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esccpism · 3 months ago

Text

- let ruin end here [.]

it’s peak hours on the train to grand central. you and sevika share a booth.

cw: younger woman x older woman, strangers to lovers, reader is anywhere from 23+, cunnilingus, overstimulation, multiple orgasms, vaginal fingering, light dom/sub, complicated relationships with parents, reader's mother is passed, reader’s father battles alcoholism, overcoming implied suicidal ideation, undertones of grief

wc: 5.6k

a/n: i think the only thing that feels worse than making bad art is not making art at all. i really want to like this and can't. exposure therapy is posting it anyway! this is loosely edited so i apologize for any errors, and hope you enjoy x

fic inspired by this beautiful artwork by moonie_forever on twitter.

you don’t see her at first.

you’re focused in a frantic sense, eyes raking up and down over heads stuffed in phones or laptops for a leftover space to cram yourself into.

your hunt yields. you snatch the spot immediately, sliding into the last remaining seat in a six-seated booth.

not that you can afford any pickiness, not that you ever can—but it's an aisle seat. it’s maybe the worst for an hour commute. you’re forced to remember this almost instantly, punished by a careless passenger rushing past who pummels your shoulder with their suitcase.

the offense strikes against you like a match and the anger ignites quicker than you can swallow it.

you yelp under your breath, and look up with a painful hiss, ready to send daggers into the back of the offending head and instead your eyes latch onto her.

sitting diagonal from you, her gaze is on you already. there’s nothing in them, nothing you can discern, anyway. her vague curiosity seems to run out as soon as no argument erupts because she settles back into the book cracked open in her hands.

rubbing your shoulder, you try to be quick. strangers have a keen sense of who’s staring.

you don’t want your trip to get any more annoying, but you take a big gulp and sink under: thin rimmed glasses bridge her strong nose, and she’s dressed comfortably, dark hair tucked away behind her, wisps and fly-aways brushing over her eyes. impossibly long legs eagle outwards in the seat, taking up far more space than necessary, and you nearly laugh—the poor old woman next to her is sitting stock upwards, elbows tucked to death—but it fails to be funny for long, seeing how her thighs dwarf the woman entirely and easily.

the rest of her body follows the same pattern. her arms sit broadly. she’s got a pretty shade on her lips, dark as night, and—

you inhale sharply. she’s watching you watch her, again.

her brow lifts.

you fish for the quickest thing you can reach for: smile breezily and nod towards the book in her hands. tell her with a voice that comes out strong and unwavering that you picked it up a few weeks ago, too.

it isn’t a lie. you recognize the title. the sentence, by louise erdrich—it’s sitting on your shelf in your childhood bedroom, and you’d put the book down temporarily as you had done with most things recently in order to keep yourself afloat.

her eyebrow does something new that rustles inside you.

her voice does something worse. it’s low and smooth velvet, and curls around in your stomach when she offers back, “main character’s a bit of an idiot.”

“only at first,” your grin grows, and loses its performance.

“from cocaine transport and body snatching? i would hope so.”

“she was in love,” you shrug, in her defense. “a pretty woman will do that to you.”

her eyes glint, amusement or a ghost of a laugh or something else golden on the horizon, you’re not sure. she asks if you would know. you answer her, oh, yes. intimately.

there's a crease or a dip in the space between you two that fills itself with words, cradles lines like water cupped in the palm of your hands. you spill nothing even in the awkwardness of talking over the shoulders of the passengers beside you, who continue bouncing their feet in irritation. her gaze flickers to them and back to you, mid-breakdown of both of your least favorite writing sins ranked from most hated to satan couldn’t even think of this—something bridging just on amusement pulling at her mouth.

when the man seated in front of her stands to exit at his station you shift over to take his spot.

your knees crowd together and kiss—she asks you if you have enough space to sit comfortably, and you tell her not to move a muscle. her long legs, stretching outwards like a yawn, hold yours inbetween.

₊⊹

you’d gone home that night and, bored, thought of her briefly as the tall buildings flit by. you wonder and then wish you’d asked what she was doing in new york, where the city was taking her, where she was headed.

and then you move on.

wandering is no longer in your best interests. what’s important is what’s right in front of you, and if you let your attention drift for a moment too long it might crawl out from your grip and shatter to the floor.

you fantasize about it, sometimes, in the weak hours of the night. what it might feel like to let it all fall. how your lungs won’t remember what air feels like when it doesn’t burn. what it might mean if you were to stop running.

alcohol hits you first, always. the stench sobers you up.

you lean one hand against the hallway and lift your heel up behind you, slip your flats off and let them clatter to the floor. your dad doesn’t lift his eyes to greet you when you shuffle into the dark.

“hi, daddy,” you murmur, and rest a light hand on his shoulder as you pass.

he starts under your palm, lets his head roll towards you. the T.V. paints his face blue.

“hi, princess,” his voice scratches on the way out. he shifts, and a bottle rolls out of his lap and clatters onto the floor. you sink to pick it up, gathering another three with you. he grunts, rubbing his drooping eyes torturously slow, working the words out of his mouth. “how was your—uh…your internship?”

you let the bottles rest on the counter. there are about a dozen others there too, your eyes coast over them tiredly. tomorrow, you tell yourself. you said so yesterday, too, but you think you mean it this time. you’ll clear them out tomorrow.

you have nothing left, tonight.

you tell him to remember to turn the television off when he’s done, and after a long, dripping silence he makes a vague noise in his throat in response.

the house is dying.

there’s no pretty way around it, no way to clean the sentiment up. the house is dying. and it took your mother first, one quiet night, under the illusive cover of sleep. your father had first begged despairingly for it to give her back and then resolved to go in after her.

the pile of empty bottles on the kitchen table counts down the days. they increase steadily, creating an ominous figure in the dark, and you glance past them everytime you twist your keys through the lock.

the house is dying. your father wants to die with it, and you know greed when you see it—the floorboards shift and groan under your socks, just biding its time to give way and swallow you whole. it will come after him soon. he won’t have to wait long.

yet no matter how far you go, you can’t shake the feeling sinking its nails into you, trailing inside your shadow. the house is dying. you know that once it takes your father you will be next.

it’s what the city does for you. and you've considered moving countless nights, wrapped in your rainbow zebra print blanket, the one your mother gifted you when you were thirteen and the world was so big it burned.

the city cannot love you back, and so you stand to lose nothing from throwing yourself into its aching maw. you stare at the cars beneath you on the commute with a child weeping in the seat beside and a mother tiredly shushing it, and swallow down the bile that bubbles. stalk through grand central with tall boots that mouth at your knees or heels that make just a bit too much noise because you eat moments that make you feel alive, keep yourself full to keep from reaching for emptiness in worse places.

you’ll take the local to soho, man the shop while your boss goes off to do god-knows-what for hours and wander for a few blocks after your shift is up. you’ll head down to greenwich to sit at the park and catch your breath for a moment and leave before you can let empathy crawl between your tired bones and make you too vulnerable. it shows, sometimes, when you care too much. you avert your eyes from a homeless woman on the bench diagonal from you and bury the feeling away.

bum a smoke from a stranger at a bar or book a table at a restaurant for one, it doesn’t matter. come home around midnight and leave again before the sun. if the plan keeps you on your feet then it’s a good one.

but then there was her.

and wandering won’t do you any good—the snag she clipped in your routine was barely a blip and still her smile sears behind your eyelids, burning everytime you squeeze them shut.

she was funnier than you’d expect of her. though she’d seemed at first confused and then entertained by your giggling—her humor was a bit dry, and her face far too expressive for her own good. you’ve never seen eyebrows that moved so much.

you had forgotten what laughter tasted like.

you flip your phone shut, and slide it onto your desk. sink into your comforter. right foot first, then left. sleep seeps into you near instantly and you try not to flinch away, feeling its cold fingers slide down your eyelids. it stills you like death, every night like a ritual.

drowsiness renders you helpless. it helps.

you dream of your mother and her cradling hands—of big things, of running away, of flying.

₊⊹

the eight a.m. peak hours aren't even the worst it gets, and still you only manage to sink into another six seat booth, in the aisle space next to an elderly lady who gives you a weary look before shifting so your legs don’t touch, and returning to her mobile game.

her high score is shit when you steal a peek over, and you immediately feel a bit better.

flipping your bag, brown leather and well-loved, you tuck a hand inside and pull out your phone. eyes flickering across the screen, lifting to check the time—

there she is.

the words leap from you before you can catch them and smooth out the wrinkles,

oh—.

you!

it paints itself like a holy declaration, bright and a bit too loud. your seat mates and those across the aisle, as well as the woman who fills your chest up when her eyes lift over her lens to meet yours, all shift in unison. the world, the blue sky, all rushes out, all crashes back in.

the conductor enters the car with a woosh and clatter behind you, calls out reminding the lot of you to have all tickets ready, and you ignore it. to your every elation she does too.

not quite a smile, but something catches her lip a little, and a huff sounds through her nose.

“hey, you. long time no see.”

₊⊹

her name is sevika, and your schedules align more than is normal.

each time it's the same train car, the fifth one from the back—and if you can’t make it you just jump train cars until you spot her dark, fluffy hair from over the seats. she has the same book cracked open each time you wrestle into the booth.

her greetings tend to not be greetings. she peers at you and receives whatever it is you’ve brought to her to chat about. sometimes it’s more pet peeves, other times it book recommendations, and she begs you to slow down with those, or a video that had made you laugh so hard you spit that she watches blankly and tells you she doesn’t get it. you’d gotten her only once, though, caught her lip flicker, pull to a smirk—your own breath locks and then you pocket it for later. only the political memes make her crack.

her outfits change erratically, too, and you think the first day must have been a fluke. you ask her how she does it so early in the morning, all the belts and straps and buckles, and then kick her when she says with a small grin that she’s got a lot of practice.

she nods in greeting, once, when you come to fit in the spot before her. her legs are always spread out wide and yours tuck together, inbetween.

it’s all you spend the weekends doing, now, gathering what to take with you to monday. you’re forgetting the bottles on the counter. you’re forgetting to tell your father to turn off the T.V.. the world moves in slow motion, everything moves in slow motion. even your dreams sludge through your sleep like a child running through snow.

some horrific mornings every seat in the booth is already taken.

her gunpowder eyes will occasionally flit over to where you sit a row down, mirth brimming inside at your cross expression and your crossed legs. some days you bring two cups of coffee. and she surprises you—she enjoys hers sweet. she takes it bitter the first time, feeling sorry to force you to drink it, and you watch her stain your thermal jug with dark lipstick over the rim of your drink.

you both fall together like rainfall in june. your legs are forgetting what it feels like to be rid of oxygen, to burn and repair in order to burn. your muscles don’t ache when you sit, sevika makes sure. asks if there’s enough room for you. spreads out like open arms.

her progress in the book is slow. and you learn that she’s sort of cute when she gets defensive.

her cheeks puff out and her brow creases and you wish you could tip forward and sink into her and disappear inside it. she tells you she’s really busy, you know, and her time on the commute is really the only time she gets to herself where she isn’t sleeping.

sevika pauses then. looks at you thoughtfully.

“well. not so much anymore,” she says. “i guess now there’s you.”

but the next morning you do see her, she’s a bit further in than she would be at her usual pace—and you scoff, and then laugh, and she leans back and sighs. but watches, softly, as your giggles peel you apart.

₊⊹

for a few days you don’t see her.

you embarrass yourself by walking through every train car, eyes threading over the seat, legs sludging past briefcases and elbows. you know she won’t be in any of them if it isn’t the fifth car and you check anyway. and are proven right.

the remainder of the day is a bit dimmer. you try not to overdo it, you don’t know her, no matter how much you enjoy the chats you share. she doesn’t owe you anything, much less any fore notice of when she might be absent.

she might just be sick or taking a day off. or maybe your eagerness scared her away. or maybe something had happened to her and the universe decided you’d enjoyed enough hope for a lifetime and she was taken from you, too.

your dad doesn’t respond that night, when you greet him—and you nearly crumble right there.

you hold your breath as you shuffle over, your sandals light on the floor boards. coast a hand under his nose, and still the blood pumping in your veins.

his breath whistles against your thumb.

you let your arm fall back down to your thigh. stare fiercely down at him from where he’s curled into himself. smaller than you ever remember.

mother would ask you to save him were she still here, because that’s the kind of person she was. and it wouldn’t be a request, it would be your duty. she’d drape it around you like a badge, let go, and watch the weight of the metal pin you to the earth.

his death means your death. and maybe that shouldn’t be it—maybe you should simply love him, and let that be reason enough.

and your mother, she wouldn’t forgive you for failing. but she would understand.

you draw away. click off the T.V., set down the remote in his palm, and then turn on your heel.

₊⊹

sevika is there the next morning.

this time her eyes catch yours first, already staring before you find her.

you stall momentarily, caught like a deer. the passenger behind you steps on your heel and you both mutter half hearted apologies as you slide towards the booth.

it’s hard and inconvenient to get around the other passengers but you shuffle over them despite their evident discontent. you aren’t paying attention to them. sevika takes your arm and helps you over—her grip warms you from the point of contact, inching outward and webbing down your insides.

her eyes are careful and steady on yours the whole way down, and your bare legs scrape her thigh. she closes them briefly to make space for you.

as you get comfortable—adjust—she lifts the book from her lap.

