#man the combined guilt and relief of it
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— Pairing: Yuuta x Reader, established relationship
— General info: 18+, one-shot, smut
— Summary: When it comes to Yuuta, “just the tip” is the start of a dangerous game.
— Content warnings: nsfw, unprotected vaginal sex, virginity loss, implied religious guilt, mild god complex if you squint, coercion, slight breeding kink.
— Notes: Honestly, I wrote this just to see if I could still write decent smut (and Yuuta fits the trope perfectly ugh, I can't lie). Likes and reblogs are appreciated! Happy reading!
Links: Read on AO3 | Masterlist
It wasn't supposed to happen like this. You promised each other you would wait. But an innocent kiss on the cheek while watching TV led to a sloppy makeout session on the sofa, with your legs on either side of Yuuta's lap and your clothed cunt grinding needily onto his crotch as his fingers crept under your shirt and dug into your waist.
A whine escapes your lips when he involuntarily thrusts his hips upwards, meeting you halfway, desperate for further friction.
“My God, Yuu,” you moan into his mouth, as your combined drool trickles down your chin.
“‘M sorry,” he mumbles, yet makes no effort to hold back. Because little by little, with every movement of your hips, his erection has become downright painful. It's practically throbbing in the confines of his jeans, swollen and red, aching to be let out, begging for relief.
But he promised.
It's a mental game to come down to his senses and draw an end when things get too heated between you. God knows you haven't one ounce of willpower when you're spiraling down a lustful haze. But he'd rather be the stronger one than risk the loss of your virtue ending in remorse.
He loves you too much to force you to carry such an immense guilt. You vowed to wait until you were married and instead settled for a few steamy moments here and there — always sure you never made it too far.
You could hump and whine and he'd swallow every sweet sigh you pour into his mouth — as long as you never fully undressed and as long as he didn't ruin you by pushing himself between your legs. Then he'll wrap his arms around you, assuring you that whatever you did was still innocent, that you have no reason to feel guilty because you're both still pure.
The vicious cycle never ends.
You're incredibly precious to him — you're everything — but man, it really pisses him off sometimes that he has to be the one to protect a promise you were the first to suggest.
He brings a hand to collect your hair and nip at your neck, kissing it, tracing its slope with his tongue and sucking fervently at the supple skin. As if that's enough, as if it could compare to the glowing promise that being buried inside you represents. His cock twitches at the thought, the movement causing you to expel another string of holy affirmations.
His eyes land on the hand that grips at the fabric of his shirt as you whimper into his ear and the air thickens with the scent of spit, sweat, and desire.
The engagement ring on your finger has become a symbol of dread. So close to having you bound to him forever, and yet the time couldn't come fast enough.
His chest rises and falls dramatically with every shallow breath. It's all too much — the blood rushing south, the precum he can feel leaking from his tip and soiling his underwear, the line of sweat that transfers from your forehead to his as you squeeze your eyes shut and breathe against his mouth — it's all too good.
But it's not enough.
He's tired of it, and you're not making things easier with your pathetic whimpers and your feverish body clinging to him. He can feel your pussy clenching around nothing through the layers of clothing dividing you. If he didn't know any better, he might’ve thought you wore a skirt on purpose to further drive him mad. He might be a patient man —loving, understanding, doting— but he's still a man.
“Just the tip,” he groans.
Your hips slow down as you struggle to comprehend what he just said, earning him a chance to will the cum threatening to spurt inside his jeans back.
“What?” you ask, tilting your head as you observe his blown pupils and his eyebrows upturned in desperate pleading.
“Just the tip, please.”
Your lips part to draw a sharp breath as it dawns on you what he's asking for.
“But we promised,” you softly pronounce.
“It won't change anything if it's just the tip,” he promises. “It's barely anything. It'll be like the time you used your hand.”
He hopes your mind is too dizzy to comprehend that the two situations don't compare at all.
Uncertainty casts over your features, but he can see a hint of consideration gleaming in your eyes at the idea.
You'd be lying if you said you never considered loosening up on your convictions every now and then when you got so close to the act. But you didn't think you could handle disappointing Yuuta by breaking the promise you brought up in the first place. After all, he's so devoted to you and he promised to abide by your wishes no matter how long it took because the gratification when you finally joined in carnal pleasure would only make your commitment to each other all the more special.
“As long as I get to be with you, the rest doesn't matter,” was what he said.
But now that he's looking up at you with such helpless eyes, like you're some sort of god he prays to, your morals take a toll.
His blue eyes stare adoringly into yours.
“Please?” he asks again.
He presses a kiss to the corner of your mouth.
“Please,” he insists, tugging on your bottom lip with his teeth, biting down just hard enough to cause a whisper of pain before alleviating the feeling with his tongue.
“Please, please, please, it hurts,” he whines, tears lining his lashes and threatening to spill as he reaches between you to palm himself over his jeans. “I can't take it anymore. I'm begging you, I need you, I love you.”
How could you possibly say no when he asks so nicely?
You'd have to be made of stone to deny him the pleasure. You'd have to be a monster to not relieve him of his throbbing pain. You'd have to be the cruelest god to impose him with such inhumane punishment.
“Yuu,” you whisper, his pain reflecting on your face upon witnessing his desperation.
“Please,” he sniffles.
“Okay.”
The word falls over him like a fresh breeze.
“Really? You mean it?”
His lips curve into an eager smile, with butterflies fluttering in his stomach in anticipation.
You nod, happy to see his teary eyes light up.
“Just the tip.”
“Just the tip, I promise.”
He brushes away at his tears with the heel of his palm.
“You're an angel,” he murmurs as he cradles your face with one hand and starts guiding your hips over his erection again with the other.
Soon enough, you're back to panting into each other's mouths, feverish and dizzy at your new promise to fulfill.
Your hands fumble to undo his jeans, clumsily pulling down the zipper in fragments.
“Just the tip,” you huff, as he moans upon feeling your clammy hands palm him through his underwear.
You pull on his briefs just enough for his erection to spring free.
“Oh, god,” you exhale, in awe of the intense red that consumes the head of his cock. Precum oozes from the tip, balls heavy as if he's seconds away from bursting. It's no wonder he looked so pained.
“Just the tip,” he reminds you kindly as he pets your hair, heart rate spiking when he watches your thumb trace over his leaking tip.
He flips you over so that you're pressed onto the sofa while he hovers over you and hooks his fingers around your pink cotton panties, tugging them down your hips with ease and tossing them onto the floor, leaving you in your skirt.
The sight of your bare cunt — already a sopping wet mess from everything that now counts as foreplay — makes his cock twitch.
With his weight balanced on one forearm, he carefully drags himself between your folds, the most sinful sound reaching your ears as he coats his length in your juices. His free hand cradles your face as he bends down to capture your mouth in a heated kiss. His tongue pushes against yours, swallowing each of your moans as your hands lose themselves in his raven hair.
With fingers trembling in excitement, he lets you go and starts lining himself to penetrate your insides.
“Yuu,” you gasp.
He watches in fascination as his reddened tip squeezes in and slowly disappears inside you, your cunt glistening with enough arousal that you barely feel any pain in the sudden stretch. In fact, Yuuta swears he can feel you suck him in the tiniest bit further as you flutter around the foreign member in your body. He can feel himself grow weaker as he's hit with the warmth and wetness of your insides.
“Fuck,” he hisses, face dropping into the crook of your neck.
The overwhelming ecstasy of knowing he's connected to you burns at every inch of his skin as he scrambles to gather enough strength to pull out and push his tip back in again.
You writhe under him, hands frantically pulling him in for a kiss. He complies. After all, you've gifted him with this — not that he wouldn't give in to your wishes otherwise.
His brows furrow in concentration, eyes squeezed shut with the image of his tip swallowed by your insides flashing behind his eyelids. He pumps his head inside you — in and out, in and out — mesmerized by how good it feels even if it's barely a taste.
It alleviates him… just a little.
He grips your hips with bruising force, rolling his hips further into you all at once, leaving a mildly burning sensation in its wake.
A whine escapes your lips and your eyes close as you feel a tickle of his pubic hair brushing against your lower tummy. Your arms hook under his, bringing him close, scratching his back over his shirt.
An animalistic power washes over him, pushing him to penetrate the deepest part of you, over and over again. His hand squeezes your face, demanding your attention and forcing you to meet his crazed gaze. His pupils are blown with lust, the gentle blue of his irises nearly gone. With the help of his thumb, he pries your mouth open, aggressively pushing his tongue against yours, relishing in the muffled cries of pleasure you release.
The kiss is so needy, so aggressive, it's borderline painful and your jaw hurts from the tight grip of his hand. But it's still so fucking good.
When he pulls back, your eyes are lined with tears, much like his when he was begging to let you use just his tip minutes ago.
The sound of slapping skin echoes around you. Sloppy, wet, sinful.
“Yuuta, this doesn’t feel like just the tip,” you heave, feeling an unfamiliar knot tangling in your lower stomach.
“It is, baby. I swear.”
You both know he's lying but you're too caught up in each other to care.
Your legs wrap around him, barely granting him enough space to move, but he doesn't care. This is better, this is what he needs to relieve the mild guilt that stems from lying to you, because this means you're just as thrilled by him ruining you as he is. And if you're so unwilling to ease your hold on him, he might as well kill two birds with one stone tonight and fill you to the brim with his cum.
The possibility of knocking you up has him reeling. A breathless laugh pushes past his lips as he looks down at you.
You're such a pretty mess and he's so in love. Your pussy does such a good job at sucking him in and he's so fucking drunk on it.
The image of you sprawled below him, sweating and whining out his name will be burned into his memory forever. And you do have forever promised, he remembers. That ring on your finger — the very finger on the very hand that's creeping between your bodies to toy with your clit — stands as proof.
You perverted little thing, he thinks, as he feels you bucking your hips upward to meet his thrusts halfway.
“Yuuta, my god, oh my god!” you whimper as his strokes grow even sloppier and he grows even heavier on your body.
“Feel good, angel?” he taunts, using the nickname he imposed on you back before you became such a needy disaster.
An airy chuckle bubbles up his throat when you fervently nod and caress his cheek. He hooks an arm under your leg, pressing it further into your chest in a semi-mating press position.
He carelessly thrusts his hips a few more times before he's washed over with a glorious relief that he pours inside you, marveling at the way your insides flutter around him, milking him dry with every wanton squeeze.
It's like you want to get knocked up, he thinks.
His hold on your leg loosens and his weight tumbles down on top of you as you work your way to clarity.
He moves around on the limited space of the sofa so that you can snuggle into his chest with his arms wrapped tightly around you as he presses soft kisses onto the crown of your head.
You can feel his cum leaking from your insides and seeping into the couch cushions, but it'll be a while before either of you care to clean up your mess.
His warm embrace coaxes you to sleep. As you're teetering the line of peaceful slumber, a familiar thought pops into your head.
“Yuuta,” you murmur.
“Hm?”
“What we just did wasn't wrong, was it?”
He looks down at you, fingers lifting your chin so he can see your face. Your eyes are wide with worry. The duality with which you're able to confront these matters will forever be a mystery to him.
His gaze softens and a smile graces his lips.
“Don't worry, angel. This was innocent.”
He presses a kiss to your forehead.
“It's pure love.”
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THE BEST MEDICINE [18+]
CHAPTER ONE - DIAGNOSIS [MINORS DNI]
[PAIRING] Trafalgar Law x Reader
[SUMMARY] You’ve unknowingly come in contact with an aphrodisiac. With symptoms involving hyperactive senses, fever and weakness in the body, you seek Law’s medical knowledge to help treat what you assume to be a strange sickness. Upon examination and diagnosis, your doctor offers a cure.
[CONTENT + WARNINGS] AFAB Reader, Reader has breasts, Aphrodisiacs, Desperation, Teasing, Medical Examination, Medical Malpractice, Pining, Sexual Tension. More in future chapters!
[WORD COUNT] 6k
“Come in.”
Despite the state you’re in, you still had the decency to knock. There’s warmth spreading all around you, heavy heat muddling both your body and mind. An aching sensation at your core has you in a daze, far too hot and distracting, instinct begging you to find some relief, though you can’t quite place how. Unable to shake off this enveloping feeling for a few hours now, you’ve found yourself at Law’s door, desperate for a cure. The strange haze seems to only deepen upon hearing the low rasp of his voice.
You turn the knob and enter, metal door unusually heavy. The Polar Tang creaks in response. Your legs feel weak, wobbling with a simple step, forcing yourself to lean on the side of the entryway as you struggle to keep upright. In a dim office, Law sits at his desk several feet in front of you. He seems too fixated on a pile of papers to look up. With his hat discarded to the side, reading glasses sit low on the bridge of his nose as he jots down what must be important notes. A sense of guilt creeps up on you.
You didn't want to interrupt—your Captain was a busy man, after all, and you knew this late, quiet hour was usually reserved for his work. But he was also the Heart Pirates’ only doctor, and as these strange sensations mounted throughout the night, you felt you needed medical attention. You stand there for a moment, mouth opening to speak. Nothing comes out. An inappropriate captivation engulfs you, words caught in your throat as you look towards Law. He’s comfortable, shirt unbuttoned a few notches and sleeves rolled up. The muscles and tendons to his tattooed forearms shift alluringly with each stroke he writes, leaving you mesmerized.
“What is it?” he asks, still looking downwards.
You suck in a shaky breath, struggling to get ahold of yourself. Suggestive thoughts about Law weren’t foreign to you. He was rather attractive, almost intimidatingly so, and combined with the close bond the two of you shared, you found yourself enamored. But he was your Captain, and you were his subordinate. He was your doctor, and you were his patient. As addictive as the thought was, you hadn’t allowed yourself much fantasy of the two of you being anything more, knowing shared feelings were unlikely and, in a sense, immoral. You’ve learned to live with the ache.
But at times, you simply can’t help yourself. With heavy lidded eyes, you stare, his lithe figure something sculpted from the gods. All you wanted was to go down on your knees and show him a thing or two about worship with devoted hands and a sinful mouth. You struggle to divert your attention; this was no time for fantasies, but still, they linger.
“Captain…”
It nearly comes out as a plea, your voice a pathetic whimper. You surprise even yourself from the way you sound upon calling for him, catching Law’s attention as his eyes dart up towards you. You must look as unkempt as you feel, his gaze trailing from your face down to your body in a way that suggested you were quite the sight. Looking away, you feel exposed, unable to speak further. Despite your silence, Law gets the idea, the doctor recognizing discomfort when he sees it. He hums your name in acknowledgement.
“I take it you’re not feeling well.”
Law sets down the pen and removes his glasses, chair scooting back as he rises to his feet, attention now fully on you. He walks towards your trembling form and looms over you, hands moving to clutch at your shoulders to help you stand. His touch is gentle, but it still overwhelms. A sharp gasp is yanked from your lips upon the electrifying contact as your body jolts in sudden sensitivity. You clutch his shirt for support with fisted palms, head falling onto his chest, breathing heavily beneath him.
An arm moves to wrap around your waist, keeping you from crumbling to the ground. His grip is firm but consciously delicate, staying considerate of your well-being, though you could still feel a thrilling strength behind his grasp. In desperate instinct, your body reacts on its own. Your back arches underneath an addictive touch, breasts squished against Law’s lean body. The pressure rakes a shiver down your spine with a whimper caught in the middle of your throat. Each surge of sensation was simply too intense, too stimulating, too invigorating. Molded into putty in his hands, your legs grow weaker.
“You can barely stand,” he comments. The two of you are too close, the deep rumble of his voice vibrating against you. “What happened?”
“I don’t know,” you answer honestly in a strained tone, trying to gather yourself. There’s shame within you, confused as to why you felt so sensitive, guilty that a part of you was enjoying it. Though overwhelming, what seemed to be heightened senses wasn’t exactly unpleasant. The attention from Law fueled an inappropriate pleasure. Logic, faint through the pink fog in your head, reminds you of your relationship with him—this care was simply a doctor tending to his patient rather than romantic affection. You find yourself embarrassed at both your thoughts and physical reactions, feeling indecent.
You push yourself off of him by a few inches, trying to keep a professional distance. A feeling of dizziness washes over you, your body wavering, his grip tightening. As you force yourself to relax, you find it difficult to focus on anything beyond his touch. Every nerve ending in your body seemed to be on an intoxicating edge. With a dazed mind, you struggle to string together a coherent sentence. “Started feeling weird a few hours ago,” you tell him, a slight slur to your words. “I thought it’d go away. Only got worse.”
Law hums in understanding. He places a finger beneath your chin, guiding you to look at him for inspection. You tilt your head upwards to meet his eyes, mouth parted in soft pants, face flushed and gaze heavy lidded. His own fixed stare greets back, intense as always. In examination, he scans your features. It’s almost intimate, reminiscent of a position two lovers would find themselves in during a tender moment. Though you try to shake away the thought, you can’t help the excited nerves that well up inside your chest. Unrealistic anticipation eats away at you, enticing lips staying inches apart from yours.
“You’re running a fever,” Law says as he puts the back of his hand to your forehead. Despite the heat, you shiver. “Let’s get you to the examination room. Can you walk?”
”Might need some help,” you admit sheepishly. An unsteady voice betrays your attempts at composure. Law extends his arm and gently takes hold of yours, pulling it over his shoulder. With his grip secured around your waist, he helps guide you out of the room, easily supporting your weight as he keeps you steady. You grit your teeth at the physical contact to hold back any undignified noises. A primal desire flared within your chest, each touch erupting into fireworks with exhilarating tingles spreading throughout your body. As the sparks ignite cravings you’ve always tried to contain, you find yourself struggling to keep your demeanor under control.
“You seem tense,” he points out, looking down at you as he helps you walk at a slow pace. “Are you in any pain?”
You consider the question for a moment, gauging how exactly you feel. Though weak, your body was alive with rushes of consuming sensations, passionately responsive to all stimulation. While your person felt reactive and hyper aware, your psyche was dulled and clouded, thoughts faint through fog. It was as if your body had been set alight and your mind was melting in its wake. Then, there was fervor. You hadn’t been able to pinpoint it before, figuring the deep warmth you were experiencing was the result of a fever. Though as Law holds onto you, your bodies pressed together, you can feel distinctive arousal.
It’s an unmistakable lust for him that you’re well familiar with, experienced most during late nights when quiet loneliness peels back careful restriction and reveals the raw need festering underneath. It always ravaged, but never with such hunger. The heat you’ve felt is now concentrated between your legs and where Law’s hands lie, knot in your core tightening, explaining that instinctive yearning for release. But why were you so sensitive? Was it really possible to be so aroused you could barely stand? Certainly, something was off. You chalk your sexual excitement down to what must be a desperate need to get laid, and focus on being treated by your doctor.
“Not exactly,” you answer. “Just feel… sensitive.” A heavy sigh comes out as a shudder, the ache within you almost unbearable. Beneath a heaving chest, your heart pounds. “I really don’t know what it is, doc. I just know it’s not normal.”
“We’ll figure it out,” Law assures you.
Despite his support, you feel unsteady as you walk. You had grown used to the submarine’s constant motion over the years, but now, each step was like your first day on the Polar Tang, tentative and slightly wobbly from being submerged in a room underwater. You hold onto Law tighter to keep from stumbling, grateful the hour was late enough for most crewmates to be retired to their rooms. It’d be quite the explanation you’d have to muster had anyone seen you in such a helpless state with your Captain.
The two of you pause as you arrive in front of the examination room. Law uses his free arm to reach into his pocket, keys jingling while he unlocks and opens the door. For a moment, a cold blast of air that escapes the room hushes the high temperature that surrounds you, goosebumps pebbling your skin until a blanket of warmth promptly returns. Law flicks on the lights before guiding you to a chair, the sudden brightness making you squint in adjustment. His grip loosens.
“Sit. I’ll get my things.”
You ease yourself onto the chair and lean your side against the counter next to it. Though Law’s touch was gone, the desire within you doesn’t fade. A distracting longing only heightens from his absence. He turns and you watch as he maneuvers around the room, reaching into a cabinet on the wall above his head to pull out a blood pressure cuff. In the same smooth movement, he picks up a nearby stethoscope with his other hand, draping it around his neck.
“Are you experiencing any palpitations, vertigo or chills?” he asks as he turns towards you. You blink out of what feels like a trance, too hypnotized by the movement of his body. Each action seemed almost graceful. Controlled and purposeful, confidence demanded attention through a charismatic yet domineering presence. It was a daunting beauty—though you were deeply familiar with and trusting of this man, a part of you still squirms underneath his intense person and piercing eyes. You gather your thoughts and voice, but your tone comes out uneven and shaky, too affected by the needs within you.
“Palpitations? Yes. I felt it most when we were walking.” You wonder if it was because of the excitement and nervousness you experienced being in such close proximity with him, but even as Law stands a foot away, you still feel each beat of your heart. It was a quiet and steady drum, faster than what might’ve been normal. Should it be a cause of concern, you answer your doctor truthfully. “But it’s faint now. Vertigo, yes. I don’t feel it much now that I’m sitting, though. And no chills. I’m really warm, actually.”
“I see,” he acknowledges. “Give me your arm.”
You obey. Sticking out your right arm, you find yourself unable to hold back a slight gasp when he places a hand on you. His grip doesn’t move or lighten; if anything, it grows a bit tighter, as if to keep you in place. You look up at him, round eyes and furrowed brows painting your face in a pout. Law’s firm gaze softens for a moment. “I know you’re feeling sensitive, but bear with me,” he tells you, wrapping a cuff around your arm. “I’m going to take your blood pressure.”
You wince as the cuff inflates, tightening continuously, squeezing against responsive nerves. You can feel the blood in your veins pumping as Law listens to your pulse with the stethoscope, watching the gauge. Once satisfied, he slowly lets the air out of the cuff and unwraps it from your arm. The release of pressure elicits a sigh of relief from you. “118 over 72. Healthy. We’ll check your heart rate next.”
He stands over you, tall and imposing, leaning towards you slightly to place the stethoscope on your chest. You look down upon feeling the circle of cold metal contrasting against hot skin, body on fire at the sight of a strong hand and slim fingers too close to your cleavage. Law listens for a few moments and puts his thumb against his jugular as he counts the seconds. “Fast,” he notes, pulling away. The shame in you makes you wonder if he could recognize the excitement behind your ribs.
“Now,” he says, picking up a pen and holding it in front of you. “Follow this for me.” Moving back and forth slowly, your eyes follow the object for seconds that feel far too long in your daze. Sitting still has begun to make you a bit restless, a needy part of you almost missing the overstimulation Law’s touch provided. Your gaze locks with his as the pen stops moving, once again finding yourself captivated. He was handsome. Pretty, even.
“Bit of trouble there. The eye’s lateral movement isn’t as smooth as it could be.” He looks directly at you for a moment, considering. “I’m going to check the lymph nodes under your chin now,” he says, almost as a warning, staying conscious of the sensitivity you feel. You’re welcoming in eager anticipation of his touch, neck ticklish as you swipe your hair away. You bare yourself to him.
He rubs his palms together, considerate enough not to touch you with cold hands. Despite the added heat, you still startle upon the contact of long fingers sliding up the sides of your neck. A high pitched hum sounds from your throat when skin meets skin, your head dipping back with the gentle swoop of his hands. Your eyes drift downwards and you watch as your heaving chest fills the space between you two with each deep breath. Firm and wide, his hands easily wrap around your neck with tattooed fingers interlocking at the nape. Law traces the points of your collarbone with his thumbs, traveling along the soft skin of your throat and delicate hinge of your jaw.
“No worries there. But I can see that your pupils are unnaturally dilated,” he tells you, using his grip to tilt your head up towards him. Law peers down at you, his analytical eyes making you feel too exposed, too vulnerable, like you were being laid out and intimately dissected. The ghost of his touch lingers after he pulls his hands away, a hot tingle left on your neck. “And your eyes seem glazed over. What are you feeling right now?”
He asks it like he’s suspicious of something, making you wonder if you’ve been a bit too responsive to his touch. You debate how to answer, because truthfully, you feel lust. It was there before, but as the minutes ticked by, it became something you couldn’t ignore no matter how hard you tried. There was an intimate wanting within you that certainly didn’t need to be vocalized, the distracting wetness between your thighs a symptom you wouldn’t admit to. You decide not to lie, but don’t tell the full truth, either.
“I feel warm,” you begin with a shuddering sigh, struggling to gather your thoughts in such a thick haze. “Like I’m laying under the sun. It’s hard to focus. I feel sensitive, to your touch, to the lights, to the temperature. There’s no pain, it’s almost euphoric in a way, but my body tells me something’s wrong.”
You nearly feel cornered with the way Law looms over you, his palm pressed onto the counter to your right, arm propping himself up as he leans against it. You’re certain he doesn’t mean to be, but his powerful presence is naturally intimidating, golden eyes burning into you. “Let’s narrow this down. Typically, exposure to afflictions occurs within 24 hours before feeling the first symptoms,” he notes. “What were you doing today? Anything out of the ordinary that could be a cause of concern?”
“I spent most the day with the Strawhats,” you recall after some thinking, though you’re sure Law already knew as much. You’d been absent from the Polar Tang for the majority of the evening, finishing your duties early and taking the opportunity to spend some time with Luffy and his crew before their departure to another island tomorrow. “We had dinner together before I came back to the submarine. Sanji cooked some curry. There’s leftovers for you in the kitchen, by the way.”
“I appreciate it,” Law tells you. “And before that?”
“Bunch of chaos. You know how the Strawhats are. Never a moment of quiet on that crew,” you say, but there’s no disdain to your words. You smile fondly as you remember your day. “Luffy was bored, so we explored the island a little. Usopp and I found this weird fruit that Sanji wanted to cook up, but it splattered all over me while Luffy and Chopper played hot potato with it,” you tell him, shaking your head in amusement. “Before that, it was just my usual routine on a slow day.”
You stop there, trying to think of more details, but you’re left with a loss of words as another wave of haziness steadily washes over you. Still, it seemed to be enough for Law. He hums in acknowledgement, turning and walking towards a bookshelf situated on the other side of the room. His gaze scans the multitude of medical literature in front of him. After a few seconds of browsing, he stops at a particular book that piques his interest. “This fruit,” he begins, tone laced with curiosity. “What color was it?”
Your brows furrow, confused at what seemed to be an unrelated question. Doctor knows best, you remind yourself, confident in Law’s abilities. “Pink,” you offer, hoping to provide him with the information he seeks. “With swirls of purple.”
Upon hearing this, Law takes a moment to contemplate in silence before deciding on a book, pulling it out and searching through its contents. “It’s a hunch,” he mutters as he flips through the book, “but I might have an idea of what’s affecting you. Give me a moment.”
His back is turned towards you, giving you the opportunity to drink in every detail of his lithe form. Eyes full of yearning, a heavy gaze drifts from his long legs to toned shoulders, broad back narrowing down to contrast well with the slimness of his waist. The thin fabric of his shirt barely conceals the lean muscles that lie beneath, rippling and contorting ever so slightly as he moves, reminding you of how much strength he holds.
As he finishes with the book in hand, Law places it back on the shelf and reaches for another. His movements are fluid and controlled, too entrancing to look away. Pages rustle quietly, but the noise grows faint, drifting far from your ears as the thumping of your heartbeat drowns out any slight sound. The daze you’re in deepens while you stare, that same restlessness from before creeping back with new intensity. Your leg begins to bounce with pent up energy as the flare of arousal within you swirls and expands.
There’s no distraction—no medical tests being performed, no questions being asked, the room quiet and growing increasingly warm as inappropriate thoughts and urges consume you. The stillness tests your patience, taunting and mocking, body begging for stimulation. You can feel your thighs pressing together in a desperate attempt for pleasurable friction, moving on their own as you squirm in your seat.
Law pauses his reading, glancing towards you. “You okay?”
There’s an air of amusement to his words, as if he knew something you didn’t. You look up towards him, but his eyes don’t immediately meet yours. His gaze trails over your body, slow and purposeful, and settles near your thighs for a moment. He glances up to your face, flushed with lips parted in a pant, and casually focuses his attention back to the book he holds. You’re left feeling more tense than before, wondering what exactly he was thinking past that controlled demeanor of his. Palms are fisted at your sides as you gather yourself, steadying your breathing.
