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marlynnofmany · 1 day ago

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The Many Ways to Stack Blocks

“I hope they gave us the right number of these,” I said, peering at the hastily-attached label on what remained of the bag. The floor was littered with dark rectangles that had fallen out of it. The bag was a flimsy plastic sort, not even tied off at the top; it had to be the most slapdash item I could remember anyone giving us to deliver. A last-minute addition. And a bad idea.

Mur looked over from where he had his tentacles full cleaning rust off the floor with a small gravity wand (a mess from a different client). He said, “Yeah, we should probably count them.”

I sighed. “Here’s hoping the end customer believes us if it doesn’t match.”

“With that mess of a packaging job? Seems pretty believable to me.” Mur swept up the last of the rust and dumped it in the trash can he’d been dragging behind him, then checked the battery level on the wand. “We’re going to want something else to put them in, too. We can just tape the label to the top.”

“Yeah,” I said, taking a seat on the floor of the storage hold. “Lemme count ‘em first, then I’ll go looking.”

“I think there was a box in here that’s almost empty,” Mur told me, pointing at one of the storage cabinets. He tentacle-walked over. “I’ll check.”

“Thanks.” I picked up a rectangle, glad it wasn’t something more fragile. According to the label, these were blanks of the dense rubbery stuff used for the rubberized floors that some spaceports favored. Apparently they were destined to be turned into something industrial. Dents were unlikely and unimportant, which was a big relief right now.

I shoveled them all into a pile and began counting, moving each into a second pile as I did. They were about the size of the sardine cans Blip and Blop had overstocked the kitchen with, and not as grippy as I’d expected. At least they didn’t smell bad.

Mur called out, “This’ll work.”

When I looked over there, I didn’t see him at all, just the open cabinet. Then I spotted the blue-black tentacles and realized he’d crawled in there. I shook my head and kept counting.

“Just have to move a few things around first,” he said.

Twenty-one, twenty-two… “That’s great!” Twenty-three, twenty-four…

In the end, there were forty-two of the things, exactly what the label promised. More good news. I tried to fold the bag into something that could be taped in a presentable fashion, then gave up. Cutting the label off would be easier. Mur was still reshuffling the storage, though. I could have gone over and checked the other shelves for the scissors and packing tape, but I didn’t want to get in his way. So I just stacked the blocks idly and waited, seeing how tall of a structure I could make. Pretty tall if I kept them flat.

“Ha!” Mur finally said, hauling a box out of the cabinet. It was bright green, decorated in starbursts, and it had recently held antiseptic wipes. Perfect.

I said, “That’ll work,” just as my block tower collapsed dramatically. “Aw.”

“What was that?” Mur asked. He carried the box over. “An architectural model?”

“No, just playing around,” I told him.

“Okay,” he said with a tilt to his squidlike head that told me he didn’t quite see the appeal.

I asked, “Do you guys not play with building blocks as kids? Oh I guess not, since you’re underwater at that point, huh?”

Mur put down the box and picked up a block curiously. “Can’t say I remember any toys like these. Is the goal to train your young ones for designing buildings later? That did look like some human structures I’ve seen.”

“No, it’s more of a dexterity practice,” I said. “There’s a grown-up version too, now that I think of it! Ever heard of Jenga?”

Of course he hadn’t. I quickly stacked a few of the blocks into a tower, in alternating layers of three. He waited for the explanation.

“People take turns pulling one out and adding it to the top,” I said. “The person to make it fall over loses.” I tested it out, managing to tug a corner piece free with only a minor wobble. “Ha!” I set it on top.

“Seems simple enough,” Mur said, gamely reaching a pair of tentacle tips for another piece. He successfully copied my move.

“It is at first!” I told him. “The longer the game goes, the more wobbly it gets. And of course there’s strategy, depending on if you want to be nice to whoever you’re playing with, or leave them with only terrible options.” I took one from the bottom layer. “For example.”

“Oh, I see how this goes,” Mur said, warming to it. “You’d get a very different duel if you were playing with Trrili or with Paint.” He slid a piece out of the middle, and the tower wobbled.

From the door, Paint’s voice asked, “What about me?” She was peeking around the doorframe like she’d just walked by then backtracked, the picture of scaly orange curiosity.

Mur said, “Human game. Come play.”

“Oh, okay!” Paint scampered over eagerly. “How’s it work?”

“Stacking things. There’s either a nice way or a hard way.”

“Nice way, please,” Paint said.

Mur gave me a look and waved a tentacle at me to explain. None of us had anything more important to be doing, and there was plenty of time before arrival to box up the nearly-indestructible blocks, so I did. Paint gingerly tapped out a center piece from near the top, then placed it perfectly and lashed her tail with happiness.

When heavy footsteps approached in the hallway, Paint called for Blip and Blop to join in. They didn’t have anything important to do either.

They were also wearing their “clouds of silk” outfits, so with that and all the muscles and natural frills, the game got suddenly more crowded. But the Frillians were delighted to learn a new game.

“You can tap a block to test it,” I said, demonstrating. “See, this one’s a better bet than that one.”

“Right. Got it.” Blip grasped the loose block with blue-skinned fingers much bigger than mine, and carefully slid it free. Her brother cheered.

I sat back while Blip added the block to the top, and Blop scoped out his turn. I said, “Maybe we should get an official game set. I’ve seen them in stores at some of the bigger stations.”

Mur spoke up. “It’s such a simple concept, it feels absurd to pay money for things to stack.”

“True,” I allowed. “Though the things need to be all the same size, and flat-sided. You couldn’t play it with a pile of random junk. At least, not very well.”

Blip looked up. “What about the oilfish tins?”

Blop set his piece, raised his hands in silent victory, and added to the conversation. “Yeah, those are all the same!”

I said, “They might be more slippery though. More of a challenge.” As I said it, Paint took a side piece and the whole thing toppled. Rubber bricks thudded to the floor.

“Nooo!” Paint wailed theatrically. “Okay, rematch!”

Blip and Blop looked at each other, then chorused, “We’ll go get the tins.” They jumped to their feet and bounded out the door, to the vocal dismay of Zhee who was out in the hallway somewhere.

“Slow down, you hooligans!”

“Sorry!”

Zhee looked in the door, antennae frowning over his big bug eyes.

Before he could ask, Paint volunteered, “We’re playing a human game of stacking things! It’s really fun! Do you want to come learn?”

“No thank you,” Zhee said. “I’ll leave that to the rest of you.” He paced forward, pincher arms folded haughtily and bug legs clicking.

Mur said slyly, “If you learn first, then you can be really good at it when we show Trrili.”

Zhee froze, one leg in the air. He set it down and turned to walk over to us. “A valid point,” he admitted. “How much violence is involved?”

Paint looked down at the rubber blocks, clearly sad to disappoint him. “Not a lot, really.”

