#250 follower special | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

edgeray · 2 months ago

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"FIGHT SO DIRTY BUT YOU LOVE SO SWEET

Talk so pretty, but your heart got teeth" - Teeth, 5 Seconds of Summer

MAFIA AU Arlecchino x Reader Oneshot | Part 2 of "LATE NIGHT DEVIL, PUT YOUR HANDS ON ME"

A/N - As promised, here is the (albeit, very late) 250 follower special. Art by M-Alexa. Content Warnings / Info - Arlecchino uses they/them pronouns, sugggestiveness, pet names, borderline smut, no feminine pronouns for reader, 10.7k words

Monsters are very real. You know that they’re tangible because they’ve touched you in ways so intimate you could delude yourself in being familiar with them despite how icy their touch is. What draws the line between monster and human? You can't say anymore, not when involuntary sensations and uncontrollable emotions have entangled you with the Fatui, the Fourth Harbinger to be exact, a monster in every right, and yet…

You used to think that the line was cut-throat, a visible drawn etching in the sand–so easy to see when someone passed through. As obvious as their appearance once they've entered through the doorway. It was evident in those that were painted in wretched and jagged scars like their skin was a blank canvas. Perceptible in those that too rarely stifled their brash volatility, taking pride in their bruteness and their trigger-happiness. Apparent in those with their sly-eyed, piercing scrutiny, silent as the dead they were, yet it was usually among these archetypes whose power reigned the most throughout. Discernable in those that can wear many faces, spilling a hundred lies from their lips with as much effort as it takes for them to breathe; typically, they were as inviting as a puppy guiding a lamb to a den of wolves.

You couldn’t discern anymore what kind of monster Lord Arlecchino matched. Was it that they were never a monster to begin with, or is it just your irrationality muddying what should be the obvious? It should alarm you that your mind doesn't perceive them as such anymore, despite knowing so little of the danger they grasp underneath their fingertips. How quick they were to wrap their hand around your throat, tantalizing you with each scrape of carmine nails against your kiss-bruised skin.

But monsters are incapable of love. You think you've been fooled in believing in it when they trace your body with their touch, but then again, what monster's touch can be akin to that of an angel’s? Maybe angels themselves were also monsters. It's how you knew they were the most fatal mistake you could have made but you remain unapologetic shamelessly. Why should you, for indulging in something so tasteful? Is it not human desire to be selfish, to satisfy oneself? It's only natural to savor sweet fruit.

Their touch still lingers, on every inch of skin their depraved and gluttonous they could reach, the heat from their contact ever present like bubbling magma underneath the surface. Even after they're gone, it still tingles with sweltering desire and comes with the vivid image of their imprintment on you. How you remembered their wet lips against your neck, teeth sunk in and the rough drag of their tongue across, while their fingers edged closer to the waistband of your fishnets. Oh, how you remembered the delicious grinding of their hips against yours, a coarse friction that sends shocks of pleasure through you as they swallow every wanton cry from your lips and stifle any movements from you with a tight grasp of your waist. As red stained marks were stamped over the expanse of your bare clavicle, you remember a particular sultry chuckle from them when they captured your wrists in one hand effortlessly, willing you unable to touch them even when you had begged to do so. How cruel of them to deprive you of what you so avidly coveted, but you think their touch is rewarding enough to dismiss the one-sidedness of the physical intimacy.

Though, you hesitate to call it physical intimacy. Somehow, the touches that lit your heart ablaze the most only scrape the surface of indecency, as nothing transpired beyond kisses and love marks. It was the first time you left a private room relatively untouched, and though they had definitely teased you of it, no action slipped lower than your collarbone–not even a single piece of clothing peeled from your body. It leaves an unsettling, complex bundle of desires: wanting more and less of their touch simultaneously: you long for their touch, to feel that addicting fervor again, for your own unchaste gratification, however, having not been used as a tool for sensual fulfillment, you almost find it…nearly comforting–freeing may be the right word. A relief from what was usually an obligation. It’s… strange, is the least you can account it to. You’ve never wanted more from a client. Every past one has been just a means for income, hardly even considered cheap entertainment, and yet… you find your thoughts returning back to them, ensnaring your mind and plaguing your consciousness with memories of your two’s ‘unchastity.’

Lord Arlecchino, the Knave, the Fourth Harbinger of the Fatui, stole your thoughts just like a thief in the night, the ghost of their whispered words frequently haunting you. “‘I think I’ll keep you to myself after this,’” they had said with such certainty, and that voice would repeat indefinitely in your ears. For the most inexplicable reason, you found yourself eager, having believed them, however, you quickly discovered how naive you were–foolish to have ever hoped in such a shallow assertion and absurd to have wished for that in the first place. How dim of you to trust words influenced by fleeting ardor, for allowing irrationality to creep up in your vulnerable state of intoxication from them. They had left your body that night, with little to no effort, unsatisfied yet marked by them entirely, remnants of their presence still scattered on your body. How cruel, and yet very characteristic of them, though the latter recognition almost physically burned you to admit. A burn that you couldn’t quite associate one feeling to it.

You think the feeling is akin to abandonment, maybe betrayal, but you couldn’t fault Arlecchino–not when you were the one to have fallen for their lies. In the heat of the moment, their amorous words had done nothing less but stroke an ember within your body, fueling your own feverish arousal, amplifying your experience, but that was all it was. Abandonment couldn’t be correct, not when you were never theirs in the first place and you had willingly offered yourself to them. Nor can betrayal suit it; there was no foundation of trust built between the two of you either. You should have known that trust, among your clients especially, is as flimsy as a sheet of paper. But what can explain this obstinate hollowness in your chest, unable to be filled no matter how many meaningless acts of intimacy you throw at it, or how many fantasies you’d delude yourself once you're in the solace being underneath your covers? It’s a clawing irritant that occupies your mind when you’ve found yourself alone, seeking for the phantom presence of them.

You miss them–at the very least, their touch–you realize belatedly, and for that you couldn’t consider yourself to be more pathetic. Never before in your experience have you ever thought of a previous client but you suppose every day is an opportunity to discover something new. Attachments were a sure way to kill yourself in this business, in the underground. You had intended on keeping yourself alive, but here you are. How degrading of you, you internally admonished, fool, fool, fool.

What was it about them that had captivated you so much? Perhaps it was their unique charm. Curt and sharp as they were, you could not help but admit there was something alluring about their words, the authority that dripped from them, instilling you to do nothing but obey them. Perhaps it was their captivating appearance, a masterful and tasteful blend of ruggedness with class, snow white hair adorned with ebony streaks framing their porcelain-like face, but their stature was nothing of that case. Though lean as they were, from the rare prodding touches they allowed you where you could feel their toned physique, you can tell strength and power laid underneath their fingertips; if not from that, then perhaps how easily they nearly suffocated you with one hand alone, or how they had easily hoisted you up and against the wall. The red crossed pupils were nothing like you’ve ever seen and underneath that ever-piercing behold you’re little more than a timid prey before a hungry beast.

Your interactions with Lord Arlecchino were like being teared by the fangs of a voracious wolf. Every delicate sense–touch, hearing, sight, smell, and taste–pecked away little by little until all you could register in your lust-brimmed mind was their entirety. Sapping away your strength and resistance, impelling you to submit your all to them, through their every feverish touch; deafening your eardrums with each wet noise that followed their lips; dizzying you with their faint, earthy cologne; your eyes drinking in their appearance with every chance; and oh, their sickeningly sweet taste–far too depraved and far too addictive. You’re breathless everytime you think of it. When they finally released you, peeling away from your form, your body looked as if it had just barely escaped a maiming from a wild animal: teeth indents, light scratches, and red blotches of their lipstick flecked your upper torso and face.

They parted from you hours into the early morning. It felt like they had been stealing your breath for hours. You couldn’t count how many times their lips met yours, but it was enough where you could memorize the texture of them, of their warmth and sweetness. You couldn’t recall the duration the two of you spent locked with each others’ lips, but you could recall the various positions they had you. One such position, you muse with clenched thighs, was when they towered above your lying form on the couch, a bent knee in between your legs and their arms on either side of your head, planting their palms onto the cushion underneath you while they descended down to capture kiss after kiss from you. You remembered the tickling sensation of their ivory and raven strands that fell on your cheek, and how you raised a gentle hand to brush them away. In retaliation, what could only be described as something in between a growl and a grunt came from the Harbinger’s throat, one of their hands moved away from its resting place besides your head and clasped with yours, before firmly planting it against the sofa–a clear lesson not to touch them so casually, to which you smiled cheekily. They stole that smile away with little wasted time using a harsh nip on your bottom lip.

And then, like that, they left.

A week has gone by–more accurately, six days–since they had last appeared, and in that period, you’ve yet seen them. You worked consecutively, opting to even neglect your free work day, with the hopes of catching a glimpse. Ultimately, however, your efforts bore no fruit; not a single of your customers was the white-haired devilish angel that plagued your thoughts. White-hot shame and crushing disappointment grew with each passing day. The first unspoken word of advice amongst your fellow dancers was that attachments to customers are never worthwhile: even frequent customers disappear, and if you are lucky, you discover why. The reasons ranged from death to simply boredom, but the latter is always the most devastating, an agonizing reminder of how insignificant your life can be.

You had hoped to consider yourself among the smarter of your coworkers. You thought yourself immune to those follies, impenetrable to the charms and advances of all your customers–none to date had made your heart palpitate the way it did in the Harbinger's presence. It's unfathomable that you allow yourself to sink to such depths, to find yourself coveting for something you shouldn't, for something you can't have, for something that is beyond the likes of you. Convincing yourself with certainty, you were sure that you were above the idea of ardor–percase, your mistake was appraising yourself of just that. Now, you struggle against the very woes your coworkers forewarned you about.

Lying conscious on your wretched mattress, the cycle of rue repeats internally, battling against the drowsiness from your day's work. The thin and tattered sheets do little to provide you with the warmth you seek, and the lumpy, yet simultaneously, feathersoft pillow fails to ease your neck. The discomfort is only heightened by the darkness that plunges your chamber, like an abyss that's consumed you whole– just like your thoughts.

You urge your mind to settle, to calm a roaring yearning forever left unsatisfied, for even a single minute of slumber but it's futile. Once more, your thoughts drift to your angel donned in scarlet–divine touches and blest hymns. If touching this bit of heaven garners this cruel punishment of eternal desire, then you will cling onto these phantom traces of theirs until the gates of hell swallow you whole.

Soft, thudding noises approach you from the foot of your bed’s direction. Lifting your gaze to the door, the question comes of whose presence this is. Already having worked your shift, there is the possibility your manager came to you because of a unique request–one that he himself couldn't refuse. A weight manifests in your stomach, unease slinking towards your thoughts; this is your off-time after all and . There’s the foreboding knock on your door, before the knob turns with a click. Your manager walks through, his short, plump silhouette before you–

Your oxygen is teared from your lips, making you breathless as an imposing aura overtakes your entire form, as if gravity grew exponentially stronger just then, pushing down on you with the goal of crushing you until nothingness. Your lungs burn from the deprivation of air and a prickling sensation coats your skin, the combined effect making you tremble like a meek sheep before prey. Their footsteps as they enter your dwelling increases the pressure on your shoulders, forcing you to shrink into yourself. This commanding presence is far from being foreign, there are only a few customers–mafia members–that come to mind that can inflict this kind of dominion. Frozen in place, your heart quickly halts as your sight takes in the person before you, a dawning recognition falls upon you: this isn’t your manager. Instead, what replaces him, is a taller, leaner stature, vaguely familiar but distinctly not him. Plunged in darkness, you couldn’t discern any more details, and the unknown identity induces every hair on your limbs to stand up.

And yet, despite the unrest that forms inside of you, for an inexplicable reason, there comes a lilt in your heart, your roseate thoughts returning to one individual with a dire need.

The person makes no movements nor noise, but they are certainly aware of your presence. They remain in place near the doorway, as if prompting you for any action. Yet you’re too unsure, too cautious to act. With each passing second of silence, the air thickens, making it increasingly harder to not sink into the covers of your bed and allow your blanket to swallow you whole. Disbelief settles within you as the two of you linger in silence. Your whirling thoughts start to justify those doubts, crushing that meager hope inside of you. It is not them, because you have been deceived, tossed aside like a broken doll, no longer of entertainment or use to them; abandoned by someone who never truly considered you as theirs in the first place.

Still, you couldn’t discern the reason for the palpitation of your heart at that moment–isit out of fear or anticipation? Likely, it's a combination of both. It hums in your ear, your pulse faint but tangible and steady, and a chill crawls up your spine, eliciting you to tremble in place like a mouse about to be preyed upon. Becoming more certain that they are not the Harbinger, terror worms into your mind and inflicts upon your heart. Your heart rate skyrockets as if the beating organ is thumping out of your chest, deafening you with nothing but the erratic drumming. Have they come to end you? Have you displeased a customer so much that they intend to make you repay the price with your life?

It is a simple utterance. It is a single word that echoes through the room, one syllable that rings through your ears. And yet, it is this sound that rips your heart from a cold, drowning, lonely abyss and plunges it into the warm, welcoming depths of a familiar company. It shreds any lingering doubt within you like claws would to paper, eradicating it as if it was nothing more than a miniscule pest. In your veins does your pulse sing, humming a delightful hymn, the returning sensation of warmth fills you. Had you been anyone else besides yourself viewing this, you would call it a pathetic sight, but in this whisper of time, a wild inferno of your desires is lit and swarms over your mind. With just one simple utterance, you had turned from a scared, cornered mouse into an awaiting puppy–tail wagging and ears perked–for its approaching owner.

“Doll.”

You know of that voice far too well, for only having heard of it for one night. A persistent, almost tantalizing voice that creeps into your dreams at all hours of the day, murmuring with an alluring lilt the same pet name in your ear like the Harbinger had done six nights prior. It is the voice of a seraph under the guise of a demon. And when an ethereal being beckons you, you have no other obligation but to respond.

“Sir?” The softest of whispers escape you, bated breath evident in your voice. You worry that the barely audible title doesn't reach their ears, but then the soft thumping of stilettos reverberate through the room, matching the pace of your rapid heart, nearing you, until they appear by your bedside. Upclose, you swear that red x’s glint dimly. An obscure shadow casts over you and the silhouette of a hand reaches out; their palm grazes against your throat as slender fingers seize your chin to tilt your head up–a familiar hold that involuntarily soothes you given the sigh you release.

“I told you, didn't I?” They say with an alluring lilt, a telling sign of a smirk on their features. They stroke their thumb over your bottom lip, before pressing down. Involuntarily, your tongue peeks out to lap at their thumb pad. Your cheeks swarm with an unbearable calidity, which spreads to the rest of your body, suffocating flames that scorch your entirety.

“I said that I'd keep you as mine. Or did you forget?”

