can we get some aris smut..like uh..any plot..(HE HAS LIKE NO WRITINGS ON HERE..)
𝗛𝗼𝗽𝗲𝗹𝗲𝘀𝘀𝗹𝘆 𝗱𝗲𝘃𝗼𝘁𝗲𝗱 𝘁𝗼 𝘆𝗼𝘂 ‧₊˚♪ 𝄞₊˚⊹
𓏵‧₊˚ ┊smut, degrading, aftercare
𓏵‧₊˚ ┊haven’t written in so long bye and I got writers block
🏷️ ; @sephoutlet and the @booklovrrs girl who requested Aris uhh
You’ve been trapped in here for 5 days. 5 days of the same routine, 5 days of the same, cold, sterile walls. Wake up. Eat. Get tested. Sleep. Repeat. They’ve kept you in a different cell apart from the boys. Especially Aris. Aris. The shy, quiet boy who’s always kept to himself and ate alone during meal times, the boy who glanced at you nervously whenever you talked, his eyes so wide, eyes that have seen everything.
You stare at the ceiling, before getting up from your cold bed, the blanket that barely warmed you up spilling into the sheets. It’s meal time again. You grabbed your tray, the line short. It wouldn’t take long until everyone would start piling in. Your eyes scan the room until you see Aris, sitting beside him with a small smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes.
“Hey, you okay?” You ask him, staring at the food/lunch/garbage he was eating. Canned corn, soup, and toasted bread with a carton of milk. “You look pale.”
“Y-Yeah.” He replied through a mouthful of corn. “Just.. thinking.” He chews slowly.
“Thinking about what?”
“You.” He blurts out, his face turning the same shade as a tomato. Your face turns the same colour as his. “I’m sorry. I-I didn’t..”
“No,” you cut him off. “It’s fine.” Your heart was beating so fast it felt like it was gonna burst out of your chest at any moment. His knee touches yours under the table, and you might’ve just well exploded.
-
By the time night time arrived, you were in the same white bedroom, and it was eerily quiet. The lights went off by 9. Your fingers play with each other, imagining how it would feel in Aris’ hair. You push the thought away, before you hear something under your bed. The air vent scattered across the floor, and before you could scream, Aris was crawling out under your bed. He must’ve gotten in from the air vents.
“Aris!” You whisper-yell. “What in gods name are you doing here?!”
“It’s not what it looks like!” He stands in front of you. “I.. I was just.. I .. wanted to see you.” He swallows nervously, taking a seat next to you, the bed creaking under his weight. You move to sit up. “Aris..” The tension between you said more than words ever could. And before you knew it, his lips were on yours, his hands on your waist, your hands on his shoulders, and he felt so, so warm even in the cold room.
He guides you to lay down, before he moves on top of you.
“You’re.. so beautiful.” He says in the dark, fingers playing with the hem of your shirt. “Can I?…” you nod, and your shirt is lifted off of you. He swallows nervously, his Adam’s apple bobbing. His fingers skim across your torso, and you pull him in to kiss him again. His lips taste like strawberries.
His fingers move to the waistband of your sweatpants, before dragging them down alongside your panties. Now all you’re left in is your bra. He leans his head down, peppering kisses all over your neck down to your shoulder, hastily getting his shirt and his pants down.
“Are you sure you want this..?” He glances at you. You nod. He pushes in slowly, so slowly, checking to see your reaction. You let out a soft moan, your eyes closing and your mouth falling into a silent ‘O’. When he bottoms out, he groans, burying his face into your neck “You feel so warm.” His voice is muffled.
He starts rocking his hips slowly, his hands moving to your waist for leverage. His eyes are on you the entire time. When you moan his name, he grips your waist tighter, sweat bedding on his neck.
“You’re so needy..” he rasps, hiding his face in your hair this time, skin slapping against yours. “All for me, yeah?” His earlier shyness went away, his thrusts more demanding this time, hitting that sweet spot inside you that makes you arch your back.
“Aris! Oh-“ your moans are swallowed when he kisses you to hide your sounds. You could feel that familiar coil in your stomach, and your hands move to grip his forearms, fingernails digging into his skin that it would leave little crescent marks. You come undone with a low cry, and Aris’ hips stutter when he spills inside you.
“Fuck..” he rests his forehead on your shoulder during the aftershocks, pressing a tender kiss there. When he pulls back, your face is flushed, your lips red and swollen, and your thighs aching. When he kisses you this time, it isn’t demanding or hard, it’s slow and gentle.
