꩜ synopsis: a harmless campus interview turns your best friend into an overnight internet sensation—and suddenly, every thirsty TikTok comment feels like it’s whispering your secret.
☆ art cred: @/juvianism on instagram :3
You nearly spill your coffee all over your Political Theory textbook when you unlock your phone. Another two hundred comments on that TikTok. You know you shouldn't check—you probably watched it about a million times yesterday alone—but your fingers move before your brain can scream at you to stop.
@/bookslvt01: ok but the way he talks about virginia woolf??? NEED HIM CARNALLY
@/colossalthighs: i’d let him annotate my entire body fr
@/arlertmeout: he looks like he apologises before choking you
You bite your lip, half-entertained and half-horrified, scrolling through the endless comments under what was supposed to be an innocent campus interview. The video has 2.3 million views now, completely insane for something filmed outside the modest main library—the same one you find yourself in at the moment—on a random Tuesday.
"Ugh, don’t tell me. You're watching it again, aren't you?"
Your head snaps up comically quick, caught red-handed, to find Sasha sliding into the seat across from you at your usual table, eyeing your phone screen with knowing amusement.
"What? No."
"You are! You have that weird, glazed look in your eyes. The same one you get when Professor Ackerman extends the deadline for our research papers." Sasha unwraps what appears to be her third sandwich of the day. You don't mention how it’s only twelve in the afternoon. "You know you could just talk to him about it, right? He's literally one of your best friends."
"And say what exactly?" you finally close the godforsaken app, trying to ignore how your screen time report is definitely going to be embarrassing this week. "Hey Armin, I've watched your viral video more times than I can remember and I'm having very inappropriate thoughts about your tongue piercing that I absolutely shouldn't be having about my friend?"
Sasha snickers, a piece of lettuce tumbling to the table from her mouth. "Well, when you put it like that... actually, yes. One hundred percent that."
"Sasha, I can't just—" you frown in frustration, inhaling deeply. "It's complicated."
"How is it complicated? You've had a crush on him since freshman year."
"That was different. That was before we became friends. Before I knew him." You lean back in your chair, staring at the ceiling as fond memories overwhelm you. "Back then he was just this cute, nerdy guy in my intro psych class who got excited about statistical analysis and always smelled like that vanilla body wash I love. I used to sit behind him just to watch him get all animated during discussions about cognitive behavioural theory, you know?"
Sasha merely rolls her eyes. "Jesus, and you call me demented. Well, what about now?"
"Now? Now, he's Armin. He's my friend who stays up until 3 A.M. to help me with my assignments, who brings me soup when I'm sick, who texts me the dumbest memes about historical figures," you slump forward, close to pouting. "He's the guy who spent six hours teaching me how to play that MMO he's obsessed with just because I mentioned being bored over winter break. He's..."
"He's the guy you're infatuated with," Sasha supplies helpfully.
"I'm not," you start to protest, then wisely opt to give up instead. "Okay, maybe. But that's exactly the problem. I can't risk blowing up our friendship just because some stupid interview made me realise I want to climb him like a tree."
"A tree with a tongue piercing," Sasha adds with a cheeky grin.
"Fuck’s sake, don't remind me," you let your head rest against the table. "Do you know how many times I've replayed that two-second clip where he licks his lips? It's pathetic."
"It's not pathetic, it's kind of sweet. There's a difference." Sasha takes another bite of her sandwich, her eyes evidently lighting up. "Besides, you don't know that he doesn't feel the same way. Have you seen how he looks at you during our study sessions? Boy's got it bad."
"He looks at me like a friend, Sasha. Because that's what we are."
"Believe me, friends don't look at friends the way he looked at you last Friday when you were explaining your thesis argument. I thought he was going to combust from sexual tension."
Before you can blatantly disagree, you hear an all too familiar voice behind you.
"Sexual tension about what now?"
Your stomach drops directly through the floor. You turn around carefully, and there he is—Armin Arlert, campus's newest digital sensation, standing there with that signature bemused expression he gets when he catches you and Sasha gossiping. His blonde hair is mussed like he's been running his hands through it, and he's wearing that adorable blue sweater that brings out his eyes deliciously.
"Oh, um..." You scramble for an explanation, panicking on the inside. "We were just talking about... about..."
"About how Professor Ackerman's lectures are basically academic foreplay," Sasha jumps in smoothly. "All that tension and buildup with no satisfying conclusion. I mean, hello?"
Armin laughs, the sound warm and comforting. "That's fascinatingly accurate, I’ll admit." He shifts his weight, and you only then notice he's carrying his laptop bag and what seems to be a bag of takeout. "Mind if I join you? I brought Thai food and figured you might be hungry since you've been here since—," he checks his phone, "—9 A.M., according to the text you sent complaining about how it’s criminal that the library opens so early on weekends."
Your heart does a little flip at his consideration. "You didn't have to do that."
"I wanted to." He slides into the chair next to you, close enough that you can smell his cologne—a rich blend of velvety caramel and toasted cinnamon that positively makes you want to lick him all over.
Stop. None of that, you horny bastard.
"Besides, I figured you might want to hear about the latest developments in my accidental internet fame."
Sasha perks up at once. "Hell, yeah. Have you been recognised on campus yet?"
"Five times yesterday," Armin appears to lament, pulling containers out of the bag. "Including once in the bathroom, which was... awkward, to say the least." He hands you your usual order without asking what you want. "But the weirdest part is definitely the DMs."
"DMs?" you pipe up, failing to ignore how domestic this feels what with him knowing exactly what you like. Typical, precious Armin.
"You have no idea," he opens his laptop and turns it toward you two with a nervous twitch. "I've gotten marriage proposals, offers to 'show me a good time,' and at least a hundred messages asking about my tongue piercing specifically."
Your face burns as you push away the thought that you've been mentally composing similar messages. "That's... wow."
"The worst part is, most of them are asking if I'd be interested in demonstrating its uses." He fidgets with his glasses, coming across as embarrassed but also endearing. "I had no idea that thing would cause such a reaction."
"Well, it is pretty noticeable," Sasha remarks with a meaningful peek at you. "Very... attention-grabbing."
"I guess." Armin glances at you pointedly. "What do you think? You've seen the video, right?"
The question is innocent enough, but something in his tone makes you look at him more carefully. There's an out-of-the-ordinary implication that you can't quite put your finger on. "Uh... yeah, I've seen it," you manage to croak out. Terrific. Could you get any stiffer?
"And?"
"And what?"
"What did you think?"
You stare at him blankly, trying to figure out if this is a normal friend question or if you’re incorrectly perceiving the foreign edge of curiosity behind it. "I thought... I mean, your book recommendations were really good. Very passionate."
"Passionate," he repeats, the fleeting flash of understanding across his face confirming your earlier weariness. "That's interesting."
Sasha's phone cuts through the uneasiness with its incessant buzzing, and she scans it with obviously fake surprise. "Oh no, would you look at that. I have to go... meet... someone... about... a... very real thing... I have." She begins gathering her stuff with awfully suspicious speed. "You two have fun talking about books. And passion. And tongue piercings."
"Huh? Wait. Sasha—" you squeak out, but she's already dashing out of the private study room you had booked for the both of you until late afternoon (traitor). Which leaves you alone with Armin, who's scrutinising you with an expression you can't quite read.
"Alright," he speaks after a moment, closing his laptop and leaning back in his chair. "Want to tell me what you actually thought about the video?"
"I already told you."
"No, you gave me the safe answer." He tilts his head slightly, studying you with purpose. "Come on, we've been friends for two years. I know when you're holding back."
You hastily shove some noodles in your mouth, avoiding his gaze. "I'm not holding back."
"Really? Because Sasha seemed to think you had some important opinions about it."
You make a mental note to start drafting your plan for the girl’s well-deserved comeuppance. "Sasha talks too much."
"She does," Armin agrees. "But she's usually right about things. Especially when it comes to you."
The rarely there confidence in his tone makes you look up and, when you meet his gaze, the intensity catches you off guard. "What do you want me to say?"
"Did you know," he continues conversationally, "that TikTok shows you analytics about who's viewed your videos?"
Almost instantly, your heart stops. "What?"
"Mhm. Very detailed analytics. Including multiple views from the same account." His lips quirk up in a small smile. "Want to guess how many times your account shows up in my viewer list?"
You feel heat creeping up your neck. "I don't know what you're talking about." You briefly consider denying reality, blaming a technical issue, or claiming a glitch in the matrix—but none of it sticks.
"Seventy-seven times," he announces, the metaphorical checkmate hitting you straight in the chest. "As of this morning."
Oh god. Oh god, oh god, oh god. He knows. "I can explain—"
"Can you?" He angles himself forward, resting his elbows on the table. "Because I've been trying to figure out why my very good friend has watched a boring thirty-second video of me talking about books seventy-seven times."
You want to run away, mouth opening and closing like a fish. "I... the algorithm is weird sometimes?"
Armin chuckles, low and warm, absent of any malice. "Try again."
"I was checking to see if the view count was going up?"
"Nope."
You're quiet for a long moment, trying to figure out how to get out of this without completely humiliating yourself. You don't suppose it's too late to jump out of a window? Ultimately, you sigh in defeat. "Okay, fine. Maybe I watched it a few times."
"A few?"
You narrow your eyes, crossing your arms in defiance at the unsolicited endless interrogation. "More than a few."
"How many more?"
You want to strangle him, and not in the sexy way. "You’re being annoying."
"Come on." His voice has dropped slightly lower, and there's something almost akin to teasing in it. "I told you about the marriage proposals. Fair's fair."
You mutter a profanity under your breath, groaning. "Fine. I watched it a lot. Happy?"
"No. We’re getting there, though. Why?"
"Why what?"
Armin’s glee sharpens into something ravenous, a flicker of desperation lurking beneath his carefree demeanour—like he’s itching for you to say exactly what he needs. "Why did you watch it seventy-seven times?"
Your lungs feel too tight, too exposed. "Because..."
"Because?"
"Because you looked really good, okay?" The words come out in a rush. "Because watching you talk about literally anything is incredibly attractive, and because that frustrating part where your tongue piercing shows has been tormenting me ever since the video came out."
The silence that follows is eerily deafening. Armin simply stares at you, and you wish the ground would swallow you whole.
"Shit," you grumble, burying your face in your hands. "I'm sorry. That was completely out of line. I know we're friends and I shouldn't have—"
"Hey. Look at me."
The way he asks convinces you to peep through your fingers, reluctant but unable to look away. His expression is attentive and focused—definitely not one of disgust.
"You think I'm attractive?" he questions softly.
"I... yes?"
He blinks, his usual calm shattered by the raw vulnerability in your voice. His fingers tremble, revealing the fierce hope inside that there’s a potential chance that someone sees him as more than the sum of his quirks. "Even though I'm just a loser who gets excited about obscure paranormal documentaries and spends too much time playing video games?"
"Especially because of that," you admit, having never been more sure of yourself.
His answering smile is slow and devastating. "Good to know."
"Good to know?"
He hums, reaching across the table, and gently pulls your hands away from your face. "I've been wondering if you'd ever see me as more than just your friend who helps you with your homework."
Your brain, without a doubt, malfunctions. "What?"
"Did you really think I started bringing you food and staying up late just because I'm a good friend?"
The words disarm you. You’re trapped between incredulity and the dawning comprehension of what he might be suggesting. "I…"
"And did you think I learned how to play your favourite songs on guitar just because I had time to spare?"
"Y-you said you wanted to practice—"
"And I presume you thought I got this piercing because I was feeling rebellious?"
That stops you short, confusion apparent in the furrow of your brows. "You didn't?"
Armin's grin turns almost predatory. "I got it because I overheard you and Sasha talking about how cool you find them. This was back in October, after you'd been dating that guy with the lip ring."
You feel like a kettle left on the stove too long. "You... what?"
"You said, and I quote, 'There's something about tongue piercings that's beyond exciting.’ Something along the lines of how the person has to be bold enough to get it, but there's the simultaneous insinuation of what they can do with it."
"I’m going to kill myself," you gape at him in horror. "You heard all of that?"
"I was sitting right behind you in the campus coffee shop. You weren’t exactly shy about it." He shifts closer, and you can spot the hint of silver when he speaks, "I made an appointment that very afternoon."
"You got a tongue piercing because of something I said about another guy?"
"I got a tongue piercing because I wanted to be the guy you were talking about."
The confession hangs in the air between you, charged and electric. You stare at him, trying to process this complete change in everything you thought you knew about your friendship.
"I've been trying to get your attention for months. I was starting to think I'd have to do something drastic."
In spite of being made to face terrifying revelation after revelation, you manage to stutter out a breathless laugh. "More drastic than getting a tongue piercing for me?"
"I was considering learning to play your favourite video game."
You snort despite yourself. "You hate that game."
He shrugs casually, as if the lengths to which he would go for you knew no bounds. "I know. That's how desperate I was getting."
The atmosphere between you feels tense now, full of possibility and two years of unspoken tension. Armin traces your knuckles and the simple touch sends heat shooting up your arm.
"So," you say, trying to stay as composed as you possibly can. "What happens now?"
"Now," he starts, standing up, "you tell me what exactly you were thinking about during those seventy-seven views."
He's close enough that you have to tilt your head back to look at him, and the unwavering want in the blue of his eyes makes your breath catch. "I was thinking..." you trail off, feeling timid with his attention on you.
