#i just want to draw and write and draw and write and draw and write

[shyoko]

✧When an Enhypen member catches another jerking off to you ✦༺

𓂃✧This writing is my own; no copies, adaptations, or translations are allowed. I hope you like it. ✦ 3.7K words * Masterlist˚ Taglist₊‧ ✦𓂃 

enhypen x reader ⚠️ CW : NSFW / +18 — rough sex, jealousy, voyeurism, possessive & dominant behavior, light choking, wall sex, public risk, filming, dirty talk, eye contact, light humiliation, masturbation (caught), third-party presence, intense kissing. Minors DNI. Read responsibly.

✧ Heeseung ----------

Heeseung walked toward Sunghoon’s room with total calm, like any other day. He just wanted to tell him to hurry up—it was time to leave. But before he could even knock on the door, he stopped.

A deep, rough, wet sound. Staggered breaths. Soft thumps against the mattress.

And he knew.

His first instinct was to laugh. The second, disgust. But what he didn’t expect… was rage.

Heeseung swung the door open.

Sunghoon straightened on the bed, startled. His phone slipped from his hand—and that hand, still wrapped around his cock, froze.

The silence was brutal. Until Heeseung looked down at the screen.. And saw it. A photo of you. Your body. Your face. Yours.

His jaw tightened. He grabbed the phone, the screen still glowing with the image Sunghoon had been using. Without a word, he deleted it. His finger trembled with fury.

He slowly turned toward him.

“Honestly? I feel like breaking your fucking face.”

Sunghoon didn’t speak. Didn’t move. He knew he’d fucked up.

But Heeseung didn’t lunge at him. Not yet. He walked over, slowly, phone still in hand, until he was standing right in front of him. His stare burned.

“You jerk off to my girl… and don’t even have the decency to hide it?”

“You’re that desperate you need to get off to her face right here?”

Sunghoon swallowed hard, still naked under the sheets.

“It wasn’t serious... just a picture—”

“Shut the fuck up.”

Heeseung leaned in and grabbed him by the collar, dragging him closer.

“Wanna know what she does when she cums? What she moans, what she begs for, what she swallows when she’s on her knees for me?”

He let go with a shove, knocking Sunghoon back onto the bed.

“You’ve got a picture. I’ve got her body screaming my name. And I’m not letting some bastard like you jerk off to that.”

Heeseung turned to leave, but paused at the door.

“Next time I catch you looking at her like that… I won’t delete the picture. I’ll smash your fucking face into the wall.”

And with trembling fingers, he slammed the door behind him.

…

Later that day, on his way to your place, a dark idea crossed Heeseung’s mind. When you opened the door, his face was already flushed with something dangerous. He stepped in, gently but with purpose, and lifted you into his arms, drawing a gasp from your lips.

“You’ve got a mission today, baby,” he growled with a wicked smile. “You’re gonna moan my name, real loud,for me.”

He set you down on the kitchen counter and pulled out his phone.

“Alright, sweetheart?”

He placed the phone to the side, voice memo already recording—right into Sunghoon’s chat.

Before you could react, his lips crashed onto yours, his hands roaming down your sides until they reached your panties. He yanked them off and tossed them somewhere across the kitchen.

He was rough, but not cruel—his fingers slid into you without warning, finding a steady rhythm. Moans poured out of you, his name echoing with each breathless cry. A satisfied smile curled on Heeseung’s lips.

“That’s my fucking good girl.”

His fingers moved faster, hitting spots you didn’t even know existed. By the time you came undone in his hand, the message had already been sent—Heeseung eager to picture the shame and fury on Sunghoon’s face.

But it took less than a minute to get a reply. And it broke Heeseung.

“Damn, Heeseung, our girl sounds so good. Thanks for the audio. I’ll put it to good use tonight.”

Heeseung nearly exploded.

“OUR girl? That motherfucker!”

His face flushed red with rage. You didn’t know how this would end, but one thing was clear: these two were either going to kill each other… or fuck.

And honestly, the second one sounded a whole lot more likely.

✧ Jay ----------

Your legs were still trembling on the bed, your whole body sensitive from what Jay had just done to you. He placed a soft kiss on your forehead while his hand gently caressed your thigh.

“I’m going to grab a towel to clean you up. Don’t move.”

You nodded silently, still breathless, your chest rising and falling in uneven waves. Jay walked calmly out of the room, but as he passed a half-open door in the hallway, he stopped.

There was a sound. Panting. And your name.

The voice was unmistakable. Jungwon was inside, gasping hard, your name slipping from his lips in broken sighs.

Jay froze. For a second, he couldn't believe it—but that was all the time he needed to understand. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and returned to the room without saying a word.

You looked at him, puzzled when he came back empty-handed.

“Everything okay?” you asked, sensing something in his expression.

Jay didn’t answer. Instead, he walked straight to the bed and took your legs in his hands, spreading them apart without warning. You shivered.

“No. Everything’s not okay.”

He leaned over you, his eyes burning with something fierce.

“You wanna know what I heard in the hallway?”

“Jungwon. Saying your name. While he jerked himself off.”

Your face went blank. You didn’t say anything, you couldn’t. But Jay didn’t seem to care.

“I’m going to make sure he hears this loud and fucking clear.”

He lowered himself between your thighs, not bothering with tenderness this time. His tongue was fierce—fast, focused, relentless.  A loud moan escaped your lips before you could stop it.

Jay glanced up and muttered:

“That. That’s the sound I want.”

He climbed over you, flipped you onto your stomach with swift hands, and raised your hips until you were on all fours.

“You’re going to scream my name. So loud he’ll never dare think of you again.”

Without warning, he thrust into you hard, drawing a sharp cry from your lips. His rhythm was fast, intense, merciless.

“Say it. I want to hear it.”

“Jay… fuck, Jay…!”

“Louder.”

“JAY! It’s you, only you!”

He let out a low growl of satisfaction and drove into you harder, gripping your waist tight as the sound of skin against skin filled the room.

“That’s it. Let him hear it. Let him know who you belong to.”

His hands ran up your back, then tangled in your hair, pulling you slightly back.

“Are you still thinking about him?”

“Do you like that he’s listening?”

You couldn’t answer. The pleasure was overwhelming. Your body trembled with every thrust until you finally came undone with a choked cry, and Jay felt it—your walls tightening around him.

He held you tighter, his breathing ragged.

“I’m going to brand this into your skin.”

And he did.

He came deep inside you with a strained groan, resting his forehead on your back, still for a moment, letting his breath cool on your skin.

Then, without letting go, he whispered:

“He better not touch himself thinking about you again. Because next time…”“…I’ll leave the door wide open. So he doesn’t just hear it. He sees it.”

✧ Jake ----------

You were on a video call with Jake, sitting on your bed, wearing one of his oversized shirts that barely reached mid-thigh. Your hair was a bit messy, your expression soft and playful. He watched you from his room, smiling as you talked about your day—silly things, random thoughts—laughing, making cute gestures, absentmindedly playing with the hem of the shirt.

What you didn’t know… was that someone else was in the room with him.

Ni-ki.

He was sitting on the other side of the desk, wearing headphones, supposedly watching a video. But Jake noticed something was off. He saw how Ni-ki subtly glanced at the screen… and how his hand disappeared beneath the desk.

Jake froze.

He looked back at the screen. You were still smiling, crossing your legs innocently.

Then he heard it. A soft gasp. From Ni-ki.

And just like that, something snapped inside him.

Without a word, Jake closed his laptop. He stood up, stormed across the room, and yanked the headphones off Ni-ki. With one swift motion, he shoved his chair back.

“Are you out of your fucking mind?”

Ni-ki didn’t answer. He just lowered his head, ashamed, but not apologizing.

Jake’s jaw clenched. He slammed the door shut, hard. Then walked back, reopened his laptop, and your face reappeared on the screen.

“Jake? What happened? Are you okay?”

He sat down in front of the camera, his gaze locked on you.

“Nothing. I just… I can’t stop thinking about how fucking good you look in my shirt.”

You laughed nervously. Jake smiled too, but something had shifted. His eyes were darker. Hungry.

“Can you do something for me, baby?”

“Slide the shirt off one shoulder. Just a little.”

You blinked in surprise, but obeyed. You let the fabric fall, baring your shoulder.

Jake exhaled sharply. He knew Ni-ki was still in the room, silent, stuck, knowing he couldn’t leave.

“That’s it. Stay like that. Now show me a little more.”

You bit your lip, hesitating.

“Why are you being like this…?”

“Because someone was watching you the way they shouldn’t. And now I need to remind him who you belong to.”

You looked down, shy, but there was something in your eyes. A spark. Jake saw it. And that was all he needed.

“I’m going to make sure you hear exactly what I’d do to you if you were here…”

And without warning, he pulled his sweatpants down, his hand wrapping around himself slowly, deliberately.

Your eyes widened. Your breath quickened.

Jake licked his lips and smirked, knowing Ni-ki was still frozen in the corner, watching it all unfold.

“This is for you. And if anyone else dares to look again… I’ll break their fucking hands.”

He didn’t take his eyes off the camera as his hand began to move with more rhythm. Your cheeks flushed. You couldn’t look away.

Your thighs instinctively pressed together, and Jake noticed instantly.

“Are you squeezing your legs?”

“Open them.”

Your breath hitched. You did as he said, slowly, trembling.

“Just like that. Let me see.”

Then his tone dropped, deep and cutting, as he tilted his head slightly.

“And you, the one in the back… listen well.”

“This face. These moans. They’re mine. And all you’ll ever get… is the sound of me fucking her until she can’t even speak.”

His eyes returned to you, darker now, his hand pumping faster.

“Touch yourself.”

“I want to see you soaking wet, knowing someone else is dying to be me… but never will.”

Your hand slipped under the shirt. A soft whimper escaped your lips, and Jake groaned in response.

“That’s it, baby. Give it all to me. I want you to come for me, right now… while he sits there, not even able to breathe without hating himself for wanting you.”

✧ Sunghoon ----------

Sunghoon hadn’t expected to walk in on that.

He was just heading up to grab a hoodie he’d lent Heeseung, but as he passed by the slightly open door… he heard it.

Moans. Your name. And it wasn’t his own voice saying it. He peeked in, curious… and saw.

Heeseung was leaning against the headboard, body tense, his hand moving steadily between his legs. But what truly froze him in place was what Heeseung was holding in the other hand: A photo of you. That photo of you at the beach. The one only Sunghoon had. He stared for a few seconds in silence, not moving. Until Heeseung opened his eyes… and saw him.

“Shit…” he muttered, instantly pulling his hand away. The photo dropped to the floor.

Sunghoon didn’t say anything at first. He glanced down, picked up the picture calmly, slid it into the back pocket of his jeans… then looked up with a raised brow.

“Are you seriously jerking off to my girl?”

Heeseung opened his mouth, but nothing coherent came out.

Sunghoon just watched him. No yelling. No anger.

“Wanna really see her?”

Heeseung frowned, confused.

“Then come with me.”

…

Minutes later, Heeseung was sitting in the corner armchair of Sunghoon’s bedroom. From there, he had the perfect view.

You were on the bed, wearing a loose shirt that barely covered you. You didn’t know anyone else was there. You were smiling at Sunghoon, that smile that always drove him insane.

He leaned in, kissed you softly, and gently pushed the fabric up to expose your hips.

“Can I have you now, baby?”

“Always, Hoon…” you whispered, hands gliding up to his neck.

He laid you down carefully, settling between your thighs, trailing kisses down your skin like he had all the time in the world.

“You look so fucking beautiful like this…”

From the chair, Heeseung watched, breath shallow, heart racing.

Sunghoon leaned down, lips brushing yours as he whispered:

“Do me a favor…”

“What kind…?”

“Moan for me. Loud this time I want someone else to hear what he’ll never have.”

And then he pushed into you, deep and smooth. Your moan was soft at first, but it rose with each thrust.

The pace wasn’t rushed—it was intense, focused, like Sunghoon was trying to claim every inch of you.

On the chair, Heeseung was already falling apart. His hand slid down. Slowly at first.

He couldn’t look away. Your body. Your lips. The way you arched beneath Sunghoon…

And then your eyes found his. You looked straight at him. Held his gaze. And smiled. A soft, teasing, breathless smile full of heat.

While Sunghoon gripped your hips and thrust harder, you never broke eye contact with Heeseung. You bit your lip. Raised your hips. Took him deeper.

And then you moaned. Loud. Shameless. For him. Looking right at him.

And Heeseung? 

He completely lost it.

✧ Sunoo ----------

The house was completely silent when you got up to look for Sunoo. You’d woken in the middle of the night, missing the warmth of his body next to yours.

Barefoot, and wearing nothing but one of your oversized shirts, you walked quietly down the hallway. A faint light shone beneath one of the doors—you assumed he was there.

You didn’t knock. You just opened the door softly…

And froze. Jake was sitting on the bed, shirtless, his face tense, his hand between his legs. But that wasn’t the worst part. It was what he was holding in his arms. Your shirt. The one you swore you’d tossed in the dirty laundry.

And his voice…

“Fuck, Y/n…”

Then he looked up—and saw you.

His whole face shifted, panic crashing into him all at once. He sat up fast, still breathless, guilt painted across his expression.

“Y/n… I didn’t—”

But he never got to finish. The door behind you flew open. Sunoo.

He grabbed your arm without saying a word, slammed the door shut behind you both, and pulled you down the hallway toward his room.

You didn’t resist. You couldn’t speak. His face was unreadable—but in his eyes, there was something new.

Rage. Wounded pride. And desire.

Once inside, he closed the door behind you. Still holding your wrist, his eyes swept over you slowly.

“Are you okay?” he asked, voice low and restrained. You nodded, still in shock at what you'd just walked in on.

Sunoo took a deep breath. Stepped closer. Then again.

Until your back hit the door. His hand rose to your face, his thumb brushing your cheek, but his gaze never softened.

“Don’t go walking into rooms that aren’t mine again.”

His tone wasn’t gentle. It was firm. Dominant. And that version of him turned you on instantly.

“You’re mine.”

Then, without warning, he kissed you. Hard. No hesitation.

His tongue claimed your mouth like he owned it, and his hands slid down your waist, pushing you toward the bed. He pulled your shirt off in one swift move, then laid you down—careful, but relentless. He climbed over you, his skin warm against yours, his expression unreadable but intense.

“Did he touch you?”

You shook your head.

“Did he speak to you?”

“Only my name…” you whispered.

Sunoo leaned in, mouth brushing your ear.

“Then you’re going to moan it loud enough that he never dares say it again.”

His hands slid to your hips, then his mouth followed—trailing down your belly, slow and sure.

He wasn’t in a rush. He was claiming you.

Every kiss, every lick, every soft whimper he pulled from your lips was his way of branding you—reminding you, and anyone else listening, exactly who you belonged to.

And as you melted beneath his touch, something became painfully clear:

Sweet, perfect Sunoo… also knew exactly how to be ruthlessly yours.

✧ Jungwon ----------

Jungwon had only planned to grab a hoodie. That was it. Nothing more, nothing weird.

But as he passed by the slightly open door to Sunoo’s room… he heard something.Fast breathing. Soft, muffled moans.

He paused. Stepped closer—quietly. And then he saw it.

Sunoo, sitting at the edge of the bed, panting, one hand gripping a wrinkled shirt, the other working between his legs. But the worst part?

What was right in front of him. A photo of you.

One that only you and Jungwon should have. One of those private ones you’d taken after a shower, late one night.

Jungwon didn’t make a sound. He just shut the door—quietly—before Sunoo could even realize he’d been seen.

Then he turned and went straight back to his room, where you were sitting on the bed, scrolling through your phone, wearing one of his shirts and absolutely nothing underneath.

He looked at you for a long second. Then walked over and gently took the phone from your hands.

“Come here. Lie down.”

“What’s going on?”

“We’re going to film something together.”

“Wait… what?”

“Sunoo’s jerking off to a photo of you. So let’s give him something better.”

Your eyes widened completely. But you didn’t speak. Because Jungwon was already setting up his phone, placing it on the shelf across from the bed—angled perfectly.

Then he turned to you, undressing quickly, every movement calm, controlled, intense. He crawled between your legs, eyes burning.

“You ready?”

“Y-Yeah…” 

He kissed you. Not softly. It was deep, consuming—needy.

His hands moved over your body, lifting the shirt, exposing your skin, and in seconds, you were completely naked beneath him, lying back as he spread you open with his fingers.

“Look me in the eyes. I want that bastard to see everything.”

Then he pushed inside you in one smooth, hard motion.

You gasped—his name tearing from your lips without warning.

Jungwon started to move. Fast. But deliberate. Every thrust purposeful. Every sound, every angle, timed and measured. His hips snapped against you with force. His hands gripped your waist tight.

“This… is what it looks like when I really have you.”“When you’re wet for me. When you moan my name. When you come just for me.”

He reached up, wrapping a hand around your throat—not tight, just to hold you close, keep your eyes locked to his.

“I want you to come while looking at me.”“Knowing someone else is going to be watching this with his hand down his pants.”

His voice—those words—broke something inside you. The pleasure surged. You came hard, screaming his name, trembling underneath him.

Jungwon growled against your mouth, feeling you tighten around him—and followed right after, spilling inside you with a low, shaky moan. He stayed there for a moment, panting, forehead resting against yours.

