connie

[wandaloverr]

when I see the words "cunnilingus" in the warning instead of doggy style

Is that even how you spell cunnilingus... ?? Idk I hope so...

[sc3ptre]

Lessons on sex

Pairing: Scott Miller x Storm Par partner!reader

⟡ Main Index | ⟡ Archive for Earth-181938

a/n: Here’s my little “get well soon” gift for @kryptidfiles !! Imagine this wrapped in a huge bow with flowers sticking out from every side. EVERYONE GO FOLLOW HER BLOG and I hope you enjoy!!

Summary: You made the mistake of turning sex into casual conversation with your coworker and accidentally start the worst HR violation of your life.

Classification: Smut +18 | coworkers to lovers, several smut scenes, alcohol consumption, rude/arrogant Scott Miller, oral sex, fingering, dirty talk, rough sex, rough groping, protected and unprotected sex, doggy style, missionary, squirting, ass smacking, marking/bruising, praise, dom/sub dynamics, workplace boundary issues and emotionally repressed idiots in love.

Word count: 9,2k

There was a difference between good sex and great sex, the same way there was a difference between getting fucked and being made love to...

Good sex was what you expected from anybody decent enough to make it that far with you. It was the kind people talked about casually with their friends, the kind that came up over drinks after someone asked, “So, was he good?” Good sex happened on Tuesdays after work with the guy from Hinge who insisted on taking you out somewhere too expensive for a second date. You split a basket of fries, drank half a beer because you still had work in the morning, drove home with exhaustion sitting heavy behind your eyes, then let him fuck you well enough to sleep for four uninterrupted hours. 

Good sex was practical and predictable. It convinced your body you were living a normal life.

Great sex was different. Great sex happened after work parties when your mascara was already smudged and your heels were in your hand by midnight. It happened on weekends with nowhere to be the next morning. You never talked about great sex because it sounded exaggerated the second you said it out loud, like you were overselling a man nobody else would understand. Great sex made you cum or at least brought you close enough that your stomach tightened every time you remembered it afterward. You thought about great sex while driving long stretches of empty highway, your hands steady on the wheel while your mind wandered somewhere warmer. 

Great sex stayed in your body for days. You caught yourself replaying parts of it absentmindedly while standing in line for coffee or brushing your teeth before bed.

Then there was getting fucked…

There was no cleaner way to define it. It lived somewhere between fantasy and urban legend, passed around between women in half-serious conversations that always dissolved into laughter. Everybody claimed to know someone who’d experienced it but nobody could explain it properly. Getting fucked was the kind of sex that distracted you in the middle of the day badly enough to make you stop what you were doing and change your underwear. It sat dangerously close to the limits of what sex could actually be before the whole thing collapsed under its own weight. 

If a guy treated you too much like an object, it fell apart immediately. 

If you didn’t orgasm, it didn’t count. 

If you weren’t still thinking about him six months later at red lights and in grocery store aisles and during lonely hotel nights, then it wasn’t that either. 

Getting fucked sat at the very top of the scale, lit up like something obvious and somehow most men still missed it completely.

Being made love to was worse and more dangerous, honestly.

For somebody like you, it could become embarrassing fast. Storm season kept you on the road for months at a time, bouncing between states, sleeping in motels with stiff sheets and weak air conditioning. Off-season meant office buildings, weather models glowing across multiple monitors, long meetings about funding, new equipment and data collection. Your life moved constantly and men liked that at first. A woman who was smart, busy, gone half the year, financially stable and difficult to pin down. 

Men loved the idea of you because it excused the fact they never had to give very much. Most of them thought they were in love but really, they just liked access to somebody they found impressive.

Before all of that, you used to think being made love to meant passion…intimacy. That it was slow sex with somebody who knew your body so well they could pull an orgasm out of you patiently and confidently, like it mattered to them as much as breathing did. You imagined hands lingering at your waist, sleepy conversation afterward, somebody brushing your hair away from your face before kissing you again.

Instead, you ended up underneath men who mistook enthusiasm for intimacy. You stared at ceilings while they grunted above you, listened to them breathe your name like they were performing something instead of feeling it. Sometimes you felt your stomach turn from the boredom alone, your body rocking mechanically with theirs while your mind drifted somewhere else entirely to storm reports, grocery lists and whether you needed to change your oil before the next drive west.

You never let them finish once you realized you hated it, that was the one thing you refused to fake. You pushed them off, sat up and reached for your clothes while they blinked at you in confusion. You told them it wasn’t going to work, sometimes you said it gently and other times you just didn’t bother. Either way, you watched realization settle over them while they sat there flushed and humiliated, their ego bruised worse than their feelings ever were but somehow your harsh words still made them cum…

Needless to say, after a while, you stopped having sex altogether.

You were in your rental house after a long day spent staring at storm data and listening to Javi ramble about whatever breakthrough he thought he’d made this time. It was late, the entire house felt heavy and warm, every light dimmer than usual and lately, you weren’t alone nearly as often as you used to be.

Scott sat at your dining table with your laptop open, shoulders slightly hunched, completely absorbed in columns of numbers and radar models. You’d known him for two years and he’d been your partner for one of them. 

People were right about him. He was direct to the point of rudeness, arrogant enough to make most people defensive within five minutes and mean when he thought someone deserved it but unlike most men in your field, Scott had learned how to admit when he was wrong, far from gracefully or happily but still, he did it.

The two of you were impossibly stubborn in almost identical ways, so sharing space with him sometimes felt like being trapped in a room with a sharper version of yourself. Separately, you were both good at what you did but together, you were nearly impossible to beat.

You couldn’t pinpoint when “coworkers” had turned into Scott walking into your house without knocking, helping himself to your fridge and sitting at your table like he paid rent.

“Best orgasm you’ve had during sex?” His voice came from across the room, casual and flat, like he’d asked you about rainfall percentages. He didn’t even look away from the laptop while he said it.

You’d forgotten he was meeting you there before the two of you drove to the bar together, which was why you were still walking around in sleep shorts and a bra, trying to find something decent enough to wear without looking like you’d spent an hour trying.

You took a sip from the beer he’d already pulled out of your fridge and nearly snorted into the bottle. “You think men do that?” you asked as you disappeared into your bedroom.

“To you?” Scott finally looked up. His eyes tracked your movement automatically while he reached for the beer the two of you were apparently sharing now. “I hope so.”

He took a drink as his eyes followed your movement.

You walked back into view holding two dresses on mismatched hangers. “You’re a fucking idiot,” you said plainly. “And maybe a pervert.”

Scott pointed at you immediately. “You’re changing in front of me. I could probably keep count of your bras at this point and I don’t. That actually makes me less of a pervert.”

You disappeared back into your room. He could hear hangers scraping against the closet rod while you searched through clothes with growing irritation.

“Just because it doesn’t make you hard doesn’t make you not a pervert,” you called back, your voice muffled through the wall.

“How do you know I’m not?” he shot back instantly, sounding almost offended by the assumption.

Silence followed but about a minute later, you walked back out wearing a dress he’d never seen before. It was simple, fitted enough to make his eyes stop for a second before continuing downward automatically. You crossed the room toward him, letting your heels drop onto the hardwood before slipping them on one at a time.

“You’re not attracted to me, Scott,” you said flatly.

He looked up slowly then, his eyes dragging over the length of the dress with enough attention to make most people nervous. On you, it just made you impatient.

“You seem awfully confident about that.”

“I am.” You adjusted the strap on your shoulder before glancing toward his laptop screen. “So don’t say shit that makes me sound stupid.”

Scott looked back at the laptop fast enough to make the movement obvious. He pretended to scroll through data he’d stopped reading the second you started undressing in the next room.

“I’m ready,” you said. “Good to go?”

“Need five minutes,” he muttered.

You walked behind him toward the front door, tapping his shoulder as you passed. “The data will still be there tomorrow. C’mon, Scotty.”

The teasing grin in your voice made something in his jaw tighten. You disappeared outside before he could even think of an answer.

Scott closed the laptop harder than necessary and stood, quietly adjusting himself through his jeans with the irritation of a man betrayed by his own body. He shut off the lights one by one and grabbed your keys from the counter before locking the door behind him.

The porch light was off so you couldn’t see the tent in his jeans. Thank fuck for that.

“Scotty was an eight-year-old with chubby cheeks,” he muttered while locking the deadbolt. He glanced over at you waiting by the passenger side of his truck. “It’s Scott.”

“It’s whatever I decide it is,” you replied easily.

He rolled his eyes and walked down the porch steps, unlocking the truck with a sharp click.

“Come open my door.”

“Since when do you need me to do that?” he complained, already circling the hood anyway.

“Since you got comfortable commenting on my bras.”

Scott stopped in front of you to stare before reaching around your waist to pull the handle open. The movement brought him close enough to smell your perfume underneath detergent and beer.

You smiled to yourself while climbing into the passenger seat because for once, Scott didn’t have anything smart to say.

Talking about sex with your coworkers was probably the least professional habit you could develop but professionalism stopped mattering after twelve-hour drives, shared motel rooms, gas station dinners at midnight and enough close calls together to make normal boundaries feel unnecessary. There were barely any women in the field to begin with, which meant the few of you that existed clung together fast and Scott, despite being deeply irritating most of the time, was easier to talk to than most people. 

Brutally honest people usually were.

At some point, conversations that started as jokes during long drives turned into real discussions about relationships, sex, exes and every disappointing person either of you had ever slept with. It happened slowly enough neither of you noticed the line moving until it was already somewhere far behind you.

HR would’ve had a heart attack.

That night, you learned Scott Miller did not do good sex. If good sex existed to him at all, it involved two people fully clothed and standing on opposite ends of a room.

The bar was more crowded than you expected, packed wall to wall with storm chasers, meteorologists, researchers and people who somehow always smelled faintly like dust and gasoline no matter how clean they looked. Whenever women in the field found each other, there was an unspoken tendency to group together immediately, so you spent most of the night at the bar talking with another researcher from Oklahoma while music pounded so loud you felt it vibrate through the floor beneath your heels.

Eventually Javi appeared beside you carrying drinks you absolutely weren’t going to refuse. He handed one over before leaning closer, lowering his voice.

“What’s wrong with Scott?”

You blinked at him. The question caught you off guard enough to make your brows pull together immediately because nobody ever asked about Scott. People either tolerated him, argued with him or avoided him entirely. Whatever problem Scott had, he usually fixed it himself before anyone could notice it existed.

Your eyes scanned the crowd automatically until you found him near the back corner of the bar with a soda in his hand. Of course he wasn’t drinking, he stood half-shadowed against the wall looking deeply unimpressed by the concept of social interaction…and staring directly at you.

Your eyes narrowed slightly until Scott finally got the message and looked away first.

You turned back to Javi. “Do you mean tonight or in general?” you asked dryly. “Because I’m pretty sure he was dropped as a child, but you’d have to ask his mother for confirmation.”

Javi frowned harder. “I mean tonight. He looks tense and it’s making me uneasy.”

“It’s Scott. He always looks tense.”

“More than usual.” Javi glanced over his shoulder carefully. “Tell him to relax for once…and to make some friends. That’s literally why we came here.”

You pointed at yourself immediately. “Why am I responsible for that?”

Javi shrugged like the answer was obvious. “Because you speak ‘Scott’ fluently. Translate what I just said into something he’ll actually understand.”

Your gaze dropped to the drink in your hand. “You’re bribing me.”

“And that drink cost me twenty-five dollars,” he replied. “So yes. Go.”

You snorted into the rim of your glass. “Pretty sure stress is what’s making you bald, by the way…not Scott’s burning gaze.”

Javi adjusted his baseball cap defensively. “Just go talk to him.”

You shook your head, already grinning despite yourself and pushed through the crowd toward the back of the bar, which Scott noticed immediately. 

The music got louder the closer you got to him, voices bleeding together into useless noise, so instead of trying to shout over it, you reached forward and hooked one finger through the belt loop of his jeans.

“Outside,” you said simply, tugging once as you moved toward the exit.

Scott followed without argument, that alone should’ve concerned you more than it did.

The plan was for him to ask what you wanted once you got outside. Instead, somewhere between the crowded bar and the exit door, he got distracted watching you walk ahead of him. Your dress moved against your hips every few steps, exposing flashes of leg skin under the low bar lights and the muscles in your bare back moved subtly every time you pushed through another cluster of people.

Inevitably, Scott’s eyes dropped lower before he caught himself.

By the time the two of you stepped outside into the cooler night air, he still hadn’t said a word.

You finally let go of his belt loop once the two of you were far enough from the entrance that the music had dulled into muffled bass behind you. You turned to face him properly, folding your arms across your chest as you looked up at him.

“What’s your current issue?” you asked.

“Current?” Scott repeated, brows pulling together.

You nodded once like the question made perfect sense.

“When’s the last time you had sex?”

A startled laugh escaped you before you could stop it. “Excuse me?”

He shrugged carelessly, shoving one hand into the pocket of his jeans. “What? Are you the only one allowed to ask those questions?”

You laughed again, this time shaking your head as you pointed at him. “Yes. Obviously.”

Scott snorted.

“And those are long-drive questions,” you continued, motioning vaguely toward his truck behind you before pointing back toward the crowded bar. “Not ‘parking lot outside a packed bar’ questions.”

“You still need to answer.” He shrugged again. “Those are the rules.”

“Have I ever told you how stupid those rules are?”

“First time I’m hearing complaints since you’re the one who made them,” he replied with a grin.

“You’re insufferable,” you muttered under your breath before taking another sip of your drink.

Scott stayed quiet as he just watched you over the rim of his own soda, patient and expectant in a way that immediately irritated you because he clearly thought he was getting an answer eventually.

“Are you seriously gonna make me answer?”

“I can’t make you do anything,” he said calmly. “But I can wait. I still have to drive you home.”

You looked up toward the entrance of the bar. Through the windows you could still see people packed together under neon lights, laughing too loud, talking over each other about work, storm patterns and equipment failures. You’d already reached the point of the night where conversations started blending together into white noise.

“Can we leave now?” you asked.

Scott didn’t answer verbally. He just pulled his keys from his pocket, unlocked the truck with a click, then held his hand out toward your drink.

“Get in and lock the doors,” he said as he took the glass from you and turned back toward the bar to return it.

“Don’t tell me what to do,” you called after him while walking directly to the passenger side and doing exactly that.

Honestly, you didn’t mind answering the question. The problem was that once you actually thought about it, you realized you weren’t entirely sure how long it had been. It had been long enough that you had to start considering technicalities and long enough that the answer became embarrassing and unfortunately, thinking about sex while sitting alone in Scott’s truck immediately led your brain somewhere unhelpful…

Scott eventually climbed back into the truck and shut the door behind him. He didn’t start driving right away, he just sat there in the dark, one hand resting on the wheel while the dashboard lights cut sharp shadows across his face…waiting, because the thing about car questions was that silence usually came first.

“A year and a half,” you blurted out finally. “Give or take.”

Scott’s head turned toward you so fast it almost looked painful. “No,” he said immediately. “I don’t believe that.”

You laughed in disbelief and looked toward him. “Believe whatever you want, Scott. I answered the fucking question. That’s the game.”

“A year and a half?” he repeated, staring at you like you’d confessed to murder. “What the hell do you even do on weekends?”

“Currently?” you replied dryly. “Sit in your truck while you annoy me.”

“No,” he said, already turning the key in the ignition. “You’re irritated because you’re sexually frustrated.”

You barked out another incredulous laugh. 

“And you’ve been sexually frustrated since I met you,” he continued as he shifted the truck into reverse. “Which explains why you piss me off every single fucking day.”

“Excuse you?” You turned toward him fully now, half laughing from sheer disbelief. “First the bra comments and now this? What’s next? Are you gonna set me up with one of your friends so he can fix me?”

“Put your seatbelt on.” The command came out flat and automatic.

You narrowed your eyes at him. “Don’t fucking tell me what to do, Scott. I’m not drunk enough to–”

The words died in your throat the second he reached across you.

His arm slid in front of your chest while the truck reversed smoothly with his other hand still turning the wheel. His forearm brushed against the underside of your breasts accidentally…or maybe not so accidentally and your breath caught hard at the sudden closeness. Scott grabbed the seatbelt beside your shoulder, pulled it across your body in one sharp movement, then clicked it into place at your hip without looking away from the rear window once.

You drove home in complete silence.

No radio or conversation, just the steady sound of tires against asphalt and the occasional flick of the blinker while Scott kept his eyes fixed on the road ahead. You’d heard every version of his voice over the last two years, sarcastic, irritated or sharp enough to make grown men defensive in meetings but hearing him tell you to put your seatbelt on while his arm pressed across your breasts had done something deeply unfortunate to your brain.

This was entirely your fault. You were the one who made sex an acceptable topic between the two of you, you were the one who turned it into a game, into background conversation during long drives and late nights. Somewhere along the way home, your definition of good sex had rewritten itself around that precise moment. 

For most people, that probably counted as foreplay, but for you? It counted as a serious fucking problem.

By the time Scott parked outside your house, your thoughts had spiraled so badly that you barely registered the truck stopping. You stayed seated even after he cut the engine, staring forward blankly while the silence settled heavier around you.

Scott got out first without saying anything and walked around the front of the truck toward your side.

The passenger door opened. You looked up just in time to feel him lean in and reach across you again, fingers brushing lightly against the fabric stretched over your waist as he unclipped the seatbelt. The contact lasted maybe a second but that was already too long.

Only then did you finally move. You climbed out quickly, making an effort to keep close to the truck instead of brushing against him, then headed straight for your front door while digging through your purse for your keys even if it was practically empty and somehow that made it worse. You found lip balm…receipts…some loose cash, everything except what you actually needed.

Scott followed behind you quietly.

You still hadn’t found the keys when his arm appeared beside you, reaching around your body with frustrating familiarity. He’d had your keys the entire night, he usually did whenever the two of you went out together because you constantly lost track of them.

The metal clicked softly as he unlocked the door for you.

Your breath stalled as Scott stood so close behind you that you could feel the heat coming off him through the thin fabric of your dress. His chest nearly touched your back, one arm still braced near your shoulder while he turned the lock. It boxed you in completely, your body caught between the door and him and the worst part was that it felt good.

The sharp heat low in your stomach made that painfully obvious.

Good sex, apparently, was standing fully clothed on your own porch while your coworker unlocked your front door…all while standing right behind you.

The lock finally clicked open. You pushed the door open and stepped inside fast to put distance between you before turning back toward him. 

Determination sat stiffly in your chest now…You were staying dressed. Whatever this weird tension was had to be alcohol-fueled, temporary, deeply stupid or preferably all three and gone by morning.

Unfortunately, Scott looked unfairly good standing on your porch under weak yellow light.

At some point he’d taken off his cap, you didn’t know when and hadn’t realized until now. Why did he look dreamy!? His hair was messy from running his hands through it all night and the expression on his face had settled back into that unreadable calm that somehow made things worse.

“Night, Scott,” you said quickly, then shut the door directly in his face…very determined to remain dressed.

“Are you gonna set me up with one of your friends so he can fix me?” That sentence replayed in your head later for one humiliating reason: Scott Miller had never been the kind of man to hand off work he could do himself.

You’d been wrong earlier, completely wrong.

Great sex didn’t happen on weekends or after parties or during long-awaited moments with somebody you trusted. Sometimes it happened five minutes after you slammed your front door in a man’s face and tried convincing yourself you still had common sense.

You stayed standing by the door after closing it, palms warm against the wood, waiting to hear his truck start. You expected the familiar sound of the driver’s side door opening, shutting and the low rumble of the engine before he pulled away but nothing happened.

At first you told yourself you were imagining the silence because you were still too aware of him…then a full minute passed…followed by another and then three more.

Five long, miserable minutes where your brain refused to focus on anything except the fact Scott was still outside your house.

You opened the door expecting embarrassment or maybe annoyance, maybe him realizing he forgot something. Instead, he was still standing there in the same position with that same unreadable expression, hands shoved into the pockets of his jeans like you hadn’t just shut the door on him…five minutes ago.

You stared at each other for a second too long.

You never figured out what exactly snapped first. Pride, self-control or curiosity…maybe all of it at once again.

One second he was standing on your porch and the next you were grabbing a fistful of his shirt and pulling him forward hard enough to make him stumble into you as your mouth crashed against his.

The moment the door clicked shut behind you, the fragile determination to stay dressed shattered. You didn't just invite Scott in, you practically hauled him across the threshold, pulling him into a kiss that tasted of alcohol and months of suppressed frustration. It was messy and desperate, a collision of teeth and tongues that left you both breathless.

You stumbled backward, the friction of your bodies fueling a fire that had been simmering for far too long. As you navigated the space, your heels clicked erratically against the floor until you kicked them off with frantic movements, one flying toward the wall and the other sliding away as you backed into the dining area.