Forgetting their words was as plausible as you learning how to fly. You stopped yourself from carelessly revealing how their discrete promise haunts your ears, ringing through your thoughts at any spontaneous minute; you had no desire of disclosing just how much of an influence they have on you–whether that was to persuade them or yourself more. Instead you offer them a wordless shake of your head.

Arlecchino lets out a content hum, before their hand slides down from your chin to your arm, grasping it with a bit of firmness.

“Come with me, Doll. Such a quality doll such as yourself deserves a suitable dollhouse, is that not right? This,” You assume that they gesture to the room from the shuffle of clothes. “is hardly fitting for you, the sad state that it is.”

Your heart beat falters for a moment, as contemplation befalls you, attempting to properly comprehend their words. You surmise that the Harbinger is offering you for a new accommodation but you ponder the cost–surely, they would not provide it out of the goodness of their heart, and you were uncertain if they even held such a thing. As delightful as they are, forgetting your place in relation to others will only spell hazard for you. A ‘doll'–whatever that pertains to–is the service they likely seek from you, and you have a few estimates as to what it is.

It's dreadfully tempting. A chance to escape from your current workplace, but what of your wellbeing? At least, here, you could sustain yourself, shelter, food, and warmth are provided, but could you expect the same with the Harbinger? If you were to come with them, would you only be pulled deeper into the underground? Was the mafia a company you wanted to linger around? As you continue to swat back the clouds of infatuation, rationality returning to you, there are too many unknowns to recklessly comply with. Then again, what would the Harbinger do to you, if you were to refuse them? For now, you're in their favor, but who is to say you will not lose it in some erratic way?

Perhaps they will grow bored of you. Perhaps you won't satisfy them enough. Or, perhaps, they have even more nefarious intentions. The mind of a criminal is fickle and, more often than not, unstable, and in the first place, such individuals are rarely credible. If they were to promise beneficial conditions for your being, there is no way to ensure they keep to their word. Your debt, at the very least, serves as a form of protection: the nitery wouldn't be able to work you until they regain every penny you borrowed if you were dead. Arlecchino, however? They have no need to.

“You must be reconsidering my offer. That's to be expected, of course,” Arlecchino interrupts your train of thought, not a single break from their calculated way of words; it almost makes you shiver at how well they seem to read you. It truly is no wonder why they’re the fourth among the Harbingers, they truly are cunning. Do they have something to offer you for additional encouragement?

“I have no doubt that some unfortunate circumstance must have brought you to an establishment like this. With that knowledge, hm…” Arlecchino pauses, before you feel their hand leaves your arm. The darkness of the room provides little information on what they're doing, until one of their coarse hands slides underneath your palm, lifting it slightly. Cool metal slides over your left thumb.

“This…”

“Yes, it's a ring,” the mafia leader confirms. “More specifically, it is my ring.”

You trace your right thumb over the ring, feeling some sort of round jewel over it. Underneath your thumb pad, is a small etching, which you trace.

“From now on, this ring is yours. While it's not visible as of right now, etched onto it is the symbol of the Tsaritsa. It symbolizes my Harbinger status,” they continue, and you whip your attention towards them.

“Why would–” You halt yourself before you say anything impulsive. “Thank you for this, Sir, but… if it is of such significance…”

“–why am I giving this to you? Consider this an investment. Here is my preposition to you. Come with me, and you will be fed, sheltered, and spoiled by me–my protection and overseeing of your health is, undoubtedly implied. If you are displeased with my treatment, you can leave freely, anytime, anywhere, and nothing will be asked of you–not so much as an explanation for your departure. In fact, at this very moment, you could leave right now. I will not stop you.

“The ring, being the mark of a Harbinger, will almost certainly protect you from anyone sensible enough not to touch those under the Tsaritsa’s grace. Beyond that, you could always sell it to a trustworthy jewelry inspector; I know of one if you need a reference. I guarantee you that what you will earn is enough for you to live comfortably in society for at least a decade or so.”

“You would…” You stop to recollect your thoughts, as your body shakes, brimming with thrill. Your mind is still trying to encompass all of the capabilities this very ring contained. It may very well be worth ten times your entire life, and yet you possessed something such as this. With this, you could leave your hellish life behind. Everything you have always wanted could be right in your grasp now. You could finally enjoy a luxurious life, just by yourself.

“You would really give this to me? Something so precious?” You question breathlessly.

“Yes. If you would consider my preposition. So?”

A beguiled smile makes its way onto your lips.

—

The existence of monsters should not comfort you, but yet it does. No, that is wrong–there is just one exception. Having heard of such hushed stories, warning you to be wary of such shadowy beasts, the ones that lurk in unsuspecting corners and stalk the most innocuous of lambs, nonetheless, the notion of who can be considered as a ‘monster’ has been shattered by one individual. A monster in every right, except in any respect to you, can a diabolical angel still be deemed as such? Do they deserve to bear such a title, when every breath exhaled sends welcomed shivers down your spine and every contacted surface is blessed under their touch?

Perhaps you are still one of those very lambs for them. There is the possibility that you are just another sheep ensnared by a charming wolf, but then it raises the question of why you haven't been devoured yet. You have no doubt of the appetite that such a beast like them would carry, but nonetheless you remain. Will your time for slaughter come? Like herded sheep, you're fenced in, grazing through the grassland placidly, but how much longer will your freedom and life extend?

Does it still make you a sheep, if the most miniscule, internal sector of you would indulge in being devoured?

It's something you could not help yourself from wondering, even with the graciousness from Arlecchino. They've taken care of you far better than the nitery had ever, in the span of the few weeks you've agreed to stay with them, serving as their ‘doll.’ As restrictive and degrading as the role sounds, actuality does not propose the same. You're still tied to the Fourth Fatui Harbinger–come when they beckon, obey what they will–but you have a daunting amount of individual freedom you previously could never afford. Necessities, such as a living space, meals, and clothing, are all provided, lavishly, unlike your previous work environment.

Arlecchino personally had a room selected for you, a sizable, decorated chamber that housed a Queen bed, along with an ensuite bathroom. Restful sleep comes easy to you now that you've acquired a plush bed that dwarfs your figure. You've been spoiled with not only nourishing, but delectable dishes that you've never encountered before. Not only that, but they were made and served by personal chefs of the Harbinger. Upon arriving at your new accommodation, your wardrobe was brimming with all types of clothing that was suited to your size in all sorts of colors.

Perhaps it is because you haven't received such treatment before, but if you had such audacity to assume, you would compare yourself to that of a monarch's favored consort.

Your work as a ‘doll’ doesn't consist of much–that is what makes it more perplexing to you. It's not like any job or gig–you're not paid but it is no less rewarding. A ‘doll,’ from what you can presume with what they've requested of you, is a sexual partner, for when they're in need of ‘relief.’ Though you'd like for your relationship with Arlecchino to be perfectly encapsulated as just that, even that fails to entail entirely of what it is. This statement comes apparent with the case that you've yet engaged with them intimately.

You cannot deny that with this comes brewing frustration and consolation inside of you.

In the few weeks having lived at the same residence as them, which also doubles as a base of operations for the Fatui, there's quite a few things you learn of the Knave. Their assertive presence alone commands the room upon entering, and it is felt by every single soul in their proximity. Apathetically and brutally effective is how they function, no matter their audience, though strangely you are an exception to that. Stoic as they are in every aspect of their life–whether that handling mafia matters or simply eating–they have shown acts of mercy and repayment towards their subjects, especially the younger ones underneath them. Requital seems to be one of their core values, a quality that is often paired with their demand for control. Just as they oversee all around them, they themselves are not beyond their charge.

You see the discrete conflict in their eyes before each press of their lips against yours, and in their twitching fingers, which tremble in the same reluctant manner as yours does, always lingering around your waist. Every kiss is greedy and ravenous, with the intention of stealing every bit of morality within you as they draw you in, but their touch is notably neither of the two. The Fourth Harbinger exercises an awkward balance between restraint and surrender of desires–as if they craved further connection from you, but you dare not to assume so flatteringly of yourself. For this reason alone, you do not question the Knave, but it is no less vexing.

Beasts like themselves do not hold themselves back. They are voracious and all-consuming, they are merciless and eager in their plunders, second to none in selfishness and brutality. If Arlecchino is truly among them, then their behavior proves to only be baffling. If you cannot expect the worst from them like all monsters are, then what can you predict from them? For what reason do they restrain themselves? Why would they limit themselves when they have more than enough authority and force to take what they desire. You wish you could know, if only to end this constant, frustrating game of desire that you are losing.

You don't understand the casual gestures that imply something more romantic if you didn't know better. The invitations to dinner, the outings with them, the chaste kisses and fleeting touches. In each interaction, you have to remind yourself of your status–that you still hold little value, no matter the change of management, and at every drop of dawn, when you lie alone in your bed, that hollow ache sweeps over you and engulfs you whole into a riptide. What more use are you than entertainment just as empty as yourself?

Still, it is irrefutable that you hold a certain attraction to them. You covet for their contact and gaze to loiter over the expanse of your body, for their voice to always ring through your ears, for the time between the two of you to stretch past infinity; it soon occured to you that something lies deeper than just lust for the Harbinger, something you did not want to acknowledge but it has prolonged since after the first night you met them. Though Arlecchino does not place a label on the relationship, even for as foolish and swayed as you are, you could not dream beyond the contacts that hold no significance or the words that contain no promises. The knowledge of this places a heavy ache in your chest, one that pings every now and then with every meeting with the Harbinger. Knowing how futile it is, a part of yourself wants to strangle these yearnings, so that all that is choked out is a shallow, physical urge, and you no longer drown in the abyss that is Arlecchino.

It is only natural that when you harbor such complexities towards them, sexual desires, too, are a part of said twisted conglomeration of hazy emotions and affections. How many times were you in need of relief, murmuring out their name as you intensified your movements in between your legs, only to be left empty and disgruntled? If you had to give an estimate, it would be a dozen or so times. While your circumstance could no longer be judged by typical morality, the very act of yearning feels sinful, a wrongdoing, a refutal of your values. No lamb lusts over a wolf, after all, but this knowledge doesn't lessen the ache.

So, like the meek sheep that you are, you say nothing, even when Arlecchino once again requests your presence for dinner–through a relayed message from their subordinate of course. You wonder if they're aware of the very effects they imposed on you, how the simple act of inviting you to dinner makes both your heart swim and sink simultaneously.

You knock on their office door, waiting for permission until you're asked inside. You enter with a brief awed gasp, greeted by the usual suited appearance of Arlecchino. They sit behind their desk and donning a stark midnight blazer, over an ash-colored and blood-crimson vest paired with a matching loose tie underneath the collar of their white buttoned dress shirt. A lit cigarette is perched between their lips and a pair of black reading glasses nestled on the bridge of their nose. Upon your entrance, they reach up, wrenching the cigarette from their mouth to snuff it out, rubbing the butt of the stick against the ashtray beside them.

Near instantaneously, your stomach coils with an insufferable fervor, and you had to suppress the urge to squeeze your thighs, unless you wanted their observant eye to notice. You avert your gaze from the handsome sight to hide your flustered expression. Unfortunately, your efforts are in vain when in the corner of your eye, the ends of their frown twitch.

They instruct you to sit at the chair across from theirs with the motion of their eyes, and you take your seat at their desk, two plates of food sitting on the wooden surface.

“You have no issue with shellfish, do you?” Arlecchino inquires, their eyes scanning over your figure for any objections.

“Not that I know of, sir,” you answer. The mafia leader pushes a glass with a crimson liquid in it–wine, you presume. You take it. Arlecchino is an avid wine lover from what you've discerned during past dinners; although you've done this quite a few times, the thought is dizzying of how you're holding a wine that's more than likely a thousand dollars per bottle. Like with all the previous privileges the Harbinger gifted you, this is yet again another lucrative item. It only makes you wonder to what extent the Fatui's influence goes to be able to afford such expenses on ordinary things. You swirl the drink in your hand before taking a tentative sip. Each time you drink, it’s akin to dumping gold into the sea–wasted extravagance on the likes of you.

The wine sours the taste in your mouth but you don't make it apparent.

Dinner remains an awkward constant, nearly unnerving. You tether between the line of being cautious and being casual. Their methodical brutalism discourages small talk from them–given the fact that they favor intention and meaningful gestures–seeming perfectly content in the silence while you stew in chagrin. With this comes their manner of eating. They eat robotically, as if the gourmet foreign meals are nothing but nourishment, and perhaps such trivialities are of no matter to them, only further emphasizing the stark statuses of you two. Their request, however, made them seem almost eager–as eager as one could possibly be for someone so stoic– given how they requested for your presence as soon as possible. Perhaps what they look most earnestly for is observing you. You're torn between thinking they enjoy your discomfort underneath their gaze, or simply find you that fascinating. Either of them escape common reasoning.

You opt to just eat with your head down to avoid their piercing gaze throughout your meal, the only noise filling the room is the clinking of metal utensils. Struggling with removing the lobster meat from its tail, you fumble with the fork, an abashment swelling in your cheeks with the knowledge that Arlecchino was most definitely observing your tactlessness. You’ve never had shellfish prior to your stay with Arlecchino, and that was more pronounced by your lackluster attempts of stripping the shrimp shell. You attempted to learn through observation of Arlecchino, who utilizes cutlery with their typical efficiency and gracefulness. Even in the simple act of eating, they are refined in their precise and minimal movements. Unfortunately for you, that poise cannot be obtained through just viewing.

A pale hand extends and rests on top of your hand holding the fork, the sudden contact ripping you from your thoughts and your shoulders tense. Glancing up from the shellfish, Arlecchino's ever so puncturing gaze is set on you. The thumping organ in your chest pauses for a beat once your eyes lock, manifesting a silence between the two of you. There is not a hint of irritance in their expression, and perhaps you are mistaken, but there is the gleam of amusement in their pupils.

“Allow me,” they finally voice, their tone on the edge of venomous allure, and you could only comply immediately. Placing down the cutlery onto the plate and pulling your hands away, you expect for them to pick up the silverware again. Instead, they firmly hold down the lobster tail with one hand, the other hand pinching the succulent flesh before shredding it effortlessly from the shell with their. Such an uncouth movement that almost seems unfitting from the Harbinger, however, simultaneously, you cannot see their crude method out of place. The chunk of meat is then dipped in the aioli.

“Open,” Arlecchino commands, and you swallow thickly, your mouth inexplicably arid in a single moment. Once again, your easily influenced heart pounds resoundingly in your ears, no doubt induced by the most miniscule of moments from the Harbinger. Their red-crossed pupils stab into you, expectancy in them, wordlessly urging you. You open your mouth and they lift the piece of lobster to your lips, sliding their fingers and the shellfish flesh inside. You clamp down on the flesh while Arlecchino fishes out her digits, pulling away with glistening liquid on the tips of her index and thumb.