“i got up to the part where her friend haunts her,” she says in greeting.

“they weren’t friends,” you return. “they were something worse.”

sevika shakes her head—her mouth quirks. “no,” she disagrees. “they were friends. sometimes there’s nothing worse.”

you could think of many worse things, but none of them find you right now. the image of her toothy smile is lodged in your chest like stone, a dull ache. summer glances off her face, when the train emerges from under the tunnel.

she’s all at once and all of a sudden too much. you want to turn and flee in the opposite direction. you want to lower yourself between her jaw and pull her mouth closed around you, let the fangs sink into your skin, like a cheetah licking the meat off a gazelle.

everything falls away. guilt sucks its teeth. you won’t flee, and you know you won’t. no one with this feeling fluttering in their chest and ramming against their ribcage can let death wrap its cold fingers around their arm and remain still.

you know you are forgetting your mother’s face, and your father will wither away and you won’t follow behind him—because you have something else to chase, now, and it’s living and breathing and smiling at you.

truthfully, the thought shudders through you. you’re even losing what her laughter sounded like. her voice when she’d tell you, silly girl. the place you’ll call home is waiting for you to make it. what’s there to fear?

her cradling hands inside your dreams, when she’d grip your wrist and then your face and tell you, the door is always open. go.

sevika is terrible at hiding it, and she tries—but you think she’d missed you too.

she had called the protagonist an idiot but she’s no better, you can see it in the way she stares at you as if to take you inside her mouth. how she tracks your every movement. watches the very saliva slide down your throat.

you think you could make a home out of wherever she’s heading.

you let your legs eagle out. her gaze lingers on the place where your naked knees press into her thighs. your skirt rustles but you don’t mind what she sees. if anything, you welcome her heady gaze, and the hot coals it rakes over your body.

“thought i’d lost our little book club,” you say. it’s so uncasual it trembles in the air between you two.

her dark rimmed glasses slip just a bit down her nose, and she shifts them. keeps her eyes on you.

“is that what this is?”

the question stretches wider than just the book in her lap.

the conductor calls out the transfer at jamaica—you’re meant to stretch out of your seat. sevika watches you cross your legs, watches the new passengers stream in, crowd and fill in the empty space.

a few stragglers jog down the stairs, legs reaching past every other stair. the doors close mercilessly, passing like time. their frustration or disappointment passes across your chest as if it were yours, the familiar, intrusive ache of sympathy. but their story isn’t yours.

sevika closes the book around her fingers.

“i know today’s your day off.”

sevika leans forward, onto her elbow. “and you came to find me anyway?”

“who knew you’d be here? you must really love the morning commute.”

her mouth pulls for a drawn out moment. she tells you she has a second job back on the island, that she would’ve had to commute anyway to come back home—but you interrupt her. because not at this hour.

you know when her second job ends because she told you her schedule back to front when you’d asked about it. offered details about her day-to-to with one pretty smile from you, ran you up and down her routine with her voice calm as the shifting sea. despite accusing you of eventually revealing yourself to be a hitman or something else ridiculous she’d relinquished anyway, admitting well, it’d be a sweet way to die.

you would’ve kissed her then, if you were smart enough.

“you end far too early.” you tell her now. stare, and she stares back. “you should’ve been back hours ago.”

“this is my routine, sweetheart.”

“i’m your routine.” your leg bounces, scrapes and traces hers on its journey. her eyes are damp in the sunlight, kerosene drenched, and they speckle sunspots onto your skin with her intensity.

you wonder if she’ll refuse you.

wonder what you’ll do then, what the train ride back will look like. how you’ll open the text you send your boss. how curt he’ll be with the one he sends back.

but then—inside her incriminating, drawn out silence—you think that maybe she needs direction just as much as you need chaos.

“alright,” she relents. her voice is quiet but her hands aren’t. they flatten along your knee, thumb tracing up and down. fingers nipping just under your skirt, resting there, warming. “but don’t start whining at me when you lose that dream job of yours.”

“i don’t whine.”

sevika retracts and leans back into her seat, as the train rushes forward and thrusts itself into darkness, rumbling underground. the station is four minutes away now, and the conductor’s voice crackles over the speaker.

“we’ll see.”

₊⊹

you’re the compass that points eastward.

sevika stabilizes you with a heavy hand on your waist, but she doesn’t anchor you down to the earth. you float as her heavy boots thud along the cement behind you. moves you out of the way of pedestrians, steps in front when a biker whizzes past.

it’s her apartment you’re both headed to but you’re the one leading.

but her presence weighs, and the velvet of her voice keeps you holding hands with gravity. you tell her your story, and she tells you hers.

she’s a senior consultant, and it’s a demanding job. what she says is that it can be draining. what she means is that she gets paid by big boss men and CEO’s to have someone to blame when things go to shit.

her overnight job is easier on her sore skin. she mans a gas station, and spends the shift exchanging stories with the regulars and insomniacs, and chasing away creeps that come to bother her girls.

got yourself a little community, you say, squeezing her knee, and the comment makes her pause. you watch a few things flit across her face, before she grunts, and settles on one.

…i guess i do.

on the subway her hand rests on your thigh, massaging the flesh near imperceptibly. your legs are crossed and you squeeze after squirming too long—she feels you grinding into the rolling, loose coil of pleasure from the shuddering train and she tuts you under your breath. you nearly lose your common sense, a shaky breath escaping thinly through your nose.

you don’t have to ask why she doesn’t let go of you.

you’ve seen it, anyway—she was always fidgeting, shifting her weight, wrapping fingers around a page, an unlit cigarette, or around your thigh as it bounced anxiously, over and over against her knee.

and in the dark of her apartment in the three hour layover between her different shifts, instead of a book it’s a sparkly rocks glass, or an untouched bottle. the place is neat otherwise, almost clinically clean—empty as if she weren’t it’s habitant. as if no one were.

the drinks, she doesn’t consume them. they sit there, just in case. an assembly that doesn’t speak and company that cannot warm.

you survey it wordlessly and she watches you without offering any explanation or defense.

she takes your silence a way you hadn’t meant it—stoops and begins shuffling things around, but you stop her with a hand on her arm, tugging her back up to her full height.

“there’s time for that,” you say, “later. we have so much time.”

her face flickers—tightens.

there are no tears, no emotional eruption, nothing so melodramatic. but she gathers you into her with the force of an ocean that swallows with a hungry mouth. she tastes how she looks. she moves like something inside is dying, being replaced or beckoned out by something newer, some new life she can only find on your tongue.

you give her everything you’ve got.

it’s not much. you aren’t an answer—you’re empty as a tin can most days. if she minds you can’t tell—she sucks in a breath when you stand naked before her, dripping and squeezing your thighs together.

“come here, sweetheart,” she beckons you closer, patting her thighs.

you’re guided onto her lap by a rough hand, one that squeezes and kneads but doesn’t go searching.

“spread for me.”

you whine lowly. she’s clothed still and her eyes are glued to you and it’s rustling at the sediment in your stomach, the fabric of her pants delicious on your cunt.

she taps your thighs, voice lowering, “spread your legs, baby.”

slowly, you let your knees fall wayside, and the scent of your arousal washes forward immediately. she nudges you backwards, lowering you until your back thumps onto the bed. your hips are peaked in the air towards here, dripping cunt open wide for her to see, and you exhale shakily at the new angle, embarrassment crawling over your skin.

sevika stares, slow and methodical, eyes touching every crease and corner of you as you start squirm under the heat of it, begging her to do something, before your throat caves into itself.

“so restless, baby,” she says, a small smile crawling its way on her face.

you feel like cursing, like clawing at her to move. you don’t realize you’re rolling into nothing until she rests hands on your hips and guides the movement, fingers pressing dents into your skin.

the humiliation couldn't get worse, and your pride withers as you mumble, “are you going to touch me or what?”

“i can’t savor the view?”

“sevika,” you lament, and when she laughs you feel her stomach jump against your thighs. you suck in a breath, wet with want or something bigger, you aren’t sure and won’t reach out for it. it’s enough having her this close. she’s warm every place her skin makes contact with you, the cool surface of her prosthetic fingers rooting you back to earth with every squeeze.

she doesn’t tease for long. her thumbs extends and presses down on you, and all your breath gets trapped in your throat. she rubs your clit softly, tracing little circles, matching the whimpers you make with low hums of her own. you hips lift and roll against her touch, arching off her lap.

“feel good?” she coos. “when i rub your clit like this?”

you try to tell her you need more, but her maddening pace is making your brain muddy and your words slurred and nonsensical. but she’s never needed much from you in order to understand.

sevika’s fingers dips to find where you’re most promising, wet and writhing as she taunts the worst of yourself out of you.

she sinks inside and carves out the cave of your cunt, curling her fingers until your hips arch off her lap. she takes the invitation and readjusts, shifting until she’s supporting your hips in the air, and tucks her face into your thighs. bites and nips and searches the skin, leaves behind proof of herself in little tugs of teeth and wet kisses—and she’ll find nothing inside but your climbing greed, humping her mouth and whining sinfully, begging her to take you for all you’re worth.

she drinks, feverishly. as if your greed were the best thing she’s ever placed on her tongue.

sevika groans inside you, kisses and laps your cunt sweetly. your hand finds her hair, sinking your fingers inside. you tug harshly as her tongue begins to work faster and she makes a low, rough noise in response. her name warbles off your mouth, rolling your hips up off the bed to meet her. her tongue flickers back and forth and up and down, sinking and sucking. your begging begins to sound more like babbling, and her hand comes to rest on your stomach as she drags your body in closer.

you’ve lost comprehension—your mind is hazy and you’re slipping, reaching out for something, just on the horizon.

your thighs clamp around her head when your orgasm whispers against you, swelling tightly—

she murmurs into you, there you go, baby, give it to me, and that completes your search. with her tongue she presses you back into yourself, and you wail outwards as the crash overtakes you, seizes your body and squeezes till you’re shaking and shuddering.

you collapse. your limbs are jelly, twitching at her touch—

and she hasn't pulled away. your body cringes away from her tongue, still gently kissing and rolling your clit.

“sevika, wait,” you pant, as discomfort and pleasure swirl together. “too sensitive.”

“sevika, it’s too…” your head tips back, rolling into her mouth again. she supports your hips with her arms wrapped underneath—rises to peer up at you, the beginnings of a shit-eating grin flitting at the corners of her mouth.

“hmm?” she asks, a question she already has the answer to, as your glistening cunt reaches towards her.

“no, dont—don’t stop.”

“thought it was too sensitive?”

“sev, fuck,” you reach down, leafing fingers through her hair, guiding her back down, “please.”

her lips curl against you—a private smile, just for the two of you, and it guides the pleasure back as she sinks inside.

she takes until you’ve got nothing left to offer. your body is heavy and spent, and when you kiss her and cup her face in your hands she holds your wrist, tender, soothing your back with her thumb.

wrestling her clothes off takes little convincing and a little laughter, and you reach down and let your fingers play at her pants zipper, slip your hand beneath as she watches you, lids low. her brows pull and she intakes a breath when your fingers brush her fuzzy lips, spreading to feel the pool that’s amounted there.

you glide your fingers along her. she just barely ruts forward into your hand, eyes disastrous, grip on your waist tight. “you’re this wet just from getting me off?”

sevika makes a small, breathy noise, and her voice comes out tainted. “what can i say. the sounds you make are something else.”

“‘cause you make me feel good,” you murmur, slipping a finger inside. her eyes flutter shut, lips pressing together, before parting to pant.

“that right?”

“don’t swallow it,” you say, watching her face contort when you pick up your pace, when you slip in another finger. “you sound beautiful. can i hear you, too?”

₊⊹

you pick sevika’s glasses up from her bedside, and push them onto her nose. she asks if you have work tomorrow—promises to walk you there, and you wave her off.

butterscotch invades your senses when you rest your cheek on her chest. it’s all over you, too, she’d scrubbed you down and warned you that you’d smell like it for maybe the next three days. you couldn’t imagine a better predicament if you tried.

“i want to be haunted,” you push the words into the quiet, when her breathing has evened out to a near stalemate. she shifts, the only indication she gives that she’s listening. “i want to tell all the people i’ve ever loved that i hope they haunt me. but i waited too long. they won’t know that i wouldn’t mind.”

“i think they know,” sevika turns her head to peer at you. “you should hear yourself. i think they’re doing a fine job.”

“do you enjoy it? being haunted?”

she’s quiet. her brows lower, she works her mouth.

“sometimes,” she admits, quiet so as to not disturb the unretrievable. “when it gets bad enough it’s like they never left.”

you tip onto your stomach, sprawled across her. reach over and spread her fingers out, slide forward the length of your hand until they seal together. the angle is awkward but the effort is earnest. she’s warm, like a living thing. it’s all that matters.

when her eyes glance upon you, shiny gloss in the dark, you don’t think you’d mind being a compass.

you tug, and point eastward, outside the bedroom. leaving is the first step.

