#enamel sink

[departmentofinteriors]

[chloeeruby]

Sauna - Contemporary Bathroom

[geocyclist]

Just one thrift find today, something I never thought I would find. I’ll preface by noting that this was behind the counter and was sold for a fair price as a ‘deluxe’ item. A Le Creuset 6 3/4 qt cast iron round wide dutch oven!

Another view just because. This is the biggest one that I own and I can’t wait to make soup this week!

[cantankerouscatfish]

have been gifted 2 cassettes (Tears for Fears and The Police) and a stack of plates with sunflower patterns on them that my mum garbagepicked 🎉🎉🎉

[mybrainproblems]

Making my kitchen live-with-able with one small yet aggravatingly expensive purchase at a time 🚬😑

Begging the universe 🙏 that my fridge continues trucking on past service life until the reno 😭

[vibrantbells]

oh no, cute batfam enamel pins appearing on the gram!

Me: LOOK (politely and respectfully)

Also me: AAAA

[maxrspeaks]

Dating sukuna is difficult.

He’s not soft and tender, love comes like tidal waves, lapping at the shore before ultimately pulling back, distancing, and then, like wet sand you chase after him, texts, calls, notes, only the remnants of salty water answer back.

Sukuna is not a bad boyfriend. No. He remembers birthdays, he remembers anniversaries, he remembers every occasion that is important to you. On these days he makes an effort to be present, but that’s all you get, his presence, like the shell of a man he lingers, phantom like. He’ll light the candles on a cake, but he won’t take a bite out of it. He’ll help you tie the balloons together in clusters, but won’t smile for a picture next to it. All he does is be present, like he’s repaying a favour long overdue.

You understand him, you know him. Your skin is bruised from the hard, jagged edges of his enamel that nip and bite at your flesh, raw, hard bone sinking into you, pearly whites stained red. Then he’ll lick the wound, and it becomes love.

You still hurt.

But you understand him. You understand he’s not devoid of sentiment, he’s just robbed of expression. You know this because you see him, you notice him. The downturned edges of his mouth when he takes his shirt off in public spaces and there’s fingers pointed in his direction, children stop and stare, the appendage on his back grins in mocking victory, he doesn’t cower. But his frown is evident.

Sukuna never told you of his disability. No. To this day you haven’t heard him bring it up, the slits under his eyes gleam at you, only under proper lighting can you see them glimmer in pearly whites. The skin on his back prods out, extra bone and flesh accumulating atop each other, he doesn’t speak of it. But the first time he took shirt off in front of you, he waited, patiently. As though he was waiting for approval.

It’s difficult sometimes. He knows you deserve softness, gentleness. A kind of love that makes your face glow, your sides soften, a kind of love that doesn’t fuel the anticipation in your gaze that maddens you. But he thinks he’s getting around to it.

So when he sees you break down, crying, randomly on a tuesday evening. He realises how abysmally fucked he is.

“You’re hurting me.”

So he stops. It happens in a week. You see flowers in vase, your favourites, snuck into the corner of the hall, an embarrassing attempt at something. Then he starts coming home on time, he picks your handbag and slings it over his shoulder before you can, he tries.

Sukuna loves you. He chants it into the mirror every morning like a prayer. He loves you, he loves you, he loves you. He loves you so he won’t subject you to his sharpness. His crudity.

He loves you so he will soften himself for you. Why lick a wound clean when he can cease the very creation of the wound itself.

He loves you, so he will.

And its not blatantly obvious. But you notice it. You notice the grunt of the recipe book against the marble counter top, you notice the sickly sweet smell of cake wafting off the oven on the morning of your anniversary. You notice the way his fingers curl into yours when you drag him away for photos, and he mimics a smile as well as he can.

[yeyinde]

PRAIRIE WOLF | hinterland

John Price x Reader

MASTERLIST. AO3. [PREV]

“So,” he drawls, eyes skirting down the length of your body before coming to a pointed stop on your midsection, belly hidden under a thick cable-knit sweater he gave to you to wear. “What's the plan?” 

It takes you a minute to realise he's talking about the baby.

allusions to abuse. descriptions of injury. trauma.

The sound of rain pelting against glass rouses you from a threadlike sleep, one full of loose, spooling dreams and fractured memories. 

(dirty, blood-drenched snow. a hole in your belly. the acrid burn of heated, melting metal in your nose. a grunt—

come on, Coyote, hold still—)

It hums there, even with your eyes open. Even as you blink into existence. Sitting on the edge; little clots, microcosms you can reach out and pop like bubbles. Hypnopompia. A strange place where dream and reality blur—surrealism in fatigue blue. Ghosts pulled into consciousness. 

It's dark in the truck when you blink again, sluggishly mapping the features that stretch out before you, all shaded in black. 

Through the windshield is a world of dark green. Thick, dense clouds gather above the angular tops of conifers and giant evergreens. Thunderclouds rumble overhead, groaning with the heavy rainfall that pours down over everything in a howling baptism. 

Only the orange of the truck cuts colour through the thick deluge of blue-green and slate. Warmed by the heat of the engine. The cable-knit throw covers the red leather seats. It's as close to comfortable as you think you've ever been. Swaddled in a Levi's jacket tucked under your bare feet resting on the bench of the truck, hanging loosely over your shoulders. It smells of smoke—thick and dense, but sweeter, earthier than nicotine. Scorched pine and soot. Bonfires. Laced with sweat and oil and dirt—humus. Like the soil after a rain shower. A summer storm. 

It smells good. You sink into it a little more—into this cosm that you know won't last. A blanket of succour, soft wool that tickles your nose and warms your cold hands. Chases away the tendrils of a grasping dream reaching for the edges of your periphery—all claws and teeth and misshapen memories. 

Fractured bones. Burst blood vessels. A knot your belly—

The radio crackles as the truck drives down the winding highway, crooning something low and melodic through the static:

—stopped into a church I passed along the way—

The clock on the radio reads that it's just after seven. A jarring thought; the slow, sinking realization that everything happened in the span of hours. Ended only an hour ago. And now—

He's a wild animal you're not sure how to breathe around. A bear. His hand curls loosely over the steering wheel, the other braced on the ledge of the window, fingers tapping to the music spilling out, filling the cab. 

He doesn't look over at you, but you get the feeling he knows you're awake. Watching him. Hunter. Hunted. 

—well, I got down on my knees and I pretend to pray—

You thought you knew better. Come on, Coyote—

“Gonna stop and grab some burgers,” he grunts, a low growl barely an octave higher than the brassy singer on the radio. Softly spoken—or as soft as a man like him could manage—to not startle you. “Takeout. Tha’ alright with you?” 

You're not sure what to make of it. Him, this. Being asked, maybe. That alright with you?

When you don't speak, he peels his eyes away from the road, glancing towards you. A brow raises. Waiting. 

You shrug.

He grunts again. “Fine.”

His eyes slip down briefly to the metal name tag still pinned to the faded pink of your shirt, staring at the slanted words stamped into the enamel pin. 

Taking them in. Their shape. Then: 

“Why Coyote?” 

Another shrug. It pulls at the hand-shaped, fist-sized ache in your shoulder blade. “It's what everyone calls me.”

“It's not your real name.”

“No.” 

“Why do they call you Coyote, then?”

You think of a different weight on your shoulder. Heavy metal. Stale, warm beer and cigarette smoke coming in a puff of air over your cheek. Stay still for me, pretty girl. Gonna be in a world a’hurt if your squirmin’ makes me miss my shot—

A hand on your thigh. On your neck. 

Hole in your belly. Blood on the snow. 

“They just do,” you mumble around the crooning verse that swallows the tremble in your voice. “They always have.” 

Come on, Coyote.

John brings to you a small, rustic-looking drive-thru with a menu that has less than ten items on it. 

It's made of log and glass and smells of sizzling grease. There's a small parking lot to the left of the rectangular shack with a big moose's head on the front. All long antlers and a broad snout. 

MOOSEHEAD the sign reads in faded, firetruck red. home of the moose burger. 

When he said drive-thru, you assumed McDonald's. Burger King. Harvey's. The small shack nestled in front of a looming, slate-coloured mountain was not what you were expecting, and as he twists the wheel, navigating the winding path to the bright yellow menu behind a brown box, something shifts in your belly. A knot. Hunger, maybe. 

You can't remember the last time you ate. Not good for the baby. 

“What d’you want?” 

You blink through the haze of rain, the thick plume of condensation that gathers at the bottom of the window, and read the boxy letters pressed into the lit board. HAMBURGER. CHEESEBURGER. MOOSEBURGER. FRIES. SOFT DRINKS. MILKSHAKES.

John rolls the window down. The heavy scent of wet, oil-slick pavement and rust fills the cab. 

The speaker crackles. “Hi. What can I get you tonight?”

“Moose burger and fries,” he grunts. “Coke to drink.” A glance is sent your way. “And—?”

“Um. The same.”

“Make it two of those.” 

“Sure thing, hun. Come ‘round the front. Your order will be ready. Total is twenty-two seventeen. Thank you.”

He doesn't roll the window back up. Mist sprays against your arm, glistening under the smear of neon lights glistening through the wet windshield. It's cool outside. The mountain air is clean. Crisp. 

You've never been to this part of town before. To this town, you suppose. An hour out from the flat valley that made up the port city. The bay at your fingertips. Claws in your neck—

It's nice here. Green. Dark. Everything shifts, like it's on an angle. A slope. And you know it is with the towering mountain that looked like craggy chevron from the valley below pressed, imposing and massive, at your back. Your ears pop at the elevation, and breathing is both easier and heavier at the same time. 

The air is thin here, but you're so far away from that city, from him, that it doesn't matter if you suffocate now because it'll be your choice and not—

His hands on your neck. Ever try to run away from me again, Coyote, and it'll be the last thing you ever fucking do—

The bag is wet when he presses it into your arm. Dropping it down on your arched legs when you don't take it from him quick enough. You startle. Blinking. He doesn't glance over, just slides your drink into the cupholder beside his, and after a moment, mind reeling because how much did you miss just—

Thinking.