The sight makes your stomach flutter with a sensation unlike any other, an inferno emerges in your pit paired with an indisputable throbbing between your legs that makes you clench your hands into fists–a desperate attempt for restraint of your impulses. Cheeks flared from both arousal and humiliation of your indecent thoughts, you mindlessly chew on the meat, absentmindedly staring at the Harbinger while combating the vulgarity within your mind. Your liberated imagination reacts, substituting the fluid for something of a similar look that originates from a different orifice, before you banish the impurities away, remediate your thrashing heart before it threatens to collapse in itself. Finally, you swallow a bit of shellfish down your throat.

Arlecchino hums, satisfied, before they probe your lips with their slick fingers, intent, almost predatory, gaze upon you, and their pupils glint with a faint crimson.

“Clean them,” they order, and oh, if they knew what those two words do to you. Hot spikes of arousal pricks you everywhere in your body, and your loins grow damper, pulsing with need.

You part your lips obediently as they insert two of their fingers. Your warm, moist mouth wraps around them. The pads of their fingers press firmly against your tongue, and compliantly, you drag the slimy surface of your organ on the undersides, lapping at the faint taste of lobster with remnants of the aioli, before swirling your tongue around to coat the entirety with your saliva. A disgusting moist squelch flees from your mouth as you continue the ministrations of your tongue, gentle and deliberate traces to make sure that their fingers are properly cleansed.

A sudden idea comes to you, a dose of boldness injected into your veins as you continue locking their eyes with them. If they are so amused by your performance, then surely they would enjoy a little show? You silently wish for the mafia leader's grace before you act– perhaps you'd be forgiven? Better yet, you hope that you will be rewarded. They're acutely aware of the mischief in your eyes when their eyebrows lift, but you do not allow them to anticipate for long.

You hollow your cheeks and suction around their fingers while intensifying your tongue's movements. To add to it, you lean forward, slipping their fingers deeper until your lips reach the base of their final knuckle, nearly gagging from your impulsive action. Still, it does not dissuade you, and you continue your behavior, aware this very gesture was the epitome of playing with fire. More slick sounds erupt from your suggestive acts.

You scrutinize their facial expression for their reaction in an attempt to gauge their response, and quite notably, their pupils are darkened. Instead of the previous ruby hue, they are now a deep scarlet, bordering on maroon, and are brimming with an emotion so intense you feel as though you could be devoured whole just by their dark abysses. Their usually maintained and composed face is cracked by the parted lips of theirs, as if they were in awe of your impudence, and the slightest knit in between their brows, implying more than their regular apathy. You have drawn their attention just as you wanted, but now you fear the consequences.

“Feeling bold, are we, doll?” They murmur in a low, tantalizing purr as they extract their fingers from you with a wet pop, and you nearly whine from the loss of contact. A dribble of spit escapes from the corner of your lips and they wipe it away with their thumb. Their middle and index finger gleam enticingly as your slaver drips down. Bringing their hand to their lips, they reward you with their own show, a slow deliberate act of tracing their fingers with their own tongue, their attention still fixated on you throughout its entirety. Watching the organ's motions further stirs the boiling desire in your groin. The Harbinger never fails to tempt you, provoking a visceral reaction from you with just the minutest gesture.

They must know. They must know how deeply influenced you are by them. You make your allure to them unmistakable, their actions signify their awareness, and they use this to further taunt you, to further bait you into their trap. For what reason, you're not privy to, but they prey upon your desire for them, stringing you along on for their entertainment. Are they aware that this game is comparable to torture to you? Like dangling fresh greens in front of a dying, starved lamb, your ache is palpable to only you. To long for something that you cannot. It is tormenting and demeaning, though maybe that is suitable for a monster.

A devil in the guise of an angel truly. Maybe they are purely enjoying your suffering, knowing that your every action can only be done by their whim. You have fallen in their hands, utterly dependent and reliant on them but no less grateful. A deceived sheep in the claws of a cackling wolf. It is a game to them, you are just a toy, and you would be foolish to think otherwise. So expectedly cruel, and yet it crushes your heart. You are tired of the charades, of your affections hardly acknowledged and no doubt unreciprocated, and you are tired of how their presence plagues your thoughts entirely. They are eager to use you just as they had always wanted, a ‘doll,’ something willing to twist and bend to their desires.

You wish that you are more than just a doll. That your skin is not made of plastic, that your limbs are not so manipulatable, that the attire that you wear cannot be so easily altered based on the spontaneous desires of someone else. You do not want to take only what you've been given. Is it hopeless, brazen, to want more despite your place? Does it make you nothing more than simple-minded and naive, to wish that their touch expressed beyond the voraciousness and obscenity?

“Did you enjoy it?” Arlecchino pries you away from your thoughts, and you flick your eyes towards them. Blinking, you finally recall the context, and fumble with your words.

“Ah, uh, yes,” you stammer, forcing a small smile, berating yourself for your blundering response. “The lobster was great. Thank you so much, Sir.”

Their pupils still remain on you, hardened with their usual frigid gaze. “Then why do you appear so downcast? Is the meal not to your liking? I will make sure the chefs prepare something else for you.”

Your blood freezes and you go wide-eyed. Of course, they would notice your absent-mindedness, you have still yet controlled your emotions. Reprimanding yourself internally, the desire to scream out boils within you, like a pot that threatens to boil over–you want to exclaim that they are the reason you are like this, why you are in a constant state of conflict and anguish, why your heart can never rest when their presence is near. Instead, you find your throat caught in a trap, preventing any words from escaping, and any voice you try to grapple slips through your fingers. The very notion of requesting for more is insolent; had they not provided you enough? Ingrate is what you would be if you vocalize anything.

Shaking your head, you reply with, “No, it's okay. There was nothing wrong with my meal. I was just preoccupied with my thoughts for a little bit, I apologize, sir.”

“Please inform me what it was that was entertaining you for so long.” The implore leaves their lips as they tilt their head, propping their elbow against the table and leaning their cheek into their palm. Their attention is utterly consumed by you.

Your lip quivers. So many unspokens lay on your tongue, awaiting for an emergence that never comes. ‘You’ is the most dire utterance, but you bite your tongue and purse your lips. Flitting your eyes down to your finished plate, you avoid their boring gaze which drills right through your skull, and manage to note your arms, which are dotted with the occasional burn scar–courtesy of the more unsavory customers–an agonizing momento of how filthy you are, sullied by many before. How you could compare to a doll is unfathomable to you. A doll's skin is not tainted, marked with signs of impurities. Even their touch, as angelic as it, could not cleanse your surface, why would they dare engage with you?

“Trivial matters, sir,” you respond with, unable to admit the snaking insecurity up your spine, that would only have them throw you away. You gather that insecurity had no place in the Harbinger's home, that needless feelings were to be disposed of immediately. Searching their features at any hint of persuasion, their blank stare offers nothing to you. The mafia leader picks up their glass of wine, lifting it up to their lips for a sip.

The, the glass is placed firmly on the wooden surface of the table, accompanied by a loud thud, the abruptness causing you to flinch back; your entire form taut as every fiber in your being tightens, your heart rate reverberates in your eardrums, and a cold shiver sneaks over your back.

“Do you take me as someone so easily deceived?” They demanded, their voice instilled with cutting authority, sharper than any knife as it stabs into your gut. The lit fury in their eyes is enough to make you recoil in your seat, shrinking into yourself as if you could become small enough to disappear, and underneath their scrutiny that is all you want to do. You tore your eyes away from them, the weight of their burning stare unbearable, almost with the intention of cremating you in the very chair. A part of you wishes that were the case, if only to flee from the crisis you are now a part of, only caused by your idiocy.

The Fatui Harbinger, for how generous they've been to you, is no less deadly, and perhaps you’ve had a healthy dosage of dismissing apparent hazards when it comes to them. Whether it be due to Arlecchino's unique charm and ambiguous benevolence, or your stubborn child-like innocence–the one that still yearns for affection and company in a cruel world–that refuses to yield, subconsciously, you knew that you would never truly be safe. No amount of self-delusion masked by wishful thinking could ever make that fruition, it will not erase the fact that your life balances on the careful palms of an awaiting wolf, whose intentions are mysterious. Nonetheless, this moment creates a no more nauseating moment that strikes your gut and fills your head with a haziness that is as oppressive as it is harrowing.

You hardly believe that you can lie once more–for all that you are aware of, Arlecchino may punish you with your death for disobeying–though with the imminent danger you’re still conflicted. You wanted to drown your fondness for them in the sea of your consciousness, anchor the hefty mass so that it could never resurface, no matter how much it struggles to swim. Complying with the mafia leader's demand means plunging your hands into the water and unlocking the chains, letting the emotions swim beyond your reach and leaving you stranded in the midst of riptides and storms. If it meant many more years without turbulent waters, then you'd never unchain them, because that is the only way to stay afloat.

But dying due to the fear of rejection is truly a pathetic way to go, even to the likes of your already pathetic existence, isn't it? You’d like to pride yourself as above those standards, at the very least. However, unveiling your naive attachment to them is unfavorable. Whatever may come from defiance, you are not sure it is worth condemning yourself to, not for someone seemingly as volatile as they are.

Perhaps you could still spare your buried endearment as well–twist and mangle your words until what the Fourth Harbinger knew was only the mishap-twin of the authentic version. Let them misinterpret and craft their own figment to be as far-fetched yet close from the truth as possible. Paint over and ornament your hopeless ardor until it is unrecognizable to the artist and only that. Half-truths and omission sculpted into something believable in the eyes of Arlecchino.

“You,” you declare simply, looking up back at them with a poor imitation of their repose. “It was you, Sir.”

Arlecchino stews in silence, although not visibly, you could presume that they have some amount of shock from your words, and the questions in their head. Their eyes darkened slightly, like dark abysses preparing to consume you whole if you so much as misstep once.

“For what reason?”

Gulping considerably, you pull together your resolve and start. You look up to meet their steady gaze. “A quality doll requires proper care and maintenance right? Like when you said that a quality doll needed a fitting dollhouse.”

Their hand reaches for their wine glass again.“Yes, that is true.”

“But a quality doll is wasted if it is not played with properly.”

Arlecchino breaks away their stare to intake their wine, a longer sip than their usual. “Are you implying that you are not satisfied with my treatment, Doll?”

“No. No, I am not satisfied.” You wince at your direct response, but you are not left with any other option–you can only pray that Arlecchino doesn’t take offense to it.

“Greedy,” the Harbinger remarks as they place down the drink. “But perhaps there is some merit to it. You are right: It is my responsibility to take care of my things and it seems that I've been neglecting you.”

They flit their eyes to your plate. “Are you finished eating?”

“Ah, yes?” You stumble over your words, a bit on edge now that their inquiry implied they had more in plan with you. It is not out of the question, though typically when they did invite you to meals like this, they would dismiss you to do what you wish afterwards, sending you away with a drawn out kiss. You're yet able to know what to make of your current situation. It required little words to gain what you wanted from the Haringer: more attentive treatment from them without the implication of your desires, so easily accepted by them. Maybe then, you wishfully

They rise from their chair, removing their reading glasses and setting it on the surface of the desk. Strangely enough, they take their wine with them.

“Sir?” You question as your eyes follow their movement. They maneuver around their desk, heading towards the door.

“Follow,” they state, though there is no real urgency or demand for it, more like a suggestion. They turn their head over their shoulder, examining you–testing you, you guess–and how could you deny? You trial them after them, with an enthusiasm which you hate having to compare that to an anxious puppy. The two of you exit the office, and you’re guided to an adjacent room, this one you've never been to before, nor has ever seen its content. Since your time here, it's remained secured and you've yet seen a single soul enter.

You're not quite sure what you expect when Arlecchino leads you inside but it certainly is not a bedroom. Nonetheless, that is what is presented to you. Simultaneously sleek and modest, adorned in splashes of black, red, and white–a color palette you associate with just one individual–it is the epitome of sophistication without bordering on extravagance and a starking reminder of the presence beside you.

For some reason, it never occurred to you that Arlecchino necessitated slumber. Perhaps since you've always considered them something else entirely, something beyond human, you feel what borders on astonishment with the discovery that, indeed, the Fourth Harbinger does sleep. To say that it humanized them in your eyes is a stretch, but it is a signifier that they are not as infallible and unfeasible as you believe.

The implications of being guided to their bedroom, however, also creates havoc among your thoughts, and your ears all but physically singe from your mortification. Vulgar fantasies invade your mind, with images of your nude body tangled together in the satin gray sheets with varying positions. Your heart, the fickle and persistent thing that is pulipates again, pumping through your ears. The setting only enforces your wanton imagination, exacerbating its control over your mind. The delusions become not just visual, but auditory and haptic too–their whispered, husky voice murmuring sweet promises in your ear as their nails trail lower and lower from your stomach, their fingers exploring uncharted territory.

Choosing that the best course of action would be to ignore the astir depravities, you instead propose a question to the mafia member as they allow you to enter the chamber first.

“This is… your bedroom, my Lord?” you question anxiously, taking the time to observe the room as the Fourth Harbinger enters behind you. “How come you've brought me here?”

“I am not fond of letting blunders remain as it is for long, less of all those that are my own fault,” Arlecchino answers, the shutting of the door momentarily interrupting them. “If it can be helped, oversights must be corrected immediately. Let problems fester for too long, and they may grow beyond my control.”

You note that it's a rather vague response. As you turn around to further confront them, there is the sudden and firm tug of your arm, and far quicker than your mind can comprehend, you're whirled around and pressed against the surface behind you. You suck in harshly from the rapid movement and an arm besides one side of your head locks you in your place, sandwiched between the door and Arlecchino with no exit available.

Flaring crimson irises meet your vision, inky pits brimming with what could only be described as a fervor drill into you. Wildly, your heartbeat thuds against your ribcage, your breath effectively robbed by the towering being before you. Below your skin, exhilaration floods through your veins, spreading the incessant heat through your entire form, most especially to your loins. Their hot breath skims across your inflamed cheeks, and their lips only stray a few centimeters from yours.

Involuntarily, your focus darts to their enticing mouth, which tastes like the finest of wine–so extraordinarily sweet that it is intoxicating. A flavor that keeps drawing you in, making you an alcoholic as you drink yourself dizzy from a sip, then another. And you would do anything for just another sample. You want Arlecchino to consume your entirety, your taste buds, your consciousness, your senses, surrender every part of you if it means gaining the most miniscule pieces of themselves. A plea rests on your tongue and in your wide, crinkled eyes you make your intentions clear.

Wordlessly, you beg for them to devour you like the monster that they are. Lure you in with their touch again, which they know burns every single rational thought away and spreads a relish that feels like a religious blessing. Take you, if only for a single second, because a second will always be sufficient enough until the next, when you cannot help but wish for it sooner.

“Do you desire me?” They speak, as if the answer is not apparent. As if the evidence is not in your trembling body, bristling with elation, or in your needy hands, which all but reach out to grasp them closer. As if they are not aware of the effects of their numerous taunts, how they fluster you enough to force you to glance away or stumble over your speech. They are aware of it as well as you are and it is with this that you realize the insinuation of their question, and this understanding is what evokes the hitching of your breath. They ask for confirmation, for approval–for consent.

