#aniya writes ૮ ․ ․ ྀིა

[theogonize]

so, nerdy loser college boy choso *sighs* *opens legs*

a/n: just so you know, this man is gonna make you do all the hard work for a piece of that loser boy dick 😮‍💨 so... um so at some point around 2000 words in i realised this is way more than a hc post :3 eat it up if you will!

nerdy!choso who borderline has no friends except his gaming buddies who doesnt meet irl like ever. he doesnt like going to classes, especially this one. he doesnt need it but it's a requirement for all first years. and boy is glad it is when he sees you come in.

nerdy!choso who only listens to discussions when you're talking. suddenly he needs to put down his headphones and nod at every word you're saying. his eyes follow every gesture of your hand, every sway of your ass, every single time you fix your hair.

nerdy!choso who is starting to get a bit enamored with you, your style, your way of speaking. he loses track of time gawking at you in class from the last benches as you prettily do all the work in the class. he hates how beautifully your hair falls on your face, how nicely your clothes fit you despite being pretty modest for college. he hates how he can see the silhouette of your tits when you turn to the side. but he's too much of a gentleman to keep looking.

nerdy!choso who ends a game early when he remembers you, lying and saying that he had promised someone to meet them somewhere. the place is his bathroom and the person was you. god, you really shouldn't wear those tight jeans to class y'know? how will he continue to be a gentleman if you do?

nerdy!choso who despises groupwork but prays to dear god this class has some reason to pair you two together. he's getting so desperate to talk to you knowing damn well he too pussy to do it on his own. and the lord answers his prayers, the teacher assigns groups of three for a presentation. it's you, him and some slacking trust fund baby.

nerdy!choso who is about to combust and have a full blown panic attack when he sees you approach him after class with that smile on your face that would make the angels swoon. you're going on about distributing the work equally and what not while he is trying his fucking hardest to not accidently make eye contact with you and piss his pants : (

nerdy!choso who now has your name, your number and your email and he feels like the happiest man on earth. his hands are literally shaking as he responds to your request to call. he's overthinking every word he types.

choso: yeah i can do wednesday. choso: i'll be okay with whatever day you want.

nerdy!choso who hops on video call and short circuits with a view of you in an oversized band tee and a brief view of your room. why did you have to be this pretty? why did you have to video call him when you couldve done the work on text? why did you have to put your hair up like that? why oh why did you have you say "choso? hey, you there?" so seductively to bring him back to the present?

nerdy!choso who gets like no work done in a 30 minute call which felt like three hours. he knew he would hardly be paying attention so decided to record the call with your consent, saying he'd need the notes you were typing out on screen only to play it back and stroke his dick to you for what might've have been the twentieth time this week. his strokes only getting faster as you say his name in that voice he imagines sounds way better moaning and screaming it instead.

nerdy!choso who, after the presentation, is on greeting terms with you when he sees you studying in the library. he sits as far away from you as he can while still being able to see you. occupying the coziest corner of the library to stare at you study right when you come up to him.

"can i join you, choso? i'm all alone and your space seems comfy" you say with a smile, "of course, i dont mean to disturb you, is saw you were on your own too, so..."

uh oh, uh oh, uh oh. god no. please no. please dont say yes. please dont be staring at her like some dumb idiot (too late) please.

"uh... yeah sure why not?" he awkwardly says as he makes room for you to keep your things. he was such an idiot for thinking he could say no to your pretty face in the first place.

nerdy!choso who is absolutely drunk on your scent. it feels way better than any alcohol he's ever had. he feels like an animal in heat when he smells your sugary perfume mixed with the styrofoam-y air conditioned smell of the library. you're gonna kill him, yknow? how is he supposed to respond to this? what is one to do when their stupid college crush sits next to them? he gives you a half smile before furiously typing away on reddit, the only place with answers for losers like him.

nerdy!choso whose hands. oh his hands. (can be i a big whore for a second?) his long hands that feel like they're the size of your face. his kempt, beautiful and trimmed nails. his lengthy fingers that seem to yearn for something more to foddle with than just the keyboard or controller. he typed as such an insane pace it made your pussy ache. he was going so fast, jesus. those hands were meant to do more than just ask "how to talk to girls" on reddit.

nerdy!choso who (on the advice of reddit) asks if you would want him to order something for you. you tell you had a frappuccino not too long ago and that it was quite sweet and filling. and he hates himself for thinking that he could give you something much sweeter and filling than that like a horny fourteen year old.

nerdy!choso who is now determined to not come off as a creep so he does his work with the focus of four adderalls. he is typing as fast as his heartbeat, not realising he got two classes worth of work done in just an hour. he looks over at you, blissfully unaware of the absolute war in his mind.

nerdy!choso who feels as though if he doesn't muster up the courage to ask you out right then and there, he'll probably be the biggest loser on the planet. (as if he wasn't already)

nerdy! pathetic! choso who stutters a million times and barely gets the job done then too. his eyes are scanning your entire being (trying his best to not gawk at your tits) for any sign of discomfort.

"so- uhh so ummm... wo-would you, like, uh... like to do this again? sometime?... i got a.. a lot of work done today, so.."

oh heavens, the sheer nervousness in his tone makes you want to pull his pants down and show him how to really get work done.

you agree with a smile, even suggesting a better, more ambient (more romantic) cafe to study in. choso's heart is about to burst and flood the fucking library with his blood the way it is beating at an alarming rate.

"umm yeah uh 5 sounds... awesome... i hope it isn't a-a bother to you?" "no way, choso. i loved today," you offer him a smile as you gather your things, "i really like your hair, by the way" "i like your hair too, y-y-you smell very nice", he gulps.

fuck. why did he say that? what? you smell nice? who says that? is he like ten? you can't help but giggle at the sheer embarassment on his face.

he feels as though he's gonna melt into a puddle and turn to stone and throw up all at the same time.

nerdy!choso who is the most stupidly hot guy you've ever met, you think as you go giggling back to your dorm. mental note: pick a skimpy outfit for 5pm ;)

[theogonize]

fwb!suguru who knew he wanted to fuck when he first laid eyes on you. then wanted to take you out to endless dinners to chat his ears off when he first spoke to you.

fwb!suguru who grew to like you without fucking you, almost forgot it was what he wanted you for – a life together or a night together?

fwb!suguru whose dick got painfully hard when you taunted him, rolled your eyes at him or outwitted him. he lived for your sassiness.

fwb!suguru who happened to fuck you on a random night unexpectedly and it changed the trajectory of his life.

fwb!suguru who stayed after every dick appointment. cuddled with you on the bed, watched movies or your favourite TV show, ordered take out and held you in his arms till you both inevitably fell asleep.

fwb!suguru who couldve sworn he wasn't in love with you. he would still fuck other people (and then come back to you, poor baby was thinking of you the whole time)

fwb!suguru whose grown accustomed to your presence. he calls you when he isn't feeling okay, you call him when something bothers you. he's grown used to you telling him all about work, how you got your nails done, how you saw a cute cat near your apartment. trivial details, which coming from anyone else he would hang up, but he looks forward to them with you.

fwb!suguru who eventually stops fucking other people and is just your man, without you knowing.

fwb!suguru who is determined to mark you up in placed people will notice. your neck, your thighs, your collarbones.

fwb!suguru who believes in giving you his all. all of his long girthy dick that pumps you full it should be criminal, his long slim fingers that have made you orgasm so often and hit that deep spot with unbeat ease, his long tounge... oh god his tounge. he thinks maybe even his long life ahead is yours too, all yours. his little kids too maybe? he doesn't like to think too much about that.

fwb!suguru who has to have your pussy checked with his tounge daily. he has to lap up your insides no matter any circumstances. his voice purrs across your body when he talks you through your orgasm.