I suddenly remembered my cousin’s favorite winning move, where he whacked the bottom piece out like a magician, and I said, “It depends on how you play. Come see.”

~~~

These are the ongoing backstory adventures of the main character from this book.

Shared early on Patreon! There’s even a free tier to get them on the same day as the rest of the world.

The sequel novel is in progress (and will include characters from these stories. I hadn’t thought all of them up when I wrote the first book, but they’re too much fun to leave out of the second).

#my writing #The Token Human #humans are weird #haso #hfy #eiad #humans are space orcs #science fiction #short stories #writeblr #writblr

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noblesandsstories · 3 days ago

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Venomous Ties: Wesker Chapters

Chapter 1- Tell me somethin' then I'll forget, and you might have to tell me again

Alpha! Albert Wesker x ????! Fem! Reader

-> Omgeaverse; Angst; Age gap (Reader is mid 20s ish, Wesker is 37); Older man, younger woman; Slow (ish) burn; Manipulation; Wesker being sneaky; Swearing; Allusions to physical abuse; Bruno is a warning all on his own; If I forgot something please let me know

AN: I finished this faster than I thought I would in all honesty. I wasn't able to spend as much time writing cause my life got busy, but when I did write I made good use of the time. I think having some other stuff on the side to help cleanse the pallet helped too. My one big note is that this is only cannon if you, the reader, want it to be. The goal of VT was to keep Wesker's feelings towards the reader/Snakelet ambiguous. However, there were so many behind the scenes details that only Wesker knew, I felt I needed to at least offer some of it. Enjoy and as always, reblogs and comments are loved <3

Title is from "Daddy Issues" by The Neighborhood

“He’s just leading us in circles!” William squeaked. “We’re never going to get those papers on the recent attempt of the DNA splicing with a live subject at this rate.”

Wesker was starting to get irritated, but more with Will at this moment. He was trying to think, and him stating the obvious was obnoxious.

True, Edington was trying to keep his research out of their hands. Whether it was because he was (also) planning on stepping out on Umbrella or because he had some idea of creating job security, Wesker could care less. But he needed that research. If they could definitively splice DNA of an animal into Progenitor samples and use it as a way to slip animal traits into their subjects, it could open a whole new world of opportunities for what can be devised with the T-virus.

The problem is getting the damn files from the man-

“We can’t rely on getting the files from Edington himself. We need to find another way to do so,” Wesker states.

“And how, pray tell, do you think we’ll manage that?” Birkin huffed.

The door to the room opened.

Wesker turned around to be greeted with the sight of… you.

“I’m here to write notes of the meeting for Dr. Edington.” Your voice was steady, like you were oh so certain of where you needed to be. But your body language betrays you, you’re cautious. So shy you automatically sit at the back of the room. You don’t look either of them in the eye, or even really at them at all.

It’s like fate itself dropped you in his lap.

“Why can’t he be here himself? He’s rather needed for this,” Will barks out.

You don’t retreat, but you don’t look up either. “I’m sorry, sir. He didn’t tell me where he went, just to take notes.”

Will shrieks a reply, and Wesker feels his eyes roll. Of course the bastard would leave to get out of this, and when you reply that you don’t know his location, he feels like he could punch a wall.

“We can’t let just anyone sit in.” He speaks, trying not to let his anger show. He expects you to retort, something about how it’s what you’re told to do. Instead.

“I understand. I apologize that there is not more I can tell you.” You close your little notebook and seem to be ready to leave. Too bad that’s not an option now.

He moves silently and quickly, and when you turn to look up he’s already above you. “Identify yourself.”

You give your name, and explain your position to Edington. Not asked but appreciated, as learning he has his own personal record keeper is quite the gain. He takes more of you in.

Your complexion is quite pale and there’s a gaunt look in your face that has him asking when was the last time you ate anything of true sustenance. And when Wesker catches the fading mark of a black eye on your face, the pieces seem to perfectly click.

He puts the last “report” that Edginton sent his way on the desk in front of you.

“Then perhaps you can answer the questions we have pertaining to this. Specifically, why it’s written in gibberish?”

Your eyes are barely on the paper for a second before you reply. “It seems you got a coded report.”

He had figured it out for a code, but now you had him piqued as to what you know.

“Coded?”

“Yes, sir. I write the notes for the lab session, he writes it in official terms and in code, and when he needs to send a lab report out, I translate it back.” As you’re saying this, you began to write in your notes, and Wesker feels every part of him focusing on you.

“Do you know it off the top of your head?”

“Yes sir, most of it. Since it’s a shorter one, I can probably get what I can done in 30 minutes.”

Maybe the code was simple and he could pick it up. If it was something you could have memorized to the point of

“If you can’t complete all of it?”

“It’s a book code, sir. I can go back to the office and pick out what I don’t recall. That might take slightly longer but not by much.”

It was rare that Wesker was intrigued by someone’s skills, but being able to apply a majority of a book code by memory was certainly something to note. And certainly something that could be useful.

“This is highly classified information that we are just handing to a random woman, we can’t just give it to her.” William, of course, needed to be the stickler.

“Edington has already been giving her plenty to work with and she saves us one conversation with him.”

And maybe many more in the future, if Wesker plays his cards right.

The door opens and the rest of the team that was going to meet today begin to walk in. More time wasted across the department. “This meeting is cancelled for today. Continue your projects as normal and we will get back to you for rescheduling.” They practically point faced and walked right on out, a word to the three already in the room never uttered.

He turns to you. “I’ll be by Edington’s office in an hour and a half to collect that report. Be expecting me.”

You nod and grab the last of your things and scuttle to the door, but not without a polite “Have a good afternoon” to William. So well mannered.

When the door closed, Wesker finally looked to Will to see him about to pop a vein. “You just let her walk out with that report? She had no identification outside of a first name!”

“Pipe down,” Wesker crooned as he set a timer on his watch, grabbed the few things he brought with him to the meeting room, and left.

William, expectedly, followed after him. Wesker tuned him out halfway to the lab. The moment he entered he went straight for the computer in the room and began diving into the employee files. He wasn’t quite sure what he was looking for, but it seemed the best place to start.

It seems by now William had realized he wasn’t listening anymore and had started on his own project.

Edington was close enough to the top that it took no time to find him. The page starts with his credentials; his degrees, his previous work experience, hell his college GPA was here too. Try hard. He submitted the code to access the confidential files gathered by the intel department and, since the Fates were smiling upon him this day, there you were in a photo right next to who he assumed was your mother.

Around ten years ago, Bruno Edington married your mother, who took his last name. But according to the official records, you didn’t.

He spent the next few hours looking up every detail of your life he could access, which felt like nothing. He found your birth certificate, officially aging you in your mid twenties. He found your school records, you were an ok student, excelling in classes like English and history, and just passing in classes like math. You were all around the place in sciences. He found your parent’s custody files, which was only an official filing. It seems like your biological father put up no fight at all for you.

And then he found a hospital visit. In fact it was quite the hospital visit it seemed. You were young, very young, and you were beaten quite viciously. Broken rib, concussion. The nurse wrote a note about suspecting the stepfather and reporting to CPS, but he went to dive into their records and found nothing on you. After that he noticed a severe lack of medical records in general. Nothing on your designation either.

Wesker’s watch goes off and he closes the programs, powers down the computer, and makes his way towards the door.

Will looked up confused. “Where are you going now?”

“To go pick up the translated report.”

“There’s no way it’s been an hour and a half.”

“It hasn’t,” Wesker replied shortly as the door closed behind him.

It took no time for Wesker to reach Edington’s office. He opened the door to see you reading a virology textbook in the armchair. Interesting.

“Enjoying yourself?” He hums, walking in.

“Taking in the quiet. If I may, what’s your name?”

Wesker had to admit, he had rarely needed to introduce himself, though he shouldn’t be surprised. “Wesker.”

“Spelt how it sounds?”

Wesker nodded, and as you wrote down something on the back of the packet, he focused on the scent around him. It absolutely wasn’t a scent you put off, it’s too well blended. There was a faint, faint smell of smoke. Perhaps a candle, then?

You hand him the report and it was then that he realized that the whole report was hand written. “Could you not just type and print it?”

“I don’t have access to the system, and I don’t know where the printer room is, apologies.”

He absent mindedly flipped through the report and he inhaled again, but still doesn’t pick up any other smells in the room. Perhaps you’re on some kind of scent blocker. “This will work for now. Tell your stepfather-”

“Don’t let him hear you say that.”

“Pardon?”

Your voice was still the more cool, practically emotionless, tone you speak in. But your eyes give away your brief flash of fear. “He…he doesn’t like it when people call him that.”

Silence passed as Wesker put the pieces together.

“Understood,” he responded slowly.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to take up your time. I’m sure you have work to get back to.” He’s not surprised you’d want him gone, it seems you don’t like showing your fragilities, a sentiment Wesker himself can understand.

“I do indeed. I’ll be seeing you.” He doesn’t mean it so much as a threat, as a promise.

“Have a good day, sir.”

Wesker tried to ignore how much he liked your obedient submission as he slipped out the door.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Why, how fortunate,” Wesker hummed as he rounded the corner to meet face to face with Bruno Edington. “I was just looking for you.”

“Wesker, what do you want? I’m busy.” Bruno always reminded him of one of those small dogs that yap to seem more intimidating. Even as he stands there and barks, Wesker can see the nerves in his eyes.

“I’m sure you are. Needing an assistant to get all of your work done and playing hooky on the meeting you wanted must take it out of you.”

“What did she tell you? I do my own work, she just-” He growled, Wesker could smell his anger. He didn’t intend for you to enter the crossfire of this discussion, but it seems inevitable; Bruno wants a reason to hang you, doesn’t matter the crime.

“She didn’t say anything.”

He lets out a harsh laugh. “I doubt that Wesker. Little bitch is always looking for a reason to be a pain in my ass.”

“Cruel words to say about your step daughte-”

“That whelp is nothing to me!” He snarls, hatred dripping like venom from his words. Playing into Wesker’s hand.

“Then you wouldn’t mind if I took her off your hands?”

“What are you suggesting?”

“You seem to dislike her presence and you are doing everything yourself, she’s just helping correct. I need extra hands in my lab but don’t need someone with any wild qualifications. You get rid of her, I get my extra help.” It’s not as much of a question as Wesker posed. If Bruno disagreed, it supported the idea that he needs her for his work and Wesker can throw him under the bus for that. You would also be in the way of the bus, but he can pull some strings.

Bruno thinks for a moment. “I’ll consider your offer. Give me three days.”

“Then I’ll see you in three days.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It didn’t even take three days. Wesker got an email the afternoon of day two.

Paraphrased: “She’s yours, but you talk to her about it.” Fine with him.

Wesker ended up busier than he thought he would be at the police station, and thus wasn’t able to be in the lab that much; though he suspects that Bruno keeps you purposefully holed up in his office; most likely so no one catches on to his little trick.

He truly never intended to see you around, especially not at 7 o’clock at night while he was having a late dinner in the break room before a late session in the lab. Though your head poking in amused him greatly.

“Now what are you doing here this late? Have you decided to make a hole here, little mouse?”

“My ride forgot me.” You’re trying to come across as light-hearted and failing spectacularly. Your eyes are shifting around the space, as if waiting for something to hop out at you. Your eyes linger a bit on his food, but not very long.

“Do you not have a way home?” He’s not surprised, this mansion is in the middle of nowhere and taxis don’t come this far. If you’re left behind, you’re left behind.

“I’ll live,” you hum absentmindedly, focused on something else. You start pulling open cabinets and looking through them. You’re hungry, then?

“You’re not convincing me,” he says as he comes up behind you and reaches to where he knows Will keeps his spare protein bars (He’ll just buy him more later), then puts it in your hand. “Can’t have the cornerstone of Edington’s work starving, now, can we?”

“I’m not doing that much. He does research, I write down what he tells me to,” you say as you open the package, though you struggled opening it at first.

“Most of this job is writing things down. If he can’t do that without assistance, he needs to consider other careers.”

He just barely made out your mumbling something about an “understatement”.

“What makes you say that?”

It’s like he electrocuted you. You were still. Clearly you didn’t like snitching on Bruno, in fact you seem scared. But when he inhaled, there was no scent in the air.

“Interesting,” he thought out loud.

“What?” you squeaked.

“Nothing. What’s your education level?”

You were hesitant, but answered “Graduated Raccoon City High a few years ago.”

“College?”

“I want to go, but Bruno won’t have it. Says it’ll be a waste of money.”

“Yet you do a majority of his work.”

You went quiet, your eyes uneasily glancing around the room as you took slow slow bites of food. Eventually your eyes land on the fridge and stay there, while you swallow. He noticed your lips looked dry.

Wesker walked over to the fridge and opened it, grabbing a water bottle. As he brings it back over to you, he puts together that you’re not all there. And you look… quite sad.

He snapped his fingers in front of you, and you flinched.

“There you are, I thought I lost you.”

“Sorry, I think I’m just a bit tired,” you say, looking a bit bashful. “I’ll take this and go back to Bruno’s office.”

Interesting, you call him by his first name. “Last I recall, he doesn’t own a couch or anything of that nature.”

“There’s an armchair, I’ve napped in it a few times.”

Another opportunity. “This lab is connected to a manor with plenty of rooms to spare, I’ll escort you to one.”

“There’s no need, I’m sure they’re for something important.”

Wesker can’t help but laugh at that. Spencer hasn’t been here in years. “Hardly, it remains mostly empty, unless Spencer has guests to attend to.”

“Will he not-”

“He’s away and leaves me to look after it. Any mess you leave behind the maids will tend to.” He goes ahead and moves to the door, making sure you understand you’re not getting out of this. You seem to get it, grabbing your water bottle and approaching the door.

He makes sure you stay close behind him for the walk. It’s easy to get lost in the manor when you haven’t been there before, he was very aware. Soon he walks up to the old familiar door, opening it for you to step in.

It looks exactly as he last left it; mostly barely but clean. He points to the door to the side.

“That leads to the en suite bathroom. Anything else?”

“Do you have a list of directions out?”

It was such a genuine question, it caught him off guard and all he could do was laugh. Genuinely laugh. It had been a long time since he had laughed like this, it felt so foreign.

Wesker quickly regains his composure. “I’ll come get you in the morning. I’m sure there will be things to talk about.”

Your eyes give a brief flash of concern, before an air of acceptance washes over you.

“Goodnight Dr. Wesker.”

“Goodnight my dear.”

He steps out of the room, closing the door behind him. The pet name was a slip up, but one he could figure could work in his favor. He just fed you, gave you water, and found a place for you to sleep, all things close to courting. Hopefully you’ll be far more willing to accept his deal now that he’s shown that he can provide for you better than Bruno.

It bothers him that he can’t seem to figure out your designation. You have no scent whatsoever. He had dug for a while and found nothing on it either. An enigma, it seems. He doesn’t mind. If anything that gives him a fun little mystery to solve.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Wesker was quite pleased when he saw you on the other side of the door after your discussion earlier that day. It was nice that after a day of experiments not going quite how he wanted them to, one thing going his way was a pleasant change.

As you step in, you bring your hand up to your face, covering your nose.

“Problem with the smell?” He hums, a bit amused at your reaction. You’d think someone who’s worked in a lab for a few months would be used to it by now.

“Withdrawal from my medicine leaves me feeling sick. I wanted to give you my answer.”

He already knows. “And?”

“I’ll do it.” Of course you will.

He can’t help the smirk that blooms on his face. “Then we should discuss details. I was planning on paying you hourly instead of salary. Is that fine?”

“What’s the difference?”

“Salary is a fixed income, though there are ways to increase it and receive bonuses. I suggest hourly as it will be easier to keep track of overtime and thus pay you what you’re owe. Though if later down the line we wish to change this we can. I was thinking of making our first contract 6 months to give us plenty of time to see if the terms we agree upon work, so don’t feel as if you’re trapped into the decision you make now. Does that sound adequate?”

“You really don’t have to ask me. I don’t have any reason to bargain for better.”

“You should. It could be your dignity on the line.”

“I never had much to begin with.”

“A shame.” You seemed to be rather aware of your position here. That was somewhat reassuring, he wasn’t taking on a complete fool. He turns to grab his binder with the contract he typed up.

“Are you the only one who uses this lab?”

“No, my associate Dr. Birkin who you saw the day of the meeting works here as well. You will most likely cross paths with him frequently. If he asks for assistance and you wish to help him, feel free, but not obliged. He knows the nature of our deal.” That whole conversation with Birkin was more obnoxious than Wesker thought it would be.

Because Birkin was too into the idea.

“I think a young woman on the side will be a nice addition to your life, Albert.”

Idiot.

“These go over the specifics I have typed up for now. If you wish to change anything, write a note by it and we will go over it all at once. The final form concerns medical history. Due to the nature of our work here, there are some things I need to know.”

“Of course.”

He passed over the contract with a pen and a comment on taking your time before he went back to prepare the wells for the samples he was dealing with today. The work was methodical and repetitive, one of the few tasks he felt like he could turn his brain off for a brief period of time. Soon it was at the point where he only needed to wait for the samples to process. He decided to go over some of the latest reports that Birkin- who was currently in a meeting with Edington and a few others- wrote up to see if there were any changes in the most recent tyrant specimens.

Wesker was just about to go back to check the specimens in the wells when the doors bangs open.

“That imbecilic jackass is sending us in circles.” Birkin hisses as he storms into the room.

“Careful,” Wesker said, dropping a hint of threat in his voice. The last thing he wanted was you putting together that he was using you completely. He looks over to the desk to read your face, to find you gone. It didn’t take him long to find you.

At some point in time, you had transitioned to the corner of the room and were currently sitting on the ground. Birkin had also found you, then turned back to Wesker.

“Albert, don’t tell me you banished her to the floor,” Birkin scolded.

Before Wesker could tell him to shove it, you spoke up.

“I prefer sitting here.”

The two men stared at you for a moment, before Birkin turned back to Wesker. “As I was saying, we’re being sent in circles. There’s no way we’ll get the results we need when we need them. And I don’t know if you heard the last notice from Spencer, but I’m not happy about it.”

Wesker was half tempted to tear Birkin’s head off because of course he read the damn notice. And they had already talked about Edington’s nonsense before. Instead he settled with growling “Should we be having this discussion now?”

Birkin waved with a scoff. “She’s going to figure it out-”

“I meant to insinuate I was in the middle of something.”

“Ah, yes. Understandable. Is it the sequencing for the variant we found in our last test?”

“Yes, it’s quite tedious.” Not really, but whatever to get Birkin to leave him the hell alone.

“Wasn’t that the whole reason you wanted her here?” Birkin chuckled.

“Paperwork first.”

“Of course, legality is what we’re known for.”

Wesker shot him a glare, but internally knew that he had a good point. Out of the corner of his eye, he catches a little smile from you. He doesn’t know how to respond to your amusement besides turning and returning to work.

Further down the line, after Birkin has left and Wesker’s certain you could have finished reading that contract two times over, he finally gets done with recording everything. He turned around to see that you had picked up a book and were reading.

“Apologies, that needed to get done, though it wasn’t meant to take that long.”

“It’s fine. I understand,” you hum as you put the book back on the shelf and gather the paperwork in hand as you stand.

He moves over to where you are, holding his hand out expectantly. “I won’t keep you much longer, it’s about time for your ride to clock out. I just want to go over your medical papers quickly.”

He flips through it quickly, eyes scanning through everything. Luckily nothing obscenely jarring that could inhibit anything. He decides to use this window to get the truth.

In all honesty, he could never find anything on your designation. No signs of you enrolling in any kind of designation based programs, nothing in school files about unfortunate presentations, nothing. And that simply wouldn’t do if this was to go forward.

“There’s a question missing. What’s your designation?”

“Beta, most likely,” you reply. “My mom suspects that I have some kind of disorder where I didn’t present in normal ways, including producing scents. She also thinks my sense of smell was messed up too, as I can’t smell people’s scents.”

“Interesting. But no diagnosis?” He asks conversationally.

“My mom doesn’t like doctors.” Sounded a bit like a half assed excuse but he’ll leave it be. Chances are it was far more complicated than that.

“Tomorrow I’ll come in closer to when Edington leaves. I should have a keycard for you as well as the pager, though that item is still in the air. Any questions?”

“No, sir.”

He felt his smirk return as he replied, “See you soon. It’ll be a pleasure working with you.”