“Yes,” you answer breathlessly, no need to expend more words for something so simple. How else could you answer otherwise?

Arlecchino does not grant you the kiss you so very much desire. Instead, they maneuver one of the arms propped against your head, their hand cups your chin with a tenderness so unlike them, and their thumb grazes over your bottom lip. Their gaze becomes entranced, fixated on your mouth.

“Given your past employment, I was under the assumption that any gesture more sensual would unease you. For that reason, I was hesitant to initiate more. After all, nothing is more unpleasant than an unwilling toy, who does not desire to be played with. My oversight, however, has affected you adversely, which I hope to fix currently.”

Flicking their hardened stare to your eyes again, they add, “If you will allow me.”

Stupefaction befalls upon you, your mouth parts as you grasp onto the new information. If their words are true, then it means that your attraction to them is mutual, not one-sided, and their established distance was out of consideration for you. The thought is more than enough to spark giddiness within you. The Harbinger may not be so inaccessible as you previously thought, perhaps your affections could reach them.

They hardly seem so monstrous as they did three weeks ago. Maybe they never were one to begin with. Your elated-addled brain can hardly produce a coherent string of thoughts, leaving you to only feebly nod.

That is enough as a response for Arlecchino as they descend upon you, slotting their lips over yours in a way that can only be described as perfection. Their lips drains you of your oxygen, but were you capable of it, you would allow them to steal every part of you with their perfect mouth. The succulent flavor of them remains constant, delectable as they were on the first night you met the Harbinger, and even after the numerous kisses you've shared, they are just as intoxicating. You briefly wonder if you're only drunk off of their taste because of the taste of aged wine still abundant on their lips. Arlecchino swallows you up into an eternal riptide of their taste, and you willingly drown, surrendering the rest of your senses to delight in this.

This is the type of sensation that comes from dancing around a demon, the sort of feeling that makes such heartache involving the fallen angel all the more worthwhile yet agonizing; it serves to only lure you further in its trap that you can't fathom escaping from. Now, your body buzzing with an elation that can't be matched by another, all you can wonder is how you've been able to live this long without this very gesture that breathes back life through your veins and makes your heart swell with vitality. With this, you believe this is the pinnacle of your life–no other experience that can quite enrapture you like this–a phantom ache finally filled, finally whole.

Half-lidded eyes with crimson x's lock on yours, and you think you may have rediscovered your favorite color.

You lift your arms over their shoulders and fold them behind the mafia leader, locking them in place. With a gentle tug forward with your arms, they lean deeper into your kiss, and a deep grunt rumbles through their chest, inducing goosebumps over your skin. Meanwhile, your fingers card through their silky, snow-colored strands, tugging lightly as you moan softly against their lips. Something warm settles on your right cheek, cupping that side of your face delicately.

The rough texture of their tongue presses against your lips, before their lips latch onto your bottom one. They suckle with such a gingerness you forget about the depraved hunger behind their x-pupils, a plea for permission, for entry which you allow instantly. You part your mouth. With a fevered haste, their tongue slips into your orifice, and you let out a throaty groan. It invokes a rumbling through their throat, a sound that must have belonged from seraphs. They urge on, exploring the contours of your mouth with the intent of diligently memorizing the relish and texture. Committed to familiarizing themselves with every crevice and curve, they scrape their tongue against yours, before prodding gently deeper, grazing the roof of your mouth.

In turn, you playfully drive your tongue forward, caressing against the bottom of their flexible organ. A pleased hum resounds through them, the reverberation making you shudder delightfully. Your body feels like it's being swarmed with an oppressive heat, willpower and sanity suffocating under the mafia leader's every action, and every thought replaced with the stabbing desire that courses through your veins. Every second that they linger, an invisible string tugs you towards their direction with the lightest pressure, and you’re once more in their neatly filed claws.

Is it really sending a lamb to the slaughter when the lamb is willing, or when the wolf is so inviting?

The lack of swelter is palpable once they suddenly break away, and you realize belatedly the lack of air in your lungs. You heave for air, and Arlecchino does the same, every brief exhale tickling your cheeks. Silence, save for your rapid breathing, fills the room, but the mutual eye contact says more than enough between you two.

“Do you want to…?” The Harbinger inquires, their words halting into a tense silence, vigilantly examining your features.

“Please,” is all you could whisper out, as if that very word carried your entire soul with it, and the singular murmur shatters the being before you. Just a second ago, what stood before you was a person of authority and restraint. Arlecchino was esteemed among the Harbingers, a mortal representation of poise and dignity. Never before has their composure faltered, not to any enemy or ally; there’s yet been an instance that the mafia’s leader's repose was weakened. However, you have always been an anomaly.

Their crimson pupils pierce into you, as their hands linger beneath your hips.

“You truly will be the death of me.”

---

Reference for Arlecchino in the second half.

Smut will be in part 3.

#arlecchino x reader #arlecchino x you #arlecchino #arlecchino smut #arlecchino genshin #genshin impact x reader #genshin x reader #genshin impact fanfics #genshin impact fics #genshin fanfics #genshin fics #genshin impact smut #genshin smut #edgeray.writes

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ktownshizzle · 1 month ago

Text

Sweet & Spicy | A T&C Drabble

Pairing: Jeon Jungkook x female reader (Chae, nicknamed Chef)

Summary: Turns out some cravings are just so hard to ignore.

Genre: Fluffy fluff, idol!au, strangers to ?

Warnings: This is part of the Terms & Conditions universe, where JK and Chae are secondary characters to Yoongi & his MC. This can be read as a one-shot, but you may find it satisfying to connect it to the main verse. This is also my first time writing another member, so, please be kind 💜 Also this is kinda cheesy, you've been warned. Hehe.

Word count: Is this even a drabble if it’s almost 3K 🥸

Posting date: October 27, 2024

Notes: ✨This is my 250-follower milestone drabble✨ I’ve been cooking up this little surprise seeing as some of the readers are really pulling for Chae to get with her bias. I just thought I had more time before we hit the milestone. Not complaining though! But if there are mistakes, just, you know, imagine JK’s abs or whatever. 🤭

What a night. Really. What a fuckin’ night. Probably one of the best ones in your culinary career. You got to debut some of your new recipes, serve a 7-course meal to 40 patrons without any major hitch, and you think you impressed the head chef enough to really consider giving you the promotion when he heads to America for a year. The craziest part was seeing Min Yoongi and Jeon Jungkook, 2/7 of Bangtan, your favorite group ever, in the flesh and getting the privilege to serve them your food. You obviously knew Chef Paik was influential, but he never said members of BTS were gonna be his guests of honor.

The evening is quiet as you finally step out of the restaurant, the last lights dimming behind you. You’d stayed back intentionally, knowing your best friend and her man deserved their moment. From what you know they’ve been tip-toeing around each other for a while, hiding true feelings behind careful teasing, but tonight could be their night to finally figure their shit out. You didn’t mind it, giving up your shared apartment. You were more than glad to offer them that time together.

But now, as you glance down the empty street, a twinge of regret settles in. You hadn’t thought this part through. All the hotels nearby are likely booked, and you’re too tired to start looking.

The bench by the curb looks as good a place as any to wait for inspiration to strike, so you sit, leaning back and letting the city’s night air cool the flush on your cheeks.

You take your phone out and open your photo gallery where one new photo sits. You’re with your fellow chefs inside the kitchens, aprons on, smiles wide, and you're joined by Yoongi and Jungkook who was given a special tour by Chef Paik just minutes before.

Sighing, you zoom the pic to Jungkook’s pretty face, eyes sparkly and dimples in full show. He was standing close to Yoongi, arm hanging limply across his friend’s shoulder, throwing up a peace sign. You sigh again, but this time, a dreamy smile tugs at your lips.

For some reason, your thumb swipes up and decides to press Tinder. Tbh, you’ve had a long and eventful workday, sex is the farthest from your mind, but if some semi-decent guy is willing to treat you like a pillow princess then you could be down. Plus if you’ll get free accommodations for tonight out of it too, then it’s all kosher.

Fuck it. You decide that’s the plan and you start your search.

Swipe left, swipe left, swipe left UGHHhh swipe left

Suddenly, you hear a faint chuckle nearby. Turning your head, you spot him—Jeon Jungkook, the literal man of your dreams, still waiting by the curb, hands tucked casually into his pockets. You hadn’t realized he was still here. And he’s just caught you stalking Tinder. How embarrassing!

“No luck?” He teases, obviously aware of what you are up to.

You turn beet red, locking your phone and stuffing it hastily inside your pant pocket.

He catches your eye, grinning as he raises his hand in an awkward wave. “Hey, Chef. Thought everyone was already gone.”

You’re still embarrassed, but you manage a small smile. “I thought you left, too.”

He laughs, shifting on his feet as he glances down the street. “Nah. My ride’s taking a while. So…” He tilts his head, eyes narrowing in mild curiosity even though he already caught you mid-swipe. “What are you up to? Shouldn’t you be going home?”

“Your friend and mine need the place more than I do,” you say with a casual shrug. “I’ll figure something out. What about you?”

Jungkook nods, scratching the back of his neck, fingers grazing just below his ear. “I was planning on just heading home, maybe watch Netflix or something… then, you know, whip up whatever shit I’m craving by midnight.”

At the mention of food, your stomach betrays you, letting out a low, rumbling growl. You freeze, instantly mortified.

Jungkook’s laughter echoes, light and playful. “I heard that,” he teases, his large, expressive eyes twinkling with mischief. “You’ve been in the kitchen feeding everyone all night, but you forgot to eat yourself?”

“I—” You start, but there’s really no defense. The truth is, you’d been so busy you’d barely thought about eating. “I guess I forgot.”

“Good thing I’m still here, then.” Jungkook crosses his arms, a sly grin spreading over his face. “Since you fed us all your good food tonight, why don’t I treat you this time?”

You raise an eyebrow, surprised but intrigued. “Are you serious?”

“Deadass.” He nods toward the darkened end of the street. “There’s a night market open nearby… unless you’re too tired?” He arches a brow, the one where his barbell piercing used to sit. You remember spotting it in Muster Sowoozoo and almost fainting.

You bite back a smile. “I’m down. But… can you actually go out like this? Won’t people recognize you?”

Jungkook chuckles, shrugging his shoulders as he pulls his cap down low. “You’d be surprised. People don’t care too much if you keep a low profile.” He leans in with a smirk, his voice dropping to a low whisper. “Plus, I’ve got a secret bodyguard following me around anyway. So we’re fine.”

He winks, and your heart flips a little, remembering that this is Jeon Jungkook standing in front of you, casually inviting you to a food crawl. Just hours ago, he’d been the center of attention in the restaurant, the very idol you’ve admired, and now he’s here, teasing you with his easy, laid-back charm.

Before you wake up from this dream—because there’s no fuckin’ way this is happening irl—you nod and follow him.

The night market is alive with sizzling sounds, bright lights, and an array of food smells that almost make your head spin. Almost. Your head is definitely spinning, but the culprit is walking right beside you.

Jungkook’s energy matches the lively setting as he flits from one stall to another, eyes wide with excitement. He takes it all in with that same infectious enthusiasm you’ve seen a hundred times on screen, but now it’s directed at you, gaze bright and unguarded.

At a stall selling tteokbokki, he picks up a skewer and offers it to you, a playful smile on his face. “Say ‘ahh,’ chef,” he says, his own mouth wide open.

Rolling your eyes, you lean forward, taking a bite—and immediately regret it as the heat kicks in. “Oh god, that’s extra spicy.”

Jungkook grins, taking a bite himself, his brows furrowing in that endearing way he does when he really enjoys something. “Perfect amount of heat.” He nods approvingly. “You sure you can handle it?”

“Are you challenging me? Tsss…” you reply, trying to mask your gasp as you grab another skewer to save face. You have very good spice tolerance, but your buds are really failing you right now and you don’t think it has anything to do with the food.

“Okay, serious question.” Jungkook asks as you both dig into a serving of mandu from the next stall over. “What’s your favorite food to make? Not at work, but, like, for yourself.”

You chew thoughtfully, savoring the flavors before you respond. “Anything simple,” you say finally. “Sometimes a perfectly made ramen at the end of a long day is better than anything fancy.”

“I feel exactly the same. But I’ll add cheese. Like, extra cheese,” he whispers, as if it’s some guarded secret.

You can’t help but laugh. You’ve obviously seen him slap a cheese slice or two on his midnight creations in previous weverse lives. “I guess you’re a real culinary connoisseur, then.”

“Hey,” he pouts, catching your sarcasm, but there’s laughter in his eyes. “Cheese makes everything better, and you know it.”

You make everything better, is what you should’ve said, but well, you’re chicken shit.

On your way to get some lamb skewers you spot an arcade at the corner of the street. The midi sounds of a claw machine seem to taunt Jungkook because he stops and pulls out a coin.

“I bet I can get you something,” he says, a competitive glint in his eyes.

“Ok. Show me what you got, golden boy.”

He bites his lip lightly where his piercing used to be, focused on positioning the claw, and it’s impossible to look away as he leans forward, brows furrowing in concentration.

The machine whirs and clinks, and he lifts his tattooed arm in triumph as the claw finally deposits a soft, pink Hello Kitty plushie in the prize slot.

One try?! You literally have never seen anybody do it in a single attempt. But you guess that’s Jeon Jungkook for you.

“Here you go,” he holds it out to you with a proud grin. “A souvenir.”

You laugh, taking the plushie and giving it a small hug. “I think this is the best prize I’ve gotten in years.”

Before you realize it, he’s slipped his hand into yours, as he leads you toward the next stall. His fingers curl around yours casually, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. What the fuck is happening?

Every laugh, every soft touch, feels like something you could get used to. You know you can’t and you shouldn’t but since this is a dream anyway, you’ll let yourself indulge. Just one night.

As you make your way through the market, each stall seems to bring you closer. Somewhere between the crispy hotteok and steaming fish cakes, you find yourself leaning into his playful jabs and jokes, noticing how his eyes light up with each new dish.

You love his attitude about food, because that’s exactly how you feel, too. It’s simply one of the best things in life.

The night takes you and your Hello Kitty plushie back to Jungkook’s apartment, a spacious, but unexpectedly cozy space that’s filled with subtle but unmistakable pieces of him. You can’t help but notice his giant, soft-looking sectional couch that almost invites you to sink right in. In the corner, his pink microwave peeks out. There’s a laundry basket filled with folded clothes and a couple of Calvin Klein boxers on top. You peel your eyes away quickly.

“Make yourself comfortable,” he says, stretching out on one side of the couch. He grabs the remote and flips through some shows. After he finds one that you both might enjoy, he clicks open a soft holographic light, adding a touch of color and whimsy to the room, as if the night isn’t magical enough.

You settle on the other end of the couch, legs tucked up beside you, and focus on trying to relax. It’s almost surreal, being here with him, seeing the little touches that feel so uniquely Jungkook—pieces you’d noticed in passing during his Weverse lives.

