#I might pull a muscle from that reach but idc I’m doing it anyways | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

yamalegacy · 3 years

Note

prompt eleven with mirko 😳

i've already done 11 with midnight but idc, i love buff bunny too much not to do it! and well, considering how it aligns with the godly possessive!rumi hcs, it's way too tempting anyway! so here goes!

prompt: #11 from this list “I bet you think you’re real cute letting them put their hands all over you. We’ll see how cute you look later when I get you home.”

pairing: mirko (usagiyama rumi) x gn!reader

cw: SMUT. afab reader. rumi is a possessive bunny. brat!reader. dom/sub dynamic. hair pulling, spanking, dirty talking, slight degradation & praise kink (yes, both at the same time, don’t underestimate rumi), fingering, strapon, slight anal fingering. oh boy this really is the filthiest thing i’ve written in a loooong time.

word count: about 3,7k words WOPS I GOT CARRIED AWAY

⚠️ MDNI reminder for minors to not interact with this post ⚠️

Your phone buzzes exactly seven minutes after you started a conversation with Keigo— he insists you call him Keigo, because Hawks is too professional and Takami is too formal, his own words. Seven whole minutes (yes, you’ve been keeping an eye on the time during the whole conversation). It’s over six minutes later than you’d expected, really. It buzzes again almost immediately, and you make a point to ignore your phone for a bit as you glance at Rumi, on the other side of the bar, over the rim of your glass.

When she arcs an eyebrow at you, visibly losing her patience, you give all your attention to Keigo again and offer him a smile before pulling your phone out of the back pocket of your jeans to check the messages you’ve no doubt received from the Rabbit Hero.

fluffy butt 🐇🤍

i bet you think you’re real cute letting him put his hands all over you we’ll see how cute you look later when i get you home

It’s almost disappointing how predictable she is with these things. Almost. Rumi is way too hot when she gets jealous for it to actually be disappointing. You want to remind her that she is the one who invited you to that bar and who left you alone to get drinks, that she is the one who got distracted by a conversation with Ryukyu, but you decide to leave her on read and see what happens.

From where you stand, you can see Rumi’s internal struggle not to just abruptly cut Ryukyu in the middle of what she is saying so that she can get right between you and Keigo. It’s quite the amusing sight, from her flattened ears to her thumping foot, her attitude reeks of frustration. You can’t help but wonder what will tick her off so much that she will intervene — Keigo has only touched you shoulder and given your arm a light squeeze and Rumi is already seething, so it seems likely just about anything would set her off.

“I can hear her thump from here,” Keigo comments, a lazy smile adorning his lips. “I’m surprised she hasn’t tried to murder me yet.”

You chuckle at his words.

“I think she’s trying to see whether or not looks can kill.”

He leans closer to you (and you know it’s much too closer to Rumi’s standards because you can smell the minty alcohol on his breath), “I sure hope looks can kill. It’d be a lot less painful than her foot up my— well, wherever she fancies shoving it, I guess.”

You don’t even have time to give him a reaction that you can hear heavy footsteps approaching, so you lean away from Keigo just enough to properly look at your girlfriend as she marches over to you. It’s only now that she is right here that you notice she’s opened her leather jacket, revealing one of her favorite crop tops — black, sinfully tight and exposing just the right amount of cleavage and abs to make your mouth water.

God, her skin always looks so tempting, you want to reach out, to put a hand on her waist, under her jacket, but she grabs you by the wrist before you can even try to move a muscle. Her eyes are fixed on you, and, to your surprise, she doesn’t even acknowledge Keigo.

“We’re leaving,” she says, her tone stern.

“Rumi... it’d be rude to leave so early,” you tell her, smiling at her with all the innocence you can muster (enough to fool anyone who doesn’t know you well), “and you are the one who wanted us to come here in the first pl—”

“We’re leaving. I remembered I have something to do.”

You want to push, to tease, to see how far she’ll go, so even if her tone leaves no room for argument, you open your mouth again.

“But you—”

“Now.”

She tugs are your arm and you follow as she takes a first few steps away from Keigo, only to turn around and face him.

“I hope you choke on your fucking feathers, birdy.”

“Always nice to talk to you, Usagiyama,” he simply smirks and gives her a small wave of his hand, “and I hope something,” he glances at you, “will enjoy getting done.”

Rumi doesn't give you any time to say goodbye to him, or to any of her hero friends, and she drags you out of the bar, heading straight for her car. She doesn't even let you register how forceful she is being that you've already been shoved in the passenger seat.

The ride home is short (too short; Rumi drives way too fast for a Pro Hero who is supposed to set an example for those around her) and awfully quiet. She didn't even look at you, didn't glance your way at least once like she usually does. Rumi's ears are still flattened in annoyance when she opens the door of her house to push you inside.

She kicks off her sneakers and takes off her leather jacket to leave it on the back of chair, then heads to the couch, sitting down nonchalantly, arms crossed under her chest in a way that pushes up her tits. All you can do is stare, unable to form a coherent thought as you settle down next to her.

“You had fun flirting with Big Bird, baby?” she asks, and the question would be innocent enough if you didn't know your girlfriend better.

You move so that you're facing Rumi on the couch, your knee bumping into a strong thigh — and maybe, for a moment, you get briefly distracted by the thought of these rippling muscles on either side of your head.

“Come on, Rumi, you know there was no actual flirting. We were just having fun.”

She leans closer to you, invading your personal space, face so close to yours that all you can see in the harsh coldness in her eyes. You barely have time to blink that one of her hands is at the back of your head, her grip on your hair surprisingly gentle.

“Oh, because you think I don’t know what little game you were playing with him there?” she is nearly snarling at you, and this time, her grip on your hair tightens, deliciously painful, and she tugs. “Why do you think I waited so long to grab you, uh?”

So, she knew? The whole time you spent talking with Keigo, flirting with him and allowing him to flirt to get a reaction from her, she knew? And it still didn't stop her from getting jealous and acting possessive in the middle of a bar, surrounded by numerous other Pro Heroes.

Her grip on your hair tightens once more and she brings you closer to her body.

"I just wanted to see how far you'd take your little game," she explains, words nearly spat through her gritted teeth. "But I couldn't take it anymore. You're mine, understood?" she asks, but the way she pulls at your hair clearly tells you that she expects no reply.

"I thought we agreed that I was my own person?" you smirk, even as she yet again tugs at your hair. "We said we don't own each other even if we're dating, didn't we?"

It is true, it's something you've talked about pretty early in your relationship together, after Rumi admitted that she could get jealous easily, but hated that she got jealous. It led to conversation about acting possessive during sex and marking, and you know that's what Rumi is going on about right now, and not some sort of ownership that she'd have over you because she is your girlfriend. But you can't help it, can't help wanting to push all her buttons and see what kind of punishment it earns you.

"You're playing smartass with me now, uh?"

She tugs at your hair again, forcing your head back slightly, but you hold eye contact, refusing to let her get the submission that she wants from you just now. You've already earned yourself a punishment, might as well make the most of it, right?

"I would never."

You smile innocently and bat your eyelashes at her, even if the pain tickling your scalp is starting to blur your sight.