“I feel worse,” you admit with a whine, frustration clear in your voice. “Isn’t there something you could give me to tide this over? Some kind of medicine, maybe? I’ll take anything.”
Law’s response is a measured one, walking back over to you with a book still in hand. “I’m afraid treatment won’t be that easy,” he states as he turns the book towards you. It’s opened on a page with a picture of a fruit you immediately recognize, though you’re unable to decipher the words around it, each letter too muddled together. “I’m assuming this is it?” he asks, watching you.
“Yes, but… Why does it matter?”
“Consuming strange fruits is dangerous, much less having them splatter all over you,” Law says, setting the book down on the counter next to you. “Some of them can be poisonous and have a range in severity and symptoms, which results in all kinds of reactions in the body. I’m certain the contact you’ve had with this specific fruit is the cause of what you’re feeling, because the known side effects match up almost perfectly with yours—the sensitivity, warmth, dizziness, trouble focusing. But the most common symptom is one you haven’t admitted to.”
Law looks at you knowingly. There’s a tint of entertainment to his eye, words dripping with innuendo. Your breath gets caught in your chest at the implication, face reddening as your cheeks fill with blood. Shame wants to deny. You feel an urge to give some kind of excuse or reasoning that insists he’s wrong, that you have no idea what he’s talking about, that you weren’t hiding anything from him. You can’t seem to muster it up. You don’t talk, your mouth opened uselessly in an attempt to defend yourself, but there’s nothing to explain.
Law’s tone says he’s figured you out, with or without his knowledge of the fruit. Your Captain was a smart man, analytical and observant, and you were an opened book. You should've known he’d be able to read you, your body language in itself spelling out how you truly feel in bold letters and blunt words. Law speaks up again, assuring he sees right through you. “The fruit is a known aphrodisiac. A rather strong one, at that. You’ve been experiencing arousal, haven’t you?”
An aphrodisiac… Of course it was a fucking aphrodisiac. No other reasoning could explain this intimate heat you felt, the debilitating sensitivity, the sensual haze, the desperate need for something more. Through the fog, everything begins to make sense. Puzzle pieces drift into place upon your doctor’s revelation, and really, you can’t find it in yourself to be surprised. Your body had been begging to be defiled the moment Law put his hands on you.
You’re acutely aware of how embarrassing it is, getting checked out for being inexplicably horny all because some fruit blew up in your face. It borders ridiculous, humiliating, but the root of your shame stems from the fact that these feelings are nothing new. Though amplified, you know the searing ache in your lower belly can’t be blamed on the aphrodisiac alone. Your own bottled up needs and the fruit’s sexual chemical blend together, circumstances concocting into an intoxicating love potion.
Looking into Law’s eyes, the affection and lust that flares in your chest is familiar. It makes you wonder just how much of your current behavior could be attributed to the aphrodisiac’s influence, and how much was simply a reflection of your own suppressed desires. You hope it isn’t apparent, unable to explain yourself without the risk of admitting something deeper is happening beneath the surface. Still, your silence is telling. It’s a simple answer to his question, confirming Law’s suspicions about your symptoms.
“You should be honest with your doctor. You came to me for help, after all,” he tsks. He points towards a section of the book and taps, though you can’t find it in yourself to focus on the words. “Without proper treatment, the fruit’s effects don’t wear off until about 24 hours after contact. The beginning stages of hours 2 through 8 are the most intense, at least until satisfaction is reached.” His eyes are casted down at you as he practically teases, voice teetering amusement. “It must be unbearable at this point.”
You look away, degenerate arousal swelling within you. You feel more than indecent, reduced to a needy bitch in heat in front of your doctor, your Captain, but that’s exactly what’s so alluring about it. It’s unprofessional, it’s scandalous, it’s obscene and indelicate and forbidden, and it’s addicting. So many nights have you laid in bed just a room away from your Captain, hands drifting between your thighs, unable to think of anything but his fingers down your throat and low voice near your ear. It was liberating in a way, imagining you and Law unable to hold back, willingly breaking unspoken rules just to get a twisted taste of one another.
It ran deeper than simple lust, bordering what could be called love. Whether or not Law felt the same romantic passion, there was still an undeniable connection. Years of trust and loyalty was built from everything the unforgiving seas harshly bestowed. It inflicted wounds that constantly healed, never hurting for too long, the thick scar tissue proof of a strong resilience that couldn’t be broken. On your end, that bond of care and dedication warped into something more intimate, craving a connection that couldn’t be entertained. As captain and subordinate, as doctor and patient, there was a certain level of professionalism that needed to be held, preventing your relationship from developing any further. And yet, your mind always wanders to what it would be like if you two explored feelings that lay just beneath a delicate surface.
You reminded yourself it was a simple fantasy—a foolish, lovesick fantasy, but the lines between want and need began to blur long ago. When you allowed yourself to indulge in the thought of him, you hoped your imagination would suffice, knowing reality wouldn’t catch up. Tension only hit the breaking point. Satisfaction was no longer brought by fantasies, instead leaving you with a deeper craving that a reverie couldn’t relieve. Pent up and starved, you look up at him with pleading eyes, voice a desperate whimper.
“It aches, Law.”
He falters. Upon hearing his name laced in a needy whine, Law’s eyes flicker with something unrecognizable for a moment. A certain look you’ve never quite seen from him before paints his sharp features, stoicism shifting into something more responsive and uncontrolled. You struggle to place it, but it’s gone as quickly as it came. Law retreats back to himself, expression and demeanor snapping into its usual composed place.
He looks down at you, unblinking, and crosses his arms over a well defined chest. “Do you have anyone to help satisfy these cravings?”
It was an invasive yet necessary question; there was a lewd solution, and your doctor needed to know whether or not it was feasible. You think for a moment. Everyone on the Polar Tang was a friend of yours, and while you were certain a few men would be eager for the opportunity to spend a night with you, you saw your relationships with them as too platonic to comfortably indulge in anything sexual. You think of other friends and acquaintances, most of which were miles and miles away. Living on the Grand Line hasn't given much opportunity for relationships to develop, your life always in motion, never settling at one place for long. The only promising outlet were other pirates, your thoughts straying to the Strawhats.
“Sanji.”
Your eyes light up, a solution presenting itself through the cloudy mist in your head. You and Sanji were never exclusive, and probably never would be, but the flirtatious man’s kind gestures and sweet words brought a faint air of romantic tension between the two of you. It certainly wasn’t the kind of passion you had when thinking about Law, but stolen glances and lingering touches told you there was a desire Sanji felt.
Though he was a gentleman in most moments, lust was still apparent. Sanji was always unable to hold back visceral reactions whenever he saw you in suggestive contexts, perversion leaking through nosebleeds and heart shaped pupils. A hunger practically radiated from him, leaving you with no doubt that he’d be happy to serve had he known the predicament you were in. You stumble into a quick stand in eagerness, but a sudden hand on your chest pushes you back down onto your seat.
“Sanji’s not a doctor, is he?”
It practically comes out as a growl. You look up towards Law in surprise, his expression fierce and eyes firm as he leans over you. His hand is steady on the middle of your chest, resting right above your breasts. You’re certain he can feel the thumping of your heart, pulse growing faster as he imposes. His gaze stays on yours for a few moments. The tense silence between you two feels like a warning before he finally moves back. You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding in, your hand moving in longing to rub at the tingling skin he was just in contact with.
“You need proper medical attention,” he says as he straightens up, almost as if to gather himself. “Judging from your reactions alone, the dosage of the fruit must’ve been high. And considering you’ve gone without treatment for a few hours now, the effects are at their peak,” he tells you. “To be blunt, I don’t trust a quick fuck or even masturbation will help tide you over. You need something more… involved.”
His suggestive words cause a fuse to short circuit in your brain, flustered by what he implies. Dancing around the solution, he leaves much to an overactive imagination, possible scenarios instantly invading your thoughts as your blood runs hot. He isn’t wrong. With a yearning that bordered delirium, you doubted you’d reach satisfaction with a simple orgasm. No—your body demanded something consuming, something ruining, something that’d be intense enough to sate the raw desire enveloping you. Your doctor knew what you needed, perhaps better than you did. He had what you needed.
Desperate for a cure, you look up at him with pleading eyes and a breathless voice. “What do you suggest?”
Law smiles, lips curling upward in an amused grin. “I want you to lay on the examination table, and allow me to carry out a more thorough exam, along with treatment. As your doctor, I plan to help relieve your symptoms by whatever means necessary. I’m certain you understand what that implies, so I want you to consider—“
You didn’t need to consider. At this point, rationality and logic weren’t something you could pretend to concern yourself with, lucidity stripped away by simple needs. Desire consumed, overshadowing reason, leaving no room for hesitation or doubt. It wasn’t a question of if, or should, or why—it was how and when, consequences be damned. Potential repercussions were an afterthought, not holding any weight in comparison to desperate hunger. It was reckless abandonment of reason and complete surrender to passion, heat of the moment and thrill of the thought too exhilarating to pass up.
An array of suppressed emotions finally have permission to take over as your Captain offers his solution. You can practically feel the wave of relief that washes over you, tense muscles becoming relaxed and languid, demeanor loosening upon a refreshing freedom of released cravings. A blend of primal instinct and intimate longing has your body reacting immediately upon being given the green light. You effectively cut Law off, shakily rising to your feet and stumbling towards him in loopy eagerness.
“I see you’ve already made your decision,” he hums with a hint of satisfaction, almost sounding impressed. Muscled arms are quick to catch you, holding you to a padded chest to keep you from falling. The embrace is familiar, reminiscent of when you latched onto him for support earlier that night, but it feels entirely different. There’s no wall between you two, no chains holding you back, no reason for you to lie or deny. The secret knot inside your core, a sacred place between the fibers of your heart and the wall of your lungs, finally unravels underneath Law’s fingertips.
It’s certainly not appropriate. Though the forbidden affection goes against the air of formality that has always hung between you two, the moment feels right. Despite a tentative past and risky future, the present stills to its own purposeful serendipity. Your body slots with his, clicking into place in a way that belongs. As you bury your face in the crook of Law’s neck, his hand resting on the back of your head, a distant thought wonders if he feels the same.
The weight of the sentiment is heavy, but you can’t seem to give it much attention, losing grip on sobriety and cognition. Yearning takes over, making you frantically grind your hips against Law’s leg in wild want. Undressing doesn’t occur to you. You’re too caught up in a mindless fixation for relief, fully clothed and frotting. Nipping at his skin, you revel in his taste, salty-sweet from the sweat of his evening workout and the mist of the sea.
His voice reverberates against you, a low purr mixed with curiosity and mischief, further fueled by an entertained smirk. “You must be eager, having to wait all this time.”
As if to prove his words, Law pushes his leg up, encouraging an addictive friction between your thighs. It’s the first semblance of pleasure you’ve felt all night, quickly yanking out a sharp gasp of a moan from a tight throat, your knees weak and wobbly upon the exhilarating contact. The sensation echoes throughout your body, an aching throb settling into your heart. You hastily grind down on him to chase the pressure, relying on Law’s strength to keep you upright while you practically use the man to get off.
You barely register the way you’re panting, tongue hanging slightly from your mouth with drool beginning to slide down your lips. It leaves a glossy smear, slowly traveling down your chin and onto a sensitive neck. You swear you must be going cross-eyed, vision starting to blur, losing yourself in the erratic motions, focused on nothing but your Captain. The sight is obscene, the whiny little whimpers and moans that fill the room equally vulgar. It’s a purely sinful indulgence. Hedonism is stripped to its rawest form, and yet, it’s not enough.
You’re compelled to draw in his breath closer and closer until it mingles with yours. You drag your lips higher up his neck to his jaw, pausing dangerously close to his mouth. You look up at him, eyes round and begging in a wordless plea for more, but Law only pulls you away by your hair. The motion elicits a whine of protest from you. Before you can question, in a gesture of comfort, Law’s thumb wipes away the needy tears you didn’t notice were beading at your eyes. You’re silent as you melt into his own, lost in the golden glint, finding that the once unrecognizable look in his gaze is now a distinctive lust.
“Don’t worry,” your doctor assures. “I’ll make it all better.”
#one piece fanfiction#one piece x reader#trafalgar law smut#law x reader#trafalgar law x reader#trafalgar d law x reader#my writing
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Lost On You
[Rick Grimes x Female!Reader]
Synopsis: Drawn to his strength and resilience, you've secretly fancied the widowed sheriff turned leader. But with recent events turning his smiles into forced fake ones, all that's on your mind is to make it known that he's not alone {Takes place in Season 5}.
WC: 2067
Category: Hurt/Comfort, Slight Angst
This is officially my first Walking Dead fanfic, which I'm honestly surprised hasn't happened earlier, but I've recently rewatched season five, and it made me remember just how much I love Rick. So, here we are.
『••✎••』
The sun dipped below the horizon, casting a warm glow across the makeshift camp that had become a haven for the group after their escape from Terminus. The tension that had gripped them during their ordeal was slowly easing, and a sense of normalcy was tentatively settling in. Amid the camaraderie and relief, one person's heart was beating just a little faster than the rest – yours.
Ever since the days at the prison, you had found yourself drawn to Rick Grimes. His strength, his resilience, and the way he cared for his people… it resonated with you deeply. You found yourself admiring him from afar, with feelings growing with every shared moment. And now, as you sat by the campfire, watching Rick with Judith nestled safely in his arms, those feelings were impossible to ignore.
He changed, though. It was apparent in his eyes. Andrea had mentioned long ago how he was becoming “colder,” but you never saw it until now. Until you’ve (quite literally) were face-to-face with evil.
After the incident with Gareth and his people, Rick rarely smiled. And when he did, it was faker than Daryl’s chupacabra claim. Even when Judith giggled while tugging on his beard, or when Michonne and Carl had random competitions, he never smiled like he used to. The last time you saw him “happy” by definition was back when Hershel was still around.
Rick was no longer the man who gave you hope. You didn't know if it was the guilt of his past actions, the stress of the group's survival, or a combination of the two, but Rick Grimes had been lost somewhere along the road, and you wanted to find him.
Your gaze drifted down to your lap, where the remnants of a half-eaten dinner lay. You weren't sure what Carol had made tonight, but it was good. She was always an amazing cook.
Carol.
She was the only person who knew how you felt about Rick. It had been hard not to talk about it. You two were close, and it wasn't like you were a master at keeping secrets. Carol was, though. She had a talent for reading people and knew right away when you had developed a crush. She always teased you about it.
You were glad she didn't tell anyone, and you were glad to have her as a friend.
With the fire beginning to die down, and the food finished, the others began drifting back to their respective tents. First Michonne, then Carl, Daryl, Carol, and Tyreese. Sasha lingered for a bit, and eventually, Abraham and Rosita. Eugene and Tara had been gone all day scavenging for supplies, and Glenn and Maggie had disappeared into the woods an hour before. They had just recently returned, hand-in-hand, and were giggling and whispering as they headed for their tent.
As for you? Well, you were just waiting. Waiting and watching Rick. You didn't know why, exactly. Maybe you were hoping he would suddenly break out of this new, serious-all-the-time character he'd been portraying. Or maybe you were trying to figure out how to talk to him, how to tell him how you felt.
That thought sent your heart racing again. You took a deep breath and held it for a few seconds before letting it out slowly.
You couldn't help but feel like the entire world had been waiting for something to change. Waiting for a spark. And when you looked at Rick, you knew. You just knew.
There was something about him. Something special. Something you couldn't explain, but it drew you to him like a moth to a flame. He was the spark you had been waiting for, and the feeling was so strong you could hardly contain yourself.
Rick turned, and you met his eyes. They were a clear blue, a striking contrast to the dark hair that framed his face. His beard was starting to get long, and the curls atop his head were a bit wilder than usual.
Your eyes met his. The smile he gave you was weak, forced. You were tempted to stand up and give him a hug, just to make him feel better. But you didn't.
After a few moments of awkward silence, he stood up, adjusting Judith in his arms as he did so. She stirred, her eyelids fluttering a few times before falling shut once more.
"G'night."
"Night."
And then, he was gone.
You watched as the tent flap closed behind him. He had disappeared so quickly that you barely even had time to register what had happened. You felt like a part of you had just left with him.
Your heart was beating a mile a minute. You had been sitting there, watching him, for a long time, and the sudden silence was deafening.
As you headed for your tent, the last of the campers called out to you.
"Night!"
You stopped in your tracks, turning towards the voice. Carl was smiling, waving at you. You raised a hand in response, flashing a brief smile before turning away.
"Night."
You were asleep almost instantly. The day's events had left you exhausted, and it didn't take long for sleep to overtake you. It overtook you to the point that you had slept in until after everyone else had gotten up.
Morning came and you exited the tent, squinting as the sunlight hit your face. The sun was high in the sky, and the others had begun the morning without you. You didn't mind; it wasn't the first time this had happened, and it probably wouldn't be the last.
As you made your way to the main area, you were greeted by several friendly faces.
"Morning, sleepyhead," Glenn teased. "We were starting to wonder if you were ever gonna get up."
You flashed a sheepish grin. "Sorry. I was just exhausted."
You scanned the area for a few minutes, noting that a couple of people were missing. Rick, for example, was nowhere to be seen.
"Hey, Glenn, where's Rick?"
Glenn glanced around the campsite. He scratched the back of his head and shrugged. "Not sure, actually. I haven't seen him this morning. Not since breakfast."
That was strange.
"I'm gonna go look for him," you said,
As you left, Glenn gave you the thumbs up in encouragement before his eyes flashed back to Maggie and Tara. Most likely retelling the events of the previous day.
You soon wandered through the trees, searching for any sign of Rick – or anyone for that matter. Both Daryl and Carol were also missing, but you weren’t concerned about those two. It was more concerning for those who stumbled upon them. Now Rick, on the other hand, he was different.
As of right now he wasn’t the man to mess with. Seeing how he handled those at Terminus, and hearing what had happened the night before from Michonne… you weren’t concerned about the possibility of him getting attacked or injured. Your concern fell towards his mentality.
He was “technically” the leader that everyone had listened and looked up to. Abraham made arguments, mostly of the importance of taking Eugene to DC, but Rick was the one who had the final say. That kind of power and responsibility to lead an entire group to their survival has heavy effects. And now, after so much loss and failure, it finally took its toll.
The sun shined brightly through the trees as you walked, and the air was warm. It was the kind of day you would have spent reading on your back porch, or maybe going for a hike. Before the world ended, anyway.
As you started walking, you couldn't help but notice the quiet. There was no sign of life anywhere. No birds, no insects, no Walkers. It was almost like the entire world had disappeared, leaving you all alone.
The forest became more thick and dense the further you walked into it, with the trees growing more close together. The sun still shined through the branches, but it was still early, and the shadows were deep.
You started your trail back towards the temporary camp when you noticed a noise coming from behind you. You spun around, heart pounding. It sounded like footsteps.
"Rick?"
There was no answer. Just the sound of the wind whistling through the trees.
"Rick?" You tried again.
Nothing.
The silence was unnerving. The sound of footsteps had stopped, and there was still no sign of life anywhere.
Then, suddenly, you heard a branch snap and everything that was peaceful turned into a war zone. You spun around fast with fists clenched. You didn’t even process what it was before you struck it in the face.
Your face fell once you opened your eyes to peek at the danger.
Ah, shit.
Rick straightened out, his hand running over his nose where you had accidentally struck. He seemed a little dazed, but otherwise was fine.
"Oh, god, I am so sorry," you said, wincing. "I didn't know it was you. I thought you were a… I don’t— oh, geez.”
Rick blinked a few times, regaining his composure. His hand fell from his nose, and he gave you a slight smile. Fake, again, but this time you didn’t blame him.
“What are you doin’ out here?” Rick’s voice was low, and he sounded tired. He didn’t look directly at you, instead choosing to gaze past you at the forest behind. It was almost as if he didn’t care to hear your answer.
And it was clear he wasn’t bothered by the fact that you had just punched him in the face.
You found yourself sighing at his words. It was a difficult question. One that had multiple answers.
What were you doing out here?
What was he doing out here?
Why were either of you out here instead of being with the group or resting up after the chaos of yesterday?
The questions buzzed in your head, but the answer was clear.
You were out here because of Rick. You were out here to find him. To talk to him.
You opened your mouth to respond, but nothing came out. The two of you stood in silence for what seemed like an eternity, and the awkwardness was palpable.
"You should be with the others.”
The words hung heavy in the air. They were simple enough, but the weight behind them was crushing.
"You should be with them, too," you countered.
Rick's gaze shifted to you, and you met his eyes.
The sun's rays broke through the treetops, illuminating his face. He looked tired. So tired. Rick had always had dark circles under his eyes, but the ones you were seeing now were new. They were a deeper shade than you'd ever seen, and they seemed to have grown bigger.
He was worn down, exhausted, and there was a hollowness to his stare. A dullness that had replaced the fire. And yet, despite all of that, there was still a warmth there. A sense of caring, of love, that was still present.
It was that warmth that gave you the courage to continue.
"I'm worried about you," you blurted.
His expression shifted slightly, his brows furrowing.
"You're worrying about me?"
You nodded, your eyes still fixed on his.
"Yeah. Yeah, I am."
He shook his head.
"You don't need to worry about me."
"Yes, I do. Because I care about you."
Rick stared at you for a moment. He seemed stunned, and the look on his face made your heart ache.
He let out a small sigh.
"You don't have to," he said, his voice quiet. "I'll be fine."
"You don't have to be the hero all the time, you know," you said. "You can let the rest of us help carry the load."
His eyes searched yours.
"You can't save everyone," you continued. "Sometimes you just have to accept that there are some things that are out of your control."
Rick became silent. You could see the pain and conflict swirling in his eyes. He wanted to accept your words, but the guilt was still eating away at him.
He closed his eyes, and the tension in his body seemed to ease a bit.
"I'm just… tired," he said. "I'm tired of seeing people die. Of losing people."
You placed a hand on his shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze.
"I know," you said. "I'm tired, too."
#the walking dead#rick grimes#rick grimes x reader#the walking dead fandom#rick grimes x you#x reader#reader#twd rick#twd daryl#carol peletier#daryl dixon#female reader#female!reader#rick grimes x female!reader#andrew lincoln#michonne grimes#michonne#carl grimes#judith grimes#shane walsh#angst#hurt/comfort#twd angst#fear the walking dead#twd negan#ftwd#season 5 twd#maggie rhee#tara chambler#glenn rhee
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Thanks For The Sub (ksj) | Chapter One
Pairing: Camboy!Seokjin x Gamer!Reader (afab)
Rating: 18+
Chapter One length: 11-14k 18,371 (OOPS LOL)
Release date: Fri. January 19, 2024.
Genre: Smut, fluff, angst, camboy au, gamer au, comedy, crack, slow burn (?), coworkers/boss/friends to lovers, an exploration of adults in their late 20s/early 30s
Summary: After a clip of you sucking at video games goes viral, you've become somewhat famous, with thousands of subscribers now tuning in each week to see you play. Overnight, you've gone from a sexually frustrated grad student who reads smut in her room to a gamer girl (or rather, a not-gamer girl). This would have been the perfect job, except it was never the job you wanted. Desperate for money to pay for grad school, you bounce between your new gig and working at a local restaurant to pay the bills, where your hot coworker-now-boss Seokjin plays many of the lead roles in your sexual fantasies.
Seokjin, two years post losing his fiancé and job within the same day, is tired of the rut he's dug himself into and wants to start over. Now 30 years old, he's stuck managing his family's restaurant where he harbors an insanely inappropriate crush on you on top of carrying one hell of a secret: Seokjin is also known as Jin, a successful gay-for-pay camboy on the streaming site Worldwide Handsome.
When the stress of the upcoming semester and the pressure to stream becomes more than you can handle, you seek out some much-needed stress relief online, only to discover a man who looks a little too much like your boss is staring right back at you.
Warnings for Chapter One: Swearing, cheating (not between main characters), big age gap between lesser characters that can be uncomfy, sex work, gay sex work when the worker is actually not gay (but everyone is chill about it), <- allusions to queer fetishization bc of this, feelings of shame and guilt, feelings of failure/depression, improper restaurant safety procedures, the existential crisis of your late-20s/30s that we all seem to go through, off-handed references to kpop culture including fanfics because I'm a clown and need to call us out sometimes, silly literary tropes, references to pregnancy (NOT reeader), boss-employee power dynamics, allusions to queer BTS members or relationships, cameos of au Seventeen Members (Wonwoo and y/n are besties). NSFW sex stuff: big dick Seokjin (of course), Seokjin with rolled shirt sleeves and cutting things in a kitchen, Daddy Dom Seokjin makes himself known, blindfolds, camming (obviously), f/m masturbation, lots of dirty talk, sex toys, degradation kink, praise kink, sexual fantasies at the worst moment, kink exploration, a lot cum (sorry), I mention the omegaverse as a joke, a sparkly pink dildo, seokjin has a massive collection of toys and he intends to use them, seokjin and reader are constantly horny, reader is kind of inexperienced, implied exhibitionism kink, implied voyeurism, implied public sex.
a/n: it's here (and longer than I intended but oh well!) this fic is inspired by a combination of fics from the lovely writing community on here, the copious amounts of smut I read, a dabble of my friends or my own experience, & the high drama of kdramas. I felt really compelled to write this fic after rereading "tip 143 (for ∞ seconds of love)" by minilouvre on ao3. I feel like the camboy/person trope is so fun to explore and I wanted to try my own take on it with our Seokjin, who doesn't seem to get as many fics written about him but absolutely deserves it. I also wanted to create space for a fic that explores the weird transition of late 20s-30s that both BTS and I (and maybe many of you) have experienced in the last few years. I hope you enjoy! I keep my inbox open, so lmk your thoughts!
xo - h
That’s it baby cum for me.
Such a good little slut for Daddy.
Wish that dildo was my cock.
Fuck this is so hot.
The tip jar was going wild. The mute button tapped long ago, tonight was by far the most successful night camming Seokjin had ever had. He would definitely be able to afford that new gaming PC after this.
Thank god. After three hours streaming, he was getting tired of riding the glittery pink dildo. It was cute–a Christmas gift from one of his loyal subscribers– but admittedly, he hadn’t prepped well enough before putting it in an hour ago, and when he let out a pained groan as he sank down on it, he immediately knew he would be feeling it tomorrow, and maybe the next day.
His only consolation was the five new top-tier subscriptions he’d received while experiencing searing hot pain. He’d clearly appealed to someone’s kink. Well, there was always something for everyone.
Seokjin knew this well. Today was his two-year anniversary since his first livestream on Worldwide Handsome, an international gay live cam site. During those two years he had seen just about every kink requested, from wax play to autoerotic asphyxiation to something called the omegaverse; he’d sifted through the internet and researched enough on each request to decide which ones he’d be willing to perform, and which kinks were too much outside of his comfort zone.
Now, with an apartment full of gifted costumes and drawers full of just about every type of sex toy known to the human population (and perhaps even some aliens if those toys held any accuracy), it was obvious that Seokjin was a knowledgeable and successful camboy who could fulfill so many men’s fantasies.
Except for the fact that Seokjin wasn’t actually gay.
Which is, as it turns out, also something people are into.
Two Years Ago
It wasn’t that Seokjin ever intended to be a gay sex cam worker, much less a camboy at all, but two years, four months, three weeks, and twelve hours ago, Seokjin hopped on a plane after finishing a week-long conference in Los Angeles. He’d booked the first flight out, eager to come home to his fiancé.
During the week, he hadn’t heard much from her. He understood, of course. She’d mentioned before he left that during that week she would be busy catching up on work and finalizing a really important project with a looming deadline. She’d been stressed about it the morning he left, practically shoving him out the door with his suitcase.
But he missed her desperately, especially with the distance between them, and he was hoping he could regain some of that intimacy by trying phone sex. They’d been having less sex recently, probably from the stress of work, but he still craved her every single day, just like he did when they were in college.
For most of his and Soon Yi’s relationship, they were insatiable. In college, they were known for being embarrassingly public in their displays of affection, with Yoongi once catching them in the kitchen at a party with Soon Yi’s hand down Seokjin’s pants and Seokjin’s hands up Soon Yi’s shirt. At first, Seokjin wondered if he always felt so horny because of his raging hormones and the fact that Soon Yi was the first person he’d had sex with. But even three years later, on the night he’d proposed, they had to leave the restaurant he rented out so they could have sex in the car.
