, just over the fabric of her thin t-shirt. He wasn’t leering. He wasn’t even looking at her body. His eyes were locked on her face, waiting.

“I want to know what it’s like,” he said softly. “To have something beating inside you. Something that keeps going even when you don’t want it to.”

She should have said no.

But she didn’t.

“Okay,” she said.

She took his hand — cold, steady — and pressed it flat against her chest, right over her heartbeat.

For a second, he said nothing.

Then:

“Oh.”

She didn’t ask what he meant.

But she could see it in his face wonder and grief and confusion all tangled together.

“It doesn’t stop,” he whispered. “Even when you’re quiet. Even when you’re hurting.”

“Nope,” she said. “It just keeps going. Until it doesn’t.”

They stood like that for a moment. Long enough to make it mean something.

Then she pulled back and broke the tension with a grin.

“You really want to feel human?”

“Yes,” he said instantly.

“Then come with me.”

⸻

Twenty minutes later, he was sitting in the corner booth of a 24/7 hamburger place that smelled like melted cheese. Grease coated the walls. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead like dying insects.

She slammed a tray down in front of him.

Burger. Fries. Milkshake the color of radioactive strawberry.

Heeseung stared.

“What… is this?”

“This,” she said, sitting across from him, “is your first test.”

He tilted his head. “This food is… alive?”

She snorted. “No, but it might kill you. Which is basically the same thing.”

He poked the burger like it might bite him.

She laughed.

“You said you wanted to be human. Well. This is it. You don’t become one by touching hearts and quoting poetry. You become one by eating this at two in the morning with ketchup on your fingers and regret in your stomach.”

He picked up the burger awkwardly. Looked at her.

“You’re serious.”

“Deadly.”

She raised her own burger. “Now say it with me: to humanity.”

Heeseung lifted his, slowly.

“To humanity,” he echoed.

Then he took a bite.

The grease hit him like a sin.

The salt, the crunch, the mess of it.

And for the first time since he arrived on Earth…

He laughed.

He wiped his mouth with a napkin, slow and clumsy.

There was ketchup on his fingers. A smear of mayo on his cheek. He didn’t notice. He was looking at her like the room was spinning and she was the only fixed point.

She leaned back in the booth, sipping from her milkshake.

“You okay?”

“I feel…” Heeseung blinked. “Heavy.”

She smiled. “That’s just the grease.”

“No,” he said. “Not just that.”

He stared at his hands like they didn’t belong to him.

“I feel… full. And loud. And messy.”

“Welcome,” she said.

He watched her for a long moment. Then:

“Is this it?”

“What?”

“Being human. Is this where it ends?”

She set the milkshake down.

“Almost,” she said. “You’re close.”

Heeseung leaned in slightly, voice quieter.

“What am I missing?”

She smiled, slow and dangerous.

“One last thing.”

He waited.

“To really be human,” she said, “you have to sin with your whole body. Not just your mouth. Not just your heart.”

She stood, picked up her coat.

“You coming?”

He stood too. “Where?”

“My place.”

He followed her out into the night. The air was colder now. Heeseung’s coat felt too small, like his body didn’t fit inside it anymore.

They didn’t talk on the walk back.

The apartment was small. Lived-in. Smelled faintly of vanilla, old books, and something sweet burning.

She dropped her keys on the counter and turned to him.

Heeseung stood just inside the doorway, rigid, coat still on, hands at his sides like he didn’t know what to do with them.

His eyes scanned everything. The stained mug on the table. The open window. The mess. The intimacy of it all. This wasn’t a place for angels.

She didn’t ask if he was okay.

She just walked toward him, slow, like she was testing gravity.

“You said you wanted to feel everything,” she said.

He nodded once.

She stopped in front of him, so close he could see the curve of her lip, the tiny fleck of gold in her left iris.

Heeseung blinked.

Her voice dropped, quiet and hot between them.

“I want you.”

His breath caught. “You mean—”

“Sex,” she said. “Yes.”

He opened his mouth. Closed it again.

“I… don’t know how.”

“I’ll teach you,” she said.

Not soft. Not coy.

Honest.

He looked at her like she was something dangerous and necessary.

“I want to kiss you,” he said. “But I don’t know how to want something.”

“Then stop thinking,” she said.

And kissed him.

It was nothing like he expected. It wasn’t gentle or slow. It was immediate. Fierce. Full.

Her lips were warm and a little rough. They tasted like smoke and salt and the milkshake they didn’t finish. Her hands gripped his coat like she was afraid he’d pull away.

But he didn’t.

He let her kiss him and then, after a beat, he kissed her back.

Messy. Clumsy. Uncoordinated.

But real.

Her mouth moved with hunger. Not cruel, but certain. Like she’d done this before and wasn’t going to pretend otherwise.

Heeseung made a sound in his throat, low, startled, like the breath had been punched out of him. His hands came up to her waist. Tentative. Reverent.

He touched her like he was learning to see with his palms.

Her body was heat and curve and breath. His fingers trembled on her skin. Her shirt rode up slightly as he explored, slow and unsure. The space between them vanished.

When she pulled back just enough to breathe, he whispered:

“Your lips…”

She looked at him, chest rising and falling fast.

“They don’t feel like I thought they would.”

“What do they feel like?”

“Like fire. And forgiveness.”

She kissed him again.

Harder this time.

He responded with all the awe and confusion of someone being born.

And when she took his hand and started walking backward toward her bedroom, he followed.

She closed the door behind her and turned, her eyes fixed on him. Heesung stood still, uncertain, his wings tense at his back. His breathing was uneven, like something inside him already knew what was about to happen, even if his mind hadn’t caught up.

Their lips met softly, then deepened into something hungry. Her hands slid beneath his shirt, exploring his chest, fingertips dancing over his skin like fire.

When she brushed along the base of his wings, they flared open suddenly white and trembling, catching the dim light of the room. He gasped into her mouth.

“You really are an angel,” she whispered against his lips.

His voice was barely a breath. “I’m not supposed to… do this.”

“But you want to,” she said, kissing down his neck. “Don’t you?”

He didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. His hands had already found her waist. His mouth parted as she reached down and undid his pants.

When she slid them down, her eyes widened. “God,” she breathed. “If you weren’t meant to use it, why would they make you like this?”

He covered his face in shame. “Please don’t…”

She knelt in front of him and kissed the skin just above where he pulsed, hard and aching. “It’s beautiful,” she said. “You’re beautiful.”

Her fingers curled around him, slowly stroking. The moment she touched him, his hips jolted forward instinctively. He moaned softly, sharp and involuntary. His knees trembled.

His eyes squeezed shut. “It feels— too much. I can’t—”

“Shh,” she whispered, drawing her hand up and down his shaft, slow and deliberate. “Let it happen.”

Every motion made his chest rise in short, shaky breaths. He tilted his head back, lips parted, trying to hold onto something—his control, maybe, or his purity. But it was slipping. Fast.

Tears blurred the corners of his vision. “It burns,” he whispered. “But it’s… good. It’s so good.”

She stroked him a little faster, watching his reactions. The way his mouth fell open with each pass of her hand. The way his wings twitched like nerves unraveling.

Then she stood and slowly removed her clothes in front of him. His eyes drank her in, devouring every inch of bare skin with a gaze that felt like worship.

When she took his hand and placed it on her waist, he touched her like she was breakable. She guided him higher, over her breasts, then lower, between her legs.

His breath caught.

She helped him slide two fingers inside her. He froze, wide-eyed, then let out a shaky groan.

“You’re—warm,” he said. “Wet.”

She moved his hand gently, teaching him how to curl his fingers, how to find her rhythm. He watched her, eyes locked on the way she moaned when he moved just right.

“I’ve never… it feels like you’re pulling me inside,” he whispered. “Like I’m already part of you.”

When she straddled his lap and reached for him again, his entire body tensed. She rubbed the head of his cock slowly against her entrance, coating him in her wetness. He whimpered, hands gripping her hips like he might fall apart if she moved.

