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ginnsbaker · 3 months

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fic: if i bleed (you'll be the last to know) (1/?)

“I'm sorry, I'm not sure I understand,” you say, hands retreating into the pockets of your white coat. Leigh takes a deep breath, steeling herself for what she knows will be a difficult conversation.

“I recently found out that my husband was cheating on me,” she says, her green eyes boring into yours. “With you.” Or the one where you fall in love with the widow of an ex-lover you never knew was married.

Pairing: Leigh Shaw x Fem!Reader | Word count for this part: 6k+ | Warnings: None for now | A/N: I wrote about 30k words of the Succession Wanda but hit a wall in terms of plot progression. So that's on hold. Allow me to apologize with this two-shot. P.S. I've always wanted to write for Leigh, and this idea came out of nowhere. Loosely based on canon.

Masterlist | Next Part

Leigh wakes up in a bed that’s not hers for the first time in months, and the unfamiliar scent of freshly cut grass and cedarwood almost immediately overwhelms her senses, suffocating her with its cloying sweetness.

“Jules?” she croaks out, her mind clawing its way through the fog. When it lifts a few seconds later, Leigh realizes where she is and what she’s done.

And how she’s very, very naked underneath the sheets.

The person lying next to her in the bed starts to move. Right away, she knows it's not her sister, unless she's somehow caught up in a prank she doesn't find amusing at all. And so, she braces herself for her dead husband’s brother's voice to shatter the silence.

But it never comes. Instead, an arm drapes itself across her stomach, pulling her towards warmth. Leigh gets the sudden urge to vomit, except she skipped dinner and there isn’t anything to bring up. Last night, in a desperate attempt to fill the void left by Matt's absence, she had reached out to someone she shouldn't have. Someone Leigh didn’t even like to begin with. A knot tightens further in her stomach as she considers what her husband’s ghost would think.

Would he approve? Would he feel betrayed or disgusted as she does?

Careful not to disturb Danny, who still sleeps soundly beside her, Leigh slips out of bed with the grace of a cat. She gathers her clothes from the floor and dresses herself with heavy limbs, each garment reminding her of how Danny had taken them off her body.

As messed up as it sounds, Leigh can't help but draw parallels between him and Matt. They share the same blood, but there's not a single trait in Danny that triggers memories of Matt. With Danny, it's all about his own desires, his movements reflecting his wants. But with Matt, it's like he's always bending to Leigh’s will, submitting to her.

It tears Leigh’s heart anew.

As she finishes dressing, Leigh glances around searching for her watch. She second-guesses whether she even wore it last night, the disarray of her thoughts mirrored in the disarray of the room. Her eyes scan the bedside table, the floor, and the dresser, but there's no sign of the timepiece.

A sudden sound from Danny startles her, and she freezes in place. She doesn't believe she can prevent herself from literally bolting out of the house if he so much as breathes her name. She’s rooted in her spot however, waiting for his breathing to steady, her heart pounding in her ears. Only when she's certain he's in a deep slumber does she release a pent-up breath, a sigh of relief escaping her lips. In that moment, she mentally curses herself once more, acutely aware of the mess she's created, before tiptoeing towards the bedroom door and abandoning the search for her watch altogether.

As she considers her options, she entertains the idea of escaping town altogether. Maybe if she leaves, she can avoid Danny for the coming days, possibly forever. Leigh wonders if she ever made Matt feel this trapped, inadvertently pushing him to leave in the only way he knew she could never follow.

Several days after ignoring Danny’s calls and attempts to talk to her, he retaliates by telling her the most absurd thing about his brother.

He tells Leigh she wasn’t the only one. There had been two others in the last year.

And the last one, he fell for hard. Or at least that’s what Danny believes.

“I don’t believe you,” she says, her eyes beginning to sting a little. “If you think making me hate Matt would change my mind about us, then—”

“I’m not trying to manipulate you, Leigh,” Danny interrupts calmly, shaking his head. “I just believe you deserve to know the truth. Maybe it'll help you stop blaming yourself and move on.”

“It just seems a little too convenient that this 'truth' works in your favor to tarnish Matt's reputation, doesn't it?” Leigh points out with a humorless smile. She’s always thought the worst of Danny, but she never imagined he’d go as far as fabricating a story just to get her on his side.

“I understand your skepticism, I do. I couldn’t believe it at first either,” he says, his gaze dropping to the ground as if the transgression he’s confessing were his own, not Matt’s. “But think about it. Have you ever walked in on Matt just as he's ending a call? Noticed how he's suddenly started spending more time at work, consistently twice a week? And what about his sudden interest in going to the gym and being conscious about what he eats? These are all signs, Leigh.”

His words push her to think about it, even though she doesn't want to. Leigh starts to reflect on how Matt had stopped leaving his phone unattended during showers, how he had suddenly logged off his social media accounts from her laptop, or the noticeable enhancement of his physique—all juxtaposed against a lingering decrease in his appetite for intimacy with his wife.

“I…” Leigh hesitates, searching for a rebuttal but finding none. Then Danny gives her a look—one of pity and longing that makes her want to crawl out of her skin—and suddenly she finds herself vehemently denying all of it.

“I still don’t believe you,” she says, desperately clinging to the last shreds of the illusion she had crafted around her marriage.

Danny's expression remains unreadable and it drives her further up the wall. “Fine. Believe what you want, Leigh. I'm just trying to look out for you.”

Leigh's jaw tightens. “Regardless of what you say—whether it’s real or not—I know what I want, and it's not to be with you.”

He keeps up the stony facade, opting instead to pull a card out of his wallet and hand it to her. Leigh accepts the card, her fingers quivering, as a solitary tear finally breaks free and trails down her cheek.

Danny begins to reach out, intending to brush away her tear, but hesitates at the last moment, withdrawing his hand.

“See for yourself. Goodbye, Leigh.”

Just two days later, Leigh finds herself in front of the small animal clinic you own, situated a short walk away from Beautiful Beast—the fitness studio her mom owns and where she works.

Though the sun hangs low in the sky, she's been awake long before it began to rise. She waits for the receptionist to flip the sign from “Sorry, we’re closed” to “Come in, we’re open,” ignoring the curious glance directed her way when the receptionist notices she isn’t accompanied by a furry companion. With a determined smile on her lips, Leigh pushes open the door and steps into the clinic knowing she'll leave it with answers—whatever they might be.

The receptionist looks up from her computer, her expression shifting from curiosity to concern when she sees the look on Leigh's face. “Can I help you?”

Leigh clears her throat, trying to steady her voice. She tells her she’s looking for you, her words coming out in a rush.

The receptionist furrows her brow. “Do you have an appointment?”

Leigh shakes her head, blinking rapidly as she comes up with an excuse. “No, it's... it's urgent,” she stammers. “I need to speak to her right away.”

The receptionist appears mildly annoyed, but it doesn’t faze Leigh in the slightest. “I'll check if she's available. Please take a seat,” she says.

Leigh nods mutely and sinks into one of the chairs. She clasps her hands together tightly in her lap, trying to quell the rising tide of panic threatening to consume her. She imagines Matt’s ghost watching her this very second, frowning at her doubts about their relationship by coming here in the first place.

And what if she’s wrong? What if Matt wasn’t cheating on her after all? But Leigh had to come here to put the issue to rest. Matt would understand why she needs to do this. He always did.

A few moments later, the door behind the reception desk opens and the receptionist emerges from it, motioning for Leigh to enter.

Leigh finds you standing behind your desk, your back to her, arranging a stack of medical records on the shelf.

“Dr. Y/N?” Leigh calls out softly.

You turn around at the sound of her voice, and when she sees you for the first time, Leigh immediately knows.

Danny was telling the truth. It takes everything in her not to break down in front of a stranger her husband fell in love with.

You, however, don’t recognize the woman standing before you, thinking perhaps she's simply one of your past clients. You offer Leigh a contrite smile. “You wanted to see me? Miss…?”

“Leigh Shaw.”

The name doesn’t ring a bell either, but you keep a friendly smile on your face.

Leigh hesitates for a moment before continuing, her voice sounding fragile. “I need to talk to you about my husband,” she says, studying your clueless face. You're stunning and accomplished—a doctor and a businesswoman. You have a smile that could brighten even the darkest room.

Matt never stood a chance, did he?

“I'm sorry, I'm not sure I understand,” you say, hands retreating into the pockets of your white coat.

Leigh takes a deep breath, steeling herself for what she knows will be a difficult conversation.

“I recently found out that my husband was cheating on me,” she says, her green eyes boring into yours. “With you.”

After leaving your clinic, Leigh heads straight to Matt’s grave, stomping angrily on the sparse sheet of grass that has begun to sprout from his resting place.

“You're such a fucking liar!” she spits out at the unsusceptible headstone, the heat of fury spreading through her veins and to every molecule in her body. The cold wind lashes through her hair as Leigh drops to her knees, feeling like the entire world is bearing down on her. She reaches out to touch the cold marble of the headstone, still seeking solace from the one who caused her so much hurt.

“Why, Matt?”

She knows there will be no answers—only the cold silence of death.

Leigh feels a surge of anger rise within her once more as she recalls the way you looked at her—the pain in your eyes when she revealed to you that Matt had died. What you two had was real, as real as what she had with him. She had been hoping it was at least just a fling, but alas, she couldn’t be further from her assumptions.

“I can't believe I ever loved you,” Leigh mutters bitterly. She wants to scream, to rage against the injustice of it all. But all she can do is clutch at the grass beneath her, her nails digging into the earth as if trying to anchor herself against the torrent of pain crippling her chest. Tears stream down her face as she finally collapses to the ground, assuming a fetal position, whispering, “I can't believe I still do.”

You continue to stare at the space that Leigh previously occupied for a good ten minutes, not moving an inch from where you stood—shocked, hurt, confused. Matt, the man you had been seeing, was dead. And not just dead, but married. Married to someone else, someone named Leigh Shaw, a name so important but he managed to hide from you for weeks.

Matt had never mentioned a wife, never wore a ring, never hinted at the existence of someone waiting for him at home. If he had, you would never have let him get as close to you like he did. You've always respected boundaries and families—and now you've discovered that unwittingly, you've destroyed one.

Leigh's departure was swift, just as soon as you confessed to having feelings for her husband and how Matt reciprocated those same feelings. Leigh, ruthless in her questioning, demanded to know if you had slept with Matt. You swore you never did, detailing how Matt abruptly ghosted you after your first kiss, leaving you with nothing but unanswered texts and missed calls.

You wanted so badly for Leigh to believe you, and you think she did. However, none of it mattered in the end. He cheated all the same. He hurt the woman he made a promise to love and stay faithful to.

Because of you.

You feel sickened by your own naivety; by the way you have allowed yourself to be fooled by his lies. And yet, amidst the anger and self-recrimination, there is a profound sense of loss. Despite the circumstances of your relationship, you had cared for Matt deeply. Maybe even loved him.

But how much of it was real? How much of it was not about him running from his problems with his wife and using you as a distraction? The ease with which he slipped out of your life suddenly fits into place.

While his passing deeply rattled you, it's now largely overshadowed by thoughts of his widow.

Leigh Shaw.

Earlier, even though you said sorry over and over, it felt like it wasn't enough, and you wanted to do more to make her feel better. What stopped you was the realization that you're likely the last person she would want comfort from. A sense of helplessness washes over you as you come to the conclusion that there's nothing you can do to undo the damage that's been done. Matt is gone, and Leigh's world has been shattered in ways you can't even begin to imagine.

Moving on from Matt is something you know you could do. He wasn’t the first person to break your heart, be it through deceit or demise. But the situation with Leigh is unfamiliar territory.

How do you fix this for her?

Will she even let you?

When Leigh tells Jules about Matt’s infidelity, her sister fixates on the detail that she slept with Danny. It’s not the response Leigh expected. She anticipated shock, and maybe even a bit of outrage on her behalf. But instead, Jules latches onto the one detail that seems to pale in comparison to the enormity of Matt's betrayal.

“But how could you?” Jules asks, her voice incredulous as she chews on a dumpling. “How could you sleep with Danny?”

Faced with her sister's disapproval, Leigh finds herself clamming up. “Are you kidding? I just told you that Matt was cheating on me, and your response is to judge me for hooking up with a single guy while I'm single?” Leigh retorts, hastily wiping her lips with a napkin.

Jules just shakes her head, putting down her chopsticks. “Leigh, I get it. Matt’s betrayal is awful, and you have every right to be angry. But the ‘single guy’ you hooked up with isn't just any guy, and you know it. You don't think it's weird? What would people think? That all this time, sleeping with your husband’s brother has always been an option?”

Leigh's eyes widen in shock, and for a moment, she's speechless. She hadn't—didn't want to entertain the idea of what sleeping with Danny would imply. She was chasing a feeling; any feeling that wasn’t emptiness. And with Danny, she did feel something, even if it was regret and shame. At least it proved she was still capable of feeling at all.

“It… just happened,” Leigh murmurs, rubbing her temples. Hollowness and migraines, she's almost forgotten.

“And? Is it going to be a ‘thing’?” Jules probes, eyebrows raised.

Leigh lifts her gaze, biting back a defensive retort. Instead she simply says, “Absolutely not.”

Jules seems satisfied with that, knocking back the rest of her beer. “Good.”

But as Jules moves on, Leigh’s left stewing in her own thoughts. Telling Jules felt like yelling into a void—exhausting and utterly pointless. Now she’s dreading the thought of breaking the news to Drew. If Jules’ reaction was any indication, she’s in for another round of disappointment.

Being a young widow already sets her apart, but nothing makes her feel more alone than her family's inability to truly grasp her grief. She guesses she's been feeling alone for years, long before Matt came into her life and subsequently left it.

Jules, catching the tail end of Leigh's distant look, leans in and asks, “So, what's the plan now? You still going to that grief counseling group? Danny's been showing up there, right?”

Leigh's gaze sharpens, a bit taken aback by the sudden shift back to practicalities. “Are you asking about my plans with Danny? Because I already told you, that's over. I'm never seeing him again.”

Jules raises her hands in a placating gesture, mindful that one wrong move could tip Leigh over the edge for good. “Not really, no. I'm asking if you're still keen on processing your grief. Now that it turns out Matt was... well, a snake.”

Jules calling Matt a snake doesn't sit well with Leigh even with his cheating coming to light. But she supposes it's Jules' way of being on her side every once in a while. It's a clumsy attempt, but an attempt nonetheless.

“Yeah, I'm still going,” Leigh finally says, her gaze dropping to her lap before meeting Jules' eyes again. “Not for Danny, not for anyone else, but for me. Turns out, finding out your rotting husband was living a double life does a number on you. Who knew, right?”

Jules cracks a small, rueful smile at that and says, “Who knew indeed.”

Leigh thinks back to the time when she believed she knew Matt inside and out, a belief so deeply ingrained it felt like a cornerstone of her identity as his wife. She prided herself on their connection, convinced that they shared everything—every thought, every fear, every dream. It was a pride rooted in the belief that she knew him better than anyone else could, and he, her, in the same intimate manner.

It was the kind of recognition that’s not only about knowing his favorite color or the way he took his coffee. It’s deeper and more layered. She knew the exact tone of voice he'd use when he was about to apologize, the look in his eyes when he was holding back tears, the subtle shift in his posture when he was trying to be braver than he felt. And she thought he knew her just as intricately—the silent language of her sighs, the meaning behind her quietest smiles, the small, everyday details that they believed only they could understand about each other.

“It's hard, you know? Feeling like you're mourning someone who never really existed,” Leigh mumbles after a long pause.

“Yeah, I can't even imagine,” Jules responds, reaching across the table to give Leigh's hand a brief squeeze. “But I'm here, okay? Even if I don't always get it right.”

Jules, Drew, Danny, her mom—all of them—rarely get it right. It has always been Matt.

He has always been all she has and needed.

Even if Leigh wasn't aware that she was probably just getting his scraps.

Maybe it was me, Leigh keeps thinking over the next several days. Maybe I pushed him to it.

It doesn’t help that there’s a new member who has also been widowed, and she’s sharing about her late husband who had quite a number of mistresses throughout their eighteen years of marriage.

Leigh listens, her fingers twisted together in her lap, as the woman talks about the signs she missed, the lies she believed.

“I just keep thinking,” the woman's voice breaks, “if I'd been more attentive, more... I don't know, less demanding, maybe things would've been different.”

Maybe it was me, Leigh keeps screaming inside. Maybe I pushed him to it.

It took Leigh a long time to return to the apartment she shared with Matt after his passing.

Mostly, it's because Leigh found it difficult to confront the scattered remnants of him that would remain untouched in his absence. No longer would he be picking up his favorite shirt or completing another page of his crossword puzzle book. Yet, these belongings would remain his, just as Leigh felt she still belonged to him.

So it’s ironic that now, surrounded by the same belongings in her bedroom at her mother’s home, she's being overwhelmed by the impulse to turn them all into ashes. In a sudden frenzy, Leigh grabs a box and begins to throw everything inside. The sound of her ragged breathing fills the room, only matched by the soft thuds of objects landing in the cardboard.

“Stupid fucking toys!” she shouts, tossing a figurine with more force than necessary.

“And this shirt—what were you thinking?” She grabs a garishly patterned fabric, shaking it at the empty air as if expecting an answer.

Her voice cracks, “You're not even here, and you're driving me crazy!”

As Leigh's wrath burns through the remnants of Matt’s life, her thoughts take a dark turn. The things he owned, the pieces of his life flying from her hand—it all leads her back to the one person who had a piece of him, a piece that was never hers.

The thought of your face, the one that belonged to him too at one point, flashes in her mind, and she's on the edge of losing all control.

If only Leigh could throw you into the box too.

Finally, she finds the book he gave her for her last birthday, the one she never read, and for a moment, her movements pause. Then, with a cry of anguish, she tosses it in as well. When the box is full, she kicks it. Once, twice, thrice—each kick releasing a burst of pent-up fury until she's gasping for breath.

A knock at the door startles her. It's soft but persistent, making it obvious that whoever is outside has heard the commotion in her room. “Leigh, honey, are you done in there?” Amy's voice seeps through the wood.

Leigh wipes at her eyes. “Almost. I, uh… just give me a minute,” she calls back. She’s not done—not really. But she’ll probably set the house on fire if she doesn’t stop here.

Pushing herself up, Leigh opens the door. She knows the sight she presents isn't pretty—eyes swollen red, nose a mess, and those dark circles. But her mom has seen this look more times than either would care to count.

“You okay?” her mom asks, though the answer's written all over Leigh's face.

Leigh shakes her head, no energy to pretend.

“Want some breakfast?”

Again, “No,” slips out.

Then, “Need a ride to the studio?” her mom tries again.

“Yes,” Leigh finds herself saying, clinging to the offer like a lifeline, a small acknowledgment that life, somehow, must go on.

The following day, Leigh looks at the box, then at everything around her. She mutters, “Screw this,” and starts pulling everything out of the box, putting it all back where it came from.

Leigh's back at running, not because she loves it, but because the sun insists on poking her awake before the rest of the world stirs. It's an old hobby, dusted off to fill the gaping mornings before her first yoga class.

It’s easy to do because she realizes she’s good at it. Leigh’s only been at it for just a couple of weeks and already she's feeling fitter, faster. She likes the pain too, not being aware before that there are different kinds of pain, and some of them do feel good—addicting even.