You hurry to settle into place. Legs twitching, sliding out from their protective curl against your chest—

A hand on your covered ankle stops you. “Don't need to move,” he murmurs, glancing at you briefly. But not—

Not really. Not looking at you but out the window, you realise, the truck dipping down on an angle as he hovers near the exit, waiting for the thin line of cars to pass before he turns back onto the highway. 

“Get comfy.” It's a suggestion. “Eat.” But that's a command. 

Your inside twist at the sound of it. Military, you remember Elliot saying. You feel it acutely in your bones, still thrumming, pulse tripping over that growling demand. Eat. 

Your body moves without thought. Obeying. Hands snaking out of the warmth cradled on the back of his Levi's jacket, one he must have thrown over you in your sleep, and peel back the rolled paper bag that smells of grease and meat. It's warm in the bag. You fish out the first burger and can barely close your hand around the thick of it, blinking slightly in startled awe at the size. 

Moose burger. A fitting name, but you think of home, suddenly, painfully, and wonder if it's real moose. Feel the clench in your belly at the thought. Of moose steak drenched in fat, seared on the stove. Moose stew in the slow cooker, left to tenderise in the simmering broth. 

“Ain't real moose.” 

You wonder how he knew, and can't be sure if you like the fact that he did. Guessed right. Chiselled inside of your head. Read you like an open book. It makes your pulse thunder, a roaring in your ears that dulls the scattered thunderclaps from above. 

“Oh,” you say, and feel the disappointment trickling in, thick in your throat. “Just the size, then?” 

He hums, and reaches into the bag, rifling around for a handful of fries. “Yeah. Jus’ the size. Ever had it before?” 

You think of then, of being tucked inside pants that don't fit. A shirt that's too loose. Feet in boots a size too big. All tattered and aged, worn down. Holes. Patches where the fabric was ripped and sewn back together. Jagged lines from an unpractised hand. Loose threads. Knots. The scent of cigarette smoke clinging to your skin. A plastic bag. A bruised apple that your teacher slipped you during the first recess. Leftovers. 

Moose meat stew. Rabbit. Ew, Coyote's eating something weird again—

Thirteen and crouching behind a bush as your dad angles the gun over your head. Big boy, he whispers. Gonna be eatin’ good this winter. Look’it the size of ‘im. 

The smell of duck fat sizzling in a pan. The crack of a beer can. Squeals of wood on slippery, cheap vinyl. Fried dough resting on the counter next to a tower of pop cans and an old Costco popcorn bottle filled with tabs. remind me t’send Robbie in the mornin’ to drop ‘em off. need the money for cigarettes. 

Then:

Moose tonight. Go’an an’ get your sister.

It's mild. Like beef but better, you used to think. Less tangy. Less thick. Depends on the season, your dad would say. Best cut is when they're just on the end of their rut. When they're eating big. Getting nice and fat. Tastes better like that. A bull not in rut, a skinny one, ain't as good. 

Moose is a strange meat. Prey animal, but it tastes nothing like a caribou or a deer. Rabbit. Not gamey, like a predator, either—like bear (braised black bear with gravy to make it tender; the fat stored away for later—another staple you think about). It's good. Different.

You miss it—even if the idea, the memories, that come with it make you feel scraped out and raw. Hollow. Empty. 

Your tongue thickens. You don't think you can speak. Not right now. So you nod instead—this shallow, jerking thing. Too solemn. Too low. Chin to your chest. 

John hums, and sinks the handful of fries into his mouth before he turns on the highway, one hand on the wheel. Knuckles raised. Marbled mountain peaks. Purple and red. Blotchy in the washed out glow of the dashboard. Swollen and painful looking but he doesn't even flinch when he grips the wheel, and the clotted scab peels, lifting off skin. Oozing thick, syrupy blood out from under the cracked shell. 

He pulls back when it beads too much, wipes it on his shirt, careless and unbothered by the stain it leaves, and then puts his hand back on the wheel. Smeared ink black in the gloom. 

That hand sunk into his—Sam’s—face. Caught on his sneer, knuckles tearing. Leaving blood between Sam's teeth. A split on his lip that made you think of the one—the ones—he left on yours. Tender and painful and swelling up in an instant. A pulsing throb, a heat. 

Over and over again—

His hand rifles through the bag. “Eat,” he says again, low, muffled around the dangling end of a fry. “s’gonna go cold.”

It already is. Somewhat. A soggy, grease-soaked bun. Patty still warm. Dripping ketchup and mustard down the sides and onto the plastic wrapper. It's heavy. Thick. You bite the end flattened by the press of your thumbs, teeth sinking into the burger. Taste familiar on your tongue. 

It's good, you suppose. Filling. You eat half before dropping it back onto the paper, reaching for the fries in the bag. Thick cut and crispy. Salted. 

The truck smells of salt and grease, and when your stomach knots—too much food after too little for so long—you wrap the leftovers up and slip it back into the bag for later. 

He doesn't say anything after that. His hand slides over the wheel as he turns up the winding road. Up, up. Deeper into the mountains where the air thins, and the trees thicken. An endless sprawl of darkness cut only by the muted gold glow of his headlights illuminating the wet, twisting pavement. 

You sink into the silence. Feeling the heavy, warm weight of the half-eaten burger on your thighs. The stretch of leather beneath your ankle. 

Heavy-lidded. Stuck in the sticky cobweb of fatigue and hyperarousal. Never really sleeping for more than a handful of hours at a time. Survival, you think. It's what the text in the pamphlet said, the one the lady shoved into your hands when you went to buy a pregnancy test from the store. It's not your fault: how to seek help for domestic abuse. 

Her eyes were kind—like the paramedics. Oh, hun. It ain't your fault. 

The problem is you don't think that's true. 

He—Sam—was a good man before he met you, wasn't he? 

But every so often, your gaze will slide towards his hand still curled around the steering wheel, knuckles split. Eyes suddenly heavy enough that you think you could fall asleep again.

His cabin is perched on the maw of a bay, accessible only by boat. 

He seems hesitant as he unloads the luggage from his truck, throwing them into a sleek-looking fishing boat bobbing from where it's anchored in a dock. Wary. Watching you closely like he expects you to run. 

And you know there should be trepidation. A strange man you've had less than a handful of conversations with, one who stuck his nose where it didn't belong, and is now herding you into a boat late at night. 

Jarvis Inlet, he grunts. A place called Dark Cove. And then he looks at you, just stares, as if waiting for something. A fight, maybe. More questions. But you've slept in worse places, and the idea of being out of the rain as quickly as possible is more appealing than your potential doom. 

You slide into the boat, hands curled into his jacket. He follows after a beat, unlatching the ties holding it to the dock, and steps inside, murmuring something when it shifts under his weight. Starts it up. He digs under his seat for a moment, rifling through a box, before grabbing something out and turning towards you. A blanket. He tosses it your way, grunting under his breath about keeping warm. 

It's a short trip through the water. You spend most of it huddled under the blanket, hands squeezed between your thighs as he navigates around a massive, jutting rock with thick, dense conifers clustered along the sloping edges of the island. 

You expected it to be higher up. Hidden in the mountains. But it sits at an arcing curve that cuts through the ocean. Tucked in the protective curl of his land is the still, ink blue waters of the bay before it bleeds into the sound. 

Mainland is a craggy, green rock on the horizon. The ocean dips, dizzyingly vast and unfathomable, behind the jagged mass littered with the lights. A city in light polluted pointillism. 

He pulls the boat up to a bigger one. A yacht. Sleek and white and bobbing in the waters. It's tethered to a dock out in the lake. A bridge connects it to the shore. 

He reaches over when he cuts the engine, yanking on the makeshift hood you crafted from the loose throw until it covers more of your face. “Hold onto the railings when you walk. Gets slippery.” 

John turns away after, hefting your meagre luggage on one shoulder as he pulls the tarp over the boat, shielding it from the rain. You step back onto the dock, back nudging the pristine boat behind you. 

The world is awash in shadows. Dark, jagged peaks. Crooked trees drooping in the downpour. Ink black. An abyss that yawns out for an unfathomable stretch before kissing the dark mass of a mountain cutting out from the sprawling pool. 

You've heard people say before that places like this can swallow you whole. Slip beneath the waves, turn behind a tree, and no one will ever see you again. But you've always found that sentiment to be wrong. 

Cities are where you disappear. Indifferent places made of concrete and money. No one cares if you go missing, but out here—

You think this land spit you back out. 

“Come on,” he grunts, sliding beside you. His hand is heavy on your waist. Urging. “This way.” 

You follow, clinging to the firm hold he has on your back as you wobble along the slick bridge to the rocky embankment just up ahead. 

The bridge continues even on land, sloping up in a set of stairs before coming to a stop on a small cliff above the beach. 

You turn back towards the mainland when John stops, hand rifling through his pocket for the keys. 

The distance, the knowledge that this mass you stand on—all soft, wet moss; peat soil—is so far away from that place that it clumps, black and jagged and imposing, against the shoreline is calming. In shades. Small increments, like the loosening of your shoulders. The ache there, too. The breath in your lungs comes a little easier when you stare down at the mainland, at the stretch of blue between it and you. The little thread in the distance that ties it together. 

He nudges you quietly with the muted clearing of his throat. Not touching you, but—

Hovering. In sight. On the edge of your periphery. Making his presence known. 

You're not sure what to make of it. 

What to make of any of this. 

His chin jerks towards the cabin bracket between a dense thicket of trees. “C’mon. Let's get you outta the rain.”

His cabin is modest in size. 

The entrance is on a deck overlooking the bay. All open. Big, ceiling-to-floor windows. French doors. It's framed in thick cured timber. Logs stained a warm, honeyed brown. 

Inside is simple in design, too. 