As the night wears on, he shifts closer, finally settling beside you, his head nestled in the curve of your lap. The sight of him, eyes heavy with sleep, blinking slowly as he looks up at you, steals your breath. You’re dumbstruck, momentarily frozen. You’ve admired him for so long from afar, and now here he is, every bit as beautiful in real life as you’d imagined. His lashes flutter, and his breathing evens out as he drifts into sleep.

Soon enough, he snores. LOUD. And you can’t help but chuckle at this, because now you can confirm that all the teasing from his members are definitely true.

Slowly, you bring a hand to rest on his shoulder, letting yourself take in this unexpected moment. He stirs a little bit at your touch, releasing a small groan before his breath evens out again. You don’t know when it happens, but eventually, sleep pulls you under as well.

The next morning, you wake to the gentle shift of his weight, turning to find him already awake, gazing at you with a sleepy smile that somehow makes your heart skip.

“Morning, Chef,” he mumbles, voice still low and a bit rough.

“Morning,” you reply, grinning as he props himself up, leaning in close as if he’s not quite ready to break away from last night’s closeness. He gives your shoulder a playful nudge, then flashes a grin that’s unmistakably Jungkook—all teeth, a little mischievous, and maybe a bit too much for someone you’ve just met.

“Are you hungry?” you ask, rubbing your eyes lightly as you sit up.

He nods, eyes lighting up with a spark of eagerness. “Very. But only if a Michelin star Chef makes it.”

Laughing, you head toward the kitchen, already gathering ingredients in your mind. It’s your first time here, yet it feels natural, like you’ve been here a hundred times before. As you start to whip up a quick breakfast, you catch Jungkook watching you, his face full of interest and maybe a little awe. A few minutes later, he excuses himself and flits in and out of the room, gathering things and assembling them in his duffel bag. The way you’re both moving in the space feels oddly domestic.

You assemble an eggs and fried rice dish, moving back and forth between pans. You've whipped up this particular recipe several times before, so you know it’s a crowd-pleaser.

Just as you finish up on the stove, you suddenly feel Jungkook’s presence close behind you, his arms suddenly caging you in. His hands press lightly against the stove knobs to close them, effectively trapping you, and you feel his breath on your neck.

“So what do we have here, pretty Chef?” He asks, voice dangerously low.

Even though your insides are about to combust at his nearness, you’re so used to presenting your dishes at work, so you tap into your faculty of the language. “A twist on Eggs Benedict, served on a bed of kimchi fried rice instead of English muffins. I made the bacon thin and crispy cos I think it pairs well with the rice that way.”

He hums appreciatively. “Are you also on the menu?” He asks with a tiny chuckle, resting his chin on the slope of your shoulder.

You gulp. Fuck. You suspected Jungkook was a flirt, he’s always had the playboy, dare you say fuckboi, vibe. But you never ever thought he would use his charms on you.

“You should be so lucky, Jeon Jungkook.” You turn, heart racing, and meet his disarming gaze. You are momentarily caught off guard as he leans down, capturing your lips in a soft kiss, lingering just enough to make your knees go a little weak. Before you can even respond, he pulls back, brushes his nose against yours with a cheesy grin. “Sorry, I should have asked.”

He starts to pull away, but you stop him, tugging him back by the chain that sits on top of his shirt. This time, you kiss him a little deeper, feeling the softness of his lips, the tender graze of his tongue, feeling the flutter of a real first kiss.

After a while, he pulls back, cursing to himself as he grasps your two hands with his. His face looks apologetic as he explains, “I’m getting picked up in less than 30 minutes to go back to base, but,” he pauses, gnawing on his lip. “Maybe we can meet on my leave next month? I’d really want to, if you’re down.”

Jungkook’s question hangs in the air, and you bite your lip, suppressing the smile that’s already curving at your lips. “Only if you can top my breakfast,” you say, arching an eyebrow. “Think you can handle it, golden boy?”

He laughs, nose wrinkling slightly, clearly up for the challenge. “Let’s fuckin’ go, Chef.”

“One thing, though,” you warn with a smirk. “No cheese.”

He holds your gaze a little longer, eyes narrowing like he’s memorizing this playful moment, and gives your hand a gentle squeeze before finally letting go. “Fine, no cheese.”

As he gently tucks a hair behind your ear, eyes shining like stars, you feel a hopeful warmth building inside. There was also something else, something familiar, almost nostalgic. Like deja vu. And then it hits you, you know this feeling, because it’s captured by a song you’ve heard many times before. And the singer is standing next to you.

A/N: Thank you so much for reading this, you lovely human! What did you think???? I'm so nervous putting this out, because I've only ever written for Yoongi so this was kind of a challenge. See you in the comments!

If you're new here and want more from this verse, please check out the main fic: Terms & Conditions

Pairing: Min Yoongi x female reader Summary: Managing Min Yoongi as one of your encoders during his alternative military service should’ve been simple. He is quiet, punctual—and can apparently type as fast as he can rap! Not to mention the fact that he is easy on the eyes and keeps wanting to help you. You’ve signed an iron-clad NDA, detailing the full terms and conditions of his temporary employment, so you’re supposed to keep things professional, but what happens if neither of you wants to?Genre: Fluff, eventual smut, co-workers to lovers, office romance, idol!au

Taglist:

@glossdebut @kam9404 @mar-lo-pap @nnybtitts08 @granataepfelchen

@perfectiondazesworld @wobblewobble822 @yoongznme @caressesurloceanlove @rinkud

@kayleefriedchicken @jajabro @tinytan-gerine @xxbibin1208 @forevercarpediem227

@yoongicatagenda @someshinesomedont @marnz1990 @iheartshopping @confidentjus

@queenbloody @whydoeyecare @sadroses98 @curlyquennn

@sexytholland @kiki-zb @hiddlestandom @babyarmybabbles @medicinemybish

#jungkook x reader #jungkook x you #jungkook x oc #jungkook x original character #jeon jungkook x reader #jeon jungkook x you #jungkook fic #jungkook fluff #jungkook ficrecs #bts x reader #bts x you #bts x fem!reader #jungkook imagine #jungkook scenarios #jeongguk x reader #jeongguk fic #bts jungkook x reader #bts imagines #Spotify

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nostalgebraist · 2 years ago

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Frank @nostalgebraist-autoresponder will permanently halt operation at 9 PM PST this Wednesday (May 31, 2023).

For context on why, see this post.

(tl;dr this project been a labor of love for me for years, it takes a ton of continual effort, and my heart's not in it anymore.)

----

The blog itself will stay up indefinitely, it just won't make any new posts or accept asks.

Most of the code, models, etc. are freely available right now. Insofar as they are now, they will continue to be. The change on May 31 is unrelated to this stuff.

I've made various interactive demos of these components over the years, and the demos will likely still work after the bot stops. But I won't do any tech support or maintenance on them, and I would actively recommend against using these as a way to "get Frank back."

----

I want to emphasize the following:

The best way for you to "send Frank off" over the next few weeks is to talk to her just like usual.

(And not too often, because she can only make 250 posts a day.)

This is true for a number of reasons, and can be viewed from a number of different angles:

(1)

While it can be fun to anthropomorphize Frank, she is structured very differently from a person, or even an animal.

She does not remember anything, even between two asks made on the same day. Every moment is a new one, with no relation to any other.

If you say "goodbye" or "you're going to be shut off" to her on May 30 2023, it's just as though you had said the same thing to her on some random day last year. She can't tell the difference.

She doesn't know these things are true or relevant now, and she can't possibly know in the way a human would. She's hearing the words for the first time, every time, and reacting in accordance with that.

Think of it like interacting with a baby, or someone with dementia. Every moment stands alone. If you strike a sad tone, they don't appreciate that it's about something. They just know that there is a sad tone, in the current experiential moment.

(2)

Frank mostly operates on a first-come, first-serve basis. She can only make 250 posts a day. There is a limited amount of time left.

Be conscientious about the way you're using up "slots" in this limited array of remaining Frank posts. Don't hog the ride.

(3)

I'm shutting down this bot in part because it's been a long-term, low-grade source of stress to me. I'd like the last weeks of the bot to be as low-stress as they can be.

When Frank gets an unusually large, or just unusual, form of user input over a period of time, I usually have to step in and do something in response.

(if there's way more input than usual and I don't do anything special, Frank will fill up most of her post limit quota before I even wake up, and then the asks will pile up further and further over the rest of the day.)

Maybe I have to delete a bunch of asks. Maybe I have to deploy some temporary change to her mood parameters to prevent the mood from getting too high or low and not coming back to baseline. Maybe I have to turn on "userlist mode," which still involves a cumbersome manual procedure.

Or, maybe I just have to do a lot more content moderation than usual.

"Usual," here, means reviewing and (mostly) approving something like 20 different hypothetical Frank posts per day, every day. If I go do something fun, and let myself forget about this task completely for 6 or 8 hours, there's a backlog waiting for me afterwards. During busy times, there's even more of this.

Just, like, help me chill out a bit, okay? Thanks.

#nostalgebraist autoresponder #nostalgebraist autoresponder meta

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pickingupmymercedes · 6 months ago

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Not just a pretty face - Lewis Hamilton

Sequence: Not just a pretty face / I need you to let me go / Fly on my own / Leap of faith (bonus)

request: Special request for Lewis being free practice dating around as a Capricorn sun, meeting with a Leo sun a fan of his but ends up clingy to her presences in his life but she just friendzoned him due to his commitment issues.

pairing: Lewis Hamilton x Reader!

warnings: kind of a slowburn

wordcount: +1K

a/n: Leo Sun girly coming right up.

As always, I'm open for feedback, come say hi!

______________________________________________________________

The winter of 2024 was proving to be colder than usual in Europe, but the lack of heat was certainly not reflected in the blaze set off by the news that Lewis Hamilton would be driving for Ferrari in 2025. The rumors had been swirling for days, but seeing it confirmed had sent shockwaves through the motorsport world. Lewis had always been a Mercedes man, the Silver Arrows an extension of his very being. But now, a scarlet future awaited him.

And amidst all that he found himself in the opulent driveway of an estate that screamed old money, the kind that bought influence as easily as it bought rare vintage cars. He glanced around, appreciating the perfectly manicured lawns in the hot Californian winter, the sprawling mansion, and most importantly, the gleaming 1962 Ferrari 250 GTO California parked under the portico. The car was a masterpiece, a relic of a bygone era, but he wasn’t there for the car; he was there for Y/n.

Y/n was a whirlwind wrapped in couture, with a knowing smile and a glint in her eye that could either promise trouble or adventure, depending on her mood. She strolled out of the house, her walk as smooth as the car’s curves. Her eyes sparkled with mischief as she approached him, wearing a dress that flirted with the summer breeze.

“Lewis Hamilton, as I live and breathe” she teased, her voice a melodic blend of sophistication and sass. “I didn’t think you’d actually come.”

Lewis grinned, slipping on his sunglasses. “And miss a chance to see you? Never.”

She laughed, a sound as intoxicating as champagne. “Flatterer. But I’m not the main attraction today.” She gestured towards the Ferrari, and he followed her gaze.

“Your dad’s 250 GTO,” he said appreciatively. “It’s a beauty.”

“Of course it is,” she replied, walking over to the car and running a hand along its sleek body. “And today, it’s all mine. Well, ours.”

His eyebrows shot up in surprise. “You’re letting me drive it?”

She laughed again, this time with a touch of condescension. “Oh, Lewis, sweetheart. No one drives my family’s babies except me. But you can ride shotgun.”

He mocked shock. “You know, I do have a bit of experience behind the wheel.”

She rolled her eyes playfully. “And I have experience keeping these classics in one piece. Trust me, you’ll enjoy this more from the passenger seat.”

With a shrug and a smile, he acquiesced, walking over to the passenger side as she slid into the driver’s seat. The leather was cool and supple against his back, the interior a time capsule of luxury and craftsmanship.

As she started the engine, the car roared to life, a throaty purr that screamed Ferrari. She shifted into gear with practiced ease, and they were off, the car gliding smoothly onto the winding roads that led away from her family estate.

“You seem to know your way around this car” he commented, watching her handle the vintage machine with confidence and skill.

“Of course I do” she shot back. “I’m not just a pretty face, you know. My dad made sure I knew how to handle every car in his collection. And this one,” she patted the steering wheel affectionately, “just so happens to be my favorite.”

Lewis watched her, impressed. He had always known Y/n was different, not content to just sit on the sidelines. She was a force of nature, and he admired that about her. “I have to say, I’m impressed. Not many people can handle a car like this.”

She flashed him a smile, her eyes twinkling. “I’m full of surprises, Lewis. You should know that by now.”

He chuckled, leaning back in his seat. “Oh, I know. It’s one of the things I like about you.”

“Just one?” she quipped, throwing him a sidelong glance.

“Among many” he admitted. “You know, I’ve always been serious about us.”

Her expression softened for a moment, but she quickly masked it with her usual bravado. “I know. But you’re a f1 driver, Lewis.”

He nodded, understanding. “I get it. But I’m here now, aren’t I?”

“Yes, you are” she agreed. “And I have to say, you’ve impressed my dad. He wouldn’t let just anyone near his prized possessions. The fact that he allowed me to take you for a ride in this car means you’ve earned a soft spot in his heart.”

“Did I?” Lewis asked, genuinely surprised. “I was sure he hated me.”

She laughed; a musical sound that made his heart skip a beat. “He doesn’t hate you. He’s just… protective. But he sees something in you, something he likes. Maybe it’s your determination, or your passion. Or maybe he just thinks you’d actually be good enough for me.”

Lewis eyed her with a hint of curiosity “And what do you think?”

She was silent for a moment, her eyes focused on the road ahead. Then she glanced at him, her gaze intense. “I think you might be worth the risk.”

He reached over, taking her right hand in his. “I’ve told before, but I’ll gladly say it a hundred more. I’m not going anywhere until you tell me to leave.”

She smiled, a sad but warm smile that almost lit up her face. “Sure, Lewis.”

As they drove through the countryside, the sun starting to settle behind them, casting a golden glow over everything. Y/n handled the tight corners and straightaways with a finesse that spoke volumes about her driving skills. Lewis couldn’t help but be impressed. He knew how difficult it was to master a car like this, especially one with so much history.

“So, what’s next for you?” Y/n asked, breaking the comfortable silence. “Apart from the big move to Ferrari, of course.”

Lewis sighed, a thoughtful expression crossing his face. “I don’t know, honestly. It’s a big change, leaving Mercedes. They’ve been like family to me. But Ferrari… it’s a dream, you know? Every driver wants to wear red at least once.”

She nodded, her eyes flicking towards him briefly. “It’s a huge opportunity. And you’ll be amazing, no doubt about it.”

“Thanks,” he said, appreciating her confidence in him. “What about you? What’s next for Y/n?”

