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otkuhotgirl · 2 months ago

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─── 𝐃𝐎𝐂𝐓𝐎𝐑’𝐒 𝐎𝐑𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐒

# with trafalgar water d. law.

it was said that those trapped inside his sphere were then nothing but a helpless patient on his operating table. law made sure you, too, would experience it.

⎰ & KINKTOBER, day three. medical play. glove kink. smut (mdni)! fingering (reader!receiving). freaky law. use of devil-fruit. double penetration. afab!reader.

WC: 2.5k

it was an agreement that the captain of a crew was the most valuable asset. law had matured into such a position with natural ease — powerful and intelligent; responsible and menacing — yet, his most arduous and important role relied neither on his battle skills nor on his plans. law was crucial to the lives of crew due to his extensive anatomical knowledge and the devil-fruit whose power could heal whatever ill. he was reliable, organized, logical. shame had no place within the walls of the infirmary, for law cared not for the cause of the disease or the placement of a pimple — instead, he all but strived to get rid of it.

the gratefulness and cheerful compliments thereafter were fuel to his ego, the confirmation that he had fulfilled his duties as a captain. law drew pleasure from the fact that he was one to execute a role unique amidst his crew. he had taught them concepts of medicine and surgery — to have a set of aiding hands, at least — but none of those with whom he shared the submarine were fit to nurse themselves to health. that diligent performance, more often than not, brought him a greater sense of power than the one granted by victorious battles.

it was an achievement; a task; his father’s legacy. law treated his patients with utmost professionalism, the character of their shared dynamic long forgotten if one had to be examined. it was a neutral space; undiscriminating. his ethics were thorough, his examination was immaculate. the mere thought of law losing focus during such instances was inconceivable. that was, of course, until you were the subject whose back pressed against the examination table.

the prelude itself had been virtuous. your limbs were sore during the aftermath of an arduous battle, minuscules cuts adorning your skin due to the offensive character of your opponent. law had insisted on treating you, regardless of how minor were the gashes. the memories were a vivid talon that had claimed his mind: your knee pressed against your chest as he stretched your muscles; the perspective from being atop your figure; your mellow breaths of relief whenever his fingers succeeded in undoing a tense knot. law had grown hot, then, forced to hasteness for the sudden tightness of his pants would be sure to denounce the perverted thoughts.

the second time was one of prolonged misery. a mosquito bite from a foreign island had left you bedridden; feverish. a frailer state of mind and manners, hazed by the consequences of a higher temperature. from soothing massages to the press of ice-cold thermal bags — your comfort became his most favored goal. the pain, however, proved to be overbearing, and the product of such given relieves came in the form of multiple moans. a press of his hand had you sighing; the cool, metal touch of his stethoscope against your burning skin made you beg for longer contact. whenever law dared to place a damp towel above your forehead, you’d lean into his touch and plead for him to stay.

yet, the occurrence that snapped the strained thread of his mind had been during a routine checkup. your mouth was open wide; law had a thin, small, wooden-stick on your tongue, striving to check on the health of your throat. he teased your gag-reflex, a gloved thumb pressed against your lower lip. law had lost his senses at the sight of your tears, the wild rise-and-fall of your chest, a context much too similar to that of a blowjob. the examination was cut short, and law had spent an entire hour in the shower right thereafter, fisting his cock; chasing a fleeting orgasm that had refused him, for your touch was its demand.

the infirmary shifted into a somewhat sinful ambience. the metal table was but a surface on which you could be ravaged. the stethoscope an instrument he could use to listen to the pace of your heartbeat, its increase gradual to his thrusts on your pussy. and the gloves. rubber moistened with your cum and spit; the act of stretching it near you, for it would then strike at the growing-sensible flesh. law wanted to witness the middle in which pain and pleasure converged — and you had been the chosen subject.

fleeting touches; warm breath hovering above your earlobe; the caress of your leg, under the table, with the point of his shoe. the guaranteeing of your restlessness coated in faux aloofness. when the teasing, at last, conquered its desired effect, law had the infirmary far more than prepared to receive your storm. his nape had burned under your gaze throughout the later hours of the afternoon, and when law stepped inside the maddening room, he was well-aware that you would be soon to follow.

he hid amidst the shadows, reveling in your confused-etched expression as you walked through the infirmary’s door. when you reached the center, law locked it, the force of its shutting enough to produce a loud, startling noise; echoing through the metal hallways of the submarine. you jumped, glancing at his frame placed by the door. law’s eyes drowned in the sight of you, thoughts swirling to the fantasies whose realization was of absurd importance.

“is something wrong, captain?” you inquired, arms crossed.

law’s steps were slow; calculated. he approached you as though a leopard surrounding its prey. you grew wary, retreating without forethought until your hip-bone collided with the examination table.

“how are you feeling tonight?” law grinned at the sight of your confusion, the increasing nervousness all but exciting him further.

the sound of his palms slamming on metal had you shrieking, yet law did not seem apologetic. he all but devoured your trapped figure, cursing the chaste knitting of the jumpsuit — though the sight of his crew’s symbol above your chest sent him a jolt of uncontrollable possessiveness.

“i’m fine,” you stuttered, clearing your throat and clinging to the fabric of your garment. “better than ever.”

“is that so?” law mused, pressing the back of his hand against your forehead. his fingers were but a hook on your chin; curled and unyielding. “you’re a bit pale, wouldn’t you agree?”

“captain, i don’t—”

“doctor,” he corrected through rough intonation, forcing the angle of your face to match his own.

“doctor,” you echoed. while the grunt of lust at the sound had been contained, the same could not be said about his member — a gradual erection, borderline painful.

he sighed in faux disappointment, allowing his hand to wander; to hover above your chest. “you leave me no choice but to examine you.”

you were left out of words, mouth agape as your mind struggled to wrap itself around that turn of events.