You hit the edge of the heavy wooden table and Scott didn't miss a beat. He gripped your waist with bruising force and hoisted you up, the sudden elevation making you gasp into his mouth. He didn't stop kissing you but his path shifted, lips sliding down your jawline to your neck, sucking hard enough to leave a mark. His hands were everywhere, frantic and demanding, sliding up the fabric of your dress and bunching it up around your waist until your thighs were bare and shivering against the cool wood.

You felt his fingers hook into the elastic of your panties, tugging them down with a sharp, decisive motion until you could kick them off, exposing you to the air. As he lowered himself, his mouth found the swell of your breasts through your dress, biting lightly against the fabric on his way down between your legs.

"You don't need to do that," you managed to moan, your voice trembling as he moved your weight, sliding you toward the edge of the table until you were perched precariously, your legs naturally falling open.

"Shut up," Scott muttered against your skin, his voice a low, arrogant growl that sent a jolt of electricity straight to your clit as he finally settled himself firmly between your thighs, the heat of his body radiating against your wetness. 

Then, he dipped his head. The first touch of his tongue was a shock of heat, it was wet and precise. He dove right in, tongue licking upward from your perineum to your clit in one long, sweeping stroke. You arched your back as a loud moan escaped you since it had been so long since you’d felt anything this raw, this focused. You were starving for it and Scott was feeding off of you with a primal intensity that blurred everything else out.

He used his hands to grip your hips, pulling you closer to the edge so he could bury his face in you as he kneeled. He began to lap at you with a rhythmic, punishing speed, his tongue flattening out to cover as much surface area as possible before narrowing into a sharp point to flick relentlessly against your clit.

The sensation was overwhelming. You began to squirm, hips jerking instinctively against his mouth as your fingernails clawed at the tabletop. You weren't just enjoying it, you were unraveling.

"Fuck…Scott...please," you whimpered, though you didn't know what you were asking for.

He responded by changing your position. He pushed you flat onto your back on the table, the hard wood pressing into your spine and hauled your legs up, draping them over his broad shoulders. The position left you completely exposed, your pussy flared open and glistening in the dark room.

He didn't stop the oral but added more by sliding two fingers deep inside you, stretching you open while his tongue continued to hammer away at your clit. The combination of the internal pressure and the external friction was too much. You were shaking, breath coming in short, jagged gasps as your feet drummed against his back.

He could tell you were close, encouraging him to increase the pressure, fingers curling inside you to hit your G-spot while his tongue sucked your clit into his mouth, creating a vacuum of pleasure that felt like it was pulling your entire soul out through your cunt.

“Holy s-shit!” Your head thrashed from side to side, a loud, unrestrained scream tearing from your throat as the orgasm hit you like a freight train. It was violent and all-consuming, your internal muscles clamping down hard on his fingers as waves of intense pleasure crashed over you, leaving you whimpering and twitching on the table.

As the peak slowly subsided, Scott didn't pull away immediately. He stayed there, his breath hot against your sensitive skin, slowly lapping the remaining juices from your pussy. He cleaned you thoroughly, his tongue lingering on every inch of your swollen cunt until you were completely spent, lying limp and shivering on the table, finally satisfied.

He straightened slowly from between your legs, chest rising hard with uneven breaths that matched your own. His mouth was swollen and wet when he licked across his lips absentmindedly, eyes fixed on you with an intensity that made heat crawl back under your skin even while your body still twitched from the orgasm.

From your place sprawled across the dining table, you stared up at him in stunned silence. Your thighs were still trembling now against his sides and you were almost certain your expression looked ridiculous, wide-eyed and dazed in a way you hadn’t allowed yourself to look around another person in years.

Scott held a hand out toward you and you took it automatically.

He helped you sit up first before guiding you carefully off the table, one hand steady on your waist while your legs struggled to cooperate beneath you. The second your feet touched the floor, your knees nearly gave out entirely.

Scott wiped his mouth with his palm. “Goodnight,” he said and the gentleness of it caught you off guard more than anything else that night had.

His hand slipped away from your waist and the two of you just stood there for a second, staring at each other while trying and failing to breathe normally again.

Then Scott turned and walked toward the front door.

You stayed frozen in place while he opened it and left your house without another word. A few seconds later you finally heard the sounds you’d been waiting for earlier, the truck door opening, shutting and the engine starting before he drove off into the night.

You tried walking toward your bedroom afterward and immediately realized your legs barely worked. You ended up half stumbling down the hallway, one hand dragging along the wall for balance because your entire lower body still felt weak and oversensitive.

Great sex…that had been unbelievably, painfully great sex.

You thought about it constantly afterward. In the shower, during calls and meetings, while sitting in traffic or lying awake at night staring at the ceiling with your thighs pressed together. You didn’t mention it to your friends or talked to Scott about it, even during the long stretches of silence that filled the truck during drives. The two of you understood what happened without discussing it directly, you’d crossed a line and both of you seemed aware that talking about it too much would probably drag you over it again.

The following mornings, you waited for him outside on your porch instead of letting him walk into your house like usual. Mostly because you’d spent the entire week masturbating to the memory of him between your legs on your dining table before getting ready for the day and you didn’t trust yourself to survive seeing him inside your kitchen before sunrise.

For one solid week, you slept perfectly. No insomnia or late-night work spirals, no pacing around rooms or answering emails at one in the morning just to keep your brain occupied. Whatever tension usually sat under your skin had disappeared completely and now it sat between you both instead.

Every drive felt heavier, the silence stretched longer and every sharp inhale from him made your stomach tighten unexpectedly until eventually you got sick of pretending neither of you noticed it.

“We don’t have to talk about it,” you interrupted suddenly.

Scott glanced toward you briefly, eyes leaving the road for barely a second before returning forward. “Do you want to?” he asked.

“I don’t,” you admitted. “I feel like you do though.”

“You’re right.”

You snorted quietly and looked back down at the laptop balanced across your knees. 

“I thought you liked being right.” Scott added.

“Fucking love it,” you replied automatically before grimacing. “Usually.”

Silence settled again until you broke it. “Okay,” you sighed eventually. “Maybe one thing.” You turned to him properly this time. “I wasn’t that drunk that night. Actually, I wasn’t drunk at all. I had that one beer before we left my place and the rest were mocktails.”

Scott turned his head enough to study your face for a second. “I wouldn’t have touched you if you were drunk,” he said flatly. “I’m an asshole, not fucking stupid.”

You leaned back against the seat slowly. “Even that’s changed.”

His brows furrowed. “What does that mean?”

“The coffee for starters,” you said. “The lunches, too. You stopped buying disgusting gas station sandwiches and now we actually eat dinner out like normal people.” You gestured vaguely toward him. “You used to hand me coffee with five sugar packets on the side because you couldn’t remember how I took it. Now it’s magically perfect every fucking morning.”

Scott adjusted his grip on the steering wheel.

“I thought eating around other people would make this less weird,” he admitted. “And I got tired of sugar packets all over my truck.”

“Our truck,” you corrected automatically before pointing at him accusingly. “And nothing about this is normal, Scott! You ate me out on my dining table!”

“Stop yelling at me.” His tone stayed frustratingly calm.

“Why?” you shot back. “Is it making you hard?”

Scott shifted in his seat hard enough that you noticed instantly. Both his hands locked tighter around the steering wheel while he stared straight ahead at the road. The tension in his jaw became visible because unfortunately for him, you weren’t wrong.

The last week had changed things. You looked less exhausted and less tightly wound. You hadn’t snapped at him once during work and he hadn’t gotten a single unhinged one a.m. email from you all week because for the first time since he’d met you, you were actually sleeping.

“So when are we doing it again?” he asked finally, against every ounce of common sense he had left.

NEVER…that should’ve been the answer. It was the logical answer, the responsible one, the answer two coworkers with already questionable boundaries should’ve landed on immediately.

It just wasn’t the truth.

You had always maintained that getting fucked couldn’t happen in motel rooms. It didn't matter how good the sex was, the second cheap carpet, bad lighting and a rattling air conditioner got involved, the whole thing dropped several levels automatically. 

Motel sex could be great, sometimes even memorable but it couldn’t be that, so the next time it happened definitely wasn’t in a motel room.

The weather that day had turned bad enough to keep everyone grounded but not dangerous enough to send your team chasing storms through three different counties. There was heavy rain, low visibility and too much lightning for comfort but not enough rotation to justify going out.

At some point, without either of you actually saying it outright, waiting the storm out in Scott’s apartment became the plan instead of sitting cramped inside the truck for hours pretending the tension between you didn’t exist.

You still couldn’t pinpoint who made the first move once the elevator doors closed behind you.

One second you were standing beside him soaked at the edges from the rain, listening to distant thunder through the concrete parking garage and the next, Scott’s hand was inside your pants like it belonged there.

You gasped hard into his mouth as his fingers slid against you immediately, already somewhat familiar with exactly what made your hips jerk forward. The kiss that came after barely counted as one, it was messy and distracted, interrupted constantly by your breathing and the quiet sounds you kept failing to swallow down.

The elevator ride lasted less than a minute but by the time the doors opened onto his floor, your orgasm was already hitting you in sharp waves around his fingers while your forehead pressed against his shoulder to keep yourself standing.

If you weren’t already fucked, you were about to be.

You’d been inside Scott’s apartment before. A handful of times after late nights working or when weather reports needed reviewing somewhere quieter than a crowded diner. You remembered the big windows first, stretching across the living room area with a full view of the skyline in the distance. Tonight they framed heavy gray clouds and rain pouring so hard that it blurred the city lights into smears of white and yellow.

Scott barely gave you time to look around because the second the apartment door shut behind you, his hands were on you again. He walked you toward the living room with rough impatience, pulling your pants down from behind while you stumbled against the edge of an armchair. Your underwear followed immediately after, dragged down together in one quick motion before pooling around your ankles.

The air in Scott’s apartment was heavy, charged with the static of the storm raging outside. The gray light of the overcast sky filtered through the windows but the atmosphere inside was scorching.

"Kneel," he commanded as he pointed toward the armchair, his voice a low, authoritative rumble.

You didn't hesitate. The tension that had been building between you for weeks, the unspoken glances and lingering touches, had finally snapped. You sank to your knees on the plush seat, your heart hammering against your ribs. You leaned forward, gripping the headrest with both hands, body already trembling in anticipation. You were completely exposed to him, your ass tilted back and waiting.

Scott disappeared for a moment, leaving you in a silence broken only by the distant roll of thunder. When he returned, the sound of a foil packet tearing echoed in the room. You heard the metallic click of his belt unbuckling and the slide of a zipper.

The anticipation was agonizing. You heard him roll the condom on, followed by the wet sound of him spitting on the head of his cock to make the entry smoother.

He stepped up behind you, heat radiating against your backside. He lined himself up and then, with one powerful, decisive surge, he thrust deep inside you.

You let out a sharp, strangled whine, your fingers digging into the fabric of the headrest. It had been so long since you’d felt a man inside you and Scott was massive. The initial stretch was borderline painful, a blunt force that filled every millimeter of your tight, starving pussy. You blinked rapidly, tears pricking your eyes as your body struggled to accommodate his size, your breath hitching in your throat.

Scott didn't give you time to adjust. He reached forward, his large hands clamping onto your hips with bruising force and yanked you backward, pulling you deeper onto his cock until there was no space left between you.

"I wanna see you," you moaned, your voice broken and desperate, trying to twist your torso around to look at him.

He didn't let you. Instead, he leaned in and sank his teeth into the skin of your shoulder, a sharp bite that made you moan despite your best efforts. His hand moved from your hip to your jaw, gripping it firmly to keep your head pinned forward.

"Just focus," he rasped calmly against your skin, the contrast of his steady voice and his firm grip sending a shiver of submission down your spine.

He let go of your jaw and began to thrust. He didn't start slowly, he hit you with a rhythmic, punishing intensity. The apartment was suddenly filled with the sound of your sudden, loud moans and frantic curses. You collapsed forward, your chest pressed against the headrest, your body jarring with every hit.

As he hammered into you, Scott reached around, his hands finding your breasts. He didn't bother undressing you further, he grabbed your boobs firmly over your clothes, squeezing and kneading them with a rough, possessive grip that matched the violence of his hips.

"I'm gonna fuck you on every surface of this apartment," he growled. "You'll be seeing a lot of me."

The sex quickly became raw and primal and so, so fucking good. The sound of skin slapping against skin, mixed with the wet, rhythmic thud of his pelvis hitting your ass filled the room, competing with the roar of the thunder outside. Every thrust shook your entire frame, quaking your body from your head to your toes. You were whimpering loudly now, the pain of the initial stretch having completely melted into an overwhelming, white-hot pleasure you never thought you could feel.

Your eyes watered, staring out into the distance of the room, the world blurring as the friction built. It was fast, harsh and so perfect that you found yourself wanting to bite the armchair, your teeth sinking into the fabric as your back arched violently. You were unraveling, the long period of abstinence making you hypersensitive to every inch of him.

"I'm right there, keep going! Scott, please! Don’t fuckin’ stop." you whined, voice echoing through the apartment.

He didn't, he instead increased the pace, his thrusts becoming shorter and more frantic, drilling into you with an obsession that felt like he wanted to merge his body with yours. The thunder peaked with a deafening crash that seemed to trigger something inside you.

Suddenly, your internal muscles spasmed. A wave of heat exploded from your core and you felt a sudden, uncontrollable gush of fluid. You were squirting, something that had never happened to you before, the hot spray soaking the armchair and your own thighs. You began to shake uncontrollably, your legs giving out as you sobbed out of pure pleasure into the headrest.

Scott let out a guttural groan, the feeling of you flooding around him driving him over the edge. He loved it, hell, he was obsessed with the way you were falling apart under him. He kept going, ignoring your tremors, continuously driving himself into you as you peaked into a mind-blowing, screaming orgasm that left you completely breathless.

With a final, deep thrust, he groaned loudly, coming hard into the condom.

The momentum stopped abruptly. He stayed buried inside you for a long moment, both of you frozen, chests heaving in unison.

Slowly, he withdrew, the wet sound of his exit punctuating the silence with an obscene pop.

You both watch the rain lash against the glass, the gray light illuminating the wreckage of your passion. You took a long, shuddering breath, body still twitching from the aftershocks as your pussy twitched around nothing, back arching further needily, earning a smack from him.

"Holy fuck," you both breathed simultaneously, the weight of the encounter settling over you in the heavy, humid air.

There was no going back after that day. Not to abstinence, not to disappointing hookups or to pretending sex was something casual and forgettable that fit neatly between work schedules and storm reports.

Once Scott got his hands on you, everything else lost appeal embarrassingly fast.

What started as isolated incidents quickly turned into a pattern neither of you seriously attempted to stop. It was a terrible idea professionally, obviously, but somehow the two of you functioned better afterward. Meetings became easier, long drives felt lighter and you argued less viciously because the tension always had somewhere to go now instead of festering under your skin for weeks.

You started going home together most nights under the excuse of saving gas money. Then showering together afterward became another practical decision because apparently water bills mattered too now. Somewhere between shared coffee in the mornings and him keeping spare clothes for you at his apartment, things moved quietly into something neither of you had planned for and the worst part was that it worked.

The sex stayed incredible. Sometimes rough enough to leave hickeys along your skin and fingerprints fading across your thighs and hips by morning, or other times slow enough that you ended up tangled together for hours afterward while thunderstorms rolled outside the windows. Every now and then he fucked you hard enough to leave you shaking afterward, staring blankly at the ceiling while he stood in the kitchen making you food like that was a normal sequence of events but eventually you realized it wasn’t just about that anymore.

You started having actual dates without calling them dates, it was dinner after work that lasted until restaurants closed around you. You went grocery shopping together because both of you were too exhausted to go separately and you began falling asleep on opposite ends of his couch while weather models played quietly on television screens neither of you were really watching.

Off-season made it worse.

Without constant travel, motel rooms and adrenaline keeping you both distracted, there was finally time to explore whatever this thing between you had become. You drifted naturally between your house and his apartment depending on whose place seemed closer to the office that day. Half your belongings somehow ended up at his place and vice versa. You texted each other constantly during meetings despite sitting twenty feet apart, phones hidden beneath desks while coworkers talked around you.

Scott started bringing your coffee to your desk already made exactly how you liked it before you even decided you needed one. You started buying his preferred cereal without asking if he wanted any. He slept better with you in his bed and you stopped grinding your teeth in your sleep when he stayed over.

So naturally, being made love to finally happened exactly the way you once thought it would and it wasn’t some exaggerated version of romance men convinced themselves they were capable of after two drinks and mediocre conversation.

It sort of snuck up on you. It was Scott pulling you into his lap while both of you were exhausted after work, kissing your shoulder absentmindedly while you read through data on his laptop. It was him waking you up slowly on Sunday mornings with his hand sliding under your shirt and nowhere either of you needed to be. It was sex that lasted forever because he knew your body well enough to take his time with it, knew exactly what made you gasp, what made your legs tense and what made you hide your face against his neck when the pleasure became too much.

He paid attention and it made all of the difference. Scott learned your body like he learned storm patterns, thoroughly and obsessively, until touching you became instinct to him and it showed…

The morning light filtered through the curtains of your bedroom in soft, golden slats, painting the sheets in hues of amber and cream. The house was silent, save for the rhythmic sound of your shared breathing and the distant chirp of birds welcoming the dawn. You were tangled together, skin on skin, the warmth of the duvet trapping the heat of your bodies in a private, humid cocoon.

There was no rush, no storm to outrun and no urgency born of desperation. There was only the heavy, sweet weight of Scott pressing you into the mattress. You were both fully naked, your limbs entwined in a lazy, possessive knot.

Scott began slowly, his lips tracing a path of fire across your collarbone. He wasn't just kissing you, he was tasting you, tongue swirling against your skin in slow circles that made you shiver. He moved lower, mouth finding the sensitive curve of your breast as you let out a soft, airy moan. He took your nipple into his mouth, sucking firmly while his thumb and forefinger pinched the other peak, twisting it just enough to send a jolt of electricity straight to your core.

You arched your back, your fingers sliding into the thick hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him closer. The friction of his chest against your breasts was intoxicating, the rough hair of his torso grazing your sensitive skin.

He shifted, sliding his body up so he could look into your eyes. His gaze was dark, filled with an intensity that felt more overwhelming than any of the rougher encounters you'd had. He didn't move to flip you or push you into a different position, instead, he settled between your thighs in a classic missionary stance and pushed inside. There was no latex barrier this time, no clinical snap of a condom. It was raw, wet and absolute. 

The sensation of his bare skin sliding against yours was a revelation. You gasped, your eyes fluttering shut as you felt the full, throbbing heat of him filling you completely. It felt different, more intimate and permanent. The lack of a barrier made every ridge of his cock feel amplified, every pulse of his blood echoing against your own internal walls.

He didn't start with the punishing pace of the past. Instead, he began to rock, his movements slow and agonizingly deep. He pressed his palm flat against your stomach, pushing down firmly to tilt your pelvis, ensuring that every thrust hit the deepest part of you.

"Gripping me like a fucking vise…so perfect." he groaned, his voice a gravelly morning rumble that vibrated through your chest.

You wrapped your legs around his waist, locking your ankles to pull him even deeper. You were lost in the rhythm, the slow, sliding friction creating a build-up of tension that felt like a tightening coil in your belly. You ran your hands through his hair, your nails lightly scratching his scalp as you moaned into the first rays of the morning sun.

The intimacy was suffocating in the best way possible. As he continued to rock, his movements grew slightly more urgent, the slow glide turning into a passionate, driving force. He leaned down, his lips brushing against yours, tasting the salt and sweetness of your skin while he continued to pinch and tease your nipples, hand roaming your curves with a familiarity that spoke of a deep, obsessive knowledge of your body.

It didn’t take long for your breath to become shallow, chest heaving as the pleasure began to peak. You could feel the walls of your pussy clenching around him, milking him with every deep stroke. Your body tensed, toes curling into the sheets as a wave of heat crashed over you. You cried out, a long, melodic sound of surrender, as your orgasm ripped through you in slow, pulsing waves that left you shaking beneath him.

Scott didn’t slow his pace as his forehead rested against yours, both of you breathing heavily. He continued moving, the intimacy of the connection almost too much to bear.

"Want to be done?" he whispered, his voice strained, muscles trembling with the effort of holding back.

You looked up at him, eyes hazy with pleasure and affection. The thought of him pulling away felt wrong because you wanted everything. You wanted the weight, the heat and the mark of him.

You shook your head with an escaped whimper, pulling his face down to yours. "Don’t you dare pull out…’want you to come inside." You breathed.

The request broke the last of his restraint. Scott let out a guttural sound, a mix of a groan and a sob and began to drive into you with a renewed, primal intensity. It was a desperate, loving hunger. He hammered into you, movements strong and deep, each thrust a claim and a promise.

As he reached his limit, his grip on your hip tightened, fingers digging into your skin. He thrust one last time, burying himself as deep as physically possible and you felt the hot, thick bursts of his cum flooding into you. The sensation of him filling you from the inside out was the most intense feeling you had ever experienced, a physical manifestation of the bond that had grown between you.

In the height of his release, as his body shuddered violently against yours, he gasped out the words he had been holding back.