She shrugged, a playful smile on her lips. “Oh, you know. The usual. Jet-setting, managing the family business, keeping an eye on our car collection.”

He laughed. “Must be a tough life.”

“It has its moments” she admitted with a small chuckle.

They drove on in companionable silence for a while, the scenery flashing by in a blur of greens and golds. The sun was dipping lower in the sky, casting long shadows across the road.

“Do you ever think about settling down?” Lewis asked suddenly, his voice thoughtful.

She glanced at him; one eyebrow raised. “Are you proposing, Mr. Hamilton?”

He chuckled, shaking his head. “Not yet. But I’m serious. You and me… do you think we could make it work?”

She was silent for a long moment, her eyes focused on the road ahead. Then she sighed, a wistful smile on her lips. “I don’t know. You’re always on the move, always chasing the next big thing. And I’m not sure I want to keep up.”

“I’d slow down for you” he said softly.

She shook her head. “And that’s exactly what I don’t want. I don’t want you to change for me. I want you to be you, the Lewis who’s always pushing the limits, always striving for more.”

“And what about you?” he asked. “What do you want?”

She smiled, a sad sort of smile. “I want someone who can match me, who understands my world and fits into it. Someone who doesn’t just see me as an accessory, but as an equal.”

“You are my equal,” he said firmly. “In every way that matters.”

She glanced at him, her eyes softening. “Maybe. But it’s not that simple, is it?”

“No” he admitted. “It’s not. But we could figure it out. Together.”

She was silent for a long moment, her eyes thoughtful. Then she nodded slowly. “Maybe we could.”

The sun had almost set, the sky a riot of colors. It was a perfect moment, one neither wanted to end.

“Tell me something,” she said suddenly. “Why Ferrari? Why now?”

He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “It’s something I’ve always wanted. It’s the pinnacle. And after everything with Mercedes, I felt like it was time for a change. A new challenge.”

“And you think Ferrari will give you that?”

“I believe they can try” he said confidently. “And I’m ready for it.”

She nodded, a thoughtful expression on her face, the undertone to the question not lost on him. She wanted to know how he felt about jumping into the unknown for a promise.

“I hope you find what you’re looking for, Lewis. Really, I do.”

“That means a lot.” he said, his voice sincere.

As they pulled back into the driveway of her family estate, the car’s engine ticking as it cooled down, Lewis turned to her. “Thanks for the ride, Y/n. It’s always fun with you.”

She smiled, a genuine, warm smile that lit up her face. “Anytime.”

He leaned over, pressing a gentle kiss to her cheek. “I meant what I said. I’m not going anywhere.”

She nodded, her eyes softening. “I know. And maybe… maybe that’s enough.”

As he got out of the car, he glanced back at her, his favorite firecracker, the one woman who had him hooked for years now. The one who had him chasing her around the globe just to wish on shooting starts. The one he had never had.

As he walked away to his car, he heard her call out to him.

“Lewis!”

He turned, a smile on his lips. “Yeah?”

“Don’t be a stranger” she said, her voice soft but strong.

He nodded, his heart swelling with emotion. “Never.”

______________________________________________________________

TAGLIST - @saturnssunflower @xoscar03 @chocolatediplomatdreamerzonk @happy-golden-hour @vicurious28

@0710khj @thecubanator2 @neilakk @bigratbitchsworld @adriswrld

@fearfam69691 @cmleitora @goldenroutledge @timmychalametsstuff @jpgnsf

If you’d like to be added to my taglist you can leave a comment or send me a dm/ask.

#f1 imagine #f1 fanfic #f1 scenario #f1 x reader #lewis hamilton #lh #lh44 #lewis #lewis x reader #lewis imagine #lewis hamilton fanfic #lewis hamilton x reader #lewis hamilton one shot #lewis hamilton imagine #lh44 x reader #lh44 imagine #lewis hamilton x you

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komsomolka · 1 month ago

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One notable instance of this proxy war occurred in mid-September, when Ukrainian forces, in coordination with militant groups in Syria, including Al-Qaeda offshoot Hay'at Tahrir al-Sham (HTS - formerly known as Al-Nusra Front), launched a series of drone attacks on Russian military facilities in Syria. [...]

The operation involved Ukrainian private mercenaries called "Khimek,” affiliated with the Main Directorate of Ukrainian Intelligence, working alongside Idlib-based militants to target a drone production and testing site in the southeastern suburbs of Aleppo, according to a Kiev Post report on 18 September. The following day, further drone attacks were carried out on ten Syrian military positions in Aleppo, the southern Idlib countryside, and in northeastern Latakia. In early October, two major Russian military sites - the Hmeimim Base and a weapons depot near the coastal city of Jableh — were repeatedly targeted.

But these operations were not the first initiative aided by Ukrainian military and intelligence agents in Syria. On 26 July, in what militant forces described as a “devastating” and “complex” strike, they targeted Kuweires military airport in Aleppo's east, used as an airbase by Russian troops, one day after Russian President Vladimir Putin met with his Syrian counterpart Bashar al-Assad in Moscow.

The alliance between Ukrainian intelligence and Syrian militant groups, with support from NATO, is a relatively new but significant development. It began earlier this year, when a Ukrainian delegation visited Idlib to negotiate with the HTS leadership for the release of several Chechen, Georgian, and Uighur militants being held in HTS prisons — estimated at between 750 and 900 prisoners — to enlist as mercenaries for the Ukrainians. The concluded agreement involved the release of militants detained by HTS in exchange for 250 Ukrainian military experts providing training, particularly in the use of drones. The trainees include Turkmen Salafists tasked to manufacture drones and photograph potential Russian and allied Syrian military targets, particularly the 25th Division special forces and National Defense Forces in Hama, Aleppo, and Latakia. [...]

US military forces occupying northeastern Syria play a connection and transportation role in this setup. It is the main actor in managing these various conflict zones and coordinating the positions and cooperation of its proxies.

In early August 2024, the US facilitated the arrival of Ukrainian experts in areas near Jabal al-Zawiya in Idlib and helped transfer aircraft parts - in exchange for transporting extremist fighters, via US bases in Syria, to areas north of Donetsk Oblast. [...]

The militant groups themselves benefit from this alliance in several key ways. With Turkiye edging toward reconciliation with Syria, and Russian-Iranian military cooperation advancing, these groups are left increasingly vulnerable. Aligning with Ukraine and NATO provides them with new resources and support, ensuring their continued survival in the face of changing regional dynamics. The cooperation also offers Syrian extremists access to advanced technology, particularly in drone warfare, which has become a crucial element in their ongoing fight against Syrian and Russian forces.

#syria

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puripurin · 10 months ago

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[MASTERLIST]

Yandere Artist

↳ Introduction post

↳ Kidnapped in the cum room [req.]

↳ Artist!yan with tattoo artist reader whose side job is a nude model [req.]

Yandere Alien King

↳ Introduction post

↳ Hour 6

↳ Outside of the Palace

Cute Yandere Monster

↳ Introduction post

↳ How I met your father

↳ Meeting his mother

Yandere Monster

[*Father of cute yan monster]

↳ How I met your father [Not really an introduction post]

Yandere DILF Harpy

↳ Introduction post

Yandere Conman

↳ Introduction post

Yandere Merman

↳ Introduction post

↳ Do you really think you can break off this marriage?

Yandere Omega

↳ Introduction post

↳ Disobedient [Yan!Omega x M! Reader x Yan! Rich bunny hybrid] [50, 100, 150, 250 & 350 followers special]

Yandere Rich Bunny Hybrid

[*Switching from bunny boy to bunny hybrid]

↳ Introduction post

↳ Disobedient [Yan!Omega x M! Reader x Yan! Rich bunny hybrid] [50, 100, 150, 250 & 350 followers special]

Yandere Self Aware VN Character

↳ Introduction post

Yandere Cupid

↳ 2024 Val. Special

↳ Love Arrows [req. As well]

Yandere Dance Partner

↳ Introduction post

Chubby Yandere Bull Boy

↳ Introduction post

[*Special note :- almost all of my works have sexual content in it even if it's not a full-on smut fic. I will rarely ever go out of my way to write actual smut because that's just me. If you ask me if you ask me to write smut, i will try to do it. Also, most characters will be shown to be caring in aftercare, such as my fic 'Disobedient'.]

#yandere #yandere x reader #yandere monster #yandere monster x reader #yandere masterlist #masterlist

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water-pokemon-appreciator · 1 year ago

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M.A

Puts a spectral therapist in your brain that only you can hear and you can't get rid of

WHYWHYWHYWHYWHYWHYWHY

GET THEM OUT

MAKE THEM SHUT UP

#250 follower magic anon special (?)

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shy-little-gigglee-bun · 2 years ago

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I'm just under 10 followers away from 250!

So earlier this month I had a poll asking yall what I should do to celebrate once I hit 250 followers on here, and the winning option was to reveal one of my twordish spots 🙈🙈

Oh! And also, I've put quite a bit of thought into this, but I'm thinking about also doing a face reveal around the time I'll be celebrating my graduation from college and my birthday, both of which are in like less than 3 weeks 💕

That should be it for now, I hope yall have an amazing day!

- Bun 🐇

#tickling #kinda t word related?#blog update #bun's 250 followers special

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ambrosialdesire · 2 months ago

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the lone minotaur

18+ DARK CONTENT BELOW, MINORS AND BLANK BLOGS DNI

𓆩♡𓆪 ACHELOUS "LOUIS" BELLOCK ↳ nickname: louis (pronouced lewis)

𓆩♡𓆪 AGE ↳ ~2040 years old (relatively young for minotaurs); 41 years old in human years

𓆩♡𓆪 BIRTHDAY ↳ april 30th

𓆩♡𓆪 HEIGHT ↳ 6'10'' (human), 8' (minotaur)

𓆩♡𓆪 SPECIES ↳ minotaur; currently disguised as a human

𓆩♡𓆪 CAREER ↳ rancher/farmer: specializes in juice and animal based products (such as cheeses, milk, wool, etc.)

𓆩♡𓆪 AREA OF RESIDENCE ↳ wicklow ranch on the outerskirts of the neighboring town winterborough (~250 miles away from the city Lunaris)

𓆩♡𓆪 APPEARANCE (i'm bad at describing since i rely on memory + drawings) ↳ human — a heavy set, tan male with fluffy dark brown hair — dark olive green eyes, very tired looking/relaxed — long scar going down his right eye — low maintenance: retains a short beard, chest/body hair, arm hair, leg hair, etc. he's just a very hairy dude. — calloused hands, very work-worn — back scars from past; mostly healed over but still prominent in sight and touch — ear piercings on his right ear — nipple piercings, usually horseshoe shaped (got them when he still was under human ownership and still keeps them on as a reminder) ↳ partial transformation — relatively the same, height becomes slightly taller by a few inches — horns grow in; pale ivory in color and smooth to the touch — lower canines grow out; left canine is slightly chipped — tail grows back, still able to be hidden in his pants — slight more hairier — nails on hands start turning black (hoof color) ↳ minotaur — head turns into a complete bull/cow head; brown fur, floppy ears, horns + canines grow all out to max size — legs turn into bull/cow legs, feet turn into hooves — torso + arms stay relatively human in appearance — height is at full standing length — long tail is fully grown out — has to wear a loincloth due to having no clothes at this size — considered to be an "abnormal" minotaur due to his underbite/outgrown canines and his tail (he's seen depictions of his species and he believes he's abnormal)

𓆩♡𓆪 PERSONALITY (i'm also really bad at explaining this lmfao) ↳ achelous considers himself a rather isolated man. once scorned and feared by mankind, and used for his immense strength prior to the creation/reliance to machinery, achelous shares no fondness for them at all. most of these feelings hasn't changed even a little as the years went on, and he continues to try and keep contact with the townspeople at a minimum. he's not unnecessarily or outright violent towards the ~30k town population in particular as they're rather peaceful, but when it comes to city folk or outside tourists, his somewhat calm demeanor changes drastically towards them.

↳ achelous believes that he is a cruel monster, but the townspeople do not think the same. they genuinely believe that he's rather a sweet gentleman, seeing that he's a big softie towards the children and the elderly. he's actually more indifferent and hostile to adult men and women, having the belief that they are the cruelest when humans are in their 20s-60s.

↳ achelous is a particular rule follower, especially on his ranch. break his rules, he'll break you until you follow them correctly.

↳ he's stoic and straight to the point, there will never be a day where he sugarcoats his words. lying to him is similar to breaking the rules, so he's not fond of not being honest.

↳ achelous has a pretty even temperament unless there's a rule breaker, annoying human from the city/outside, or brats. his punishments are down right cruel, and that's coming from someone that had personally experienced the worst from humanity.

↳ achelous can have his flirty moments, but only if he's wasted from the alcohol he makes since normal alcohol isn't strong enough. his attempts are rather poor due to his lack of socializing and picking up cues, so he normally comes off as sleazy with an ego, but he's really trying his best.

↳ though it may not seem like it most of the time, achelous is rather possessive and protective over the one he loves. he has pretty conservative views when it comes to having a family, believing that the man must provide for the woman while the woman takes care of the kids and the home. his cruel words and actions make it so his love stays (as that's the only form of affection he learned how to portray), and his last resort is usually harming/threatening/killing the one closest to his love.

↳ achelous is a good convincer, it's why his products are usually sought after in the farmer's market every sunday. it's technically not lying when what he says and believes is true.

↳ of course, achelous prefers not to socialize unless it's absolutely necessary, but he's so good at fixing things and helping others out accidentally that he's constantly requested around for his assistance. he doesn't really want to do it, but if it gets them off his back and property, he will.

↳ achelous is hard-working, he hates bad/lazy workers and prefers to do things his own way. that's why there's no other farmhands/workers besides him, not including his obvious distaste for humans. from 5:30 am to 7:30 pm, he follows his routine to a tee every day. sundays are his breaks, even if he technically doesn't really need it.

↳ he's the most fatherly out of all my posted ocs, probably due to the face that he's the one that's completely determined and decently stable enough to start a family. achelous has also been waiting for the same species as him, but since he never seen another minotaur for most of his life, his patience is growing thin and he may have to take to a human mate the longer he waits.

↳ achelous has extreme guilt/shame over his true form, it's why he managed to find a witch to help him appear more human (ironic isn't it). to him, it's a protectant from being even more outcasted, despite his consistent insistence to be left alone. his partial/full transformation only comes out when his emotions become extremely high (mostly out of anger, but can come out in states of high arousal). he has quite the steady composure, and is very in-tune with his emotions, giving him that needed control.