“sit. you know the drill,” he commanded, and once you had done as such, law turned on his back, striding towards the locked drawer whose contents were the ones adjusted to fulfill the standards of what he meant on doing. his movements were languid, patient. at the absence of sound on your part, law tsked, angling his head so as to glare at you. “strip.”

your spontaneous gasp of bewilderment had a smirk etching on his face. “captain, i— what?”

“doctor. and i don’t plan on repeating myself,” he scolded, fishing the stethoscope from its previous spot. “i taught you the proper way to listen to one’s heartbeat. forgot it already?”

“oh,” you breathed out sheepishly, tugging down the zipper of your jumpsuit. law at last understood the root of your hesitation, for you wore nothing but a bra underneath. his mouth dried up, and he dared not readjust his gaze. “i thought, well, nothing. it was silly.”

“no, please, enlighten me,” he requested, positioning the stethoscope around his neck.

the growth of tension escaped past your pores as though a leaking faucet. “just, with the touches and the glances, i figured you were in search of another thing entirely.”

“and what would that be?”

your movements ceased midway, the upper half of the jumpsuit a dangling fabric at your sides. you hid your face from his glance, though his focus remained on the inviting sight of your cleavage.

“you know—”

“i do not,” law detached his figure from its previous support spot on the table’s edge, languid steps guiding him to you. “and a decent patient does not keep secrets from their doctor.”

you were caged, forced to lean back as law angled himself forward. the sudden exchange of energy, due to the temperature divergence between your spine and the metal, made you hiss. your back arched out of instinct; your chest pressed against his own as a consequence. mere inches separated his face from yours, his breath fluttering your eyelashes. your pupils dilated when law tossed his blue coat aside, the half-unbuttoned shirt he wore doing nothing to shelter his bare abdomen and chest from your lustful eyes.

you gulped; wild rise-and-fall of chest. “sex.”

he hummed, putting on the stethoscope’s ear pieces. its chest piece teased the warmth of your skin, movements too erratic to catch the proper pace of your heartbeat. “i can’t hear you, say it louder.”

you were aghast, stuttering as he smirked with malice. sentences sounded muffled; chaotic breathing hindering the performance of the tool. law placed the stethoscope aside, feigning dissatisfaction.

“it seems i’ll have to scan it closer on,” he stated, a twist of his wrist enough to teleport your heart to the palm of his hand.

it was a beating wonder; a rampant pace. the source of your life secured in between his teasing fingers. clutching it would have you howling in pain, stabbing it would reap your soul; an unfathomable, despising, thought. when it came to the negative consequences to a severe act of violence committed to one’s heart, law was well-versed. the soothing touches, however, were unprecedented territory — for now.

law drew your heart closer to his mouth, ever-so-tender. he blew a careful gust of air over the delicate flesh, and the kiss thereafter tore a devastating moan from your lips. droplets of sweat bubbled from your pores; your pupils buried the tone of your irises; your limbs all but trembled. law failed to contain a groan, losing balance at the blood flowing through his aching cock. he was desperate to witness that reaction yet again.

“take it all off,” he instructed, voice coming out strained due to the effort to keep himself from crumbling.

he laid your entire body on the examination table, struggling to ignore your whimpers as the fabric slid down your legs. law sliced the rubber gloves, discarding the pieces meant for the palms.

“room,” law detached his fingers, guiding them to the glove holes; covering them in rubber. he returned to you, breath catching at the sight of your body, bare and trembling, a marvel bestowed upon him. “the doctor will see you now.”

“please, doctor,” you mewled. “heal me.”

without further ado, granted the privilege of his devil-fruit, law guided his floating fingers to your cunt. a gloved thumb teased your clit through circular movements, two fingers parting your folds. he was aghast at the amount of lubrification caused by the mere press of his lips on your heart. law shoved his middle-finger into your cunt, coating the rubber with your essence. a loud whimper had his cock aching, and law grew worried, much too selfish to share your sounds with the external environment.

“silent,” he rasped, latching his lips to your heart, leaving a trail of kisses on the flesh. your back arched, a muted moan tearing through your throat.

he witnessed the squirming of your body; the violent trembling of your legs. his ring finger accompanied his middle one, scissoring your cunt as his thumb maintained a stable eight-pattern on your clit. law’s warm tongue teased your heart, and the shout of pleasure whose sound the barrier had silenced was his latest straw. law undid it, shoving his index and minor finger into your mouth.

“suck it,” law commanded, having your spit coat the rubber. his mouth dried, a wet patch visible on the fabric of his pants.

the swirling of your tongue around his fingers had his cock twitching, yet law had no hands available to unbutton the belt. he clicked his tongue, and the fingers inside your holes had switched, activating his devil-fruit regardless of the detachment.

“shambles,” his pants and underwear teleported to a meaningless spot.

law detached his cock and removed the pair of fingers from your cunt, for the particular warmth and wetness were meant to be claimed by his cum.

“doctor,” you babbled, voice muffled by his fingers, tears rolling down your cheeks as he applied pressure to the entrance of your ass. “it’s too—ngh much.”

“you’re still sick,” he cooed, teasing your folds with the tip of his member. “and i must treat it. can we proceed with it?”

you nodded, gagging when he shoved his fingers deeper — unrestrained by the confines of his tendons.

“speak,” he insisted, neglecting your inability to produce proper words.

“yes,” you cried out, sending vibrations through his fingers.

“yes what?” law snapped, teasing your entrance with the tip of his middle-finger.