She lets go of your hair without saying anything, and for just a second, you think she might be too annoyed with your act and drop the issue entirely to move on and do whatever she feels like doing for the rest of the night. But she wraps her strong fingers around your wrist and pulls, her free hand pressing harshly between your shoulder blades to push you down onto her lap, face into the couch cushion and ass up, perched over her thighs.

Well, shit.

The first spank comes unexpectedly fast and hard, you have no time to brace yourself for the impact, and your jeans do little to absorb the shock and the pain spreading through your cheek.

“Shit!” you groan through gritted teeth, trying your best not to get too loud, which is most likely exactly what Rumi wants right now.

“Got something to say, baby?” Rumi asks, and you can hear the smirk in her voice.

“Nope. All good,” you mumble.

A second slap comes, matching the first one in speed and strength, leaving your ass numb from the pain. If there’s one thing you can never expect from your girlfriend, it’s for her to go easy on you.

“All good, you said?”

“Yup,” you whimper pathetically, your voice having none of the bite you wish for. Two spanks, and Rumi already has you trembling over her lap, it’s ridiculous, but you should have seen it coming, really.

She spanks you again, twice, and takes the time to brush the palm of her hand over your sore cheeks, the gesture almost soothing. She repeats the movements again, and again, before stopping to give your ass a squeeze. With each spank, you pant, forcing yourself to swallow the moans that threaten to fall past your lips.

“You’re taking your punishment really well today, baby. Trying to be good for me?” she teases, her hand now comfortably lodged between your thighs, too close to your aching core and yet not nearly close enough.

“Or maybe you’re not hitting as hard as you think you are.”

You aren't sure why you said that, aren't sure what you're doing right now, all you know is that it's dangerous because you're just provoking Rumi — it's always a recipe for disaster in the end.

She doesn't spank you though, but she snakes a hand between her lap and your stomach, pressing her fingers into your skin and pushing up until you put your weight on your knees and lift yourself up enough for her to get access to the button of your pants. Rumi hooks her fingers at the hem of your jeans and tugs, dragging them down your thighs along with your underwear.

She doesn't give you time to adapt to the cool air against your exposed bottom, doesn't let you collect your thoughts or even take a breath, before she is spanking you again. She marks no pause between each strike, just spanks and spanks and spanks. Lost in the rapid fire of her assault on your sensitive ass, you can't stop yourself from moaning — and that's when she pauses.

“Did my baby just moan?”

You stubbornly refuse to respond, clenching your jaw. You know a spank is coming, but you still aren’t ready for the pain.

“It’s okay to admit that you’re just a slut, desperate for me to touch you,” she coos, her calloused fingers gently brushing the raw skin of your ass. “Even if I’m just spanking you, you want me to touch you, don’t you? Because you’re a needy little whore for me, uh?”

Her words cause a shiver to run down your spine, straight to your core, but you press your thighs together and bit your tongue. You’re well aware what she wants you to do, what she wants you to say, but you don’t want to give it to her today. You’ve decided to play, and you won’t back down just because she’s spanking your ass raw. At your stubborn silence, she all but growls in your ear, her annoyance obvious as she slaps your burning cheek once more.

“How long do you think you can resist, baby?” she asks as her fingers trace little patterns on your back, your shirt riding up as her hand slowly moves higher. “How long til you act like the good little slut you are for me?”

You muffle your whine in the cushion, which is starting to feel uncomfortably wet from your tears and drool under your cheek. You hate it, but you can’t give in now. Rumi would be too pleased.

“Just say you’re mine, baby, say you’re my perfect good little slut,” she says, her fingers trailing down your back to settle between your thighs, an inch from where you need her most, “just say it and I promise I’ll fuck your pretty cunt so good you won’t be able to walk.”

She runs a finger along your drenched fold, and you hear her hum in delight. You hate how wet she’s making you; you can’t deny that this is all for her, that it’s the effect she has one you. Met with only silence once again, Rumi harshly pinches your clit between her thumb and index finger.

“Aaah! Rumi—” you gasp, whole body quivering.

“Say it. Say you’re my slut. Beg me to fuck you.”

“Please,” you whimper weakly.

“Uh? What did you say? Didn’t hear you, baby. Stop hiding in the couch and gimme a proper sentence.”

You nearly sob as she tightens her grip on your clit before releasing it.

“I’m your slut! All yours!” you feel your whole face burning at your own word, at the desperation in your voice. “I need you to fuck me! Please... Mirko... please fuck me.”

She chuckles, all too amused to your liking.

“See? Ain’t so hard to be good, is it?”

Before you can register what’s happening, Rumi has hoisted you in her arms and thrown you over her shoulder and is making her way to your bedroom. Your pants still down the middle of your thighs and ass bared, it’s the most embarrassing ever but you can’t even find words to express it; you can feel your arousal dripping down your thighs, sticky and embarrassing.

She tosses onto the bed as soon as she is close enough to it.

“Be good and strip for me, baby. Take everything off.”

You hurry to obey, pushing your pants further down and kicking them off your feet before you start working on taking off your shirt. Rumi’s disappeared into the bathroom, so you sit patiently to wait for her, back leaning against the headboard.

When she comes back, Rumi is dressed, and you take the time to admire her beauty. The size of her strong arms obvious through the thin material of her long-sleeved crop top, the delicious expanse of tan skin of her stomach, her tight abs, the curve of her hips— you notice it only now, the thick bulge hidden under her jeans. You look up at her face, surprise written all over your features, and the smile she gives you is playful, she even wiggles her eyebrows at you.

Rumi unbuttons and unzips her pants, freeing the thickness of her strapon from them before climbing on the bed. She sits, legs spread, and beckons you closer with the simple movement of a finger.

“Suck it,” she demands, “get my cock nice and ready to fuck your cunt.”

You crawl over to her and wrap a hand around the hard silicone as soon as it’s within reach, your lips closing around its head. You circle it with your tongue, lick it, and look up at Rumi’s face, the dildo snug in your mouth. She can’t feel it, but she always enjoys when you put on a show for her.

Long gone is your little rebellious act from earlier. All you want is for Rumi to take you here and now, to have her fuck you until you pass out.

As you take more of the silicone cock into your mouth, she puts a hand on your head, and soon enough, you can feel her tight grip in your hair. You’re almost halfway when she tugs and pulls you away from her cock.

“Ass up. Face down. Now.”

You do as she orders, resisting the temptation to look up when you feel the bed dip next to you. You hear her open the drawer of the nightstand, then the sound of the lube bottle being opened. From the loud clang that follows, you know she’s thrown the bottle back in the drawer rather than bother putting it down.

Her fingers are cold when they press against your entrance, slick with thick lube that she spreads over your folds, over your clit, before pushing two fingers inside you. You grip at the sheets, low moan leaving your lips.

“Look at you, being all good for me now,” she comments, her tone teasing. “Taking my fingers so well.” This time, her voice comes from much closer, and you feel her chest pressing against your back. She kisses your neck and shoulders as she starts moving her fingers, slow and deliberate. “You want my cock, baby?”

You whimper at a particularly harsh thrust of her fingers and tighten your grip on the sheet to try and keep yourself anchored, balanced.

“Yes, please! I want your cock in me!”