“Please…” he whispered. He didn’t even know what he was asking for.

She sank down onto him inch by inch, and his head dropped forward with a strangled moan. His whole body shook.

“You’re tight,” he gasped, trembling. “It’s—hot. You’re wrapping around me.”

When she took him fully, he let out a cry that was almost broken. His wings flared behind him, wide and uncontrollable.

“It’s too much,” he said, eyes wide and wet. “I feel like—like I’m flying and drowning at the same time.”

She began to move—slow, deep, rolling her hips so he could feel every inch. He clutched her tightly, lost in her.

Every thrust made him gasp. His voice cracked with each moan. She could feel how close he was already, his body taut like a bowstring, every muscle straining.

“Don’t stop,” he begged, voice hoarse. “Please don’t stop.”

She kissed him as he came undone inside her, crying out as his climax overtook him—violent, overwhelming. He trembled beneath her, whimpering, eyes wet, chest heaving.

He held her like he was afraid she’d vanish, like she was the only thing anchoring him to earth.

“I didn’t know it could feel like this,” he said, his voice shaking. “I didn’t know I could feel this much.”

And she smiled, brushing back his hair, whispering in his ear, “Now you do.”

They stayed like that for a moment—his face pressed into her neck, his body still trembling slightly. His breath was shallow, as if what had just happened had drained every part of him. She held him gently, brushing his hair back from his damp forehead, letting him rest.

But after a few minutes, she shifted beneath him.

Heesung looked up. “Did I hurt you?”

She shook her head, smiling softly. “No, baby. Not at all.”

His brows drew together. “Then… what is it?”

She hesitated for a moment, then cupped his face in her hands. “You finished,” she said gently, “but I didn’t.”

His eyes widened instantly. “I—I’m so sorry—should I—can we—?”

She placed a finger on his lips. “It’s okay. We’re not done yet.”

He swallowed. “What should I do?”

She took his hand and guided it down between her legs, letting him feel how slick and ready she still was.

“I want you to use your mouth,” she said softly. “I’ll show you how.”

He blinked, his lips parting. “My mouth?”

She nodded, lying back on the bed and opening her legs for him. “Come here, angel.”

He moved between her thighs, nervous but willing, eyes locked on her body with reverence. She ran her fingers through his hair, guiding him lower.

“Start with kisses,” she whispered. “Soft. Take your time.”

He leaned in and kissed her inner thigh first, slow and uncertain. Then the other. She sighed and spread her legs further for him.

“There,” she said, gently guiding him closer to her core. “Don’t be afraid.”

He kissed her folds tentatively, lips warm, breath shaky. She moaned softly, and the sound gave him confidence.

“Use your tongue,” she instructed, voice breathy. “Flat and slow. Just like that—yes…”

Heesung obeyed, licking slowly along her center. He felt her hips twitch, heard her breath hitch.

“You taste like… nothing I’ve ever known,” he said, almost reverently.

“Keep going. Stay soft—don’t rush.”

He licked her again, then circled his tongue around her clit, just as she told him.

“That’s it,” she whispered, arching gently against his mouth. “You’re doing so well.”

She guided his hand to her entrance and wrapped his fingers around two of hers. “Now inside. Slowly.”

He slid two fingers into her, feeling her warmth, the way her body gripped him tightly. The sensation made his breath hitch.

“You’re so—tight,” he murmured.

“Curl them,” she said, voice trembling. “Just a little… there. Right there.”

He did as she asked, and her reaction was immediate. Her hips bucked up, a loud moan tearing from her lips. Her fingers clenched in his hair.

“Don’t stop—don’t stop,” she begged.

He moved his fingers faster, curling them against that same spot again and again, while his tongue flicked over her clit, careful at first, then with growing rhythm.

Her legs began to shake.

“Oh my god—Heesung—don’t stop, I’m gonna—”

He felt it before he saw it her whole body tensing, her breath locking in her chest. Then suddenly—

She cried out, loud and raw, as a rush of fluid burst from her, soaking his hand, his mouth, the sheets beneath them. Her back arched off the bed, and her thighs clamped around his head. She was shaking, gasping, her body overwhelmed by the release.

He froze, stunned, his fingers still inside her, his mouth wet from her.

“I—did I hurt you?” he asked, panicked.

She laughed breathlessly, pulling him up by the shoulders and kissing him hard.

“No,” she whispered against his lips. “You made me squirt.”

“I… I didn’t know that could happen,” he said, eyes wide.

“You just did something most men can’t,” she said, stroking his cheek. “You made me come so hard, I lost control. That’s not hurting me, Heesung. That’s heaven.”

His face turned red, his body still trembling, but his eyes were full of awe.

“I didn’t know I could make someone feel that. I want to feel it again.”he whispered.

They didn’t say much after.

The room was dark. The window cracked open. The air smelled like rain and skin.

Heeseung lay on his back, eyes half closed. His breathing had slowed. His chest rose and fell beneath her cheek.

She rested against him, one leg draped over his.

Their bodies were still warm, still tangled.

She didn’t want to move.

His fingers traced her arm lightly, like he wasn’t sure if she was still real.

“I don’t want to fall asleep,” he said.

“Why not?”

“I don’t want this to end.”

She didn’t answer right away. Just curled closer, pressing her lips to his collarbone.

“It won’t,” she whispered. “Even if you go. I’ll still remember this.”

He looked at her. Quiet. Like he wanted to say something important.

But instead, he just nodded. Then pulled her tighter against him.

They lay like that for a long time.

No fear. No rush. Just the two of them, in a room that felt outside of everything else.

Eventually, she drifted off.

She felt his hand in her hair.

And then, sleep.

⸻

She woke up alone.

At first, she didn’t realize it. She reached for him automatically.

But there was only the sheet. Cold.

She sat up slowly. The room was quiet. Still dark.

His coat was gone.

His boots.

Everything.

Except for one thing.

A single white feather. On the floor beside the bed.

She picked it up. It was soft. Still warm.

She waited for hours. Checked the door. The window.

He never came back.

⸻

Five years later

Her son liked to sit in the sunlight. He didn’t talk much, but when he did, he always looked her straight in the eye. Like he knew she’d been waiting for the answer.

He never asked about his father.

Once, when he was playing by the window, she asked him if he remembered any dreams.

He said no.

Then pulled a feather from his pocket.

It was white.

She didn’t ask where he got it.

She just took it from him, quietly. And kept it.

With the others.

[theprettynosferatu]

CW: FOR ALL THAT'S GOOD AND HOLY READ THIS, THIS STORY IS STRONG

Kidnapping, incest G/G, noncon, mind-altering drugs, full mind breaking, orientation conversion (straight to lesbian), hucow, hupig

This story can be read and enjoyed by itself. It follows the events of Origins of Submission II.

Prologue

Victoria did her best to keep her hands steady. She checked the proportions of the component once, twice, three times. Every compound needed to be perfect, fulfil its purpose without fail. Much like herself. 

It gave her a wicked satisfaction to use her knowledge, her education, her intelligence to please Mistress Lucía and Mommy. Victoria existed to be useful, after all– and while different, using her brain to serve her superiors was, like every act of service, a reminder of her nature as a doll, a mere extension of her owner’s will. So if being a good, obedient daughter meant to use her smarts, dulled as they were, to help make another stupid slave… the thought made her pussy twitch.

She fought the urge to grope her udders. She needed to focus. Everything had to work. 

I

Florencia tossed and turned in bed. Fuck. How was she supposed to sleep after what she had seen? 

She tried to find an innocent explanation, she truly did. But there was no way to interpret what she had walked into as anything remotely close to innocent. Still, the magnitude of it, the sheer perversion of it was hard to grasp. Her aunt having some sort of weird, violent sexual encounter with her own daughter. What. The. Fuck? How was anyone supposed to process that? Two days had passed and Florencia had only managed to… sleepwalk through life. They pretended to be normal, as if nothing had happened. They smiled and were nice and polite, just her dear cousin and aunt. And Florencia could almost go along with it. Almost, but not quite. There was no way to repress what she had witnessed. These women were sick. Perverted. 

