#(Lowlights reel fic!?)

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Rigor Mortis (part 10)

College roommate!Miguel O'Hara x reader

(AO3 Mirror) (Wattpad) Series Masterlist, Main Masterlist,

Part 9, Part 11

summary: In the morning, Miguel reminisces.

warnings: smut! grinding, humping, alcohol, PIV, switch-y behaviour (what's new), aftercare, mentions of depression. 18+ Minors DNI

a/n: soft melty mig >>>

Thank you to my beta readers, @tianyhi and @urgonnaneedabiggership (they also write Miguel fics, I highly recommend! my favourite is this series), I couldn't have done it without you guys <3

Join my taglists here

wc: 4.5k

Oh! and I finally made the series' playlists (very open to requests) <3

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

between your bodies;

You wake up with a headache and a lump in your throat.

Bleary eyes; and you rub away sleep, rosy and warm around the edges. Everything smells like him, is your very first thought. It's the kind of thing that has you reeling, tossing and turning in unfamiliar sheets before looking up at a mottled ceiling. Light creeps in from curtains cracked open, rays spreading like wildfire on everything it touches. Miguel's bed is by the window, and you can't help but curl up what little light spills in with your hands; palm upwards, slowly balled into fists. It's warm, and your hand feels a little different.

Oh.

Like a bolt of lightning, memories of the night before run up your spine; dancing up and down between the sheets. Miguel's hand in yours, his skin pressed up against you, a room spinning in the kind of way that seems romantic. Seems romantic; you note. It could've been the alcohol, but you had felt something between you two, yesterday. Something… different . Your cheeks grow warm at the thought of last night; drunken revelations and so much light, it burns.

I like the way your eyes scrunch up when you smile. I like the way you look in the morning, squinting at labels and cereal packets. You've got the prettiest lips I've ever seen, Miguel.

You burrow under the covers as you recall it; the memory of Miguel between your thighs, his head in the crook of your shoulder. The way he had half-laughed, heady and heavy and thick with want, low groans pooling by the shell of your ear. You're not too sure if you meant it; really, really meant it; and you're scared of what that means. Casual sex was the agreement, and you didn't think you had the capacity for much else.

Sighing, you stretch your leg out from under the covers, dipping a tentative toe on the rug. Bare, except for a T-shirt whose hem kisses your thighs. Mig's t-shirt, of course, and you tug it down as you slip out of his bed. The aftermath, things tossed off shelves and awards that had clattered to the ground, lies in last night's wake. Guiltily, you root around to pick up his things.

They're more personal than the things around the house. You notice a plaque or two from undergrad, his diploma  - biomechanics and chemical engineering with honours - and even a certificate from a middle school science fair. The image makes you smile: little Mig with braces and a distinct frown, handed a plastic trophy in front of a spotty crowd. 'First Place' it says, and knowing him his entry was less baking soda volcano and more miniature Hadron Collider . If he's anything like he is now; he was probably a mouthy little pain-in-the-ass, too.

You take a watch off of the floor, half hidden under his bed. A knee brushes past a clear box; that jostles and rattles around like nails in a metal can. From vague outlines, you can see a box of junk , in every sense of the word: scrap metal, wires, plastic tubing. A whole scrapyard under his bed, and you reach for it, curious.  Something knicks at your hand in the process. Glass, from a broken pane of a frame slipped under the bed. Softly, you hiss, sucking at the cut that draws blood.

More careful, now, you push the frame towards you, sweeping up the glass as best you can. In the lowlight, you can't make out much. Carefully, you hold it by a corner - an intricate thing, all twisted metal and brushed bronze. From out under the bed, you see it, or rather, him: Miguel, a little younger, surrounded by a couple of unfamiliar faces. A taller man, a much older woman - and they both smile in the way he does, crows feet and with the kind of warmth that reaches their eyes. In his arms (Miguel's, but not your Miguel) is a little girl. She is small; wide-eyed, gap-toothed; looking up at him, as if the camera wasn't there. The adoration in her face makes you smile. His sister, maybe? His brother, Gabi, and his dear mama ? 

Gently, you place it on the side table. You sweep up the glass into your hand, ignoring the sting that spreads to your palms. It's not a deep cut, but you head to the kitchen anyway, in search of warm soapy water and something to mop it up. 

Slipping past the doorway, it is deathly quiet. Morning spills in through a window, illuminating a lone figure - broad shoulders, tan and bare save for pyjama pants, hunched over the dining table. 

Miguel doesn't seem to notice as you get closer, finally able to hear slight noise and chatter from a tinny phone. Cup of coffee in hand, you watch as he scrolls, replaying the same video over and over. From over his shoulder, you can just about make it out: music that had deafened you at the time, loops with a pathetic whine. A video from last night, it seems, and you recognise the icon of Lyla's story. Bright lights, your dress sparkling and a pretty little laugh drowned out by Lyla's - he seems to replay the same couple of seconds over, and over, and–

“Mig?” He jumps, leaping almost 3 feet into the air, it seems. His phone shuts off with a clatter, slammed onto the table. Turning, he seems guilty, before flattening his face into something more socially acceptable.

“H-Hi. Morning.” He clears his throat, giving you an awkward nod.

“Morning,” Softening, you slink down to take a seat. He knows, of course: he knows that you know, that you saw exactly what he's been doing. But you're both going to ignore it, let it settle in the gaps between you - a gap that quickly shrinks, he notes. 

The chair drags across the floor, almost catching at a rug on the wooden slats. When you seat yourself by him; closer, closer, oh-so close; you can't help but brush your legs to his, addicted to the way it makes him shiver. Payback, you think, grabbing at his mug and stealing a sip before he can say anything. For all the times he's fucked with your head.

Miguel knows better than to protest, crossing his arms resolutely. He sighs - not maliciously, but with a tinge of defeat. You're too pretty, and too close for him to think properly; to even muster up the energy to argue. And so he doesn't, opting to chew at the inside of his cheek. 

“ Hey .” You say, hand coming up to cheekbone, stroking at it with your thumb. Miguel tries not to lean into it, to melt into the touch. “ Careful. Where'd you go?”

It makes him laugh, bitterly, ruefully - whatever you want to call it. Where'd you go? And you say it like you've got an inkling of all the shit that goes on in his head. He goes to the same place he always seems to be, these days. Somewhere that reminds him of you , of your nights together, of your nights apart–

“Did you sleep well?” You're asking, and it takes him a second to process it.