Soon Yi was charming. She matched Seokjin’s wit, always ready to keep up with a joke and take it to the next level. She fit in effortlessly with his group of friends, remembering their birthdays and always showing up with a tiny treat for them, even if they hated celebrating. His parents adored her the moment they met her. She was frequently fawned over when she visited his work to bring him lunch or to just stop by and say hello.
When his boss, Mr. Choi met her during the company’s annual gala, he told Seokjin she was enchanting, she was the moon that lit up the evening sky. Mr. Choi was also incredibly drunk when he said this, but he wasn’t wrong.
Soon Yi glowed through Seokjin’s darkest nights like the moon.
That’s why when she denied every video call request he made during his trip, Seokjin knew something was wrong. He felt desperate and needy, something he’d never experienced during their relationship.
As he laid in his hotel bed, touching himself to their memories, a strange need overtook him: he wanted to remind her that despite all the work stress, they always got through everything together and ultimately, being intimate might help with reconnection.
So at the end of his boring conference, he flew back, planning on surprising her when she got home with a delicious meal and sexy massage. Maybe he’d even use those silly novelty heart-shaped handcuffs Jungkook got him as a gag gift.
He was ready to rekindle his love for the moon.
What Seokjin wasn’t ready for was the fact that when he walked through the door of his house, the only moon he saw was that of Mr. Choi’s naked ass as he thrust into Soon Yi on the dining room table.
As it became immediately apparent, Soon Yi’s “work project” was clearly what was playing out before him as he watched the only woman he’d ever been in love with writhe in ecstasy underneath his much older work superior.
It would have been one thing to lose his fiancé, but in witnessing this entanglement, Seokjin also knew he’d lost his job. Due to the blur of his memory, his brain trying to erase what he’d seen, he wasn’t entirely sure when they realized he was home. However, by the time he had grabbed another duffel with some fresh, non work-related clothes from his dresser–after he breezed past his unmade bed that probably didn’t smell like him anymore–Soon Yi and Mr. Choi were half dressed and sheepishly waiting for him near the entry.
Seokjin couldn’t bring himself to look either of them in the eyes as he stated his resignation letter would be on Mr. Choi’s desk the following morning.
When he arrived at Jimin and Jungkook’s apartment to crash, that’s when reality set in. What would he do now? He had no house to live in, no job to make money from, and he just lost the love of his life.
His head was splitting from the idea of car payments, a mortgage under his name for a place he wouldn’t be living in, having to tell his parents, calling the wedding venue and paying that awful cancellation fee on top of not getting his deposit back. The extra zeros in his bank account were depleting fast and it wasn’t like he would be able to sleep on Jimin and Jungkook’s couch forever.
After two weeks of dodging family phone calls, desperately applying to every job that didn’t sound like a scam, waking up in the middle of the night from the lumpiness of the couch or Jungkook’s horrible snoring, Seokjin felt like he was out of options.
“I’m going to call my parents and tell them. Maybe I can work at the restaurant for the time being while I wait for callbacks. I have some money in my savings for my own apartment. I just can’t keep doing this,” he said.
“Hyung, are you sure? You know that we don’t mind you being here as long as you need. Really, it’s not an issue.” Jimin was gentle as always, the concern on his face knitting his eyebrows together.
But Seokjin knew he was avoiding the inevitable, so when he nodded and then called his parents, their warm voices on the other end felt like a sign he’d made the right decision after all.
The next week, Seokjin began working at his family’s restaurant, filling in for shifts that were short, typically in the kitchen. Chopping and prepping the food for the chefs, dish washing, and anything that kept his hands busy were welcome distractions from the painful reminder of what awaited him outside of the restaurant.
Soon Yi was pregnant. Seokjin found out one day when he stopped by to grab a load of his things to bring to his new apartment. While both he and Soon Yi agreed to sell the house, it appeared she was taking longer than him to pack. He figured this was because she would be moving in with Mr. Choi, who lived in the penthouse of a luxury apartment complex downtown.
During their meeting with the real estate agent, Soon Yi had scribbled her new contact information and mailing address onto some forms with Mr. Choi’s details. Wealthy people always operated on their own timeline, one where they could hire a moving company to have everything neatly packed and stored within hours.
Seokjin, however, was limited to an ongoing loop of back and forth where he crammed his car full of silverware, lamps, and his MapleStory figure collection Soon Yi once mocked him for collecting. As Seokjin continued to pack away his belongings, he saw it. In the guest bathroom outside of the kitchen, there were two positive pregnancy tests in the garbage can.
Soon Yi was pregnant and the father wasn’t him. The last time they’d had sex was three months ago. She would have known by now if that were the case.
A wave of nausea rushed over him, and somewhere between bouts of gagging and wiping tears from his eyes, Seokjin realized that things were truly over.
Two months passed, and still he couldn’t find a job. While the restaurant gig was taking care of some of his bills, it was only a matter of time before Seokjin would be unable to take care of himself. At 28 years old, he’d have to move back in with his parents, which was next to impossible in terms of space, not to mention the fact that his brother and wife were living with them while their apartment was being renovated to better accommodate a life transition of their own: they were expecting their first child.
Given his semi-recent discovery, being around a pregnant woman was something Seokjin didn’t particularly want a reminder of.
“I don’t know what to do. Something has to give,” he said one day as he sat in Yoongi’s living room. A thick coat of snow was covering the earth outside, though from the sweat running down the back of Seokjin’s neck, you would never be able to tell. Yoongi always kept his home at the exact opposite of the climate outside, trying to quell the possibility he would have to experience any physical discomfort if he dared to ever leave his house, which he rarely did.
His friends all sat around him, quietly sipping their whisky or beer while the flashing light from the TV casted a kaleidoscope of colors across the coffee table. Hoseok nudged Taehyung, who’d fallen asleep at some point between the long pauses in conversation. Seokjin couldn’t blame him.
It was late, much later than the invitation Yoongi extended typically lasted, but this meetup was different. Everyone had always known Seokjin to be optimistic. From a goofy dad-joke-making 18 year old until now, he’d consistently been a source of light. When Taehyung’s grandmother died a few years back, it was Seokjin who made him first smile again with a spot-on impression of his own halmoni as they slurped bowls of naengmyeon.
His hair was shaggy and unkempt, his smile fading quickly from his face after cracking a joke. His jokes were also darker, less silly and eye-rolling and more self-deprecating and sarcastic. It was like his life was draining from him before their eyes, and it was becoming nearly impossible to stomach.
But concern doesn’t always lead to action, which is why they were sitting around in Yoongi’s living room hoping the whisky would give them some inspiration to find a solution to Seokjin’s problem that he wouldn’t immediately turn down. They’d scoured job sites together earlier, and anything in Seokjin’s former profession only led to him suggesting his next boss better be a woman or else he might have to keep his future girlfriend away from corporate events or dining tables. Other careers in his field were met with similar disdain.
Seokjin wasn’t always this way. In college, he didn’t know what kind of job he wanted or where he wanted to end up, so he majored in acting, hoping that it would lead him where he would eventually develop some sense of passion.
In a sense it did. During an internship with an entertainment company shortly after he graduated, his attention to detail, natural charisma, and flexibility showcased a skillset he didn’t even know he had, which resulted in him being offered a position in their corporate headquarters the following fall. He’d been there ever since.
But Seokjin didn’t want to return to the same life he’d had. So much of his life up to this point had been the same, and it clearly didn’t work out for him, so why continue on? The only issue was that he once again felt like he was 18, trying to decide on a path to follow when he didn’t even know who he was anymore. Nothing was appealing to him.
“What about video game streaming?” Namjoon suggested. “You love games, and you have all the equipment. You used to talk about doing that all the time.”
“Yeah, hyung. You’re also really good at talking and stuff, so it would be fun to watch you do it!” Taehyung perked up at this suggestion, shaking off his sleepiness to contribute to the conversation. “I’ve seen how much streamers make with all their sponsorships and stuff, they don’t even have to work another job!”
The energy in the room picked up slightly as they waited expectantly for an answer.
Seokjin grunted. “Okay, look. I would love to do that. That’s my dream job. But you’re forgetting something important. Those streamers didn’t just jump on the internet one day and then got thousands of subscribers and sponsorships to pay their bills overnight. Some of them took years to build up their following before they even started making money off of it. A lot of people actually lose money from game streaming. And I need money now. I don’t have that kind of time!”
Taehyung deflated, settling himself back into the couch next to Hoseok, who gave him a tender pat on his thigh.
“But what if…what if you did a kind of streaming that made you money pretty much right away?” Jungkook offered quietly.
Seokjin glanced over at his youngest friend, who was holding his empty whisky glass in his hands instead of looking at him.
“What do you mean? Is there some kind of gaming livestream service that does that?” Now Seojkin was curious.
“Um, well, not for gaming, exactly. I was just thinking. Um, you could always do like an OnlyFans or something? I have a friend who does it and she sometimes makes $1000 a night. And that would take care of–”
“You mean being a camboy? Jungkook, seriously? Listen I know we’ve all had a bit to drink, but that’s a ridiculous idea.” Seokjin snorted. “Besides, the market is flooded with people doing their own sex work. Maybe your friend is just really pretty or something to make that much from it, but I highly doubt I would make any money off OnlyFans because no one would even see me!”
Jungkook nursed his bottom lip between his teeth as he was dismissed, his body mirroring Taehyung as he fell back into the couch cushions.
“Hyung is right,” Jimin added finally, having spent most of the night settled quietly next to an even quieter Yoongi. “He wouldn’t make much money on OnlyFans. All the men on there are either ugly or buff, and Seokjin-hyung looks way too gay to appeal to that market.”
Yoongi, who was sipping his whisky as Jimin spoke, spluttered into the glass as he lost his composure, falling into a fit of laughter. From the other side of the room, Hoseok joined in, clapping and gasping for air between laughs.
“Excuse me? What the hell does that even mean? Yah, stop laughing! It’s not funny!” Seokjin fought the smile that was trying to form on his lips. Okay, it was a little funny.
“Well, hyung, isn’t it obvious? Remember that one time we went to a gay bar and all those guys I tried to pick up tried to pick you up instead?” Jimin sighed as he glanced at Seokjin before reaching across the coffee table to grab a handful of cheese balls.
“We’ve been over this. They weren’t trying to pick me up. They just told me I was really handsome and had fuckable lips. And they’re not wrong!”
“Wait when did you guys go to a gay bar? Where was I?” Yoongi cleared his throat, finally recovering from his laughing fit.
“You didn’t want to come, remember? I don’t know why you’re asking this, you never want to go anywhere. Anyway that’s besides the point. Seokjin-hyung and I went to the gay bar and he stole all of the guys I was hitting on because they wanted to make him their baby girl!”
Hoseok wiped a tear from his eye and chuckled. “Yeah, no, hyung I’m sorry but if Jimin is being passed up at a gay bar for you, you clearly give off that vibe. I can see it. You look all soft and plushy and like you would be the perfect bottom.”
Seokjin tried to fight off the heat that was creeping up his neck into his ears, but after a few glasses of whisky, and the ungodly temperature of the room, it was a failed mission to avoid being flushed.
Jimin shot a glare at Hoseok, who shrugged. “What? I meant it as a compliment!”
“Well, thanks I guess. Now I know I look like I’m gay. That doesn’t seem to solve my problem here!” Seokjin looked over at Namjoon for backup, but all Namjoon seemed to be able to do was give him an apologetic smile.
“No, I know, I know. We got off topic.” Jimin said, “Sort of. Listen, like I said before you wouldn’t be successful on OnlyFans, just because of what they market. But you could always market yourself differently. And I’m thinking, if you really need to make money fast, you could always work with what you’ve got going for you.”
The entire room went silent.
“Wait,” Namjoon said, “you don’t mean…” His eyes flitted to Seokjin and widened in alarm.
Slowly, everyone shifted as they realized what Jimin was suggesting, Seokjin evidently being the last one.
How was he supposed to work with what he had when what he had was apparently drawing a different crowd of people from the one he was interested in? What did Jimin mean by marketing himself differently? Was he supposed to just stream on websites that were exclusively for gay men?
Oh. That’s exactly what Jimin was saying.
“Wh-Jimin what the fuck? You mean I should be a gay camboy? I know we just talked about me being attractive to men, but I’m not interested in them that way!”
Jimin huffed. “Well obviously I know you’re not gay. Otherwise we might not be in this situation.”
Seokjin winced.
“Sorry, that was unfair. It’s just…hyung, you’ve been so not like yourself lately. And you’re right, something needs to change. I know you’re not gay, but this still could help. Haven’t you heard of gay for pay? Like in porn and stuff a bunch of straight actors will fuck each other or some gay guy because it pays more than straight porn. It’s the same thing.”
“Only you don’t have to actually fuck anyone. Maybe you should remind him of that,” Yoongi added.
“Right, exactly! Look, you don’t have to do it. But it could help you get by and pay bills in the meantime until you find something else that you want to do. And there’s a lot of sites where you can stream even once and get a direct payout the next day. It might be worth a shot.”
Seokjin thought about it for a moment. It didn’t sound completely awful. From what he’d seen from the times he saw cam sites out of curiosity, most of what happened was masturbating and talking to people. And he didn’t hate people. But something about it made him nervous.
“I don’t know if I’d be okay with being watched. That seems embarrassing.”
“Oh please, the number of times you and Soon Yi fucked basically in public is astronomical. You’re practically an exhibitionist,” Hoseok teased.
“That was different! I was with her! Now it would be everyone watching just me up close and personal. Namjoon-ah, talk some sense into them. This is crazy, isn’t it?”
“I don’t know if it actually is, hyung,” Namjoon said lightly. “Jimin-ah and Hobi have made some good points. And I think…I think if you weren’t even just a little bit curious you would have immediately said no instead of going back and forth with them over it like how you flat out said no to the other stuff. Maybe you’re feeling a bit shy because it’s been a little while and you are trying to heal through the breakup and stuff, but you also don’t have to do it or you can do it once and change your mind after if you want.
“It just doesn’t seem to me like this is the worst option for you. You get to talk to people, you can maybe have fun. You don’t see the people on the other side anyway, so if you wanted to pretend they were girls instead of guys you could, or turn off the comments probably? It’s not real sex though. And even if it was, is that so wrong? It’s not like you would be cheating on Soon Yi for doing this. I mean-”
“Thanks Hyung! I think we get it!” Jimin interjected, raising his eyebrows at Namjoon as if to say shut the fuck up.
Seokjin felt his stomach sink. Is this why he was panicked at the thought? It wasn’t real sex, but it almost felt like he would be doing something wrong by doing this. Not morally against himself, but someone else. Maybe he was still hanging on to Soon Yi in ways he didn’t fully realize.
He felt almost like a heavy weight was pressing on his chest and forbidding him from moving on. What would happen then if he tried doing this for himself? Would the weight still feel the same? He wanted to know.
“Ah, fine, I’ll think about it.” He looked over at Yoongi, who looked relieved that the conversation was nearing its end. “You have anything to add to this? A final voice of reason?”
Yoongi snorted as he jumped up to stretch. “Nah. Except, as your former roommate, ‘Seok’s got a point about the exhibitionism thing. You were way too into showing me your dick all the time and walking around naked when we roomed together.”
The room erupted into laughter, Seokjin himself joining. This time his smile didn’t immediately fall from his face.
Slowly, everyone else stood, bodies unwinding from furniture and each other. While Jimin ordered Jungkook and himself a taxi, Seokjin waited with him.
“My only issue is, how do I pretend to be gay? Won’t they know I’m not?”
Jimin scoffed as he nudged a sleepy and tipsy Jungkook into his shoes. “I don’t know hyung. You have an acting degree. Use it.”
A few weeks later, Seokjin held his first stream, nervously engaging with the handful of viewers trickling in and tried to deflect the discomfort he felt in his new spotlight.
“Um, hi everyone. My name’s Jin. Thanks for coming. You can probably tell, but this is my first time and I’m really nervous. I hope you enjoy the show.”
Seokjin decided to shorten his name for his streams to help him feel like he was embodying a different persona, someone named Jin who may actually be gay. It wasn’t a big change, but it was nice to give himself some separation from Seokjin, the guy who was doing gay for pay to afford a new life.
Unfortunately, Jimin’s suggestion for Seokjin to act wasn’t as easy to implement as he’d hoped. Within the first half hour, viewers of his stream had noticed he was still nervous, and started asking him questions to get him to unwind, and hopefully undress.
“Ah, yeah, uh, anal. I’ve done it once or twice, it’s nice.” It wasn’t a lie, he’d tried anal a few times with Soon Yi and did find it nice, but he also knew that this wasn’t what the question was asking.
“Do I have a boyfriend? No, I’m single.”
Slowly he began undressing, the heat of his half-truths causing him to feel like he was burning up.
“Are you really gay? Well, what kind of question is that? I’m here aren’t I?”
That question seemed to satisfy his audience for another half hour, until a new thread of people trickled in, asking him the same questions. He was running out of ways to answer.
I don’t care if you’re straight. You’re still hot.
When he read this comment, he exhaled deeply. And from that one reaction, a flurry of others joined in.
Yeah, idc either. You’re still so pretty.
So hot if u were straight. Maybe I’d convert u. ;)
I’d let you put it into my ass and let you pretend it was a pussy.
For some reason, these comments began to fuel him. The attention was kind of nice. It reminded him of how he used to feel.
Maybe he didn’t need to act gay to get what he wanted. Maybe he could just enjoy the pleasure of the compliments and company and see what happened from there? The weight he had been carrying around in his chest was feeling a bit lighter, and the comments were helping distract him from the pinches of guilt that he was doing something wrong. Because he wasn’t.
Here, he was Jin, a sexy, flirty guy who could shine in the sky of his own making.
Jin, the moon.
That’s it. He was the moon.
Present
“That’s it, give it to me. Please, I’m gonna cum.” Seokjin hoped the words he moaned at his camera were true. He was so tired, and he wanted to be free from the stupid dildo.
Lately, Seojkin has been having a hard time cumming on stream. He wasn’t sure why. For so long it had never been an issue, but streaming had begun feeling less like a fun way to relieve stress and more like an actual job.
Never before was he so popular with his stream, and while it’s nice to see a larger deposit being made into his bank account each week, every time he came home from the restaurant and knew he was scheduled to do a cam show, his stomach knotted up with dread.
The last time he felt this feeling was a little over two years ago, when hopping on planes to fly to mundane conferences or sitting in board rooms for morning meetings consumed all his time. Even during the period he was jobless, there was a tiny part of him relishing the fact that the work-related dread was over.
And it returned with a vengeance. Seokjin tried everything, ventured into new kinks and even the game features of the website with the hope that he would feel the rush he used to love from streaming. But nothing really worked. It was now just his job.
He didn’t even want to stream for so long tonight, but because it was his anniversary, he wanted to make sure he ended on a good note to thank his viewers.
One thing Seokjin’s viewers loved was seeing him cum. It was the part of his stream when he always earned the most tips. Jimin had been right.
If Seokjin knew anything now, it’s that he had many assets worth using to finance his life, and his pretty face coupled with his big dick seemed to work for him.
But even as he stroked himself, precum dripping down the head of his cock, and even though he was riding the dildo in a way that would hit his prostate and finally give him an easy out, he could feel the edge pulling away.
“Fuck,” he grunted. He was losing it. He doubled down, rocking his hips to see if hitting a different sweet spot would do the trick. But it was to no avail; his cock was softening.
On his nightstand, his phone pinged, which only could mean one thing. Seokjin always turned his do not disturb mode on during his work hours, only allowing phone calls from his family or one alert from an app to pierce through the silence. This one was the alert.
It meant Y/N was online and you had just started a live stream of your own.
You were one of this month’s top gaming streamers, bringing in more viewers than Seokjin had ever received during his top months of streaming. You were popular not because you were good, but because you were the exact opposite.
You were awful at most games you played, jolting at jumpscares over and over, losing in first rounds of Fall Guys or Dead by Daylight. One time you jumped into a game of Fortnite and were eliminated by a potty-mouthed child the second you landed. Your jaw hung open as the tiny, high pitched voice called you a bitchass before falling into a fit of laughter that had Seokjin himself in tears.
You were inspiring. Sexy. You received dozens of comments every stream about how pretty you were or how great your laugh was, which you often didn’t read out loud but always offered a humble nod and show of thanks when you did. There was something about you that hit up the world around you, and though he wouldn’t so much as utter it out loud, Seokjin had a massive crush on you.
But Seokjin was also sort-of-not-really your manager. Unlike all the people pining over you in your comment section wishing they knew you in real life, Seokjin actually did. He saw you three times a week at his family’s restaurant that he was strong-armed into managing while his parents took the opportunity to finally travel and see other parts of the world.
Seokjin stayed, not because he needed the money. Not that his pay was all that much anyway.
Camming was incredibly lucrative for him, cementing his income in a way that allowed him to pay rent in a very nice apartment downtown. Seokjin was also someone who had always been smart with his finances and knew how to invest in the best trends.
When his house with Yoon Si finally sold (after four months of her taking her sweet time to gather her last belongings and sign off on him putting it on the market), Seokjin took his cut and applied it toward a better streaming setup and some lower level stocks…and a special edition MapleStory figurine to celebrate the new chapter in his life.
Seokjin’s family never seemed to question how he was able to afford his fancy apartment given how much money he made at their business. Well, they did ask once, but Seokjin orchestrated some simple lie saying he worked in cryptocurrency, and that seemed to be enough of an explanation for his family. No one wants to know how crypto works, which in the end worked in his favor.
He’d planned to leave the restaurant about 8 months ago, but then you showed up one day asking about a job. The restaurant was within walking distance to your university, where you were getting your master’s degree in early childhood education. While the program you were enrolled in had some funding, you’d told Seokjin’s mother you were a student and in need of work. The following Monday, Seokjin walked in and found you with an apron tied around your waist, your bright eyes and smile shining back at him. He couldn’t bring himself to leave after that.
A few months after you’d started working there, Seokjin and you had become somewhat friends, sharing stories about past jobs (minus some key details on Seokjin’s part), student observations you had to do for school, and your interests. You mentioned casually you were a livestreamer for gaming, never alluding to how popular you actually were.
Eventually, Seokjin convinced you to give him your username, batting his eyelashes dramatically and promising he would be your cheerleader. For some reason, that seemed to work, and later that night, Seokjin tuned in to your stream, one man among the thousands. From that moment on he let his crush become a safe thing where, like his own viewers, he could fantasize from behind a screen. Maybe soon he would actually ask you out on a date, taking your coworker relationship and transforming it into something more.
And then a month ago his parents left, leaving him with the roles and responsibility of manager. Which meant he was an authority figure who could arguably do whatever he wanted. Similar to how his boss in a way was an authority figure who could get whatever he wanted. That idea turned Seokjin’s stomach sour. He could never do anything about this crush now, not while you worked underneath him. It was too familiar and distorted, and he never wanted you to be in the position he was once in. It was completely inappropriate.
But try telling his dick that.
Two days ago, Seokjin witnessed you in the kitchen bending over to pick up onion peels that had fallen to the ground. You definitely weren’t aware, but your skirt had ridden up a bit while you were working, and that meant he could see a tiniest delicate trim of lace on your blush colored panties.
And despite the fact that Seokjin was 30 years old and had believed he’d gotten past his boner-in-public-just-from-seeing-underwear era during his teen years, he was evidently wrong. Because those panties and soft looking curve of ass didn’t just belong to anyone; they belonged to you.
This wasn’t the only time he got hard for you at work. Sometimes on days when there were no customers, he would watch you study at one of the tables, where you were prone to stretching your body after long periods of staring down, trying to unknot the tense muscles caused by sitting almost completely still as you tried to comprehend what you were reading.
During those stretches, you would often let out the most sexual moans and sighs as you felt relief and it was enough to have Seokjin tucking himself under his belt like a horny school boy. God, what he would do to hear you moan underneath him, because of him.
He thought about recording you stretching. He was addicted to your voice, your soft sighs. It would be so easy to just “leave” his phone in the booth behind you. Then he could hear it forever while he imagined what else made you moan. Did you like your nipples sucked? Did you sigh when you were being stretched open and felt full? How did you taste?
And then Seokjin pulled himself together and realized how sickeningly perverted he was to be thinking about you like this as he stood hard and aching in the middle of his parents’ fucking restaurant.
He wanted you. So much so that now as he worked his cock in his fist, he let himself fall more into fantasy, one where you were watching, curious about the many toys and gifts around his apartment, wondering how you could reach the limits of what you wanted and needed to make you scream. He imagined that across town, you weren’t firing up your computer for a night of cozy games, but rubbing your pussy at the same speed he was stroking himself, wet and begging for him to cum all over those gorgeous tits, that wet tongue–
Seokjin groaned as he came, his entire body trembling as a thick load erupted all over his hands, chin, and chest. Normally he could control the direction to minimize the mess but this orgasm caught him a bit off guard, almost completely lost until it crept up with a burning need and coated him. He hadn’t felt that good in a while.
As he panted and focused his eyes back onto the screen, his comments were flooded with praise and tips, viewers exclaiming how this might have been his best orgasm they’ve ever seen, which was saying a lot considering some of his subscribers had been with him from the very beginning, and there had been some pretty fantastic orgasms.
He wouldn’t deny it, though. He felt looser in his joints, calm washing over him and breaking apart the bitterness that was in his gut from how lackluster streaming had been recently. He wiped his chin with a grin and reached for the towel next to him, ready to wrap up his show. As he delivered his thank yous, one comment drifting through the chat stopped him dead in his tracks. His post-orgasmic high was crashing as panic flittered into his stomach.
Did you guys hear him moaning a name as he came? Who the fuck is Y/N?
She had to leave. If the king couldn’t overcome his malice, she knew she couldn’t stay. No amount of love she had for his son was going to make him see that. She’d told him she loved him despite the scar that ran over his left eye and down his soft cheek. She vowed to be good enough to marry him, do whatever it took. Yet the king and queen had laughed at her, had their guard hold his foot on her back so she couldn't stand up from her deep bow.
Laughed as they stood from their thrones to welcome the guest’s arrival: the consort for their son. The prince stood with them, silent as he followed them through the open doors. Quiet like how he used to be back in the first days of when she met him last summer. In memory, she couldn’t even fathom how he was anything like the man she’d grown to love. Yet, looking up from the pulp of the floor, she’d seen him return to that man.
Hadn’t the days she’d spent walking those palace gardens with him been enough? They’d stood together under the plum blossom tree in the middle of winter and he’d promised that he would love her even while the buds were hibernating.
“We can watch them become flowers together in the spring,” he’d said.
He had taken her to his bed that night. Used his sensuous tongue to lap at her sweet nectar. He devoured her heart and soul. Climaxed with her and held her through the heavy snow.
Where was that man now? She didn’t know.
She waited until well after nightfall, when even the latest bird twitterings were silenced by the call of sleep. She knew she couldn’t bring much, but she managed to slip into the kitchen after dinner to pull together a few scraps for the road. Where would she even go? The nearest village was at least a two-day walk and if he sent his men for her, she knew word would spread before she’d even arrived.
Unless he didn’t send anyone for her, she realized, her stomach dropping with nausea. He wouldn’t send anyone for her. She knew this. It’s why Prince August stood in the throne room, lethal as ever, even with no sword in his belt. August. Sugar. Whichever person he decided he was in the moment. Her nickname for him didn’t matter anymore. He wasn’t sweet. His desire for power showed the bitterness in his heart. He had given in to his parents’ wishes, despite the times he swore he would never give them the satisfaction.
He was cruel. But even worse, she believed he wouldn’t be. She was a fool.
It was the darkest part of the night when she left the servant’s quarters. She’d miss the ladies and all their kindness, but she knew she couldn’t serve August his breakfast in his bedchamber after this. After knowing that the sheets she once laid in with him were now being laid in by someone else.
She took the back route, near the interior of the garden, ducking behind the ornamental shrubs and skirting past the watchpost the guards usually abandoned at this hour with ease. All that was left was to make it through the courtyard and she would be free.