"Let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth, for thy love is better than wine." — Song of Solomon 1:2
Newt x Fem!Reader Series 𑣲 Out Of Your Mouth 𑣲 WC: 2,931
A/N: This was a cut scene I never planned on fully writing, but I'm having such a hard time with chapter 20 that I went ahead and did it.
Everything about the room feels intentionally designed: The metal table bolted to the floor, the two chairs positioned perfectly across from one another, and the blinding overhead light that bleaches everything it touches.
You sit stiffly in one of the chairs, brace locked around your knee, and hands folded in your lap, because where else are you supposed to put them?
You can't really remember being brought here. One moment, you're half asleep, staring at ceiling tiles while trying not to think about anything at all. The next, you're here, beneath this awful light.
"My name is Dr. Dallas." The woman across from you offers a practiced smile. She looks somewhere in her thirties, black hair pulled back without a strand out of place. Her clothes are void of wrinkles and the red of her lipstick is too vivid for her skin.
"Okay."
Dr. Dallas doesn't react to the lack of enthusiasm. If it bothers her, she's trained herself not to show it. She lifts her chin slightly instead, fingers gliding across the surface of the transparent tablet balanced in her hands.
"I'm one of the coordinators here." She says. "I oversee intake and adjustment for our new arrivals." Adjustment. Like you're an animal being transferred to a new enclosure. "I'd like to ask you a few questions, if that's alright."
"Sure." You shrug one shoulder.
"How are you feeling today?"
"Fine."
"Any pain? Physically?"
"No."
"Not in your knee?"
Your gaze drops downward.
The brace is bulky. Ugly. The straps are cinched so tightly around your leg that they bite into the fabric beneath. You can feel an ache buried deep in the joint if you focus hard enough: Bruised bone, mangled muscle, and healing tissue that feels like a faraway pain belonging to someone else.
"No."
"I see." Dr. Dallas purses her lips. "Well, you seem like a smart young woman, so I'll cut right to the chase." She sets the tablet down between you and folds her hands neatly on the table. "The medical team flagged some concerns about your adjustment."
"Okay."
"Over the past few days, they've noted low appetite, social withdrawal from your intake group, limited engagement with the—" Her voice dissolves into background noise.
This is pointless.
You already know the shape of the conversation she's trying to build toward, carefully circling around it like she's afraid saying it outright would spook you. Every sentence lays out the groundwork for a real question.
Are you unstable?
Are you dangerous?
Are you going to hurt yourself?
They're worried because they don't understand you. Nobody does anymore. None of them can recognize the difference between wanting to die and simply not caring to live.
"I'm not going to kill myself."
Dr. Dallas flinches.
"I wasn't accusing you of such a thing." She says evenly as her expression smooths back into place. "I'm here as a resource. Someone you can talk to."
"I know."
"I'm sure you do." She sighs softly, saying your name as if trying to make it sound gentler than you've ever heard it. "I heard about an incident yesterday evening. Would that be something you're willing to talk about?"
"Incident?"
"You knocked a food tray out of a boy's hand." Her fingers tap lightly against the tablet screen as she scrolls through notes. "You're from the same maze. Minho, if I'm not mistaken."
"Oh."
Your eyes drift away from her.
The memory is vivid: The irritating cafeteria lights, Minho standing across from you with that frustrated look on his face, and the tray he held as an offering to the wounded, stray animal you've become.
'Eat something.' He always says. 'Come on. Don't be a stubborn Slinthead.' He's been doing that for days now: Sliding food you don't want toward you during meals.
"Why did you do that?"
"Do what?"
"Strike the tray."
"Oh." You blink. "He wouldn't stop."
"He's been attempting to coax you into eating, yes?"
"Yeah."
"And that upset you?"
"He's pushy." The answer comes out sharp.
It's ironic, really. Back in the Maze, people used to call you pushy too. Too loud. Too stubborn. Too opinionated. Too unpredictable. You used to wear those accusations with pride. Now, you finally understand how exhausting it is to have someone constantly pressing.
"Pushy is one word for it," Dr. Dallas says, leaning forward in attempt to catch your eyes. "But from what I've observed, he seems concerned about you."
"Good for him." The bitterness rises so quickly, it surprises you. Dr. Dallas lets it dissolve into agonizing silence. Possibly intentionally. Possibly thinking you'll eventually fill it.
You don't. Instead, you stare at the table while she reaches for her tablet again. The brittle tap of her manicured nails against glass echoes in the tiny room.