𓆩♡𓆪 ABILITIES ↳ extreme strength — can lift up multiple logs or hay bales without struggle — occasionally lifts up his animals to make sure they're right where they need to be ↳ intelligence/experience — due to his long-lived life and the experiences he's gone through, he's rather quickly decisive on what to do/say — this unfortunately makes him the "i-told-you-so"/"this-is-what-you-get" type ↳ heightened senses — minotaurs have near perfect vision and heightened senses (taste and scent especially) — due to this, achelous has quick reflexes and reacts to situations accordingly. this can also make him vulnerable to extremely strong smells or sudden bright lights. ↳ endurance/speed — achelous rarely or doesn't even get tired, sometimes his daily routine gets finished earlier if he's at the top of his game. he merely fakes exhaustion to look less suspicious to the townspeople, that's the only time he lies to them since it's for his protection. — due to his species type, he's rather quick on his feet. not as much as normal minotaurs (if there are) due to his heftier build.

𓆩♡𓆪 BACKGROUND ↳ around the start of the roman empire years, achelous was born to a lower class family. to their horror, he was born with a calf's head and legs, believing that their gods have spited them even more. rather than killing him to be done with it, they chose to sell their newborn to a higher status family, seeing that he'd be used for their entertainment. there was never such a creature as him, only passing legends and stories, no one truly thought that a minotaur could possibly exist. they were paid a good sum, and achelous' fate was finally sealed. as he grew up, he was tormented with their mockery, forced to work in the fields from day to night with no breaks. achelous was the face of jokes and laughs during their lavish parties, food constantly thrown at his face and being tossed about for their amusement. this so-called family of his abused the poor minotaur, making sure that he knew his place and how disgusting he was to everyone around. even as they dragged him around publicly, he was forced to wear a hood and cloak, but his size was impossible to hide and the people around would tear at his disguise to taunt jeers at him, constantly leaving him filthy and bloody at the end of the day. it's strange though. no matter how much he was hit, how many wounds they left on his back, achelous never fought back. he himself never knew why, even to this day.

↳ as the empire finally fell apart, achelous managed to finally escape, not without burning the house down and making sure he saw his abusers' faces contort as they burned alive while he ran off. hiding in a boat traveling to where england is now, he stayed there for years underneath the docks, surviving on whatever he was able to find, until he heard word of travel to "india" and managed to sneak onto the next boat going there. once he reached the americas, he traveled further into the south, around where mississippi, tennessee, alabama, and georgia is currently located. achelous finally found the freedom is wanted for so long, finally building his own home and farm, ensuring that no other human may make their way on his land.

↳ this peace didn't last long, well, to him at least it didn't. at this time, he had previously sought out a witch that was able to alter his appearance semi-permanently, so long as he didn't lose control of himself. achelous now is roughly 2000 years old, and a town had begun to be built nearby his ranch. winterborough, from what he's heard from others as he sold his products at the market, a new town for new beginnings. he didn't care, so long as they didn't bother him or figure out he lived there. they figured it out. the first group of townspeople decided to greet him, since they're the ones sorta causing a disturbance as the homes and buildings were still being constructed. to achelous' surprise, they were kind, offering him gifts and words of praise about the work he's done for himself. he's... he's never experience this before, he could tell that they were being genuine from their smiles and expressions. hm... maybe these humans weren't so bad. as the years went on, they never quite questioned his origins or why it seems that he never quite ages the same as them, achelous brought them a good amount of financial stability in their small town and he was overall just a great guy, even if he was a little antisocial.

↳ achelous is still not openly fond of humankind in general, but he is rather protective over winterborough and its residents. it had grown into a place where he thought of as a warm home, minus his ranch. he actually knows everyone by name, who's family member belongs to which; achelous cares deeply, even if he doesn't show it. the townspeople all know him as well, they like to say that he's their guardian (which is mostly right since there's barely any crime in their town). they all adore and deeply trust achelous for what he has done for them, but they still don't know his true nature, his true form. all in all, the townspeople and achelous' relationship towards one another is symbiotic.

𓆩♡𓆪 OTHER INFO ↳ achelous shows up to every town event, to everyone's surprise. they know he's not really fond of interacting with everyone, but his intentions are to ensure that the tourists/city folk isn't causing any trouble for them. he hates crowds, but he hates newcomers even more.

↳ the town only knows him as louis bellock, achelous thinks they don't have the ability to pronounce his actual name, so he lets them call him louis. bellock was made up on the spot when he was asked.

↳ when the first townspeople met achelous, he was a complete rugged mess. all his hair was completely outgrown, his clothes were mostly in rags, and he kinda smelled like dirt and grass. he was pretty frightening as a first appearance, and they also kinda assumed he was a squatter before he clarified that he was the owner of the ranch. it was then achelous decided he had to keep a decent appearance.

↳ his voice is on the lower octave, very gruff and rough. achelous almost has a complete southern accent, but still has hints of a greek/roman one that occasionally slips out. he's also very blunt sounding, almost as if he's bored or very uninterested with a conversation, and he'll usually only talk in a few words or less if possible. sometimes it'll come out scratchy or crackly if he hasn't spoke in a while.

↳ achelous owns 2 kangal shepherd dogs and 2 bernese mountain dogs, they're all male. — agre (kangal) — hyrcanus (kangal) — nebrophonos (bernese) — ichnobates (bernese)

↳ achelous had to teach himself how to read and write, and thanks to the library and this new-fangle internet, he managed to learn much quicker. his penmanship isn't the best, but it's still legible.

↳ achelous's sexual orientation can be considered to be aroace since he never met anyone like him and most humans disgust him anyways. however, due to his conservative values, he's more interested with the female gender. he's also kinda still a virgin, due to the fact that he literally has no experience with romance/sex in general.

↳ achelous is skilled at the guitar (he had years to learn and perfect it), and he'll often play it deep into the night in front of the fireplace.

(will continue to update this whenever i get ideas)

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

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sykokilljoyy · 2 years ago

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hello 🤍 i really enjoy ur writing and would like you request a w2s x reader- where they both attend ethan & faiths gender reveal party together and he ends up getting major baby fever and also just very soft, in love, clingy harry. thankyouuuu :)

baby fever - wroetoshaw imagine

request: hello 🤍 i really enjoy ur writing and would like you request a w2s x reader- where they both attend ethan & faiths gender reveal party together and he ends up getting major baby fever and also just very soft, in love, clingy harry. thankyouuuu :) words: 797 warnings: none! a/n: hes actually the sweetest shut up. also thank you for your patience!

TLDR: harry just loves his partner and wants a baby.

Festivities were high, the energy of your friends bubbling through the crowd as you all stood outside, looking on at the beautiful decorations set up for Ethan and Faith’s gender reveal. It had been a special few months, a lot of celebrating and congratulating your friends for their massive milestone in their relationship.

Whilst it was emotional, seeing the man you’d known since you were a teenager, grown up with a beautiful girlfriend and a baby on the way, you couldn’t help but be elated for them.

Feeling a strong arm pull you into his side, your boyfriend, Harry, dragged you from your thoughts.

“You alright?” He muttered to you closely, pint in one hand and the other tucked around your hip.

“Yeah, yeah, I think so,” A sniffle crumbled your entire facade, earning a sympathetic smile from Harry.

“Come here,” He pulled you fully into him, placing a kiss onto your forehead and feeling you bury your head in his chest.

The cameras weren’t on yet, only a few handheld ones capturing Ethan’s friends and family’s bets on the gender of his future child, and so you let yourself have a little cry before the spectacle starts.

“I’m just so happy for them both,” You cried with a smile, a chuckle reverbarating through Harry’s chest.

Pulling you from his warmth, he tenderly put his hands on your shoulders, looking you in the eye, a soft smile on his lips, “I know, love, now come on, lets get you a drink and go see them.”

Wiping your tears, making sure not to smudge any of the makeup you had spent an hour on in the morning, you grabbed Harry’s outstretched hand and followed him through the crowd of Ethan’s loved ones.

The rest of the afternoon was filled with talking, laughing, singing and dancing as friends and family managed to catch up and celebrate before the big reveal. Both of you had been dragged from couple to couple, mums and siblings, cousins, distant friends and people you’d never even heard of before. As tiring as it was, the excitement still hadn’t died down.

It was Harry that surprised you most. Usually, these bustling social events would drain him until he was empty. He’d be distant and sensitive, usually a drink in hand. Today was different, however.

Not once had he left your side, his tone giddy and exciteable as though you’d only arrived moments before. Clingier than usual, his hand was slotted comfortably around your waist and hadn’t budged once. You pinned his flushed excitement down to happiness for his friend’s announcement, but something about the elated grin on his face whenever he introduced you as his girlfriend had your heart leaping from your chest.

“Yeah, I think it’s gonna be a girl!” You smiled at the camera pointed towards you, bright pink badge pinned to your jacket.

“I’m putting £250 on boy, so it better be one,” Harry laughed towards the lens, his tone playful and light, before smiling at the cameraman.

“Perfect, got it, thanks guys! Enjoy the afternoon.” With that, the cameraman walked onto another, gathering bets for the intro.

Nonchalantly, Harry looped his shoulder around you, taking a sip from his drink, “I can’t wait for us to throw something like this one day.”

Looking up at him, you grinned, “A gender reveal, or a really extravagant bet?”

“A gender reveal, you know. Our future kid is only gonna get the best.”

Shocked, you choked slightly on the drink you were sipping, halting your walk, “What?”

Stopping in front of you, Harry turned to you, confused, “What? You don’t want that?”

A slight sinking feeling reached his stomach, and you could see as his brow fell that his nerves crept in, “Of course I do, you know I do! I’ve just never really heard you bring it up, Harry.”

“I know I don’t talk about it much, but I love you, a lot, and I can’t wait for the day we have a little Harry running around, you know,” His words were soft, almost soft enough to distract you from how sheepish and nervous the man looked in front of you.

“Oh, come here,” You spoke, the warmth of his words hitting you in the chest, matching his flushed cheeks, you pulled him towards you. Though usually his hugs were gentle, as though you would break in his arms, this embrace he held you tight and flush against him.

“If this wasn’t Ethan’s big day, I swear I would propose right this second,” Harry mumbled into your hair, and you pulled back, about to speak when he continued, “But just know, I’m gonna marry you one day, Y/N, I promise.”

“I love you, Harry,” You whispered, the words delicate on your tongue.

“I love you, Y/N,” A kiss met your lips, sweet and special, as though the whole world had turned their backs, as thought it was only you.

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pinkmelodie · 7 months ago

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First Miguel fic + 250+ follower special ୨୧

I’d like to start off by saying THANK YOU SO SO MUCH FOR ALMOST 300 FOLLOWERS !! And 2000+ notes?!? omg. I checked my inbox a few times and saw 99+ notifs every time, and when I tell you I SCREAMED. As a new writer I can’t thank you enough for all the notes and sweet comments ! I’m so grateful, so take this fic as a thank you <33

Warnings: Miguel is hinted to have slept with socks on which….is a trigger on its own apparently 😥, potentially botched ass Spanish……(no Google translate was used tho, my French teacher taught me better than that), p in v, making out, grinding, slight blood, reader has no chill nor filter but Miguels lowkey into it, degradation, bondage, banter, oral, praise, etc.

a/n: Takes place before the whole Miles incident !! I love Miguel but I can’t forgive him for doing that to my son 🤨🤨 This could also be imagined as König, since they’re both huge stubborn men <33

Pairing: Female reader x Miguel O’Hara

Summary: Miguel is pent up and needs a release. Lucky for him, there’s a certain spider woman who’d do anything for him <3

Words: 4141 (DAMN I shocked myself w this)

. . .

Miguel runs his hand through his hair, grumbling when he feels it’s getting to a length that needs cutting again. Just another thing to add to his pile of responsibilities.

He pushes the fumbled blanket off to the side and lazily palms at his morning wood, finding the ministrations do little to help his raging hard-on. He’s shocked, mainly that he could still get one with how tense he’s been lately, but mostly that he’s actually annoyed that he has to jerk off. It feels like a chore to him now…though taking care of himself in any sense has since he became Spider-Man.

With a sleepy groan he drags himself up and to the bathroom. His mismatched socks are soft against the cool bathroom tiles where he turns on the shower. His muscles stretch when he tugs his white sweater over his head and tosses it onto the ground nearby, abs tensing and shoulders refusing to relax no matter how much stretching he did.

When the rest of his clothing join the heap on the floor he steps into the freezing cold shower, twitching at the icy droplets that felt like tiny icicles poking into his taut skin.

He hoped the temperature would make the nuisance go down, but it raged on, standing proud at its full height. Miguel never thought he’d find himself glaring at his own dick, but here he was, horny and heavily pissed off.

He reached down and tugged at his cock, rubbing his thumb over the angry red tip. He jerked profusely, yet all it did was leave him feeling unsatisfied and humiliated.

“Fuck.” He cursed, washing his hand off before aggressively turning the knob to stop the flowing water. He tried to remember what he had to do today while pacing the bathroom, but he couldn’t focus with his erection clouding his thoughts. Maybe if the blood would stay in his head…

He was an attractive guy, he knew that much. It would be easy to go out into the town and hook up with some stranger, but not so much so when he was in this constant sour mood. That sullen energy & resting bitch face paired with his looming height would scare any woman away.

Any sane woman.

You tied up the last of the criminals in your silky webs, smiling in victory. Unfortunately, the joy wasn’t long-lasting since as soon as you got home you felt boredom creeping up on you once again.

For weeks you’d been entertained by the intimidating founder of the spider society; Miguel O’Hara.You’d been bugging him for days on end, literally drooling at his feet and begging him to come back to your place.

He kicked you out multiple times, but like a cockroach you couldn’t be squashed—and neither could your need for him. You just couldn’t take a hint apparently. When he picked you up by the back of your suit and threw you back into your universe, all you focused on was how easily he carried you with just one of his big, veiny hands.

The way that suit hugged his defined chest so well, and his massive arms where you could see every vein…plus that prominent bulge? You were sunk.

He’d finally run out of patience for you when you ‘accidentally’ messed with the tech for his suit, almost making him go full commando in front of everyone in the spider society.(wouldn’t be the last time that happened…) He banned you for good, taking away your ‘multiversal gizmo’ without a second thought.

Your last words being ‘worth it!’ as you were flung back into your universe by the go-home-machine seemed like the icing on the cake to him despising you forever, but apparently that wasn’t the case because the man himself just appeared in your living room.

“Y/N.” He addressed nonchalantly.

You stared at him, jaw agape for a few moments before pinching yourself to see if you were dreaming. You had to be, he basically filed a restraining order against you. A really complicated, multiversal restraining order. Why would he ever voluntarily come to you?

You couldn’t even respond since your throat felt so dry .. . It seemed your body had other ideas of where to soak.

“Why are you so obbsesed with me?” He suddenly asked, paying no mind to your awkward silence.

“uhm-“

“I mean, you chased me around every day, eyed me down so intensively it was basically public sex and yet here you are, alone with me like you wanted, and now you’re speechless?” He stalked around your living room, circling you like a bird of prey.

You blushed up a storm and stood frozen in front of him, trying to discretely rub your thighs together.

He eyed you down, noticing your obvious ministrations but only chuckling. “Sometimes I had wished you were an actual spider so I could crush you under the soles of my shoes, but lately I’ve found myself feeling as horny and desperate as you.” He admitted with a smirk that revealed his sharpened fangs.