"mhmm yeah cum all over my face beautiful, I know you want to"

fwb!suguru who gets sick at the thought of you sitting so pretty for another man when you tell him you're going on a date. suguru who looks so disturbed at the thought of another man even looking at his pretty girl who isn't really his.

fwb!suguru who takes you to corporate events just so he can call you his girlfriend, even if it's just pretend. when you question him it's always "easier explanation than a friend i fuck on the regular, isn't it?"

fwb!suguru who knows how you like your coffee in the morning. he knows what you like for breakfast, your comfort food, your hobbies, your favourite movies, your least favourite movies, your icks, your past. he knows you like he knows himself. he thinks of you when he passes your favourite cafe, he texts you when he sees something in the colour you like.

fwb!suguru who is sure he hasn't felt this way before, who is so vulnerable with you that it scares the shit out of him.

fwb!suguru who is afraid, angered at everything about you. he's angry at how you lull him into a sense of security, how you hold him, how sweet your voice sounds when you call him by his name, how you take care of him, how you listen to him. he hates how your pussy clenches his dick for dear life, milking it dry and how you never let a drop of his cum go to waste, licking it up like a little slut. he's fearful too. about losing you. about where loving you the way he does leads. loving you? wait. he loves you? fuck. fuck. fuck. this hasn't been according to plan at all.

[theogonize]

1.1k words, cunnilingus, stressed out jimmy

hungry, horned up, stressed wilson can only cope with messy pussy eating. even when he wants to take, he's actually giving. for someone whose an amalgam of neediness and want, he was never good at expressing it, but one day he just breaks down.

"i- i just really need you right now" he basically sighs his words into the emptied glass. a few drops of water trickle down his jaw and chin. the singular kitchen light illuminates his sheer neediness.

"aww baby, of course," you say, as you gesture him to your lap. some semblance of pride swells up in you. you're taking care of wilson. and not the other way round like he always insists. you're proud of him for admitting that he wants you, needs you, for the first time ever.

he rushes near you, opting for the empty spot on the floor beneath your legs rather than the one beside you. he clutches onto your legs like a raft at first. like he's drowning and youre the only thing keeping him afloat. something in your heart sinks seeing him like this. you smooth his soft brown hair, running your hair through his greying streaks. his puppy dog eyes, the gentleness in them.

he whimpers to your touch, nuzzling his face into your lap. shivers run down your back as the sound reverberates in your core. his hands run up and down your calves. you try scratching his back, his neck, his scalp with your nails. his hands start ascending up your legs, now grabbing handfuls of your thighs to knead and grope.

wilson shifts uncomfortably below you. you finally pay attention to his semi. seems a bit painful, honestly. some part of you just wants him to lose control. just this once. fuck whatever it is that bothered him so much into you with whatever energy he may have. god, you want him to use you so bad.

he starts planting wet, desperate kisses onto the inside of your thighs. you instinctively close your thighs around his head, chest heaving with this sudden wave of arousal flowing through you. as he works his way up, a small, almost inaudible "please" escapes his lips amidst the kisses. he's using more teeth now. you slowly stand up and let him undress your lower body. he takes off your shorts and panties in slow tugs and bundles them up to use as padding for his knees. he looks up at you, almost like he worships you, like you're some savior of his. something makes it hard for you to swallow.

wilson tugs you down onto the couch, maybe with a bit more force than he intended, really. his hot breathe makes your joints weak. thoughts of everything he's about to do make it feel like you've lost all control of your muscles.

"wet." he huffs the single syllable between your thighs like a caveman. "so wet."

remarkable observation.

that's all he can mutter out. the sight, the smell, the access; it all made him so hard it ached him. he yanks your cunt closer to his face and gives it a sloppy kiss. you writhe.

his tongue comes next, licking a cold strip on your heat. he buries his face in there, trying to savor your taste on his tongue before going at it again. he taste tests your cunt a couple of times to hear you groan.

but then an unknown devil possesses him. he moves the pace of his tongue from a gentle wine tasting to a rabid feast. god, this man was starved all of a sudden. you yelped in protest, he only moaned into you as a response. every beat resonating through you. he laps you up, tongue reaching front to back and prodding deep inside your hole.

"oh baby, james- i- slower-"

his lips only suckle at your bundle of nerves. your eyes now overflow with tears of burning desire. werent you supposed to help him relax? his nose presses against the hood of your clit, jittering with his exhales that seemed to shake through his jaws too. he was really panting like a dog. all you could do was moan in desperation, your volcanic orgasm burning inside your core, waiting to erupt.

"need it. need you. thank fuck-" he groans into your pussy.

and then he does it. his iron grip on your thigh loosens as he brings his fingers perilously close to your cunt. james- cant- please baby, please rang through you. his sucking, licking and teasing rendered you incapable of putting out any cohesive sentences. you could simply beg. beg for an out, a release to tension building inside of you. his other hand is gone from your thighs too, moved down south to take care of the leaking tent in his office pants.

his little moans leaking out of his pretty lips, coupled with the two fingers inside you and the ever-steady tongue... oh you were about to explode.

"i'm so close, baby, fuckkk- i- i- please keep- ahhh"

a rush flowed through you. you tensed for a moment on his tongue. his fingers. then your spine decompressed. you let go. this felt so good, he felt so good. everything he did.

you tugged on his hair hard. he looked up. what a sight.

his eyes... bit glossy, much like his lips. you could kill him in this moment and he'd thank you, maybe even ask you to do it all over again. his jaw tensed. he looked up at you with an innocence you wouldn't expect from a man who still had two fingers inside you, you slick covering his lips like gloss. he licked them. as much as he hated you for pulling him back to reality in this moment, he could only stare at your flushed face, thanking him for his hard work between your legs with huffs and pants.

a stupid smile tugs at the corners of his glistening mouth. cocky. you like cocky. after all he deserves to feel this way after how he made you feel. he spills his seed in his pants. all after seeing your mouth wide open, cheeks flushed. he did that. he licks your taste off his fingers and wipes his jaw with his forearm. it drives you up the wall.

he gets up to clean you. you look at him with concern in your eyes for a second. is he okay? is this what he needed? certainly what you needed after those long nights being alone. he gets the tissues from the adjacent table.