Then he looked toward the camera. Got up, picked up the phone, and typed:

“Here’s some better material to jerk off to 😏🔥”

And hit send.

✧ Ni-ki ----------

You’d gotten up quickly—barefoot, half-asleep—just wanting to use the bathroom before crawling back into bed.

You opened the door without thinking… And froze. Jay was there. Standing in front of the mirror, shirt lifted, pants low, his hand wrapped tightly around his erection.

But that wasn’t what knocked the air out of your lungs. It was the phone, resting on the sink edge. The photo on the screen. You.

The one you’d taken at the beach—from the back, in that tiny bikini. The one only Ni-ki was supposed to have.

Jay met your eyes. And didn’t stop. His hand kept moving—slower now, but firmer. He didn’t look ashamed. Or guilty. Just hungry.

“Now that you’re here…”“You gonna stay—or just stand there and watch?”

You had no idea what to say. You stammered something you couldn’t even remember, took a step back, and shut the door with your heart hammering in your throat. You ran back to the room.

Ni-ki was lying on the bed, phone in hand.

“Niki…” you whispered.

He looked up.

“What’s wrong?”

“I saw Jay… in the bathroom… he was— He was touching himself… to my photo.”

Ni-ki went silent. He didn’t say a word. He got up slowly. Walked out the door. Closed it behind him.

You were left there, sitting on the bed, breath caught in your chest, not knowing what was about to happen. You didn’t know how much time passed before he returned. But when he did—he didn’t give you a chance to think.

The door swung open hard. Ni-ki stepped in, slammed it shut, and grabbed your arm with a firm grip you’d never felt from him before. He pressed you back against the door, his body against yours, eyes dark and locked on you.

“That photo?” —he said, voice low and sharp— “Only I was supposed to see it.”

Then he kissed you—hard. Fierce. Uncontrolled.

His hands slipped down to your thighs, lifting you easily, forcing your legs around his waist. Your back hit the door. His mouth moved down your neck.

“I’m gonna fuck you right here.”“Where anyone can hear it. Just so it’s clear who really owns you.”

He yanked your underwear down, let his pants fall, and entered you in one swift, deep thrust. No waiting. No words.

The door creaked under the pressure of every thrust. His hands gripped your hips tightly, his moans hot against your skin.

“He touched himself thinking about you?”“Then let him hear you moaning for me.”

Your body arched against him, legs shaking from the intensity. Each thrust was fast, firm, perfectly placed.

You were completely his. The way he filled you—so deep, so full—you couldn’t even breathe.

“Say it. Tell me who you belong to.”

“You! I’m yours, Ni-ki! Only yours!”

“Louder. Let them all fucking hear it.”

And you did.

You screamed his name when you came, clutching his back, trembling against him. He followed just seconds later—buried inside you, body shaking, forehead pressed to yours as he whispered:

“No one else. Ever.”

✧A/n: Do you know what I’m obsessed with? Sunghoon and Heeseung fighting over the reader — like aaaah!!, I need to write more about them like this!!! I hope you liked it! Comments, likes, and reblog are really appreciated!! Mwah!Mwha! ilysm

✧Taglis: @lezleeferguson-120 @nuki-riki @ijustwannareadstuff20 @vvenusoncasual @miellette @enhacolor @xxkatsusjinsux @somieverse @ourshin @han-to-my-minho @douqhnxtss @nuggets4lifers @mitmit01 @highway-143 @ddeonuswife

[cleverpaws]

also they dont just have books...... libraries r a public resource for many a reason. if you dont particularly want to read books rn thats a okay maybe u will find something cool while going there to

print something out

borrow video games

borrow movies

go to free community events. FREE!!!

srsly they have arts ... and even crafys. and also other things

u could even yap w the librarians abt media when theyre not busy. just think

you can just go there. for no particular reason. maybe to study or to work on a writing project or even to draw sometimes it just nice to be in a public space that has no expectation of you Buying anything

really this all depends library to library. ur local library will probably have something cool that is specific to it/your area thats not on this list. and thats awesome i thjnk

and even if u dont find any books u want to read. also fine. ur still supporting them by going at all. hooray for the dwindling but still vibrant life of third spaces

[littlelovelunette]

Ambessa or Sevika putting reader over her knee while doing paperwork spanking them every time they get frustrated with work completely ignoring the reader

Frustration

Featuring— Ambessa Medarda and Sevika

Warnings: Spanking, mildly smut.

Ambessa Medarda !

Ambessa was so nonchalant about it when she pulled you over her lap and ripped your panties off your ass as if it was the thinnest fabric on earth.

"My my." She taunted. "What a slutty underwear," she throws away the useless fabric, "Must've chosen it out to give me a show." She squeezed your ass. "Right, dearest?"

You got goosebumps as you grip the side of her chair, drawing in a deep breath as you feel Ambessa's big hand covering the entirety of your ass.

"Too bad, I'll be a little too busy to give you that sore of attention right now."

Ambessa's right hand lifted off your back and she concentrated on the paperwork, pen gliding smoothly down the paper as she filled in some calculations for her next long campaign. A number went a little too high— the first swat came down on your ass cheeks. Smack!

It was loud, your cheeks jiggled from the force and a slight red handprint formed afterwards.

"So sorry, doll."

She rubbed your butt, as if comforting you from the sting of her hand as she focused on writing again, muttering the additions as she scribbled some more numbers onto the little tables of the documents. You moved a little, shifting slightly to get comfortable and earned another swat. Then another.

Smack! Smack!

Tight, hard. Unforgiving.

"Don't want your wife angry, now do you, sweetie?" Ambessa asked simply as she stacked the papers and put them away, dragging a new file towards herself.

"Nuh-uh," you muttered.

"Louder."

Smack! Smack! Smack!

"I'm sorry, no, please... I don't want you angry at me." You whimpered, teary eyed as you clutched the chair for dear life.

"There we go. Such a sweet girl."

Ambessa squeezed your ass with one hand as she traced the lines of the paragraph printed on the document with the other. You didn't know how long you stayed there over her lap, letting her use your ass as a stress reliever.

Whenever the numbers didn't add up right, she smacked your ass as if that would solve all her problems. They werent hard smacks necessarily but they were tight and harsh in their own ways.

"Ambessa... It stings a lot..." You whimpered out, sniffling.

"Is that so?" Ambessa squeezed your right buttcheek— smack!

And it went on for the day...

Sevika !

Sevika hated whenever she needed to arrange up a new blue print for her mechanical arm. Although she knew Silco would easily have an expert mechanic do it for her if asked but she didn't want to rely on anyone for help— that's just how she was. You brought her a glass of whiskey. She worked the best with alcohol afterall.

"If you need anything else, call for me I'll be right here," you smiled and gave her shoulder a squeeze.

Her hand wrapped around your waist. "Come."

You blushed when she snuggly pulled you over her lap but then the giddiness was replaced by something darker— lust. You felt the way she eyed your plump ass and teased the hem of your skirt before pulling it up.

"Pretty," she traced the lace of your panties. "I've been stressed. I need a way to cope."

"Cope?" Your curiousity was cut short.

Smack!

Your eyes widened and a small gasp left your throat. Sevika paused to take in your reaction before she chucked and dipped two fingers at your crotch, pushing your panties aside, pulling them back and showing you how they were slicked in your juices.

"Filthy slut. You liked that, didn't you?"

Smack! Smack!

You didnt have an answer for her and so that night you stayed like that, awaiting a smack every time Sevika got stuck over a calculation or a complicated gearing.

By the time Sevika was done, your ass was covered in red and was sore. The stinging pain made you wanna rub it but you didn't dare move from your place.

"Look at ya', all quiet and compliant for me."

Sevika pulled your panties down, her calloused flesh hand running down the curve of your now reddened ass. You let out a low whimper.

"Did so well for me, mama," she let you up and had you sit on her lap. You wrapped your arms around her and rested your face against her chest. "You're okay now." She whispered and held you close. "My good girl."

[blushhbambi]

† REPULSION ་࿐

── ˙ ̟ ೕ !! ꣑୧ rafe cameron x preachersdaughter!reader mdniᝰ.ᐟ dark!rafe, inexperienced!reader, religious themes / guilt, implied childhood friends, fingering, tit sucking, dub con, references to cannibalism, a little blood at the end... . ༉‧₊˚. word count;³`⁵k a/n ૮꒰˶  - ˕ -꒱ა ahh I love this gif sm, listened to ethel the whole time writing ! wanted to give rafe an isaiah vibe kindaaa... can u guys tell ? planning a part two !!

"you poor thing. sweet mourning lamb."— ptolemea, ethel cain

rafe cameron was not religious.

but god you made him feel like he had to repent. you, the perfect preachers' daughter, homeschooled and sweet, foreign to the kook-pogue bullshit going on in the outer banks. he'd only caught glances of you lately, so different from the endless, humid summer nights of previous years, you'd grown, you'd changed. he wondered if you even remembered it, both of you being so careless and so much younger.

in church you'd always sit right up front, in your sunday best under your father's watchful eye, draped in white lace or thin cotton. your hair would frame your face so perfectly and the way you tapped your little heels into the dark wood beneath the pews, even the cross that hung around your neck delicately, snug between the swell of your chest made rafe dizzy with desire.

you were like a dream in the dusty, old church, a break in the underlying smell of rot and mildew that traced the corners of the small wooden hall. you still held that naive look in your eye from your youth.

still so clean, so pure— sinless.

all of it made rafes stomach turn, he felt sick, perverted, disgusting and hungry.

so hungry.

all while he stood tense and brooding beside his father, in the back of the service with his head full of filth, imagining you spread before him whining out his name like a prayer. he wanted to feel your skin under his teeth while he broke through your soft, supple flesh and hear that satisfying cry of pain fall out from your lips.

wanting to taint you, adulterate you to his own putrescence. he could have any girl on the island, but he wanted you.

that sickness in him seemed to spread, twisting into almost obsession over the years, as he found himself lurking after mass more and more often. throwing you lazy smirks and attempted conversations before you were inevitably tugged away by your father. god knows what provoked him, maybe the blasphemous desperation in his head, as he strode forward.

he held that usual smug quirk in his lip as he approached you, small, quiet you, with his typical unwavering confidence in the dim, close to empty hall. you were sorting out donations, busying yourself, trying to be helpful before you perk up at that all too familiar coo of your name.

“hey.”

you blink up suddenly, all smiling and friendly, “rafe—”.

he stares at the curve of your lips, his head feeling light as you sound his name, letting it leave your lips so gracefully, before glancing back up to your eyes as you tilt your head.

“it's been a while, I haven't seen you for the recent services.”, your voice was delicate and cherubic, just like the rest of you, so quiet the church mice would fill with envy. you turned properly, staring up at him. giving him the whole of your attention as you always did.

“I've had better things to do,” he nods, drawing out his words heavily, almost boasting, watching you practically beam up at him under his gaze. you always found him funny even when he was mean or borderline offensive, he liked that. suddenly his brow furrows as he leans closer. a tick in his lazy smile and he's all serious, staring you down. he lets his hand reach out to your small frame, tracing the skin of your shoulder with two long fingers, leaving trails of a burning sensation. you hold back a shiver as you shift on your feet.

“and I think you do too.”

a laugh bubbles from between your soft lips, shaking your head, half nervous half curious, but you know what he's doing. he always did this. cooing and coaxing you away from what was important. you're about to object when he interrupts.

“nah, nah— none of that shit, angel”, he huffs quickly, shaking his head right back at you, almost humoured by your attempt to brush him off, his dark hair tossing across his forehead.

“c’mon—”

the next thing you know you're being tugged away right under your father's nose just like you remember in your half formed, honey-sweet memories of childhood, stained by bible studies and sunlight.

suddenly you're sitting quietly and brimming with nerves in the passenger seat of his expensive truck parked out in the empty fields behind the church. he's sipping at a beer lazily watching you. the top buttons of his shirt undone revealing a slither of his tanned, summer skin. you know this was wrong, so wrong, but you couldn't help but want a taste of the sickeningly sweet temptation that was rafe cameron. was that so wrong ?

“your daddy's been keeping you away from me, huh?”, he smiles toothy and playful, hiding a simmering frustration and suddenly you don't know what to say. it was true, rafe grew up rough and mean and eventually, those hazy childhood afternoons were stripped away from you.

he gulps down the rest of his drink and you find your eyes dragging down to the bob of his throat and following the outline of his adams apple. you swallow back your need and adjust the length of your skirt, subtly pressing your thighs together.

“s'not like that's my fault,”, you mutter softly, all shy and awkward tugging at a loose string of your dress. he couldn't help but let his eyes drift to the skin of your thighs then again over the chain that dipped under the curve of your chest. a subtle reminder of what you were, as the little crucifix glinted in the dimming sunlight.

“never said it was.”

“but you said it like it was—”

“y'know you really piss me off sometimes.”, he raised his voice above yours in the small of his truck abruptly, making your head whip up, blinking up at his dark eyes boring through your skin. a beat passes as you stare at each other before he rolls his jaw and tosses his beer bottle out into the brambles that hid you two from roaming eyes.

“d’you even know what you do to me?”

you shake your head softly before trying to get words to bubble up through your suddenly dry throat, his tone firm and serious. your mouth opens to speak but you only manage a little murmur.

"rafe— i— i dunno what your talking ‘bout…”

your lip catches between your teeth as you force your eyes down, keeping them to yourself.

a soft sigh leaves your lips as you tense, clasping your hands together tightly in your lap, you knew this wouldn't go over well. he's still staring you down, you can feel it. how burdensome his gaze was as he watched you swallow down your discomfort.

rafe lets his tongue wet his lips before he lets out your name.

“look at me.”, his command sits heavy in the air and almost on instinct you do as told, batting your lashes all pretty up at the taller man.

he hums in approval.

“now c'mere.”, he pats his thigh lightly, not breaking eye contact with you. your stomach flips.

“I cant—”

“yes you fucking can.”, he huffs out steady and assertive. his unfaltering resolute sent a throb between your legs. you couldn't help but shift, moving over the centre console with trembling limbs. crawling over him, clumsily falling into his lap. he stayed quiet a moment fixing your position with big, sturdy hands, pulling your thighs around him and getting you close.

warm palms rubbed over the soft skin of your thighs as he held you in place. his face leant forward, your foreheads pressed together. you could feel his steady breath and the loose wisps of his hair brushing against the sides of your face. you're still tense as ever but he doesn't seem to realise, too busy taking you in. making sure you're real.

you look like a vision and he's almost second guessing himself, his hands squeeze at your flesh and flick at the hem of your dress. he feels his tongue grow heavy with want, needing to satiate it with your taste.

“missed you,” he murmurs lowly, “missed this— us—”

you furrow your brows unsure of what to say, you weren't familiar with this rafe. he was changed and capricious with a wild and rabid glint to his eye. it made you nervous not knowing his next move but you nodded quietly anyway.

he lets his fingers dip under your skirt, smirking when your breath hitches and you fist at the bottom of his shirt.

“nervous?”

“rafe— I just think—”, you huff a little overwhelmed and excited but the pit in your stomach was telling you this was all wrong.

“I don't think I can do this…”, your eyes glance down at your necklace, the cool metal of the cross pressed against your chest. you suddenly feel icky, on the edge of sacrilege.

“well I think you can.”, he's unusually calm, almost smug as he brushes his lips with yours, it's unnerving and makes you want to sink away into nothing.

you're both close now, the air's heavy and tense, he palms around you, massaging at your waist.

“rafe—”, you breathe out against his lips.

“I'll be slow, soft— I swear”, he nods, desperate and lustful, eyes half lidded as he takes you in, all flush and sun kissed.

“but that's not the point—”

he kisses you anyway, it's sudden and startling, making you gasp. at first, it's soft. it's nice, sweet enough for you to like it. just his lips against yours while you squeezed your eyes shut tight.

until one firm hand trailed up your back to clasp at the nape of your neck. you let out a little noise against him, before pushing back abruptly to allow yourself a lung full of breath but he's pulling you back in all too fast, letting his teeth nip sharply at your bottom lip. a little pained whine escapes your throat and he takes the opportunity to slip his tongue into your mouth.

you gasp his name around the hot muscle feeling your thighs tightening around him as he tilts his head, it's messy and gross, teeth clashing together as he licks into your mouth desperately. rafe wants more of you. all of you in your entirety, to consume, to devour.

his hands palm over your little dress, clasping at the soft fabric that covered your skin groping over your waist, tummy and eventually the fat of your tits.

“please—”, you whine softly, not even knowing what you were asking for but whatever it was you wanted it bad. he's too busy moving his mouth lower to hear your plead, biting down hard at the supple skin of your neck making you cry out and back up into the steering wheel with a jump.

he blinks up at you with blown out pupils, panting out like a starved man.

“let me have you.”, he nods, clasping onto you.

you try shaking your head, but he's already pulled down the top of your dress to begin tugging at the lace of your bra making you arch. you couldn't say no. not now, not with all the need blooming between your legs and soaking through the thin, white cotton of your panties.

you watch him, half in awe half in horror, groping at you.

that seed of disgust in the pit of your stomach growing, branching out and taking over all feeling, twisting into want.

rafe groaned, you could feel his hard cock beneath the fabric of his pants pressed up against the wet of your clothed cunt. he leant his head down to your chest muttering in a haze.