"You can do it. Use your words for me?" his voice has gotten rougher, huskier, and it sends delightful shivers down your spine.
"I was thinking about what it would feel like."
"What would feel like?"
"Your piercing. When you..." You gesture vaguely, cheeks burning. Armin's hand comes up to cup your face, thumb brushing across your bottom lip. "When I what?"
"When you kiss me," you whisper.
"Just kissing?" The question is loaded with underlying intentions, and you shake your head slowly.
"Tell me what else you were thinking about."
"Armin..."
"Please." The plea is hushed but insistent. "I want to know what's been going through your head."
You swallow, your throat suddenly dry as you let go of the entirety of your self-restraint. "I was thinking about what it would feel like on my body. What it would feel like when you use your mouth on me."
His pupils immediately dilate at your words. "Fuck."
"Is that... is that okay?"
Instead of verbally affirming, he leans down and kisses you. It's gentle at first, tentative, but when you react by fisting your hands in his sweater and pulling him closer, he deepens it. The first brush of his tongue against yours has you gasping, and when you feel the metal of his piercing, it sends intoxicating pleasure shooting through you.
You break apart, breathing heavily, and Armin rests his forehead against yours.
"How was that?" he asks earnestly, voice raspy.
"Good," you breathe. "Really good."
His smile is full of care but there's primal desire behind it. "And the piercing?"
"Want more of it."
He brushes his thumb across your lip again. Truth be told, it’s plain torture. "You know, we're in public right now."
Every wall you built is crumbling under the weight of him, and all you can do is let it. "I know."
"Anyone could walk by and see us."
"I know."
"And you don't care?"
You drag your hand up his thigh, stopping just shy of where he clearly wants it, "Not even a little bit."
He kisses you again, harder this time, and you can't help the soft moan that escapes when his tongue meets yours in another dance of display. The sound seems to flip a switch in him, because his hands are tangling in your hair and he's pressing you back against your chair.
"God, you have no idea how long I've wanted to do this," he murmurs against your lips.
"Tell me ‘Min."
"Since freshman year. Since that first day in psych class when you argued with Professor Smith about the ethics of behavioural modification."
You draw away just barely, shaking under the intimacy of his declaration. "That long?"
"That long." He doesn’t think twice before trailing his teeth along your jaw, and when the metal of his piercing digs into your flushed skin, you whimper needily.
"You were so assertive, so brilliant. I was completely and utterly gone."
"Why didn't you say anything?"
"Because you were dating that business major asshole, and then when you broke up, we became friends,” he hesitantly halts his ministrations to flutter his eyelashes at you, “I-I didn't want to ruin it."
Good heavens, you didn’t stand a chance from the beginning.
"But then you kept looking at me like... like you wanted me too, and I started hoping..."
"I did want you. I do want you." The admission comes out whinier than intended, but you can’t bring yourself to be bothered at this point. "So much."
His hands tighten in your hair. "Yeah?"
"Yeah."
You’re unaware of how many minutes pass as you lose yourself in the sensation of his mouth on yours, and the way he tastes like mint and something uniquely him. You dig your nails lightly into his sides, claiming him in an act of fervent possession. His breaths mingle with yours and the world outside your tangled bodies fades until there’s nothing but lust burning between you. By the end of it, your chests rise and fall in tandem.
"We should probably get out of here," he mumbles, peeking around the library.
Craving Armin has left you dazed, vision glassy as you attempt to make sense of your surroundings. "Right. Um, your place or mine?"
He pecks your nose, full of affection, tenderly guiding you. "Mine. My roommate's gone for the weekend."
You start gathering your things with shaky hands, hyperaware of the way Armin is observing you. When you bend over to pick up your bag, you hear his sharp intake of breath.
"Something wrong?" you ask innocently.
"N-nothing," he mutters, skittishly pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose.
The walk to his dorm feels like it takes forever, full of stolen glances and the kind of anticipation that makes your skin feel too tight. When you reach his room, he fumbles with his keys for a moment—so fucking cute—before getting the door open.
You haven’t had a lot of time this semester to crash at his dorm—neat and organised, with anime posters on the walls and stacks of books and manga everywhere. But you barely have time to take it in before he's pressing you against the closed door, urgency lacing his actions.
This time, there's nothing apprehensive about it. His hands are everywhere—your waist, your back, squeezing your ass—and when you arch against him, he makes a low sound of approval.
"You taste so good," he shudders against you. "Everything I’ve imagined and so much more."
"You imagined this?"
"Every night for two years." His mouth moves to your neck, nibbling along your throat. "What you'd look like, what you'd sound like when I made you come."
The words send heat pooling low in your belly, prompting you to press your thighs together instinctively. "Fuck, don’t say shit like that.”
"Why not? I’ve been longing for you. All of you," he whispers, pulling back to look at you with dark, lidded eyes. "You’re not getting away until I’ve had my fill."
It would be an understatement to say that you hadn’t foreseen this when you woke up today. That you'd be spending hours with your legs over Armin's shoulders, forgetting your own name; the compassionate, stammering genius the internet drooled over. Too bad he’s not on the market. It would be a treat if his fans could see him like this—flushed and breathless, fingers gripping your hips like he’d die without you. Armin Arlert, golden boy of TikTok, practically begging to let him ruin you.
You grow dizzy at the promise in his voice. "Please."
He lets his hand trail lower, indecently tranquil, and just as you think he’ll do something reckless—he pauses, smirking wickedly.
"Want to find out what this piercing really feels like when I eat you out?"
꩜ pairing: ceo!caitlyn kiramman x female reader x coworker!vi
꩜ warnings: explicit content, language
꩜ word count: 986
꩜ synopsis: hr would have a field day with this.
You didn’t expect to lose composure today, not when you walked into Caitlyn Kiramman’s office with quarterly reports in one hand and a schedule packed with meetings in the other. You’d triple-checked your numbers, rehearsed your pitch and timed everything down to the minute. However, the moment Caitlyn closes the door behind you, apparently none of that matters.
You’re bent over her desk, fingers slipping helplessly against the polished surface from how slick they are with sweat. Your knees keep buckling, but Caitlyn’s grip on your wrists is iron-clad, holding you down without fail.
“Such a mess already,” Caitlyn admires from above you, her voice composed but, you notice with a shudder, edged with something much darker. “And we’ve barely begun.”
Behind you, the bane of your existence kneels, palms gripping your ass tight enough to leave bruises. You hear the sharp inhale she takes before her mouth returns to your cunt—tongue hot and relentless. She groans like she missed the taste of you, like it’s been hours instead of minutes since the last time she made you fall apart.
You moan shamelessly, high and pleading.
“V–Vi, shit—”
“She can’t answer you, darling,” Caitlyn chuckles smoothly. Her lips graze your ear as she leans down, breath burning your skin wherever it caresses, “Her mouth’s a bit busy.”
Vi laughs against your pussy, the vibration making your hips involuntarily jerk. She drags her tongue in a slow circle around your clit (just the way you like it), then flattens it and licks you up. Her nails dig deep crescents into your flesh, spreading you open like she owns you.
Gasping, you pant as spit trickles down your chin. It would’ve been embarrassing if it didn’t feel so good. “Please, ngh, I’m gonna—f-fuck—”
“Already?” Caitlyn tsks, a flicker of condescension in her eyes as she takes in the way your back arches. She lets go of your wrists and slides her fingers into your hair, pulling your head back, “You come when I say you can.”
Vi hums in agreement, then sucks your clit into her mouth. Hard. You can’t help the loud cry that slips out like a broken prayer. It’s desperate, unprofessional and everything you know your boss absolutely savours witnessing. Vi’s tongue is fucking obscene, switching between soft teasing licks and firm pressure that makes your thighs tremble.
Caitlyn reaches around and fondles your tit with a pleased groan, pinching your nipple through your bra. “You know, I brought you both into this company for your discipline. Imagine my disappointment when I find you slacking like this. Tch, I expected better.”
“I—I can be good. I promise,” you whimper, breathless under the crushing weight of dizzying pleasure.
“Mm. Jury's still out.”
Vi slides two fingers into you without warning, curling right where you crave it. Your whole body practically convulses. She knows exactly where to press, and she does it ruthlessly.
“Fuck, you’re tight,” Vi nearly growls, desire evident in her dangerous tone. “She’s squeezing the hell outta me, Cupcake.”
“Language,” Caitlyn mutters, but she’s smiling. You can hear it.
The desk creaks beneath you as Vi fucks her fingers into your drooling cunt, her mouth still glued to your clit, your resolve crumbling under the merciless dual assault. Caitlyn’s hand is at your throat now, gentle but commanding.
You’re not sure if it’s the fingers, the tongue or the complete submission, but you’re spiraling.
“I—I can’t—” you whimper, scrambling against the desk for something, anything, to ground you. “O-oh fuck, Cait, I’m—! I’m gonna—oh God—”
“You’ll wait,” she simply drawls, voice low and unforgiving.
Vi doesn’t slow down, itching for Caitlyn's approval.
Pathetic kiss-ass.
If anything, she fingers you harder. Her name tears from your throat, ragged and raw, swallowed by the sterile quiet of Caitlyn’s pristine office.
When Caitlyn finally grants relief—“Now.”—you come with a whine so shattered, you barely recognise it as your own. Vi moans against you, lapping at your fluttering walls like she’s the one being ruined.
You slump forward onto the desk, boneless and shaking. Vi pulls her fingers out slowly, dragging more wetness down your thighs. She kisses the back of your leg, smug as hell. You want to punch the smirk off of her gorgeous face.
Caitlyn straightens your collar with a single practiced hand. Despite the harsh precision of her earlier words, her touch is gentle now, almost reverent—as if she hadn’t just pulled you apart by the seams.
"Good girl."
You lie there for a moment, face against cold glass and skin flushed. Vi’s sitting on the floor like she’s proud of herself, propped up on one arm and grinning at you, “Told you I could get you to scream in her office.”
Caitlyn’s expression doesn’t change as she picks up her phone once it chimes with a notification, your bickering with your coworker morphing into background noise. Her eyes flick across the screen and narrow.
“What?” you ask with reluctance after a few seconds of silence, observing Caitlyn’s uncharacteristically frigid stance.
She turns the device toward you and Vi.
It’s an email.
Subject: “Formal Complaint – Breach of Professional Conduct (Internal Security Footage)”
From: HR Department
To: Caitlyn Kiramman, CEO
Cc: Legal, Board Members
Attachment: “Conference Room Camera_12_47PM.MP4”
You and Vi freeze.
Displayed clearly for all to see is the scandalously compromising thumbnail, featuring the two of you in the hallway five days ago—making out like hormonal idiots, seconds before Caitlyn walked by and dragged both of you to an empty conference room for some long-overdue... stress relief.
The humour isn’t lost on you.
Under the email lies a single follow-up:
“Ms. Kiramman, as per company policy, there is a need to address your subordinates engaging in an inappropriate relationship during work hours. Kindly revert with a time and date convenient to you regarding the same.”
Little did they know the only person breaking protocol was the one in charge of it.
do you think they've explored each other's theses?
...and bodies?
꩜ pairing: professor!vi x professor!female reader
꩜ warnings: mentions of explicit content, language
꩜ word count: 2.9k
꩜ synopsis: you've built your entire career on control. vi made a game of unraveling it. but, behind every jab lurks something far less professional—and far more irresistible. just how long can you go on pretending you're not affected?
The mahogany-paneled walls of Piltover University's faculty lounge had witnessed countless academic debates, but none quite as charged as the ongoing rivalry between its two esteemed professors. You adjusted your impeccably neat blazer as you reviewed your lecture notes, your reputation for cool professionalism preceding you into every room you entered. At twenty-eight, you had already earned your place among the institution’s most respected staff, your groundbreaking work in economics earning you both accolades and the somewhat intimidating nickname (one that you despised but, oh well, what can you do) "The Ice Queen" among students.
Across the lounge, Professor Violet—or “Vi”, as she had insisted on her first day with an insufferably charming smile—appeared abruptly, her unceremonious button-down shirt contrasting sharply with the formal atmosphere. Also twenty-eight, Vi had taken an unconventional path to academia—former athlete turned kinesiologist, her hands-on approach to learning and teaching had revolutionised the physical sciences department. Where you commanded respect through quiet authority, Vi earned it through enthusiastic engagement and an infectious energy that had students lining up to attend her lessons.
The conflict had started innocuously enough three years ago when you were both hired the same semester, breaking records as the youngest professors in the university's prestigious history. The dean had made the mistake of introducing you both at the same meeting, underscoring your shared distinction with obvious pride. You remembered the way Vi's eyes had found yours across the room, the slight raise of her eyebrow that seemed to say "challenge accepted" before either of you had uttered a sentence.
What followed was the most intellectually stimulating and frustrating professional relationship of your career. Every discussion became a subtle battlefield where your measured contributions were countered by Vi's zealous arguments. Every conference saw the two of you presenting competing frameworks, your methodical notions challenged by her innovative contributions. Your colleagues had started placing bets on which of you would speak first during casual get-togethers, knowing that whatever one of you proposed, the other would find elegant ways to dissect and rebuild.
The students had caught on too. How could they not? They whispered about the apparent "Cold War" with hushed voices and ecstatic snickers, how Professor Violet could make the Ice Queen's jaw clench with a single well-placed comment. Some had even started taking both of your classes specifically to witness your heads butt.