"i- thank you"

you gape at him. did he just.... thank you?

[theogonize]

intentional voyeurism wilson... nnnghhhhhh (unedited filth)

when house off-handedly jokes about being able to "see everything" through the windows of their neighboring offices, if you and wilson were ever to fuck in his office... something nefarious sets off in his mind. he knew you were into the rushed secret sex thing, him even mentioning it made you giggle and blush. you weren't familiar with just how much house would be able to see through the windows. and you trusted james, you didn't think he'd whore you out to his best friend because it turned him on.

he spent the next few days testing out the angles from the balcony that would display your body the way he wanted.

one day, when you come to visit him, when he purposely forgets his lunch at home so you'd have a reason to, he acts up. he requests to meet you in his office, privately. you smile at house on your way there. he, in turn, eyes you intently. wilson greets you with messy, hungry kisses, already quite turned on by the prospect of house watching. he gropes your ass and pushes you on the desk.

"my my james, you weren't kidding about fucking in the office, were you?" you giggle breathlessly. the rush, the secrecy, this sudden neediness in your ever professional boyfriend; everything in this moment was spurring a mighty rainfall between your thighs.

he shakes his head, yanking your clothes off you as quickly as possible. he was being hasty till this point, he just wanted the fun to begin. it wouldn't until he messaged house: "for god's sake don't interrupt me right now."

fortunately for wilson, house wasn't actually off-handedly joking that time. he meant it. ever since wilson started seeing you, house was desperate to join it seemed. everything about your body and the clothes that hugged it ever so snugly made him extremely... curious.

pressing his teeth into your neck softly, he made his way to your bra, unhooking it with ease. he used both hands to tug down your panties. then he heard it. footsteps. the cane. he was on the verge of losing all control over the sheer excitement coursing through his veins.

he propped you up on his desk in a way where house would be able to see your tits and waist clearly but not your throbbing pussy, as he expertly began fingerfucking you. he teased house with the blurry yet distinct sight of your heaving, flushed chest and descriptive expressions as james drew moan after moan, scream after scream from you.

poor house. whatever wilson was doing, he was doing right. the way your brows furrowed and the way you bit your bottom lip... dear lord. you had left him throbbing and leaking in his pants. it took everything in him to not barge through the door and watch you orgasm on wilson's skilled fingers, spilling your juices all over his thick forearms. that lucky bastard wilson.

james pulled out of you, making you whimper at the sudden emptyness. he knew house was watching. he knew he had an audience to impress. you were his little showgirl. his pretty little toy he could show off to his friend. his licked his fingers, covering them with spit. he lightly smacked the side of your thighs. it was time to change positions. of course, wilson wasnt cruel. oh no. he wanted house to get a good view of his whore, his plaything. he bent you over his desk, exposing your bare ass and thighs to your secret voyeur, not so secret to your boyfriend of course.

but somethings are just his to see, like that pretty pussy of yours, and your pretty face pressed up against the desk as your pleads vibrated through the wood. his fingers and palm conveniently covered your hole, again. house was robbed of seeing the flow of pleasure on your face. he was disappointed. and helpless, as much he wanted to, he couldnt jerk off in the balcony. he just had to ache with no release.

the last view house sees is that of wilson licking your cum off his sleek fingers, looking him directly in the eye. he closes the blinds cockily as you pant and try to gather yourself. the eye contact sets off something nasty in him, house can't help but soil his boxers with his release.

that lucky bastard wilson.

[theogonize]

wilson didnt exactly plan on sticking around. he'd been going on dates at this point, whatever the internet organized, whenever he felt like releasing some tension. they never culminated in much. they had similar priorities and he was too busy to follow through. this was the routine. till once he saw a pretty girl on his screen. some arts major. young. very young. for him atleast. he should probably have let someone else take you, someone your age. but he's a bit selfish sometimes. he has to remind himself it's not wrong. house definitely tells him its not but house doesnt have morals, right?

but wilson can't help it. youre not like the rest. there's this inexplicable sadness in your eyes sometimes. there's this wretched anguish. this desire to be loved when you look at him. you already look up to him. he doesn't know if he likes it but it makes him curious. curious enough to call you again. curious enough to not fuck on the first date. curious enough to take things slow again. it makes him feel alive again. an adventure.

the more he knows about you, the more needed he feels. its a good feeling to have, if youre wilson. he likes the codependency. he likes to let you sit on his lap while you tell him how fucked you are. he likes to bore those beautiful eyes into yours when you start to choke up. he reassures you, it isnt a chore to him. he feels needed when you call him and tell him to come over because you feel scared and alone in your bed. he cares for you because he sees that you need it. he tells you to "quit hanging around a man twice your age" and "give boys your age a chance" because he wants to hear you say that you like him, you like that he's older and more mature and that you would rather spend your days getting psychoanalyzed by him over ice cream. he smiles. you follow the script. he's happy. he's needed.

and he's wilson. you already love him. you're messed up and he's just psychotically patient. he fucks, too. the sweet middle aged man you go out with really fucks. you're content. he buys you ice cream and cookies after sex. he tucks you in every night. he calls you every day.

somedays he doesn't though. just to see the progress on the codependency. it isn't mean or manipulative. but he likes to see you pout, maybe freak out a bit when he suddenly doesnt call one day or can't make it to your place. but then he returns to reassure you. he isnt leaving, of course, he says. he's just busy. head of oncology or whatever. and when you huff into his chest, his big chest; his soft but larger, stronger frame, saying whatever you just missed him. he lets you fall asleep on him, listening to his heartbeat. he's content. james wilson needs to be needed. you give him that. he's content.

[theogonize]

youngest intern in the history of ppth's oncology. thats you.

"you're still here?" wilson calls out to the void seemingly. your head peaks out from the crowded shelves of the lab to give him a nod.

oh this is bad.

this is not what you need. you dont need you're hot boss to distract you when you're trying to conduct some tests he asked you to. especially not when you haven't slept in 2 days and have had copious amounts of coffee in your system making you jittery. you dont need him to increase your heart rate to the point where your capillaries explode. oh you're gonna fuck up somehow. you're tell him you like him. because lord knows you do. your boss. you have a silly schoolgirl crush on your pathetically gorgeous boss. the kind that makes you nauseous and unwell because he's just so, so pretty. and you'd end up telling him that you'd risk it all if he just gave you the chance.

but you like this job. you need this job. you can't let it go just because you've got a thing for older men with kind eyes whose soft lips spill praises like...

"you there?"

"mhm" you gulp. somehow your mouth is really fucking dry. good god, james wilson. good fucking god. you just want to rub your face on his chest like a cat. you need him to touch you. to pet you. to run his deft fingers refined from years of surgery and paperwork and everything else through your hair or something... what's wrong with you? there's a pit in your abdomen that needs him. you need him to praise you, like he always does. you need him to look at you, take you in, take advantage of you. just dear lord do something. not just stand there and express concern as your employer. just come closer, please, your mind whimpers to him.