“so pretty— so fucking soft—”

he covered your tits in rough bruising kisses, cupping them in both hands and letting his tongue drag over your perked nipples. you shudder into him, holding him tight.

“bet you fuckin’ love this—”

his mouth focused on the sensitive nubs feeling them harden under the weight of his tongue as he began to suck hard, letting his rough hands knead at the rest of you.

“you've never done anything like this huh?”, rafe draws out lazily leaving a trail of spit over you, kissing softer now, over his marks and then over the cross that lay against you flush skin.

you swallow in shame “n—no…”, you whisper out.

he watches you carefully, like prey, like you could jump away at any moment but he knows you won't, because your pliant like that, docile and meek. that's what he adored about you.

a humoured laugh is let out against your chest as he still kneads your tits, his chin balanced perfectly in the dip between them.

“shit I could cum just like this—”, he smiles proudly as you flush.

one of his hands move to cup your cheek, stroking softly as if to calm you.

“you can feel how hard you got me right?”

you nod shyly at his whisper.

“that's right—”

he takes your hand pulling it down to his thick, hard length, making you palm over it sending a jolt through your soaked pussy.

“mhm— all that— just for you angel…”, he whispers lowly nipping at the skin of your chest again.

“you want it?”

“please—”, is all you can get out.

he laughs a little louder.

“that's all you do huh?”, rafe lets go of your hand squeeze at your thigh, pushing up the fabric of your skirt revealing your soaked through, now sheer panties, plastered to your throbbing cunt.

he lets out a groan at the sight, a calloused hand hovering over your sensitive folds.

“just beggin’, always begging— not everything's a prayer angel.”

you twitch with a gasp, humping up into his hand as he lets one finger trace over the slick fabric.

“don't need to beg me for anything,”

your little panties are pushed aside, letting him run a long finger through your folds, collecting the wetness from your heat as your face twists quietly in pleasure. you're holding onto his arms tight, like he's your only life line, only connection to reality as your head spins.

“not when I'm gonna give it to you anyway, whether you like it or not sweetness your mine now—”

he hums with a little smile bringing his finger to you face, staring at the glistening tip. at this point he's talking to himself, your mouths too heavy to reply, too heavy to curse him or push him back.

you glance at it shyly, almost ashamed.

“that's all you angel.”

his smile tugs wider at your obvious discomfort, the grimace on your face almost making him giddy. he smears the slick across your lips before pressing into your mouth.

“rafe, no—”

“uh uh, none of that—”

you taste yourself, your sweet slick, hesitantly letting your tongue lap over it, swapping it for your spit.

he nods, drawing out a hum of awe. it was like you knew exactly what to do, how to please him. he presses another finger between your lips as his cock twitches in need confined against his pants, but he knows to be patient. he watches you babble and drool over the two fingers, spit bubbling around them.

the truck is hot and brimming with perverse desire, the steering wheel digging into your lower back now as he shifts you to get a better view of your pussy. he stares at it a moment before once again tugging the drenched cotton to the side and pressing his spit covered fingers to your clit. he swears he can feel the bundle of nerves twitch under the pressure. you let out a sinful moan and he's tracing your soft, glistening folds forcing out a louder one.

“so fucking pretty—”

your nails dig into whatever you can grab of him as his free hand moves to kneed at your tit, pinching and pulling it's little overwhelmed bud that stood up firm and flushed.

long fingers dip between your folds, making your brain turn to mush. he's taking his time exploring you, spreading you apart and taking in your needy hole, clenching around nothing and the twitch of your pretty clit, he traces everything as if he were studying you like scripture.

suddenly he plunged his fingers into your cunt, and you moan out his name louder, louder then any prayer that's left your lips.

one slow, aching thrust, then another and another until he's found his rhythm, pumping through you and working you down. his name leaves your throat in desperate, chanting cries and tears prick the edges of your eyes. he lets his thumb press against your clit hard, feeling you squeeze around his fingers.

he's so rapt he's forgotten about his own heavy, leaking cock straining against your thigh. he doesn't slow down, even as your eyes begin to flutter back with each gasping, lewd breath of yours or whine of his name. you grow closer and closer to release the knot in your stomach only getting tighter as you felt yourself falling further from reality.

his fingers stretch out your tight cunt, curling sweetly into that soft spot that makes your breath hitch. you feel light and endless and so, so close.

you're getting desperate. eyes screwing shut. you crave release carnally, it's a sweltering hot need in the pit of your stomach. another curl of his long, teasing fingers, leaves your cunt gaping and letting out lewd squelches, you feel yourself twitch, thighs spasming lightly.

you're right there and suddenly it's all gone, he's paused, you whine blinking up at him, panting with need as your little hands squeezed at his sides.

“rafe—”, you cry out tearily as he pulls out his fingers now drenched in your sweet slick, already sucking up the taste of it while keeping his eyes locked on yours.

he holds back a mocking smile, he loved seeing you like this, tainted by his efforts.

“rafe please— I need it, need it so bad—”, it's like your falling over yourself, your discipline crumbling as you fall deeper into temptation.

“I know angel,”, he mutters, pulling his now clean fingers from his mouth, still calm as ever, enjoying the show your putting on for him. his hand reached down to his pants, undoing them just enough to pull out his aching cock, it stood flush against his stomach, the tip pink and angry, beading with pearly white pre cum.

your panting and desirous, staring at the scene before you as he pulls closer to your heat.

“rafe, we cant—”

“you really don't fuckin’ trust me huh?”, he smirks lazily giving himself a few tight pumps.

“we're not doing shit sweetness—”

you believe him for half a second before he's rubbing the slit of his fat cock head against your clit, you cry out arching into him.

“holy shit—”, he groans. “youre so fuckin' wet angel— already soaking my dick—”

rafe runs the heavy tip through your folds, careful as not to drag into your cunt.

“pussy’s fucking crying for me— shit.”

“rafe— just don't—”

“I won't put it in, m’not stupid—”, he pants out already knowing what you were thinking as he rubs your clit faster with his cock head, he's squeezing the base tight and he swears he sees stars.

you feel yourself getting close again, your release building up to its peak, making you feel light headed, divine even. this is the closest to heaven you'll ever get on earth.

you cum fast. your mind goes white hot and blank for a second as you cry out, feeling your toes curl. he holds you close needing to feel you, to smell you, to taste you. your little shaking arms wrap around his shoulders as he draws out the rest of your orgasm staring down at your creaming cunt. you arch sharply and he watches your tits bounce slightly with every shock of your peak, convulsing around him as he milks out every last drop of your ecstasy, like it's a godsend.

it's transcendent.

and it doesn't take rafe long to follow, when he cums he bites— hard. enough to leave little pricks of red on your skin and that sweet, metallic taste on his tongue. the taste of you was heavenly and all consuming, now that he had it he only wanted more.

he cums over your quivering pussy, his filth dirtying you, tainting you in his sacrilege. a small huff of satisfaction leaves him as he watched the thick cum drip down your folds in hot spurts.

you're both spent, leaning against eachother. you don't even feel the sting of broken flesh with your head so dizzy in the after math of your orgasm. rafe stays in place, lapping over the bite soothingly with his tongue. your blood tastes thick and syrupy sweet in his mouth, making him let out a quiet moan.

rafe cameron was not religious.

but the taste of you made him feel like god.

© written by bambiblushh— do not steal or claim as ur own ᝰ.ᐟ

[jarofstyles]

Pls pls plsss mrs jaws a blurb for the squirting community. We are so underrepresented🥲💦

I’ve got you, lovebug! Here you go. I hope you like it

Check out our Patreon for early access and over 300+ exclusive writings and series!

Warnings- squirting, soft dom!H, dirty talk, messy sex, etc

Harry gripped her hips firmly as he slammed into her from behind, the sound of skin slapping against skin echoing through their bedroom. She was on her knees, cheek pressed against the pillow as she let out little huffs of breath as he gave it to her, just how she liked.

His thumb pressed firmly against her clit, circling it with just the right amount of pressure while he fucked her, each thrust was powerful and deliberate, pressing where she needed inside her that made her whimper and push back against him eagerly.

"That's it, love." Harry praised gruffly, his other hand snaking up to tangle in her hair. He tugged her head back slightly, arching her back and changing the angle of his thrusts to hit where he wanted. "You take my cock so well, don't you? Like you were made for it." He punctuated each word with a hard snap of his hips, his fingers on her clit never stopping their relentless motion. “Made for me. Perfect fuckin’ pussy, snug around my cock.”

A sharp gasp escaped Y/N's lips as Harry's filthy words washed over her. The intense pleasure of him giving her the thrusts she needed and eager fingers circling her swollen clit had her approaching a feeling that made her want to squirm. She pushed back against him shamelessly, meeting his thrusts as her pussy clenched around him, already tightening at the building pressure. "Harry, oh God..." Her hair spilled over her shoulders and into her face, and she couldn't help but whimper. “It’s… I’m gonna make a fucking mess.” Y/N mewled out. “I’m sorry.”

Harry felt the change instantly - her inner walls tightened almost painfully around his length, and she let out a high-pitched moan that made him realize she was close. Real close. Like she was actually going squirt all over his dick close. His sheets were the least of his concerns.

His thumb pressed harder against her clit, spreading her wetness around the sensitive nub. He knew that spot - knew how easily she went from "almost there" to gushing if he hit it right. He kept the same pace, letting out a deep groan as he felt her clit throb against his fingers.

“Yeah? Gonna gush ‘round my cock, sweet girl?” He wanted it. She’d been able to do it a few times with him, but each and every time was the hottest thing he ever saw. “That’s what I want. Want you to make a mess for me, baby. God, I can fucking feel it coming.” He hissed through his teeth. “Give it t’me. Give me what I want.”

Harry's encouragement sent her over the edge. Y/N let out a loud, guttural moan as entire body tensed as a massive wave of pleasure hit her, the feeling almost as if she was going to lose control. Her pussy spasmed violently around his cock, and then it hit, hot liquid gushing from her in pulses. Harry’s face contorted in pleasure as he pulled out, immediately rubbing his cock over her clit, spreading her own slick around the sensitive nub to keep it going.

"Fuck, yes, just like that, love. There it is. Jesus Christ, look at you - absolutely flooding the sheets for me." Harry was breathing heavily, his voice thick as he rubbed her clit with the head of his sensitive dick, drawing out every last drop. "You're such a good girl when you fuckin' squirt like this..." One hand stayed on her hip while the other let go of her hair to spread her open to watch. "Keep cumming... keep cumming all over my cock. There you go, Thatta-fuckin-girl."

He could feel her pulsing against him, the sensation driving him wild. It was a reward for him, getting her here. The day they figured out how to make it happen for her, he had been trying to ensure she got as much as she wanted. "Drenching that cock, my balls, the bed... fuck, I love it. I love watching you make a mess for me." Crooning as he felt her body tremble under him, he felt his cock throb as he pressed it back into her shallowly as he let her calm down.

Y/N's mouth was open in a silent 'O', her face hot and eyes squeezed shut as her pussy contracted and released in waves around nothing. She was completely overwhelmed by the intensity, her whole body shaking as she pushed back against him, trying to get more and also pull away at the same time. Her body didn’t know what it wanted. "Oh my god... I can't... s’too much. Too empty.." She whined, burying her face in the pillow. “Please?”

"Shhh, baby, I know. I know it’s overwhelming. Just breathe for me, hmm?" Harry slowed his movements to a complete stop, burying his cock deep inside her, filling her completely. "There we go... just breathe. I’m here. Feel how full you are? Like you can’t even tell where your pussy ends and I begin? M’right here. " He whispered, wrapping an arm around her waist to pull her back onto anchor her. "Just squeeze around me. I’ve got you. So gorgeous."

Her body relaxed slowly as she adjusted to having him inside her again, her trembling subsiding. Harry stayed still, not moving even an inch, letting her feel just how full he was making her, grounding her to the moment. "That's my girl." He cooed softly, pressing gentle kisses along her shoulder. "God, your pussy is still pulsing around me." He let out a low hiss at the feeling. "You okay, lovie? Still with me?" His hand stroked her soothingly.

"Mhm.” She mumbled into the pillow, her voice soft and hazy from pleasure. Her inner muscles continued to flutter around him, still sensitive. "I'm... I'm still here." Her breath hitched slightly as she adjusted to having him so deep. "Don't move... just-stay right there." She needed a moment to recover - and also never wanted him to leave. Having him there felt perfect, complete. “Can go again in a few minutes.” The woman whispered as her body grew more lax.

A low chuckle escaped him as he felt her body relax completely around him. "Take your time, love." His voice was gentle, almost tender. He knew her well enough to understand that it left her sensitive and needing a moment before she could handle more. “I’ll always take care of you.”

[pankesitopank]

finger sucking with THE JEONG YUNHO PLEASE

that damn 21cm of hands

Mouthful

Jeong Yunho x Reader 

cw: finger-sucking, oral fixation, size kink, mild praise

wc: 1.7k (1.785~)

note: You don't know how HARD it was for me to write this. I deleted it and rewrote it like 800 times! I'm not really used to oral fixation, and since it's not something I consume and I don't read it either, maybe this ended up being crap. Well, I hope not and I hope you like it loooove

You’ve always known Yunho’s hands were big. graceful palm and fingers slicing through stage lights, the way a simple point could dominate an arena full of screaming fans. But living with the thought and living with the man are different beasts entirely—especially when he’s lounging barefoot on the sofa tonight, fresh from the shower, hair still damp and curling over his forehead, one arm draped along the backrest while those famously massive fingers drum an aimless rhythm against the cushion.

They’re bait, and you’re starving.

The movie you pretended to suggest slips into background noise while your gaze keeps darting to his hand. Yunho notices—he always does—and his mouth tilts in that unfair, dimple-slanted smile. “You’re not watching,” he murmurs, voice gone syrup-thick from post-practice exhaustion. He shifts, stretching long legs until his knees brush yours. “Something on your mind?”

Your throat goes dry. You’ve kissed those knuckles in passing, trailed your lips in teasing nips across his callused palms, but you’ve never fully indulged the urge simmering beneath your skin: to feel every length of him glide across your tongue, to taste how power translates into salt and heat. Tonight, that urge eclipses embarrassment.

“I keep thinking about your hands,” you confess—a whisper half-drowned by the TV. His eyebrows jump, surprised but pleased.

“These?” He lifts one, spreading fingers wide. The span makes your stomach flutter. Under the lamplight the veins stand out, blue under honey-tan skin, and tiny, dancer-earned scars cross his knuckles like silver constellations. “They’re yours,” he adds, suddenly soft. “Do whatever you want.”

Permission detonates in your chest. You crawl toward him, settling between his parted knees on the carpet. He draws a quick breath when your palms slide up his shins, but he doesn’t move. The only thing that shifts is the slow tightening of his gray sweatpants, a tent of interest forming as he watches you take his hand in both of yours like a priceless relic.

The pad of his thumb brushes your cheek first—familiar, tender. You tilt into it, kissing the whorl of fingerprint before letting your tongue flick out. Yunho’s breath stutters. His other arm drops to rest on the sofa cushion, fingers curling.

“Baby,” he warns, already hoarse. It’s not a protest; it’s a prayer. You part your lips wider and take that thumb in, sealing your mouth around it, sucking gentle, experimental. The taste is fresh soap and cedar shampoo, clean but unmistakably him. Your eyes flutter closed as you swirl your tongue, memorizing each ridge.

A shaky exhale leaves him. “Fuck.” He’s mesmerized, you realize, not just by the sensation but by the sight: your cheeks hollowed, lips stretched, the gleam of saliva coating flesh that can palm a basketball. When you glance up, the pupils blown dark behind his fringe make your core clench. He looks worshipful.

You release the thumb with a wet pop only to nip the side lightly. “More,” you whisper. You guide his hand, sliding your mouth to the index finger. This time you take it deeper, until the tip brushes your throat. Yunho’s hips twitch. He’s wide-eyed, chest rising in heavy pulls through the loose neck of his T-shirt.

“God, your mouth…” His voice fractures as you moan around him—a vibration he feels pulse up his arm and straight to his cock. He cups the back of your head, not pushing, just anchoring, as if afraid you’ll drift away. You hum at the tenderness.

Two fingers now. You angle them together and fit your lips over both, feeling the slight stretch. Your jaw protests but your arousal eclipses discomfort. Drool slips past your lower lip, stringing to your chin, and Yunho’s eyes track it hungrily. His free hand fists the sofa. “You look—so pretty—so fucking pretty like this,” he gasps.

You lash their undersides, licking from base to tip, then suck hard as you withdraw. His breath catches, like strings pulled taut. When you tug them free, your saliva glosses skin to a shine that the lamp turns into liquid gold. You kiss every joint, each knuckle, worshipful. Then you guide his middle finger to your tongue and flatten it, letting him watch you trace the length in broad, languid licks while making sacred eye contact.

Yunho’s self-control frays audibly—he makes a wounded sound and shifts, sweatpants now obscenely tented. “Baby, please,” he murmurs. You know that pitch: need edging on desperation. But you’re greedy; you want him trembling.

“Spread them,” you instruct softly. He obeys, fanning three fingers. You take them all at once, mouth straining, your tongue wedged between middle and ring. The stretch drags a moan out of you—part discomfort, mostly bliss. Yunho’s head falls back against the couch, throat exposed, Adam’s apple bobbing violently. His hips roll, memory-muscle trained by hours of dance translating into a silent, involuntary grind against air.