The kitchen is to the left. A living room to the right. Straight across is a loft with a staircase angled into the kitchen. A small, dark hallway rolls out from beneath the balcony and leads to two bedrooms, the laundry room, and the bathroom.

The living room is cosy. An old, worn couch is pushed against the vaulted window overlooking the deck. A chair tucked beside it. Against the right wall is a hearth next to another big, open window angled into the forest. 

A coffee table sits in front, cluttered with stacks of books—carpentry, woodwork—and pieces of wood. Blocks shaved down into the idea of an object. Incipient creations. A knife lays overtop. Pens, markers scattered around. 

Along the log walls—all the same warm honey-coloured—are trophies. A moose head. Antlers. Books line the shelves. Newspaper rests in a thick stack by the armchair.

The kitchen is tucked into a nook, hidden behind an island. The same rustic brown as everything else, save for the faded, yellow refrigerator and the off-white stove. 

Where a dining table might sit, is a workbench. Tools. A saw. It spills over the surface.  

It's lived in, you know, but something about it feels detached. Cluttered madness, but—

Not really. 

Everything, even in this disordered chaos, has a place. From the scattered markers to the books on the walls. It all fits some unseen cohesion even if you thought his house would have been neater. Military. 

There's a blanket on the couch that catches your eye. The design—the pattern. Achingly familiar. 

“Loft or bedroom?” 

You tear your gaze away from it, swallowing down the acrid longing that surges in your throat. “What?”

He jerks his chin towards the balcony. “Wanna sleep up there or in the spare bedroom?”

“Don’t you sleep up there?”

“No. Used to. S’more of an office now.”

There's a guest house to the left of the cabin. A bachelor with the kitchen running into the bedroom. The washroom closed off. But it's not finished, he says, something frissoning over his expression. Knotting between his brows. Something about the look on his face screams don't ask because he'll never tell. 

You glance away. It's not in you to pry. To care. Whatever secrets he keeps are his and his alone. Just like yours. Why Coyote—

The only other choice is the spare bedroom tucked inside the dark hallway beside his. Close. Barely an arm's length away—

“Loft.” 

He nods like he expected it. Jerks his chin again towards the back, holding your duffle bag out for you to take. 

“Showers through there. Go get warmed up. And I'll heat up some stew.”

The bag dangles on the width of his hand, swaying from the momentum. This ugly, tattered black backpack—

“I don't—I didn't bring any clean clothes—” it's embarassing to admit now that inside your meagre bag is nothing but four hundred dollars and an old, tattered blanket. A sweater. Dirty, bloodstained pants. Everything else is with—

With Sam. 

The plan had been to cash your last cheque, and go back to the motel. Grab the rest. A stupid decision in hindsight. 

There's a tick in his jaw. A terse set to his shoulders. He lowers the bag, letting it fall to the floor, collapsing in on itself. Empty. 

“Nevermind,” you say, slipping the wet blanket from your shoulders, letting it pool in your arms. “I can just wear this—”

His eyes rive over the crumpled, wet uniform shirt. Faded pink—bubblegum, you think; with chocolate brown trim—and stained with grease. Coffee.

Another tick. His brow furrows. Knots. Anger slashing over his face, rucking three, jagged lines through his forehead. 

“No. I'll bring you somethin’ to wear. Somethin’ warm. Gets cold out here. Go.” Another jerk of his chin. A command. 

He does that a lot, you realise, shivering at the bite inside the cabin, the chill ghosting over your damp skin as he turns away from you, walking deeper into the house. Towards his bedroom. The broad expanse of his back bigger than anything you'd ever seen—

All height, and heft. Soft in the middle, but thickened with muscles. And with it, he commands. All biting, unignorable demands. Do this, eat. Go. Get warm. 

You're used to it, you think. Being told what to do. How to act. Marionette on strings. All you're good for. 

Sam used to say the reason you made him hit you so much is because you never listen. Gotta box you around the ears a bit, just for you to even pay attention to me, Coyote. It's not my fault, baby, you make me do it—

But there's something about his commands that sink beyond noise. Reaching into the slick, pulsing gyri, and sending off his own current of obeyance. Innate. Unconscious. He says eat and you find yourself taking a bite of a burger you didn't think you even wanted. Weren't hungry for. Chewing. Swallowing. Another bite. Chew. Swallow. Again. Again. Again. Utters watch your step and your eyes drop to the slick ground, carefully treading the planks. 

Get warm. Go shower. You drop the blanket on the back of the chair, covering up the other one, and walk towards the bathroom. Thoughtless. Head silent. Empty and still. Quiet for the first time since you were thirteen—

It's because you're tired, you think. Exhausted. 

That's all.

But when you finally sink into the bed—lumpy and thick and perfect—sleep evades you. Skirts just out of reach until you're staring up at the log ceiling, thinking about nothing. Everything. 

Sam. Blood on the pavement. The split in his knuckles. Grease. Burgers. Come on, Coyote—

The knot in your stomach—

Your hand goes there. Slips under the thick cable knit sweater he gave you to sleep in, the boxers that fit like loose shorts, and curls around your lower belly. Flat and empty because this thing inside of you isn't even really there. Small, the book said. Tiny. A speck. 

A life-changing, mind-melting thing. 

You—

A mother. 

The thought is soaked in the rotten, fetid sludge of the past. Of your own mother with her dark hair and her hard eyes. Her strange moods. Don't touch me, Coyote. I don't wanna be touched right now, fuck. Can't you ever listen? Mercurial. How come you never hug me? Actin’ like I ain't your mom an’ shit. Shifting. Evolving. Changing shape depending on who she was with at the time—

Unravelling at the seams ever since your dad died. You look like your dad, Coyote. It makes me fuckin’ sick—

You can't think about it. Won't. 

So you don't. Swallow it down. Cotton in your ears. Noise in the back of your head. 

Memories on your skin. Ghosts in your veins.

Come on, Coyote. 

You'd be a terrible mother, you think, and peel your hand away, knotting it into a fist by your side until your nails sink into skin. 

There's something a little grounding about the pain this time.

You stare up at the ceiling all night until the sun rises, golden and warm, and spills in through the vaulted window. 

Below you, you hear John stir. Rising. 

You follow his lead.

He does odd jobs, he says. 

Carpentry. Woodwork. Makes things that people want. That they need. Most of it gets sold in town—patio chairs, kayaks for the tourists—or by the few locals in the bay who need things made. Repairs, too. Easy fixes. 

Most of it is on backlog, but he'll get the occasional phone call asking for something to be done. 

And that's where you come in. 

The loft has a small space made up of a makeshift office. A phone. A ledger. Papers. Pens. It's pushed up against the railing of the balcony, right across from the top of the stairs. 

All you really have to do is answer when people call, take their information, and find out what they want him to build. He doesn't do cabins, he grunts. Say no. Always. 

Everything else goes into the ledger for him to look at later. 

“Don't worry,” he rumbles, scratching at the thick curls beneath his chin. “Most of the orders come from Elliot. You'll just be fielding local work. Kayaks, mostly.” 

And he's not wrong. The first week, you get all of a single phone call—a woman down in Osoyoos who wants a kayak. Her information is penned into the thick, waterlogged ledger next to the other names. Contact information. He'll get back to you soon, you say, but John just grunts when you tell him about the woman. 

Its mostly just—

Laying around. Organising the mess in the loft. The boxes he shrugs at, and tells you to put them in the closet along with whatever else is clogging the upstairs. Forgotten remnants he seems disinterested in going through. 

Or watching him. 

John fills space as easily as breathing. Makes noises. Commands. The order he's working on is spread out over the deck, and spills into the cabin. Little saws on the workbench. Tools. He wanders in and out with purpose, grabbing things, using them, putting them back. Silent as he works. 

He's a mystery. An enigma. Seems unbothered by you being here, sinking your fingers into his things. He adjusts in that strange, quiet way of his. Makes dinner for two as if he'd been doing it the whole time. Leaves clean towels in the bathroom. Runs into town and comes back with clothes—from Savannah, he grunts out, thrusting the bag in your direction; Elliot's wife, said she'd be about your size—and pads, tampons, that he shoves under the bathroom sink. An extra toothbrush. Shampoo that isn't five-in-one and smells of honey and oats. 

But it's not seamless. 

Sometimes, you think he forgets. Walks in—caked in sawdust and covered in sweat—and peels his shirt up, baring his thick, hairy damp chest without a second thought, scrubbing his face, his neck, with the bottom of his stained shirt. Or rips it off. Comes in drenched in sweat, and reaches behind himself, one hand curling into the fabric against his nape, and pulls—

Broad, slick skin. All covered in a dense layer of fur. 

Bearish. 

Remembers himself only when you make a noise. A huff. Silent laughter because this whole thing is a little unreal—

He doesn't apologise, though. Just shrugs. Reaches for a face cloth he keeps slung around the back of the couch and pats himself dry. 

Dinner is quiet, too. Sombre. He leaves food out for you, but eats between work. Often outside, reclining on the patio chair on the deck. Pours himself a glass of whiskey. Has a cigar. Inhales his food before you've even put together a plate, and then the saw starts up again. Back to work. 

It's tense. The atmosphere is thick. It feels like you're dancing around each other, trying to make room in a space too small for even just himself. 

You stay upstairs most of the time. Staring out at the sprawl of glinting blue. The jagged green.

The bay is prettier in the daylight when the sun is high in the sky casting a golden yellow arch across the veridian world around you. Still. Silent. 

The city was loud. Cars on the pavement. Horns. Chatter. Noise. People. An endless spill, a cacophony of life. Sirens. Motors. Barking commands. 

Sam's condo downtown was never quiet. Too close to the harbour—foghorns, the roar of ships entering the port. Television playing something he was interested in at the time. The radio on. The sounds he made spilling out—fuck, Coyote. Can't you do anything right?

Noise, noise, noise—

More coffee. When's my breakfast comin’ out. Hey, cutie, what time you done work at? 