But what could she do? Call the cops? They were both adults. And who would believe her? Florencia tried to go over her plans. She needed to find somewhere else to stay… hopefully somewhere with a very, very low rent. And she needed to…

Exhaustion started to claim her. Florencia found herself drifting in and out of sleep. In and out of dreams. She was too worried to sleep properly in that room, yet too tired to stay fully alert. It became hard to separate what was a nightmare, what was what she had seen, what was truly happening in the moment.

Her door swung open. Familiar shapes rushed in. A dream? 

“Ver-” she started to say, before a slap shut her up. She opened her mouth to scream. A pair of panties killed that scream before it could be born. Hands held her down. A dark-skinned woman walked in, smiling. And then, the sharp prick of a needle. She turned her head to look at her cousin. Why was she dressed only with a miniscule bra that barely covered her nipples? It wasn’t important, Florencia knew. What was in the syringe her cousin held? Her mind drifted, getting fuzzy. Her body was relaxing. Why? It shouldn’t! She should be fighting back! She couldn’t. She knew she couldn’t. Her limp body refused to obey her. The world seemed distorted, almost as if she were underwater…

Her aunt’s voice, cold… yet with an undercurrent of dark excitement.

“This is what needs to happen, Florencia. So you can be part of the family… properly.”

In that nice, quiet neighborhood, an ambulance waited. Three women placed a fourth, her body still as if she was in the deepest of sleeps, in the back of the vehicle. They set the IVs in place, monitored her. The ambulance sped away.

The neighbors assumed something had happened, of course; but they quickly moved on with their nights, as one usually does.

They had no way to know what had really taken place right under their noses.

II 

The lights were blinding, disorienting. Were they malfunctioning? They flickered in a strange, somewhat enrapturing rhythm. Left, right, left, right… and the colors looked so pretty…

What was she thinking? Florencia felt panic starting to rise inside her chest- and yet it was somehow muted, nowhere near as intense as it should be. It was akin to a small flame, barely visible behind a bed of soft, calming clouds. Her body felt light, utterly relaxed, pleasantly warm. She felt she could just… chill for a bit. Let time go by her. Maybe even sleep, although she didn’t feel exactly tired- it just felt like the proper thing to do. 

Florencia tried to move her body, just a little bit. A few facts became clear, and she accepted them knowing fully that they should be terrifying. Fact one: her hands and legs were bound. Fact two: she had been placed on some sort of pommel horse, like the ones she had seen used in gymnastics during the Olympics, but somehow different, leaving her bent over. Fact three: she was naked. Putting everything together, she concluded with a strange calm that she had been taken, kidnapped; that the purpose of her abduction was sexual in nature; that she had no viable means of escape. She wondered if the lack of an emotional response was, in itself, a defense mechanism. Perhaps. Still, it felt strange to be so… detached from her own experience. She tried to remember.

Her cousin. Her aunt. And one other woman. The images flooded in. The secret she had discovered. Slowly, that small flicker of fear began to grow, pushing through the fog in her brain.

“Ah. Awake, I see. Finally! I have to admit, I was a tad worried. I thought maybe your aunt’s loyal cow had messed up the dosage, but, credit where it’s due, that dumb fuckdoll managed to pull through. So, how does it feel? I’m told what’s coursing through your veins is quite a cocktail! Muscle relaxants, some psychotropics, one that increases blood flow to… certain areas… must be an interesting experience. Not one I care to feel for myself, mind you.”

Florencia tried to pinpoint where the voice came from, but it felt as if it was echoing inside her own head. She sluggishly tried to squirm, to get a better sense of space, of reality. Suddenly, she felt the sharp pain of a hand pulling her hair, forcing her to look forward.

There she was. The unknown woman. Clad in leather boots with devilishly sharp stilettos and a perfect fitting black corset, her appearance was the very picture of confidence, of someone who knew she would get what she wanted sooner or later- and who would do anything to take possession of what was rightfully hers. Florencia noted that she was also beautiful, in the same manner that she had taken note of everything else- as fact, cold and pure. 

“Look at me. I’m Mistress Lucía. And you are mine.”

Florencia felt herself rebelling. No. She wasn’t hers. She didn’t belong to anyone but herself. 

“Now, I apologize for the somewhat improvised nature of this little setup.” said Lucía. “You see, yours is a rather urgent case that came to me with very short notice. Still, I feel we have all we can need here. And before you do anything stupid, we’re in a rented warehouse in the middle of nowhere, so screaming for help won’t work. Don’t get me wrong, though. You will do quite a bit of screaming. That I promise you.” Almost as an afterthought, Lucía slapped Florencia’s face as hard as she could before letting go of her hair. Florencia’s head felt heavy, and she couldn’t stop it from slamming against the horse.

“Useless fucking bitch. I guess we’ll have to wait until you are a bit more… sensitive. The cow tells me she has prepared compounds for all stages of the process. This one should wear off soon. Time, I’m afraid, is a factor in this. Normally I prefer to guide my slaves in a more gradual manner, but you? You get the crash course.”

Florencia felt herself starting to fade. Still, she managed to mumble.

“...Crash course?... Cow…?”

“Oh, don’t tell me you haven’t figured it out already! You truly are one dumb girl. Fine, I’ll show you. Cow! Come here.”

“How may I serve, Mistress Lucía?”

No. It was impossible. That voice…

A hand turned Florencia’s head.

She wished she could close her eyes, but the image in front of her was too compelling, too strange, too perverse. There was Victoria, wearing nothing but a cow-stripe micro bikini, a cowbell hanging from the chain around her neck… and a huge strap-on dildo affixed to her hips. The Cow. 

“Hi, cousin”, smiled Victoria.

Lucía gave her a backhanded slap. Victoria’s eyes suddenly became emptier, dumber, as if a switch had been flipped inside her head.

“Moooo”, said Victoria.

“Good cow”, answered Lucía.

And with those two words bouncing in her head, darkness took Florencia once more.

III 

For a second, right after she opened her eyes again, Florencia let herself believe everything had been just a terrible dream. That delusion was dispelled in an instant. How long had she been out? Long enough for her cousin -how awful to think of her in those terms- and “Mistress Lucía”, whoever that was, to make additions to the setup that was, in that moment, her entire world.

Florencia tried to move her head, only to find it was fixed in place by some sort of… vise. Her hands were bound, her arms spread. She felt so vulnerable, so exposed… the urge to protect her chest tortured her. There was nothing she could do. Her ankles were chained to a large metal frame, leaving her almost hanging. And there was something else, something different with her body. The air felt dense, and it caressed her legs, her crotch, in a strange way. She tried to look down, but the restraint on her head forced her to keep her eyes facing forward. Facing the black screens. 

“Ah, poor thing. This must be new for you. You probably think we did something awful to you while you were unconscious! Well, you’re wrong, dumb piggy. We did something you should have done a long time ago!”

Lucía’s voice. It sent a shiver down Florencia’s spine. 

“Cow, let’s see if your dear cousin can figure it out on her own.”

“Moooo!” was the excited reply.

Florencia felt soft hands caressing her legs. She tried to push the feeling out of her mind, to ignore the warmth, the way her skin seemed to enjoy the smooth, gentle touch- to not think about the fact that her own cousin’s fingers were playfully making their way up towards her…

“Oh, perhaps the Cow’s new cocktail has made you a bit too… sensitive to notice what I mean. She has rather well trained fingers, after all. Fine, I’ll tell you. We shaved you, you stupid sow! How on Earth you walked around with that much hair on your legs and over your cunt is beyond me. Didn’t you feel absolutely disgusting? I suppose not. You are a pig, after all. But don’t worry, piggy. We’ll make you filthy in other ways. Which reminds me…”

Florencia barely registered the “click” of a remote control. The Cow -no, she reminded herself, Victoria- had reached between her legs and every fiber of Florencia’s being was fighting to deny the pleasure those skilled fingers bombarded her with. Suddenly, the screens came to life. 