Mid-thought, her routine jog takes a wild left turn: stranded in the middle of the bustling traffic is a French Bulldog, looking decidedly out of place. Ignoring the honks and the near misses, Leigh bolts across the street. It's a bit of a mad dash, dodging cars that are swerving and braking hard. She scoops him up in her arms and doesn’t stop to think about the close calls.

It hits her then—she's surprised at her own gutsiness, not even pausing to think that she could've been clipped by a car not paying attention. Maybe all this time spent wrestling with thoughts of death has brought her to a strange peace with it and is no longer scared of it. It's like she's danced with death so much, it's just another shadow she passes by—not something that paralyzes her in place anymore.

Leigh’s not sure if being this fearless is actually a good thing though.

After cooling her heels on the sidewalk for half an hour, with no owner in sight, she shrugs and decides he’s coming home with her.

Jules gives her a scrutinizing look the moment she walks in. “What, you went out for a run and decided to get a dog?”

“Rescue mission,” Leigh shoots back, setting the dog down. “Found him in the middle of Second Street. Seems he’s lost.”

Jules doesn't miss a beat, heading straight for the newcomer. She kneels, her hands gently petting the dog, her eyes softening in a way that Leigh rarely sees. The dog, clearly pleased with the attention, wags its tail vigorously. Her eyes are practically giving her away, so it sounds almost funny when she looks up at Leigh and says, “Just don't get too attached, okay?”

“I won’t, which is why I named him Visitor. It’s temporary,” Leigh says with a smile, looking very proud of the name she came up with.

Jules chuckles, standing up and brushing off her knees. “Nerd. Matt would've gotten a kick out of that.”

The room just freezes at the mention of his name. Talking about Matt is like walking into a glass door you didn't see.

Jules tries to backpedal, “Hey, sorry, I—” But Leigh's quick to brush it off with a shrug.

“Don't worry about it. Let's just figure out where Visitor here belongs, okay?”

As they refocus on Visitor, Jules can't help but notice the way the dog favors one leg as he trots over to sit snugly between Leigh's legs, looking up at her with those big, trusting eyes. “Looks like he's got a bit of a limp,” Jules points out.

Leigh frowns and leans down to get a closer look, her fingers gently probing around Visitor's leg until she finds a tender spot. The moment she applies a little pressure, Visitor yelps, pulling away sharply and retreating a few steps.

Jules winces at the reaction. “Yeah, that's not good. Maybe we should take him to a vet?”

Leigh can barely hold back a grimace as her brain immediately links you to the situation.

“What's wrong?” Jules notices the sudden shift in Leigh’s mood. “There's St. Mary's Animal Clinic nearby. I heard they're great.”

That's your clinic. Leigh's throat tightens at the thought, the memories of her visit flooding back. “Are there others around here?”

Jules looks puzzled at the question. “I mean, I can look it up, but what's wrong with St. Mary's?”

Leigh considers whether she should tell Jules about meeting you. Part of her really knows it’s unfair to dislike you, especially if you genuinely didn't know Matt was married. But she knows Jules too well—tell her, and it'll turn into a whole thing. Leigh's not sure she's up for that drama.

Despite her reservations, Leigh decides to bite the bullet, her curiosity getting the better of her. Besides, if she can’t be brave enough to talk about this in her counseling group, she should probably at least tell Jules.

“Actually, Jules,” Leigh begins, “St. Mary's Animal Clinic is where... where she works.”

Jules's eyes widen in shock, her hand flying to her mouth. “Wait, you mean... you mean her, as in…?” she stammers, disbelief written all over her face.

“Yup,” Leigh confirms, smacking her lips forcefully.

“Oh my god—that bitch,” Jules spits out, her voice dripping with disdain before Leigh can even brace for impact.

“She didn’t know Matt’s married,” Leigh clarifies quickly.

“And you bought that?”

“I had a feeling she was telling the truth. Besides, I can’t imagine Matt being that brazen to pursue someone while married. He can be a little self-righteous sometimes,” Leigh says, only half-sure of her statement. Recently, she has to remind herself that maybe she never really knew him at all.

Then, an idea sparks in Jules's mind. “You know what?” she says, a mischievous glint in her eye. “Maybe this is a good opportunity. After all, she owes you one, right? Maybe she'll treat Visitor for free, to make up for being... well, you know.”

Leigh rubs her nose, skeptical of the idea. “I don't know, Jules. I don't want to impose…”

Jules leans in, lowering her voice conspiratorially. “I mean, if she's the reason you're hurting, maybe she should make it right?”

She isn't hurting because of you, not directly. That's why Jules’ suggestion hangs in the air, unappealing. Leigh remembers the pity in your eyes from that morning, and she doesn't want it. She doesn't want anything from you at all. Her resolve instantly hardens like ice.

“No,” Leigh finally says. “I don't want her charity. I'll pay for Visitor's bills myself. And I'll keep the receipts for when his real owners show up.” It's a decision that feels surprisingly empowering, a small reclaiming of control in a world that's felt off-kilter for too long.

Jules merely sighs; she knows better than to push Leigh when her mind’s made up.

“Have it your way.”

Leigh brings Visitor to St. Mary’s the very next day.

There's a certain set to her jaw, a readiness for something less than pleasant. She doesn’t need to go through reception this time because she spots you right away, escorting a client to the door, cradling their puppy in your arms. Seeing you with a pet makes Leigh realize why you’ve chosen this profession. You fit right in among the animals, she muses bitterly.

It's with a sense of satisfaction that she watches your smile dissipate as soon as your eyes land on hers.

She strides confidently towards you, dog in arms, forcing you to quickly hand off the puppy back to its owner. Yet, you recover with a swiftness that's begrudgingly admirable as you give her a look that’s equal parts professional and friendly—like you were actually looking forward to seeing her again.

“Good morning, Leigh. How can I help you?”

Without a word, Leigh extends the dog she’s carrying towards you, a silent transfer of trust, or perhaps, necessity. You gesture towards the consultation room, an invitation she accepts with a terse nod, following you into the space where you effortlessly shift into doctor mode.

As you begin to charm her dog, she can't help but narrow her eyes. It irks her, watching Visitor take to you instantly, as if you were old friends. “What's his name?” you ask, looking up at Leigh.

“Visitor.”

Your eyebrows shoot up in surprise at the name, just in time for your irises to capture the light seeping through the office blinds. They glow a hazel-brown, disarmingly so. Leigh forces herself to focus back on the purpose of her visit.

Leigh continues, “He’s limping on his left hind leg. I’d appreciate it if you can prescribe him something. I'll try not to take up too much of your time.”

Ignoring the undercurrent of Leigh's insinuation, your attention remains undividedly on Visitor. The well-being of the dog before you eclipses any personal sentiments, as it always does.

“I'm sorry, but before we can consider any medication, I need to examine him thoroughly. It's possible he might require some lab tests to rule out anything serious,” you tell her. Despite sounding apologetic, Leigh interprets it as your polite way of telling her to fuck off and let you do your job.

As you palpate the dog's leg carefully, you begin your routine questions. “Can you tell me his birthday? Any vaccination history?”

They’re basic, but they seem to catch Leigh off guard anyway. “He’s not mine. I found him on the street yesterday,” she reveals with a reluctant sigh.

The news prompts a more detailed response from you.

“I see. In that case, we should definitely line up some tests for Visitor. We need to ensure he doesn't have distemper or any other airborne virus that could be affecting his mobility,” you suggest, already mentally cataloging the necessary procedures.

You start detailing the tests you intend to perform, explaining their purposes and associated costs. Leigh is clearly deluged by it all and you decide to take pity on the poor woman by adding that it’s still up to her which tests to proceed with, if any at all.

“Your call, Leigh,” you tell her.

Leigh can't shake off the vibe that you're throwing a gauntlet down in front of her. It's like her inner competitor wakes up, refusing to back down. “Do all of them,” she declares, tipping her chin up towards you. “Whatever you think is best.”

“That’s a good decision. We’ll take care of it right away,” you say, already picking up the phone to call the reception for assistance.

Leigh's still trying to get a read on you. Was her arm twisted into this choice, or did you genuinely have Visitor's best interest at heart? She's not about to hand out trust like free samples, especially when she could end up misjudging you. It’s a tricky spot, especially because she’s clearly been wrong before.

The tests take their time, roughly an hour, after which Leigh finds herself pacing the lobby. An additional quarter-hour trickles by before the receptionist finally calls her back into the consultation room.

“Good news,” you start, making sure to catch her eye. She meets your look briefly before her attention shifts to Visitor. “It's only a sprain. The X-ray revealed no breaks or other issues. But,” you pause, checking to see if she's still fully engaged, “his blood tests indicated a low platelet count and evidence of an infection.”

Leigh listens intently, nodding along.

You explain what this means in a clear, concise manner, avoiding medical jargon as much as possible. “It's something we can manage with medication. I'll prescribe some antibiotics for the infection and pain medication to help with his discomfort. It's important that he completes the course of antibiotics to clear the infection completely.”

You watch Leigh closely, gauging her reaction and ready to answer any questions she might have. “We'll need to keep an eye on his platelet count, so I'd like to schedule a follow-up visit next week. This will also give us a chance to check how his leg is healing.”

“Will he be okay?” she asks without looking up from Visitor, busy scratching behind his ears.

“He'll be just fine,” you reassure her, adding, “Any questions about what we discussed?”

Leigh stays silent and you take it as your cue that she doesn’t have any thoughts on the matter. As she wraps up without saying much more, you realize it's time to wrap things up too. But there's something niggling at you, something that's been on your mind since the last time she was here. You're about to let her go, but then, out of nowhere, you feel this urge to clear the air about that whole mess with Matt.

“So, uhm, about the other week when you…” you trail off, suddenly feeling like you're balancing on a tightrope without a net. You’re not so easily spooked by confrontations, but Leigh makes you nervous in a way you can’t explain. “I guess I just wanted to say sorry… for your loss, and for—”

“Does he really need to take pain medication for seven days?” Leigh cuts you off suddenly. It’s sharp enough for you to shut your mouth and abandon your attempt to get personal.

“Yes, the full course is important to ensure he's comfortable and that the inflammation goes down properly. It's just as crucial as the antibiotics for his recovery…”

Leigh nods, carefully scooping Visitor into her arms, preparing to leave.

You try one last time. “Leigh, I really am sorry–”

“I’ll see you next week, Dr. Y/L/N,” she says dismissively and then she’s gone.

#unbetad #my writing #my fic #elizabeth olsen x reader #elizabeth olsen #leigh shaw x reader #leigh shaw x female reader #leigh shaw #sorry for your loss au #leigh shaw x you #wanda maximoff x reader #wanda maximoff x you #sorry i had to tag wanda x reader for visibility

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icarusignite · 3 months

Text

i don't want your sympathy (i just want myself back)

Pairing: Luke Castellan x Child of Hypnos! GN! Reader

Summary: Terribly injured after returning from his quest to the Garden of Hesperides, Luke Castellan turns to the only person who can help him sleep. Basically a hurt/comfort shortfic for Luke cuz he needs comforting lol

Word count: 1.7k

The infirmary was a sterile space, the air heavy with the scent of antiseptic and tonics. It was mercifully silent, devoid of the Apollo campers who often sporadically visited to check in on whoever occupied the space.

Luke Castellan was the only patient there today, his features twisted in discomfort as he slowly regained consciousness. His eyes fluttered open, squinting against the sunlight streaming in and the room swam into focus, though his thoughts remained muddled, fragmented memories clawing at the edges of his consciousness. He struggled to separate reality from illusion, unsure of which memories were true and which were twisted figments of his nightmares.

Immediately, he became acutely aware of a throbbing ache pulsating through his face. It felt as though his skin had been stretched to its limit, pulled taut over the wound that marred his features. With each breath he took, the pain intensified, a sharp reminder of the injury he had sustained.

The injury he had sustained on the quest he had failed.

His hand instinctively moved to touch the bandages that covered the wound, fingers gingerly tracing the contours of the thick gauze. Beneath the sterile fabric, he could feel the heat radiating from the angry gash, the skin around it tender and inflamed. The cut itself was a jagged slash, stretching from the bottom of his eye to his jawline, and seemed to throb with a life of its own.

The pain made him angry. He was always angry these days, and he had only just returned.

The voices from his dreams still echoed in his head, sinister whispers that promised power and vengeance, their dark allure tempting him to succumb. They spoke to his deepest desires and stoked the flames of his fury in ways that were becoming impossible to ignore.

And then, amidst the chaos of his thoughts, he saw the figure seated by his bedside, their head resting on folded arms, form rising and falling in a steady rhythm of breath. A life, a beacon of familiarity and solace in the midst of his confusion.

It was you. Of course, it was. You had not left his side since he was carried in, broken and bleeding from the camp's border. Your face, though serene in sleep, bore traces of worry and exhaustion, and Luke's heart clenched at the sight, a rush of emotion flooding his senses—gratitude, guilt, longing.

You should not have to worry about him like this, forgoing your own wellbeing to look after him.

You had been there the whole time, a steadfast presence in the chaos that followed his return. He remembered, faintly, the fleeting moments of clarity when his eyes had briefly met yours, finding comfort and reassurance in your gaze before he slipped into unconsciousness once again as his injury was stitched up.

He did not want to disturb you, but he couldn't help himself, his hand reaching out almost as if it had a mind of his own, fingers trembling as he brushed them against your cheek. There was something about you that brought him comfort, something he could not put a name to, but it was instinctual, almost magnetic.

You were peace. You were his peace.

You stirred when made contact, eyelids snapping open instantaneously, filled with concern and affection as you bolted upright in your seat.

"Luke," you breathed, your voice soft and gentle, like a soothing melody amidst the chaos of his mind. "You're awake."

A fragile smile tugged at Luke's lips, and although the gesture hurt, it was worth it to see the brief flash of relief that flooded your features.

"Luke, are you alright?" you asked hurriedly, scrambling from your perch to inspect him. You were no medic but you spent long enough in the infirmary, easing injuries and sending campers off into a peaceful slumber that you had become accustomed to looking for signs of concern.

"I...I'm fine," his voice was hoarse from lack of use, his throat parched, which had you rushing to pour him a cup of water.

"Should I call someone from the Apollo cabin to take a look at your injury?"

Your words washed over him, but your concern was both comforting and frustrating in equal measure. He appreciated your kindness, your willingness to help, but at the same time, he couldn't shake the bitterness that rose in his throat at the thought of being pitied.

If even your gaze was heavy with it, he could not imagine what the rest of camp half-blood would think of him. A failure. A demigod who could not complete a quest that had already been completed once before by another.

"I'm fine," Luke muttered, his voice tinged with irritation. "I don't need anyone fussing over me."

He tried to muster a reassuring smile, but it faltered, crumbling under the weight of his conflicting emotions. He didn't want your sympathy, didn't want to be seen as weak or vulnerable. He was Luke Castellan, a fighter, a survivor—he refused to be reduced to a mere object of pity.

Silently he cursed the gods for reducing him to this. His stupid father and his stupid quest.

Still, even as he pushed you away, a part of him longed for your presence, your touch. He couldn't deny the warmth that flooded his heart whenever you were near, the way your smile could chase away the darkness that threatened to consume him.

He had become quite accustomed to being around you over the years, because even though you had been claimed, being the child of a minor god was as good as being the child of nothing, thus cementing your place in the Hermes cabin with him. Another thing to curse the gods for, because if anyone deserved a place to truly belong, it was you, with your kind eyes, and careful hands so eager to help.

He supposed it didn't matter in the end. You had wormed your way into his heart, unbeknownst to him, and if there was one place you surely belonged, it was there.

As you paused in your fussing, your eyes caught the subtle signs of exhaustion etched into Luke's features—the faint shadows beneath his eyes, a telltale sign of restless nights and troubled dreams. Despite the fact that he had been asleep for the better part of the past three days, the toll of his ordeal still lingered, casting a shadow over his weary frame.

"Would you like some help...you know...falling asleep?" you asked gently.

The offer caught Luke off guard, his pride momentarily forgotten in the face of his overwhelming fatigue. A wave of relief washed over him at the thought of finding solace in sleep, of escaping the turmoil of his thoughts if only for a little while longer. It was almost embarrassing how quickly he acquiesced.

"Please," he murmured, the word slipping past his lips with a mixture of gratitude and pain. He shifted slightly on the bed, wincing as he made room for you to join him.

Your cheeks flushed a slight crimson as you took your place, precariously perched at the edge, careful not to jostle and cause him further pain, your gaze meeting his with a clarity that made his heart skip a beat. Then, when you reached out, your hand finding his own with a reassuring touch, it sent a shiver down his spine.

He found his eyes start to grow heavy.

Your touch was warm and comforting, a balm to his weary soul as you ran a hand over his closed eyes, fingers tracing soothing patterns against his skin. The tension in his muscles began to ebb away, replaced by a sense of peace and calm that he hadn't felt in days. He wasn't quite sure if it was the effect of your powers, or just your presence that put him at such ease, but it was magic all the same.

With each stroke of your hand, Luke felt himself drifting further into the embrace of sleep, his mind growing hazy and light. It was a different sort of slumber, one unburdened by the shadows and voices that awaited him in the darkness with dark promise.

When your hand moved through his hair, a sense of familiarity washed over him like a warm tide. The soft melody you hummed resonated deep within him, stirring memories long buried beneath the weight of his pain.

It was a popular tune, one he might have heard before but he couldn't quite place it. Then it came to him, a sharp ache in his chest, not so different from the physical pain in his flesh. His mother used to sing to him like this, during her brief bouts of lucidity, when she wasn't chasing him around the house spouting prophecies of doom and destruction.

He remembered her, her face a blur in the recesses of his mind, her voice a distant echo that whispered of warmth and safety. In those rare moments, she had held him close, her hands running through his hair in much the same way yours did now.

Unbidden, tears slipped from behind Luke's closed eyes, a silent testament to the grief and longing that filled his heart.

"Everything will be alright, Luke," you whispered, wiping his tears before they had a chance to seep into his bandage. "You'll see."

It's a lie. He knew it was a lie. Nothing would ever be alright again, and he would never go back to being the person he used to be, but there was a part of him that wanted to believe her, if only for a fleeting moment.

After all, he was the son of the god of tricksters—a master of deception and illusion. And as he lay there, cradled in your embrace, he couldn't help but succumb to the illusion of peace and comfort that you offered.

For now, with you by his side, he could trick himself into believing that everything would be alright—that the pain and suffering he had endured would soon be nothing more than a distant memory. And as sleep claimed him once more, he clung to that belief, finding solace in the presence of the one person who had never stopped believing in him.

A/N: feel free to send in requests for Luke lol, I'm currently in my brainrot era. Also reblogs/comments are much appreciated as I'd love to know what yall think <3

#icarusignite writes #luke castellan x reader #luke castellan x you #luke castellan fanfic #luke castellan x y/n #luke castellan #pjo tv show #percy jackson fanfiction #percy jackon and the olympians #luke castellan imagine #luke castellan pjo #pjo x reader #pjo x you #charlie bushnell #charlie bushnell x reader #charlie bushnell x you

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gigabyte-flare · 10 months

Text

Tick Tock

Summary: It's Leon's 39th birthday and you're going to give him the perfect birthday present

Word Count: 1.2k

Pairing: yandere DI!Leon Kennedy x fem!reader (afab)

Disclaimer: This story is a work of fiction. Actions depicted in this story are not condoned in real life. You are responsible for your own content consumption. If any of the following warnings trigger you, please read at your own risk. Minors do not interact, this story is 18+ only.