As the door closes behind you, Wesker felt his smile drop. As he files his paper work away, your contract included, he couldn’t shake off his suspicion that that stuff about your designation was pure and total bull shit.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You were an obscenely fast learner. Wesker would rarely have to repeatedly demonstrate a task or instruction and having a second pair of hands was quite helpful. The amount of time he was saving by having you run documents for him was a large amount. You seemed quite pleased when he provided food, though seeing how you looked he couldn’t guarantee that was an instinctual reaction. You only napped when it wasn’t busy and he definitely could have had you stay home, but somehow he knew that being in the lab was a better place for you. After all, he can’t have his ticket to Edington’s research in distress.

By month two, Wesker was starting to feel grateful for your presence. You were a good conversationalist for him, only having brief and short responses, not droning on and on about things that don’t matter.

Plus you seemed to love routine and order as much as he did. Your dedication to keeping everything in the lab as organized as possible was his saving grace at times. With how quickly that you could pull out things that he and Birkin couldn’t find could almost make you a hero in their eyes. Almost.

But with all the help you were, it wasn’t enough.

Seems like Edington had completely snapped his jaws closed. Wesker hadn’t seen another report from him in too long and as the third month of your employment came around, he was past the point of frustration. He would need to try to utilize you in a new way.

“You are personally familiar with Edington’s work, correct?”

It was a quiet moment in the lab, he felt it was the perfect time to fish for information. You didn’t reply immediately, but Wesker didn’t rush you. Once you analyzed the situation, you’d choose him. After a few more seconds of silence, you answer.

“I am.”

He made sure to keep his face neutral, but didn’t let his gaze leave you.

“He’s been delaying giving us most of his reports in recent months, before meeting you. He has seemed to catch on that we can’t quite fire him or reprimand him for it, due to his importance to the project he’s assigned to. But that doesn’t negate that we still need updates on his project.”

“What specifically do you need?”

“The results of his most recent experiment where he tested his project on a live subject.”

He was expecting you to offer your services, or even outright say you’d try to get the reports. He did not expect what you actually offered.

“I can write it out for you if you’d like?”

“Can you?”

“Of course. I transcribed it for him.”

To Wesker’s absolute shock, you start writing away in your notebook. He walked over to look over your shoulder and saw you, sure as day, writing out the start of a report.

“It might take a bit. It was a long study; he observed the subject for about three days.”

Wesker couldn’t think to speak. Instead he was caught up reading over your shoulder. He watched the report unfold under your hands until the timer for his last test went off and he went to deal with that. All the while his mind kept wandering to you; analyzing the information you just dropped.

Soon enough you announce that you’re done with the report. He begins flipping through the pages of the report. You have all the analysis, the data, you even recreated a graph accurately.

“Is it common for you to remember everything you’ve ever written?”

“Well yeah? Is that odd?”

Wesker couldn’t believe his luck.

“Thank you.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Wesker played his cards carefully for a whole month, and when he read over your recent report he saw it all fell into place.

He purposefully placed a new book on DNA sequencing in the pile you were reading through, then had you start up on writing his reports with the idea of being too busy to do so himself (with his work at S.T.A.R.S. picking up, that wasn’t a complete lie). Then, the final part of the test, was giving you the notes of an mRNA sequence that was straight up wrong, slip the aforementioned book out of the lab, and see what happened.

Lo and behold, he read over your report, and the sequence was perfect. You had perfectly applied the knowledge you read once to a report.

This is the third instance of evidence towards his theory, and this one test made it seem more probable.

You had an eidetic memory. How crisp it was, he can’t say quite yet, but it was good enough that he can use it if he knows what he’s doing.

Now your value to his plans skyrocketed. Having someone who can keep information that no one else can access was worth its weight in gold.

You seemed to have no clue. Chances were Edington didn’t know either.

And he was certainly going to keep it that way.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

As frustrating as the virus breaking containment was, Wesker was going to consider it a blessing. Tricell was already begging for him to join their ranks, and Umbrella (namely Spencer) had begun suspecting his change in allegiances.

The damning evidence was in his lab, but he’s assuming their investigation was interrupted since they haven’t broken down the door to his apartment. But everything has gone the way he’s wanted so far.

Last he checked, the only members of S.T.A.R.S. left were Redfield, Burton, Chambers, and Valentine (who he locked in a holding cell underground). Chris and Rebecca were still dealing with one of the god awful puzzles in the garden, and he was quite sure Barry wasn’t going to give him any grief with that threat on his beloved family. Birkin was dealing with the issue in the training facility, thus wouldn’t be bothering him either.

Therefore he had all the time to search his lab for those papers and make them conveniently disappear. When Umbrella would eventually send a cleanup crew, he wanted to make sure there was no evidence of his betrayal. Even though he was sure he was going to need to disappear afterwards regardless, he wanted his bases covered.

When he went to the filing cabinet in the lab, though, the original places he stashed them were empty. He purposefully put them out of order, so that they would be harder to find, but they were completely gone. Even when he checked other spots, they were still missing. They didn’t come through already, did they? He would know by now if Umbrella was after him.

You had to have something to do with it. Wesker remembered telling you to sort his files, but he genuinely thought you would slack off, but you are a hard worker. Should have known your desire to please him would override your desire for rest. But now he needed to know where you put them.

You wouldn’t bring them home with you, you were too smart to risk that with Edington. But you obviously did something with them.

He pulled out the few reports he wanted to hold on to, then started looking around the lab to see if anything was out of place. He was fortunate that this place was sectioned off so there was no disarray from infected and those being chased by them, therefore he didn’t have to worry about things being too out of place.

Where would you put them? Somewhere you could find, but no one else. He looked over to your corner, where you would sit. Nothing out of place.

Except his notepad, facedown. He certainly wouldn’t leave it there, and it certainly wouldn’t be facedown.

He flipped it over. The pages were blank.

You placed it there, you had to. But why? What were you communicating?

The notebook was facedown where the underside was shown.

Underside.

He looked under the table. Your notebook was taped to the top of the table on the far back, where someone would have to basically fold themselves to see it. He crawled under and pulled it off, opening to the first page, where you had slipped all of the papers.

He almost purred with satisfaction. Clever girl.

That was the last he needed from the lab. He slipped everything in his briefcase and headed out the door.

Now all he needed was the tyrant embryos, and to make sure all of S.T.A.R.S. was dead. Then he could head back to his apartment and disappear.

But as he walked down the hall, his mind drifted back to you.

You had been so good for him. Hell you covered his ass when he didn’t even need you to. It would be a shame to leave you with that asshole and your mother. Maybe when all was said and done, he’d find a nice place for you to go. A well-to-do pack, or maybe send you off to a college somewhere. You would excel in academics, especially if you grew bolder. But some time away could build your confidence.

Yes when all of this was said and done, he’d make sure you were taken care of.

Border by @sweetmelodygraphics

#resident evil #albert wesker #resident evil fanfiction #venomous ties #albert wesker x reader #albert wesker x you #resident evil william birkin #resident evil wesker #wesker #william birkin #resident evil x reader #resident evil omegaverse #omegaverse #alpha beta omega #a/b/o #a/b/o au #a/b/o verse #omegaverse au

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carcinized · 7 months ago

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remember that the greatest activism you can do in these times is to thrive. find joy in the world and your communities. connect with yourself, your identitiy, and your community. they want to tear us down. living despite it all, and better yet succeeding, loving, enjoying our life is the biggest "fuck you" any of us can give to bigotry, facism, and the rest of it. do what you can. take care of yourself. that is activism.

#tobin talks #of course do other stuff too if you can manage!#but start here okay?#<3

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donaviolet · 1 year ago

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Friendship is the most special thing in the world because no award could be give me bigger happiness than jumping around in my room and smiling because my pookie asked me if I wanted to match pfps

#SHES AMAZING I LOVE HER AHHHHH #I hope we manage to find a cute bsd pfp it would be literally my dream #little vent tw!!#it's been so long since I matched pfps last time was with my ex who started being wayyyyy too weird..#and the other time was with a friend who started ghosting me some months later just because I didnt give her enough adopt me pets or smth 💔#and like. her stopping talking to be literally broke me as a person. it was devastanting for like 13yo me #woahhh thank you k. now I have social anxiety and keep dobting whether people really want me there or not #I still have a sort of love hate relationship w her but like its been over 2 years maybe 3 why do I still care abt it sm :<#especially since our other bestie is wayy more affectionate w k than w me it just makes me feel so weird like im sort of a 3rd wheel #but at least the friend im gonna match with is the sweetest person ever and we can be silly together :333 #unfortunately we only know eachother from a course so we always have to wait 2 weeks to see eachother #and even tho i still see k almost every day shes pretty different now #but ive been feeling so so happy the last few days since school started and im afraid I might go back to being how I was when she returns #because. I bet my two friends will keep being silly together and ill have to sit w my ex again cuz hes still part of our friend group #I mean hes a nice and funny guy but I figured that a relationship wont work with us. I tried it and I just wanna be friends #I have a lot of fun w him but like in a platonic way #and im afraid he still thinks we should be together #meanwhile my besties keep flirting w eachother like??#I mean its pretty funny as a joke but I cant help but feeling kinda jealous especially because I used to have a huge crush in one of them #talked a bit too much ooopssss #Im just trying to move on but I hope k coming back doesnt start everything over again #anyways!! I love my bestie from the course smmmmmm Im still so so happy :D wish we could see eachother more #random stuff #chaos #friendship #violet rambles

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werewolf-kat · 2 years ago

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The OG Agar.io... A classic.

#jelly blobs of doom #Flash games #neopets #chomby #virtual pets #gaming #browser games #wk speaks #yep I caved and I'm on Neopets again #some new stuff since I was last there of course but interesting they're able to use a Flash emulator to preserve these games!#you can still get NP from sending scores too which is nice #some games don't work though since Ruffle is still new and will need more work for compatibility I think #I miss playing the Tower Defense game SO MUCH #I'm a pro at it #but yeah any of you wanna see the occasional Neopets post when I'm playin?#still gonna keep an eye on where the new management takes the site...#grinding and actually making lots of NP is as much a pain as I remember it -cries-#I have other stuff to do in my life pls stop making things so expensive in this place #I just want a Halloween Paint Brush so BAD for my Lupe

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littleapplle · 2 months ago

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rafayel's lemurian behavior hc's!!

cw.: NSFW. 1.8k w. raf is mentioned more like a scary sea creature than like a pretty merman, this might have some ooc content for lemurians, mentions of sex, heat, raf has two dicks... ops... mentions of oviposition. not really monsterfucking but i'll tag it just in case.

note: "bloom will you ever shut the fuck up about lemurians? no. no i will not.

He's overprotective. Lemurians, as social as they are around their own species, can be quite territorial when it comes to their mates. Rafayel is all over you as soon as he views something as a threat. Thomas greeting you at an art exhibition? There’s a hand slipping to your waist and he glares at his manager over your shoulder. The poor college student that works at the cafe you two like smiled at you while you ordered your favorite drink? He’s clinging and nuzzling to you with a pout. A stray cat meowed at you for more pets? Oh he might as well pass out.

He showers you with gifts. Rafayel is obsessed with you alright. This is also related to how jelly he can get! Someone hit on you? You wake up with a pretty box with some kind of new jewelry by the door of your apartment. And they’re always one of a kind, too. No one’ll ever wear the same pair of earrings, bracelet, anklet you do, Rafayel commissions it all from the best jewelers he knows.

^ This is a very personal hc but i think that before you entered Rafayel’s life, he lowkey hated the fact his tears turned into pearls for the simple fact it can get messy and it was harder to hide his shame and weakness. After you showed so much interest in them though, Rafayel didn’t bother to kick the shiny pearls under the couch or bed or throw them away. In fact, he starts to collect them in tiny bottles and makes jewelry out of it. His favorite is the anklet he gifted you, a simple silver chain with two tiny pearls as pendants.

He's constantly nuzzling you. Lemurians have amazing senses even out of water and his sense of smell wouldn’t be any different. Rafayel LOVES the way you smell naturally. No cologne, no lotion. Just your skin. If you two are cuddling, he’s 100% with his head buried on your neck while breathing deeply and drowning on the scent. Lemurians are super touchy with their mates so just let him be and he’ll be overjoyed. You can even hear a happy chirp or two escaping him if you pay enough attention.

He insists on dragging you to the ocean. There are two things Rafayel adores– you and soaking underwater. If you agree to spend some quality time with him on the open ocean, he is overjoyed. You’re terrified of deep waters? Don’t worry!! Trust him!! He’ll help you float around, webbed hands always ghosting your waist and lower back to ground and comfort you while he swims under you happily.

His true form is comically huge. I’m talking about like. 7 feet. He loooooves to wrap himself around you like a snake and keep you close like you’re his personal heater. OR! He floats on his back and lets you lie on top of him like a seal and its baby. You just look so tiny compared to him… he can’t help but want some snuggles.

Still on the anatomy topic, his skin is inhumanely pale. Living in the deep, there isn’t much sunlight nor does he need it so he is naturally very pale. It’s more like… kind of translucent, you can’t see his organs like some fish but you can clearly see his bluish veins. His teeth are super sharp and strong, too. Biologically, it’s for hunting, since it helps with cracking clams and other stuff open. Nowadays? He just torments you with them, of course! I believe Rafayel is a biter. A soft one, but he definitely nips on your skin if he’s upset or wants your attention.

^ Since i mentioned his teeth, it’s also valid to mention his mouth is also huge. It looks normal when he has it closed or when he’s talking but once he yawns, your eyes jump open. A thin membrane, where his cheeks would be, stretches his mouth much further than what would be considered natural and makes his shiny teeth noticeable. If it’s hard to visualize, think of it as the buccal flap some reptiles have!

He gives you his scales. Once, when you two were at the beach, you complimented how they looked under the sunset light, the purples and blues shining against the last bits of natural light beautifully, without much thought. Poor you just didn’t know this is a way of courting in lemurian culture and ohhhhh Rafayel’s brain MELTED. He couldn’t even react, stupid fish just nodded and looked away with a shy pout.

^ After that, he regularly gives you the older scales that shed from his tail. Please keep them all safe somewhere, it makes his stomach flip with joy.

He hisses. Not at you, never, but you’ve caught his pupils turning into slits and a snake like hiss coming out of his mouth while he’s on the phone with a random collector once or twice now.

He has a terrible temper during his heat. Lemurians go into heat in early spring, when the waters are slightly warmer, and Rafayel is no exception. The week before the heat actually kicks in, he’s super stressed. He gets petty, gives Thomas an attitude and threatens to burn his whole studio down and then, as soon as you’re by his side, his eyes are already spilling delicate pearls. His skin is hot and sweaty like it usually is during ebb day and all he wants is to soak in his tub or sea.

Which leads to the next topic! Can’t find him in his studio? Call his name at the beach! He’s curled onto his own tail underwater all hot and bothered but he’ll come crawling for you in a second… and drag you with him. Don’t know how to swim? And who said you’re leaving his grasp? Can’t hold your breath? Just kiss him! He just needs you close and it’s not like you can move anyway. His tail wraps around your legs like a predator ready to strike and he is babbling in lemurian while nuzzling on your cheek and chirping.

He courts you! During the week before his heat, his gifts are even more overwhelming. Oh look! He just finished a portrait of you! And here’s a new pair of pearl earrings, please use it. Don’t forget the delicate necklace with his initials. Oh and- you get the point. Underwater though? He will blow bubbles to make you laugh and sing you the sweetest lemurian love songs. You’re already his, he knows that, but his instincts act quicker than what his brain can think right now. It’s cute, really. He acts all confident and pretends he has some self control left in his body just so you can clap and praise him.

Some think lemurians have venom glands, but it is a myth! Lemurian mating is mostly romantic and they are bound to a mate for a lifetime, it’s not just with the intention of reproducing. So, they don’t have the need to hold down or paralyze their mates completely. That doesn’t mean you’re safe from his sharp teeth, though. He can hardly think for himself, have some mercy. Rafayel just needs a trigger to sink his teeth on your shoulder blade. You smell good? Bite. You barely have time to struggle and scold him before he’s already lapping at your bloody skin as an apology.

As for his actual heat, if you really insist, he’ll have sex with you in his studio– doesn’t matter where. But if you don’t mind and trust him, please, please, let him have his way with you in the water. He’s too desperate to breathe the land’s sticky and heavy air. Asks you a million times if you’re actually sure and that he can’t really hold back once you let him touch you. And if you consent? Say goodbye to rational Raf.

Now, i want to mention his anatomy once again to clear a few things up. His tail has a slit where his cock, in his human form, would be. The scales around it are softer, slimy and the slit produces a LOT of slick when he’s aroused. And where are his cocks? Inside, of course! Dooooon’t be shy, finger him for a bit and his cocks will come out in a second, standing tall and proud against his lower stomach.

^ Lemurians have hemipenis. Some animals have double reproductive organs for the sake of their species, if one of them is damaged, there’s still the other one for breeding. Lemurians, on the other hand, have a ‘smaller’ dick that’s more human looking and is used for pleasure and penetrative sex, while the other, found under the first one, is bigger, longer, ridged and it’s exclusively for breeding and burying his eggs inside you.

^ His ‘human’ cock isn’t exactly small, honestly, nothing about Rafayel’s true form is. I’d say it’s close to 7.68 inches (19,5 cm) when fully hard. It’s really pretty too! Just looks like his human form dick, maybe the base is kinda bluish and there are a few soft scales here and there but that’s it. Now, about the other one…it’s big. 12.5 inches (31 cm) okay… don’t worry though. He produces so much slick it won’t hurt much. I wouldn’t say it is pretty, it’s… uncommon! Interesting! But not pretty. It’s tinted in a nice deep blue that gets lighter on the tip and the base is pretty scaly. Not only is it big but it is very thick too. It’s an ovipositor, it has to have enough space for his eggs without squeezing them too much.

^ Since i mentioned eggs, it’s good to mention that i don’t think they’re big… It does cause some discomfort at first because your womb will consider it as foreign body once they all snug inside you but I don't think it’s enough to cause pain. The shells are squishy, slimy and translucent and they’re the size of a date. Around 3-6 eggs i think… though not all of them are fertilized.

^ And on the fertilized eggs topic, I don't think Rafayel is able to actually impregnate you in this form. Your body just isn’t made to bear eggs and conclude the fertilization process. He does like to try though! And it’s not like his dumbed down brain can process any of this right now. Also, don’t worry, the eggs will come out of you naturally. After a few days without getting any nutrients, they turn into mush inside you and come out of you mixed with your discharge.

^ That does not mean Rafayel can’t get you pregnant though! If you actually want children, his human form works just fine.

After his heat, which usually lasts a week, he is super clingy. He knows you’re not pregnant and doesn’t need this much doting but he’s just so happy you put up with all his needs. He showers you, lets you rest, kisses any and all bruises and bites he may have left… anything for his bride.

⊹ ࣪reblogs are very much appreciated. thank you for reading!(*´▽`*)

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enavstars · 3 months ago

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(Naruto has specifically also called him "mom" multiple times)

Headcanons time!

After the war Obito is perfectly fine (like in canon as we all know, I'm not delusional at all obviously) and also Sasuke goes out to travel the world.

Obito is kept under house arrest at Kakashi’s for a few years until he's finally set completely free and so immediately marries Kakashi.

On the other hand, Kakashi suggests to Sasuke to stay at his house too whenever he comes back to visit the village since he doesn't have a place anymore (until he starts dating Naruto later). At first everything is awkward because Sasuke and Obito have a complicated relationship (with, you know, the massacre and all) and Kakashi also has other quiet intentions.

Kakashi actually hopes to use this opportunity to apologize to Sasuke for how he treated him. I mean, as much as I love them, Kakashi did treat Sasuke unfairly because he projected himself a little too much onto the boy, and now he just doesn't know how to approach the subject because of his poor social skills. When he finally apologizes, Sasuke does not get his point, getting confused because he believes that the fact that he cared is enough (I mean the boy doesn't really know how a healthy relationship with an (older) adult should look like). But Kakashi doesn't like that answer, so he gently explains how just that is simply not enough. This leads Sasuke to finally reflect on his life and decide to move forward, accepting Kakashi's apology.