Florencia’s vision was flooding with images, her ears bombarded with the sounds of moaning, of whips hitting skin, of vibrating tortures. Every screen showed only women being used, abused, dominated by other women. No matter how much she tried, every inch of her limited field of view was overtaken by women worshipping their mistresses, strange pink flashes (were those words she almost saw?) breasts being slapped, bound beauties and kneeling slaves…

She began to feel dizzy. Lucía had mentioned a new cocktail… what the fuck had they injected into her body? Images bled into one another as she sunk deeper into something like a dream state. And the sensation, the damn warmth coming from her pussy, grew with every second. She could not let it win. “It’s your cousin”, she reminded herself over and over. And yet she could feel her body betraying her, her pussy getting soaked…

“See, little pig? This is the way things work. Inferior women like you kneel. Serve. Obey. Your body is starting to learn it, even if you try to deny it. Oh, I know what you’re thinking. ‘I don’t even like women!’ Don’t you worry about that. I’ll make sure you understand the truth in a very, very deep way. Speaking of…”

Another click. Suddenly, the screens showed men and women, the kind of hardcore porn she Florencia herself sometimes indulged in to relax… but the warm feeling was gone. Victoria had removed her hands.

“Cow… pain.”, commanded Lucía.

“Mooo!”, came the reply.

Florencia screamed. The strap-on. It had gone inside her ass with malice, with force, without any sort of warning. Whatever made her body so sensitive, apparently also worked on her pain receptors. All she could feel was fire inside her, burning her, hurting her in a way she had never experienced.

Click. Women on screen. 

“Cow… pleasure.”

Soft fingers. Relief. The pain starting to fade away. Her pussy growing more and more desperate for release. She found herself moaning as the women on the screens moaned. And was that Victoria being stepped on by a leather boot with sharp heels in one of the scenes? Surely it couldn’t be…

Click. Men on screen.

“Cow… pain.”

Florencia screamed.

It was brutal. Florencia knew what the intent was, of course. Serving women meant pleasure. Men meant pain. Part of her wanted to believe that such blunt methods would not work on her, that there was a part of her, a higher part, that would be above being programmed like a simple machine. Reward and punishment worked on dogs. She wouldn’t fall to that level. She was wrong. No matter how much she begged, how she pleaded, the only response she got from her cousin was a simple, mindless “mooo”.

It was with horror that she found herself focusing on the pleasure to come to endure the pain. The notion that such pleasure was being delivered by her cousin started to become secondary. It was her lifeline when the pain felt too much to bear, and once she opened that door in her mind, her fate was sealed. Lucía could see it in her face, in the way she was starting to buck her hips, to drool in a mixture of ecstasy and exhaustion.

“You thought you were better than us, piggy? Look at you! About to cum to the tender attention of your own cousin. Your own cousin! You might think you can resist… but your body knows. Your body learns deep in its bones what I’m teaching it. It isn’t your body anymore, you dumb sow. It is mine. So do it! Cum yourself away! Cum for your own family, you incestuous slut! Fall into the filth that will be your home. Better than us? No, you stupid toy. You will fall in the mud, piggy. And you’ll learn to love it more than you love yourself. Go ahead. Cum. Cum for the dirty fucking pig you’ll become!”

She did. With all the shame, with the fear, with the suffering pounding inside her chest, Florencia’s body betrayed her. As she screamed with the best orgasm she had ever felt, her cousin joined in with a delighted, ecstatic moo.

IV

“What are you?”

Florencia gasped for air. She had no way to know how long Mistress… no, just Lucía and the Cow had been working on her. Days, certainly. Weeks? Perhaps. But she would not break. Not on this.

She remembered the other times she had thought the same thing. The way she recoiled when shown a picture of a penis. How wet she got whenever she saw another woman degraded, used, hurt. She had promised herself she would not become the pig they wanted her to be, and yet, step by step…

But not this time. This was the line she had to hold.

“I’m… a person.”

“Wrong. Cow?”

The Cow leaned forward. Bound, restrained, Florencia was once again suffocated by her cousin’s large, soft breasts. She would feel it again: the sensation of drowning, her body screaming for air. But perhaps worse, the first sensation she felt as the Cow’s soft udders covered her face was her pussy twitching. Muted by the fear, the warmth of flesh, the vibe affixed to her clit buzzed mercilessly.

She gasped for air as soon as her face was freed from that cruel, beautiful breast. She steeled herself to hear the question again, for the thousandth time, to reply what she had replied every single time, even if it felt less and less true. Instead, she had to fight deliriously against the delicious sensation coursing through her body. She couldn’t give them the satisfaction. Not again. She would resist. She would…

She failed.

She screamed her failure in a melody of moans and whimpers as her body convulsed with another orgasm. Shame and pleasure mixed into an intoxicating concoction.

“Again? You came again, you filthy little pig? And you call yourself a person? People can control themselves! You? You are an animal in heat, piggy. Why do you keep lying? Why do you keep lying to yourself? Doesn’t it feel so, so good to cum? Don’t the Cow’s udders feel so nice on your skin? And she’s your flesh and blood! You know who will own you: your aunt. Or rather, your new Mommy. Family. If you break, you’ll become her pet… And still, you cum. You cum like the sow you are. And you love it. Your pussy loves it. Why do you keep trying to be more, when embracing your nature is what every inch of you wants? So, let me ask again. What are you?”

Florencia was exhausted. The room spun around her. She didn’t even bother to wonder about what they injected her with anymore. It had become part of her routine. Her life was inside this warehouse. What had come before seemed more and more like a dream, and Mistress Lucía’s words simply made sense. She had cum herself empty over and over and over again. Her own cousin had made her feel pleasure like never before. Was she better than an animal? Did she truly want to be better? Her lips moved before she could stop them.

“I’m… a pig.”

Lucía gripped the riding crop. 

“Again.”

“Pig”

She struck the Pig’s legs. She squealed and screamed.

“Pig!”

Another one, this time on her stomach.

“Pig!”

A third one, on her breasts. As pain and the pleasure from the vibe mixed, the Pig came again, and without her even noticing a new, strange sound escaped her lips.

“Oiiiink!”

V

The area around the cage smelled of desire, of passion, of raw animal need. It smelled of pussy. 

Inside the Pig did what she had been doing for the last two days. On all fours, eyes on the screen, pushed by stimulants and psychoactive drugs, her hand between her legs, she masturbated. She drooled. She tasted her own juices. She rubbed them on her tits. Looking at her, it was hard to imagine that creature inside had been a person. Dignity was a foreign concept to it. Language was something she barely used, communicating her delight in grunts, moans, oinks and scattered words directed at whoever was on screen and at herself. Lucía couldn’t help but feel proud. She had seen many women break, in many different ways, but this was special. Her feet up on the Cow’s back, she sat on her comfortable chair and watched.

“Fuck… use her… fucking pig… disgusting… oink! Love it… Cunt… love my cunt… Oink oink! Fuuuuck… hurt her… yessss… slap that bitch… Mommy… spit on me… yes yes yes… oink! Cum… cum… pig gonna cum again… piggy pussy… Oiiiink!”

Truly, it was a sight to see. But Lucía had to be a responsible caretaker, and the Sow’s feeding time had come. She ordered the Cow to open the cage.

The Pig came on all fours, her skin glistening with sweat, drool and her own juices. It had learned the routing quickly. As the Cow got on all fours, the Sow desperately went under it, looking for a tasty, perfect nipple. Everything Victoria had been doing to induce herself to lactate had worked perfectly, and the Sow now took full advantage. Even when feeding, she kept one hand busy, sliding two fingers in and out of her perpetually soaked pussy. The sounds of suckling, moaning and mooing echoed in the warehouse. It was beautiful.

Lucía opened her legs.

“Sow, time for dessert.”, she commanded.

The Pig crawled as quickly as she could and buried her face in that perfect, dark, delicious pussy. True, she didn’t have the skill of the Cow yet, but her enthusiasm was unmatched. Lucía let herself enjoy the sensation as the Sow did her best to make herself as dirty as possible, rubbing her whole face between Lucía’s legs, oinking and licking like her life depended on it. 