“come.”

the door is always open. go.

“come. let’s go clean up your ghosts.”

you plant your feet on the cold hardwood, right first, shiver against it, resist retreat; and then settle the left. push off the bed, and trust sevika is following behind.

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0alix0 · 8 months ago

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Rook's backgrounds make no sense or gatekeeping is good, actually

It's didn't sit well with me ever since bioware admitted that all 6 background for Rook can be played by any race you choose

Looking back at Origins it's clear why most of the backgrounds were race-specific. Not only it provided a better understanding of the separate cultures (you wouldn't really understand what dwarfs are about if you were able to play as a surface dwarf commoner) it also established the rules of the world (elves are opressed, you can't become a queen/king cuz the nobles will riot, humans colonize them and inforce their religion and rules on everyone, dwarfs are considered weird)

Now, looking at the veilguard, I can't help but ask:

How can a fully grown dalish with vallaslin be a crow? They buy slaves as a way to get more assassins, usually elves, children, so they could easier ruin their psyche. why the hell would a dalish stand for it?

How can a qunari be a Gray Warden? Wardens don't discriminate, sure, but this far, we haven't even heard of a qunari warden. Rook should be a legend, Rook should be questioned at actually being a warden by NPCs, OR sit in some Warden outpost and being studied by their mages, because no one actually knows how Blight and joining might work with Kossith body instead of running around with Varric.

Veiljumpers were organized by dalish, right? Then why in the world would a human be allowed to join? How and why did they change their minds to accept literally anyone, even if it's a potential threat/thief(Morrigan)/zealot/etc..?

How can a dwarf, someone who isn't even connected to the fade be a Veiljumper?

How can a dwarf be a part of the Mourn Watch? A Mortalitasi, an exclusively MAGE order? What can they even do?? Preform a non magical mummifications with herbs and salts like Egyptians did? Sweep the mausoleum? Be some sort of a funeral organizer/lawyer/genealogist? That could've been really interesting if only the game actually bothered to say anything about it. It did not

"Well it's up to your headcanons!" then why make the backgrounds in the first place??? They don't matter anyway!

I mean, obviously it was just a way to promote the game to older fans. Look, the backstories! The thing you've been craving for is back in game! Only they forgot what actually made them so great. The most important part. They mattered, they created a basis for my character. They gave them families, connections. They changed the way my character is perceived (elves in general) and what they can do plotwise (become a monarch/paragon).

I don't fucking care if 3-5 NPCs might have some additional dialogues for me, cuz they don't matter anyway. I don't even know these people, i never met them before, my character did, but I didn't. And now I don't care enough to know. like, i'm playing as a mourn watcher, but before going to Nevarra i barely knew anything about them, and what i know now is still rather surface level shit

Let alone the fact that all the backgrounds are practically the same. You pissed off some influencial people by doing good and was send away. Bravo.

........if this post gets one like I'm writing my own ideas for DA4 protagonist's backgrounds

#i'm one mental breakdown away from making a self indulgent visual novel to wipe this shit out of my memories #veilguard critical #dragon age #dav #veilguard spoilers #bioware critical

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pineapple-downside-up-cake · 5 months ago

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I've gone a bit feral over the inexperienced Simon agenda. I'm also a little obsessed with the 'size kink but in the not-feeling oversized' post.

It was supposed to be short and dirty... Before I knew it there were 3k words. I don't even know if it's still smut or if it's just a sex scene, but it's being released into the wild, anyway. Enjoy!

18+, MDNI

CW: use of sex toy; inexperienced Simon Riley, mentions of weight insecurity

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There are no waifs in your family line.

Peasants, farmers, horses... a dwarf or nine? Quite possibly.

It's not that you're fat, per se.

You're just solid. A bulwark of a woman in a world that venerates the narrow-boned, slim sculpted beauty that was never in your cards.

You’ve had lovers in the past, not all of them terrible. A few with enough reciprocity even to prioritize your pleasure, and it’s not entirely their fault if you’ve deliberately put brains over brawns – your friends might point out that your type skews heavily towards ‘spindly legged nerds’.

It’s not so much preference as happenstance. These are the people you are around, the kind of men you can talk to long enough to form a basis for intercourse. And, you remind them as you remind yourself, intelligence and personality are supposed to be desirable qualities, as well. Things that matter more to a relationship than appearances.

But you’ve always been aware of the physical imbalances, always careful to balance your weight, to curb your strength and pleasure to avoid breaking your twiggy lovers. It wasn’t bad. Just…measured.

Restrained.

Restraint you wish you could cast unto the last guy you dated, who went all in that first night on the couch in his apartment, a night that has haunted your psyche since.

You’d lost your balance, landed a little too heavily – and the man had fucking laughed, letting out an uninhibited “crush me, mommy” that sent you running for the hills, feeling the least sexy you've felt since your last high school dance.

It put you off men for months, because how the hell does someone recover from that?

But when Simon - gorgeous, intelligent, you-are-the-brute-squad Simon fucking Riley - asks you out?

Well.

You say yes. Obviously.

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It was supposed to just be a kiss at the door.

A goodbye kiss - a good goodbye kiss, because a man with honey eyes like that deserved a little tongue in his farewell - but then you were eye to eye with him on the top step and his shoulders were just there like the only shelter you'd ever need, and of course you wrapped your arms around his neck, and suddenly your goodbye kiss at the door moved inside the door, then behind the door, and then against the door.

And you don't find yourself regretting it at all.

Kissing Simon is every bit as wonderful as you had imagined. His mouth is warm and wet and you love a man who knows how to use his tongue - not bullying, but teasing, and when he scrapes his teeth across your lip something explodes in your brain.

Kissing Simon is better than you imagined.

Your fingers curl in the back of his hair and you push yourself against his erection, suddenly wishing you were a lace and skirt kind of girl, that you didn't have two layers of denim between you, because you aren't sure you've ever been this turned on, and how good would it feel to have his warmth pressed all the way against you?

There's no way you could possibly get either pair of pants off, not without stopping, and that's not an option you're ready to consider, so instead you grip him tighter with your thighs and let the ache between your legs grow, fluttering around nothing and getting wetter by the second, arousal seeping out.

It's a kiss that last eternity, but not long enough, because soon Simon is pulling away when he should stay glued against you forever, and you reluctantly lower your legs from their new favorite spot wrapped around his waist. He rests a forearm on the wall next to you like he needs grounding or he'll fall apart without it, and you melt just a little, grateful that your legs still seem work. He drops his forehead to your shoulder, both of you quiet and gulping as you reacquaint yourselves with the taste of air.

"Fucking hell, you are..." He lifts his head to search your face like he's not quite sure it's real. That you're real. "You are all woman, aren't you?" His voice is hoarse, and you don't know if it's supposed to be a question because you were the last time you checked - granted it has been a while - but honestly what does that even mean?

His lips are plump and thoroughly kissed, glistening - by you, you did that - and you have to rip your eyes away to form a sentence.

"Do you want to stay the night?"

Simon had held you against the wall like you weighed nothing, like he didn't even have to think twice about your thighs in his hands, about strength and leverage and slotting himself perfectly between your legs, and you are so, so weak - if he decides not to stay the night, you have absolutely no shame in getting yourself off to the memory of this alone later.

You can see it in the way he forcibly pulls himself back, tension warring with responsibility, that he wants to stay. Instead you watch him coil his desire like he has to weigh anchor to get away from you.

"I've got to work in the morning. I - I should go."

And you let him go, because you can be disappointed but respectful at the same time, but you give him a hug - not another kiss, no starting that, neither of you fully yourselves again - and a smile.

"Goodnight, Simon."

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Returning to his graveyard of an apartment is hard. It's far emptier than he remembers it being when left a few hours ago. He hates that he left, but he really does have to get up early for an exercise with the recruits. And if it spared him a little longer, it wasn't such a bad thing.

You had felt right in his arms. Maybe even too right - you'd locked together like a scope to a well oiled rifle, flush and secure and so fucking perfect. He’d nearly come undone right there in your hallway, fully clothed like a teenager, and what an unimpressive end to the night that would have been.

He heads straight for a long, cold, useless shower, and does his damnedest to think about the logistics order. It’s midnight when he finally crawls into bed and sets his alarm for 0600.

Normally, Simon sleeps, if not well, at least on command – a side effect of military life. But he’s still thinking about what could have been fifty-seven minutes later, and he should have known better than to prolong the inevitable.

He's no stranger to an attitude adjusting wank. His palm isn’t particularly special or exciting, but it can usually get the job done well enough. Tonight, as he slides down the elastic of his sweats, he finds his imagination has returned with a vengeance.

He’s hard again and he hasn’t even touched himself.

He’d give anything right now to know what you felt like skin to skin. If your nipples were sensitive – if he could make you come with his mouth alone, or if you preferred top or bottom – is that something he’s supposed to ask about? He wants to find out.

His cock jumps in agreement and he surrenders, gripping himself haphazardly and picturing you.

Not intimidated by him at all. Eyes glazed and full of soft noises. The way your thighs fit into his hands and how you’d felt when he pressed up against you – were you wet? If he had stayed, if he had gotten to touch - would you have wanted him as much as he wanted you?

He thrusts into his hand almost involuntarily at the thought, thinking of you pliant and willing and gasping his name – and suddenly he’s short of air and stifling the mess with the bedsheet.

0100.

Fuck.

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When he comes over on Friday, both of you are a little shy - the afterimage from earlier very much on your minds. Quiet, deliberate, you sit together on the couch in silence, not moving towards each other, making stilted conversation about your day.

Eventually you give in.

"Simon..." It's not going get it out of your system - you can tell sex with Simon isn't a one time affair - but at least it would clear the air. "I have to be honest. The other night? That was basically the hottest thing that's ever happened to me." The confession is quiet, sheepish, and you can see him breathe a sigh of relief, big shoulders slumping back away from his ears - what did he think you were going to say?

"I can't stop thinking about it. I've been dreaming about jumping your bones all week. Do you want to go upstairs?"

Simon has never wanted anything more in his life. Not another magazine, or air support, or Soap to stop speaking in tongues. He chases you up the stairs, heart thumping in his chest like it's his first time.

It's not. He's had sex before - it's been a while (a long while), but he's not a virgin. It wasn't really good - he'd describe it as 'okay' sex, which makes him sound like a snob, but he has one of those inconveniently sized packages that require signature on delivery - too big for comfort for the women who were chasing burly soldiers like him.

Practically, it means your slow makeout session is...not so slow. Simon has your shirt off before you ever hit the bed, painting a path across your neck with his lips, and by the time you're comfortable, your pants have disappeared like you were never wearing any to begin with.

The only time he falters, hesitates at all, is when you finally wrap your hand around the bare length of him, everything exposed at last. He's got this look on his face like he's waiting for you to panic, the corner of his mouth turned up with a ready response.

You like a challenge, and while you won't tell him he exaggerated - he really, really didn't, you let him know you aren't scared off, either.

A cocky smile, and a spark in your eyes, you let him know how much you appreciate it. "I can take it. Or I'll die trying, which wouldn't be so bad, either."

It's amazing, that with all the blood in his engorged cock, that Simon still has enough left over to blush.

It's better, easier, especially this first time, with you on top, where you can control the pace, so you push at his chest (and what a chest it is - a bare hint of blonde fuzz, but mostly pecs you could eat and the cutest little man nipples you've ever seen.)

You have to pay for it with a kiss, but eventually Simon rolls over to his back, laid out for you in his full naked glory.

He’s not some narrow, stick figured man you cling to like a fire pole – wrapping yourself around Simon Riley is like wrestling a refrigerator, every inch of you spread wide to take him in. Your thighs nudge that much further apart and you can’t explain it but it brings a fresh surge of arousal – he’s got you split open and broken in half for him before he’s even in you.

And when he does - when he slots the throbbing head of himself against you, nudges in -

Your eyelashes flutter and you scrabble for purchase, nails biting into his chest as he slowly presses into you, savoring that first glide as he scrambles your brain.

There's no room for anything, any thoughts other than Simon, like he possesses your entire being, filling you with an exquisite stretch that makes you feel like you'll explode.

He’s not even doing anything special – this is sex at its barest, but it’s better than anything you’ve had before – the angle, the depth, knowing he could pick you up and flip you over without breaking a sweat.

"You are so obscenely hot. Do you know how good it feels to sit on you and not worry about breaking you?" You laugh breathlessly, because it's hard to find room for air when you're trying to relax around him.

He slides so easily in your slick, but your muscles fight it as you slowly sink deeper onto him, and you help as you much as you can, clenching and relaxing and adjusting a little at a time until there's nowhere else to go.

He moans, low and deep, clutching at your thighs - to make you stop or to make you keep going, he's not sure - and you can feel him twitch inside you. "Do - do you know how hot it is that you just....you took the whole thing? Taking my dick so well, I can't believe it."

His head drops back against the pillow, eyes shut like he's afraid he's dreaming, that if he opens them it may all end. But you're still there, looking at him like you're enjoying yourself.

You could spend all night here, speared on him, spread wide, filled to completion with his head hot and pulsing inside you, knowing you will be ruined for your stupid spindly men forever.