Warnings: Sex (p in v), age gap (reader is over 20), implications of kidnapping, pet name (bunny), Stockholm Syndrome, implication of DUI (do NOT do this, it's bad), mentions of mensuration, overstimulation, dubcon, breeding kink, Daddy kink

A/N: This was inspired by this anon ask sent to @explorevenus that immediately implanted itself in my brain and wouldn't leave. And before anyone asks, yes I got the ok from Venus to write my version of this. I can't wait to see hers when she gets around to it!

Leon pulls up in front of his apartment building on his motorcycle, the slight burn of alcohol in his veins after having had a few shots of whiskey after a long day at the D.S.O. office. He engages the bike’s kick stand with his foot before climbing off. He takes a glance at his watch, watching the second hand move for a moment before heading up the stoop leading up to the apartment complex entrance.

Tick tock, tick tock, tick tock…

He pulls the door open, stepping inside and heading up the stairs, the sound of the door slamming shut echoing through the spacious stairwell. He proceeds up to the third floor, heading down the hall to his apartment; the last door on the left. He fishes his keys from his pants pocket, putting the key into the lock and turning it, opening the door and stepping inside. Once inside, he immediately takes off his blue leather jacket, hanging it off the coat rack just a few steps away from the front door. He looks up at the clock hanging in the small kitchen. He is acutely aware of the passage of time, the sound of the clock practically in his head.

Tick tock, tick tock, tick tock…

“Daddy?”

He immediately turns towards the sound of your voice, seeing you stand in the threshold of the hallway leading to the bedroom. You are completely nude; Leon never saw a need for you to wear clothes; you’re not allowed to leave the apartment, after all. A couple of years ago, you would kick and scream and throw things at him in protest, ever since he brought you home, but eventually you came around, warmed up to him. Loved him.

“There’s my bunny,” Leon says, a smile spreading across his face as he walks over to you, placing his hands on your hips, “did you have a good day today?”

You nod, giving Leon your best puppy eyes, shifting on your feet as you put your hands behind your back, “missed you, Daddy…”

“Yeah? Daddy missed you too, bunny,” he replies, his delicate touch moving up your body, but then back down to settle onto your hips.

Leaning down, he buries his face in the crook of your neck, kissing, biting and leaving marks in his wake. He hears you softly moan, which brings a smile to his lips. Unlatching himself from you, he looks to you, his blue eyes hungry.

“Do you know what day it is, bunny?”

He watches you as you contemplate his question before you shake your head, “no… what day is it Daddy?”

His smile widens as he begins to coax you into the bedroom. He gently pushes you onto the bed so that you’re seated at the end. He begins to unbutton his shirt.

“It’s my 39th birthday. And I’ve thought of the perfect present you can give me.”

“What can I give you, Daddy?” you ask, squeezing your thighs together as you watch Leon undress.

He pulls off his shirt, revealing his toned torso and arms and he then begins to work on his belt and pants, “you’re going to give me a baby, bunny. We are not leaving this room until I’m confident that you are thoroughly bred.”

He hears your breath hitch and you squeeze your thighs even tighter as you twirl your hair with one of your index fingers, biting your bottom lip. He watches your eyes focus on his endowment as his pants and underwear fall to the floor, kicking them aside. He walks up to you, putting one of his knees up onto the bed. You shift yourself onto the bed more, laying your back onto the bed as Leon climbs on top of you. He grasps one of your legs, putting it onto his shoulder before doing the same with the other.

“You’re going to give me a baby before my 40th birthday, or so help me God…”

Leaning forward, he practically folds you in half into a mating press, letting out an animalistic growl as his lips latch onto one of your breasts, the other being kneaded in his large hand; his hips pistoning into your delicate form in desperation. All the while, the sound of the clock hanging on the bedroom wall reverberates in his ears.

Tick tock, tick tock, tick tock…

Leon is acutely aware of the passage of time; he knows his window to get you to conceive a beautiful, healthy baby for him is dwindling with each passing moment, each passing day that he grows older. He’s dreamt of having a family of his own, to give his child the life that was ripped from him. And you are going to give it to him.

You were picked very carefully; in your 20s, down on your luck at a dead end job at the local cafe that Leon frequented prior to taking you home. Despite your initial protests, he pampered you, promised you that you’d never have to work a day in your life again; that you wouldn’t even have to lift a finger. All you had to do was love him and give him babies. Getting you to love him was the easy part. Getting you pregnant was the challenge. How many days and nights had he tried? But, with each new month, your cycle came. He couldn’t be angry at you, but damn did it piss him off that you still weren’t pregnant.

Tonight it’s going to be different. Releasing his mouth from your breast, he looks down at you, watching your body jolt with each powerful, deep thrust into your body. As he pushes deep, he rolls his hips up, causing his cock to push into your most sensitive spot, causing you to cry out each time. Your hands latch onto his shoulders, your nails digging into his skin, letting him know you are very close to the edge. He quickens his pace, placing his hands on either side of you to steady himself as he pounds ruthlessly into you.

“That’s it, precious bunny,” he growls, staring down at you, “cum for Daddy. You can do it.”

“Oh my go-- oh fuck! D-Daddy I-- Ah!” you cry, your nails digging further into his shoulders, your legs squeezing tight around his hips as you come.

With a few more aggressive thrusts, Leon also comes, moaning loudly as he does so, pushing himself deep inside you. He doesn’t pull out however and despite this, he leans back and watches as his seed leaks out around his softening cock. He takes a moment to catch his breath, his hand reaching down between your legs, gently rubbing your clit with his thumb, causing you to whimper. He loves the sounds you make for him, they never fail to make him hard again.

With that, he begins to move his hips once more; ignoring your soft pleas that it’s too much, that you’re too overstimulated. He is bound and determined to stay inside you until he is confident you’re pregnant with his child. It’s going to be a long night.

Tick tock, tick tock, tick tock…

#leon kennedy #leon s kennedy #leon kennedy x reader #leon s kennedy x reader #leon kennedy smut #yandere!leon kennedy x reader #yandere!leon kennedy #di!leon kennedy #gigabyte writes

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cantsayidont · 5 months

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When attempting to critique the values of a long-running franchise like STAR TREK, it's important to draw a distinction between superficial issues and structural ones.

"Superficial" in this sense doesn't mean "minor" or "unimportant"; it simply means that an issue is not so intrinsic to the premise that the franchise would collapse (or would be radically different) were it changed or removed. For example, misogyny has been a pervasive problem across many generations of STAR TREK media, which have often been characterized by a particular type of leering-creep sexism that was distasteful at the time and has not improved with age. However, sexism and misogyny are not structural elements of the TREK premise; one can do a STAR TREK story where the female characters have agency and even pants without it becoming something fundamentally different from other TREK iterations (even TOS, although there are certainly specific TOS episodes that would collapse if you excised the sexism).

By contrast, the colonialism and imperialism are structural elements — STAR TREK is explicitly about colonizing "the final frontier" and about defending the borders, however defined, of an interstellar colonial power. Different iterations of STAR TREK may approach that premise in slightly different ways, emphasizing or deemphasizing certain specific aspects of it, but that is literally and specifically what the franchise is about. Moreover, because STAR TREK has always been heavily focused on Starfleet and has tended to shy away from depicting life outside of that regimented environment, there are definite limits to how far the series is able to depart from the basic narrative structure of TOS and TNG (a captain and crew on a Starfleet ship) without collapsing in on itself, as PICARD ended up demonstrating rather painfully.

This means that some of the things baked into the formula of STAR TREK are obviously in conflict with the franchise's self-image of progressive utopianism, but cannot really be removed or significantly altered, even if the writers were inclined to try (which they generally are not).

What I find intensely frustrating about most modern STAR TREK media, including TNG and its various successors, is not that it can't magically break its own formula, but that writer and fan attachment to the idea of TREK as the epitome of progressive science fiction has become a more and more intractable barrier to any kind of meaningful self-critique. It's a problem that's become increasingly acute with the recent batch of live-action shows, which routinely depict the Federation or Starfleet doing awful things (like the recent SNW storyline about Una being prosecuted for being a genetically engineered person in violation of Federation law) and then insist, often in the same breath, that it's a progressive utopia, best of all possible worlds.

This is one area where TOS (and to some extent the TOS cast movies) has a significant advantage over its successors. TOS professes to be a better world than ours, but it doesn't claim to be a perfect world (and indeed is very suspicious of any kind of purported utopia). The value TOS most consistently emphasizes is striving: working to be better, and making constructive choices. Although this can sometimes get very sticky and uncomfortable in its own right (for instance, Kirk often rails against what he sees as "stagnant" cultures), it doesn't presuppose the moral infallibility of the Federation, of Starfleet, or of the characters themselves. There's room for them to be wrong, so long as they're still willing to learn and grow.

The newer shows are less and less willing to allow for that, and, even more troublingly, sometimes take pains to undermine their predecessors' attempts along those lines. One appalling recent example is SNW's treatment of the Gorn, which presents the Gorn as intrinsically evil (and quite horrifying) in a way they're not in "Arena," the TOS episode where they were first introduced. The whole point of "Arena" is that while Kirk responds to the Gorn with outrage and anger, he eventually concedes that he may be wrong: There's a good chance that the Gorn are really the injured party, responding to what they reasonably see as an alien invasion, and while that may be an arguable point, sorting it out further should be the purview of diplomats rather than warships. By contrast, SNW presents the Gorn as so irredeemably awful as to make Kirk's (chronologically later) epiphany at best misguided: The SNW Gorn are brutal conquerors who lay eggs in their captives (a gruesome rape metaphor, and in presentation obviously inspired by ALIENS) when they aren't killing each other for sport, and even Gorn newborns are monsters to be feared. Not a lot of nuance there, and no space at all for the kind of detente found in TOS episodes like "The Devil in the Dark."

#teevee #star trek #star trek tos #star trek the next generation #star trek picard #strange new worlds #i find strange new worlds largely unwatchable #and this is a major reason why #along with their determination to no-homo spock

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tadpolesonalgae · 9 days

Text

Melting[*]

Rhysand x reader

a/n: This has been on my mind for so long it’s so unfair 🥞

warnings: nipple play, Rhys’s mouth, reader kinda being in sub-space? Definitely getting put in it at least, very soft Rhysand, very overstimulated reader

word count: 1,788

——————————————————————————————————————————————

You peek into his office, gripping the door to lean on as you poke your head into the open room.

Violet eyes flick upward, and you’re sensitive enough that your breath catches, spotting that adoring twinkle in his gaze as it meets your own.

“Darling?” He asks, the low roll of his voice having your thighs press together lightly, and you glance away briefly, slightly embarrassed. “Do you have a moment?” You ask, managing to force yourself to look him in the eyes. “Maybe it bit longer than a moment, actually. It’s fine if not,” you add hurriedly, noting the papers on his desk.

His brows quirk with interest, lips curving subtly as he leans back in his chair, resting his hands over the arms as he a heat enters his eyes. “I always have moments for you,” he replies reassuringly, his gaze practically beckoning you forward. “Come here,” he murmurs, and you flush at the tone—he’s always been able to read you extraordinarily well, knowing how to speak with you and what you’re wanting in that moment.

Throat rolling, you step into his office, and Rhys’s eyes twinkle as you firmly shut the door at your back, before moving deeper into the room, padding over to him. His fingers flex lightly and you imagine he’d like to touch you but is deciding against it due to your obvious skittishness. You didn’t think something so sweet would have such an intense heat gathering in your lower belly, but here you are.

“Now, why don’t you tell me what this is about?” Rhys muses, and warmth flushes your skin, before hesitantly stepping closer between his long legs as you tentatively settle your palms over his broad shoulders. Rhys reads the permission, at last shifting his hands to your body, grazing up the outside of your thighs, curving over the sweep of your hips and pausing there, thumbs stroking in gently soothing circles.

“I…” you begin, but even thinking about voicing it has the sensitivity stopping you, the kind of need you have driving you quietly insane. Rhys hums lowly, encouragingly, but it only adds to the wild heat between your thighs, and you’re certain he can scent how badly you need him—might even be able to taste it, for how intense your scent is becoming, filling the air thickly.

Teeth push into the soft inner part of your lower lip, fingers pressing into his shoulders lightly as you glance away, tightening around nothing but needing him so acutely you feel like you might crumble. So instead you wrap your fingers around his wrist—partially, at least—meeting his eyes as you guide his hand up your body, settling his palm over your right breast.

The moment you feel him your breath catches, vision flickering a little as your lungs stutter, lips parting as you press into him more, so relieved to have the sensitivity being soothed. Heat wraps itself around your mind, pushing away the previous embarrassment as you look at him longingly, hand moving to settle over his as you step even closer. “Please, Rhys,” you breathe softly, fingers already intertwining with his free hand at your hip. “I’ll do anything,” you murmur, dizzying heat flushing your body as he runs his thumb over your breast, the feeling so intense despite the clothing between you. “So please, don’t…don’t tease… Not now.”

The adoring hunger in his violet eyes as he watches you has you desperate for more, to have his bare skin against your own, to curl up into him while he lets his hands wander, anything to relieve the acute need you’re experiencing. His expression is soft, if a little mischievous, and his hold on your hip pulls you closer. “How could I deny a plea like that?” He murmurs, lips curving as you exhale heavily.

It’s all you need before you’re stepping away a little in order to rid yourself of your top, fingers catching at the hem as you hurriedly pull it off over your head, dropping it somewhere before returning to him, practically crawling into his lap as your knees settle either side of him on the intentionally large chair—he’d been prepared for something like this to happen. Your hands shakily cup his jaw as your mouth slants over his own, both your eyes fluttering shut as you fall into the kiss, lips moving slowly but desperately.

You gasp when his hands both come up to cup your breasts, breathing becoming slightly heavier and Rhys takes the chance to gently ply your lips further apart, tongue flicking hotly against your own and you moan sweetly for him. Your fingers shake as he thumbs across your breasts, the pads of his digits almost lazily brushing the hypersensitive peaks of your nipples and you have to pull away from the kiss, head lowered in attempts to instinctively hide the the expression of desperation that’s surely on your features.

“Look at me, darling,” Rhys instructs gently, and you can’s bring yourself to deny him, meeting his adoring gaze. “Rhys,” you pant, though it comes out closer to a moan, hands shifting to run through his silky, blue-black hair. “Gods…Rhys, please,” you beg softly, looking at him pleadingly, hands stroking through his hair in supplication.

Rhys’ lips curve, and then he’s leaning forward and breath gets caught in your lungs as his mouth latches over one of your nipples. Your mouth parts, brows curving as your eyes flutter shut as the delightful warmth soothes the need that had been quietly buzzing beneath your skin. “Rhys…” you whisper, practically cradling his head in your hands as your spine curves, offering your chest in the hopes he’ll continue. You’ll cry if he pulls away.

The tip of his tongue flicks over your nipple, lips sealed gently over your breast and you feel a pressure behind your eyes. Oh gods…oh gods… You pant softly as he circles the unfairly sensitive peak, managing to peek your eyes open enough to lock with softened violet. His thumb grazes your other breast, and you feel something hot and liquid spill down your cheek.

Happy? His voice gently echoes through your mind, and you stroke his hair attentively, brushing your fingers through the raven locks, feelings as though words are from another realm entirely. Amusement and affection flickers through his gaze, and you swallow as he runs the flat of his tongue soothingly over your nipple, pulling away only briefly to shift you in his arms, and you can make out how the skin is gleaming, freshly-licked.

Goosebumps scatter over your body at the movement—his mouth switching to the other breast, hand coming up to continue stimulating you while his free one snakes around your hip, dipping between your thighs, and you think you start trembling as the pads of his fingers brush between your legs.

Don’t stop, you think to him, unaware of the thoughts singing across the bond. Don’t stop…please…don’t ever stop…

He hums softly, and your eyes flutter, rolling slightly from the rich drag of his voice. Again the tip of his tongue flicks over the unfairly sensitive peak of your breast before circling lightly, flattening over your nipple as he licks gently, taking care to keep his teeth to himself. He experiments a little, removing his thumb from swiping across your breast and instead capturing your nipple between his middle and index finger, lightly squeezing, rolling the peak between his digits, paying close attention to your reactions.

You inhale deeply, another tear dripping down as you moan sweetly, giving him as much of your own affection as you can manage, given your overstimulated state.

Carefully, he circles your nipple with the pad of his middle finger, making sure not to apply too much pressure, to keep his touch soft and light so it feathers across your skin, oscillating like he does over your clit in the way he might if he were looking to tease you for something. But over your breast it’s nothing short of perfect, combined with the gentle but diligent strokes of his tongue and the way he’s rubbing between your legs…even through the thin fabric of your underwear, you know it’ll be more than enough.

“Rhys…” his name slips from your lips, hot and breathless as you pant, looking so out of it he has half a mind to take you to bed and spend the rest of the day worshipping your pretty nipples.

A few more stray tears are pushed from your lashes as you come, the orgasm blossoming through your body in gentle pulses rather than crashing waves, and your body turns soft and pliant beneath his touch—beneath his mouth. You’re unaware of his name repeating on your tongue, echoing across the bond, unable to think of a single other thing except his name, and Rhys struggles a little to keep from pulling you down into his lap so he can grind against your sex.

You’re flushed and panting once the pleasure begins to fade, fingers remaining in his thick, silky hair, occasionally stroking when you can manage the effort.

Rhys watches you quietly, still gently soothing his tongue over your breast, palm covering your other to make sure you don’t feel even the slightest bit of cold.

Happy? He repeats into your mind, eyes twinkling and you swallow heavily before managing a faint nod, still reeling from sensitivity. Incredibly, you reply, settling down into his lap as he removes his hand, instead being able to now feel the hot press of him against your centre. I’m sorry, you think to him, fresh warmth rising to your cheeks, you didn’t cum.

His thumb grazes over your nipple, causing your breath to catch at the stimulation.

Don’t say things like that to me, he replies lowly, shadowy voice dragging through the soft interior of your mind. Why not? You ask tentatively, hips shifting over his own almost shyly. I want you to—

Don’t finish that, he cuts you off, able to hear the breathless note in his request.

Your eyes lock with his own, barely suppressed hunger lazing in his violet gaze. You know, I said I’d do anything, you begin quietly, so, if you want… Rhys groans softly, pleasurable mouth raising so his lips to brush your own, able to feel the soft caress of breath. You wouldn’t be leaving my bed if I had my way with you, he thinks earnestly, tipping into the soft touch of your fingers as they again stroke through his hair.

That’s fine by me, you return, lips grazing his own, again shifting over his hips. I wouldn’t have offered anything if I hadn’t wanted to.

——————————————————————————————————————————————

general taglist: @myheartfollower @tcris2020 @mali22 @slut4acotar @sfhsgrad-blog @needylilgal022 @hannzoaks @hnyclover @skyesayshi @nyotamalfoy @decomposing-writer @soph1644 @lilah-asteria @nighttimemoonlover

rhys taglist: @azrielshadows1nger

#rhysand x reader #rhysand smut #rhysand x reader smut #rhys smut #rhysand x you #rhysand x y/n

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matchavellichor · 10 months

Text

Just This Once Pt. 2

dark!Ominis x f!MC - NSFW/Angst - 3.4k words

Tags: !!Non-con!!, Pining, Obsession, Drugged Sex, Somnophilia, Cunnilingus

Part 1, Part 3 ☆ﾐ(o*･ω･)ﾉ

“You alright, Ominis?”