She pulls out her fingers, and your cunt clenches around the emptiness. You can’t help but moan miserably. She coos above you, amused by your desperation, of course.

She pushes the thick head of the strapon against your hole, but instead of pushing further into you, she guides it up and down your folds, several time, painfully slow, spreading the slickness of your arousal mixed with the lube. You whine and push your hips back, seeking what she is refusing you. A big mistake, and you know it even before both her hands hit your ass, still raw from the spanking she gave you.

“Don’t try that again, baby,” she warns, squeezing the flesh of your in her hands as she presses the dildo against your entrance again. “You gonna be good for me now?”

“I promise I’ll be good! So, please, please fuck me!”

She pushes into you slowly, just the head, then pulls out and repeats the movement, carefully stretching you. She eases more of the strapon inside you with each move, and while you are grateful for how careful she is being, you wish she would just fuck you into the mattress already.

Finally, you feel her hips against your ass, and she pauses for a moment as her hands rest on your waist.

“You ready, baby?”

“I am.”

The pace she sets is fast, the movements of her hips quick, precise and harsh, almost unforgiving. The material of her pants feels rough against the sensitive skin of your ass, and you suspect Rumi of having kept her pants on merely to torture you that way.

Within seconds, Rumi has you panting and moaning.

“So good for me, taking my cock so well.”

She slows her quick pace to focus on deeper, more forceful thrusts. You can’t even form a coherent sentence, or even words, to respond. And when one of her hands leaves your waist, you clench your teeth and brace yourself for an impact that doesn’t come. Instead of spanking you, she is gentle as she places her hand on your ass. She doesn’t leave you time to consider asking her what she is doing that her thumb is pushing against your hole, and she keeps it set firmly in your ass as she quickens the pace again, fucking into your cunt ruthlessly, her hips slapping your ass with each thrust.

“Fuck! Mirko! Please!”

You’re babbling, unsure if the sounds that come out of your mouth are even the ones in your mind, but you can’t bring yourself to care when all you can feel is your girlfriend fucking you like your lives depends on it. And with each thrust bringing you closer to the edge, you moan, you mewl, you pant, you aren’t sure which, the lewd, wet noises of your pussy overwhelming your senses.

“Look at you, baby,” she croons, “being such a good slut for me, making such pretty noises just for me. So pretty and perfect. And all mine.”

“I’m so close! Please! I wanna come!”

She stills her hips, “then do,” she simply says, punctuating the short sentence with a strong thrust before resuming her quick pace.

It only takes a few more thrusts of her cock and her thumb pushing a little further into your ass for your muscles to clench desperately around her strap as waves of pleasure crash through your body, your limbs quivering from the unadulterated bliss clouding your mind.

She is gentle as she pulls out, kisses your back as she eases you down onto the mattress and lies down next to you.

You turn your head to look at her, and she is grinning at you as you lay limply on the bed. She caresses your cheek, soft and loving, and shifts closer to kiss you on the nose.

“You did so good, babe,” she whispers, her smile only broadening, “I’m so proud of you.”

Feeling the exhaustion invade your body, you close your eye and focus on enjoying her gentle touch as she runs her fingers along your back and shoulders.

“Let’s get you in the shower in a few minutes, yeah? I’ll have to take care of your ass. I really got carried, sorry ‘bout that.”

You chuckle sleepily at her apology.

“Don’t be sorry, you know I liked it.”

“I do know. I mean, you fucking dripped on my pants, there’s still a spot on my thigh.”

You groan in embarrassment, and you would cover your face with your hands if your muscles weren’t still twitching from your orgasm.

“Just carry my lifeless body to the bathroom.”

“Gimme a break, I’m tired too. I fucking wrecked my hands spanking you so hard, ya know?”

“You really want to compare the state of your hands to my ass?” you mutter, frowning, eyes barely opening.

It’s her turn to chuckle.

“Yeah, okay, no. Just, lemme take a breathe and I’ll take care of my baby.”

#mirko x reader #mha x reader #mha x you #mha smut #bnha x reader #bnha x you #bnha smut #🐇 usagiyama rumi ( mirko )#⚠️ mdni ⚠️#🍌 drabbles & oneshots #i need to cleanse my soul and wash off my sins #at least i didn't write mommy!mirko #which is nothing short of a miracle tbh

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disgustingtoast · 3 years

Text

my shitty, shitty minho fic that took ages [tmr minho]

I'm sick of rereading this so here is 3.5k words of shitty, self indulgent writing. The confession could have 100% been more heartfelt but I'm sick of looking this in my google docs. There is most definitely a ton of mistakes but idc <3

this isn't really enemies to lover but the whole dynamic minho and the reader have kinda wrote itself lmao

HERE YOU MFS- @agathallalongs @blanknamed

You were fine with the way you woke up. Hell, you preferred it over some snot-nosed kid coming in and waking you up. And as it turns out, having the same schedule for a little under a year makes for a great internal clock, the habit of getting up in time for your daily run already having been instilled in you for months. So when you’re pulled from the peaceful lulls of sleep because of the feeling of being flipped upside down and landing face-first into the dirt floor of the Glade, you were rightfully peeved.

“Rise and shine shank.”

Minho. Of course it was Minho.

“I’m gonna throw you off the Cliff the minute we’re far enough into the Maze.” Sitting up, you try to rub off the dirt that got on your face when you face planted, scowling at the stains that litter the front of your shirt. “This was a new shirt too.”

“Were you thinking of going running with me or do you plan on sitting in the dirt all day?” Despite him being out of sight you can practically see the smug look he’s wearing. “Hey, maybe you can convince Winston to let you get in the pig pen so you can take a nice mud bath.”

Groaning, you finally stand up and turn around to face him. He’s standing with his arms crossed, holding a paper bag which you presumed had your lunch in it on the other side of your hammock, your very, very twisted hammock.

“Why the hell did you wake me up? I get up fine on my own.”

He shrugs in response, “I just felt like it.”

“You just felt like waking me up or you just felt like getting the world record for ‘biggest pain in the ass’?”

“A bit of both, and seeing your face when you spat out that dirt made you so much more attractive.”

Heat crawls up your neck in embarrassment, “Slim it.” Furrowing your eyebrows in frustration, you gesture in front of you to the tangled mess that hangs between you, “Also you’re gonna fix that.”

“No. It’s your bed.”

“You’re the one who flipped me over! Fix it.”

He stares at you for a second before turning on his heel and jogging off. While he turns to leave you barely catch the way his lips quirk into a smirk. As you watch his retreating figure you can feel your fingers twitch, the urge to strangle him suddenly overwhelming.

“Hey! Get back here shuck-face!” As quickly as you can, you slip your shoes on, not bothering to tie them and pull the leather harness over your head. After one last disapproving glance at your pathetic hammock you’re off, racing after Minho in an effort not to let him get too far ahead. If he beat you to the Doors you’d never hear the end of it.

By the time you catch up with him you’re out of breath. Everytime you would get closer than a few feet behind him he’d run a little faster keeping you at a good few paces behind him, succeeding at prolonging your ever-growing exasperation.