"I love you," he choked out, the confession raw and unplanned.

The world seemed to stop for a heartbeat. You felt a surge of emotion that rivaled the intensity of the orgasm, a warmth that started in your chest and radiated to your fingertips. You tightened your hold on him, pulling him down for a deep, searing kiss.

"I love you too," you whispered against his lips.

He collapsed onto you, heart drumming a frantic rhythm against your own, both of you spent and glowing in the morning light, finally and completely entwined.

A few years ago, you would’ve hated the idea that Scott Miller of all people would end up teaching you everything worth knowing about sex. It would’ve bruised your ego badly, especially considering how seriously you once took those stupid categories and scales in your head before Scott showed up and ruined all of them completely.

Good sex stopped mattering. 

Great sex became expected.

Getting fucked became routine enough that you lost count somewhere along the line, usually around the third orgasm of the day and definitely before he started dragging you into his lap halfway through work calls just because he felt like bothering you…with his hands and dick.

But somehow, even after all the rough sex and ruined schedules, Scott still managed to make love to you exactly the way you once imagined it should feel.

So if somebody offered you the chance to go back and do it all over again, you would without hesitation.

You were an absolute HR nightmare now and what a fucking delight that was!

A/N: If you enjoyed this story, feel free to explore the archive for more! Liking and reblogging helps others discover my writing and comments always make my day, they’re a huge encouragement for me to keep creating. Thank you so much for reading!

Look at him just chewing the FAWK out of that gum 😭 (wait chew me next)

[ohsxxnta]

GACHIAKUTA ⎯⎯ ܔܢܟ ⨾.. JINKI IDEAS FOR YOUR DR²

look thru OHSXXNTA'S tool box && choose what item speaks to you most part 2⎯⎯ ❝ ONE MANS TRASH ; IS ANOTHER MANS TREASURE. use this post as a guide to help you figure out what jinki you'd like for your dr, my descriptions of each one are to give a general idea as to how far the item can be of use outside of its previous states conventional purpose, everything can be changed and adjusted to your liking ++ i tried to include name ideas for this one

ㅤㅤㅤㅤorigami jinki ♫ your jinki stays in multiple pocket compartments on your outfit, each zipper has a different type of folding paper inside, when you use these sheets of paper you're able to create & bring to life anything your skills allow you depending on what type of paper you use, each of these figures enlarge and come to life given your will, Kami paper are lightweight and grant the ability to create standard origami figures (cranes & animals), Tant paper makes modular origami figures allowing you to create protective shields & barriers , Washi paper is highly durable and allows you to turn your paper into sharp edged weapons. your anima essentially allows you to make any sheet of paper you fold animate given your will. You're capable of making your figures at the speed of light ━━ team child, team akuta ܓ tenfold

ㅤㅤㅤㅤmime mask jinki ♫ silence is the core aspect of the art form 'pantomime', as a mime you convey yourself through your body using movement, expression and of gestures, when you put on this mask, you obtain such skill, the word mimic literally comes from mime, your jinki allows you to imitate your opponents jinki through your masks observation, this doesnt only apply to their vital instrument, your mask lets you literally mirror your opponent allowing you to know their next move, what they think and exactly how they feel, this applies to mimicking their physical strength and reusing it back to them, your advantage comes from their inability to see your illusions, this also makes you capable of turning your performance illusions into literal objects that only you are aware of ( i.e invisible wall trick ) this goes as far as your imagination ㅤ━━ the raiders , team eager & team danger ܓ mirage or phantom

ㅤㅤㅤㅤtraditional calligraphy brush ♫ this was inspired by the Taoist talismanic scripts which are referred to as fulu. Your anima gives your pen the ability to write talisman that temporarily impose laws on reality, each of which have their own type of power, you may write binding fulu that immobilize your opponents, seal trash beasts, doors as well as heal injuries, you can write command fulu similar to inumaki's cursed speech , you can control people and order trash beasts, and change an objects shape, you can also use this to ward off evil by creating barriers, similar to Canvas Town, your brush's most deathly use could be used to write a talisman that consumes your opponents anima (human or not) to then power the ink / anima of your brush, once these laws are activated and drawn by your pen, the talismans burn away after accepting their order ━━ the raiders , team front & team akuta ܓ none

ㅤㅤㅤㅤdeck of cards jinki ♫ ib @thecloverrpatch's dream ⚉⃟ㅤ these cards tilt odds and rigg probability for anyone but yourself, your only job as gambler is to make sure your pattern goes unnoticed, and this is easy granted your unnaturally fast ability to shuffle, when you shuffle your deck you're able to put your opponents in a trance that makes them easily deceptive, under this state your shuffling allows you a bigger chance of success, your jinki nudges people into becoming worse versions of themselves, you rig mental momentum, and you give your opponent predictability, you can get information on your opponent under this state theyre in this jinki is honestly hard to make useful unless you're a sleazy villian lmfao ━━ the raiders & team danger ܓ kakegurui , blackjack , facilier

ㅤㅤㅤㅤmirror jinki ♫ this is a defence and offence jinki, a simple hand held mirror, allowing you to stunt your opponents similar to amo & her boots, when someone sees their reflection, they are faced with their 'true self' exposing their deeply hidden emotions, intentions, guilt, corruption or fear, leading your mirror to crack temporarily as you, the user, mimic their voice, posture & 'true self', physically manifesting through their reflection leading them to confront and fight against their internal self. You are capable of using literally any reflection in the room to get yourself from place to place, this can assist in combat, similar to cthoni's manhole, you're capable of bringing in people along with you through various reflective spaces. You can observe your opponents attacks through your mirror, storing those reflections and later using them as temporary replicas. ( this one is kinda boring my apolocheese ) ━━ the raiders, team beauty , team child & team akuta ܓ vanity , miramira

ㅤㅤㅤㅤ needle jinki ♫ inspired by coralines other mother..⚉⃟ㅤ anything your needle is capable of stitching through gains life. The main usage of your jinki is doll/puppet making, and its personality depends on your stitching style & emotional intent when using it. Your power thrives better if its an item discarded ( i.e chiiwas doll ) your power lets you reconstruct these items and give them a second chance to live out the rest of their potential just like Rudos 3R, but similar to the Beldam in Coraline, you can alter the appearance of your dolls to match whoever you would like to use the doll on, the buttons can be used to spy on them if they ever receive it while the rest of the body's usage follows the aspects of traditional African voodoo doll usage, in which you may use your dolls as vessels for healing & health documentation. If ever anyone is ill you're capable of using methods similar to an acupuncturist, instead of only pin-pointing where a person is injured if its internally, you're also capable of healing them through acupuncture or stitching them with your needle. ━━ team akuta , team front ܓ reap / reaper

a few i didnt include ; marotte stick jinki inspired by jester, tarot deck jinki for tarot users, boxing gloves (already taken by an unknown character). again no need to credit me for your uses of these but it would be appreciated, please tag me so i can see cs im nosy!! i couldnt expand as much as i wanted to on the deck of cards one </3 sorry clover 😓. this isnt proofread like all of my other stuff ... so excuse my mistakes

⎯⎯͟͟♥︎̼ tags :: @thecloverrpatch @rumitome @agejopill @clubazula @deadmanstomb @dollheim @sillygirlsalad @atokirinv @frankiiiestein @twocoeur @cinnaamiu @bambilvu @i19jyufans @dollheim @i0yangs @cannivalles @sillygirlsalad @kuunio @delicatelullaby @shottaffflow

[silkliingerie]

Rexsplode relationship headcanons ★

Rexsplode/Sloan x reader ✶⋆.˚

ʚɞ ⁺˖ ⸝⸝

Sfw/nsfw headcanons

Reblogs and likes are appreciated `✦ ˑ ִֶ 𓂃⊹

SFW HEADCANONS

★ He's soo stingy with his food and snacks, but he'll always share with you.

★ He never stops trying to impress you. Even if he fails, it's still so cute.

★ He'll get competitive with you just for fun. He'll make up dumb races and compitions. You let him win so you'll see him smile (and to shut him up)

★ whenever he sleeps, he's like a star fish. His legs and arms spread almost everywhere. The best you'll get is him wrapping around ur arm or ur entire body (AND HE SNORES.)

★ He likes it when you brush his hair and style it. But also hates it. He'd complain how you're too rough, not your fault his hairs tangled..

★ he gets so giddy when you pepper small kisses all over his face, especially if you wear lipstick.

★ this boy thinks you're an absolute goddess. Every time you wear new outfits and show him, his eyes turn into literal hearts.

★ says “again” or “one more, mama” after kissing you (you always giggle and grant his wish ofc)

★ always convinces you to do dumb shit with him, and if you’re already naturally a reckless person you’d just add to his fire. But if you're more mature than him, you'd try to talk him out of his reckless behaviors.

★ hates the people you hate, and if he catches them talking about you, you will be coming home to him with a bruised face.

★ will pick you up randomly and throw you over his shoulder/ carry you bridal style. Especially if you’re doing something and he wants your attention..

★ He's the typa guy to call you "mama" or "mamas" YK it..

★ his favorite names to call you are, babe, baby, mama, cutie, sometimes sweetheart.

★ he turns into such a baby when he’s tired. Poor boy will come home completely exhausted. He'd hurriedly take off his uncomfortable gear on his suit and pick you up and carry you to the bed, and he'd lay on top of you. You'd feel him smoosh his head into your chest.

★ would secretly learn all your favorite foods and make them for you.

★ always checks up on you. despite his arrogant self, He's so in tune with you’re emotions. He can tell what’s bothering you just by your body language and breathing.

NSFW HEADCANONS (mostly female)

★ He gets all cocky and arrogant, and he'll get fumbled IMMEDIATELY. Boys so subby.

★ Rex is so Eagar and messy. He wants to bury himself in your cunt/suck you off and never stop. Lapping at your folds/slurping on your precum. He'll stay there until you force him to breathe, showing off his face with your slick dripping down his chin.

★ dudes got a mommy kink. No questions asked.

★ he LOVESS being praised. Being called a good boy and you telling how good he's doing gets his gears grinding.

★ He's such a chatter box when he's in bed, especially when he's about to release or when being edged. Blabbering on as he whines and whimpers.

★ He's such a whiney boy when he's being edged or overstimulated. Whimpering and crying begging to cum.

"F-ffuckk, mommy, I don't think I can take it .."

"Can i please cum, pleasee mommy I've been a good boy"

"Your hands feel so soo good mommy.."

★ loves cowgirl and missionary, but mostly cowgirl. being able to look you in the eye as you take control. His hands gently holding your hips as you bounce on his cock. Mesmerized by your tits in his face and the sounds leaving your lips.

★ absolutely adores and worships your body.He loves how soft and squishy it is, especially your thighs and tits.

★ He loves doing the finger + tongue combo..

"You taste so good mommy.. so good."

"I can feel you getting closer mommy."

"Please cum for me mommy, please cum for your sweet boy,"

★ He's so eager to do anything you say, if you want him to lay down, he'll do it. If you want him to be on his knees for you. He'll do it.

★ God, the day you sit on his face, it's over. slowly grinding on him, his hands having a firm grip on your thighs. you can practically hear him moaning in your pussy, “mmm so good" or "more mommy I want more.." UGH

★ doesn’t really like quickies. He'd rather take his time with you. Having it being nice, romantic, and slow. His way to go.

★ This baby loves to take care of you and being able to spoil you, but he’s gonna be a bit clumsy. Stuttering and second-guessing himself.

[tshyn]

every night is fanfic night if you're a whore like me

[grindqueen95]

Without watermarks chapter 2) dat ass

[dexgirlfriend]

fbi!ben poindexter has this bad habit of referring to you as his. it comes off weird to outsiders, occasionally, because you obviously aren't an object to be owned; you know, though, he doesn't mean it like that. in his mind, it's an equivalent exchange—he's as much yours as you are his.

my girl, he introduces you to colleagues sometimes. my perfect baby, he breathes into the space between you at night, sweat-slicked chest pressed to yours. so good to me, for me. in the mornings, while cooking breakfast: my pretty girl sleep well? mine, mine, mine.

and then, other nights, he's begging you to say it back, pleading for you to acknowledge that he belongs to only you, pressing your hands to his neck 'til your fingers wrap around it and euphoria fills his veins and you lean down to kiss him and call him yours. when he's bored, maybe at the checkout queue in the grocery store, or waiting in his car at a red light, he presses kisses to each of your knuckles, murmuring something against them you never quite seem to catch—i'm yours. my benjamin poindexter, you say once, in passing, and he's always hated his name, but he's just so flustered, cheeks flushed the prettiest pink, and just this one time, just this once, he might be okay with it.

or he overhears you talking to your friends when he's working in the other room—he doesn't mean to, really, he's just attentive, a good boyfriend—and you say you don't know how you got so lucky; you don't deserve your beautiful boy, and his brain short-circuits, because how dare you say that first part, and what did you call him? you don't make the correlation, though, that night, when he's somehow even more devoted to you than usual, telling you how obsessed with you he is, his gorgeous, gorgeous girl. must be a little pent up, you think, but you don't know how wrong you are.

after the events of s3 you don't expect him to come home, of course not. who walks out of that?

your boyfriend, apparently. much stronger than the last time you saw him, twice as built—you don't know what to expect from ddba!dex. he's obviously different, because that shit back there changes you, and not always for the better, right?

and yes, he's still your boyfriend, whether you're single or dating someone or you have a ring on your finger—not that it matters much, because if there is someone, he'll take care of them before he comes back home to you. neither of you will have to worry about them anymore.

and you're his girl, after all; even if you're scared or horrified or disgusted by his actions, you'll find yourself completely uncaring by the end of the night, when he's holding you in a headlock, firm bicep pressing into your airway and his chest pushed up right against your back. you're in tears, overwhelmed by everything you're feeling, everything you know is wrong (he's an escaped convict, for heaven's sake), and his breathless words are low and urgent in your ear—who do you belong to, c'mon, say it, that's right, my good girl—

and maybe he's a little scared that you'll still leave him after this, maybe he's gone too far. but you're lying under him, boneless, and his arms are braced on either side of you, and you push yourself up on your elbows (with considerable effort) and say, if he's still really yours, won't he kiss you again? and he smiles the biggest he has in a while, because he knows he won—and with you, he always will.

hi im back. sorry. i hate myself too. this man will be the death of me. 0.6k words

[dontyouworrydaddy]

could you write a fic about dex having a blind girlfriend w heightened hearing like matt?💗

Your Heartbeat

Benjamin Poindexter x fem!Reader

warning: fluff!

A/N: This was so much fun to write! Hope you enjoy reading this🫶🏻

The apartment always sounded different when Dex was about to come home.

You noticed it every night without even trying. The pipes groaning in the walls, the old elevator humming somewhere below, rainwater dripping from the fire escape outside the kitchen window. People arguing outside on the street. Usually those sounds blurred together into familiar background noise, easy to ignore. After all, it took you years before you could ignore them. But when Dex was on his way home, your attention always sharpened, like your body knew him before your mind did.

Tonight, you heard him the second he stepped into the building lobby. Even though your body noticed when he walked into your street.

You knew the rhythm of him better than anyone now. You recognized the sound of his breathing, the metallic sound from the zipper of his jacket, the way he walks, even the pace of his heartbeat echoing faintly through the elevator cables as he came upstairs.

You smiled a little from where you were curled up on the couch beneath a blanket, listening carefully as he stopped outside the apartment door. There was always a pause before he unlocked it. You’d timed it once as a joke and he sounded genuinely offended that you noticed.

“You’re creepy.” he’d told you.

“You literally stalk people baby.” you’d answered. Tonight though his pause lingered a little longer. Then the lock clicked. And you knew instantly.

Cold air drifted inside alongside the scent of rain and the familiar smell of his cologne and immediately your shoulders relaxed. Dex shut the door behind him before kicking his shoes off near the entrance, movements slower than usual.

“You’re still awake?” he asked softly. The exhaustion in his voice tugged at your chest instantly.

“I said I’d wait for you.”

“You should’ve slept.” Lie. You know exactly he secretly always wishes for you to be awake when he gets home.

A tiny smile pulled at your mouth immediately as his heartbeat skipped right after the sentence. Dex had never figured out how impossible it was to hide things from you. Every emotion gave itself away eventually and this through his pulse, his breathing, the tension in his muscles, the rhythm of his footsteps.

You tilted your head toward him knowingly. “You like when I wait up.”

A pause. Then another little stumble in his heartbeat.

You grinned. “There it is.”

Dex exhaled softly and you could practically hear the eye roll in it. “You abuse your abilities.”

“Well, I can’t see your facial expressions so there was an alternative needed. Plus, you’re just easy to read.”

“I’m not.” The lie was so immediate this time that you laughed out loud. Easy for you to read, not for others.

His footsteps crossed the apartment toward you, silent against the floor except to your ears and a second later the couch dipped beside you. The warmth coming off him hit first, followed by the faint smell of rain still clinging to his jacket. Without thinking, you reached for him automatically, fingertips brushing against his sleeve before sliding up to his arm.

The tension there made you soften immediately.

“Long day?” you asked quietly. Dex was silent for a second and you listened carefully as his heartbeat slowed beneath your touch little by little. That happened every time you touched him. Like his body recognized safety before his mind did.

“Yeah.” he admitted finally. Truth.

You leaned closer until your shoulder rested lightly against his. “Wanna talk about it?”

“No.” Lie. Your smile widened instantly. He knew better than to lie to you. You always know when someone is lying or not.

Dex groaned quietly beside you. “You make arguing impossible.”

“You make lying impossible.”

“That feels manipulative.”

“You’re talking?” He laughed softly under his breath then. You loved that sound more than almost anything. Dex didn’t laugh often, not real laughs anyway. Most of the time he held himself too tightly for that, every emotion suppressed into something small. But around you, sometimes he loosened enough to let pieces of himself breathe and take a break for a few hours.

The first time you’d heard him laugh properly, you’d nearly cried. Now, you turned slightly toward him, lifting your hand and Dex took your hand, taking them in until your fingers found his jaw. His skin was cool from the rain outside, faint stubble rough beneath your fingertips. The second you touched him there, his breathing changed into something slower and steadier.

“You didn’t eat, did you?” you murmured.

“I did.” Lie. Your eyebrows lifted immediately.

Dex sighed. “I had coffee.”

“That’s not food.”

“It counts.”

“It absolutely does not.” You felt him lean into your hand slightly before he caught himself and the tiny unconscious movement made your heart ache in the most sweetest way. Dex wanted affection constantly, almost desperately sometimes, but he still seemed surprised every time you gave it to him. Like part of him expected you to disappear if he reached for it when he wants too much. But that’s something he would never admit.

So you reached first.

“You made pasta yesterday, right?” he asked suddenly, quieter now.

You smiled. “Maybe.” His heartbeat picked up just slightly. This time hopeful. It was adorable.

“You saved me some?”

“You think I’d eat your favorite meal without you?” Another tiny stumble in his pulse.

You’d discovered pretty early on that Dex reacted to tenderness like he crumbles completely apart. Like he searches for it all the time. Small things affected him more than they should’ve. Saving him food. Playing with his hair while he rested. Listening to his Heartbeat. Waiting awake on the couch for him after difficult days. Every soft thing seemed to settle somewhere deep inside him because he genuinely didn’t know what to do with being cared for so completely.

Before you could say anything else, Dex shifted closer suddenly, one arm sliding carefully around your waist before he pulled you sideways into his chest. You let out a soft laugh as the blanket tangled around both of you.

“There,” he murmured quietly against your hair. “Better.”

His heartbeat sounded calmer now beneath your ear. Still tired, still heavy with exhaustion, but no longer with tight the way it had been when he walked through the door.

You curled against him, your hand on against the center of his chest. “You know,” you said softly. “normal people just tell their girlfriends they had a bad day.”

“I did tell you.”

“No, your heart told me.”

Dex hummed thoughtfully like he was considering that. “Betrayal. From my own body.”

You laughed again, and this time he laughed with you properly, the sound warm and low in his chest beneath your hand.

The apartment felt smaller when he held you like this. You could hear Police sirens outside, people arguing over you, but none of it mattered much when Dex’s arms tightened around you just a little more. Then, after a quiet moment, his voice softened near your temple.

“I missed you today.” The sincerity in his heartbeat hit you before the words fully registered. Your heart melted instantly.

“You saw me this morning.”

“Still missed you.”

You smiled so hard your cheeks hurt. “You’re clingy.”

“I’m not clingy.” Lie. But you could tell it was a lie without needing his heartbeat for it.

You burst into laughter and a second later Dex buried his face against your shoulder with a groan as his heartbeat finally settled into something soft and steady beneath your ear.

[hanasnx]

Just found your Noir content. Glad someone is writing for him. Noir and breeding kink? Been thinking about Noir fucking me in a mating press ever since he attacked Starlight in season 2. He can hold me down and choke me out like that any day.