“Cow, stand in front of me. Grope those udders for me.”

The Cow obeyed instantly. Perhaps she would have liked some release, but unlike the Sow, she only came when commanded to. Instead she played with her tits for her Mistress, mooing mindlessly.

Lucía closed her eyes. She let herself bask in her triumph. Still, there was work to be done. After all, she couldn’t let the Pig rut around unchecked.

VI

Morning in that quiet street. A soft breeze swayed the trees. A doorbell rang. A woman opened the door, almost shaking with anticipation. It felt like Christmas morning.

The girls stood by Lucía, one by each side. They smiled with perfect, dumb happiness. They saw their owner and instantly, automatically chirped as one. “Hi Mommy!”

“It’s… done?” Mommy asked.

Lucía smiled like a wolf. 

“I am a professional.”, she replied. “Do you want to let us in so you can check the merchandise?”

“Yes, yes of course!”, said Mommy. Part of her couldn’t believe this beautiful woman had managed to tame Florencia in… what? A week and a half? But after what she had done to… no, for Victoria, she was starting to believe the dominatrix could work miracles.

They went into the living room, the girls standing at attention, mindlessly waiting to be told what to do. What to be. Lucía decided to give a little demonstration.

“Assume position”

The girls quickly stripped off their street clothes, and fully naked instantly went to their knees.

Lucía went to the busty blonde and asked:

“Who do you pretend to be?”

“Victoria!” she replied.

“What are you, truly?”

“A Cow!” beamed the blonde.

“Good.” Lucía moved on to the newest member of the very special family.

“Who do you pretend to be?”

“Florencia!”

“And what are you, deep down?”

“A Sow!”

“See? They can pass as normal. Somewhat. But they know what they are deep down. And above all… Cow, Sow, what would you do for Mommy?”

“Anything!”, they said with joy. They knew it to be true. None of them could fathom not obeying Mommy always, and to the best of their ability. It was their entire purpose.

“Please, Miss. Go ahead. They are yours. Do with them as you will.”

Mommy went to Victoria. So beautiful. So empty behind the eyes, almost as if she was waiting to be filled by her command, to be whatever Mommy said. But deep down… Mommy slapped one of Victoria’s breasts as hard as she could. The response was instinctive and primal.

“Moooooo!”

Mommy went to Florencia, a bit more hesitant. This girl had been on the edge of ruining everything. She had been horrified by Mommy and Victoria. Had Mistress Lucía truly fixed her? Only one way to find out. Mommy slid her foot off her shoe and rubbed it between Florencia’s legs. Mommy could feel it instantly on her skin. The Pig’s cunt was soaked.

“Oiiiink”, said the pig in response.

Mistress Lucía smiled. Truly, she was building a beautiful farm for this woman. The idea had its charm.

A dumb cunt farm… yes, that would be nice to own. 

Did you enjoy this story? You can support my work at patreon.com/prettynosferatu

[ofbreathandflame-archive]

What do you think of Tamlin as a High Lord?

Hi anon!

It's hard to quite talk objectively about his performance as a High Lord, as this series is politically-consistent, nor motivated, for that matter. In short, I don't think we're supposed to pay attention to the politics, save for when its convenient.

But -- when I zoom out from the love story, the protagonist-centered moral compass, and look objectively to how a character reacts to situations, I believe that Tamlin's actions make...a lot of sense. I would even go as far as to say -- given his situation(s) -- I quite agree/understand why he makes the decisions he does.

For example, when Feyre goes UTM, his strategy of pretending not to know Feyre made a lot of sense! Think about it: Amarantha is a passionately jealous person. If Tamlin confessed his love to Feyre on day one, Amarantha would have just killed Feyre. We know this because at the end of the novel, when Tamlin expresses his love for Feyre...Amarantha immediately tortures and kills Feyre without question, without even trying to uphold her end of the bargain. If anything - throughout the events of UTM, Feyre's irrelevance partially saves her life. Amarantha forgets about her, and only drags her out when its time to complete the bargain. Tamlin's ambivalence meant that Amarantha got nothing to torture her with; and when Amarantha is given information about Feyre, she uses it to further devise her trials (such as Rhysand telling Amarantha that Feyre is a hunter....and then sending the Wyrm after Feyre, her illiteracy, which I won't place entirely on Rhys bc we truly have no idea how Amaratha knew). Imagine if Tamlin spilled the beans, Amarantha would have gotten Unknown Daemati #217 to crack his mind open, and now Amarantha knows about not just Feyre, but her father, her sisters, and the entire human congregation living by the wall.

Secondly, Tamlin was the only one of the High Lords to remain cognizant of Amarantha--which is the reason Rhysand was wary, to begin with. And even under heavy watch, he still allows refugees from other courts to take refuge at his own home. He still works through the curse, despite how many men he was losing, and ONLY stops because he was tired of sacrificing his friends with no end result. He even feels guilty about having to make Feyre fall in love, so much so that Lucien has to tell him to do it, even though he knows (to some extent) that Feyre killed Andras with hate in her heart. He still defends the borders (which ofc is bare minimum)

Thirdly, when he realizes he cannot fend against Hybern's vast army, he staunches the flow of Hybern soldiers into his land through his alliance, all the while, still collecting stacks and stacks of information to send back to the other High Lords. And I should note -- he doesn't have to do this as the bargain would at least ensure the safety of his people (and please don't get me started on the flimsy nature of bargains in this series, because Hybern should have faced consequences for breaking it). And even AFTER the Nigh court ruins the operation, Tamlin still comes, still saves Feyre, and STILL brings Rhysand back from the dead.

And even with Ianthe - I never know what game the story is playing. I definitely think its a blunder to trust her, but WAR made it pretty clear that Tamlin was wary of Ianthe, and probably was only using her to cement his alliance with the King. While I think Ianthe attempts to manipulate Tamlin, and does to some extent, in relation to his relationship with Feyre, I don't know that he was completely inept in that situation. I also think its a weird plot hole to have Tamlin defer to a woman, while making the argument that Tamlin is a misogynistic asshole who hates to see women in power. As with his dynamic with Ianthe - we know that's not true. Especially because the story is arguing that Tamlin had an issue with Feyre being in power, when in reality, he seems to have no issue taking political advice from a women, and seems to actually take in to consideration what Ianthe is saying, though its not the greatest thing. The difference between how much power Ianthe had in Spring, and how little power the leading women of the IC have is quite astounding. Like yeah Ianthe is evil, but why is she pulling more strings than the Second-in-Command eldritch monster, or Third-in Command warrior princess?

Look - the politics in the series starts on uneven footing - but I just feel like Tamlin made very reasonable decisions despite being in completely unreasonable situations. Like, he's placed in the lose-lose situations, but ultimately always makes the right decision. And in the realm of this story -- with the other High Lords as a metric -- I think Tamlin is a pretty good High Lord. I think I can come to that conclusion, but I'm up for discussions if anyone disagrees.

[pinklaceddiary]

johnny cade and reader are in a situationship and they've like kissed before and stuff and he's like slept over at her house before but they didn't tell their friends, and then one night there's a party so they go to that and then johnny and reader get together at the party and all their friends see

────⊹ ࣪ ˖ out in the open

a/n : ooooo i love this!! tysm anon for this req

Johnny wasn’t the type of boy you’d expect to fall for. He was quiet and careful, the kind of guy who carried himself like he was already sorry for something. But somehow, somewhere between the way he said your name and those nights he slipped through your bedroom window when he didn’t want to go home, you found yourself falling for him.

And sometimes, when no one was watching, he kissed you.

It all started slowly. A gentle brush of lips after a long conversation, or his hand grazing yours under the covers. He never called you his girl, and you never pushed him to. But he stayed over twice a week, and once, he surprised you with flowers from a gas station. They were a bit crushed in his fist but still managed to bloom.

The others had no clue. Not Ponyboy, not Dally, not even Two-Bit, who always seemed to know everything. Maybe it was safer that way, maybe it felt too delicate, like saying it out loud would shatter the magic.