"i really think you should rest. we've made considerable progress thanks to your good work and extra hours. you've really proved yourself."

but you don't want this to stop. he thinks you're good. useful. your boss, the intellectual, witty and beautiful man you work for, the best doctor you've met. the one who puts in the hours and effort to better himself in what he does... thinks you did a good job.

wilson does find you admirable. he likes your work ethic, your thirst to prove yourself. he likes your obsession, he compares it to house's sometimes. he likes the way you talk, not much to him for some reason (maybe it's the "boss" thing or...) but everyone else in the oncology department. he likes that you're young and you hold him in high regard. you're always so attentive when he talks, so perceptive, so willing. among those things he commends, the kind of things he can tell his colleagues about, he also likes the tint in your skin when you stand under the dim lighting in the lab. some of it reflecting off your hair, slightly unkempt but beautiful. he likes you without the lab coat. he likes your keen eyes, your smile, your hands, your face, the swoop of your ass, your...

he lets out a deep sigh. wilson likes you. admires you. maybe overstepping his place as your boss, as your mentor, as whatever that is you're making him in your head, the reflection of which he sees in your eyes sometimes. something desperate. aching. calling out his name, as if to say "come heal me". heaven knows he wants to.

and he knows what it is. it's the same look of admiration he gives you. the murky one. the slightly lustful one. he knows what you are. pretty young thing, final year med student, who'd rather flirt with house than chase or foreman. but he'd rather pretend he didnt. rather kid himself into thinking he doesn't care when chase of all people calls you young. that he doesn't feel guilty for wanting you to want him.

but maybe if he played into it long enough, played dumb long enough, made you feel like this is just how he is. just this sweet. if he made you believe that he had a reason to fold his cuffs to reveal his rather slutty forearms, loosen his tie on a late night, take off his coat complaining about the new jersey weather, gaze into your eyes at every occasion he got, all in pure innocence. this isnt flirting. this isn't an old man's desperation and desire permeating his professionalism.

no. this is okay. all he hopes for is that one day you'll give in. confess your love to him like cameron did to house. fight for him. shed a few tears. maybe then he could wipe then off your pretty cheeks and sigh. he could then reject you. just speak those words of "i'm sorry, it's inappropriate and you're much younger than me" into existence. make them real, if only he could use all the rationality in the world to convince himself that he doesn't want you as despicably and carnally as he does.

he shuts his eyes and takes in a sharp breath. no. this isn't right. he'd be taking advantage of you. even if its what you want. even if it could be his little present to you.

"go home, doctor."

he leaves the door of the lab open on his way out.

[theogonize]

idk nanami kento is such an observant person, and his sense seem to heighten when he's near you. his ears ring with your moans and screams. he seems to feel every crevice of your pussy he might as well have memorised it. he isn't into any particular kink per say, but he loves the little things. every intrinsic movement of yours is just so hot to him. he enjoys whatever you enjoy because at the end, the hottest thing is when you cum for him. he knows when you're about to cum. you get painfully tight around him, moans turn into screams and whatever youre gripping to steady yourself would probably be broken. your breathless "kento fuck kento ken- ken... mmmm..." oh yeah he loves that. he loves how your toes curl and how you repeat his name like a mantra as you arch your back. fucking nanami would never be a one time thing cuz what man is gonna make you come like 5 times in a row?

[theogonize]

baby trapper wilson... oh i'm unwell, oh take me to the hospital

you're wilson's pretty young thing. you're the arm candy he carries around, the kind of girl that gets stared at wherever she goes. and he's him, he's the sweetest man ever, the most caring, gentle, kind man you've ever dated. you're young and naive and he's divorced thrice, that's not lost on him. or you. but you like it, you like that he's older. but for how much longer? how much longer will you let him subliminally make all your decisions? even when you think you want something, you scarcely realize that he's the one who put the idea there in the first place. you're so fucking naive, so fucking stupid, he thinks sometimes. and he loves it. you don't talk taxes or bills or medicine or divorces. he likes that. you talk about inconsequential things that you'll grow out of a month or two later. he's always afraid he's one of them. he's so afraid of you growing up or changing or anything because he knows deep down that he's alone at his big age and you've got the whole world wanting you, if only you stopped seeing him, if only you stepped outside to the world he's shielding you from.

it starts that way. it starts with that fear.

that's why he doesn't let you take birth control. he strictly advises against it, purely his medical opinion of course. he'll wear a condom, he doesn't want your hormones to be so imbalanced, that's dangerous. and god forbid your taste in men changes and suddenly you feel stupid for wanting this old man as much as you do. so you shouldn't take pills. and iuds are too scary. he pledges to always wear a rubber, for your sake and his. you don't doubt him once. why would you? james wilson, doctor james wilson, is the most responsible, sensible and well adjusted man you've met. you trust him, always, to be good to you and only want the best for you. so you agree, and he tells you that he loves you. because he does, the guilt is caught like rheum in the back of his throat.

you're all over him, giddy at his touch and so wet and pliable under him and he knows you're ovulating. even if he wasn't tracking your cycle, he saw you were in your best mood. so hungry for him, and he intended to give you exactly what you wanted. but to break the promise he made, the one he never intended to keep, he had to make you cum as many times as possible. till you became a weak puddle of desire and need. till you became incapable of responsibility. he devours you. his tongue and fingers work tirelessly to bring his plan into fruition. he's fucking you like he knows he'll be missing out on nine months of this. and you're begging him to be inside you, fill you up. it's till you're tugging at his hair and pleading inside, please james, inside... me till he thinks you're ready. or he is.

he kisses you, tasting of you, smelling like you. you taste like nothing, just yourself; clean, pure, just the way he likes you. his tip ghosts your entrance and you're quick to buck your hips to meet his. that is, until god knows who reminds you to be responsible. you gesture at the drawer next to the king sized bed. you don't trust yourself to be coherent. wilson sighs, it's the silent kind of sigh he does when he knows his patient is dying or house is going to do something stupid and reckless. for a moment there he really hoped it would've been that easy.

he began rubbing circles on your clit. you looked away teary eyes, overstimulated, overwhelmed. you pleaded, you begged. he shushed you, he shushed you like a crying child. he placed small, soft kisses on your body, almost as if he was afraid. he opened the drawer, took out a condom. he tore the wrapper and watched you exhale, relieved. you spread your legs instinctively at the sound.

wilson enters you, bare. and fast. so you don't dwell on the feeling of his tip for too long. his hands run along your sides to soothe you, as him. his head falls forward at the sensation of your tight, spasming cunt and he sees reason in doing this all over again. his forehead touches yours. it's all so tender, you think, all so sweet and beautiful like james himself. you open your eyes to look at him. his graying hair sticks to his forehead, glued by the sweat. there's a sheen around his mouth from where it once was. he has these fine wrinkles that seem more prominent in the low light. he has those rough, experienced hands that hold you in place, because you need to be held in place. you need to be pinned down where you belong because you're restless and young and hungry for more more more. you touched his hair, his cheeks, his face, his lips. all of it.