"I've also reviewed your intake interview."
"My what?"
"The questions you were asked upon arrival."
You frown.
The first few days you were here feel smeared together in your memory, muddled with bright lights, needles, and too many hands grabbing at your knee.
"I don't remember."
"That's alright." Her tone stays easy. "You were quite exhausted at the time. We can go over it now." Her eyes flick briefly to her screen as she scrolls. "Why don't you tell me a little about your maze?"
Your mind immediately betrays you.
Chuck flashes across your thoughts first. It's not even a full memory. Just pieces of him. His silly grin, the way he talked with him mouth full, and the sound of his giggles when you snuck out in the middle of kitchen duty.
You shove the memories down so hard, it hurts.
Another memory surfaces to replace it: Your first run into the Maze, and that dreadful encounter with a Griever. Even now, thinking about them makes your skin crawl.
All twisted machinery and wet flesh fused together with clicking needles and rotating blades slick in old blood. Their bodies moved in unnatural, jerking spasms that are enough to make your stomach turn.
They're monsters designed by people, and yet, part of you thinks it would've been easier if one of them got to you. If they'd torn you to shreds beneath those stone walls instead of leaving you here under fluorescent lights to answer questions from strangers who pretend to care.
"...It was a maze." You mutter finally. Dr. Dallas waits. "There was stuff trying to kill us." Your tone sharpens, irritation prickling beneath your tongue.
What kind of question is that? 'Tell me a little about your maze'. As if there's a good way to explain the terror to someone who only knows of it from a clipboard.
"Yes. So I've heard." She nods thoughtfully. "I understand that you were the only girl in your maze for quite some time. Is that correct?"
"Yeah."
"And how did that make you feel?"
You shrug, fingers finding a loose thread near the cuff of your sleeve, twisting it tighter and tighter around your fingertip until it nearly cuts the circulation off.
"I don't know. Didn't feel anything."
"Nothing at all?"
"No."
A lie.
God, you hated it, not because you were lonely, but because they looked at you so differently. They underestimated you immediately. Some resented you for existing at all.
You still remember Adam's careless taunts, and the humiliation that perpetually burned so hot in your chest, it might as well have split through your ribs.
You fought to become ferocious in a way that was impossible to ignore. Someone Thomas trusted without hesitation, and Chuck admired as a sister.
Where did she go?
Where is that girl now?
It's pathetic what you've become.
"I also had the chance to review some of the others' interviews." Dr. Dallas continues after a moment. "You were a common topic of conversation."
A few weeks ago, you would've leaned forward, hungry for detail. Who said what? In what tone? Are they impressed? Amused? You would've picked apart every sentence.
Now, the thought barely stirs anything inside you, because there was only one opinion that was every truly worth something to you, and now it's gone.
He's gone.
"Okay."
"Would you like to know what they said?"
Your eyes narrow. Not at the question, but at the strategy behind it. She's building the conversation, nudging carefully at weak spots to see which ones hurt when pressed.
This irritates you more than outright cruelty would've. She's trying to make you feel safe. To coax you into opening up willingly. Maybe it works on some people. Maybe some hear soft voices and spill themselves like overturned drawers.
All you can think about is how clinical this place is. How, inside that tablet, your grief is being translated into bullet points. What category will they put you under once they're done emotionally dissecting you?
She is no different from anyone else who's wronged you.
"Sure." You say finally. "I guess." Dr. Dallas nods once, like she expected that answer.
"Well, Thomas speaks very highly of you. He described you as brave and reliable. Someone who doesn't hesitate." She begins. "Frypan mentioned you became very useful in the kitchen. He seems fond of you."
This catches you off guard. Frypan hadn't liked you in the beginning. He often snapped at you in the first couple weeks. Granted, you purposely made his day harder.
You can't pinpoint the exact moment it changed, and maybe there wasn't one. Somewhere along the line, arguments became teasing. Hatred became friendship. Trust built so slowly, you only notice it once it's already there.
"Nice." You say quietly.
Dr. Dallas searches for something bigger. When nothing comes, her mouth tightens. She picks up the tablet again, and types something short.
Tap.
Tap.
Tap.
You hate that sound.
"Minho noted that you have potential." She says, placing the tablet back down. You try not to visualize his worried expression yesterday after you'd knocked the tray from his hands. "Said you push yourself harder than most would dare."
"Sounds right."
"And Newt is particularly defensive about you."
Your chest pulls unexpectedly. You chew lightly on the inside of your cheek, unsure of how to absorb that information. 'Defensive' doesn't sound right.