MINORS DNI 18+ NOTES: babe that fuckin mating press goes hard doesn’t it? goddamnnnnn. noir putting you in a mating press <333that whole thing with starlight was fuckin crazy i was clawing the walls

Rough grunts expel from BLACK NOIR’s nose with each sharp thrust, plowing into you from the angle the position provides. Folded up over yourself with no regard to your comfort, he’s got you bunched up in a way that pleases him. Heavy body leans over you, harsh hands on the backs of your thighs keeping you good and spread from him. You’ve certainly gotten more flexible since you’ve started fucking him. The edges of his armor dig into you, but you can’t even register it over the overwhelming sensation of being filled. Fat cock drives into you at a reckless pace, forcing air from your lungs as if its piston defines your diaphragm’s every move. You can barely breathe from being crushed.

There’s something different about his angle, not only is it mind-bending, tremors wracking through your body as your eyes roll so far back in your head they ache, but it’s the way he handles it. Grabbing you like he owns you, redirecting your body in any way he desires, muscling you into submitting underneath him so he can fuck your hole in peace when you squirm too much. Your cervix gets kissed by his tip occasionally, but he wants you to be still and take it. For his dick? You’ll do anything.

You let him mate with you. The way he’s fucking you reminds you of an animal. Pinning you down as if you’ll escape at your first chance, growls escaping him, possessively filling up your cunt with the wet sounds of a cock finding its home. Usually, you’re the dirty talker in the bedroom, but he’s effectively silenced you, yanking you into his bucks with his firm hold on your thighs.

It used to be difficult to tell what he’s thinking, but he can’t be more clear now. The stutter in his hips is a dead giveaway to his impending load, and usually this would be the point in which he’d pull out and fist his cock to cum on you. Stomach, face, ass, he loved to paint you. Instead, he’s keeping it in, not only that but he’s still moving. Like he wants to fuck a baby in you.

“Noir— Noir!” you scold, but he continues. Swollen cock bullying your insides as it twitches with need to cum. “Don’t you— don’t you dare—“ you’re able to get the words out, concentrating hard on forming a sentence when your brain is so empty. The idea of him cumming in you is appealing, but you don’t know how Supes work. You’ve never had that conversation with him. What if he’s not sterile?

Lips slot against your ear, and if you weren’t mistaken, you could’ve sworn they form and mouth the word “baby.”

[bimbosicko]

BUT YOU FOUND A WAY TO KEEP ME HERE

no matter how many layers you wear, you still feel cold when you’re alone. you’ve started suspecting the feeling has very little to do with temperature. ۶ৎ

pairings ! lars lindstrom x fem! reader

warnings ! lowercase on purpose, reader can be read as neurodivergent, mentions of body image issues, mentions of past depression, non-sexual nudity, implied family issues i think, ooc lars maybe??, a little angst/comfort, FLUFF. english is not my first language!! part two of this ! title from: misuse oh — ethel cain.

author's note ! oh my god, this is long as hell and i lowk didn't know how to end this!!! please remember that my requests are open for any ryan gosling character!! please YAP ABOUT THEM IN MY ASKS!! PLWEASSEEE 🤧 ok thank u.

word count ! 3,9k words (so long i'm sorryyy).

since meeting lars, you’ve learned two things about him very quickly: he is devastatingly good at scrabble, and he knows how to chop wood.

you watch him outside sometimes through the kitchen window, sweater discarded and only wearing his flannel and white undershirt, splitting logs with repetition.

lars loves repetition. you think it makes him comfortable with himself; actions repeated enough times stop requiring conscious thought entirely.

you don't think anyone else has noticed that about him.

“...and you don’t use wet wood,” he explains one evening, crouched carefully beside the fireplace. “it smokes too much.”

you nod seriously like this is the first time you've heard this information. it is not.

you already know how to build a fire; your father taught you years ago during one particularly bad winter when the power kept cutting out for hours at a time. you remember sitting cross-legged on the floor wrapped in blankets while he explained airflow and why flames suffocate without enough oxygen. you remember the gray in his head more than the instructions.

still, you let lars explain it anyway.

“dry leaves first,” he continues, focused entirely on the tiny structure he’s building between the logs. “then smaller branches. then bigger pieces after it catches.”

his personality changes when he teaches things. care reveals itself in strange ways, you suppose. sometimes it’s simply someone believing you’re worth explaining things to carefully. you hadn’t realized how long it had been since someone last treated you gently enough to teach you something without irritation. years, maybe? no. longer than that.

lars’ house is comfy. it's not really a house; it's more like a modified garage, but you never cared about that.

your mother used to say calling a house “comfy” was just a polite way of admitting it was small. but lars’ house isn’t small; at least you don't think so, and your mom used to be more wrong than right most of the time.

lars’ house feels safe in quiet ways your apartment never has. you find yourself lingering longer every visit. gus didn't believe you the first time you explained the way his house made you feel, thinking you were making a bad joke.

“he doesn’t even turn his lights on,” he said slowly, fork suspended halfway to his mouth. “that’s insane.”

you shrugged a little, suddenly embarrassed by how defensive you felt. “i don’t either.”

across from you, karin looks delighted. you think she genuinely loves how similar you and lars are.

which is a little concerning, honestly.

the snow has started melting by now. ice dripping from rooftops and patches of dead grass reappearing.

no matter how many layers you wear, you still feel cold when you’re alone. you’ve started suspecting the feeling has very little to do with temperature.

ever since meeting lars, you’ve been spending less time by yourself. you're careful about not being too pushy; you can tell lars needs space the same way animals need quiet after being startled. too much pressure, and he retreats into himself immediately, gaze darting elsewhere, shoulders tightening beneath his sweaters, and an uncomfortable smile.

you knock exactly three times whenever you visit; routine makes the behavior yadda yadda, and he opens the door almost immediately now.

still awkward. still avoiding direct eye contact most days. his eyes usually land somewhere beside your shoulder instead, or on the floorboards, or briefly towards the trees outside before flickering back again.

but he opens the door.

sometimes, while stepping inside, you catch the curtains moving in karin and gus’ house across. you know they’re watching.

you know they think the two of you are already together. you aren’t.

probably.

the distinction feels blurrier lately than you’d like admitting.

you don’t actually do much at lars’ house. that’s the weirdest part. you sit at the kitchen counter while he cooks dinner quietly beside you. you fill the quiet, telling him about fabrics at the shop. which materials retain heat best. which textures people buy most during winter. you explain how velvet catches dust embarrassingly fast and how wool shrinks if washed incorrectly.

lars listens carefully to all of it.

sometimes you don't have more fabric to tell him about, so you talk about the weather instead.

“think it’s gonna rain tomorrow,” you say one evening, chin resting against your sleeve while lars stirs soup quietly at the stove.

he glances towards the window automatically. “yeah...”

“i hope it’s not a storm," that catches his attention, and you shrug awkwardly under the weight of his gaze. “i hate storms.”

you don’t tell him thunderstorms used to keep you awake as a child, convinced every sound outside your window meant something terrible approaching. you don’t explain how loneliness worsens during storms—somehow, every room suddenly feels too small and too loud at once.

lars doesn’t ask for explanations anyway.

after dinner, he suggests scrabble quietly. you always say yes immediately.

the two of you play for hours sometimes, knees accidentally brushing beneath the table before both of you subtly readjust in opposite directions. lars becomes strangely competitive during the game, focused intensely on every letter, brows furrowed with concentration severe enough to make you smile.

you didn't even know you could get your ass kicked at scrabble, and you think lars likes winning more than he likes speaking.

you’re not even sure if what you feel for him is romantic, but you know your body feels colder after leaving his house.

that evening ends earlier than you want it to.

you linger by lars’ doorway longer than necessary, coat already on, keys in your hand, while neither of you seems particularly eager to initiate the goodbye. lars stands there half-hidden beneath the warm yellow light from the lamps inside his house.

your boss advised you about this.

“give the man some space,” she’d told you once while folding some clothes behind the counter. “leave him wanting more.”

you hated that immediately, because she didn't seem to realize that you leave wanting more too.

you wave goodbye from your car anyway. lars lifts his hand back awkwardly from the porch.

and then you drive home alone.

making dinner for one person feels different now. the apartment feels too quiet while you stand over the stove. every sound is exaggerated: water boiling, the refrigerator humming faintly, and forks clinking against ceramic plates.

you thought about adopting a cat sometimes. you’d almost gone through with it once, months ago, after seeing a little gray kitten sleeping in the pet shop window downtown. something small and warm waiting for you at home sounded nice back then.

now the idea feels wrong, egoistical.

your mother used to say pets were like permanent babies. you’re not that good with babies.

you know this because karin and gus once asked you and lars to babysit theirs.

you’re still fairly certain it was a setup, karin practically radiating happiness. but they’d both looked so exhausted, pleading that they needed some time alone that refusing felt cruel somehow.

so, there you were, standing awkwardly in their living room, holding an actual human infant against your hip.

“i don’t think i’ve ever taken care of a baby before,” you admit carefully, bouncing the baby gently the way you’ve seen people do in movies.

the fact gus doesn’t immediately correct your form feels encouraging.

“they mostly eat, poop, and sleep,” he says casually while wrapping a scarf around his neck.

“they’re also incredibly fragile.” you remind him. “does lars know how to take care of one?”

“oh, god, no,” gus says instantly, laughing softly. “he is the baby of the family.”

something twists unexpectedly in your stomach at that.

the baby coos suddenly in your arms, tiny hands flexing against your sweater. without thinking, you press your nose gently against theirs. you’ve seen karin do it dozens of times by now; she looked cute doing it. you hope you look the same way.

your mind wanders briefly to what lars looked like as a baby.

“what was he like?” you ask, eyes looking for gus’s ones. “as a baby, i mean.”

“oh.” he smiles to himself as the memories flood his mind. “lars cried constantly. drove our dad and me insane.”

the answer lands strangely inside you. a small heavy feeling settling beneath your ribs, deep into your stomach.

you imagine tiny baby lars crying somewhere in the middle of the night, sensitive to everything already. too cold, maybe. too lonely. wanting comfort badly enough to scream for it.

the image hurts more than it should.

“mhm.” you murmur softly. “yeah, i was a crybaby too.”

“you don’t seem like one," he says, barely giving you any attention while he looks for his coat.

you don’t know why the comment bothers you immediately.

you shift the baby slightly higher against your chest. “my mom used to say i cried every time she left the room,” you admit quietly. “i was always attached to her side.”

you aren’t entirely sure why you say it. maybe to defend yourself. maybe to defend lars.

gus only nods vaguely, already focused on finding his keys. you realized he stopped listening to you entirely.

the front door opens. karin steps inside first, cheeks pink from the cold air outside, lars following close behind her.

your entire body notices him immediately, straightening your posture at the mere sight of him.

“hi,” you say. you would wave, but there’s a whole baby occupying both of your arms currently.

“hi,” lars answers softly, lifting his hand awkwardly instead.

karin looks thrilled. “you both know where to find us if anything happens,” she says brightly while pulling on her gloves. “good luck.”

you press your cheek softly against the baby’s. “say bye to mom and dad,” you murmur playfully.

you see by the corner of your eye lars closing his eyes tightly for one brief second before reopening them again.

a second pit forms in your stomach, this time different. heat rising towards your cheeks. you hope that you imagined that, because the idea of lars liking the image of you with a baby is too much to handle at the moment.

so you say nothing.

——

you were right about the rain. unfortunately, you were also right about the storm.

the sky had looked wrong all afternoon, heavy in a swollen gray. customers at the shop kept glancing towards the windows nervously while wind rattled against the glass.

“i can drive you home,” your boss offered while locking up for the evening. “your car looks like it dies out of spite.”

you narrowed your eyes immediately. “that was unnecessarily mean.”

“it’s also true.”

you refused anyway. partly because accepting help still embarrasses you in ways you haven’t outgrown apparently and partly because you trust your car despite everything. it’s old and ugly, yes, but loyal. your car has seen you cry before; that has to count for something in your opinion.

so naturally, because your opinion doesn't matter, it breaks down halfway home.

you stare ahead in silence for a full five seconds after it happens, hands still gripping the steering wheel tightly as rain pounds violently against the windshield.

“well,” you mutter finally.

thunder cracks somewhere nearby. the sound is so sudden and close your entire body jerks instinctively.

you hate thunderstorms.

as a child you used to think lightning existed specifically to reveal terrible things hidden in darkness. murderers, monsters, and people that walked too slow.

the church nearby only makes the fear worse. its lightning rod cuts sharply against the storm-dark sky now; you feel every thunder deep into your ribs. you inhale slowly, then exhale, and you try again.

your car is not restarting.

of course it fucking isn’t.

rain batters loudly against the roof while you debate your options. karin and gus’ house is close enough to walk to from here. you know they wouldn’t mind helping.

but then your thoughts drift automatically towards lars. and immediately recoil again.

you saw him yesterday, and showing up unexpectedly during a thunderstorm feels dangerously close to becoming too much. too needy. too attached. you know people can grow tired of being needed eventually.

the possibility terrifies you more than the storm does.

because you genuinely don’t know what you’d do if lars ever started looking exhausted by your presence.

you sit inside your car for another two minutes listening to rain hammer against metal. then finally step outside.

your coat darkens within seconds, rain clinging heavily to your hair and your sleeves, soaking through denim at the knees almost immediately. spring rain is different from winter snow: less sharp, but somehow more invasive. you shiver hard.

you hate how afraid you still are of storms at your age. every lightning flash still turns the world briefly unreal around you, empty streets appearing and disappearing in violent white bursts. the neighborhood is completely deserted.

your socks are already wet despite your best boots. at least it isn’t winter anymore; you think snow might actually kill you in weather like this.

you reach karin and gus’ porch first. your hand lifts automatically towards the door, about to knock. your eyes can't stop themselves from stealing a look at lars’ house.

across the road, his porch light is on.

your brain thinks it before you can manage to stop it: home.

thunder cracks again over your head, and before you can fully think better of it, your feet are already moving towards lars’ house instead.

you knock three times, as always. then again, louder. you knock a third time before realizing you’re dangerously close to beating his door down entirely.

then you hear movement inside, quick shuffling footsteps. the lock turns.

lars opens the door and stares at you openly for a second, surprise completely unhidden across his face.

“you’re wet.”

you blink at him. “there’s sort of a thunderstorm happening,” you point out gently.

a smile slips onto your face despite the cold. lars standing there half-awake and startled somehow immediately eases the panic sitting beneath your ribs.

“my car broke down,” you explain. “sorry.”

your teeth chatter slightly around the last word, “god, i’m freezing.”

instinctively, you almost reach towards his hand to prove your point, but halfway there you remember yourself and pull your hands quickly back against your chest instead. lars notices anyway.

without hesitation, he steps aside immediately to let you inside.

warmth hits your body all at once. not enough to stop the shaking yet, but enough to hurt slightly. your soaked clothes cling heavily to your skin as water drips onto his floorboards. the house smells faintly like cedarwood and laundry detergent and burnt wood from the fire earlier still lingering in the air.

you suddenly feel horribly intrusive.

“i’m sorry,” you say quickly while pulling your shoes off awkwardly by the door. “i was actually going to go to karin’s house, but…” but what?

but your body chose him automatically? but thunderstorms make you want comfort in embarrassing ways?

you say nothing instead.

“i’m glad you came here.” he says, softly.

your entire body reacts immediately, warmth rushing suddenly beneath your skin despite the freezing rain still soaking through your clothes. it’s humiliating how much power simple kindness has over you.

“do you maybe have a towel?” you ask, squeezing water absently from your sleeve. “or— i dunno, maybe i could shower or something? i really don’t want to bother you, i just—”

“yeah.”

lars answers so quickly you stop talking entirely.

“yeah,” he repeats, already moving slightly towards the hallway. “i’ll make you a bath.”

you smile at him instinctively despite still visibly trembling. “i’m probably going to need some clothes too,” you admit.

lars nods once.

“i think i still have some things from bianca.”

of course you know who bianca is. you know most things about lars by now, collected slowly over evenings at his kitchen table. bianca. the doll. the breakdown, then the funeral. you’d never make fun of him for it.

“okay,” you say gently. you give him a small thumbs-up even though your fingers are still shaking violently from the cold.

lars immediately starts moving around the house afterwards with hurried awkward energy. he looks slightly lost, but he’s trying so hard.

and there’s something devastating about watching someone unfamiliar with caretaking attempt it carefully anyway just because you need them to.

lars disappears down the hallway for several minutes. you stay there, standing near the front door, rainwater slowly collecting beneath your boots while thunder rattles faintly through the windows.

when lars finally comes back, he’s carrying a towel folded carefully over one arm and a pile of clothes against his chest. he extends them towards you without fully meeting your eyes.

you take them gently. “thank you.” the sweater on top is soft-looking, pale blue. slightly oversized. “they’re cute.”

lars blinks hard at that.

“i’ll—” he swallows once. “i’ll fill the bath.”

his hands are shaking a little. you notice because you’ve started noticing everything about him now. the way his breathing changes when he’s overwhelmed. the way he clenches his jaw slightly before speaking difficult sentences aloud.

you nod softly. “okay.”

you stay put after he leaves, partly because you’re worried about dripping water all over his floors. you glance absently towards the kitchen and you wonder if lars owns a mop. thunder cracks outside again. you wrap the towel tighter around yourself instinctively, breathing slowly until the shivering stops slightly.

lars returns a few minutes later.

“bath’s ready.”

he sounds slightly breathless. you immediately hope it isn’t because of nerves.

“okay,” you say, again. without meaning to, you mimic his tone exactly out of breath.

the bathroom is small. like everything in lars’ house. you’re oddly surprised by the bathtub. for some reason you always imagined lars as exclusively a shower person.

you place the folded clothes carefully on the sink cabinet. then you turn towards him, waiting for him to leave.

lars stays exactly where he is, watching you. his hands are curled tightly into fists at his sides. shoulders stiff. eyes fixed somewhere near your face but not making eye contact.

he looks terrified suddenly, though of what exactly you can’t tell. your stomach twists uneasily.

“lars?” you say his name gently, confused.

the rain continues softly outside while the bathroom light hums faintly overhead.

“can i…” lars’ voice catches halfway through the sentence. you wait quietly. “watch you bathe?”

your eyes widen slightly in surprise.

you know lars well enough by now to recognize that whatever this is, it isn’t casual. nothing about him is casual.

“oh,” you say softly.

your mind tries to fit the pieces together; lars standing rigid in the bathroom doorway. lars avoiding touch but watching your every move. lars admitting once that he’d never actually seen a woman naked before. not even bianca.

“oh, lars,” you murmur gently now, understanding dawning slowly. “is this because you’re curious?”

his shoulders tense immediately, eyes closing with force.

“about bodies, i mean,” you clarify.

he nods softly.

“that’s okay,” you say softly. “i’m curious about your body too.” the confession leaves your mouth before you fully think it through.

your eyes widen almost immediately afterwards.

“not like—” heat rushes painfully into your face. “i mean, i would never ask you to— not that there’s anything wrong with—” you stop yourself before embarrassing yourself entirely.

you inhale once slowly, then nod. “okay,” you murmur. “yeah. you can… watch me bathe.”

the soaked fabric hits the bathroom floor heavily when you drop it. cold air brushes immediately against newly exposed skin, raising goosebumps along your arms and stomach. standing in your underwear in front of someone who isn’t technically your boyfriend should probably feel more scandalous than this.

but lars doesn’t feel like not your boyfriend either.

you wonder what this means to him. surely lars wouldn’t ask this if he didn’t imagine some future between you both eventually. unless he trusts you this much because he sees you as something safer than romance entirely: a best friend, someone comforting precisely because desire isn’t involved. your stomach twists uneasily at the possibility.

your fingers linger uncertainly against the clasp of your bra. you hesitate, and think briefly about bianca: perfect plastic proportions, smooth untouched skin, impossible symmetry.

your body is painfully human in comparison. real skin, stretch marks against your thighs, tiny scars you barely remember getting, and texture everywhere.

you hope lars doesn’t notice any of it. and immediately feel guilty for hoping that at all. as if insecurity itself is a betrayal against the female body.

“do i…” you glance towards him for the first time since you dropped your clothes, doubtfully. “keep my bra on?”

lars hasn’t looked away from your body once. he’s barely blinking, expression fixed in intense concentration, like he’s terrified of missing even a second of your skin.

“lars,” you say again softly, trying not to laugh despite your nervousness. “my underwear?”

that finally seems to break him from the state he was trapped in. he nods quickly, almost alarmed by the alternative.

you think that if he sees anything more, he might actually die on the spot.

it feels strange stepping into a bath while still wearing your underwear, but the warmth reaches you so quickly you stop caring almost immediately.

the bathtub is smaller than you expected. your heels brush the porcelain when you shift slightly, water lapping softly against your stomach. lars keeps watching you.

your body notices him immediately; you should probably feel nervous sitting half-dressed in warm water while someone watches from beside the bathtub, but instead you just feel… seen gently.

you close your eyes for a second, letting your head rest lightly against the edge of the tub. the warmth sinks deeper into your muscles now, softening places inside you that have been tense for months.

suddenly, water spills softly across your shoulder.

your eyes open immediately; you see lars crouched beside the bathtub, holding a small plastic cup in his hands. he looks deeply concentrated while carefully pouring warm water over your skin, his movements slow enough not to startle you.

you stare at him quietly; his brows knit together with focus. the nervousness is still lingering visibly in his shoulders despite how gentle he’s being. you want to thank him, but speaking feels wrong, like words might shatter whatever delicate thing exists in the room.

your eyes settle on the bathroom tiles instead. you want to watch him, but you know lars startles easily around attention sometimes, especially the direct kind, so you keep your gaze lowered instead.