But tonight was different.

“Come on,” you said, tugging at Johnnys sleeve. “Everyone’s going. It’s just Buck’s house. It’s not like you’ve never been before.”

Johnny hesitated at your bedroom window, one leg halfway inside. “I dunno…” he mumbled, pushing his hair back. “Ain’t really my thing.”

“You’ll have fun. I’ll be there,” you reassured him, giving him a look that made his cheeks flush. “Besides, if you don’t show up, they’ll start thinking you’re dead or something.”

Johnny cracked a smile at that. “Alright. Just for a little while.”

The party was loud, smoky, and packed with greasers. Buck’s house always was.

The music thumped through the floors, people shouted over it, and somewhere in the chaos, Steve and Soda were bickering about something silly. You stayed close to Johnny, your hands brushing against each other every few seconds like magnets drawn together, but never quite connecting.

Dally strolled by, his eyes narrowing when he spotted the two of you sitting on the porch, talking quietly. He smirked. “Didn’t think Cade had it in him.”he called out.

Johnny tensed beside you “Ignore him.” you whispered, trying to inch closer.

But Johnny had gotten up.

“Where you headed?” you asked, standing up too.

“Inside. I could really use a drink or something.”

And just like that, he was gone.

A few minutes later, you found him in the kitchen, leaning against the counter, staring at the floor.

“Hey…” you said softly. “You alright?”

He shrugged. “I just— I hate the way they look at me. Like I’m some lost puppy or something.”

You stepped closer, blocking his view. “You’re not. And honestly, I don’t care what anyone else thinks.”

His gaze met yours, dark and uncertain. “What are we even doing?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper. “I come over, we talk, we— do other things— but it feels like i cant even tell anyone you’re mine.”

Your heart skipped a beat. “Johnny, I—”

“Do you not want people to know?”

“No.” you replied quickly. “It’s not that. I just wasn’t sure if you wanted to.”

For a moment, silence hung between you. The noise of the house felt overwhelming, filled with people who didn’t matter as much as the boy standing in front of you.

Then he reached out, his fingers wrapping around yours.

“Then let’s tell them,” Johnny said. “Right now.”

Your breath caught in your throat. “Here?”

He nodded. “Here.”

Before you could say anything else, Johnny pulled you in and kissed you. It wasn’t soft or tentative this time. It was like he meant it, like he was done pretending he didn’t care.

When you opened your eyes, the room had gone strangely quiet.

Soda was standing in the doorway, his jaw dropped, and even Dally raised an eyebrow, a crooked grin spreading across his face.

“Well, well…” Two-Bit said, grinning. “Didn’t see that coming.”

Johnny didn’t flinch. His arm wrapped around your waist. “Y-yeah. S-shes mine.”

You laughed, a mix of nerves and relief, leaning into him. “Took you long enough.”

[leaderwon]

CHAPTER 34 — FALSE PEACE

wc — 1k+

prev — masterlist — next

The thing about broken friendships was that they didn’t always explode in dramatic, irreparable ways.

Sometimes, they just lingered. Stretched thin. Warped into something unfamiliar. And sometimes, they got shoved into a group project with no way out.

You stared blankly at the email on your screen. Your professor’s name sat at the top, followed by a subject line that made your stomach sink.

FINAL PROJECT GROUPS – COMPULSORY PARTICIPATION

Your cursor hovered over the message, a part of you hoping you had read the names wrong the first time. But when you opened it again, the reality stayed the same.

Group 5: Y/N, Jake, Jay, Sunghoon.

It was almost laughable. Almost.

The four of you hadn’t been in the same space, in the same conversation, since everything fell apart. And now you were supposed to work together? Pretend things were fine? Smile and collaborate like nothing had happened?

The universe had a cruel sense of humor.

When the time came for your group to meet, the air was thick with unspoken things.

Jake sat at one end of the table, arms crossed, gaze fixed on the surface in front of him. Jay was directly across from him, eyes scanning his notes with the kind of forced focus that meant he was trying to ignore everything else. Sunghoon had taken the seat beside you, the only person in the room who didn’t look like he was mentally preparing for a fight.

You kept your head down, pretending to be deeply invested in adjusting the alignment of your document.

No one spoke first.

It was Jay who broke the silence. “We should probably start by dividing up the work.” Jake didn’t look up. “Whatever.”

Sunghoon leaned back in his chair, shooting a glance at you before responding. “We can split the research first, then decide who’s presenting.” You nodded. “That makes sense.”

Jake let out a quiet scoff.

You froze.

Jay’s expression darkened. “Something you want to say, Jake?” Jake leaned forward slightly, resting his forearms on the table. “Nope. Just love how some people get to make all the decisions now.”

Sunghoon barely reacted, but you felt his presence shift slightly, like he was aware of where this was going before anyone else.

Jay’s jaw tightened. “No one’s making decisions for you. You could try acting like an adult and actually contributing.” Jake’s lips curled into something that wasn’t quite a smirk. “Right, because you’re the expert on maturity.”

Jay dropped his pen onto the table, pushing his chair back an inch. “If you have something to say, just say it.”

Jake shrugged. “I think I just did.”

The silence was sharp, and you wished more than anything that the table would just swallow you whole.

Sunghoon shifted beside you, his tone deceptively light. “Can we not do this here?” Jay exhaled through his nose, rubbing a hand over his face. “Fine. Let’s just get this over with.”

Jake didn’t respond.

The meeting continued, but the tension sat thick between every word exchanged. Jay spoke directly to you and Sunghoon, carefully avoiding Jake. Jake barely said anything at all, but when he did, it was always clipped, almost mocking.

You tried to focus, tried to keep your attention on the work, but the weight of their resentment was suffocating.

At some point, you excused yourself under the pretense of getting water. You weren’t even thirsty, you just needed air.

The hallway outside felt marginally better, though your pulse was still uneven.

You hadn’t even taken two full breaths before Sunghoon followed you out, leaning casually against the wall beside you.

“You okay?” he asked.

You exhaled. “Fine.”

He hummed, unconvinced.

You hesitated. “It’s just… this is unbearable.” He nodded. “Yeah. They’re unbearable.” That almost made you laugh. “That’s not what I said.” “But it’s what you meant.”

You sighed. “Why does it feel like this is never going to end?” Sunghoon glanced toward the closed door. “Because they don’t want it to.” You frowned. “What do you mean?” He looked at you then, gaze steady. “They’re holding onto it. The anger, the guilt, the blame. None of it’s productive, but they’re still gripping it like it’s the only thing that makes sense anymore.”

You swallowed hard. “And you?” “What about me?” “You’re here too. You’re a part of this.” He smiled faintly. “I’m not fighting anyone, am I?”

“No. You’re just…” He raised an eyebrow. “Just what?” You hesitated. “Just making it easier.”

He didn’t say anything to that. He just looked at you for a long moment before nodding toward the door.

“Come on. Let’s finish this.”

The rest of the meeting dragged on, but you noticed things differently now.

You noticed the way Sunghoon redirected conversations whenever tension flared. The way he subtly engaged Jay before he could react to one of Jake’s passive-aggressive remarks. The way he leaned forward slightly when Jake made a comment about “some people” always needing to have things their way, cutting off whatever reaction you might’ve had before you could give it.

It was effortless. Unobtrusive. If you hadn’t been paying attention, you might’ve thought nothing of it.

But you knew better now.

And maybe that was what made it worse.

Because if Sunghoon was stepping in like this, if he was making a point to shield you from the worst of it, then that meant he saw how much it was affecting you.

It meant you weren’t hiding it as well as you thought.

By the time the meeting ended, no one lingered.

Jay was the first to leave, gathering his things quickly and walking out without a word. Jake followed not long after, his expression unreadable.

You sat frozen in your seat, waiting for the tension to dissolve.

It didn’t.

Sunghoon watched you carefully. “You good?” You forced a nod. “Yeah.”

He didn’t look convinced.