Afterwards Kakashi talks to him about what can he do as a Hokage to honor the Uchiha clan (I'm still pissed that they tried to brush off a genocide so I'm fixing it). In the end they settle for a memorial and firing (and hopefully imprisoning) the other two council elders that supported it all.

Meanwhile, Sasuke and Obito's relationship also develops. Sasuke doesn't forgive Obito, and at the same time Obito is working on his own guilt and atonement, so evidently they don’t get along at first. Eventually, when Kakashi truly becomes one of Sasuke's most precious people/bonds, he starts tolerating Obito because he understands he's important to Kakashi. As time goes on Sasuke and Obito slowly manage to cool off their relationship and find some common grounds with everything they’ve been through. Together they eventually reflect on it, little by little, from the many tragedies that stained their lives to the manipulation they have both suffered; by the result of Konoha’s rotten system in one way or another. Although they have much to work on, especially with Obito, how he tried to pull Sasuke’s strings, and his part in the Uchiha massacre, Sasuke chooses to not give in to his hatred. He understands Obito in the end, and is able to move on. And on his part, Obito does make an effort to treat him much better than he used to.

In fact, one way he tries to make up for his mistakes is by telling Sasuke about the Uchiha clan's history and traditions, the stuff that Sasuke could never know before because he was too young, as he thinks that their legacy should be passed down to someone who truthfully honors the clan with their full chest.

Basically Sasuke deserves love so I gave him a father figure (Kakashi), because every other adult has treated him terribly and he desperately needs one. And Obito is now his annoying/weird uncle/stepfather.

I will of course make more comics because they're also very chaotic, being three people in a single house and yet amounting to:

- two war criminals, Uchiha

- two married men

- two moon-coded traumatized people

(worthy of an unhinged Venn Diagram)

#art #naruto #kakashi hatake #obito uchiha #sasuke uchiha #obikaka

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meowdei · 10 months ago

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“Did you know—”

“I don’t care,” Sukuna interrupts, wholly disinterested. It’s half past three—(which is, of course, his fault, but that doesn’t mean he’s any less tired).

But you, wholly uncaring, promptly ignore him. “—That some female spiders eat the male ones after mating?”

“What do you want me to do with this information?” He looks at you irritably, glaring at you from the corner of his eyes. You flash him a grin—it’s a mischievous little thing, your lips curled in a cheeky, flirty way that warns him silently that he’s about to risk popping another vein. He seems to do that around you quite often, and it certainly feels like it’s underway once more.

(And, as it always is, his intuition would be right).

“It’s a warning,” you hum.

He snorts, raising a clearly disbelieving brow as he hums, “oh yeah? For what? Are you gonna—wha-hey!”

Not a lot catches Sukuna off guard. You giggle as he barks out a surprised yelp of your name, harshly shoving you away from his chest. There’s a nice, fresh, very crystal and very clear outline of your teeth marked right on the flesh surrounding his nipple.

He looks at you like you’ve lost your mind.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” He asks incredulously.

You let out a soft, amused little giggle that sounds through the room before he feels your weight shift and fall onto him, making him grunt as his arms steady you and his eyes stare up at your hovering face with an agitated purse of his lips.

“I’m eating you,” you say cheekily, “see?” For emphasis, you leave an equally as shocking bite to his bicep, your head leaning down to get a mouthful of his bare arm. He lets out a low, startled grunt before one large and very firm hand grabs the back of your neck and yanks you off.

“Have you completely lost it?” He hisses.

“We just mated—”

“Who on Earth talks about sex like that? We are not animals who—”

“—And now I’m going to eat you after mating. Like a female spider.”

“If you’re going to be weird, just go the fuck to sleep,” he grumbles lowly.

Sukuna is tired.

(And yes, the reason is partly because he’s a bit inexhaustible once he’s felt the velvet heat of your walls, and yes, it’s technically his own greediness that’s worn him out so physically for the night. But that’s all been the cost for something of greater benefit to him. Something he doesn’t exactly mind draining his energy for.

Bur your odd, unsettling, abnormal and very plainly weird schemes are not a part of the list of things he’s willing to sacrifice his energy for. There isn’t much pleasure in entertaining your nonsense most of the time.

If anything, there’s pain—the stinging bite marks on his skin can attest to that.)

“I’m not tired,” you hum.

“Then let me make you tired,” he offers smugly, lips tugging into a cocky grin as he looks up at you.

“If you didn’t manage that the first time, what makes you think that’ll work the second?” You tease.

He doesn’t seem to like that very much, because with a growl, he pushes the back of your neck until your face falls into the crook of his neck, a strong, bulky arm wrapping around your waist and keeping you in place against his body.

It’d be awfully intimate, and awfully sweet if he didn’t mumble, “I love when you sleep because it’s the only few hours of the day I get to hear you shut the fuck up.”

“Maybe if you’d just appreciated my fun fact—”

“You bit my fucking nipple.”

“I could bite the other one, too, if you want,” you pipe up with an excited grin. He can feel it pressed against his skin as your face buries deeper into the space between his neck and shoulder.

Sukuna is tired. Most of the time, it’s because of you. All of the time, he chooses to allow it because he likes having you around for a good fuck.

(And, of course, there’s all that bullshit about love and affection, too. But that’s just that odd stuff you like to babble about—that odd, unsettling, abnormal and very plainly weird emotional part of you that somehow ropes him into being the same way every once in a while.

He doesn’t like it.)

“You need a lobotomy,” he mutters, wincing when you bite the skin of his neck in response. Not in a manner he likes, either—very much in a manner that makes sure he feels the sharpness of your incisors.

“Don’t be rude,” you scold, “I’m biologically meant to be your predator.”

“You biologically give me fuckin’ migraines.”

You grin—it’s a smile that’s easy. Smooth. Maybe a little giddy, too. It comes out only around Sukuna. Him and his gruff, rugged way of accepting your affection, and his double as rough and crude way of giving it back. His callused hands and toughened knuckles that brush along your cheeks carefully. His crass and undignified words that are carefully thought out enough to never cross the line. His downturned lips and narrowed eyes that only ever soften at the sharp corners around you.

“Next time, I’ll eat you for sure,” you murmur, settling against his chest and getting comfortable. He wraps both arms around you, warm and tight enough that you almost think you can forgo the blanket altogether. “Assert my dominance.”

“You can’t even open the pickle jar.”

“That’s different.”

“It’s only a matter of time until natural selection gets you,” he snickers quietly. You huff, biting back a smile as he yawns.

Gently, with a kiss over the bite mark you left against his neck, you say softly, “goodnight. Love you.”

“Night.”

“I love you.”

“For the love of—love you too, holy fuck. Go to sleep.”

#sukuna x reader #sukuna x you #sukuna fluff #jjk x reader #jjk x you #jjk fluff #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen x you #jujutsu kaisen fluff #sukuna ryomen x reader #sukuna ryomen x you #sukuna ryomen fluff #meowdei.writing

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lily-bisque · 2 months ago

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✦ how they shut you up (ノ_<。) ﾉ eighteen plus

satoru gojo has a tendency to stuff his blindfold in your mouth when you’re becoming too whiney. all you can taste is the crisp, starch fabric of the dry cleaned bandage, laced with something undeniably him. this is only, of course, when the two of you are in public and can’t get caught. he’ll whisper things like “want everyone to know how good you sound when i’m fucking you?” yet, the guy himself can barely hold his babbles and mutters to himself about how you’ve been teasing him all day and he’s been waiting.

suguru geto this is only done with consent, of course, but he wraps his veiny, calloused hand around your neck and squeezes just hard enough for you to get the slightest bit dizzy. you can barely hear a word from him, other than moans mixed with “she’s fuckin’ gripping me,” while he pounds into you, sometimes even struggling to mask his own groans. as he gets closer and closer to his peak, his grip turns like a vice and your eyes start rolling into your skull, legs trembling as he continuously fucks you through orgasm after orgasm.

toji fushiguro he can be pretty mocking in bed, so he likes to hear how you choke on your heady moans of his name by ramming himself into your g spot over and over again. all while he does so, he sports a sadistic snarl, basking in your cock drunk state. “right there?” he sarcastically quizzes, his tip nudging just where it feels good, cocking his head with a pout as you stutter over your words. “or right here, doll?”

choso kamo this pretty boy can barely hold his own whimpers back when he’s plowing into you, so the best he can do is plant his lips against yours and pray that you both suck the life from one another to stay quiet. a shy flush covers his cheek whenever a whine escapes his lips as you practically milk him. teeth bumping and saliva swapping and babbles of “you’re always so good for me” and accidental confessions like “i think i’m in love with you.”

kento nanami he can be incredibly strict in bed, to say the least. rules of how many whines leave your lips result in how many spanks you’ll recieve right after he shoots his ribbon of seed into you. when you start getting too loud, he’ll say “i think you just want a pretty red handprint on your ass.” intense eye contact is held as he stuffs and splits you, his mouth curving into a scowl as he smashes into your womb, keeping every count of your punishment for later.

ryomen sukuna the guy is a monster. four arms gripping and tearing and reaching for anything and he somehow expects you to stay quiet. his favorite technique, however, is to put you in a headlock with one of his biceps while his other hand covers yours with a mouth on it, managing to make you dizzy from the pressure on your throat and the way the tongue on his hand explores the caverns of your mouth with no remorse. through grunts and huffs, he likes to call you a “brat” and sometimes his “cock sleeve” or “fuck toy” when he’s feeling extra mean, but when is he not?

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ssa-dado · 3 months ago

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Backshots... Back Pain, Sorry

Aaron Hotchner x fleabag!reader Genre: SMUTTY smut kind of smut. Fluff if you're a freak. Summary: It starts with a back massage, ends with your face in a pillow and Hotch scolding you mid-thrust for arching your back incorrectly. You’d argue, but it’s hard to speak when he’s fixing your posture with his [REDACTED] Warnings: MDNI (established... whatever this is, oral [f!receiving, brief mentions of m!receiving], unprotected p-in-v bc we live on the edge [♫ of glory ♫]), age gap, casual oopsie choking, accidental-but-not-really voyeurism, Hotch is pussy-whipped af but somehow still is a patronizing piece of shit, mentions of Jack (sorry Jack) Word Count: 6.6k Dado's Corner: Phi attempting the “Don’t write Hotch like a pathetic bottom after humiliating him in 30 Seconds” challenge: lasted a strong 30.5 seconds. Proofreading brought to u by Dr. Bin @hotchology PhD

masterlist

The first thought you had when you saw how big Aaron’s hands were was not, (un)surprisingly, that they’d be perfect for back massages.

That was probably your second thought.

Because your first was… well, that those thick fingers looked suspiciously well-suited for another kind of activity involving a lot more curling and a lot more work from his middle and ring finger.

Still.

Now – naked (just the top half, because he insisted. Something about how deep tissue massage works better on bare skin and some other pseudoscientific bullshit you’re trying very hard not to sexualize)- lying face down and completely at his mercy, you have to admit:

He’s freakishly good at the massage thing too.

Also, the noises coming out of your mouth are quite similar anyway.

Same pitch. Same breathlessness. Same “Yes, that’s the spot, sweetheart - like that?” murmured behind you in that pompous gravelly chuckle that does absolutely nothing to help you separate the two scenarios.

At least this time, it’s his thumbs digging into the knot just under your shoulder blades and not… well. Other places.

You don’t know how he does it.

It’s awful. It’s amazing. It makes you want to cry, make out, confess every fear you’ve ever had since the third grade, and tell him about the time you got lost in a supermarket when you were six and never fully recovered.

(Stepping stone of your abandonment issues, actually. Very formative stuff.)

But instead, you just hum.

And before he can tease you (because you know he will, the moment he realizes you’ve melted into a limp, worshipful little puddle over a shoulder rub), you manage to mumble:

“Can you keep doing this forever?”

Also because - small detail, minor point - he’s pinning you to the mattress with his hips. Like, fully. Whole FBI-agent body weight centered right over the curve of your ass.

And every time he shifts - reaching up to get a better angle, dragging his hands (those large, beautiful hands) up the sides of your spine - his hips roll just slightly forward.

And- yeah. He sort of… rocks against you.

Not on purpose.

(Probably?)

(…Definitely.)

Which would be fine. Totally manageable. Not at all a problem - if it weren’t for the fact that he’s wearing the least fuckable pajamas on Earth… which, of course, makes them ten times more fuckable.

Plain, boring navy bottoms. A matching buttoned top. (Aaron Hotchner cannot survive without buttons. He needs order. He needs structure. Even in REM sleep.)

Classic grandpa cut. V-neck just deep enough to show a scandalous sliver of collarbone you might, unironically, faint over.

(Thankfully, your current view is limited to his bedside table: a vintage old-man lamp that costs more than your phone, and a framed photo of him and his son.)

(Hi, Jack. Sorry for having thoughts about your father.)

Back to the pajamas - the most crucial detail is the fabric.

It’s the softest thing you’ve ever touched. High-thread-count sorcery. Probably imported. Definitely overpriced. Breathable, which is just a fancy way of saying stupidly thin.

Thin enough that when he leans in - presses down - you can feel the shape of his-

…Anyway. You’re getting ideas. (Again, sorry, framed Jack.)

“Not to be paternalistic,” he starts. (It is to be paternalistic. Entirely so. But you’ll allow it. You’ll allow anything, frankly, because for some reason it’s insanely hot when he talks like this.)

“-but you shouldn’t have a back like this at your age.”

“Well, thankfully I’ve got your magic hands to fix it, don’t I?” You smile, turning your head to look back at him, because you’re an idiot who still thinks eye contact might save you.

It doesn’t.

What you get instead is one of his signature sighs - the special not-to-be-paternalistic-but-very-much-is variety that sounds like he’s aging ten years just trying to keep you alive - and then a gently condescending lecture about cervical strain and spinal alignment and how you “can’t just twist your neck around if you actually want this to help,” yada yada-

“I know it doesn’t feel like a big deal now, but these things add up,” yada yada-

“I just-can you please take this seriously? I know you joke, but I’d like you to still be able to stand up straight in ten years.” yada yada, (okay, long-term vision, wow, didn’t know we were doing that now) yada yada-

“Sweetheart”.

All of it delivered in that deeply patronizing, annoyingly hot concerned-professional voice he’s perfected.

The one that should be irritating. Would be irritating, If it weren’t currently paired with both his hands kneading down your back, thumbs sinking into that dangerously tender spot just above your hips.

(You would roll your eyes, but you’ve just been told that’s a cervical risk. So you moan into the pillow instead. Respectfully.)

“Breathe through it,” he says. And you do. Immediately. Obediently.

Because he says it so kindly that you have to keep reminding yourself – repeatedly - that he actually cares about your spinal health, and is not, in fact, secretly calculating how many ways you could arch your hips to grind back against his very conveniently located crotch.

(You are. You’re calculating. You’re the problem.)

“Yeah, that’s a good one. Keep doing this,” he says, as his thumbs keep moving - maybe in circles, maybe up and down - you honestly couldn’t say. You’ve lost all grip on spatial awareness.

All you know is there’s a pulsing, needy little bundle of nerves between your legs now demanding attention.

Especially when he comments, right as his fingers glide just above your ass-

“You’re really tight here.” Sir (GN). Be serious. “You should start being a bit more mindful about your posture.”

And with just those few words, your clit - tired, neglected, and frankly done with being emotionally sidelined - decides it’s going to take what it can get.

If a proper orgasm isn’t on the table, a slightly patronizing lecture from Aaron Hotchner about spinal health will have to do.

It politely raises a hand. Submits a request to speak. The brain, overwhelmed and half-fried from continuous exposure to his voice, approves it immediately.

So you ask, way too casually for what it actually means:

“Could you go lower?”

“Lower?” he repeats, taunting, as his hands pause their tantric little routine before gliding under your waist and flipping you over onto his orthopedic mattress.

Now you’re face-to-face with him.

Arms crossed. Brows furrowed. That specific, sharpened brand of exasperation he reserves only for you - his favorite little headache (how romantic of him) - comes today with a bonus layer of disbelief.

Because Best-Profiler-Or-Whatever-Goddamn-Award-He-Just-Won-Again 2012 (the year's not over, but if the Bureau doesn’t give him another brass plaque to add to the terrifying shrine of ego and martyrdom he keeps in his office, he might actually cry) has officially clocked that the look in your – probably very dilated - eyes says one thing and one thing only:

Fuck me. (So Shakespearian.)

Still, since profiling is such a complex job –

(Or so he claims, usually while humblebragging about how he reads murderers for a living, yet somehow still can’t figure out the real reason you keep staring at his hands-)

so many factors, so many nuances, every twitch, every blink, every micro expression a breadcrumb-

So, you, being the considerate, emotionally generous person that you are, decide to spare him the effort. You remove all ambiguity, wrap your legs around his waist, and pull him in.

(Also: your boobs are out. The top of your pajama set’s currently sitting neatly folded on the far bedside table, placed there with care by none other than the Sexy Masseuse Extraordinaire himself.)

(You can’t turn to look at it. If you twist your neck, he’ll scold you. But you know it’s there.)

(So yes. #FreeTheNipple could easily be Exhibit B. Another little clue in the ever-growing case file of She Wants Me. Please, Aaron. Be thorough. File it under Intent.)

And apparently, he does.

Because without you saying a single word, he exhales - through his cutest, slightly uneven nostrils (and probably a deviated septum he refuses to get checked out) - and mutters, incredulous:

“Again?!”

Ah. Yes. Again.

Because to be fair, it is technically true that the second Aaron walked through the door - still suited up, still rumpled from the flight, fresh off a three-day case on the West Coast - the only greeting he got was a breathless “I missed you,” right before you yanked him down by the tie and onto his own couch to physically demonstrate that you (unlike him, [sometimes]) actually mean what you say.

So moved were you by his presence that you completely forgot to do the one basic thing required of anyone with even a shred of shame or social awareness:

Close. The. Curtains.

(You keep forgetting there’s an entire wing of Aaron’s apartment complex that has a front-row seat to his living room. Practically panoramic… oh- hi, Linda from 154.)

But it’s fine. It’s fine.

You fixed it.

You skipped the full nudity part and went for the most logistically respectful option: unzipping just his fly, just enough to free what you needed. Nothing more.

Just the essentials.

Just a fully dressed woman bouncing on a fully dressed man’s lap.

You’re pretty sure that doesn’t count as public indecency. (It’s basically PG-12. Glee’s airing worse on national television every Tuesday at 8/7c and that show’s somehow still going. So really, you’re fine. This is fine. Society has seen worse.)

…You also really, really hope no one saw it in the first place. You tell yourself no one saw it.

You keep telling yourself that, even as your brain starts tallying how many windows overlook this very couch. (Six. There are six. Possibly seven. And that woman on the third floor with the poodle - she definitely saw something. She always does.)

Those people didn’t see that your panties were still on - just pushed to the side, soaked through, clinging to your thigh.

Didn’t see the way your mouth fell open when you sank down onto his cock, gasping from the stretch, from the fuck yes finally of being full again.

Didn’t see his head fall back against the couch, eyes shut, the half-muttered “Jesus Christ” he left when your hips started rolling.

They didn’t see the way your thighs trembled when he grabbed your hips, then your waist, then your thighs again like he couldn’t decide where to hold you hardest, just knew he needed to keep you going.

Didn’t hear the noise he made when you grabbed a fistful of his tie for leverage, just to stay upright while he hit so fucking deep.

And they definitely didn’t hear the way your moan cracked when his mouth brushed your ear and he muttered: “Been thinking about this the whole damn flight.”

Three hours. He sat in a government plane, in slacks, probably surrounded by spreadsheets and murder, and still somewhere over Colorado, he was hard and thinking about you.

“I missed you,” you really mean it. (Yes, you want to fuck him. Obviously. But it’s also starting to feel like the reason you’re so desperate for his body is because being without him hurts a little more than it should.)

“That’s what you said in the shower,” he reminds you. (Oh. Right. The shower. The one that happened immediately after the couch.) “And on the bathroom sink.” Ah. Yes. You’d offered to blowdry his hair, but something else got blown first. (Priorities.) “Don’t you think that’s enough for tonight?”

He basically looks at you like you’re the most beloved disaster he’s ever encountered.

Fond - yes.

Amused - definetely.

Also very much trying not to laugh. He even bites his lip to hold it back.

Veeeery humbling experience.

And still, he leans in over you and locks his lips with yours - sweet enough to excuse how annoyingly chaste it feels. You start to pull him back in but he detours to your cheek instead, lingering there.

“You’re adorable,” he pities you. “Now please could you turn back over?”

Choking yourself with the pillow suddenly sounds like a fantastic plan. You eye it. You consider the logistics. You’re halfway to asphyxiating yourself into emotional amnesia when he leans in and kisses your shoulder.

Then the other. (Symmetry. He’s disgusting.)

You brace for his hands on your back, but it’s his mouth instead.

Starting at the nape of your neck, he works his way down your spine, lips dragging wet and slow. Every kiss sinks into your skin like he’s trying to rewrite your nervous system from the top down, rearranging your fucked-up muscles better than his actual massage ever could.

And he doesn’t stop.

Not even when his fingers hook into the waistband of your pajama pants and start easing them down - his mouth just keeps going, picking up exactly where the fabric leaves off.