“yes, doctor,” you coaxed in sheer desperation, trembling with need.

law hummed with satisfaction, careful during the insertion on your butthole. the rubber had enough of your essence to serve as a form of lubricant, yet he wished not for you to feel pain. his tongue licked strips on your heart, and your throat produced but an orchestra of boisterous moans, half its sound muffled. a never-ending pace of kisses to your wildly beating heart served as decent distraction, and when law slid his middle and ring fingers into your ass, you barely ever felt it.

your high was a powerful force, drowning his floating cock in your cum. law trembled, rutting his hips out of instinct, the movement itself useless as his member was no longer attached to his body. law marveled at the sight of you, covered in sweat and spit; squirting all over the examination table. he was drawn closer as though a senseless sailor to a siren’s aria, lost in your contorting features, the pleasure written all over.

your eyes met his, wet with past tears. “can i treat you, still?”

law feared that he had crossed a line, far gone in his bliss to remind himself that, although there were no limits to what he was willing to give you, the same could not be said about how much you were capable of receiving.

yet, after a minute, your breathing stabilized and your cheeks briefly hollowed, tongue swirling around his fingers. he removed them, if only to facilitate your speaking.

your voice was meek; hoarse. “treat me ‘til the end, doctor.”

he groaned when your lips parted, head weakly moving to accommodate his fingers. law’s member started to stretch you out, making itself at home within the walls of your cunt. you trembled, sensitive, and law moaned as his cock was coated with the essence from the previous squirting. he paid attention to your expression, fingers scissoring inside your butthole as he matched the pace with that established by his cock.

law caressed your heart, busying his mouth with the press of soothing kisses on your face. he shoved his cock past what was humanly possible, brushing the tip on your cervix; returning it to your entrance and ramming it inside yet again. your moans were the most entrancing melody he had heard, and law caught himself comfortable enough to produce similar sounds.

you tightened around both his fingers and cock; cunt and ass giving in to the overbearing tides of pleasure. your voice failed you, and law had his fingers removed from your mouth in order to listen to the sound of your bliss without restraints. the veins of his members twitched; he felt the knot close to its undoing. yet, it was the bulge of his tip visible through your stomach that had his vision covered in dark spots.

his grip left your heart — out of safety — as his orgasm washed over him, converging with your cum. he rode his high, careful as to observe your face and retrieve once the stimulation became too much. you were left limp on the table, a brief vocal command of his devil-fruit returning the detached limbs to his body. he threw the damp gloves on the trash can, and helped you sit, holding your heart in order to return it to your chest.

when you kissed it — shuddering at your own touch — and observed him through your eyelashes, law, however, became more than willing to ruin the infirmary further.

— 🐈‍⬛ : dear lord this was nasty. i love kinktober.

#kinktober 2024 #law x reader #law smut #one piece #op #op x reader #op x you #one piece x reader #one piece x you #op x y/n #trafalgar law x you #trafalgar law smut #trafalgar law x reader #trafalgar law #trafalgardwaterlaw #trafalgar one piece #law x you #op law

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rajiv-sharma · 9 months ago

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How to Get Rid of Fruit Flies?

Fruit flies can get really annoying and nobody wants to deal with them. So, if you are dealing with one, here are some ways to get rid of fruit flies.

#how to get rid of mosquitoes #pest control for mosquito #ways to get rid of fruit flies

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anaukeya3 · 16 days ago

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Sorry to parrot that one post but I just don't believe that ALL of the women who claim they have to get rid of body hair because they have sensory issues are telling the truth.

Waxing is straight up painful, and shaving leaves my legs so itchy I scratch them all red and swollen. Hair growing back is literally SO itchy?? I refuse to believe its just me, but all I have to hear from my peers is how ✨HAIRLESS LEGS✨ on fresh sheets feel ✨SO GOOD✨. There's literally no room for other opinions.

Personally? My legs feel numb after shaving, anr I can't enjoy the fresh sheets, because I can't feel them. And that's what body hair is supposed to do! TRANSMIT MESSAGES TO YOUR NERVES AND ENHANCE YOUR SENSE OF TOUCH. That's why its everywhere! So you can feel the mosquito before it bites you!! JFC!!!

#radblr #radical feminists do interact #radical feminists do touch #radical feminism

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butchcarmy · 7 months ago

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Blood Orange (Ch 2: The Bathroom)

Carmy Berzatto x Reader (R18, MDNI)

Rating: E (5.7k)

links: fic playlist, pinterest board, ao3 link, ch 1

Chapter Summary: No more fucking your boss. That’s what you’ve been telling yourself, but he doesn’t make it easy, even as you find yourself wanting to scream. Somehow it all falls away when you lower yourself to your knees before him. You don’t know if there’s any stopping this anymore.

Content Tags: work sex, blow jobs, mouth fucking, CUM PLAY, dom/bossy carmy, coworkers with benefits, carmy being difficult, mental illness, they/them reader, gender neutral reader, the usual

A/N: WHEW. It’s here! Thanks for waiting y’all. I think I embarrassed myself writing this one (flushed emoji). It’s ramping up. Next chapter is gonna be big one. Let me know what you guys think, and enjoy! <3

Before you go to work the next morning, you make yourself come on your fingers. It would've been twice if you had more time.

You open your eyes waking from a dream with his ghostly blue eyes and low voice, and you already know you're wet before you even touch yourself. The pads of your reaching fingers chase the tender spot Carmy stroked inside of you, but they don't quite make it. Of course they don't.

Fingering yourself eases the ache for a little while. On the early morning transit with headphones over your ears, you still manage to find yourself aching for him. The music doesn't cover up the sound of his voice, and you catch yourself grimacing in the faint reflection of the dirty metro windows.

This is not a good way to start your second day at work.