Eventually though he lets you catch up until you’re running side by side, a few meters away from the Walls. “This prison wouldn’t be half as bad if the Creators had put anyone else in here other than you. Preferably someone cuter, without such a punchable face.” You don’t have to look at him to imagine the offended look on his face, one of his most punchable expressions actually.

“I am by far the most attractive guy here. The rest of these shanks look like klunk in cargo shorts.”

“Yeah no. You don’t even break the top 21 on my list.” Once you reach the wall, you lean against it, waiting for the doors to open. When you look at Minho he quirks an eyebrow.

“You have a list?” He pauses for a moment, “Wait there’s only 22 gladers. You included yourself on your own list?”

“Good job! I wasn’t sure if you knew how to count.”

“Slim it. So who’re the top 3?”

You pause for a moment pretending to mull it over. “Well, Gally’s got that whole tall and brooding thing going. And Nick, well I like a man who can take charge-”

“Yeah, yeah okay I get it.” He waves his hand in the air rather indignantly, dismissing what you said. After a minute of silence. the grating sound of rock being dragged against rock echoes through the Glade as the Doors finally start to open. As he tightens the straps of his harness, Minho glances down at the ground and pauses for a moment before he snickers, “You better tie your shoes if you don’t want to trip and ruin your pretty face. Might knock you down a few pegs on that list of yours.”

It had been hours since you’d left the Glade, running the familiar course of the Maze. The only entertainment being watching the way the back of Minho’s neck turns a lovely shade of red every time you make a particularly irritating comment.

“Hey it’s getting late. We should go back to the Glade.”

Minho shakes his head in disbelief. “It’s not that late. We still have plenty of time to get back.”

“But I finally convinced Fry to make bacon and there's no way that they’ll be any left unless we get there early.” You draw out the last syllable in a whine, knowing exactly how to get under his skin.

He pivots, still continuing to run just now facing backwards. “Is Frypans bacon really more important than finding a way out of this hell hole?”

“Yes!”

“...Fine-” His sigh of annoyance is cut off abruptly as he trips, falling backwards and landing with a loud huff as the air is knocked out of his lungs.

“Shit, Minho!” You kneel beside him as he lays still, “Are you okay?!” Your voice seems to ricochet off the walls.

It takes a moment before he groans, his eyes still closed. “Why are you so shucking loud?”

“Sorry. Are you okay?” Quieting your tone, you hover over him.

He finally opens his eyes, “M’ fine. I just tripped.” Pushing himself up, he tries to stand but the minute he puts pressure on his ankle he gasps in pain, stumbling into you as you stand to catch him.

“Shit. Okay, you just need to sit down.” You lead him over to the wall, letting him support himself against it before he slides down to sit. When he stretches his legs out in front of him you take to kneeling again, this time next to his feet. Rolling back the bottom of his pant leg you check to see how bad his ankle is and judging by the wincing and the gritting of his teeth you’re betting on not good.

It’s only been a minute but you feel your heart drop at the way it’s already swollen and starting to bruise. You frown as you press your finger against it lightly, snapping your hand back as Minho recoils, growling in pain.

“Don’t touch it!”

“Fine. Good luck finding someone else in here that’ll help you. I’m sure the Grievers would be happy to assist.”

“It just hurts asshole, no need to get snappy.”

“Yeah, yeah just stop your whining you big baby.”

He cringes as you begin to prod his ankle again and sets his head back to rest against the wall.

“Well I’d say it’s just a fracture, it doesn't look too messed up- Minho?” He doesn’t respond. “Hey! Minho!” You reach in front of his face and snap your fingers, “C’mon I need you to wake up!”

He moans as he opens his eyes, well squints his eyes. He can barely keep them open half way, “Why is it so bright in here?”

Furrowing your eyebrows you glance up, it really isn’t that bright, gray clouds float across the majority of the sky and cover most of the sun. Looking back at his face, you can’t stop the nauseating feeling of fear that gnaws in your stomach. “Here, move your head off the wall, I need to check something.”

The dark stain on the wall where he was resting against is enough evidence but some irrational, hopeful part of you checks anyways, reaching around him and pressing your fingers to the back of his head. When you bring your hand back, your fingers are covered in blood.

“Damn it.” You try your hardest to push down the anxiety thundering in your stomach as you grab Minho’s arm and wrap it around your shoulder. Now is not the time to panic. “We need to get you back to the Glade.”

You’re not surprised he’s heavy, almost a year of running almost everyday tends to build up a lot of muscle however that doesn't make it any easier for you to carry him. You had to have been stumbling around for hours before you had to fully set him down to catch your breath.

“You really need to lay off Fry’s cooking. I’m telling him that you’re going on a diet the minute we get back.”

You only get silence in response, prompting you to look over and make sure he hadn’t passed out again. His eyes were open but his mind seemed to be elsewhere, his eyebrows furrowed and eyes focusing on something on the wall across from the one you were leaning against. You raise your hand and rest it against his shoulder, “Minho?”

“You need to leave me behind.”

The nauseous feeling returns, “What? No way I’m leaving you here to be Griever food.”

His face twists in frustration as he turns to look at you. “We’ll both be killed if you don’t get the hell out!”

“We still have time! I can carry you the rest of the way just fine.” Grabbing his wrist you pull his arm across your shoulders, tightening your grip when you feel him try to tug his arm back. “We’re going.” You wrap your arm around his waist to support him as you force him to stand.

He tries to pull away, “Why are you being so shucking stubborn! I can barely walk! There’s no way you’ll make it time before the Doors close.”

“Well that’s tough for me I guess.” You begin to walk forward, trying to adjust the way his body weight rested against you.

He begins to say your name but you interrupt him, “No! I’m not leaving you and that’s final.” Cursing the slight waver in your voice you continue to look ahead, choosing to ignore the frustrated look on his face.

It doesn’t take long for exhaustion to set in, Minho seeming to weigh even more every ten minutes. As you drag your feet across the uneven floor, the toe of your shoe catches on a crack, sending you both stumbling forward for what seems like the fiftieth time. The only difference is that this time you aren’t able to catch yourself, fatigue catching up with you and sending both you and Minho careening forward.

Stabbing pain shoots through your legs as you fall to your knees, the sound of Minho groaning in pain causes waves of guilt to wash over you. The sudden realization of just how dire your situation seems to suffocate you.

This was all your fault, if you hadn’t been so annoying Minho never would have tripped. If you were strong enough you would have been able to carry him all the way. Why weren’t you strong enough?

The soft call of your name shakes you out of your stupor, it’s followed by a hand pressed against the side of your face. It’s only when his thumb swipes against your cheek that you realize you’re crying.

“I’m sorry.” You shift slightly until you’re sitting down, knees pulled up to your chest. He follows and sits next you with his legs stretched out, hissing as he accidentally drags his ankle across the ground. “This is my fault.” Staring at the exposed part of his ankle, your stomach swirls at the dark purple bruising.

When he notices you staring he’s quick to pull his pant leg down, “This isn’t your fault. I shouldn’t have been running backwards.” He watches you for a second, contemplating, before he speaks again, “You can still leave now and make it.”

“I’m not talking about this again.”

“Why not-”

“I just can’t leave you behind okay! It would kill me knowing that I got us into this mess and I couldn’t get both of us out alive.”