It takes a second for you even to think about moving, but eventually you inch your way into a slow glide.

Beneath you, Simon finds he can cant his hips just a bit, and your eyes really do roll back into your head which is fascinating so he does it again, and again, and your slow glide gets a little out of control -

You bounce and he thrusts and your rhythms are the perfect level of unaligned to have him slip out of you, catching the thickness of his head between your bodies on a hard downslide and suddenly he's lost, losing himself into the condom with a few jerks of his hips.

Ever a man of few words - a long, drawn out moan is all you get out of him, and you help him finish, as unsatisfying as it might be, with a few more rolls of your hips against where he's trapped, until he stills you with a hand to the thigh, spasming like he's been shocked.

Simon Riley, dethroned king of never p-in-v, has a new complex he'll never recover from. He drags your pillow over his face with both hands, like he would smother himself if he thought it would help.

“'M so sorry,” he mumbles from under the pillow. His chest and neck are flushing the most fascinating shade of red, and it’s so attractive – not to mention flattering – that you can’t imagine how anyone finds it in themselves to be offended.

Reassurance falls on deaf ears. You try, anyway, sliding off his softening cock as he shudders once more. “It doesn't happen all the time for women. I still enjoyed it.”

He hears you, but it’s wrong. It has to be wrong. Simon wants to learn how to make you come every time, possibly all the time, if you can stand it. Wants to see you shivering in ecstasy, mind full of nothing but him and how good he makes you feel.

If he could melt into the mattress and disappear, he would.

"I'll make it up to you," he promises, and you've no doubt about that. He seems like the kind of guy that takes commitment seriously.

Lying next to him, you pull the pillow gently away and nuzzle his neck, sliding a slow hand up his bare chest. He’s spent, limp and boneless. He should be basking in afterglow, and instead he looks miserable. Tormented.

What the hell, you’re a modern woman.

You roll half off the bed to snag something from the night stand and hold it up for his inspection. It’s a garish pink that hurts his eyes, but Simon can't look away. He understands what it is. Never seen one before, though. Definitely never seen it used.

He'd be lying if he said he wasn't a little intimidated.

"Do you think you can hold on to me?" You dangle the vibrator from loose fingertips, and maybe you shouldn't tease him but you also need him to know it really isn't a problem - that A in B isn't the only way to have sex.

He finds it in himself to nod. His throat is tight and he wishes his body would respond to how badly he wants you, but despite his best attempts he remains limp. Dick dead to the world, and to you, and he almost wishes he could take a bullet, instead.

You straddle him again, supported by his knees behind you. It takes a little lift to get the angle right, but when you do the thick end of the vibrator slides in with no resistance. You know what you're missing, now, and it doesn't fill you nearly as well as Simon, but you smile at him because you can tell by the awed look on his face that you’re about to blow his mind.

You would be the first to admit it's not your usual strategy - this is a tactical vibrator, a high efficiency stress reliever that helps you sleep on restless nights. The thing has at least 10 settings and 3 intensity levels. You're only acquainted with two of those, but you know exactly how to make them work for you, and tonight that's what matters.

You guide one of Simon's hands to your hip, and the other to the button on the vibrator, and you hesitate - more bluster than confidence at this point, but he's got a way of making you feel like a sex goddess just by touching you with those hands that span half your ass, and you go straight to your favorite setting.

Convenient, that the slow ramp mimics exactly how you'd like to ride him, if he could last forever. The pulse burns through both of you, rumbling in his chest and sending lighting through your core.

His fingers splay across your hips, digging into the ample flesh, his torso so broad just straddling him takes you to a whole new level of arousal, and he helps you rock on the vibrator where it's pinned to his abs.

He's looking at you like you're the hottest thing he's ever seen, molten heat and promise in those dark brown eyes of his, and you can almost hear all the things he wants to do to you, and so you close your eyes and imagine it instead, imagine it's him you're riding, that you could watch him rut into you as careful, thoughtful Simon fucked you into oblivion.

"So good Simon, so close - " He doesn't understand why it's his name that escapes your lips - he's not doing much, just along for the ride, but somehow it makes him feel wanted and not like a dud.

Like he might still have a shot with you, that he didn't ruin this, and he's speaking before thinking for once in his life - "Give it to me, love, want to see you come."

It's enough. It's more than enough, tension rising in a flood and you need it now. Squeezing his flanks with your thighs, you lose all capacity for words, gasping for air, and you grab his hand and help him push the wand exactly where you need it until the heat rushes up and drowns you, making you shudder violently against him.

You have all of a half second before it becomes too much, and you nudge Simon's hand out of the way as you roll off him and yank out the vibrator in one go, flinging it over the edge of the bed, a problem for tomorrow.

You collapse facedown next to Simon like a ragdoll, gooey satisfaction still spreading through your limbs. It's silent except for the sounds of your breathing, and you sidle over to press up against Simon, to lay with your head on his chest.

He pulls you in tight, wrapping one of those massive biceps around your back, to comfort you or because he's afraid you'll disappear he isn't sure, but then you bite him, sink your teeth into the bare flesh of his pec - not hard, but it gets him out of his head.

"You're wonderful." You mumble, post-coital sleepiness coming in fast.

"You're...incredible," he whispers back. "That was... I don't even have words for that. Hell." He does have words, words like 'you're the best thing that's ever happened to me' and 'I only want to fuck you for the rest of my life', but he knows without being told that it is way too early for that.

Instead, the two of you fall asleep together, your leg tangled with his. When you wake up, he eats you out like he's never had a proper meal in his life, shows you with his mouth what he won't say yet.

You don't really need convincing, but you won't complain.

#simon riley x you #simon ghost riley #simon riley x reader #ghost x reader #ghost smut #cod fanfic

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sabertoothwalrus · 1 year ago

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here are some preliminary sketches I had done in my sketchbook for the peepaw chilchuck comic.

I wanted to follow it up with some worldbuilding thoughts I had while working on it, if that sort of thing is interesting to anyone:

- it’d take place 5ish years post-canon

- I changed almost everyone’s hair to show time had passed. Chilchuck and Kabru were the most drastic (I COULDNT STOP THINKING ABOUT THAT LONG HAIR KABRU THAT KUI DREW), Marcille grew out her bangs, Senshi’s beard is slightly shorter, and Izutsumi’s hair is mildly longer. Laios and Falin give me the impression that they’re the brand of neurodivergent that’d pick one haircut and stick to it for the rest of their lives. I almost gave Laios facial hair but idk he’s gotten over his daddy issue enough for that.

- Emertim Chils: I tried to follow both the half-foot and dwarven naming conventions for the baby, so Emer- comes from “emerald” (dwarven names are often gemstones or ore) and -tim because Chilchuck’s father’s first name was Tim :) Dwarves don’t have family names, so Emertim would take Chils, same as Flertom. Usually they’re named after their father but I didn’t wanna name a random dwarf man. thank you Chel for helping name him 🫶💕

- Initially the idea that Chilchuck would keep an entire grandchild a secret was just a joke, but it made sense when I thought about it. I wonder,, would dwarf/half-foot couples have trouble conceiving? Because if so, I’d imagine Flertom may have lost a couple pregnancies. Chilchuck is already such a private person, and I don’t think he’d feel comfortable airing his daughter’s grief like that. They wouldn’t wanna tell anyone until they were sure this baby was gonna make it.

- For the above reason, Chilchuck would absolutely spoil this kid. Not that he wouldn’t have spoiled his grandkids anyway, but I think after all that stress, he’d be extra extra doting. He’d be letting him do things he’d never DREAM of letting his own daughters do. Completely different parenting style.

- I think he’s still too prideful to take advantage of Laios being King (sidenote: is Laios even wealthy??? does a kingdom that sprung up from a previously-sunken continent even have money?? what the fuck is their economy), but like,,, if Laios offered any gifts he wouldn’t exactly say no.

- Izutsumi surprisingly really likes the baby :3 she’d like to take naps with him and he’d like her purrs and she’d have a lot of fun playing with him.

- SENSHI. meemaw mode. That kid would grow up not realizing Senshi isn’t technically one of his grandads. He is FEEEEEDING this kid.

- LAIOS DOES GET TO HOLD THE BABY!!!!!! just. eventually. They don’t actually expect a Tarrare situation LMAO they just wait until the kid is a little less fragile and a little more mobile. I think Laios would be really good with toddlers.

- Chilchuck is very thankful Emertim’s half-foot genes kick in sooner than later because he was getting too big for him to carry.

- Emertim would probably get the extended lifespan. He and Marcille would get to stay friends for a very very long time :’)

- my personal headcanon is that Chilchuck and his wife decide to split. He still loves her and it’s probably still a bit mutual, but after four years of almost no-contact, they decide their communication issues aren’t working well for their relationship. Plus, the Adventurer’s Bible says Chilchuck is renting their old house out to family, and he’d feel bad kicking them out so he and wife could move back in. They’d still be on good terms, and would be good at coordinating when to babysit.

#do yall like this sort of post…?#my art #dungeon meshi #delicious in dungeon #dungeon meshi spoilers #chilchuck tims

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mountkennedie · 1 year ago

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I always see posts about elves having sensitive ears. BUT WHAT ABOUT DWARVES??? their ears are big as FUCK and you're gonna tell me they're normal? no thank you

Anyways here are my Kili headcanons

Race wise, you are literally anything but a dwarf (bc its more fun that way)

It all begins when you are simply trying to help him out

You saw a long strand of hair in his face and did the sweet thing of putting it behind his ear

What you didn’t expect was to hear his breath hitch with you doing so

He looked up at you with a bewildered look before smirking

“Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Do you really not know?” His smile grew of course

“Know what?”

He got closer and whispered “how sensitive dwarf ears are”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

Like anyone EVER you wanted to play with this knowledge

A while later you came back up to him

He was practicing his shooting so you snuck up behind him

You pulled all the hair that had fallen in-front of his ear, behind them

You let the tips of your fingers graze the top of his ear

His breath unsettled again and he shut his eyes

The arrow shot out of his hand and far off from his target on the wall

“What are you doing to me amrâlimê”

He threw the quiver off his shoulder and his bow down

He turned to you and placed his hands on your waist

“Are they really that sensitive?”

“You have no idea.”

He pressed his lips to yours passionately

You smiled into the kiss and reached back up

You cupped his head

Your fingers found the shell of his ears again

This time he freely moaned into your mouth

WHY DIDN’T HE SAY SOMETHING SOONER

ok lol this is all I have

just a thought yk

#mountkennedie #kili durin #the hobbit kili #kili #kili x reader #fili and kili #kili headcanons #the hobbit headcanons #lotr headcanons #lord of the rings #dwarf headcanons #kili durin x reader #kili fluff #kili durin fluff #kili smut #kili durin smut #this has been wracking my brain #wrote this in one sitting

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ephie-om · 2 months ago

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Kitchen Adventures

Inspired by this post by @zephyrchama. I'm so sorry for this.

“Solomon’s been acting suspicious.”

“I hate to break it to ya, but that’s just the way he is.”

You frown at Mammon. “I know that. He’s acting more suspicious than usual.”

He shrugs. “I wouldn’t question ‘im. You probably ain’t gonna like the answer.”

He hunches back over, strong hands dwarfing the tiny pliers he’s using to fix your necklace. The room falls into a comfortable silence for a few moments, until your conversation finally catches up with Mammon’s brain. “You think he’s plannin’ something?” he asks, a worried crease forming in his brow.

It’s your turn to shrug. “Maybe. Like you said, there’s no way of knowing what he’s up to.”

“Hey, I didn’t say that. I said you might not like findin’ out. There’s plenty of ways to find out what he’s up to if you’re his-” Mammon sits up straight, clasps his hands together, and puts on a high voice, “adorable apprentice.”

“He does NOT sound like that.”

“Sure he doesn’t. Anyways, I’m sure he’d tell you if ya asked him. Or at least give ya a hint.”

Without ceremony, Mammon dumps the silver chain into your hands, barely giving you a chance to catch it. “Are you in a hurry to get away from me?” you tease.

“If you’re tryna mess with whatever Solomon’s got goin’ on, I’m gonna put some distance in between us,” he chuckles. “Good luck.”

You push open the door of Purgatory Hall with a creak. You had knocked when you got here, but judging by the muffled explosions coming from deeper within the house, there wasn’t much chance anybody would be here to let you in. Peeking around the corner into the kitchen, you see none of the hall’s residents, bringing another frown to your face.

The counters are messy with flour, an unknown substance splotched on the cabinets. Against your better judgment, you poke at it with a finger. It’s sticky, and, from what you can sense, vaguely magical. Yep. Solomon’s definitely been in here. You turn your attention to the sink, piled with dishes that smell like… well, like death. Sulfur and brimstone. The pits of the Devildom. Maybe that was an exaggeration, but you didn’t think so.

A creak from the staircase draws your attention, and you finally see Solomon making his way downstairs. “Hey, MC,” he smiles faintly. “Looking for someone?”

“Yeah, I was trying to find you, but there weren’t any signs of life,” you joke.

Solomon pales. “Signs of life?”

“Uh… yeah. Like you, Simeon or Luke?”