Since you left the walk-in yesterday, Carmy's been following you around like a mosquito in the summer, whizzing around your head, buzzing in your ears. You can't rid your thoughts of him. When you close your eyes, you're trapped in the fridge with him, again, and his fingers are deep inside you.

Fuck. You're standing in front of the restaurant, willing yourself to go in. Just stop it, you think to yourself.

You really should be more mad at him. He technically never apologized for insulting you, but you suppose you didn't expect him to in the first place. You didn't usually get apologies at places like this, from people like him. You don't want to get in the bad habit of expecting good things from broken people.

No more fucking your boss, you think resolutely to yourself, and that's the thought you meditate on as you open the door.

By this time yesterday, there were already a couple of people floating around the kitchen. Today, you find dim lights and silence. Your footsteps feel too loud on the white linoleum as you walk to the lockers to drop off your stuff. You can’t pretend to understand the schedule yet.

“Carmen?” You pace around again as you secure your apron with a tie. No response. Surely he's here, at least. Someone had to open the place.

You take a couple more steps when you hear his voice.

“No, I'm not—that's not what I was sayin’.” The direction of his voice sounds like it's coming from his office. “Of course I miss him. Sugar—” A pause. “I know. Yeah. It's bullshit.” He laughs then, you think. You can't measure how genuine it is. “You're bullshit. Look, I'll call you back later, okay? And I'll—yeah, I'll look at it. Promise. Yeah. Bye.”

It's quiet after that. You're standing there, not sure what to do with yourself when you hear footsteps. Sure enough, Carmy pops out of the office, and you catch just a glimpse of something haunted in him before surprise takes over.

“Hi,” you say at the same time he says, “Jesus Christ.”

“How long have you been here,” he asks, as you go, “That's an interesting way to pronounce my name.”

“Um,” you start, and he stares at you blankly, unreactive to your joke. Too early, you guess. “I just got here.”

“Okay. Cool. Uh…” Anxiety radiates off of him, making his hands fidget and run through untamed hair. Not that you were looking at his hands at all. “You’ll be doin’ prep again.”

“Alright.” You expected as such. You’ll probably be on prep for the rest of the week, if not the month. That’s how most places go, but this isn’t most places.

“Your station was dirty when you left yesterday.” You walk up to your station, and it’s spotless. “I had to clean it before I left.”

“Ah. I’m sorry about that,” you apologize quickly. I was preoccupied with other things, you think bitterly to yourself, thinking of locked doors and heated kisses. Not that you’ll mention it. “I’ll make sure to clean it this time.”

“Prep’s gonna be a bit different today,” he says, completely ignoring your apology. You bite the inside of your cheek to stop yourself from snapping. “You’re gonna inspect produce, and then you’ll prep the stock again. Correctly this time.”

“It was nearly perfect, I just misplaced it,” you mutter under your breath.

“Yeah, nearly.” Looks like he heard you this time. Asshole. He places a box of onions on your station, rattling the table slightly. “Do I have to tell you how to sort out the bad ones from the good ones?” You’re honestly not sure if he means that as a jab, but the way he says it makes your insides sizzle with irritation.

Don’t take it personally, you remind yourself. Don’t. Take. It. Personally.

“How about you show me just in case? Just so we’re on the same page.” It’s a wonder how calm you keep your voice. To your surprise, Carmy doesn’t roll his eyes, doesn’t sigh, he just nods and proceeds. Every time you think you’ll predict him properly, he does the opposite.

You follow the line of his callused finger pointing to brown splotches on some of the onions. Intently, studiously, you examine the dark spots (indicative of mold), the sprouts (initial stages of deterioration), and the mushy areas (a sign of decreasing freshness). He’s talking about details as he seems to do when it comes to food, even elaborating on the farming process, but you don’t quite pick up that part. You just pay attention to the parameters you need to follow.

No more fucking your boss, you remind yourself again, because you catch yourself aching at the sight of his fingers. Your eyes have a hunger of their own, flickering up and down his muscular arms. God damnit. Maybe there’s another reason you can’t quite pay attention today.

“Are you listening?” Carmy’s pointed question snaps you out of it. Fuck. You hope he didn’t catch you staring at his fingers again.

“If I can save it and just chop off the bad parts, then I should,” you regurgitate on instinct. “Those are the best ones to use for the stock. Otherwise, I should just toss it.”

For a split second, all he does is fix you with his focused stare. You feel the intensity of it in your chest, your beating heart fluttering with its weight. No matter how many times you scold yourself for finding him attractive, your eyes can’t ignore what’s right in front of them. You find yourself counting his moles.

“I caught you staring,” he murmurs, “for real this time.”

“I—uh—” Your eyebrows are so raised you’re sure they’re bound to shoot off your warmed face. He’s smiling like he knows something you don’t. You weren’t going to mention yesterday, and after your first interaction this morning, you were sure he wasn’t going to, either. Guess you were wrong again.

“I’ll be in the back if you need help. The others should be here soon.” He’s moving on without giving you a chance to recover. Your brain can’t process the shock. “Just call if you need anything."

Before you get a chance to scrounge up anything to say, you’re alone in the kitchen again.

This time I'm really gonna do it, you fume internally. Because you have a healthy amount of anger management, you don’t let yourself continue that thought.

Sydney is the third person to show up after you and Carmy. You give her a nod and a thin smile as she walks in, and she waves back. Soon after she arrives, the others trickle in one by one. As you're learning to expect, the quiet never lasts for long.

There are tasks circling you just like yesterday that you don't fully grasp yet. Everyone seems to be instinctively following their own schedule, their circadian rhythm matched to the chaotic ecosystem of the kitchen. It’s just as suffocating as it was yesterday. You remind yourself that as a new hire, you don't need to understand the madness yet. Nonetheless, an invisible pressure presses down on you.