“Sure.” Shrugging, he lies, and you pretend to believe him. “Long night, I suppose.”

When he picks that moment to look at you, to bore into your soul, you take your hand away; feeling naked , feeling bare . 

“What about you? Did you sleep well?” 

And you hum, non-committal, in response.

“Can’t remember much.” It’s a bold-faced lie, and he knows it.

He chews at his lips, eyes dragged down to your figure. He’s shameless, lashes fluttering before he sighs - with the kind of tiredness that rattles at his chest - scratching at a 5 o’clock shadow.

He’s pinching at the bridge of his nose like he’s battling a headache - and losing miserably. Miguel; your Miguel, this time; looks so pathetic, with the countenance of a wet mop. It’s not a grimace, nor a frown, like always. It looks like melancholy - thinly veiled, bone-deep - and it makes your heart splinter.

You just… you just want to comfort him. To hold him in your arms and stroke his hair, to press kisses into the crinkles at the side of his mouth, his forehead: to be warm and soft and somewhere safe , for him.

It’s a compulsion you can’t fight, clambering over him to sit on his lap. His gaze flickers, pointedly trying to ignore you, but his hand rests comfortably on plush thigh. It sends a shiver down your spine; how tender his touch is, even when like this. 

“I…” You start, tracing a hand to his scratchy jaw and gently tilting him towards you. “I remember enough.”

 He can’t help it, hand travelling a little further up and eyes flitting to your lips. 

“... Yeah ?” And it comes with an unceremonious squeeze at your ass, wetting his lips with pink tongue.

That gap between you shrinks even more as you press your chest to his, with a hand at his shoulder. God, his skin is hot to the touch; lean muscle that tenses under your palm. He gets closer.

“What are you doing today?” He’s trying so hard, forcing himself to look you in the eye - betrayed only by a pounding heart and a lingering look to your lips. 

Coupled with the way he looks at you; kneading at your thighs, leaning into your gentle palm; it makes your throat close up. 

“...U-Umm, I think���”

“It’s Friday, right?” He hums, head cocked as if deep in thought. “You’ve got… stats and lab prep, today.”

You frown. “Yeah, actually. How did you–”

“You’re always complaining about Fridays.”

“I didn’t yesterday.”

“I’ve barely seen you all week, sweetheart.” 

“ And who’s fault is that? ” Muttering, you roll your eyes, trying not to show him the way it makes you melt.

“I listen.” He says, soft. 

“...sometimes.” You finish, but it’s half-hearted. You know, he knows; he listens . He always has. 

“I think…” You clear your throat. “T-Think m’gonna take the day off. I’m pretty–”

Tired. Exhausted. Ready to kiss your roommate if it meant he would look at you like that for a little longer.

“ – hungover .” He whispers, thumb stroking your hip as you snort; ready to bat him away. 

Wriggling, his grip tightens, slotting you closer as if in a trance. You’re laughing, a sharp retort at the tip of your tongue, but his wry smile seems tinged with something else. It’s a something that makes your heart skip a beat – but it’s his next words that have you reeling.

“I’ve got the day off, too.”

You’re taken aback. “Don’t you…? I-I mean I thought you’re taking extra hours at Alchemax…”

“Nope.” Resolute, he shakes his head. “We’ve got appraisals or something, today. Upper management only. I thought I told you.”

Brows kneaded, you give him a look he’s well accustomed to. And Miguel; because he’s Miguel, of course; counters it almost immediately.

“Don't give me that … You didn’t even know I wore glasses until yesterday.”

“That’s not fair , Mig.”

“You don’t want to spend the day with me? Dios mio, hermosa.”

“Mig–”

Dramatic, he tips his head back, clutching at his chest. “Am I that bad? You can’t spend a couple hours with me–”

“Mig –”

“Just a couple, sweetheart, and then I’m out of your hair, and you can complain about me to–”

“ Mig! ” You exclaim, giggling whilst you nudge his head forward to meet your gaze.

“You called?” He flutters his eyelashes playfully, with a hint of a smile. 

It looks good on him, you think; glad that he feels comfortable enough to finally let go.

There’s a gentle lull and he places hot palms at your thighs to hike you up even closer. You adjust yourself on his lap, watching the way he groans with his head in your hands. It makes you bold: the way he moves to clutch at your hand and dart under the lip of your shirt to press you closer. 

A roll of your hips makes him purr , eyes fluttering as he rocks up in thin pants. Quickly hardening, he’s wearing a dopey smile - one you return as you press your forehead to his. He angles his hips just right, causing little moans to spill out from pretty lips. The hand at his jaw travels to the nape of his neck, tugging in that way you know that he likes. You know him, and that makes your chest warm: the way he purrs and rumbles as you touch him in a way only you can.

Roughly, he swallows, head tilted up to catch at your cheek. 

“Do you remember what you said last night?” It’s whispered into skin, soft and barely-there. “What you asked me to do?”

Kiss me. Why won’t you kiss me?

Like something sharp and intense through your veins, the memory makes you shiver, leaning into Miguel so his clothed cock catches at your clit. Like this , you don’t want to look at him - you can’t. 

Ask me tomorrow.

And so you shake your head, nuzzling into his side with a weak whimper.

There’s a pause so imperceptible you might have imagined it. If Miguel is disappointed - or relieved, or frustrated - you can’t quite tell. Unceremoniously, he latches on, taking large handfuls of your ass and sucking ugly hickies into pretty skin.

“You asked me–” He says it between wet kisses, sloppy and hungry and quickly deepening. “You asked me to fuck you .”

You gulp, hips rolling as you close your eyes. 

“ Just the tip, you said.” He lifts you up slightly, rolling back plaid pants. He nips at your neck, all tongue and teeth and claws. “Do you remember now?”

He’s not even inside, teasing your bare folds with the wide head of his cock. Your head tilts to give him more access to that juncture of your jaw. A dry chuckle leaves your lips at his tone and countenance; asking if you remember as he does his best to make you forget even the simplest of things. And that’s the thing about Miguel O’Hara, saccharine-sweet, gorgeous -in-the-low-light O’Hara: he makes you feel so good, everything else falls away.