Nevertheless, there had always been something else simmering beneath your endless sparring. Something in the way Vi's gaze lingered on you just a moment too long when she was making a point. Something in the way your pulse quickened when she leaned across the table to question your methodology. Something that made your carefully maintained composure feel like armour against an opponent who was far more dangerous than she appeared.
The breaking point had come two months ago during the annual research symposium. You had been presenting your latest findings when Vi, sitting in the front row with her arms crossed and that infuriatingly self-assured simper, had raised her hand during the Q&A session.
"Fascinating work as always, Professor," she had deceptively commended, her voice carrying clearly through the large hall. "However, I have to wonder if your focus on abstract models isn't missing the practical applications that could actually benefit the masses."
The question had been harmless enough on the surface, but you had caught the provocation in her tone, the way her eyes had sparkled with something that went beyond an appropriate amount of curiosity. Your response had been equally measured and equally loaded.
"I appreciate your concern, Professor Violet. Though I've always believed that strong conceptual foundations prevent the kind of… hasty implementations that can lead to flawed results."
The hall had gone eerily still, sensing the undercurrent of tension that had nothing to do with hypotheses. Vi's smile had sharpened, and for a moment, you had felt like prey being circled by a predator who was taking her time choosing the perfect moment to strike.
Afterwards, she had cornered you in the hallway outside, her presence making you acutely aware of how the other attendees were giving you both a wide berth.
"Hasty implementations?" she had repeated, amused, stepping close enough that you could smell her perfume. Something warm that made your stomach knot. "Is that really what you think of my work?"
You had forced yourself to not fold, though your heart had been racing in a way that had nothing to do with scholarly disagreement. "I think your work is passionate. Sometimes passion can cloud judgment."
"And sometimes," Vi had rebutted easily, her words low enough that only you could hear, "overthinking can prevent you from taking the risks that lead to real breakthroughs."
The moment had stretched between you, charged with implications that had you up at night for weeks. You had been saved from responding by a colleague's interruption, but the encounter had left you shaken in ways you hadn't been prepared to examine.
Since then, every interaction had carried that same foreign undercurrent. Curriculum debriefs where Vi's frequent comments about "loosening up" and "taking risks" seemed directed specifically at you. Hallway run-ins where her smooth confidence made your unfazed facade feel transparent. Late evenings in the library where you would find traces of her—a book left open to a page that contradicted your latest paper, notes scrawled in margins that seemed to taunt you even in her absence.
Everyone had started to notice the shift in your dynamic. Department Chair Heimerdinger had made suggestions about "productive collaboration" and recommended that you might benefit from working together on a joint project. The idea had sent a spike of panic through your chest.
"Burning the midnight oil again, Professor?" Vi's voice cut through your memories, dragging you back to the present.
You didn't look up from your papers immediately, taking a slow sip of your coffee before raising your eyes to meet hers. The sight of her leaning against the doorframe, all suave magnetism and knowing grin, made your blood surge in that familiar, intoxicating way.
"Some of us believe in detailed preparation, Professor Violet. Then again, I suppose your methods have their own uniqueness, hm?"
It was the same dance you had been performing for months, but tonight something felt different. You didn’t know how to explain it. Maybe it was the way the warm lamplight cast shadows that made the boring space feel intimate and tense with possibility.
Vi laughed, pushing herself away from the doorframe with that grace that always made you feel like you were being hunted. "Is that your way of saying you think I'm sloppy?"
"I wouldn't presume to comment on your methods," you shut her retort down, though your tone suggested you had plenty of thoughts on the matter. "I simply prefer structure."
"Structure," Vi echoed, settling into the chair across from you without invitation. The movement brought her into your personal bubble. An offensive strategy that felt deliberate. "Right. Is that why your students call you the Ice Queen?"
The nickname had a different impact when spoken in her alluring drawl, the muted golden glow sculpting her features in severity. For the first time, your composure flickered—just slightly; more than enough for Vi to catch the brief tightening around your eyes.
"I’m shocked that you pay such close attention to student gossip."
"Hard not to when they're constantly comparing us," Vi leaned back in her chair, studying you with an intensity that made your skin burn. "They seem to think we're total opposites."
"Aren't we?" your tone remained level, but the air between you had grown dense. Instances of constantly tiptoeing around each other seemed to crystallise in the gaps between your conversation.
The upward twitch of Vi’s lip was intentional, the expression of someone who had been waiting for exactly this opening. "Maybe. You're all cautious and guarded. I'm more..." she gestured vaguely at herself, "Straightforward.”
You chew the inside of your cheek. “So, you’re calling me a pussy?”
That earns a perplexed bark of laughter from Vi, who now regards you with renewed interest. “I always believe I have the upper hand until you make an unexpected move like that. You keep surprising me, Professor.”
“You’re impossible.”
“I think the word you’re looking for is ‘direct’.”
"Direct," you scoffed, finally closing your folder and giving Vi your full attention. This back-and-forth felt like crossing a line, like acknowledging that this had moved beyond regular courtesy. "Is that what we're calling it?"
She tilts her head, pleased, exposing the elegant line of her neck.
God, you so badly wanted to run your teeth across her neck.
"What would you call it?"
You found yourself scrutinising Vi's face in turn—the slight curl of her mouth that suggested she was always on the verge of saying something that would shatter your resolve.
"I'd call it reckless," you ultimately declare. You had lost some of your trademark steadiness.
Vi leaned forward, elbows on the table (you try not to drool over the bulging veins in her forearms, the sleeves of her shirt rolled up deliciously), closing the distance between you to make your breath catch. "And what's wrong with a little recklessness?"
You bristled at how Vi's proximity was doing things that you weren't entirely prepared for. The rational part of your mind catalogued all the reasons not to act on impulse—your career and your reputation, for starters. Both undoubtedly significant.
"Everything," you whispered, but it came out breathier than you wished.
"Really?" Vi's voice dropped lower and you realised she had orchestrated this entire setup. The late hour, the empty building, and the way she had positioned herself to make escape impossible without highlighting what was happening between you. "Because from where I'm sitting, it looks like all that structure and control that you speak so highly of might be... exhausting."
The observation hit too close to home, threatening the foundations of the persona you had spent years crafting.
You had been attracted to Vi the second she entered your world. For a workaholic like you, however, you couldn’t dare imagine kindling anything with someone you worked with. Especially in your field.
You stiffened, your mask slipping. "I don't know what you're hinting at—"
"I'm not hinting at anything," Vi's hand moved across the table, her fingers just barely brushing against yours where they rested. This was the first time she had properly touched you since you had met each other. "I'm being direct, remember? I think behind all that collectedness, there's someone who wants to let go."
Her statement was a direct hit on every wall you had constructed to maintain your distance from the woman in front of you. Your heart hammered against your ribs as you comprehended that Vi had been observing you.
She had been reading the signs of strain that you thought you had hidden so thoroughly.
"You don't know anything about me," you managed.
"Don't I?" Vi's thumb traced across your knuckles. "Three years of watching you, competing with you, and trying to get under that perfect, gorgeous exterior of yours. I think I know more than you'd like to admit."
The admission sent heat racing through your veins. You were dizzy, head practically spinning under the weight of her confession.
"This is wrong," you muttered.
"Is it?" Vi's smirk made your core flip with anticipation and terror. "We're coworkers. Equals. Two adults having a talk."
"This isn't just talk," you hissed, mustering a feeble glare.
"No," Vi agreed, bringing your hand up to her lips and letting her tongue dart out to sinfully lick at your forefinger. "It's not."
The action made you shiver with the revelation that this moment could destroy everything you had worked for. But, as Vi sucked on your thumb languidly and her stare darkened, your superficial concerns seem suddenly unimportant.
"What do you want from me?" the question slipped out before you could stop it, vulnerable and raw.
Vi's smile shifted, releasing your thumb with a loud POP!, becoming something softer but no less eager. "I want to see what happens when the Ice Queen melts."
Despite yourself, you snort uncharacteristically. “That's so corny.”
She beams at the sound, resting her chin in her palm innocently. “Would you rather I tell you that I desperately want to fuck you?”
You were losing your grip on yourself, and for the first time in your meticulously engineered life, you didn’t want to stop it.
"Vi..." you started, unsure of how to continue.
She stood, her existence more overwhelming as she moved around the table. You tracked her movement, your chair swiveling to follow her path until she was directly in front of you and you had to tilt your head back to maintain eye contact.
"The thing about being direct," Vi said, referring to your earlier remark, "is that it’s convenient. Efficient. It cuts through all the pretense."
Your hands gripped the arms of your chair, knuckles white with the effort of staying still when every instinct was screaming at you to flee. "I'm not toying with you," you mumbled.
"No?" Vi leaned down, effectively caging you in. She sounded almost… hurt, "All the time I’ve known you, you’ve pretended you don't feel this too."
She was only a few centimetres away from where you could see flecks of gold in her beautiful, blue eyes. "Feel what?"
Her shaky exhale was answer enough, but she inched forward anyway, her lips almost brushing your own as she spoke. "The same thing I feel every time we're in the same room. The same thing that's been driving this showdown between us from the very beginning."
Your eyelashes fluttered at the sensation of her breath against your skin, your entire being thrumming with an energy you'd been trying to suppress for far too long. She had noticed. Of course she had noticed. Vi never missed anything.
"This can't happen," you choked out. You sounded unconvincing even to your own ears.
"Give me one good reason why not."
You opened your mouth to respond, to list why this would be career suicide for both of you. But looking at Vi, you found yourself speechless.
Your brows furrowed as you discerned you were at a crossroads. Every rational part of your mind was screaming warnings, yet your body was curving into her despite your best efforts to do the opposite.
"I—"
Vi's hand moved to cup your cheek, her fingers tracing patterns with devastating gentleness.
"Tell me to stop," she murmured, her voice rough with barely contained desire. "Tell me to walk away and we'll pretend this never happened. We'll go back to our professional rivalry and I'll never bring this up again."
The offer should have been a relief. It should have been what you needed to hear to restore your sanity.
Be that as it may…
You didn't want to pretend. You didn't want to go back to how things used to be.
You craved her.
"Vi." This time, her name was akin to a prayer. Her pupils dilated as she registered the complete capitulation in your voice. "That's not telling me to stop," she inquired.
You were past the point of no return now. "I know," you whispered back, your reply dripping with want.
Vi's other hand came up to frame your face, her grip firm and possessive in a way that made your thighs squeeze together. "Do you have any idea," she spoke, brushing your lower lip, "how many times I've imagined this? How many meetings I've sat through, watching your mouth form those brilliant responses, wondering what sounds you'd make if I could just drag you to my private office and bend you over my desk. Make you feel so, so good."
She let the sentence hang between you like a live wire, but her thumb pressed slightly against your lip. You found yourself parting them instinctively to mimic her from before, the tease drawing a sharp intake of breath from Vi that sent heat pooling low in your stomach.
"So long," she continued, "I’ve spent so long watching you be untouchable. Unreachable." Her hold tightened slightly, and you felt completely at her mercy. "Do you know what it does to someone like me?"
"Someone like you?" you ask, though speaking felt impossible.
"Someone who wants to make you come over and over again."
Good lord.
You were trembling, your calm shattered by nothing more than Vi’s mere honesty.
Her chuckle was husky, "Haven't even gotten started, baby. Haven't even seen what happens when I really try to make you lose control."
"Fuck, this is dangerous," you nearly whined, your last attempt to hold onto some semblance of dignity.
"I know," Vi agreed, but she didn't pull away. If anything, she pressed herself closer until you could feel the exhilarating pressure of her chest against yours. "The question is, how many fingers it’ll take before you’re begging me to ruin you?"
You didn’t speak. Couldn’t.
Simply closed your eyes and nudged your nose against hers, a surrender so complete it left you breathless.
Vi's response was instant and devastating. "Good girl," she groaned against your lips, the words a reward and a promise that made your entire world narrow to this precipice you were about to fall from together.
hiii :3 i actually intended for no strings attached to be a standalone, leaving the ending open to interpretation by the readers themselves !! i haven’t thought about continuing it and probably won’t tbh since i view it as a done and dusted deal
BUT if i do feel like it, i may end up writing a second part that sorta revolves around where reader and ellie now stand??? (it would probably take place a little while after the first part; not too sure tho)
“now she’s running from this d*ck, i told her stay with it”
꩜ pairing: caitlyn kiramman x female reader
꩜ warnings: explicit content, language
꩜ word count: 908
꩜ synopsis: you slip up and call your girlfriend “mommy”. the rest is history.
☆ art cred: @/xjdkg89q on twt :3
You're not sure how many times Caitlyn has made you come already.
Reduced to tears and beyond wrecked, your hands move to push your pussydrunk girlfriend away while your core yells at you to let yourself be royally ruined. After all, you did sort of ask for it.
The sheets are damp, your thighs sticky with your glistening slick, and she’s still not done with you. The strap-on inside you is thick and curved just right, pushing in deep with every merciless thrust as her fingers rub tight, fast circles over your clit.
She’s above you, rutting into you hard—strong and controlled like normal, like she knows exactly how you fall apart and has no intention of letting you hold yourself together.
“Such a mess already,” Caitlyn tuts, utterly calm, as if this is another regular day. “But, you’re not satisfied yet, aren’t you? Gods, just look at you. Fucking gorgeous.”