You should really leave him, Coyote, because what the fuck? Have you seen your eye? It looks worse with makeup, come on, girl, you're fuck up our tips!

And now—

The saw. Scrape of a knife on wood. A grunt. Fuck. A loon in the distance. A splash. Watch your step on the deck, Coyote. Got shit everywhere. The lap of the sea against the rocks. The rustle of the trees in the breeze. Makin’ stew tonight. Want some? The ringing of the telephone. Etta James crooning on the radio. The knock of the metal boats against the dock. Grab yourself a beer if you want. Only got that or whiskey. Help yourself. The soft shlick of the fridge peeling open. The hum. Clink of a bottle on glass. The hiss when you open it. A saw. A splash. Rain on glass. The thunk of his boots across the deck. The soft thud of a door. 

Anyone call? A grunt. The rip of laces as he peels his boots off. You shake your head, reaching for a bun. No. A sigh. Good. 

Most of the noise is in your head. 

Memories. Malformed dreams dancing in the recesses of your mind. 

Crack of a twig. Hands on your throat. Come on, Coyote—

Inescapable. 

Inevitable. 

And that's what it all is, isn't it?

He stares at you, too. Sometimes you catch him watching in that careful, measured way of his. The same look on his face as before, in the diner—anger: what happened to you; wariness: whatever it is, don't bring it over here—but morphing. Shifting. Dropping from the curve of your neck tucked under the fold of a pink collar, bruises melting seamlessly into your skin, to the roll of his sweater over your midsection. Pausing there, like he's expecting to see something more than the curl of cream yarn woven together. 

It makes you a little sick. Like that time when he and the paramedic hovered. You hate them both, you thought. Felt. An acid burn in your chest. Go away, stop staring. Stop gawking. Leave! 

The woman in the drugstore. Oh, you poor thing. Pushing an unwanted pamphlet into your hands. Don't worry, hun, it'll get better. 

People look at you and see what they wanted to see. Unwrapping you until they found the hurt below. A reason for their sympathy. 

Because girls like you aren't deserving of pity unless you're all broken up. Shallow graves and forgotten names. A box collecting dust. 

They looked for the marks, the bruises, and sighed with relief when they found them. Oh, you poor thing. 

It's petty, and you hate yourself for it. Just a little bit. But you know how far sympathy will go before it dries up and oh, you poor thing becomes well, you kinda deserved it. 

You're not special in this regard. All of your friends had similar stories growing up but what always set them apart is that people would have looked into that room, seen a grown man with his hand on their thigh, a sixteen-year-old child, and thought oh, your poor thing.

When it happened to you, their lips curled in disgust. Stay away from my husband, you slut—

Because at the end of the day, it's always your fault for looking the way you do.

("Like you want it," he grunts into your ear, spiteful and ugly, fingers digging in because they can.)

You figure it's only a matter of time John, too, stops finding reasons for his pity. 

His charity. 

Because, really—

"What makes you so special, Coyote?"

A pretty face. Split thighs.

The only thing you're good for is being on your knees—

Come on, Coyote. You should know this already.

But the dance continues. 

He leaves in the mornings. Goes on runs. You haven't gathered the courage yet to go farther than the deck, too worried about the call of the forest. The sprawling blue. Of sinking into evergreen and sleeping forever—

John doesn't seem to mind your reclusiveness. Only a matter of time. He brings back books when he leaves the island. Little things for you to occupy yourself with. You never ask, won't. The fewer favours you owe, the more of yourself you can keep when the good Samaritan act has run dry. 

You don't say thank you. It wasn't your choice to begin with. You clean up after yourself, but that's it. A guest in his house. Nothing more, nothing less. 

You do your job, even though it's obvious it was a joke. 

No one calls besides the woman in Osoyoos and Elliot—

Something that shouldn't have surprised you as much as it had. Military dogs, he once said as you poured him another cup of coffee. We tend to mingle. 

But hearing his voice is a cruel relief. The only exception to the rule has ever been Elliot, a man who seemed to adopt an uncle stance when it came to you. 

Kin, he'd said, and laughed when you scoffed. We're practically cousins. 

“Might stop by soon. See how you're holdin’ up.”

“Don't bother. I'm fine.” 

“Well, maybe I'll come bother Price. He loves it when I visit.” 

“I'll pass on the message.” 

“No, don't do that,” he laughs, loud and free. It tickles your ear. “He'll call the dock and tell ‘em not to rent me a boat.” 

“Should take it as a sign, then. That John—Price doesn't wanna be around you.” 

“Ah, cruel girl. You wound me.” 

“You don't wanna get hurt, then stop calling.”

“Gotta check in on ya. You get into all kinda trouble when I’m not around.” 

It makes you tense. Belly knotting. “No one asked you to do that, Elliot. I didn't ask you to.” 

“You're a lot like Price, you know. Both of you…you don't like askin’ for help even if you need it.” He breathes into a line. A heavy sigh. 

Elliot is a good man, you know. The best. But—

“I'm fine, Elliot.” 

You tend to hurt people like that. 

“You're a good kid,” he says instead. “Just—be gentle with him, huh? Been through a lot.” 

“He's six foot and like, three hundred pounds. How much damage could I really do?”

More’in you think, is what he says after a long pause, low and solemn; voice full of things you can't unravel. Unwrap. And you scoff in response because what does he know? Huh, Elliot? Be so serious, ta. 

A man like John—Price—could rip you apart before you even put a scratch on him. 

“Not everyone hurts with their hands, Coyote.”

John's been through a lot. Please remember that. 

Something has to break, you think. 

And you can feel it, too. This thickness in the air. In the coil of his shoulders. The line between his brow. Anger, inward. The heavy, measured way he stares as he dances around you. Moving in circles. A clumsy routine built on mutual avoidance. 

It's I didn't ask for help and don't bring that over here merging into a whitewater confluence. A narrow channel where one must go under first in order to fit. 

You're tired of it being you, but you don't think a man like Price has ever backed down from anything in his life. 

Stalemate, maybe. 

Or—

It cracks after dinner when he lingers. Hovering in the kitchen as you slip down the stairs in search of something to fill the chasm in your belly. The thing growing—

He meets you there, shoulders tense. His head is bowed between them, hung low as he looks over the plans spread out on his workbench. You make to skirt around him, but he looks up when you get close. Pins you in place with his stare. 

“So,” he drawls, eyes skirting down the length of your body before coming to a pointed stop on your midsection, belly hidden under a thick cable-knit sweater he gave to you to wear. “What's the plan?” 

It takes you a minute to realise he's talking about the baby. 

“Adoption,” you force out, squeezed between the ache of the past chiselling inside rotted marrow and the shape of your future; a hole in your belly. Blood on the snow. 

You were always meant to die, you think. Snuffed under the heel of a boot or at the end of a shotgun—the how never mattered much over the spread of a carcass on the ground. Inevitable, maybe. Just like—

Just like your mother. 

But at least this way, this little thing leaching off of you, an unwanted seedling, will grow. Might have a chance to be different. Escape the generational trauma that plagues your lineage—an inherited curse. Inescapable. Maybe it'll be different. Better. 

“I think—adoption might be best. Maybe.” 

He says nothing, just stares in that strange, measured way of his. But then—

Why would he? It's not his kid. Not his choice. 

It seems to dawn on him all the same. His jaw clenches tight, bruised knuckles peaking as he curls his fingers into a fist. 

Something fractures over his expression. Gaze turning inward. Shuttered. Haunted by ghosts older than you, maybe. But he's good at shaking them off. Putting them away. 

He catches your stare, eyes following it down to his bloodied knuckles, and his mouth pulls into a taut, absent smile. He knocks them on the wood once, twice. Leaves a drop of blood smeared on the grain. 

“Alright,” it's strained, pinched. “If that's what you want.” 

It is. It's an unfathomable kindness you wish your mother graced onto you. It—it—will understand. Eventually. With time. Once they realise the only thing in their future was sleeping in the back seat of a car while you worked odd jobs—waitress, stripper, labourer in a factory—and barely having enough money to scrape together to get a happy meal, they'll come to thank you for this choice. 

You nod instead, and his lips twitch again in that mockery of a smile. Something shatters. Breaks. 

There are more ways to hurt, Coyote, than with teeth and claws. 

He peels away after a beat, muttering something under his breath about an order. A kayak the neighbours ordered. 

You don't watch him leave. You're too busy staring at the smear of blood left behind, the smear he didn't seem to notice. 

for those wondering what John's cabin looks like. Jervis Inlet is just perfect for this little fic.

[natesmithcomedy]

Minneapolis Bathroom

[heckyeahdeathnote]

Kitchen Dining in Boston

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[wzrd-wheezes]

Tongue Piercing - Sirius Black x Reader

AN - hiya. i am back. purely because i had this thought and couldnt get it out of my head!!! i'm a little rusty so apologies in advance. Smut under the cut <3

“D’you like it?” Sirius asked, running his tongue along the top row of his teeth, the silver ball clinking along the enamel.  

Sirius had always been one for getting piercings; his ears, eyebrow and even nipple were all adorned with silver jewellery. However, when he flashed her his most recent addition, she felt a familiar jolt behind her navel. 

“’Course I like it.” Y/N smiled, heat rising in her cheeks. 

“Wanted to wait ‘til it was fully healed to show you,” he smirked, “You know... so we can test it out.” 

“Oh yeah?” She mirrored his smile, “And what exactly did you have planned?”  

“Was going to start with something like this.” His voice lowered a little as he grabbed her hips, pulling her to straddle his lap. He took her chin between his fingers and tilted her head down so that her lips brushed his. For a moment, it was sweet and gentle, but his tongue quickly skimmed across her bottom lip. The piercing dragged along the soft skin and Y/N let out a little gasp as he slipped his tongue into her mouth. Sirius smirked into the kiss, his fingers hooking on to the back of her thighs and he lifted her up. Instinctively, she wrapped her legs around his waist and he carried her into their bedroom. 