“Hey, d'you mind telling me where this produce goes?” A triple stack of filled containers sits heavy in your arms. With Sydney out of the kitchen, Marcus is your next safest option in terms of coworkers. His head flicks up from where he was focused on kneading dough. A streak of white flour is across his nose.

“Oh, that one's bottom shelf, near the back.” He claps his dusty hands together, flour falling between them like snow. “Here, I'll just show you. You know where the walk-in is?”

With Marcus, it doesn't feel like there are any stupid questions. It's a gift you don't take for granted, especially around here. You let him lead you to the fridge again, even though you remember where it is. It doesn't hurt.

“Thanks. I'm, uh, still having a hard time figuring out where stuff goes,” you say after you put the produce away.

“It’s cool. It's only your second day, right?” You nod. “Just takes time. Don't sweat it. You ever work in a restaurant before?”

“Yeah, a couple of times.”

“Then you know what you're gettin’ into.” That makes you laugh.

“Sorta.” You shrug. “To be honest with you, I just need money, and I like cooking enough, so…now I'm here.” You're not quite as honest with how desperate your situation was on the verge of coming, but it's fine. Not really the time and place for it anyway.

“I gotcha. That's how it was for me too, actually.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. Well, that's how I started at McDonald’s. That was a while ago now.”

“I see. It's better here, I hope.”

“Hard to say,” he says, but there's a little smile on his face. “For the most part, Michael was cool, but—”

“Michael!” You blurt out, startling the both of you. “Holy shit, I'm sorry. I've just been trying to remember the name of the previous owner for forever now and—wow, sorry. I didn't mean to shout.”

“It's fine.” Marcus has this amused expression, but it dissolves quickly. “You met him?”

“I did. I came here a couple of years ago when I first moved. Just once, but—anyway, what's his deal?”

“His deal?”

“Yeah, like, why'd he give the restaurant away? Carmy said he didn't want it anymore.”

“Oh.” You can't read the way Marcus’ face shifts. “That's what he said?”

“...Yeah?”

“I see. Okay. Uh…” He pauses, scratching the back of his neck. “Look, I know how this sounds, but just try not to bring Mike up for now. It's still kind of a sore subject.”

“Ah, my bad.” Your brain instantly supplies stories of estranged families, sibling spats, and stolen money. You suppose it's a sour sort of relationship—something you're intimately familiar with. “Can I ask what happened, or…?”

“I'll tell you later,” he replies evasively. “You know what else they got you training on today?”

“No idea,” you answer honestly. The nosy part of you wants to hear more about the Berzatto family, but the responsible part of you reminds you to cool your jets. “Carmy just told me I was on produce. Know where he's at? I peeked into his office, but he wasn't there.”

“Oh, he just left.” Your blank stare makes him elaborate. “He's off doing Carmy things.”

“Doing Carmy things?” Looks like the person in charge has abandoned you yet again.

“Business stuff, probably.” Marcus shrugs. “He does that sometimes. He probably won't be back for a while, so I can help you with training for now if you want.”

“That would be great.” There's a remark on the tip of your tongue about poor management, but you hold it. “Is Carmy a better boss, at least?”

“Compared to Michael?” You recognize sadness in Marcus’ pinched brows, even if it's only momentary. “I dunno. It hasn't been long, but this place has been running more smoothly since he started doing things.” Your shocked expression makes him laugh briefly. “I know, it used to be worse if you can believe it.”

“I'm not sure that I can,” you admit.

. . . . .

The next several days at work continue to test your patience. While Carmy keeps you on prep, keeping your tasks simple, he continues to find ways to keep you on edge. You stiffen up every time he enters the kitchen, waiting for him to point out yet another mistake.

Chef, this cut's too uneven. Chef, you're taking too much time on this. Chef, you should’ve cut this part off. Chef, you’re creating too much waste.

Yes, Chef, you always reply, even as his comments become more and more grating. A childish part of you wants to do a worse job out of spite, but another part of you is hungry for his approval far more than you would ever admit. You wonder if he's this tough on everyone.

The incident in the walk-in does not get mentioned again. A childish voice in you wonders if Carmy has forgotten about it. Of course he hasn’t, but every time he critiques you, you wonder about the Carmy who kissed you. You wonder what that Carmy's thinking, because you have no clue.

Has he been thinking of you, too?

This is how things should be, you remind yourself after you touch yourself for the fourth night in a row to the thought of him. Your fingers are wet, and your wrist is embarrassingly sore. I can't have sex with my boss again. I just can't.

Would it be different if he also touched himself to thoughts of you?

You desperately suck your own cum off your fingers, and you wish it were his fingers instead. It doesn't taste the same.

The bright lights are irritatingly bright when you come in this morning. It looks like you're the first person here again, other than Carmy. You hear his irritated voice as soon as you enter, which is clearly a good sign.

“I appreciate you thinking of me, I do. I do. It's just—” He sighs. Looks like he's having another phone call. “I can't come back. Not right now.” Silence. “No, uh, won't happen for a while, I think. The place's fucked.” A shaky breath. “What? What did you say?

“The head chef asked about me?” Carmy's voice has gone tight. “I see. Of course he said that. No, it's fine.” Pause. “...I know what they've been saying. I figured they'd look down on me.” His laugh is hollow and painful. “Look, I got shit to do. Thanks for asking me, but it's a no. I can't.” Another pause, drawn out and tense. “Sure. Bye.”

After he hangs up, you hear him muttering to himself. You can't pick out any of the words other than the curses, but it sounds bad. As you put your things away, you silently pray to the abstract idea of a god to give you both strength of patience. Seems like you'll need it today.

“Morning,” you tentatively greet him when he sees you. He's not surprised by your presence today, it seems. He nods back.