She padded her way along the path. A light breeze of the pre-dawn was catching, fluttering the branches of the newly blossoming trees around her and blowing petals in their wake. She caught one in her fingertips and fought a sob. Plum blossoms.
Should she take one with her? For the memory? So that she could always have a part of him with her?
No, she decided. It would be too much to remember this. Once she passed through those gates, she would not be the same woman she was. Holding her breath, she let the petal go, hoping wherever the wind carried it, it would find the peace she too was looking for. It swept to the end of the courtyard, over the gate that was now her future.
This was a sign, she mourned. Not all promises were meant to be kept.
With a final look at the place she’d learned to call home, the man she’d learned to call home, she opened the gate, ready to forge into the unknown.
“Petal,” she thought she heard his call, his nickname for her. Though when she turned around, he was nowhere to be found.
She must’ve imagined it, wished for the impossible. As she took steps through the gate, she looked out at the world around her, the plum petal a few feet in front of her. Maybe she would take a piece of him with her, after all. It was too tempting not to.
She moved, trying to ignore the tug she felt back toward the palace, the invisible string of fate she thought that tied her to August trying to tangle her back in. She wouldn’t do it. She wouldn’t go back.
She bent down, clutching the petal tenderly in her palms and letting the first tears fall.
“So that’s it, hm? After all that, you weren’t even going to wish me goodbye.”
She rose swiftly, whipping around to the voice’s owner.
There, leaning against the outer palace wall, was August.
The alarm on your phone chimes, pulling you from the book in your lap. You’ve been reading all afternoon, the sun now taking its final bow before plunging the world into darkness. Soon you’ll have to turn the lights on, then it will be time for work. On your only day off.
You groan, stretching your neck as you allow yourself to come back to reality.
To some, it would be hard to call your job “work”. Many people dreamed of being professional game streamers. Who wouldn’t want to be paid to sit online, play games, and talk to people?
You don’t. That’s the problem.
Your ascent into gaming stardom was a fluke. About 9 months ago, you were in between semesters for your grad program and looking for ways to unwind. Your oldest friend, Wonwoo, was a pretty successful streamer who often hosted game nights to play with his viewers and friends.
You frequently watched his streams, letting his soft voice be the perfect background noise as you studied and formulated the next lesson plan or behavioral assessment. You’d known Wonwoo for what felt like forever at this point, being his first subscriber, first moderator, and first kiss (not in that order). But your middle school kiss outside of the convenience store never led to anything more than that, as desperately as you’d wanted it to.
Once he moved across the country, you let your crush die with the distance. The years turned faster and your twenties were spinning by with the revolving door of lovers you’d watch him pine over, cry over, and in one case, almost marry. Streaming then became one of your main forms of connection, and your role as his moderator tied some part of you to him out of loyalty. To imagine him as anything other than a friend now feels ridiculous.
But that loyalty you have is also to a fault. When Wonwoo’s usual streaming friends bailed one night during a tournament, you subbed in…for a game you didn’t even know how to play.
And to make matters worse, this was a game that required talking to each other on-stream, which meant you not only sucked major ass at this game, but Wonwoo’s 700 viewers that day were also subjected to your constant frustrated squeaks, swears, and embarrassed maws as you tried to key-smash your way to victory but ended up throwing the entire team’s game with your incompetence.
Wonwoo wasn’t mad, though many others were. He knew what he was getting into when he agreed, and his streams operated with very few rules: no hate, no spam, and we are in this to have fun. And he did have fun. By the time the first round was over, he and most of the chat were losing it over your commentary.
As he wiped tears from eyes and took in a breath, he read his comments. “‘Damn, I never heard a chick threaten someone with a plunger like that before’. Yeah, I’ll give it to you, Y/N, you got really creative with your insults in that. Hey, PartyShitty thanks for the sub! ‘I can’t BREATHE’, yeah I’m still trying to get it together. W00000000000000000ziiiiii–damn that’s a lot of zeros in that username–thanks for the 5000 points! ‘Is she hot’ uh, I mean, I don’t—
“Oh shit, LetsGetIt15, thank you for gifting twenty subs! ‘Please, Y/N, start your own channel. I’ll be the first subscriber.’ Actually, no, I’ll be. But really, that's not a bad idea.”
Wonwoo navigated the rest of his stream with ease that night, but after it was over, he called you to try to convince you to start your own channel.
“It could help with school at least! Or you could get that special edition of that one book you like with the dragons or the blue alien porn stars or whatever it is.”
“They’re neither of those things, they’re actually–”
“Whatever they are! The book that has people fucking nonstop and some plot. You know, the special edition cover that you keep talking about in your close friend story that you won’t buy?” Wonwoo said. “The point is, if you start streaming you could finally buy it and then stop talking about it and I won’t need to see sections about how hot you think their alien or fairytale or demon whatever cocks are.”
You couldn’t help but laugh at his exasperation. “That won’t stop with me getting that book, just so you know. And if it bothers you so much, I can take you out of the close friend story. I didn’t even know you looked at my stories that much.” You didn’t know he still used Instagram at all actually. He very rarely posted. He mostly lived on his Discord channel talking about games with his subscribers or other friends.
Regardless, it was nice to know that he was trying to be aware of your interests, even if it was incredibly embarrassing. Although the copious amount of smut you read wasn’t something you always wanted to broadcast to the public, you’d still made some friends from online book communities over the last few years and enjoyed keeping them in the loop of your reading list.
Also, Wonwoo had a point. Streaming could help paying some of your school expenses…or get you more books. You told him you’d think about it, and while you weren’t completely in love with the idea of streaming, it did provide you with some steady income until you landed your job at the restaurant.
After that conversation, you haven’t discussed smut or cocks since, and you’re honestly relieved, not because Wonwoo is hard to talk to about things, but because you are. Which is why streaming always feels a little uncomfortable and your position ironic, because you can barely have conversations successfully unless you really know the person to ramble about your interests to, or you can occasionally eke by with small talk.
But streaming requires the spotlight being on you in some way at all times. It’s your face that is fixed to the corner of the screen, monitoring your every reaction. It’s your voice that echoes into the mic and responds to your chat. Sure, you have mods and some streamers don’t interact with their chat at all, but you don’t want to be like that. You’ve been on the other side before, and know that most people are just lonely and looking for connection. .
From the moment you decided to do this, you were aware that because you were now a “gamer girl” you would be subjected to the three extremes of the comment section: chronic oversharers who tell strangers all their personal baggage perhaps in the hope that you will assume some role of therapist to them, people coming to insult your gaming (which is the point so that can’t impact you) or physical appearance, or sexually explicit comments.
Over the months, you’ve seen many things flitting by on the screen, deleted in haste by your trusty mod squad, but it doesn’t stop the fact that you still see them.
Those things you can handle. They are impersonal and a direct copy-paste of the same thing.
But when people compliment you? That makes you want to bury yourself under your covers and never come out. Because the compliments are always personal and touching a part of you that is authentic.
The people in your chat want to know you. They want to know what kind of music you like, your favorite foods and books. They ask if you have a boyfriend or girlfriend or partner, compliment your hair or the shirt you’re wearing or your gaming setup. It feels intimate. Almost like you could find these people and touch them and let them know you.
But they can’t. Because the only thing that drew them to you, the part where you’re this funny, positive gamer chick who sucks at video games but is down for whatever, isn’t real.
Spring Day Streams Y/N is a persona. You don’t stream because you’re her. You stream because you have to be her in order to survive.
And now she’s taking up more time. Last month’s streams landed you Streamer of the Month, which thanks to the exposure, brought dozens of new subscribers and thousands of points, and that helped take care of some of your expenses for the new semester. Some. You’re still behind on your credit card bill.
Also, more people means more expectations for streaming. So you’ve kicked up your streaming schedule from twice weekly to three times a week, with you occasionally hopping onto Wonwoo’s channel even if you aren’t streaming to mod.
When you aren’t glued to your computer, you’re usually at the restaurant, in a cramped kitchen where you do the prep work, often alongside him, your sexy coworker-but-now-boss, Seokjin.
The man you are quietly obsessed with. You can’t think about Kim Seokjin without thinking about all the positions you want him to fuck you in.
Which is also why you’ve been devouring books lately. When you’re home, you throw all your energy into the escapism they provide, especially ones where you can get yourself off to whatever fantasy Seokjin effortlessly slips into.
For every hot mob boss, corrupt CEO, longterm best friend, dragon-rider, fairy, demon, alien, ghost, or hockey playing love interest you can find, Seokjin is sure to fill the role. A hot merman looking for someone to help him grow legs and something else? Seokjin. A Grinch who inherits his family’s Christmas tree farm and discovers how much he loves to ho ho ho? Seokjin. A god who tears apart the underworld to find his lost lover, and then during the reunion fucks her on the throne of Satan while she wears the crown? All Seokjin.
Unfortunately, his transition from co worker to boss has made your fantasies all the more dirty.
It’s been incredibly difficult for you to handle the fact that any flirtation you two previously shared in the months before he was your boss can no longer continue. But it’s also incredibly hot.
Fantasies of him eating you out on the counter have been replaced with the fantasy of him shoving you in the back office and fucking you on the desk while wearing one of those perfect-fitting dress shirts he often parades around in.
And when he rolls up the sleeves to help in the kitchen? Fuck, it’s humiliating how wet you get.
The entire thing is pathetic really. He’s just standing there half the time, lecturing everyone on proper kitchen hygiene and ensuring one of the cooks doesn’t use expired seasonings for his eomma’s secret sauce.
And you’re standing next to him clenching your thighs together because when you’re this close, you can just make out the freshness of his cologne and feel the heat of his body close to yours.
When someone fucks up, he has a tendency to take over, chopping with unmatched precision and self assurance, trying to keep his voice even and usually failing as everything builds in intensity until he’s accidentally speaking at a million miles an hour and lecturing until his face turns red.
If someone were to pass by the shop, they’d probably mistake his shouting for anger, but you’ve come to understand Seokjin is just passionate about things. Usually when he comes down from his tangent, he’s embarrassed and apologizes, and not long after the entire staff is laughing along with him as he cracks a joke at himself for his inability to tone it down.
Which to you makes him even hotter. Seokjin is able to see his faults and work with them, not against them. He holds himself accountable. He’s nothing like the haughty men you’ve gone on brief dinners with after downloading dating apps for the hundredth time while you’re drunk. He’s actually funny, knowing the right way to use humor and tell jokes, never at someone else’s expense, and definitely without being disgustingly crude.
All those clowns you suffered through drinks with always made comments and digs at other women or referenced their cock like they were setting up some goofy scene from porn and you would find it hilarious and endearing.
Seokjin isn’t like that at all. He probably refers to his dick as a penis and would blush to high heavens if he knew how horny you are for him. He’s unwound you, and he has no clue. Maybe if it hadn’t been literal years since you’ve last had sex you could tone it down.
With working all the time and going to school, it’s already been hard to even go on singular dates here and there. And since the prospects were frankly awful, sex is just something that has had to go onto the back burner for a bit, but you seemed to scorch the fucking pan by forgetting to turn the heat off and now you are burning and hungry.
With a final sigh, you put the book down, annoyed that you didn’t have time to finish it today or at least get to a good part where you could insert yourself into the role of the palace servant and Seokjin as the Prince. Based on the reviews, there’s sure to be a hot sex scene coming up involving using a sword in a particular way that has piqued your curiosity.
In a moment of depravity earlier, you’d snaked one hand down the front of your panties to rub a few damp fingers around your clit to take the edge off.
You check the time on your phone, already aware that you don’t have time to cum before streaming. You already hit the snooze button twice. The spicy stuff will have to wait.
Defeated, you stand up, turning on the lights in your apartment as the sun finally fades away and the dark creeps in. You eat a bowl of cereal while doing your makeup, what little of it you want to put on. Finally, you fire up your PC, trying to ignore the irritation you’re already experiencing from being so high strung and unsatisfied.
The second this stream is over, you’re going to make sure you cum until you pass out. Until then, it’s time for work.
“At what point am I supposed to become good at this again?” You ask Seokjin as you attempt (and fail) to julienne carrots.
When you arrived at work at an ungodly hour this morning to prep for the weekend rush, Seokjin had already started the coffee.
Your empty cup now idles next to your scrap pile of too-wide carrot blocks that’ll have to be pulverized by the blender and repurposed in another recipe.
Seokjin chuckles as he buzzes about the kitchen, reaching tenderly around you to grab your mug for a refill.
“That all depends on how much you practice.”
“So should I expect a large carton of carrots to be delivered to my home this evening with the instructions to have them julienned by Monday?” You tease, as you split another carrot down the center, half of it flinging off the prep counter and onto the floor.
Seokjin smirks and bends down. He picks up the carrot and deposits it into the garbage bin. “Two cartons, actually. Given how many carrots we’ve lost already today, I need to make sure at least some of our inventory lands on the customer’s plate and not just into the trash.”
“How considerate of you,” you chide, and put down the knife, reaching out to accept your newly filled coffee mug. Seokjin’s hands are red from the constant washing and chopping of potatoes, which you recently learned he’s allergic to.
As well as garlic, and you’ve already voluntarily peeled and minced that for the day. That much you can do without guidance, but anything besides your imprecise chopping is on the list of knife skills Seokjin wants you to improve upon.
This is fair, given how dangerous your previous cutting methods have been. Once Seokjin saw the way you tried to stab at a watermelon, it was over. Now you often come in an hour and a half early before each shift to practice.
And to also be alone with Seokjin before he is forced from the kitchen to deal with other duties.
“Thank you,” you say, as you take the first warm sip and shiver. It’s freezing outside, and it’s only supposed to get worse.
There’s snow forecasted for the weekend, which could mean one of two things: everyone stays home and avoids driving, or they all leave the house in one show of silent agreement and fill every nook and cranny of the restaurant to order bowls of sundubu jjigae or crisp and hot pajeon.
Seokjin predicts that because a warm front is moving in afterward, people will utilize one of the only days of snow you’ll likely get this winter to gather together.
Valentine’s Day is soon, and the city has started to prepare. Storefronts have begun switching out new year sale signs for pink and red heart motifs, with spas and restaurants offering couple specials. The perfumeries have moved from campaigns advertising the perfect Christmas gift to ones of sexy, decadent colognes sure to transform a man into his inner beast.
And then there’s the chocolate. It’s like the air in the neighborhood the restaurant resides in smells different, less greasy and grimy and more sweet. Everywhere you turn there’s pastries, cakes, bonbons, crepes, chocolate dipped nuts and other confections that just looking at makes your teeth sore.
With the district washing itself in a pink glow, more and more couples have been braving the cold, landing in the restaurant after weighing themselves down with shopping bags.
You’ve seen what’s in them, often tripping over or kicking at least one bag each shift while you attempt to bring an order to the table and spilling the contents. This year seems to be popular for matching couple outfits. You’ve seen a lot of pairs in their early twenties wearing or recently acquiring sweaters that have the same characters or color combinations. With the temperatures dipping into a bitter chill this week, some have elected to wear cute but inconvenient sets of mittens that allow them to hold hands as they stroll.
When it snows in the city, the world gets quieter, cleaner. Even if people shuffle around in the bustle of novelty experiences, how they show their love, from brushing the snow off each other’s coats or taking kissing selfies in front of snow fallen trees, it always makes you feel a little softer, a little more at peace.
Snow is really romantic.
“What?” Seokjin asks, which alerts you to the fact that you’ve been staring at him as you let your thoughts run, a dopey grin splattered across your face.
“Oh, sorry, I was just thinking about how much I love the snow.” You break eye contact, feeling the heat of embarrassment flood your cheeks.
“Ah, yeah. It’s supposed to start soon,” he looks at you thoughtfully before looking back down at the tofu blocks he’s draining.
A silence falls on you, the once normal pause now becoming a bit awkward.
“What do–”
“I just–”
You both stumble over each other, trying to fill the unnatural pause you’ve reached, which has you laughing and Seokjin cracking a wide grin.
“What were you going to say?” he asks, and then motions for you to get back to your carrot desecrating.
“Ah nothing. You were going to ask something?”
You slice a carrot, this time less match stick and more shaved. Damn.
“Oh, um. I was going to ask you what you like about the snow. That thought kind of came from nowhere and I was trying to follow.” His voice is careful, as if he’s trying not to offend you. Is he nervous?
Your mouth draws into a thin line. Can you risk saying what you were just thinking? Is it inappropriate to talk about romance in front of your boss, who you’ve thought about kissing in the snow at least three times a day? You don’t want to make him uncomfortable. You’re aware of the ways in which Seokjin’s new position of authority weighs on him.
While he’s always had more authority due to being the owners’ son, it isn’t like Seokjin walked around the place with a power complex before his promotion. You two had become something akin to friends in the months you’ve worked together, falling into occasional flirty banter as you shuffled around each other to mop floors or wash dishes.
You know he used to work for a large company a few years ago but quit to help his family with their restaurant. You also know he loves MapleStory and is always showing you his newest splurge from their online shop or the latest piece to his collection.
He doesn’t have any pets, but sometimes debates getting a dog and then when shown support, he dismisses it with boisterous laughter, talking about how he doesn’t have the time and if he ever wants to get a dog, he will have to buy a house. Usually once he lands on discussions of a house, he gets a little more quiet, perhaps a bit sad.
He has an older brother who has one child and another on the way, a major reason for his parents’ decision to travel now, before the new baby arrives. His brother and brother’s wife have visited a few times while you were working, but Seokjin’s mother had mentioned that her son and his wife recently moved into a new house outside of the city, and with the new addition joining sometime in the spring, it can be a bit exhausting to pack up the car for a few hours of visiting time.
While you haven’t experienced Seokjin as an uncle, you know how much he loves being one, excusing himself from the front of the shop to Facetime with his nephew from the back office, where you can hear his voice carry with high pitched impressions and jokes or random songs he babbles to the youngest Kim.
Knowing him in this way feels a bit awkward now that he’s the one signing your paychecks. Since his transition, he’s been a bit more formal with you, you assume trying to be respectful and professional.
You understand where he’s coming from, but you miss the past connection you two had formed. And that seems to dictate your response.
“I like how romantic snow is. How it not only makes the lights twinkle more, but how people do cute things in it. Snowball fights, drinking hot chocolate, building snowmen. They change their behaviors for the snow. To celebrate love in it. Last time it snowed here, I saw one girl push her boyfriend into a snowbank.”
Seokjin laughs as he begins popping the tofu blocks into containers. “That sounds awful,” he says.
Your heart plummets. “Oh,” you squeak.
His head darts up to catch your expression and his eyes flash. “Oh, no no! Not like that. I mean, being pushed into the snowbank. That poor guy was probably soaking wet and freezing after that!” He waves his knife in his hand wildly with his gesture and then quickly deposits it into a sheath before stepping over to your workstation. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean for it to come out that way.”
You recover. “Oh he was. He also got his revenge by pulling her in with him. And she wasn’t even wearing a coat.”
You watch Seokjin’s tense shoulders relax. His broad frame is so close now, towering over you. He smells a little like the earthy starch of potatoes, but you like it.
“I, uh,” he says, his voice becoming more raw. “I like the snow too. You’re right, it is romantic in a way. The snowflakes getting caught in your hair, you huddle closer to someone to share body heat, it’s nice.”
As if on cue, your bodies inch a little closer to each other. Seokjin reaches his arm forward, brushing along yours as he grasps one edge of the workstation to lean in.
“Yeah,” you reply lamely.
You blink up at him and he smiles back. You both sit there for a moment, neither of you moving, just studying the other’s expression.
Then, he leans in.
Your breath catches, and his other arm lifts up above you on the other side, caging you to the workstation.
Your eyes close from the intensity. He’s so close that you feel the fabric of his rolled shirt sleeve graze against your cheek.
All it would take is him leaning in and searing his lips onto yours and you would fold for him. You know this.
This is what you often fantasize about, the two of you in this position. That’s the power he has over you, his smooth seduction, your willingness.
If he asked you right now, you would strip down and bend over this workstation, let him fuck you with your nipples brushing against the cold steel of the counter, carrot shavings squishing against your face as he impales you with his cock.
It would be so easy, he just needs to ask you.
“Y/N,” he says, a bit more distant now, but you shudder at how roughly he says your name.
“Mm?” you hum, forcing your eyes to reopen. Seokjin has pulled away from you. How long has he been just looking at you standing here with your eyes closed?
“Turn around,” he says.
Wait, what?
You stare back at him blankly. Is he reading your mind?
Seokjin rolls his eyes and laughs, holding up the package of dried seaweed that was above you on the shelf. He tosses it on the counter behind him.
“Are you still here or did I lose you? I said turn around.” You freeze, confused.
He did all that to reach above you for some seaweed? Is he fucking with you? And what does he want you to turn around for?
“Wha–”
You open your mouth to ask but Seokjin moves in, his hands on your wrists as he takes you and spins you around so you’re up against your workstation, his stomach resting on your back as you stand sandwiched against him and the cold counter. You clench your thighs, suddenly aware that you are wet.
Fuck.
“You need to focus,” he says low in your ear. You take a shaky breath.
Focus. How are you supposed to focus when you imagined this exact scenario exactly one minute ago?
“I, what?” Your words fail you as you stand there, stunned and aroused but also completely confused about what he wants from you. This entire situation is a mindfuck.
Seokjin’s hands leave your wrists and make their way to your hands as he moves you like a puppet.
“Y/N, were you even paying attention? We just went over this. God, I swear, I’ve told you. You need to be present in the kitchen space. You’re lucky I resheathed the knife for you while you were on another planet. You could have easily gotten hurt.” Seokjin scolds you overhead.
Oh. You look to the right and see the kitchen knife you were using back in its protective shell and not where you left it, which, come to think of it, was incredibly close to where your hands were now on the counter under Seokjin’s. Yikes.
“Sorry,” you mutter, feeling a prick of shame seeping through the fog. Seokjin isn’t trying to fuck you against the counter; he’s trying to make sure you don’t cut your finger off.
He tuts above you, his grip still firm as he directs you to the uncut carrots and chopping board.
“Tsk, honestly. You’re ridiculous. What am I going to do if my best girl is hospitalized after losing her hand because she’s too busy daydreaming about snow storms instead of having basic kitchen awareness? You know, I could send you home over this. Make you unable to come back until you rewatch those kitchen safety videos with the fake blood and awful actors. Seriously.”
You shiver at his words. He’s so busy setting up for a rant, you almost miss it.
“Your best girl?” You ask lightly.
Seokjin stills, your joined hands hovering over the cutting board. “Oh, uh. You know what I mean. You’re the best….girl we have on staff. You know.”
You don’t. You’re far from the best girl on staff. Seha has a degree in culinary arts. She’s usually the one who has everything prepped days ahead with perfectly formed cuts. She manages the kitchen cleanliness with rigidness. She even barks orders at Seokjin when he’s in the kitchen because he isn’t as clean as her.
If she wasn’t out with the flu, none of this work would even need to be done. Maybe Seokjin is getting sick too. He’s been feverish looking and a little uneasy around you all morning, and clearly he’s now being delusional.
“Ah,” you concede, and give your hands a shake to urge him to continue.
“Right, anyway. You’re getting better at your cuts, but I’m losing money quickly with all your sacrifices to the floor goblins. And we don’t have much time left before the others start coming in, so let’s finish this up.”
You let Seokjin guide you, literally hand-over-hand, as he restructures your positioning on the knife and angle of the blade to slice through the carrots a lot more cleanly and easily.
“That’s it, good. You’re doing such a good job,” he breathes.
You feel his exhale along your spine. God, you’re a pervert. He’s just trying to help you better yourself, and all you’re thinking about is how dominating he seems right now and how much you want to please him.
God, if he calls you a good girl you know you’re going to moan audibly. That’s how bad he’s got you.
You keep working, and once you get the hang of it, Seokjin’s grip loosens, allowing you to finish the bag by yourself. But his hands are still on yours, even if you’re the one in control.
After a while though, it’s becoming too much to handle. Him bent over you like this is limiting your range of motion, making it hard to wipe the sweat on your hands or move your scrap pile further down the counter.
He’s also a human furnace, the space between you still so limited that you’ve begun sweating under him.
In one particular cut of carrot, the sweat caused by the joint heat of your hands causes you to lose your grip, shooting it down onto the floor.
Reflexively, you reach down to grab it, but with Seokjin still attached to you, it proves to be an immediate disaster.
You throw your body into a bend, which forces you back, your ass grinding directly into Seokjin and being met with something very large.
You gasp and Seokjin grunts, swiftly releasing your hands, which are actually balancing you in your bend.
You fall forward, smacking your head into the edge of the counter as you go down.
The kitchen echoes with an embarrassing clang as your forehead ricochets off the metal.
“Fuck,” you groan, a sharp pain shooting through you..
You scramble to recover, one hand going to your head as you steady yourself, rubbing the soreness. Seokjin flails above you, panicked.
“Oh shit! Y/N I’m so sorry! Oh my god. Are you okay? I shouldn’t have let go, I just was–” Seokjin rambles as you stare up at him, trying to get him to steel himself.
“No, fuck, ouch, it’s okay! I’m okay. Seokjin, can you please just get me some ice and help me up?” You aren’t sure you can get yourself up as your vision swirls from the heat of the pain. You really went down hard.
Seokjin ceases his flailing and shouting, leaning down and picking your body up off the floor with impressive strength and carrying you to a clean workstation in the center of the room. He sits you on top of it, making you now almost his height.
Holy shit.
Once sure you’re not at risk of flopping over, he walks over to the ice maker with a clean kitchen cloth and folds some ice cubes inside.
You reach for the cloth, but he refuses to hand it over.
“Yah! No. Please let me do this, I can see the bump forming already. I’m the one who caused your injury.” He gingerly lays the cold cloth against your head. You wince.
“‘Snot your fault,” you pout, trying to ignore the pain. “It was an accident. No one caused it.”
Seokjin sighs and places his free hand behind your head, discouraging you from angling away like you’ve subconsciously been doing.
“It is my fault. I let go of you. After just lecturing you about kitchen safety. God, what kind of example am I setting? I’m really sucking at this boss thing.”
You reach up, placing your hand on Seokjin’s wrist to remove it from the ice. But he doesn’t relent. You keep your hold.
“Seokjin, you’re not a bad boss. God you’re literally the opposite. Everyone here loves you. You’ve only been the manager for a little while. Give yourself some time. And keep in mind both of your parents ran this place, and now it’s down to just you.”
You feel the tendons under his wrist adjust, his grip a little looser. Seokjin’s wrists are soft and tan, a thin coating of hair trailing up his forearms and under his sleeve. Your grip loosens too, and you let your thumb brush back and forth through the hair.
“Yeah, well, I wasn’t supposed to be the manager. My brother was supposed to manage the restaurant when my parents were ready to retire. That was always the plan, anyway. But things change. When they were getting their apartment ready for my nephew to arrive, I think they realized how tight space can be living in the city. We grew up in an apartment complex not too far from here and it always felt like we were on top of each other.
“Which, we kind of were. My brother and I shared this tiny room that had bunk beds, and we lived that way until he went away to college. I used to always smack my head against the ceiling when I was a teenager and woke up in the middle of the night. My forehead would get huge bruises on it, probably a lot like the one you’re going to have on your head.” He frowns.
“I guess my brother didn’t want to see his kids living like that either. I never minded it so much, but maybe that’s because I was the younger one. Not having any privacy during puberty or dealing with me during puberty was probably a nightmare for him.”
You shoot him a sympathetic smile. “It was nice of you to take over on his behalf then. I know you used to work for major companies in the business district downtown. This must have felt like a sacrifice.”
Seokjin’s arm falls away from your head, your soft caress pulling away with it. He sets the cloth down next to you. He worries his bottom lip into his mouth and then shakes his head.
“No, it was never like that. I’m sure eomma filled everyone and their brother’s ears with stuff about me. ‘Seokjin is our business minded son! He’ll make a great leader!’ ‘Seokjin is talented in the kitchen and spent his whole life working for us. We trained him well!’ ‘Don’t worry about him abusing his power. He knows exactly how it is for everyone!’” Seokjin’s says, his voice inotating the same pattern of his mother.