“Oh! Of course,” his usual cocky smile is back, but not without a hint of something else under it.

You squint at him. “Solomon?”

“Yes, my darling apprentice?”

“What did you do?”

“What did I- nothing! I haven’t done anything. Not unless you count being the wisest sorcerer alive, of course.” A bead of sweat trickles down the side of his head, and he pretends to fix his hair.

“Solomon.”

“Why don’t we go up to my room for a bit? I can show you what I’ve been working on lately.”

“Solomon.”

His shoulders slump in defeat. “You can’t tell anyone, alright?”

You nod, still keeping a safe distance from him, and he circles around you. You back up a few steps, not quite trusting him to remember your fragile human bones. He rolls up one sleeve and- “EW, SOLOMON!”- plunges his hand into the sink. He feels around for a moment, face scrunching up in concentration, and finally pulls out his prize.

In his still-dripping hand sits a soggy brown blob about the size of a fist. It looks like unleavened dough, speckled with bits of herbs. A clump of flour bobs to the top slowly, then bursts, soaking back into the dough. “You were hiding this from me the entire time?”

Solomon holds up a finger. “Just wait.”

The blob shifts, and despite the stench, your curiosity wins out and you step closer. Two lumps form at its base, lifting it up, and slowly growing long enough to support the rest of its body. Two smaller lumps grew from its midsection, and the body began to separate into one part below and one at the top. The bit at the top caves in to form two small dents, just where eyes would be. It would look almost cartoonish if you were five feet away, but right now…

“Solomon, that looks fucking horrific.”

A high pitched whine fills your ears, emanating from somewhere in the blob. Solomon curls his other hand protectively around the blob-thing, and you try not to think about the puddle of sink water forming on the floor below it. “He can hear you,” he hisses, pulling it closer to his chest. Thankfully, the noise stops as he shields it from your view.

“I don’t know what level of sentience it’s achieved,” he whispers, looking cowed. “I don’t want to make a wrong move, so I’m trying to give it as much respect as I can.”

“He?!” you whisper-yell back. “Why are you treating it like a person?”

“You want to respect the demonic version of the Pillsbury doughboy? How did he even get here?”

Solomon gives you a pained look as he slowly removes his other hand from the thing. “It’s called a homunculus, for one thing. As for his creation, I was in the kitchen.”

“I gathered.”

“And I wanted to enhance the biscuits I was making, so I used magic, of course. I guess the way I worded the spell might have been interpreted as literally giving something life…” he trails off in thought.

“Weren’t you just talking about how you’re the wisest sorcerer alive?”

“One last question.” He raises an eyebrow. “Why the hell is he living in the sink?"

Solomon hmphs in your direction. “Everyone makes mistakes; that’s how we learn,” he says sagely.

“Oh, he likes it in there.”

“He what now?”

“I think it’s because of the humidity. I tried taking him up to my room so I could keep an eye on him and he went dormant again.”

“Dormant? Like when he’s curled up like that?” Solomon nods, and the two of you lapse into silence, both staring down at his unholy biscuit creation.

“Do you want to name him?”

“You have got to be kidding me.”

“Well, we have to refer to him somehow. Who better than my lovely apprentice to choose a name?”

You stare at the blob. Little bits of dried leaves poke out from it, and its empty eye sockets stare ominously back at you. The doughy skin has started to shrink as it slowly dries, causing it to fold and crease where the limbs meet the body. You try to like it, you really do, but the more you look at it, the uglier it gets. You hope that your reflexes will be fast enough to throw it against the wall if it starts making that noise again.

“What did you say it was called?”

“A homunculus.”

You summon all of your incredible wordsmithing ability. It is your solemn duty to name this awful creation to save the world from the next Frankenstein’s monster. It has to be something affectionate, creative, easy to say…

“Homie. Lil’ Homie.”

“...homie? As in homunculus?”

You nod. “Exactly.” Lil Homie stares back at you, a tiny stem falling through his leg. “Can we please put him back in the sink now?”

Solomon obliges, nestling him in between several plates and scraping the dough from his hands as best he can. Lil Homie re-blobs, half-submerged in sink water. You and Solomon stare into the pile. Solomon leans over to whisper in your ear. “Don’t worry, I have plans to bake him if he gets too aggressive.”

#obey me #obey me swd #omswd #obey me shall we date #obey me crack #om solomon #obey me solomon #i wrote this in the span of four hours #mars' writing possesses me once again #ephie writes

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shirefantasies · 9 months ago

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I Now Pronounce You…Confused- Bofur x F!Reader

I’m really excited for this one! Found a hilarious trope prompt and one of my favorite shows has done this at least once too 😆

Warnings: mentions of alcohol/intoxication, suggestive jokes

Every pound of your head came like the cruelest heartbeat, painfully reminding you you were alive. A little too alive, frankly. It had been a long time, maybe even never, since you had indulged such as you’d chosen to the previous night, distracting yourself enough for the bottle to throw you right into the…cot? Bed?

Oh, stars. Bolting upright, you flung the blanket that was half-draped over your body off, realizing with the motion of your arm and the uncovering of your body that you were, in fact, still in the dress and pinafore you’d remembered putting on the previous day, not a scratch anywhere on you or it. Well, thank the heavens for that at least.

For that as well as the emptiness of the bedroom of sorts you were in. Perhaps you had simply gone awash and someone had walked you back there for a rest. Yes, that had to be it, you reflected as you slowly rose to your feet, slinging one leg followed by the other off the edge and gripping one of the posts for balance. Blast your splitting skull. Blast it all!

But judging by the doorway carved into the far sight of your square little brown quarters, at least there was what appeared to be a small washroom attached to the bedchambers. If not all hope was lost, anyway. Tugging your shifted skirts straight about your waist again, you tentatively squeaked across the old floorboards, glancing up at the molding around the ceiling. Very pointy-looking flowers and the like. That was right, you’d made your way to New Dale.

A traveler. That was what you were. Hadn’t found any reason to settle down yet, and if you’d made as much of a fool of yourself as you suspected, this place would be no exception. New Dale was to be the final stop on the way to see the infamous Lonely Mountain anyway, not much of a potential home, but right close and certainly availed of drink, not to mention quite the handsome mayor. Or whatever that Bard called himself.

At any rate, more than ready were you to disappear through that doorway and, with any luck, into a nice cool bath. You made your way over to it, but right as you made to step through another figure emerged, almost stepping into you, rocking back, and giving a call of shock to match yours.

He was a dwarf by the looks, and mainly height, of him, one a bit your senior and most distinctly wearing a great big hat that made you want to try it on so badly your hand twitched as if to make to swipe it off his head.

“‘N who might you be?”

The dwarf asked, tone not at all accusing, quiet as though he was as hungover as you, and frankly sounding more amused than anything else. The lilt of it carried an unspoken hint of ‘why not?’.

A rhetorical question you were more than happy to answer right back with one. “Were you in here all night?”

The dwarf looked taken aback by that, brown brows rising suddenly, seemingly before he could stop them. “Not like you’re thinking unless you aren’t thinking what I think you’re thinking. I don’t think.”

“What?”

“Can’t remember much of last night,” the dwarf answered, a gloved hand pressing to his hatted head, “but if you’re worried about how well we got to know each other last night, frankly I don’t even know if we got to names!”

You shook your head. “We mustn’t have, for I have not the foggiest what yours could be.”

At that, he smiled and you really took him in, realized what a kind and cheery-looking fellow he was. “Then let these introductions be all the sweeter. Bofur at your service, madam.” As punctuation he bowed at the waist, a hand flipping to extend toward you.

Letting out a chuckle, you gave your name, took his hand and felt your brow rise in surprise at the way he boldly brought your hand to his lips. It brought a smile to them, though, and with that out of the way Bofur waved a hand and bid you use of the washroom, which you gladly took up.

Should you have used the tub fully? Probably, but as it was you were still just a hint unsteady on your feet and drawing water sounded about as appealing as kissing a dragon right about then. Alright, maybe not that bad, but unpleasant enough. As it was you opted to take up a clean white rag and simply scrub yourself up as best you could, harsh hands grating soft fabric against your skin. The soap bar was simple, but a hint of orange blossom carried into the air around you as it bubbled lightly onto your moist body.

Upon finishing, you tugged your clothes back on, wrinkling your nose at the contrasting smell of wear pulling once more onto freshened skin. Drying your hands and lacing your shoes, you made your way back out, taking a curious peek around the doorway as if Bofur had been the product of a wild hangover dream.

Standing a short distance from the corner, the dwarf stood and waved a hand, offering a little smile. Not a figment of your imagination, then. Tentatively you waved back.

"We must've both just nipped off here to sleep it all away without realizing."

"Well, I guess that makes us roommates!" Bofur replied jovially, eyes turning upward with the joy of his smile.

"I guess so," you agreed, giving a smile of your own and emerging from your accidentally-shared room at his side.

Another enemy: a staircase. With a little 'whoa', Bofur pitched a little forward, grasped your forearm for stability, and gave a little hum of satisfaction before holding on completely. Your own rolling brain was silently grateful for the extra balance, the warm weight against you as you gripped the banister's smoothness. Joined like that you arrived down at the bottom and turned into the tavern, which already housed a mild bustle of patrons and servers.

One such woman came up to your side soon after you separated, hands joined at her waist and cheeks beaming with...pride? But what could she possibly-

"Well, if it isn't the newlyweds!" She exclaimed, sunshine positively beaming from all sides of her voice. "Frankly I am a bit surprised to see you out so soon. Well, no matter! Shall I prepare a spot of breakfast for the happy couple?"

"You're joking," Bofur snorted, "Right? We don't even know each other!"

"We met for the first time upstairs just now," you added, nodding agreement before turning back his way, "But I am sure we would enjoy some breakfast, thank you!"

"What are you talking about? You wed last night! No rings or anything, the two of you simply could not wait any longer! Quite romantic."

"I don't understand," Bofur said, gaze swinging up between you and this other woman, "We just got each other's names. Must've been another dwarf."

Leading you to your table, the woman spoke your names before you'd given them, reciting vows that named a brother and cousin Bofur had yet to mention at all, but that he'd apparently thought you'd like last night. Even though according to him the cousin, Bifur, needed some taking care of. Probably didn't hold his ale well. Your vows included an old joke about how you thought you'd be married in trousers, which was something you'd said to your family as a little kid. The name you'd been sure your future husband would have when you were twelve years old. All things this strange woman could never have known. Unless, of course, you'd spoken them last night drunk out of your mind.

"By my beard," Bofur breathed, clearly having come to the same conclusion, "We really did get married! Who in their right mind let us do that? Drunk as skunks, we were!"

"Probably the town justice you shook down 'Until I am bound to this fine woman for all eternity'," the server giggled as you wobbled into your seats, eyes still wide, "So, er, eggs then? Sausage? Bacon? Flapjacks?"

"All of the above," your companion sighed, eyes remaining locked on yours, "And whatever your strongest tea is, please."

"Just tea?" You asked with a sardonic smirk.

"Never got that hair of the dog stuff. 'Sides, don't want to end up like last night again, eh?"

"Maybe if we do it again we'll get divorced."

"I dunno, seems the liquor made us like each other a whole lot more."

"Could've liked each other even better," you quipped drily, glancing down at your clothing.

"You've got me there," Bofur chuckled.

He said nothing more as you waited for your tea, but some barely perceptible shift had occurred in his eyes, which occasionally shot down lower onto your form and then right back up again like they'd been slapped. Your own gaze wavered from his eyes a bit, tracing the line of his mustache down and back up again. He drummed his fingers in some unknown rhythm against the table's wood surface, glancing back up at you with some unspoken question you weren't sure if you wanted to answer.

"Your tea! Tea for two!"

Tension thoroughly cut, you both tore your eyes from each other to meet those of that same server once again, this time setting down a laden with tea things. Beaming at you again, she set a little white cup banded with green and gold, the center of each ribbon bearing lilies. White lilies, of course.

"Get it?"

"Yes," you groaned.

"Ah, lilies, that's clever," Bofur remarked, holding a cup up to his face and chuckling, "'S good, save for the fraudulence and falsehood of it all. Say, do you guys have honey?"

"Of course."

And with that, it was just you two again, you two and the tray and the steaming teapot that matched your cups. Was Bofur not feeling the pit of dread that sunk within you or was he truly that good at masking it? Or maybe he was truly so confident in your situation's coming reversal.

"So I suppose we track down that same justice to nullify this all?" You asked, staring down at your cup under the guise of ensuring nothing of your refreshment spilled.

"Supposing so," Bofur answered, accepting your proffered teapot from across the table, although he refrained from pouring anything, likely in anticipation of the honey, "For now, we may as well enjoy a nice meal, eh? I hear the flapjacks here are especially good."

"Oh? From who?"

"From my love of flapjacks! Now come on, how's about we get to know each other a little? Daresay we're a special kind of friends now. What brings you to New Dale? Business?"

"Quite the opposite," you snorted, leaning back until one of your chair's hard corners poked into the flesh of your back, forcing you to shift quickly to maintain an appearance half as nonchalant as Bofur's, "I had no more reason to go here than anywhere else save my own desire. New Dale was actually just a stop on the way to visit the mountain."