“Want you to let me take care of you, yeah?” He murmured, pressing a kiss to her temple as he lay her down on the sheets, “Only thing I want you to worry about is making those pretty noises for me. Got it?” 

She nodded, starting to wriggle up the bed to lean against the headboard. He quickly stopped her in her tracks, long fingers wrapping around her ankles as he yanked her back to the edge of the mattress. Y/N sat up, looking at him confusedly. 

“Stay like that.” he said, dropping to his knees in front of her.  

His hands made light work of her jeans and underwear, discarding them in a pile on the floor. Firmly pushing her legs apart, Sirius smiled as he gently traced a finger down her folds.  

“Pretty girl aren't you?” he looked up at her through his dark lashes, his tongue darting out to wet his lips.  

He peppered kisses up and down the inside of her thighs, only stopping when Y/N was gripping onto the sheets in anticipation. Grinning, he licked a long stripe up her core. The contrast of the hard, cool metal against his wet, warm tongue made her whimper. She slumped backwards on the bed, covering her face with her hands. Sirius quickly stopped, pulling away from her. 

“Want you to watch me, or I’ll stop.” he said firmly, “You can do that for me, can’t you?” 

“Y-yeah.” she choked out. 

“Good girl.” 

Sirius resumed his position, sinking back down onto his knees and burying his face between her thighs.  

He had always been good at it, but the addition of his tongue piercing took it to a new level. Y/N’s hands fisted the sheets as she looked down at her boyfriend, a mess of dark hair beneath her. Sirius lapped at her eagerly, his tongue expertly swirling around her clit, his piercing gliding against it smoothly. She reached down to tangle a hand in his hair.  

“Sirius...” she murmured, tugging on. 

“What is it, pretty girl?” he didn’t pull away, his words vibrating on her core. 

“I’m close,” she breathed, her voice coming out ragged. Sirius hummed against her sensitive flesh, his tongue still unrelenting. 

“You can come, baby.” his voice was hoarse, “’Course you can come.” 

Y/N groaned, her thighs clenching a little around his head. She whined softly as her heart rate quickened and heat coiled in the pit of her stomach. Her eyes screwed shut as she climaxed, her chest heaving as Sirius guided her through the orgasm. 

Once she had finished, he pulled back and grinned up at her, his chin shining with her wetness. Using the back of his hand, he wiped his face. 

“Good isn’t it?”  

[vieoeil-riae]

playing with his teeth.... like.... he's got FANGS and you, stressed out, isekai'd, and tired to the bone from all the walking you're doing with the destined one, you, poor thing, have veryyyyy little logic left in your head when you guys finally settle down for the night around a fire.

it's not as dark as you'd expect, much differently from your home, the moon and stars shine brightly without the light pollution blocking it and makes his fur shimmer. and you're staring, because you're tired enough you can't help yourself anymore.

you see the way his teeth glint in the firelight when they peek through his lips, a rare sight considering your dear destined one doesn't talk - his open mouth saved almost entirely for the yips and chitters he lets out when he strikes down his enemies. sharp teeth and lithe muscles, an incredible display of prowess.

it also felt.... almost intimate, seeing his teeth as he concentrates on the knots tying things to his belt. his tongue, pink and soft, pressed between two sharp canines in concentration and he hisses every once in a while when his sharp nails don't catch right on the strong threads.

your staring wasn't unnoticed either, the destined one's senses were nothing to sneeze at so of course he figured out you were staring. he'd known for a while now, tonight wasn't the first time you'd let your gaze fall heavy on him, but he'd never let you know he knew - never looked up and met your eyes. subtly he'd stand or sit a little taller, puffing up because even without confronting the feelings, he could recognise he loved your attention on him.

tonight, your gaze felt more.... just more, and it was distracting him from his knots. tonight he looked up and caught the way your eyes, sparkling with firelight, widened as you were caught. a flicker of mischief in him purred at your flushed cheeks.

cheekily, he tilted his head in question.

after months of travel together, of course you knew what his gestures meant. you were pinned by his gaze, by the quirk of his brow and the small amount of teeth you could see through what was almost a smirk.

god he looked good in warm lighting.

you scrambled over your words, "I just- sorry I'm not trying to be rude, honest! I've just never seen teeth like yours and I was wondering if maybe..."

you stared down at your hands and his brow quirked, urging you to continue.

"if maybe I could see them closer..?" you asked with your cheeks flushed red enough for it to be seen through the fire's red hue. you wanted to see him? look at him? get up close?

fizzing pride trilled in his chest and he nodded. your eyebrows raised in surprise and he could almost see the skittish joy in your irises.

you shuffled over, sitting in front of him on your knees with your back to the fire and got impossibly close to his face. he stopped breathing as every sense became focused on you, the twinkle of your eye, the halo the fire cast around you and the gentle hand you - seemingly unknowingly - brought up to his face.

his eyes weren't soft per say, but they were half lidded and warm enough you didn't feel the need to pull your hand off of it's course, reaching to gently press on one of his canines. the rest of your hand cupping his face, fingers sinking into his fur, as your thumb explored the sharp point of enamel.

there was a thrill to it, as plenty docile as the destined one was around you, those teeth were made for ripping flesh apart. he had the complete capacity to take your thumb, already part way in his mouth, off in seconds probably if the speed at which he dispatched yaoguai said anything. but here he was, letting you, proke and prod him, sitting nice and still and following your eyes with his own.

the soft pad of your thumb pressed down on the sharp peak of his tooth, it was ever so slightly blunter than you were anticipating - but still sharp even when the majority of their potential rested in his bite force. you could imagine how easy it would be for him to draw blood with his teeth, it excited you a little - what a quirk of nature to give such a quiet monkey such sharp teeth.

but also you couldn't help but imagine them on you, thinking about the amount of blood a wound by them could cause, about how the light press of them on your shoulder would feel. you swallowed, but pushed the thought aside, shifting in your spot.

the rest of his teeth weren't as sharp, though when you looked back into his eyes as your thumb edged towards the tooth just behind his canine you were met with a heated look. it took you by surprise, too lost in the sharp feeling under your thumb, but you were met with no resistance as your thumb brushed over the duller, but still pointed tip.

curiosity mostly sated, your own tongue running over your teeth out of pure comparison, you pulled away.

your thumb brushed back over his canine, and your breath hitched at the feeling of the flesh of your thumb pad being held between two sharp points, the light friction sending a spike of jittering electricity down your forearm before the sharp, light feeling settled in the space between your thumb and your wrist.

you glanced back up at the destined one's eyes, they regarded you with intense observation, holding your gaze but flickering to chase the twitch in your facial expression.

you noticed it now, your other hand resting on his thigh and the warmth beneath the hand you still had on his jaw and the new pressure as he'd leaned into it. the slow flick of his tail. his blown out pupils.

your cheeks felt like they were on fire and you swallowed.

you pulled back, thumb dragging against the sharp point of his teeth and sending a new fizz of raw feeling down your arm, almost whimpering at the ghost of the feeling of the tip of his tongue following your retreat.

you averted your gaze quickly, not speaking, and he followed your every movement. the shift of your clothes on you and the ever so slight movement of your heart hammering beneath them.

he smiled. small, proud, and mischievous. you were awfully cute when you were bashful, he should bite you more often.

[smusherina]

bridges burnt - chapter 2 [epilogue series] (regina george x reader)

fandom: Mean Girls (all media)

pairing: Regina George x OFC/Reader

summary: When an invitation to Gretchen Wieners' wedding ended up in your mailbox, you'd been sure it was a mistake. Only, it read your name in neat, swoopy calligraphy. It was addressed to you. And Regina George, whom you hadn't spoken to in years.

additional clarification: This is set in the universe of yard work, a series of mine that can be found on my page! Reading this one might be a bit challenging without the context of the series :)

chapter 1 / chapter 3

You stared at yourself in the mirror. Your suit was still immaculate thanks to your incessant fiddling, adjusting, and pruning. If not for the gel wearing out in your hair and the sweat beading your brow, the illusion was almost believable. Your rings clinked against the sink's enamel, your silver accents glinting in the fluorescent lighting, while a person did their business in the stall behind you. You sighed and washed your hands.

Damn, the soap was nice. They'd really gone all out for the reception, the fall theme extending even to the cinnamon spice soap bars.

Who were you even trying to fool? You were hiding in the bathroom. You'd arrived on the scene of the reception party in relatively high spirits, convinced all was fine and dandy, that Gretchen was looking to make amends in this small way. But you'd been wrong.

The invitation hadn't been a fluke. There hadn't been some mistake, because on the little plaque where your name was scrawled in neat cursive sat another right next to it. On the round table where you'd be sitting, there would be Regina George directly to your left. On your other side would be Shane Oman. Across from you, Damian and Janis.

You stepped out of the bathroom, a lump still firmly lodged in your throat but resolve found. You'd brave it, be an adult about it. The breakup had been perfectly amicable, for the most part anyway, so there was no reason for you to be so wound up.

"The maid of honour is a major bitch." Amanda sidled up to you as you walked towards your table. She directed you to the bar by the arm.

"She won't let us switch?" You asked, dismayed but not surprised.

"She won't even let you move to the spare table," Amanda said indignantly. "The whole time, I swear, she was lookin' me up and down all judgy."

"Ugh," You groaned. "Can she get your strongest drink?" You motioned for the bartender. The man nodded with a smile, seeming relieved to be rescued from the old lady chatting him up. He was a good-looking fella, tattoo sleeves and a military haircut.

"Anything for you?" He asked you, eyes lingering on Amanda shyly. Amanda leered at him unabashedly, batting her eyelashes while he made her drink.

"Just a coke." You'd been sober for a good couple of years now, free of all substances. You'd had a nasty relapse in college, a disgraceful return to party drugs and obscene amounts of alcohol, but you'd been able to find your footing since. Largely due to Amanda's intervention.