Spit drips down your chin, splashing your chest. You pull back, breathing hard, to watch a thick string connect you to his middle finger. Yunho watches too, chest heaving. Wordlessly he lifts his hand and swipes that string across your bottom lip, thumb following to smear spit across your cheek, marking you. The gesture lights a fuse low in your belly.

“You like my fingers?” he rasps, cradling your jaw. You nod, dizzy with it. “Then lay back. Let me see how much.”

The command vibrates through your bones. You obey, scrambling to sit against the plush rug, knees bent, thighs parted. Yunho shifts off the sofa, kneeling between your legs in one fluid motion that makes you acutely aware of how wide his shoulders spread, how small you feel beneath him. His hand—those hands—skim your calves, pushing them wider. Heat flares where he touches.

He reaches for the waistband of your shorts. “Words, angel,” he reminds, always seeking consent even drunk on lust. The care in his voice spikes your pulse.

“Yes,” you breathe. “Please.”

Fabric peels away, baring you. The cooler air kisses your slick folds. Yunho’s nostrils flare at the sight; a soft groan escapes him. He palms your thighs, thumbs caressing inwards, but pauses when your hips jerk at his proximity. “Sensitive?”

“Always for you.” The confession is almost shy. He rewards it with a gentle kiss to your inner knee before dragging his mouth upward, planting a trail of lips that burns open-mouthed and wet. When he reaches the apex of your thigh he stops and replaces lips with index finger, teasing your slickness with feather strokes. Your back arches.

“Look at you,” he murmurs reverently. “Already dripping.” He holds his middle finger up, glistening, letting lamplight make the evidence glitter before your eyes. Then—slow, deliberate—he brings it to his own mouth and sucks. Your breath stutters violently. Yunho hums deep in his chest, tasting you. “Sweet.”

The sight nearly ends you. But he’s not done. He lowers that same finger to your entrance, pressing slow until the first knuckle vanishes. The stretch makes you gasp—he’s thick, longer than most men’s full fingers—and he watches your face like it’s sunlight. “Okay?”

“More,” you pant. He obliges, easing deeper until his palm kisses you, curling up to stroke that velvet spot inside. Your thighs quake. Yunho watches transfixed: the way your body clutches him, the way your mouth falls open in unguarded pleasure.

But curiosity sparks. He withdraws, slick with your arousal, and lifts two fingers—index and middle—toward your mouth. Instinct takes over; you open eagerly, letting him slide them past your lips. You taste yourself atop the faint salt of his skin. Yunho’s eyes darken as you suck, tongue swirling around the digits still glimmering with evidence of what he does to you.

He slips them free, wet and shining, then leans forward, replacing them right back inside you with a single fluid thrust. The penetration knocks a cry loose from your chest. The sound makes him tremble. “God—this mouth, this pussy—so greedy,” he growls.

He sets a rhythm: fingers pumping into your heat, then withdrawing to feed into your mouth, then plunging back into you wetter than before. The cycle builds a dizzy circuit of pleasure. You don’t know where you’re wetter—between your legs or on your tongue. Your moans melt into his name like a prayer.

Soon two fingers aren’t enough. Yunho’s gaze drifts to your entrance, watching the way you swallow them. “Think you can take three?” he whispers. The baritone scrape of his voice vibrates through your entire frame.

“Y-yes,” you gasp, and that desperation cracks something inside him. He slides three fingers in, scissoring slowly. The stretch burns deliciously, pushing walls that flutter around him. He groans at the sensation. “So tight,” he mutters, thumb circling your clit with feather pressure. Sparks detonate behind your eyes.

He works you open meticulously, rolling his wrist so the heel of his palm grinds your clit on every inward push. Pleasure mounts sharp and fast. You cling to his forearm, nails digging into muscle.

“Yunho—close—” you warn.

“Hold on for me,” he instructs, voice iron. “Need you to come with my fingers in your mouth first.” He withdraws, and your walls spasm around nothing—loss keen as hunger. But he’s already bringing those slick fingers to your lips. You suck them in automatically, tasting your arousal mingled with his skin. He growls, hips jerking at the sight.

“Such a filthy girl,” he praises, thumb stroking your cheek. “Taking yourself off my hand like it’s candy.” You whimper around him, suck harder, hollowing your cheeks until he curses.

When he pulls out, a strand of saliva clings between finger and tongue. He guides that trio back to your core, thrusting deep. The obscene wet sound echoes off the apartment walls. It pushes you over the edge. Orgasm crashes through you—white-hot, clenching, a furnace consuming nerve endings. Crying out, you convulse around his fingers, thighs locking around his wrist as if your body can’t stand losing him even in climax.

Yunho’s stare is molten. He doesn’t stop until tremors subside, then gently withdraws, your slick coating his hand. He lifts his soaked fingers and sucks them himself, eyes fluttering shut at the taste you left. The sight prolongs aftershocks shivering through you.

When he opens his eyes again, resolve burns. He rises, sweatpants tenting like a promise. “My turn,” he rasps, voice raw…

[lucidwntrr]

심재윤 ───〃 UNRAVEL ME

"jake’s eyes blink open, making eye contact with you through the mirror before his eyes find himself, taking the sight in. his hair tousled, face painted a lovely shade of pink, glistening from the sweat, and his cock that was leaking all over your hand and onto the bedsheets. he almost can’t believe his eyes, can’t believe that he can look so pornographic."

── synopsis: your puppy boyfriend just wants you touch him, is that too much to ask?

⋆˚꩜｡ pairing: sub!jake x dom!reader ⋆˚꩜｡ genre & word count: smut || 2.3k ⋆˚꩜｡ tags: porn without plot (i’ll write plot one day), light choking, handjobs, teasing, marking, there’s a mirror, multiple orgasms, praise, begging, light nipple play, puppy!jake ˚꩜｡ notes: first enha fic and yes, it is of my bias. hopefully everyone enjoys reading as much as i enjoyed writing (˶˃ ᗜ ˂˶)

“shit…” jake breaths, his head tilting back to rest against your shoulder.

you had him sat on the bed, legs spread, with his t-shirt hanging loosely around his sweaty neck. you watch as a tiny bead rolls down it, almost tempted to lick it up.

“mmph, p-please.” jake gasps, jerking his hips up into nothing. you’re positioned behind him, also on your knees, massaging every part of his body you could reach.

jake being pretty much sensitive everywhere is an advantage to you, a single caress from you could have him melting and pleading in seconds. you weren’t even anywhere close to touching his cock, touching anywhere but, yet there’s already a pool of precum on the sheets below him.

“please, what?” you whisper into his ear, gently biting on it. jake’s breath hitches at hearing your voice, so seductive and close to him, almost tickling him. his hands are fisted into the sheets, arms feeling like jelly and hardly holding him up.

“more, please touch me more,” he begs, looking up at you with his beautiful eyes. “i’ll do anything if you just give me more.”

you oblige, only to an extent, a sucker for when he looks at you like that. you slowly run your fingertips over his shoulders and down his arms. moving across his chest and briefly brushing past a nipple, jake arching into the touch with a tingle down his spine.

you attach your lips to his sensitive neck, lightly sucking on the skin so it leaves behind a hickey. jake starts panting out breaths, his eyes squeezing shut as he squirms in his spot, his cock bobbing uncontrollably. his moans are almost nonstop, raising in pitch the longer you suck.

“fuck me.” he huffs, becoming impatient with your teasing. he drops his head and reaches a hand down to between his legs, wanting relief from his aching hard-on.

you watch him and right before he could wrap his fingers around himself, you gently tug on the shirt around his neck. jake’s hand pauses in mid air and he gasps at the slight, sudden pressure on his throat.

you pull his head back, his brown eyes wide and blinking up at you, an apology already on the tip of his tongue. you speak before he can get his words out,

“did you ask if you could touch yourself?” you question, letting go of the shirt and opting to brush the wet strands of his hair sticking to his forehead. jake sighs at the touch, shaking his head no and resting his hand on his thigh.

“‘m sorry, i wasn’t thinking. i just want to feel good…” he whispers.

“needy puppy just couldn’t help himself, hm?” you tease instead. jake rapidly nods his head with a moan at being called his favorite pet-name. it draws your attention to his lips, wet from all the licking and damn near drooling he’s been doing and you can’t help but want to kiss them.

“mhm, just a dumb puppy when you touch me.” he agrees. you hum in agreement, guiding his head further back, his back curving to follow your movement. you lean down and press a quick kiss to his lips, jake eagerly chasing after you with a whine when you pull away. with a smirk, you kiss him again deeper this time, forcing his mouth open with your tongue.

he leans into the kiss, moaning into your mouth the angle making it slightly messy and wet. only parting ways to allow yourself to remove jake’s shirt fully, now bothersome to you as you want to reveal more of him. his whines from having your lips on his anymore quickly turn into whimpers as you latch yourself there, leaving more reddish-purple marks along the freshly exposed skin.

no matter how much the pleasure got though, jake refused to even attempt to touch himself again. instead he’d just buck into the air with a sweet cry, or the occasional shout when you bit just a little harder than he’s used to.

“please… can you please touch me there now?” jake whispers once he can’t stand it anymore, his cock red and hot from being denied for so long. the puddle larger than when you started from where he still leaks.

“touch you where love?” you ask just to wind him up more, peaking over his shoulder and watching as another bead of precum rolls down the tip when you softly pinch his nipple between your fingers.

“please, you know where. just touch me.” he frustratedly whines, thrusting his cock up into nothing, his way of saying what he wants. you smile and wrap an arm around his waist and run your fingers down it, softly grazing your fingernails up and down them. you feel as he tenses and shake every time you get closer to his cock and his breathing deepens, watching as your hands tease him.

“you mean here?” you ask, catching him off guard by suddenly grabbing his cock. using your thumb to rub over the wet and sensitive frenulum, causing jake’s breath to hitch and uncontrollably thrust his hips into the touch.

“yes, f-fuck yes!” jake practically cries. you laugh and stroke once just to watch jake’s face turn into one of pure bliss at finally getting what he wants, his brows furrowing before dropping his head from the intensity, loud moans pouring out.

you slowly stroke him, smoothly gliding over his cock with the copious amounts of precum that drip down it. you are sure to rub the sensitive tip with each stroke down, jake shuddering every time to your amusement. each stroke leaving behind obscene wet sounds that fill the room along with jakes’ filthy noises.

“is this what you wanted, hm? what you were begging me for?” you purr, already knowing the answer but just want to watch jake struggle to find his words. purposely stroking faster each time jake tries to speak, choking on his words.

“god yes, feels s-so good..” he manages to moan out, voice cracking towards the end of his sentence. you can only smirk at the broken reply, basking in the way that his body reacts to every little thing you do to him, the control you have over him.

his head cocks back towards you, landing on your shoulder once again on a particularly rough stroke, his eyes pressed shut in absolute bliss. “feels so good, please don’t stop..” he mindlessly chants, almost faint if he wasn’t right by your ear.

you look up and do a double-take at the mirror you recently bought, sitting in front of the bed. you look back at jake with an idea. gently, you take jake’s chin into your unoccupied hand and drop his head towards said mirror. the image is lewd, way his face looks, the way his lips are parted spilling out all kinds of sounds just for you. the sight leaves a throbbing feeling down below.

“look at yourself love. i’ve hardly done anything to you, yet you’re so ruined.” you murmur, watching him through the mirror.

jake’s eyes blink open, making eye contact with you through the mirror before his eyes find himself, taking the sight in. his hair tousled, face painted a lovely shade of pink, glistening from the sweat, and his cock that was leaking all over your hand and onto the bedsheets. he almost can’t believe his eyes, can’t believe that he can look so disheveled.

“’s too embarrassing…” he whines, shutting his eyes and shoving his face into the crook of your neck and hiding from himself. he can’t get the image of how he looked out of his head though, cock twitching in slight interest.

however, as soon as his eyes close, you stop touching him. he immediately whines against your skin, moving his hips in attempt to feel good again. to his dismay, you use your other hand to hold his hip in place in which jake huffs, “why’d you stop, please keep going.”

“i said look at yourself.” was your only reply, stern enough that it was all that needed to be said. jake whimpers before turning back towards the mirror, his breathing comes quick as looks at himself again.

“you’re so pretty jake… so good for me,” you whisper in his ear while making eye contact with him through the mirror. he shivers and his cock pulses at the praise. slowly, you wrap a hand around him and start stroking him again, keeping a teasing pace that you know will drive him mad. “don’t you agree, aren’t you pretty?” you question.

there was no fight when he nodded in agreement, “yes, so pretty for you,” he whines and his eyes start to flutter shut as the pleasure starts to build again from the compliment. you squeeze his cock in disapproval, earning a choked breath from jake.

“ah ah, keep those pretty eyes open for me,” you purr. his eyes fly open, immediately locking eyes with you in the reflection. “unless you want me to stop?” you finish quirking a brow, pausing your hand where it rests on the base of his cock and squeezing it.

“no, no please keep going. i won’t close my eyes, promise.” he pleads, eyes watery and hips trying to chase the pleasure he was feeling. you hum and hold him to his word and also keeping your word and stopping if his eyes start to flutter.

“good boy, you’re doing great.” you praise, bringing your other hand up from his waist, up his stomach, to his chest where you fondle his perked nipples.

jake loudly gasp, the touch bringing him to the edge and he immediately starts sighing out a string of apologies. you didn’t understand what for until you feel his body tense up and warmth as he cums all over your hand.

“’m sorry, ‘m s-sorry, i didn’t mean to cum…” he babbles after he starts to come down, his head to fuzzy after such a strong orgasm. you examine his face in the mirror where you find his eyes closed, lashes wet from the tears that lined them.

“cumming without permission and closing your eyes…” you tsk. jake jumps coming, his head clearing enough for him to realize his eyes were in fact closed and opening them to the displeased look on your face. before he can begin apologizing clearly, you stroke his sensitive cock with no remorse. jake yelps, twisting his body in an attempt an escape the intense overstimulation.

“wait- p-please ‘m sorry… please.” he chokes out between moans, moans that settle between pain and pleasure and he’s not sure which to fall into. the sensitivity is almost too much, fresh tears spring to his eyes and falling against his flush cheeks.

“you just couldn’t help yourself? is that what you’re going to say?” you mock, bringing both hands onto him and ruthlessly bringing him towards another orgasm. as much as jake wanted his body to run away it, he was chasing it, wanting to keep feeling good. so good.

“i- i couldn’t. it felt too good, you’re too good…” he cries. the pain turning to desire as he starts to move his hips. desperately, he fucks into your hands and you don’t even have move them, using your fists to his hearts content.

“’s too much, too much … fuck.” he whimpers aimlessly, words slurring together. he’s so far gone in arousal, he doesn’t even realize he’s the one moving, movements getting sloppier as he gets closer to cumming. his eyes glued shut and his fingers digging into the flesh of his thigh, lips slick with saliva and red as he keeps biting down on them.

you can’t help but to take it all in, how good he looks completely ruined from your hands. how noisy he gets whenever he feels too good. you shift into a more comfortable position as your shorts have gotten progressively wetter as you watch jake wreck himself.

“i-i think ‘m gonna cum..” jake pants, looking at you for approval. he just looks so pretty, a complete mess from a little handjob that you can’t bring yourself to deny him. he’s trembling, using everything he has to hold back his orgasm until you give him permission, how cute.

“cum for me,” you whisper. jake preens and whispers small thank you’s, driving his cock into your grip. his breathing is almost erratic as his orgasm builds to the peak. drawling out praises in his ear, leading him on.

“fuck, i’m gonna - i’m cummi-” he announces, before hiccuping on his words. his whole body quivering as he cums for the second time, more intense than the first. he thrusts his hips roughly into your hands, spraying hot cum everywhere. endless moans streaming out as he rides out his orgasm.

he eventually comes back down, hissing when he pulls his cock from your fists, his breathing slow but heavy and his hands finally releases his clutch on his thigh. he left behind little fingernail imprints from how hard he held on. he swallows, mouth dry from the nonstop noises and opens his eyes to look at you with a dopey smile on his face.

“i don’t know how you always manage to fuck me up like that…” he says with so much admiration in his puppy eyes.

you laugh, pressing a kiss to his sweaty temple. jake contentedly hums, pressing his weight against your chest, getting comfortable and you know that you’re going to be here a while.

©lucidwntrr est. 2025

[backfliips]

As someone who admittedly has attention issues of my own, I think it's important to talk about how attention is a skill that can be learned and often requires conscious and focused effort to build. I think a lot of people despair over the current state of media --- short-form algorithm-driven content that is built to snare and lure and diminish people's attention spans for profit --- and while that despair is certainly built off of legitimate concerns, I want to stress that the damage being done is not irreversible.

Over the course of the COVID-19 lockdowns I fried my brain so intensely with tik toks and instagram reels that I was getting bored 2 seconds into a 5 second video and was finding myself scrolling so quickly that I wasn't even watching anymore. I was lethargic and unhappy and though my mood was definitely simultaneously impacted by the hovering doom of COVID-19 and living in complete isolation for months at a time (I don't recommend that, BTW), I found myself losing passion for the things I loved doing: drawing, reading, and writing. I felt miserable and useless and incredibly guilty for leaving my productive and fulfilling hobbies behind while I chased... not even happiness. Just something to occupy my brain and turn it into mush.