“So you’re just going to kill yourself because you would feel bad if you didn’t?” At his harsh words you whip your head to look at him, surprised to find him angry, his nose flaring and teeth gritting.

“Why are you getting so mad?! And you know it’s more than that! I’m not leaving you here, you can yell all you want but it’s not going to change anything.”

He throws his hands up in the air in indignation, “Why?! Why do you have to be so stubborn!” His tone is harsh and he practically spits his words at you.

A flurry of emotions lodges in your throat and a burning, hot anger ignites in the deepest pits of your stomach. Your lips are moving faster than your brain can process, “Because I love you, you idiot! I can’t just leave you behind because you're the reason I haven’t jumped the shucking Cliff yet!” Your heart is beating impossible fast and for a split second you wonder if it’s going to beat right out of your chest. You watch as Minho’s face morphs into an expression of shock and before you can identify the emotion swirling in his eyes you swear you can hear someone's footsteps.

You scramble to your feet, straining your ears in hopes that you weren’t imagining it. In the distance you hear the rushed strides of someone running in your direction and you swear you feel your heart skip a beat. It was far too late for another runner to be out in the Maze.

“Hey!” Cupping your hands around your mouth you hope they hear you. You hear Minho grunt and the sound of him dragging against the stone wall as he stands.

His voice rings through Maze as he calls out.

After a moment of tense silence you hear the quick foot falls of another runner getting closer before you spot his familiar blond hair turning the corner.

“Ben! Oh my god!”

He comes to a stop in front of you, his expression worried, “What are you guys still doing here? The Doors are closing soon!”

“Minho got hurt and I wasn’t able to carry him all the way back. Why are you out so late?”

“I figured I’d stay out later than usual. Had a bad feeling.” He glances over your shoulder to look at Minho. “We need to get going if we want to make it in time.”

Nodding your head, you turn around and make your way over to where Minho is leaning against the wall. You can feel his eyes on you, pleading for you to look at him but you’re adamant at avoiding eye contact. Out of the corner of your eye, you notice Ben glancing back and forth between you, no doubt feeling the tension.

Having someone else there to help made carrying Minho infinitely easier and the three of you stumbled through the doors just as they began to groan, closing behind you.

“What took you so bloody long?” The familiar accent of Newt floats across the Glade but you’re too exhausted to even look in his direction. It isn’t until he’s standing right in front of you that you tear your eyes from Ben and Minho as they make their way to the Med-Jack hut.

“Minho fractured his ankle and got a concussion.” Your hands clench in anger as you speak, “If it hadn’t been for Ben we wouldn’t have made it out.”

“Aren’t you going to go check on him?” Newt frowns at you.

The thought of being in the same room with Minho after you practically dumped your heart out on him made your stomach churn. “No, I think- I think I’m just going to let him rest for now.”

Newt opens his mouth to comment, no doubt going to point out that you never left Minho’s side but you’re quick to interrupt him. “I’m exhausted. I’m going to go shower and get some rest.” You force a smile and begin to walk in the direction of the showers before he’s able to speak.

It seems to take ages to get to the bathrooms. Fatigue makes your limbs feel sluggish and the adrenaline of being in the Maze ebbs away, leaving aching muscles in its wake. You can’t seem to shake the thoughts of Minho as you scrub yourself clean. He probably wanted nothing to do with you and your big fat mouth. If you’d only bitten your tongue for another minute you wouldn’t have this looming air of regret suffocating you.

The regret seems to pull tighter against your throat when you notice your hammock, still twisted from this morning. Tears gather at your waterline, threatening to spill over. The view in front of you is distorted and watery and your fingers fumble with the twisted strings before you give up, whining in frustration.

You pause for a moment before turning in the direction of the Med-Jack hut, your heart desperately yearning to see him. Before you have time to think, you’re wiping your teary eyes with the back of your hand and practically jogging to the little run down shack, ignoring the throbbing pain in your legs.

Hesitating at the door you take a deep breath, steadying yourself before you’re pushing against it. The room is silent, both Clint and Jeff having left and gone to bed. Scanning the room you notice a bed in the corner, Minho sleeping peacefully under it’s covers. His face slack as he rests, his forehead covered by a thin, white bandage that stretches around his head. As you silently pull up a chair to his bedside you study him, it isn’t often you get to see his face when it isn’t creased with stress or in any expression other than a smirk.

Smiling softly. you reach up and pull his blanket up a little higher until it covers his shoulders, the night had a cold edge to it despite it being well into summer. After sitting there for a few minutes your eyelids begin to get heavy, like something was weighing them down. For a moment the idea of walking back to your hammock crosses your mind but you immediately dismiss it, just thinking about getting up is exhausting. You cross your arms on the side of his bed and rest your head against them. It doesn’t take long before the comfort of sleep consumes you.

Garbled words and the feeling of something brushing against your face is what wakes you this time. Opening your eyes, the first thing you notice are Minho’s pretty brown ones staring back at you, the next thing you notice are the hushed snickers from behind you. Shooting up straight you feel the warm rush of embarrassment flood your cheeks.

“It was about time you woke up!” Clint pipes up, “Lover boy here hasn’t stopped staring at you since we came in here to check on him.”

This time, pink begins to tint Minho’s cheeks and creep up his neck, “Slim it! Get outta here would ya?”

“Okay! We’re going!” You turn around just in time to see Clint pushing Jeff out the door and throwing you a wink before shutting the door.

The awkwardness is palpable as you stare down at your lap. The bed creaks as Minho shifts to sit up against the headboard, the sound seeming incredibly loud in the silence. Mustering up your courage you finally speak.

“I’m sor-”

“I love you too!’

Your head shoots up as he interrupts you, eyes wide as you take in his expression that mirrors your own.

“What?”

His body language tells you that he had most definitely not meant to say that, his mouth moving up and down as he tries to figure out what to say.

Your heart catches in your throat as you process his words, “You love me?”

At the slow nod of his head, a beaming smile splits your face, and before you can stop yourself you're pulling him into a crushing hug. Caught off guard, he stiffens for a moment as you wrap your arms around him but as soon as you let out a shaky breath against his neck he winds his arms around you.

“Is this okay?”

At your hushed tone he pulls you tighter against him, “This is more than okay.”

#I told myself I wouldn't tag this but just out of curiosity-#the maze runner x reader #tmr x reader #tmr minho x reader #if any kpoppies get this- sorry ig lmao

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bigbrotherlouis · 3 years

Note

the bag of chips scene from 'i ate you up the day we first spoke' for the director's cut meme!

whoohoo i actually loved writing this scene and i’m so glad someone asked about it yeeee

(director’s cut meme)

everything eases back into normal. tk picks nolan up for practice, because nolan’s car is inexplicably always out of gas, (this is true, i read an article about it somewhere) and ties nolan’s ties for him on game days, and follows him into his living room to eat all the good snacks nolan hides on increasingly higher shelves.