"You gonna be alright?" Amanda asked, for now deciding not to make a move on the bartender. You knew she was biding her time, establishing tension before she struck. She picked up men like a shark.

"Sure, yeah. It's gonna be okay. It's just, y'know, my ex. And her ex. And her nemesis and that nemesis' best friend. All good."

Amanda eyed you warily. You sipped at your coke through a straw. She, too, took a large gulp.

By the time the bride and the groom made their entrance, you were sitting in your spot, desperately trying not to make eye contact with the other occupants of the table. Shane was squirming on your right, fiddling with what seemed to be an engagement ring. Janis and Damian, sitting across from you, didn't seem to have changed much, except obviously grown up.

Janis was still unapologetically goth, though seemingly turned more toward clean, angular lines rather than messy, smudged blacks. She had on a dress and a shawl, beaded bangles and silver jewellery covering her wrists. She'd gotten more piercings since you last saw her. Angel bites on her upper lip, a bridge between her eyes, and stretched ear lobes. There were some bold tattoos as well, such as a rose crawling up her neck and the head of a snake on the back of her hand, extending up her arm.

Damian was in a cute, velvety green suit. His shirt, white with light green fleur de lis patterns, had ruffles going down the buttons. The length of its sleeves also surpassed that of the suit's, which made the whole look seem kind of piratey. His natural hair, a poofy afro, the bulky red-tinted glasses, and the pointy boots he had on gave off a bohemian seventies disco star vibe. He had a very specific aesthetic and you couldn't help but be impressed.

The seat on your left was pointedly lacking a person. Only the plaque was there along with its elegant scrawl. You crossed your legs and threaded your fingers together, bracing for the moment somebody said something to you. Or you were forced to do it yourself.

"So..." There it comes. Surprisingly it was Shane, of all people. "You and Regina."

"Huh?" You made a sound.

"I mean, you're here together, right? That's what I heard." He scratched at his neck, seeming nervous. All the confidence and obnoxious self-assurance seemed to have melted off of him.

"No, you- what? Where'd you hear that?"

"Just some nasty gossip. Don't worry about it. Aaron and I know what it's like." He smiled supportively but somewhere in the crevices of his cheeks, it seemed sad. "Have you been out for long?"

Your eyebrows furrowed. Shane and Aaron? Was he saying what you thought he was saying?

"Um, pretty much since high school. To be fair, I didn't tell a lot of people back then. You know how Northshore was." He nodded along solemnly. "But in college I sort of bit the bullet."

"That's really brave. Aaron and I haven't been out for long, only since the new law passed." He still seemed cautious and shy, but talking about Aaron clearly made him happy.

"When did you two get together?"

As Shane began to tell the tale, you slowly began to relax. Maybe Regina wouldn't even show up. If you and Gretchen were estranged, Regina and she were even more so. Regina had never given you details, but you did know Gretchen had been heavily involved in your shitty junior year. They'd had an explosive, very public falling-out that'd led to a whole lot of drama.

By that point, you'd sort of checked out of high school as well as your relationship with Regina, so you'd paid very little attention.

"Oh, here she comes," Shane pointed behind you, cutting off his own story. You whirled around, back crackling as you twisted your spine.

Regina George, in the flesh. Your mouth watered, pupils dilated, and there was no way you could've suppressed your reaction. Her eyes were locked on yours, a predatory glint in her eye as she strutted towards your table.

You almost didn't hear Damian's whistle or Janis' stunned laugh, but as Regina shifted the white fur stole she had to reveal her shoulders and chest, you went wholly deaf to all but the clack of her heels.

She had on a baby pink bodycon dress with a slit sinfully high up on her thigh, satin hugging her hips sensually. She had on white high heels with thin straps at the ankle and fur at the tops of her toes.

Her makeup was natural, with subtle browns and blacks, except for the prominent blush she'd picked. Her hair was a warmer blonde than before, complimenting her tanned skin. She had on golden jewellery, a familiar golden necklace resting on the dip of her clavicles like a taunt.

She kept on advancing towards the table. You could do little else but stare, slack-jawed at the visage of her. Other people were staring too, you could tell. You could only imagine what Gretchen was doing with her face at the moment, perhaps scowling like a pug or maybe looking like she was about to cry. Regina was but a guest and yet...

Regina was never just Regina. You knew that better than anyone. No matter how she dressed, behaved, or what her priorities were, she was an innate presence that influenced those around her. Gretchen inviting her to this wedding was essentially like shooting herself in the foot.

Regina didn't have to try to snatch the attention of the room, but when she did, there was no competition. And Regina had gone all out. You could tell by the movements of her hands, the way her lashes fluttered, and how her mouth parted just a little. It was obvious, at least to you, that Regina was doing what she did best: Revenge.

"Hi, baby," She cooed down at you. You took a moment to react, surprised by how she was suddenly there, right in front of you.

Her hands reached for you, long acrylics brushing against your collar, then your neck, then the back of your neck and in your hair. Her thumbs directed your head to tilt up. She pulled you close as she leaned down and then—peach lipgloss, glittery eyeshadow, saccharine perfume—your skin tingled where she touched you, sparks going off behind your eyelids as they fell closed, bliss pouring out of your pores as you became filled with it.

You kissed her back, took hold of her hips and pulled her to stand between your legs. Fuck, this was bad. But, fuck, it felt good to kiss her again.

Distantly, like someone shouting into the water in which you were submerged, you realized that this was perhaps the worst way, place, and time you could've reunited with Regina.

Even so, you kissed deeper, licking into her mouth until she made a sound you'd so missed all these years. Just as you began debating the pros and cons of laying her down on the table right there in the open, Shane tugged hard on your shoulder.

"What?" You grumbled, turning to him with a glare already in place.

He was red-faced, and frazzled, but had on a wide grin. "Get it, girl, but calm down. The mother of the bride looks like she's about to implode." He inclined his head towards the long table where all the important people sat. The mother of the bride did indeed look to be on the precipice of a furious blow-out.

"Okay," You swallowed, sense slowly coming back to you.

"Ugh, you're such a party pooper, Shane." Regina pulled away, leaving your palms achingly empty. She didn't go far though. She sat down on her chair before reaching into her white Valentino bag and pulling out some napkins. Then, she leaned in again.

Your eyes fluttered closed and lips puckered. Regina laughed.

"Silly, you have gloss all over your face."

"Oh," Your eyes opened. Gosh, that was embarrassing.

Regina wiped your mouth. Then, she pulled out a compact mirror and fixed her own lips. You watched her do all this. She and Shane started chatting. Apparently, they'd been in somewhat regular contact.

You'd just kissed Regina George. After, what, eight or nine years? In front of the whole goddamn venue. In front of Gretchen, in front of Gretchen's family, in front of basically your entire year from high school.

You got up. "Oh, where are you going?" Shane asked, all innocent. You hoped you didn't look as panicked as you felt. He didn't seem to think anything was wrong. You glanced at Regina.

Fuck. She totally knew. Obviously, she knew you. She could read you like a book.

"Smoke. Be back in a few." You fled.

"I'm coming too," Janis said.

Notes: Sorry for the long break everybody! I graduated and had a party for that! Went on a little trip to the countryside with friends! And now, at last, I'm back at my desk and ready to churn out some long overdue chapters.

Taglist posted separately! Comment on that post to get on it if you want!

[bits-and-babs]

𝐈'𝐋𝐋 𝐁𝐈𝐓𝐄 – 𝐌𝐈𝐆𝐔𝐄𝐋 𝐎'𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐀

↳ summary: Miguel, believing he understands the extent of his mutation, takes a bite. Only- you don't react the way he expects. At all.

↳ pairing: Miguel O'Hara x f!Reader

↳ content [4.2k]: 18+ MDNI. SMUT, literally 4k words of porn without plot with a little extra at the end. Miguel's venom is sex pollen (therefore DUB-CON by default), biting, blood drinking (I know he’s not a vampire, I don’t care), oral (f receiving), fingering, use of name mami because I am disgusting, unprotected p in v sex. Not proof read, possibly OOC, I haven't seen ITSV, I was forced to write this against my will (jk) ((but not really)).

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Crimson burns itself into your retinas as Miguel steps into your line of sight, and the spider-skull hybrid symbol emblazoned across his vast chest swallows your vision. Brown locks of hair drape across his forehead, over his lashes, and frames the intense scarlet gaze he levels you with. Staring up at the impossibly tall man through your heavy lids, you catch the tick in his jaw, the muscle twitching when he reaches towards your neck and traces his fingertip across the length of your jugular vein with a delicate touch. It tickles, skittering across your goosepimpled skin above your bludgeoning pulse.

"Shut it," he speaks flatly, the quiet lilt of his tone amplified by the silence in the room. Your heart thuds painfully hard against your ribs at the sound of his voice, your toes curling when Miguel settles his thumb and forefinger under the curve of your jaw. His palm stretches the length of your throat, fingers splayed across your neck. You can feel the knuckles of his pinky dig into your collarbone, a reminder of just how massive the wingspan of his hand is. 

"I- I didn't-" you fumble, the words dissipating when you see the fleshy pink of Miguel's tongue drag over the enamel daggers that protrude from his lips. The slight squeeze of his hand across your throat impedes any attempts to regain your train of thought, blood rushing to your head as he applies pressure to the vital blood flow to your brain. 

"I can hear you," he insists, a snarl curling his lips as bitter irritation flashes across his face, burning in the carmine of his irises, "Can hear what you're thinking."

Heat floods your cheeks, prickling warmth proliferating and creeping down your throat. Miguel seems anguished by the sensation of your heart palpitations pounding against the fissures of his palm, his thick, dark brows pinching together as he wets his full lips with the flat of his tongue. 