As time passed I realized that I wasn't even having fun on tik tok anymore. I'd see funny videos and get a rush of endorphins, and then the next second I would have completely forgotten what I just watched. I was refreshing social media pages to see numbers I didn't even care about. Everything was an endless loop of swapping between different apps, just time passing and passing and my attention span dipping lower and lower until I would go for days without feeling any sense of joy or accomplishment.

And this was most definitely aided by the fact that I was unemployed and stuck in a terrible worldwide epidemic, but as soon as I deleted the tik tok app and put harsh time limits on instagram (15 minutes a day, which I rationed compulsively) I suddenly wanted to draw again. I started reading books again. I started writing and spending time outside and getting inspiration from the world around me.

Now, years later, I work with teenagers whose lives are dictated by their phones. My coworkers often lament the state of the world today --- which, again, is a valid stance to have --- but in the few months after my workplace implemented a no phones policy, I watched disengaged students bounce back to productivity. Instead of scrolling during lectures they paid attention and asked questions and engaged their peers in conversation. During lunch they played board games and talked to each other. Students even told me about how they didn't even want to go on their phones when they got home from school!

It isn't perfect, and I'm not advocating for a world devoid of phones, but I just want to highlight that these neural pathways can be built and exercised. People's brains are resilient and fascinating and much stronger and more adaptable than many people are willing to give them credit for.

I've expanded my time limits across more apps on my phone, setting days where I can't even access social media at all from my phone, and in that short period of time I've found myself far more engaged with the world around me. I've been zipping my phone up in a bag instead of keeping it in my pocket, adding a step to access it, and I've found that that alone is keeping me from using it to a huge degree. I'll toss my phone across the room when I find myself on it when I don't have any reason to be scrolling. And it's helping!

My main message here is that it's never too late to focus on your focus. Change and improvement doesn't happen until you make an effort on your own.

[sammywritesfics]

QH43-Alone Time

Pairing: Quinn Hughes x Fem!Reader Word Count: 980 word count. Warnings: Smut, Fem!Receiving fingering? Request: "Can you please write a smut story of Quinn on top of Y/N dry humping because they are out of condoms but then end up having sex without a condom because they are both desperate for each other." Sorry it's so short, I was writing it on my phone. Masterlist: here.

--

You spent all day with Jack and Luke. Quinn wouldn’t have minded if it meant you would at least look his way. But you just seemed to brush off his presence. 

Quinn would be lying if he wasn’t a little hurt. Eventually Jack and Luke went out onto the boat with some of their friends. Quinn made some excuses about wanting to check up on you. He went into the lake house to see you pacing the living room. 

“Baby?” He called softly, watching you jump a bit. “You need to start wearing a shirt around me because I'm melting right now” you rambled, fidgeting as you kept pacing. Quinn could see you working yourself up already. 

You had expressed how uncomfortable you felt sleeping together with so many people in the house. Especially because Trevor had a tendency to tease you both. Quinn took a breath, wrapping his arms around your waist. 

“Darling, calm down..” he spoke softly, cupping your neck. You turned to look at him. “I need you…” you spoke quietly as if fearing someone would overhear. You had always been very secretive about your sexual life, and Quinn wasn’t the type to go against that either. 

Quinn’s eyes softened into a sweet look, “Baby, we are alone for a few hours…” he reassured. You lit up, tugging him up the stairs to his room. 

“I didn’t pack any condoms…” Quinn spoke quickly, watching as you deflated slightly. You sat on the bed, “could you always dry hump me?” You mumbled picking at the sheets. Quinn knew better than to deny you when you got such a needy tone. 

Quinn shrugged off his shorts, gesturing for you to do the same. “Shirt on or off?” He asked you, nipping at your neck. You glanced at the locked door, then at the closed window. Deciding to grant your loving boyfriend permission to tug your top off.

Quinn quickly shoved your bra onto the floor, grabbing your thighs and pulling you under him. Quinn smirked at your shy grin. 

“You sure?” Quinn asked, kissing your thigh. You nodded, bucking your hips into his face. Quinn moved up, wrapping your legs around his hips. You whined, clawing lightly at his arms.

“Please?” You whimpered as he started to slowly grind against you. His clothed cock bumped against your clit, deliberately slow. “Please what? My pretty girl?” He teased, watching your hips buck to meet his. 

“Please, god. Quinn right there!” You moaned as he drove against you. Quinn twitched in his boxers, “gonna ruin me if you keep moving like that” he said in a throaty groan. Quinn dropped your legs from his hip, and he held your hips down with one hand. And held himself up with his other hand. 

He dropped his careful act and started to frantically brush his cock with your cunt. The boxers are too far in the way to provide either of you enough release. “Quinn…” you gasped, trying to pull away. 

Quinn froze, pulling off you immediately. Worry flashed on his face, had he hurt you? You smiled at the concern that flooded his expression. 

“I’m on the pill, and Jack's girlfriend has an extra box of the morning after-“ You started but Quinn ran a hand through his hair. 

“Baby, it’s not that I won’t love it raw. But are you sure?” Quinn asked, he wasn’t in a place in his career to have a kid. And he knew for sure you weren’t loving the idea of possibly doing it on your own. 

“Quinny, I’m on the pill. It’ll be safe” you tried to calm his worries. Quinn took a little convincing after he saw your calm expression. He tugged off his boxers and threw them across the room blindly. 

You lifted your hips as he started to tug your panties down your legs. Quinn’s hand slipped between your legs, drawing small circles on your clit until your head snapped back into the pillow. 

“Quinny, I’ve had enough prep…” you said, running your fingernails into his scalp. Quinn groaned as you tugged at his hair. He pressed into you slowly, letting you get used to him. His cock brushed a spongy spot deep inside you as he pushed in further. Quinn’s eyes met yours, and he softly smiled at you. 

“You're so perfect,” he said, picking up the pace. He drew his cock out of you before pushing it back in. Quinn could’ve watched your face contort into pleasure for the rest of the time. You moaned out as he kept rocking into you. 

“Quinny…” you whined out. Quinn’s looked down at you, “what baby?” He cooed cupping your face briefly before moving to prop himself up. 

“More, need more” you cried out, your body was limp simply letting him thrust into you faster. Quinn smiled as you started to mumble incoherently. He always loved to fuck away your worries. 

Your legs started to shake as you felt him twitch inside of you. “Quinn-“ you had tried to warn him, tried to ask permission before your orgasm flooded over you. Quinn watched as your body shook, spasming under him. He picked up his pace, fucking you through it. 

You started to try and move away from him. It was overwhelming how much pleasure he was giving you. Quinn took the Que and pulled off of you. Stroking himself as he came on your stomach. 

“All better baby?” Quinn asked me as he got up to grab a wet cloth for you. You flinched as he tried to clean your soaked cunt. 

“I know baby, just a little more and you can sleep” Quinn spoke sweetly. Before pulling a blanket over you. He turned on the fan so you could cool down. As you dozed off, you barely registered Quinn asking you if you wanted to take the morning-after pill from your bag. 

[snowstormarts]

Can you do cuddling headcanons for the Hanks, Mac, and parker ?

Thanks for the request and I got another ask about including Luke Nukem in the next Headcanon I write so I will include our dear, crazy microwave man in here. Also I'm going to be honest here and say I don't like Parker, sorry if it's obvious in his part & with most of the characters here I went the Friendship route ^^" But it was still fun to write!

I hope you will still enjoy it, likes & reblogs are always appreciated and don't forget to send me an Ask or Request if you want [I also really should make a do/dont write for list, huh?]

Cuddle Time #3 [Date Everything x GN!Reader]

[Feat; The Hanks, Mac, Parker & Luke Nukem] [Divider Credit]

𖣳 The Hanks 𖣳

- You are always in the middle of the pile, the other Hanks had started with drawing matches to see who sleeps next to you. But after a while Hank 2 suggested to make a detailed rotation plan, so everyone had a turn cuddling with you

- All of them run quiet hot, some run a bit cooler [Hank 1 & 5] while others are the definition of a human oven [Hank 4] so if you're cold you can ask the boys to let someone else cuddle you for the day

- All of them are diffrent cuddlers even if they all share the same amount of muscles, here are the details;

Hank 1; Smells like Peach Vanilla Bodywash, his cuddling style is the Half spoon [One arm around your shoulder, leaving his chest wide open to be used as a pillow], he also has a dream journal

Hank 2; Smells like Kiwi & Passionfruit, he cuddles the classic spooning style with him switching between being the small or big spoon [he slightly favors being the big spoon], loves to give and recieve tight hugs

Hank 3; Smells like Deodarant with a hint of Cinnamon, he prefers to have both of your arms around each other with his head resting against your sternum

Hank 4; Smells like "3 in 1" Shampoo with a cool name like "Noir" or "Cool Breeze", he has you laying on top of him with one of his arms around your hip while the other runs up and down your arm, talks about his future plans durring cuddle time he soemtimes asks for feedback on those plans

Hank 5; Smells like Mint & Lime, his cuddle style is the Honeymoon Hug [Arms holding each other, legs intertwined and your head resting in the crook of his neck as his head rests atop of yours], sings lullaby to lull everyone to sleep he has a nice voice

🖥 Mac 🖥

- Thanks to all your fanfiction and acess to the internet they know many diffrent ways of cuddling & snuggling with you, they will offer you a few to choose from

- Dosen't care what position they are, little spoon, big spoon, something else they just enjoy being with you. That said they do prefer the lap pillow cuddle style where either you rest on their lap and they get to play with your hair or they get to lay on your lap and talk about their day

- Will play cozy game soundtracks from their little mouse buddy who besides being a mouse is also a portable bluetooth speaker [Mac got bored one day and just improved the lil' guy & then went "Do you want bluetooth speakers? Yeah? Ok"]

♟ Parker ♟

- He will roll for the Cuddle position, who's the big/small spoon and where you should cuddle [the bed, couch, floor, the yoga mat, ect], you can't stop him unless you beat him in another game

- He falls so quickly asleep during cuddling, he's just so relaxed and safe with you that his whole body goes comfy eepy mode

- Loves to have you rest in the crook of his neck with his arm around you while the other waves around wildly while he explains a new game to you. He will sometimes lean down to nuzzle you before going back to talking

🧨 Luke Nukem 🧨

- While he's a loud and energetic person deep inside he's a softie and that's best reflected when you two cuddle togehther, it's one of the few times where he can be himself without having to fear to be judged

- He will ask you to hold him tightly more often then not but when he senses that you had a bad day he won't hesitate to hug you tightly, wrap a blanket around you and turn you two into a cuddle burrito. He will also make a strange, whispery beeping sound mixed with vibrations to simulate purring [he learned that from Timothy once that purring can help to lower stress and anxiety, a great tool to have in this wasteland]

- He told you that Cuddles ward off Youngling Swarmer who are super tiny and will dig into your skin, so you should stay always close to him so you're both safe in this cruel, monster filled world, Ranger

[seaborgium-dazies]

I put my money on it, I put my money on you~

the moment mha boys realize that you're the one for them. cw: tooth rotting fluff; gn!reader now playing: money on it 🌊: deku, bakugo, shoto, kirishima, iida

deku:

Surprise filled dekus body as if he just slammed into a brick wall; that intense shatter-your-nose-into-a-million-pieces type of shock spilled over him like cold water when he caught a glimpse of your open sketchbook.

You had accidentally left it open and the colors caught dekus eye. Usually you guard those pages of paper like a furious dragon, but he just had to take a second look, he couldn't help himself. Yes, it was unmistakable, his freckles, his eyes, his hero costume…. And then the speech bubble that said "I believe in you"…

Fuck.

You had made fan art of him.

His heartbeat was probably at 200 bpm by now, pumping all of his blood into his face, a vibrant pink radiating off of his cheeks. He really wasn't going to survive you, you were so full of surprises, so many facets, he could fill 40 notebooks with analysis and he'd still have plenty of secrets to uncover. And to see how you do the same in form of art? It had him weak in the knees.

He shouldn't have, but he flipped through it. Writing, collages, songs, poems, drawings, the pages were so full of love, it was threatening to spill out. The curve of his nose, how you taught him to wear mismatched socks, the patterns he absentmindedly traces across your back during late night embraces? It was commemorated right here.

He wants to spend his lifetime with you. To know you, to see you, to love you. And to let you do the same for him.

He quickly shut the sketchbook, taking a seat on your couch and impatiently waiting for you to finally come. He tried his best to hide his discovery but he tripped over every word, his hands were super fidgety and his blush only intensified with time so when he finally admitted what he saw and how much he loves you, you wanted to vanish. You buried your head in your hands, embarrassment seeping into your bones. Izuku didn't let that discourage him, he started peppering kisses all over your body until you two were giggling messes.

bakugo:

Bakugo dragged his boots along the familiar halls of your apartment complex. He was going to get started on dinner and maybe run a load or two (something you two had been neglecting lately).

He turned the key, the silly key chain you gave him jingling against the metal key ring. He kicked his shoes off and started your coffee machine, the buzzing faded into the background when he spotted something new on your living room shelf.

He immediately came closer to investigate the new addition to your home decor. It couldn't be, could it?

A heartfelt smile spread across his face when he saw his own body staring back at him - in 1/6th of his glory. There was a figurine of him.

It stood tall, next to pictures of you two smiling, dancing and on holiday. The base was beautiful, the details insanely intricate, a soft smile on his faux face. He could understand your thought process.

His heart was beating wildly in his chest. How long had it been here? Hidden between memories and promises of the future?

The last couple of times he was in your flat he was either in a rush or came home tired as a dog, he hadn't even noticed the sign of utmost love you silently put up in your living space.

He knew that you had some cute figurines in your bedroom, but this was different. This wasn't a joke, this wasn't to taunt him, this was truly honest support, love and pride. You took pride in him. He needed to sit down at that realization.

He truly has you on his side, someone to come home to when people misunderstand.

his raised voice or his harsh words. He truly has you. There's no reason for fear anymore.

shoto:

A sigh left shotos lip, finally patrol was over. He couldn't wait to wash the grime off of his body and snuggle into bed with you. He groaned and rubbed his temple, unlocking his phone . 4.12 am. He really hoped that you were fast asleep by now.

He stopped by the convenience store near your flat, browsing through the tea section as a yawn made his way past his lips. He bagged some green tea, black tea, hibiscus (since you said you wanted to try it sometime) and a few herbal mixes.

He knew that you were out of tea, since he made the last one before he left for work. But he couldn't wait to have the steaming cup between his hands, to sip and feel the tension leaving his body. It had become a ritual at this point, something to help him unwind, something to help him find his peace.

He had you to thank for it, always waiting up for him, snuggled up on the couch with a hot cup of tea on the coffee table. And as much as he loved that you took on this burden for him, he hated seeing you like that. He hated the yawns and dark undereye bags the following day. You had had lengthy discussions - you were saying that it didn't matter to you - that you did it because you loved him - but he wouldn't accept it.

You had promised to not wait up for him tonight and he turned the keys, quietly opening the door. The dark greeted him as he toed off his shoes, sliding his bag to the floor. When he made his way to the shower he saw something on the coffee table. A thermos?

There was a sticky note on it.

"Promise I didn't wait up"

A gentle smile spread on his face, he shook his head, pocketed the note. He opened the thermos and felt the steam against his face when he took a whiff. You had even gotten his favorite blend. And you made him his tea while respecting his wishes. He loves you so much it made him sick. And one thing was for certain: he was going to keep you close to his heart forever.

kirishima:

You and kirishima both had work tomorrow morning, you both knew this was a bad idea. And yet.

You were laying on his couch, the oppressive summer heat from the day was gone and only black skies and a gentle breeze remained. Your mixtape was playing in the background and you were occasionally singing along to the songs, or humming harmonies. But mostly you were talking to your lover.

It felt as if time didn't exist when the two of you conversed, as if the melodic laughter, your stomachs that jumped with each giggle and the love radiating off of you tore a hole into time and space - housing you two lovebirds.

The minutes slipped past you, every snort, cackle and snicker infinitely more valuable than hours in dreamland. That's how you found yourselves intertwined in the early morning hours, the sky having turned a light blue around you. You both knew the time to depart was approaching but you really would've given anything to just fall asleep in his strong arms instead.

Armed with a double espresso, kirishima and you made your way to your work places. He pressed a quick kiss to your cheek before saying his goodbye. His eyes were already closing and yawn followed yawn, but he didn't have it in himself to be annoyed. In fact he was elated. Losing sleep was a good thing as long as you were the reason for it.

iida:

He was running late, he was exhausted and sweaty and he was running late. Running late to a really important date. Your one month anniversary. The worst part is that he knew you were probably already dolled up and that you had been buzzing with excitement for the past week, you just loved the thought of going to your favorite fancy restaurant again. One month. One beautiful month. A month full of clear, crisp, deep breaths after what felt like years of smog clouded lungs.

That's what makes it the worst, that hes sweaty, stinky, and late. Some stupid villain decided to make a commotion like 3 minutes before his shit ended and it had dragged on. On top of that he lost his phone and had no idea how to even tell you that he'd be late.

He was opening the door, expecting you to be in tears, or fuming. Upon opening your flats door with his spare key, he got hit with a heavenly smell. Your soft humming and the sizzling of a pan making a perfect duet.