"i love you," you told him, your voice small.

and that fear dissipated into the steamy, sex-smelling air. it was his fucked up way of thinking you wanted this. his strokes were deep, hard and punctuated with grunts, just the way you liked. he took things slow, promising to make you feel every inch of him. you clenched around him in that painfully delicious way that made him cum in minutes. he muttered a string of profanities.

he looked down at your messy, glistening cunt and thought, this is what it will look like. this is the sight he'll see in a few seconds when he fills you up and lets it drip out of you. he lets his eyes rake over the rest of you, all changed and plump in due time. and then he'll have you, he'll have baby wilson and all the people in the hospital to brag to. he'll take you wherever he goes, conferences, talks, medical stuff you never had to attended before. he imagines being seen with you and your creation in the hotel lobbies. "doctor james wilson," he'll introduce "and my wife." he'll say with a loving, doting smile. it could all be so perfect and sappy and comforting.

his hand now pressed your thighs into a gruelling mating press. he had to go as deep as he could. he was close, he could feel it. his paced switched from slow caresses to hard smacks. your body pained in this new position for a while, but you liked it so very much. you arched your back, you moaned so loud the walls reverberated them back to you. god, he fucked so good when he wanted to. you wonder why he never pushed you this far before.

"i'm gonna cum. baby, i'm gonna cum." he left inside you unspoken.

you nodded, feeling yourself close for the hundredth time today. his cusses turned into i love you's. he threw his head back, his hot, white seed spurred inside you. comfortably. like that was where it belonged anyway. you came seconds later, on the verge of passing out. he stayed perfectly still inside you. he exhaled, almost like a sigh. he couldn't pull out of you, not until he's sure you're going to get pregnant.

your lips utter a silent thank you, almost like a prayer. wilson shakes his head, telling you there's no need. he kisses you on the cheek before finally pulling out. you fall asleep in seconds. so peaceful, so oblivious.

[theogonize]

im like... sick and twisted over sugar daddy wilson who's enjoying his pretty young thing more than he ever anticipated. he's paying your tuition, half your rent and anything else, that you could adorn yourself with. every weekend he makes sure to taking you on a shopping spree, something that wasn't in your deal but he just really likes to see you happy. and also he gets one hell of a show each time.

something about basically paying you, more gifts than cash, dissolves his sexual inhibitions. you won't leave. you can't. he can, if he wants to, be less nice to you. he can fuck the way he was always scared to fuck, do the things he was scared to do with his girlfriends. but you're not his girlfriend, you're his sugar baby. there's a difference, no matter how much he listens to you talk incoherently about your interests, no matter how many nights you sleep over. he doesn't have to treat you like an equal. it's oddly emancipating, the idea of doing whatever he wants with you. the freedom to. unrestrained like he never was. a pet dog without his leash who gets to run wild but keeps pawing his neck, the feeling of the leash.

but he's still restrained. he's a gentleman, he's programmed that way. he would never go beyond your limits, never. when he fucks you particularly rough, the kind that makes your legs weak for days and leaves you feeling the ghost of his dick inside you every time you squeeze your legs, he buys you something particularly expensive. he just can't take without giving. you like it, of course you do, even though you tell him you like the way he fucks you too. he shouldn't apologize for prioritizing his pleasure. you're not his girlfriend, you are his sex doll. the one he likes to dress up in skimpy designer clothes he bought with his hard earned oncologist money.

you're starting to feel bad, kind of, because you're growing quite fond of him. it's impossible not to. he's the only man who isnt a pig. but this... this arrangement negates the idea of anything real ever happening. sometimes you both stay awake dwelling on the possibility at the same time, unbeknownst to each other. his heart beats precariously fast as his hand crawls into your palm one night, wanting so desperately to hold it.

he doesn't know how this thing is going to end.

when his analyst furrows his brows at the receipts from hermes and dior and chanel, he just shrugs. he can't help it, you're the most beautiful financial liability in the world.

[theogonize]

late nights and extra hours are annoying for most people. people who have to get home to their family members, partners, even pets. so naturally, increased enthusiasm to stay overtime was a sign of loneliness.

 there were two lonely people in the oncology department who hardly had anyone to come home to. you, that was more or less explainable by circumstance, you were new here and focusing on doing well at your high-end doctor job. but doctor wilson? you were sure he had a wife. this inference you had drawn from the wedding band on his slender fingers. this little article of jewelry was a cause of silent strife for you, stupidly so. you’re gorgeous boss was taken, of course he was; he was a respectable oncologist, diabetically sweet man who looked almost painstakingly beautiful in a lab coat. how does one look that good in a lab coat? 

but apart from musing about your boss, you often were in the clinic early and left late, running tests and working the scans. and he was there too, doing some paperwork in the office. he was always diligent with his paperwork, almost a bit too much, almost as if it was an escape and he was relieved when it piled up. another night to spend locked in his office and not in his bedroom, with his wife, as if she wasn’t even there. 

but you knew she was, you felt her presence even though you’d never met her and she never presented herself as a physical barrier. you felt her (or was it your conscience?) separating the two of you, like two like ends of a magnet repelled invisibly. you kid yourself into thinking if she wasn't there, if he took off the wedding band, if he was single – you’d make a move. sure you would. 

you usually refrained from bothering dr. wilson when he’s cooped up in his office, not wanting to disturb his peace, something he clearly craves when he’s here. but today you felt a little braver, for some strange reason, you felt a little valorous. so you let out a shaky exhale – none of those in front of dr. wilson – gathering up the courage like a middle school boy about to ask his crush out. you push the door to his office.

he looked up, slightly perplexed seeing you there, at this hour or maybe at all. he sat in his office chair, slightly angled, the joint paper and weed laying carelessly spread over his paperwork. his cuffs are folded up to his elbows, brazenly showing his muscular forearms. the light in his office seems to bounce off him. there’s a halo around him, there always is. you immediately regret your decision. stupid, stupid, stupid. to think you could do this, feel normal when he… when he literally looks like that. angelic. otherworldly. your voice is caught in your throat. it’s pathetic how much you want him. his face screws up in embarrassment as he begins to recognise you from the shadows; how could he not, you were his favourite.

unbeknownst to you, or anyone apart from house, really, you were his favourite. why wouldn’t you be? you were kind, pretty, intelligent. obviously, you don’t really like your employee for things like that, so he just said that you were a hard worker, you were perceptive around patients, you were always polite and punctual. an indispensable asset to his team. he was always wishing you would linger a little longer around him, so he could work his signature charm; the pathetic attempt he would make at befriending a desolate woman in the hopes of sleeping with her, as house would put it.

but maybe he didn’t have to try too hard with you, because he knew, everyone knew, that you liked him. maybe more than just your employer. maybe. and that was one of the only things that kept him happy. the possibility of you reciprocating if he ever made a move. 

after stuttering for a few seconds and almost falling over you hand him the test results, accompanied by the ct scan. 

your nervousness is rubbing off on him. it’s too late to hide it now, especially when he’s made such a mess on his desk. not like it matters, you know he does this for patients sometimes. he doesn’t need to be nervous. why is he nervous?

now that you had made it this far, you weren’t going away without some small talk. and come on, the topic was right there, partially rolled in his hand. 