“Fine,” Ominis forces a tight-lipped smile. He’s been nursing the same glass of firewhiskey for most of the evening, barely able to get it down. “Just tired.”

Sebastian gives a sigh as he stands, only wobbling slightly. He knows that look on his friend’s face, the familiar I don’t want to be here, but I’m too polite to leave.

“Why don’t you help her back to Slytherin then? I’m gonna stay a while and she’s clearly had enough.” He nods to where their friend is warring against a black-out, slumped against the garrish scarlet cushions of one of the common room couches.

Sebastian chuckles as he helps her from her seat, stilling her wrists when she playfully swats at him and insists she’s fine. She’s deposited in Ominis’ arms before he can get a word in.

She stops her grumbling when she realizes who’s holding her up, blinking up at him for a moment before her lips curl into a pleased smile. “You’re still here, Omi?”

“Still here,” he murmurs, trying to keep his breathing even when she loops her arm with his to steady herself.

He meanders the both of them through the noisy Gryffindor common room, out into the cool, dimly-lit hallway. She hums one of the old tavern tunes the Gryffindors have been belting the entire night, slurring all the words the entire journey towards the dungeons. He bites the inside of his cheek, pretending he isn’t amused.

She leans on him, her fingers curling around his bicep for support, as she stumbles through the coiling serpent door, and that familiar ache manifests itself in his gut.

He ignores it. He’s done a good job of ignoring it so far, hasn’t laid a finger on her—just like he promised. He isn’t a bad person, after all. He won’t do what he did to her again. It was a one-time thing, just to scratch an itch, and he’s more than capable of suffering in silence from now on, the same way he always has.

By the time they finally cut through the Slytherin common room, he’s practically carrying her. She’s dozing off with her head on his shoulder, soft and pliant in his arms, and he feels this strange sort of tightening feeling in his chest.

He’s felt that dull, longing pain for a while. This is exponentially worse, as if his pining has finally culminated into something unbearable. He grinds his teeth and holds his breath and pretends he doesn’t feel tempted to bury his nose in her hair, to inhale until his inhibitions melt away and he does something stupid.

He sets her down on her feet when he reaches the stairs to the girls’ dormitories, but has to hold her up to keep her from falling over. Her words are stumbled over, soft and broken by yawns. “D’you think…you could bring me up?”

“You know I can’t,” he sighs. “Wards.”

She frowns, looking up at him. “Then…bring me to yours?”

He immediately shakes his head. “That’s not a good idea—”

“Oh, come on,” her fingers curl into the front of his shirt and he’s suddenly acutely aware of just how close she is. It’s suffocating, in a dreadfully pleasant way. He never thought he could find asphyxiation appealing, but he’s learned by now to not put anything past her. “Please?”

She pleads so pretty. He thinks of how she sounded back in the Undercroft, when he had her body pinned underneath his. Heat pools in that spot just below his navel and he suppresses a shudder. He runs a hand down his face to disperse the memory, nodding jerkily. “Yeah, al-alright. Fine.”

He shouldn’t give in so easily. He finds himself in possession of very little faculties to refuse her absolutely anything.

Ominis mutters a few locking charms as soon as he carries her into the quiet of his empty dorm. For her privacy, he tells himself, and ignores that contrite little voice in his head that knows it’s for something more. He pretends he doesn’t feel some sick satisfaction in knowing he has her all to himself.

It’d be easy to do it all again, he thinks. Perhaps even easier than the first time, with her state.

The thought leaves his head as quickly as it comes. He won’t. He has control over this. He has control over himself, most importantly. However, the longer he’s around her, the more she presses her body into his, the less convinced he is of the fact.

He takes a sharp breath and sits her down on the edge of his bed to unlace her boots for her. Her calves are small in his hands, delicate. There’s something appealing about that realization that he doesn’t stop to dwell on.

When he’s done, he helps her brush her teeth and comb her hair. It’s strangely domestic. Once again, he tries not to think about the warm, fuzzy feeling it gives him. He knows by now he has no right to crave such things. Wholesomeness isn’t for people who imperius and molest their friends.

He can’t help the smile that tugs at the corners of his mouth when she flops down onto his bed, tangling herself in silky emerald sheets. “Smells nice,” she murmurs, voice muffled with her face buried in his pillow.

He doesn’t think he’ll ever wash those sheets again.

He hovers near the foot of the bed, hands tucked chastely in his pockets, posture awkwardly stiff. He clears his throat. “You—uh, you should probably take a sober-up.”

She props herself up on her elbows to look at him, tilting her head with a pout. “That’s no fun.”

He rubs the back of his neck. “I think you’ve had enough fun for one night.”

She falls back onto the pillows with a groan. “Fine.”

He kneels in front of the bedside table he shares with Sebastian, rummaging through the drawers in search of a sober-up he’s sure the brunette certainly keeps in store.

His hand brushes a familiar vial, and for a brief moment he forgets about the potion he’s supposed to be looking for, in favor of thumbing over the worn label he knows too well.

He used to take it whenever his anxiety got too bad, when sleep was scarce because of nightmares. He’s more than familiar with the side-effects—only a bit more potent than a calming draught, really. Makes him drowsy, helps him sleep.

A thought passes through his head, but this time it lingers.

He closes the drawer with his knee and hovers over where she’s still curled on his bed, the dull edges of the vial biting into his skin where he’s tightened his fist around it.

It isn’t like he’s drugging her. He takes the potion himself. He’s just helping her relax a bit, that’s all.

“Here,” he brushes a hand over her shoulder to get her attention, her warmth seeping through the linen of her blouse to his palm. He resists the urge to dip his hand under the hem of her collar, skin-to-skin. “Can you open your mouth for me?”

He pretends he doesn’t feel the little flicker of heat that manifests in his stomach when she obeys, parted lips brushing his fingertips, looking up at him through her lashes.

He uncorks the dropper from the vial and drips a few more drops than the recommended dose on her tongue, and then a couple more. Her nose wrinkles from the bitter taste, but she swallows nonetheless. “Gross.”

He huffs a laugh, helping her lay back down. “A bit.”

“Thank you,” she sighs, eyes half-lidded. He finds he likes the dazed quality of her voice a bit too much. “You’re a savior, Omi.”

He forces a smile and swallows down the guilt he feels burrowed in his chest. His mouth tastes bitter. “It’s no problem, really.”

He goes to tug the comforter over her body but she protests, limbs feeling too heavy to use properly. He gets a strange sort of thrill when he feels how weakly she pushes at his wrists.

“Need—need to take this off first,” she murmurs, voice already softened.

She tugs at the laces of her bodice, but her fingers are languid and clumsy, lacking too much dexterity to untie them. The potion is fast-acting, he notes with a disgusting amount of satisfaction. She looks up at him for help, guiding his hands to the front of her blouse. He swallows the lump in his throat. “Right—uh, sure.”

He tries to still the trembling in his fingers as he unworks the latticework of ribbons, but he supposes she’s too bleary now to even notice. He helps her shrug off the garment, her arms limp when he holds them up to pull the fabric over her head. That little flickering heat in his gut is stoked higher when he notes how perfectly her two wrists fit in just one of his hands.

He likes her like this, maybe to an alarming degree. Weak and pliant. It reminds him of her state under the Imperius, trance-like, bending to his will because she lacks the capacity to do much else.

He helps her shimmy out of her skirt as well, even though she never asks him to. She doesn’t protest. Just lets his hands adjust her as he sees fit. He doesn’t linger on the fact that she’s only letting him because she doesn’t have the power to voice any objections, much less stop him.

That tiny, wanton flame inside him has been fed into an all-consuming fire, far too zealous to allow even a shadow of guilt to hinder his actions.

The chemise she wears underneath her clothes is sheer, barely reaching the tops of her knees. Easy to tear, he thinks as he smooths his hand down her hip, only briefly. She lets out a soft sigh and he pulls back. Still too lucid.

Temptation is a pretty thing tangled in his sheets, donned in thin, satiny fabrics.

It’d be so easy to take. The thought comes and sticks, even as he tries to rid himself of it. It’s tacky, enticing, gluing itself to the walls of his brain.

He wouldn’t even need to use an Unforgivable again, not like last time. No breaking any promises—though he notes that the thought of doing so is less nausea-inducing now than the first time. The idea more digestible. He doesn’t dwell on the implications behind that.

He unclasps the first few buttons of his shirt as he waits for her breathing to finally steady out. It isn’t long before she’s out like a light.

He sits on the adjacent bed, but only for a moment before his anxiety makes him pace the room. His thoughts are a mess, alternating between staying as far away from her as possible and sinking into her very skin. He chews on his nails while the latter begins to take dominance, until he ultimately finds himself hovering over the side of his bed.

It’s not like he hasn’t touched her before while she’s sleeping. He’s traced her features a couple times, gently, just to get an idea of what she looks like. This isn’t any different. He won’t do anything terrible.

He knows with certainty that Sebastian and their other dorm mate won’t be in until dawn breaks, he’s more than accustomed with their party habits by now. The situation is almost too perfect. When will he ever have her like this again? Drowsy and willing, all to himself, in his bed.

The mattress creaks as he sits himself on the edge. She doesn’t move an inch. His heart hammers in his chest, but he reaches a hand out anyway, tentatively running his hand down the soft outline of her figure, bathed in silk. He wants to feel her, though, so he brushes his fingertips, feather-light, where her shoulder is peeking out from under the covers.

It’s easy to not feel guilty when this is something familiar.

Tentatively, he pulls the covers down to her waist. When she doesn’t stir, he pulls them back the rest of the way, exposing her to him. Gooseflesh prickles over her skin as it comes in contact with the cool air of the room and he runs his hands down her arms to soothe it. She’s somehow softer than he remembers, sensitive and sleep-warm.

She shifts in her sleep, but he isn’t deterred like he usually is. He knows that with the effects of the potion she won’t wake, at least not fully. That familiar course of adrenaline courses through his veins at the thought of not having to be as cautious as he usually is. Being able to touch at will. It’s exhilarating, in the most terrible way possible.

He bunches her chemise over her waist in one pull. The material glides over her skin with ease, and she gives little protest, nothing more in the way of a soft exhale, a gentle murmur. The sound courses through his very core, all the way south. He’s sick with curiosity about what other sounds he can coax from her, fingers hovering over the bare expanse of her midriff.

He’s filled with the urge to know her in all the ways he hasn’t yet, having kept all his prior explorations strictly above-belt. The unknown beckons to him, every inch of her he hasn’t touched or tasted, teeming under his skin until it aches.

He runs a thumb across the hem of her knickers, gentle, patient—even if at the moment it’s like he hasn’t the faintest idea of the definition of the world. It doesn’t take very long for him to exhaust the small amount of hesitation he does possess.

He shifts over her on the bed, climbing down her body, hands trailing adoration on her skin with exploratory curiosity. He digs his fingers a little too hard into her hips and she lets out a whimper, soft and barely audible. He finds he quite likes the sound.

She squirms in place, hips shying away from him in her sleep and he hushes her, soothing the skin with soft, little circles stroked by his thumb.

He presses his lips right above her navel, trailing kisses down her stomach, and she keens under the sensation, stretching like a purring kitten. He smirks against her skin. So receptive, even unconscious.

As he trails down to his destination, he noses softly at every curve and bow he can reach, slow and appreciative. She’s gorgeous, all soft features and gentle silhouettes. He finds himself wanting to run his tongue over every contour until he memorizes her with his mouth.

He treats her as if he’s at an altar, kneeled in not only solemn adoration, but grave penitence for what he knows he plans to do with her. He supposes it’s always best to pray for forgiveness, then ask for permission.

When he gets to the hem of her knickers, he plies her legs wider to accommodate him, pinning one of her thighs to the mattress. She obliges so easily, limbs loose and limp, so he tugs the other over his shoulder.

His breath hovers over her clothed core and that familiar contrite little voice murmurs a flurry in his head. He finds it’s so much easier to tune it out now, especially as he presses his mouth to the gusset of her knickers for the first time and his brain whites out in bliss.

He wouldn’t be able to suppress the groan he lets out if he had all the willpower in the world.

It isn’t long before he’s hastily pulling the thin cotton down her thighs, any sort of barrier between them a personal affront to his sanity. Something tears but he finds himself in no capacity to care. She does little to stop him, only shifting futilely in her sleep, but he has his arm anchored across her thigh to still her squirming.

He licks a stripe with the flat of his tongue, just to finally taste her, to acquiesce the pounding in his ears and that familiar rush of blood south. She tastes like heaven, and he knows that after all he’s done it’s the closest he’ll ever get.

His fingers dig into tender flesh so hard he’s sure he’ll leave marks as he starts to lap at her in earnest, unable to stop himself. Breathy little sighs hitch in her throat, turning into soft moans as he takes his time, exploring every millimeter his tongue can reach.

“S’gorgeous,” he slurs, lips sticky against her cunt. “Gods, you taste so good.”

He wraps his lips around her clit and sucks, and the noise she lets out is almost enough to make him finish in his pants. He can tell her brain’s struggling to breach consciousness, hips rocking languidly against his mouth, the softest murmurs escaping her lips. He pays little mind to them, continuing to devote himself to tasting her fully.

He takes one of her hands that are pawing weakly at the sheet beneath her, placing it on top of his head. Her fingers immediately find purchase in his hair, eliciting a groan from him as he circles her clit with his tongue in tight little circles.

Her breathing is stuttered, uneven. “Om–Omin–”

“That’s it, angel, say my name,” he hums, her voice making him throb in his pants where he’s been rutting mindlessly against the mattress. “You sound so pretty. Fuck, my sweet, sweet girl.”

Her fingers tighten in his hair, a bit too softly for his tastes due to her semi-lucid state, but enough to earn a moan from him nonetheless. He feels the muscles in her abdomen tighten when he braces a forearm across her middle to pin her to the bed, stilling her helpless writhing, and he knows she’s close. He doesn’t plan on stopping until she’s coming on his tongue, no matter how much she begs.

Feeling her try to resist him makes him ache in his trousers, her hands pushing weakly at his head. He latches his mouth to her clit and sucks until he feels her heels dig into his back and a sob is torn from her throat as she’s pushed over the edge.

He grinds his hips into the mattress as he rides her through her climax, grunting expletives against her skin. Her chest heaves, arms loose at her sides as she hiccups through tears, coming down from her high.

Her legs tremble around his head and he kisses the insides of her thighs, listening to her breathless, incoherent little murmurs that he can’t quite make out. He can’t help the blissed satisfaction he feels, thumbs rubbing soft circles on her hip bones.

He climbs over her, chin sticky as he leaves kisses in his ascent. “I know, baby, I know,” he hushes when she squirms, voice hoarse. “Just a dream. Go back to sleep.”

He wipes the wetness from her cheeks, damp lashes fluttering in her attempts to gain some viable form of consciousness. He smiles to himself knowing the effects of the potion will keep her perfectly limp and drowsy for him.

He noses at her temple, stroking her hair while he waits for her breathing to steady out again. “Was that good, angel? Did I make you feel good?”

She doesn’t respond, and he knows her brain is too addled with sleep and endorphins to even hear him. He rambles praises anyway, lips pressed to her forehead, his heart so full in his chest it might burst.

“I love you,” he whispers, collecting her in his arms and tucking her into his side, even if the rational part of his brain advises against it. He can’t help but want her close. “I love you so much, it hurts.”

The inside of his trousers is sticky with the evidence of his own climax, but he can’t be bothered to feel the shame he normally feels, too caught up in the feeling of her body against his. He plants kisses to the crown of her head and pretends he’s holding her because she wants to be held.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs sometime after into the stillness of her soft breathing, exhaustion tugging at his eyelids. He isn’t, not really. Being sorry implies he won’t do it again. Something he’s able to admit by now he knows isn’t true. “I’m so sorry.”

He closes his eyes and pretends he is.

#hogwarts legacy #ominis gaunt #hogwarts legacy smut #ominis x mc #ominis gaunt x reader #ominis gaunt x mc #hogwarts legacy imagine #hogwarts legacy fanfiction #hogwarts legacy mc #ominis gaunt fanfiction #dark fic

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soraviie · 1 year

Text

you assume it's unrequited.txt

━ type: bts x gn! reader ━ navigation

━ about: largely angst, some fluff; reader has a crush but thinks that it's one-sided — it's not

━ pictures taken from Pinterest

━ read the continuation in "pining for you.txt"

━ leave behind a comment or I'll stab you with chopsticks

NAMJOON | The routine itself is quite simple. The rules to be observed are only five — it leaves enough leeway to mold oneself should problematic situations arise.

Rule no. 5: don't accept any gifts.

It's the fact of nature really — humans love gifts. Like corvids, people adored their shiny little trinkets and it is a well-known fact that giving someone something makes them feel special. Adored. But since you couldn't be either of those things, it helped to cut any straying thoughts right in the bud. Hence when he offers to get a cup of coffee from the aggravatingly chique brewery across the street you decline and make a quick stage left.

Which conveniently segways to rule no. 4.

Rule no. 4: no lingering around.

The job is thankful in that way — there's always something to do. Whenever you see his silhouette from the corner of the eye which is not exactly hard — he is big — you flee to safety. If he somehow manages to round the exact same hallway you're in and tosses a hand into the air in lieu of a greeting whilst handing out one of those unfairly charming, dimpled smiles, you follow the rule and as such return a simple nod of recognition, hastily heading the other way.

Should he enter the same room, you're quick to grab anything near and dig deep into a dark corner where inevitably you grow invisible. It's a big company — there's always spaces to hide and you're just another nobody.

Safe to say you never pass him messages or even go near his studio. That can be left to your colleagues who are far more enthusiastic about doing that sort of thing.

Rule no. 3: no conversations.

That is...easy. You think.

"Hi!"

You lifted your head from where your hands were trembling around the paper forms. You regarded him with a blank stare, surprised that not only he'd chosen to talk to you out of all the dozens of people buzzing around the room but also that he was gracious about your lack of friendly disposition.

"Hello," you rasped back, becoming acutely aware of the way everyone is staring.

"You must be new," he remarked, casually plopping down to, for some inexplicable reason, sit next to you, breathing a deep sigh of content. For a second his thigh grazed yours — you shirked away.

"S'pose."

There was a steady pause of silence in which you both just...were.

"You have to write-"

"I know what I have to do."

The finger that previously so helpfully was pointing out at the blank space in the registration form froze mid air. You darted your gaze far away from his unsure, inquisitive stare, tightening your grip around the thin and otherwise helpless paper.

"I'm sorry. What I mean is...I've worked here for three years now — it's just been remote. So I know what to do I'm just..." you laid a palm on your chest — where the bubble was. The bubble that makes it hard to breathe and pressed down on your ribs with such terrible strength your vision grew hazy.

"I think I'm having a panic attack."

Yeah, it was easy to not have a conversation with him afterwards. He must be just as embarrassed as you — what with catching you as you collapsed on the floor just seconds after the first greeting.

Rule no. 2: no touching.

For the most part it's easy to observe. You don't want to be in the same room with him, let alone touch him but sometimes he's just so friendly. If once upon a blue moon you have the misfortune of being stuck with him, you've taken note of how often he reaches to pat you on the back, attempts to carry your things, accidentally bumps into you on those short walks between one location to the next. However, by now you're a professional and you evade all of those damning times of contact with mannered ease.