“how did you even get those?” he asks when he comes out of the washroom and finds travis eating illegal all-dressed his mom had sent down in his last care package. he’s pretty sure they were hidden, like, on top of the cupboards this time. he literally had to throw them up there. (food, when you move countries, is a really big deal. i always want to keep the mutlicultural aspect of a lot of hockey players in mind, because i was a young multicutural person in the united states, and home foods is usually a good way to do it. all-dressed are pretty distinctly canadian, and my cousin gets her parents to send them to her in california, so i borrowed that from her. also i liked the image of TK climbing on the counters to try and get at a bag of chips.)

tk shrugs and crams a handful of chips into his mouth. “smart thinking.”

“those are mine.”

“i don’t see you eating them,” tk says smugly and nolan thinks about it for precisely point two seconds before he launches himself at the sofa. (no thoughts, head empty)

it’s a familiar ritual, this one. tk cackles, going limp so he can noodle off the cushions onto the floor, the bag still clamped in his hand. he scrabbles backwards until he’s out of reach of nolan’s admittedly long arms.

“sucks to suck, babe,” he gloats, except nolan is not emphatically giving up, those are his chips, and he’s not going to let his idiot of a best friend eat them all. tk grunts when nolan lands on his lower half, hard, and pins down his legs so he can’t escape. he sits on tk’s knees and ignores the yelling. (travis “has never shut up once in his life” konecny strikes again)

“mine,” he says savagely, snatching the bag out of his hands. tk huffs, shoving at his legs.

“it’s rude— not to— share— fuck, patty, what are you doing in the gym?”

“some of us don’t skip leg day.”

“yeah, well, some of us aren’t built like a fuckin’ ox,” tk complains, as if he’s not just as in shape as nolan is. “i can’t even fuckin’ pinch you because you’re wearing jeans.”

“now who’s the smart think— fuck!” (not you, pat. not tk either but still not you.) he shouts, flinching and rubbing at his side. that pinch is definitely going to bruise. tk uses it as a distraction to roll them, nolan’s shoulders thudding painfully against the floor, and straddles nolan’s stomach with his thighs. there’s another struggle but tk gets hold of nolan’s arms, pins them under his knees so nolan’s fists are at his sides. he’s effectively trapped. (too many nolans but what do you do when writing m/m. also this isn’t specific to this scene, but especially in hockey with all its nicknames, i like to write people’s internal narrative with whatever name they probably think of themselves as. that’s why nolan isn’t pat/patty here, and why tk is usually not travis)

“still me,” tk says, grinning at him with undisguised glee. he works the chips free and sits up, putting his weight just under nolan’s ribs so all the breath gets knocked out of him for a second.

“fucker,” nolan hisses, trying and failing to wriggle his way out. “what the fuck, teeks?”

“that’s what you get for not growing up with brothers, bro. gotta fight to survive. survival skills.”

“bud, you don’t even know. sisters have nails and they’re not fucking afraid to use them,” nolan says, his best murder glare in effect. he probably still has the scars in some places. (i know i do) tk snorts.

“sorry, i don’t see you scratching me here,” he says.

“let me go and i’ll scratch you up real good,” he threatens and then his brain catches up with his mouth, his face going red as he realises what he’s maybe implied. “uh.”

tk doesn’t take the obvious chirp, just raises an eyebrow. there’s a considering look on his face, one that makes nolan want to squirm more and it settles somewhere down deep in his stomach. (so i wrote this scene because i needed a turn for both of them, relationship-wise. iirc, there’s been a few places where tk’s interest might be noticeable, but nothing super concrete for pat or for the reader. meanwhile, on tk’s side, he needed clear signals that pat’s into him before he tries to tell him again.)

“uh,” he says again because his brain is just fucking offline and his arms are still locked under travis’ legs and travis burns hot because nolan can feel it against his skin, through his t-shirt, and this is all going to get incredibly, incredibly awkward in about three seconds. (unfortunately, i love a good run-on sentence to build tension) he’s pretty sure popping a boner because a teammate is sitting on you is, like, not something you can get away with by laughing.

tk shifts, sitting up the tiniest bit, and reaches out the hand that’s not currently occupied with the fuckin’ chips— probably all crushed to hell now, anyway (foreshadowing!! also strategic last mention here so we know that tk is still holding them, and then they aren’t mentioned until the shoe drops for optimal dramatic effect) — and brushes his fingers against nolan’s cheek. he traces the blush from his cheekbone carefully down his neck, pausing to thumb at his jaw, and then bumps his fingers against his collar, where it disappears down into his shirt. (i really liked building the tension here. also this is fully just projection bc i would love to touch patty’s blush once in my life)

“you’re glowing, pat,” he says, so soft, and it makes nolan go redder. he glowers at a spot by tk’s ear, unwilling to look him in the face and see whatever is written there. (would tk actually tell nolan he’s glowing? probably not, but fictionally it gives the reader a good picture of what nolan looks like to someone else. i didn’t want to overuse red-- which didn’t quite feel like a strong enough word-- or blush, so glowing it was.) tk hooks his index into the collar and there’s a moment when nolan thinks he’s going to pull it down, see if his blush goes all the way down his chest— it does, if he’s embarrassed enough. it’s fucking terrible— and he turns his head away, dragging in a breath through his nose. he’s, like, so incredibly fucked that he can’t even think about it without going dizzy. (you’ll probably see this a lot if you look for it in my writing, but i like to add in a “like” or something similarly bro-ish when things get particularly emotionally fraught, to keep it more realistic. also i think it’s funny. anyway, i like the contrast of tk not being able to take his eyes away from something he wanted and nolan not being able to look at it. characterisation, wahey!) it’s better to just not look.

of course, it’s the exact opposite of what tk wants.

“hey,” he says. “look at me.”

nolan refuses, a muscle ticking in his jaw. (this is hot to me idc) tk lets go of his collar to pull on his hair instead, just a little tug of a piece by his ear, and nolan can’t quite bite back the punched-out sound that he lets out. (also hot.)

“look at me,” tk says again, an edge to his voice, and nolan does. tk won’t stop until he does, he knows that well enough. (another look at their dynamic and how well they know each other) he lifts his chin, just a tiny bit, because he’s not going to do anything without a fight. tk’s hand tightens in his hair and it keeps him in place, nailed— ha— to the floor. (i write for the people whose brains make inappropriate jokes at the wrong moments) he couldn’t move if he wanted to, watches helplessly as tk leans down.

the hope in his chest is so thick, nolan thinks it might actually smother him, stop his heart. he’s breathing fast and shallow, almost on the verge of panting, and jesus fuck, isn’t that embarrassing. he’s so desperate, he could squirm with it and he briefly remembers travis months ago, writhing on his very rug and how much nolan wanted to help. he can smell snow again, sharp in the back of his nose. (this does the double work of calling back to an earlier scene-- ya girl loves a good callback-- and also building the anticipation some more. the snow reference reminds the reader that this is still a werewolf au, even in the midst of this. also, once when i was like fifteen, i read something about how to write kisses/romance and it talked about picking one or two aspects of the kiss to focus on-- breathing, hands, the feeling of someone’s mouth, etc. i still use that advice.)

tk shifts his weight and nolan has enough time to think holy fuck, is this happening? before travis fucking konecny upends the bag of all dressed-flavoured crumbs all over his face. (OKAY a lot going on here! it’s one of my favourite moments, really. first of all, here’s the resolution of all the chips talk! sure, i could’ve just abandoned them, but the subverting of expectations was a lot more fun and the story still wasn’t quite ready for them to kiss yet. second, this is tk chickening out. he had two choices and he chose violence. or, like, the buddies option, which is amusing to me because this is not buddies, boys. finally, the full name was necessary to convey nolan’s disappointment and anger, as was the full description of the chips. nolan is upset, and he’s going to notice these things, and that shows up in his internal narrative.)