“that’s nice,” you admit softly, sighing relaxed.

lars pauses beside you. “yeah?”

you nod.

from the corner of your eye, you notice lars moving again. his hand hesitates near your shoulder for half a second, then moves to your bra strap.

your breath catches, and his fingers hook gently beneath the damp fabric strap, pulling it slightly lower against your shoulder. your stomach fills with an overwhelming warmth, so intense it almost hurts.

you think suddenly, helplessly: my lars.

he thinks back: your lars.

[rocktthehouse]

Dad of the Year - Holland March x F!Reader [MDNI 18+]

Summary: You somehow waltzed into the Marchs’ lives one day and never left. You’re a strong, independent, and smart role model for Holly, and a sexy, demanding, and dominant figure for Holland. However, it’s not established that you're Holland’s serious girlfriend,... yet.

₊⊹content warnings: smut smut smut!! mdni 18+ only! established relationship between holland and reader (albeit a couple months), lowkey a mother figure to holly (she loves you!!!), domestic fluff at first, mentions of holland’s alcoholism and how he's trying to quit drinking, afab!reader, holland is pathetic, dom!reader & sub!holland, HE WHIMPERS A LOT!!! but sweet ending :) you hath been warned!!

.✦ ݁˖word count: 3k.✦ ݁˖

author's note: first time writing for holland, hope y'all like it!! computa make him whimper and cry during sex. ok love ya bye⭑.ᐟ

“Dad, Miss [Y/LN]’s here! C’mon, get up already--”

You could hear Holly’s high-pitched voice from behind the front door, and a low groan from Holland right after.

The door opened to reveal Holly standing in the entryway, a big smile on her face and her school bag thrown over her shoulder. In the background, Holland could be seen leaning against the kitchen counter, a lit cigarette hanging lazily from his lips.

Holly stepped aside for you to enter the home, and you gave her a warm smile.

“Hey, kiddo. You ready for the big math test today?”

You gave her shoulder a light, endearing squeeze, and she nodded. Holly mentioned to you last week about this big, scary math test coming up, and you had helped her with her homework and checked in on her every once in a while to make sure she’d been studying, instead of getting into trouble.

“Should be! I stayed up late studying… but not too late! Dad didn’t even drink last night, either, which was a bonus.”

“What a thoughtful guy.” You said dryly, a smirk forming on your lips as your gaze fell on Holland’s slouched figure in the kitchen.

Holland pretended as if he took offence to your sarcasm, scoffing as he tapped his cigarette into the ashtray.

“I’m really trying over here, alright? Gimme a break,” Holland grumbled, clearly a bit frustrated from the alcohol withdrawals. He’d been on and off with drinking lately, but hadn't picked up the bottle in the last couple of days, so his patience was wearing thin.

“Dad of the year award goes to…” Holly muttered as she rolled her eyes.

You gave Holly a gentle nudge with your elbow and gestured with a nod for her to head out to the car.

“I’ll be out in a sec, hon. Just gonna have a quick chat with your dad.”

Holly bobbed her head cheerfully and skipped down the front steps to your car.

You strutted across the room to where Holland was, and he straightened his posture as you got closer. You drew in a deep breath, mostly out of habit, to see if you could smell the scent of whiskey on him. But this morning he smelled like tobacco and day-old cologne, mixed with his usual musk.

You looked up at Holland, a smug grin painted across your lips. You watched as the cigarette dangled from his trembling lip.

You had this effect on Holland; you were a dominant woman. Cunning, gorgeous, independent. You knew what you wanted and always got it. But you were also kind, loving, and so genuine. You made his head spin and the front of his trousers tent.

“How’s my baby doing today?” You asked with an eyebrow cocked and a freshly manicured hand on your hip.

Holland gulped. He could already feel his cock straining against the zipper of his pants.

“G-good. A l-little shaky today, b-but… good.”

His hands gripped the kitchen counter behind him. You were standing close, your body almost flush against his. He felt trapped by you, and it drove him nuts.

Your hands reached up to fix one of the buttons on his wrinkled dress shirt, and Holland’s breath caught in his throat as your fingers grazed his chest.

You couldn’t help but smile at the way you had this man wrapped around your finger.

“Good, sweetheart. Put those shaky hands to good use later, okay?” Your voice was low and velvety in Holland’s ear.

You caught Holland’s eye twitching nervously, and your gaze lowered down to his groin. There was an impressive tent in his trousers.

Your hands raked down his chest and grazed the outline of his cock, which strained against the fabric of his pants. Holland let out a short, high-pitched whine.

“Well, we don't want Holly waiting too long. She’s got a big day ahead of her. She’s gonna ace that test, I can feel it.”

You stepped back from Holland, and he looked as if he was ready to collapse. His breathing was laboured, and he stamped his barely lit cigarette out in the ashtray.

As you made your way to the front door, Holland called out behind you.

“Y’know, I, uh… I really appreciate what you're doing for Holly. She really needs s-someone like… like you in her life.”

You stopped at the door, your hand grasping the door frame as you casually looked over your shoulder, meeting Holland’s eyes.

“Oh, don’t kid yourself, March. You need me just as bad.”

And with that, you got in your car and drove Holly to school, leaving Holland behind in the kitchen, feeling faint from his hard-on for you.

On the drive to school, you and Holly went over the test material that would be on her math quiz later that day. You made sure to mention how proud of her you were, that she was really turning her grades around and taking her education more seriously.

“Y’know, Holly. There’s nothing more dangerous than an educated woman.” You'd say to her.

You pulled up to the school drop-off zone, putting your car in park and turning to say goodbye to Holly. But Holly interrupted you.

“Miss [Y/L/N],--”

“Please, hon, just call me [Y/N]. You’re makin’ me feel old.” You tutted while checking yourself in the rearview mirror, using your middle finger to soften the harsh line of your lipstick.

Holly drew in a deep breath before continuing.

“Dad said I have to call you Miss [Y/L/N], to be respectful. Anyways, I just wanted to say… Thanks for always being there for me. I know it's only been a couple of months, but… I really like you. You’re not like the other women my dad’s been with… after my mom died.”

You glanced at Holly with an inquisitive eyebrow raised.

“What do you mean, ‘not like the other women’?”

“Well, you’re not a whore. You’re really nice and smart.”

“Hey, don’t discredit whores. You never know when you're gonna need one.”

Holly let out a half-stifled giggle.

“But I appreciate that, Holly. You’re a good kid,”

You both paused for a moment.

“I just want to make sure you get ahead in life.”

Your fingers fidget with the leather on the steering wheel. This was the first tender moment you and Holly had shared since you came into her life. However, her kind words settled the anxiety you had around your role in her life. Albeit short, it seemed like you had made a good impression on the young girl, which was what you had hoped for.

Holly reached for the door handle to exit the car, and you met her gaze. She looked a bit nervous, probably about her test later, so you gave her another heartfelt smile.

“You got this, hon. You’re gonna kill it. I’ll be back later to pick you up, okay?”

Holly gave you a big grin, nodding cheerfully as she exited the car. She gave you an enthusiastic wave as she walked through the doors of her school, joining the crowd of students.

You gripped the gearshift and put the car into drive and sped off down the road, back to the March residence.

Inside, Holland had been waiting impatiently for your return. He felt like he was seeing double; his cock was so hard, it made him feel like he was going to pass out any minute.

He paced his sunken living room, nervously running his fingers through his hair. He itched for a drink to calm his nerves, but he knew he definitely wouldn't be able to stay hard if he did.

Holland’s ears perked up at the sound of your key turning in the lock, and he spun around to see you walking through his front door. He felt his dick twitch in his pants at the sight of you.

“Miss me?”

The words dripped from your lips like honey.

God, did Holland miss you.

And you were only gone for, what, fifteen minutes?

“Fuck yes, I did.”

Holland rushed you where you were standing, his lips making contact with the tender skin under your jaw. His facial hair prickled against your soft skin as he nipped and sucked at your neck, his hands grasping at your hips and ass.

Your hands travelled up his back and neck, and found their way into his dirty-blonde hair. You gripped a handful of his hair with your fist, yanking his head back so he could look you in the eyes.

His pupils were blown with lust, but there was a hint of fear in his eyes.

And that only made you wetter.

“So needy already, sweetheart.” You tutted in a disapproving tone and tightened your grip on the fistful of Holland’s hair.

Holland let out a pathetic whimper at the burning feeling on his scalp.

“Please, baby. I-I’ve been so good, I--”

Holland’s voice cracked pathetically.

You let go of the fistful of Holland’s hair, and he whined as he stumbled. You steadied him by using one hand to grip his shoulder and the other to palm his hard-on through his pants.

“You think you deserve to be fucked by me?” You questioned in a low, harsh tone.

Holland swallowed nervously, but you felt his cock twitch against your palm.

“No, n-never. Never in a million years--”

“That’s right. Good boy,”

Holland could feel his knees start to buckle under him. His hands were shaking; he wasn’t sure if it was from the alcohol withdrawals or his animalistic desire for you.

You pushed Holland towards the bedroom, letting the man stumble around as he began unbuttoning his day-old dress shirt and unbuckling his pants. His hair was messy, his eyes half-lidded with lust, all while his fingers trembled with anticipation.

Oh, it was a pretty sight.

Holland perched on the bed, on his hands and knees, his shirt half-unbuttoned, and pants unbuckled as he looked up at you with his big, puppy dog eyes.

You could see Holland’s straining cock trying to push free from his zipper. His chest rising and falling with every anticipating breath, ready for your next command.

You slowly began stripping in front of the pathetic man, teasing him with every layer you peeled off (painfully slow, I might add).

Every time his hand reached out for you, to feel your soft skin, you’d slap it away.

“Did I say you could touch me?”

Your tone was harsh.

Holland would rather die than disappoint you, so he sat back on his heels. He was looking up at you with needy eyes, the vein in his forehead pulsing as he tried to restrain himself.

Soon, you were completely nude in front of Holland, and his jaw flexed as he gritted his teeth. His pupils were blown wide with lust as his gaze washed up and down your figure.

Holland could feel saliva starting to pool under his tongue.

“Please,” his voice croaked. “Please, can I taste you?”

You couldn't help but smile at his bedroom etiquette.

God, Holland was desperate.

You took a couple of steps toward him, and his head fell back to keep eye contact with you. His hands were fidgeting with his belt buckle, and you glanced at the large print of his cock under his briefs, peeking through his unzipped pants.

Your hand found purchase around Holland’s pretty throat and gave it a light squeeze before your lips made contact with his. He groaned against your mouth, his voice vibrating against the pressure of your palm against his windpipe.

The kiss was hot, sloppy, and passionate, and when you broke away, a string of Holland’s saliva connected your lips to his own.

Your fingers made quick work of unbuttoning the rest of Holland’s wrinkled dress shirt and tossing it to the side. You gave him a not-so-gentle push backwards, making him lose balance and fall back onto the soft bed with a ‘oof’.

“I guess you’ve been good enough. Right, darling?”

Your tone was teasing. Holland gulped, appearing almost frantic.

“I-I’ve been real good, baby, I swear--”

“Then get to work.”

With one leg on either side of Holland’s ribcage, you looked down into Holland’s wide, blue eyes as he nodded desperately. He shimmied under you to line his face up with your wet, slick core, his hands inching up your soft thighs and spreading them even wider.

Without hesitation, Holland hooked his strong arms under your thighs and pulled you down towards him. In seconds, you were sitting on top of his face as his lips feverishly licked and sucked at your bud of nerves. You could feel his prickly mustache and stubble rubbing against your pussy, creating eye-rolling friction against your wetness.

Your fingers grabbed hold of his tousled, dirty-blonde hair, tugging at his scalp as his tongue explored inside of you. You could feel Holland’s prominent nose rubbing and bumping against your clit, driving you crazy.

You let out a soft moan, barely audible, but it only made Holland work harder. He derived immense pleasure from hearing your moans, knowing that he was pleasing you how you liked. He was desperate for your praise, to make you feel good.

You began rocking your hips against his tongue and chin, revelling in the feeling of his facial hair rubbing against your core.

Suddenly, you felt the pad of Holland’s thumb pressing against your clit, rubbing quick, unforgiving circles against the swollen bud. You tossed your head back in ecstasy, eyes rolling back as unmistakable moans of pleasure tumbled out of you.

You could feel Holland whimpering and crying against your pussy, the vibrations of his whines sending shockwaves up your core. He couldn’t help it; he could barely breathe, but he knew this was the way he wanted to go out. He would die a happy man with his face buried in your pretty pussy.

With the combination of the feeling of his tongue dipping into your wet heat and his thumb circling your clit, you couldn’t hold back your orgasm any longer.

You let out a choked sob as your climax came crashing down. You had no strength to hold yourself up, and you found Holland’s hands gripping your sides, trying to steady your body as he clambered out from under you.

You fell back against the pile of soft pillows, eyelids fluttering as you tried to regain your energy after your intense orgasm. You felt the weight of Holland next to you in the bed.

Holland rubbed your thigh, trying to soothe you and bring you back to reality. You reached out for him, grasping his wife-pleaser by the collar and pulling him toward you for a sloppy, passionate kiss.

“Did I do alright?” Holland asked, with big, pleading eyes. His lips, mustache, and stubbled chin were shiny with your wetness. You could see his erection was still pressing against his trousers, but there was a large wet spot from him leaking his pre-cum.

“Oh, Holland. Don’t ask stupid questions and just fuck me.” Your voice was high and fluttery, a stark contrast to your usual low, teasing tone.

You helped Holland peel off the rest of his layers, and he settled himself between your legs, hips pressing against yours as he lined up his large cock and sank into your aching core.

Slowly, inch by agonizing inch, he filled you up with his impressive cock and began to pump in and out of your pussy. The noises that were coming from you two were wet, sloppy, and downright sinful.

Your fingernails raked down Holland’s back, leaving bright red lines behind, marking your territory. You wrapped your legs around Holland’s hips, pulling him closer to you as he bottomed out. His large hands gripped your waist hard, as if he was worried you’d disappear on him.

He let out a pathetic whimper as he buried his face in the crook of your neck, muttering something inaudible. You knew he was trying his very best not to come fast; usually, if he looked you in the eyes while inside of you, it was game over for Holland.

In between thrusts, he kept blubbering in your ear, stringing together words that didn’t make any sense.

“Baby, I can’t hear you--”

Holland lifted his head from your shoulder and looked you square in the face.

“I-I love you, alright?” Holland exclaimed in between thrusts, and you could see tears forming in his eyes. Holland’s pace slowed for a moment as he blinked back tears, cheeks flushed with embarrassment.

“I-I’m sorry, I uh-I don’t know what came over me. Just forget I said anything.”

Holland started to backtrack and sped up his pace. Your hands cupped his jaw, forcing Holland to look you in the eyes again.

“No, no… It’s okay, Holland. I… I love you, too.”

Holland stopped thrusting entirely, his jaw slack with astonishment as he watched your face, looking for any hint of humour.

“You really mean that?”

“Yes, dumbass. I wouldn’t be doing all this shit for you if I didn’t.”

“I… Right, you’re right. I’m stupid. Can I… can I call you my girlfriend?”

You cocked an eyebrow, giving Holland a judgemental look.

“Since when is that how you ask a grown woman to be your girlfriend?”

“Fuck, shit. I’m sorry. Will… will you be m-my girlfriend?”

“God, you’re pathetic. Yes, Holland.”

There’s a hint of annoyance in your tone, but you can't help but smile up at Holland above you. A dumb, lopsided smile spreads across his lips before he gets back down to business, pushing your thighs to your chest and drilling into your aching pussy.

Not long after professing your love for each other, you're both cumming in unison, bodies spasming together as you both come down from your high.

Holland’s full weight was on top of you, softening cock still inside you as he brushed your hair away from your face. He nuzzled into your neck, kissing the sensitive skin under your jaw.

You can't help but let out a breathy laugh at the handsome man’s pathetic clinginess post-coitus.

“Holly’s gonna be so happy when I tell her the good news,”

Holland murmured as he pressed a long kiss to your temple.

“Great, why don't you tell her when you pick her up from school today?”

Holland let out a loud chuckle. You shot him an annoyed look.

“I was thinking about having a few drinks to celebrate.”

“Dad of the year, everybody.”

[the end!]

[divider credit: @thecutestgrotto]

[talesofanemerald]

Idc, normalize kink shaming. Cause y'all be using “don’t kink shame” and “it’s fiction” to excuse being into incest, pedophilia, cannibalism, etc. Like, be so fr, you ship a 14 year old with a 30 year, want to get railed by your dad and want to see two brothers f*ck each other. I don’t engage with things fictionally that I don’t like/wouldn’t want to do in real life. Yes, I’m judging you.

[maiamore]

inexperienced clark asking bestfriend reader how to make a girl feel good, and she teaches him how to eat her out (please make him so nerdy)

now………….this but party girl!reader with her sweet, kind best friend!clark who's just so desperate to fuck her that he'd be willing to do anything for her.

tags: smut, inexperienced!clark, uni!au, voyeurism, sexual tension, party girl!reader, perv!clark, munch!clark!! (1.6k+ wc)

—

clark didn't like to admit it, but he had a dirty little secret.

not the sort that would be a felony — gosh no. though it technically would've, if not for the fact he was eighty percent sure that you didn't mind it.

there was no real reason for you to have ever needed to approach him. a girl like you just didn't talk to guys like him without intention. pretty and so incredibly unattainable.

his brain short-circuited from the second you'd approached his desk that day. you were probably headed to someone else near him, he thinks.

but then a dainty manicured palm rested on his shoulders, gentle wafts of bubbly, sparkling berries and fruit fills his senses before he lifts his head. you're at his eye level. with your canines caught on your lower, glossy lip with a sheepish look on your face.

clark, right? think we could work together on our term paper?

it began innocuously. overnight cram sessions in the library, where clark had been mostly doing the work. you'd reward his work with overpriced frappuccino's and spent your time closely beside him.

study sessions then turned to staying over in your dorm room. a logical switch — comfortable and warm, endless refills of 3 in 1 crappy coffee, to list some of the benefits.

but that wasn't clark's favourite part.

it was how comfortable you'd begun to get around him. all sprawled across the rug across him, belly down on the soft pink, while he did assignments. he'd hum mindlessly to your endless rambles of nothing in particular. his gaze would occasionally flicker — to how your shorts would ride up too high on your ass, up to the back-and-forth swaying of your thighs. the gentle chimes of your anklet would mock him, tempting him to look.

and then there'd be times he'd watch as you'd whine about having a bra on, until you'd crack and ask him if he'd mind if you took it off.

who was he to deny letting someone be comfortable, right? naturally, he said 'yeah, of course, you don't need to ask me.' verbatim, in an embarrassingly quick delivery. clark would turn straight ahead at the sound of fabric shifting, stiffening like a board when he sees a bedazzled, leopard patterned bra lands next to him.

what came after was far more torturous. he just couldn't stop staring at you. especially your choice of laying on your back this time. the soft curves of you chest would move much more obviously beneath the thin shirt you had on. he'd have his gaze trained on them, to the barely-there bump where your nipples would be.

even with all that, clark held his composure. none of those things had indicated you wanted him in a concrete sense. so, he let himself be the person you vented to, who did your homework — who pathetically indulged in his perverted habit of catching those subtle moments of you that made his dick twitch.

it was an equal transaction. probably.

"here, i re-wrote it in your language and… misspelt a couple of things so it wouldn't seem like you have a big jump in grades without improvement."

you peek over clark's shoulder curiously, peeling the completed papers from him. "whoa, already? you're amazin' smallville!"

he tries not to look too pleased at the praise, but the deep-set dimples peek through anyway. even more so when you lean in to press a chaste peck to his cheeks. "ah…it's no biggie, really."

"seriously!" your arm curls around the front of his chest. resting there casually as you scroll on your device. clark remains at the foot of your bed, letting out a soft sigh. hands twitchy around the edge of his book. "it kills me that I can't offer you anything in return the favour. like you won't accept cash or —"

"there is something." he pipes up, holding a loose finger.

you raise a brow when he suddenly twists around. arm rested on the edge of your mattress. his chin comes up to rest on his forearm.

"…it's a little embarrassing."

"oh? i don't judge."

he gulps as you lose the distance. mirroring his shy outlook with your cheeks resting on your palms.