“ Fuck.” He heaves. “”J-Just the–”

Impatient, you shift your hips, slipping him inside with one delicious movement. You can taste it: pleasure , white-hot and building up just below your gut. Miguel separates with a wet pop, hands trailing up to rid you of your shirt – his shirt, you realise with a moan. Exposed, he eyes your pretty stomach and then the peak of your breast. He keeps you flush to his hips, right at the sharp cut of his v-line, tufts of hair leading to where you both meet. With the way his eyes flutter, you can tell: he wants to kiss you, slathering up your chest to collarbone, and then from collarbone to jaw. He gets close, pressing shaky kisses to the corner of your lips – threatening to break the promise you made to each other long ago. And God , with the way he pistons up into your cunt, you… you just might let him.

Then his hips shift, pubic bone at your clit in a way that brings pleasure to the burn. You’re stretched out, filled to the brim and then leaning back to press your forearms onto the grain of the dining table. Like this, his hands stay squeezing the flesh at the tops of your thighs; only able to watch as you take over. You use a bit of leverage to tilt your hips this way and that - eyes low, not leaving his.

“Feels good , Mig.” You’re whining, eyes locked onto his because you want to watch him fall apart - to watch as all his troubles melt away. “So good. Uhh –Always does. I remember… shit … remember this. ” 

And you take his hand, wrapping your lips around his index and middle finger - thick and large - with the memories of how they felt inside you only making you wetter. Gushing praise as best you can, you slobber and slather over his fingers, studying every twitch and gorgeous groan that he gives. He pulls his hand away from you; gentle, but cursing nevertheless; alternating from slapping your ass to tugging at the stiff peak of your nipple. It’s your turn to stutter, hips jumping as you cum - an orgasm so hard he bites the inside of his cheek to stop himself from spilling into you. There’s blood in his mouth, he notes as he studies the way you look: beautiful, always beautiful; framed in the gentle pink and purple from a rising sun.

Miguel slips out of you, painfully hard. Still heaving from your orgasm, you lean forward to press his cock between your bodies: bare and gorgeously framed in morning sun. Writhing, you kiss his neck, trailing up to the shell of his ear, whispering sweet nothings.

“Want you to cum, Mig.” And you do… oh God , you do. “You close?”

All he does is groan, nodding fervently into the crook of your neck. Diligently, you wrap him up in your arms, crooning and sweet, carefully rocking into him so his cock slides up and down your soft skin. For once, he doesn’t complain, holding you just as tight. 

“M’gonna… o–ohh ffuck …”

“Cum, Mig. For me.”

You’re firm but gentle, pressing your tits up against him and making sure his cock gets that well needed friction. As such, you can feel it almost immediately; hot cum slathered over your tits and body - leaving so much glistening on your skin. 

With a rough gulp, he heaves, eyes screwed tightly shut. You can’t help it, brushing away stray hairs from his face, leaving soft kisses in your wake. And maybe, just maybe, you hear him sob - muffled whimpering and whining with every slight shift of your body against his. And oh . It makes your heart melt when you realise, still carding your fingers through the nape of his neck.

He’s overstimulated. It’s too much.

Limp, he stays wrapped around you for a while, muttering nonsense into your skin.

“ Sorry. ” Shakily, he says – like he even has anything to be sorry about. “M’really— fuck. I just need a moment.”

You hum. It makes your heart heavy that he thinks he needs to be ready now , that he thinks he doesn’t deserve more than a moment to process his pleasure. You want Miguel to feel good, you always have. But with the realisation that you want him to be happy ; to feel safe, to feel loved; well…