You choke out a high-pitched whine, nails digging into her biceps, as you try to keep up—your head spinning, your body convulsing.
"C-Caitlyn," you breathe out, barely able to process anything. "Hah—don't stop."
“I won’t, baby,” she pecks your cheek, deceptively affectionate and almost ruthless. “You don’t get to run from this.”
She thrusts deep without warning, hard enough that your back arches off the bed. It’s ridiculously obscene that it rips a pathetic sound out of you—half-moan, half-plea.
"O-oh, fuck! Ngh, feels s’ good, m-mommy—!"
Immediately, time freezes.
Your blood runs cold when the haze in your mind clears and reality comes tumbling down.
No, no, no, no, this cannot be happening.
Caitlyn’s hips stutter, her body suddenly heavy above yours as she looms there and gapes at you. The room goes silent except for the rapid thud of your heartbeat.
You hadn't planned to say it. You swear.
It, quite frankly, slipped out, tangled in desperation—your brain too fuzzy, your mouth too loose. And now it flickers between you like something sinfully electric.
Your eyes widen, “I—I didn’t—”
Her hand grabs your jaw and tilts your face up, a squeak escaping you at the sudden movement.
Caitlyn's expression is surprisingly unreadable. Her mouth is slightly parted and her eyes blaze dangerously blue. Not angry, no, but… hungry.
“Say it again,” she whispers, her demand crackling with charged want.
You blink up at her, stunned.
“Caitlyn—”
“No,” she interjects, her words sharper than before. “That’s not what you called me, sweetheart. Say it again.”
Your pulse trips. You don’t even mean to obey, you’re embarrassed for heaven’s sake; it happens naturally.
“…Mommy.”
Once you let the title hang in the air, that’s it. Something inside her snaps.
She nearly growls, low in her throat, and then she’s moving, grabbing your wrists and pinning them hard to the mattress above your head with one hand. The other braces against your thigh as she fucks into you again, this time with real intent.
“That's my good girl,” Caitlyn pants, rough now, feral. “So, so needy you couldn’t help yourself.”
Your legs quiver as she pounds into you, the wet slap of her hips hitting yours echoing through the room. The tip drags hard against your sweet spot, her rhythm relentless.
“You wanted mommy to take care of you, didn’t you?” she hisses, dragging her mouth along your throat. “Wanted to be ruined by her cock, stuffed like a little slut.”
“Y-Yes—” you can’t think. You surrender to the pleasure, incoherently babbling, “I need it so bad, mommy. S-shit, please—”
“Oh, you need it?” she mocks, deliciously cruel. “Wasn’t even meant to come out, was it? But you can’t stop calling me that, can you?”
You shake beneath her, too gone, too broken, too everything.
“I bet you’ve been thinking about it,” Caitlyn continues, grinding into you even deeper, her physique commanding every inch of your skin. “Thinking about mommy tying you down and fucking you dumb. Claiming this pussy like it’s hers. Isn’t that right?”
You cry out, thighs trembling under her grip.
“It’s yours, mommy—mmf—a-always been yours—”
“Fuck.”
Her fingers dig into you harshly. She leans down and kisses you hard, biting your lower lip before pulling back. Her face is flushed and focused, hair an absolute mess, brow furrowed like she’s concentrating on every thrust.
“You want to come for mommy, princess?” she asks, and it’s so filthy the words punch straight through you.
“Yes,” you moan shamelessly, teetering on pornographic. “Please—please let me.”
“Then take it,” she groans. “Be a good girl and take it.”
Your orgasm crashes into you like a wave. You scream, legs jerking, as pleasure rips through you, abrupt and shattering. You don’t even realise you’re sobbing until Caitlyn finally stops moving, letting you breathe.
She stays buried to the hilt inside you, slowly rocking her hips enough to make your oversensitive body twitch and whimper.
Her expression softens to its usual protectiveness.
“There she is,” she coos at your beautifully fucked-out state. “That’s my girl. All spent. All mine.”
You nod, barely conscious, lips swollen and cheeks wet.
She finally lets go of your wrists and cradles your face in both palms, her thumbs brushing away the tears gently.
“You’re going to call me that again,” Caitlyn says in a tone that caresses like fine silk yet cuts like a vicious blade. “Next time, you’ll beg for it and I’ll show you what it really means to be mommy’s girl.”
꩜ pairing: spiderman!ellie williams x female reader
꩜ warnings: explicit content, language
꩜ word count: 5.5k
꩜ synopsis: your campus crush is awkward, brilliant, and possibly allergic to eye contact. your city’s superhero is bold, brawny, and keeps saving your life. it takes a few close calls and some questionable physics to realise they’re the same girl—and she’s falling for you, too.
The first time Spider-Girl saves you, it's from a mugger in an alley behind the campus coffee shop. You're fumbling through your backpack for your pepper spray when she drops down like some extremely agile angel, all wisecracks and impossibly fluid movements.
"Hey there, citizen," she quips with her trademark enthusiasm, expertly knocking out the guy with a single punch. God, she’s always so extra on television. You didn’t think she’d be a hundred times worse in real life. "Didn't anyone ever tell you that walking alone at night is, like, really bad for your web of safety?"
You stare at her, dumbfounded, heart hammering from more than just the adrenaline. "Did you seriously just make a spider pun?"
"Maybe." Even through the mask, you can hear her intolerable grin. "You okay? No injuries? Emotional trauma? Sudden urge to take up martial arts?"
"I'm fine," you manage, though you're definitely not. She's hanging upside down now, her auburn hair falling in waves around her masked face, and something indescribable about her voice is making your stomach flip. You clutch your pepper spray tighter.
"Good. Great. Awesome," her extremely endearing stuttering doesn’t distract you from how delicious her biceps look in that top-notch suit of hers. "Um, you should probably get home. Soon. Don’t want to miss dinner. Most important meal of the day."
She swings away before you can thank her (or correct her on how the phrase is actually about breakfast), leaving you alone with your breathing irregular and a very inconvenient crush on a masked vigilante.
The second time is five days later, when a chunk of building facade decides to almost make friends with your head during the villain of the week’s rampage downtown. Spider-Girl appears out of nowhere, scooping you up in arms that are surprisingly stronger than anticipated (not that you’ve been thinking about her arms, haha, no way) and swinging you to protection on a nearby rooftop.
"We've got to stop meeting like this," she pants, setting you down gently. "People are gonna talk."
"Are you following me?" you gape at her, brushing dust from your jacket.
"What? No! That's—that's crazy talk. I'm a hero. Heroes don’t follow. They heroically arrive. At coincidental moments."
You purse your lips, evidently skeptical, "Right. Coincidental."
"Very coincidental. Cosmically coincidental, even. The universe is just really invested in us meeting, apparently."
While she goes off on a tangent about something too philosophical for your understanding, you’re more focused on scrutinising her mannerisms. There's something eerily familiar about the way she gestures, all animated hands and panicky grace, but you can't seem to place it. You table your suspicions for another time. That is, if there is another time.
And, oh boy, there is.
You're walking home from a last-minute convenience store visit when a car runs a red light, heading straight for you. It’s downright ridiculous. At this point, you’re convinced that you’re undeniably cursed. Before you can ponder over the pros and cons of becoming roadkill versus finally escaping the group project from hell, a blur of red and blue tackles you to the pavement, and suddenly you're staring up at the sky wondering if you've died.
For a moment, you're pressed chest to chest with Spider-Girl, her masked face inches from yours. You can feel her heaving, quick and shallow.
"Okay," you whisper. "Now I’m certain you're following me."
"I—" she scrambles backward, nearly tripping over her own feet. "It's not what it looks like!"
You shake your head, trying to gain sense of your surroundings, "It looks like you're stalking me."
"I prefer 'keeping tabs on.' For very legitimate reasons."
You let out a disbelieving laugh, studying her, "What's your name?"
"Girl, do you have a concussion?”
"Your real name, smartass."
She freezes, her frantic spiraling reaching an abrupt halt, "Come on, gorgeous. It’s not so simple. That's classified information."
"Of course," you stand with a defeated sigh, running a hand through your hair and trying not to fixate on how she chose to refer to you (gorgeous, gorgeous, gorgeous). "Well, thanks for the save. Maybe next time you could text me when there's danger instead of lurking like a weirdo?"
You're halfway down the block when you hear her call out: "I don't have your number!" You turn back, grinning, "I guess you'll have to ask for it like a normal person!"
The girl in your Advanced Calculus class is strange.
Not bad strange—sort of a cute strange, truly. She showed up six weeks into the semester, all quiet and nervous twitching, taking the only empty seat right next to you. She has freckles scattered across her nose and the greenest eyes you've ever seen, and she fidgets constantly, like she's got too much energy for her own skin.
"Ellie," she'd introduced herself on her first day, awkwardly extending a hand that was covered in small scars and calluses. "Williams."
"Nice to meet you," you'd replied, and something about her crooked smile made your chest tight.
She's brilliant in class—when she shows up, of course. Professor Martinez assigns a problem set on differential equations and Ellie solves them with an elegance that makes everyone lean forward to so much as catch a glimpse of her work. But she has her quirks like not making eye contact while explaining her solutions, and doodling in the margins of her notebooks—intricate patterns that look too similar to webs, you suppose.
Also, she stares at you. A lot.
"Earth to Ellie," you mutter during a particularly boring lecture on integration techniques. She's been gazing at you for the past five minutes, completely obvious about it.
She startles, knocking over her water bottle. "Shit, sorry. I wasn't—"
You stifle a laugh, "Staring at me?" Her face goes pink, about ready to burst if she could, "I was thinking about derivatives. Pretty intensely."
"Uh-huh, here," you hand her some napkins from your bag, helping salvage her soaked notes. "What's your take on the fundamental theorem of calculus, then?"
"It's... fundamental," she says, then grimaces when she seems to realise how that sounds. "I mean, it's inherently elegant. The way it connects differentiation and integration like two sides of the same coin."
You're impressed despite yourself, "Not many would choose to explain it that way, but it’s a fitting analogy."
"Thanks." She plays around with her pen and you wonder how someone’s fingers could be so long and slender and—
Oh my fucking god, please stop.
You snap out of your thoughts to come face-to-face with Ellie rambling, too engrossed in what she’s saying to notice how your neck is embarrassingly flushed. "I'm good with connections. How things relate to each other."
As if summoned by her words, her phone vibrates with what sounds like a notification. She glances at it offhandedly and her whole body goes tense.
"I-I have to—bathroom—emergency—" she's already gathering her things, moving with surprising dexterity despite her apparent alarm. At first, you can only blink at the sudden shift, thinking it's some kind of elaborate excuse or a joke you’re not in on. But she's already weaving through chairs, clutching her bag like a lifeline.
By the time you lurch to your feet, she's vanished around the corner, leaving behind only the ghost of her perfume and a rapidly cooling seat. Twenty minutes later, news alerts start buzzing about Spider-Girl stopping a large-scale robbery across town.
You start paying attention after that. Really paying attention.
From your elaborate observations, you’ve concluded the following: Ellie disappears from class every time there's a Spider-Girl sighting. She shows up the next day with new bruises she claims are from "aggressive skateboarding" or "really competitive rock climbing." Who does she think she’s trying to fool? Moreover, she knows too much about physics and momentum for someone who supposedly just likes math.
"Want to study together?" you nonchalantly ask one Thursday under the guise of Professor Kim sending out a particularly brutal assignment. In actuality, you were on the prowl for some hardcore evidence to back your hypothesis. "The library has those group study rooms."
Ellie's eyes light up, caught off guard by the offer, "Yeah, yes! Absolutely. I mean, if you want. I'm probably not that helpful, but—"
A pointed stare from you shuts Ellie up, "You're literally the smartest person in our class."
A sheepish smile is all you get in response. The study session is a disaster and the best three hours of your week simultaneously.
Ellie is smart, walking you through complex equations with a patience that makes you genuinely grateful to have her by your side, but she's also the most distractible person you've ever met. Her phone buzzes constantly—emergency alerts, news notifications, text messages that make her face go pale.
"Popular girl," you can’t stop yourself from teasing after the seventh interruption.
"Not really. Uh, I volunteer with this community safety thing. Neighborhood watch type deal."
"Neighborhood watch?"
"Mhm, very active neighborhood watch."
She's helping you with a particularly tricky problem, leaning close enough that you can smell her shampoo, when her phone starts borderline shrieking with alerts.
"Shit," she mutters, grabbing it, looking beyond apologetic. "I have to—"
"Go," you say, even though you're disappointed. "Your neighborhood watch thing?"
"Yeah. Last-minute emergency... watching."
She's halfway to the door when she turns back. "Can we do this again? The studying, I mean. Not the emergency part."
You try to bite back a more than pleased smile. You’re not successful. "I'd like that."
After she leaves, you sit in the empty study room for a while, thinking about the way she explained vector calculus like it was poetry, the way her eyes lit up when she talked about complex theorems, the way she looked at you like you were the most interesting equation she'd ever encountered.
Until reality punches all of the air out of your lungs: "Spider-Girl Saves Civilians Trapped in Terrible Industrial Fire."
The realisation hits you during the next class.
Professor Kim is explaining the mechanism behind projectile motion, and Ellie is taking notes with the intensity of someone who needs to understand exactly how objects move through three-dimensional space. Which is apt, you guess.