"graduations around the corner. you know. it's not like i've had the privilege of being a 'campus-stud'. i think having some…tips…might help. from a real-life girl…and all."

a beat of silence fill the air. and then your laughter cuts through it. sweet, but bordering on an unintentional mocking.

"i'm only real-life girl you know? really?"

"forget it." he mumbles all muffled, face buried in his arms.

"c'monnn i'm just joking around. what do you need help with, mm?" you lower yourself next to clark, trying to coax him out of his burrow. "wardrobe? flirting? you a virginnn' smallville?"

"am not!" he protests, head jerked upright. clark doesn't seem disturbed by your proximity, brows knit with a serious expression. "i have had experience back home."

"hmmmmm. what kind?"

"what…kind? i…dunno. kissing. sex…stuff."

"well that doesn't sound like you know how to do the actual 'stuff.'"

"i know enough." he bites back, embarrassed. "but…what do you mean."

"for starters, eating a girl out?" you begin, testingly watching his reaction.

his lips press taut, and he ponders on his next words. "you mean frenching. kissing with your tongue."

when you don't visibly react to his very wrong answer, he relaxes, right up until you lean in closer, stopping next to his face.

"eating pussy, clark."

clark let's out a shuddering breath, his gaze tracking you as you retreat a couple inches.

"i…no. not…that."

"figures. charm comes from confidence." you shrug. flopping over to lay down on your mattress. "most guys who eat pussy good, tend to have that going for them."

"and…that's the only thing you think I lack?"

you look over your shoulder, taking a long drag over his face. "mm. yeah. honestly. you're a pretty attractive guy. maybe sort of geek-y. but some girls like that. have some confidence. go for the girls you like. you'd be pretty surprised."

"you really think so?…"

"have i ever lied to you?" your arms stretch out to ruffle his hair, a gesture that only get shin to stiffen further in his resolve. "anyway, of course i'll help. we can game plan on how we can get you —"

your words trail off, caught in your throat at the decisive and swift tug of your thighs. clark's palms sturdies themselves beneath your thighs, pulling you to the edge.

you blink in shock as you prop yourself up onto your elbows. "wowww. look at you."

"practising…some confidence." he swallows thickly, peering up at you like he was waiting for the other shoe to drop. "is this…okay?"

amusement curls at the corner of your lips, the prospect of it piquing significant interest in you. slowly, you slide your leg to rest on clark's shoulders. he briefly falters, but looks at you with renewed determination. "think you got it in you?"

clark looked unsure, head tilted as they fall on the delicate jewellery by your ankles. he picks it up, pressing his lips to it. "teach me."

your tongue presses at the insides of your cheeks, watching intently as he trails kisses up your inner thigh. "do what feels natural. you don't have to keep checking in."

clark nods, fingers hooking at the waistband of your shorts. his gaze meets yours momentarily before he tugs them off. you lift your hips to help the fabric slide along further down your thighs, to your ankles. he groans at the sight of you before him, forcing himself to look away.

"…swear you'll tell me if you're uncomfortable?"

"mm-hm."

"okay. ok clark." they're barely audible mumbles as he revvs himself up, carefully lowering his face between your thighs.

the first contact of his lips pressed up onto your clit forces your hips to jump. the warmth of his lips spreading raw need right into your belly. "f-fuck. sorry."

he steadies a palm at uour hipbone, soothing it gently. "too quick?"

"n-no. keep going. it's been a awhile."

"should i just…put my mouth on it?"

"uh…yeah. sort of…like you're making out with it. see what gets me to respond."

he nods to himself, placing deeper kisses down to your core. clark glances up at you momentarily, licking a stripe up your your clit.

"m-mhm, like that." you begin, strained. appreciative hums rumbling deep in your throat. his mouth wraps around your clit, tenderly suckling down further, the eager bud peeking past and throbbing. "fuck. a little harder."

clark's gaze remains on you, the sound of his mouth smacking when he pulls back to dive back deeper, nose deep between your thighs. his glasses shift, a little crooked. your hands curl around the back of his head instinctively, fingers tightening at his curls.

he gets the memo, flicking his tongue on your clit. you whimper, nudging his face with your knees. "i-inside, wanna feel you inside." you manage weakly. the command reaches his ears anyway.

a stuttered groan leaves you at the initial probe of his tongue in your walls. clark watches your reactions before he keeps at the motion, feeling the walls of your pussy tighten around him every time he dove back in.

"ahh…yeah. okay. you can…do both…i feel it there the most."

he pulls away, lips and jaw slick with your arousal. "where?" you feel his fingers tap at your belly, and your free hand wraps around his wrist, guiding him to where you throbbed.

clark offers you a lop-sided smile as he pulls his glasses off, setting them aside neatly beside you. he tugs you further down the edge of the bed, letting your thighs drape around his shoulders.

"you're a good teacher." he points out mindlessly, pressing a careful kiss to your thighs. his eyes glint eagerly as he makes his way back up.

and as you'd find out, the very hard way.

clark kent was a real fucking quick learner.

[herodrip]

WICKED GAMES…… sitting on your boyfriend’s lap proves a bigger issue than you thought

18+ MDNI

🏷️ fem!reader,hands free orgasm,sub!clark [0.6k]

You’re sitting on his lap leaning over the open laptop sat on the kitchen table,scrolling through a news article he called you over to show you and he’s calling on every power in the universe to help him not blow his load right here and now. You’re wearing those pj shorts that he wants banned from the house for this exact reason,the ones that your ass practically swallows up and leaves absolutely nothing to the imagination. Maybe if he just doesn’t look and keeps thinking about anything else he can play this off,maybe if he thinks about work yeah wor- oh god oh god why do you keep moving like that? Do you really need to be squirming so much to read an article? You’ve got to be able to feel him through his flannel pyjamas,surely? If he looks down he can see the outline of his cock nestled between your ass cheeks. He wants the ground to open up and swallow him,what was wrong with him? You must think he’s some sort of pervert,you can’t even sit on his lap without all the blood in his body rushing to his cock. It’s pathetic,he can feel his cheeks heating up as he thinks of you maybe pulling your shorts down,maybe even slipping him out of his pants,lining him up to your entrance and sinking down on him. You wouldn’t even have to move,he’d be happy just to feel your walls gripping around him,fluttering and twitching trying to accommodate his size,you’re always so tight and so warm and so we- what is your deal?! You’re doing it on purpose,you must be,each shift of your hips,the arch of your back as you place your elbows on the table in front of you,you’re torturing him! It’s embarrassing,mortifying really at how close he is,how he can feel his balls tightening with each little wiggle of your ass,how much he wants to thrust up into your softness and make a mess of himself. What would you say to him if you felt the wet patch start to bloom across his pants,would you scold him? Tell him he’s disgusting? Make him clean up the mess by wetting your fingers with it and have him lick them clean? Would you sink down on him anyway,ride him to another orgasm while his sticky cum clings to your thighs? He loves that sound,the thwap thwap thwap of your bodies meeting while he thrusts up into you,your arousal dripping down his balls. Would feel so good, so good “feels so good”. The words escape his throat before he can even register them,a pathetic whine as he ruts himself into you,one,twice. That’s all he needed,just that little bit of friction to have him soaking himself. “s’good s’good” he moans out,sitting up to wrap his arms around your body,pulling you back towards his chest,hands squeezing anywhere they can. He would apologise later,beg for forgiveness for being such a disgusting pervert,sink to his knees in front of you and take anything you wanted to give him but right now he needs to fuck up into you and cry into your ear as his body goes into overdrive,soaked cock twitching and already half hard again.

[sweetjellytea]

benjamin poindexter x fem!reader

synopsis your cat isn't a big fan of you bringing dex around the apartment

notes yes this is based on him feeding that cat in episode 4

tags humor, fluff, just for fun, pretty domestic, dex trying to reason with a cat, mentions of his past

wc 1.5k

Your cat despised him. 

There didn’t seem to be any rhyme or reason behind it. Meeting the little beast for the first time went well enough, after all.

“Let him sniff your hand first.” You cooed at him as you held the furball in your arms.

Dex knew something was up before he even had his hand up to the tabby’s pink nose. It was in his narrowed green eyes, silently confronting him for his past transgressions against its kind.

He knew he didn’t have the best track record with animals, but he didn’t expect any of them to be able to sense it. The staredown lasted a good minute before he decided it was ridiculous that a cat could sense or even have the capacity to judge his past. Surely.

The cat peaked over your arms and sniffed the hand he held out before drawing back, mouth hung open in a flehmen response. You laughed so hard the fluffy thing jumped out of your arms, and you had to hold onto Dex for balance. 

“I’m not offended,” he argued to you. 

But you kept reassuring him anyway, “it’s a natural reaction. He’s getting used to you.” 

Yeah right, Dex thought, he did that on purpose.

The whole ‘getting used to him’ bit never came to pass, either.

Every time he entered your apartment, the previously relaxed feline’s tail would begin flicking back and forth on the sofa irritably. You’d greet Dex with a kiss and ever so sweetly remind him, “don’t forget to greet the cat!” 

The same cat whose ears were currently flattening at the sight of him approaching. 

“He’s usually friendly,” you’d always say after, but he’d give up and sit on the opposite couch.

It wasn’t just that your cat ignored him, either. Dex swore he was going out of his way to inconvenience him at every turn.

The feline would wait for him around the corner for Dex to leave or enter a room, strutting in front of the doorway to trip him with his fluffy body. 

Your cat then developed a spraying problem, which left you puzzled for a while because he was neutered. And only seemed to be targeting the things Dex left in your home, like his gloves and shoes. What a strange coincidence. 

One night, he had come to see you after a long time away. All he wanted to do was sleep beside you, fit your body into the shape of his, feel your hands in his hair…Only, when he came to bed, he saw the damn cat stretched out on his pillow.

“The cat’s on my pillow.” He observed, pointing at the furball’s smug little face. 

“Just get in, he’ll move.” You reassured him, finding it so cute that your cat was on his side of the bed (if only you knew).

Against Dex’s better judgment, he slid in beside you, and waited for you to look away so he could–gently–push the cat off his pillow with one hand.

He thought he had finally won a round against your cat, not that he was keeping score. The tabby curled up at your feet at the end of the bed, and Dex breathed a sigh of relief, pulling you into his chest. 

But in the middle of the night, he woke up with an uncomfortable weight on his neck and face. He felt fur tickling his cheek and realized the cat was sleeping on his face.

He brought it up to you in the morning. 

“Your cat tried to suffocate me last night.” He insisted as he watched the pan of breakfast on the stove. 

You were standing beside him, still groggy from sleep with a coffee mug in your hand. 

“Don’t be so dramatic.” You teased, sitting up on the counter. “Take it as a compliment. He’s not normally so cuddly with you.”

He glanced at the corner of the kitchen where your cat was eating dry kibble from the automatic feeder. 

“He doesn’t like me being here. You know that, right?” He turned the stove off a little more aggressively than necessary and moved to stand between your legs. 

You gave him an empathetic smile, your arms wrapping around his neck. “You barely make an effort with him, though. Just try a little harder.”

Dex didn’t care if a cat liked him or not; but he cared if your cat did. What if you began to think your cat was a good judge of character? He probably was, but Dex was also sure he’d do just about anything to keep you.

So, he swallowed his pride and made a few changes to his routine.

He came back to your apartment before you did that night, pulling his mask and gloves off before finding your cat lazing on the sofa as usual. Dex knelt down in front of him, lips pulled into a smile. 

“Just so you know, I’m not going anywhere.” 

The cat blinked at him once, twice. He yawned, stretched his arms out, and then turned over so his back was to Dex.

He spent the next week playing suck-up to your cat. 

He bought those chicken flavored tube treats he’s seen you feed to him, ripping the top open and offering it to the judgmental tabby. No matter how much he might have disliked your man, he couldn’t resist a treat. Your cat slinked over to him and began to lick up the snack.

“Try petting him now,” you instructed gently, knelt beside him down to the cat’s level.

Dex complied, reaching his hand up to touch the top of his head right between his ears. The cat froze a moment, eyes watching him suspiciously. Daring him to make the wrong move. But Dex starts to pet him, scratching his head and to his surprise, the cat continues to eat. 

“Aw, he likes you!” You cheered beside him, your hand affectionately squeezing his arm, and for a moment there he almost felt like he was the who’s behavior was being reinforced. He wouldn’t put it past you. 

Your tabby began to expect a treat every time he came through the door now, like an entry ticket. Dex began keeping a jar of flavored dry treats near the front entrance so he could easily reach in for one and feed him straight from his hand.

He knew he’d been successful when you started lecturing him about spoiling-or pavloving-your cat, which is exactly what he wanted you to think. 

The spraying problem had vanished but Dex still had to fight for his right to sleep beside you. Instead of crawling onto his face in the middle of the night though, your cat elected to curl up against his back and purr. 

Now, your cat waited up on your kitchen counters for him to return. He’d get a treat from Dex’s hand, and then put up both front paws onto his chest, waiting for a chin scratch.

Okay, maybe his plan was too successful. Backfired is probably a more accurate description.

He was on the couch with you trying to watch a movie when your cat pranced in. You patted your lap to call him over, but he jumped onto Dex’s lap instead. 

“He’s starting to like you better than me,” you had said it in jest, but it tugged at his heart a bit. He hadn’t meant to overtake your place in your cat’s life–he just wanted to make you happy by getting along with the little terror. 

The next day, when your cat was waiting for him up on the counter, Dex approached him with a treat in hand as usual. 

“We need to talk.” He said, and the tabby sat patiently, watching the closed hand he knew held the long anticipated treat. “You want her to be happy. I want her to be happy.”

Dex opened his hand, letting your cat crunch on the dry kibble treat before placing both paws on his chest. 

“If you want the treats, you gotta stop playing favorites.” He scratched under the cat's chin, and the tabby meowed in response.

Things in the apartment seemed to return to normal after that. Your cat still waited on the counter for Dex every night at the same time, but favored being in your arms when it was time to snuggle. 

“I knew you two would get along,” you gushed to him, watching as he shooed the cat off his pillow again before bed. 

“I’m just good with animals.” 

[diorinthenight]

DO YOU THINK I HAVE FORGOTTEN ABOUT YOU?

❝it's the same damn thing that made my heart surrender❞ part II. of something about you

pairing: dr. ryland grace x fem! reader summary: memories return to you and ryland as you both piece together your purpose and what you mean to each other. wc: 7.8k cross-posted to ao3 tags & warnings: mdni please! spoilers for phm. hella angst. slow burn. enemies to lovers. reader is still lowk mean af. recommended listening: about you - the 1975 & a special little playlist :)

At first, there was only darkness. It was quiet and comforting. For a while, Ryland Grace let the darkness envelope him into nothingness. He was drifting through pitch black. He had no need to worry about thinking. There was no pressure nor expectations for him to fulfill. No labs or testing, just nothingness. All he had to do was let this blanket of the night lull him into a deep state of relaxation. This is nice…

However, the comfort the darkness provided him did not last. He started to feel sensation. It was like an itch. It made him restless because there was no way to satisfy it. He was empty and alone. Then, there was light. It was faint like a distant star lightyears away. It was small and flickering. Its soft glow asked for Ryland to come closer. He moved towards it, feeling something heavy trying to keep him in the twilight. It felt like he was treading through the shadows, but he continued to move forward, pushing. The darkness peeled back slowly as the light grew, wrapping him in white.

Then he saw her. She stood just beyond the glow as if she was there waiting for Ryland. She is smiling and that causes Ryland’s heart to skip a beat. She is clearly speaking to him but no sound was coming from her mouth. He frowned slightly. What is her name? 

Happy scenes are playing for Ryland, and he’s at ease. Are these perhaps memories? The woman in his dreams is scolding him in a lab, clearly mad at a mistake he made, but he can feel his heart beating for her. He sees her smile at him, beaming at a revelation. Eyes lit up with excitement as she leaned over a screen, pointing at something like it had just changed the world. He didn’t know what it was, but he liked seeing her happy.

Scenes transition to another. He wants to know why. What is going on and who is this woman, but he is too at ease to satisfy his curiosity. He finally feels a real sensation. He feels warmth. The warmth of her hand in his. Ryland is dancing with her, and he has no need to think about his feet or steps. He moved automatically. He doesn’t know exactly where he is. Maybe a boat? The details are blurred, but the feelings aren’t. He can feel her warmth. It is warmer than anything else in this strange space. Then, she kisses him. There is a soft, tingling sensation lingering on his lips as she pulls away. His chest flooded with something so immediate and certain that it startled him.

I think I love her. No, I know I love her.

Then his haze of light and warmth turns dark. The darkness comes rushing in again, capturing the space around him into a black void. He’s cold now. She was still there, but her expression was different. Her face is angry and riddled with fear. He sees nothing else, but just her in darkness. She’s full of hurt and rage.

“Did you know?”

Her voice. It’s so nurturing and beautiful, but there is pain clearly in her tone. It’s broken as if he did something to betray her.

“I—” he tried to answer, but the words wouldn’t form. He reached for her instinctively. His arms are stretching forward, but the space between them didn't close. He couldn’t touch her.

“Did you know?”

Again. Her voice echoes throughout the dark. Panic rises within him, trying to figure out what is wrong. What happened? Is there any way for him to turn back to the previous moments? 

“Did you know?” Her expression remains the same. The cadence and tone of her voice is unchanged.

Ryland reaches for her. His heart beats fast in his chest. He doesn’t know what is wrong, doesn’t know what he did, but every instinct in him is screaming the same thing.

Fix it. Fix it. Fix it.

“Did you know?” 

Ryland’s hands pass through nothing. 

What did I do?

Then he wakes.

━━━━ ✦ ━━━━ 

Air slammed into his lungs. His body jerked violently as consciousness snapped back into place. Reality is rushing in too fast. He tries to move but his body is restrained, sealed tight in something that feels like a sack. Ryland’s vision finally focuses, and above him is a bright machine probing him.

“What is two plus two?” The voice is flat and artificial.

Ryland sucked in another breath. His mouth opens, but nothing comes out. It’s so incredibly dry. He is disoriented and couldn’t move his head, with his eyes darting around a room he didn’t recognize. His heart pounded against his ribs. His hands trembled, but he had no agent in controlling them.

“You have been in a medically induced coma-”

He’s been in a what?

The confinement loosens, and Ryland forces himself out. He collapses awkwardly onto a hard surface. Ryland can’t feel his body. He has no ability to move, but there is something telling him to keep on going. To keep moving because there is something there for him.

Ryland’s body musters up the strength to finally speak.

“Hello,” he croaks, voice rough and cracked from disuse. “Is anyone… here?”

The words echo hollowly in the sterile room. He pulls himself up, gripping onto whatever he can, climbing with shaking arms and unsteady legs

Ryland hits a button, two platforms with orange pods emerge. He begins to climb up to the first platform, his body is working awkwardly as he tries to read the nametag on the sack.

Commander Yáo Li-Jie.

Ryland stares at his nametag for a second or two. He tries to jog his memory, but he has no clue who he is. The he looks at the status display. Deceased. His stomach drops because that means he’s alone, or at least, there is one person gone in wherever he is.

There’s nothing he can do, so he keeps moving. He has to because something is still pulling him up. 

Ryland climbs up to the next platform. He leans over to look into the bag and he sees her. He sees you. You are still, eyes closed. You are peacefully sleeping. His eyes widen in awe because you look the same as you did in his dreams. Your hair is long and unruly. He’s scared to look at your status display. If he checks, there is a possibility that he is alone wherever he is and the one thing that gave him comfort in the void of nothing is gone. He gulps, looking down to see the display. His heart is in his throat. He feels instant relief when he sees the status is green and blinking Alive.

“It’s you.”

He reads your name off the tag. Unfortunately, that name shakes no memory. It means nothing yet everything to him at the same time. He has no recollection of who you are, but at the same time he does know. You are the woman in his dreams. You are the one that helped him wake up. Most importantly, he knows he loves you or at least he has some deep emotion that pulls him to you. He begins to shake you, trying to get you to wake up but you are still deep in your coma.

He fumbles the bag open, hands shaking as he unzips it.

“Hey,” he says, urgently. “Hey—wake up.”

He shakes you gently, but you remain still.

“I don’t understand,” he whispers. He cries out in frustration and confusion. Why won’t you wake up?

Your stillness is unbearable to him. He needs to wake you up, but he just isn’t sure how. He climbs back down, trying to find anything that could help him.

The ship is unfamiliar and cold. Ryland wanders throughout it, coming into contact with strange machines and equipment. He moves slowly, one hand dragging along the wall for balance as he observes each area he passes. His eyes scan the room, and then it lands on a complex device. 

“That’s an atomic resolution scanning electron telescope…” he mutters automatically as he analyzes the new room he is in.

He furrows his brows in confusion.

 ”...Wait, how do I know that?”

Am I smart?

If he knows that, what else does he know? Who is he and why is he there?

Ryland gets a creeping suspicion that he doesn’t know who he is either. He begins to have scenes from a movie play in his mind. Images of the news and research. They’re his memories 

“Okay… okay…” he mutters to himself, trying to stay grounded. “Think. Just think.” 