"Stay still," he urges you, a twinge of something that sounded as though he was pleading sparking through your nervous system. Crushing your eyelids closed, red and navy rotate in kaleidoscopic swirls in your vision as you feel Miguel's hair brush against the curve of your cheek. You whimper softly and flinch at the sensation of the tip of his nose skirting the angle of your neck. You hear him inhale, drawing the intoxicating scent of you into his lungs before letting out a groan, the exhale fanning across your skin. 

"Just a taste," he husks, mindless as he squeezes your neck harder. The pad of Miguel's thumb probes your thrumming pulse, and he moans loudly when he feels your heart lurch at the soft drag of his fangs against your throat. 

"Miguel-" you choke out, his feral grip tightening at the sound of your voice. 

"Fuck," he whispers, whimpers, slowly sinking the point of his fangs into the delicate flesh across the nape of your neck. You cry out, the pain of the punctures pinching sharply, and bury your nails into the expansive muscle of his bicep. Miguel's chest heaves dramatically, brushing your arm with each shuddering inhale as your blood seeps across his tongue. 

It's an odd sensation, the suction of his lips as he draws your ichor into his mouth, but it simmers deep and low in your abdomen, the weird feeling made worse by the vibration of his delighted moan. The gulping sounds his throat made echo in your ears, and you can almost imagine the flutter of his thick lashes as he lathes his tongue over the puncture wounds. 

Miguel inhales deeply as though he's chugged a pint of water, his lips barely departing from your weeping wound as he mumbles to himself repeatedly; just a taste, just a taste–

His wanton tone dries your mouth, your head throbbing with a mind-numbing migraine as you feel the muscles in your body tense. Coated in blood, Miguel chases the blood that had settled into the cracks of his lips with his tongue and savours the last morsels he can find.  

You could cry. Could burst into tears on the spot because Miguel looks gorgeous. He always did, always made your stomach flip when he entered the room and cast his brooding gaze over you, but you felt breathless as you gazed at him now, weightless. 

Fuck, he's so beautiful. His rich, dark features all fight for your attention; the arc of his cheekbones, long lashes dipped low as he takes you in and the way his obscenely large muscles ripple as he leans back to look you in the eyes. 

Blinking slowly, you whine when Miguel leans back into your throat for another taste. Something warm pools in the depths of your stomach when his tongue drags over the chords of your neck. Fuck- are you turned on right now?!

"Hng-Hot," you mumble in embarrassment, feeling a prickling warmth creep over your body. The damp sensation of perspiration clings to your forehead, moistening your hairline as Miguel pulls away from your throat to look you in the eye with a hmm?

"Hot," you repeat, the simmering sensation rapidly roiling to a scalding temperature. "'S too hot, Miguel–"

The fabric of your clothes clings to your back, your fingers itching to rip the material from your body. Miguel looks perplexed by your sudden lack of composure, his eyebrows knitted together in confusion as his eyes flick between your own. 

"Your pupils," he assesses, tone clinical as he reaches to take your chin into his hand once more, "They're dilated– you look sick."

The instant his fingertips brush the skin of your cheeks, you flinch from the scorching sensation that sparks beneath his touch. You pinch your eyelids together, letting out a sob of his name as you frantically attempt to push him away. 

"Miguel, no!" Your voice strains, pleading that Miguel stays away from you despite the evident worry that curls his fingers into tight fists. Fuck, why are you thinking of jumping his bones? It's desperate, a carnal need to rip that stupid fucking fancy lycra suit from his enormous, sexy muscles. You could grind your hips across those abs, ease the sudden pulse in your clit-

You wheeze, the stifling temperature causing your body to shift to autopilot as you pinch the hem of your shirt between your trembling fingers. "Hurts–"

"I cannot help if you push me awa-" Miguel's vexed attempt to reprimand your childish behaviour does little to knock you back to your senses, your eyes dragging the length of his ridiculously formed body with a searing desperation that stops him in his tracks. "What are you doing?"

"Hot, it's too fucking hot, Migu– Shut up–" you beg him for silence, his voice only worsening the frantic, irregular thrum of your heart. It's fruitless, though, because the flitting of his eyes across your body is enough to arc the arousal that blooms through you. 

Concern finally begins to worm its way into Miguel's body language, his hands searching over the messy countertops. He clears his throat, attempting to maintain his composure. 

"Blood sample," he speaks with that air of finality he always led with, "I will take a blood sample. You may be having a reaction to somethi-"

Shame does little to reason with your wandering hands, yanking your t-shirt over your head as he speaks. You're following what he says, but your mind lags behind like a faulty video-call signal. Blood sample, mhm-hmm, yeah, god, you wanna fuck him so bad– reaction?

When you finally pull your head from the neckline of your t-shirt, you find Miguel rooted in place. A needle rests in his loose grip, and he holds it aloft as if ready to take the sample from your arm– but it appears his plan is obliterated as his eyes zero in on your tits, his usually stoic expression rendered astonished by the view in front of him.

"... It's the venom," he rasps, slowly, achingly slowly, dragging his eyes back to your face, "You're reacting to the venom." 

Perhaps it should be a relief that Miguel is a genius and that he'd managed to deduce the reason for your severe discomfort reasonably quickly, or maybe you should feel more concerned that you're experiencing a severe reaction to a venom that he held in his fucking teeth, but the sheer desperation to ease the arousal pooling between your thighs overtook any and all fear. Instead, you frenziedly shove your hand down the waistband of your jeans... Right in front of Miguel. 

"Aye- easy, easy–" he attempts to placate you, but once again, he finds himself lost for words as he watches you flop back into your desk chair, head lolled back and thighs spread wide as you undeniably rub at your clit beneath the denim of your jeans. 

"Ahaaa-" you wail, tears welling in your eyes and slipping down your temples as you rock your hips up to meet the friction of your fingertips, "S'not enough, Miguel- it's not enou- it hurts." 

It's disgusting; the wet squelch of your fingers entering your cunt practically bouncing off the walls. An anguished groan rattles in your chest as you cum. The sensation is as though your orgasm has been spoilt, the ecstasy that accompanied a climax instead curdling into a painful need for more. Slick weeps into the crotch of your panties and jeans, and you rip your hand from your jeans to tear the whole stupid item of clothing over your hips as they arch off the seat. 

"Cariño," you hear Miguel's soft voice urge you to look at him, and your vision blurs as you glance up with tear-soaked eyelashes. You sob when your eyes finally focus, observing the blackness of Miguel's eyes as he watches you get off. The wet sounds get louder, more hurried as you frantically rub your clit at the sight of him, the sound of his voice.

"I can help you," he promises, voice firm. The declaration pulls another devastatingly cruel orgasm from you, your back arching off the seat as if attempting to escape the brutally painful orgasm that does nothing to satiate the toxins Miguel had accidentally inserted into your bloodstream. 

"Yes," you pant loudly, tears streaming down your face as you nod your head wildly in agreement. The ethics of this agreement, sex with him, are lost on you at this moment, far too occupied with the notion of stopping the debilitating clench of your cunt and nerve-searing heat beneath your skin. 

Miguel says nothing as he strides forward, crossing the line of demarcation you had drawn between the two of you effortlessly with his broad stride. His hands immediately find the waistband of your jeans, where they settle just above your knees, and shucks them from your legs as you continue to appeal for mercy. 

"Please," you beg, grasping the arms of the office chair so hard that they threaten to splinter between your fingers. Miguel simply scowls at you from his position between your thighs, kneeling down on the floor and peeling back your drenched panties to gain access to your dripping, fluttering cunt. "Please, Migu-ughhh!" 

Miguel leads with his tongue, pulling the entire length across your engorged clit so slowly that your toes cramp when they curl. You sob loudly, fat tears streaking down your cheeks and throat as you rock your hips up against his face. It's rough and messy, and your clit bumps his nose each time you thrust upwards despite the vice-like grip that Miguel holds on your thighs. 

"Oh my god-" you keen, your fingers grasping onto the hair at the crown of his head to brace against the onslaught of pleasure that drenches you, "Oh fu-fuhuck- don'tcumdon'tcum-" you ramble, eyes rolling back into your skull as the tip of his tongue draws lazy circles around your clit.

"F-Fuck- fuck me-" you wheeze, expelling all the oxygen from your lungs when his fingers prod at the slick entrance of your pussy. 

"Shut up," he rasps, slowly sinking the first two joints of his index finger into your wet heat. He watches your hips raise, thighs spreading wide as you wordlessly whine. "Do not speak."

It's cruel, but there's no malice to his words because he shifts his wrist slightly and sinks the entire length of his index finger into you. You rock forwards to meet it, feeling yourself clench around the intrusion. Miguel can feel it too, you're sure of it, because he lets out a devastatingly sexy hum before dropping his head down to tongue your clit again. 

You try; you truly do, but the mixture of Miguel's tongue on your clit and his fingertip just barely missing a calamitous spot inside you launches the words from your throat before you can stop them. 

"F-Please-" you gasp, "Please let me taste you. Ohh- please don't stop- j-just put it in my mouth, I wanna feel the stretch of it in my thro–" 

"Quiet," Miguel snaps, his voice strained as he pulls back from your clit but hastens his finger's movements. It's there- it's right fucking there, that spot inside you that you know will eviscerate every atom in your body. Your head falls back again, your spine lifting from the chair as you brace against the rising threat of your orgasm. 

"I'm- Oh fuck, I-aham gonna cum-" you sob towards the ceiling, rocking your hips down and taking his maddeningly long digit even deeper. Miguel hums in acknowledgement, resting his still tongue on your clit for you to fuck yourself on. The barbarically wet sound of you sinking onto the length of his finger reaches your ears and–

Sudden, painful bliss bursts through you, a garbled slur of Miguel's name tearing through your throat as static rings in your ears. You feel yourself clench and flutter around his fingers, Miguel's tongue lapping at your pulsing clit and hurling you even further into the rapture that streams through your body. 