"The trajectory of any projectile can be calculated using these equations," Professor Kim drawls, writing on the board. "Accounting for initial velocity, angle of projection, and gravitational acceleration..."
Ellie's pen moves across her notebook, but she's not just copying the equations, you notice. She's modifying them, adding variables, and sketching what looks like trajectory paths between buildings.
Huh, that’s interesting.
"Miss Williams," Professor Kim’s voice booms throughout the hall, "could you share your perspective regarding the topic at hand?"
Ellie looks up, startled. "Oh. I-I was just thinking about how you'd need to account for air resistance in real-world applications. And wind patterns. And if you were, I don’t know, swinging between buildings, you'd need to calculate the optimal release point to maintain momentum while accounting for the pendulum effect of the swing itself."
It’s dead silent. You raise an eyebrow. The class stares at her.
Professor Kim clears her throat, "That's a good question. Yet very specific, Miss Williams."
"I just think about practicality," Ellie mutters weakly.
After class, you corner her in the hallway, determination oozing from the way you stride over to her. "Swinging between buildings?" you ask.
Ellie can barely hold it together, itching with the need to be anywhere but in front of you. "Hypothetically."
"Hypothetically," you echo, studying her face. "You know, I've been thinking about patterns lately, since our conversation. Like how Spider-Girl always seems to show up right after you disappear from class."
Ellie goes very still. "That's... cool."
"Is it? Because I've been doing some math of my own. The timing, the locations, the way you know exactly how web-swinging would work from a physics perspective."
"Funny story, I’m… ah… writing a research paper on Spider-Girl’s abilities—"
"You have the same voice as a certain superhero who's saved my life three times."
Her face goes pale. She opens and closes her mouth, unable to devise an escape plan. And she has tons of experience in those. "I can explain."
You lean closer, lowering your voice, "Can you? Because I'm starting to think my study partner is also the girl who's been stalking me from rooftops."
"I haven't been stalking you!" she protests, then catches herself. "I mean, I don't know what you're talking about."
You tilt your head, close enough to see the panic in her green eyes. "Prove it."
"How?"
"Kiss me."
"What?"
"If you're not Spider-Girl, then kissing me shouldn't be a problem. But if you are..." you let the sentence hang, your own pulse skyrocketing.
Ellie stares at you, bewilderment painting her features. "That's not—that doesn't prove anything."
"Doesn't it? Because I'm pretty sure Spider-Girl has been wanting to kiss me for weeks. The question is whether Ellie Williams wants to kiss me too."
The words tumble out before you can second-guess them—bold, reckless, and so unlike you. But for once, you don’t care. The hallway is empty, most students having fled to their next classes. Ellie looks around desperately, like she still believes that she can scheme her way out of this.
"I—" she starts, then ultimately stops. Her shoulders slump. "Fuck."
"Is that a confession?"
"It's an acknowledgment that I'm terrible at this secret identity thing."
You grin, pleased with yourself, "So you are Spider-Girl."
"Yeah." She runs a hand through her hair. "And I've been going crazy trying to keep away from you while also making sure you're safe, and I think I'm falling for you but I can't tell if it's because I'm Spider-Girl or because I'm Ellie, and—"
You kiss her.
It’s soft, at first, almost hesitant, but it lands with the quiet certainty of something long overdue. Her words die against your lips, a half-formed thought swallowed by the warmth of your mouth on hers. She lets out a soft, taken aback sound, something between a gasp and a sigh, and then she’s kissing you back like it’s instinct, like she’s been waiting for this as long as you have.
Her hands rise to cradle your face, fingers trembling just slightly as they settle against your cheeks. She leans into you, melts, and the world narrows down to the press of her body against yours and the wild, thunderous beat of your heart.
When you finally pull back—breathless and stunned—she doesn’t say anything. Just stares at you with wide, shining eyes like she’s seeing something brand new.
Like she’s never wanted anything more.
"Both," you whisper. "You asked if you're falling for me as Spider-Girl or as Ellie. For me, it's both. I'm falling for both of you."
Her smile, the brightest you’ve ever seen, could power the entire campus. "Really?"
"Really. Though I have to say, your secret identity skills need work."
"Yeah, yeah. I'm getting that." She ducks her head, but not before you catch the rising blush, equal parts pride and bashfulness. You’re not sure if it’s the jab, the kiss, or just you that’s got her blushing like that, but whatever it is, you want to see it again.
"We should probably talk about this somewhere more private," you say, glancing around the empty hallway.
"My apartment?" Ellie suggests, then immediately looks panicked. "If you want. For talking. Just talking. Very innocent talking."
You laugh, carefree, watching the panic bloom across her face like she’s just proposed something scandalous instead of, quite frankly, simply suggesting. It’s cute—dangerously cute—and a spark of amusement curls in your chest. "Ellie."
"Yeah?"
"It’s alright. I'm not going anywhere."
Her apartment is small and cluttered, textbooks scattered across every surface, equations scrawled on sticky notes stuck to the walls. Such a nerd, you think to yourself with barely controlled lust. There's a familiar suit hanging in the closet, and you stare in awe.
"So," you begin, settling on her couch. "How long?"
"About a year. There was this lab accident—" she sits beside you, close enough that your knees touch. "Radioactive spider. Very original, I know."
"And you've been doing the superhero thing since then?"
"Someone has to. The city's not exactly overflowing with good-natured people."
You drink in her face, taking in the small scar on her cheekbone, the way her eyes are alight with something unfamiliar. "Are you okay with this? Me knowing?"
"Terrified," her eyes widen a little, like she hadn’t expected you to ask. Like the idea that someone would care enough to check in hadn’t fully occurred to her. The tension in her shoulders eases, just barely, and when she speaks, her voice is softer. "But also... relieved? I've been wanting to tell you for weeks."
"Why didn't you?"
"Because people I care about get hurt. It's like a rule or something," her nails scratch at her skin anxiously. "And I care about you. A lot."
It slams into you—her honesty, raw and unguarded—and you have to swallow the rush of feeling that follows. You’ve waited so long for this, for her. Now, she’s here, and you don’t trust yourself to breathe too loudly in case the moment shatters. "How much?"
She looks at you then and the intensity in her gaze makes you forget how to function. "Enough that I've been taking patrol routes past your apartment building to make sure you get home safe. Enough that I nearly blew my cover multiple times because I couldn't stand the thought of you getting hurt. Enough that I've been falling asleep thinking about you and waking up wishing I could tell you everything."
Your lips quiver, "Ellie..."
"I know it's crazy. I know I've been lying to you, and that dating me comes with risks you never signed up for. I know you think I'm some kind of stalker. Fuck, I am—"
You kiss her again, slower this time, like you're trying to commit the way she tastes, the way she feels under your hands to memory. Her fingers tighten at your waist, tentative at first, then surer, pulling you closer until there’s barely any space left between you. You can clearly tell that she’s been waiting for some semblance of permission to want this as much as she does. She tilts her head, deepening the kiss with a quiet groan that makes your knees go a little weak.
It’s not a confession. It’s a surrender. A promise that neither of you quite knows how to verbalise so soon.
"I don't think you're a stalker," you mumble against her lips. "I think you're extremely awesome. And hot. And selfless."
Ellie chuckles, "And?"
"And I think I'm completely gone for you."
She pulls back to meet your eyes. "Both versions of me?"
"All versions of you. The hero, the student, the girl who makes terrible spider puns and gets flustered when I catch her staring."
"I do not get flustered."
"You look like a tomato right now."
"That's unrelated."
You throw your head back, and she grins, that same, crooked smile that's been driving you crazy for weeks. "I love your laugh," she appreciates softly.
"I love your brain. The way you see patterns in everything, the way you explained all of those formulae like they were beautiful instead of impossible."
"They are beautiful. Math is, like, the language the world uses to describe itself."
"See? That. That's what I'm talking about."
She shifts closer, her forehead resting against yours. "What happens now?"
"Now you stop trying to protect me from a distance and let me be part of your life. The real part."
"It's dangerous."
"So is crossing the street. So is falling in love with someone," you trace the line of her jaw with your fingertip. "I'm not asking you to stop being Spider-Girl. I'm asking you to trust me enough to let me choose to be with you anyway."
She's quiet for a moment, and you can see her calculating probabilities, a deep furrow set in her brows. Finally, she utters, "I've never had anyone who knew. About me, I mean. All of me."
You nod in understanding, "How does it feel?"
"Scary. Amazing. Like I can finally relax."
"Good,” you smile, brushing a strand of hair from her face. "Because I plan on knowing you for a very long time."
"Show me," you say later, when you're curled up together on her couch, her arms around you and her chin resting on your shoulder.
"Show you what?"
"The Spider-Girl stuff. I want to see how it works."
She tenses slightly. "Are you sure? It's kind of intense."
"Ellie. I've been dreaming about this for weeks."
She's deeply amused for a moment, then she gently untangles herself from you and stands. "Okay. But if it freaks you out—"
"It won't."
She moves to the window, and you watch as she seems to almost, in a way, transform. Her posture changes, becomes more fluid, more confident. She presses her palm against the glass, and you see her fingers stick to the surface without any effort.
"Holy shit," you gawk.
"That's not even the cool part." She grins, extending her wrist. There's a soft thwip sound, and you jump back as a strand of webbing shoots out, sticking to the opposite wall. "Web-shooters. My own design."
"Can I...?"
"Touch them? Sure," she comes back to the couch, holding out her wrist. The device is sleek and mechanical, clearly homemade but extraordinarily sophisticated.
You run your fingers over the metal, marveling at the craftsmanship, "You built this?"
"Built, tested, redesigned about fifty times. Turns out web-slinging is more complicated than it looks."
"This is incredible. You're incredible."
She rubs the back of her neck, "It's just engineering."
"It's genius-level engineering that you did in your spare time while maintaining an impeccable GPA."
"My GPA is not impeccable—"
"Ellie," you look at her seriously. "You're amazing. Not just as Spider-Girl, but as you. The fact that you use your intelligence to help people, that you built all this to make the world safer... it's the most attractive thing I've ever seen."
She stares at you for a moment, then she's pressing her lips to yours, urgent and hungry. You respond immediately, your hands fisting in her flannel shirt as she guides you back against the couch cushions.
"I've wanted to do this for so long," she barely contains her whimper. "Every time I saved you, every time you smiled at me in class, every time you caught me staring..."
"I was hoping you'd stare," you admit, biting your lower lip. "I've been trying to get your attention for weeks."
"You always had my attention," her fingers trace the skin just above your waistband, and you shiver. "From the first day you sat next to me in class, I couldn't think about anything else."
"Then why didn't you say anything?"
"Because girls like you don't usually go for awkward nerds."
You giggle, bringing her face back to yours for another kiss. "This girl does."
"Yeah?"
"Hell, yeah," you tug at her shirt, suddenly desperate to feel more of her.
She helps you pull her flannel off, revealing a simple black tank top underneath. There are more scars here, small ones scattered across her arms and shoulders—evidence of her other life.
"Do they hurt?" you ask, tracing one with your fingertip.
"Not anymore. I heal fast now."
You lean up to kiss the scar on her collarbone. "I don't like the idea of you being hurt."
"I'm careful."
"You throw yourself off buildings for a living."
"I'm strategically careful."
You're about to respond when she kisses your neck, and whatever you were going to say dissolves into a soft moan. She's good at this, all careful attention and gentle pressure, like she's been thinking about exactly how to touch you.
"Ellie," you whisper, and she responds by trailing kisses down your neck.
"I love the way you say my name," she whispers against your skin. "Both when you're annoyed with me in class and when you're like this."
"Like what?"
"Desperate. Wanting me."
"I do want you," you thread your fingers through her hair, tugging gently until she looks at you. "I want all of you."
Something shifts in her expression, heat darkening her eyes. "All of me?"
Instead of answering, you flip your positions, pushing her back against the couch and settling yourself astride her lap. Her hands immediately find your waist, fingers digging in like she's afraid you'll disappear.
"Hi," you say softly.
"Hi yourself," her voice is rougher now, her breathing uneven. "This is... this is really happening?"
"Unless you want to stop."
"Fuck no," she sits up, bringing your faces level. "I just... I've imagined this so many times, but I never thought..."
"What?"
"I never thought you'd want me back."
You cup her face in your hands, thumb brushing over her cheek. "Ellie Williams, I've been hopelessly crushing on you since the first time you rambled about one of your silly interests. Finding out you're also the badass superhero who's been saving my life is just a sexy bonus."
She laughs, light and surprised. "Sexy?"
"Very sexy. The competence, the confidence, the way you move like you know exactly what your body can do," you roll your hips cheekily, and her grip on your waist tightens frenziedly. "It's incredibly hot."
"Oh."
"Tongue-tied?"
"Shut up," she says, but she's grinning as she pulls you down.
This time when your lips meet, it's different. Needy. Her hands slide up your sides, thumbs brushing just under your ribs, and you arch into the touch with a sound that makes her eyelashes flutter.
"Is this okay?" she asks, fingers playing with the hem of your shirt.
"More than okay."
She helps you pull it off, and for a moment she just stares, dumbfounded. "You're so beautiful," she licks her lips, and the reverence in her voice astounds you.
"So are you,” you drag her into another makeout, rougher this time. She meets you halfway as you both start to move—slow, desperate grinding that leaves no room for doubt. Her thigh slots between yours, and the friction pulls a breathy curse from your lips.