“Mountain?” Bofur asked, brows raised in great interest. “The Lonely Mountain? Erebor? That mountain?”

“Yes,” you giggled, “Any other names you’d like to give or is the hangover leaving your body now?”

“Well, what did you want to see? I’ll have you know your husband lives there."

"Let me see, the architecture, the history, that great mass of gold and gems I've heard so much about, all the beautiful things only dwarves can make."

"Men can make beautiful things, too," Bofur answered, "After all, they made you."

For once, your mind could not conceive of a single protest.

In the shadow of the Lonely Mountain you and Bofur strolled, Bofur pointing out the meaning of this flag and that statue until you had entered the great stone bulk and stared in awe at massive columns of whatever greenish stone and flying colors from a great indoor marketplace. In-mountain. Whatever the lot of it was, it did not smell nearly as dusty and dry in there as your imagination had conjured- how’d they keep it so nice?

Whilst there, Bofur bought you a souvenir. In drifting over the assortment of carven wood implements, your eyes slid back to a great stein numerous times. Inhaling the scent of the sawdust littering the floor behind the crafts-dwarf, you skimmed completely over spoons and even little statues of creatures of the woods to look at the thing, the thing finished smooth and set with some rune. One of joy, according to Bofur.

"You like it."

"No, I don't." A glance at the seller, then back to Bofur. "Well, yes I do, but I don't know if I can-"

Coins spilled onto the table. One, two, three.

"I can. I want you to have it. It reminds me of you, all things considered.”

“Drunken night?” The seller chuckled, crossing his arms and darting his eyes between you two as a smile spread beneath his bushy beard.

“You don’t know the half of it,” Bofur answered with a chuckle before you could put in your own proverbial cent.”

“A stein?” You asked him as you walked off, waving the great big thing like the world’s stumpiest flag. “That’s my symbol now?”

“Come now,” Bofur tutted your name softly, giving a nonchalant little shrug, “‘s just a joke. If you don’t want to be known by this, then tell me what your favorite thing is.”

You’d think he was the homeless one for all his Mahal-may-care attitude, and yet there he was, relaxed and himself inside this mountain with his own people. For once you envied the static life, aching for something beyond the next port-of-sorts as you looked into his eyes.

“Swans.”

“What?”

“I’ve traveled a lot. But one village I saw I’ll never forget. It stood at the foot of a lake, and when you sat along the water you could watch all the white swans paddling across the water. It was so shiny and blue and they were so graceful. Not that they couldn’t kill you on land, but out there on the water? Anyone’d wanna be one of them.”

“I can see it,” Bofur told you, head tilted a bit.

“Really?”

“Sure,” he waved a hand, “You’re just like that! Pretty but don’t make ya mad. I like that. And say, I have just the thing for you then, Swan Lady, and it’ll be much better than some ol’ beer mug!”

Swan Lady. You liked that. It echoed through your head as you smiled and followed Bofur's eager lead deeper into the mountain.

‘Better than a beer mug’ was an understatement- Bofur led you beneath a doorway carven with bear cubs and birds and even little dwarven silhouettes, hanging banners of deep blue and yellow contrasting the stone. Light poured from it, a bright yellow light that still somehow stayed cozy. Firelight. A lot of little firelights. Through the welcoming waves of the carvings was an assortment of shelves lining every wall. Each of them was filled with different delights: porcelain figurines crowned in painted gold, wooden swords with unique hilt ornaments, wolves on wheels with strings matching the colors of their yellow eyes, grey fur, or red maws. Spinning mobiles hung from the ceiling in the form of anything from Erebor’s thrushes to whimsical winged ponies spinning in little skybound derbies. Where, you wondered, should your eyes fall next? Not to the mirrors, carved and waved for distorted reflections. You were still a little too hungover for that.

Bofur answered that question, softly catching your attention with your name before he waved you to a corner shelf. “Look here.”

Tearing your eyes from a squat wooden dwarf knight, you followed Bofur, only to see another pull-along toy, this time white. A swan with neatly carved feathers and eyes serenely shut. Capturing just what you’d described. Well, save for the wrath awaiting anyone annoying. It didn’t need it, though. Not this one.

A smile spread across your face, the stein in your hand lowering forgotten. “You’re right.”

“I am?”

“Of course you are.” You elbowed him playfully.

“I can’t believe it!” Bofur exclaimed with a grin. “Oh, here, come meet its makers, then. My cousin and my brother.”

For some reason, the thought of meeting Bofur’s family brought a little rush of heat. Meeting people wasn’t usually any pressure. Why a couple of toymakers?

Why indeed. Bombur and Bifur were right nice, even if the elder one didn’t speak. He got his point across well enough, and how he’d blushed when you complimented his beautiful swan! The pull-along he gifted you, sending a wink Bofur’s way.

“You don’t know the half of it,” Bofur said again, but that time with a soft smile and gaze that didn’t pull away from yours.

Erebor’s halls were so vast as to almost feel outside despite their clear lack of sunlight or clouds or any such natural effect beyond stone, stone, and more stone. The air was clearer than any cave you’d been in- there must’ve been some sort of ventilation system. Fascinating. It made you want to build one of those wild mining pulleys they had just to shoot yourself to the top and crawl around for it. A few dwarves barreled past you and Bofur, almost knocking you over had his gloved hand not gripped yours. A grip as warm as you’d expected. Not that you’d imagined it. Nor had you imagined the way his voice softened when he told you “just in case”, eyes flicking tentatively up to yours.

“So, how’d you like Erebor?” Bofur’s voice shook your brain by its shoulders, dropping it from its thoughts and sensations of still-gripped hands.

“It was amazing,” you told him, strolling ever slower on your way back to New Dale, “I almost didn’t want to leave! Thank you for everything: showing me around, the gifts, better company than I deserved. I wasn’t the fairest this morning.”

“You- You- Well,” Bofur rubbed the back of his neck before dropping his hand down to take yours, “Plenty fair for me. In fact, can I tell you something?”

Inhaling deeply, you swallowed, something in those hazel eyes yanking a rush of words from deep in your chest. Erebor deep. Deeper than you ever thought you’d go. Deep enough that you almost feared it. You’d gotten outside the justice’s office, great grey-painted door looming before you like a heavy cloud.

“I have to tell you something too,” you told him.

“I want to stay married,” you both blurted out simultaneously.

Bofur’s jaw dropped. He gaped at you for several sped heartbeats before snapping out of it, shaking his hatted head and breaking into the widest, giddiest grin you’d ever seen. That morning you might have called it a dumb one. Right then? All you could say was how beautiful a sight it was. How it looked like home. That very thing you’d taken for granted for all those years thinking nowhere would feel like it. No one would want you. And yet with Bofur by your side it was like all those thoughts had gone poof into the pile of ash he told you the dragon had almost made of his company.

Before you could say anything, though, a pair of warmly clad hands took hold of your hips, yanking you against a fur coat and into the softest, most eager lips that could have devoured you. So intent on such were you, in fact, that you didn’t catch the squeak of a door until a man’s voice interrupted you, forcing you to pull apart, although Bofur’s hold on you remained fast.

“Still can’t keep your hands off each other, can you?” The man, presumably the justice, not that your faulty ale-hazed memory was any help, chuckled. “Newlyweds.”

“Newlyweds,” you agreed, speaking again in unison and gazing into each other’s eyes, your arms reaching to stroke Bofur’s.

“We’re crazy, aren’t we?” Bofur teased.

“Positively drunk on love.”

Taglist: @lokilover476 @fuckyoumakeart @kilibaggins @filiswingman @ibabblealot @stormchaser819 @pirate-lord-of-narnia @datglutengoblin @letmelickyoureyeballs @mossyskinn @wordbunch @tiny-and-witchy @th3-st4r-gur1 @fleurdemiel-145 @mistresskayla-blog1 @misabelle717 @h0n3y-l3m0n05 @evattude @kpopgirlbtssvt @rivendell-poet | Reply/Message/Ask to join 🖤

#the hobbit #the hobbit imagines #the hobbit x reader #bofur #bofur x reader #bofur x female reader #female reader #human reader #accidental marriage

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in-loving-memory-of · 9 months ago

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Takashi x short! reader (sfw and nsfw)

Just another set of headcanons for Takashi. Since I did a tall reader one, I wanna do a short reader as well (even though everybody and their mama has already done it). If/when I do anymore, I have some ideas for a shy reader and some more general stuff.

gender neutral reader. no mentions of “she”, just “you” and “they”

Since this contains nsfw stuff, I’d really appreciate if minors didn’t interact. I know I can’t really stop you, but the idea of a child reading this makes me uncomfortable, so please don’t. I have a couple other sfw posts if you’re interested, or hell, you could even read until it gets to the nsfw part (it’ll say nsfw, trust, you won’t have to search for it), but anyway, everyone else, enjoy.

- Takashi doesn’t care much about his partner’s appearance or anything, so will he truly care how tall or short his partner is? Nah, but he can still enjoy different aspects of their stature.

- He loves his short s/o, and would no matter their size, but he likes how, for lack of a better word, fragile they seem.

- Your stature makes him a little overprotective. It may even feel a little smothering/suffocating at times, but he’s trying his best to curb it enough for your taste.

- He’ll help you whenever your height gets in the way of something that needs to be done, i.e. reaching a high shelf. You don’t even have to ask most of the time, but he’d never feel put out by it, so you would never have to be afraid to ask if needed.

- It actually fuels that desire of his to feel helpful and needed, so definitely let him help you with whatever you need or want.

- If, for whatever reason, someone was to dog on you for your height, specifically if it upset you or you didn’t find it humorous, he would definitely be a little upset with them, but he wouldn’t attack them or even threaten them (and oml whenever i see someone hc that he would do some shit like that, I know automatically they can’t be older than twelve, cuz that is some CHILDISH shit), but if it was a recurring problem, he’d probably talk to them to let them know it bothered you. If they were intending to upset you, he would think less of them, but again, wouldn’t resort to violence or anything. He’d focus more attention on reassuring you that your height is not at all a problem and you have no reason to be upset over what some troglodyte thinks of you.

- He’s not big on PDA, but he is pretty physically affectionate, especially in private. He loves to spoon you, and it feels like his body just engulfs your own every time.

- He also loves the feeling of your small hands in his, and he likes to have an arm around you/a hand on you as often as possible when you’re together.

- He thinks it’s adorable how small you feel in his arms, and not that he’d be very obvious about it, but he gets flustered just by hugging/holding you. Contact like that is just very intimate, and he reserves it for those closest to him.

—— NSFW below ——

(minors, this is where i ask again for you to stop reading)

- Takashi loves any position that emphasizes the contrast in your heights.

- He is a naturally dominant guy, and that carries over into the bedroom, so no real surprise that he likes to be on top most of the time.

- Not to say that’s all he enjoys, since he actually really likes when you ride him, especially when he can hold your hips/guide you. He likes the power dynamic, and he’s very focused on your feelings above his own, so he wants to do whatever he can to make you feel good. Whatever you like, he loves.

- Bringing this back around to more of his favorite positions, though, he loves to have you on your hands and knees and drape himself over you, since that closeness really gets him going, plus, to reiterate, he loves how he just dwarfs your frame.

- He’s a strong guy, so he likes to hold you against a wall, since that shit’s a cakewalk for him, and you seem to enjoy it (go with it, cuz i said so)

- The only problem with his strength is the fact that he worries about hurting you a lot, even, or especially, in the bedroom. The fact that you’re so much smaller than him adds to this fear, so you may have to remind him sometimes that you don’t have paper skin and glass bones.

- If you do want him to be rougher with you during sex, he can, but it’s not his default, so you’d probably have to voice that desire to him.

- He’s naturally caring and considerate, even nurturing, so he is normally very sweet in the bedroom. He would be all praise, no degradation (again, unless you want him to), and he’ll make you feel like the most important thing in the world.

Alright, well, any other head canons I have are more vague, so I don’t feel they fit in the “short reader” category. I’ll probably be doing some more of these, since I would rather do this than anything important (like homework, which is exactly what I was avoiding by writing this for thirty minutes instead of responding to some fuck ass discussion posts. college is an endless cycle of torture, please, i can’t do two more years of this, someone put me out of my misery)

#ohshc #ouran high school host club #takashi morinozuka #takashi morinozuka x reader #mori senpai #mori x reader #ohshc mori #mori #morinozuka #ouran hshc #takashi x reader #fanfic #fanfiction #headcanon #my hcs #hcs #headcanons #hc

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plussizefantasia · 10 months ago

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Troubled Hearts

Read parts One and Two here: Fluttering Hearts Unsure Hearts

Warnings: guy being creepy, threats of violence, drinking (not reader) we're getting into the angst here guys sorry

a/n: hi, hello, I'm alive sorry for falling off the face of the planet. When I went to go grab the link for part two I realized that I hadn't updated this story since JANUARY!?!?! here is my formal apology: sorry. My goal is to have parts four and five up sometime this month so I can be ready to jump into CozyTober when it starts. Anyway, much love I hope y'all are still interested in the story if not I understand.