Flowers in hand, tail between his legs and a heart pounding in his chest he came towards you.

"Tenya!"

You slung your arms around him, and pressed a passionate kiss to his lips, he was completely surprised.

"I'm so sorry I'm late baby- I was trying to come so fast- I tried calling but my phone- And I really meant to come on time but there was this villain-"

"Yeah, I saw! "

Your cheeky smile made him melt, but he still looked like a kicked puppy.

"Aww tenya it's okay! I saw that there was a chase on the news and i knew you were patrolling there! So i rescheduled the restaurant and decided to do this instead."

Iida looked at his feet, afraid that you would see the tears pooling in his eyes. You had memorized his routine? And were so understanding? And even though he fucked up and felt so guilty, you opted to work with it and make something beautiful despite the circumstances?

The bear hug that followed left you speechles.

©️ seaborgium-dazies 2025; do not copy, reupload, edit or feed to AI.

buy me a coffee?

[rainrot4me]

Hey, just wondering which of the creeps you headcanon as lgbtq+?

These are just my headcannons for the characters themselves! This excludes them in my other x reader writings.

── .✦

✦ . jeff the killer

Bisexual, heavy masc-leaning.

Jeff gives “Am I gonna kill you or am I gonna kiss you? Guess we’ll find out,” energy no matter who you are. He thrives on chaotic spurts of emotion, feeding off of adrenaline and discourse.

He definitely flirts with anyone who keeps up with his teasing. His relationships are based more on vibe than gender, he couldn’t care less what’s in your pants as long as you’re able to keep up with him mentally and physically.

Would hate labels but also lowkey love how “bi” pisses off the homophobes. “What, you think just cause I stabbed a guy I didn’t wanna kiss him first? Don’t flatter yourself.”

✦ . ticci toby

Pansexual & demiromantic.

Toby is emotionally guarded, but when he loves? He loves deep. He doesn’t care about gender, connection and intensity are what draw him in.

He struggles to name his feelings, but once he trusts someone, he falls hard. “I didn’t plan on liking anyone. But then there you were.” And it’s not about what you are—it’s who you are.

✦ . eyeless jack

Gay (but emotionally repressed).

Jack has a masculine preference and a complicated past. He feels more than he admits. Likely had a closeted relationship in school before his transformation.

Now? He buries his attraction deep beneath logic, science, and distance—but you’ll see it in the way he lingers when he stitches you up. “My condition changed a lot of things. But not who I… admire.”

✦ . masky (tim wright)

Bisexual with a lot of internalized shame.

Tim struggles to define himself, including his sexuality. Had experiences with men he never talked about, but found himself in a constant back and forth of hating and liking people in general.

May have suppressed feelings for male friends before things went dark. He hates feeling vulnerable, so any attraction outside the norm makes him skittish. “It’s not about labels. I liked who I liked. But that was then.” Not very big on making emotional connections anymore.

✦ . hoodie (brain thomas)

Queer/questioning, very fluid.

Brian is subtle and observant—and quietly queer. He likely never got a chance to explore before becoming a proxy, but you get the sense he was always “a little different.”

He doesn’t define his sexuality, but he knows what pulls him in—and it’s often not about gender. “People are too obsessed with definitions. I just want connection. Peace. A spark.” Could give two shits what anyone has to say either.

✦ . kate the chaser

Bisexual, maybe slightly femme-leaning.

Kate has a strong femme presence but definitely isn’t picky. She likes power, confidence, vulnerability—no matter the package.

She might’ve been with girls before and just never mentioned it. Doesn’t talk about her sexuality but wouldn’t deny it if asked. “Yeah, I’ve kissed girls. Slept with a few too. You jealous?”

✦ . ben drowned

Pansexual + Gender Nonconforming.

Ben gives big pan energy but in a “I have no idea what gender this thing is, but I’m turned on by it,” way. Prefers people who treat him like a real person, regardless of identity.

Dresses and acts however he wants—gender norms mean nothing to him. He’s literally pixels. Probably jokes about being your “digital boyfriend/girlfriend/enbyfriend.” “Sorry, sweetheart, the only binary I care about is the coding kind.”

✦ . clockwork

Lesbian.

Yes she dated Toby, yes don’t bring it up. Natalie reads super lesbian-coded, and in the most flannel wearing, car-shop working way ever. Has strong emotional + romantic leanings toward women.

Probably had a very intense first love with a girl she lost. Doesn’t label herself out loud, but she lights up around strong, soft, female energy. “I’ve only ever felt safe with women. Everything else… always felt like pretending.”

✦ . laughing jack

Pansexual, flamboyantly queer.

Jack is a walking queer-coded fever dream. He flirts with everyone for fun but has a real soft spot for eccentric, gender-bending partners. A part of him doesn’t even understand why people care about gender.

His vibe? “Gender is a costume, darling.” “Oh please—I’ve seduced demons, clowns, angels, and corpses. You think your pronouns scare me?”

✦ . slenderman

Asexual, Aromantic-coded but curious.

Slender doesn’t need romantic or sexual intimacy—but he’s not unfeeling. He connects on a deeply spiritual level. Gender and orientation are below his plane of existence.

But with the right person? He explores… softly, curiously, almost reverently. “You intrigue me not for what you are, but how you exist. So human. So fragile. So luminous.”

꩜ .ᐟ

[slattlicker]

college age schlatt i beg 🙏 like the proper nerdy computer science college student everyone seems to forget he was

╭﹐✦˚₊· 𖤐 * no recursion without return ⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ ╮ imagine: hot engineering nerd meets cute cs nerd. she needs help passing a required class. he needs someone who actually listens. one tutoring session turns into two... and then they build something together. ╰﹒♡₊˚๑ *✧﹒✦ ࣪ ˖ ┊

﹒₊✦ a/n: college schlatt is real, actually. nerds deserve romance too. i'm so so sorry if this is inaccurate,,, i am an english writing major (who used to be in biochem) so take everything stem-talk in this with the biggest grain of salt ♡

warnings: academic setting · lots of stem talk (cs + engineering) · mutual nerd crushes · slow-burn vibes · tutoring sessions · project bonding · lab flirting · light insecurity · soft & earned first kisses

✧✧✧

it starts with a room that smells like dry-erase markers and burnt coffee.

tuesday afternoon, 3:15 pm. you’re ten minutes early to the cs building’s third-floor lab—mostly because the alternative was sitting through another insufferably slow dining hall lunch, and partly because you weren’t sure if you’d find the place at all.

the whiteboard has a half-erased doodle of a mushroom in glasses. someone’s labeled it fungi with a minor in comp sci.

you snort, drop your bag onto the table, and slide into the nearest swivel chair.

you're not exactly struggling in the class—but you're also not thriving. cs230: data structures and algorithms. it’s mandatory for your minor, and you’ve been putting it off for two semesters too long.

the professor announced last week that office hours would be staffed by the department’s “stem peer guides.” you hadn’t planned on going.

but then the last lab nearly made you cry in the library bathroom.

so here you are.

you’re still tugging your laptop out of your bag when the door creaks.

he walks in backwards—wearing a hoodie that probably cost too much and socks with cartoon ducks on them, juggling two coffees and a laptop under one arm.

“hey—sorry,” he says, turning around and freezing when he spots you. “didn’t think anyone was gonna show up.”

he sets the coffees down. his glasses slide a little down his nose when he tilts his head.

“you here for cs230?”

you nod. “yeah.”

he blinks. then smiles—just a little. you catch the beginnings of smile lines.

“i’m schlatt,” he says. “stem guide. i did the class last year.”

you raise an eyebrow. “and survived?”

“barely.” he slides into the chair across from you and cracks open his laptop. “what are we working on?”

you pause. he’s surprisingly cute for someone who clearly color-codes his life. his keyboard has custom caps. his notes—when he turns the screen to show you—are annotated with little pixel cats.

you try not to show your amusement. “i think i broke my brain trying to write a recursive function.”

schlatt huffs a laugh. “you and everyone else.”

he takes a sip of his coffee, then pushes the other cup toward you.

“extra,” he says. “in case you need brain fuel. also because i got nervous and ordered two by accident and i couldn't tell them i didn't want the other one.”

you accept it without thinking. warm. lightly sweet. you usually take yours iced, but it's cold in this room, so you'll take it.

“thanks,” you murmur.

“no problem,” he says, already pulling up the assignment prompt on his screen. “let’s untangle some loops.”

✧✧✧

you’re twenty minutes in and already rethinking your life choices.

not because schlatt’s bad at explaining things. actually, the opposite.

he’s good. really good.

he’s got the kind of brain that makes metaphors on the fly—comparing recursive functions to russian nesting dolls, stack overflows to a laundry chair that’s reached critical mass, and call stacks to cabinets held open in sequence.

“okay,” he says, spinning the whiteboard toward you, “so imagine you're opening those russian dolls—you know, the ones that keep getting smaller?”

you nod, watching as he draws a series of half-circles nestled inside each other.

“each function call is like opening another doll. every time the function calls itself, it goes one layer deeper. but the only way to start returning values—to actually finish—is to reach the smallest one.”

“the base case,” you murmur, tapping the smallest doll he’s drawn.

his smile quirks. “exactly. once you hit that, you start putting them all back together. one by one, returning values up the chain.”

you tilt your head. “so recursion’s not about jumping around—it's about going in and then back out in the same order.”

“bingo.”

he pivots to his laptop and pulls up a short recursive function on the screen. you lean in.

“okay, next part—this,” he gestures at the lines of indented code, “is the call stack. think of it like trying to put dishes away.”

“…dishes?”

he nods, animated now. “you open a cabinet to put a plate in. then you grab another plate, but instead of closing the first cabinet, you open a second one. and a third. and a fourth. you keep opening cabinets without shutting the old ones.”

you raise an eyebrow. “sounds like how my roommate loads the dishwasher.”

he grins. “right? but the point is, each open cabinet is a function waiting to finish. they can’t finish until the one they just called returns. so when you hit your base case, you finally start closing those cabinets, in reverse order.”

you stare at the screen, tracing the indents with your eyes.

“so,” you start slowly, “the top function keeps waiting—holding its cabinet door open—until the one it just called is done. and that one’s waiting for the one it called. like a long hallway of open doors.”

“yes!” schlatt nearly bounces in his chair. “and that hallway is your stack. it fills from the bottom up—every time you go deeper. but if there’s no base case—or it’s too far down?”

“then the hallway gets too crowded.”

you glance up at him. “and the stack… overflows?”

he throws both hands up, mock-dramatic. “you get it!”

you laugh—really laugh—and shake your head. “it actually makes sense. which is annoying. because i was ready to just declare defeat and become a barista.”

he nudges his coffee toward you. “nah. baristas don’t use call stacks.”

you take a sip, smiling into the lid. “honestly? if you’d used metaphors in the lab handout, i might’ve passed the last quiz.”

“metaphors are how i survive,” he says, then lowers his voice in mock-conspiracy. “they trick your brain into thinking you’re doing storytelling, not math.”

you grin. “you are such a dork.”

“thank you,” he says, deadpan. “that’s the highest compliment in this lab.”

you roll your eyes—but you’re still smiling.

✧✧✧

you hadn’t meant to invite him.

it just slipped out—somewhere between scribbling return values and teasing him for his handwriting—your mouth said, “hey, i’m grabbing food after this. you want to come?” like it was the most normal thing in the world.

he blinked. just once.

then shrugged and said, “sure,” like he wasn’t surprised either.

now you’re sitting across from him at a corner table in the dining hall. your tray’s got a slice of pizza and a sad salad. his has a sandwich, two cookies, and three chocolate milks.

“you know,” you say, chewing thoughtfully, “for someone who talks like a grad student, you eat like a middle schooler.”

he takes a sip of one of the chocolate milks. “middle schoolers are onto something.”

you snort. then pause. then blurt it out—because you’ve been thinking about it since the cs homework started, and he feels safe, in a quiet, weird way:

“okay, don’t judge me, but i’ve been working on this stupid little side project where i’m trying to build a low-power prosthetic hand using recycled printer motors.”

schlatt looks up, mid-bite. “wait. seriously?”

you nod. “yeah, i’ve been salvaging parts from the e-waste lab and retrofitting them. it’s dumb and janky and probably not functional, but—”

“that’s so sick,” he says, with total sincerity. “like—you’re making that from scratch?”

you sit up a little straighter. “well, not the whole thing. i’m using an arduino as the controller right now, because i suck at microprocessors and writing drivers from zero is hell. but i’ve been wiring it to flex sensors, and i’m experimenting with these homebrew 3d-printed phalanges—”

you don’t stop.

not once you get going.

you talk with your hands, gesturing wildly, pulling up half-broken images on your phone, sketching quick shapes on your napkin with a pen in the side-pocket of your backpack.

and the whole time? schlatt just watches.

listens.

not just politely—but engaged. interested. like he wants to hear it all. like you’re not over-explaining, or rambling, or going on too long about a niche thing that keeps your brain lit up at 3am.

you pause somewhere around “wrist articulation via recycled watch gears” and finally look up.

his eyes are warm.

“you know,” he says, grinning, “i think you just activated my stem side quest.”

you blink. “what?”

“i wanna help,” he says. “i mean, if you’ll let me. i’ve never coded a servo system, but… i’m a fast learner. and i think it’s badass.”

you don’t say anything.

not right away.

because your chest feels kind of full. your face feels warm. and for once, your brain doesn’t immediately try to shrink you back down.

instead, you nod. just once. “okay.”

he smiles at you over his chocolate milk.

and you think, shit, maybe office hours weren’t the highlight of the week after all.

✧✧✧

the next few weeks settle into a rhythm.

it starts with tutoring.

once a week turns into twice. then three times. not because you’re struggling (anymore), but because he’s… kind of fun to talk to. at least when he’s not roasting your variable names or trying to explain recursion using empty cereal boxes.

he sits across from you at the library table, hoodie sleeves pushed up, laptop screen smudged from how often he drags his fingers across it to point something out. sometimes he forgets to eat. you learn to pack granola bars in your pencil pouch. he never says thank you—just steals one with a smirk and keeps talking.

you start getting better. grades creeping up. error logs shrinking. you don’t dread opening your ide anymore. the code starts making sense—not just his, but yours.

one afternoon, you casually mention a project idea you’d been playing with—something stupid, just for fun. something to do with hardware integration. you expect him to laugh.

he doesn’t.

he spins his laptop around and starts mapping out a database schema like he’s been waiting for you to say it.

that’s how the side project starts.

lunches get longer. office hours get later. one day you bring your soldering kit to the library, and he lights up like you just handed him a rare pokémon card. the whole table smells like burnt plastic for an hour. no one complains. but no one sits near you either.

you nerd out hard. unapologetically. you find yourself going on tangents—about conductive thread, or how weird the i2c protocol is—and instead of zoning out, he asks questions. good ones. thoughtful ones. he doesn’t just tolerate your rants; he builds on them.

and okay, maybe you start noticing things.

like how he mumbles to himself when he’s focused. or how his hands are always warm. or how he smiles at you—not in a big, charming way, but in a quiet, earned one. like you’re the only one who gets to see this side of him.

it’s nothing serious. just… a shift.

you brush it off.

but your code’s never looked cleaner.

and your heart’s never beat louder.

✧✧✧

it happens by accident.

you’re heading toward the back patio of the student union, iced coffee in one hand, a stack of circuits notes in the other, when you spot him.

schlatt.

at one of the outdoor tables.

not alone.

there’s a group of students—three of them, maybe four—leaning in. cs majors, you recognize them. they’re the type who ask three questions per lecture and answer five more that weren’t theirs. big voices. bragging energy.

you can’t hear everything, but you don’t need to. the body language’s loud enough.

schlatt’s sitting off-center. not really in the circle. elbows tucked in, voice low, like he’s trying to contribute. like he wants to. but they’re talking over him. dismissing. one of them even laughs—not the good kind. the kind you’ve felt in your spine before.

and you watch it happen:

the way schlatt’s mouth tugs tight at the corner. the way he adjusts his sleeve, like it’ll make him smaller. the way he tries one more time to speak, then gives up halfway through the sentence and shrugs it off, pretending it didn’t matter.

they keep talking.

he goes quiet.

you’re frozen in place, coffee sweating through your fingers, because it clicks.

he’s like you.

he is you.

all that time you thought he was the confident one—the one who belonged. the one who was already part of something. but he’s not. not really. not when it comes to this. not when it comes to them.

he’s just better at hiding it.

better at laughing it off.

but the look in his eyes, right then—small and a little tired—that’s a look you know too well.

no one talks about what it feels like when your brain lights up for something and everyone else treats it like a joke.

no one talks about what it’s like to be too much in the wrong direction.

and suddenly, all your late-night rambling about microcontrollers and e-textiles feels different.

because he listened. not just because he was polite. but because he got it. you don't think you've ever felt so fully understood until him.

you take a step forward. you don’t know what you’re going to say.

but you’re not about to leave him sitting alone in a conversation that doesn’t want him.

not when you know what that feels like.

so you walk over.

“hey, there you are,” you say, nudging your knuckles gently against schlatt’s shoulder. “i was looking for you.”

he turns, surprised—then relieved. “oh—hey y/n.”

“sorry,” one of the students says, hesitant. “uh, are we… interrupting something?”