“Well, she wasn’t wrong. You are all those things,” you argue, lacing your fingers in his. You know it’s not necessarily appropriate behavior between a boss and his employee, but at this moment, you’d argue Seokjin needs a friend more than anything.
“I’m not, though, Y/N. I didn’t sacrifice anything to do this. It wasn’t some great act of loyalty where the son with a promising future gives up his dream for his family business. In fact I had to beg my parents to let me work here! Because I, their failure of a son, lost everything and had nowhere else to go! And the shit I ended up doing to even keep myself afloat…I’m not a great leader. I’m nothing more than a fraud.”
Seokjin rakes his free hand through his hair.
“I had a good life before this Y/N. A good job, a nice house, a fi-...just..I was living a dream that I no longer have for myself is all. But at the time I was on top of the world and now I feel like such a fucking failure.”
Seokjin looks like he’s falling apart, eyes darting madly as he shifts around, suddenly transforming into nothing like his usual cool, goofy self.
You need to stop this from getting worse. To distract him and stop him from talking himself into a pit of despair. If Seokjin’s mouth is occupied somehow, he can’t continue with all the negative self-talk.
A stupid idea flashes in your head. You don’t even think before you roll with it.
“Jesus, I can’t even manage properly. I messed up Mino’s paycheck a few weeks ago and I’m still not sure how it happened. I’m just not–”
Your lips connect with Seokjin’s, your legs wrapping around his waist to tug him closer as you move your body against his. Seokjin returns the kiss in earnest, parting his mouth to welcome your tongue as you lap the words out of his mouth.
His plush lips feel so soft against yours, his taste a bit bitter from the coffee you both drank earlier, but you find yourself craving more of it, sucking his bottom lip into your mouth with the hope that maybe you can absorb it.
Seokjin groans in response, gripping your hand tighter, his other settling on your lower back as he pulls you closer. If you didn’t know any better, you’d swear every atom in your body is vibrating at a higher frequency from his touch. You want to feel him everywhere.
You break the kiss, and see Seokjin’s eyelids are heavy, almost like he’s drunk. You’re about to move back in, to tongue along his sweaty, long neck, suck on his protruding Adam’s apple.
That’s when you hear it. The slam of the back door as your coworkers arrive.
Seokjin jolts back, breaking the hold you have around his waist with your legs.
His mouth looks a little red and swollen. And his eyes are wide, panic flashing across his face.
“I–I’m sorry!”
Before you can reassure him, tell him that you’re the one who should be sorry, you started this, who crossed this line between boss and employee by kissing him, Seokjin bolts from the kitchen.
You sit for a minute, stunned, and then look around, taking in the scene around you. The carrot shavings all over the counter, the discarded one still on the floor. Your knife is unsheathed again. There’s containers of tofu and seaweed just abandoned in a pile next to a large pot.
And you can feel the puddle forming under you from where the ice has begun to melt. What the fuck just happened? What mess did you just get yourself into?
The rest of your shift, you’re anxious. Especially because you’re short-staffed due to the weather forecast, which has led to three call-outs from people who commute from across town. That means you’re performing multiple roles: taking orders, bussing tables, seating customers, and getting appetizers, drinks, and side dishes ready for each group of people coming through the door.
Seokjin was right in his prediction; you guys are slammed. And because there’s less staff, that means Seokjin is orbiting around you, following behind with cleaning rags as you finish bussing or running into you in the narrow doorway as you both attempt to fetch an order from the kitchen. You’re both flushed and sweating, the hairs on the back of your neck now matted down.
Your mind is swirling around that kiss and its consequences, but you don’t have time to lose focus; the minute you finish one thing, you’re pulled into another task for a temporary distraction.
Only to be thrust back into the reminder of this morning when Seokjin lightly caresses the small of your back as he squeezes behind you to grab more plates.
If either of you ever need a break, you don’t say so, only pausing in between rushes to pee, take a bite of something, and chug water before you’re thrown back out into the mess.
Finally, after you elect to work a double, it’s closing time.
“Y/N!” Seokjin calls you from the front as you scrub the grime off a stack of dirty dishes.
Your pulse quickens. You’re the last one here. The storm kicked up an hour ago, and since you live the closest, you shoved your coworkers out the door so they could get home before the roads were a mess.
You dry your hands on your messy apron, pulling out your phone and wincing at the slew of missed calls, texts and notifications. You were supposed to stream again tonight with a bunch of other girl gamers as a part of a “Galentine's Day” collab, playing dating simulation games as a warm up before jumping into some first person shooters.
You’d reached out to cancel once you saw the stress tugging at Seokjin’s face, his jaw set, his brow constantly furrowed. While the other streamers were completely understanding, you still have a ton of notifications from your social channels asking if you are okay and some texts from Wonwoo and a few other friends asking the same.
You’ll fill them in later. But now, you have to face Seokjin.
He’s sitting at a freshly wiped-down table, counting the drawers and preparing the deposit slip.
He ushers you over and gestures at the stack of cash, silently asking you to verify his numbers. You comply, the room silent less the shuffling of bills or coins under your fingertips and your habitual mouthing of the numbers to ensure you don’t lose count.
He nods at your final calculation, jotting the number down on the sheet and placing the bills together. You turn and begin to head back to the kitchen.
“Wait,” he says, and you freeze.
Your stomach is quickly turning into a bundle of knots. You suck your lips into your mouth as you spin back around, Seokjin’s eyes meeting yours.
“I…” Seokjin takes a deep breath before continuing. “Listen. I’m really sorry about this morning. Today’s just been a whole mess and I really shouldn’t have been airing my frustrations to an employee like that. It was inappropriate and immature. I know better than to behave this way.”
Did you say your stomach was in knots? You mean it’s filled with heavy, sickening lead. “Oh, right. Uh, don’t. I mean, I started it. I just…you were panicking and I didn’t know what to do and I thought maybe this would help.”
Seokjin’s brow furrows, a frown on his face. “Why are you apologizing when I’m clearly the one in the wrong here? Ah, no let me finish! I’ve always prided myself on my professionalism and ability to keep personal matters out of my work. And I failed in doing so, which takes advantage of you since I’m your superior. You not only felt a need to comfort me but also stop me from spinning out. I’m truly sorry Y/N, about the oversharing and the um, kiss. I definitely gave into my emotions in a moment of weakness. Please forgive me, I promise I will never touch you again. This won’t happen again.”
His head droops and he looks down, clearly ashamed.
Oh. So he doesn’t want this. Which, why would he? He’s right in that he’s your boss, and clearly Seokjin values his reputation and his job because they’re a reflection of not just him, but his family. Why risk that with someone like you?
You swallow the lump in your throat along with any response. There is the boundary, you know better than to cross it.
As you move again, Seokjin rises from the table. “Y/N…you know what? You go home. The storm is really coming down.”
“But, there’s still mopping and all those dishes left,” you croak. Your voice is so hoarse from being dehydrated and talking all day that you barely recognize it as your own.
“Don’t worry about those. You look and sound exhausted. It’s not your job to take care of everything. Go home, enjoy your romantic snowy trek,” he smirks, “and get some much needed rest. You’ve more than earned it.”
When you arrive home, your body slugs onto your bed, finally giving into the fatigue you’ve ignored all day. Your feet ache, your stomach now settled enough from your walk that you are starving. And you smell awful.
As much as you want to fall asleep, you know that you at the very least need to eat something.
With a groan, you rise, hobbling to your kitchen to make some instant ramyeon. The collab stream is now over, you learned this while finally checking your phone on your way home and seeing a thank you message blasted out by one of the streamers. Oh well.
You suppose you could get back to your book, see what Prince August and his lover are getting up to in their reunion, but that seems like more brain power than you’re willing to give.
You elect to eat, then take a shower, rinsing the grime of the day off you. When you step out of the shower, you see an ugly looking bump and purple bruise on your forehead.
That’s right, you’d already forgotten about your injury from earlier. You touch it lightly and recoil from the sharp pain. Damn, maybe you should’ve checked to see if you were concussed earlier. You didn’t realize you hit your head that hard.
You decide to ice it before bed, crawling under your covers and trying to rest while you play back your day.
How you started is so significantly different from where you are now. When you woke up, you were eager and excited to be around Seokjin, to learn new skills and feel light and warm in his presence. Now, the idea of going back to work in a few days, to have to muddle through the rejection you got tonight and try to get back to a baseline makes you feel nauseous.
Seokjin wants to make this all water under the bridge, and you want to do that for him. But it’s nearly impossible when he’s, well, him. He doesn’t understand how much more difficult it’s going to be to look at him because you’re not walking around with a face like that: perfectly balanced and delicate features and a full, delicious set of lips.
God, he really did taste fantastic. You wonder what would’ve happened if you two weren’t interrupted. Would giving into his emotional need for comfort have given you more? You know it’s wrong to think about, because you're the one who took advantage of him, not the other way around.
He can say he took advantage of you with his power imbalance or whatever, but you’re the one who was seconds away from licking down that thick neck or grinding back onto that massive cock.
Fuck, that’s right, Seokjin is huge under all those clothes and your ass got to experience rubbing against it today. And maybe it’s just wishful thinking, but he seemed like he was a little hard.
If Mino and the others had been just a little later, you might have seen it. They might have walked in on you on your knees as you choked on it, Seokjin’s moans and whines echoing in the kitchen.
Because now from kissing him, you got a taste of those little noises he makes. And the memory has you becoming slick and needy.
It’s late. Too late to read your smutty book, especially since you’re not at the next smutty scene yet. August and his beloved are just reuniting. You’re sure it’s bound to be good, but you don’t have that kind of patience right now. You need to cum, to get your ideas about Seokjin and what he firmly set as a boundary out of your head once and for all.
Which means you need to give your fantasy of him out of your head too. You shove the ice pack you’ve been holding to your head aside, ready to relieve some tension.
You reach under your shirt and gasp when the chill of your icy hand plucks at one of your nipples. Yes, you need more of this.
You touch the other one with your other hand, disappointed that it’s warm. And then you get a fantastic idea. You grope around for a moment until you feel the cold cloth housing the ice cubes from your freezer and pluck one out. It melts quickly in your hand, but the cold water is stimulating as you feel it run down your forearms, a droplet or two rushing down and reaching the heat of your armpit. You pull the large shirt you use as pajamas up further with your other hand, fully exposing your chest and stomach to the chilly air of your apartment.
The ice cube drips over your navel. You hiss as the new sensation floods your core with warmth. Some of the water pools in your belly button, a satisfying dampness taking over your body. Then, you drip the melting ice cube onto each nipple and relish how erect and sensitive they’ve become from your arousal.
Your breasts are plush, something you love to grab and tug as you play with yourself. They’re heavy, the weight of gravity tugging them down instead of staying up as porn once made you believe was possible.
You can understand why people sometimes get caught up playing with tits all the time. They’re arguably fun to play with.
As the ice cube warms and shrinks, you become more curious, taking it between your fingers and swirling it directly over each nipple, a shock of cold hitting them and your hips bucking in pleasure. More. Whatever you’re feeling right now, you need more of it.
You rip your sleep shorts and panties off in desperation, splaying your legs open and aiming yourself up so the last drips of the ice cube can fall directly onto the folds of your pussy, a few dribbles landing right on your aching clit.
Heat, that’s what you actually feel. Fire and ice swirling together in a decadent and hot pleasure. You reach over and grab another cube, this time skipping the teasing and touching the ice right to your clit. It’s a lot. Too much. Not enough. The pain shooting through your clit is also full of so much pleasure and you don’t want to stop.
You rock against your hand, rubbing your clit with your fingers as the ice melts, mixing the wetness of the water with your own, getting you messier, hotter, hungrier.
The memory of Seokjin holding the ice pack flits through your head, how cold his one hand was as it held yours, similar to the chill of your own hand as you grind it against your pussy. You need something inside of you. Now.
And unfortunately for you, all your toys are currently dirty. When you finished streaming last night, you made good on your promise to fuck yourself until you passed out, which means your collection of dildos and vibrators are now discarded in a pile next to your bed that you’d intended to wash after work today.
You insert a finger and sigh. It’s not enough. The angle is too awkward and you can’t get far enough in. Seokjin’s hands are much larger than yours, capable of pumping his long fingers deep within you, to get to the part of your core that is aching. If he were here right now, he could be itching that scratch, a smug look on his face as he comments on how soaking wet you are for him and commands you to cum.
Ugh. You said you wouldn’t think of him, yet here he is again, stirring up inside your fantasies. You can’t give in, you need to distract yourself, look at another face so you can feel motivation.
You remove your fingers, wipe them on the damp washcloth next to you, and reach over on your side table for your laptop.
You don’t watch a lot of porn, finding the videos often too fake, but you’re desperate. You scroll through the website, quickly losing some of your arousal as you click through pages of straight porn, the ones you know that will have some awful plot, or the woman has some nasal and fake moan that kills your buzz. Or the guys are so ugly, proving that porn always has the male gaze in mind.
You just need to cum. Today has been awful enough, and knowing you have to stream tomorrow again is already causing you to wind up. No, this is necessary stress relief. An unwinding. Make it dirty and to the point.
You click over into the other categories. You need just a man, someone else who isn’t Seokjin. You hover over the male masturbation tag, still disappointed. Then you see a banner ad for a camming site: Worldwide Handsome, Hunks From Around the Globe. That, you think, seems more promising.
Live cams are interactive, more with immediacy. Usually the guys on them are hot or gay or both and just ready to jack off for money and give in to some dirty talk. Even the gay camboys don’t always care if women are viewing. Money is money.
You click the banner, praying this doesn’t immediately give your computer a hundred viruses that will delete all your coursework you’ve saved to the harddrive.
Luckily, it’s a legitimate website, much like OnlyFans, just with the emphasis on queer men from every country. You might just be saved.
There are so many categories to choose from: couples, kinks, trans, bisexual, furries, just chatting, BDSM, interactive games, private rooms. It’s a little overwhelming. You select the “solo” tab, which, of course, has the most videos under it, and begin exploring.
You click on one that seems promising, but quickly exit out because the user has fallen asleep and it feels too intimate.
In another, the streamer is yelling at his chat for outting him to his parents, and you exit out of that as well.
You’re about to give up when you refresh the page, but then a recently started stream catches your eye. It’s quickly gaining views, and has a little “1” next to it, probably to indicate that this streamer is the most popular one in his category.
The title for the stream is Unwind with me. Late night play with Daddy which makes your core throb a little with promise. The thumbnail is black, which is a little odd, but you’re curious who this “Daddy” is and how he plans on helping his viewers unwind. Because that is exactly what you need. In his associated tags, there’s a tiny banner at the bottom that urges you forward “all genders welcome”.
You click the link, and the video itself is black, but there’s still hundreds of comments fluttering through the chat. Is your stream broken? This sometimes happens when you stream too, but after a quick refresh you realize that the screen isn’t black. There’s a little bit of light pouring through whatever is covering the camera, detecting some movement through the veil.
“You don’t know how stressed I am today,” a low voice groans.
Whoa. You lean closer, tapping the volume button on your laptop to the max and leaning back. God, whoever this guy is, he sounds hot. This might actually work to get you off and get over Seokjin.
You balance your laptop on your knees and roll your hand down your stomach and between your legs, finding your aching clit and sighing as you delight in your touch.
“I know we don’t always play games like this baby. I know you usually like it when I beg. But I can’t play like that today. It’s been so long since I got to fall back into what I desperately, absolutely need.”
His voice is so seductive yet also comforting in a way that’s familiar. You feel more of your arousal dripping out of you, and you scoop it up to swirl it around your clit, feeling a little twinge of that white hot pleasure return to you.
“And what I need is to take the edge off, to remind all of you who is in charge. Some of you have been very, very bad lately. Haven’t I given you enough? A two-year anniversary stream? I gave you all my cum didn’t I? All of it.”
The chat is going nuts, comments replying with “yes Daddy” accompanying tips that vary from twenty bucks to one thousand dollars spilling in. You check his timestamp. He’s only been live for five minutes and he’s already getting this much? Even your most successful streams take hours to reach a little over a thousand after royalty cuts.
To his credit, though, if you had a grand to drop on him, you just might, and that’s going by his sexy voice alone.
“I let you watch me spill from my cock, let you see me touch myself. And you were greedy. Don’t think I don’t know what you did. I saw your questioning comments, trying to shame me for muttering someone’s name in pleasure. But I’m not ashamed. I’m proud.”
Fuck, what you would do to have this guy moan your name. You feel your orgasm approaching and rub yourself harder, a soft squelch echoing through your room.
“You took what I gave you for granted, you fucking whores. And now, you need to be punished.”
You’re so close, the little peaks of pleasure starting to build up higher in intensity.
The mystery man stops talking, and you along with the chat, begging for more.
“Please,” you moan at your screen.
Suddenly, you hear it, a wet, slick sound. Fuck, is he touching himself?
“It’s been a long day. All day, I was working and I was so horny because some people in this world can’t stop fucking teasing me, tempting me to punish them, just like you.”
You feel the tremor of your first orgasm, but it’s not as sharp, more like a hint of what is to come. You pinch your clit between your fingers, sighing a little bit at the relief of pressure.
“You’ve all been very bad. And until you show me you can be good, I’m going to pump my cock and not let any of you see. You think you can do that? You think you can be my good little subs and prove to me you’ll behave?”
Oh god. Fuck. He’s insane, he’s so hot and insane, and you’re also insane, nodding along. The condescension is so hot, and it reminds you of earlier in the kitchen, when Seokjin scolded you for not being safe with the knife. His voice got rough just like this guy. And it makes you feel so needy and desperate.
Please, you beg silently, just like how you did this morning. I’ll do anything.
Almost as if he knows this, you hear a moan carry through your speakers. You assume he’s reading the comments and tips with promises to behave. You clench around nothing, really wishing at least one of your toys was clean for you to use to feel less empty. You’re never falling asleep without washing them again.
“Good, that’s what I like to see. Now remember, you don’t get to cum until I get to cum. Go ahead and play with yourself for me, get yourself all worked up. And then be good and listen. I’ll tell you what to do next.”
Whoops. Well, the first one didn’t count. You aren’t satisfied.
He groans, signaling that he’s stroking himself again, rough jerks you can hear from the way his hands are sliding over his (you assume) lubed cock.
“You want to see me cum? You want to earn it all over you? You know what you have to do, my pretty little subs. Work for it. And not a penny less.”
In a frenzy, the tip jar continues to buzz in the bottom corner, the graphic of coins depositing into it glitching out a bit as it fails to keep up with the volume of tips. While he’s the most popular streamer on this site, it’s not as though the website is the only one of its kind, and that means that his couple hundred viewers are putting in the work and the cash.
You watch the numbers rise next to the tip jar as his subs showcase their double entendre: both his subscriber count soars and his comments flood with loyal submissives.
Please, Daddy. Please let me cum.
I’m sorry Daddy. I’ll be good, I swear.
Remove the blindfold please! I need to see your big cock!
Ah, it’s a blindfold. Of course.
The graphic of the jar changes, exploding and sending animated dollars and coins across the screen. This is wild. His viewers have already met the milestone. They’ve just raised ten grand in less than 15 minutes. That has to be some kind of record.
He tuts and the sound of it punches your gut. Why does he sound so familiar? “Tsk, that wasn’t so hard, was it? I knew you could do it. You want my forgiveness that badly, huh? Okay, I’ll give you what you need. I’ll forgive you.”
Your pussy is throbbing. You’ve had to scale back the touching, feeling a weird sense of obedience to this camboy that you can’t describe.
There’s a ruffling sound and the camera jolts before light pours into view, a blur of shapes and colors you can’t make out greeting you until it comes into focus and you’re met with a massive, leaking cock.
“Holy shit,” you moan, finding your footing on your bed and moving your resting hand from your inner thigh back to your clit.
The camera is framed from the user’s toned abs down to just the top of his thighs, showing off his heavy, tight balls and red, angry tip.
“Is this what you’re begging for?”
Yes, you shudder a breath. Yes.
Large hands with long knobby fingers run along his thighs, one sweeping under to cup his balls while the other works his shaft, thumb sliding over his slit to rub precum around the tip.
“Alright, then.” He begins pumping, smooth, tight jerks that have him squeezing his length and encouraging more strands of precum to leak out. He falls into a steady rhythm and you mirror the pace on your clit, gasping for breaths as you become all the more sensitive now that you have a visual to follow.
“My face? Oh, no. You didn’t earn the right to see that. Don’t start with me. If you want to see my face when I cum, you have to reach the next milestone. You know the rules.”
You don’t know the rules, but you hope someone else will be desperate enough to reach it for you. You’re dying to know what he looks like.
Almost instantly, the money animation explodes on the screen again. A $5000 tip. Jesus Christ.
“Ah, of course mapl3stor33, I should’ve known it was you. Always so good to me. Because of you I got to get that new collector figurine. Thank you. Well everyone, because of mapl3’s generosity and mmm…loyalty…fuck. I guess I’ll let you get your full fantasy. Let you see my face as you imagine you get to make a mess of me, milk my fucking cock all over you and let me make a mess of you.” He’s moaning as he speaks, pausing between sentences to pump himself harder as he gives “Maple” a proper shout out.
Your cheeks heat in embarrassment. It’s one thing for you to create the fantasy, but him acknowledging it with some judgment, as though you’re not good enough to even fantasize about him, it’s leading you quicker to your undoing.
His pace builds to a heavy, slick rut. His hands are slightly red, almost like how yours looked after washing the dishes before Seokjin kicked you out.
Wait. Red hands. His look similar to Seokjin’s, with the same knobby long fingers. And the figurine and Maple…like, MapleStory?
There’s no way. No, you’re clearly just losing it with your fantasies. This one is taking it too far.
“Fuck, yeah that’s it baby. Touch yourself. Be good for me. Where do you want my cum? Oh, you dirty slut, fuck, yes. Okay, I’ll cum all over myself. Just for you. Shit. Almost, come on.”
Your fingers are still following his lead, unable to stop, so close to finishing, to the release.
He moans, his hands blurring as he strokes fast and hard, jerking into himself. And that’s when you know. You heard that moan. You caused that moan.
With a final solid, slightly whiny grunt, he backs up. His face coming into frame, and the first strands of thick white release cascades across Seokjin’s chest as you focus in on the pure bliss washing over him, his head thrown back and mouth shaped into a delicious “o”.
“Oh, fuck. Take it, take my cum. Yes, that’s it. That’s my best girl, so good for me. Such a good girl.”
The second you hear the praising fall from Seokjin’s mouth, he takes you over the edge with him. Your body rockets into your orgasm with a heavy clench of your core, feet losing their solid hold below you as you begin to shake and succumb to the feeling.
You’ve unwound, the tension of your body unfurling as you’re cast out to sea, your body bobbing along each wave with a newfound euphoria. Out here on the water, the world is silent except the ring in your ears. You bask in the peaceful ebb until you feel a tingling in your fingertips and toes calling you back, forcing breath back into your lungs with a heavy pant.
Once you recenter, you gaze back at the stream, confirming that this is the smiling and grateful Seokjin you just saw three hours ago.
He called you a good girl. He came all over his sweaty chest. And he’s the top streamer on a gay sex cam site.
©2024 by jooniperbonsai
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STANDING HALL PASS
"Hey," came his sexy voice as he let me into the hotel room. He had that killer smile that first made me crush out on the guy - when he first had that press conference for his hire my dick stood up immediately at his easygoing masculinity.
It still does. "Hey, Coach," I grinned, stepping in to follow him. This wasn't a date, but I tried to look my best for him. Sport coat, dress shirt, hair product in. Maybe because I'd met him smarted up in a blazer for an athletics award bruncheon. I was certainly overdressed now... the man had on sweatpants and an oversized team sweatshirt.
"You're looking good, G," Don said. "I got you a beer from room service," he offered, sitting down at the table. It wasn't a luxury hotel but it was a pretty nice room.
Coach Hartman and I had been having an affair for ten solid years now, and I was getting used to this phase. And to the man's desire to have a conversation before we fucked. So I sat down and we made chit chat, talked about the Broncos game the next day and my promotion at work.
It wasn't always like this. I was an Ohio State lax bro when we met, riding my youthful horniness and feeding of Coach Hartman's pent up sexual energy. We had some exploratory hookups at first, with wild, fevered sex, until we figured out a way to meet more frequently. I was living the dream, indulging my desire to top an older man, a man old enough to be my dad. That he was an honest to god NFL coach stud made me feel like I'd gotten the ultimate prize every time.
Then Don told me he had to break it off. Maybe a combination of guilt and fear of getting caught. I was from the Cincinnati area and I'd hung after graduation, but I knew it would suck being there and not being able to bone Hartman any more. Seeing him on the local news all the time, knowing he was just miles from where I lived. When I half lied and mentioned I was thinking of relocating to a different city, I saw the relief in his face and that nearly broke my heart. "I'd never ask that of you, Grant, but that would be for the best," he said.
So I moved to Denver. Had a great job and was into the outdoor culture. Even made some good friends quickly. But Denver is a young city and didn't have as many bottom daddies as I craved. Still, I was a good looking ex-jock, I did OK. And I took some vacations to Palm Springs that let me scratch my dadfucking itch.
It was about two years to the day when I heard from Don. He was still "William" in my contacts for the messaging, since I'd entered his middle name for anonymity sake. "How are you doing Grant?" was all it read.
The rest was history, I thought, as Hartman and I made small talk now, eye contact getting heavier. I kicked off my sneaker and ran my foot along his anke.
"You're making me hard," he whispered.
"That's the point, right, Don?" I teased. Working my foot higher.
He grunted and with a nod, raised his hips off the chair to pull down his sweats. The man was going commando and his smaller, thick tool stood up from the forest of grayish brown pubes. His legs weren't as toned as when we first started fooling around, but the man kept in shape.
I peeled off my socks and undid my jeans, not taking them off yet but letting my hardon have some breathing room in my briefs. I scooted the chair to angle us facing one another, allowing my foot to travel up his inner thigh, teasing him more. I don't know that either of us were into foot play, but this was novel and sexy, and I got off seeing Don's dadcock twitch.
"You sure you want to be with a 60 year old?" Coach asked, with a glint of flirting but also an insecurity there. He'd just had his birthday the previous week. Just as I'd had my 30th milestone the previous summer.
"Sure I'm sure," I replied. I breathed deep and felt my cock throb. I was glad it was no longer so constrained. "You sure you wanna be with a guy who gets turned on by fucking a 60 year old?"
I thought maybe I was going too far. Like a lot of guys, Don didn't like to think of himself as old, and he'd bristled any time I brought up any "dad" or "daddy" talk. But his spike jerked some, and I moved my foot up to tease his hairy balls sac and his short shaft.
He gave me a sly grin. "Maybe you have more of a granddaddy kink than a daddy one," he laughed.
"Maybe," I shrugged. "Would that bug you?" I challenged him.
He laughed. "Honestly, Grant? I don't fucking know." This was Hartman in his laid back mode, more laid back than I'd seen him in a while. I liked this version of him, I decided.
I played with his exposed genitals some more, getting into the new kind of foreplay. "Well, 60 or not, you're hot as fuck, Don."
He smiled at me, those trademark dimples forming, then lifted up his sweatshirt. It was a gesture that said he was self conscious he didn't have the body he did at 50. But a gesture that said he was seeking my approval.
I gave it to him. "Seriously, Coach," I grunted. "Your body is incredible. All of you." I wasn't laying it on thick, it was the truth. I was now partnered with my boyfriend Kevin, who twelve years older and a total bottom who indulged my incest kink. But I'd been up front with him that I had a married fuck bud who was going to stay in the picture. A famous guy who'd remain anonymous. Kevin actually suspected it was Tim Ryan since I'd fantasized, crudely and out loud, about that man being my bottom bitch more than once.
Kevin had actually called things off with me, until he decided he could live with me hooking up with mystery man 2 or 3 times a year. I'd get a text from "William" and drop any plans I had to come over to the hotel Don was staying at.
Like now. Hartman was feeding off my praise and my clear lust. I pulled out my cock and let him see not only its size but how hard the man was making me.
"Why don't you come over and suck it, Coach," I hissed. I'd played up the alpha jock thing when we first met. Hartman had to get me to tone it down a little, since usually he was more likely to put out for a buddy rather than a dom type. But on occasion, I'd order him around and on occasion he'd get excited by it.