It is only rule no. 1 that gives you trouble. It's difficult to not think about Kim Namjoon. Not only because his face is splattered across half the world's billboards but because it is Kim Namjoon and oftentimes after long hours of dutifully observing all the other rules, you lay vapidly on the bed and break the one that mattered the most. Too much you think about him and too much time is given to dreams that would never, ever come true.

"Hey, _____________."

You jolt at the sound of another's voice, especially since the room should be empty. As you uncrane your neck from the cramped position by the router on the floor, you find Kim Namjoon poking his somewhat unkempt head through the door. And Kim Namjoon finds himself standing yet again in front of you , breaking all the rules he put between him and the danger that is you. He has no viable reason for asking everyone your whereabouts and then coming here where he confirmed you'd be. There's no merit in him checking the status of HYBE's malfunctioning router but very selfishly he clings even to this most pathetic excuse — if only to take a glimpse at you.

"Hello," diplomatically, you bid back. "The uh...cable is broken."

As a means of an evidence that no one asked for, you wave the plastic around.

"I'll go ask Haejun. She has a shit-ton of spares.''

"We can—" but before he could even reach out to grab onto you, to make you linger around just a little bit longer for the sake of his horrid selfishness, the doors are already closing behind you.

"—go together..." Namjoon lets the sentence finish in the dissatisfied silence fallen over the room.

YOONGI | It should be societally acceptable for one, on occasion, to smash their fucking head against the fucking wall. Though you've turned away from him by now, in such as fast motion there's a definite possibility of your spinal disk rupturing, the disgusting act has been caught and observed. He's caught you looking. Leering. He must be repulsed. You put back the money you've been counting for the last five minutes and with a quiet mutter to a coworker excuse yourself to the back-alley.

"Ah, I don't want to be around that gangster," she cries pathetically, spotting the black haired man at the far end of the counter. Whiskey. Top shelf. A double. The first time you glimpsed him sipping 43% proof alcohol with the ease a child would a juice box, you cursed heavens above — men such as that inevitably acted vile afterwards. Cursing, being loud, groping — it'd just be more headache for you but he was surprisingly different. As if having been aware of the ill suspicion you've been harboring, once he was done, the man brought his glass back, bowed politely and quietly rasped a thank you about your hospitality.

To this day you had no idea whether it was meant genuinely or not.

"He's not a gangster," tiredly, you cut back. Even if he was, he was a polite one. "Just pour him his whiskey when he asks and that's it."

Her lips thin from the nerves as she examines him. His hair is longer now but in her eyes it probably doesn't soften the least bit of his features. In the end, she relents and her harpy like fingers let go of your elbow. Pouting, you rub the sore flesh but quickly leave. You think he's still looking at you, no doubt judging you for slobbering.

"What?" you mutter to yourself grumpily, climbing down the poor lit staircase that led to the reeking trash bins outside. "It's not a crime to have a crush on someone."

Ah, you're a pervert, you groan in your mind, kneeling down the wall. One of these days you'll have to scratch your manager's eyes out in order to get a chair.

You fish out the pack of cigarettes from the apron and in the singular beat between one second and the next, someone speaks right next to you:

"Care to share?"

You scream and almost fling yourself into the trash all while the black haired man looks down upon you.

The first drops of rain begin to fall down on your face and you squint on the automated instinct to protect your eyes.

In his hand he's got a cigarette of his own and you scramble to get the lighter working, cringing at the shooting ache as you press it against your rubbed off skin.

"Here," you outstretch the flame towards him. He hums appreciatively and leans down, briefly putting his much larger palms over yours to stabilize the fire. You hiss in pain.

"Sorry. My hands are rough, I know," he grouses and you shake your head mutely. Jesus fucking Christ on a bike. Even just standing next to him knocks the breath out of your lungs.

"No...it's not that. Your hands are nice," your face scrunches up. "I mean they're fine."

He regards you with a slightly lopsided smirk. You cough and take a drag out of the cigarette.

"These things are not good for health, you know," he shuffles a bit, shoes scuffing against the grey pavement below. They're really shiny and now that you could focus on anything besides his cruelly handsome face, you take in the fact the fact that he was actually wearing a suit. Curious.

"You're smoking as well," defensively, you spit back and sagely, he inclines his head.

"I'm trying to quit. Unsuccessfully. Clearly," he snorts to himself, lips widening into arid, mirthless grin. You think your guts just rearranged themselves. What's happening here, currently, was the smell of the trash leaking into the bins, the cool air blowing a trail of goosebumps up your arm. Your legs are aching, somewhere down your spine there is a yet unidentified pain and both of you smell like smoke and still you've never seen a man so beautiful, despite the grody settings.

"Why you're wearing a suit today?" just at the last second you manage to bite your tongue to not call him sir. For all intents and purposes he's still a costumer. Had your manager heard of you smoking by the trash with one of the most high-paying patrons, she'd drown you in the very bin juice but this doesn't feel...forced. He doesn't feel like a customer and you don't feel like just another person in customer service.

"Are you killing someone?" you tease further, testing the edges and luckily he responds in earnest — dropping his head back and howling a mute laughter into the night.

"No, nothing so dramatic," he chuckles. "I had a...corporate event. Of sorts."

"You don't look like an office drone," you drawl, for the first time actually taking him in. That is, without the leering. As a bartender, over a time a certain kind of knowledge builds. You've seen what the poor wear, what the middle class wears and what the rich wear, and this man was certainly well-off. His suit, though nothing extravagant, is well-fitted and the material is expensive. No one of that stature would ever fit inside a cubicle.

"That's cause I'm not. Say, you don't watch a lot of TV, do you?" even in the piss-poor lighting of the foul alleyway, his eyes glimmer with barely hidden amusement. It plays on the corners of his lips as though he was trying his hardest to not smile.

"No, I don't..." you frown. "Why?"

"Nothing," he shrugs. "I actually like it that way."

"Ah, shit," you drag the last smoke from the cigarette before throwing it away. "Sara always said you were into shady shit. Shame she was right."

"Sara...that's the little girl, right? One whose scared of me?"

"Mmm," you hum in agreement.

"That's good."

As your eyebrows knit together in confusion, he also puts out the cigarette with a side of yet another teasing smirk. By this point, you were growing accustomed to it. Seeing it, however, not be unfazed by it.

"I much more like you. Well," he claps his hands together, the sound falling a bit too loud in the otherwise quiet back alley. "I've got to get going. Will you be working tomorrow?"

"Uh...yeah," dumbly, you respond and the nameless man looks mighty pleased.

"Good. See ya."

He turns to walk away, leaving you alone and befuddled by the backdoor only to lean back as though he suddenly remembered something.

"These are bad for you," his hand snatches the pack of cigarettes shamelessly out of your grasp and only then he deems it fit to make an exit.

JIN | "Look, the love of your life is walking over!"

"Shut the fuck up."

It's 8:30 in the morning and the sun is already scorching. You've gotten off an eight hours flight and somehow you're still hangover. To be less verbose — you're not putting up with any bullshit. And your friend cooing in the ear the second they saw Seokjin climbing out is very much the situation you're far too grumpy to tolerate.

"I'm heading to the forest," you toss over your shoulder, making a hasty beeline to the other part of the shore where the dunes laid quiet and unperturbed. The second you're in their embrace, the tension leaves your body.

By now everyone and their mother knew of the gargantuan and utterly mortifying crush you had on Seokjin. To this day they continued to humor it in the same way they did when you were younger.

"Ahh, look, Jinnie, little ___________ has a crush on you! They even made a card!"

And because you were fourteen and it was a time of great hormones, and you'd still rather kill yourself than ever reveal to older Kim Seokjin outright that you liked him, to everyone's shock, Jin's in particular, you ate the paper card in front of him, growling in between the stiff, glittery bites that obviously you meant a different Seokjin. Seokjin who obviously went to your school even though no one could ever verify his presence.

It's been years and by now you're well out of middle-school but the pathetic squeezing of your heart whenever you saw him, whenever you found yourself in the center of his focus has not yielded. How many years will this continue to drag on? Will he need to be married for this to relent?! With kids?! Dead?!?

With a pitiful groan, you let your forehead hit the dry bark of the nearby tree.

"Ah, fuck."

"Always such a potty mouth."

Anyone else might have taken a glimpse at Jin and pronounced that there was some truth to children's stories where selfless, glamorous princes rode about. While Jin is decidedly not a horse (he could barely even walk as the sand proved to be quite an obstacle), he does look like a prince — carrying a blanket and a small, mysterious bag.

"You get so cold quickly," he half-heartedly scolds, tossing the blanket your way. "Why even come here?"

"You get cold as well," irately, you point out, tugging the fleece around your bare shoulders. Only then you did notice that you were actually freezing.

"I came prepared," carelessly, Jin replies, yanking from some invisible space yet another blanket. "I might be devastatingly handsome but I'm not a bimbo."

"Shame. I happen to like bimbos."

At this point you're just saying shit.

Jin blinks and then with the sincerity of a well-seasoned actor, regards you with a confused stare, face mere millimetres away from yours.

"What do you call a fish wearing a bowtie?"

Nervously, your eyes flit all around his face as you inadvertently swallow from the abrupt proximity.

"I don't know," breathlessly, you answer. "What?"

"Sofishticated!"

Well, good news was that if he kept going like this, your pervading illness will be cured.

"Sofishticated! Get it, because it's like sophisticated..."

You leave him standing there, shouting across the dunes.

"Hey, Ji-Yeong told Cindy to tell Eun-Sook to tell Riri-"

Over the loud roar of the working stove, you attempt to clean your eyes free from the onion and give your friend a good yell.

"GET TO THE POINT!"

"JIN IS LOOKING FOR YOU! HE WANTS TO TALK TO YOU!"

And because you're a brave, self-sufficient person of 21st century you pretend not to hear and whenever you see a glimpse of shoulders too broad to be on anyone else but him, you run and hide.

You know exactly what he wants to talk about and thus you'd rather, much rather, with a smile on your face in fact, chew your fucking toe off. Because as stupid as you were now, you were infinitely more stupid last summer. The summer during which you got so plastered on tequila the night ended with you confusing very much real, warm-blooded sentient Jin for a cutout. A cutout which you clung onto like a mad person and proceeded to reveal that innermost layer of your heart and how much it was devoted to one very annoying millennial.

It took a lot of pasta and drinking to have the confidence to leave your home once the initial stage of wanting to rot into the sofa ebbed away. You weren't necessarily keen on repeating that week thus the running away. But you also think Jin has caught onto the games and is growing increasingly frustrated with them.

Jin wants to see you, Jin is asking for you, Jin is stopping by and so on and on and on. By now his name doesn't even sound like a word. Even so you keep the charades going, praying for the first time in your life that you could go back to work.

The time is a bit over one in the night. For the most part everyone is sleeping which leaves the back garden of the house you rented near the beach quiet and docile. From here you can hear the waves crashing and for now it's enough to create a piece of your paradise.

"Didn't I tell you that you get too cold easily?"

Cold shivers run up your spine and you quickly swallow, whipping around. The expression on Jin's face is less than impressed.

"Well, hence, I'll be going," you gift a fake smile but quickly stop when you hear what you've never ever heard before.

Jin being angry.

"Stay where you are."

He's not by any means shouting, not even raising his voice in the slightest but the tone leaves not a single space for discussion to take place.

"Sit down."

You do and sternly he watches you do so, eyebrows coming together to create a deep frown. You search for any sign of this being a prank or another one of his jokes but you don't find any. Just him standing and being fed up.

"Now, let us have that talk about last summer."

HOSEOK | It doesn't matter if both of you were adults. He was still your student and you were still his teacher. It didn't matter whether he insisted on you or not, you still should have said no and referred Hoseok back to Marina. She was a better English tutor anyhow even if he very much disagreed.

"Mr Jung, please understand, I am quitting. How can I continue to teach you if I'm not even a teacher?"

His knuckles were white around the edge of the table to which he clung to as you leisurely piled your things into boxes. These two years were good, just not good enough to stay.

"Marina is horrible," he complains, the sound falling a bit muffled through the mask but its quality of desperation is not reduced. "Please, you can't just leave! Not with all of the progress we've made!"

A bit of clunky choice of phrasing if you had to say because what progress did you make? Was it the progress of being indifferent, to growing shy around him, to dreaming about him in the middle of all the lonely nights only to then choke on all those fantasies? Because if it was that progress, it would do you some good to leave. Would do you both some good.

"_______________, please, make an exception?" he pleaded, eyes sparkling and you had felt your resolve breaking even then. "For me? Your favourite Hobi?"

With your walls falling apart, you hadn't even noticed how casually he'd referred to you.

"Stop bouncing your knee," Marina growls underneath the nose as she sips on the coffee. Her exam materials are displayed haphazardly on the table before her, littered with large crumbs of her banana and hazelnut croissant.

"I can't help it," you retort just as morose, nervously eyeing the clock pinned to the wall.

12:01 — he should be done by now.

"You're so in love with him," Marina rolled her eyes, striking a bold red line across one student's essay. 4/100. Rough.

"It's my job as a teacher to make sure he passes his tests," you brittle venomously. "If I don't-"

Before you could so much as finish your sentence, a pair of judgmental eyes sit transfixed upon your face in a heated glare.

"You're not a teacher anymore. You quit and tutor him entirely unofficially," Marina interrupts curtly. "So the excuse of it being that is redundant if anything. Moreover, he's a whole ass grown man. He certainly doesn't need someone like you to fret over him."

Just then your phone dings with an unread message causing both of your eyes to fall on top of it.

"Your prince Charming is calling," she states coldly. "Go ahead and pick up."

You don't think you'll ever hang out with Marina after this.

Hoseok 💗 sent you a message.

The heart he'd added himself, chiding you one night for assigning such a cold contact info.

Hoseok 💗: I PASSED! I KNOW IT! I'VE NEVER FELT SO CONFIDENT! 😻💓〇(＞∀＜)〇

me: I told you you could do it and you didn't believe in yourself ( ￣＾￣)

Hoseok 💗: hahaha yes o great teacher you've always been so supportive! thank you! ( ♥‿♥)

Then after a moment comes the last message.

Hoseok 💗: thank you, __________________.

As your phone grows dark, you see your own reflection — the giddy smile, the lovesick eyes. The pathetic, eager nature that is you around Hoseok. For a second you let yourself be and let your hand press the phone to your chest as if the meaningless emojis and hearts actually signified anything other than the cursory respect he had for you as his tutor. Then you gather yourself.

If Hoseok will pass his test, he'll be technically viewed as fluent and as such you will be of no use anymore.

You wipe the grin of your face, slip the phone in your pocket and walk back home, pretending that none of this is hurting you.

JIMIN | "Stay still," you scold him, immediately receiving a pout in return.

"I am staying still!" he whines.

Though you roll your eyes, you don't argue anymore and continue to measure his neck. If he wanted to layer his necklaces, you'll have no choice but to measure every chain's length to its absolute nanometer. If they overlayed too much it'd just be a mess and Jimin deserved nothing but the best.

"Now, remember, this is the bag for my jewelry," you remind him sternly, waving the grey pouch just before escorting him to the door. The night is deep. Ever since you wound up having Park Jimin as a regular client your sleep schedule has been wrecked. Thinking about the wording, you cringe, cutting a finger against one of the waywardly left awls on the table. Had your old teacher saw the mess on your workstation, the old crow would probably smack you across the face.

Hissing at the sharp prick, you cradled the hand with a juicy curse on the tongue. Jimin, who'd previously been seconds away from falling asleep (which has happened. Safe to say, having an idol drooling on your couch was awkward, just not as awkward as the morning that followed), yanks his head towards you with laser like focus.

"Show me," he insists, expectantly holding out his palm so that it can join yours. You regard it with a passive stare before taking a step back.

"It's just a cut on a finger," you brush him off, coughing from the abruptly stifled atmosphere gripping your lived-in studio. Jimin appears to be quite displeased. One of the simultaneous advantages and disadvantages of being so close to your models for such an extended time was that by the end of it you knew all of their micro-expressions like the back of your hand. From the tightened way his jaw sat to the coldness in his gaze — he was angry. Jimin was a bit like an April day in that way — always surprising you. Was it good or bad, you did not quite know.

"Here, take this," you outstretched the pouch, sucking a bit on the pricked finger. His eyes seemed to linger there before he averts his gaze, taking the bag with his jewelry.

"You look beautiful in them."

Was it a low blow? Perhaps. But it felt somewhat uneasy, problematic even to let him leave your studio in a huff. With the oncoming release of his album he was already stretched taut. You were half surprised he hadn't yet hit a complete mental breakdown by now. Just following his schedule as a jeweller made your hairs grow grey. Still, as expected the compliment mellows the bout of his sudden attitude.

"Eyyy," he complains, tad cautiously. You weren't after all friends, however, the borders of the proper behaviour became blurred the second he showed up on your doorstep outside both of his company's knowledge or permission. As far as you understood it, he actually sponsored your work out of his own pocket. You could recall that night in fine detail — having a national treasure known as Park Jimin sipping a tea out of cracked cup and asking you to create pieces for him. How he'd came to know of you, he did not reveal and after a while you ceased asking.

"You always do this," he continues, rousing you out of deep though.

"Do what?" innocently, you blink up at him. "I've committed no wrongdoing."

"You always compliment me," he pouts, scuffing the sole of his slipper against the floor. They were in the shape of large fluffy cows. You'd offered him a change but since this pair was given to him on that first meeting, he insisted he'd grown fond of them.

"You know how much I like compliments..."

That you did. Once in a while you let them slip a bit too liberally which is something you'd sincerely need to work on. Having a crush on Park Jimin, unrequited one at that, would anyhow lead to nothing. It was simply futile.

"I can't ever stay mad at you."

"Sorry, for being too charming," you flip a strand of non-existent hair over your shoulder prompting a peel of loud, disbalanced laughter. "Now, this is the bag for my jewelry. Don't mix them up with the one you're supposed to wear for Tiffany which by the way..." you narrow your eyes at him. "Traitor."

Still laughing he pats down your head, eyes crinkling in that expression of pure happiness that you adored to see so much.

"Babyyyy, don't be mad. You're still my favourite one."

Had you not been so irrevocably and disgustingly fond of this man you would have kicked him for making your heart feel like this.

"Yeah, yeah, whatever," you groused, taking his hand away from your head. "Now go. Good night."

"Can't I crash here?" he pleads, shifting eagerly on the spot. "It's so late at night..."

"And whose fault is that?" you arch an eyebrow pushing at Jimin's back to get him out of your doorstep. "Rich man goes home and sleeps in his rich man bed."

Sensing an easy target in your words, Jimin gleans over his shoulder, his broad smirk proudly on display.

"Does rich man have to be alone?"

"Bye!"

You watched him secretly behind the broken, off white blinds of your kitchen window. The alleyways in this part of the town are narrow, only barely could Jimin's car make way. It's no surprise that no matter what time it is, it attracts the curious glances of your neighbours. The old man at unit 4b across the road was also looking in — the shitty blue tinted light of his crap ass apartment makes his silhouette glaringly apparent in the window. You scowl at him and for a good measure throw up a bird before accompanying Jimin with your eyes. Happily he gets into the car and drives back home where he'll be safe. Now you can rest easy. Somewhat.

"Good night, Jimin," you whisper into the darkness where the only other company you had was the ever-present droning of your old fridge.