“nah,” you say, easy. “just didn’t want to miss my favorite stem guide.”

schlatt’s ears go a little pink.

you glance at the table—some kind of project group, you think. their laptops are open, notebooks out, but their conversation’s turned awkward now. the vibe’s off. not hostile—just… cliquey.

“you guys working on something for fundamentals?” you ask, glancing at their notes.

“uh, yeah,” one mutters. “trying to figure out the recursion stuff.”

you smile. “then you’re in luck. this guy’s a recursion whisperer.”

schlatt huffs a little laugh, rubbing the back of his neck.

“i’m serious,” you say, looking at him now. “you explained it to me with like…those russian dolls. made it make sense in ten minutes.”

“you remember the russian dolls?”

“obviously,” you grin. “changed my life.”

he smiles, a little shy, but brighter now.

you turn to the group. “anyway, sorry to interrupt. i just wanted to steal him for a bit. we’re working on something together—well, more like, he’s doing the hard part and i’m nodding along and pretending to contribute.”

they chuckle. the tension eases.

“good luck, though,” you add, friendly. “you’ve got a good one here.”

you tap the back of his hand.

“ready, genius?”

he nods. stands up. follows you without question.

and once you’re a few steps away, you glance over and say, casually but soft:

“for the record? you’re way too smart to sit through that kind of conversation, with those kinds of people, and not say anything.”

his voice is quiet. “didn’t think they really wanted my advice…or any of my input, for that matter.”

"sucks for them," you bump his arm. “i do.”

he looks at you.

and smiles.

“you’re different,” he says.

you shrug. “nah. i just don’t have the patience for people who don’t know a good brain when they’re sitting next to one.”

he laughs under his breath—bashful, but warm.

“besides,” you add, nudging him again, “you’re the only guy on campus who’s ever made me care about code.”

“flattered,” he says, with a little bow of his head. “high praise.”

“it is,” you nod. “don’t let that go to your head, though.”

“too late.”

you both laugh.

and as you walk side-by-side down the hallway, something feels… lighter.

✧✧✧

the lab is mostly empty—just the hum of old fluorescents overhead and the rhythmic click of schlatt’s keyboard echoing off the cinderblock walls.

you’re both hunched over the prototype, wires splayed like spaghetti across the table, your laptop screen casting a pale blue glow over your notes. it’s late. not late-late, but late enough that you’ve lost track of time in that delicious, focus-hazed kind of way.

“okay,” you murmur, “i think that’s the last adjustment on the sensor matrix. wanna try running the loop again?”

schlatt doesn’t answer right away—he’s rereading your code, brows furrowed, mouth slightly open like he’s working through it out loud in his head.

you wait.

he presses enter.

the terminal blinks once more.

and then—

nothing.

the servo doesn’t twitch. the sensor reads null. everything is still.

you groan, letting your head thunk forward onto the table. “are you kidding me?”

“hang on,” schlatt mutters, already scrolling. “it’s not a full crash. there’s something—it’s just not hitting the output loop.”

“i swear,” you grumble, face still mashed into your notes, “if this is another semicolon issue, i’m throwing myself into a ditch.”

“nah,” he says, voice calm, reassuring. “it’s not your code.”

you lift your head just enough to side-eye him. “it’s not yours either, huh?”

he doesn’t answer right away.

instead, he reaches for the breadboard, fingers quick and precise as he repositions a single wire—green to yellow. it’s such a small shift you almost miss it.

“that,” he says, “was plugged into the wrong pin.”

you blink.

he presses enter again.

and this time, the prototype moves.

just a little—just a careful curl of synthetic fingers, one joint at a time, like a hesitant wave from a ghost hand.

your jaw drops.

schlatt stares too. for once, he’s quiet.

“…did we—?”

“yeah,” he breathes. “we did.”

you let out a half-laugh, half-squeak. “dude—”

you turn to him without thinking.

and he’s already looking at you.

and before your brain catches up with your body, you’re reaching out—arms around his shoulders, heart in your throat.

he stiffens for a second. then melts into it.

his arms curl around your waist, tentative at first, then tighter. his cheek brushes your temple.

“holy shit,” you whisper, still breathless. “we did it.”

“we really fucking did it.”

the hug lasts longer than it needs to. it shifts. softens. becomes something else.

your hands curl in the fabric of his hoodie. his thumb rubs slow circles at your back.

neither of you move to pull away.

but eventually—awkwardly—you both realize you probably should.

you shift first, just a little, arms loosening. schlatt mirrors you a second later, like he’s waiting for permission.

and then—

your foot bumps a loose cable under the table.

you stumble, just a half step, enough to make you grip his hoodie tighter out of instinct.

he catches you by the elbow—quick, steady—but in doing so, he knocks into the edge of the desk.

a pen clatters to the floor. your hip bangs against the chair. both of you freeze.

then, in perfect harmony:

“sorry—”

“sorry—”

you look at each other.

he’s flushed to the tips of his ears.

you’re no better.

his hand’s still on your elbow. yours is still in the front pocket of his hoodie. neither of you seems to know what to do with yourselves now.

“…so,” you say, trying to laugh it off, “we’re, uh—officially engineers now, right? or, mad scientists? mad engineers? built something that works and almost died doing it.”

“sounds about right,” he mumbles, eyes not quite meeting yours.

you step back fully, brushing imaginary lint off your sleeves. he clears his throat and bends to pick up the pen—just a little too quickly.

“we should, uh…” he gestures vaguely at the wires. “log this. before we forget what we changed.”

“yeah,” you nod. “documentation. good. yep. very sexy.”

he snorts.

and the tension cracks just enough for both of you to breathe again.

✧✧✧

friday lunch.

same table.

you’re there first, as usual—tray to the left, elbow room cleared, and your little “project napkin” tucked just out of sight beneath your phone.

it’s not schematics, not exactly. more like an outline of “natural” movements. lean angles. average post-meal proximity. potential trigger phrases that could ease the moment into something more than just eye contact and banter.

it’s stupid. it’s excessive. it’s so you.

but it’s not like you’ve kissed him yet.

and it’s not like you haven’t thought about it. a lot.

he slides into the seat across from you—slightly out of breath, hoodie slightly askew.

“hey,” he says. “sorry, i ran into a professor who wouldn’t stop talking about his cat’s gut biome.”

you snort. “sounds riveting.”

“almost kissed him out of pity.”

you choke on a bite of salad. “what?”

“nothing,” he mumbles, sipping chocolate milk. “just—brain fried. bad sleep. lots of… thinking.”

you nod. you get that.

you were up half the night replaying yesterday’s hug on a loop. you hadn’t meant to squeeze him that tight. hadn’t meant to say “good job, genius” like that. hadn’t meant for your fingers to linger on his hoodie hem when you stepped back.

but he hadn’t pulled away.

so.

so.

you both eat in silence for a minute. your foot brushes his under the table. once. twice.

neither of you moves.

finally, you say it. quiet. almost like a confession.

“i, uh… may have tried to engineer a perfect kiss scenario today.”

he freezes, sandwich halfway to his mouth.

“...engineer?”

you nod, cheeks warm. “like… ran a few simulations in my head. built a model. set parameters. i was…probably gonna initiate if you laughed three or more times by the end of lunch.”

his jaw drops. “are you serious?”

“extremely.”

he blinks. “because i wrote a whole conditional loop for this.”

“…what?”

he fumbles in his hoodie pocket and pulls out a sticky note. it reads:

python: if eyes_hold >= 3.5 and cafeteria_noise == low: lean_in()

you stare at it.

then back at him.

and burst out laughing. “we’re so stupid.”

“no,” he says, laughing too. “we’re scientists.”

“why can’t we just communicate like normal people?”

“who needs normal?”

he’s still smiling.

you are too.

and this time?

there’s no plan. no diagram. no if/then logic.

you just… lean in. and he meets you halfway.

your noses bump. just slightly. your knees knock beneath the table. it’s clumsy at first—uncoordinated, like every group project you’ve ever had to rescue last-minute.

but then his hand grazes your wrist. your mouth fits against his like it already knew how. like maybe, all along, this wasn’t something to calculate.

it just needed to happen.

and suddenly, none of it feels theoretical. not the way his lips press softly, then more certainly. not the quiet exhale he lets out when you shift just a little closer. not the way your fingers curl in the fabric of his hoodie like you’ve done it a hundred times.

no flowchart could’ve planned this.

it’s instinct. it’s connection. it's human.

it’s easy.

you pull back first. slow. breath caught somewhere behind your grin.

but before you can say anything—

he leans back in. less hesitant this time.

his hand cradles the side of your neck, thumb brushing just beneath your jaw. his mouth meets yours like a spark catching on dry kindling—familiar, but heady. deliberate. like he’s trying to commit it to memory. like he’s making up for every time he could’ve kissed you and didn’t.

your heart stutters. your fingers grip the edge of the table.

he tastes like chocolate milk and lip balm and something stupidly addictive.

when you part again—barely—you stay close, noses brushing, breath mingling.

“you’re gonna break my brain,” he whispers.

you grin. “then i guess i'll be the one to tutor you.”

his laugh is low and warm and very, very fond.

“deal.”

[leejenowrld]

first ballerina dream

paring — single father! na jaemin

word count — 720 words

synopsis — single father na jaemin, finally free from the shadow of hospital rooms, holds his miracle girl’s hand as she twirls into her very first ballet class. every step is a triumph, every laugh a gentle unraveling of all their old fears. in the hush between piano notes, he learns what it means to witness your child’s dream—soft and shining—come true.

the characters in this drabble are characters from my na jaemin fic ‘𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐓𝐎 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐓,’ this drabble is slightly off the main plot and a reimagined world. just something i wanted to write.

There are mornings when Jaemin wakes before the sun, curled protectively around the small, warm body of his daughter—her cheek pressed against his chest, one tiny fist curled in the fabric of his shirt. These are the hours when the world is silent and the only sound is Haeun’s breath, soft and uneven from so many nights spent fighting for every inhale. Sometimes, Jaemin just watches her sleep, one hand splayed over the gentle rise and fall of her back, guarding her heartbeat like a sentry on a forgotten shore. Even in sleep, she stirs at the smallest shift, her lashes fluttering against his collarbone, and he’s reminded again of every night they counted machines’ beeps instead of sheep, every lullaby sung beneath fluorescent bulbs. He never lets himself forget—not the weight of her, not the way his hands still tremble when she coughs too hard, not the promise he makes anew with every sunrise: as long as he breathes, nothing will ever touch her.

When the diagnosis first arrived, it crashed through his life like a tidal wave, sweeping away every illusion of safety. He remembers carrying her, so small she fit into the crook of his arm, into exam rooms painted in sterile blues and grays, hearing words like “congenital,” “rare,” and “life-threatening” echo off cold tile. He learned the taste of fear—sharp, metallic, constant—as he watched doctors draw blood from chubby arms and nurses tape wires to her chest. Jaemin became the unmovable wall between her and the world: every doctor had to answer to him, every medicine was triple-checked, every chart scrutinized with a surgeon’s eye. His possessiveness grew not out of pride, but out of survival—if he blinked, he feared, she might slip away. He would hold her during procedures, whispering soft encouragement, his body physically between her and anything that hurt, memorizing the curve of her fingers as she gripped his thumb and the shudder of relief that rippled through her when he wiped her tears away.

In the darkest months, when hospital walls closed in and hope seemed to waver on the edge of every doctor’s voice, Jaemin built their world out of ritual and touch. He learned how to braid her hair one-handed while she clung to his sleeve, how to read her favorite story upside-down so she could see every picture, how to draw sunbeams on her cast with a purple marker until she giggled through her pain. He dressed her in yellow—always yellow, the color of stubborn joy—laid soft blankets over her, carried her pressed close against his chest from room to room. If anyone looked too long or asked too many questions, his gaze was ice; if anyone tried to suggest she needed less—less comfort, less holding, less of him—he bristled, every muscle taut with the urge to shield her. His love for Haeun was possessive not because he needed to keep her, but because he had nearly lost her, and the ache of almost was carved into his every touch.

Now, every milestone is a small, private victory: when Haeun’s fever finally broke, he wept in the bathroom with relief; when she took her first steps, he nearly crushed her with the strength of his hug, whispering “brave girl, you’re so brave, you’re everything.” Even a trip to the ballet studio is an act of courage, a silent promise to the world that she’s more than her scars. Jaemin watches her with a gaze that never wavers, ready to intervene if her breath falters, hovering at the edge of the room while she learns to spin and leap, shoes too big for her feet, tutu slipping sideways. He is present for every moment, every giggle, every stumble—so alert that even joy feels fragile in his hands. Anyone watching would see a man haunted by fear, made beautiful by it, a father who would torch the world for his daughter and still gather her close, whispering vows against her hair: “No one will ever hurt you again. Not while I’m here. You’re safe, baby. You’re safe.”

It’s a morning spun from honey and cotton, the kind of fragile, golden newness that tastes like hope. Jaemin kneels to lace up tiny ballet shoes, his big hands moving clumsily over delicate ankles, careful as if he’s stringing pearls or learning a prayer for the first time. Haeun sits on the studio bench, grinning around a mouthful of hair as she tries to tug it into a ponytail herself. The light from the windows paints the pale wisps of her hair gold, and when she lifts her arms for help, Jaemin swears his chest might break open with pride and disbelief—she’s here, she’s whole, she’s his. He gathers her close, knotting her hair with a pink ribbon. “Ready, sunshine?” he whispers, and she nods, solemn as a queen.

He crouches beside her as they walk into the mirrored studio. Haeun’s dress is the softest shade of yellow, skirts like whipped butter, and she clutches her bunny in one hand, unwilling to let go even for her debut. The teacher kneels to greet her, and Jaemin watches her introduce herself in the shyest voice, holding tightly to his leg. “This is my Dada,” she announces, wide-eyed. “He’s my bestest.” Jaemin tries to hide his smile, nodding at the other parents, the edge of nerves sweetening his awe—after so many months of beeping monitors, cold hands, and the taste of fear, this feels almost like a fairytale.

He sits quietly on the floor as the music starts, heart in his throat as Haeun tiptoes after the other girls, arms outstretched like little wings. Her movements are clumsy and soft, but every time she glances over her shoulder, Jaemin smiles wide, hands over his heart, mouthing encouragements—that’s it, baby, you’re doing it, you’re flying. She beams, mouth open in wonder, cheeks flushed with pride and effort. Each little twirl is a miracle, every giggle a psalm. At one point, she wobbles and nearly trips, but catches herself and runs to Jaemin, throwing her arms around his neck. “Dada! I ballerina now! Did you see me?”

He lifts her onto his lap, squeezing her gently, forehead pressed to her temple. “You’re the prettiest ballerina in the world, Haeunie. Daddy’s so proud of you.”

She giggles, whispering, “Daddy, can you spin too?” And he does—clumsy and enormous, arms sweeping her up into the air, the two of them laughing as they spin, dizzy with lightness and relief. Other parents smile, teachers laugh, but in this moment it’s only the two of them—her safe in his arms, pink ribbon trailing, bunny squished between them.

When class ends, Haeun sits on his lap, sweaty and spent, tucking her head beneath his chin. “I love you, Dada. You come every time? Even when I’m big?” Her voice is a whisper, uncertain, as if the world might change again if she says it too loud.

Jaemin kisses her brow, squeezing her tight, promising, “Always. Daddy’s never missing a single dance. Not ever.”

He wipes her cheek as she munches her snack, still in her tutu, sticky hands clutching his fingers, legs swinging above the floor. The sunlight lingers in her hair, gold halo catching every little movement, every sign of her hard-won joy. She turns and kisses his nose, giggling, “You smell like home, Daddy. You make my heart happy.” Jaemin’s eyes sting, but he just laughs, pulling her in close, memorizing the weight of her in his arms, the sound of her voice, the gentle miracle of this ordinary, extraordinary morning. In this room of music and mirrors, she is whole, and so is he—her dancer, her hero, her forever place to land.

moodboard of our ballerina girl 🫶🩰

interested in what you read? check out ‘𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐓𝐎 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐓’ heart to heart is a gritty, devastating, and ultimately healing medical drama about a cold, brilliant chief pediatric surgeon and a younger, timid intern who falls into his orbit—all bound together by a sick, abandoned baby girl who needs saving as much as they do. expect age gap, single dad, forbidden workplace romance, found family, medical realism, and angsty, dominant smut that pushes every boundary. this is a story of healing and destruction: trauma, touch, and the raw lengths people will go to for love, with every kiss, every loss, and every reunion written in blood and sunlight. at its core, it’s about three broken souls who find home in each other, even as the world tries to tear them apart.

[the-undeadwriter]

Hi, hope you’re having a good day. I wanted too request a yan! Batfam with a reader who just stays in their room 24/7 and makes art (could be painting,music,sculptures,etc.)

Hehe, this was fun to write >:)

Warnings: neglect, not really any yandere behaviour in this, reader is gn! Possibly part 1, we’ll see how I feel :)

Requests are open!

Art had always been something just for you.

Even before your mother had died, you spent most of your time drawing on whatever paper you could find, scribbling away with an odd assortment of crayons and pencils your mother had snatched from her job as a waitress.

After your mother had passed away, you threw yourself into your art. In your eyes, it kept you afloat, kept you from drowning in your grief more times than you can count. And, considering who your father was, you finally had the funds to use good materials.