It never got old seeing the middle-aged man naked and hard, getting into servicing position between my legs. Even more as I realized he wouldn't be middle aged much longer.
I grunted as his hands ran along my jeans and his head came closer. His hair was grayer now, much grayer, almost bristly with the silver. I ran my hand through its short length and felt him hiss, just before his tongue made contact with my dick.
Don Hartman wasn't a good cocksucker when we met. That gave me a source of pride, that I was the one who trained him, taught him the way to treat a dick. If I wasn't into fucking so much and if Coach didn't have such an amazing ass, I'd be happy sticking to a nice BJ and calling it an evening.
But it had been too long since we'd gotten together. So I'd let Hartman work me up, tease me to a full fuck-hard. And maybe he wanted to indulge his newfound oral fixation, too. Fine by me. I just pulled him off when I got too close.
"You didn't have me come over just to suck me, did you, Coach?" I growled.
Don's fist now encircled my spit wet prick. "Nah, G.... I need this in me, man. You know that?" His face blushed red at the admission. Carrying on an affair with Hartman was an emotional mine field, but I learned to embrace that part of it, too.
I ran my thumb along his cheek. Still can't believing the man I lusted for in my high school years was here with me now, still... again. "I know, Coach.... you know it turns me on to hear you say it."
He gave me a sexy smile. The embarrassment not giving way fully but transforming into something else. "You know, I thought I could go cold turkey... when you moved away...."
That hit me deep. Maybe I was the one going on the emotional rollercoaster with Don. My whole hand now patted his cheek, stroking his face tenderly. A part of me wanted to give him a slap, but he and I didn't have that dynamic and never would. "I'm here now, Don.... maybe it's once a year, maybe it's more. Whenever you need this cock, tell me, OK?"
He nodded, almost grateful. Fuck, my dick throbbed and started leaking. Hartman's eyes watched excitedly. "Maybe I can fly you out East sometime. If your boyfriend would be OK with that." We had an asymmetrical understanding. Don could talk about Kevin, but his family was off limits to discuss when we hooked up.
"He'll be fine," I replied, reassuring him. Don still had major cheating guilt, but his one stipulation was that he was not going to be a homewrecker for me. "He knows I need this."
With that I leaned forward. Don leaned up and met me. We didn't always kiss, particularly in that "it's just a fuck" phase when we rekindled our affair. But lately, Coach had been open to it. So I greedily kissed back, working as much game as I could into each lip lock.
It wasn't entirely romantic, though. I was horny, and Hartman was crazy pent up. Maybe his wife hadn't been putting out much lately. Or maybe he'd just missed a man's touch after too long. I put no claim on the man, but I knew I was the only guy he fooled around with.
I stood up, and Don was a half beat behind. We embraced and I let Don help me take off my clothes. I was regretting now that I hadn't come in casual attire like Don, because I would be naked now. Sometimes the slow stripping is fun, but just then I wanted to get naked with this hunk of a granddaddy. It had been too long.
"GOD!" Don hissed as I finally peeled off my shirt. I hit the gym pretty regularly and I guess I was in even better shape than last time we'd hooked up. His hands greedily ran over my muscle.
I let him explore my body, then softly patted his ass. "On the bed, Coach. Face down."
He grinned and nodded. I watched him crawl up on the bed, pulling down the covers and settling into a comfortable position. I got up behind him and took a second to massage those daddy buns, feeling just what a 60 year man felt like. Hartman was the oldest guy I'd ever been with, and I found a strange thrill in that. He wasn't the man I first fucked ten years ago, but mentally I still had 50 year old Don in my head and loved the way that fed into the 60 year stud in front of me. Oscillating back and forth, each version bringing out the hotter part of the other.
I leaned in and started burying my face in his ass.
This was my calling card. Before me, Hartman didn't realize he loved getting eaten out so much. After our first time together, he knew that's what he'd been missing. Sometimes our rim sessions would be epic, but tonight it was just going to be intense. Maybe 5 minutes of me feasting on the coach hole I missed so much.
Hartman was worked up too much too. Within a minute he was bucking his hunky ass into my face, challenging me to hold his hamstrings or hips down to steady him. I did just that and powerdrilled my tongue in and out.
I couldn't take any more though. Thankfully Don had set out some lube. I slicked myself up and fingered a good bit into his hole. I knew he'd be tight, which was great but also not. Gently I guided him up to into a doggy position.
He was horny but also a little nervous. I patted his lower back and massaged his muscle some while my other hand worked my lubed pole along his crack and over his pucker.
"It's like riding a bike, Coach," I assured him.
He chuckled. "I want you to open me up again, G," he hissed.
I did. Bluntly I applied force to his ring, until I popped through. I actually wasn't skilled at this when I was 20 but I had it down now... force, then restraint, perfectly timed. I breached that coach hole and then held the breach still so the man could get comfortable with a dick in him again.
"Feeling good, Coach?" I asked when I felt the vicelike spasms let up.
"Jesus, G, you have no idea," he answered. "Go ahead... I'm all yours, buddy."
The magic words. I pushed all the way inside Don Hartman, feeling every bit of warmth and snugness and getting off on his mature muscle. Dad, Granddad... who the fuck cared who he was in my psyche just then. I gave gentle but deep strokes. All the way in, all the way out. I used his hips for leverage, slowly.
"Fuck me, Grant... oh god yeah..." Don hissed in time to my cock. Hartman may take a lot of work to break in sometimes, but when the man got into it, he really got into it.
My fingers gripped around his waist tighter and I fucked harder. I was amazed I was able to hold off this long, but it was gonna happen soon. I was gonna spunk the insides of one of the league's best coaches. I pounded faster, even, feeling so close. I didn't know how close Don was, but his hand was now on his spike, working himself in sync to the fuck I was throwing him.
"Goddamnit, Coach, I'm gonna cum... gonna cum inside you," I announced.
Maybe Don was close already. Or maybe the idea of my sperm shooting in him was the trigger. But I watched his back muscles tense and I heard his deep orgasmic grunt. Hartman was beating me to the finish line by a split second.
My prick fired heavy inside him. Several full jets of my cum flooded his raw NFL coach ass, soaking it full. I always felt like I had won a prize trophy after nailing Hartman, but I also liked to think I was giving him his own personal trophy and keepsake.
I slowed my hips and finally stopped, leaning down to kiss between his shoulder blades before I pulled out.
"That was incredible, Coach," I said. I felt I could never praise this man enough and in the afterglow I always felt grateful as hell.
He had a content smile when he rolled onto his back. The next time I'd have to do him missionary and take advantage of seeing his more mature body. "That it was, G." His hand reached forward and felt up my thigh muscle. "Maybe we can shower off together?"
I still never knew which Hartman I was gonna get. The man who'd be quiet and standoffish after orgasm. Or the one who wanted some intimacy after. But I rolled with the punches. I offered a hand and helped him out of bed.
We actually didn't kiss much in the shower, but it was amazing feeling up each other's body, soaping and rinsing.
When we dried off and got back into the main part of the room, I knew not to push my luck. "I know you have a big game tomorrow, Coach," I said, walking over to find my briefs.
"Yeah," he said. "But if you wanna come over tomorrow night... we can go a little longer then."
I knew I'd have to make this up to Kevin somehow. A whole weekend with another man. But I also knew I'd be back in this hotel room, probably overnighting here. I wasn't gonna pass up on that chance.
"That'd be awesome, Coach," I said, stepping up to get one last kiss. This time it was Don who didn't want to break it off. I felt my dick stir and knew I could go again with this coach hunk, but I would save it for tomorrow night.
I grinned as I pulled back. Maybe cocky, which I tried to keep in check around Don. But he smirked at my reaction. "Jesus, G... you haven't changed a bit since you were in college."
That wasn't true. But I knew what he meant. And I knew he was like me, getting off on the dynamic between me 10 years ago and me now. And liking that difference.
I didn't reply. I didn't know what to say that would be better than the afterglow we were feeling. So I got dressed, eye contact still heavy on Don as he sat, naked and content in his chair, watching me and finally finishing the last of his beer. I picked up my sportcoat... I could put it on later. Tomorrow, I'd definitely be casual.
"Just text me tomorrow and let me know what you're feeling," I instructed. Sometimes Don wasn't in the mood for sex after a tough game, and I always wanted to give him an out.
"You know I will, G," he said. That happy-go-lucky smile getting a more serious paternal look. "Thanks again for coming over."
"Anytime, Coach," I said. "You know that." I patted my pocket to make sure I had my phone. Then I bid him good night.
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A Beast Of A Man | Bard the Bowman x m!reader
『••✎••』
↳ ❝ Can I request smth fluffy with werewolf male reader x bard (from the hobbit)?
With prompt “Gentlemen like me have to be very careful of what we do and say” ❞
: ̗̀➛ Bard's husband is by no means an ordinary Man, but Bard loves him too much to care anyway.
: ̗̀➛ brief mentions of violence
•───────────────★•♛•★──────────────•
Bard knew where he was going as he travelled down the long, winding path; the slick mud and soaked clay clinging to his boots and making him slip and slide every now and then the further he went.
Following large, stretched paw prints that seemed to have been made by an expert; much larger than a wolf, and far bigger than any warg either.
Unlike the infamous gaurhoth, though, this was a beast turned from Man by infection. A beast that could not speak wolf language, and nor was it constant in its animalistic body. No, this beast stood on two legs like an ordinary Man, yet much taller; it had a long muzzle, adorned with great sharp teeth and shaggy, dark grey fur.
At the end of its long, muscular arms, sat giant paws with thick, sharpened claws. It was as if a wolf had been made to walk on two legs, but with the great strength of the best of Dwarves.
But upon reaching the clearing, and seeing none other than a Man lying down at the end of the pawprinted tracks, Bard smiled; he cleared his throat as he came to sit down beside you, playing his bag beside your bare chest.
He reached out, gently tapping your arm and letting out a sigh of relief when you grumbled and began to stir.
"The children were asking for you," he started, "they asked why you missed out on my birthday party yesterday."
You let out a long, guilt ridden sigh. "Was that yesterday?"
"It was," Bard nodded. "I told them that you were called away, and that you would be back by this evening... they missed having their other father around."
You frowned, chest stinging as you realised the mistake that you had made. "Bard, I-"
"Don't apologise," he told you quietly. "I know how difficult it is to control it... that... infection. I don't blame you."
"No, I know, but..." you slowly sat up, shaking your head. "I promised that I would be there for Bain, Sigrid and Tilda - what will they think of me now?"
"No less of you," he insisted. "You treat them like they're your own, and they know that. It was one birthday, I don't think any less of you."
You glared at him for a moment, shaking your head. "You should. I missed your birthday, I let the children down, I... I fail at everything. Fatherhood, being a husband... a Man."
Bard put his arm around you, shaking his head as he gently kissed your temple. "I don't think you have, at all. You've been a wonderful father, and a wonderful husband. Your affliction doesn't matter."
You leaned into him, humming as you put your arm around his lower back and smiled. "You mean that?"
"Of course," he said softly, kindly. "I brought you some clothes, in that bag. It's my shirt, but I remember Gandalf telling me that men with your infection can be calmed down a little with familiar scents."
"Thank you," you chuckled softly. "But if you want me to wear your shirts, you can just say."
Bard shrugged as he hummed softly, licking his lips. "Well, I've never been the best at lying - you know that."
"And gentlemen like me have to be very careful of what we say and do."
You pulled away from him, aware of his gaze fixated on your body as you pulled the trousers from his bag; quickly tugging them on before sighing heavily. The cloth was warm against your skin, and although you did appreciate his efforts more than anything else, you also couldn't deny that you also appreciated his gaze.
He looked at you like you were fantastic, like you had the combined glory and breathtaking scenes of a woodland in fresh spring rain; like you held the entirety of Middle Earth on your shoulders, willing to kneel and give it to him. He looked at you as if you were his soil, his sky, his water, and his air.
He looked at you like you were everything, and even when you settled yourself on his lap once you were dressed, he didn't look at you any differently.
Slowly, Bard laid his hands on the backs of your thighs, keeping you close as he tilted his head to the side. "Is it at least getting better?"
You nodded, putting your hands on his shoulders as you let out a long sigh. "A little bit. It's been easier to control since Gandalf took me to see Radagast."
"I'm glad," Bard said softly, nodding as he dared to smile. "And the... urges?"
"Not as often, or as powerful," you smiled back, patting his shoulder twice to let him know that you really were quite alright. "Honest, Bard. Thanks to you, I'm all alright - more or less tip top condition. Promise."
Bard held his hand out, waiting for you to link your fingers with his. "Two squeezes?"
You squeezed his hand twice. "Two squeezes."
His shoulders slumped as he let out a drawn out breath, swallowing thickly and daring to smile. "You picked the right place, mind you."
"Pardon?"
"This," he mused. "Isn't it where we first met?"
"You mean where I first saved you?" You asked with a scoff, and when he glared playfully, you shook your head. "Don't be shy, Bard. You can admit you were all but overwhelmed by that warg."
"But I had you to save me," he whispered.
"You always will," you whispered. "I might not be as strong or as fierce as a dragon, but I will always, always protect you and the children. You're..."
"Family?" He asked quietly.
You nodded slowly. "You're my family... and, if you looked under your pillow this morning, you'd find what I made for you."
He tilted his head, curious as he hummed and raised his brows slightly. "Then we best get going and get back home, don't you think?"
You hummed, shaking your head for a moment before pressing your face against his throat. "Now in a minute, eh?"
Slowly, Bard closed his eyes as he fought back the urge to grin. "Alright."
#mlem writes#bard the bowman x reader#bard the bowman imagine#bard the bowman#bard the hobbit#bard x reader#bard x you#bard imagine#bard#the hobbit x reader#the hobbit x you#the hobbit x y/n#the hobbit imagine#the hobbit fanfic#the hobbit fanfiction#the hobbit bard#the hobbit an unexpected journey#the hobbit movies#the hobbit#lotr x reader#lotr x you#lotr x y/n#lotr imagine#lotr fic#lotr fanfiction#lotr fanfic#lotr#lord of the rings x reader#lord of the rings x you#lord of the rings x y/n
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oouugghhh hannigram either 7 or 45. maybe even combine the two.
ok so it has been. a while. this one got, uh, more than a little out of control lmao (almost 3500 words holy fuck). but it's finally finished! i'm not sure if it exactly fits the prompts anymore but i tried to combine them both :) i hope you like it! (even if it did just end up as yet another mizumono fic lol oops)
***
"You were supposed to leave," Will hisses, and his voice is a devastated, furious thing.
There is blood soaking into his shoes and the scent of iron hangs heavy in the air, and the worst part is that Will doesn't even know whose blood it is anymore, but the question is lost to the back of his mind. Because in front of him stands a dishevelled man whose shirt is a mess of shiny red stains, a knife dripping in his hand.
A man who isn’t supposed to be there at all.
"I didn't want to leave without seeing you one last time," Hannibal says. The words one last time should be ringing alarm bells in Will's head, but he can’t hear them over the overwhelming chorus of thousands of other alarms, because everything is going wrong. There is blood on the floor and on the walls and Alana and Jack lie dying among shards of glass, and there is a SWAT team likely only minutes away, and yet Hannibal is still here.
They both are.
And now Will doesn’t know what to do, hasn’t known what to do for the last 3 months and hadn’t known what he’d do next when he’d made that phone call, telling the Chesapeake Ripper that they know. All he’d known was that he didn’t want Hannibal to die, didn’t want him locked up in a cage by his own hands. But here he is, faced with the consequences of his own actions, and once again Will doesn’t know what to do, doesn’t know what to feel, or even what he is feeling beyond the adrenaline and desperation and horror and relief and confusion. He doesn’t want to feel the overwhelming guilt and sense of responsibility that has been steadily building behind his ribs since this whole scheme began. Yet that guilt now tears at the lining of his chest and crushes his lungs and holds his throat in a chokehold, and it’s just all too much and all he can think is none of this was supposed to happen and this is all my fault and what if?
Seeing Hannibal alive, he’d been struck by a sudden wave of relief that had almost caused his knees to give out beneath him. But now, as Hannibal’s eyes meet his, the awful look that greets him makes a pit suddenly form in his stomach, and the relief gives way to guilt again. And Will can’t take it.
None of this was supposed to happen.
This is all my fault.
What if?
And then it hits him: none of this was supposed to happen. And it hadn’t needed to. This awful mess of glass and blood and ruin could have all been avoided if Hannibal had just listened. If he’d trusted Will when he’d picked up the phone with shaky fingers and told him to run. But he hadn't. And this realisation comes with a sick sense of understanding, because for the whole time Will had known him, Hannibal had always had to have something hidden up his sleeve, always had to keep secrets from Will. Always had to know better. Feel superior. At last the final veil falls from Will's eyes, and all at once he can see how foolish he'd been to ever believe that they could be equals. How pathetic it was that, for those few long weeks they'd spent together, he'd actually believed that they were.
(Will fiercely forces back the voice in his head that whispers that he hadn’t exactly given Hannibal a reason to trust him.)
Heart hammering against his ribs, all of that guilt and fear melts together and stretches and twists and is reborn as deep, righteous anger.
Because no, all he’d wanted was for Hannibal to be safe and free and far from here, even if it meant Hannibal hated him, even if it meant they could never be together, even if it meant that one day Hannibal would come back and rip his still-beating heart from his chest without remorse. But instead here they are, highly armed police likely mere minutes out. And all because Hannibal hadn’t listened. Bitterly, Will thinks to himself that maybe he couldn’t change Hannibal in this way after all.
As if hearing the war cry of bitterness and anger, the resentment he’d kept locked away over the last year begins to bay and claw at its cage too, and, with no reason left to hold it back, Will finally opens the latch and lets it loose.
His next words come out as a growl. “Well now neither of us might get to leave at all”.
Hannibal looks at him, and before he can hide any emotion behind his mask Will can see surprise and deep betrayal warring behind his eyes. It should make him stop and consider, that surprise - that indication that he is behaving in a way that Hannibal did not quite anticipate. But the look of betrayal is like a knife to his chest, and so Will grips his resentment tightly and fumes.
What had Hannibal expected? For Will to be small, desperate? Cowering? Begging for forgiveness? His lip curls in derision. As if he would give him the satisfaction. No, mongooses have teeth and claws, and may whatever god he believes in help Hannibal if he thinks Will won’t use them.
Hannibal manages to force the emotion all behind a mask of icy indifference, and now when he looks at Will his gaze is blank. Though it is not his usual blankness which Will has become familiar with. It is an empty, unsettling kind of blank, the sort of blank he’s only ever seen in the eye of a shark. When Hannibal speaks his voice is cold, colder than Will has ever heard it.
"Forgive me for having doubts about the sincerity of your warning when you've been lying to me for the last month. Forgive me for wanting to see the truth of where your loyalties lie."
The acknowledgement is agony. All the guilt Will had been trying to force down suddenly rears its monstrous head again, and he finds his voice suddenly drying up. His throat feels tight.
He whispers. "My loyalties lie with you'
Hannibal only scoffs. It is ugly. Will has never seen Hannibal ugly before.
"A last minute change of heart is hardly loyalty, Will," he says. “What does Uncle Jack think of your loyalty, lying bleeding out in my pantry? Alana, shattered on the street? How can I be sure you do not still intend for me to join them?”
Hannibal takes a step towards him, adjusting his grip on the knife. Will’s heart pounds. He forces himself not to take a step back.
“Because I chose you, Hannibal, I was always going to choose you, I just needed time to accept that.”
But Hannibal just looks away. “If that is what you truly believe, then you haven't just been lying to me, you've also been lying to yourself.”
It’s so wrong, yet Hannibal had said it with such certainty and disdain that all Will sees is the arrogance with which Hannibal always assumes himself to be right. He dares to presume to know what Will is thinking better than Will knows himself? It turns out Hannibal Lecter really is just like every other psychiatrist Will has ever met, and a sense of grief rises up within him at the loss of something he’d never thought he could have until meeting Hannibal.
He hates himself for mourning what he shouldn’t want.
Will smothers the voice in his head whispering that Hannibal may in fact be correct, that he really does know Will's mind better than Will does his own. Instead he lets anger take over again, and this time it burns.
“You know nothing,” he hisses. His hands shake. Deep waves of indignant resentment roll over him, the roaring of the waves matching the blood in his ears.
He doesn’t know what he expects Hannibal to do next, but it isn’t for Hannibal to hum to himself, then huff a mirthless laugh and concede in a tone both melancholy and angry, “Perhaps you’re right.”
Once again Hannibal meets his eyes. “You know, I've never fully been able to predict you, Will, but this time I had hoped. It is a mistake I will not make again.”
He prowls closer still, and this time Will steps forward to meet him. Fight has won over flight and as the rising fury makes it hard to find words Will’s body seems to have decided to speak for him. The ticking clock of the impending arrival of the FBI ignored in favour of the burning, all-consuming rage within him.
But the fear of their time running out is still there, forced down as it is, and between that and the anger it’s only getting harder to think, and Hannibal is only making it worse. Every word that leaves his mouth brings fresh waves of intense emotion and it’s rapidly reducing Will to a state where there is nothing in his brain except pure animalistic rage-fear.
He just needs Hannibal to stop talking for one moment so he can think.
With what little coherent thought remains in his brain, Will decides to tell Hannibal in the only way he can manage anymore.
“For once in your life can you please just shut the fuck up”.
Hannibal's eyes flash dangerously. His lips curl up into a snarl, and the part of Will that still understands anything knows that he’s made a mistake - he’s only succeeded in confirming for Hannibal exactly how his words are affecting him, and getting him to stop now won’t be achieved without consequences.
Hannibal is quick to recover, a cruel grin taking over his face. His head tilts condescendingly. “Terribly rude, Will,’ he taunts.
The fire inside Will soars higher. He can feel it scorching his insides.
“Fuck you, Hannibal.” He spits.
Hannibal begins to loom over him, moving closer still in a manner that can only be called predatory, until all that separates them is an arm’s length. The knife still glistens in his hand.
“Is that all you have to say for yourself, Will? Childish comebacks? I’ve come to expect better from you. I'm disappointed.” There is a gleam of self-satisfied malice in his eyes and the shape of his lips. He looks dangerous. He looks beautiful.
Will hates him.
Will loves him.
Fuckyoufuckyoufuck-
And suddenly Will can’t take it any longer.
Before he knows what he is doing, he’s grabbing Hannibal by the bloody shirt and crashing his lips into his.
Time seems to stop, the world narrowing into a millisecond of time in which Hannibal’s hair brushes against Will’s forehead, breath warm against his mouth, their noses pressed almost painfully against each other. A moment where the cooling blood on Hannibal’s shirt soaks into Will’s palms and stains his fingers red. A moment where Hannibal stands deadly still, as if frozen, and Will feels as if he’s been frozen too.
There is a distant pressure in the corner of Will’s abdomen, then the vague sound of something clattering to the ground. But Will’s lips are on Hannibal’s and it is as if everything everywhere is inconsequential other than the feeling of Hannibal’s teeth against his, just as he’d imagined on so many a lonely night.
The moment seems to last an eternity before Hannibal’s hand finally comes up to grasp the back of his shirt tightly, and Will feels the sharp pull of the fabric against his skin, the pressure of Hannibal’s knuckles firm against his flank. A breathy gasp escapes his burning lips, and he can’t help the animal noise that subsequently tears its way from his throat. Luckily it seems that is what it takes for Hannibal to finally move his mouth and kiss back with equal force, teeth scraping sharply against Will’s. They gravitate closer and closer until Will’s arm is wrapped around Hannibal’s neck and their hips are pressed tightly together.
Eventually, Hannibal lets out a deep growl before he at last pulls away, dragging Will backwards until there is an arm’s distance between them. Will’s eyes flutter open and he gazes up at Hannibal. The adrenaline is still coursing through his veins and setting him alight, but this time it is not with anger but something wholly new.
As they lock eyes, Will realises that Hannibal is finally allowing Will to see, without barriers or veils, the full breadth of emotion in his eyes. There is still frustration and betrayal, yes (indeed, Will hadn’t let go of his either) but there is also - and Will’s heart skips a beat when he recognises it - pure and all-encompassing adoration. A wonderful warmth blossoms within his core, rendering him both weak and solid and light as a feather, and it is unlike anything Will can ever remember feeling.
He wonders if this is what it’s like to be loved.
Then those wonderful, expressive maroon eyes flicker downwards, and Hannibal’s brow furrows, lines around his eyes deepening. Confused, Will follows his gaze, and is surprised to see a growing deep red stain on his shirt, though any reaction he distantly thinks he perhaps should be having is dulled and seems to float just out of reach. It’s strange; there isn’t any pain, just the memory of an odd pressure that he’d ignored at the time and a peculiar sense of unreality.
For a moment he just stands, uncomprehending, but as the adrenaline finally starts to wear off he becomes increasingly aware of a dull ache at the site of the wound, and it isn’t long before that dull ache blossoms into a terrible burning pain. Hand instinctively falling from Hannibal’s shoulder to hover protectively over the wound, Will looks back up at Hannibal, a mix of confusion, surprise, pain and betrayal written across his face. An involuntary whine slips from his suddenly dry throat.
The vocalisation appears to spur Hannibal into action. He takes Will gently but firmly by the arms and quickly guides him to a nearby sofa, helping him lay down across its seats before sinking to his knees beside him and pulling up his shirt to inspect the injury. A moment passes, then a near-imperceptible line of tension seems to drop slightly from Hannibal’s shoulders and he pulls Will’s shirt back down.
“It is as I thought: due to the angle and the quick loosening of my grip on the handle, only the tip of my knife entered your body. The wound is not so deep as to require immediate attention, but it will certainly require stitches.”
He guides Will’s hand back to his injury and helps him to apply the right amount of pressure. It hurts, and when Will winces and lets out small pained noise, Hannibal brings a hand to his hair and cards it through the damp curls. It feels nice, it feels so very nice and right, and Will’s eyes slip closed for a moment, enjoying the feeling. When he opens them, Hannibal is looking down at him, face once again carefully blank.
“There is likely very little time left before the FBI arrives,” he begins, “and I will soon be leaving for Florence. I will offer you this once and only once, and you will have until I return with our passports and a select few other items to make your decision.”
He fixes Will with a heavy look. “One last chance, Will. You can come with me to Florence, and I will show you the city where I became a man. We will leave immediately, take up new identities, and likely never return.
“Or, I can leave you here. You can wait for the cops to arrive and take you to a hospital. Your reputation will remain intact, and you can go back to your job and your house in the woods, your life as you know it, and you will never see me again.”
An almost undetectable pause, and then, “This is your final decision, Will. I suggest you make it wisely.”
With this he climbs to his feet and leaves the room
For a while Will sits thinking, but deep down he knows his mind is already made up. The myriad of complicated feelings he harbours towards Hannibal still plague him, and a part of him still wants to lock the man up and throw away the key, but he’s finally willing to admit that it’s all inconsequential. He knows now he can't live without Hannibal, for better or for worse, whether he loves him or hates him, or a twisted mix of both. He’ll miss his life terribly for the isolated comfort it brought, but he’d miss Hannibal far, far more.
There is only one choice to make.
The moment Hannibal reappears in the doorway Will is speaking.
“I want to come with you.”
Hannibal’s face remains carefully blank. “You understand there is no going back from this. I will not change my lifestyle and you can never return to the false life you have led. You will be shedding your sheepskin for good this time, and the world will be on our tail for as long as we-”
Will cuts him off.
“I want to come with you,” he repeats firmly.
A long pause, and then a small but genuine smile graces Hannibal's lips. With a dip of his head, he seems to accept the decision. “Very well,” he says, though Will can hear the unspoken relief that lies beneath it. He lets himself smile back, tired but overjoyed and honest. It feels right.
Hannibal comes back to where he lies on the couch, and helps him get up, his touch firm yet gentle as he holds Will against his side.
“Do you think you can walk?” he asks.