Ellie’s hands are everywhere, the curve of your back, your shoulders, the line of your throat. She mouths at your chest through your bra, tongue dragging over the fabric until your head tips back and a shaky moan escapes you. She hums against you like she’s proud of your reaction and you’re already giving in, her name slipping like a prayer.
You pull back to meet her eyes. "I need you, Ellie."
Something in her expression shatters—restraint, maybe, or whatever thread of self-control she was still clinging to. Her jaw tightens like she’s trying to hold herself back and failing spectacularly. She exhales sharply through her nose, then grabs your hips with both hands, grinding up against you like she can’t stand even an inch of space.
“Fuck,” she mutters, like the word is forcibly ripped out of her. “Say that again.”
“O-oh,” you gasp at the delicious movement, clutching onto her helplessly. “N-need you, Els. Please.”
She stands without warning, lifting you with her, and you wrap your legs around her waist. The casual display of strength makes heat pool in your stomach.
"Show off," you tease.
"You like it."
"Wrong. I love it."
Her bedroom is small and messy like the rest of her apartment, but you don’t mind. She sets you down gently beside the bed, her hands immediately finding your waist again.
"Are you sure about this?" she asks, and there's a fond vulnerability in her voice.
"Ellie," you step closer, pecking the tip of her nose. "I'm sure about you.”
"I’m sure about you too," she smiles, and then she's walking you backward until your legs hit the mattress.
You fall together, a jumble of limbs and fast kisses and hands that can't stop touching. She's careful with you, gentle despite the strength you know she possesses, and something about that contrast—the deadly superhero being so tender with you—makes you feel cherished in a way you've never experienced.
"I want to make you feel good," she moans against your ear, and it sends shivers down your spine. "Will you let me make you feel good, baby?"
"E-Ellie," you can only manage to stammer, and she smirks deviously against your neck.
"Just like that."
Ellie doesn’t hesitate. Her hand slips beneath your waistband, knuckles brushing your skin as she works her way into your pants and under your panties. The first drag of her fingers through your slick makes both of you gasp—you at the contact, her at the way you’re already soaking for her.
“Jesus,” she remarks, almost in devotion, before slipping two fingers inside you, slow but unrelenting. Your hands dig into her shoulders, hips rolling up to meet each thrust, and she finds a rhythm that makes your head spin. Her palm presses snug against your clit, every movement measured and devastating.
"You're so responsive," she murmurs, pressing kisses down your throat. "So perfect."
"Not perfect," your reply is strained, hard to think with her touching you like this.
"Perfect for me."
When her lips follow the path her hands have traced, you're already trembling. She takes her time, building you up carefully, until you're writhing beneath her.
"Please," you beg for the second time that day, and she looks up at you with her insatiable, lidded gaze.
"Please what?"
"Please don't stop."
"Never," she swears, and then she's making good on it, using her mouth and hands to take you apart piece by piece.
She sinks to her knees like it's second nature, tugging your pants down completely with an urgency that makes you shy away. Her mouth is on you almost instantly, tongue parting you with aching precision, and the first slow lick is both torture and life-changing. Her hands grip your thighs firmly, anchoring you in place, as if daring you to pull away.
Not that you would, not when her mouth is right there, focused solely on your dripping cunt.
She moans against you like she’s the one being eaten out, the sound sending vibrations straight through your core, and you choke out a gasp. One hand trails from your thigh to slip two fingers inside you, easy from how wet you already are, and the combination of her mouth and the rhythmic movement of her fingers is devastating. She fucks you with purpose, stroking that perfect spot over and over as her lips wrap around your clit and suck.
Your hands find her hair, threading through it with desperation as you grind helplessly against her face, barely coherent.
“Mmm, yeah, good girl. There you go. Use me however you want.”
Your eyes roll back at her words.
The tension coils tighter and tighter, until it snaps all at once—a blinding rush of pleasure that leaves your vision white at the edges as your body bucks against her, undone completely.
She doesn’t stop until you’re gasping, overstimulated and twitching. Until you're crying out her name and seeing stars. Afterward, she holds you close, pressing soft kisses to your temple while you catch your breath.
"Okay?" she asks quietly.
"More than okay," you move in her arms, meeting her eyes. "Your turn."
"You don't have to—"
"I want to," you reassure her softly. "I want to make you fall apart the way you just did to me."
Her face contorts into something akin to burning desire and you grin as you begin to return the favour, taking your time to explore every inch of her skin, to learn what makes her gasp and moan and whisper.
She's beautiful like this, her usual composure completely gone. When she finally climaxes, it's with your name on her tongue and her hands tangled in your hair.
You collapse together afterward, sweaty and satisfied and completely content. She pulls a blanket over both of you, and you snuggle into her side, your head on her chest.
"Hmm," you sigh eventually, tracing lazy patterns on her skin. "This is nice."
"Nice?" she laughs, the sound vibrating through her chest. "I pour my heart out, reveal my secret identity, and give you the best orgasm of your life, and you call it 'nice'?"
"Best orgasm of my life? Someone’s cocky."
"Was it not?"
You grin, leaning up to kiss her chin. "It was incredible. You're incredible."
She tightens her hold around you. "I plan on doing that a lot more, just so you know."
"I’m counting on it."
You lie there in comfortable silence for a while, enjoying the feeling of being close to her. Eventually, though, a bunch of doubts and concerns start to creep in like phantoms in the night.
"What happens now?" you ask timidly.
"Now we figure it out as we go," she presses her face into your hair, inhaling deeply. "Together."
"Together," you agree after a few beats of silence, and you can't think of anything that sounds more meant to be.
Outside the window, the city hums with its usual evening hustle and bustle. Somewhere out there, people are going to need Spider-Girl's help. But for now, she's exactly where she belongs—in bed with you, planning a future that includes both sides of who she is.
꩜ pairing: chemistry lab partner!hange zoe x gender neutral reader
꩜ warnings: explicit content
꩜ word count: 759
꩜ synopsis: where a chaotic lab partnership turns into an electrifying romance. chemistry isn't just confined to test tubes, you know?
Lab partner!Hange who bursts through the door twenty minutes late and looks like they've been struck by lightning, goggles askew and lab coat half-buttoned, apologising clumsily while somehow already knowing exactly what compound you're supposed to be synthesising.
Lab partner!Hange who gets genuinely ecstatic by successful experiments. Their eyes light up with an intensity that makes your stomach flip as they lean over your shoulder, their breath hot against your ear while explaining molecular structures.
Lab partner!Hange who has ink-stained fingers from frantically scribbling notes, and you find yourself staring at their hands more often than you should, wondering what those fingers would feel like trailing across your skin.
Lab partner!Hange who pushes their glasses up their nose with the back of their hand, leaving smudges that you have an inexplicable urge to clean off with your thumb, your faces inches apart.
Lab partner!Hange who always smells like pine and something vaguely, uniquely them, a scent that becomes intoxicating when they crowd into your personal space to check your measurements. The way their body seems to naturally radiate warmth doesn’t help. At all.
Lab partner!Hange who gets so adorably excited about breakthroughs that they grab your hands without thinking, their touch electric as they bounce on their toes, eyes sparkling with manic joy.
Lab partner!Hange who stays late in the lab with you, the room growing dim as they lean against your workbench, watching you with an unreadable expression that makes heat pool in your stomach.
Lab partner!Hange who absent-mindedly chews on their pen while thinking, drawing your attention to their lips in a way that makes you lose focus while balancing equations.
Lab partner!Hange who has a habit of rolling up their sleeves when concentrating, revealing surprisingly toned forearms that distract you more than any difficult formula ever could.
Lab partner!Hange who notices when you're struggling and moves behind you to guide your hands, their chest pressed against your back as they murmur instructions, their voice dropping to a husky whisper.
Lab partner!Hange who starts bringing you coffee in the mornings, skin lingering against yours during the handoff, their gaze drinking you in with an eagerness that makes you forget how to breathe.
Lab partner!Hange who gets protective when other students boisterously interrupt your work, stepping closer until you can feel the possessiveness of their presence, both comforting and dangerous.
Lab partner!Hange who catches you staring at their mouth while they explain complex theories and pauses mid-sentence, their eyes darkening as tension crackles between you like static electricity.
Lab partner!Hange who starts finding excuses to touch you—steadying your hand while pipetting, brushing past you in the narrow lab aisles, their touch lingering just long enough to make your pulse skyrocket.
Lab partner!Hange who begins texting you late at night during the mid-semester break about "lab questions" that somehow turn into long conversations that leave you lying in bed, wondering if they miss you too.
Lab partner!Hange who wears their hair in a messy bun that makes you want to pull it loose, especially when they tilt their head and expose the elegant line of their neck while concentrating.
Lab partner!Hange who starts unconsciously mirroring your movements, both of you reaching for the same equipment and freezing when your bodies brush, the air thick with unspoken tension.
Lab partner!Hange who looks at you over their glasses with an expression that's equal parts scientific curiosity and something much more tantalising, making you feel like their most fascinating experiment.
Lab partner!Hange who gets flustered when you compliment their intelligence, cheeks flushing as they fidget with their lab coat, suddenly unable to look at you.
Lab partner!Hange who finally snaps during a late evening lab session, grabbing your wrist when you reach for a beaker and pulling you against them, their other hand tangling in your hair as they kiss you desperately against the bench, months of yearning finally exploding between you.
Lab partner!Hange who breaks the kiss just long enough to breathe, "I've been wanting to do that since our first titration," before claiming your mouth again, their hands roaming as you forget everything except the way they say your name like a prayer.
Lab partner!Hange who shows up the next day with a lopsided grin, acting like they didn't just have you screaming against their dorm room wall the previous night, casually asking, "So, want to grab dinner? Like, an actual date?" with mischievous eyes and the burning memory of exactly how you taste.
꩜ pairing: modern!au abby anderson x female reader
꩜ warnings: explicit content (mean dom abby yum), language
꩜ word count: 1.4k
꩜ synopsis: you sent the photo on impulse—aching and desperate for your girlfriend. but hours pass with no reply. when abby finally comes home, you learn the hard way that silence doesn’t mean she’s ignoring you. it means she’s about to make you regret everything.
You know Abby’s busy.
She’d warned you in the morning—it was the last day of her internship, packed with back-to-back presentations, and there would be a routine debrief with her supervisor before she’s finally free—with a raised brow, clearly apprehensive of you pulling something like this.
You’d wished her good luck. Specially woken up early to prepare her favourite lunch.
But by three in the afternoon, your hands are down your panties, lip caught between your teeth, and you're taking the most risque selfies on the bed you both share. The sheer lace bralette does absolutely nothing to hide your perky nipples, your thighs spread just wide enough to show how needy you are.
You’ve been behaving so well for Abby, happily sending her off to work for almost a month as if you weren’t thinking of convincing her to stay home every day just so you could eat her out to your heart’s content. Simply put, you were extremely pent-up. Could anyone honestly blame you?
Snapping yourself out of your distracting thoughts and bringing your attention back to your phone, you decide to send the photo you deem best with a satisfied chuckle.
You: [one attachment]
You: wish you were here abs
You: she misses you sm she’s dripping all over :(
You toss the device aside and giggle in glee. Anticipating your girlfriend’s equally naughty reciprocation lights an incessant fire beneath your skin and you shiver as your imagination overwhelms you. However, you’re stunned to find that it’s been more than two hours without so much as a reply. Not even a “read”. No form of acknowledgement whatsoever.
You huff. Pace the apartment, beyond frustrated. Bury your face in her hoodie and get needier, if possible. You end up back in bed, still wet, still wound tight—and that’s exactly how Abby discovers you when she unlocks the door just past eight.
God, she looks delicious. She always does. Her hair is tied back, button-down sleeves rolled up the way you like it. Her chest heaves a little like she sprinted to get to you as quickly as she could. The thought, frankly, makes you burn.
Her furious eyes land on you in a second: sprawled on the mattress, nothing but that same torturous lace on, the vibrator on the sheets beside you, and a hint of slick glistening between your legs. You notice how her jaw clenches momentarily and your pulse quickens.
She doesn’t speak at first, only stalks to the bed like she’s been aching all day to wreck you. “You think that was funny, sweetheart?” she mutters as she shrugs her bag off and kicks her shoes away. “Sending... that while I was in a room full of people?”
Your mouth parts to answer but she’s already got your thighs in her hands, dragging you to the edge of the bed. Her sudden actions make you squeak in surprise.
“I hope you’re proud of yourself. I couldn’t concentrate. Couldn’t speak. Had to excuse myself just to sit in a bathroom stall and remember how to fucking breathe.”
Her mouth crashes into yours without warning—hot, rough, claiming—and she wastes no time. Fingers slide down your clothed slit, already drenched, and you feel her smirk against your lips.
“This for me, huh? Just from clicking some nudes?”
"Abby, I—"
You don’t get to finish your sentence.
Because two fingers are already shoving your panties aside and sliding inside you, knuckle-deep, curling just right. You cry out and clutch her biceps, but Abby's relentless. She doesn’t spare you a chance to get used to the stretch. Only pushes your thighs open, plants one palm on your hip to hold you down, and fucks you on her fingers hard and fast.
“You wanted this,” she nearly growls, thumb brushing your clit with every thrust. “You wanted me so bad you couldn’t even wait. Look at you—already about to come. I haven’t even done anything yet, baby.”