…it scares you more than anything.

~~~

Aftercare .

Miguel admits, he’s not too familiar with the term.

It’s not something he’s proud of. With many a one night stand under his belt - even, occasionally seeing a girl more than once - he’s never been too good at it. He’s tried, definitely. Tried so very hard to stick around a little longer, to stay curled up in bed and guide his partner through their comedown. Unfortunately, it doesn’t quite come naturally to him - oft susceptible to a glass of water by the bedside and a gentle nudge to an Uber. That physicality: the cuddling , and kissing, the sappy, wholesome, relationship-adjacent thing? He’s never had that desire after sex, much too stuck in his own head for that.

So why does this feel… so good?

You’re taking care of him. He’s not stupid; knowing that your bedside manner is much better than his. You’re merely doing the right thing and helping him past such an intense orgasm: and that seems to come in the form of his head on your chest, limbs tangled up together on your beat up old couch. This doesn’t count , he’s convinced himself: all those rules and boundaries you’ve both come so close to breaking - a little cuddling doesn't even scratch that surface. And if it feels so good to have your hand playing with his hair, to ground himself with the steady thump-thump of your heart, then who is he to complain?

He’s just a man, he decides. A mere mortal, unable to resist that taste of heaven he’s been given - unable to say no . Absentmindedly, you’re humming some stupid song you’ve had stuck in your head for at least a week, now, eyes trained towards a cheesy soap on the TV. There’s a mug of coffee on the table - it tastes like shit, but Miguel is more than happy to gulp it down if  it makes you feel better - hot and steaming as you tug the blanket so it covers him a little better. 

Unknowingly, you’re lulling him to sleep - the very same sleep he’s been chasing for the past couple of hours. Tossing and turning at night, but barely 10 minutes in your arms and his body only seems to listen to you , for some reason. Traitorous bastard, he thinks, fighting to keep his eyes open. 

You’ve cleaned the both of you up - even though he had insisted otherwise. Let me take care of you , he had slurred, and you just laughed ; that pretty, infuriating laugh, with that pretty, infuriating smile – the very same one he’s wanted to kiss off of you since the beginning. Weakly, he protested, following you into the kitchen only to make a nuisance of himself. 

It’s like you're drunk, Mig.  

In some ways, maybe he is. You had steered him away, and onto couch cushions. Which must have been quite the feat, he notes, able to control all 6”5 of his sleep-deprived, hefty limbs. But he supposes, yet again, his body doesn’t quite listen to him anymore. Only you.

Was it that good? Did I fuck the fine motor skills out of you?

He remembers groaning. He remembers trying not to be drawn in by that lilting giggle, covering his ears with a rough blanket. Most of all, though, he remembers the feeling of your body on his, slipping on top of him to dig him out of that heap.

Miguel? Baby, it’s a joke! I’m kidding, I promise.

He had poked his head out. Baby. He likes that, likes the way his name sounds out of your mouth. It anchors him to this mortal plane like a sharp hook, cutting through the brain fog and burying itself into his chest. You had clasped your hands around his face, steadfast despite his wriggling.

…Oh God, even worse. I think I fucked the common sense out of you instead.

He remembers wanting to kiss you. Your lips curled up into that stupid smile, clearly so pleased at a shitty joke. It makes him warm, thinking about it now. Or maybe, it’s just the blanket you’ve tried to suffocate him in. 

“When did you sleep?” You ask, and he has to blink up at you to collect his thoughts.

“Late.” He says it simply. 

That answer doesn’t satisfy you, and you’re poking and prodding at his face, gently pulling at slowly deepening eyebags.

“ No fucking wonder .” You mutter. “You’re turning into me. No more late nights, Mig.”

When he frowns, you stick your tongue out, gleefully watching as his grimace deepens. 

“Or what?” 

“Or we stop having sex.”

That makes him rocket u pwards, indignant. “ You can’t just– ”

“I can do what I want.” Slowly, your face morphs into what must be worry. At least, he thinks it does, not too familiar with someone worrying about him like this. “No more late nights, please”

You say it so softly his heart might break. He clears his throat of its cobwebs.

“That's not really up to me, sweetheart.” Thesis deadlines. Tutoring. Taking on more hours at Alchemax in preparation for a big event. Slowly, his plate mounts, and it takes everything in him to keep going.

“I know,” You settle his head onto your lap, now. Absent-mindedly, you wrap one of his curls around your finger, hand in his hair in a way that feels more intimate than the past hour, days, weeks spent together. “I just wish you'd take care of yourself better.”

It's not said to chastise him, and you don't sound disappointed ; not tinged with the same flavour of guilt that his mama has over the phone, or that Gabi has when he hits him with that deep sigh. It's pure, selfless, plain-and-simple worry. He doesn't deserve it, he thinks.

He looks up at you. Beautifully oblivious, your gaze is still pinned to the TV. It’s domestic, comfortable in the afterglow of sex. That’s what it must be: contentment and bliss settling over him like a warm blanket. The aftermath of being in your arms, of your body on his; purely physical , that follows the kind of euphoria that he imagines can only be found in a needle. Honestly, he’s still expecting a sharp decline, a rough comedown that tastes like regret, or despair, or deep, deep empty. It doesn’t come.

Always the pessimist, but Miguel can’t help it, really; he’s been chasing something just out of reach for too long. 

“You’re gone again.” You say it so quietly he almost misses it. You give him a weary smile, hand clutching at the fabric that pools around him. He watches as you rearrange it by his shoulders, pinching the folds with a kneaded brow. Finally satisfied, you look him in the eye. “Like Ophelia. ”

He doesn’t sigh. He doesn’t scoff, or roll his eyes, or any of the half dozen ways he’s learnt to repress difficult emotions. Slipping under the water - the makeshift waves made of a ratty blanket - passive to his own suffering. You don’t say it, and he hasn’t even told you the half of it; but somehow, you see it . You see him.

He remembers the first time he met you. Thundering and clattering through his space; bulldozing every carefully placed wall he’s spent years putting up. And then he remembers the first time he actually met you; behind the sharp tongue and quick retorts, finding you watery and forlorn on the floor of your shared apartment. Beautiful, of course – always, always beautiful. But that time, the kind of beauty only found in a painting: tragedy captured in oils, careful brushstrokes muddied by time, by loss, by hurt. You’ve been hurting for a while, he thinks, well before any mention of shitty ex-boyfriends and missed lectures.

Miguel recalls late nights spent trying to still his heart, fixated on a sudden, betraying question that rattles around in his head. Are you like him? Do you understand ? Born with something missing, a tick-tick-tick of the count, radioactive and broken and–

Your hand drapes lazily across his chest, tapping and pointing at something on the screen. He hums, non-committal, the words out of your mouth barely registering. It feels familiar. It feels warm. It feels like nights spent on the couch trying not to laugh at your frustratingly witty remarks. He remembers holding his breath when your leg brushed against his; stealing careful glances to his side; trying not to stare at the way the gloom of the TV looks ethereal against you, snug to the slope of your features, cut this way and that.  

But more than anything, he remembers wanting to kiss you. God. Maybe he always has. 

_