Kili Durin x Human!Soulmate!reader

Word Count: 2.7k

Kili must hate himself, there is no other reason for why he’s putting himself through this. Months have passed since you had kind of sort of opened up to him and he couldn’t get you to do it again. He’d been spending his nights the same way, a constant presence at the bar. No matter the weather, the dwarf prince would be posted up on a stool. He slowly sipped the same pint throughout the entire evening and his eyes followed you like a hawk.

You would have thought that his attentions would have waned by now, you’ve been busy with the bar, Brant unable to keep up in his old age. You figure that he was letting you take control. You never really planned to set down roots in Dale, it was supposed to simply be a stop on your journey.

You had stumbled into the town late one evening and needed a place to stay, despite the tavern not being an inn and not technically having an extra room, Brant was kind enough to let you stay for the night, as long as you worked it off the next day. One night turned into a week, turned into a month and you realized just how much you enjoyed working at the tavern.

You enjoyed feeling needed, even if it was just to refill someone’s glass. You enjoyed putting in effort and watching yourself get better at all the different skills necessary for a place like this, and you enjoyed the subtle anonymity of it all. Nobody really knew why you were there and nobody had really asked either. Your past didn’t follow you and if you were lucky it never would. You had worked hard and carved out a little life for yourself here, a life that you loved.

Well, a life that you loved most of the time. Up until those nights when every man was just a little too drunk, every woman glared just a little too much and your skin felt just a little too wrong on your body. You did your best to let it all fall off your back, to push through and let yourself be lost in your work but you didn’t always succeed.

You were not sure what hour of the night it was, it seemed that within these four walls, time flew and stood still all at once. What you did know however was that you were getting sick of Roland’s jeers and jibes. You were sure that it was his way of flirting, but you had never really ascribed to the type of flirting where you tore the other person down in the hopes that they begged you to build them back up. Roland was a dick. It was as simple as that and if he thought he had a chance with you he was sorely mistaken.

He had yet to get that through his thick skull though. You balanced a tray of pints above your head with one hand and a tray of food in the other. You expertly wove in between patrons, making your way to the back where Roland and his men often gathered.

“Ah, here she is. Lovely lady with a body to match.” He didn’t wait for you to place the tray down on the tabletop next to him. He just reached his arm around your waist and pulled you closer to him. His hand digging into the flesh there and making you move towards him to try and get away.

“What do you think lads? Don’t we make a pretty picture?” There were slight nods from the men around you, most of them had eyes only for the ale you were still holding. You noticed that this was often the case. Roland spoke and told stories, he was loud but nobody ever really listened to him.

“I think… that I have more work to do so if you would kindly remove your arm from my waist…” You looked at him, arching an eyebrow. “Before I have to remove it for you.”

He chuckled deeply in his throat but followed your instruction and released you.

“Alright Gents, here are your pints and your pies, anything else for tonight?” Nobody spoke up, except for a few mutters of thanks. “Well, you know where to find me if that changes.”

You made your way back up to the front of house, sliding behind your bar and releasing a deep breath.

“I don’t understand how you do it.” You look up and into the eyes of the dwarf who just spoke.

“Do what Kili?”

“How you let him treat you like… that like you belong to him.”

You bristle at this. “I belong to nobody but myself Your Highness.”

“I know this, and you know this, but the brute doesn't seem to get it.”

“The brute is manageable Kili, he and his friends give this place far too much business for me to be anything less than civil with them.”

“Civil is fine, I just don’t wish to see you get hurt.”

“I appreciate that Kee, but I can handle myself.”

“I never thought you couldn’t, I just want you to know that you don’t have to handle everything on your own.”

“I’ve been on my own for a long time, it's not easy to give that up.” You see a customer flag you down a few tables away. “Know this, my dwarf prince, should I need protecting… you’re the one I’d ask.” You smile at Kili and pass him offering him a small smile as you get back to work.

The night continues much the same, people come and go. The group in the back gets steadily more rowdy and you glance at the clock every once in a while hoping that the hands will have moved further than they have.

You serve food and drink to several patrons throughout the night, most kind some not as much. You were being truthful with Kili when you had told him you’d come to him. You just didn't think you’d ever need to. Your past wasn't the nicest and you’d quickly learned to take care of yourself because the people who are supposed to take care of you won’t always be there when you need them to be.

The time flew by faster than you’d thought, you’d apparently been lost inside your head for most of the night. The only light was that of the candles on each table and the fireplace next to the kitchen which was miraculously still lit. You’re not sure how, it's your job to keep it going and you know that you hadn’t stoked it all night.

The darkness outside creeps into the space and more and more people begin their journey home. All your regulars settle with you or get glared at for their insistence that they’ll pay up next time. Eventually the space empties… mostly. Roland and his friends have settled a little but they still sit vigil in the back of the space, you lost count of how many rounds they’ve had but none of them are belligerent so it couldn’t have been more than eight.

“Y/N, Another!” One of his comrades yells toward you. You forget his name, Roland’s never-ending cycle of yes men made it difficult to learn names, so at some point, you’d stopped trying.

“I don’t know if you Gent’s noticed, but we’re closed. Go home, I’m sure your wives are wondering where you are.”

“What the old lady doesn’t know won’t hurt her.” The same man yelled out, his remark setting off a burst of laughter from his buddies.

“Come Y/N, one more round and we’ll leave when we’re done.” Roland turned his body to face you and what you imagine to be his attempt at a suave smirk graced his face.

“Sorry boys, but closed means closed, settle your tabs and go home.” You roll your eyes at the grumbling and whining that come from the group of grown men but do not sway in your decision. One by one they come and hand you some coin, some thank you and some say nothing but all of them leave as they were told.

Roland is the last to come up, as he so often is. “I don’t know why you spend so much time here, if you were mine you’d not have to work one more day in this place.”

“Well, I’m not yours and I like working here.” You place your hand on your hips and cock one out to the side.

“Yet.” Roland leans over the bar and licks his lips. You lean back in order to put distance between your face and his.

“Not ever.” You firmly reply. “I am your barmaid nothing more, the sooner you get that the sooner you can move on wooing the other ladies this wonderful town has to offer.”

“Ah, but none of these other ladies stir me as much as you do.” His grin becomes sharper and he moves even closer to you.

The space behind the bar isn’t very large, big enough for one person really, and with how far he’s leaning you can feel your back brushing against the shelves behind you.

“The only thing I want from you Roland is payment for your tab and for you to leave.” Your voice carried the weariness that was creeping into your heart, men like Roland rarely took no for an answer. You didn’t want to have to hurt him, it would be hard to explain.

“Such harsh words darling, I promise I’m not nearly as bad as you think I am.” He reached forward and grasped your wrist. You pulled away instinctively and his grip hardened. “I think you might even like it.” Your face screwed up and you bared your teeth ready to rip out of his hold.

“Get your hand off her.”

Your head whipped to the voice. Kili. Why was he still here? How long had he been here? How much had he seen?

“Piss off runt, this is between me and the lady.” Roland didn’t move his eyes away from you.

“Remove your hand from my One or lose it, you oaf.” Kili growled from the corner of the room. The sharp sound of metal reverberated from the space and if you thought the rage on Kili’s face was intense, it was even more striking with a sword in his grip.

Both you and Roland were looking at the dwarf now. Your lips had parted and your eyes widened. Not only because you were sure blood would be spilled tonight but because of what Kili said. A thousand thoughts ran through your head all in the same second. You had to shake yourself back to the present.

Roland’s grip on your wrist slacked a bit and you took the opportunity to bring your arm to your chest. Your eyes bounced between the two men. You looked around behind the counter, searching desperately for something you could use. You let out a breath when you caught sight of the wooden handle resting on top of a wet rag.

“Pay the lady and leave, like she asked.” Kili took a step closer to the brute his posture reminding you of a coiled snake, muscles tight underneath his skin and ready to strike.

“I do not take orders from dwarves.” Roland’s voice had deepened, his frustration bleeding through into every syllable. His hand reached out towards the axe holstered on his belt.

“You will either leave here with your dignity, or you will not leave at all. That I can be sure of.”

“Mighty words for an imp.” Roland pulled his axe from his belt and took a step towards Kili. As much as you might like to see the two fight, and you really did. You needed to stop this before it started.

You grasped the knife that had been lying on the towel and firmly drove it into the counter in front of you. The noise stopped both men in their tracks and they turned their heads to you, not yet dropping their battle stances.

“Enough. I will not be cleaning any blood off these walls tonight. Roland, you're drunk and daft- a combination no woman in her right mind would want. Leave and don’t show your face here again. There are plenty of other places to drink, choose one.” You look into his eyes as you rip the knife from the wood, pointing it towards him and gesturing towards the door.

He grumbles but holsters his axe and begins to leave.

“Oaf, you forget something?” Kili called out to him. You cut your eyes to the dark-haired prince narrowing your gaze on him. “Or are you the type of man to run out on his debt?”

Roland turns slowly and his hand flexes by his side. He takes a large breath before grabbing a small leather bundle from his coat pocket and throwing it up on the counter. Kili smirks and nods his head.

Roland lets out a low growl but continues on his path, pushing past the doors and onto the street. You don’t move until he turns the corner. At which point you deflate. Your head falls forward like a puppet without strings and you take a deep breath to soothe your racing heart.

“What was that?” Your question, head still bowed.

“What?” Kili takes a step toward you and you shoot up.

“What was that Kili!?” Your chest heaves with every breath you take. “I had it handled, I don’t need you coming in here and threatening people!”

“He put his hands on you!” Kili shouts.

“So you pull your sword?! I do not need a bodyguard Kili let alone one with a temper as bad as yours.” You throw your hand up and drag one across your forehead. “Know this, Your Highness, I have no intention of being claimed by you.” Kili’s eyes grow wide and he opens his mouth to speak, “Do not think I don’t know what a One is, I have traveled these lands for a very long time.” You interrupt him. “I have been claimed by far too many men far too many times, I told you, I belong to nobody but myself now. Do you understand?” You look into his eyes, waiting for a response.

“I have no intention of claiming you, I simply wish to share my life with you.”

“That is very sweet Kili, but you don’t me. You cannot possibly wish to spend your life with me.”

“Then let me get to know you.” He pleads, “I have never felt like this before.” He takes several steps towards you, pulling your hand into his own and looking up into your eyes. “They say that being with your One is the greatest joy a dwarrow can know. I have had a taste now, being in your space, speaking with you, hearing your laugh, and seeing you smile. It has made me feel more alive than any battle and made my heart more full than it has ever been. I will not force you into anything, I care for you too much for that but I will plead with you. Please amralime, give me a chance to make you as happy as you make me. Let me stay by your side and know you not just as a friend but as a partner, through all things.”

His words steal the breath from your lungs and the beat from your heart. They make you feel like you're flying and sinking all at the same time. There is a part of you, deep down that is screaming for you to give in, to let him love you.

“Kili I-” You pause, “I am tired. Tired of a great many things. I-I I think you should go.” You turn from him and blink back the tears that flood your eyes. You hear him sigh followed by the creek of the floorboard he stands on as he shifts his weight. He does not speak though, simply drops his arm from where it had been holding your hand and makes his way to the door.

You hear it open and your shoulders tense, the chill air floods into the room and nips at your skin. Then the door shuts and you're alone. Not for the first time, you question if this really is all for the best.

Next: Hesitant Hearts

taglist: @bunnybabe-babydoll @kokochanel111 @shiinata-library @oneiratxxia10 @targaryenteam @sunnysidesidra @shadowrose13-blog1-blog1

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filthygalli · 2 months ago

Text

The Office After Hours

Employee! F! Reader x CEO! Hwang In-Ho

Main Masterlist

Squid Game Masterlist

Warnings: CEO x Employee, Office sex, Fake office relationship, p n v, fingering, Not proofread, let me know if i forgot to add something.

Word Count: 2898

Author’s Note: I wrote this during a meeting with my friends for school works last week, i posted this rn cuz i got lazy to add stuff, anyways, i hope you enjoy it!

The sterile hum of the executive elevator in the heart of Seoul was an unfamiliar symphony to Y/n's ears. As it ascended, so did her heart, pounding in her chest like a timpani roll. She clutched her pristine resume and portfolio like a lifeline, her knuckles white with anxiety. The elevator dinged, signaling her arrival at H&G Inc.'s top floor, where her fate as the latest intern for the demanding CEO, Hwang In-Ho, would unfold.

Y/n's first sight of Hwang was a revelation. She had expected stern, perhaps even gruff, but the man striding towards her was anything but. His suit, tailored to perfection, clung to his broad shoulders, while his hair, meticulously styled, held a slight touch of rebellion, a few strands falling artfully over one eye. As he approached, his gaze seared into her, and she felt an inexplicable spark, like the first ember of an untamed wildfire.

"Y/n L/n," he greeted, extending a hand. His voice was a low rumble, a thunder warning of the storm brewing within him. "I'm Hwang In-Ho."

She hesitated a moment before placing her hand in his, shocked at the jolt of electricity that arced between them. His grip was firm, commanding, and she knew in that instant that she had met her match. "Nice to meet you, sir," she managed, her voice barely a whisper.