You still get butterflies at the stupidly familiar feel of his calloused palms skimming down your thighs, knuckles brushing bare skin as he peels your bottoms away.

Could be excitement. Could be the fact that he’s been edging you for what feels like a fiscal quarter. Could be because you’re head over heels for him and refusing to deal with it. (Unclear. Not investigating.)

Anyways, Aaron - sweet, disciplined Aaron - folds your PJ pants, sets them neatly on top of your already-abandoned top on the bedside table (it was only a matter of time, that poor top’s been waiting for backup all night), and then immediately dives back in mouth-first (correction: teeth-first) sinking a bite right into the peak of your ass.

One side, then the other. (The man really loves symmetry.)

Groaning into your skin as you gasp his name - only for him to shut it down halfway through (fuck him, really) - he slides one arm beneath your hips, the other draping heavy across your thighs, and manhandles you into place in one smooth (hot) motion on all fours.

Ass up, panties still on (and very much soaked through).

It’s… a moment.

You crane your neck, scrambling for words - something clever, something linguistically adult - but what fries every functioning synapse isn’t just the way he’s staring at the soaked spot on your underwear;

It’s the way his pupils visibly dilate when he catches the barest glint of your cunt beneath it.

And still, he manages to outdo himself.

Because Aaron Hotchner’s greatest talent - aside from his intellect, that weirdly specific dry humor only you laugh at, and, of course, the mouthwatering, life-altering, holy-shit-that-thing-has-weight dick he’s somehow just casually lugging around - it’s his uncanny ability to always state the obvious.

“You’re soaked…” he murmurs. “You already fucked me and you’re still soaked.”

(There’s just something in Aaron saying that you fucked him…Call it power-hungry. Call it praise kink. Call it whatever.)

“Shit, say it again.” You just want his voice. More of it. Inside you, around you, anywhere.

You gasp as he hums straight into the damp fabric of your panties “Smug little thing… Let’s see how long it lasts.”

Then he drags his face down, nuzzling his nose along your glistening slit – catching every slick ridge through the soaked cotton, barely giving you any pressure, just enough to make you momentarily twitch.

He doesn’t bother teasing – just goes straight for your clit, flushed and throbbing, and latches on.

Mouth open. Tongue flat.

You start cursing everything.

Cursing the fabric of your panties he still hasn’t moved aside.

Cursing the way the soaked cotton catches every flick of his tongue – turning each pass into friction and making everything worse.

Cursing yourself for the sound you make when he moans into you – mouth hot and hungry – and yanks your hips closer like he can’t fucking help himself.

Grips your ass, fills both palms, pulls you tighter to his face until there’s nowhere for you to go – nowhere for you to run – nothing you can do but take it.

He’s drinking you. He sucks your slick through the fabric, letting it saturate his tongue, then releases your nub with a wet, obscene pop just to do it again.

Then again. And again.

Clicks his tongue just to hear the sound it makes against your cunt.

Right when you think you might actually die from how deliberately he’s taking his sweet time, he finally peels the fabric to the side.

(Thank God.)

“Fuck, Aaron-” you choke, fisting the sheets as he dives into your into your hole.

You were so fucking wrong.

His real talent isn’t stating the obvious.

It’s the way he makes out with your cunt, making you clench against him, and that molten heat already begins to gather low in your stomach.

“You taste better every fucking time. God, I missed you,” he mutters, one hand pressing into the small of your back to hold you down, the other spreading your ass so his tongue has more room to work and can slide deeper.

He fucks you with it.

Pushes in, pulls back, then he drags himself back up to your clit and just… goes feral. A combination you’re 100% sure he makes up on the spot, yet it’s somehow the exact cheat code to your nervous system.

You start grinding against his face, chasing friction like it’s oxygen, needy for whatever the hell that is until your thighs are trembling and your brain has officially vacated the premises.

The only word(s) you manage to hold onto is-

“Aaron- Aaron, please-”

Not your best work. Not ideal.

You should specify - to Mr. Old Man™ - that after please, there was going to be don’t stop.

But instead, it comes out half-strangled, choked off by the groan you let loose as he pulls away too fast, too soon, leaving you gasping face-first into a very wet, very real patch of drool on the mattress.

(It’s cooling against your chin now. Disgusting.)

You writhe, still aching, still pulsing, your body practically begging for his mouth, his nose, his fucking tongue - anything to fill the hot, miserable emptiness between your legs - until his hand wraps around the back of your neck (shit. fuck. shit), lifting you way too easily.

(Maybe because he’s strong. Maybe because you’re fully limp with desperation. Maybe because you don’t resist even a little bit. Hard to say.)

He pulls your spine upright, presses you back against his chest and crashes his mouth to yours.

And as he groans into your mouth, his whole face glistening with your arousal, smearing messily against your cheek, his cock presses between your folds, dragging through the soaked disaster he made of you.

The thick, swollen head - already leaking with precum - bumps against your clit as he grinds forward, dragging through your slick with just enough pressure to make your breath hitch, a choked moan catching halfway in your throat…

…Right as his fingers start to curl around it.

Soft. Careful. Too careful. Like his hand landed there on instinct and now he’s realizing it, hesitating, trying not to make it a thing (which, joke’s on him, it already is).

(Also, if he could go ahead and press those thick, possessive, chubby-ass fingers a little deeper into your neck- yeah. That’d be ideal. Five stars.)

So, probably in a noble act of distraction (or self-preservation), Aaron starts to push in.

That first stretch.

That toe-curling burn you never fully prepare for. The one that drags your body open inch by inch like he’s carving a space only he gets to fill. And you adore it. You crave it like a sickness.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, mouth grazing your jaw. “I couldn’t resist.” And another kiss, “I need to fuck you properly so you don’t wake me up begging for it again.”

(If he keeps holding your neck like that while saying shit like that, you’re definitely waking him up again. With your mouth. Or your thighs.)

You decide to clench around him in reply (how generous of you - really, public service) - tight enough that you know he’s furrowing his brows right now, trying so hard not to let out one of those high-pitched, desperate little whimpers that would completely shatter the illusion of his usual Important Serious Man™ composure.

“Mmm, sweetheart,” he groans, dragging in deeper until he’s finally fully seated inside of you, buried to the hilt. “You’re not even trying to hide it, are you? Squeezing me like that…”

He should really be speaking for himself, considering the thing twitching inside you just because it’s lucky enough to be nestled inside you is his cock, not yours.

And sure, he starts rocking into you all slow and deliberate, hips rolling against the swell of your ass like he thinks he can distract you with rhythm alone, but it’s textbook deflection.

(Hotchner: 1 – You: 0. For now.)

“Aaron-” you gasp, barely coherent, because fuck, you’re full. Like - can’t think, can’t breathe, forgot-Aaron’s-home-wifi-password kind of full.

(Which is annoying, because you were just about to remember it. It was something long and unnecessarily specific, like JHotchnerILoveAmerica65 or JackRules2012.)

(AHotchnerNet_3G_guest_home_office?)

(QuanticoSecure_LinkV2?) Nope. That’s the Bureau one. (You may or may not have shamelessly stolen their bandwidth to watch YouTube videos in his office the first time you visited - sitting on that black leather guest chair, legs swinging, waiting for him to come out of some high-stakes consult.)

(Ugh, come on, you almost had it. It’s the one with the weird numbers… Jack’s birthday? No, that was the old one, the one you used to mooch off before he got weird about network security after that article in The Atlantic.)

(Was it Hotchner_Home_8347_SECURE_VPNLOCKED? Or was that the printer? What was it?)

(Wait - is he 7.5 inches? 8? 8.5?! Feels like that but you’re way too biased.)

“Oh fuck-” Your nails bite into the solid curve of his bicep, your back arches on instinct - no thought involved, just muscle memory screaming yes, like that, and your body goes soft over his, melting like heat’s finally overtaken every vertebrae you’ve got.

Boneless. Useless. Yours now comes with a floppy warranty.

He notices, so he wraps his other arm tight around your waist, keeping you upright. “Yes, honey? You like that? Is that what you’re trying to say? Or-.” A sharper thrust. “Do you need me to go harder already?”

Not accepting your whimper as an answer, he goes harder anyway.

White-hot static floods your brain, sparking behind your eyes. You lose track of sound, of sense, of everything but the slap-slap-slap of skin on skin, that becomes even louder than the creaky-ass wooden antique bedframe Aaron refuses to replace.

(Yes, it was expensive. Yes, he insists it’s historical. Yes, it’s probably haunted. No, you do not care. Louis XIV himself could rise from the dead and tell you it’s a collector’s piece, you’re still letting Aaron split you in half on it.)

“Do you feel it?” he asks.

You know what he means. Doesn’t even need to say it.

Especially when his hand tightens just that little bit more around your throat - enough to blur the edges, enough to make your cunt flutter in a grateful little thank you because that was literally what you were about to beg for and this man just read your goddamn mind and saved you the humiliation-

“Well- it’s- fuck yes, right th- it’s kind of impossible not to, isn’t it?”

Wrong answer, apparently.

Because it earns you exactly zero gold stars and a one-way ticket to being shoved face-first into the mattress, his palm flat on your back.

(Or maybe he’s just decided he won’t be satisfied until you’re properly, thoroughly, professionally fucked dumb, until the only thing your brain can process, let alone say, is his name.)

“Lift your hips,” he instructs.

“What-”

“Just do it.”

You do. Of course you do. Because you are weak and unprincipled and you like it when he uses his dad voice.

(Sorry, framed Jack. Not your dad dad. Like- authority figure dad. Weird to explain. Just- sorry Jack.)

He reaches for the pillow from his side of the bed (naughty… part of you hopes he doesn’t bother changing the case afterward, just so he can fall asleep every night wrapped in the scent of your sex… but then again, you’re talking about Aaron, so he'll probably sanitize it twice and iron it back into place) and slides it beneath your stomach.

“There. Better angle for your back,” he mutters.

“Are you fucking kidding me… oh fuck- my back?” You try to mock him, but all you can think is that this stupid orthopedic pillow just shoved him even deeper.

He’s drilling into you so hard, so fucking perfectly, that all you can focus on is how thick he is - how every goddamn ridge, every pulsing vein, every inch of him is dragging against your walls and hitting your spot every single time.

Somehow, you’re still not used to how deep he gets. Still not over the fact that he fits like this, that he fucks like this. That he’s that deep. That much.

You start thinking you should give him a little plaque.

A nice, shiny, brassy “Deepest Stroke Award: Best Dick 2012” kind of thing. Stick it right next to his Bureau commendations so everyone that steps into his office knows he’s that good.

So good that as he angles himself even better (you didn’t even know that was possible), you don’t even hear the bedframe anymore.

(Which is convenient, because next time he wakes you up at 3 a.m. - all apologetic and sleepy and sweet, muttering “sorry, sweetheart, I just need to turn over, please go back to sleep” while trying not to make it creak - you’re gonna tell him to just flip you over and fuck you like this until you both go deaf. Sleep like babies. Problem solved.)

You’re gasping, whimpering, face buried in the mattress, fingers curled so tight in the sheets they might tear, and Aaron has the audacity -the actual fucking balls (which, by the way, are slapping against your clit with every thrust and fuck, they feel incredible… justice for balls, truly) - to tut at you.

“Sweetheart, you’re collapsing your shoulders again, try to pull them back. Keep the neck long.”

You try to lift yourself. You really do. But your arms are jelly, your spine’s gone to hell, and your entire body is preoccupied with coming apart on his cock.

Still, his big, warm hand spreads flat over the center of your back as he straightens you out. “Come on, sweetheart. Don’t make me correct your posture and fuck you… engage here.”

(Which is ironic. Because right now? He’s doing both flawlessly.)

“Trying,” you pant.

“Oh, I can see you’re trying,” he mutters, and somehow it’s affectionate and condescending and it should make you furious but instead your cunt clenches yet again like it wants to say thank you, sir.

He shifts his hips and pushes in deeper, angling just right and you see white.

Just white. No thoughts. No gods. No laws. Just the smug chuckle he lets out as your mouth drops open and a sound escapes that isn’t even a word anymore.

“Poor thing,” he coos as his pretentious mouth brushes your spine. “Clenching around me like that and still trying to impress me with your form. You can’t even hold yourself up, sweetheart. That’s adorable.”

“Why do you have to be such an asshole? Can’t you just say one of those stupid cheesy things you tell me all the other times?”

He kisses your shoulder. “Because for some reason,” he murmurs, lazy and devastating, “we both know why this turns you on more.”

It’s because you watch too much porn when he’s away. That’s what it is. That’s the problem. You look for the perfect video, scrolling through every possible variation of "older man, authoritative voice, hairy chest, forehead lines, kind of sad but knows how to eat pussy."

Trying to find a man with his exact nose. His exact voice. His exact cock.

But you never find it. You never find him.

And you’re too chickenshit to ask him to just send you a video of himself fucking his fist - because he’s probably doing something more important, like saving Gotham or shooting an active shooter - and you don’t want to be the reason he gets sidetracked while stroking his lenght in a government office. (…Though, the idea is… not bad.)

So instead, you settle. Again.

You open one of those copy-paste porn videos made for men who think women are doormats with vocal fry, and let it play. Same limp dialogue. Same dead-eyed expressions. Same choreographed humiliation kink that somehow makes you feel like the one being punished.

And still, it doesn’t work. Because Aaron Hotchner has fucked up your brain chemistry to such a degree that other men just don’t do it anymore. You slap the laptop shut to end up staring at that blurry pic you took of him coaching Jack’s football game. (Sorry, Jack.)

He’s just in a bland T-shirt. Biceps hulking under cotton. Arms crossed. Whistle hanging from his neck like he’s about to say something inspirational and slightly disappointed.

That’s the reason.

(...Or maybe it’s just that nothing on this godforsaken Earth turns you on more than when he tells you what to do - precisely how to take it, exactly how to behave - even though you’ve spent an embarrassing amount of mental energy convincing yourself that enjoying that somehow makes you less of a feminist, like Simone de Beauvoir’s going to rise from the grave and revoke your womanhood because you like being manhandled by a man in overpriced pajamas.)

(Yeah… it’s definitely because you watch way too much porn.)

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you lie.

“Whatever helps you sleep at night, sweetheart,” he murmurs, his hand sliding back up to your throat, palm pressing lightly, thumb stroking under your jaw as you try to mumble something broken and vowel-heavy that you’re pretty sure started as his name. “Oh…” Aaron chuckles, putting two and two together. “So this is what you want?”

“Hnngh…” you try, but he slaps your ass. (You swear to God, the next time he walks in front of you on a staircase, you’re smacking him. Right there. Mid-step. He will be humbled. You will have your revenge.) “Yes. Yes. Just- just stay there.”

“Here where?”

“Shut up.”

Another slap.

Another involuntary moan. (Still. Stairs, Hotchner.)

“No, but seriously - your back. You sit like shit. You fuck like a dream, but Jesus, I’m gonna send you to physical therapy myself if you keep collapsing your shoulders like that.”

You whimper into the pillow. Your clit’s caught between the pillow and your cunt clenches hard, slick dripping down your thighs, and you don’t know if you’re closer because of the way he’s choking you or the fact that he just corrected your posture.

“Could you – fuck – could you just talk more?” (There it is. Your final shred of dignity. Cashed. Spent. Gone.)

He hums behind you. “Oh, now you want feedback?” Then he leans down, and suddenly you’re wearing him – coarse salt-and-pepper chest hair scraping your slick back, the full weight of him pushing you down as his cock punches so deep into you, you have to roll your eyes back.

“You want me to tell you how fucking good you feel?” he grits, hips picking up pace, snapping harder now.

You’re not really in the conditions to answer.

Your mouth is open but your brain has blue-screened, locked in a loop of oh my God oh my God oh my fuc-

“God, look at you,” he groans, almost in disbelief, hand splaying across your upper back to keep you down, to stop your writhing. “Making a mess all over my cock. You’re dripping. Absolutely soaking me.”

And oh… you feel it.

The soaked patch you’ve been leaving on the pyjama pants he didn’t even bother taking off - just shoved down far enough to fuck you properly - slapping wetly against your skin every time he drives in.

(You’re naked. He’s half-dressed. Fully dressed, actually…)

“You’re doing so well, sweetheart,” he huffs, and oh - his voice cracks. He’s close. Good. (That’s so hot.) “Taking me so well. Still gripping me like it’s the first time. Letting me fuck you this- this deep- Jesus Christ-“ (Amen.) “I can feel every goddamn pulse-”

His hand slides from your spine to your throat - tightens just enough to send your body into full siren-mode panic, only to twist it into white-hot bliss a second later.

And then the other sneaks between your thighs, fingers already soaked in you, finding your clit like he’s done it a thousand times (you’re still in the double digits) and starts circling. . Fast. Messy. Precise.

The kind of perfect that short-circuits thought. That makes your jaw go slack. That makes your breath catch on the edge of something that isn’t quite a moan, or a cry, or-

It almost slips out.

That thing.

The three-word, soul-ruining thing people only say when they’re either very brave or very stupid. And right now, with his fingers rubbing you and his cock still buried so deep it feels like belonging, you’re dangerously close to being both.

“F-fuck, Aaron-”

“I’ve got you. Let go, sweetheart.”

And you do.

You break. Your thighs tremble, your back arches involuntarily (and Aaron’s too far gone to lecture you about spinal integrity now), and your moan turns guttural and ugly as your orgasm crashes through you - pulling his name from your throat

You clamp down so hard around him he curses, jaw clenched, hips jerking once, twice, then he’s there too.

Hot, deep, choking on his breath as he thrusts into the tight clutch of your pulsing cunt, burying himself to the hilt, spilling inside you in rough, thick spurts that have your body jolting again from the aftershocks.

He groans into your shoulder, mouth open, teeth grazing skin, hips still twitching through the aftershocks - every helpless pulse of him inside you dragging another ripple of heat down your spine, through your thighs, and eventually, shamefully, down onto the sheets.

He doesn’t pull out.

Doesn’t move, really, except to press his chest tighter against your back, as if he’s trying to stay in your skin. Like if he lets go, something might slip - out of him, out of you, out of whatever the hell this is.

His breathing is still a bit ragged, hot and damp against your shoulder, and you feel his lips brush there, once, then again - barely a kiss, just contact.

Just reassurance. Just him not knowing how else to say I needed that. Instead it’s just words not meant to be heard - just soft, scattered nothings that don’t quite form sentences, all of them pressed into your skin.

"You're okay,"

"Got you,"

"So good, baby..."

Over and over. Sweet. Ruined. Honest.

Your chest hurts.

Because he means it.

He’s not thinking about it, he’s just being. And it’s the most terrifyingly beautiful thing he’s ever done to you. You need to ruin it.

“FUCK, that was incredible. Where did you keep all of that?!”

He pauses. You can feel him trying not to laugh.

You roll onto your side, gasping. “No, like, WOW. Wow wow wow, Aaron. Wow. Who are you? What was that? Have you been holding out? Were you possessed? Should I call someone? Is there a hotline?”

You watch the faint blush creep across his cheek as he pushes up onto his elbows, runs a hand through his post-sex hair (sexier than pre-sex hair, somehow), and exhales the most exasperatedly fond sound you’ve ever heard.

“Please don’t call anyone.”

These moments - when he completely misses a joke that any normal adult would clock instantly - really do make you want to climb him like a tree all over again.

But what really gets you? What sets your neurons on fire and your soul on its knees?

The phenomenon - still unstudied, tragically overlooked by science - in which post-sex Aaron becomes the most meticulous, terrifyingly competent man alive.

He doesn’t hesitate. Just materializes a warm cloth from nowhere (possibly interdimensional?), cleans you up with it, straightens the sheets, fluffs the pillows, and tucks you in.

You don’t even know when he grabbed his glasses, but suddenly they’re on his face and you’re on his chest, half-sitting, draped over him.

You might feel shame for being so clingy if he ever said anything about it. But he never does. Not even a snide little quip. Just those small, fond huffs that suggest he’s mostly annoyed at himself for enjoying this so much.

Or, like now, he reaches calmly into his go-bag and pulls out what is undeniably the driest, dustiest, most textbook-looking book you've ever seen in your life.

“Sorry,” he says, settling back against the headboard. “I’ve just got a few chapters left… do you want to pretend to be reading with me?”

Wise choice of words, Agent Hotchner.

Because what you really want is to drown yourself in his pheromones and rub your cheek on his chest hair until your responsibilities disintegrate.

“Wearing those,” you sigh dreamily, eyeing the glasses, the page, the stupid peaceful look on his face, “you can do anything you’d like.”

He shakes his head - fond. Touched.

Probably regretting all his life choices, but not enough to stop.

He flips open the tome, rests it against one bent knee, and starts reading. His finger glides up to his lips every time he turns a page, like he’s savoring each one. Every now and then, he adjusts his glasses.

You watch in awe.

Reverence.

…Horniness.

So you just keep kissing him. Aimless, endless little things - his jaw, his neck, his shoulder, the back of his ear - any patch of skin within a lazy head-turn radius gets worshipped.

“Wow. Wow wow. Aaron. Wow. Wowowowowow.”

He doesn’t even flinch.

Just keeps reading, completely unbothered.

Occasionally hums.

If you’re lucky, he presses a kiss into your hair or the side of your temple - never rushed, always lingering, like he’s sealing something in.

Or if he just does that because he’s an old fuck and that’s how they taught knights to kiss their trembling maidens back in the 1500s.

He looks so… peaceful. Way too peaceful.

Which is immediately suspicious.

You open your mouth, just about to ask, “Can we do it again?” when, without even glancing up from the page, he slides the hand resting on your waist down.

Dips straight into your PJ pants, then your underwear.

Your mouth falls open. Nothing comes out.

Not even the question. He’s already answered it.