Art was your therapy. Sculpting, painting, sketching… anything you could get your hands on.

You didn’t even really care that Bruce rarely spoke to you— you were too busy joining art competitions your school held. You were too busy sneaking into the music room and learning simple Melodie’s on the piano. Any anger, sadness or resentment you felt was channeled into your art.

You weren’t completely fine with being ignored— no child would ever be fine with being neglected— but you learned to deal with it. At least your method of coping wasn’t dressing up in Kevlar and fist fighting the mentally ill.

Besides, you weren’t completely alone! You had Alfred there to drive you to school, buy your supplies, feed you…

And, for a while, you had Dick. He was almost an adult, and angry at Bruce and the world, so you didn’t speak with him a lot… but he was there for a while.

Jason was the brother you spent the most time with. He was only two years older than you, bright and happy and there. He was a great muse, focus point, model, and brother.

When you made your very first sculpture, a little Robin, he kept it in his room. Showed it off to Bruce and Alfred and displayed it proudly on his bedside table.

Then Jason went away.

You stopped painting robins after that.

Your art took a turn then— no more vibrant colours. Jason had taken that light with him.

That little clay robin now sits in your room, high up on a shelf. Away from harm.

Tim came next, practically your age. He never acted like you were the same age though. He had this… air about him. Like he was more than you. You’re not sure if it was intentional.

He didn’t consider himself part of the family then. You can… somewhat understand his mentality. He was only there to keep Batman in line, not watch over the only biological Wayne child. You never even turned your gaze towards him with the intention to catalogue, analyse, or capture his image in any manor.

His run as Robin brought Steph and Cass in. Steph was… loud. Vibrant. Far too bright for your taste at the time. You couldn’t bear her attempts at friendship. You only made one piece when she was there— a sprawling city skyline, in hues of purple and black.

When she went away too, you added a single white dove in the foreground.

Cass, on the other hand, was much like you. Quiet. She, like you, had an eye for the arts, but her medium was through ballet and dance, unlike your paints and music. One day, you snuck into her practice and sketched her. Spins and jumps decorated the page you had brought.

You never let her see it.

Then, suddenly, Jason was back. But different. Changed.

He was taller. Stronger. Angrier.

You didn’t know it was him at first. When he finally came back, officially, he…

Didn’t see you. Not anymore.

He never asked about that little Robin sculpture. Never asked what your latest project was.

You were almost eighteen when Damian was dropped off at Wayne manor. You didn’t see him for a week after he arrived, too busy with a competition. When you did finally meet…

He attacked you. Pressed a sword against your neck and called your mother a whore.

You avoided him after that.

Dule was moved in pretty quickly after that, but you didn’t get to speak with him much. He was nice enough, and you knew he’d be a good hero. You just couldn’t bring yourself to get attached.

Then. You turned eighteen. Then. You graduated and got accepted into an arts university.

You made one final painting in the manor.

A gilded, golden bird cage. With broken bars and a missing bird. You left it in your room, for Alfred to find.

And then you moved out with the help of your friends. Moved across the city and into a dorm. Cut all ties with the Waynes.

You thought that was it.

You thought you were free.

You thought they wouldn’t care that you left without a word.

You were wrong.

[airybcby]

જ⁀✦ cause what if i never love again?

( reo mikage x fem! reader )

♡ a/n — yall rock w the new pic set up? ^^

♡ word count — 2.8k

♡ content — reo mikage x fem! reader, set in a kind of salem time, the 1920s, a war-time, and "modern times" (reo and reader are 19 and he plays pro soccer), right person wrong time, right person not enough time, mentions of witchcraft, mentions of car accidents, mentions of war (and all things affliated), mentions of illness, royal! reader, heiress! reader, nurse! reader, ill! reader, soulmates, meeting in every lifetime, 4 different lifetimes, angst, not proofread!

♡ synopsis — Reo Mikage will go through as many lives as he has to. Because in every life, Reo Mikage finds you. And in every life, you leave him far too early.

── .✦ give me a memory i can use

The first time you met Reo Mikage, you were both small and sharp-eyed, children dressed in velvet and constraint. 

Your families were tangled in money and politics—landowners of different provinces, but allies in name and interest.

You were five when he pulled your hair in the middle of a tea party. 

He was six when you shoved him into a pond for saying your voice was too loud.

By ten, you were inseparable.

They let you roam because your names had already been written beside each other in social contracts and whispered agreements. 

If it was known that one day you’d marry, what was the harm in letting you grow close? A scandal between children of dynasties only became a storybook legend.

He snuck into your father’s library to draw figures on old books while you read them aloud. 

He taught you how to climb the castle wall in secret, and you taught him to hold his tongue when the lords came to visit. 

You knew how to bite with a smile, how to laugh with your teeth showing.

Reo saw it first.

That fire in you. 

You were always too wild for the world they tried to fit you into. Not unruly, no—never sloppy, never loud when you weren’t meant to be—but there was something about the way you looked out the window when no one else was watching. 

Something about how you wrote poems in the backs of your ledgers and crushed rose petals into ink to write your letters. Something about how you said no.

And something about how he kept falling in love with it.

It wasn’t dramatic, how it started. 

It wasn’t some grand confession or secret kiss stolen in a garden. 

It was just... one day, Reo looked at you reading in the sun, your slippers dangling off one foot and your hair wind-tangled, and he thought, I want to know her forever. And then another day passed, and he still did. And then more.

You loved him, too, in your own way. Softly. Deeply. As if your lives had always been meant to run parallel.

You held hands under the table. He kissed the corner of your wrist one night when he thought you were asleep. You laughed into his shoulder after you tripped on your gown. He looked at you like he’d never seen anything as real in a world built on porcelain.

You told him once, “If I wasn’t born into this family, I’d be free.”

He looked at you, his own robe stitched with his family’s crest in gold thread, and said, “Then I’d give up everything and be free with you.”

You were seventeen.

You never got to turn eighteen.

They accused you of witchcraft.

It started with a dying boy claiming you’d looked at him wrong. 

A servant finding dried herbs in your satchel. 

A maid whispering about how she saw you dance barefoot in the rain last spring. 

Enough breadcrumbs to ignite fear in people who’d rather burn a girl than question their own sins.

No trial. No appeal.

You didn’t scream when they took you. You didn’t beg. 

But Reo did.

He fought everyone—his father, the guards, the church. “She’s not a witch,” he screamed. “She’s not anything but good.”

But the world didn’t want good. It wanted obedient. And you’d never been that.

They tied your hands behind your back. They bound you in white and dragged you through the courtyard, and Reo stood in the front row because he refused to let the last thing you see be anyone but him.

Your eyes met.

The smoke rose around you.

Your last words were not curses.

They were, “Don’t forget me.”

And he never did.

Even as the flames swallowed you. Even as your skin turned to ash and your hair burned away, Reo saw only the girl who once told him she’d be free one day. 

The girl he loved in a world that wasn’t kind enough to keep her.

That was your first death.

The first lifetime where he couldn’t save you.

And far above the smoke, something—fate, time, maybe love—took your soul in its hands and whispered:

Not yet. Try again.

You were never supposed to be seen at the club.

Not you—darling of your family, heiress to a chain of railroads, pearls around your neck, and an engagement to a Duke’s son inked before you could spell his name. 

Your mother taught you manners with the edge of a knife. 

Your father raised you like an investment.

But then there was Club Ambrosia—all smoke and saxophones, women in dresses too short and heels too high, and music that wrapped around your ribs like sin. 

That was where you went when you couldn’t breathe. 

That’s where you were when Reo Mikage found you again.

He was already seated in the corner when your shadow slipped through the curtain. Champagne in hand. Gold cufflinks glinting under low lights. 

Everyone knew the Mikages—owners of steel lines and half of Wall Street. 

Their son? He was supposed to be on his way to becoming the next great American tycoon.

But there he was.

Watching you like he’d been waiting years.

His voice cut through the jazz. “Didn’t think you were the kind of girl who ran from parties thrown in her honor.”

You raised an eyebrow. “And I didn’t think you were the kind of boy who followed girls out of them.”

“I don’t follow girls,” he said, standing to offer you his hand. “Just you.”

And like smoke rising from a candle, it all came back.

Not in full—not yet. But in fragments.

The shape of his mouth when he smiled. The way your heart quieted when his hand touched yours.

A memory of fire.

You danced that night. Barely spoke. 

His hand on your waist, yours on his chest. 

When the music swelled, you let your head fall against his shoulder and whispered, “Do you ever feel like you’ve done all this before?”

Reo didn’t answer. But he held you closer.

You and Reo became a story whispered behind champagne glasses.

The reformed golden boy of Fifth Avenue, now regularly seen at downtown jazz clubs, slipping into limousines with that Belmont girl. The one who used to recite poems in Latin and walked barefoot in her father’s garden.

They called it a phase.

You knew better.

It wasn’t perfect. You argued, often.

Your families met in secret to “discuss your recklessness.”

You wrote letters to each other in invisible ink.

He sent you flowers for every day he couldn’t see you.

You’d crush them between books, every one.

One night, you curled against his chest in his hotel suite, the city glittering outside, and you whispered, “They’ll never let us be free.”

Reo kissed your temple. “Then we’ll stop asking.”

You made a plan.

Two train tickets. A borrowed name. 

You’d run to Paris, where no one cared about your families, where he could disappear and you could breathe.

But the night before your escape, your father caught wind. 

Whether it was a servant or a slip of the tongue, you never knew. 

Reo came to get you.

But you never opened the door.

They said the brakes gave out.

That your driver was drunk.

That the corner was slick from rain.

But Reo Mikage—standing in the rain, his fists bloodied from pounding the wreckage, your perfume still on his collar—knew better.

You died with your engagement ring still on, the wrong man’s name etched into your obituary.

And Reo never forgave himself for being one night too late.

He lived until he was eighty-seven. Never married.

Some say he bought every apartment overlooking the bridge where your car went over.

Some say every year on the anniversary, he sat on the ledge and whispered to the wind:

“Next time, I’ll come sooner.”

The third time you meet him again, it’s through blood and smoke.

You’re a nurse stationed at a temporary field hospital, the kind where floors are dirt and the walls are canvas. 

The kind where no one remembers names—just numbers and wounds and how long someone has left.

Reo Mikage is wheeled in unconscious.

He’s covered in grime, his uniform soaked with someone else’s blood. 

The tag pinned to his chest bears his surname, and something in your chest stirs. 

Mikage. 

You whisper it under your breath. It sounds... familiar. 

Like a place you once lived. A name you once spoke like a secret.

He doesn’t wake for three days.

You sit beside his cot every shift.

The other nurses tease you for it. 

They call him handsome, say you’ve got a crush. But it’s not that. Not really. 

It’s something heavier. Something in the curl of his fingers. The furrow in his brow. Like you already know the way he’ll look at you when he opens his eyes.

And then he does.

And you do.

He blinks once. Twice. Focuses on your face.

He says your name. Not the one on your uniform. The one no one here calls you. The one you’ve only ever heard in dreams.

He says it like he’s been looking for you in every burning city.

You drop the tray in your hands.

Reo isn’t like the other soldiers.

He’s quieter. Sharper. Always watching the sky like it’s trying to tell him something. 

He tells you, once, after his fever breaks, that he didn’t want to fight. That his father made him.

He tells you, “War makes men into monsters. I’m just trying not to lose myself.”

You tend to his wounds in silence. And when you can’t take the silence anymore, you read to him. You braid the fringe of your apron. 

He watches you like you’re the last beautiful thing left in the world.

You start to write letters.

Not to send. Just to keep. 

Letters about the dream you had last night—about fire and water and lace. 

About names that don’t make sense. 

About waking up and looking at him like you’d done it a hundred times before.

He writes too. He tucks them under his pillow.

One night, you trade letters without reading them.

You hold onto his like a prayer.

The bombing starts in the middle of winter.

You’re stationed at a different camp by then. A converted boarding school turned hospital. 

You spend your days wrapping wounds and your nights writing to him by candlelight. 

You’re engaged now. 

It’s not official—there’s no ring, no announcement—but the way he said “Marry me when this ends” felt more real than anything your father’s ever given you.

He signs every letter:

I will find you, in every life.

But then—radio silence.

Weeks pass.

Then months.

The air raids begin again.

You think maybe he’s dead.

You press your fingers to your stomach one morning and whisper, that you’ll be okay. He’d want you to be okay.

The night it happens, you can feel it.

A cold sweat. A ringing in your ears. The candle goes out with no warning.

You step outside into the snow. The first star has just appeared.

You want to send him one last letter.

But you never get to write it.

The bomb hits the edge of the hospital.

The world turns white.

Reo finds the ruins three days later.

He shouldn’t even be there. He’s already on his way back to the front. But something pulls him off the train. Something he can’t name.

He digs through the wreckage until his knuckles bleed.

He finds your locket in the ashes.

And a letter—his, unopened.

Your name written in the corner.

The paper is stained and singed, but his words are still there.

I remember you now. From every life before.

This time, I swear, I won’t lose you.

But he did.

Again.

He keeps the locket around his neck until the war ends.

He never takes it off.

Not even when they offer him medals, promotions, his father’s business back home.

He turns it all down.

He buys a farm on the outskirts of town. Quiet. Away from the noise.

Sometimes the villagers say they hear him talking to the wind.

Sometimes he walks to the river and stands there until morning.

When asked why he never married, he says:

“I already had her. Once. Twice. Maybe three times. But I’m still waiting for the time I get to keep her.”

You and Reo Mikage grew up next door.

Same gated community, same prep school, same security guards posted outside the wrought iron fences. 

You were the daughter of luxury hotel owners. He, the heir to Mikage Corporation. 

You were born in cashmere blankets. Raised on promises you never asked for.

Everyone said you'd end up together.

They said it at galas, while sipping imported champagne. 

They said it like a joke at school when he shared his umbrella with you in the rain. 

And when you turned sixteen and collapsed in your own hallway, too weak to stand, they still said it.

But softer.

“Poor thing,” they whispered. “She probably won’t live long. At least she has him.”

You hated those words.

Because they made you feel like your love for Reo was a consolation prize.

But Reo never looked at you like that.

Never once.

You were seventeen when he kissed you for the first time.

Ten hospitalizations in one year.

Tubes in your arms. Doctors poking and prodding.

He still kissed you like you were summer.

Not sick. Not fragile. Just you.

You were nineteen when he married you.

The media lost its mind.

Mikage Reo Marries Mystery Girl at 19!

Golden Boy Tied Down So Soon?

Is Love Worth This Much Risk?

Every interview asked the same question.

“Why so young?”

And Reo would just smile, golden and warm, eyes quiet, and say:

“When you know, you know.”

But that wasn’t the truth.

The truth was: your lungs were giving out.

Your immune system couldn’t keep up.

And some days, you couldn’t even walk down the stairs.

The truth was: Reo had one chance to be yours in every way.

And he took it. No hesitation.

He plays with a pro team now.

Top-tier team. International attention. Commercials.

And every time he scores, he kisses his ring finger and looks to the sky.

You’re never in the stands.

You always ask.

“Can I come tonight? I’ll wear a mask, I won’t touch anyone, I promise.”

But he won’t let you.

You’re too delicate. Too precious.

“Please,” you said once, half-laughing, half-crying. “I just want to see you out there. Just once.”

He shook his head, jaw clenched.

“I don’t want to carry the weight of losing you in the middle of a game.”

You promised him then. 

“Fine. I’ll see you when you get home.”

The night you don’t wake up, he had a game in another city.

A late one. Sold out.

Reporters screamed questions at him about his strategy, his youth, his marriage.

He gave a polite smile. Always poised.

He scored twice.

But didn’t celebrate.

He got home close to midnight.

The house was quiet. Dark. 

No light spilling from the bedroom door like usual. 

No movie humming in the background. 

No warm blanket lump with your eyes peeking out when he walked in.

“Baby?” he called, loosening his tie.

No answer.

He walked into the room. You were curled up in bed like always. Still wearing that oversized hoodie he bought you last winter. One arm draped over the pillow.

He exhaled a soft laugh. “Did you really fall asleep without texting me?”

He walked closer. Leaned down.

Touched your cheek.

You were cold.

Colder than you’d ever been.

Not just chilled. Empty.

“No, no,” he murmured. “Hey. Baby. Wake up.”

You didn’t move.

He shook you lightly. “C’mon, don’t do this. I’m home now.”

Silence.

He collapsed beside you, hands cupping your face.

“Hey,” his voice cracked. “Open your eyes. You said—you said you’d wait for me.”

But you couldn’t.

You kept your promise the best you could.

They say Reo didn’t speak for days.

Didn’t cry in public. Didn’t cancel a single match.

But on the field, he stopped smiling.

He scored goals like a machine. Cold. Calculated.

And every time, he still kissed his ring finger.

But he never looked up anymore.

He kept everything the same in your shared house.

Your side of the bed still untouched.

Your last note—"Come home safe. I love you."—framed by the door.

Sometimes, he talks to the photo of you by the window.

Not like someone grieving.

But like someone waiting.

He dreams of you often now.

And sometimes, when he wakes, breathless and aching, he whispers,

“Please. Just one more life. Let it be the one we finish.”

Because in every life, Reo Mikage finds you.

And in every life, you leave him far too early.

so this is actually the first fic i've written where I'VE cried :)

likes, comments, and reblogs are appreciated!!

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