“is this for the osteosarcoma patient?” 

that was your most recent one. room on the second floor, two months of radiation and the nausea had started kicking in pretty bad. wilson almost felt guilty for it not being for the patient, despite prescribing dramamine just a few hours ago. this odd moment of personal space invaded by you, and yet he sat here, welcoming it. because you were his favourite.

“uh no. it’s for me.” 

he wasn’t just welcoming it. he was inviting you over. he was being honest with you, encouraging questions. encouraging to fill the void, fill the space. the one you hadn’t created but certainly widened with everything you did. your desperation for his approval like his desperation for yours, a symphony made from the two most anxious, people-pleasing oncologists. 

you needn’t respond. your face said it all; wide eyed, mouth slightly ajar. you’d lost all train of thought, and maybe some respect for him, wilson figured.

“do you… want to join?"

how much more forward does he need to be? a man like him rarely has to make a move like this. women jump at the opportunity to be with him simply because he is him. the sweetest man. the perfect man. he, who sat here late at night, avoiding his wife, and hoping that his much younger employee would join him for a smoke. perhaps, in due time, a little more. 

“i- i don’t… i haven’t… i’ve never smoked.” 

but dear lord. it doesn't get any better than this, does it? you would have to be completely braindead to turn down an opportunity like this. does it scare you? smoking in your boss’ office? in the hospital you both work at? especially when he looks like that, talks like that and just is like that?

“i could teach you.” 

“if that’s okay with you… no pressure.” he adds as an afterthought. 

you nod, anxious. he gestures towards the couch, you comply. he grabs a lighter and joins you. your heart pounds in your chest. you pray to god he can't hear it.

you shifted uncomfortably under his gaze. his eyes were so intense when they wanted to be, so expressive, conveying a thousand things and you, blinded as you were by his sheer presence, were unable to comprehend any of them. there was something about his face, his features, their softness. those pleading eyes, goddammit. they made you yearn for him uncontrollably.

his movements were slow and deliberate. the lighter flicked in his hand a couple times before it engulfed the tip of the joint. wilson watched you react to the flame, your eyes steady on the burning paper. he found it amusing how immersed you were, how new everything was to you, how exciting. he found himself wishing he could see the world from your eyes as he dragged the joint, turning his head away from you and blowing smoke in the other direction.

“your turn.” he said, offering it to you. 

your hands awkwardly try to hold the joints from different angles. ultimately, you surrender. wilson takes another hit as he watches you give up.

“i don’t think i can do this.” you bite your lip. fuck. you feel like a failure. failure at doing something reckless and stupid with your boss. failure at fun. “sorry.”

“don’t be.” wilson reassures you. he always does. you forget he deals with impossible cases like you all the time. “i’ll hold it and you suck in the smoke, for now, okay?”

you nod fervently. okay, this is okay. you can do it. you can have fun. 

his fingers caging the joint now reach towards your lips. you look at the burning paper and the green stuff inside it, then look at him for some sort of go-ahead. he doesn’t break eye contact. neither do you. you slowly put the end in your mouth, sucking in the smoke, like he told you to do. your eyes keep searching for his approval while his… they just take in the sight in front of him. 

you blow it out. the earthy, bitter aftertaste in your mouth. wilson stares at you, agape. 

he mutters a quiet good god before bringing the joint back to his own lips. you stare at them shamelessly.

“okay this time, suck in some air with your teeth and push it deeper… if that makes any sense.” he demonstrates as you watch him, committing every move to memory in order to emulate it perfectly. 

he brings the blunt to your lips, more careful this time, more focused. you revise the instructions in your brain and follow. the weed starts to hit the back of your throat, choking it. 

you cough out the smoke. wilson, being the doctor that he is, rushs beside you. his strong arms wrap around your body, he rubs your shoulder in soothing circles. 

“there, there. just breathe. exhale.” 

you nod amidst more coughs, making sure he knows you're listening. obeying. always. his hands begin sliding lower down your back, reaching the middle before they flex. his conscience slipping in, stopping him from moving further. you take a big breath. your head spins, falling back on wilson’s chest unknowingly. 

and he doesn't mind, as long as you don't. he smokes again, presses it against your lips again. slower this time, he whispers. you do, boring into his eyes. this time you're able to do it. this time the weed permeates within you. your shoulders relax a bit.

the to and fro continues. with each passing second, the tension grows thicker and thicker. every second you glance away from wilson's big, brown eyes is accounted for, remembered. all the moments you've taken away from him, all the moments the two of you could spend doing this, everything. 

he teaches you, he guides you. his eyes stay fixed on you, your swollen lips and how they kiss the end of the blunt. each passing second your body melts further into his, just the way he likes it. he hasn't moved his hand, he hasn't stopped embracing you. one hand on your waist, the other dragging the blunt from his lips to yours. 

“you're a natural.” he remarks.

“i am?” 

“almost as if you've done this before.”

you let out a soft chuckle. 

“i really haven't, doctor wilson.” 

you had to… you had to break the immersion didn't you? you had to ruin this perfect moment by reminding him of what you both were. wrong. unethical. wilson looks away, his expression unreadable. he feels you looking at him, thinking, adoring. 

his lips vibrate, his body aches. despite the smoke and haze, never had things been so clear, so simple. all laid out in front of him. never had it been so confusing, the line between love and lust blurring indefinitely, turning into the smoke coming from the burning joint, enveloping the two of you, bringing you so close. he felt the heat radiate off your skin. hot. it burned. everything burned.

for you, the lines were always blurred. they were unclear from the moment you accepted this job, from the moment you started this silly crush on your married boss. it was always deeper, always soul crushing. it always burned.

wilson brought the blunt close to his lips as you watched him move for the first time in a few minutes. nothing in the world seemed to be as important as his lips at this very moment. so pink, so perfect, so painful to witness without kissing. 

mouthful of smoke, wilson comes impossibly close. your eyes close involuntarily, afraid that if you see this sight you may never be able to live without it. he takes that as an invitation. his lips touch yours with utmost sensitivity. you tilt your head, giving him access, permission. and he takes it. 

your mouth fills with smoke, it pushes on your throat. but you swallow. you can't pull away now, so you swallow like a good girl. your lips move on their own. you can barely process wilson's weight on you, his hands on you, his tongue entering your mouth with feverish intensity. your hands move everywhere, anywhere. you have to feel it all, soak it all in, because this might be a dream, this may never happen again. but its happening right now, and it is impossibly better than you could have imagined. 

successfully out of breath and rock hard, wilson pulls away. the sight of you catching your breath, your chest heaving up and down, your lips swollen, wet. if he could freeze time, this would be it. he runs his hands through his hair. unbelievable. 

he puts out the blunt before he dives back in. he can't physically pull away. it's too much. like a moth to a flame, like metal to a magnet; the pull, the attraction, it's maddening. at this moment, nothing hurts. nothing's real.