He exhales through his nose - completely unbothered - as his index finger starts stroking your clit in the slowest lazy little patterns.

Like fingering you under a blanket mid-biography is just his evening chore before tea and chapter seven. Like he’s got all night. (He probably does.)

(You can’t even moan yet. You’re too busy trying to process the fact that he’s still reading.)

And then, instead of simply licking a finger to turn the page like a normal person, he brings two of those thick fingers to his mouth.

He sucks on them, eyes still fixed on the text, lips closed around his fingers as he coats them in spit. And without ever lifting his gaze, he sinks them deep into you - curling just enough to make your thighs tense around him.

“You think I don’t know the real reason you’re always staring at my hands?”

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#aaron hotchner #hotch #aaron hotchner x reader #hotch x reader #aaron hotch x reader #criminal minds #aaron hotchner smut #aaron hotchner x reader smut #fleabag!reader #war is fucking over

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gojorgeous · 2 years ago

Text

"MINE, MINE, MINE."

pairing: alpha!geto x omega!fem!reader summary: your doctor won’t refill your prescription until you’ve reset your cycle. you’re desperate for that refill, but geto’s not having it. content: MDNI (18+ ONLY), a/b/o dynamics, nsfw, dubcon? (reader doesn’t want a heat but it’s medically necessary (LMAO what)), established relationship, unprotected sex, breeding, praise, pet names, knotting, slight manipulation, dacryphilia, somnophilia, spit, blood, oral (fem!receiving), so much licking and smelling?, geto and reader are just downright feral LMAO, lmk if i missed anything. a/n: have y’all figured out that i have a breeding kink yet… anyway, this is the first a/b/o fic that i’ve ever written but i just read one and was feeling *inspired*. if people want i might do a prequel sort of thing for this that goes more in-depth about how they met and stuff. lmk! also, i have a vampire gojo fic planned hehe get ready bbs. if you want more of my omegaverse fics check out my alpha!gojo fic here! and remember, AGELESS BLOGS WILL BE BLOCKED! divider credit to: @cafekitsune wc: 5.2k

“No.”

No? You shift in your seat, cold and plastic, sure you must have heard him wrong.

“I’m sorry?” you ask. You press your tongue to the roof of your mouth, an anxious habit.

“I can’t refill the prescription. I’m sorry, but, frankly, it would be completely irresponsible of me to do so. I’m shocked your previous physician prescribed them for so long.” Fingers find yours and twine them together. Your eyes flash to Geto, but he’s only staring at your new doctor, staring with that furrow in his brow he only gets when he’s worried.

Your new, soon-to-be old, doctor sighs again, running a hand through his thinning white hair. “You need to have a heat as soon as possible, allow your body to recalibrate. Indefinite use of suppressants is dangerous and unhealthy. They are meant to manage your cycles, not stop them altogether.”

Sweat beads on your palms. He can’t be serious. But it’s his first opinion. Surely there’s another option.

“I-I’m sorry, doctor. I don’t think I’m understanding.”

Another glance at Geto reveals that he’s frowning now. When his eyes find yours you see the decision there, one he’s already made without you. Your stomach drops.

The doctor sighs and suddenly the walls of the office feel small, tight, suffocating. The twinge of alcohol and chemicals in the air makes your nose scrunch. “Let me say this clearly. I will not refill your prescription for suppressants, nor will any other reputable physician. You have been taking them continuously for far too long. You risk permanent damage should you delay a proper cycle any longer.” The doctor glances to Geto, then back to you. “Go home with your alpha and allow nature to take its course. It’s what’s best.”

Your eyes widen with realization– you are not leaving this office with what you came for. Your heart pounds and your palms sweat. “Th-that can’t happen, doctor. I need my suppressants. My job- I can’t be out that long a-and Geto can’t either, we–”

“We will go home,” Geto interrupts, and his tone is final. “Thank you, doctor, for the advice.”

Geto pulls you to your feet, gently but firmly. He leaves no question about the fact that you’re leaving. You can feel the intensity radiating off him in waves. You ignore it. You turn to your new doctor, silently smiting him. Why did your old one have to retire?

“Doctor, you don’t underst–”

“Thank you again,” Geto interrupts.

Before you can make another sound, another protest, Geto pulls you through the door, out of the office, and back to the car. He opens the door for you, as he always does, except this time you’re not so eager to accept his chivalry.

“Suguru,” you bite out. His eyes meet yours, but they are surprisingly gentle. So calm. How is he always calm?

“Just get in, baby. We’ll talk about it in the car.”

You debate saying no, but you can’t bring yourself to start a fight when he’s being so good. You grumble when you climb in, buckling your seatbelt before Geto can do it for you.

The engine revs to life, but you hardly notice. You’re already scrolling your phone, the search bar reading a simple and straightforward “doctors offices near me”. You scroll right past the first ten, for once in your life wanting a doctor that’s a little sketchy. You scroll further– still not sketchy enough. Someone who’ll give you the prescription you need, even if it’s not necessarily… ethical. Or maybe you could get some on the street? Surely there was some kind of dealing ring for that. There was a dealing ring for everything, right?

“What are you doing?” His voice is soft, but his fingers are tight around the steering wheel, skin stretched tight across his knuckles.

You lift your phone to your ear, dialing the first office that looked relatively shitty enough. “Getting a second opinion,” you answer.

Suguru plucks the phone so swiftly from your fingers that you hardly even notice it’s gone. You see him end the call and slip it into his back pocket, out of your reach.

“Hey!” You scramble across the center console, hopelessly grabbing at your lost phone, your last hope.

Suguru grabs your wrist, restraining you far too easily for your liking. “You’re not getting it back,” he says. His eyes never leave the road.

Your brows pinch and anger boils in your stomach. “This is not for you to decide. It’s my body.”

He glances at you, unconcerned. Still calm. “And you’re not in a headspace to be making a responsible decision about it, so I’m making it for you.”

Your jaw drops and you pry your wrist free of his grasp. You escape, but you know it’s only because he allows it. “I am of perfectly sound mind, thank you.”

He shakes his head and sighs. “You’re blinded by desperation.”

“It’s still not for you to decide!” When you don’t notice any change in his expression, you switch tactics– from anger to honesty. You let your face fall, let your true feelings creep through. “You know how much I hate it, Su.”

Finally, he cracks. It’s instantaneous, the way he melts for you- the way the soft smile finds his lips and his hand finds yours, twining your fingers together. “I know, but you have to, baby. You heard the doctor.”

You clench your jaw and avoid the sting of tears behind your eyes. You had heard the doctor, but you weren’t ready. Maybe next month, when you’d had more time to mentally prepare.

Your skin crawled. You hated it, hated this. You hadn’t had a heat in years, avoiding them like the plague. You hated how vulnerable they made you, how they put you at the mercy of another. It wasn’t that you didn’t trust Suguru– you did. You trusted him more than anyone, anything, but you still hated the feeling of being so completely helpless, so completely out of control, even if it was Suguru you were submitting to.

For most of your life, you’d successfully hidden your omega status. With the help of suppressants, you’d passed as a beta until your early twenties. Then you met Geto.

You’d met at work. He was cute, beautiful even, you’d thought, but he screamed alpha– and alphas could be dangerous, especially for hiding, unclaimed omegas like you. You’d stayed away as long as you could and, for a while, you were quite successful. You avoided him in the halls, sat at the opposite end of the table in meetings, replied to emails succinctly but politely. All was well until you’d been trapped in an elevator with him one morning, biting your lip anxiously as you waited to reach the twelfth floor. He’d smelled so good that day, perhaps due to an oncoming rut. You hadn’t been able to resist inching closer, taking deeper breaths. Suguru would later tell you that he’d suspected your hidden status, but he had no reason to question you. At least, not until he had you up against the elevator wall with his face buried in your neck. One deep whiff was all he’d needed to know exactly what you were, even with suppressants in your system.

You’d dated for a little over a year, until you’d decided he was the one. Your fingers dust over the mate mark on your throat, the one that had not only made you undoubtedly Suguru’s, but also the one that had revealed to the world exactly what you were. There was no hiding your true identity with an alpha’s scarred mark on your neck.

Suguru had never seen you through a heat– no one had. You’d taken your suppressants daily, ever since you met him and even long before that. He’d claimed you on a day like any other, no heat necessary. He hadn’t had a rut in all these years, either. When he felt one coming on all he had to do was pop a single pill and all was well– apparently with none of the nasty side effects that came along with your suppressants. Another unfair privilege of being an alpha you supposed.

“Sugu, I can’t do this.” Your lip is raw from how much you’ve been chewing on it by the time you reach home.

Suguru softly shuts the door behind you, lifting your twined hands to his lips, gently kissing your knuckles.

“Yes you can. I know you can.”

You shake your head. He doesn’t understand– doesn’t know what this will do to you, how it will break you. While you hadn’t had a heat in years, you had experienced them before. You loathed them more than anything, loathed the way your mind was a slave to your body and not the other way around, loathed the way your whole body pulsed and throbbed, loathed the way it made you feel so… weak. “I can’t. It’s-it’s-” Your hands come up to cover your face. You sigh and feel the blush crawling beneath your cheeks. “It’s embarrassing. Humiliating.”

There’s silence for a moment, and then a soft sight. Suguru pries your hands from your face gently. When you meet his eyes, he’s all business.

“There’s nothing to be embarrassed about, baby.”

You shake your head and pull away, pacing. “I don’t want anyone to see me like that, Sugu. Not even you.”

Strong hands catch your waist, holding you still. “It’s not a question. It’s happening– for the sake of your health.”

You scoff and shake your head. “It’s not–”

His thumb presses to your lips with just enough pressure to demand silence. The omega in you coos to listen, to submit– the other part of you reels with annoyance.

“End of discussion.”

He’s closer now and you can feel waves of his breath skating across your skin. It’s like a drug, one that the primal side of you can never get enough of. Give in, give in, give in, your omega begs. Listen to your alpha… You try not to focus on the fact that he smells good enough to eat. You know what he’s doing– using his dynamic to persuade you, to make you see his way, playing to the omega you can usually hide so carefully.

“Sugu…” you say. You intend to be angry but you trail off when his eyes catch yours.

“I got you, baby.”

Your heart melts at the words. He waits. Maybe he knows that the smell of his skin on yours is playing tricks on your mind. You wage a battle within. Every instinct urges you to agree and with every passing second it becomes harder to disagree. Perhaps he’s right, perhaps it's time you give in for once. Let him take care of you, your omega purrs. You’re nodding before you realize what you’ve done.

Suguru kisses you quickly, allowing no time for takebacks. When he pulls away he gets to work. He whips his phone from his pocket and you listen to him talking to his boss, your boss, saying that you’ll both be out of work for a week on “family” leave. Your face heats when you realize that your boss now knows exactly what you two are going to be doing for the foreseeable future. Suguru kisses you one last time before he’s out the door, off to get enough food and supplies to last a week. You won’t be leaving your apartment for some time. You don't fail to notice that he doesn’t return your phone before he’s gone.

You don’t notice a difference, even after the sun is gone. It’s not surprising, considering you usually take your suppressants at night– it’ll take a little while longer for them to fully exit your system… you hope. When you’re brushing your teeth you stare at the empty prescription bottle longingly.

You join Suguru in bed. The moment you crawl onto the mattress he pulls you closer into his bare chest. You savor the way your bodies fit so perfectly- like he was meant for you and you alone. His front curls around your back, a leg slotted between your thighs.

“Feel anything?” he asks.

You shake your head to hide your swallow. You almost shiver when Suguru buries himself in your neck, inhaling your scent. You feel him harden against your backside. He must be able to smell your approaching heat even before you can. Part of you expects instinct to take hold of him, for him to make a move, but he only presses a kiss to your jaw and holds you tighter.

“Sleep, baby.”

For once, you follow orders without a fight.

–

Hot. Too hot.

When your eyes flutter open, you feel the pounding of your heart, the labor of your breath, and the growing ache between your legs.

You sit up so fast you see stars, panic flooding your veins. No, no, no, no, no. This was wrong, you’d made the wrong choice. You couldn’t do this. Already, you could feel control slipping from your grasp, your consciousness giving way to something more primal, more feral. You scramble, preparing to stand, to find your phone, to lock yourself away and suffer through this on your own.

“Deep breaths, baby.”

Only then do you realize Suguru is already awake. He’s behind you, hands on your shoulders, both a comfort and a restraint.

“Can’t-” Your breaths are ragged and so are your words. “Can’t do this, Sugu-”

“Yes, you can.” He whispers. He pulls you closer, tighter against him. “You will.”

You shake your head frantically, tears pooling on your lashes. When you turn, Suguru is staring at your neck, at the mate mark on your throbbing pulse. His jaw is clenched when his tongue darts out to wet his lips. He’s restraining himself, you realize. A glance down reveals he’s already painfully hard in his pants. You wonder how long he’s been sitting there, taking in your scent, waiting for you to wake. No doubt his rut has already been triggered.

His eyes raise to yours and he pauses at the tears that leak down your cheeks. He leans closer, and the scent emanating from his neck makes you groan against your will. His kisses away the tears. Slowly, one at a time.

“I’ve got you, baby,” he whispers. “I’ve got you.”

Your body pulls him closer, even as your mind pushes back. “My phone, Sugu,” you panic. “Gotta gimme my phone. C-call a new doctor.”

He shakes his head and when you start to squirm he only holds you tighter, holds you in place.

“No, baby.”

You whimper, seeking the scent gland on his neck against your will. The smell makes your clit throb almost painfully.

“Sugu, please,” you cry. Tears stream from your eyes, staining your lover’s skin.

“‘S gonna be okay. Just let it happen. Don’t fight it, love.”

With each passing moment, you feel your fight slipping further and further away. Suguru rubs at the muscles in your back until you’re slumped against him, pitifully moaning like a wounded animal. It’s not long before your body takes the reins, until you start desperately humping at his thigh, your clit throbbing almost painfully.

“That’s it. Good girl.”

Your eyes roll back at the praise and when Suguru grips your waist you cry out at the touch. Everywhere his skin meets yours feels electric. You’re burning, burning, burning. It’s not until Suguru lays you down on your back that you see the sopping patch of slick you’ve left on his thigh. You whimper at the sight.

“‘S okay, baby. ‘Ve got you.”

Suguru is looking nearly as lost to the lust as you are. Only his willpower and intent keep him from shredding away your panties and breeding your cunt full that very second. He’s never been in the presence of a scent so intoxicating. He’s never been with you, or any omega, through a heat. He thought you smelled amazing before, but now… He is lost to you, lost to the heat he feels emanating from every inch of your skin, to the honeyed scent pouring from your neck, to the slick he sees staining through your panties. His dick twitches in his pants.

“Love you so much, baby. Gonna take such good care of ya,” he whispers. Instinct drives him forward until he’s plastered his lips to your jaw, licking and biting at the skin. You nearly scream at the sensation. You feel his touch everywhere, all at once. With your last coherent thoughts you know that this heat will be unlike any other you’ve ever experienced. It’s already so intense you can hardly think, and you’ve only just begun.

“Sugu,” you plead.

The sound of his name on your lips breaks him. His hand dips across your stomach, thumbing past the edge of your panties until he’s running his finger through your slit, gathering your slick and rubbing it against your clit.

You scream and thrash, so sensitive it nearly hurts, but he only moves to pin you beneath him, forcing you to take everything he gives.

“Gonna make you feel ‘s good, baby.” he hums. He’s lost to you, to your desires, to your needs. Every piece of him screams to please you, to take care of you, in every way possible.

He continues his messy circles on your clit and until you’re gasping, hole clenching around nothing, begging to be filled.

“S-Sugu…” you whine.

The growl that rips from his throat has you arching your back and bearing your throat in an act of submission. You hear a tear and watch your panties hit the floor. Your shirt follows and then you’re completely bare beneath your alpha. His eyes go black at the sight, pupils blown so wide you can hardly see a smidgen of their usual brown. There’s a deep rumble in his chest that has you keening and reaching for him, needing him. He doesn’t waste time. His tongue finds your neck, laving sloppily at your scent gland and the sensation is so delicious that you writhe beneath him.

His fingers slide down your stomach, dipping between your thighs and rubbing at your clit. The touch is somehow gentle despite the complete and total hunger in his eyes, but it has you whining nonetheless. Every place he touches you, which is nearly everywhere, stings so delightfully that your eyes are already rolling back.

But you can’t wait. You can’t. Your body is starved, rabid, and you know what you need.

“Ssssugu… please…” your words are hardly above a whisper, barely a breath, but your alpha still hears you, still knows what you want, what you need.

“I got you, baby… shhhhh…” He gives a final lick to your scent gland before he’s leaning back on his knees, parting your thighs wide, exposing your leaking cunt. You can feel a puddle of slick beneath your ass, your hole clenching desperately around nothing, aching to be filled.

Warm hands slide up your skin and settle on your hips, tugging you a little further down the bed. You whimper, but don’t have time to say anything before you feel him slipping through your folds. A glance down reveals his weeping tip, achingly flushed, bumping and rubbing against your clit. When did his pants come off? You don’t know, you don’t care, all that matters is that the sight steals your breath away.

“Gonna knot you good, princess.”

You nod, wanting nothing more than for him to make good on his promise. You claw and grip at his arms, chanting his name endlessly. His chest rumbles again and your thighs part further on instinct. Finally, he gives you what you want. You feel him pressing in, fat tip stretching you wide. One of his hands moves to press down on your tummy and the combination has tears pooling in your eyes.

He slides in slowly. With every inch you think he must be done, that you can’t take any more. But you can, and you do. When he’s finally fully in your jaw is hanging open in ecstasy and your eyes are rolled back in your skull. His fingers brush your clit and your hips jerk.

“That’s it. So good, baby. So fucking good.”

Your tears flood over, racing down your cheeks. He’s over you again, loose strands of black hair brushing your skin and forcing a whimper from your throat. He licks away your tears, lapping at your cheeks like you’re a fucking lollipop. His hips start thrusting in time with his licks, and it’s more than you can handle. Your thighs tremble and suddenly you’re begging. Pleading, whining, screaming for more. He gives it to you. One hand finds yours, twining your fingers together as he pounds into you so hard he’s rattling your skull. He’s licking at your scent gland again, driving you further and further toward a cliff you’re afraid to fall from. You think this orgasm might shatter you, might break you so thoroughly you’ll never be put back together again. You can feel it tightening at your core with each thrust, each lick, each kiss.

“Fuck,” you hear him growl and whimper at the sound of his voice so close to your ear. “‘M gonna bite you, princess. Gonna mark you up and knot you so good you’ll see fucking stars.” You pant beneath him, unable to word how excited you are by his words, how deliciously they roll across your skin and seep into your spine. “Tell me you didn’t take your pill, baby. Tell me I can breed this pussy full and it won’t go to waste.” He’s not talking about your suppressants you know, but rather the contraceptives you take in tandem with them. Of course you took it, but suddenly something makes you wish you hadn't. “‘M gonna flush ‘em down the fucking toilet. Never letting you take that shit again.”

The primal part of you surges forward at the idea. It chants deep in your mind. Yes, yes, yes…

“Suguuu… please…” It seems like those are the only words your tongue can form.

His lips press to yours, shushing you. “Shhh, baby. Don’ worry. I got you.” He licks across your cheek and down across your jaw until he finds your scent gland again. His thrusts pick up again and you think you might pass out from how good you feel, from how tight your muscles are coiling. You can feel his knot pulsing inside you, preparing to fill you to the brim. You’ve never felt more ready for anything.

“Sugu–”

And it’s at that moment that he makes good on his promise. His teeth sink into your neck and you feel your bond snap taut like a string, pulsing with the closeness of your connection. It’s pure ecstasy. Suguru’s knot swells, notching tightly inside you and when you feel his cum pulsing into your womb it’s all too much. You think you must be screaming from the pleasure but you only hear the ringing in your ears as your orgasm washes over you. Your muscles clench, your toes curl, your back arches, you see those stars Suguru promised. Heat tingles through your limbs and down your spine and you think you’ve probably just melted into the mattress. But you haven’t, and when your vision returns, you’re panting and staring at the ceiling.

Suguru is above you and you can feel him still cumming, still releasing rope after rope of thick, hot cum into you. The sensation makes you groan and he laps at your neck, cleaning up the blood from the new mark he’s just given you. Your consciousness trickles back in, the primal piece of you partially sated for the time being. You remember the context of your situation, why you’re here and not at work, what you’re doing. You’re puzzled by why you’d been so panicked by the idea of a heat before. How could you have been so reluctant, so scared, when nothing has ever felt this right?

Suguru is peppering you with kisses now, pulling you tight to his chest and rolling you both onto your sides where you’ll stay until his knot softens.

“Sleep, princess,” he says and he uses that tone that always compels you to listen, to please. You happily do as he says and when your eyes drift shut it’s not long before you’re lost to a world of comfortable darkness.

You wake to the throbbing again. All of the pent up need Suguru had sated has returned with a vengeance. You need him again, but it appears he already knows that.