TAEHYUNG | Leaning against your hand and watching him speak you think of everything and simultaneously of nothing at all. Though it was not a crime to fall in love with your friend, it very much felt that way sometimes. Times like these when you fantasized how would it feel to hold his hand or to hug him. Not that you didn't know how that felt like. If he could, Taehyung would crawl and make a home in your ribs but he didn't understand. He didn't understand the...spectrum of love you harboured for him. From where he looked onto it the hues were all blue whilst you were far too red.

Red, as you discovered, was not that good of a colour.

"________________? You're not even listening to me, are you?"

Blinking owlishly, you stirred in the seat. The screaming ache in your muscles offers proof to how long you'd been staring at him. Pathetic. You shift your eyes away from the mix of frustration and worry in the browns of his eyes and instead let it sit where's it safe — on the impersonal linoleum cover of the cheap dumpling bistro.

"I was listening," you mumble hazily. "You were...taking Yeontan...for a grooming session, no?"

He sighs.

"Actually I said Jungkook was bitching in my voice mails about having to get a haircut. Are they the same for you?"

You think about it.

"I plead the fifth?"

In spite of it only prompting a thoroughly sassy eye roll from the nominee of 2022 MAMA song of the year, he doesn't much complain, though stuffing his face full of noodles, he does ask. You would rather he didn't.

"What's wrong with you lately? You've been...spaced out."

To feign ease you don't dream of having, you snort.

"Look whose talking."

"Exactly," smartly, he agrees still chewing somewhat aggressively. "If I notice, you know it's bad."

Averting your gaze away once more, you shrug.

"It's nothing serious."

"You sure? 'Cause I was thinking maybe you felt...lonely?"

The so-thin-it's-almost-transparent menu in between your fingers freeze as your heart drops down into your stomach.

"What makes you say that?" lightly, presumably lightly, you wonder.

"Dunno," he shrugs, swallowing a bite so large you can see it travelling down his throat. How he had not yet choked was beyond any science. "It's just you've got no pets, no friends beside me and your place is always quiet so it's safe to say you're absolutely dry in the dating apartment."

Your lips purse in an expression of such pure, unfiltered annoyance that for once it doesn't go above his head. Awkwardly, he coughs, shrinking smaller underneath the gaze of your fury.

"Thank you Taehyung," dryly, you praise him. "That's just what I needed."

"Sorry."

Were you lonely? Probably. Who are you kidding? Naturally.

Exhaling into the black winter air, you watch as the miniature clouds colour white before melting into the night. Did you love Taehyung because you were simply...lonely? Could be. Over the years he was the only one who stayed by your side. Even when you did the most to make him leave, so you wouldn't taint him with your...broken-ness, all too obstinately he'd weathered the storms out. He'd not leave you, that was the end of it. Such he promised and such was the promise he kept, no matter what life or yourself threw at him.

As the gust of biting wind rips through the street, you pitifully tremble in its hold. Shit, why was it always so cold.

"Ah, fuck, my ass is going to freeze off," Taehyung curses, coming to stand beside you just outside of restaurant. He still has a soy sauce in the corner of his lip and without much thinking you wipe it off.

You're both grasping for words.

"My hand is cold," he suddenly complains, swinging on the back of his heels.

"Should have brought gloves then," you retort grumpily. "I certainly don't need you to spend all my hand creams. Again."

He pretends to not see the acussal in your glower.

"I have an idea. Friends help each other out, don't they?"

Suddenly, you find yourself not liking the happy turn of his cheek. That smile paired with that particular glint in his eye always meant trouble. And before you know it, his hand is clasped around yours, the heat of it shooting straight down your entire arm.

"There," happily he chirps, dragging your loudly protesting self down the street. "Now I'm warm and you're not lonely. I see this as an absolute win."

JUNGKOOK | Sure, it was hard to be rendered blind in the middle of a busy street as the sky was dumping down rain with terrible vengeance but you'd still wager a guess it felt better to run head first into a pole than seeing...him.

The light of the billboard pours brightly onto the dark, grey streets below whilst the faceless masses rush to their homes, you included. He stands there, being beautiful, being enticing like a whole dream and mocks you. You can't have him and that's fine but why should you also have the sour memory of his existence be rubbed into the wound.

Droplets of rain steadily fall upon your face though you don't even notice them. Not until you've had your fill of Jungkook.

You hope he's happy somewhere in Seoul.

Coming back home, you set the soaked bags of groceries onto the table, monotonously going through the motions of the day. Many, hell, everyone, would probably say that taking a leave from a high-paying job just to come back home and live an utterly boring life was not the way to go but would they also sympathize with growing depressed about the unrequited love you had for someone who was so far out of the reach, you'd officially have to graduate space flight program in order to ever reach the star that was Jungkook?

No, you don't think so.

Laundry, cooking, laundry, watching TV, laundry. It doesn't offer much reprieve from thoughts about Jeon Jungkook but at least you don't have to look at him and be pathetic. And sure you're miserable but at least somewhat of your dignity is preserved. Even if it's the tiniest, barely existent sliver a man has ever seen.

You don't regret never approaching him. He never went out of his way to say hi, he never so much as glimpsed in your general direction if you were loitering around the room. You remember how hard it was to breathe when the time came to adjust his mic on his chest and you also remember how he'd just sat there, disinterestedly scrolling through his phone. On those rare times you noticed him watching you, there was always a distant gleam in his gaze. He was probably just zoning out and you happened to be there. On those even rarer times that you helped him, he always appeared so unperturbed. He was polite but that was it. Just a polite thank you and long, stretching moments of quiet, that was the only real memory you had of him.

In the end, the whole thing was quite embarrassing and so despite it being abrupt, it felt right to hand in your resignation. He didn't need yet another sick fucker drooling over him....neither did you want to be that person. So why not quit. Why not?

By the time it's evening, you're beyond bored. No TV shows interest you, no movies catch your attention, the span of your focus is too short to read a book and you're too tired to go for a walk. Surely it wouldn't hurt...

When your old computer turns on, it makes itself known. Unlike the sleek, polished versions of HYBE, the surface is so hot it could boil an egg and the sound that comes out of this pre-historic artefact could easily pass off as a roar of a plane. It takes about half an hour for the email to load, so much so that when you come back with a cup of tea, the screen is still suspiciously unresponsive.

Seeing 99+ unanswered messages did not surprise you, what did surprise you was the pile of messages, unanimously sent from one address.

[email protected]

subject: please

The skin on your palms grow wet and you can hardly hear the rain splashing against the window with how hard your heart is beating. Shakily you press to open the email, hardly having the courage to read the words. You've no idea why the subject is named such a way but you're partially sure that somewhere along the way, he's going to call out your affection. How misplaced it is and how much he's disgusted by it. You'd understand if he did.

[email protected]

subject: please

Even if...even if the year we spent together meant nothing to you, that the kindness you extended towards me, that the help you sent my way unknowingly pulling me from a pit of unescapable darkness is nothing but an empty void no more deserving of your attention than the dirt on the side of the road, I beg of you to be gracious once more. Just write to me. Just one letter is all I ask for. No matter what you have to say, should it be something as little as one singular "bye", please, write to me. I'll keep you in my thoughts, forever most likely as you've made your home in them.

Sincerely,

Jeon Jungkook.

tagging: @rmstdio; @pinkcherrybombs; @devilsbooksworld; @btsiguess-kpop; @belladaises; @halesandy; @seok-jinnies; @themochiverse; @cuteipat; @ratherbefangirling; @manchuria; @chimchimmarie; @smalliechelle; @koostarcandy; @flitzerj; @royallyjjk; @dreamamubarak; @anti-social-mochi267; @jung-nika-hoseok; @jminssiii;

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politemenacephd · 5 months

Text

Arachnophilia: (Part Eleven)

Drider!Miguel O'Hara x Reader (+18)

Chapter Masterlist 🕷️

Content: Oral (reader recieving), Cock Warming, Sleepy Morning PinV sex, Praise, Body Massage, Breeding kink, Creampie, Touch-starved Mig, Fluffy Aftercare + Extra mega fluff later (getting Mig to dance).

Word count: 5060

The days following your unfortunate trip with Miguel were relatively quiet.

You were aware that the heat was coming to an end. Almost ten days had passed since your first encounter, and based on a regular cycle this should be it. This stage would burn itself out until the next one started, and it was a transition you were trying to make as smooth as possible.

You’d been avoiding the society was much as possible, and you knew Mig was avoiding the topic. After all, you couldn’t stay away forever. How would you juggle being a spider again when you were now in a new relationship? What if the elites found out what you’d been doing? What if there was backlash? How would Mig cope being alone again?

You noticed Mig had been struggling to smile since the incident in the woods, and you were determined now to do something for him. You were determined to make him happy.

So what luck, then, that he woke you up that morning.

‘Mi tesoro?’

You blinked and stirred in your sleep, your eyelids fluttering.

You were curled up on Mig’s bed in a pile of silk sheets to keep you warm, your head resting atop a mound of pillows that he’d knitted and you’d stuffed. You could hear faint birdsong drifting in from the nests open entrance, meaning it must at least be dawn.

You grumbled, wiping your eyes before opening them fully.

Mig’s face filled your vision. His nose was brushing the tip of yours, and his massive spider body was curled across your own. You gave him a sleepy smile. ‘Why good morning, pretty boy. What brings you here?’

As you did a light stretch you noticed Mig shuffling awkwardly. He opened his mouth but closed it again, as if struggling to speak. You immediately knew what was up.

‘You’re horny?’ you murmured.

Miguel had the sense to look sheepish at waking you up for such a thing. Little did he know you could smell him now, as his own arousal seemed to permeate the musk from his body in a way you’d become acutely accustomed to.

Plus, you could see the little slit on his abdomen throbbing as his erect cock strained to break free. You assumed he was holding it back with great physical strain.

‘Yes, I- wanted to let you sleep longer, but I am—’

‘Aching?’ you whispered. The softness of your voice made him quiver.

‘The rut, is— insatiable’ he grunted back. ‘But, it should cool down soon. I will be gentle, I promise.’

You pretended to ponder his proposal for a minute, even though you’d already made up your mind.

‘Mmm… alright. I suppose I can indulge you again.’ You were teasing a little, pretending to be annoyed while secretly being thrilled. It made your insides pulse to let him take you while you were sleepy, and you got your own personal arousal from his desperate horniness. You enjoyed him begging. ‘But, I’m gonna keep resting, okay?’

‘Ay, absolutely, mi arañita’ he breathed. That offer seemed to have excited him so much that he could no longer hold back, as his cock eagerly burst free and throbbed to erection in front of your eyes. You gave it a teasing stroke, your fingers brushing over each thick vein.

It was strangely smooth compared to the rest of his form, soft and warm in your hand, pulsing with excitement. You watched those white pearly beads of pre-cum form and drip down onto your hand as he watched you play with him.

‘Ah- I love when you’re, tired’ he whispered. You let him lazily pump his phallus into your hand, gently humping at your closed fist as your eyelids drooped shut. ‘I love when you’re all- relaxed, and soft, and warm. When you just lie there and take it, it—a-ah.’

He got so excited that he snapped a few silky strings on the nest floor with his scrabbling little spider claws.

‘Careful, careful’ you soothed. You put your free hand against his cheek while you continued to stroke him, drawing him closer. ‘Go on, relieve yourself, before you destroy our house.’

Miguel’s affectionate eyes melted your sleepy little heart. He kissed you, once, long and deep, before taking his chance. While you lay back and closed your eyes he lifted the sheets over his head, ensuring that you remained covered and warm.

You could only feel him as he moved. In the dark, with your body heavy and warm with sleep, you felt his muscular arms spread your legs apart. You felt the cut of his cheekbone as he kissed your thigh, the eager little vibrations of his abdomen, and finally the rush of breath on your clit.

You were already beading with slick, your sex pulsing with excitement, when he took his first lap at your tender folds. The sounds that left your mouth were messy but ecstatic, as he licked away every inch of your self-control.

Miguel lulled you in and out of sleep as he sucked on your clit. You were utterly subdued, your vision hazy, and all you could feel was the warm wet lapping of his tongue and lips. He nestled his strong nose into the little crook of your lips as he twisted his tongue, slathering you in attention.

He paused to whisper praise from time to time, but you couldn’t hear what he said. You were rocked by dreams that mirrored your waking experience, as flood after flood of warm pleasure tightened your gut.

In the end, you woke yourself up with your own orgasm.

‘F-FUCK, AH--!’

You jolted slightly and tensed, your legs involuntarily squeezing his head as that flood of pleasure pulsed up through your body. He clung to you, unable to tear himself away, his tongue ravenously tasting each shuddered gush of your climax.

When you collapsed he was quick to move upward, not wanting to take up too much of your time. He shuffled his body beneath the sheets and gently shifted you onto your front, with his human torso planking over your head while his spider half mounted your rear.

‘There we go, you just relax, little spider.’ His words were soft as he spread your legs. You tensed a little as you felt him angling at your slit, but you had been so thoroughly softened up by his mouth that his entrance was easy. He slipped the first inch in with an obscenely wet pop, and then inch by inch the rest followed, splitting you open and bulging you to breaking point. You sleepily whined as you were filled by his shaft.

‘F-Fuck, Mig…’

‘Así así, arañita’. Just relax and let me take care of you.’

You lay in decadence, your naked body smooth and warm on that downy silken mattress, as Miguel began to gently fuck you from behind.

‘Ah- a-ah—’

Each slow pump forced another sleepy moan from you.

You knew his promises to be quick were a lie. He meant it when he said it, but you knew him too well. He would get one sweet, pheromone filled taste of your pussy and he’d become smitten in an instant, savouring and rutting inside you until it hurt.

He did keep to his promise to be gentle though. The warmth of his body lulled you right back to the edge of sleep, as did the rocking motion of his cock slowly moving inside you.

Your eyelids began to droop once more, and once Miguel found his rhythm he moved one hand to your back. He began to rub out the sore muscles in your shoulders and spine, his huge and calloused hands acting surprisingly tender as they kneaded and squeezed you.

‘Shh, good arañita’’ he praised. ‘That’s it.’

‘Mm… fuck, that’s good’ you mumbled. It was the perfect distraction as his cock began to nudge deeper with each thrust, quickly expanding and stretching your sore cunt to its limits.

‘Que chula’ he purred, more to himself than to you. He was throbbing at the sight of your naked body, so small in his hands, and the little relaxed moans you kept giving were making it hard for him to be gentle.

‘I’m not hurting you am I?’ he panted.

‘N-No, no’ you mumbled sleepily. You were panting softly with each insertion, now so limp that each time you bulged with his cock your whole body jolted in the sheets. ‘No, no you’re- mm, ‘s so good—’

‘Okay, o-okay, good. Good arañita’.’

His hands were gentle as they slid around your spine. He cupped you like a mouse, something frail and small, his clawed hands kneading and stroking your flesh with feverish devotion. You sank into his touch.

But no matter how soft he was, it didn’t change what he was. His body still dwarfed you completely. Just one of his palms could cover a third of your back with ease, and his shaft as it slipped and probed inside you was still bulging your belly with its fat girth. You could feel his weight on your ribs.

The weight and power of his body should have terrified you, but to you it was pure joy. You didn’t mind being bent by this man, nor did you mind how powerless you were against him. You surrender yourself to his capable hands. You’d let this monster defile you to his hearts content.

‘Mm- I’m so, rough with you sometimes, you poor thing. I wish I could be this, gentle all the time.’

You shuddered as the rhythmic sound of his hips clapping your rear filled the nest. You could hear his grunting getting progressively louder, a symphonic mess of wet slurps and raw skin and breathy moans.

You decided, in that sleepy state, to indulge your desires a little further. ‘Mm- you’ll, have to be real gentle when you get me pregnant, right?’ you murmured.

Miguel abruptly groaned and pushed in as deep as he could, a deep groan vibrating through his chest at just the mere mention of breeding you. He pulsed against the slick walls of your cunt with such ferocity it scared you.

‘Ah—Yes, yes, of course. So, gentle. You’ll- look so good when I impregnate you’ he breathed. ‘So, so good. That tiny little body, so- full with my babies, that I made in you, that you’re making for me—’

‘All yours’ you whined back.

He started to hump a little faster, his breath hit your neck as he tilted his head down. He was angling for another nice little view of his cock, eager to watch it sliding in and out of your tense hole.

‘I can—smell, how fertile you are’ he whispered. ‘Can you smell how potent I am, arañita? Can you smell me?’

Your back arched as he rustled his abdomen, letting you scent the faint hormones you could pick up as a semi-spider. He was right. It was impossible to describe, but you could smell his virility. He smelled so hot, so alive, so potent.

‘You better not miss a single one of those patches’ he purred, his voice so thick it dripped. You felt venom pooling onto your spine from his flexed jaw. ‘I’ll have you so full you won’t be able to walk. Mm—so, full—’

He started to rut harder, his body moving manically against your back. The breeding talk had tipped him over the edge almost immediately. He bent your limp back as he fucked it into the mattress.

‘So- full, fuck—let me cum in you—’

You moaned sleepily as he climaxed. He rooted himself to the spot with his painfully extended claws and felt every single pulse, every single ejaculation, as those white strings painted your insides with his genetic code.

‘MM- Mm- that’s it, oh- sweet little arañita, you take it all, good good arañita, you’ll look so perfect when you’re pregnant—’

Your eyes rolled as you felt each throb pulsating against those thick, squishy walls. You felt it moving and did a little shiver at how perversely enjoyable it was. It was so warm, so heavy, it was almost soothing when you were this sore. You were filled to the brim until it overspilled, leaking and pooling to the floor, and only then was Miguel content.

He pulled out hard and quickly plugged you back up with webs, though not before using his claws to push a little of the excess back inside you.

He knew he wasn’t likely going to breed you at this point, but the idea was pleasurable enough that he kept all his routines going. With a soft moan he lay down against your back. ‘Ah- f-fuck… Thank you, thank you—’

You gave a sleepy chuckle as he began nestling against your neck.‘Good boy’ you whispered. ‘Good boy, my good boy.’ You savoured the little shudder he gave at those words.

‘Arañita’ he moaned. He nestled deep into your hair just once, taking a deep breath of your scent, before finally releasing you and collapsing into the sheets himself.

‘Are you okay? Was I too rough?’ he whispered. You shook your head and yawned.

‘No, no. You’re okay. If it was too rough I’d tell you.’

‘You promise?’ he whined. His abrupt shifts from primal and horny to soft and insecure were something you were fairly used to at this point. ‘I worry that- you would be too kind to say anything.’

‘Oh Mig.’ You reached out and gently brushed his thick hair aside. He closed his eyes the moment he felt your fingers. The poor man was clearly so touch-starved, even post-sex.

‘Hey, hey. Come here’ you murmured gently. With each soothing tut you shuffled closer, and with your fingers in his hair you began gently scratching at his scalp. His eyes remained closed, but you could feel his abdomen beginning to rustle, a sign that he was contented at last.

‘You’re okay. You didn’t hurt me.’ You whispered the words against his nose as you scratched. Finally he opened his eyes, and the red hue filled your gaze.

‘Thank you’ he whispered. ‘Mil gracias, arañita.’

You beamed at him. God he was so beautiful. That sweet, rugged face in your hands, so rough but so vulnerable. You wished you could heap praise on him all day.

‘There. Isn’t that—’

You both jumped as a low, monotonous beep began to fill the nest. It was an uncannily technological noise compared to the quiet, rustic sounds you were used to at this point. In a panic you rolled over the bed and began scrabbling through the sheets.