“Morning.” His eyebags are dark with a lack of sleep. Upon closer inspection, his whole everything screams sleep deprivation, perhaps a bit more so than usual. His messy hair seems particularly unkempt today. “You're doing prep again today.”

“I figured.”

“You need to get better about cleaning your station.” His words are full to the brim with irritation. “I keep having to clean it after you.”

“I thought I was—” You stop. Calm down, you think, but it's getting harder and harder to repeat. “Sorry. I didn't realize.”

“I told you the other day that it was dirty. Were you even paying attention?”

“Of course I was!” Annoyance bubbles over inside of you, potent and unbridled. Carmy barely reacts to your raised voice. Somehow, that pisses you off more. The cap on your contained anger has popped off, and there's no fitting it back on. “Are you always like this towards your employees?”

“Like what?”

“Like an asshole?” You're too irritated to hold yourself back.

“Depends. Are you always like this with your boss?” He retorts immediately.

“I don't usually have sex with my boss, so no, I suppose not,” you respond stupidly, and that makes him go dead silent. He narrows his eyes, fixes you with his gaze. Like you're a new problem that needs solving or something like that.

God damnit, you think to yourself. Why'd you have to say that?

“You've been thinking about it.” The air feels thicker, suddenly.

“I never said that.”

“Then why did you mention it?” Shit. “You said you were going to do better.”

“And I have been. I've been trying to do everything you've been telling me to do.” You don't know why you take a step towards him. “You said you were gonna be nicer.”

“And I have been,” he echoes, and his sincerity makes you roll your eyes.

“Bullshit! You've been nit-picking me all week!”

“We have standards here, and you need to learn how to follow them. That's all.”

“You're right! I'm learning,” you argue, throwing exasperated hands up in the air. “Cut me some fucking slack!”

“Then learn. Improve.” He slams a hand down on the aluminum surface next to you, enclosing you partially in. Being this close to him, you can really see how dark his dark circles are. You could easily move to the side if you wanted to, but something in you stays put. “There's no excuse for a dirty workspace in a kitchen. I thought you would know that already.”

“I'm so fucking sorry, chef,” you spit back with about as much venom as you can muster. Which, right now, is a lot.

That shifts something inside him. You see it flash across his face—surprise, anger, and then…something else.

“Dirty work station and a dirty mouth,” he murmurs. His voice is lower, quieter, and it sounds just like how it did in the walk-in. You hate how that change instantly makes your heart pick up speed. “You think you get a pass to act like this because of what happened in the walk-in?”

“You motherfucker,” you hiss, meeting his glare with your own. “So now you're going to acknowledge it? And for the record, I get to act however the fuck I want. Especially with someone like you.”

“Someone like me.” He doesn't ask you to elaborate. He just laughs, breathy and condescending, and he's so close you can feel his breath fan across your face. “You think you're above all this, don't you?”

“What?” The question takes you so off guard that it almost dissipates the strange mix of anger and arousal simmering in your gut.

“I know it doesn't feel good to have to take orders from someone you hate, but here's the thing. You have to.” He's not smiling, but you swear he's getting some sort of sick satisfaction from all this. Why else would he be saying any of this shit?

“I could leave right now if I wanted to,” you threaten him. “You won't be able to find anyone else that wants to work in this shithole of a place.”

“You're right. You could leave if you really wanted to.” His eyes narrow curiously at you. “Then why haven't you?”

You’re well within your right to leave already—it checks all the boxes. Chaotic work environment. Awful management. General workplace misconduct. Unprofessionalism between coworkers. You suppose you're partially to blame for that last one, but still.

If it's bad, I'll just find another job, you told yourself. You're not sure why you're not listening to your own advice. The simple truth of the matter, though, is that other jobs won't have him. They won't have the man that's been keeping you up at night, the man that you want to simultaneously devour and destroy. They won't have Carmen Berzatto, and for some reason, that's all it's going to take.

You don't understand yourself. It scares you, but not enough. Not enough to leave.

“...I don't know why I haven't left yet,” you say quietly after a while. “I have no clue.”

“I see.” If he's dissatisfied with your answer, he doesn't show it. “Then for the time you're here, let's make one thing clear.”

“What is it now?” You sigh.

“I'm in charge here,” he whispers. His other hand is on the counter now. You're completely blocked in. “I'm the one who runs this place, so you're going to be good and listen to me when I speak.”

“You're not really giving me a lot of incentive, chef.” You lower your gaze to the counters next to you. “Maybe if you gave me something to work with.” You don't mean for it to come out as suggestive as it does, but with him surrounding you like this…

“Incentive?” He brings a hand to your face, tucking his fingers under your chin to pull your gaze back to him. His touch is achingly gentle, but it forces it to look straight into his eyes. Your fidgety gaze catches glances of the dark blue speckles that border his pale iris. “Hey,” he whispers, “look at me.”

You squeeze your eyes shut. Your heart's pounding like sprinting feet thudding on concrete. You can't place what feelings are excitement or anxiety or both, but maybe no separation exists. Shutting your eyes was a weak attempt to temporarily block him out, but now all you can focus on is the sensation of his rough hand on your hot face.

Hesitantly, you open your eyes to face him. Ice blue and dark circles. His intense stare is difficult to match, but you try.

“What do you want from me?” You ask quietly.

“I want you to clean your station. Think you can do that?”

“Don't patronize me. Of course I can. I just—happened to forget.”

“Hm.” He smiles briefly. It's just a bit mocking. “You don't have a good track record so far, so you'll have to prove it to me.”

“...And how would I do that?”

“Depends,” he replies vaguely. “Depends on what you want.”

“What I want? I thought you were supposed to be in charge.”