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Rigor Mortis Taglist: @bunnyrose01 @lavenderslemonade @tsukkie-daisuke @malxoxo @thekidscallmebosss @vvitcxen @theyoutubedork @doublevirgogirl @jnghs @taleiak @noblesavagex @cumikering @rebeccawinters @evanpetersrightbigtoe @saucypeanuttt @pix-stuff @maliarenee @truthuntolddd @honeycovered-bandaids @aiyaaayei @aeeliy @amplsblog @sikrettt @opuffmango @spear-bitch @maddielikesmoths @lemonpepsi @sweet-strawberryhoney @lacedinweb22 @bubbsby @jing5uan @ellaandorersoct @hibarbiesblog @valentxi @kittym1ka @delulu-dia @melovetitties @yohoe-hoe @acollectionofcells1 @froggi-mushroom @thund3rthighs

@bonthebunnie @natthernandez @strawberrymiguel @twwcs @mammonispunk @um-well @renn-pumkin-head @ietherealkistar @smallishbook @sonderspider @spear-bitch @cryingintheclubdhmu @mageneire @notdyl4n @slezhara @funkyfoxx0 @smol-beb @iceclaw101 @lixhizy @errorundyne-exe @707xn @beantokki@twentysomethingwereyote

[smolbeandrabbles]

Wide Awake - Orson Krennic x Reader (Rogue One)

@mandy23b​ @wltz-bby​ @happyskywhale​

There’s nothing like being consistently inconsistent!

Director Krennic + 2 & 94 - “Hey, hey, calm down. They can’t hurt you anymore.” / “I had a bad dream again.”   Requested by @alotofrandomfangirling​

Author’s Note: Oh my goodness sweetie, thank you for your patience with this! In fact thank you a B U N C H of you for your patience with this. I’ve certainly described this to enough of you!

Basically I usually give Krennic a ‘sassy’ reader, or he gets Lorena!  So I gave him a Timid!Reader as an experiment. Annnd I’m super excited to see what the results will be 👀👀👀👀👀👀

Wide Awake - Lacuna Coil Wide Awake - Katy Perry

Disclaimer: Rogue One has nothing to do with me / gif not mine /  song lyrics not mine Actually I thought this was funny. @alotofrandomfangirling​ is also responsible for Sugar, a 2 song fic. Wide Awake is no exception, it follows through on the same principle!  😁

Premise: You had always struggled in the Empire, through no fault of your own. Krennic deems your work useful though. Through his help, and your love, perhaps you can gain that much needed confidence boost...

Words: 3557

Warnings: Violence / Threats / TW Abuse

--- Yeah, I was in the dark I was falling hard How did I read the stars so wrong And now it's clear to me That everything you see Ain't always what it seems Yeah, I was dreaming for so long I wish I knew then What I know now Wouldn't dive in Wouldn't bow down Picked up every piece And landed on my feet Yeah, I am born again I don't have to pretend And it's too late The story's over now, the end Thunder rumbling Castles crumbling I am trying to hold on God knows that I tried Seeing the bright side But I'm not blind anymore I’m wide awake --- I haven't felt right Since the moment that I gave up I challenge my limits I'm feeling I'm becoming limitless I take it all in and inhale The struggle within Now I understand Freedom begins When you get out of the cage you built It looks like I'm crazy but I'm not the only one To believe in myself, believe in myself I won't be coming undone  'Cause I feel like I'm wide awake Open my eyes and the skies are blue All of a sudden I know that I treasure my life I find myself wide awake Like you... All of a sudden I know that I treasure my life, like you 

---    

He was growing used to being woken in the middle of the night. A little too used to it; even though it wasn’t for any good reason. Krennic sat up immediately at your quiet moans; “No, no..! No! Wait-! Please-! Stop-!” Sometimes you’d be near enough screaming it, sometimes you’d wake bolt upright in hot and cold sweats, and would battle with abnormal breathing. Tonight it was your tossing and turning that worried him. You struggled. You had ever since you’d been brought on board. You were timid and not really all that cut out for working for the Empire. You didn’t really have much of a choice in the matter, a victim of the circumstances of your planet; you weren’t ranked, you weren’t even particularly good at anything like engineering, or command, or any complicated algorithm that was being worked on here. Krennic knew two things – you made exquisitely good coffee, and you could draw. It took a little while for him to pick up on this. Judging by the array of marks that had covered your body at the time, a little too long. What happened was they had kept putting you in the wrong places. The Empire was trying to make you into one of them. What no one had realised yet was none of this would ever be your remit. The Empire wasn’t forgiving though, so when you sat at your desk and your concentration lapsed you drew, because that was what you liked doing… Those a little too drunk on their scrap of power decided they would take their frustrations out on you instead. Krennic had been witness to this more than once – the first few times, true enough, he’d thought much the same as everyone else and didn’t see why he’d need to waste his time trying to defend someone who couldn’t do their job properly. Now he only sat and wondered how he could ever have been so wrong. Because one time a folder had been sent up to him that contained technical drawings. He was an architect and yet these rivalled even his. Upon asking who had made them there was only one answer. You had. “Oh, you’ve finally found a place for her then?” “Well no. It was only a temporary assignment.” “She drew these and you made it temporary-!?” So Orson spend maybe half a day trying to locate you, and when he did it was the same as ever. Only this Commander was on the biggest power trip yet – that Krennic was privy to seeing - and this wasn’t about you sitting there drawing, but about you not doing your ‘job’ properly. Dragged from your desk by your hair and thrown onto the floor, the string of words was bad enough. Krennic didn’t need to see you receive a true beating over this – the way you raised your arms and shrunk away as if you were used to such a thing, Orson wasn’t sure if that irked him or pained him – reaching for his blaster before he could even really process what he was doing. Krennic only needed a hand on it, not even to draw, that was warning enough. “Let her go, Commander.” The grip on your arm only tightened, and you whimpered. “Don’t waste your ammunition, Director, this one isn’t worth it.” Krennic was a little more worried about the look on your face, his jaw tightened, “I said, let her go, commander.” “She needs to be taught her place.” “I’ll teach her in due time Commander, let her GO.” The man looked affronted, “You wouldn’t want her Director-” Krennic cut in with a snap, “What I want her for is my business. I won’t ask again.” Instead of just letting you go you were shoved violently towards him, whimpering again as you attempted to stand, then stumbled. Already shaking and on the verge of tears, Krennic didn’t want to deal with this here. He swept around you, looking to put distance between you and the man he was eyeing with disgust – even Krennic’s hand gently against your back made you jump. You certainly weren’t used to being touched soothingly here. “Come on. Let’s go.” His voice was low, and only heard by you – before he surged forward, not looking but only calling back. “Keep up!” You tried your best to do as he said, and only started crying when Krennic sat you down in his office. But he immediately softened, watching you sit there. You were in bad shape, through no real fault of your own. And yet you cursed yourself for sitting there and crying in front of a man that was probably about to call you pathetic. You were even more worried about what he might do to you – being a Director. He was about as high up as it got, and you’d heard a lot about Director Krennic before. He was about as unforgiving as they came, and had a temper. Heck you’d heard him shouting at subordinates from across the other side of the station. You weren’t sure you even wanted the chance to mess up anything of his. Instead he crouched beside you, and took your hands; “Hey, hey, calm down. They can’t hurt you anymore.” You still shied away from him, chewing your lip to try and stifle your crying. Completely disbelieving; how could he possibly guarantee such a thing? “They will. They always do.” “Not if I put you in a position I think you can do.” He gathered the folder from his desk, “Y/N… I want you to look at this.” Your eyes widened and finally met his – he knew your name?! How-!? You asked him such, with a stammer – and received a smile that made your heart dangerously leap. “This is your work, right? How can I forget the name of someone who draws like this?” You opened it, and he was right – technical drawings you’d been asked to do last week. About the only assignment you’d actually enjoyed.  