[theogonize]

finals week would stress out the best students in your class and you weren't one of them. studying hours upon hours was not easy and left you cranky and depressed. fortunately you had something you were sure the others didn't have. your biblically gorgeous boyfriend twice your age who also happened to be the head of oncology at a prestigious teaching hospital here.

not only was wilson insanely smart, he'd been through the motions of giving multiple exams, preparing for the mcat, studying for practicals and the like. you could always rely on him to be there for you, he made sure of that.

despite being super busy with patients, he would call you every few hours to check up on you, never letting you get too freaked out about things and keeping you grounded. he would listen to you ramble for hours about how scared you were or how much work you had remaining. he'd be intently listening and comforting you through your daily breakdowns. ((⁠╥⁠﹏⁠╥⁠))

certainly, he had no obligation to be this sweet to you. i mean, any guy, even an year older would think of you as immature and accuse you of blowing things out of proportion. but your 20-something-years older boyfriend is way past childish comparisons of who has it harder... because it's obviously him. but he never lets you feel that way.

sometimes you try to push him away, hating how pathetic you may seem to him. but he tells you he felt the same in med school so he can empathize. what did you do to deserve this man?

wilson would get home and pull you into the bedroom for some quality cuddle time. he'd run his fingers through your hair and lightly massage your scalp to soothe you. he would insist on giving you a back massage after all the hours of sitting you'd done. he would run a bath for both of you to to take together after he returns from his shifts late at night. he'd do everything to help you relax; play some jazz, light up candles, get some of the expensive wine his coworkers gift him. he would even dry your hair as you revised before bed. then put you to sleep whispering praises and softly rubbing circles in your back.

wilson knows just what you like but more importantly what you need. and it's always him.

[theogonize]

wilson's run to the ground after his fourth divorce. he's becoming more and more like house. he doesn't care for love anymore or so he thinks. but you're exactly what he needs. young, pretty and naive. he likes all of those things about you and you know it. it's different when he calls you naive, he doesn't have the contempt in his voice like house does. he likes it. so naturally you like it. he's got this thing where he could say anything, literally anything, call you a dumb bitch for no reason, but because his smile is so sweet and his eyes are so kind and his lips taste like coffee creamer and he smells like sanitizer and he is so much older and experienced than you, you'd let it slide.

and likewise, he knows you have a thing for him because he's older and he makes you feel safe. he knows you look at him with something clouding your lust, a kind of love he knows you're misplacing. but it makes him feel happier about aging, knowing he can milk your daddy issues for all they're worth. he's perceptive and empathetic, those are two things people love about him. he notices everything. everything you never did about yourself. he knows you don't like talking about your dad. he knows you like it when he's protective over you. when he makes you breakfast in the morning. when he doesnt call you "baby" or "honey" like he usually would with a partner but "princess" and "doll". he knows you like him boasting about his experience. he knows you like him towering over you. he knows he can trap you with reassurance. but he doesnt make you call him daddy because then it would be obvious to you too.

everyday he thanks the man that scarred you. feeling grateful it is him that takes his place.

[theogonize]

house and you as pill/smoke buddies is on my brain rn mhmmm...

it probably starts when he catches you on the roof, blunt in hand, sighing into the void. your lab coat is abandoned on the sill. hard day at the hospital, child patient. couldn't save them. you know this is a high stress job, emotionally draining and you've never been good at coping. so there you are. some diazepam you swallowed down thirty minutes prior already in your system. must've kicked in already. house see's you and he's instantly intrigued by the arch of your back and the curve of your hips. perfect in those tight pencil skirts you wear. he doesn't know you but he's dying to figure out.

"i think you've stolen my spot." he clambers up to you. he's surprised you hadn't turned when you heard the cane. were you so deep in thought? you turn to look at him. register him. disheveled looking older man, 5 o'clock shadow, piercing blue eyes... and so you're type. you try to recall who he is. definitely a physician from the absence of a lab coat. is this the infamous...

"dr. house," he states. obviously the speed of your reaction, or lack thereof had intrigued him. your pupils were dilated and your breathing was irregular... though you might attribute that to present company "and you should not be this high while still in the hospital."

you breathe out the smoke you inhaled with a slight smirk. it makes him smirk too. you turn your back to the view and face him and subsequently eye his frame. he returns the favor, a lot less suggestively then you were. but of course he can't hold you to it, the way your eyes flutter is mostly because of the weed. heavy, intoxicating eyes. something tells you he doesn't mind it.

"don't tell. i'll leave in a minute and you can have your space back" you say.

"i said you stole my spot... who says you have to give it back?"

you smile and scoot over, tilting your head slightly gesturing him to join you. he pops two vicodin innocuously but you notice.

"damn, you swallow your pills dry? you're a sociopath" you giggle.

"i thought you as a doctor would be careful throwing around serious medical terms like that" he says, feigning an accusation. there's something about the intensity of eye contact you're holding. you've just met the guy and there's wayyy too much sexual tension in the air.

"not in the psychiatric department so no one can hold me to it," you say, blowing smoke in another direction. some part of house wanted you to blow the smoke right at him, not breaking the mutual eyefucking going on at the moment.

"how else did you get the lorazepam you've taken?" he asks, a sly tone like he has you all figured out. this was just a question to get you to spill the beans about your department. god you made him so curious. rarely had he seen a hot young doctor brazenly smoking after, presumably, taking a little something something. one so open to converse with an old man whose in her business.

you chuckle at his self assuredness.

"wanna take another guess?"

house uses this to shamelessly eye you. you're well put together, great sense of fashion. nice proportions. your body, not the outfits... he'd prefer you without them surely. no tremor. no injury, so no usual pain medication. you let out a heavy sigh and house darts his eyes towards your chest. great rack, he thinks, almost like he's going to put it in this mental patient report he's creating.

"hmmm, haloperidol? you don't strike me as the psychosis type though... i don't see anything indicating you inject yourself with ativan. diazepam?"

"you know your anxiety medication, doc," you smile. he sighs abashedly. god he's hot. something about that rasp in his voice, good god, paired with the vanity radiating off his skin... it does something to you. you finally introduce yourself, partially because you need him to call you by your name in the same raspy, smug tone.

"pediatric pulmonology..." he puts a hand to his chin, scratching his stubble as if contemplating something serious, "it's always the childcare specialists trying to overdose on the hospital terrace. dont blame you, if i had to deal with those parasites i'd want to kill myself too."

you shoot him a look. your sure you dont need to tell him the stakes of the job, the weight on your soul when a child with an obvious chronic and fatal condition comes into intensive care. the cruel hand fate plays on a mere baby. "kids are a product of their environment." you put plainly. you look away into the distance. "and i'm not trying to kill myself. not yet anyway." he stops prodding, obviously he's ticked you in some way.