For a second, you thought he was going to push you to talk, to admit how much this was getting to you. But he didn’t.

Instead, he just nudged your arm lightly.

“Let’s go.”

And just like that, the suffocating weight in your chest felt a little lighter.

© @leaderwon 2025. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

[kikis-writing-service]

— izuku midoriya x reader

self-indulgent hurt/comfort fic. written as a selfship fic, but you honestly can't really tell. reader is a foreigner in Japan. reader and Izuku are in an established relationship. Content Warnings: Family emotional abuse, neurodivergent masking, low self-esteem, emotional breakdown, hurt/comfort

You've been back in Japan for three days and you still feel like you're suffocating under your own skin.

You're sitting on Izuku's couch, not quite touching but close enough to feel his presence, your spine rigid against the cushions and hands clasped so tightly in your lap that your knuckles have gone white. Every muscle feels coiled, ready to catch the next word before it can escape and ruin everything. Izuku is telling you about the last few weeks while you were gone, hands moving in those animated gestures you usually love, but you can barely focus. You're too busy monitoring yourself—counting the corrections you've already swallowed, measuring the length of your responses, watching his face for any sign that he's getting tired of talking to you.

"—and apparently goldfish only have three-second memories, so they're constantly surprised by their own reflection. Isn't that kind of cute?"

The correction slips out before you can catch it: "That's not actually true."

Your stomach drops. Izuku pauses mid-gesture, and your hands clench reflexively into the fabric of your pants. Shut up shut up shut up.

"Oh?" His voice carries that familiar note of curiosity, the same open interest he's always shown when you know something he doesn't. It should comfort you. Instead, it makes your throat close up.

"Sorry." You press your lips together hard enough to hurt, staring down at your clenched hands. "I didn't mean to interrupt. Keep going."

"No, I want to know—"

"It's not important." The words come out sharp, defensive, and you wrap your arms around yourself like you can physically hold the rest back. "Just...forget I said anything."

There's a long pause. You can feel Izuku's eyes on you, that intense focus that usually makes you feel seen and now makes you want to disappear. When you risk a glance up, confusion is written across his freckled face.

"What's wrong?" he asks. "You love correcting me."

The words hit like a slap. You let out a bitter laugh that sounds more like a sob. "Yeah. That's the problem."

Izuku's confusion deepens. "I don't understand—"

"Of course you don't." The sharpness in your voice makes you immediately flinch. "Sorry, I—I should go. I shouldn't have snapped at you."

You start to stand, but Izuku's hand catches your wrist, gentle but firm.

"No," he says, voice steady but urgent. "Please don't go. Help me understand what's wrong."

You shake your head, still not meeting his eyes. "It's nothing. I'm just tired from the trip."

"That's not true." His voice is gentle but insistent. "You've been different since you got back. Quieter. And just now, when you corrected me about the goldfish, you looked like you wanted to disappear."

"Maybe I should disappear." The words slip out before you can stop them, bitter and raw.

"Hey, baby." He shifts closer on the couch, and you can feel the warmth of his presence even though you're still staring at your hands. His fingers slip under your chin, gently tilting your face up until you meet his eyes. There's so much concern there, so much patient love, that it makes your chest ache. "Talk to me. What happened while you were home?"

The question hangs in the air for a long moment. You can feel the weight of the last two weeks pressing against your chest, all the carefully swallowed words and bitten tongues and forced smiles threatening to spill over.

"It's stupid," you finally say.

"If it's making you feel like this, it's not stupid."

Another silence. You can feel him waiting, patient as always. It's one of the things you love most about him—how he never rushes you, never demands explanations, just sits with you in the uncomfortable spaces until you're ready. It's also one of the things that makes your chest ache with guilt, because how can someone so kind and patient be stuck with someone like you?

"They..." you start, then stop. Take a shaky breath. "My family thinks I'm too much."

His brow creases with immediate concern. "Too much how?"

The gentle question loosens a knot in your chest.

"They said people walk on eggshells around me because I'm always correcting things." Your voice gets smaller. "My cousin said they never know when I'm going to go off about something being wrong."

"Go off?" There's protectiveness creeping into his tone now. "You don't go off about things."

"Don't I?" You pull away from his touch, unable to meet his eyes anymore. "My mom kept asking why I can't just let people be wrong about harmless things. Why I always have to be right about everything."

"And what did you tell her?"

"Nothing." The word comes out flat. "What could I say? That I can't help it? That just proves their point."

Izuku goes very still. When you look up, his green eyes are soft with something that looks like heartbreak. He reaches out slowly, like you might bolt, and gently takes one of your hands. You feel the familiar web of scars across his palm beneath yours—raised edges rough but somehow comforting.

"You're not too much, baby," he says quietly, his thumb brushing across your knuckles. He lifts your joined hands and presses a soft kiss to your fingers. "You've never been too much."

But the words don't stick. They can't, not when you can still hear other voices so much louder.

"But I do talk too much," you say. "I get this tone—this bitchy, condescending tone that I don't even realize I'm doing until I see their faces. And then gradually, people just...stop starting conversations with me. Like talking to me becomes something they have to endure. Like my excitement about knowing things is just...exhausting."

He pauses for a moment, considering. "Maybe you do get that tone sometimes," he says finally. "But if people find your knowledge exhausting instead of amazing, that says more about them than it does about you. I never have to endure talking to you—I get to talk to you."

You feel your throat tighten, torn between wanting to believe him and protecting yourself. "You're different. You're too nice to say anything."

"I'm not just being nice," he says earnestly, and there's something firm in his voice now. "I really do love when you correct me. I genuinely enjoy learning things from you."

The words should comfort you, but they just make your chest tighten. His sincerity only makes it hurt more.

"You should have seen their faces when I told them I have a boyfriend," you say with a bitter laugh. Your eyes start to gloss over with unshed tears, and you feel Izuku press closer against your side, his warmth seeping through your shirt. "They actually looked shocked. My aunt said I better keep my mouth shut and be nice or I'll lose you. Because who would actually want to be around me if I'm just... me?"

"I would," he says quietly, his voice thick with emotion, eyes glossy. "I do."

His words make you go still for a moment, and when you see the tears gathering in his eyes—tears for you, because of what they did to you—your chest tightens painfully. Your expression softens for just a moment before you look away again. When you speak, your voice is quieter, more fragile. "You know what the worst part is? I started talking less and less while I was there. Stopped getting excited about things, stopped sharing what I knew. And nobody asked what was wrong. Nobody even noticed. They just seemed... relieved. Like they finally got the version of me they could tolerate." You wipe at your eyes, voice getting stronger with frustration.

"That's horrible," he whispers, his voice breaking. "They should have been worried when you got quiet, not relieved."

"They wanted me to listen to all their stories and nod along, but the moment I have something to say—something I actually know about—suddenly I'm being difficult. I want to be listened to too," you say quietly.

The first tear spills down Izuku's cheek, cutting a wet track through his freckles. "You are listened to, baby. By me. Always." He leans in to kiss you softly. It's gentle and warm and tastes like him and salt, and when he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours. "Anyone who makes you feel like you have to choose between being heard and being loved...they don't deserve either from you."

You reach up instinctively, thumb brushing the tears away from his cheek. "Hey, it's okay. I'm okay. You don't have to cry."

He just shakes his head, more tears spilling over. "Listen to me," he says, voice fierce despite the tears. "I don't want you to just nod along. I would never want you to be quiet. I love hearing what you think, even when—especially when—you correct me about things."

His words make your carefully held composure crumble. "I tried so hard," you say, your own tears finally spilling over, and you can feel the breakdown building in your chest like a dam about to burst. "I tried to be smaller, quieter, more considerate. I bit my tongue until it bled. But it's never enough, is it? How small do I need to make myself? Do I need to disappear completely?"

"No." He reaches for your hands with trembling fingers. "Please don't say that."

"That's what it feels like," you continue, the words pouring out now. "Like I need to disappear. Like the only way anyone could love me is if there's barely any me left to love."