Will’s breath catches as the shift to being upright pulls sharply on his wound. While it could have been far deeper - and Will doesn’t want to imagine what Hannibal’s initial plan for him was - it is still painful, and increasingly so as the last of the adrenaline wears off. Plus, he’s losing a fair amount of blood, and the change in angle temporarily darkens his vision and sends stars dancing across his eyes. Grimacing, he closes his eyes and waits for the pounding in his head to stop. Hannibal lets him lean against him, steadfastly taking his weight, and says nothing.
When the stars fade and he feels steadier on his feet, Will considers Hannibal’s question, and after a moment of assessment nods - he’s been shot in the shoulder before, he can handle this - and lets Hannibal lead him out of the house and down the street to an unfamiliar car.
Alana is unconscious now, and Will catches Hannibal’s eyes lingering on his jacket where it lies over her body. He looks at her, the person he’d once imagined sharing a life with, and thinks of how important she had always been to him, even after everything. A pang of bittersweet nostalgia hits him, accompanied by a longing for a simpler time when maybe it could have been possible. But ultimately he allows Hannibal to help him into the passenger seat of the car. This is the life he’s chosen, the person he’s chosen, cannibalism and all. There is no going back now, and nothing to be gained from contemplating what ifs.
Then the car door closes, and Alana is hidden from sight.
There is another noise as Hannibal gets in the car from the other side, and after fiddling with some dials and buttons, he starts the engine.
“I will drive us to the airport where our flight awaits. When we are a safe distance from the house we will stop and I will clean and suture your wound. But for now I suggest you sleep - you will need the rest if you are to recover well.”
He must notice the lines of discomfort on Will’s face, as he adds, softening slightly, “There are some painkillers in the door.”
After taking the pills as directed, Will lays his head back against the headrest and allows his eyes to close. The last of the adrenaline has left his system, leaving behind a sudden bone tiredness that makes his lids heavy and breathing slow.
With the sound of the vehicle lulling him and the comfort of Hannibal’s presence beside him - alive, together - sleep comes quickly, and the last thing Will knows before the darkness claims him is the feeling of a warm hand gently coming to rest upon his own.
#nbc hannibal#hannigram#hannigram fic#hannibal fanfiction#my writing#kiss prompts#gonna say abigail is in the backseat of the car but it's dark and will is too tired to notice lol#and they find a way to have all 7 dogs sent to wherever they end up :)#i hope this is decent enough and there aren't any mistakes!#pretty sure everything is capitalised and in the same tense now haha#god this has taken forever#also#this is the first fic i've managed to finish in like 7 years so i'm really proud :)#now to work on my many other wips!#also i hope the formatting is ok!#let me know if it's horrible lol and i'll try to fix it
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Cowboy Take Me Away
Summary: A tough week gets the best of her but Rhett makes sure she knows he’s always got her back.
Words: 700
Warnings: fluff, accusations of infidelity, slight angst
Credits: @princessmisery666 for looking over it for me. Thanks, Opie. I love you!
A/N: I’ve had a rough go of it lately. Gimme a break.
The days had all started to blur together. Wake up, work, go home, eat, sleep. And it was starting to wear her down. Rhett noticed how instead of sitting up and reading after dinner, she would shower and climb into bed, falling asleep before he could finish cleaning himself up.
There was really no one for him to get advice from. His mom never worked outside of the ranch so she didn’t get it. Rebecca was long gone. Maria left town after the rodeo season had wrapped, the same rodeo that Amy disappeared at.
Rhett could think of only one thing to do.
She dragged herself through the door, grateful that it was the weekend and there was a bottle of wine chilled and waiting for her. But as she kicked off her shoes in the hallway, she noticed that Rhett’s work boots were in the tray, yet the house was silent. The shower was off, the kitchen was empty.
Her heart sank when she hung her jacket. His good boots were gone.
Rhett was a little behind schedule. The bed and breakfast was completely set up but he had hit traffic on the way home. She would definitely beat him home. He hoped she didn’t see the suitcases under the stairs. He wanted this to be a surprise.
The house was dark and quiet when he crept up the porch steps, a fistful of bluebonnets behind his back.
“Angel?” he called as he slipped in the door. “Baby girl, are you here?”
He strained to pick up on any sounds, heading for the stairs before a muted sniffle sounded to his left. Spinning towards the sound, his feet carried him to the living room. Switching on a lamp, he found his girlfriend curled up in his armchair, a glass of wine in her hand and silent tears streaming down her face.
“Angel, what’s wrong?” Rhett asked softly as he crouched in front of her.
“Just tell me,” she croaked.
“Tell you what?”
“Tell me you’re going out to meet some girl and that you’re moving out.” Her voice was barely a whisper, her gaze deliberately avoiding his face as her tears fell to her shirt.
“Where did you ever - baby, the only girl I’m meeting is you,” he assured her, pulling the bouquet from behind his back.
“So why are you off early and dressed up?” she pressed, still skeptical of the situation but finally meeting his gaze.
“Because I set up a weekend away for us. I was working on the final bits and got stuck behind a combine. I was supposed to meet you here.”
“You did?” she whispered. Her face twisted with guilt and regret, relief filling the small spaces left in her eyes.
“I know you’ve heard that I’m a good-for-nothing second son man whore but you gotta know that you’re the only girl I even look at,” he continued, cupping her cheek with his rough, calloused palm. “I love you and only you.”
His words broke a dam deep inside of her and she began sobbing, throwing her arms around his neck, nearly knocking him off balance.
“Angel, it’s okay,” he whispered in her ear while his hand rubbed her back soothingly.
“No, Rhett, it’s not,” she sniffled quietly. “You went out of your way to do such a beautiful, wonderful thing for me and I accused you of having another woman.”
“Hey, look at me,” he said, “with your past and my reputation, what else were you going to think? I know these things aren’t easily undone and I’m not hurt or disappointed. I get it, angel, I get it.”
“I love you, Rhett,” she hiccuped, wiping her nose with her sleeve. “You’re so good to me.”
“Do you want to go on our little adventure? I’m okay with canceling and staying home,” he offered as he wiped her tears, his sky blue eyes searching her face for an answer.
“We are absolutely not canceling,” she scoffed. “You planned this weekend for me. I definitely need it. Just let me get cleaned up and then, cowboy, you can whisk me away. No phones, no people. Just us.”
“Just us, angel. Just us.”
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I'm a free man/freer than I've ever been.
It's January, & I'm not tired I'd written.
Google photos shows me a picture from a year ago and I'm moved to marvel at then to now.
-
I'm trying to find new ways to move my body. C. and I fumble and laugh through a barre class that leaves me sore for two days afterwards. I try a spin class that leaves me wobbly-legged and grinning on the walk home in the fog. I lob a ten pound ball at pins for five hours straight and improve my game. J and I hole up in a dive bar with a ping pong ball table between us, my smile wide and eager from a well-earned win. I bike for miles, hike, stretch, lift.
-
Feb. 1 is the one year anniversary of asking for a divorce. I'm thinking about forgiveness. I'm thinking about the eight hour conversation with Y in which he finally owned the abuse. I presented you with a version of myself that I never fully realized, he'd said. I'm thinking about the specificity of the apologies-how they hinted at genuine self-reflection, but how this seemed to fall apart when he learned I'm going on dates with someone. How the anger and passive aggressiveness and meanness came out again. His I have concerns about what you're doing indicating a still present desire to control. The audacity.
And yet: I want to believe in forgiveness. Maybe I need to forgive him in order to forgive myself. I unintentionally found Myisha Cherry's Failures of Forgiveness at the library, and am moved when I read "forgiveness also aims at release, relief, and reconciliation for the victim. why should victims abandon these goals in order to focus on what the offender learns or doesn't learn? why must forgivers be both survivors and teachers?" (p. 37). I shuffle through anger and forgiveness in equal measures, I cannot land on one. I'm not supposed to.
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Lover calls at two AM post concert and bar crawl. Later I tell him I don't want him to do that: that I want our time together to be deliberate and sober. Choose me when you're not drunk is what I'm trying to say. When together, we kiss for hours: our mouths eating and eating at each other, spit combined and shared, hands all over. It's so easy, even boring, to be desired and yet: he's healing that hurting part of me that wants to be kissed over and over and over 'til dizzy. To be taken slowly, in a way my ex-husband never did.
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Over dinner with j, i ask for her take on what my next move should be. should i be paying my loans off? should i be saving a shit ton of money? and oh, this city's alright, but i want to get the fuck out of here. I can't do all three at once. She reminds me that the cheap living affords me the upcoming trip and concert to Austin, the loosely planned road-trip to California, the xyz.
I feel a stirring kind of restlessness, but can't help but wonder if this is a callback to y's claim that my life won't be adventurous without him. Or that my life is smooth and steady for the first time in decades, and maybe I attribute this smoothness to boredom.
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I learn that my drug-addicted sister is homeless. I almost empty my saving's account to get her into rehab. She enters rehab and leaves two days later. On the phone, she ends the five? ten? year silence between us and says I love you. I delete the threads and block my eldest sister, again. You have to act like your sister's don't exist my hairdresser, whom I hug and talk with for hours while in the chair, says. And yeah. I do.
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My hair's red now. That feels right. Do you want to go hiking in the morning C asks. I want to have a galentine's day dinner at my place, when are you free I send to the group chat. I'm turning 38 this year. I'm plagued by survivor's guilt. I'm thinking about the ocean. I'm trying, I'm trying, I swear to god I'm trying.
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Louis has just eked into confirmation for the Magnificent Bastard trope alongside William and Albert. Here's my argument for him:
The Work
Moriarty the Patriot is (still) a (very loose) retelling of the Sherlock Holmes stories combined with James Bond set in the late 1800s, focused on Professor James Moriarty and exploring his motivations.
The Character
This post is to open a discussion on Louis James Moriarty, Professor Moriarty's younger brother and one of his Co-Dragons.
Louis primarily handles the estate and household management early on in the series until he demands to have a more active role in the "murdering people" business, and eventually takes over both of his older brothers' roles leading all of the Moriarty criminal subordinates as the head of MI6, and quite frankly does a better job than either of them.
Louis rounds out the brothers sharing the title "The Lord of Crime" as James Moriarty.
This argument is primarily manga-focused, because while he does become M in the anime, it's in the last episode so we never see any of it, and Albert was never involved.
Why Is He a Bastard
Aside from the murdering (which is fairly standard in the series, if not seen as "good"), Louis has a line in one of the early arcs where he says the only emotion he had about murdering an entire household of people was "perhaps a sense of relief," which is pretty stark compared to his older brothers discussing vomiting afterward and otherwise spiraling into My God, What Have I Done? land.
Louis recognizes what he's doing is wrong, but he actively demands to be allowed to participate in the killing. While both his brothers have guilt complexes, Louis just really doesn't.
But Not That Bad?
Once again, we have a Pay Evil unto Evil character here. Louis is a fiercely protective soul, and he sees what he's doing as simply the most practical method. And he largely wants to participate in the killing because he wants to be closer to his brothers, by whatever means necessary. He's the quickest to realize that they need to atone and the first to pick a path by which to do so.
Is He Charming/Magnificent
Louis is a much more practical soul than either of his brothers and less inclined to theatrics, but he still has some flair. Unlike his brothers, Louis doesn't crib his plans out of books or plays he's read and adapt them. He can act, but he'd rather things simply go quickly and neatly with a minimum of fuss.
He handles issues as they come up with a level head to prevent them from growing into larger ones: both with contemplating killing Sherlock early on instead of toying with him, and things like intervening and distracting their targets so the rest of his team has time to finish their work. He also burns his own face in order to sell the story that they were merely victims of the mansion fire that killed a house full of servants and the rest of the Moriartys.
Louis is not a man who plays around with his opponents. Louis is a man who executes, intelligently, well, and with no hesitation.
I feel like "tying things up so neatly no one uninvolved even realized there was a problem," is its own style.
He also holds together the vast majority of their criminal enterprise without either of his brothers to help.
He has his own magnetism. It just looks very different from the dramatic Shakespeare fanboys. After the Time Skip, Louis is said to resemble his older brother William, king of drama and flair, no fewer than three times.
And if we're counting fan popularity here, he ranks just below his brothers there.
But Is He Brilliant?
Yes.
While Louis is often quite subordinate to William and has a serious case of Big Brother Worship, Louis is one of the few members of the team willing to argue with William's plans and point out potential flaws—and has been as early as their childhood. While Albert sees opportunities for success and grabs at them, Louis sees the opportunities for hideous failure and squashes them.
Again, Louis managed to hold MI6 together without any help for three years—which is more than Albert was capable of. And he starts issuing orders to his brothers as soon as they return.
What About His Competition?
Louis spends most of the series in his older brother's shadows, and once he commits to Taking Up the Mantle himself, most of the major players opposing them are gone. He never goes head-to-head with a proper hero or villain himself and mostly finds himself embroiled in more complicated, less clear-cut issues when he leads.
He does go head-to-head with Moran to bring Moran back into the fold?
Verdict and Mitigating Factors:
I did make this post, so I think Louis has a solid case. I think he's Got It, just in a different way than this particular series likes to go about it.
Louis is maybe more of a 7 out of 10 on a couple of the qualifiers. He sort of grows into the role, unlike his brothers, who start there.
He's perhaps not a dead ringer, but I vote yes.
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This concept talks about Deimos pre and post-purgatory. How I write Deimos is also a combination of the original series and Project: Nexus. I hope I write my version of Deimos well!
Yandere! Deimos Concept
Pairing: Romantic
Possible Trigger Warnings: Gender-Neutral Darling, Obsession, Possessive behavior, Clingy behavior, Manipulation, Kidnapping, Murder, Blood mention, Death mention, Forced relationship.
- Deimos comes off as a Yandere who isn't very serious.
- When in reality, if he has to, Deimos can be scary.
- This first section will be about Deimos Pre-Purgatory.
- Deimos would be Obsessive, Possessive, Protective, Clingy, Manipulative, and Demanding as a Yandere.
- He's also one of the two Madness Combat Yanderes who'd flirt (the other being Sheriff), but he's horrible at it (also Sheriff).
- Deimos probably gets attached to people quickly, unlike Sanford who takes time to really connect-
- This makes him obsessive once he finds someone he takes a liking to.
- He thinks of you all the time.
- There aren't many sane people in Nevada ever since the fall of Nexus city.
- He uses this as an excuse to recruit you with him and Sanford once he meets you.
- It's always good to have another hand around, right?
- "Hey there! What's your name? Why don't you come with us, I think it'll be much safer than being alone out here!"
- When in his obsession, Deimos can be possessive.
- It shows up as jealousy or reluctance when you talk with other people, but it evolves over time into something more dangerous.
- Now Deimos gets a little too trigger happy when seeing other people around you.
- Bandits and Zeds never come close to you before Deimos is yelling at them, ending the altercation with a few shots to the head.
- Deimos would never pull a gun on Sanford, but he'd probably cling closer to you when you walk with him.
- He trusts Sanford, sure, yet Deimos still feels he needs to keep a tight grasp on you.
- Deimos also has protective behavior, like with the Bandits and Zed example earlier.
- He feels he needs to keep you safe when you're with him and Sanford.
- He's sure to keep enough ammo on him to ensure your safety, that's a promise.
- "No need to worry, (Y/N)! I got enough supplies to keep us safe...."
- Clingy, it may not come up often, but Deimos is clingy.
- When not unloading a clip into some poor unfortunate grunts, Deimos wants attention.
- Only from you, too.
- You'll be minding your own business only for Deimos to come up behind you, wrapping himself around you and grinning.
- He'll babble an affectionate name/phrase in your ear before leaning close.
- Deimos smells of cigarettes and blood.
- He's a very dangerous man even if he only wishes to cuddle into you in your downtime.
- Sanford gave up trying to talk Deimos out of it.
- If he's happy, he's happy.
- A little rest won't kill anyone.
- Deimos can also be manipulative and demanding.
- Not only is he clingy but he's willing to guilt you into showing affection.
- If that doesn't work, he'll force you into giving affection.
- Deimos is someone who'd be very addicted if you gave him a hug or kiss.
- Maybe even just a sweet word of encouragement or two.
- He never wants to be away from you.
- Begging to lay down with you and cuddle into you, some stress relief just for a little while.
- Deimos would be a Yandere to murder and kidnap in a heartbeat.
- He loves you with all his heart.
- Nothing could take you away from him.
- Not even his own death.
- Which leads into the second section of this concept, Post-Purgatory Deimos/Dedmos.
- Dedmos isn't much different behavior-wise compared to regular Deimos.
- He certainly isn't human/grunt, however.
- Once out of purgatory, Dedmos gains a rock-like exterior.
- He also now bleeds black, which is scary to you once you meet him again.
- You thought him getting shot in the head would end the torment you went through with him.
- That you were free to do as you wished now.
- Then Deimos comes back as Dedmos and you just know you're in trouble again.
- As Dedmos his jaw and hands are covered in a rock-like substance.
- There's a good chance he doesn't even have a jaw for all you know.
- Dedmos most likely can't speak, or kiss you for that matter (much to his displeasure).
- Dedmos may still try to kiss you, though.
- He's persistent, his grip hurts, and he's trying to plant his rock covered mouth to yours just to feel something.
- Good luck killing him, too.
- All you'll get is an annoyed Dedmos who's now just leaking black fluid.
- At this point your fate is sealed.
- Even if you died, Deimos/Dedmos would just drag you out of purgatory.
- You two are meant to be together in his mind, even if he isn't the 'romantic' type.
- He'd crawl through purgatory and back just to be beside you again.
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The Boy Who Grew Into a King
Warnings: Themes of death, abuse, violence, smut, torture, warfare, and language.
Chapter 12
The stones beneath my feet continued to freeze the bottom of the cracking blistered skin on my soles. My legs covered in flailed leather lashes. 10 lashes in the morning, 10 lashes in the evening. ‘If she says anything useful, take it down one lashing, and if she doesn’t, increase it’ Godwin had almost pleasurably, yet sadistically ordered the large brute at the door. I had been here 3 days, and I had started on one lashing per day. Imprisoned, and defiant were not a faithful combination.
This wasn’t a cell however, cells are for those whom preserve some sense of dignity, but a cupboard was for the lost, desolate, truly evil. These cupboards weren’t hidden within the castle. They were on the main floors, close to the kitchens, a form of torture to starve the worst, but also be a reminder to the people of Wessex, the castles inhabitants, not to turn on its monarchy. It brought back memories, the screams that plagued the servants hall, those slowly being tortured to death, starved, desperate for any sort of release. It was human nature, the cry for help from the depleting, even when it’s obvious there is nothing that could be done to alleviate suffering. But it was also human nature that made one equally as desperate to help. Everyone would wince as the sound of cries became more violent. Cries of plea, people praying, even those crying out for release through death. It was a political tactic, not sending traitors to the underground of the castle. It was an installation of fear. A violent example.
I was not going to give the bastards the satisfaction. I was starved, I was in pain, my legs practically on fire, the smell of my own rotting skin, the metallic taste of blood in my mouth. I knew this would be my end, those who went into the cupboards never came out. Only as corpses dragged across the floor. It was a relief though, both for the servants and the fugitive when it came to that point.
The days passed in slow-motion, but what Godwin and his minions failed to recognise was this place was too enriching for me to slowly suffer and die. If they had put me in the underground cells, things may have been different, but I was too familiar with my surroundings. I knew the events the days would bring, I could hear the familiar shouts of cooks, the sound of children running down the corridor, and their light footsteps trailing back as they desperately tried to balance trays of exquisite goods that would go untouched most of the time. ‘Pain is just a sense of the mind’ I desperately told myself, desperately repeating, almost trying to convince myself. The truth was though, all I wanted to do was scream. Scream from the pain, scream from the cold, scream from the smells my depleting body produced, but most of all I wanted to scream from the guilt.
The truth was though, my demise was inevitable. That was the one weakness Godwin had, he was not a patient man. He would end my suffering soon one way or another, purposefully in front of a crowd, or seemingly by ‘accident’. Or the Vikings would come, and no doubt would any Viking spare a Saxon on their own territory.
Footsteps, both heavy and light, fast or slow, gentle or powerful, the world around didn’t stop for anyone. It wasn’t until heavy footsteps trailed down during nightfall, not of one, but of many. ‘MOVE’ that sinister voice sneered at the guard. I almost wanted to chuckle, it was always the smallest, most weakest of men, once they got a taste of power, it was at the tip of their tongue every time they opened their mouths, and Godwin was no exception. The door flung open, the open flame from the flaming torch radiated both heat and a light that almost stung my iris’s. ‘Unchain her’ he demanded. His eyes dark and piercing, his lips almost non existent. All I could do was smile at him. He flashed his teeth, but there was something satisfying knowing that I was getting under his skin completely. The guard came in, releasing my limp wrist from the wall it was pinned to. I could feel the blood rushing down my arm as gravity shifted. ‘Take her to the grand hall’ he demanded. The brute stomped over, lifting my almost weightless body and carelessly flinging me over his shoulder. He stomped down the hall. The surroundings oh so familiar, the gentle moonlight fading in from the detailed window etchings, the smell of damp concrete, the smell of blazing fireplaces which fumes escaped from underneath the doors. I could see the peering eyes of servants whom had clearly been awoken by the disruption, eerily spying through the crack of their doors as to not get caught themselves.
The grand doors slammed shut as the brute, almost too kindly, placed me on the floor. Surrounding me, earls, lords, soldiers sat. This was the end I thought.
‘Speak’ Godwin demanded, prideful, performing to the audience around him. He walked toward me, slowly, a facade of calm, control, satisfaction. But we both knew, that was far from the case. He was seething. If he was going to perform, I would perform too. ‘Hello Sweetling’ I comically whispered back. First it was his cheeks, then the ruby red blush trickled down to his neck, his veins propelling themselves from the sides of his forehead. You could almost see the blood pumping through. The sound of smacking skin vibrated across the room, almost producing an echo. The pain was nothing compared to the lashings I had endured the past few days. He gripped my hair, yanking my neck back so that my head was directed towards the ceiling. The sounds of men sipping at their ale and wine was the only thing that could be heard. ‘You will show me the respect I deserve you little bitch’ he spat in my ear. ‘Forgive me Lord Godwin’ I taunted, ‘I seem to remember you begged for the nickname my King from my mother’. His knee blew into my face, mercilessly. I fell to the floor, smacking my temple against the ground. My vision blurry, I could feel the warm blood running down my face. Fighting my droopy eyelids, I looked at the men around me; even they looked slightly mortified at the blow which Godwin had just dealt. It was clear that Godwin had noticed the sudden distaste in the air.
‘My friends’ he grandly announced. ‘Do not feel sorry for this pathetic excuse of a human being. She has no loyalty to our people, she has no loyalty to our country, to our monarchy, or to our one and true God!’ He exclaimed. ‘This being, this evil, this embodiment of the antichrist…’ his footsteps slowly trudged along the concrete floor, circling my limp body. ‘THOUSANDS OF INNOCENT LIVES, THAT OF OUR CHILDREN, OUR WIVES, OUR BROTHERS AND SISTERS, OUR KING! THREATENED BY THE EVIL THAT THIS CHILD HAS THRUST AMONG US’. His rouse began to earn cheers from the audience. The sudden taste of wine doused my lips as men began to throw the contents of their goblets onto my weak body. ‘THE VIKINGS BITCH’ he screamed. The men suddenly begun to stomp their feet on the floor beneath, shouting together, coercing, drinking in every word Godwin pronounced. ‘BUT, WE WILL OFFER THIS DEVIL ONE LAST CHANCE’ his sudden turn in announcement was met with yells of men, demanding my execution, turning on Godwin himself, but he was too clever to let them sit on that statement alone. ‘WE SHALL EXORCISE HER, WE WILL CALL UPON CHRIST HIMSELF TO RELINQUISH THE SECRETS FROM THIS DEMONS TOUNGE SO THAT WE MAY KNOW WHAT CHALLENGES LAY AHEAD’. My eyelids dropped, the floor vibrating as the men stomped their feet upon the ground, their goblets clanging as they slammed them upon the table tops. But their stomps were interrupted quickly.
‘WHAT IS THE MEANING OF ALL THIS’ the voice shouted. It was a voice that sounded uncertain, yet powerful, but almost forcefully as it tried to command the attention of the men around him. The sound of chairs screeching across the floor suddenly pierced my ears. The room went silent, and men suddenly lowering their heads to avert their gaze from the new presence in the room. ‘King Edmund…my lord’ Godwins voice almost pleaded. ‘We have captured a prisoner who has put us all in great danger, a traitor to your lordship’ he begun to babble. The sound of footsteps trudged slowly toward the centre of the room, walking around, circling Godwin. ‘And WHY would such a prisoner not be brought to me immediately?’ He condescendingly questioned. It was almost pleasurable to listen to, like a fly on the wall. Except I was the prisoner in question. ‘We…we…we’ he stuttered in response ‘we didn’t want to disturb your highness with such filth, this being is a waste of your precious time’ he almost pathetically pleaded with the boy King. Slowly the footsteps trudged towards me, the vibrations getting stronger as they approached closer. ‘Y/N’ he whispered to himself.
‘LEAVE’ he screamed. ‘EXCEPT YOU’ he directed at Godwin. The oh so strong, powerful men quickly scuttled out of the room, slamming the door behind them as they tried to disappear. ‘Where has she been?’ He firmly questioned, still standing in front of my limp body. ‘We believe she escaped to assist the Vikings’ he confidently mustered. But the King was having none of it. His footsteps swiftly marched toward Godwin where the sound of a slap followed. I simply lay there, eyes closed, but effortfully trying to stay awake and be present in the moment. ‘You BELIEVE?’ he shouted, voice echoing across the grand hall. For the confident man Godwin claimed to be, at least he was smart enough to not answer the boy of significant power. ‘GET OUT’ he demanded. Like the rest of them, Godwin quickly retreated from the hall. ‘Take her to my chambers’ he barked at one of his brutes.
The feeling of soft silk and a feather mattress was the most glorious feeling I’d felt in days. It didn’t matter than my wrists were bound to the bed post, or that a guard stood next to the bed with his hand at the hilt of his sword, ready to swing at me with the slightest movement I made. The salve on my legs stung, but provided a pleasant cooling sensation to the split skin on my legs. Edmund stood, staring at the blazing fire in the fireplace at the other end of the room. This was not the first time I had been in the King’s room, but he was only a prince when this occurred. It wasn’t love, it was barely a friendship that the prince and I had when I came to the castle. I didn’t have much choice in the matter, if the prince requested your attention, you didn’t say no. I didn’t know what it was about me, but the young Prince took an interest in me within my first week at the castle. His governess detested me, his peers and nobles were curious, but they knew his intentions were merely innocent. We didn’t exchange words, he simply liked having me near. If he was sparring in the training grounds, I was required to stand and watch, if he was sitting in the library reading books, or scribing, I was present. A curiosity? infatuation? obsession? nobody was really sure why he ordered my presence much of the time. The silence between us seemed to comfort bystanders however.
As we grew older, when Queen Emma came into his family, he slowly begun to retreat from interaction with me. I didn’t mind though, it was a relief. I was sick of the stares, questions and even judgement I received from others at court. His stares however intensified when in the presence of one another, especially toward my chest and curves as I got older. By the time we were deemed to be at a dangerous age, an age which the devils schemes, offers temptations, the one which the church declared ‘the most damaging time in our lives’ he had all but forgotten my existent altogether.
It was as if he stood there all night, only when the morn came, he was sitting in a chair, chewing on his nails, but his gaze and attention still fixated on the fireplace. He sat there, deep in thought, contemplating.
A knock at the door startled everyone in the room, ‘Leave’ he grunted. The footsteps retreated from the doorway and the room fell back to unsettled silence. The King rose from his chair, slowly trudging toward the side of the bed ‘leave’ he said to the armed guard on the other side. He nodded his head curtly and exited the room without wavering. The door closed, and suddenly it felt like the first time in years that the boy King laid his eyes on mine. Without notice, I suddenly took a deep breath in, I didn’t know what to expect, but I knew he wouldn’t keep me waiting long. ‘Where have you been Y/N?’ he quietly asked. I went to answer, but my raspy throat was met with an intense coughing fit. Edmund scurried to the table at the end of the bed, pouring liquid into a grand cup that probably cost a lifetime worth of jewels and coin. He gently, but firmly caressed the underside of my neck, bringing the cup to my lips. The liquid a sweet relief. Taking in a deep breath ‘I’ve been with the Vikings’ I barely managed to whisper. He took a deep breath himself, as if I had revealed something he didn’t want to hear. ‘Why did you go with the Vikings Y/N?’ He said, a tinge of fury in his voice. ‘I didn’t have a choice’ was all I could muster. ‘That’s not a good enough answer…slave’ he spat. ‘WHEN HAVE I EVER HAD A CHOICE ABOUT ANYTHING?’ I yelled back, only to be met with the palm of his hand across my face. While it seemed to release his temper, he was still irritated, and that was because deep down…he also knew that was true. ‘What are the Vikings planning to do?’ He seethed.