You try to speak, eyes glassy, but your voice is utterly broken. You’re so, so close, it physically hurts.
“Say it,” she demands, breathing ragged. “Say whose pussy this is.”
"Y-Yours, Abby!"
And you shatter. She doesn’t let you shy away. Doesn’t let you hide your face or recover. Her teeth are on your throat, biting down, one hand dragging off her pants while the other pulls the harness from the drawer like it’s muscle memory.
“Up,” she orders, and you barely register your own self moving—lying back as she straps in, thick and mean-looking and sexy. You’re sure your legs are jelly at this point.
She smoothly slides back between them, guides the strap to your fluttering hole, and thrusts in hard.
You scream from the unexpectedness of it all. It might be hard to believe for most, but Abby was a sweet lover. She’d braid your hair whenever you asked, bring you whatever you were craving at four in the morning if you so wished and she always looked out for you constantly. That sincere care and consideration carried into the bedroom as well—touching you reverently, whispering praises into your skin and prioritising your pleasure and comfort.
Tonight, you realised with a shaky inhale, you had unleashed something primal within her.
She pounds you like she owns you, hips slapping against yours, her toned frame keeping you in place while she works your clit in harsh, tight circles. You’re already overstimulated, but Abby doesn’t give a shit.
“Should’ve been patient,” she pants right into your ear, sweat dripping from her temple. “Should’ve behaved like a good girl instead of teasing me like a fucking slut.”
You moan at her words, growing dizzy, grabbing at the sheets like they’ll anchor you through this. “Look at me,” she hisses through her teeth, and you do. What you see in her eyes ruins you even more: hunger, want, love, masked in heat and dominance.
Your orgasm hits you again, more intense, thighs clamping around her hips as she fucks you through it. Your mouth drops open in a silent scream and you’re absolutely spent.
But, apparently, Abby isn’t.
She pulls out with an embarrassingly loud squelch and grips your waist with bruising strength. In spite of her actions, she presses an affectionate peck to your nose, wordlessly communicating that she’d never hurt you.
“Your turn, baby.”
You barely make sense of her statement, but your body automatically reacts. It always does.
She lies back, muscles taut, and you can’t resist dragging your tongue along the vast expanse of her torso. She lets out a pleasant “oh”, gently fisting your hair before pulling you to sit where she wants you. You climb onto her lap, legs already shaking from the strain.
“You wanted it so bad, right?” she tilts her head mockingly, one hand trailing up your spine. “Then fucking ride me.”
You pout, shimmering tears threatening to spill over, “Abs, I’m sorry. I-I can’t—It’s too much—”
“You can and you will. Now, shut that pretty mouth up and get to it.”
You lower yourself down with a sniffle, inch by inch, and the sensation turns your brain into mush—too thick, too good—but you do it anyway. Because you need her. Because you want her like you’ve never wanted anything else.
Abby watches you with feral eyes, fingers inching slowly to wrap around your throat as you start to move. The grind of it has you screaming, overstimulation crackling through every nerve.
“God, fuck,” she groans, hips lifting just enough to meet yours. “You feel that, sweetheart? That’s what you get for acting like a whore.”
You’re gasping, grinding harder just to hear the sounds she makes. You feel her touch roam your body, cupping your breast, slapping your ass a few times before fondling it languidly.
“Don’t stop till you come again,” she snarls, lips at your ear. “Don’t you fucking dare.”
And you don’t.
You jump up and down until your body gives out completely—until you’re collapsing forward in her arms, sobbing her name, a third climax crashing over you like a tsunami.
She holds you tight and kisses your temple. Rubs your back through the aftershocks. You wait for her to carry you to the bathroom and clean you up like she always does. But all that fills your vision is her predatory grin, low and wicked.
“Oh, no, baby,” she murmurs, leaning down to tangle her tongue with your own, biting your bottom lip between her words. “You didn’t think we were done, did you? You’re not getting away till you’ve ruined the sheets and can’t say anything but my fucking name.”
That’s exactly what she does. Fucks you until you’re babbling incoherently and can’t move by the end of it, too ruined to make sense of your surroundings.
꩜ synopsis: a harmless campus interview turns your best friend into an overnight internet sensation—and suddenly, every thirsty TikTok comment feels like it’s whispering your secret.
☆ art cred: @/juvianism on instagram :3
You nearly spill your coffee all over your Political Theory textbook when you unlock your phone. Another two hundred comments on that TikTok. You know you shouldn't check—you probably watched it about a million times yesterday alone—but your fingers move before your brain can scream at you to stop.
@/bookslvt01: ok but the way he talks about virginia woolf??? NEED HIM CARNALLY
@/colossalthighs: i’d let him annotate my entire body fr
@/arlertmeout: he looks like he apologises before choking you
You bite your lip, half-entertained and half-horrified, scrolling through the endless comments under what was supposed to be an innocent campus interview. The video has 2.3 million views now, completely insane for something filmed outside the modest main library—the same one you find yourself in at the moment—on a random Tuesday.
"Ugh, don’t tell me. You're watching it again, aren't you?"
Your head snaps up comically quick, caught red-handed, to find Sasha sliding into the seat across from you at your usual table, eyeing your phone screen with knowing amusement.
"What? No."
"You are! You have that weird, glazed look in your eyes. The same one you get when Professor Ackerman extends the deadline for our research papers." Sasha unwraps what appears to be her third sandwich of the day. You don't mention how it’s only twelve in the afternoon. "You know you could just talk to him about it, right? He's literally one of your best friends."
"And say what exactly?" you finally close the godforsaken app, trying to ignore how your screen time report is definitely going to be embarrassing this week. "Hey Armin, I've watched your viral video more times than I can remember and I'm having very inappropriate thoughts about your tongue piercing that I absolutely shouldn't be having about my friend?"
Sasha snickers, a piece of lettuce tumbling to the table from her mouth. "Well, when you put it like that... actually, yes. One hundred percent that."
"Sasha, I can't just—" you frown in frustration, inhaling deeply. "It's complicated."
"How is it complicated? You've had a crush on him since freshman year."
"That was different. That was before we became friends. Before I knew him." You lean back in your chair, staring at the ceiling as fond memories overwhelm you. "Back then he was just this cute, nerdy guy in my intro psych class who got excited about statistical analysis and always smelled like that vanilla body wash I love. I used to sit behind him just to watch him get all animated during discussions about cognitive behavioural theory, you know?"
Sasha merely rolls her eyes. "Jesus, and you call me demented. Well, what about now?"
"Now? Now, he's Armin. He's my friend who stays up until 3 A.M. to help me with my assignments, who brings me soup when I'm sick, who texts me the dumbest memes about historical figures," you slump forward, close to pouting. "He's the guy who spent six hours teaching me how to play that MMO he's obsessed with just because I mentioned being bored over winter break. He's..."
"He's the guy you're infatuated with," Sasha supplies helpfully.
"I'm not," you start to protest, then wisely opt to give up instead. "Okay, maybe. But that's exactly the problem. I can't risk blowing up our friendship just because some stupid interview made me realise I want to climb him like a tree."
"A tree with a tongue piercing," Sasha adds with a cheeky grin.
"Fuck’s sake, don't remind me," you let your head rest against the table. "Do you know how many times I've replayed that two-second clip where he licks his lips? It's pathetic."
"It's not pathetic, it's kind of sweet. There's a difference." Sasha takes another bite of her sandwich, her eyes evidently lighting up. "Besides, you don't know that he doesn't feel the same way. Have you seen how he looks at you during our study sessions? Boy's got it bad."
"He looks at me like a friend, Sasha. Because that's what we are."
"Believe me, friends don't look at friends the way he looked at you last Friday when you were explaining your thesis argument. I thought he was going to combust from sexual tension."
Before you can blatantly disagree, you hear an all too familiar voice behind you.
"Sexual tension about what now?"
Your stomach drops directly through the floor. You turn around carefully, and there he is—Armin Arlert, campus's newest digital sensation, standing there with that signature bemused expression he gets when he catches you and Sasha gossiping. His blonde hair is mussed like he's been running his hands through it, and he's wearing that adorable blue sweater that brings out his eyes deliciously.
"Oh, um..." You scramble for an explanation, panicking on the inside. "We were just talking about... about..."
"About how Professor Ackerman's lectures are basically academic foreplay," Sasha jumps in smoothly. "All that tension and buildup with no satisfying conclusion. I mean, hello?"
Armin laughs, the sound warm and comforting. "That's fascinatingly accurate, I’ll admit." He shifts his weight, and you only then notice he's carrying his laptop bag and what seems to be a bag of takeout. "Mind if I join you? I brought Thai food and figured you might be hungry since you've been here since—," he checks his phone, "—9 A.M., according to the text you sent complaining about how it’s criminal that the library opens so early on weekends."
Your heart does a little flip at his consideration. "You didn't have to do that."
"I wanted to." He slides into the chair next to you, close enough that you can smell his cologne—a rich blend of velvety caramel and toasted cinnamon that positively makes you want to lick him all over.
Stop. None of that, you horny bastard.
"Besides, I figured you might want to hear about the latest developments in my accidental internet fame."
Sasha perks up at once. "Hell, yeah. Have you been recognised on campus yet?"
"Five times yesterday," Armin appears to lament, pulling containers out of the bag. "Including once in the bathroom, which was... awkward, to say the least." He hands you your usual order without asking what you want. "But the weirdest part is definitely the DMs."
"DMs?" you pipe up, failing to ignore how domestic this feels what with him knowing exactly what you like. Typical, precious Armin.
"You have no idea," he opens his laptop and turns it toward you two with a nervous twitch. "I've gotten marriage proposals, offers to 'show me a good time,' and at least a hundred messages asking about my tongue piercing specifically."
Your face burns as you push away the thought that you've been mentally composing similar messages. "That's... wow."
"The worst part is, most of them are asking if I'd be interested in demonstrating its uses." He fidgets with his glasses, coming across as embarrassed but also endearing. "I had no idea that thing would cause such a reaction."
"Well, it is pretty noticeable," Sasha remarks with a meaningful peek at you. "Very... attention-grabbing."
"I guess." Armin glances at you pointedly. "What do you think? You've seen the video, right?"
The question is innocent enough, but something in his tone makes you look at him more carefully. There's an out-of-the-ordinary implication that you can't quite put your finger on. "Uh... yeah, I've seen it," you manage to croak out. Terrific. Could you get any stiffer?
"And?"
"And what?"
"What did you think?"
You stare at him blankly, trying to figure out if this is a normal friend question or if you’re incorrectly perceiving the foreign edge of curiosity behind it. "I thought... I mean, your book recommendations were really good. Very passionate."
"Passionate," he repeats, the fleeting flash of understanding across his face confirming your earlier weariness. "That's interesting."
Sasha's phone cuts through the uneasiness with its incessant buzzing, and she scans it with obviously fake surprise. "Oh no, would you look at that. I have to go... meet... someone... about... a... very real thing... I have." She begins gathering her stuff with awfully suspicious speed. "You two have fun talking about books. And passion. And tongue piercings."
"Huh? Wait. Sasha—" you squeak out, but she's already dashing out of the private study room you had booked for the both of you until late afternoon (traitor). Which leaves you alone with Armin, who's scrutinising you with an expression you can't quite read.
"Alright," he speaks after a moment, closing his laptop and leaning back in his chair. "Want to tell me what you actually thought about the video?"
"I already told you."
"No, you gave me the safe answer." He tilts his head slightly, studying you with purpose. "Come on, we've been friends for two years. I know when you're holding back."
You hastily shove some noodles in your mouth, avoiding his gaze. "I'm not holding back."
"Really? Because Sasha seemed to think you had some important opinions about it."
You make a mental note to start drafting your plan for the girl’s well-deserved comeuppance. "Sasha talks too much."
"She does," Armin agrees. "But she's usually right about things. Especially when it comes to you."
The rarely there confidence in his tone makes you look up and, when you meet his gaze, the intensity catches you off guard. "What do you want me to say?"
"Did you know," he continues conversationally, "that TikTok shows you analytics about who's viewed your videos?"
Almost instantly, your heart stops. "What?"
"Mhm. Very detailed analytics. Including multiple views from the same account." His lips quirk up in a small smile. "Want to guess how many times your account shows up in my viewer list?"
You feel heat creeping up your neck. "I don't know what you're talking about." You briefly consider denying reality, blaming a technical issue, or claiming a glitch in the matrix—but none of it sticks.
"Seventy-seven times," he announces, the metaphorical checkmate hitting you straight in the chest. "As of this morning."
Oh god. Oh god, oh god, oh god. He knows. "I can explain—"
"Can you?" He angles himself forward, resting his elbows on the table. "Because I've been trying to figure out why my very good friend has watched a boring thirty-second video of me talking about books seventy-seven times."
You want to run away, mouth opening and closing like a fish. "I... the algorithm is weird sometimes?"
Armin chuckles, low and warm, absent of any malice. "Try again."
"I was checking to see if the view count was going up?"
"Nope."
You're quiet for a long moment, trying to figure out how to get out of this without completely humiliating yourself. You don't suppose it's too late to jump out of a window? Ultimately, you sigh in defeat. "Okay, fine. Maybe I watched it a few times."
"A few?"
You narrow your eyes, crossing your arms in defiance at the unsolicited endless interrogation. "More than a few."