The people in his visions are afraid. Earth’s sun is going to die. Is that what they’re afraid of? He climbs into a new room which looks like a control panel. He’s confused by the colorful array of buttons. He looks out into the view in front of him, and then the realization hits him hard.

That’s not our sun. 

The vast dark space surrounds him. Stars twinkle in the distance, and the ship drifts around heading to a destination he isn’t sure of. He looks at the glowing screen. There are numbers, coordinates, and distances. He begins to spiral.

As if it was coded within him, he begins to calculate his distance from Earth based off of the information on the screen in front of him. He’s not home. Matter of fact, he is far from it. 11.4 years to be exact.

“No—no, that’s not—” 

As the dread sets in that he is on a spaceship, far away from Earth he leaves the control room. He’s beyond terrified of where he is or who he is. His head pounds, as he wraps his brain around all of this new information.

“I don’t— I don’t know what’s happening,” he mutters, pressing a hand to his forehead as his head starts to pound. “I don’t know who I am— I don’t—” 

Her. I should go back to her.

Ryland moves quickly, retracing his steps as he makes his way back to where you rest. He goes to the machine and presses a few buttons randomly, hoping that one of them would bring you down to the floor.

Bingo. It works.

As your body is brought down to the ground, Ryland’s heart beats quickly in anticipation. He climbs onto the platform and lays himself beside you again. He is desperate for that warmth you gave him in his dreams. His arm wraps around you without hesitation, pulling you close like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he doesn’t. 

“I don’t—” he starts, voice breaking. “I don’t know what’s going on.”

He leans his head onto your chest. He quietly counts the beat of your heart, making sure you are alive. His hand reaches for yours, brushing his thumb against the slightly warm back of your hand.

“I don’t know where we are,” he says, trying to fit multiple pieces into a puzzle that won’t work. “I don’t know who I am supposed to be right now.”

“I don’t even know who you are…” He laces his fingers into yours, as if somehow this would help him figure out.

“But I know you’re… something,” he says softly. “You’re important.”

His eyes close slowly, exhaustion finally catching up to him. 

“This might sound crazy…I think I really care for you,” he says, barely above a breath.

It doesn’t make sense. None of this does, but something feels right. He just needs to figure it out. Your steady heartbeats help coax him to sleep.

“Please wake up…” he mumbles.

━━━━ ✦ ━━━━ 

It’s been a week since Ryland Grace woke up. Seven days of piecing together a life that doesn’t feel like his. Seven days of learning the ship in fragments. But it is also seven days of you not waking up. 

You’re still there. Exactly where he left you, still deep in your rest. Ryland has done everything he could to wake you up safely. 

“It’s been seven days,” he says softly, sitting beside you, his fingers carefully brushing through your hair. The motion feels natural. Almost too natural for someone who doesn’t remember why or who you are. “I would really appreciate it if you’d wake up.” 

Your feeding tube and breathing mask rests off to the side now. He had hesitated before removing it, second-guessing every decision, but something in him had insisted. He needed to try something different to help you wake up. Maybe normal air, normal conditions, something familiar would bring you back. It hasn’t. He studies your face for a moment longer before exhaling quietly.

“I think you’re an aerospace engineer,” he continues, like talking it through will help him remember. “Which is… great. Very helpful. Because I’m pretty sure I’m supposed to be the scientist, and we are on a ship. Just floating.”

He’s been figuring things off based on clues throughout the ship. Ryland understands you work with him, but it has to be more than that. Right?

“I’m hoping you wake up soon. I'm starting to go a little crazy." A faint, tired smile tugs at his mouth, wondering what it would look like for her to smile again.

“Approaching Tau-Ceti Orbit. Prepare for engine cut off.” A monotonous voice repeats throughout the ship as his attention turns away to the ship’s alarms.

“What?”

The words barely leave his mouth before alarms begin to pulse through the ship. Ryland panics as he speeds off to the operator’s room. As he scrambles throughout the ship, weight vanishes beneath him. He’s floating in air, legs kicking beneath him as if it would somehow bring him closer to the ground. His momentum sends him forward too fast, slamming lightly into a wall before he can adjust. 

“Oh okay—Nope—hate that,” he breathes, grabbing onto a handle to steady himself. 

He manages to enter the control room again, dragging himself. The ship is changing and something out of the ordinary is happening. He begins to panic as he straps himself into a chair, recklessly pushing buttons like he is doing something.

The system is screaming at him, as he continues to pull levers and flick switches. Doing something was better than doing nothing. 

His next thought cuts through the alarms and blaring.

Her.

“Oh no.” 

Ryland doesn’t unstrap properly. He just shoves himself free, pushing off the console, and launching out of the room. His body drifts fast and uncontrolled into the corridor. Pulling himself forward with frantic urgency, gripping rails and doorframes, dragging himself through each hallway with one thought repeating over and over in his mind— 

She’s alone.

He sighs with relief when he enters the room. Luckily, the bag keeps you inside. But you’re not where you should be. You’re floating, suspended just a foot above the platform. He starts to worry if your head hit anything before he comes in.

“I’m sorry—I’m sorry,” he says immediately, voice breaking as he pushes himself toward you.

His hands pull you back down as best as he can and steady you. He fumbles with the straps, trying to secure you. He’s rushing and lacks precision, but he eventually secures you safely to the platform.

“I don’t —I don’t know what’s happening—”

Ryland stumbles with his words, but you remain silent and unmoving. Tears are collecting in the corners of his eyes. He can't let the one person onboard this ship die. He takes a deep breath and wipes at the corners of his eyes.

“This isn’t going to work,” he mutters, more to himself now, shaking his head. “This isn’t—this is temporary, I need something permanent, I need—” 

A flash and his memories come back clear. He remembers the conversation of a centrifuge system installed to create gravity for scenarios like this.

“Okay, I know that. I know that.” 

He looks at you one more time, making sure you’re as secure as he can manage.

“I’ll fix it,” he says quickly, like you can hear him. “Just—just stay—”

He stops himself. You are staying. You can’t do anything else but stay.

“Wait, that was dumb.”

Ryland pushes off the railing of your platform. His movements are still rough and lack grace, but there's purpose behind them, encouraging him to keep on going. He returns to the control room and takes a deep breath before turning the system on.

The ship responds. A low, powerful vibration builds beneath him as a segment of the ship begins to spin quickly. It mimics the gravity of Earth, pulling his feet to the ground.

He exhales, almost laughing in relief.

“Okay—okay, that’s good. That’s very good.”

It’s strange, but he can’t linger on the mechanics too much. He needs to get back to you. He runs back to where you are, but he trips on the frame of the door. It takes Ryland a second to get used to the new force in the ship.

“Oops.”

Back through the corridors, his feet are uncoordinated but fast. His urgency pushes him forward. When he reaches you, you’re no longer floating. You’re exactly where you should be, secured against the platform. He stops in the doorway for a second, catching his breath.

Then a small, relieved smile breaks across his face.

“Okay,” he exhales, stepping closer. “Okay… you’re okay.” He runs his fingers through his hair, wishing you would wake now. He just wants to hear your voice. Hear you say “I’m proud of you.”

Then another memory returns to him.

“You don’t believe in yourself. You have terrible imposter syndrome, and it makes it so hard for people to believe in you when you can’t even believe in yourself.”

He looks down at you, brows knitting together slightly.

“What does she mean by that?” he murmurs.

It feels like something you meant. Something you knew. His gaze lingers on your face, searching for answers you can’t give him.

“…Was I like that?” he asks quietly.

The question hangs in the air.

“I mean… am like that?” he admits after a second, a small, self-aware huff escaping him. “That can't be it. I'm here for a reason and so are you.”

Ryland cups his hand over yours, thumb brushes lightly over your knuckles. 

“You looked really mad,” he continued. “Like you told me before.”

His eyes soften and face relaxes when he realizes. 

“…like you cared.”

Ryland leans back slightly, studying you again. He’s trying so hard to remember you. The sound of your voice evokes a strong reaction from him, but when he tries to follow the sound of your voice in his mind, he is lead to nowhere. 

“You sound like you knew me,” he says. “Better than I know myself right now.”

“I wish you’d wake up,” Ryland admits quietly. “Not just because you can help with whatever is going on. Although, that would be great, but…”

He hesitates.

Then finish it anyway.

“…because I think you’d explain me to me.”

His hand tightens around yours, just slightly. In the back of his mind, you would be able to feel it and let it guide you out of your sleep.

“It’s just us, and I’m starting to feel a little lonely. Maybe, crazy.”

He leans his head back against the wall, still holding onto your hand.

“…So,” he adds softly, glancing at you again, “whenever you’re ready.”

━━━━ ✦ ━━━━ 

You don’t know how long you’ve been asleep for, but you don’t want to wake up. You’re living in some of the happiest moments of your life. Why would you want to wake up from that?

You’re standing on the deck of an aircraft carrier, the ocean stretching endlessly ahead. You needed a moment away from the crew. It's starting to really get to you. The weight of this mission and the importance of it succeeding. The sky is painted in colors of soft gold and blue, and you feel some peace. It’s like a small reward for the hours you’ve put into this project, but you know deep down that there is more to come. Footsteps sound behind you.

“I got you a refreshment,” a familiar voice calls.

You turn, a smile already gracing your cold cheeks.

Ryland Grace stands there, slightly windblown, holding out a cup with a wide grin.

You take a sip, taking a second for the drink to linger on your tongue.

“Well?” he asks, still grinning.

“…This is good.”

His shoulders relax immediately. “Oh thank goodness.”

“Suspiciously good,” you add. “Did you make this?” 

“To be fair, I don’t drink really, so I mixed together whatever sounds good.”

“Whatever you did, it worked,” you continue taking sips from the fruity concoction.

“I followed a very rigorous scientific method,” he insists. “Vibes.”

“You made this based on vibes?”

“Yes, vibes,” he corrects. “And whatever bottles looked cool.”

“…You’re ridiculous.”

“But you think it's good,” he says with a shrug.

You pause for a second, then take another sip. “…Don’t let it go to your head.”

“Too late,” he proclaims easily. “I’m already considering a career change. Molecular biologist by day, bartender by night.”

You laugh as if it was just you and Ryland out on the water. As if there was no threat of the sun dying and that humanity will continue to thrive. There is a real fear of humanity dying. A fear that you’ll die, possibly alone.

Then he leans against the railing beside you, quieter now. He was hoping the celebrating would help ease his racing thoughts. He wants to ask you about the kiss. He wants to figure out what you feel about him because he cares. He cares about you so much that he would jump into the ocean if you’d ask. He squeezes his eyes shut and takes in a deep breath before he asks you something.

“You know… I didn’t think you’d stop hating me... And then you kissed me. So I guess, I’m a little confused if this is just the world ending dread getting to you too?”

You glance at him sideways. “I didn’t say I stopped.” You’re still smiling, but Ryland didn’t exactly pick up on the sarcasm.

He winces. “Cool. Great… You know, we pinky promised and breaking it means I have grounds to sue.”

You take another sip, letting the moment settle.

“…I’m not trying to be an ass,” you admit quietly, staring down into your drink. “I actually… really care about you, Ryland. And before you say anything, no, this is not some existential-dread confession because we’re stranded in the middle of nowhere or whatever.”

“Well,” he says carefully, “that feels vaguely like a compliment. I think.” A small smile pulls at his mouth. “You’re very confusing, you know that?” 

“Why do you say that?”

“You’re like… weather,” he continues thoughtfully. “Very aggressive weather. Like one second there’s a category-five emotional hurricane because something didn’t go your way, and the next there’s sunlight and kindness because I showed you a video of cats online. I am just… very disoriented.”

A light turns on in his head. Ryland finally figured it out. “You’re mean in theory, not execution.” 

You laugh despite yourself, shaking your head.  “Being mean is just easier.”

“Easier than what?”

You stare out at the water, watching the sunlight ripple across it. There must have had a bit of truth serum in it because you feel like all of your emotions are coming to the surface naturally like you don’t have to hide behind anger anymore.

“…Easier than liking you.”

“You like me?” he asks, a little incredulous.

“Don’t sound so shocked.”

“I mean… you don’t do a great job showing it. You process emotions by… filing them away and never acknowledging them for years until you see me and let them fire out like nukes. I feel like normal people are nice to people they like.”

“I mean you are right,” you admit. “It’s a self preservation thing, but you know I’m not that normal. I’ve always been experimental.”

He huffs a quiet laugh, inching closer to you so your hands touch on the railing.

“I like you too,” he says. “Which was inconvenient, because I was also trying very hard to respect your very justified hatred of me until you kissed me.”

You glance at him again, softer now. A light blush creeps onto your cheeks. You can’t tell if it’s from the alcohol or perhaps him. He gives your hand a squeeze and pulls you closer to him.

“I wouldn’t mind doing it again,” he says carefully, like he’s testing the waters. He's not confident, but his heart is in the right place.

You raise an eyebrow, glancing at him. He’s looking at you with his puppy-like blue eyes. The eyes where if you stare at them long enough all the years of anger and resentment go away and are filled with absolute care and adoration. You can’t look away. There’s just something about him that makes you want to pull your hair out in frustration but also pull him into a kiss.

Ryland takes a step close to you, your shoulders are brushing against his. He turns to face you. He doesn’t know exactly what he is doing, but it feels right to him. It feels right to you. 

He cups your cold cheeks in his warm hands and leans over you, you never realized how much taller he is until now. He is resting his forehead against yours, garnering strength and confidence. You close your eyes instinctively and suddenly, you feel the warmth of his lips against yours. 

You reach out to the back of his neck, pulling him closer. You lightly part your lips, giving him permission to deepen the kiss. Ryland nervously lightly sucks on your bottom lip, earning a soft moan from you. He turns his head to the side, deepening the kiss and unknowingly brushing his glasses against your nose. You giggle against his lips as he softly runs his tongue on your bottom lip. He’s not entirely confident in his movements, but you tug at the hair on the back of his neck, letting him know he’s okay.

Ryland finally pulls away, wiping your bottom lip with his thumb. For once, you’re looking at him in awe. You didn’t think such an awkward guy would make you feel like this.

“Oh, wow,” he says, delighted. “You’re blushing.”

“I am not.”

“You are absolutely blushing.”

“It’s cold outside.” You turn away from him, embarrassed from this strong display of affection from Ryland. 

The wind changes direction. The warmth in the air thins. The ocean no longer glimmers beneath the sunlight the same way it did moments ago.

You look out toward the horizon and your stomach drops. There’s a storm in the distance. There’s a storm in the distance. But not a real storm. There are no crashing waves. No thunder or rain. Just darkness. A massive wall of black swallowing everything in its path.

You wish you could just stay in this moment forever. Happy. Care free. This memory plays in your mind over and over again. You’ve been trying to avoid the darkness for so long. To not let it cast shadows in this perfect moment, but it won’t go away. The darkness continues to swallow its surroundings. You look at Ryland in fear, hoping that he can change it. That he can do something. He looks at you helplessly. He’s given you that same look before. You don’t know exactly when but he has.

Then, your perfect memory is completely covered in darkness. You are panicking trying to get everything back to what it was.

“Ryland!” 

Ryland is now pinned to the ground by an invincible force.

“I’m sorry!” He shouts, but you’re confused and now angry. What is happening? What is ruining your perfect memory? What did Ryland do for you to feel this rippling effect of frustration. Black spots appear in your vision until it is all you can see.

“Did you know?”

━━━━ ✦ ━━━━ 

Pain hits you at a force stronger than ever. A deep, splitting ache pounds behind your eyes, making your vision blurry. Your body feels heavy and wrong like every muscle has forgotten how to function properly. You try to move and immediately panic. You’re trapped. Something tight surrounds your body. Thick fabric presses against your arms and legs like a cocoon. Your breathing quickens instantly as adrenaline slams through your system. You try to scream and cry. You try to emit any noise, but your throat burns.

You thrash violently, fingers fumbling desperately for an opening. The material resists at first before your shaking hands finally find a zipper. You yank it down hard.

Cold air rushes against your skin as you practically fall out of the bag, coughing harshly as your weak body collapses onto an unfamiliar floor. You force yourself upright, dizzy immediately. The room is metallic and sterile, lined with strange equipment dimly lit by soft overhead lights. Machines buzz quietly around you. There are unfamiliar symbols flickering across screens you don’t recognize. What happened? How long were you asleep?

“Grace! Human is awake! Grace, human is awake!”

The voice nearly makes you jump out of your skin. It echoes from somewhere near the entrance. It sounds metallic and robotic but strangely excited.

You whip around instantly, panic flooding your exhausted body.

“What the fuck—”

Your eyes dart frantically around the room, searching for anything you can use as a weapon.

There’s nothing. No tools. No sharp objects. Just medical equipment and supplies. Your gaze lands on a soft storage bag filled with water beside your sleeping pod. 

Good enough.

You snatch it up immediately, gripping it with both hands like it’s somehow going to save your life.

Then you see it.

A strange geometric sphere slowly emerges through the doorway. Inside the transparent structure is… a rock?

An actual rock with arms?

The creature shifts toward you quickly, clicking softly as musical hums echo from somewhere within its strange frame.

“Grace! She is awake! She is awake!”

The voice repeats excitedly while the creature itself emits an almost cheerful series of trills and vibrations. It approaches you.

You freeze for half a second.

“Oh, fuck no!”

You launch the water bag at it with all the strength your weak body can manage.

The bag smacks harmlessly against the side of the sphere with an embarrassingly soft thud before falling to the ground. It doesn’t even break the bag.

The creature startles backward with a series of confused metallic clicks.

“…Aggressive awake,” it says after a pause. 

You scramble backward across the floor, breathing hard. Every survival instinct in your body screams at you to run despite the fact your legs barely work.

“What are you?!” you shout, voice hoarse.

The creature tilts slightly, almost curious.

“I am Rocky.”

“What the fuck.”

“Human angry,” Rocky observes.

“No shit!”

The creature makes another series of strange chirping hums, almost like it’s thinking. Then suddenly it turns toward the hallway.

“Grace! Human female awake and violent!”

Footsteps echo down the corridor. Before you can process anything else, Ryland Grace appears in the doorway. He is breathless and the second he sees you awake, his entire expression breaks apart with relief. If you looked closely you would see tears pricking the corners of his eyes.

“Oh my gosh,” he breathes.

You stare at him in complete disbelief. In an instant, you feel the force of Ryland tackling you into a hug. One arm is wrapped around your waist while the other is carefully cradling the back of your head. He buries his nose in your scalp and closes his eyes. 

“You’re awake,” he says softly, almost breathless. 

He can’t believe this moment is real. He's imagined this moment a thousand times and still wasn’t prepared for it.

Then it hits you. Then the memory comes back fully. Men pinning him down. You are screaming and also restrained. A sharp pain and your vision going black.

Ryland was there.

Your expression turns cold instantly.

“You.”

His smile falters immediately.

“…Hey.”

“What did you do?” you demand.

His face falls completely. “Did I do something?”

“Don’t act like you don’t remember,” You point a finger of accusation and finally free yourself from his grasp. You fall to the ground and crawl to the corner of the room. You cross your arms tightly, trying to protect yourself from the ache forming in your chest. 

“I woke up here alone,” he says quietly. “I didn’t remember my name at first. I didn’t know what this ship was. I barely remembered Earth.” He runs a shaking hand through his hair over and over again until it sticks up. “Most of my memories are still… in pieces.” 

“That’s funny because I remember. Do you really expect me to believe you don’t remember?”

“I don’t remember,” he blurts out. “I don’t really remember you, but I know we mean a lot to each other.”

The room goes quiet. Your anger flickers in confusion. Ryland is just as confused but also hurt. He didn't think sleeping beauty would wake up guns blazing.

“Let me remind you. You are running from Stratt and her men and get pinned to the ground. I get pinned to the ground. There is yelling and screaming and then our vision goes black and now I am going to assume we are far from earth.”

“Close to 11.9... and you've been in a coma for four years...” Ryland mumbles, avoiding your eyes.

Tears threaten to spill from your eyes. Your life is gone. Everything you had back on Earth is gone. 

“Hey, it’s going to be okay.”

“You can’t remember shit, Ryland, but I remember everything.” Your voice cracks violently now. “I remember my life before this. Maybe it wasn’t important in the grand scheme of the universe, but it was important to me.” 

Rocky slowly backs out of the room.

“Rocky senses complicated mating ritual.”

“Not now, man,” Ryland mutters weakly, waving him away without looking.

The alien disappears immediately.

You press your hands against your face, trying to steady your breathing, but panic is clawing its way through your chest too fast.

“I trusted you,” you say, your voice cracking slightly despite your anger. “I remember trying to get to you. I remember seeing them drag you away and then, then they grabbed me too.”

Ryland looks devastated and on the verge of tears. Ryland looks at you with guilt because the memories are finally flooding back to him. He is finally remembering. Not everything, but just enough for it to hurt.

━━━━ ✦ ━━━━ 

“I’m not going to do the mission. I’m sorry, but I just don’t think I’m your guy,” Ryland Grace says firmly.