“got ‘em,” he crows over nolan’s sputtering, letting himself get bucked off onto the floor. nolan wipes furiously at his face, all his feelings a confusing mix of horny and angry and confused, all with the thick overtone of humiliation.

“you’re a fucking dick,” he says and it’s flat, but tk is gloating too much to care. (he’s not, he’s trying to cover, but nolan’s too embarrassed to realise)

“you should’ve seen your face, pat.”

nolan glares daggers at the carpet, the chips spread out everywhere. it’s going to be a bitch to clean up. tk had better help. (makes sure the punch landed, and to give a final resolution.)

he leans against the sofa and waits for tk to tire himself out, listening to the laughter and trying not to get too angry or, like, cry. his neck feels hot, prickling uneasily. he rubs at it with his hand, startles when tk kicks him gently in the ankle. (in order for tk to not come out of this looking like an asshole, i needed him to make up his obliviousness by being observant in other times. and in order for tk to notice patty being mad, i needed to give patty actions that could be noticed, like not laughing along with the joke)

“sorry if i made you mad,” tk says quietly, all the giggles finally worked out of him. “you looked tense (no shit bud) and i thought it would make you laugh.”

it’s not tk’s fault nolan thought he was gonna, like, kiss him. (”like” again, to break up a too-honest moment) it was a dick move but tk doesn't have a cruel bone in his body, so: “it’s fine,” he mumbles and shrugs his shoulder. “it was funny.”

tk preens for a second. “i know.”

“you owe me a bag now.”

“i’ll buy you a family-sized pack. i’m sure they’ll ship it down here, amazon or ups or somethin’.” (patty’s attempting to be normal and tk is attempting to make amends.)

nolan nods and scratches at his face, tipping his head against the couch cushions. (little motions like him scratching his face aren’t super necessary for like plot or development, but it helps humanize characters and i like to add them in whenever i can, as long as it’s not overkill. they can also be helpful in pointing to emotional state without directly saying it.) it’s quiet for a few seconds, just the sound of them breathing heavier than usual, and it would be so normal. should be normal, by all counts, but nolan still kind of wants to crawl into a hole for while. wants to push tk out of the apartment and eat ice cream and google ‘how to stop a crush,’ like his sisters used to do when they were upset. he’s already googled it, a few days ago, and there was nothing but maybe someone’s offered good advice since then. (people make an impact on you, and family even more so, and i always like reminders of how close nolan seems to be with his sisters. also, it’s funny.)

tk flicks him on the wrist. (this is something that tk does consistently through the story, and even though it’s not super important to this scene, it establishes a behaviour in the larger story. that’s important too!)

“pat,” he says and it sounds it’s not the first time. nolan blinks.

“yeah?”

“i just asked you if you were hungry.”

“oh. uh. no, not really,” he answers truthfully. tk wrinkles his nose.

“do you, like, have anything in your fridge to eat?”

“mm, probably not.”

“typical,” tk mutters under his breath, as if he ever has anything regularly stocked besides protein powder and bacon. (protein rich foods that are easy to eat after a full moon, or after a workout) at least nolan has eggs pretty consistently. (also a protein rich food that’s less easy to eat after a full moon, but are easy to make when you aren’t a werewolf) “wanna go get sushi?”

nolan thinks about it. shoves his sweaty hair behind his ear and considers going out to their favourite place and pretending he’s not still fucking mortified. and, like, a little turned on. it makes him nauseous. (i get such physical reactions to emotional things that i write everyone into having them)

“no,” he says. he’s not facing tk but he can still see him deflate, his shoulders hunching over. “i don’t— no.”

“okay. that’s… okay.”

“i think i’m getting a migraine,” lies nolan. “think i’m just gonna lay down.”

“do you need me to stay with you? keep you company?”

nolan’s shaking his head before tk even finishes the thought. “no, trav. i’m fine, i promise.” (the trav here works as a signal that something isn’t right! it’s why tk looks at him for so long in the next line.)

tk studies him for a long minute, his eyes searching the side of patty’s face presented to him. nolan keeps his expression as blank as possible and stares hard at his feet.

“text me if you need anything,” he says finally, the words coming out slow and gentle. it’s a lot to handle. “i’ll come back.”

“i know. i will.” he won’t, but that’s not for tk to know. he doesn’t move when tk goes out the door, squeezes his eyes shut when the door doesn’t slam into its frame, (tk’s taking care of him, still!) and decides to leave the pile of crumbs to deal with later. (the climax of this scene happened a while ago so this is another little reminder of what happened, just so it’s solidified in the reader’s head after the longish comedown. i end scenes a LOT like this-- two actions, and then a callback-- because they’re simple and effective, and usually sound great!) /fin

ahh thank you so much for asking!! this was really fun to, like, process through and remember my logic for! i was actually really nervous writing this scene, because i knew the tension and the break had to be PERFECT for it to land right. but i do like how it turned out so at least there’s that. ily!!

#it took longer to write but i had fun!!#thank you caitlyn!!!!!!#fic talk #hockey rpf #hockey bros #my fic #hockey #tk/patty #idiots to lovers #cactusandfir #long post

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terminallydepraved · 6 years

Text

mags n nocens fic

fuckin have it idc anymore. these were written a vERY long time ago so excuse me if they suck

“So what’s it like?”

Mags looked up from her magazine, confused.

“What’s what like?”

Noce was in her spacious kitchen, beating the shit out of some kind of dough on the countertop. She was covered in a dusting of flour, her spiky hair held back with a hairband. It was a comforting image.

“Biting. Being bitten. The whole vampire shtick,” she explained, pulling out a rolling pin and going to town on the concoction. The way her arms flexed highlighted her muscles. The pace increased her heart rate and Mags could suddenly hear its pumping. It was deafening all of the sudden.

Mags swallowed. “Well, it’s been awhile since I’ve been bitten,” she began, marking her place before setting the magazine down. “I guess it depends on how you do it. It’s different.” She stood and moved from the living room to sit at the bar, overlooking the mess of flour and sweat that was the vigilante.

The dough was rolled, tossed, flipped, repeat. “Different how?” Noce asked, taking a moment to rest. She wiped her forehead, blowing at the stray hair and flour impeding her vision. Mags smiled. The girl was practically covered in flour now.

“I guess it depends on how the vampire wants to make it feel. It can be really nice if the person biting puts the effort into it,” she offered, reaching across the space to tuck an errant lock of hair behind Noce’s ear. “You might have more flour on you than in that.” She gestured down at the thinly rolled dough, chuckling.

Noce huffed, pouting in the way she always did when she was being adorable and patronized. Not that Mags would ever say that out loud. The pineapple print apron did that well enough on its own.

“Part of the recipe, I swear.” The rolling pin was picked up and the dough received another stretching. “You any good at putting the effort into it?” She asked, smirk on her face and eyes dancing under her domino.