You nodded, “Y-Yes… these are mine.” He rose, fingers under your chin to make you look at him – you instantly blushed, even harder as Krennic ran his thumb over your tear stained cheeks. “First and foremost, I’m an architect – so I know good structural drawings when I see them. Just so happens I have a lot of work… and I could use an assistant.” He very nearly smirked at the look on your face, eyes wide and lips parted, pretty blush dusting your cheeks. Shy, sweet and innocent. He chuckled, you would be just perfect. “Me?!” He nodded, “If you want it. I would be demanding of you – but I’m in need of someone that draws like you. I can’t promise you much, good pay, work you may enjoy… perhaps most useful to you is my protection. I won’t let anyone hurt you anymore, Y/N. Not whilst you work for me. And if anyone does anything to you that you don’t like – you’ll come directly to me, is that understood?” You nodded obediently, swallowing thickly, “Y-Yes Sir.” “Sir?” The Director tipped his head and then really did smirk, which only made you blush harder, “Why, Y/N, you haven’t even accepted my offer.” “Oh-! Oh I---!” You looked away from his face, holding the folder close to your chest, foot tapping nervously to a beat that wasn’t there, you could feel your palms getting sweaty; “…I would very much like to work for you, Director.” “Good.” He sat on the edge of his desk, “Sir is a good start, you can address me as such, or Director. I’ll leave that to you. Now, you have no rank… so, how would you wish to be addressed by me?” You felt maybe your last name was going to give you horrible flashbacks to the hell you’d lived here so far, “Y/N… that’s- that’s fine.” “Y/N it is.” Krennic nodded, “I look forward to working with you, Y/N.” *** So you drew what he wanted you to, you accompanied him to meetings and carried his work, and occasionally – when Krennic looked like he needed it most – you brought him coffee. At first he’d been confused by this notion, because he hadn’t been expecting it. And you immediately looked startled, like you thought he might lash out at you for it. Krennic learned quickly which words, phrases and tones would trigger such a response from you – and tried to use these as little as possible. But soon having you as an assistant wasn’t enough, because he couldn’t help wanting you to stay. The reserved looks you would always give him, or the way you’d blush when Krennic complimented you, shying away whenever he got too close. His confidence in himself was everything you’d ever wanted to be and you fell for his charisma hard. He worked you hard sure – but he was also kind to you. Krennic treated you like a real person, not just a cog in the system (even if you weren’t a very gifted cog). And so, yes, eventually you couldn’t help but have a crush on him – yet for him to want you back? You’d never really thought it plausible. Until he almost literally spelled it out for you. (Mind you, there was nothing like being pushed up against a wall by your boss and being kissed in a way you’d never been kissed before. Then you got to call him by his first name.) All of this might have been in the past. But it was never really in the past.  When Orson’s head was turned in one direction you could still see the way everyone else looked at you with contempt, that made you swallow hard and step a little closer to him – sometimes you’d reach out and tangle your fingers in his cape, just to know he was there. Everything was fine when he was around because no one would dare touch you. But there were places Krennic went where he couldn’t take you, even if he desperately wished to. He never sent you off to other work stations, but he did occasionally ask you to run things for him, or send across documents – especially if he needed them. But you couldn’t help still be a little scared of what happened when he wasn’t around. People had many different words they liked to call you, and none of them good. The inference was that you were easy, too shy to say no, you’d let Krennic do whatever he wanted to you and wouldn’t put up a fight. Not a relationship, just a man using you because he could. And when Krennic wasn’t protecting something he ’possessed’, everyone else would take their own advantages. That led to Krennic coming back to you in various states of distress. Whether the abuse you received be verbal or physical – and sometimes you couldn’t sleep. Where he’d stay up with you and hold you and let you cry, or rant… whatever you needed to do. Krennic only ever requested one thing – even if you didn’t want to talk about it. There was just one thing you must tell him, as he pulled you close, touching your foreheads together and soothing you: “Who hurt you?” Orson made it his mission to dispatch these assholes pretty quick; either to crappy projects, front lines or… on the rare occasions that it was seriously bad, or he was in the mood, literally. Krennic wasn’t one for hidden blades, but he’d confronted a particularly nasty commander about the situation and been met with complete ignorance. As if Orson was supposed to believe you were lying. Krennic walked with him through some of the quieter corridors, and played it off as a misunderstanding – until they were so far away that Orson knew it’d take them a while to find the body. By then Krennic really would be none the wiser – and he was a good liar. Running that dagger through him had been the easiest thing, and Orson had spat his words with unadulterated venom: “NEVER touch her again… You so much as look at her…. And…” He brightened, on purpose, “OH! Wait!” As the man collapsed Krennic turned on his heel, tossing the blade down the nearest trash compactor, leaving him there to bleed out and die; one less moron on this project was a blessing in his eyes. But, as tonight, the PTSD of everything that you’d been through gave you terrible nightmares. And Krennic hated seeing you have to relive it all again; especially in your dreams – when here lying in bed with him should have been when you were at your very safest. He shook you awake gently, “Y/N…” You whimpered to his touch and a pang ran through his heart. One day he’d make sure they all paid for doing this to you, “Y/N!” Now Krennic was a little more urgent – you didn’t deserve this, not any more. You jumped as you woke, breathing hard and crying out. “Hey, hey! It’s okay! It’s okay!!” Krennic bundled you in his arms, cradling you against his chest he kissed your forehead, running his hands into your hair Orson hushed you, rocking you gently, “You’re safe… You’re here with me… You’re okay, we’re okay…” Orson’s voice was soothing against your skin as you buried your face in his chest, doing your best to hide your tears. If there was one thing you still hated, it was crying in front of him. Krennic knew this of course, but he certainly wasn’t about to mention it. Not even in teasing. This wasn’t the time for such things. He held you in quiet for a while, until you were calmed enough; “You want to talk about it?” “…I had a bad dream again…” He sighed, nodding, “I know, Y/N. I’m sorry.” “I don’t know why this keeps happening!” You nearly wailed – wondering what exactly you were doing wrong to have all this still stuck in your head now. He sighed, tucking your hair back, “It isn’t your fault, little one. It’s this place, it’s this project.” “No…” You lay your head against his beating heart, voice quiet; “It’s just me.” Krennic’s face knitted into a frown and he tilted his head until he could almost catch your eyes – you turned away from that – and he grabbed you; tipping your chin so that you had no other option but look into his