Across from him, Eva Stratt remains perfectly still. She looks at him almost forgiving, but still with a cold look in her eyes. As if she has already made up her mind of what she will do to him. The fluorescent lights of her office reflect against the untouched cup of coffee sitting near her hand. Ryland notices she hasn’t taken a single sip since he walked in.

She already expected this answer.

“What if she was on the mission with you?” Stratt asks evenly. “Then what?”

Ryland immediately sits upright.

“No.”

Stratt’s expression barely changes, but he can tell she notices.

“No?” she repeats.

“She doesn’t want anything to do with space,” he says quickly. “She’s an engineer, not an astronaut.”

His voice tightens, practically pleading. “Don’t drag her into this.”

Stratt folds her hands together.

“She is one of the leading biomatter engineers involved with astrophage containment.”

“She’s also a person.”

Stratt tilts her head slightly.

“So are the eight billion people on Earth.”

Ryland’s jaw tightens.

“That’s not fair.”

“No,” Stratt agrees coldly. “This situation is not fair.”

Ryland can feel panic beginning to crawl up his spine. Stratt has that look in her eyes again.

The one that means she’s already decided something.

“You would go for her,” she says finally.

It isn’t a question.

Ryland shakes his head immediately.

“You can’t use her to manipulate me.”

“But it would work.”

His stomach drops.

“No.”

“She has the exact expertise your mission would require,” Stratt continues calmly, almost clinically. “Biological adaptation in extreme environments. Long-term material survivability in radiation-heavy conditions. She understands the ship better than you would. She is also younger and healthier than you. She doesn't have family or children. She is uniquely qualified.”

“She’s not mentally qualified for being trapped in space for the rest of her life!” Ryland tries his best to put his foot down, but his declaration lacks the snap. His heart is in the right place though. You can't be out there.

Stratt’s eyes narrow slightly.

“ And you are?”

“I’m also not. We are both wildly underqualified for the execution of the mission.”

"Do you have a family or children?"

Ryland thinks for a moment. He doesn't have immediate family, but he has kids. He has dozens of them, waiting for him in the classroom. He thinks about the destruction Earth will face in just a couple of years. He feels guilty because he couldn't imagine allowing his students to live in a dying world. 

"I have kids." he says quietly. "They might not be mine biologically, but that doesn't make me any less important to them."

“...And I won’t let you do that to her just because she doesn't have any." Ryland adds.

Stratt stands slowly from her chair.

“You misunderstand something, Dr. Grace.” Her voice remains calm, but there’s iron underneath every word. “I am not asking your permission.”

A cold wave of dread washes over him. Ryland shakes his head and begins to back away from Stratt.

“She’d never forgive me or you,” he whispers.

Stratt’s expression softens only slightly.

“She does not need to forgive you,” she says. “She just needs to survive and complete the mission.”

Ryland’s chest tightens painfully because he knows what choice he’s about to make. He hates it.

“I have to tell her,” he says suddenly, already moving toward the door. “I have to warn her.”

“Don’t make this hard, Dr. Grace.”

Ryland dashes out of the room immediately, security following after him.

━━━━ ✦ ━━━━ 

Ryland gives you a look of pain. You shoved yourself into a corner by yourself. Tears well instantly in his eyes when he realizes.

“They took you because of me.”

Your anger falters for just a second at the devastation in his voice.

“I remember trying to get to you,” he says, voice breaking apart. “You were screaming and I couldn’t—” His fists are clenched so tight knuckles turn white. “I couldn’t move.”

“When I woke up,” he continues, “I didn’t know who I was supposed to be. But I found you and…” He laughs weakly at himself. “I don’t know, something in me just knew.”

“Knew what?”

His expression turns painfully vulnerable.

“That I care about you.”

His words hit you hard, causing your heart to skip a beat.

“I didn’t know your name at first,” he admits. “I couldn’t remember why you were important.” A small, helpless smile appears. “I just knew I couldn’t leave you alone.”

Your anger wavers slightly. You hate that it does, but it's clear Ryland cares about you deeply despite having a vague understanding of who you are. Maybe it just shows how much he cares about you deep down like it's engraved in his bones.

“I checked on you every day,” he says quietly. “Talked to you even though you couldn’t answer. I kept hoping you’d wake up and explain literally everything because I clearly wasn’t doing great on my own.”

He tries to wipe away his tears. Your heart stings. You can’t fight it anymore. You shouldn’t. Whether you want to admit it or not, you are now a part of the Hail Mary. You’re still angry, deeply, but that can’t get you anywhere.

“I’m scared shitless right now, but you also being scared won’t get us anywhere.” You say, mind scrambling for an ounce of something to make sense. "And... don't say you're not doing great by yourself... Clearly you are and you even made a friend..?"

That just causes the water works to go for Ryland. He really needed to hear that. He's the hero. He's always been the hero.

“I’m so sorry.” He means it. With every cell and bone of his body, he is sorry. He is begging for your forgiveness.

You are silent, simmering in your thoughts. You can't stay mad at him. You really can't. There's a mission thrusted upon you whether you wanted to be part of it or not.

“I forgive you,” you say, acknowledging just how much your anger is affecting Ryland. “I’m still angry, but it will pass.” You gesture around the ship. “But I know you didn’t choose for this to happen. It's not fair for me to be mad at you when you don't deserve it.”

Ryland looks wrecked by the relief that floods his face. “I just…” You swallow hard. “I need time and space, Ryland.”

His nods immediately. “Okay,” he says quickly. “Okay, yeah. Of course. You can have space.”

The irony of the statement almost makes you laugh. Space. You told him that before. A long time ago. It feels like a faint memory, but you remember.

You press yourself farther back into the corner instinctively, trying to steady your breathing again. Then Ryland does something that catches you completely off guard. He slowly lowers himself to the floor across from you.

Your body still feels weak from the coma. Your thoughts are messy and tangled and overwhelmed. You feel horribly alone.

Ryland must notice the shift in your expression because his own softens immediately.

“Can I…” He hesitates. “Can I hold your hand?”

You stare at him for a second.

You should say no.

You want to say no.

"Yes, you can."

After a long stretch of silence, you slowly uncurl your fingers from around your arms. Ryland moves carefully, no sudden movements. His hand slips into yours gently. His hand feels so warm and familiar. The second your skin touches his, his shoulders visibly relax. He’s been holding tension in his body for years. His thumb brushes carefully against your knuckles.

He’s fully crying now. Not loudly, but he is a bit dramatic. Just quiet tears slipping down his face and a bit of snot dribbling down his nose as he holds your hand like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded.

“I'm so happy you're awake,” he whispers.

The rawness in his voice breaks something open inside your chest. Before you can really think about it, Ryland shifts closer slowly, giving you every chance to pull away.

You don’t. His arms wrap around you carefully. You stay stiff. You’re still angry and hurt, but Ryland is still, just holding you quietly. 

His face buries into the side of your neck as if he’s trying to convince himself you’re really awake. Really here.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers again softly. “I’m so sorry.”

Your eyes close slowly. Despite the anger still lingering in your chest, you melt into him little by little. You’re tired of being angry. You’re terrified. You’re exhausted. Earth is impossibly far away, but being in Ryland’s arms still feels like the closest thing to home you have left.

“No, I’m sorry, Ryland. I'm sorry for letting you carry this guilt alone.” You reach up and gently wipe the lingering tears from his cheek. Ryland doesn’t pull away. He leans into your palm immediately. "It's not fair. None of this is fair, and I shouldn't blame you."

You hear the sound of thumping and harmonic chimes come from the entrance of the room. The geometric rock spider thing is there. Just watching you two. You blink. Ryland blinks harder. What is that?

“Rocky, stop watching us.”

Your brain, already overwhelmed from waking up in deep space, is deeply confused.

“…What?”

“Can Rocky hug?”

Ryland lets out a tired breath somewhere between a laugh and a groan.

“Oh good,” he mutters. “We’re doing this now.”

Rocky shifts excitedly. You stare at him in complete disbelief. You glance at Ryland and give him a nod. Why not?

He shrugs. “Sure, bring it in buddy.”

Rocky immediately perks up, several little limbs tapping rapidly against his sphere in which honestly looks like excitement. Before you can process what’s happening, Rocky eagerly rolls forward and wedges himself directly between you and Ryland with absolutely no regard for personal space. You're deeply confused, but you aren't scared anymore. You awkwardly place an arm around the container Rocky is in. Ryland does the same, his arms overlapping yours as he rests his head against Rocky. 

“…Sorry about throwing a bag at your face,” you murmur, tilting your head slightly observing Rocky. “Or… shell? Whatever that is.”

"It's okay. Rocky knows you were just scared."

Ryland gives a light pat on Rocky, and you ease into this rather awkward hug. Ryland’s presence stays warm beside you. Maybe everything will be okay after all.

━━━━ ✦ ━━━━ 

“So she finally woke up,” Ryland Grace says into the camera, voice low but laced with obvious relief. “Which is great, because it turns out she knows way more about the ship than I realized.”

The camera feed shifts as he pans the lens across the room.

You’re asleep in a chair, slumped slightly to one side, exhaustion finally winning out over adrenaline. The chaos of waking up in a completely alien situation has drained you completely. Hours before you were tinkering with the ship, making sure the fuel tanks are good. You were also berating Ryland for keeping the ship so messy and Rocky was in agreeance. 

Beside you, Rocky sits quietly. Not moving much. He's taken it upon himself to watch you. Observing you carefully as if he too is scared you won't wake up again.

“She's taken a liking to Rocky,” Ryland continues softly. “Rocky likes her too.”

“She is scary to Grace,” Rocky adds, as if offering clarification, “but nice to Rocky.” Rocky emits a faint series of happy taps in agreement.

"True, hopefully she can help operate the ship when we collect the specimen from Adrian." Ryland lowers the camera slowly, like even the smallest movement might break the fragile quiet in the room.

“Yeah,” he murmurs under his breath, almost to himself. “We’re all gonna be okay.”

He looks over at you and pushes his chair next to yours. You shift for a second but then ease into Ryland, turning towards him for comfort. Ryland's heart skips a beat. He smiles, closing his eyes so he can sleep. He can't believe his brain has forgotten about you because clearly his heart remembers everything.

part I: something about you

taglist <3: @k-b030 @shittyprofilebutfuckit @multy-fandom-lover @peachyravenart @varsenix @cechey @theog6 @saymio

⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡ author's notes: REFFFFFFFFF DO SOMETHING !!!!!!!!!! omg me when i finally make reader apologize for being mean. lololol. lmao y'all so now there HAS to be a third part. i fear i got really emo writing this, and i genuinely cannot write without plot development, characterization, and more. thank u thank u so much for the love and patience !!!! it took me a long time to edit this because i wanted it to be perfect :) also, feel free to reread part 1!! i edited it a little ehehehe. OKAY SO I'M THINKING part iii smut & confessions yayayayayyaya. wooh yeah yayayayay. guys ryland crying lowkey made me so emo, but he would 100% cry. thank u again for the love and patience :))) stay happy and healthy & dm/comment to be added to the taglist !!!

[i-smoke-chapstick]

'SUPERNOVA, [CHAPTER THREE]

-BENJAMIN POINDEXTER X READER-

⋆ 𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒 ; You decide to treat Bullseye to breakfast.

⋆ tags/warnings. Benjamin Poindexter x female!reader. SLOW BURN!!! Not sure how many chapters this will be yet (but likely a LOT)! LOTS OF PLOT SET-UP!! AGE GAP ROMANCE! LOTS OF EVENTUAL ANGST, FLUFF, AND SMUT! Reader's powers are weird. Warnings for mild body horror. Reader is an ex-avenger, originally an experiment by HYDRA, and naturally has intense trauma (and regenerative/healing powers through her blood! think deadpool just quieter and more depressing). Set during/after the AVTF manhunt for Matt and Dex. Writing this kind of artistically and as character studies for everyone. Dex and reader are doomed soulmates, she becomes his northern star. Basically two characters who do NOT want to be saved consistently being saved by each other...until they learn to live for each other. Eventual smut in later chapters. More about reader is revealed as the story goes on. I'm taking canon out back and beating it with a stick until it stops twitching. You can find this fic on Ao3 as well @/cupid360!

⋆ tag list. @xreader1989 @tvdumarvelhpsimp @xjyuto @gojoswhkre @not-the-teen-witch @cpuffz @memeorydotcom @kkkkisworld @astrozonaut @itsneversirius @urm0msoldcar @andi-o-geyser @vvitchesh3x @starlitflora @mewmew222 @redpool @njutul @skollinghunter @triciawritesstuff @noble-17 @spderless @cricketmeow @ancientbeing10 @sprinkles260 @lillycore @eternallovers65 @cicikinby @montagoves @yyiikes @benspoindexter @that1weirdweebgirl @she-elfworld @celleryxo @mistalli @badbishsblog @bitch-spaghetti-o (let me know if you'd like to be added 💛)

⋆ chapter directory. previous chapter / next chapter

♫ “I'm a winner, I'm a sinner / Do you want my autograph?” Breakfast In America by Supertramp

Poindexter is practically whistling in the corner of your bed. Almost like a cartoon character, you'd never guess this man would've been responsible for the murder of Vanessa Marianna Fisk. But, you suppose, stranger things have happened. Like super soldiers and aliens and the very blood in your veins.

He's twiddling his thumbs. You're grateful the man has seemingly given up on trying to rip the restraints around his wrists in half. You're positive that one more tug to the thin, cheap material that is your HomeGoods bedsheets would've resulted in the man freeing himself.

Every so often, you swipe a look at him over your shoulder. He looks pretty...content. Bored, even. Picking at his nails as he studies your room.

You put on a brave face and decide to focus on the task at hand- which at the moment, is frying an egg and buttering some toast. Probably should've asked him how he takes his eggs, lest he decides he's too good for sunny-side up and launches a frying pan at your head. You cringe at the thought. Ouch.

The sunlight is coming through the blinds, highlighting all of the dried and sticky blood to your clothing and his skin. Whole apartment looks like a murder scene, but hey, you guess it could be worse. At least there isn't an actual body.

Looking back over your shoulder, you catch him already looking back, expression unreadable. You quickly turn back around to this cursed egg that is taking much, much longer to cook than normal.

"That for me?" His voice cuts in without warning. You wince while you nod, turning your back to him so he can't see the pallor of your face. He knows who you are. You turn the spatula anxiously in your hand.

"...Your pan is too hot."

What.

"What?" You almost scoff, offended. You can cook a damn egg. You...you think. At least. The more you actually do think though, you realize there wasn't much room for eggs between H.Y.D.R.A torture chambers and saving the goddamn world. You feel your eye twitch, and his must twitch too, because his voice tightens at your disorganized approach to frying.

"The butter’s browning too fast." He tilts his head. "Egg'll crisp on the bottom before the yolk sets."

Oh, go fuck yourself. You don't say that though, because he's probably right, and your first ever hostage is giving you culinary tips.

"Is...are you joking?" You say, shaking your head, but he doesn't seem to take the social que to quiet down.

"I'm helping." He nods, smiling. The words are spoken more to himself, like he's proud. Leaning back, a crooked and pleased grin on his face. He rests and lounges into the bloodied sheet like a smug cat. "I’ve been told I should try to be more personable."

"Who told you that?"

"My therapist."

"Something tells me that didn't work out."

You don’t notice the way his jaw tightens at that. It’s quick, gone almost as soon as it appears, but something in the air shifts anyway. Subtly. Like a wire pulled just a little too taut.

The egg sizzles and you decide to begrudingly lower the heat.

"…There," he murmurs, watching the pan like it personally concerns him. "Better." Like suddenly everything wrong in the world has been corrected. He closes his eyes in pure satisfaction at the click click click of the burner knobs.

"Right. Cool. Awesome." You mumble under your breath. "You're lucky I'm even feeding you."

"That remains to be seen."

You pause.

"…You think I’d poison you?"

"I think," he says carefully, eyes flicking over the spatula in your hand, the pan, the distance between you, "you and Murdock are still deciding what you're going to do with me."

You clear your throat. "You don't really seem that...worried at the prospect of dying, Mr. Poindexter."

Mr. Poindexter? What is he, a teacher? He's a criminal. You should be calling him...an...an asshole! Yeah. You got this, Angel! WWDD. What would Daredevil do?

Leave you alone with a mass murder, apparently.

He cracks an eye open at the title, but makes no move to comment. But you see his lip curl with confusion at the polite, formal treatment.

"Go ahead. Doesn't matter what happens to me now. It's just an equation." He seems entirely more aloof and unconcerned at the idea of death-by-egg than he is at having it be cooked incorrectly.

The egg hisses in the pan as you slide it onto toast, more force than necessary. You turn off the heat and grab the plate, but you don’t move closer right away.

You step toward the bed.

“Okay, A-asshole!” you say again, stuttering, and momentarily curse yourself. Did your voice just crack? "Here’s your equation!"

You throw the plate down at his feet, and it slides pretty pathetically on the edge of the bed.

Oh yeah. That's badass. Total aura farm. In your defense, you were never in The Avengers for your offence skills. Steve would've never let you get ten feet in the radius of an actual fight. Your particular skillset was much more beneficial off battlefield.

His eyebrows knit together as he looks from the plate back to you. Clearing your throat at his clearly bewildered and confused expression, you take the plate and re-place it in your lap.

He waits expectantly for his restraints to be undone, to which you look at him like he's gone crazy.

Then he looks at you like you've gone crazy as you cut a piece, stabbing it with your fork and holding it out to him.

"…You’re not untying me," he says.

You blink. "Why would I do that?"

A pause. His eyes flick down to the plate in your lap, then back up to your face.

"So I can eat."

You stare at him for a second, then gesture vaguely with the fork. "You are eating."

“That’s not-” He stops himself, jaw tightening slightly. "That’s not the point."

You tilt your head. "What?" You scoop another bite of egg, unsure what to do, holding it up absently. "You were bleeding out in my bed and now you're worried about table manners?”

"I’m not worried about manners."

"Then what are you worried about?"

His gaze drops to the fork. Again.

Then the plate. Again.

Then the small trail of crumbs already scattering across your sheets like evidence at a crime scene. His fingers twitch once against the blanket, as if he wants to brush them away but knows moving too much will just make it worse.

"Crumbs," he said flatly. "Grease. You’ve got dried blood under us and you’re dropping food particles directly onto the sheets. Do you have any idea how unsanitary that is? Bacteria doesn’t care how convenient it is for you. They’ll set up shop in a heartbeat." His voice stays even, but the tension in his shoulders is obvious. "I don’t eat in beds. Ever."

"Oh, I'm sorry, princess. Here comes the airplane." You scoff, shoving the bite near his face. He let's out a sound akin to a growl, a huff of air, before deciding to let up take the bite. Success!

You slide the bite in. Then another. His teeth close around the fork with a borderline surgical precision, never touching the metal more than necessary. He chews methodically. Says nothing.

After he swallows, he exhales through his nose, breathing heavy. "This is ridiculous. I can feed myself if you untie one hand."

"And risk you putting a fork through my carotid? No thanks." You scoop more eggs, voice softening despite yourself. He lets out a scoff, lips twitching into something amused.

"You’re an Avenger," he said quietly. "You could've left me to die. Most people would have."

"Was an Avenger." You correct. "And I’m not most people." You lift the fork once more, waiting for a moment, letting him come to you. He does- leaning forward just enough, eyes never leaving your face.

"Still," he said, voice low and even, the way he spoke when he was putting pieces together in his head. "You could be out there. Could have the kind of life people like you are supposed to want." His bound hands shifted slightly against the cuffs, the movement small but restless. "And instead you're here. Playing nurse. Doing favors for Matt Murdock."

You don't miss the accusatory tone. The false righteousness in his own words. You pause, letting the silence settle. Then it kicks in.

"Wait- hey, are you profiling me right now?"

"You could be anywhere. Doing anything. Instead you’ve got a blind vigilante dumping half-dead bodies on your doorstep and you just…let him."

With another forkful of eggs, you deliberately leave a few more crumbs to tumble onto the sheet near his hip. His eyes track the falling pieces with visible irritation.

"Open," you say softly.

He stares at the fork for a beat longer than necessary, then leans forward just enough to take the bite. His lips brush the tines. When he pulls back, a tiny, glossy fragment of butter clings to the corner of his mouth. Without thinking, you reach up and wipe it away with your thumb.

You feel him go rigid. You pull back like you've been stung.

But he doesn't jerk away. He just watches you, breathing steady but shallower, like he's calculating the exact risk of every millimeter between you. Studying every plane of your face. Eyes zeroing in on the corner of your own lips before turning away.

"...You’re still making a goddamn mess," he says. The words came out rougher than before. Quieter.

"Yeah?" You finally pull back, if only to take pity and spare him from the germs. "You’ll survive some crumbs, Poindexter. Survived worse last night."

He refuses to look at you now, but you note the throb of the vein in his throat and forehead, fists wrapped around the restraints once more.

You watch him swallow again, this time with no real bite to go down.