It took a couple of heartbeats for the question to register. Another several for the implications to hit home. “I uh. I’ve never had any complaints,” Mags managed, a bit blindsided. She didn’t really want to jump to conclusions just yet, not until Noce assured her of the reasoning behind the questions. For all she knew, Noce could just be asking her to help her interrogate someone, or some other weird, Noce-like thing.

Noce hummed. She rolled once, twice more before rolling the dough over her pin and expertly transporting it over to the other countertop. The dough was deposited onto the waiting newspaper, dusted with even more flour, and then Noce was around the counter, apron tossed somewhere on the floor, and in Mags’s personal space.

Mags distantly, in some far off part of her mind, noted that she was going to be covered in floury hand prints as Noce grabbed her shoulders, pulling her closer and almost off the bar stool.

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

Noce, probably, rolled her eyes. “I need you to bite me. For science,” she added, cocking her neck to the side. “Just make sure I’m not complaining after, ‘kay?”

To say Mags was thrown would be an understatement. She sputtered, even as her hands settled on Noce’s hips and pulled her up to straddle her lap. Jesus, her pajama bottoms were covered in flour and what looked like dried egg. “Is this like the shit you pull with Jase? Poking the dragon to see what happens?” It would explain her habit of antagonizing anything supernatural within a five mile radius.

Her nose wrinkled and Mags was rewarded with another eye roll, this one visible even under the mask. “Well I don’t go around askin’ Jase to chomp on my neck, so I’m gonna say no.” Noce scooted closer, her knees resting on the chair’s edges. “But I will say, you guys got me fuckin’ curious. Better to just humor me, babe.”

Logically, Mags knew the whole situation was probably staged. Noce was smart, scary smart, and there was no way she didn’t know what she was doing. She was never this overtly sexual. Not unless she was working a job. Not unless she wanted something. Her bro tank was lose, almost slipping off a shoulder. Her cleavage was very prominently positioned, and even covered in flour she was stupidly attractive. The kind of damsel found in every cheesy vampire romance novel, except this was one morsel completely uninterested in the inevitable conclusion. No, this wasn’t a serious seduction attempt. Just her way of enticing Mags to say yes to her weird, potentially life-threatening experiment. Just a game played by a very confident ace. She doubted that Noce would even try this for a second with someone she didn’t trust to figure that out.

Mags couldn’t help it. She laughed. She reached up and tilted Noce’s head, her thumb grazing over the victorious smile cutting across her mouth. “You eat a decent lunch?” she asked, eyes already shifting to black. She could see the excited thrum of Noce’s jugular dancing beneath thin, fragrant skin.

“Yeah,” Noce answered, already a bit breathy from Mags’s stare. Her fingers clenched in the fabric of her shirt, white flour bright against the black.

“Good, good. I’m not going to take much, just tell me if you want me to stop.” She waited for Noce to nod. God, she wished she could see her eyes.

Her fangs slipped through her skin like butter and the first pull was every bit as good as she had imagined. It’d been awhile since she had someone so willing, even if it was just ‘for science’. Mags made certain to keep her head clear despite the desire to drink deep, in case Noce showed any sign of discomfort. It was definitely an exercise in control, one she hadn’t bothered with in a long while.

Noce wasn’t making any effort to do the same though. Her grip on Mags’s shirt was lax, her body heavy and warm against her front. Mags let her hands wander a bit, stroking along Noce’s spine and through her hair. It didn’t take long before she pulled away the hair band, letting her fingers card through the dark strands. It was more petting than fondling, and nothing more than what Noce had let her do any other time they were together. The way Noce was arching into it, it wouldn’t be hard to take advantage. Definitely an exercise in restraint.

She let it go on for a few minutes longer, tearing her mouth away the moment she heard Noce’s breath begin to shallow. It was almost painful to stop, Noce’s bereaved keening not helping in the slightest. Snatching up a clean hand towel, she pressed it against the bite and waited for the boneless vigilante in her lap to essentially sober up. Sober up and stop rubbing herself against Mags’s body.

Mags was half considering carrying them over to the couch when Noce stirred almost thirty minutes later. Her cheeks were a tad pale, her reactions a bit sluggish, but nothing debilitating. She levered herself upright so she was no longer plastered against Mags’s front but otherwise made no move to get up.

“I think I see why your complaint box is empty,” Noce slurred slightly, hands resting on Mags’s shoulders for support. Mags took the liberty of fixing the strap of her tank top. Somewhere along the way it had lost its fight with gravity.

“I like to think I’m a satisfaction guaranteed kinda person. How you feeling?” She asked, tossing the towel over the counter and into the sink. It clotted about ten minutes in, but she had wanted to be safe rather than sorry.

Noce shrugged, her tank top strap again threatening to slip off. “Woozy, usual bloodloss shit. Kinda like I got cotton candy and about six vodka shots for blood. Fuckin’ brilliant, let’s go again,” she grinned lazily, looping her arms around Mags’s neck.

Yeah, it was definitely couch time, before Mags did something stupid, like agree. Mags gripped Noce under her thighs and lifted them up, carrying her easily into the living room. “Sorry Noce, but no dice. You gotta make more before we go again. Maybe next week,” she promised, easing Noce onto the sofa. “Here, lie down. I’m going to grab you some juice or something.” Mags snagged a blanket off the armchair, tucking it around the grinning vigilante.

“I could kick the mutt’s ass six ways to Sunday right now, I can handle another dose of your vampire wiles.” Noce made a token resistance but gave it up after an aborted attempt to sit upright.

“You’re incorrigible,” she snorted, heading back into the kitchen. Mags dug around in the fridge, finding the most pretentious juice she’d ever seen hiding behind a large jar of pickled something or other. She huffed out a laugh and poured a large glass, tossing in a bendy straw for good measure. The dough was still resting on the newspaper. Mags looked at it quizzically.

“Is that dough stuff okay like that?” she asked, carrying over the cup of pomegranate-and-whatever juice. Noce had somehow managed to prop herself up against the arm of the couch and was making grabby hands at the cup.

“’s gotta dry anyway, don’t worry about it.” Noce managed before going to town on her juice. Her face was still flecked with flour and the couch was probably covered in the stuff by now. Mags debated getting a washrag and figured if she didn’t clean it now, she’d probably never hear the end of it. It only took a moment to wet a rag, but by the time she got back, Noce was fast asleep. Her empty cup sat precariously on her stomach and Mags was quick to move it to the coffee table.

She dabbed lightly at the mess on her cheeks, carefully maneuvering around the domino. They’d known each other now for what, three months? She’d let Mags drink her blood but not see her face and, while Mags could grudgingly understand the precaution, she couldn’t help but be somewhat frustrated. She moved on with a sigh, removing a truly astonishing amount of flour from Noce’s hands and arms. Soon enough she was as clean as she was going to get short of being hosed down.

Tossing the rag back into the kitchen, Mags settled down at the end of the couch, Noce’s feet in her lap. The magazine she had been reading was right there where she had left it, bookmarked and everything. The new blood thrummed in her veins in time to Noce’s heartbeat.

It had definitely been a weird day.

#noce+mags #anti fic

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