Hwang's lips curved into a smirk, as if aware of the effect he had on her. "No need for formality, Y/n. In this office, you can call me In-Ho." He led her to her desk, modern monstrosity dwarfed between rows of towering shelves lined with leather-bound books. "I expect great things from you," he murmured, leaning in so close she could feel his breath on her ear. "Don't disappoint."

Y/n inhaled sharply, his scent - a mix of leather, spice, and an underlying note of sandalwood - overwhelming her senses. She nodded, a silent promise to hold up to his expectations.

Over the next few days, Y/n threw herself into her work, determined to prove her worth. Hwang, she noticed, watched her closely, his gaze lingering on her hands as she typed, on her lips as she spoke, on the way her hair cascaded down her back in looseoney curls. She felt his gaze like a physical caress, intense and thrilling, yet they maintained a professional distance, a chaste barrier she found herself wanting to break.

One evening, long after the office had emptied, Hwang found Y/n in the archives, poring over an ancient ledger. She looked up, her eyes widening at the sight of him leaning against the doorway, arms crossed, a dangerous gleam in his eyes. "You're still here," he observed, pushing off from the frame and stepping into the small room.

"I... I couldn't put this down," she stammered, gesturing to the ledger. "It's fascinating. The history, the evolution of your company..."

Hwang chuckled, taking another step closer. "I'm glad you find it so captivating, but it's late, Y/n. You should go home."

She nodded, but as she moved to rise, her foot caught on a box beneath her chair. She stumbled, and Hwang reached out, his hand wrapping around her upper arm to steady her. The room seemed to spin as he pulled her upright, their bodies inches apart. She could see the pulse at his throat quicken, matching her own rapid heartbeat.

Hwang's gaze flicked to her lips, and she felt a yearning so intense it was almost painful. He leaned in, his breath warm on her face, and she tilted her head up, parting her lips in anticipation. But he didn't kiss her. Instead, he brushed a strand of hair behind her ear, his fingers lingering on her cheek. "Go home, Y/n," he whispered potomly, his voice ragged. "Before I do something we'll both regret."

Y/n walked out of the archives on wobbly knees, her heart pounding like a drum in her chest. She could feel Hwang's gaze on her back as she left, and she knew that she had crossed a line, taking a step down a path from which there would be no turning back. Yet, despite the danger, the uncertainty, she found herself looking forward to walking that path with him. After all, every journey begins with a single step, and she had just taken hers.

The days blurred into a pattern of endless tasks and stolen glances. Y/n found herself lingering at her desk long after sunset, not out of duty, but because Hwang seemed to be in no hurry to leave either. Every evening, she would hear him in his office, a low rumble of voice or the click of a pen, and she would drag out her tasks, hoping to catch another glimpse of him, another heated moment.

One night, as the clock ticked towards midnight, Hwang appeared at her desk, his tie loosened around his neck, the first few buttons of his shirt undone. He looked weary but no less imposing, his hair slightly disheveled, as if he'd run his fingers through it countless times. "Still here," he remarked, leaning against the desk, his ankle crossed over the other.

Y/n shrugged, trying to appear nonchalant. "Just wrapping up this report."

"At this hour?" He raised an eyebrow. "I thought I paid you enough to work eight hours, not sixteen."

She smiled, pushing her glasses up her nose. "Well, someone has to keep up with your impossible standards."

Hwang chuckled, a sound that sent a shiver down Y/n's spine. "Perhaps I should set my standards higher." He reached over, plucking a sheet of paper from her printer. It was a rough sketch for a new marketing campaign, something she'd been tinkering with in her spare time. "This is good," he said, scanning it. "Raw, but good."

Y/n felt a thrill at his praise. "Thank you. I thought maybe we could implement it for the next quarter's sales push."

Hwang nodded, his gaze meeting hers. "I like how you think, Y/n." His voice was low, almost tender, and she felt a warmth spread through her at the sound of her name on his lips.

The room seemed to fill with an electric tension, the air thick with unspoken words. Y/n stood, her chair rolling back sharply. "Would you... would you like to see the rest of my ideas?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

Hwang pushed off from the desk, his eyes never leaving hers. "I thought you'd never ask."

He led her into his office, a spacious room with floor-to-ceiling windows that offered a panoramic view of the city lights. The room was filled with the scent of him, that intoxicating mix of leather, spice, and sandalwood that made Y/n's heart race. She took a seat on one of the plush sofas, her portfolio clutched to her chest.

Hwang poured them each a glass of whiskey, then sat beside her, close enough that she could feel the heat radiating from his body. "So," he murmured, "show me what you've got."

Y/n took a deep breath, trying to calm her racing heart. She opened her portfolio, launching into an explanation of her ideas, her hands moving animatedly as she spoke. Hwang listened intently, nodding in approval, asking insightful questions. But despite his professional demeanor, there was an undercurrent of something else, something hot and electric pulsating between them.

Midway through her presentation, Y/n's hand rested on top of Hwang's on the coffee table. She froze, her breath catching in her throat as she looked down at their hands, his so much larger and darker than hers, yet so perfectly placed. Hwang didn't pull away, instead, he flipped his hand over, entwining his fingers with hers.

They stared at each other, the room silent except for the soft hum of the city below. Y/n's heart pounding in her ears, her mouth dry. Hwang leaned in, slowly, giving her ample time to pull away. But she didn't. She wanted this, she realized. She wanted him.

Their lips met in a soft, tentative kiss, a question more than a declaration. Y/n's eyes fluttered closed, her heart threatening to beat out of her chest. Hwang's hand cupped her cheek, his thumb stroking her skin, while his other hand held hers, trapping her against him. She leaned into the kiss, parting her lips, inviting him in. He deepened the kiss, his tongue teasing hers, exploring her mouth with a hunger that stole her breath away.

Y/n moaned softly, her hand reaching up to grip Hwang's shoulder, feeling the hard muscle beneath his shirt. He responded by pulling her closer, his arms wrapping around her, his kiss growing more passionate, more desperate. She could feel him growing hard against her thigh, and a rush of heat pooled between her legs.

Hwang pulled back abruptly, his chest heaving, his eyes dark with desire. "Y/n," he rasped, "we shouldn't... not here, not like this." His thumb brushed her swollen lips, his touch gentle despite the storm raging in his eyes.

Y/n nodded, trying to catch her breath. She knew he was right. This was the office, his office. They were supposed to be working, not kissing, not reaching for each other with a desperation that bordered on madness. She stood, her legs a little unsteady, gathering her things. "I should go," she whispered.

Hwang stood as well, adjusting his shirt, trying to regain his composure. "I'll walk you out," he said, his voice strained.

As they walked to the elevator, their steps echoing in the silent office, Y/n felt a pang of guilt, of uncertainty. They were supposed to be pretending, weren't they? A fake relationship to keep Hwang's family at bay. But this, this kiss, it felt real. Too real. And she wasn't sure what she was supposed to do with that. But she knew one thing for certain - she wanted more. More of his kisses, more of his touch, more of him. And she was terrified of where that might lead them both.

The rain was a relentless pounding on the windows of the H&G Inc. high-rise, a symphony that seemed to echo the drumroll of anticipation in Y/n's heart. She had stayed back after hours to prepare for tomorrow's board meeting, spreading her reports and charts across the vast expanse of the boardroom table. The room, usually bathed in the sterile glow of fluorescent lights, was now dimly lit, casting long shadows that danced macabrely with every flicker of lightning outside.

Y/n was deep in thought, her finger tracing the lines of a graph, when the door creaked open. She looked up, her heart leaping into her throat as Hwang In-Ho stepped in, shedding his drenched overcoat like a second skin. His hair was damp, plastered to his forehead, giving him a boyish appeal that jarred with the stern lines of his face. He looked like a storm personified, and Y/n felt a shiver run down her spine, a delicious treat of fear mingling with anticipation.

"I thought I heard voices," he said, his gaze landing on her, intense and unreadable. "Working late again, Y/n?"

She nodded, pushing her glasses up her nose. "Couldn't let the rain stop me. You too, I see."

Hwang chuckled, tossing his coat onto the nearest chair. "Rain never kept me indoors." He moved towards her, his steps slow, measured, like a predator stalking its prey. Y/n's heart pounded in her chest, her breath hitching as hestopped inches from her, his gaze dropping to her lips.

"You've been avoiding me," he murmured, his voice low, hinting at something deeper than disappointment.

Y/n swallowed hard, looking away from the intensity of his gaze. "We agreed... after the office, it's not... professional."

Hwang's fingers tilted her chin back up, forcing her to meet his eyes. "And what about our deal? Our pretend relationship?"

"It doesn't feel so pretend anymore," she admitted, her voice barely a whisper.

Hwang's hand cupped her cheek, his thumb brushing her skin softly. "It doesn't feel pretend to me either," he confessed, his voice ragged. "I find myself thinking about you, Y/n. All the time. Your laugh, your intelligence, your damn sexy glasses..." He traced the frame of her glasses, his fingers lingering on the Boch her ear. "I never expected this. Us. But here we are, and I can't ignore it anymore."

Y/n's heart swelled at his words, a warmth spreading through her like sunlight. "I've fallen for you, In-Ho," she admitted, her voice steady, bold. "Fallen hard. And it's scary, and dangerous, and I should walk away. But I can't. I don't want to."

Hwang closed his eyes briefly, as if savoring her words. When he opened them again, they burned with an intensity that stole her breath away. "Then don't walk away," he rasped, his hand sliding to the back of her neck, pulling her closer. "Stay. With me."

Their lips met in a soft, seeking kiss, a promise of things to come. Y/n melted into him, her hands gripping his shirt, bunching the fabric in her fists. Hwang groaned, his arms wrapping around her, lifting her onto the boardroom table. He stepped between her legs, his body pressing against hers, hard and unyielding. Y/n gasped, her lips parting, inviting him in. Their tongues danced, exploring, teasing, each kiss leading to another, each touch igniting a fire that threatened to consume them both.

In-Ho’s hands found the hem of her blouse, slipping beneath to stroke the bare skin of her back. Y/n shivered, arching into his touch, her fingers working on the buttons of his shirt. She pushed the jersey cotton off his shoulders, her hands smoothing over the hard planes of his chest, tracing the lines of his abs. In-Ho growled, pulling back just long enough to yank his shirt off entirely, before capturing her mouth again, more fiercely this time.

Y/n's fingers fumbled with the clasp of her bra, her breasts aching for his touch. In-Ho helped her, his knuckles brushing her nipples as he eased the lace away, sending a jolt of pleasure coursing through her. He cupped her breasts, his thumbs rubbing over the hardened peaks, making her moan into his mouth. He took his time, teasing, exploring, learning her body, her reactions, using each gasp, each tremor to fuel his passion.

Swiftly, he divested her of her panties, leaving her bare before him. He stepped back, taking her in, his gaze hot and hungry. "So beautiful," he murmured, before trailing his fingers up her thigh, making her shiver. He paused at the junction of her thighs, his thumb finding that spot, that sensitive bundle of nerves that made her cry out, her hips bucking off the table.

In-Ho smirked, watching her with amusement and desire. "Greedy, aren't you?" he teased, his fingers slipping inside her, making her gasp. "So wet, so ready." He added another finger, curling them, hitting that spot that made her see stars.

Y/n reached for him, her hands fumbling with his belt, his zipper, needing more. Needing all of him. In-Ho assisted her, toeing off his shoes, discarding his pants and boxers. When he stood before her, naked and proud, Y/n's eyes widened, her mouth going dry at the sight of him, hard and ready.

He stepped closer, his hands gripping her thighs, parting them wider. Y/n's heart hammered in her chest, her breath coming in short gasps. Hwang guided himself to her entrance, pausing, his eyes locked with hers. "Tell me, Y/n," he growled, his voice tense with restraint, "Tell me you want this. You want me."

"I want you, In-Ho," she whispered, her gaze unwavering. "So much."

That was all the invitation In-Ho needed. He slid into her, slowly, filling her completely, making them both gasp. Y/n gripped his shoulders, her nails digging into his skin as he began to move, long, deep strokes that had her moaning, desperate for more. He leaned down, his lips capturing hers, swallowing her cries as he increased his pace, his thrusts growing harder, more insistent.

The room filled with the sounds of their lovemaking, the wet slap of skin against skin, their panting breaths, the creaking of the table beneath them. Y/n's orgasm built steadily, her muscles tightening, her release just out of reach. Sensing her struggle, In-Ho reached between them, his thumb finding her clit, rubbing in time with his thrusts.

Y/n cried out, her body convulsing as the waves of pleasure crashed over her, pulling her under. Hwang followed her, his body jerking, his release pulsing into her, a testament to their shared ecstasy.

They stayed like that, paused, entwined, their breaths slowly returning to normal. Y/n looked at Hwang, her heart full, her body satisfied. "This changes things," she murmured, tracing patterns on his chest.

In-Ho nodded, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "Let's make it real, Y/n. Us. Not just for show. I'll protect you, protect us, from the office gossip. We'll face them together."

Y/n smiled, leaning up to kiss him softly. "Together," she agreed, sealed with a promise, with a kiss, with their bodies still joined, their hearts beating in unison.

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