"No." His hands are warm around yours, solid and real, and you can feel how tightly he's holding on. "Look at me. Please."

You do, reluctantly, and the raw pain in his green eyes nearly undoes you completely. His face is flushed from crying, eyelashes dark and wet, and there's a fierce protectiveness written across his face.

"They're wrong," he says fiercely, his voice thick with tears as he looks directly at you. "They're so wrong it hurts. I love you exactly as you are. I love how your mind works and how passionate you get about getting things right. I love that you can't help but share what you know when something's incorrect."

"But what if they're right?" you sob against his shirt. "What if I really am too much and you just haven't realized it yet?"

"You're not too much, baby," he says firmly, taking your hands in his. "You could never be too much for me. I want all of you—your corrections, your excitement, your passionate rants about everything. All your sharp edges too. I fell in love with your mind, not some watered-down version of it." He squeezes your hands gently, his green eyes earnest and unwavering. "Your need to get things right, to educate and inform—that comes from caring, not from wanting to hurt people. Don't let them make you ashamed of something that makes you who you are."

You lean into his touch, feeling the weight in your chest start to lift for the first time in weeks. "What if it takes time? To believe that again?"

"Then we'll take all the time you need." His smile is watery but real, and he leans forward to press a gentle kiss to your forehead, lingering there for a moment. "I'll remind you every day if I have to. I'll remind you that your voice matters, that your thoughts are valuable, that your passion is something beautiful. I'll keep telling you until their voices get quieter and mine gets louder."

You take a shaky breath. "Goldfish can actually remember things for months, not seconds. They can be trained to navigate mazes and recognize faces and respond to different colored lights. The three-second memory thing is a harmful myth that makes people think it's okay to keep intelligent animals in barren, tiny bowls where they slowly go insane from understimulation."

As you talk, you can feel yourself straightening slightly, your voice getting stronger. Izuku's face lights up with genuine fascination, and for the first time in weeks, you remember what it feels like to be appreciated instead of tolerated.

"That's awful," he says, eyes already beginning to glisten again with fresh tears. "I had no idea they were that intelligent."

"Most people don't. And when you try to tell them, they look at you like you're some militant animal rights activist who can't let people enjoy things." Your voice gets steadier as you continue. "Which, according to my family, is exactly the kind of thing that makes people uncomfortable around me."

"Your family is wrong about that," he says softly, wiping at his eyes. "And I'm sorry they made you feel like caring about things is something to apologize for."

The words soothe the ache that's been lodged in your chest for weeks. You're still fragile, still hearing echoes of other voices, but underneath it all, you remember: this is what love looks like. Not someone asking you to be smaller, but someone asking you to take up exactly as much space as you need.

He pulls you closer until you're curled against his side, his arm solid and warm around you. And for the first time since you got back, wrapped in his arms with his heartbeat steady under your ear, you actually believe him.

[itsnotamatterofif]

I will hold my hands up and say I misread this slightly anon I’m so sorry 😭 you can have wrench and one other electric which I elected as Joule, sorry I didn’t bring in the whole gang. I hope this is okay for you anyway!

Send me some characters and a prompt and I’ll write you a Drabble!

Watching Wrench at work is always fascinating.

Electrics are always elegant - Joule knows this better than anyone - but watching Wrench busy about her office, fluid like water as she twists around flatbeds and stations covered in various tools and resources, is like watching a ballet dancer in the midst of her craft. Focused and dedicated, Joule can’t take her eyes off her as she dances, clearing up the remains of a hard day’s work with hoovers for the metal filings and cabinets full of records for every truck, coach, and engine in the yard.

“C’mon Wrenchie,” Joule drawls, foot swinging in the air where she’s perched on one of the various surfaces around the repair shed, “you’ve been at it all day, and Volta’s waiting for you to begin evening relaxation - something about a human film he found that he wants us all to watch.”

All Wrench does is hum, not even bothering to look over.

“Love to tell you what it’s about, but I can’t say as I cared enough to listen to his explanation,” Joule continues, filling the air as Wrench continues to clear up, “something about a model? I dunno’, a weird biopic I assume”

As she pauses for a response, there’s once again silence from the shed; Wrench now has her nose stuck in a book, a discarded one that she’s only just decided is interesting again, blatantly ignoring whatever Joule is saying. Starlight knows how much she loves the lot of them, but Wrench doesn’t half know how to press her buttons sometimes.

With a roll of her eyes, Joule leans back against the cold wall of the shed, crossing her arms tightly across her chest. “Did you hear a word I just said?”

“Mmhm,” Wrench replies immediately, robotically, “Volta. Movie. Biopic. Sounds boring.”

“And your book is infinitely more interesting?” Joule asks sceptically, “C’mon, ‘Lecca asked me specifically to bring you home, you’ve been at work for ages and we miss you.”

“These stock aren’t going to fix themselves,” Wrench mutters, playing with the corner of the book absentmindedly, “and yes, the production of Hydrogen from inexhaustible supplies of fresh and salt water using microbial reverse-electrodialysis electrolysis cells is more interesting - that tanker might be annoying but he has some interesting ideas. Improbable, but interesting.”

Fuck, Joule hates it when Wrench feels like she has to prove that she’s smarter than everyone else; it doesn’t happen often, usually when she’s too tired to put on that mask of interest in anything outside of her work, and although Joule knows it’s not intentional, it’s frustrating sometimes for the knowledge alone that it means Wrench has been exhausting herself again. Unsurprisingly she keeps getting stuck in the same cycles of work and research until she can barely keep herself standing anymore, but thankfully by now they’ve all learned the signs.

“Alright, you’re not making any sense,” Joule concludes, pushing herself to her wheels as Wrench finally looks up from the text for a moment before looking back down again, “so I think we might be skipping Volta’s shitty movie and getting you straight to bed-”

“I don’t need to go to bed,” Wrench interrupts calmly, still not looking up the book as Joule skates over, “I’m quite alright, Joule, just tell the others to start the film without me.”

“Nah, not going to do that,” Joule states, and finally Wrench looks up, eyes wide and innocent, “you’re coming with me - when was the last time you actually finished reading that page? I’ve been watching you for at least five minutes now, and I don’t think I’ve seen you turn the page once.”

Now that Wrench is looking up at her, it’s clear how exhausted she is, from the dullness of her visual LEDs to the slightly disjointed appearance of her hair. Rarely on the busier days does she get time to herself, and each of the components have made trips similar to Joule’s to try and lure Wrench out of the shed to varying degrees of success.

“It’s a complex subject matter,” Wrench argues weakly, but offers no resistance as Joule gently tugs the book out of her hands, threading the ribbon through the spine to place it to one side, “if I don’t finish the paper, I won’t have a grasp of the concepts before the meeting with the chemist next week.”

“And you can finish it tomorrow,” Joule assures, taking Wrench’s hands to begin leading her out of the shed; almost immediately as the book is down, Wrench visibly sags, deep breath shuddering through her vents as she leans against Joule for a bit of support, “you’ve only got our check-ups tomorrow, right? We’re all good, shouldn’t take you longer than an hour or so, and then that’s all afternoon to read about your stupid fuel cells.”

“They’re not stupid,” Wrench grumbles, and meanders over to click the lights off as Joule begins to lead her out of the shed, “they’re fascinating, and have the potential to be highly efficient.”

“Sure.” The shutter is gently tugged closed behind them, and she watches as Wrench reacts in discomfort to the sudden darkness of the world outside as well as the stark lights of the repair shed being shut off. “You can tell me about them as I get you home, but as soon as we get in, you’re resting-”

“Could we all go to the Master’s room?” Wrench asks quietly, almost as if she’s nervous to ask, but Joule can’t help but smile widely, “when I got in last night everyone was off doing their own thing, but it’s been a while since we were all together.”

“I’ll check with ‘Lecca,” Joule confirms happily, immediately worth it to see the pleasant smile blooming on Wrench’s face, “but you know Wattsy and Volta definitely won’t say no - his stupid film can wait.”

If Wrench’s hand tightens around hers, neither of them say anything.