eyes. “No.” His voice was stern, and you’d only ever seen him look like this when he was very angry, borderline upset. Like there was a storm raging behind those clear blue eyes. “No?” You voice was even quieter, if at all possible. You’d never been scared of him, yet right now you felt that you should be. “Don’t you dare, ever, blame yourself for what they do to you.” “If I wasn’t so-” useless… pathetic… “So, what? What are you? Y/N. They don’t know who you are. I know you. We have made it this far together, and we’re going to keep making it.” Orson took your hands in his, splaying your fingers, “You’re better than them. And you know you’re better than them. You owe them nothing. And I know you know who you are. I believe in you…” He pressed another kiss to your forehead, this one harder than before, “But I need you to believe in you.” You kept staring at him in silence, lips delicately parted. How could one man be saying so much to you when he was saying so little? You sat back, knees up and kept staring at him. For so long that he tipped his head, eyebrow raised and waiting for you to say something. Your hands were still in his – and you squeezed them tight, perhaps tighter than you’d realised. But it was like tough love, like Krennic saying what he’d told you - in the way he’d said it - could get through to you in a way that sweetness never could. The realisation that this man was too in love with you to ever let you talk yourself down, that Krennic could never let you give up on yourself. Finally you leant forward and kissed him, long and hard, hands in his hair, tangling your body with his. Krennic couldn’t help but smirk against your kiss. If that wasn’t all the proof that you’d really heard what he said. He pulled you back into the sheets; “That’s my girl…” *** Change came slow – but all together change came fast. A few days later you woke up to a brand new uniform. With a rank bar. A real rank bar. You knew it was him, but Orson wouldn’t hear a word of thanks from you and pretended like he had no idea where it’d come from. Only now instead of just addressing you by name, he addressed you by rank. And every time he did it sent a shot of confidence to your brain and a shiver down your spine. It might only have been the bottom rung, but it still put you on the ladder. Better yet, you still had him to fight for you and to help you through every step. He delegated you more responsibility, and now got to sit at his desk and watch you smile as you corresponded with all his architects and engineers. Krennic leant on his hand, and before he knew it hours would pass. The Director realised he was content to watch this all day. Eventually you would look up and catch his eyes, and your smile would become a beam – because no matter how absentmindedly, he was smiling too. And that smile was proud. The folder slammed down on his desk after that was just one of many. Your Director was moving projects, and it meant leaving this one in a hurry. It was what he wanted, and especially wanted for you. But it only made anxiety set in. All you could think was that he wouldn’t need you, was that he would drop you for something else. Perhaps that Orson would even drop you for someone else, now he was onto something new. A new girl for a new project. All these anxieties only made you dream things you couldn’t possibly tell him about, even when he held you so tight. But your lover knew; he knew you and the way that you worried. So, subtly, he’d place snippets from these folders on your desk. He’d ask what you thought of places he could base himself, or what you thought of some of the regulation. Then to really drive home the fact that he wanted you with him, he had you assist him with drawing out concepts. Where he’d get a little too close, running his hands over your shoulders and through your hair, and you could flash him a little smile and ask him about appropriate distances. You knew the thoughts in his head by the look he gave you, and the smirk on his face. You turned away quick, blushing and staring hard at the paper… but you couldn’t help thinking that maybe you’d want him to make that distance even less appropriate... He didn’t though, instead Orson rounded the table and leant across you; “You know we’re leaving soon, right? When are you gonna think about packing-!?” Your wide eyes raised to him slowly. Krennic had been putting things in boxes for weeks. This was the first time he’d mentioned you doing the same thing. Your eyes welled up. “Me?” “Yes. You.” “…You’re… taking me with you-!?” “Darling.” He sighed, eyes to the ceiling, “You’re my assistant, are you not?” “Y…Yes…” “More important than that,” He took your hands in his, parting your fingers, only to fit his own between the spaces, “you’re my partner…” This time you were crying, but these tears weren’t bad ones, so yes, you’d let him see them. Krennic cleared his throat, brushing your tears away; “Y-Y/N! Please don’t cry over the plans---!” *** This project was different. Remarkably different. You didn’t have a past here, you didn’t have to worry about your past here. It was a clean slate and this time when you dreamed, you dreamed good things. You dreamed of him… Of the future you hoped you would get to have. The people respected you here, and not just because you were his assistant, but because you really were exceptional at the one skill you supposed you had. You were taking a short break together this week. But nothing about this project felt like a chore… and you could enjoy working as much as you could enjoy being in love. You took a deep breath, watching the world go by with him by your side, fingers laced together – and allowed yourself to smile. And then laugh; a gentle, carefree laugh. You had to treasure this, what you had, who you were, and him – while you were given the opportunity to do just that. Krennic held your hand a little tighter in his at the sound of your musical laughter; you were still timid – but you were working hard at it every day. And you were free now, which to him mattered the most. Yes, Krennic would always support you, but perhaps now, you were ready to stand on your own.

---

11/16-! Oh man, I can see that finish line--! 

Thank you so much for reading and requesting! 💙💕😘 

[heartofsnark]

What You'd Do To Me Tonight (OC/Eisuke)

Notes: Rounding out the birthday fics for the year is a fic for my dear friend @magaya-sou formerly @otomemonogatari or as i know them, Juni bean. This is a fic with their oc Junko and Eisuke having some fun times involving his ass. If you wanna read more about Junko from the actual wonderful mind who created her, check out Juni’s fic Complex Liaisons With A Side of Euphoria 

Summary: Junko pegs Eisuke then sits on his face, I can’t even try to be subtle here, there is literally no plot, theme, or idea, outside of that. 

Word Count: 1754

Warnings: Anal fingering, pegging, face sitting, teasing

Junko’s not sure what she did in life, if anything, to be blessed with such a beautiful scene. Eisuke, the Ichinomiya Eisuke, spread out on the bed before her with his legs spread wide and his hard cock leaking on his stomach. His knuckles turning white as he grips the sheets and his lower lip threatening to break by how hard he bites it, waiting albeit not patiently for the pleasure she’s about to give him.

Looking at the CEO during his day to day life, most people could never imagine him giving up control and being completely undone at the hands of someone else, a moment of vulnerability as he tries desperately to get what he need. Eisuke, desperate and wanting, something like that is never heard of.

But, if there’s one thing she’s learned in her time with him it’s that with her at least, and a greedy part of her hopes it’s only ever with her, the one thing that can always win out over his pride is his lust. He’s willing to let down his guard and his ego in order to chase the high of pleasure, both in himself and his partner. He may not say it in so many words and he may scoff when she brings anything up, but he always ends up indulging them both by giving in.

“Sometime this year,” he grumbles, glaring at her despite his flushed face and compromised position, as if being a brat will get him what he wants.