Your thighs tremble on either side of his head, knees draped over his robust shoulders. Miguel groans softly and licks and sucks on the mess you've made, slick smeared all over his mouth, chin and nose. You can barely move, your muscles screaming in exhaustion, but-

"M-Miguel-" you whine, shaking your head with tears in your eyes, "M-more, I need more-" 

"Dios mío, mami," he groans into your cunt, and you see white. His oddly affectionate name for you resets your orgasm, and you're teetering over it again. Your feet brace against his back, pushing your heels into the thick, chorded muscles to pull him impossibly closer to your pussy. It's as though your hips have a mind of their own, grinding feverishly against Miguel's pretty nose. 

Through the blur of your ecstasy, you see Miguel's brows lift in surprise in a wordless question of 'already?' It's all you need, euphoria smashing through every nerve ending and setting them ablaze. It soaks his face even more, you feel it gush, and Miguel rumbles with the most delectable groan. At the peak of your orgasm, he inserts a second finger. It brushes against that mind-bending spot inside you that makes your body writhe when the ridges of his fingertips tease the neglected pleasure centre. 

Strands of your hair cling to your sweat-damp face, dried tear tracks wetted again by the flow of more of the salty liquid from your eyes. You look absolutely wrecked; you feel it. So why did your clit still pulse with need when Miguel withdrew his cum-soaked face? 

"God, I wanna fuck you so bad," you ramble, voice stripped hoarse by your constant barrage of whines and moans. 

Glancing down, you note the tight pinch of Miguel's eyebrows. He's straining against the skin-tight material of the suit, the thin canvas clinging to his body so well that you see the lurch of his cock as he licks your cum from his lips. "We should do this all the time-"

Miguel rudely interrupts you, using his godlike strength to effortlessly hoist you from that stupid office chair. He doesn't bother taking you somewhere comfortable, your panting breaths and writhing hips evidence you wouldn't last the thirty-second walk to the sofa. Instead, he drapes you over his workbench, discarding the invaluable equipment over the table's edge and spreading your thighs wide. 

"Never again," Miguel insists, but he'd already revealed his weak constitution at the beginning of the ludicrous mess. Just a taste, he'd said, before leaning in for more of your blood. That same lack of self-discipline infects him now; you can see it in his eyes as he strips himself of the ridiculous spider suit and presses his cock against your fluttering cunt. 

You can feel it, the size of the bulbous head that sweeps through your slick folds. It brushes over your clit, the velvety skin rendering you helpless to the heavenly pleasure that bursts through you. But-

"It's not- it's not gonna go in-" you whimper softly, stretching your arms out to push his hips away desperately. "Oh god, Miguel- I can't take that-"

"You will," he nods firmly with a jut of his chin. He's determined; his eyes alight when you writhe beneath him. It's so loud, the sound of your leaking cunt soaking the underside of his cock in your slick. "You're drenching me, Cariño; you can take it."

Miguel notches at your entrance for emphasis, lightly pushing against where your flesh gives way to his adamant intrusion. The smooth, rounded head threatens to sink inside of you, stretch you impossibly wide. "Dios-" Miguel grunts, bowing his head low. His shoulders tremble, hips frozen in place as he takes deep, shuddering breaths. Wha-

"What's wrong?" You stiffen at the worrying body language he's displaying. Had you done something wrong? Did he not want to go through with it now-?

Another quivering exhale expels from Miguel's lungs, his huge hands gripping onto your hips as though they were the only thing preventing him from plunging from the side of a New York skyscraper. It's bruising you, ten sharp points jabbing into your skin, but the pain encourages the pleasure. It's too much. 

"So fucking tight," Miguel wheezes, rocking his hips forward slightly. He's met with resistance despite how your head hangs from the edge of the desk, wailing a mixture of profanities and his name at the ceiling. "It's too fucking tight, mami; you gotta relax-"

"Miguel!" You sob in anguish, tears sliding from the corners of your eyes settle in the hair at your temples. "It hurts- I need it so bad, c-can't wait- just fucki-" 

A snarl rips up Miguel's throat, using his grip on your flesh to pull your hips back onto his as he plunges forward. You see his nostrils flare, the flash of his fangs before the white-hot bliss rocks through you, his cock slipping past your walls and burying itself to the hilt in one heavy push. 

Your sharp inhale stretches the mass of your lungs as your fingers dig into the tanned skin of his forearms. Pain stabs through your abdomen, and the sudden thrust ripples pain through your expression before the excruciating arc of bliss surges when you feel the head of his cock nudge against your cervix. 

"Holy shit-" you squeak out, nails stabbing bloody crescent moons into the rippling muscles you hold onto, "I can-ahan't! Fuck, Miguel, you- hgnnnn fuck!"

It's as though Miguel loses control of his hips. He begins to ram into you, his flesh slapping against your own and echoing and ricocheting off the walls. Damp sweat already clings to his body from the exertion, each harsh slam into you pushing your trembling body up the length of his desk. 

"Hah," he gasps out when you involuntarily squeeze around the girth of his cock, Miguel's eyes snapping to your own in a frenzy, "So tight for me, Cariño. This little cunt's so greedy for me." 

The pistoning of his throbbing cock into your sickeningly wet pussy has your mind spinning, the velvet of his voice numbing your mind like some kind of neurotoxin. You're drenching the both of you, the thighs you'd locked around his waist slipping down his hips as you struggle to brace against the onslaught of your arousal. 

"M-Miguel-!" You croak, voice wrecked. 

His dark eyebrows pinch together as he continues his devastating pace. "So fucking greedy. Always looking at me with those eyes. You think I don't- fuck- don't hear your dirty thoughts about me?" 

Whining loudly, the embarrassment does little to quell the rising orgasm that prickles the edges of your body. It feels enormous, threatens to tear your body apart at the seams and stitch you back together all wrong. Like you'd never feel complete again without the delicious stretch of Miguel's cock.

"I can feel it," Miguel murmurs, voice uncharacteristically soft despite the way he's brutalising your cunt, "Can you? I can feel you squeezing me- fuck, you're so fucking wet, mami-"

"S-Shut up–" you hiccup, voice sounding distant to your own ears. It feels like your nails have burrowed down to the calcium of Miguel's radius and ulna, your grip vice-like as you steel against the terrifying sensation of a universe-altering orgasm quickly approaching. 

Miguel's neck flexes, veins bulging against his bronzed skin as the swell threatens to take over. 

"Come on. Ah, fuck- fuck, you're gonna cum again. Come on," he urges you, dark eyes flitting over you as Miguel reaches to push the pad of his thumb against your clit. 

It barely brushes the fraught nerves before ecstasy settles between each of your vertebrae. Your pussy flares, gripping onto the throbbing thickness of him. Shaking violently, your thighs squeeze Miguel's waist as everything tightens, pulses, spasms. Anguished, pained wails pour from your lips in a deluge, jaw slack, debilitating ecstasy rendering you utterly helpless to the instinctual motions of your body. You're rocking up against him while simultaneously attempting to escape the sensation. 

A rumble vibrates through Miguel's chest as he dips his head low, sweat-drenched ebony strands of his hair falling in his eyes as he focuses on how you tighten around him. 

"Oh fuck, yes," Miguel's voice pierces through your mind-numbing bliss, all lilted and pitchy, "That's it, mami, that's what I need- th-that- oh fuck–"

It's a heavenly sight, the way his body flexes and ripples above you as he buries his cock into you, down to the hilt. Miguel's dark, gorgeous eyes roll back in his head, eyelashes fluttering as his orgasm is pulled from him. You feel the hot, thick spurts of cum paint your walls as he empties his load over and over and over. You're exhausted, powerless to do anything other than bathe in the sensation of your cunt convulsing around Miguel's throbbing cock. 

A heavy exhale fans across your face as Miguel's hands settle on either side of your head, the two of you fighting to draw oxygen into your burning lungs. The blazing need that had charred your abdomen ebbs into smothered embers, and you peer up at Miguel with a mindless, dazed expression. 

He doesn't move, his softening cock still buried in your cunt as his hands tighten into fists beside your ears. Miguel opens his eyes, a heavy glare aiming at the corner of the room, at nothing in particular, as he attempts to come down from whatever height you'd thrown him to. 

"That-... That's not what's supposed to happen."

☆☆☆

Bright, florescent lights beat down on you in the doctor's office, and you squint against their intrusion in your eyes but also the dull, painful throb of your brutalised cunt. You should be curled up in bed, mortified by the mindblowing sex you'd just had with Miguel and drafting up a text message to tell him you will never be seeing him again due to the ruinous humiliation you felt every time you recalled the stupid shit you'd said. 

Instead, you were simmering in that very same awkwardness, but with Miguel settled back in the seat beside you. He's wallowing in his own form of abashed grief as he awaits the results of your blood tests from the man in the white coat across the table from you. 

"Aha, here we go!" The indecently cheery doctor cuts through the tense, funeral-like atmosphere that had settled between the both of you. The mouse in his hand clicks as he sorts through the file, reading it through. "They've just come in now." 

"Is it anything I should be worried about?" Miguel speaks before you can draw breath, and you don't fail to note the word I. Why is he worried?!

"No, not at all," the doctor smiles, glancing between the two of you as he taps the computer screen with his finger. You can feel Miguel settle, the tense energy that had been drawing his shoulders up tight seeming to dissipate with the threat of danger ruled out. 

... What? 

"Elevated heart rate, the sweats, shivers, flushed skin, pain," the doctor reads through your list of symptoms that Miguel had given before you'd even stepped into the doctor's office. Conveniently, he'd left out the more obvious traits that had taken precedence over the milder afflictions. "While these are all very scary, it's not much to worry about."

"So then, what happened?" Your voice is a mumble, hoarse from the strain of your activities with Miguel.

The doctor smiles, a shrug lifting his shoulders to evidence his lack of concern. "Says here you just have an allergy to spider bites."

Miguel, usually stoic and indecipherable, sinks into his seat with an expression that bleeds mortification.

... Oh. 

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