You fight constantly. The only thing of note between you is friction. You push against his authority, and he pushes back harder, because he's got nothing better to do than ruin your life. Half the time, it feels like you have to bleed for a scrap of approval from his.
"He's not."
"That wasn't the impression I got." Dr. Dallas leans into a silent stalemate that neither of you intends to lose. Her nails tap against the tabletop. "...I've also heard mention of someone named Chuck."
Everything inside you goes rigid.
Your first instinct isn't sadness.
It's anger.
How dare they. How dare they sit in rooms like this and say his name to strangers. How dare they hand pieces of him over to people who never knew him.
You're suddenly furious at all of them. Chuck is the last thing in this world that still belongs to you. They have no right to explain him. Not to her. Not to anyone.
"Heard." You repeat, flat. "Heard from who?" Your tone is slicing, and Dr. Dallas' eyebrows raise. Finally, she's dragged a reaction out of your hollow bones.
"He came up in multiple interviews. They described him as your—"
"I don't want to talk about this." The words spew out like vomit. You fold your arms tightly across yourself, fingernails impaling into your sleeves hard enough to burn.
Who gives a shit what they described him as? You know what he was. None of their words could ever be enough to capture his essence anyway.
He was best friend.
He was the first person to believe in you.
He was your brother.
Your brother.
"I know this is very hard, but it's important to have difficult conversations in order to move on." Dr. Dallas says carefully. You don't want to 'move on'. "I'm trying to understand what—"
"You don't need to understand anything." Your voice cracks through the room like a whip. "You weren't there."
"I know I wasn't."
"Then don't act like you were." You grind your teeth together painfully, the words barely escaping through the grit. "Don't try to insert yourself into something you know nothing about."
Calmly, Dr. Dallas leans back in her chair.
"...You cared deeply for him."
The silence that follows leaves room in the air for accusation. Is loving someone so much evidence of instability? Is grief itself something suspicious? Must you eternally be so monitored? So contained?
The tone of accusation is insulting. Caring about Chuck was never weakness. It was the best thing about you, and now, there's nothing good left.
She reaches for the tablet again.
Tap.
Tap.
Tap.
"Can you not?" The sound of her typing slices too firmly into your skull. "Can you not write this down?" You grit, gesturing rigidly toward the screen.
"Does it bother you?" She hums. Of course it bothers you. You already feel flayed open sitting in this room. Your every emotion pins you like a specimen to glass. "If Chuck were—"
"Take his name out of your mouth." Your voice raises enough to bounce off the walls. "I said I don't want to talk about this. Didn't you hear me?" You demand. "Are you deaf or stupid?"
"Well, there's no need to be aggressive." For the first time since entering the room, Dr. Dallas' voice pulls. "Lower your voice."
Lower your voice.
You've heard these words before.
You've heard it from boys who think anger looks uglier on girls. From people who decided you were unstable from the second your emotions stopped being easy to tolerate. From authority figures who prefer little gifts of smiling obedience.
Lower your voice.
Sit still.
Calm down.
Be easier.
Be smaller.
You're sick of it. You're sick of being treated like something volatile. A problem. A specimen. You survived the Maze. You survived monsters. You clawed your way out of captivity. You lost your brother in the name of escape,
Only to end up here.
Still trapped.
Still caged.
Everything in this place is offensive. Her smile. Her red lipstick. Her stupid clicking nails. The tablet. The brace around your knee. Your own body. Your grief. The pulse in your throat.
The fact that your heart still beats at all.
It shouldn't.
Chuck's doesn't.
So why should yours?
"I will not." The words rip out of your mouth before you can think. Not that you think much before you speak anyway. "I'll raise my voice if I damn well please. I'll knock trays over. I'll stop eating. I'll do whatever the hell I want."
"Excuse me?" A crease forms between Dr. Dallas' brows.
"You're excused." Your chest rises too fast, and you can hear your pulse in your ears. "I do whatever I want. I always have. Isn't that what you heard in those little interviews?"
"You're overstep your reach, young lady."
The sentence is like gasoline on a flame.
You overstep.
Overstep.
You'll show this bitch overstepping.
"Maybe you're just bitter because you can't." The venom comes too easy. "You can't do what you want. You sit in rooms like this all day and pick people apart."
"That's quite enough—"
"You're stuck in a useless job surrounded by people who don't respect you." You continue. "So you analyze somebody younger because it gives you something to do. Something that makes you feel important."