“Can never be patient, can you?” She ghosts a finger down the underside of his cock, just a teasing hint of pleasure that makes him groan.

Her fingers are already coated in lube, as is the thick pink strap on locked in place around her hips. As much as she’d love to bury it inside of him without hesitation, he needs to be properly prepped. The process doesn’t necessarily need so much teasing, but who could resist. She spreads his legs open wider, dipping her head down to kiss and nip what little bit of squish is to be found on his inner thigh. He makes a sound that could be considered a yelp, though he’d never want it called that.

She gently wraps the fingers of one hand around his cock, pressing her lips to the underside, teasing kisses and licks. Just a tease before she takes him apart with her fingers. Mouthing at his cock, her other hand finds his entrance, starting with the soft press of one finger.

He groans as she works her finger into him, he’s tight despite the copious amount of lube easing the way. She licks over the sensitive head of his cock, letting the more familiar source of pleasure help relax his body. He sighs and she feels the muscle relax, allowing her to slide in another finger. She scissors the digits, gently stretching him as she presses in deep, searching for the bundle of nerves that will be his undoing tonight.

She finds it and presses there; a loud groan leaving Eisuke’s lips, his cock leaking more precum onto her lips, and his hips jerking up. If not for him keeping him in place, he would have jolted up off the mattress.

A third finger inside of him and all he can do is curse, his hips caught between trying to grind down on her fingers or thrust his cock into her mouth. She thrusts, stretches, and rubs her fingers inside of him, milking his prostate as she licks up the steady leak of precum from his cock.

“Would you stop, fuck, ah, teasing already?” He manages to ask, sneering at her through his pleasure, his own form of begging her to fuck him.

“Hmmm,” she draws out the hum against the heat of his cock, “I don’t know if you’re ready.”

“Don’t be stupid, I’m more than ready and you know it.”

“I don’t know, baby, you might not be able to handle it.”

“Just fuck me already!”

“Well, all you had to do was ask,” she says through a laugh, it’s not exactly the sweet begging she’d like to get from him, but for Eisuke bitchy demands are a close second.

She pulls her fingers from him and sits back on her thighs, precum still clinging to her lips. Junko pulls Eisuke towards her, easily able to move his smaller frame, bringing his thighs up onto her own. The contrast between them drawing her eye, his thinner thighs compared to her thicker ones, his skin looking so much paler compared to her tanned flesh.

“I’m dying of old age,” he grumbles, and she pinches the skin of his thigh, making him flinch.

“Behave,” she warns him, lining her strap-on with his ass. A hiss of pleasure escaping him as the blunt head presses against his hole, just barely starting to tease him open with something so much thicker than her fingers.

There’s just a bit of resistance at first, but then she’s able to watch every inch slide into him, lube slicking the way. Eisuke throws his head back with a moan as she sinks the final pink inch into him. Pleasure simmers in her core, the sight of him too tempting and too beautiful. She drapes herself over him, his hard cock pressed between their stomach and her head dipped down to bite at his bared throat.

She holds his hands against the mattress, fingers intertwining as she sucks at his neck and draws back her hips, slowly easing out of his tight embrace only to thrust back in. His legs wrap around her waist, trying to fuck his hips up to match her movements, chasing his pleasure.

The smack of skin against skin echoes through the room, accompanying the slick sound of her fucking into him and his groans of pleasure. Pleasure is building for both of them, his cock leaking from both the fake cock forcing him open and the feeling of her soft stomach pressing against it. The harness keeps catching on her soaking wet clit with thrust into him, not enough to make her cum, but enough to keep the tension tight in her core.

She pulls her lips off of his neck, a dark blossom of a hickey where she was, and instead presses a kiss against his mouth. Their tongues intertwine as she starts to fuck harder and harder into him, the head pressing over and over into his prostate and catching on his sensitive walls with every thrust.

His kiss gets harsher, more teeth and a more demanding tongue, at every pump into him. His ankles dig into the squish of her backside, locking tightly around her as she fucks him apart. His grip on her hands get tighter, nails threatening to break the skin as he gets closer and closer to his breaking point.

It’s the twitch of his cock between their stomachs that gives him away, happening a split second before hot cum starts to coat their flesh. Thick spurts painting their stomachs white as his head slams back against the pillow, breaking the kiss, her name on his lips as orgasm washes over him.

She slows her thrusts, slowly fucking him through orgasm in order to drag it out for every second she can, pressing kisses to his neck and chest as she does. His loud echoing moans becoming whimpers, a noise she’ll never be able to forget as long as she lives, his body relaxing.

Slowly, she forces herself to pull away from him and eases her strap-on out of him, not missing the he lets out at being empty. Her eyes linger on what’s left before her, Eisuke flushed with a hand over his face. His stomach and softening cock coated with cum, his hole thoroughly fucked open. She really has no idea what she did to deserve such a sight, her thighs clenching to try to get some stimulation to her own swollen clit.

She’s leaking a mess of slick as she undoes the harness, air cool on her hot wet skin. It wouldn’t take much to get her there, a few rubs of her fingers to her aching clit and she’d be coming. Maybe it’d be more considerate, as Eisuke is still panting and reeling from his orgasm. But, his lip is between his teeth and she knows exactly how she wants to take care of her little problem.

Junko is moving his hand away from his face and hovering over him in the next second. There was a time in her relationship where she was hesitant to do something like this, not wanting to be selfish or hurt him with her size. But, those times are long gone and she straddles his head, lowering herself onto his lips without another moment of thought. To his credit, he doesn’t hesitate either, making her moan out as his tongue gets to work.

His arms wrap up and over her thighs, if anything trying to somehow bring her down further, not at all worried about smothering beneath her. Eisuke laps up her slick, purposely avoiding her clit at first, knowing how close she is already. She buries her fingers into his mess of brown hair, grinding herself against his tongue. He slurps up every last drop of slick, moaning against her sex at the taste of her. The pleasure in her growing tighter and tighter, building higher and higher, but she still needs that push. Then one harsh suck on her clit snaps the tension and sends her crashing down into ecstasy, moaning his name as she rides out the orgasm on his face.

Aftershocks rolls through her before ebbing away, every muscle in her relaxing as she rolls off of him, letting him come up for air. Once the initial haze of coming down off her orgasmic high fades, she finds her eyes once again drawn to him, they always seem to be. The addition of her slick coating his face, shiny in the lowlight of the bedroom, makes the sight even better. She can’t resist placing a hand on his chest, stray droplets of cum sticking to her fingers, and moving in close to his warm relaxed body.

“See, isn’t it so much better when you have to beg for it?” She teases against his ear.

“How about you find out for yourself.”

He’s on top of her in a flash smirking and cock quickly growing hard again, ready to give as good as he got.