"How many more?"
You want to strangle him, and not in the sexy way. "You’re being annoying."
"Come on." His voice has dropped slightly lower, and there's something almost akin to teasing in it. "I told you about the marriage proposals. Fair's fair."
You mutter a profanity under your breath, groaning. "Fine. I watched it a lot. Happy?"
"No. We’re getting there, though. Why?"
"Why what?"
Armin’s glee sharpens into something ravenous, a flicker of desperation lurking beneath his carefree demeanour—like he’s itching for you to say exactly what he needs. "Why did you watch it seventy-seven times?"
Your lungs feel too tight, too exposed. "Because..."
"Because?"
"Because you looked really good, okay?" The words come out in a rush. "Because watching you talk about literally anything is incredibly attractive, and because that frustrating part where your tongue piercing shows has been tormenting me ever since the video came out."
The silence that follows is eerily deafening. Armin simply stares at you, and you wish the ground would swallow you whole.
"Shit," you grumble, burying your face in your hands. "I'm sorry. That was completely out of line. I know we're friends and I shouldn't have—"
"Hey. Look at me."
The way he asks convinces you to peep through your fingers, reluctant but unable to look away. His expression is attentive and focused—definitely not one of disgust.
"You think I'm attractive?" he questions softly.
"I... yes?"
He blinks, his usual calm shattered by the raw vulnerability in your voice. His fingers tremble, revealing the fierce hope inside that there’s a potential chance that someone sees him as more than the sum of his quirks. "Even though I'm just a loser who gets excited about obscure paranormal documentaries and spends too much time playing video games?"
"Especially because of that," you admit, having never been more sure of yourself.
His answering smile is slow and devastating. "Good to know."
"Good to know?"
He hums, reaching across the table, and gently pulls your hands away from your face. "I've been wondering if you'd ever see me as more than just your friend who helps you with your homework."
Your brain, without a doubt, malfunctions. "What?"
"Did you really think I started bringing you food and staying up late just because I'm a good friend?"
The words disarm you. You’re trapped between incredulity and the dawning comprehension of what he might be suggesting. "I…"
"And did you think I learned how to play your favourite songs on guitar just because I had time to spare?"
"Y-you said you wanted to practice—"
"And I presume you thought I got this piercing because I was feeling rebellious?"
That stops you short, confusion apparent in the furrow of your brows. "You didn't?"
Armin's grin turns almost predatory. "I got it because I overheard you and Sasha talking about how cool you find them. This was back in October, after you'd been dating that guy with the lip ring."
You feel like a kettle left on the stove too long. "You... what?"
"You said, and I quote, 'There's something about tongue piercings that's beyond exciting.’ Something along the lines of how the person has to be bold enough to get it, but there's the simultaneous insinuation of what they can do with it."
"I’m going to kill myself," you gape at him in horror. "You heard all of that?"
"I was sitting right behind you in the campus coffee shop. You weren’t exactly shy about it." He shifts closer, and you can spot the hint of silver when he speaks, "I made an appointment that very afternoon."
"You got a tongue piercing because of something I said about another guy?"
"I got a tongue piercing because I wanted to be the guy you were talking about."
The confession hangs in the air between you, charged and electric. You stare at him, trying to process this complete change in everything you thought you knew about your friendship.
"I've been trying to get your attention for months. I was starting to think I'd have to do something drastic."
In spite of being made to face terrifying revelation after revelation, you manage to stutter out a breathless laugh. "More drastic than getting a tongue piercing for me?"
"I was considering learning to play your favourite video game."
You snort despite yourself. "You hate that game."
He shrugs casually, as if the lengths to which he would go for you knew no bounds. "I know. That's how desperate I was getting."
The atmosphere between you feels tense now, full of possibility and two years of unspoken tension. Armin traces your knuckles and the simple touch sends heat shooting up your arm.
"So," you say, trying to stay as composed as you possibly can. "What happens now?"
"Now," he starts, standing up, "you tell me what exactly you were thinking about during those seventy-seven views."
He's close enough that you have to tilt your head back to look at him, and the unwavering want in the blue of his eyes makes your breath catch. "I was thinking..." you trail off, feeling timid with his attention on you.
"You can do it. Use your words for me?" his voice has gotten rougher, huskier, and it sends delightful shivers down your spine.
"I was thinking about what it would feel like."
"What would feel like?"
"Your piercing. When you..." You gesture vaguely, cheeks burning. Armin's hand comes up to cup your face, thumb brushing across your bottom lip. "When I what?"
"When you kiss me," you whisper.
"Just kissing?" The question is loaded with underlying intentions, and you shake your head slowly.
"Tell me what else you were thinking about."
"Armin..."
"Please." The plea is hushed but insistent. "I want to know what's been going through your head."
You swallow, your throat suddenly dry as you let go of the entirety of your self-restraint. "I was thinking about what it would feel like on my body. What it would feel like when you use your mouth on me."
His pupils immediately dilate at your words. "Fuck."
"Is that... is that okay?"
Instead of verbally affirming, he leans down and kisses you. It's gentle at first, tentative, but when you react by fisting your hands in his sweater and pulling him closer, he deepens it. The first brush of his tongue against yours has you gasping, and when you feel the metal of his piercing, it sends intoxicating pleasure shooting through you.
You break apart, breathing heavily, and Armin rests his forehead against yours.
"How was that?" he asks earnestly, voice raspy.
"Good," you breathe. "Really good."
His smile is full of care but there's primal desire behind it. "And the piercing?"
"Want more of it."
He brushes his thumb across your lip again. Truth be told, it’s plain torture. "You know, we're in public right now."
Every wall you built is crumbling under the weight of him, and all you can do is let it. "I know."
"Anyone could walk by and see us."
"I know."
"And you don't care?"
You drag your hand up his thigh, stopping just shy of where he clearly wants it, "Not even a little bit."
He kisses you again, harder this time, and you can't help the soft moan that escapes when his tongue meets yours in another dance of display. The sound seems to flip a switch in him, because his hands are tangling in your hair and he's pressing you back against your chair.
"God, you have no idea how long I've wanted to do this," he murmurs against your lips.
"Tell me ‘Min."
"Since freshman year. Since that first day in psych class when you argued with Professor Smith about the ethics of behavioural modification."
You draw away just barely, shaking under the intimacy of his declaration. "That long?"
"That long." He doesn’t think twice before trailing his teeth along your jaw, and when the metal of his piercing digs into your flushed skin, you whimper needily.
"You were so assertive, so brilliant. I was completely and utterly gone."
"Why didn't you say anything?"
"Because you were dating that business major asshole, and then when you broke up, we became friends,” he hesitantly halts his ministrations to flutter his eyelashes at you, “I-I didn't want to ruin it."
Good heavens, you didn’t stand a chance from the beginning.
"But then you kept looking at me like... like you wanted me too, and I started hoping..."
"I did want you. I do want you." The admission comes out whinier than intended, but you can’t bring yourself to be bothered at this point. "So much."
His hands tighten in your hair. "Yeah?"
"Yeah."
You’re unaware of how many minutes pass as you lose yourself in the sensation of his mouth on yours, and the way he tastes like mint and something uniquely him. You dig your nails lightly into his sides, claiming him in an act of fervent possession. His breaths mingle with yours and the world outside your tangled bodies fades until there’s nothing but lust burning between you. By the end of it, your chests rise and fall in tandem.
"We should probably get out of here," he mumbles, peeking around the library.
Craving Armin has left you dazed, vision glassy as you attempt to make sense of your surroundings. "Right. Um, your place or mine?"
He pecks your nose, full of affection, tenderly guiding you. "Mine. My roommate's gone for the weekend."
You start gathering your things with shaky hands, hyperaware of the way Armin is observing you. When you bend over to pick up your bag, you hear his sharp intake of breath.
"Something wrong?" you ask innocently.
"N-nothing," he mutters, skittishly pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose.
The walk to his dorm feels like it takes forever, full of stolen glances and the kind of anticipation that makes your skin feel too tight. When you reach his room, he fumbles with his keys for a moment—so fucking cute—before getting the door open.
You haven’t had a lot of time this semester to crash at his dorm—neat and organised, with anime posters on the walls and stacks of books and manga everywhere. But you barely have time to take it in before he's pressing you against the closed door, urgency lacing his actions.
This time, there's nothing apprehensive about it. His hands are everywhere—your waist, your back, squeezing your ass—and when you arch against him, he makes a low sound of approval.
"You taste so good," he shudders against you. "Everything I’ve imagined and so much more."
"You imagined this?"
"Every night for two years." His mouth moves to your neck, nibbling along your throat. "What you'd look like, what you'd sound like when I made you come."
The words send heat pooling low in your belly, prompting you to press your thighs together instinctively. "Fuck, don’t say shit like that.”
"Why not? I’ve been longing for you. All of you," he whispers, pulling back to look at you with dark, lidded eyes. "You’re not getting away until I’ve had my fill."
It would be an understatement to say that you hadn’t foreseen this when you woke up today. That you'd be spending hours with your legs over Armin's shoulders, forgetting your own name; the compassionate, stammering genius the internet drooled over. Too bad he’s not on the market. It would be a treat if his fans could see him like this—flushed and breathless, fingers gripping your hips like he’d die without you. Armin Arlert, golden boy of TikTok, practically begging to let him ruin you.
You grow dizzy at the promise in his voice. "Please."
He lets his hand trail lower, indecently tranquil, and just as you think he’ll do something reckless—he pauses, smirking wickedly.
"Want to find out what this piercing really feels like when I eat you out?"
by: someone who absolutely did all of these things
꩜ pairing: modern!au abby anderson x female reader
꩜ warnings: explicit content, language
꩜ word count: 700 (ish)
꩜ synopsis: a cheeky, steamy confessional from a girl who’s broken every rule in the book.
(i) Don’t flirt with Abby Anderson.
Even if she could probably bench-press your car. Even if she’s got that annoyingly sexy jawline and calls you "pretty" in a voice that makes your brain short-circuit. Especially not if she’s stretching in front of you after sparring with your brother and lifts her stupidly tight Henley to wipe sweat off her face.
That was the first time you imagined her between your legs. Certainly not the last.
(ii) Don’t let her stay the night.
Her apartment’s getting fumigated. You don’t question why she asked you instead of your brother. She offers to sleep on the couch. You’re not an idiot—her legs don’t even fit on that sad excuse for a sofa.
So yeah, she ends up in your bed.
No.
No, it’s not like that. Except... you’re still panting from when she rolled on top of you at 2 a.m. and asked if you were dreaming about her. And then her thigh had slotted between yours.
You don’t remember how it started, just how it felt when her hand slipped under your shirt as her teeth found your neck.
She made you come with two fingers and her lips over yours. You clawed the sheets and came again five minutes later when she pushed your knees back and murmured, “Wanna see how loud you really get.”
(iii) Don’t let her teach you how to fight.
“You’ll feel safer walking alone at night,” she says. What she really means is: “I want an excuse to pin you to the mat.”
You’re on lesson #3 when her legs bracket your sides. She leans close, smirking, “Giving up already, pretty?”
You buck your hips and somehow manage to flip her, but make the mistake of getting too cocky. She flips you right back.
When your brother unexpectedly walks in, you’re red-faced, trying not to look like you’re seconds away from jumping his best friend.
Later, after he’s gone, she keeps you under her, eyes twinkling mischievously. “You like being tossed around, huh?”
Lord give you strength.
(iv) Don’t drink with her alone.
You pour one glass of wine. Then another. You're laughing too much, sitting too close, your fingers brushing hers. She traces your collarbone with her thumb, "You always get this flirty when you're drunk?"
You answer by climbing into her lap. She drinks you in like it’s the only thing that’ll actually get her intoxicated. Your fingers tangle in her hair. Her hand slips under your skirt, and she hisses when she finds you soaked through. She eats you out on your balcony. Your climax hits you with your back arching to the stars and her mouth still on you.
She doesn’t let you go down on her until you beg.
You do. Twice.
(v) Don’t go with her to that weekend cabin trip.
You think: Separate rooms, separate boundaries.
She thinks: One bed. No clothes.
By the time Sunday rolls around, you’ve had sex on the porch, in the shower, and bent over a countertop while she whispered, “When I'm done with you, you’re not gonna be able to sit right for a week, baby.”
You thank her by dragging your tongue down her abs until she forgets her own name.
(vi) Don’t fall for her.
This. This is the most important.
Because it's not part of the plan. You were supposed to just have fun and sneak around.
But, it’s her bringing you your favourite snacks without asking. Her hand drawing circles on your lower back when you’re anxious. Her grin when you make her laugh so hard, she snorts.
She tells you that you look good in her hoodie and you almost black out.
It’s the way she kisses you like she’s trying to remember every inch of your skin. The way she touches you like she’s memorising every bit.
It’s you realising she’s the safest place you’ve ever been in a long time.
It happens slowly. Then, all at once.
You fall. Good thing she catches you.
(vii) Definitely don’t tell your brother.
You do.
He only blinks, much too smugly informing you that "the way you two look at each other" made it plenty obvious from the get-go.
“Just don’t make me walk in on you guys dry-humping or something gross,” he groans, then goes back to his video game.
Abby kisses you breathless later in your apartment that evening and says, “Told you he’d be cool with it.” You punch her arm with a glare, embarrassed. She kisses you harder and happily lets you drag her to your room.
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