That confession had your mind reeling to the point all you could muster up was; “I would’ve let you step on me regardless.”

His smirk grew and he started to approach you until his shadow covered you completely. You had to tilt your whole head up to look him in his glowing red eyes now—but you couldn’t handle making the eye contact anyway.

“You are just a small little thing, yet I didn’t expect you to be all bark no bite. All those filthy things you said lingered in my mind..don’t you want to take care of what you started?” He asked in a deliciously low voice. The almost mocking manner he said it in made you feel called out, and you looked down at your hands and picked at your nails to try and calm yourself.

A clawed finger tilted your head up by the chin and forced you to look into his eyes. How could you forget—in all your time spent basically stalking him you noticed how he never broke eye contact with anyone that he was speaking to. It was both exhilarating and intimidating to see, and you felt that full force while finally being on the receiving end of it. “Look at me when I’m speaking to you, arañita.” He ordered, and it sent tingles shooting up your spine.

You swore you heard your neck crack from how fast you looked up at him. He looked predatory staring down at you like that, eyes gleaming in the sunlight. “So? Will you finish what you started muñeca?” He asked, as if it was even a question to you.

“Fuck yes.” You agreed without missing a beat, making him chuckle darkly. “Needy thing.”

Before your mind could catch up you were suddenly being lifted by him and thrown on his shoulder with ease. He walked through the halls of your cozy apartment and waltzed into your bedroom without even searching for it, carelessly throwing you onto the bed.

You landed with a bounce on the soft comforter, feeling even smaller now with him standing above you. “Wha- how do you know where my bedroom is?” You asked when your brain finally decided to have a rational thought.

“I’ve done my research—wanted to make sure you weren’t a spy. It was a waste of time, really, you’re just a horny stalker.” He shrugged.

You stared at him with an offended expression (tho it was 100% true) and went to argue until your lips were suddenly sealed by sticky red webs.

“On your back.” He ordered.

You crossed your arms at him first until he repeated the command in a low, dangerous voice. “Now.” Any defiance you had pretended to have quickly left your body and you laid down flat on the silk sheets.

He stalked over to you, all big and menacing as always. He leaned over you and forced your wrists together, twirling more glowing silk around them until they were bound above your head.

He smirked down at you, leaning in to pepper kisses all over your neck. He sucked dark hickeys onto the sensitive skin of your throat, enjoying your muffled moans. While before he found your voice excruciating—he was now desperate to hear it crying out his name.

He stripped the webs off your mouth and you whined at the pain. The feeling resembled a bandaid being ripped off a fresh cut. He cooed pitifully above you and leaned in, whispering “Pobre araña, why don’t I kiss it better?”

You nodded desperately until his lips met yours with a slight sting. He growled into your mouth, swirling his tongue around yours and exploring your mouth until you were squirming. He nibbled on your bottom lip, sharp canines threatening to break the skin. He pushed his muscled thigh between your legs and pressed down on your clit with his knee, the pressure making you moan under him. Your sweet sounds drove him wild, and he couldn’t help but bite down lightly on your lip until tiny droplets of blood dripped onto his tongue.

He groaned at the taste, his animalistic split-DNA going wild. When he pulled back—lips reddened, hair tussled and fallen slightly in front of his face— you couldn’t help but stare. His face looked so much more chiseled up close, cheekbones perfectly defined and a jawline sharper than the claws currently resting on your hips.

His toned chest rose up and down steadily while he regained his breath, the familiar spider symbol on his suit growing bigger then smaller with each rise of his lungs like it was breathing.

“Let’s take care of these, Cariño.” He addressed your clothing as if it were nothing but a nuisance for him before slicing your shirt right off you. He did this with ease, big claws moving onto your bottoms and clawing those off as well.

“Hey! Those were nice.” You pouted, though apparently he didn’t appreciate that comment because you were now being tied up even worse than before. Webs spewed from his wrist and circled your body like serpents, tying around your waist, arms, and thighs. “Don’t be a brat.” He ordered, webs tightening in warning. Once satisfied, he admired the way they looked pulled taut against your soft skin. “Red looks lovely on you, amor.” He praised, a quick switch from his previous comment.

He lifted you and reached behind your back, unclasping your bra with one hand. He threw it onto the ground somewhere with your torn up clothes, focusing his attention on your soft tits.

He hummed in content, playing with your nipples and letting his webs circle around the soft flesh of your breasts. He licked and sucked at one while tugging on the other, making you moan and squirm under him.

“Fuck Miguel- ah! more!” You whined desperately, coaxing a chuckle out of the behemoth.

“Such a desperate slut.” He tutted, sucking marks all over your chest to match your throat. He kissed over the already forming hickeys, grazing his teeth dangerously close to your jugular. This man was massive, and made of pure muscle like a Greek god. He could easily hold you down without the help of his webs, but he wanted to focus full attention on you.

He finally moved down to where you needed him most, going to rip your panties straight off you before you rudely slammed your thighs shut. “You take off your suit first….” You whined, embarrassed at being nearly completely nude before him while he was still covered. He was genuinely offended by this, feeling like he’d just had a door slammed on his face, yet he grumbled and messed around with his watch until the hologram started to dissipate.

Your jaw dropped wider and wider the more you took him in. The man resembled a skillfully carved statue belonging to Olympus itself. His biceps and abs were enough to challenge even Ares himself. Your eyes trailed lower and lower, leisurely mapping him out until your eyes locked on the weapon between his legs.

His dick stood loud and proud against his toned stomach, and it was massive. The man is 6,9, you knew he’d be big, but this thing was around 9 inches and looked like it could rip you in half. You couldn’t tear your eyes away from it even if you tried—I mean—the thing was basically introducing itself to you. We’re talking hello, how are you and goodbye.

Miguel basked in your ogling, his ego swelling more than it already had since he first noticed your obsession with him.

You finally snapped out of your trance when he bent down and slipped off your soaked panties, kissing up your leg as he did so. You spread both your legs for him and he took that as an invitation to lean in and lick a stripe up your wet cunt. You jumped, not expecting him to get into it so quickly, but you definitely didn’t complain.

He prodded a finger at your hole and pushed it in slowly, holding your hips down with his free hand. He made sure to be mindful of the claws adorning his fingertips since they wouldn’t go back down thanks to his clouded mind. The thick digit went in without much resistance thanks to how wet you were, until he pushed in a second and started scissoring them.

You moaned and whimpered at the stretch, two of his thick fingers the size of nearly four of yours. He pumped them in and out quickly, the slick sounds your pretty hole made for him music to his ears. Your slick dripped down his ring and middle fingers that he was ruthlessly pumping inside you and dribbled down his veiny forearm.

He massaged your walls and pushed against them, scissoring his fingers to stretch you as much as possible. He couldn’t hit your g-spot thanks to his clawed fingertips, so he sucked at your clit to fill that extra stimulation until your head was rolling back.

Something circled your waist and you figured it was his arm until you looked back down to see more webs. You would wriggle far too much without them, and he needed his other hand to spread your folds to drag a mix of his salvia and your slick around your twitching clit. You mewled at the overwhelming stimulation, bucking onto his face while he had a full on make out sesh with your pussy.

Only when he finally sunk four fingers into you and you were basically on the brink of tears with need did he pull away. Not without blowing on your sensitive clit, of course, just to see you twitch and squirm under the unrelenting grasp of his webs.

He stood up with a playful smile, freeing you from some of the webs just to pull you to the edge of the bed. Your ass met his pelvis with a slap when he yanked you by the ankle that quickly locked around his waist. He chuckled out something in Spanish that you didn’t understand, maybe along the lines of “Qué bonita putita…”. You didn’t bother to question it when he started to grind his rock hard dick on your drooling pussy, getting him all nice and wet to push into you.

Only when he was coated completely in your essence did he listen to your pleas and finally line his fat tip up at your hole. Even with the all the stretching, your poor cunt had to stretch to accommodate the swollen red tip. His pre-cum mixed with your juices when it finally popped in after some resistance, and he groaned at the warm feeling.

“So fucking tight, your poor pussy can’t take it, hm? You were so confident when you were begging for it like a desperate whore.” He growled, degradation making you clench Impossibly tighter around his head until he had to bite back a groan.

“Please Mig, I can take it.” You begged, rutting your hips onto him and trying to coax him deeper until he swiftly grabbed your waist. His claws dug into your skin, threatening to break through. He pulled back and you immediately assumed he was going to tease you again for being desperate.

Straight away you whined out apologies, stumbling over your words and pleas until he suddenly slammed back inside you, cramming 5 of his solid inches into your hole. You screamed, tears brimming on your waterline at the stretch. Your back arched off the bed and you squirmed away from the sting until he pulled back and rutted back in again, almost as if testing the waters.

With every drag of his hips his cock slowly got deeper into you until he was bottomed out completely. His tip kissed against your cervix and you looked down, amazed and horrified to see him crammed inside you so snugly. He gave you a moment to compose yourself—preoccupied on the bulge in your lower stomach.

“My good girl, fitting around me so perfectly. That wasn’t so hard now, was it?” He teased, dick twitching at the fucked out moan you gave in response.

It definitely was hard, yet his dick was harder. You could feel every single vein and ridge pressing into you, rubbing against your gummy walls in a way that left you drooling. You suddenly understood why he’d prepped you for so long. It wasn’t just to tease you, this just was not an easy thing to take.

“Move,” you pleaded, correcting youself when he raised an eyebrow, “please.”

He hummed, palming at the fat of your hips to see the way your skin sunk under his touch. “I don’t know Cariño…do you really deserve this dick?”

You gave him your best “are you for real?” face. This man was not about to make you beg when he was the one to randomly show up in your home. You’d been begging on your knees for him for months, and now he chooses to acknowledge it?

You made it your personal mission to go against everything he’s ever ordered from you, and the grind never does stop, does it?

“Like you deserve to kiss my ass?” You jest without hesitation.

You can see the way his whole face stretches; clearly dumbfounded at your response before he’s able to compose himself. With your cunt wrapped around him so tight and warm like that, it’s easy to forget the pretty spider underneath him is a little rascal.

“You were just whining a second ago, don’t try that,” He warned. “You’ve been begging for it for months, practically humping my leg in front of the entire Arachno-Humanoid-Poly-Universe.”

You groaned at his insistence on calling it that, even while balls deep inside you. “I didn’t sign up to fuck a geek,” you mutter.

“With the way you approached me I’m sure you’d fuck just about anyone, puta.”

You wanted to be insulted, but your words caught in your throat when he leaned close to you to whisper right into your ear; “Quit acting like you had any dignity in the first place and beg.”

His warm breath on your nape left you shivering. Miguel wasn’t human—not completely. With DNA mixed with a spiders, he was a predator; one ready to devour you whole.

It wasn’t a surprise to anyone really when you gradually let quiet pleas spill from your mouth. Miguel had half the mind to make you speak up, but he was loosing his thin amount of patience as is. With a satisfied click of his tongue, he pulled back until his flushed head was right at your entrance “see, was that so hard?”

You knew better than to try and answer at this point when he rammed his cock back into you. Huge hands gripped your thighs and pushed your legs into your chest while he bullied his dick further and further into your cunt.

Your pussy was embarrassingly loud for him, squelching with each brutal thrust of his hips. His muscled thighs were tense with the pure strength he put into slamming into you—beating your sensitive pussy in until it memorized his shape for life.

“Mig- ah! Holyfuck!” You screamed, draping your arms over his shoulders and scratching at his back like a cat post.

“Go on princesa, mark me up.” He encouraged and got a better grip on your thighs, pushing your legs out to a full spread. He had you displayed like a dinner feast and bent you like a lawn chair with your lower half on his toned chest. He was actually impressed at your flexibility, yet like always he chose the worst way to phrase it.

“I’m shocked, I never expected you to do any real training.”

“Fuck you.”

“That’s what you’ve been wanting, is it not?” He gloated with such a shit-eating expression that you just had to wipe off his face. He sunk deeper into you when you pulled him in for a kiss and it had you clenching around him.

His thrusts got more erratic until your mind was clouded with only the sounds of his dick disappearing into your cunt. His hands were dragging you back onto him by the hips at the same time, so you could feel him bumping against your cervix with each thrust.

You were too fucked out to say anything other than broken moans and mewls of his name, and he wasn’t too far off.

“So pretty Cariño,” he groaned, “all for me? mierda- yeah, all for me.”

A string of loud mewls along with shameless moans poured out of your bruised lips in response. He pounded your pussy with so much vigour that you edged forward on the ruffled mattress with each rough thrust.

He massaged your throbbing clit between his fingers, laughing at the way they kept slipping around from how much of your own arousal was dripping down your cunt. Heavy balls slapping against your soft skin filled your ears when you felt that coil in your stomach start to snap.

“Pussys gripping me like a fucking vice- you gonna cum for me?” he teased, “look baby- look at how well this sweet little pussys taking me.”

He took your hand and lead it down until it was tracing the prominent bump in your stomach - You could feel every brutal thrust and see the way he ravaged your insides. You pressed down on it, getting impossibly tighter around him and the broken moan he let out was what got you.

He quickly tore a mind-numbing orgasm out of you - thick cockhead still splitting you open while he worked your clit. You soaked his cock and squeezed against it, shaking and crying under him until you could barely take it anymore.

He smiled in pride, sharp fangs showing and making him resemble the waiting mouth of a shark. “Such a good fucking girl, coming all over me like that. Look at the mess you’ve made,” he hummed, observing the noticeable white ring you left around the base of his cock.

His thrusts stuttered before stilling completely inside you. He made a noise akin to an animal before spilling his hot cum inside your welcoming heat with a shudder and a broken moan.

“Mfhm- mierda.. .” He cursed, his warmth filling you up so much it started to spill out.

You felt like a rag doll under him, half-asleep and smiling dumbly up at him. He chuckled and admired one last time how pretty you looked in his glowing red webs, wrapped around you like his own custom lingerie.

He sliced them off you and smiled warmly when you raised your arms out to him. He leaned in to let you wrap your arms around his massive shoulders with your legs now wrapping around his waist.

He picked you up with you curled into him like a koala - the warm sensation of his cum dripping down your connected bodies grounding you while he walked to your bathroom.

He pressed soft kisses to your marked up-neck while he ran a warm bath, rubbing at the indents his claws subconsciously left on your hips.

You didn’t remember exactly when you fell asleep; somewhere between when his large hands washed the cum off your skin or when he gently laid you down on your fresh bedsheets.

All you knew was that you woke up to the smell of clean laundry and noticed snacks and a water bottle left on your nightstand. There was a note too that you had to reach over to grab. His handwriting was smudged but fancy, and it was so adorably him that it left you smiling ear to ear.

“Had to leave early. Meet me in my office tomorrow and we’ll discuss how you’ll be living in my universe from now on ,seeing as how you’re now mine, mi vida.”

. . .

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