"are you trying to kill yourself? doctor house?" you stare at him now, and then move your eyes to the almost empty bottle of vicodin.

"oh, i'm an addict. an addict whose due for a refill." he puts the bottle at eye level, as if examining a test tube. you can't help but give a defeated smile at his bluntness. you stare off into space again. a hollow silence follows. you don't dare look at house once.

"you mind if i take a hit"

his question catches you off guard. there's an earnest in his blue eyes. almost as if involuntarily, almost hypnotized, you hand him the joint. your fingers brush as if on purpose. your breath hitches again. and house notices, coloring his eyes a different shade of vain. he puts the blunt to his lips, your eyes follow his every move with heed. the pink of his lips soon emit the familiar smoke. he looks you right in the eyes as he blows it onto your face. you bask in the smoke letting it cloud you. cloud your judgement for a split second as you lean forward. for a kiss? maybe but

house puts the blunt to your lips this time, dragging his thumb across your bottom lip. you look up at him through your lashes, eyes blown out wide. he's so tall, even with his cane. he lets you intake the smoke for a second longer than you like, maintaining the intense gaze on you. there's a kick in your stomach. maybe it's something. maybe it's nothing. maybe you're just high. but you swear you've never been wetter.

[theogonize]

house md characters and my valentine's day headcanons <3

house is definitely going to pretend like he does not care for valentines and will go out of his way to act condescendingly about it. even though it genuinely does irk him to see corporates shove "love" themed merchandise down everyone's throats, he would make a sincere effort to get you flowers and something nice. he wouldnt buy you roses (unless it is your favourite, even then he would go out of his way to get them in a rare color) because he wants to be edgy but also thinks a flower you like/ represents you is a better gift. it's really sweet :')

wilson would be prepared in advance. he'd have a dinner reservations at a place you like, huge bouquet of roses on the dinner table first thing, even teddy bears. but in typical dad fashion will act like he forgot all about it when you mention it. "oh oh my god i have a surgery that day" just to see you pout and then surprise you. he's so stupidly cute (😭)

cuddy would defo go shopping with you if she got the time. she'd defo buy you clothes and shoes and everything you need to get dolled up for her. she wants to match outfits really bad. she'd get flowers delivered to your workplace with an elaborate card and everything. dinner at a nice cozy place followed by wine in the bathtub and head 🗣️

chase isn't too much of a bouquet kinda guy. he would much rather spend the day with you rather than do something too elaborate. of course he would buy you anything you ask but he prefers getting the princess treatment himself. he would be into a (disastrous) cooking date where all he does is nibble the ingredients in a corner and sing corny love songs in his heavy accent. he would be all over you physically tho <33

cameron has a binder. she's been planning valentine's day since february 15 of last year. she likes to try the cute things she sees on pinterest and then jot your response to them like you're a patient 😭 "patient tloml enjoys handmade treats and quality time" she's super into crafting/ handmade things (she's so cute)

foreman is a late night skyline view dinner and wine drunk sex kinda guy to me. he does it by the book most of the time. he really would appreciate you doing something for him but he doesn't have expectations from valentine's day. he's moreso obligated. I think he'd be more involved if it was a personal milestone day like anniversary or your birthday, then he'd go all outttt. but he makes sure you have a good time nonetheless. maybe would gift you some jewellery :>

[theogonize]

morning sex! with nanami! it's all i fucking think about!!!!!!!

(arranged marriage au? slight somnophilia?)

he was usually up before you. like wayyy earlier. he's learnt not to bother you even though you can feel his massive weight be lifted of the bed. you know his routine by now. he goes to the gym early, showers and makes himself a cup of coffee by the time you start cooking breakfast. that's the routine, that's one you're aware of. what you don't know is that he's been watching you sleep... for like... everyday you both have lived together.

and it's !!not!! creepy, of course, you are his wife. it's not creepy, the fact that if he looks at you too long he starts to feel his pants getting tighter, a siege of blood flowing south.

it isn't wrong, when he pulls your covers down from your face. of course he just wants you to breathe easier. it's not lust. just an added bonus that he can now see your pretty lips parted, begging for a kiss and your pretty tits squished by your arms as you lay on your side.

if it's not wrong then why does he... why does he feel this way? this guilt? and why does it make him hornier?

so one of these weekends, as he told himself, he'd try his luck. it was all too unbearable for him at this point. you were fogging up his brain with these lewd images. and worst part was... you were oblivious to the effect you had on him.

it's a sunday. his body wakes up at the usual time. wee hours of the morning. you're by his side this time. it's all up to him now.

he tries to be discreet, at first. try lovey-dovey stuff first, as the internet has told him. you feel him shift in the bed and suddenly your husband's massive arms hug you from behind. the muscles tense as he pulls you to his chest. his heart is pounding. and its barely like 5 am.

"you're sleeping in?"

"yeah, weekend."

"no gym?" you ask. you both sleep face opposite sides, this is one of the few times you've had to adjust your body to his frame. you squiggle as you talk, trying to fit the soft curvature of your body with his flatter, harder frame.

"no.. it's uh... closed for maintenance today." he too has a hard time adjusting to you. to your curves, to your proximity, to how you slept in his arms like a fawn. to how he would conceal his erection to spend time like this with you. too much, too unbearable.

"oh, ok." you smiled. "wake me up if you need anything hm?"

you close your eyes once more. now something else woke you up. nanami's face nuzzled in your neck. his hands, this time, toying with your waist. his bulge apparent. it made sense now. you couldn't help but smile to yourself.

nanami kento is the beautiful man you are married to. gorgeous blonde hair. piercing brown eyes, shaped so angular that it's intimidating. perfect jaw structure. and god... that dick. he was caring and responsible too. how could a man this perfect ever love you? you were convinced he didn't. he always looked stoic, removed, disconnected from you an your relationship. he fucked you with care and gentleness and diabetic sweetness. you couldn't feel him want you. but you'd grown to want him. who the fuck has a one sided crush on their own husband?

but this... this felt different. this felt like all those fantasies were gonna come true. those moments you spent doting on him, creating the nastiest scenarios.

oh god, his soft blonde hair, unkempt and messy in bed. his eyes barely open, his body warm. he smelled like himself and not his expensive cologne. it was all so domestic. all so comfortable. how could you miss this side of nanami?

but you continued to be merry with the domesticity of it all to foresee how your perfect husband was about to perfectly split you open with his perfect dick.

[theogonize]

nanami the type to want to say "i love you" to you for the first time soooo bad it drives him insane but he !!has!! to do it properly. he has to take you out to the most fancy restaurant. he has to get you flowers and gifts. he has to stare at you and neglect the food in front of him. and then finally... when you go to thank him with a kiss, he'd say "i love u" in the most tiny mumble ever that you'd never expect out of this 6 foot 4 man.