You feel him between your legs, his hair fully loose now and tickling the insides of your thighs. He’s eating you out, slurping up the cum that’s leaking down your thighs and spitting it back onto your cunt. It’s filthy, disgusting, and you love it.

“Sugu–” you gasp and your hips buck. His eyes lock with yours and the smile he gives you nearly makes you come on the spot. He holds your gaze as he licks one last long stripe over your folds. You whimper and clench around nothing. Empty, empty, empty…

“Sorry, baby,” he whispers against your skin. He’s kissing his way up your body now, leaving little circles of spit that cool when they touch the air and make you shiver. “‘Y smelled so good…”

You whine and whimper, clawing at his back and leaving scratches you think might draw blood. You’re too worried about getting him inside of you to check.

You’re gasping like you’ve never had a breath of air in your life, like you’ve drowned and every touch he gives you fills your lungs with much-needed oxygen. His hands rub gently at your waist, but it’s not enough. You want him to wreck you, ruin you. You say as much.

“M-more…” you beg and when he hums against your neck you squirm desperately. Warm hands dig into your flesh and suddenly you find yourself flipped onto your stomach. You feel Suguru behind you, pushing your thighs apart with his knees. His hands find your hips again and lift, propping you up with your face still pressed to the pillows. When you whimper he runs a soothing hand up and down your spine.

“‘S okay, baby. Relax. Lemme take care ‘ve you.”

Yes, yes, yes, you think. You don’t think you’ve ever wanted anything more. His fingers dig into your skin, holding you still when he feeds his dick into you, one inch at a time. You cry out, tearing at the sheets and begging for more, even when you already feel like you’re splitting in half. When he’s finally seated inside you he drapes himself over your back, brushing your hair over one shoulder to expose your neck. He leans in to lick you again, thrusting sharply the moment his tongue brushes your skin. You wail, pressing your face to the sheets and attempting to rock yourself back against him. One of his hands smooths over the flesh of your ass as he sets a pace, one that makes you bite down on a pillow to muffle your screams.

“No.” Suguru uses that tone that makes you listen, that one that calls instinctively to the omega inside you, that urges you to please. He reaches for your pillow, tossing it aside and letting his hand curl around your throat as he continues to fuck you, letting his fingers feel the vibrations of every noise you make. “Let me hear you, baby. Always let me hear you.”

You nod, eager to make him happy, eager to do as he says. You don’t dare restrain a single sound, eyes rolling back. The angle he has you at has your thighs trembling. He’s so deep, so close. You feel his heartbeat against your back, feel his tongue on your skin, his hand on your throat, his cock at your cervix.

When he groans, you groan with him, feeling his dick pulse inside you, his knot beginning to swell. You need it, need it so bad you can hardly stand it.

“P-please, please, please–”

He swells inside you, locking your bodies together as his orgasm hits. It’s all you need to find your own. You wail into the mattress, cunt clenching and legs trembling until you collapse, flattening against the beg. Suguru follows you down, wrapping his arms around your waist and whispering in your ear.

“Take it all, baby. Good girl. Take it all…”

You nod, not even sure what you’re agreeing to. All you can feel is his cum flooding your insides, pulsing and pumping so deep into you that you swear your tummy is swelling with the sheer amount of it. Still, your body wants more, clenching and milking him for every last drop, just like he asked.

When you both come down from your orgasms he pulls you into his chest once again, whispering promises of protection and love that lull you into a trance-like state of happiness. When you fall asleep again, he’s chanting a word that your omega repeats right back to him. “Mine, mine, mine.”

When you wake again it’s to the sound of Geto staying true to his word and flushing every last birth control pill you have straight down the toilet. Your omega surges at the idea, but one mewl from you and he’s back in your arms, like you’re somehow the one in charge, not him. With every passing moment, you being to think that might be true- that perhaps a heat does not makes you as weak as you thought. Your alpha submits as much to you as you submit to him.

The week is spent in a frenzy. You do not measure by the numbers on the clock or where the sun is in the sky, rather you know time only as how long it’s been since Suguru’s been locked inside you. If it were up to you, you’d never stop, but Geto forces you to sleep, to eat, to bathe. Of course, he’s never far away when you’re following his instructions and you usually get a kiss and his knot as a reward for being such a good girl.

It’s ten days later when your heat finally starts to wane. It feels as though every inch of you is covered in him. Bites, hickies, kisses, cum… no part of you has been left untouched. Suguru has had you everywhere. The bed, the shower, the bath, the kitchen. Every surface in the whole apartment reeks of sex and slick. He never keeps you too far from the bedroom, though, where you’ve piled up mountains of his shirts and sheets. Anything that smells like him, anything that can keep you tethered in those brief moments when Suguru goes to fetch you food or water or run you a bath. He takes care of you, just like he promised.

When you wake completely clear-headed for the first time in well over a week, it’s to Suguru’s arms and lips. He’s got you all wrapped up in him, his arms locked around your waist almost like he expects you to bolt. You almost do when everything comes flooding back to you, this time with a completely clear conscience. But then he kisses your neck and whispers a delightful little, “welcome back, baby” against your neck and suddenly you’re realizing how… revitalized you feel, like a part of you has finally been properly satisfied after years of waiting. You’d always hated this, always hated the part of you that begged and cowered, hated heats- but maybe with Suguru… they really weren’t all that bad.

taglist (DM me to be added!): @lacheri, @la-undercover-latina

link: alpha!gojo fic

please consider leaving a comment, sending in an ask, or reblogging! interacting with authors is the best way to support them! thanks for reading ♡

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cameronsbabydoll · 2 months ago

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military!rafe x ditzy!wife!reader

you’re wearin’ one of his old shirts, sleeves way too long, hem fallin’ just under your ass. fuzzy socks on. lip gloss smudged. stirrin’ some sad excuse for pasta with your favorite pink spatula.

rafe’s at the kitchen table, cleanin’ his rifle. focused, quiet. brows furrowed. all serious.

so of course you ruin it.

“baby?”

“hmm?”

“what’s in area 51?”

he don’t even look up. just freezes, hand stillin’ on the barrel.

“what’d you just say?”

you blink, all innocent. “area 51. the alien place. you work for the government, right? sorta?”

he sets the gun down real careful. sighs through his nose. you can already tell he’s annoyed.

“jesus christ, girl.”

“what?” you pout. “i was just wonderin’. i saw it on youtube. they said there’s, like, little green guys down there n’ secret space stuff—”

he’s up in a flash, stalkin’ toward you slow like a damn wolf.

you squeak when he crowds you against the counter, hand braced next to your head. leanin’ down real close.

“dumb little thing,” he mutters, more amused than mad. “sugar, you don’t even know how to work the dishwasher, and now you’re out here askin’ me ‘bout fuckin’ aliens?”

you swallow hard, blinking up at him. “i was just curious...”

he huffs, nose draggin’ against your cheek.

“curious. yeah. well now i’m curious.”

“’bout what?”

“how someone with a brain so empty still manages to walk around without forgettin’ to breathe.”

his hand slips under your shirt, fingers squeezin’ your bare ass.

“bet your head’s just full of sparkles n’ lip gloss, ain’t it?”

“and you,” you whisper, smilin’ real sweet.

his hand comes down hard. smack. right on the curve of your ass. you yelp, clingin’ to his shirt.

“that’s right,” he growls. “all full’a me. my dumb little wife, waddlin’ ‘round in my t-shirts, thinkin’ about aliens while burnin’ dinner.”

“i didn’t burn it,” you pout.

“sugar, it smells like fuckin’ rubber bands in here.”

you whimper as he spins you, bends you over the counter. panties pushed aside. cock heavy and mean between your thighs. not even gentle.

“’m gonna fuck you so dumb you forget all about area fuckin’ 51,” he mutters, lining up.

“rafe—”

“hush. dumb girls don’t get to talk.”

he slams in, rough, one hand tangled in your hair, the other pressin’ your cheek to the counter. you moan, eyes rollin’ back, syrupy sweet sounds spillin’ from your lips.

“all mine,” he grunts, fuckin’ you hard. “don’t need brains when you got a mouth like that, huh?”

“n-no…”

“nah. you just need me. take care’a you. fill you up, keep you dumb n’ pretty like you were made to be.”

his fingers find your clit, rubbin’ fast and sloppy.

“gonna cum for me?”

“mhmm…”

“say thank you.”

“th-thank you, rafe…”

“good girl. fuckin’ good girl.”

you cum cryin’, gaspin’, body shakin’ under him — and he don’t stop. not even when you’re twitchin’. not even when you sob a little, all overstimmed and cockdrunk.

“next time you ask me ‘bout aliens,” he pants, fuckin’ you deep, “you better do it while you’re on your knees.”

#military!rafe #rafe cameron #rafe cameron headcanons #rafe cameron smut #mean!rafe #ditzy!reader #rafe cameron x bimbo #bimbo!reader #rafe cameron x ditzy reader #rafe cameron fluff #rafe cameron x reader #rafe cameron blurb #rafe cameron fanfic #rafe obx #outerbanks #smut #rafe cameron obx #rafe cameron fic

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cursingtoji · 7 months ago

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the cardio machine i want is on the cardio machine

cw: gym rat toji x loser!gf - size kink, sweat kink (?), toji is a big old meanie. loser!gf series: geto gojo nanami.

loser!reader who, like a million other sedentary people on new year’s eve, said “new year new me” and proceeded to enroll at the local gym.

gym rat!toji who knew how things are in the beginning of the year, so the first week he arrives one hour earlier than usual to avoid all the lazy fucks that won’t last two months.

of course he makes a few mental bets on the ones that would quit and how long it would take, you included.

it’s easy to spot the “i don’t want lift weights cause i don’t want look jacked” type of girl.

at the breaks between one set and the other he looked around, not surprised to see you slowing down the treadmill after running not even two whole minutes.

sometimes he caught you staring at him through the mirror, not an uncommon occurrence amonst the women there, though you surprised him one day by tapping his shoulder after he finishing his weighted squats.

“can you… give me a few tips?” he looked so intimidated, from up close his shoulders looked like a wall, he stared at you from above, dark green eyes seemed to be heavily judging you, “never mind this was a bad idea, sorry” you turned around, grabbing you bottle and running off the gym.

by the time you managed to gather the courage to show your face back there two whole weeks had passed.

“consistency is the key you know” you were distracted looking down your phone while slowly walking the treadmill when the handsome man appeared beside you, the sudden presence destabilized you.

before you could become the viral video of the week when inevitably a gym employee decides to post the security footage of your ass rolling off the active treadmill, toji wrapped one big arm around your waist and pulled you to the stable floor.

“you caught me off guard the other day” he said completely unfazed by saving you from a life of embarrassment, “then you disappeared.”

“yeah i didn’t know if i wanted to come back anyways, i haven’t see any results so far” you pulled the hem of your shirt down.

toji snorted, “‘course you ain’t seeing results, sweetheart, you don’t lift.”

“well, it’s hard…” toji rolled his eyes, there was always an excuse.

though he also did a new year’s resolution of being more patient, for his kids primarily but teaching a cute thing like you could be a good exercise too.

soon enough, toji was correcting your form, texting you asking why you haven’t showed up to the gym and ringing your bell incessantly when you complained about muscle pain and said you wouldn't go that day.

“it’ll feel better once you start to move” he explained, resting on your door frame when you opened the door on your pajamas.

“let me alone, just today” you whined.

“you asked for my help now go put on something without cartoons on it” he waited for you to turn around and slapped your butt. it had been only one week he was coaching you but there was already a weird intimacy due to the fact he was pretty much always looking at your body and touching you.

to correct your form. obviously.

"what do i have to do today, coach fushiguro?" you asked from your bedroom through an ajar door which allowed toji to get a peek at your pink underwear and cute ass.

"cardio, bicycle first. get some blood flowing on those sore muscles" he tilted his head and raised his eyebrows watching you bend over to grab a biker shorts at the lowest drawer then holding back a laughter at the grunt of pain coming from you.

"once it gets better i can teach you other types of cardio" he walked around your kitchen examining your cabinets and stuff you kept in your fridge. needless to say it was all junk.

"can't wait" you replied sarcastically, failing to understand the meaning.

it took a few more days till you got used to toji's training, then he decided to focus on your upper body.

"such a simple movement, how do you manage to get that wrong?" he raised from the bench he was sitting behind you watching your form through the mirror. you almost dropped the weights at your feet when he came close. it was almost scary how much bigger than you he was especially seeing it throght the mirror. his right hand wrapped around yours on the dumbell and his bicep touched your arm as he pushed your arm closer to your body, "tuck your elbows in, straight your back" his free hand pushed your shoulders till they were touching his chest.

how come he smelled so good, so... musky and...

"are you even making any force?" he lowered his head, his reflection looking annoyed. so you decided to ignore the sudden heat between your thighs and flex your arm the way he taught you.

and just like he promised, when you were consistent enough and handling a good 5 minute run he decided to show you a more pleasing cardio.

"toji please~" you whined, thighs burning from riding him, you were using his rock hard abdomen as a support, but still.

"one more minute, come on" he looked at the watch on his wrist and slapped your ass, "haven't i prep-ed you good enough?" his thumb rubbed your bottom lip then pushed in meeting your tongue, where you tasted yourself in his digits one hour after he ringed your bell and said he was going to reward your good discipline, but he had to strech you first.

"good girl" you felt his abdomn flex when he raised from his laying position on your bed, "now leave it to daddy" he pecked your lips and quickly changed positions, putting a pillow under your ass and rolling his neck to start his cardio of the day.

#loser!gf #toji fushiguro x reader #toji smut #jjk x reader #toji x reader #jjk smut

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bloomseishiro · 3 months ago

Note

Hi! Can I request some BLLK drabbles (with whichever BLLK characters you like) where the boys see the reader in tight clothes for the first time? Like, the reader usually wears baggy clothing or stuff that hides their curves/body figure, so it’s a total surprise! It doesn’t have to be a dress—tight shorts and crop tops work too!

Anyways, I love you and your fics! You’re doing amazing, hunny! 💕 Keep doing what you’re doing—your stories make me smile and feel the thrill!! 💓🩷💗

what a surprise — he sees you in tight clothes for the first time

౨ৎ ft. nagi seishiro, itoshi sae, itoshi rin

a/n. THANK YOU SWEET ANON FOR THE REQUEST!! i had sm fun writing this and ur kind words def made my day ^-^ i chose the three characters i’m most comfy with heh one day i will expand!! >.>

contents. fluff, pre-relationship, timeskip/pro soccer player bllk boys, reader wears a tight dress for rin and nagi’s + crop top/short shorts for sae’s, these are suggestive so rated 16+ pls !

NAGI SEISHIRO

Nagi isn’t one to go to parties often. But this one was for Reo’s birthday and you were begging him to go.

He thought it would be less of a hassle to simply agree with you and make an appearance. Besides, he could always bring his phone and hide in the corner of the room, if needed.

But when Nagi sees the dress you’re wearing to the party, he decides maybe agreeing to come wasn’t such a bad idea after all.

“Does this dress make my butt look big?” you ask from his room, popping your head out of the doorframe.

The two of you are getting ready at Nagi’s apartment, mainly so he can’t flake at the last minute, and he had stepped out earlier to give you privacy while changing.

At your question, Nagi looks around lazily before his eyes widen slightly at the sight of you. The dress on your body is short and tight, leaving nothing to the imagination when it comes to the shape of your waist and hips.

Nagi swallows with uncertainty. It’s different from your usual attire, that much even he could recognize.

“Yes,” he manages to answer your question honestly.

You beam as if that's just the response you’re looking for. “Great! I was going to wear my usual clothes, but Reo said we should dress nice since his family invited some celebrities.”

Nagi nods in acknowledgment. “Your dress is nice. But your usual clothes are nice, too.”

Hiding a giggle, you tug the dress down so it covers more of your thighs. Nagi can’t help but notice how shiny and supple your skin looks there.

“Do you like one more than the other?” you ask playfully.

He shakes his head hesitantly and he feels heat rise to his cheeks. “I like…both.”

“I’ll make sure to mix it up sometimes, then.”

ITOSHI SAE

Sae isn’t a saint. He’s never claimed nor pretended to be. While his focus has always been on soccer, he wasn’t one to turn down one night stands so long as they were conveniently timed for him.

All that to say, he’s seen plenty of minimally-clad bodies before. But he’s never felt the dryness in his throat that he does now. All from seeing you in those denim booty shorts and cropped baby tee.

Of course, the ridiculous shirt has, “Make Men Cry” written across your chest, only accentuating the curves you normally kept hidden even more. You may very well be able to reach that goal if you keep walking around like that.

His face is neutral; only Sae himself feels the slight clench of his jaw as his eyes trail across your figure.

“Do I look bad?” you blurt hesitantly, tugging at the hem of your shirt that landed just above your belly-button. Your fidgeting only serves to draw more attention to the exposed, soft skin on your stomach.

Sae blinks slowly. “No. Who said that?”

“No one, but you just keep staring at me…”

“Not because you look bad,” he corrects. “It’s because you look hot.”

“You think?” you ask shyly, peering up at him through your lashes. “My friend and I went on a shopping spree and I wanted to change up my wardrobe. Just sometimes, at least.”

Sae makes a mental note to thank your friend. “Well, if you need more clothes, you can use my card.”

“I’ll make sure to get more of these cropped tops. Since you seem to like it so much,” you tease.

“For whatever reason, only on you.”

ITOSHI RIN

Awestruck doesn’t begin to describe how Rin feels when he sees you in a silk dress that gracefully falls against all your curves.

Galas are a pain, a stupid event he would skip if not for his PR team’s incessant prodding, but at least he managed to drag you along with him for this one.

He didn’t, however, actually expect you to dress the part. He would’ve been fine if you had shown up in the oversized shirts and baggy pants you typically wore, but he was completely caught off guard at the sight of you now.

“Can you help me tighten the back?” you ask bashfully, turning around to reveal the almost-backless dress that held itself together by a few measly strings. “I don’t want it to fall off at the gala…”

Rin’s ears heat up and he mentally slaps himself for picturing that. “Yeah. C’mere.”

You aren’t one to wear revealing clothes often, and this is the most skin he’s seen since he ever met you. His fingers ghost the back of your spine as he fastens the strings into a little bow. His fingers jerk as he skims the softness of your skin and he clears his throat to distract himself.

“Is this good?” he asks hoarsely.

You tug at the straps to make sure it’s secure and nod brightly. “Yep! Thanks, Rin. Do you need help with anything? I can tie your tie in return!”

Panicked, he shakes his head and quickly fastens his tie himself. It’s the fastest Rin has ever gotten it done. Once finished, he catches you staring at him with a funny look.

“You’re acting silly,” you say, sticking your tongue out.

“Sorry. I know. I’m just not used to you looking like that.”

Your gaze meets the floor as you shuffle your weight from foot to foot. “Is it weird?”

“It’s unfamiliar. But you look…” he trails off, cheeks a bright pink. “You look really pretty.”

You blink in surprise and an equally embarrassed look graces your features. “Oh.”

“Yeah,” he coughs. “Not that you’re not always pretty. Just…it’s different.”

“Yeah,” you repeat, giggling through the shyness. “Well, if you want to see me like this more often, I guess you have to invite me as your plus one to more of these events.”

“Do you want to attend more of these with me?” asks Rin in surprise.

“Not particularly,” you admit and Rin scoffs. “But maybe it’s worth it to see your cute reactions.”

His face heats up once more. “Shut up.”

You laugh at him, placing your hand on your hips and only drawing more attention to your curves. Maybe Rin doesn’t hate galas, after all.

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jeonstudios · 2 months ago

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anatomy of a vampire | 01

a young man returns to a small town he hasn't seen in years, and a house he hasn't lived in since before the last president was born, only to find that a stray cat has given birth to kittens in his closet.

pairing: vampire!jk x nerdy f veterinarian!reader (with a special interest in the science and biology aspect of the supernatural lol)

genre: sorta scifi-ish, fluff, minor angst, some smut later on

word count: 4.7k

warnings: none in this part (maybe anatomy talk/vet talk?), but there's gonna be like... inspection kink-stuff later on 🤪 more detailed warnings to come <3

rating: NC-17 – Adults Only

masterlist

part 1/?

You’re halfway through your lunch when Namjoon pokes his head into the break room, a stethoscope around his neck and thick-rimmed glasses low on his nose.

“Reception just got a call about a home visit.”

“Today?” you ask, your mouth full of chicken sandwich as you glance at your wristwatch. You and Namjoon are way too close for you to care about being ladylike.

“Mhm.”

You pause. Not many clinics in your small town offer home visits, and even fewer do it on short notice. For your clinic, it’s usually about an old dog being put to rest at home—incredibly sad, but not an emergency.

“Is it urgent?”

“Not on the minute, but needs done today.”

You glance at the patient chart on the table in front of you. “I think this’ll be quick. I’ll go after this one.”

“You sure?” Namjoon asks. “Technically, it’s my turn.”

“Yeah, it’s fine. You should see Oakley when he comes; he’s not very fond of me.”

Oakley, a returning patient with chronic stomach issues, has managed to spray paint you a yellowy brown on three different occasions. From both ends. It’s like he aims.

Namjoon snorts. He hasn’t been hit once.

Checking your watch again, you push the last bite of your sandwich into your mouth, chewing it while you grab the chart. Namjoon is already on his way to greet another patient and their owner, and you take a second to swallow and wipe any crumbs off your scrubs before you follow his lead, heading into the waiting area.

“Millie?” you call, smiling when a young woman rises from a chair, her red dachshund's nose practically glued to the clinic floor.

It’s two-thirty when you pull out of the clinic parking lot, the clinic’s old station wagon rattling faintly as you steer onto the main road. The address in the confirmation email is farther out than you expected but still technically within the town limits, and you watch the short apartment buildings give way to larger, more spaced-out houses as you drive.