‘Ah- shit, shit, shit—’

‘What is it?’ Miguel asked. He was bristling, his body ready for a fight, but you bade him to get down.

‘DOWN! DOWN, ITS—’ Midway through speaking you stumbled upon the cause of the noise: your society watch, its screen now bright and alive with a single name. ‘JESS.’

Before you could even discern if there was a way to avoid the call her face appeared, a soft rendering of orange light and knotted brows.

‘Newbie I swear to god—’

‘JESS HI! I’m- so sorry, I’m still sick, I—’

‘Did you not tell me that you would keep in touch?!’

‘YES, and I didn’t! And I’m sorry! I assumed I wasn’t needed, haha, you know? And I—’

‘I have been trying to call you!’

As Jess continued to rant you struggled to keep your body hidden. You were still naked after all, still warm and slightly sweaty post coitus, and worse than that you clearly weren’t in your home. You were in a giant nest, huddled in silk, with your enormous half-spider partner sitting at your back. You hurried to end the call as fast as you could.

‘I’m sorry! I’m feeling better now, so I will be back soon, I will catch up on work—’

‘We don’t do catch up newbie we’re spider-people—’

‘Okay! I’ll- do whatever you need me to do—’

‘Look, I really need to talk to you! Miguel said you might—’

Right as Jess was getting to the point you realized Mig was curiously edging closer, and soon his face would be clear to Jess on the other end. You panicked.

‘AH- I will deal with that when I get back! Whatever it is I can explain! I’m sorry, I’m- about to throw up now, bye!’ You slammed the watch down with your hand, crushing Jess’s hologram into nothing. Without thinking you chucked the watch across the nest.

Immediately your head fell into your hands. ‘Oh… fuccckkkk.’

‘Are you okay, mi tesoro?’ Mig asked, finally sideling to check on you. You dropped your hands and sighed.

‘Ah- I keep forgetting, obviously with- I’m gonna have to go back soon. As soon as the heat isn’t killing me, which… Well that could be as soon as tomorrow. It’s already starting to fade.’

You saw Miguel cough to cover up the way he reacted to your words. It wasn’t enough; you knew already that he was as upset as you were.

‘You’ll be, going back?’ Mig asked, his voice strained. You nodded.

‘I’ll have to. But, only when I’m needed. Otherwise, I promise, I will be here visiting you.’

Silence fell. While Mig gave a reassuring nod you could see him worrying internally, most likely about whether they’d find out about your relationship. You, internally, were worried about much the same thing, especially after what Jess had said. What did Miguel want?

You had no idea, but you didn’t want to spend your potential last day before returning feeling stressed and alone. At least, you didn’t want to leave Mig stressed and alone.

‘But… For tonight, at least, I’m here’ you said, finally breaking the silence. You jumped to your feet and immediately clung to his fur for support, as your legs were still shaky post-orgasm.

‘So uh- hey, we have some more projects downstairs to finish, right? Why don’t we finish them up today, and start that bonfire you suggested, to clear all the old wood. Just us two. It’ll be nice.’

Mig looked unsure at first, but the idea of continuing to build for your shared nest did bring him great joy. He didn’t smile but he did plant a small kiss on your forehead.

‘Of course, arañita. I’d like that.’

…

As agreed, you spent the rest of the day with Mig.

You didn’t want to think about the society, not right now. If you could just savour this peace for a little longer, if you could just savour him, perhaps it’d all be okay.

You helped him carve out a few new window shutters, this time with latches to keep out the cold, and a stool for you to sit on when you weren’t in bed. It was slow work but you enjoyed just spending time in his presence again. His little comments and observations, his confusion at your quips that you then had to explain, it was the same peace you’d come to know since meeting him.

The sun rose and set over your heads in the quiet glade. You could tell the heat was dying out as you only paused to fuck once more before evening set in, compared to the four or five times you usually had to copulate in a day, not that it was any less intense when it happened.

Once it got dark Miguel crept back into the nest to sort out food, and you sat alone by the finished furniture and watched your breath turn to smoke in the air. You felt a chill on your arms as the sky turned from red to navy blue. Out here there was no sound but the cawing of crows and the wind in the trees.

You glanced at the empty fire pit and the loose wood at your side. Miguel said he would set up the fire, but, you did want to be helpful, no?

By the time Miguel had re-appeared from the nest, his arms full of snacks, the bonfire was up and raging in the middle of the glade. He immediately balked at the sight.

‘What- mi tesoro! Is this safe?’

You glanced up and waved him down as he cantered over. ‘Mhm! I did the uh- rock trick, you taught me, I positioned the smoke away, we have water—’

You squeaked as his arms snuck around your waist from behind, effortlessly lifting you a foot or so away from the burgeoning fire. You spun in his grip to find his face, and you found it surprisingly spooked.

‘Yes, but- I meant for you!’ he insisted.

‘Hey, hey. I’m fine! I’m fine!’

‘I don’t want you hurting yourself’ he whined. He did allow you to return to the floor when you started squirming, but his clawed hands remained hesitantly hovering over your shoulders and waist.

‘I’m fine! I set it by myself though, see?’

Miguel darted his eyes between your face and the fire. He couldn’t see any signs of damage, and the fire was safely set up over a patch of dirt and away from the trees. He let out a hesitant sigh of relief.

‘Ah… well, yes, arañita, you did a good job. I’m glad. Just- don’t give me a heart attack like that, please, I beg you.’

Despite your insistence you were fine, you allowed Miguel to take over from there. He tended the fire and you ate together in a comfortable silence, listening to the fire crackle and flicker as the moon crept over the distant forest line.

You ate your fill and then crawled into each other’s arms, keen to keep each other warm as the stars grew brighter. You tucked your head into the fluff of his hide and breathed in the quiet night together.

‘I should bring a few things out here. You know, technological comforts, even just a couple’ you noted idly. ‘Like um- music, something to play music. That’d be nice, right? Especially here.’

‘Mm. I could- play for you, if you wanted music’ Mig offered shyly. You glanced up at him with curious eyes.

‘Play for me?’

Mig nodded, and without waiting he began to spin more silk. However, this silk came out different to his usual creations. He revealed a few thin lines of string that he cut and held between his fingers, looping them carefully around his claws until they were taut and strong. You watched as he began to pluck them.

With his claws each one reverberated on impact, releasing a sweet and high-pitched ring. Your eyes widened as he began to play them string by string, creating a harp-like melody that filled the clearing.

‘Oh… is, that—’

‘A spider thing?’ he said softly, his eyes never leaving the silk. ‘Yes, well- sort of. Spiders play strings to alert potential mates and, potentially woo them, but- it isn’t usually as, melodious. I suppose my human ears are just a little more attuned.’

‘Very attuned’ you said, letting out a low whistle. He was incredibly skilled. ‘So, this is like a mating thing?’

‘Ah, it- can be. It also gave me something to do, to- waste my time before I met you. It helped relieve the stress a little when I was rutting, well… alone.’

Once again, Miguel’s bitter past snuck up on you out of nowhere. Your stomach knotted. Of course he was skilled, he’d been alone out here for so long, he’d have to occupy his time with something. You pictured him sat in the clearing alone, stuck in a rut, playing that quiet string music into the empty void while imagining that someone might somehow answer.

You watched him play for a little longer as that melancholic image sat in your head, when you suddenly remembered something you’d previously meant to bring up.

‘Hey, um- one thing I do remember learning about spiders, is, that they dance, right?’ you asked. Miguel nodded and shrugged at the same time, seemingly indecisive.

‘Ah- mating dances, yes. We perform rhythmic movements to both calm the potential mate and show off our eligibility. I’ve never done that before though, obviously, I—AH! Ah, arañita’?’

Miguel jumped as you suddenly leapt to your feet, practically clawing your way across the dirt to get up. You stood before him, arms outstretched, and bade him with your hands to continue playing.

‘Well, while I’m here, I shall indulge my inner spider then.’

You spun in a circle and began to move, shifting around the edge of the fire as Miguel played on.

‘Ah, mi tesoro, it- usually the males are supposed to dance for their mates’ he said, his voice cracking as he shyly laughed. ‘Not the other way around, though- you look, extremely adorable, I must say.’

You grinned. Your feet were already moving in a clumsy but sincere expression of joy, like a child at a disco when their favourite song comes on.

‘Well then, come on up! You’ve got the chance to try it now!’

Mig paused mid-string, his hands hovering in place. You tilted your head and smiled, and he tilted his in confusion.

‘Ah… me, dance?’

‘Yes! You, dance!’ you cried.

‘Me, dance?’ he repeated.

‘Yes! Yes! You! Dance! Now!’

You rushed over and gently grabbed his hands, urging him upward. ‘You were going to say, you never got to dance because you never had a mate to dance for. Well, now you do! If you want to try it, then I want to see.’

You pulled him to his feet and took the thin spool of silky thread, wrapping it tight between your fingers so that his hands were free. It took you a couple of pings to get the melody but soon you were awkwardly strumming along, missing one or two notes but still getting the general idea across.

Mig immediately looked concerned. There was a sudden pressure to perform it right, as this was a mating ritual of sorts, and his instinctual fear of rejection was holding him back.

However, as he watched you struggle to strum and swing your hips in a circle, he felt those anxieties fade. He couldn’t escape the gnawing in his gut, but he could put it aside just enough to try.

He stepped forward and began to move his legs.

At first, he seemed stilted. He was trying to move his eight legs the same way you did, something that clearly didn’t come naturally to him, but the longer you smiled and the more you encouraged, he seemed to gradually find his place.

He began to settle into something more rhythmic, more suited to his body. He raised his second pair of legs and began tapping at the floor with the others, stepping back and forth as you moved with him.

‘Hey! There you go, that’s it’ you cheered.

Bit by bit his expression changed. It was as if the muted coldness in his face was melting, revealing those soft little smile lines you rarely got to see. The corners of his mouth turned up and his fangs flashed in the fiery light, his eyes slowly softening from narrowed to wide.

As the fire licked around your bodies, you laughed. The sound echoed through the trees as you grew breathless and frail, forcing your legs to move even when exhaustion kicked in.

‘Beautiful, beautiful!’ you gleefully praised. Over the dancing fire Miguel caught your eye. You looked at him, at his strange little spider dance, and showed nothing but admiration. You plucked the strings in time with his steps.

‘Beautiful’ you repeated, ‘you beautiful thing.’

And there it was.

Miguel’s face broke into an honest grin. His lips extended, breaking his face into new and unexpected lines, his cheeks flushed with a shy but exuberant joy.

He opened his mouth, and he laughed.

It was no longer the awkward choking grunt he usually made when chuckling. Now it was an honest full-bodied laugh, one that shook his shoulders and made his lungs and stomach muscles ache. As he followed your steps around the fire he laughed until tears prickled the corners of his eyes.

And you laughed right back.

You continued in a circle at the fires side. He was instinctually performing a mating dance as you stood in the centre, his legs rearing up and down as he drummed at the floor. He watched the orange light flicker over every contour of your body, bathing you from head to toe, and felt the most unbearable pull.

‘Mi tesoro—’ he panted, ‘dance with me! Come!’

You giggled and tried to move in the same way he did, but with only two legs you quickly lost all rhythm. You kept up with him for as long as you could, until sweat covered your brow and your legs turned to jelly.

‘I don’t think- I have enough legs to keep up’ you panted. As he noticed you getting tired, Miguel got an idea.

‘Ay, I can fix that, arañita’.’

With a low chuckle he swooped in and scooped you up, holding your body bridal style as he continued moving around the fire. You clung to him and squealed as he spun you around.

‘AH- MIG!’

‘I’ve got you, mi arañita, don’t you worry!’

He danced in a circle as his paws tapped at the earth, and as your mind adjusted you returned to gently pinging the silk. The light thudding and ethereal strings conjoined into a strange and otherworldly orchestra, one that played you both well into the night.

Miguel moved until exhaustion overtook him, and when he collapsed to the floor you went down in his arms. You stayed in his grip and laughed until it hurt. In a messy ball of limbs and fluff, with his arms around your shoulders and your head in his chest, you laughed until the tears in your eyes made the night sky blurry.

That sound echoed for miles in the empty forest. It must have been eerie to anyone in earshot, to hear the low reverberations of manic laughter in the dark of night, in a place uninhabitable by man.

But here, in this circle, it was joy. In this private little clearing, with the stars in the sky and the fire burning, it was pure and simple. Whether you knew it or not, it was love. Link to next part!

#miguel o'hara #miguel o'hara x reader #miguel o'hara x you #miguel x reader #drider #miguel o'hara fanfiction #smut #smut with plot #spider man 2099 #monster human relationship #arachnophilia #miguel fluff #miguel o'hara smut

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my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction · 4 months

Text

The Lake

Steven Grant x GN!Reader • Rating: Masterlist• ao3• want to be tagged? | request info • MK Bingo 2024 Masterlist •

Summary: You and Steven go for a walk on a cold January day.

🌛For @moonknight-events MK Bingo Spring 2024 Event🌜

A/N: Trying to get back into the swing of acutally finishing things and posting them. Already my brain is like a) this is too difficult and b) write a part 2.

Warnings: just self indulgent fluff really, COLD, reader is wearing a beanie, references to having sex outside

Word Count: 726

“It’s fucking freezing.” Steven laughed as you neared the lake.

The whole landscape was grey, brown, and golden okra yellow, vegetation bleached clean by the dull winter and sharp frost.

There were some geese, or at least birds of some sort, in the far distance. Seemingly the only other living things for miles.

“This was your idea.” You giggle as Steven grabs hold of your arm and squeezes affectionately as he nuzzles into your freezing cheek.

“It was, wasn’t it?” He grins and kisses your temple. “Why do you let me do these things love?”

“What, have ideas?”

“Hmm.” He chuckles and jogs on the spot for a second, his breath coming out white and misty. “I didn’t think it would be this cold.”

You laugh again. “You should have worn more layers.”

He nods. Steven’s suggestion of a nice, crisp winter walk had been a good idea when you were both snuggled up indoors with the heated blanket on.

“You should have worn a hat.” His ears are painfully red, the tips a stark contrast against his dark curls. You touch his cheek with your right hand, which is currently sporting a fingerless glove over a glove, under a mitten. Your fingers were still bordering on numb.

“I’m alright love.” He smiles, his eyes bright.

“Nah, I’m not letting you get frostbite.” You pull off your beanie and shove it on his head a little unceremoniously before he can react. You yank your hood up and pull at the drawstring quickly to try to stop any more cold air than necessary from sinking in.

“Nooo,” he pouts a little, purposely being overly dramatic to amuse you, “now you’ll get cold.”

“I have a hood.” You gesture to your head as if he couldn’t see the aforementioned clothing right before his eyes.

“Yes, but you’ll still get cold.”

“That means you were cold.”

“No.” He drags out the word, trying to sound sincere but it’s clear he’s lying.

“You’re so silly Steven,” you smile and link your arm with his as you both carry on walking.

“Am not.” He says playfully.

“Are too.”

“You’re silly.”

“No, you.”

“You.”

“You.” You poke him softly in the side, barely a touch. But he still reacts like you’ve electrocuted him, giggling helplessly. You grin and wait for him to calm down a little before you continue. “Besides, I can’t bite your ears if they’re frozen and fall off.”

You know that if you had said that to Marc, he would have just given you a not-so-impressed look (his speciality), and Jake would have probably tried to playfully nip at your ears then and there to prove a point, but Steven just looked thoughtful for a moment. As if he was really considering what you had said.

“Hmmm, you think they could actually fall off in this weather?”

You laugh again, “that’s what you gained from this conversation?”

He grinned happily at you. “Alright, I’ll keep your hat on, but you gotta tell me if you get too cold, okay love?”

You nod.

“Promise?”

“I promise.”

“Good.” Steven took hold of your hand in his and squeezed rhythmically.

You both walked a little further down the frosty path, the earth solid and unforgiving under the soles of your boots, and came to a stop at the lake viewing point.

Steven wrapped his arms around you as you both took in the view and natural stillness, as if the cold had frozen time itself.

“It’s really pretty.”

“It is…” Steven kissed your cheek, the tip of his nose was somehow even colder than your skin. “I’m still freezing my bollocks off though.”

You snorted, breaking into a laugh at the sudden-ness, and blatantly painful honesty. “Come on,” you tug at his hand, headed back the way you came. “Let's get you indoors, I feel like a bollock falling off might be more of an issue than one of your ears.”

Steven giggled and followed, barely taking a few steps before he spoke again. “It's kinda a shame though.”

“Hmm?”

“I mean... if it was a bit warmer…”

You give him a slightly confused glance.

“Out here, all alone, in nature…” He raised his eyebrows slightly and waggled them at you.

“You’d definitely lose appendages to frostbite.”

“Maybe it’s worth the risk.”

You give him a playful shove as you both laugh.

____________________________________

Thank you for reading!

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itoshiexx · 4 months

Text

the garden of your heart

you are now reading... LENA'S 1K MILESTONE EVENT FIC!

↳ isagi yoichi + nepenthe (n.) - something that can make you forget grief or suffering

synopsis: when the weight of loss threatens to crush your bones, isagi yoichi becomes the solace you need.

notes: hi guys. i wasn't planning on posting this so soon, but then again, i wasn't planning on my dog dying and experiencing grief first hand either, so this flowed out of me as a form of comfort. thank you for requesting @popponn, love you dear <3

event masterlist

grief came in a wavelength of darkness; one that covered every seam and corner of your skin until it swallowed you whole. grief carved its way deep into your heart, leaving behind a hole that burned every time your chest expanded to try to breathe. grief had an iron grip on the base of your throat, choking down the words of disbelief and the acute sorrow of your cries that insisted on keep coming out, despite the irritation on the skin of your eyes.

grief, you thought, was kind of like facing death one on one, shivering upon its wicked smile, watching helplessly as it takes away something you cherish and treasure with all your heart.

“baby, have you eaten yet?”

you can barely register the words coming out of yoichi’s mouth, too engrossed in staring at the white ceiling and reliving the last 24 hours on an endless, torturous loop. you try to blink away the images of your loved one dead, but they keep coming and opening the dam that releases your infinite tears. you’ve lost count on how many of them you have already shed.

(it seems like it could fill the pacific ocean).

“baby?” he tries again, gently poking your body. with great strength, you manage to look at him.

grief took away the sparkle of life in your orbs, almost as if you were the one who passed — because, in reality, a part of you did die with them. grief made you feel incomplete, sensing an emptiness that was never there before, but that would perpetually be from then on.

yoichi smiles, and it feels like a beam of light on your little dark bubble.

“there you are. my pretty baby.” he runs his fingers through your hair, trying to soothe the fresh wounds of your soul, even for just a moment. “what would you like to eat? i’ll cook for you.”

you feel the tears once again prickle your lash line, but you fight the quiver of your lips and the cement block lodged in your throat. “i’m… ’m not hungry.”

grief made you lose your appetite. it made you lose a lot of things.

(ironic, considering it all began from loss itself).

your boyfriend frowns, “you know you need to eat, honey. at least a little bit.”

guilt starts gathering in your guts. you don’t want to worry your boyfriend — your sweet, kind boyfriend who is always by your side — because what if you lose him too? what would you do with another hole in your life, in your heart? how could you bear the weight of another loss without letting grief take over you completely?