"I suggest—"
"Do you feel important?" You coo. "Because you're not. You're not important, and no amount of talking out of your ass will ever make you feel like you're enough." Your voice trembles. "You're nothing."
Look at you.
Look at the creature you've become: Biting and bleeding into your own mouth, hurting people and throwing tantrums just because you're in pain.
Chuck would hate you for this.
"Well," Dr. Dallas stands smoothly, one arm wrapping around the tablet as her chair scrapes eerily back against the floor. "I think that's enough for today."
"Wonderful."
You lean back hard against the chair. The rage has nowhere to go anymore, so it compresses inwards until it's no longer anger, but emptiness.
Dr. Dallas' heels click against the tile as she walks toward the guarded door. One step. Two. Three. Then, she pauses and turns back. Her expression is void of any softness that may have been there before.
"I understand you're wresting with a great deal right now," She says in professional rehearsal. "But I need you to understand something as well."
"Hm?" You stare back, too exhausted to be furious.
"We will not tolerate further incident. No altercations. No disruptions." Her eyes harden when they meet yours. "If you're going to be a waste of resources, do so quietly."
The sentence doesn't surprise you, but it confirms the fear you've always had: Your feelings only matter when you're useful. Grief has a deadline, and all broken things become too expensive eventually.
Nobody cares about you.
The door opens. Voices blur beyond it, but you barely hear a word. Your jaw is clenched so hard, you feel it in your ears. You chomp down on the inside of your cheek.
Pain answers pains.
By the time you're limping down the hallway, copper floods your mouth. You walk past white walls, locked doors, and people who glance away quickly.
When you pass a small trash bin near the corner, you spit. Redness streaks the inside. Bright red. You're alive. You're bleeding. You must be alive,
Warnings: mentions of oral (f receiving), lovey Dallas, mostly fluff with references to sexual activity
Words: 549
Notes: it’s kinda short and rushed but it’s something so.. i wanted to write something and i had a vague idea based off touch tank by quinnie ts is buns lowkey but im oh so sleepy and need to post it tonight
. . . .
To you, Dallas was perfect all the time, just the way he was.. especially right now with his head between your thighs. He was prettier when he was gentle. To others, that was unbelievably rare. He always said he’d be gentle when he wanted to be gentle, so.. he wasn’t really when it came to others. When it came to you, on the other hand..
You were “fragile”, he’d claimed. He’d joke that he was treating you differently than he treated others because he was worried about breaking you. Truth is, he wanted to be gentle with you. You were one of the few things he’d actually managed to love, and he actually let himself be more vulnerable with you.
You weakly pushed his head away from between your thighs as you came down from your orgasm. Dallas smiled, his mouth still glistening from you, and laid his head on your thigh, looking up at you with poorly hidden adoration as you tried to recover. You looked down at him with a smile as you panted, reaching down to card your trembling fingers through his mussed up hair.
“You okay, babydoll?” He asked as he wiped his mouth and crawled up to you, pulling you into his arms. You settled against his chest, nodding in response rather than talking. He leaned down to press a kiss against your forehead, then pulled you impossibly closer. He still hadn’t taken his eyes off of you. He’d never say it out loud at the risk of seeming soft, but he was really in love with you. You were pretty, you were kind, and you understood him. You didn’t force him into the “bad kid” role when you first met him, you saw him as a person rather than a lost cause.
He hooked his finger under your chin, gently moving your head to look up at him. He leaned down and gave you a quick kiss, his hand resting on your cheek. You sighed into the kiss, your hand landing on top of his where it stayed on your cheek.
When he pulled back, he whispered against your lips as he moved his hand to hold yours. “You’re so pretty, baby.”
You smiled shyly and whispered back a quick “thank you, Dal” as you sat up and looked around the room to locate your clothes. Once you found your panties and sleep shirt, you turned to Dallas.
“Close your eyes, you can’t watch.” You said to him as you tucked a strand of hair behind your ear nervously. Dallas laughed into response to that and rolled his eyes.
“Can’t watch? Worried I’m gonna see you naked?” He teased with a smirk. “Doll, I was just tongue deep in you, I think we’re past that.”
You gasped and gently smacked his shoulder with a scandalized “Dallas!”, earning a chuckle from him as he pulled you back down with him.
“Chill. Darry won’t be back for another two hours.” He whispered against your ear, gently patting your backside with a smirk. “Stay with me for a little bit, no rush to get up and dress.”
You let out an exaggerated groan, the smile on your face betraying your true feelings. You settled back into him, laying your head on his chest.