His question was interrupted immediately with the sound of horns blaring from outside the window. The sound of men shouting, running between turrets, heavy footsteps and clanging of metal running from outside the door. The aura in the castle changed within seconds. Panic flooded through the air. Suddenly the door burst open to reveal Godwin with an army of men behind him. ‘The Vikings are headed toward the bridge my lord’ he exclaimed. I could hear Edmund gulp, but he simply nodded his head and sat up from the bedside marching toward the doors ‘Bring the traitor’ he instructed. Two men trudged toward my bedside, carelessly slicing the rope violently, yanking my body up by the arms and dragging my dead legs beneath me as they followed the King toward the top of the castle. The air seemed misty this high, the drop below slightly daunting. I could throw myself over, be done with this life, be done with Wessex, be done with the Vikings, but the strong grips on my arms forced otherwise.
By the time we got to the Bridge, what Godwin said was true. The Viking army stood strong on the opposite end of the bridge, however, opposingly to their violent nature, a man stood before them waving a white flag as Canute sat on his horse beside him. The flag-bearer retreated and Canute rode forward slowly toward the castle. Edmund, Queen Emma, and Godwin stood before him, as Canute almost tauntingly strode toward them. The Viking King menacingly laughed at the boy King, crowning him. ‘King Coward’. Desperately searching through the Viking crowd, I could see that the Viking King had left Mathilda elsewhere. Probably best, she had a weak stomach that seemed to intensify the more time we spent under the Viking reign. But she was clearly more calculated than I realised. After some sparring, the wound up newly claimed ‘King Coward’ seemed to almost relax as he chuckled to himself. ‘Bring forth the prisoner’ he exclaimed, my body was suddenly being propelled forward to the edge of the turret where Edmund stood. Canute seemed slightly taken aback at my presence. He stood staring, Edmund chuckled beside me, prideful at this ‘secret weapon’ he pulled out. The King slowly turned around, directing his gaze back to his army. The Vikings suddenly pulled out their weapons, as they prepared for Canute’s orders to attack. But Edmunds moment of glory suddenly suffered a crushing blow when Canute began laughing deeply, his reaction prompting his army to do the same. They menacingly stood there laughing, Edmund seething at such humiliation.
The laughter died down, as Canute stood there still chuckling to himself, right under the nose of the King. The brute who held my arm suddenly pulled out a knife, holding it to my throat in some attempt to gain some fear and respect from the Vikings. The blade sharp, cold to the touch, pressing into my neck, but even I wanted to roll my eyes at such action. Wessex was just laughed at by the enemy, did he really think executing me in front of them would do anything?
I was too tired to care, but my gut was dreading whatever was to come next. If this was the end, then so be it, but whatever happened, I hope it would be swift and quick. Canute condescendingly took another step forward toward the King, making sure to get right under his nose. ‘Do you really think I care for a slave girl who has already fulfilled all I needed her for?’. Queen Emma spun to look at me, shocked at the revelation of news she had clearly been left out of the night before. ‘KILL HER’ Edmund screamed. The brute took his knife from my throat, swinging his arm wide. Fear. That’s the feeling that suddenly rushed over me. Fear. I could feel a crack in my throat as I waited for the inevitable swing of the knife to my throat. I could see it now, a slow, painful execution…
Suddenly the sound of arrows flew through the air as guards around me fell to the floor, the nobles ducking under the cover of the castle wall. The grip on my arm suddenly tightened as the brute who was about to be the source of my demise gripped my arm, choking and gargling. I looked to see an arrow in the side of his neck. But adrenaline still ran through him as his other arm was still raised with the knife in his hand, still intent on fulfilling the King’s orders.
A single arrow pierced his neck again, making him drop the knife and grasp to clutch at his neck. A hollow, deep voice from below, familiar, haunting yet comforting all at the same time shouted from below. Harald. All he said was two words, but it was enough to give me the adrenaline I needed to change the fate that Wessex intended for me.
‘RUN SAXON!’
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Found your Sleuth Jesters au through art and started reading...yesterday?
Anyway point is, that parts one through three really eased me in and I didn't see part four and five coming. Very much a situation of, "aww, what a cute and slightly spicy cops and robbers au!" While future chapters loomed silently behind me wielding weapons labeled in glitter pen. (Identity angst, consequences, good world building, whatever suits your fancy.)
But man. The way you built up the fear (perceived certainty) of rejection and guilt in the later chapters so that it colored every single one of the Vigilante's interactions with the Detectives, even the previously safe or comforting ones, raises the tension and hurt deliciously slow. Like mourning a future that hasn't died yet and being left unable to enjoy the present. I did not miss the parallels between Sun talking about confession timing and Moon's rooftop request. (I get why Y/N didn't notice the intended subject, deadly combo of denial and habit, but I still wanted to throttle them a little.)
I'd have to say your characterization, pacing, and character interactions are your strongest points in this series. Each character has a distinct personality, history, and motivation that drives them and it only gets clearer when the story unravels and you become more familiar with each of them. The pacing helps keep the stakes and skills in balance while never slacking it's grip on the reader's attention, not even during the "down time" parts where it feels like relief. It's clear you've put a lot of effort and love into the series as a whole. ;)
And just one more thing (insert Columbo reference here)...when Eclipse asked about the whole vigilante shtick it wasn't just about "making a difference" was it? It was also a kind of penance that the reader feels they'll never pay off. A combination of "this will be more effective/worthwhile than turning myself in because it's like community service! Except I actually get to put my skills to good use!" and "I really don't want to go to jail just to sit and stew in my guilt until they finally decide my death will somehow pay for all the crimes of a group I've already killed." Freedom was definitely a bonus though huh?
Welp...have a good day? And thanks for sharing your works! (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*.✧
(putting this here instead of on AO3 because I forgot and had to go to bed.)
I'm turning into a puddle over this, rn, just ahhh!!! Thank you so much!! This means the world to me ♥ ♥ ♥
Vigilante!Y/N is definitely making up for the lost time with their vigilantism! Jail/submitting to the law is never really one of their main concerns, so definitely didn't really care to consider turning themselves in lol, but they do want to make amends with their morality. They know they can help this city by fighting for it, and not fighting within and further escalating the rot that's taken over. Their hatred is a weapon and finally, they've turned it onto the ones who deserve it for not doing better to help this city.
#compliments that make me cry (out of joy)#sleuth jesters#so many amazing thoughts/observations/analysis ahhhh!!!!#gobbling this up like it's apple pie
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Just Dizziness - Chapter 16
Crying exhausted me, inducing a nap on the couch for a while. When I woke up, Sarah hadn’t quite made it home yet, and it was getting dark outside. With a pounding headache, I dragged myself into the kitchen to find some paracetamol, knocking back 2 once located.
We don’t know why she’s still unconscious sir
Flipping around, I didn’t see anyone in the kitchen.
…..active brain activity……
I ran through the apartment. Was someone there? Was the radio left on?
….indicators she has brief periods of consciousness…..
Checking the windows, everything was closed. The radio was definitely off as was the TV. Running to the front door, I flung it open. No one was there. All I could hear was the traffic from a few floors below. Pacing through the apartment, I kept hearing snippets. I didn’t recognize who it was. Maybe it was a neighbor.
Is there anything I can do? I refuse to give up on her.
I stopped, standing still in my tracks. That voice. I recognized that voice. I KNEW that voice! Is this a neighbor? It has to be. It has to be a neighbor, maybe their TV left on loudly, or some sounds carried on the wind. That or I really am losing my ever loving mind.
‘That’s it. It’s a neighbor. It has to be! People don’t hear things out of nowhere. Or see themselves in car crashes. It’s best just to forget this whole thing. Maybe pretend I didn't hear anything, right? Right. I just want to be ok for one damn moment!’
I made a decision. I was just going to sweep this under a rug, at least for a while. I had to. These dreams of this fantastical man? Just dreams. Hearing him read to me? Wishful thinking. It’s time to get back to real life. Regular life, whatever that is. Not to mention the amount of guilt I felt for how much Sarah has been taking care of me this entire time. She has been there for me, kept me out of the hospital, the psychiatric ward. I could be strong for her, couldn’t I? A person could only be a caretaker for so long, and Sarah deserved a break. So I was going to give her a break and pretend, at least for a while, that everything is fine, just fine.
Maybe after a while it would be.
That’s when I heard the click of the lock and saw the front door swing open. Sarah was finally home from work. She went to place her purse and keys on the entryway table, and I ran and enveloped her in an all consuming bear hug from behind. She didn’t mind one bit, turning around and hugging me back.
“I don’t know where that came from, but I have missed your hugs.”
“Thank you for the chocolate milk.” I responded.
She was stunned. I’d been quiet for some time.
“Um, would you, uh…..like to eat some dinner? Or something?” she responded.
“Yes, please.”
Sarah hugged me again, and I could feel a combination of confusion and relief coming off of her.
“I, uh, picked up some of those cheeses you like from that one shop we love on my way home? They also had these amazing crackers I thought we could try. I also grabbed some more of that chocolate milk you love. This one new shop has it, and I knew you’d flip over it.”
"Very!" It wasn't easy, but I was trying.
Sarah’s eyebrows perked up high. “I knew you’d throttle me if you found out I'd found it and didn’t bring any home. Plus you’ve been through a lot, and I wanted to bring you something I knew you’d enjoy.”
She always had my best interests at heart, and I loved her to pieces. She always had my back, and I had hers. When that stupid guy dumped me right before the big dance? Instead of kicking his shins like she wanted to, she “accidentally” dumped a bag of garbage on him. When her idiot boyfriend cheated on her? I procured cat pee and poured it all through the inside of his brand new car. We were thick as thieves.
Just keep talking to her. It seems to help.
I ignored it. “Dinner and a movie?” I suggested, and Sarah agreed. She ordered take away and found some random movie on the telly. When the food arrived, I forced myself to eat, not wanting her to be concerned about my appetite anymore. After a few bites, I couldn't eat anymore, and I slid the container out of sight.
I faked a yawn and headed off to bed. “Time for bed.” Sarah agreed and headed to bed shortly after. Laying in bed for hours, I stared out my window at the starless night until sleep finally came.
Chapter 17
#tom hiddleston#hiddles#hiddleston#thomas william hiddleston#twh#tomhiddleston#twhiddleston#hiddlestoners#damn hiddleston#hiddlesarmy#hiddleston daily#dammit hiddleston#tom hiddelson#tom hiddelston imagine#tom hiddelston x reader#tom hiddleston x original female character#loki#tom hiddleston x ofc#tom hiddleston x plus size reader#tom hiddleston x you#tom hiddleston x reader#just dizziness
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Thanks For The Sub | ksj (Teaser)
Pairing: Camboy!Seokjin x Gamer!Reader (afab)
Rating: 18+
Teaser length: 2378
Chapter One length: 11-14k
Release date: Fri. January 19, 2024.
Genre: Smut, fluff, angst, camboy au, gamer au, comedy, crack, slow burn (?), coworkers/boss/friends to lovers, an exploration of adults in their late 20s/early 30s
Summary: After a clip of you sucking at video games goes viral, you've become somewhat famous, with thousands of subscribers now tuning in each week to see you play. Overnight, you've gone from a sexually frustrated grad student who reads smut in her room to a gamer girl (or rather, a not-gamer girl). This would have been the perfect job, except it was never the job you wanted. Desperate for money to pay for grad school, you bounce between your new gig and working at a local restaurant to pay the bills, where your hot coworker-now-boss Seokjin plays many of the lead roles in your sexual fantasies.
Seokjin, two years post losing his fiancé and job within the same day, is tired of the rut he's dug himself into and wants to start over. Now 30 years old, he's stuck managing his family's restaurant where he harbors an insanely inappropriate crush on you on top of carrying one hell of a secret: Seokjin is also known as Jin, a successful gay-for-pay camboy on the streaming site Worldwide Handsome.
When the stress of the upcoming semester and the pressure to stream becomes more than you can handle, you seek out some much-needed stress relief online, only to discover a man who looks a little too much like your boss is staring right back at you.
Warnings for Chapter One: Swearing, cheating (not between main characters), big age gap between lesser characters that can be uncomfy, sex work, gay sex work when the worker is actually not gay (but everyone is chill about it), feelings of shame and guilt, feelings of failure/depression, the existential crisis of your late-20s/30s that we all seem to go through, off-handed references to kpop culture including fanfics because I'm a clown and need to call us out sometimes, silly literary tropes, references to pregnancy, boss-employee power dynamics, allusions to queer BTS members or relationships, cameos of au Seventeen Members (Wonwoo and y/n are besties). NSFW sex stuff: big dick Seokjin (of course), f/m masturbation, dirty talk, sex toys, kink exploration, uh a lot cum (sorry), I mention the omegaverse as a joke, a sparkly pink dildo, seokjin has a massive collection of toys and he intends to use them, seokjin and reader are constantly horny, reader is kind of inexperienced, implied exhibitionism, implied voyeurism, implied public sex.
a/n: hello! i haven't written fanfic in years! I've been wanting to get back into it for a long time but I also work full time and am working on a poetry manuscript so this never manifested! This fic is inspired by a combination of fics from the lovely writing community on here, with a lot of inspiration coming from "tip 143 (for ∞ seconds of love)" by minilouvre on ao3. I feel like the camboy/person trope is so fun to explore and I wanted to try my own take on it with our Seokjin, who doesn't seem to get as many fics written about him but absolutely deserves it. I also wanted to create space for a fic that explores the weird transition of late 20s-30s that both BTS and I (and maybe many of you) have experienced in the last few years. I hope you enjoy!
xo - h
The alarm on your phone chimes, pulling you from the book in your lap. You’d been reading all afternoon, the sun now taking its final bow before plunging the world into darkness. Soon you’ll have to turn the lights on, then it will be time for work. On your only day off.
You groan, stretching your neck as you allow yourself to come back to reality.
To some, it would be hard to call your job “work”. Many people dream of being professional game streamers. Who wouldn’t want to be paid to sit online, play games, and talk to people?
You don’t. That’s the problem.
Your ascent into gaming stardom was a fluke. About 9 months ago, you were in between semesters for your grad program and looking for ways to unwind. Your oldest friend, Wonwoo, was a pretty successful streamer who often hosted game nights to play with his viewers and friends.
You frequently watched his streams, letting his soft voice be the perfect background noise as you studied and formulated the next lesson plan or behavioral assessment. You’d known Wonwoo for what felt like forever at this point, being his first subscriber, first moderator, and first kiss (not in that order). But your middle school kiss outside of the convenience store never led to anything more than that, as desperately as you’d wanted it to.
Once he moved across the country, you let your crush die with the distance. The years turned faster and your twenties were spinning by with the revolving door of lovers you’d watch him pine over, cry over, and in one case, almost marry. Streaming then became one of your main forms of connection, and your role as his moderator tied some part of you to him out of loyalty. To imagine him as anything other than a friend now feels ridiculous.
But that loyalty you have is also to a fault. When Wonwoo’s usual streaming friends bailed one night during a tournament, you subbed in…for a game you didn’t even know how to play.
And to make matters worse, this was a game that required talking to each other on-stream, which meant you not only sucked major ass at this game, but Wonwoo’s 700 viewers that day were also subjected to your constant frustrated squeaks, swears, and embarrassed maws as you tried to key-smash your way to victory but ended up throwing the entire team’s game with your incompetence.
Wonwoo wasn’t mad, though many others were. He knew what he was getting into when he agreed, and his streams operated with very few rules: no hate, no spam, and we are in this to have fun. And he did have fun. By the time the first round was over, he and most of the chat were losing it over your commentary.
As he wiped tears from eyes and took in a breath, he read his comments. “‘Damn, I never heard a chick threaten someone with a plunger like that before’. Yeah, I’ll give it to you, Y/N, you got really creative with your insults in that. Hey, PartyShitty thanks for the sub! ‘I can’t BREATHE’, yeah I’m still trying to get it together. W00000000000000000ziiiiii–damn that’s a lot of zeros in that username–thanks for the 5000 points! ‘Is she hot’ uh, I mean, I don’t—
“Oh shit, LetsGetIt15, thank you for gifting twenty subs! ‘Please, Y/N, start your own channel. I’ll be the first subscriber.’ Actually, no, I’ll be. But really, that's not a bad idea.”
Wonwoo navigated the rest of his stream with ease that night, but after it was over, he called you to try to convince you to start your own channel.
“It could help with school at least! Or you could get that special edition of that one book you like with the dragons or the blue alien porn stars or whatever it is.”
“They’re neither of those things, they’re actually–”
“Whatever they are! The book that has people fucking nonstop and some plot. You know, the special edition cover that you keep talking about in your close friend story that you won’t buy?” Wonwoo said. “The point is, if you start streaming you could finally buy it and then stop talking about it and I won’t need to see sections about how hot you think their alien or fairytale or demon whatever cocks are.”
You couldn’t help but laugh at his exasperation. “That won’t stop with me getting that book, just so you know. And if it bothers you so much, I can take you out of the close friend story. I didn’t even know you looked at my stories that much.” You didn’t know he still used Instagram at all actually. He very rarely posted. He mostly lived on his Discord channel talking about games with his subscribers or other friends.
Regardless, it was nice to know that he was trying to be aware of your interests, even if it was incredibly embarrassing. Although the copious amount of smut you read wasn’t something you always wanted to broadcast to the public, you’d still made some friends from online book communities over the last few years and enjoyed keeping them in the loop of your reading list.
Also, Wonwoo had a point. Streaming could help paying some of your school expenses…or get you more books. You told him you’d think about it, and while you weren’t completely in love with the idea of streaming, it did provide you with some steady income until you landed your job at the restaurant.
After that conversation, you haven’t discussed smut or cocks since, and you’re honestly relieved, not because Wonwoo is hard to talk to about things, but because you are. Which is why streaming always feels a little uncomfortable and your position ironic, because you can barely have conversations successfully unless you really know the person to ramble about your interests to, or you can occasionally eke by with small talk.
But streaming requires the spotlight being on you in some way at all times. It’s your face that is fixed to the corner of the screen, monitoring your every reaction. It’s your voice that echoes into the mic and responds to your chat. Sure, you have mods and some streamers don’t interact with their chat at all, but you don’t want to be like that. You’ve been on the other side before, and know that most people are just lonely and looking for connection. .
From the moment you decided to do this, you were aware that because you were now a “gamer girl” you would be subjected to the three extremes of the comment section: chronic oversharers who tell strangers all their personal baggage perhaps in the hope that you will assume some role of therapist to them, people coming to insult your gaming (which is the point so that can’t impact you) or physical appearance, or sexually explicit comments.
Over the months, you’ve seen many things flitting by on the screen, deleted in haste by your trusty mod squad, but it doesn’t stop the fact that you still see them.
Those things you can handle. They are impersonal and a direct copy-paste of the same thing.
But when people compliment you? That makes you want to bury yourself under your covers and never come out. Because the compliments are always personal and touching a part of you that is authentic.
The people in your chat want to know you. They want to know what kind of music you like, your favorite foods and books. They ask if you have a boyfriend or girlfriend or partner, compliment your hair or the shirt you’re wearing or your gaming setup. It feels intimate. Almost like you could find these people and touch them and let them know you.
But they can’t. Because the only thing that drew them to you, the part where you’re this funny, positive gamer chick who sucks at video games but is down for whatever, isn’t real.
Spring Day Streams Y/N is a persona. You don’t stream because you’re her. You stream because you have to be her in order to survive.
And now she’s taking up more time. Last month’s streams landed you Streamer of the Month, which thanks to the exposure, brought dozens of new subscribers and thousands of points, and that helped take care of some of your expenses for the new semester. Some. You’re still behind on your credit card bill.
Also, more people means more expectations for streaming. So you’ve kicked up your streaming schedule from twice weekly to three times a week, with you occasionally hopping onto Wonwoo’s channel even if you aren’t streaming to mod.
When you aren’t glued to your computer, you’re usually at the restaurant, in a cramped kitchen where you do the prep work, often alongside him, your sexy coworker-but-now-boss, Seokjin.
The man you are quietly obsessed with. You can’t think about Kim Seokjin without thinking about all the positions you want him to fuck you in.
Which is also why you’ve been devouring books lately. When you’re home, you throw all your energy into the escapism they provide, especially ones where you can get yourself off to whatever fantasy Seokjin effortlessly slips into.
For every hot mob boss, corrupt CEO, longterm best friend, dragon-rider, fairy, demon, alien, ghost, or hockey playing love interest you can find, Seokjin is sure to fill the role. A hot merman looking for someone to help him grow legs and something else? Seokjin. A Grinch who inherits his family’s Christmas tree farm and discovers how much he loves to ho ho ho? Seokjin. A god who tears apart the underworld to find his lost lover, and then during the reunion fucks her on the throne of Satan while she wears the crown? All Seokjin.
Unfortunately, his transition from co worker to boss has made your fantasies all the more dirty.
It’s been incredibly difficult for you to handle the fact that any flirtation you two previously shared in the months before he was your boss can no longer continue. But it’s also incredibly hot.
Fantasies of him eating you out on the counter have been replaced with the fantasy of him shoving you in the back office and fucking you on the desk while wearing one of those perfect-fitting dress shirts he often parades around in.
And when he rolls up the sleeves to help in the kitchen? Fuck, it’s humiliating how wet you get.
The entire thing is pathetic really. He’s just standing there half the time, lecturing everyone on proper kitchen hygiene and ensuring one of the cooks doesn’t use expired seasonings for his eomma’s secret sauce.
And you’re standing next to him clenching your thighs together because when you’re this close, you can just make out the freshness of his cologne and feel the heat of his body close to yours.
When someone fucks up, he has a tendency to take over, chopping with unmatched precision and self assurance, trying to keep his voice even and usually failing as everything builds in intensity until he’s accidentally speaking at a million miles an hour and lecturing until his face turns red.
If someone were to pass by the shop, they’d probably mistake his shouting for anger, but you’ve come to understand Seokjin is just passionate about things. Usually when he comes down from his tangent, he’s embarrassed and apologizes, and not long after the entire staff is laughing along with him as he cracks a joke at himself for his inability to tone it down.
Which to you makes him even hotter. Seokjin is able to see his faults and work with them, not against them. He holds himself accountable. He’s nothing like the haughty men you’ve gone on brief dinners with after downloading dating apps for the hundredth time while you’re drunk. He’s actually funny, knowing the right way to use humor and tell jokes, never at someone else’s expense, and definitely without being disgustingly crude.
All those clowns you suffered through drinks with always made comments and digs at other women or referenced their cock like they were setting up some goofy scene from porn and you would find it hilarious and endearing.
Seokjin isn’t like that at all. He probably refers to his dick as a penis and would blush to high heavens if he knew how horny you are for him. He’s unwound you, and he has no clue. Maybe if it hadn’t been literal years since you’ve last had sex you could tone it down.
With working all the time and going to school, it’s already been hard to even go on singular dates here and there. And since the prospects were frankly awful, sex is just something that has had to go onto the back burner for a bit, but you seemed to scorch the fucking pan by forgetting to turn the heat off and now you are burning and hungry.
With a final sigh, you put the book down, annoyed that you didn’t have time to finish it today or at least get to a good part where you could insert yourself into the role of the palace servant and Seokjin as the Prince. Based on the reviews, there’s sure to be a hot sex scene coming up involving using a sword in a particular way that has piqued your curiosity.
In a moment of depravity earlier, you’d snaked one hand down the front of your panties to rub a few damp fingers around your clit to take the edge off.
You check the time on your phone, already aware that you don’t have time to cum before streaming. You already hit the snooze button twice. The spicy stuff will have to wait.
Defeated, you stand up, turning on the lights in your apartment as the sun finally fades away and the dark creeps in. You eat a bowl of cereal while doing your makeup, what little of it you want to put on. Finally, you fire up your PC, trying to ignore the irritation you’re already experiencing from being so high strung and unsatisfied.
The second this stream is over, you’re going to make sure you cum until you pass out. Until then, it’s time for work.
©2024 by jooniperbonsai
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The Bar (A Prequel to A Selkie's Pelt)
Tim has a secret, a magical secret. And he wishes he wasn't so damned relieved that he had never told his wife, Isabel. (A prequel to my chenford story A Selkie's Pelt)
"Here's to changing the locks." Tim eyes his whiskey before slugging back something more like a shot than the sip he would usually take.
Despite the chaotic noise behind them, Tim had still seen Angela give their bartender the nod. Las Torres is a cop bar so Shawn knows what that signal means and will keep the liquor flowing for the two officers seated at his counter.
Again later, "here's to a bigger TV screen." Angela, like the good friend she is, clinks her glass with his before subtly pushing the basket of fries closer to him.
Much, much later, "here's to first marriages, may yours end swiftly and painlessly." Angela doesn't tap back at that one, but it's not his fault she has no sense of humour. He's funny.
This is funny.
His wife, who left him, who he hasn't seen in months, decided that she needed a little extra cash.
At least, that's what Tim assumes. Since their home wasn't broken into, but the empty spots throughout the house tell of a sudden exodus of valuable household goods.
He snorts, some of those were wedding gifts. Half Isabel's after all.
And he won't suddenly see them flung back into his wardrobe or draped over their bed.
No clothes hanger will magically hold up that stupid blender he hadn't even wanted in the first place. Isabel can have it. Let her have it all since she doesn't want his help.
It not like he can help her anyway. His wife is out there and he's here, useless.
"Hey, Angela. Angela. Your abuela, she's knowing right. You know, like knowing."
"You mean, can she curse a man half way across the country?" Angela wipes the salt off her fingers with a paper napkin before nodding.
When did they get fries?
"Yeah, she has the Sight. She knows what she's doing," the other woman confirms.
Tim squints at her. She needs to stop bopping around like that for a minute because he's got an important question. "Do you think she knows how to uncurse someone? Something?"
The two Angelas grin briefly, "oh yeah, what needs to be uncursed?"
He broadly gestures, sliding a little off the vinyl seat in the process. "Me, of course. What else?"
Angela sighs, "you're not a thing, Tim."
He snorts into his glass, "that's what you think."
Even if he weren't a part-time selkie sea-creature, surely a man--a good man--would not oscillate so strongly between fear and relief like he has.
Wouldn't feel that greasy ball of guilt roiling in his stomach that tells him he had never trusted his wife to begin with, that he had never even tried to tell her about the magic of his pelt.
The pelt that is currently wrapped around him in its disguise as a jean jacket. The piece of clothing intrinsic to the very core of his selkie nature; that he has never lost, that has never left him, and that he will always be bonded to. Its power gifting Tim with the freedom to transform into his seal form, unless stolen away from him.
And tonight, well, it would normally be another in a series that are breaking his heart. But the combination of now knowing Isabel would violate their house, the home they carefully made together, against the question of 'what if' has struck Tim through with white-hot fear.
What if she had known his secret? What if his pelt had been laying there, vulnerable without him?
What would a strung out, desperate Isabel do for money?
The terror conjured by those images contrasts so incredibly sharply against the relief blanketing his chest. The awful, guilty relief that he had never taken that final, trusting step and told his wife his truth.
He's still mumbling when Angela firmly replaces Tim's whisky with water. Her dark eyes are cop sharp as they trail over his blue-clad shoulders and long-sleeves.
"Come on," she urges, "drink that down and we'll get you back home to bed."
"It's my fault, Ang," Tim slurs, half-heartedly swiping at the fresh glass.
Angela's expression softens. Once he drains the liquid she supports her friend's tilting body towards the exit. She'll make sure he gets home okay. She'll make sure he's safe tonight.
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