“hey, hey… don’t cry, pretty. i’m sorry,” yoichi is quick to say, turning until he’s face to face with you. he sits on the edge of the couch and brings your face to his warm chest, drawing circular motions on your back to try and calm you down.

you didn’t even realize when you started crying again, but you let it flow. although everything in the world seems fragile and scary, you know you can always count on isagi to be your safe space.

because your lover’s heart is like a garden — a place where the birds chirp and the flowers continuously bloom, even when they are faced with drought. a spot where the breeze gently blows your hair and kisses your wounds, no matter how deep they are. a space where you can rest and recharge, allowing yourself to be vulnerable.

(you don’t have to be strong all the time).

yoichi’s heart is the one slot of the whole universe where you know you can find peace from your worst nightmares.

“what do you want me to do, pretty? how can i help you feel better?” he asks, voice slightly shaken with concern. it makes your heart swell, and maybe, just maybe, you think you can be alright.

“just hold me,” you murmur.

because it’s love that fills the holes and makes you forget grief. even if it’s just for a little while.

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gothfeedergf · 7 months

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Kinktober day 13: Tentacles

You slowly regain consciousness, feeling disoriented and alarmed. As your vision clears, you become acutely aware of the sensation of something coiled around your arms and legs, holding you firmly in place. The eerie dimness around you reveals that you're in some kind of shadowy chamber. The tentacle-like things glisten in the subdued light, their movements somewhat rhythmic as they gently squeeze and caress your limbs. You struggle against their grip, but they hold you fast.

They continued their unsettling but surprisingly gentle manipulation, rearranging you in a sitting position. As you sat, you couldn't help but feel how smooth and slippery their surfaces felt against your skin.

Your breath quickens as the tentacles venture between your legs, slithering upwards to reach your chest. You gasp as one of the tentacles forcefully pushes itself past your lips, it's slick surface filling your mouth. Your lips wrap around it instinctively, its pulsing rhythm now even more prominent.

A cold, creamy liquid oozed into your mouth, and it kept coming, relentlessly filling you up as you’re forced to swallow every ounce.

At first, you try to resist, but the tentacles hold you in place, their grip tightening whenever you moved. It continues pumping you full of the liquid, and with each surge, your belly swells further. You can feel the pressure building inside you as you're forced to accommodate more of the sweet, creamy substance.

With a sudden burst, your pants give away, the seams tearing apart, and you look down to find yourself significantly fatter. Your abdomen is now buried beneath layers of soft, jiggling flesh, and you could feel the weight of your plump belly resting on your lap.

The tentacles grew bolder, their relentless groping and squeezing intensifying the heat that coursed through you

At some point, the initial discomfort transformed into a greedy desire, and you begin to suck down on the thick tentacle, savoring every drop of the ice cream-like fluid. Your moans mix with the slurping sounds as you eagerly consume the tentacle's offering.

The combined sensation of your burgeoning hips and thighs, along with your ballooning belly, left you in a state of near-constant arousal.

The transformation wasn't limited to your physique; your thoughts and desires began to shift as well. You feel an insatiable hunger, your inhibitions dissolved, replaces by an overwhelming urge to constantly be pumped full of the mysterious liquid.

#feedist kinktober #ik it's not day 13 anymore im kinda late sorry :(

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inazuman · 2 years

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i gave you that necklace because i love you!!!

Content and warnings: hawks x f!reader smut, reader is fembodied, goes by she/her, and is referred to as a woman. yandere hawks, possible dark content. he mind controls you and gets off on it. dom!hawks, sub!reader, teasing. toys, possible semi-public sex (you fuck in his glass office but no one is around), oral (f receiving), creampie, some plot but not really. pet names: hawks calls you dove. Words: 3475 A/N: this was initially part of my kinktober 2022 but it was late!!

Hawks cannot believe how well his plan went.

After nights of flying to the roof across your apartment, days of dropping his feather in your bag so he could track you, a friend from hero support gave him something special. He gave you, his trusting little secretary, a necklace as a gift, and asked that you never take it off. Though a little confused, you thanked him and complied with no complaint.

He was shocked, filled with the glee that comes from events being followed through perfectly. Because at the back was a clasp the shape of a circle, which connects itself to the bottom of your skull, to the brain stem.

After three days, Keigo sent just one piece of information to your brain. Like good mind control equipment, the thought isn’t loud in your head, but like a suggestion, a subtle change to you and your environment. First, was the sudden growing warmth of your body, which quickly subsided after a few minutes.

After another two days, it was the sensitivity of your breasts. You could feel the material of your bra brushing against your nipples more acutely than usual. A little forward of him, but to your naivety, you shook it off.

After another day, already addicted to your reactions and knowing it’s him that causes it, he causes you to feel slick in the middle of the day. Keigo watches through his glass wall at the way your eyes widen, your thighs pressing together. You grip the table for a moment and take deep breaths, then quickly resume back to your work.

Since then, he activates the device for a few minutes every few hours of your day. It gets more frequent, more intense. You excuse yourself to the bathroom more often to clean yourself up, sometimes touch yourself. You can barely wait to go home, to finally be in the comfort of your bed so that you can take the vibrator out of your drawer. You wake up in the middle of the night, heart beating fast and thighs shut tight.

It’s Keigo who sits in his own home, touching himself and forcing you to feel that arousal, almost as punishment for making him think about you. He imagines your tight skirt, undoing the buttons of your shirt… He fists his cock at 2AM in the morning and thinks, “she should feel it too”.

Finally, he can’t take it. He sits at his desk again in the morning, playing with the device and thinking to himself, “How far can this thing go?”. He plants the suggestion for you to work late tonight, despite how aroused you are. That you suddenly feel you must take care of the work that’s piled up from you leaving early the last few weeks.

He watches you, from his floor-to-ceiling glass walls. Watches as every staff member leaves and bids you goodbye. Watches as your thighs clench and you bite your lip, trying to focus on the screen. You even go to unbutton the top button of your shirt, to relieve yourself from the heat your body is making.

As the lights get darker in the office, leaving just his and yours, he inputs one last suggestion: Ask Hawks for help.

It enters your mind, and he knows immediately what you’re ‘thinking’. For help from him on the situation. The situation that has you having less and less good orgasms. That can’t just be satisfied by your vibrator.

He pretends that he doesn’t see it in the corner of his eye, the way your legs are wobbling as you stand, the way you brace yourself for every possible response he could have, your deep breaths before you open the door.

“H-,” you clear your throat, “Hawks-san-”

“Please, I’ve said before, call me Keigo.” His smile is bright, easy-going. It makes it easier for you to say what you want to say, but doesn’t make it any less nerve-wracking.

“I- um. I know that you’ve told me… to come to you. If I, ah, if I need anything at all? Even if it’s strange?”

He lets you finish your sentence, relishes in the way you struggle to speak, your face flushed with arousal, your embarrassment.

“Of course. I’m here for you, with whatever you need.”

“Well, um…,” you shift your weight either side of your feet. “I’m having… problems.”

“Oh, what sort of problems?” He can hardly contain his smile, resting his chin against his hand.

“It’s… I’m having trouble, ah, feeling good?”

“Feeling good? What do you mean?” His feigned innocence is artful, and for a moment, he considers whether he should’ve been an actor instead.

“Ah, please… Please feel free to say no! I don’t want to feel like I’m pressuring you, or you have to help me.”

He laughs. “I know my boundaries, dove. I won’t just abide by you.” His wink makes you shy.

“I-I’ve been very, a-aroused lately… I don’t know what came over me! It just happened, and I can’t make it go away… And I don’t know what to do.”

Your eyes on the ground make you fail to notice his dark smirk, his all-knowing gaze, and his mind running wild with what he wants to do to you.

“Of course I’ll help you, little dove.” Your head swishes up, eyes bright.

“Really? Thank you, Keigo-san!”

“Just Keigo is fine, darling.” He rolls his chair back, gesturing to you. “Come stand here.”

“H-Here? In the office?”

His head tilts. “Wouldn’t you like your help right now?”

“But… anyone could come in and see.”

“No one’s gonna come to the office at this time,” he chuckles, “who wants to work on a Friday at 10PM?”

You hesitate for a moment, but under the thick fog of your arousal, and the slick you can feel still dripping from your core, you step forward. Letting him eye you up and down, you fiddle your fingers in the silence.

“You’re real pretty. You know that, doll?” He leans back, and your eyes for a moment go to his thick thighs spread across the chair, big hands against his armrest.

Keigo brings his chair right up to you, your body is trapped between his legs, no running from him. He brings his hands to the outside of your legs, just under your skirt.

“You sure you want this?” He asks, and his cologne is intoxicating, his minty breath, you can feel the warmth of his skin against yours. You don’t know why it’s him, but your body aches for him, wants him, needs him.

“Yes, please Keigo, I want this. I want you.”

He smiles wide, lets his hands run up and down your legs. “Good girl.”

He slides your skirt down your body slowly. Your panties are only in view for a moment, before your shirt falls to hide it, but Keigo sees clearly the way it sticks to you, the dampened material making his mouth water. You step out of the skirt that’s pooled to the floor, kicking it to the side.

Your now-bare thighs are for his perusal, warm skin under his calloused hands. He moves his hands up and down, thumbs brushing against your inner thigh so teasingly that almost has you begging.

“Mm, little dove… how long have you been having this problem for? Hmm?” He presses his thumb on the junction of your inner thigh. “You’re soaked.”

He knows. Knows that he’s embarrassing you, that the way your hands play with your buttons and you can’t bare to look at him is because he got you here, wet and waiting for him.

“I-,” you don’t have the words to explain what came over you when you don’t even know. Is it something to do with your period cycle? Just your body demanding things?

You stop thinking as he raises his hands to the top of your shirt, unbuttoning just enough so that only one button holds your sanity, and prevents you from possibly being seen half-naked by someone.

When your head turns back to check, he immediately brings it back forward forcibly. “Shh, dove. No one’s gonna see, yeah? I’ll make sure of it.” His hands bunch your shirt up higher, and he whistles low. “You wear this pretty lingerie for me?”

You gulp, his hands on your skin feel like heaven, his breath over your clothed cunt feels like you’re so close to relief and so far at the same time. “Keigo…” you breath, your hands still gripping the edge of the table tight. He decides to be nice, doesn’t make you say it, and instead presses a kiss against your clothed cunt. He dHe decides

You inhale sharply, you want to touch him, you want to touch him so bad, but he hasn’t said you can, and you don’t know why you know you shouldn’t? Hawks is smiling at the fact that you’re such a good girl for not, that you follow orders so easily. He likes you like this, all obedient, no matter how it happened. He rewards you for it, pulls your panties down and they land on the floor with a plop. He lifts you slightly so you’re sitting on the edge of the table, forces you to spread your legs with his hands.

“What a pretty pussy,” he chuckles low, watching your slick dripping from your pussy to the table and onto the floor. “You’re making a mess.”

“I’m sorry,” you whine, flustered.

He smirks, but doesn’t comment further, diving into your pussy, a loud, broken mouth eliciting from your mouth. And this is what he’s been waiting for, to have you pliant underneath him, begging for his touch and tongue.

You can’t even hold yourself up anymore, back falling slowly onto the expanse of the table, thighs shaking despite it having been only maybe a minute that he’s been between your legs. The pleasure of your wrung-out arousal borders on pain, your core throbbing against his tongue. And he can feel it, feel the way your clit pulses under nis tongue. You’re so wet that the slick he can’t swallow down drips down his chin, down to the floor.

“Keigo! Feels so good, so good,” and he knows, that any stimulation that isn’t from your own hands or toys must feel like heaven right now. That his strong tongue lapping your folds intensively is the product of his own greed for you. His plan worked perfectly. He revels it when your back arches at a swirl he does against your clit, the pants and gasps of your breath fogging up the glass walls.

You get to the edge much quicker than you expect, your thighs tensing, the band inside of you tightening. Your body is hot, hands begging for reprieve against Hawks’ table. All you can think is you should’ve asked him sooner, that you knew he was so willing to help you, so good at it, you would’ve been able to have this daysago. This growing arousal inside of you, your mind going blank as his stubble brushes against your inner thighs, his hair falling against you. Your senses are acute and you wanna cum so bad.

“I-Can I? Can I come? Please, please Keigo, I wanna come, I-,”

“Mm, of course, dove, I’m here to help.” his mouth moves over your cunt, tongue only stopping for the moments he’s speaking. The pressure on your sensitive bundle of nerves increases, he coaxes the orgasm out of you, like he knows exactly what you need.

And you cum, you come hard, the intensity wracks your brain and there’s nothing but his tongue against your cunt and the pressure inside of you releasing. Your whole body tenses, a series of sobs and whines coming out of your mouth at the satisfaction.

He watches you, carefully, wants to watch more, but he knows he needs to use this opportunity. When your eyes are still closed from the aftershocks of your orgasm, he quickly inputs another suggestion. That you’re desperate for his cock, that you want nothing but to be filled by him.

After another minute, your thighs relax and your eyes widen. You grab him in a way he doesn’t expect, pulling his pants towards you and feverishly unbuttoning them.

“Whoa, dove,” he presses his hands to your thighs, “we got time, just relax.”

“I-I need it, I need you so bad. Wan’ your cock in me now,” your babbles are plenty and he chuckles, letting you bring your hand inside his pants and watching as you freeze, hand wrapped around his clothed cock.

He’s big, you know it as you squeeze him, you nervously bring your hand against his pubic hair and into his underwear. It’s so big that even after all the prep and how wet you are, in the back of your mind, you’re a little worried about taking it. But you take it out anyways, bending down and bringing your mouth over it.

He moans, deep and dark, and to you, it’s the hottest sound in the world. His hands go to your hair, pressing your mouth down and pulling your haair back up, your tongue lathering over him has him thrusting into your mouth.

You only do so for a few minutes before he’s bringing you up to lie down on the table, spreading your legs around his wide figure.

“Thought you wanted my cock inside of you, dove?” His gold eyes take in your whole body under him, the rise and fall of your chest, your hair a mess behind your head.

“Yeah, K-Keigo, I want… want your cock,” your smile is delirious, and he takes the opportunity to make his visual better, unclasping your bra and pulling it down your chest.

“Keigo, please. ‘Want you now, please just fuck me.” The timid, soft secretary is gone. You no longer care about if people walk in, if anyone sees you. The only thing in your brain is his cock, to have him, to be fucked by him and filled by him.

He made you like this, the thought making him harder as he presses the head of his cock against your cunt, watching the way it opens up for him as he teases you. Your usually-anxious work-filled mind is blank because of the device around your neck, the one that keeps him in control without you knowing about it. And he’s grateful, especially as he slides into you and you moan wantonly under him, that the woman he’s been wanting for months is now wetter than he has ever seen in his life. The woman who he’s seen get flired with by other staff, that he’s watched tighten her thighs underneath her desk, is now begging him for his cock.

“Keigo, mm, so full,” you’re grabbing onto him, on his hands, his arms.

“Your pussy is so good, dove.” It’s thrilling, to hear your boss so vocal. “‘S so tight around me. Suckin’ me in.” His deep voice makes you slick up his cock even more, tightening up around him as he brings a thumb over your nipple.

“Best pussy I’ve ever had. Oh, that’s it. Sing for me as I fuck this cunt.” His cock enters you slowly, his hands over your breasts distracting you from the careful line of pleasure and pain that you balance on. It takes minutes for him to fully sheathe himself inside, the head of him pressing against your cervix makes you see stars. He moans deep, chestreverberating as his balls slap against your ass, fingers gripping your thighs tight.

“’m gonna fuck you like you’ve been begging for, dove. Gonna make sure you can’t live without this cock.” He mumbles it against your neck before he starts to slam into you, your screams echoing against the walls with the slap of skin and sweat.

“What a good fuckin’ cocksleeve, so fucking warm. I should make this cunt milk me every fuckin’ day. Would ya like that, dove?” His cock feels like it’s carving into your pussy, like he’s the last cock that you’ll ever take, like it’s made for him. You can barely respond with a “yes” and “please”, moaning wantonly, head hanging off the other side of the table before he pulls you back towards him. You’re helpless underneath him, your hands flail, grabbing on to both him and the table. Your slick spurts from the impact against your thighs.

“Oh! Keigo, Keigo, it’s so big, so good,” your mind and words jumble together, not sure what you’re thinking and what you’re saying or both. He responds to it, fingers spreading around either side of his cock to gather the wetness, before tapping on your clit. Your body reels towards him, the pleasure both too intense and not enough. The words coming out of your mouth just become a series of “ah-ah” and “please” and “Keigo!”. And listening to your voice just gets him harder, makes his hips smack against your thighs harder. The sick feeling of knowing he created this outcome for himself, that he’s fully in control makes sweat drip down his back.

You don’t know, but he’s waiting for it. Because he knows one of the first commands he’s ever implemented in your little, pliant mind. That your orgasms around his cock are the best you’ll ever have. That nothing will ever compare to it.

He cements his need in your life. Your pussy squeezes around him hard, puts him right on the edge too, but he holds on. Because he wants to feel you.

“Come around me, dove. I know you can do it.” His thumb runs circles around your clit, your slick making it easy and slippery. You feel the way your thighs tighten, your heartbeat rapid in your chest.

You squeeze him for all he’s worth, he moans in tandem with you, gripping you so hard to stop himself from cumming but you don’t seem to notice, head thrown back and in ecstasy, your mouth open in a silent scream. The orgasm wracks through you, from your core to the rest of your body, everything tensing. It’s never been like this before, not with your vibrator or anyone else. It’s like every nerve in your body explodes in pleasure.

It lasts minutes, you don’t move, you don’t even know if you breathe properly. He chuckles above you, slowly continuing to fuck you in and out, his fingers never leaving your clit. Your pussy is a vice around him, making him hiss as he rides out your pleasure, your body jolting under him.

When you come down, the first thing you notice is your hands gripping his arms so tight. Your body finally relaxes, taking deep breaths in. Only your heart rate in your ears slows down very little, which is when you realize he’s still going, fingertips tapping your clit. You try to scream, but it comes out small, a little noise that doesn’t compare to the slap of skin and the dirty noise of your cum moving with his cock. You try to tell him, you try so hard but it just comes out in babbles of nonsense, your arms trying to get his attention with the little energy you have.

The only response you get is him moving his hand from your clit to your thigh, pushing both legs back to either side of your ears. And you don’t know when you’ve been this flexible, but in the malleability of your body and mind, it’s somehow possible.

You didn’t know he was holding back, don’t realize how much he was focusing on your pleasure until he starts fucking you harder and faster than before. Your moans are uncontrollable, your mouth open for any sound. Your mind only knows the feeling of overstimulation, of his cock continuing to press into your raw cunt and cervix. You have no control under him, he presses your legs down until he slides once-twice- into you and then he comes, a beautiful moan coming out of him as he paints your walls white.

He slowly pushes in and out of you until he’s fully spent, aware of the sweat surrounding both of you. He almost collapses on the chair behind him, relaxing and basking in his afterglow.

“That was…” your tongue is dry in your mouth, “amazing.”

“Yeah, dove?” His response is surrounded by deep breaths, his hands going to your pussy and pressing them together and apart until he watches his pearly white cum drip slowly out of you.

“Ohh, fuck,” he almost gets hard again at the sight, but decides he doesn’t want to drain you too much. After all, he’s always got control of you now.

And even if he doesn’t? Well, he’ll find another way.

thank you for reading! masterlist

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