“When I touched you, you told me you wanted to touch me.” The realization clicks in your head. “Do you still want that?”

You hesitate. Memories of the walk-in flood in. You remember the silhouette of his tight jeans over his bulge, and you ache. You shouldn't say yes. You really shouldn't. A distant voice says, you don't want to do this. What have you been telling yourself? This is a bad idea.

Unfortunately, it's far past a matter of want anymore. It's a matter of need.

“Yes,” you whisper back. Your fate is sealed. “I do.”

That's how you find yourself in the cramped bathroom with him. It's dark with one of the lightbulbs having gone out, making it feel even smaller. An eerie green cast coats the room.

“You're going to show me that you can listen. That you can clean up after your messes.” He's leaned up against the wall, broad hands unbuttoning his pants. Your eyes shamelessly zero in on the motion. “Think you can do that much?”

“Of course I can,” you reply, but it comes out a lot softer than intended.

“Good.” You force your eyes away from the outline of his bulge in his boxers to look at his face. His darkened eyes are trained on you. “Get on your knees.”

Oh, you think. So this is how it's gonna go.

You wish you could say that you hesitate even a little bit, that there’s even a shred of contemplation left in you. However, there isn't any of that remaining. Obediently, you fall to your knees, resting them against the cold, hard bathroom floor. You're at eye level with his unbuttoned jeans. Slowly, you raise your eyes to look at him.

His downturned face is framed by wild strands of hair. Looking down at you casts darker shadows across his face, but not enough to hide his expression. It's an odd mix of hunger and what you think to be admiration. Surely not, but that's immediately the thought that comes to mind.

“Waiting for directions, chef,” you murmur.

“Mm. Right,” he says, like he was lost in thought. “You look better like this.”

“Watch it,” you warn him. “I could still bite your dick off.” To that, he just briefly smiles, and then it's gone.

He's pulled his black pants down just enough to let his clothed bulge hang over the waistband. The sight of it goes straight to the simmer starting in your gut. You watch his veined hand disappear into his boxers. He's doing this far too slowly for your taste.

Finally, he pulls out his cock, nearly completely stiffened, and you can't deny the way you begin to salivate.

You were right. It's big, though not just in length. His cock is thick. You immediately know you won't be able to take the full length of him into your mouth, but what fits is going to be a stretch. You're already imagining how those bulging veins are going to feel against the flat of your tongue.

“Use your mouth for something other than talking back to me. Make me come,” Carmy orders quietly. “Enough direction for you?”

“Shut the hell up,” you mutter, ignoring the feeling of the growing heat inside you, and you pull the reddened, shiny tip of his cock between your lips.

His pre-come mixes with the saliva on your tongue. You savor the taste of his salty musk, suckling slowly, and you hear him exhale shakily above you. Looks like you've been given something of an opportunity to get him back for the walk-in. Not repayment—payback. The distinction is important.

When you pull back, thin strings of spit connect the pink head to your glistening lips. One of your hands moves to hold the base of his cock as you close the gap again. You drag your tongue down the side of his length, licking the thick vein you were eyeing earlier. You feel him twitch.

“Do that again,” he breathes. Without question, your tongue retraces its path, running back over the line of spit it created. That gets you a quiet, strangled moan, and it's music to your ears.

“Is this part sensitive?” You ask as you stroke the vein with your thumb. You suck your way down the vein again, making small, wet seals of pleasure.

“Somewhat.” He sounds good like this, breathless and flustered. A smile twitches on your lips. You lick across the inside of your hand, wetting it before lazily curling it around his cock. He slides effortlessly in your grasp.

“You gonna come already?” You can't help but tease. He's surprisingly reactive, more so than you would've thought. It's not that you're complaining—it's not that at all. The sound of his low groans is making you drip.

“Hah—no. You'll have to work harder than that.” You feel a hand pushing back your hair, and that makes you raise your head towards him. His touch is surprisingly gentle. You watch the movement of his lips when he speaks. “Open your mouth, and stick out your tongue.”

You can't quite figure out what it is about all of this that makes you submit. Just moments ago, you wanted to wring your hands around his throat. It was far too easy to abandon your anger and kneel in front of him. Maybe it's the incomprehensibly part of you that undeniably needs his validation. Maybe it's the soft, low tone of his voice, gentle yet commanding. Either way, it has you obeying with a thought in your mind.

You do as he says. You part your lips and extend your tongue. As your eyes flutter upwards towards him, you're struck with the impression that you must look obscene.

“Perfect,” he whispers, and just the one word sends something of a euphoric rush through you. “Doin’ so good for me.”

You soak up the praise, basking in the warmth of it. Then, Carmy spits onto your tongue, and his saliva slides towards the back of your mouth.

You can't hide your surprise. Your breath hitches, but you don't say anything. Fuck, that should've made you angry, but it just made your clit throb painfully hard.

He drags his thumb down your tongue, slow and sensual. You have half the mind to suck on it until he glides the head of his cock on your tongue, leading it into the heat of your mouth.

“Ah—” You lose the words you were going to say, along with the empty space in your mouth. The tip of his cock's nearing the back of your throat. You breathe shakily through your nose. You were right again—you can't take him fully in. It's enough of a stretch as it is.

“Fuck, that's it…” Carmy sighs. “Just like that…”

His hand holding your hair turns into a tighter grip as you begin sucking up and down his cock. It's an awful mess, the size of him forcing spit to drip down your chin. It's not just that, though. He's thrusting his cock back into your mouth quicker and quicker. You wish he would slow down so you could lean back and suck on his dribbling tip, but his hand has you anchored.

Time slows as he starts fucking your mouth. Your hands fall to your hands. Your knees are starting to hurt. You care surprisingly little about that fact, instead opting to care about rubbing your clit as quickly as possible. When you get your hands under your underwear, you find your whole pussy already smeared in wetness. You've seeped through the fabric.