You don’t often find yourself in this part of town these days, although you’re very familiar with at least one house here. Many Halloweens were spent here back in the day, kids dressed up as various creatures daring each other to fight through the overgrown lawn and peek inside the dark windows. Countless stories were told about the abandoned house, each one slightly more insane than the last. Of course, you were like… eight, and a large, seemingly empty white house with a big, black gable was doomed to be haunted.

Still, you’re very surprised when you stop at the red pin on your phone’s screen, and it’s outside that very house. Momo, who works the reception, must’ve forgotten to fill out the pet owner’s name on the confirmation form she sent you, so all you have is this address and a brief line of patient info.

Even though the sky is gray—fittingly enough threatening September rain—it’s not as scary as you remember. Probably because it’s not a dark Halloween night, and you’re not a kid anymore. It also doesn’t actually seem to be abandoned. To be fair, it was never really run-down aside from the lawn, but now there’s a big black SUV parked outside.

Getting out of the car, you grab the rectangular veterinary kit bag, accidentally shutting the trunk a little too hard. The sound echoes down the quiet street, letting anyone who wasn’t already aware know of your arrival. A chilly breeze has you pulling your softshell jacket tighter over your light blue scrubs as you lock the car. When you turn back to the house, you pause to take it in once more. It’s a pretty house—two-story, painted white probably a long time ago but still holding up surprisingly well. Black shutters frame the dark windows, and the tall, black gabled roof reaches impressively toward the gray sky. The lawn has either been trimmed within the last few years, or your childhood imagination really exaggerated it because you can clearly recall it looking more like a thicket with tall grass than just… an overgrown lawn. You distinctly remember more... shrubs.

Climbing the shallow steps, you stop in front of the black-painted door and raise your hand to knock. As you wait, you tilt your head back, once again letting your gaze linger on the house. Who exactly are you here to meet? Maybe it’s some introverted old woman who rarely leaves her house? Or a grumpy old man? But then again, the SUV looked awfully modern. Maybe the ancient resident has a grandchild visiting?

A short moment later, the door opens with a slight creak.

It’s not an old lady; it’s a young man. A tall young man—probably the most attractive one you’ve ever seen—looking down at you. He’s broad-shouldered and lean, visibly fit even despite the thick, black hoodie and baggy jeans he wears. You try not to stare at the shadow created in the fabric between his pecs, or the way the oversized hoodie still somehow manages to cling to the top of his bicep as he keeps one hand on the door handle. His black, relatively straight hair doesn’t look styled, just like it naturally falls into its part, the sides of it a little shorter than the top. Everything about him screams effortless, like he just wakes up looking like that.

One thing’s for sure: he wasn’t who you expected to open the door.

“Uh, hi,” you introduce yourself, telling him your name, “Did you… call for a vet?”

For some reason, he looks almost as surprised as you. “Hey. I did, yeah. I’m Jeongguk.”

Though he smiles politely, he doesn’t offer his hand for you to shake. It’s not something you dwell on. Quite a few of the pet owners you meet prefer not to shake hands.

“Come in.”

You nod and step inside, having to almost squeeze past him in the narrow hallway as he shuts the door behind you. Like always when you enter a strange man’s home alone, you say a little prayer in your head. If it came to it, you’ve got a bunch of pointy things in your bag, but you’d still prefer it if he wasn’t crazy to begin with.

As you move past him, you’re almost surprised that you don’t… smell him. Men—at least in this town—are very fond of their colognes and sprays, but you don’t catch even the slightest whiff of him. You wouldn’t say that you particularly enjoy the strong… scents, but the total lack of one from a hunk like this is almost disappointing.

When you go to slip your shoes off, he stops you.

“Keep them on,” he says, voice kept low due to the distance. Or rather, the lack thereof. “It’s… not very clean.”

There’s something in the casual smile he gives you besides an attractiveness you’ve never seen before. Maybe it’s a tad of… sheepishness? It doesn’t matter; your skin still heats under his gaze

“Oh, okay,” you say, trying to remain unbothered and professional while waiting for him to take the lead. Luckily, you don’t think he notices.

Even with the heads-up, you’re not sure what surprises you more as you follow him into the house—the layers and layers of dust, or the Edwardian, neoclassical interior design. The faded, beige walls are paneled, and as he leads you toward a staircase, you catch a glimpse of what appears to be the living room through an open archway. In it, you spot a pale green velvet sofa and two upholstered armchairs, fitting right in. There’s also a rectangular fireplace, a gold-framed mirror above it, and what catches your interest the most: a chandelier. Its size is impressive, and so is the fact that it looks like it was made for real, live candles. The same goes for the brass wall sconces placed on either side of the fireplace. You’ve only ever seen those in movies.

“They’re up here,” he says, and you nod, reaching for the wooden railing as you follow him up the stairs.

The steps creak loudly beneath your weight—another reminder of just how old this house probably is. At the landing, he turns, leading you to a bedroom. It’s surprisingly small for a house this size, but it’s cozy and warm in a way you weren’t expecting. You guess the clouds outside have eased up a little because the smallest ray of sunlight filters through the practically sheer beige curtains and highlights the dust particles floating in the air.

The four-poster bed is made from dark wood, its canopy rails bare and the headboard curled softly. Like most things, the white sheets appear pretty much untouched, and the only real signs of life are the footsteps disturbing the dust on the floor. You've followed a path all the way from the door, and when you look closer, you see paw prints venturing outside it.

Noticing your lingering gaze, Jeongguk scratches the back of his neck.

“I haven’t been here in a while.”

You figured. It doesn’t look like anyone’s been here since… the late 1800s. Although it’s certainly a stylistic choice—and one you wouldn’t have expected from someone so young and otherwise modern-looking—it has its charm. Even if you’re not sure there’s even electricity or running water.

“I arrived earlier today and found them here,” Jeongguk continues, approaching a standalone wooden wardrobe placed against the wall. One door is already slightly ajar, but when he carefully opens it wider, you see them. The cat with kittens. “I read that you’re not supposed to move them.”

The mother cat, who looks to be all black, has made a little nest on top of a crisp white shirt that’s fallen from its hanger above.

“Oh,” you breathe, crouching slowly to get a better look. “They’re brand new.”

“Yeah. And I think one is smaller than the others.”

Your eyes travel over the small beings, each with varying patches of white to go with the black. None of them, from what you can tell, have even opened their eyes yet. The mother cat stops licking one of the kittens to give you a warning hiss. You listen, rising to your feet and turning away, a plan already in mind.

“Okay, I brought some food that might help lure her out,” you say, setting the bag down on the floor and crouching to reach into it. “This stuff’s usually pretty irresistible…”

But when you look back at the man—a jar gripped in your hand—he’s already holding the mother cat. Just straight around her middle, as if he’s never held a cat before. She doesn’t seem to mind very much, just hangs there, looking around.

Jeongguk looks at you, a little surprised too.

“Oh, okay. She seems to like you better,” you smile. You can’t help but think that he looks… sweet. A big, clearly very muscular and attractive man who’s liked by animals? It’s definitely both a green flag and a personal weakness for you.

The food goes back into the bag, and you reach for the equipment you’ll need instead. With a stethoscope around your neck, a small kitchen scale, and a thermometer, you kneel in front of the wardrobe. In the meantime, Jeongguk sits down on the bed, the cat perched on his lap. He keeps his large hands around her, gently keeping her in place in case she changes her mind.

Very gently, you reach for the smallest kitten first. It squirms in your hands, mouth open and paws sticking out in a silent protest.

“Sex is notoriously tricky to tell on kittens, especially this small, so I’m not even gonna try,” you say with a smile, giving the kitten a general once-over before focusing on its face. It’s a sweet little thing, crying a little as you inspect it. This one is mostly black but with two white front paws.

“Well, I’d definitely say they’re only a day or two old. This one has a suckle reflex but hasn’t opened its eyes yet. That usually happens between day five and fourteen. The umbilical stump is still attached too, and that usually falls off around day two to four.”

“So that’s… good?” Jeongguk asks, and when you look at him, the mother cat is bumping her head against his abdomen. He peers down at her on his lap, extending his veiny hand in a wordless offer. She accepts it, rubbing her head against his palm and letting him pet her.

“Yeah. That’s normal.”

You return your focus to the little being in your hands, carefully looking into its mouth again to check its gums and palate.

“Pink gums and no cleft. That’s good, too.”

With one hand, you grab the stethoscope from your neck, putting the earpieces in place. Getting a clear heart or lung reading on kittens this tiny isn’t easy. Their heart rate is fast, making it easy to miss abnormalities, and their small, wriggling bodies make it hard to even position the chestpiece properly in the first place.

Focusing, you hold the kitten still, placing the stethoscope on the left side of its chest just behind the elbow. Then you listen closely, trying to ignore the soft purring from the adult cat.

It sounds… good. Alright, at least. Shifting the stethoscope slightly, you first listen to one lung and then the other. You don’t notice anything abnormal there, either.

“Heart and lungs sound okay,” you declare, slipping the stethoscope back around your neck.

“What’s next?”

“Temperature,” you answer, reaching for the digital thermometer.

“What should their temperature be?”

“Somewhere between thirty-six and thirty-six point five degrees Celsius.”

“Isn’t that a little low? I mean, compared to a human?”

“Adult cats are more similar to humans, but kittens generally run a little colder,” you explain, focusing on getting the reading right. “They don’t have the ability to regulate their body temperature properly for the first couple of weeks.”

The thermometer beeps.

“Thirty-six point two,” you mumble. “So that’s within the range. A little low, but not necessarily dangerous.”

With one hand, you reach for the kitchen scale, setting it on the floor in front of you. It powers on, and once it’s ready, you place the kitten on it, keeping your hand floating above in case the little animal tries to wiggle off the tray.

The number settles, and you read it out loud. “Eighty-one grams.”

“Too small?” Jeongguk wonders.

“On the lower side, but not dangerously so. At least not yet.”

You take the kitten and carefully place it back in the makeshift nest for the moment. Before reaching for another kitten to examine in the same way, you grab a small notebook in your bag, quickly jotting down the numbers so you don’t forget them.

Jeongguk looks on as you inspect the rest of the four kittens, occasionally asking another question. It’s not unusual for pet owners to ask questions, but considering these aren’t even his cats—and from what you gathered, he only found them today—it makes your chest warm. Not everyone would go to such lengths for stray cats. It also doesn’t help your growing soft spot that you get to talk about animals and their anatomy to someone who seems to want to listen. After all, you’re a bit of a nerd, and this is your number one fascination.

One by one, the kittens get their clean bill of health and are placed back on the shirt, and then you shift your focus to their mother. She’s standing on Jeongguk’s lap, still headbutting his chest. While she’s preoccupied, you quietly reach into your bag for the microchip scanner, but the moment you try to get close, she notices and hisses.

“Give it a try, please?” You hold the scanner out to Jeongguk, keeping as much distance as you can. “Press this button and move the scanner over her, focusing on her neck and back.”

Jeongguk takes the scanner from your outreached hand, doing as you instructed and pressing the button. It beeps, and he begins to move it over her.

“Like this?” he asks, his eyebrows furrowed almost angrily as he focuses.

You nod encouragingly. “Yeah.”

“Is it to see if she has an owner?”

“Yes. But sometimes, even if they are microchipped, there's not a registered owner. But we can hope.”

He continues to search for a chip, but when nothing happens, he looks at you with those dark eyes, silently asking what to do.

“Try her belly and even her legs. Sometimes, they migrate.”

Adjusting his grip on the scanner, he moves it lower.

“Doesn’t seem like it,” he says a moment later, handing the scanner back to you.

“Yeah,” you sigh, taking it to put it back in the bag. Although disappointed, you’re not surprised. “Would you mind helping me check her out? She seems to really like you. A whole lot better than she likes me, at least.”

He matches the soft smile you give him. “Sure.”

“Okay, well, she seems to be in okay condition, but I need to rule out any birth-related injuries.

“What do I do?” he asks, scooting closer to the edge of the bed, the cat still happy to receive his attention.

“Just… hold her like that… Yes, exactly. And with your other hand, move her tail away for me?”

A little awkwardly, he follows your instructions again, and while you don’t think the cat particularly enjoys it, she doesn’t fight it. You move closer, trying to get a better look while doing your best not to stare at his veiny hands instead. In any other setting, they’d be way too much of a distraction, but knowing that this cat depends on you to evaluate her health, you divert your gaze.

“Alright… I don’t see anything... unusual, no swelling, no blood, no discharge. If she were injured, you’d usually spot it, but she’s not thrilled with me, so I won’t push it,” you chuckle, leaning back.

Having animals dislike you is unfortunately part of the job. Sometimes, it hurts your heart a little, but when you remember that it’s easy for an animal to associate the scrubs or equipment with something unpleasant and maybe even painful, it makes more sense. Briefly, you wonder if this cat has ever been to a vet or if her dislike for you stems from something else. It’s definitely normal for new mothers to have a bit of an attitude, but you’d think that would include every human in the room. Or maybe she doesn’t dislike you in particular; maybe she just really likes Jeongguk. Which... you know, fair.

Almost as if sensing that the examination is over, the black cat jumps down from Jeongguk’s lap, leaping past you to get to her babies.

“Alright,” you say, wiping your hands on your pants before you stand up. “It’s important not to disturb them too much, but they’ll still need some supervision—especially the small one—just to make sure they continue to eat and grow. And they’ll need a better place to nest, somewhere a little warmer, softer, and less… dusty. No offense.”

Jeongguk chuckles, standing up as well and brushing some cat hairs from his hoodie. “None taken.”

“So, if you want me to, I can take them with me. We have a foster program and a few great volunteers.”

Jeongguk looks down at you, his brows furrowed in confusion this time. “I thought they were too small to be moved?”

“Yeah,” you nod, bending down to quickly gather the rest of the used equipment and put it back in the bag. “Ideally, they wouldn’t need to be. But I understand if you can’t or don't want to look after a stray cat and her kittens.”

“No, it’s… uh… It’s fine,” he says, appearing to land in a decision and sticking by it, his eyes traveling to the little bodies nestled into the white shirt. “It’s not that hard, right? Just keep an eye on them? If you think I can do it, of course. I already have a litter box.”

You blink, a little surprised. “You just happened to have a litter box?”

“No, I asked some neighbors after I called you. I figured you'd have some tips about the other stuff. Like food and such.”

Your smile grows as you watch him. He is… oddly endearing. “Yeah. Of course,” you say, your voice softening. The fewer cats and kitten taking up the very limited space at the volunteers', the better. “Okay.”

You begin drafting an email to send to him. It includes everything you've talked about plus cat food recommendations for the mother cat and a link to a cat bed that’s cheap but comfortable enough for a nursing litter. While you write, you talk him through everything again, like what to watch for, when to weigh them, and what to do if anything seems off.

He asks a few questions, making it very clear—if it wasn’t already—that he doesn’t really have any experience with animals. While he’s never appeared scared or nervous during your visit, you can tell that he’s not quite sure what to do. He moves slowly, almost a little awkwardly around the cats, but it’s more like he doesn’t want to scare them.

“You really like animals,” he points out, watching you tuck your notebook back into the bag.

You glance up at him. His tone isn’t mocking but more... curious. Still, you nod, a little self-conscious of how nerdy you can be.

“Yeah, animals are incredible. Not only because they’re such good companions—some of them at least—but, they’re so fascinating? How they function and how they’ve evolved.”

But there’s something else in his curious gaze that you finally pick up on, and it dawns on you.

“You think I’m a freak too, don’t you?” you say with a smile, pulling the stethoscope you’d forgotten to pack from around your neck and tucking it into the bag as well.

“No, no,” he shakes his head.

You lift an eyebrow. “But you know about it? My paper?”

His eyes are so dark. “Yeah…”

You look away, trying not to let it affect your professionalism. Speaking about it brings up memories you’d rather not be reminded of. “I thought you said you hadn’t been here in forever?”

It’s weird, right? If he doesn’t live here and hasn’t been around in a long time, how would he know the gossip?

“Town called a few years ago. About the electrical wiring needing to be upgraded. So I came here to fix it.”

Oh. That makes sense, you guess. A few years ago was when it first happened. That’s probably also why the yard looked different from what you remembered.

“And you heard about it?”

He smiles apologetically. “Yeah. It’s a small town, I guess.”

“It’s not like I think Ariel is real. Or that dragons roam the sky or that Dracula lives in a dark castle somewhere, wearing a black cape over a white, frilly shirt,” you defend, slinging the bag over your shoulder. “I just wrote about how much we don’t actually know about the living organisms around us and how some of the 'supernatural' traits aren't really that crazy, anatomically speaking.”

“No, I get that,” he assures, sounding like he genuinely didn’t mean to upset you. “I found it very interesting.”

“So is that why you looked so surprised to see me? Because you recognized me?”

“No. Or… well, yeah. I spoke to the receptionist, and she told me a man’s name—Namjoon, I think—would come.”

“Oh.”

“But I did also vaguely recognize you, I think. From the image.”

Lifting your wrist, you glance at the watch. “I should start to head back. Lock the clinic up.”

“I didn’t mean to offend you,” Jeongguk says, and when you meet his dark eyes again, he looks genuine. “I don’t think you’re a freak, I promise.”

“It’s alright,” you say, offering him a quick smile. “I’m not supposed to be out this long anyway. I have to get back and finish up the bill. I’ll email it to you along with the advice, is that okay?”

He nods, clearly accepting that he did in fact upset you to some degree. “Okay. Thank you for the help.”

You smile again, relaxing your shoulders and taking a deep breath. Maybe you should cut him some slack. Technically, he wasn’t even the one to bring your paper up; that was all you. And besides very, very handsome, you haven’t once thought of him as anything other than sweet.

"No problem."

The drive back to the clinic is quiet. You don’t even turn the prehistoric radio on. It doesn’t matter because your thoughts are loud enough anyway, circling back to one thing. One thing and one person.

The paper you wrote in vet school was a mistake. Not that it was bad per se—it was a perfectly science-based paper, focused on the more unusual biological traits found in the animal kingdom.

Unfortunately, you made the grave mistake of connecting some of those traits to various mythical creatures and their ‘unbelievable’ biology. Some of your peers—predominantly men—found it absolutely ridiculous and teased you for it. The more you tried to defend yourself, the funnier they thought it was.

You’d think it at least would’ve stayed within whatever small circle vet med is, but when your small town happens to be known specifically for the vet med program, a surprisingly large chunk of the population has some connection to it. You’re lucky that not many wish to stay in town after graduating, or you would’ve been last on the list to get a job. You still remember your current boss’s inspecting eyes as she interviewed you, trying to make sure you weren’t actually batshit crazy. That was maybe five or so years ago, and you haven’t really had to think about the paper in probably at least a year.

Until today. Again, it wasn’t Jeongguk’s fault, you don’t think he even meant for it to be brought up. It still caught you off guard, though, because even if you don’t know him, he didn’t give off the same vibe as the people who laughed at you. And now, you can’t stop thinking about him. About his build, and how the oversized clothes hung off his strong, muscular body. Or his large, veiny hands as he gently pet the mother cat. His dark eyes, sharp jaw, and strong eyebrows. Even his nose—with its straight bridge and softly rounded tip, creating such a striking, masculine profile—had a way of completely mesmerizing you.

Not only is he probably the most attractive man you’ve seen in a long time—maybe ever, but he seemed… warm. You wouldn’t expect a man like him to care for a stray cat and her newborn kittens, much less call a vet out to help, but he did.

Back at the clinic, you take a seat in front of the desktop computer, typing your notes into the chart and updating the bill. Besides the obviously tragic parts of dealing with sick and injured animals, the worst part is probably billing the owners. You need money to live just like everyone else, but you’ll always feel wrong charging worried owners to care for their family members. Even now, as you’re adding the services to… Jeon Jeongguk’s bill, you think about how the cats don’t even belong to him.

The cursor hovers over his name. Who is he? How did he come to be the owner of that house, and why own it if he’s not living there or at least visiting regularly? Why bother even fixing the electrical wiring if it’s just gonna stay empty? And just how long had it been empty?

The questions whirl in your head. Though it’s not really any of your business why he returned, maybe you could’ve at least asked him where he’s from? It would’ve been acceptable small talk, right? Could you also have asked why he felt the need to take care of the cats, even when you offered to take them off his hands, or would that have been rude?

Realizing that you’re not getting anywhere, you bill him for a standard home visit of half an hour—even though you stayed closer to one—and for the gas just so you don’t lose money on the visit. You don’t add the same day fee or charge him for the used materials.

author's note: i hope you liked it and are excited for the rest because i think it's gonna be good!!! i also had some moodboard pics of the house made so let me know if you'd like to see them <3

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