When he pulls his cock out of your mouth (or rather, when he tugs you off), you think he's going to give you a new order. Or that he's going to say something. You don't realize what's really happening until it's too late.

You watch him bring a hand to his cock. He strokes it twice, keeping his hand tight in your hair, and with a low groan, he comes.

With his hand on you, you can't move away. Not that you try. When the first glob of cum streaks your cheek, you freeze. All you can do is pause as he comes on your face. Even your hand under your pants has frozen, your palm pressed up tight against your pulsing clit.

With each rope of cum across your face, you feel yourself throb. Carmy is a sight to behold as he comes, long-lashed eyes falling shut with his parted, gasping mouth. He's jaggedly fisting his cock as he just keeps coming. You feel the cum starting to drip down the slopes of your skin, even your lips.

By the time he's come down, he's left your face an absolute mess. Your jaw feels heavy, and his cum is hot against your swollen lips. You've come down as well, and it's left you with the irate realization that he just came all over your face without asking.

“You could've at least told me you were gonna come on my face,” you snap. Your cheeks are burning. Your argument feels weak with how worked up you feel over watching and feeling him come, but the irritation is still very real.

“Clean your station, chef,” he responds, infuriatingly smug even as he catches your breath. “Practice makes perfect.”

“Are you kidding me?” Of course. That's what this all was. A fucked up lesson, a twisted sort of discipline.

“I'm not.” He uncurls his fist from your hair. “Stand up—your knees must hurt.”

You pause for a second before you shakily get back up on your legs. One minute he's messily fucking your mouth, and the other, he's worrying over your sore knees. He continues to become more and more confusing.

“You're gonna make me clean up your mess.” You catch your face in the small, shitty rectangular mirror hanging on the wall. God, are you a filthy sight, cum and spit all over your face.

“I had to clean up yours for the past week, so yeah.” He's zipped himself back up. He's clean, not a drop of anything on him. Unlike the mess parading itself on your face. At least there's not any in your hair.

“This is not the same. This is—” You frustratedly search for the right words. He's remaining as stoic as ever. “You didn't even kiss me,” you blurt out, and as soon as you say it, you regret it.

Carmy stills. You can't tell what he's thinking with his unmoving expression. You're sure he's about to insult you again, but then he’s leaning in and sealing his lips against yours.

You're stunned. A small noise escapes you as he kisses you deeply, thoroughly. His tongue drags up a trail of cum and spit up your chin and back into your mouth. Or back into his. You're unsure, with the way they're all blending together.

“There,” Carmy murmurs against your lips. When he pulls back, you see his tongue running across his lips, collecting the pearlescent sheen that was on them.

“Um—” You start and immediately stop. You’re speechless.

“Now clean up.” You hear the sound of distant company. Your other coworkers must be arriving now. “I expect improvement now, chef. Is that clear?”

“Crystal,” you reply bitterly. “I suppose I met your expectations, then?”

“Sure. Closely enough, anyway.” Potent aggravation hits you like a cast iron pan. He drags his thumb in one last infuriating line across your cheek. He sucks it into his mouth and cleans it off. “Don't take too long. I have a lot planned for you today.”

Without waiting for a response, Carmy leaves. He leaves you alone in the shitty bathroom with a now flickering lightbulb, left to clean his cum on your face with water, hand soap, and thin paper towels. You don't know if you've ever been so angry before.

The anger doesn't make the arousal go away. You rub your needy clit to orgasm, your back pressed up against the wall like Carmy's just a moment ago.

As you come with Carmy's cum slowly trailing on your face, you wonder if there is any coming back from this. If there's anything left to be done to stop whatever's happening. You can't come up with any solutions or suggestions. Only one thing is undeniably clear:

You hate Carmen Berzatto, and you're already thinking of ways to get his cock in your mouth again soon.

taglist: @zorrasucia @carmenberzattosgf @thehouseofevangelista @alastorssimp @talas-starlight @jmamas92

#carmy berzatto #the bear #carmen berzatto #carmy berzatto x reader #carmen berzatto x reader #jeremy allen white #carmy berzatto x you #carmy berzatto smut #carmen berzatto smut #carmy berzatto imagines #carmen berzatto imagines #my fics #blood orange #ARGHHH ITS HEREEE. i won't lie this chapter was so hard to write #im still having a hard time figuring out what this particular carmy acts like. its difficult. im getting there tho #my smut

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catslvrr · 10 months ago

Text

for better or worse

pham hanni x fem!reader | one shot

Synopsis: You’re absolutely wasted at a party. You somehow end up spending the night lamenting to this stranger about how much you miss your ex. You find out the next morning that the stranger is said ex.

Contains: drinking, death-related jokes, cursing

Playlist

Like all bad decisions you’ve made in your life, it always starts with Danielle.

“Please,” Danielle begs, standing in the doorway to your room like a toddler who’s waiting to tell their mom that they just vomited. “Just for tonight.”

You glare at her as you pause your TikTok. “I’m not being your designated driver. Catch an Uber.”

Danielle skips toward your bed and flops on it, resting her chin on the palm of her hand and kicking her feet like a kid. She’s putting on this disgusting baby voice. “Please, I’m begging you… I don’t get paid until next week.”

You ignore her and press play on your TikTok. It’s an edit of Asami Sato, and damn, she is so fine. You’re blushing and giggling to yourself until Danielle rudely interrupts you by pulling your blanket to the floor, ridding you of its comfortable warmth.

“What the fuck!”

She pouts. “Please? I won’t ask again.”

“You said that last time,” you give her a blank stare. “And the last last time.”

“Last time was five months ago! And I always make it up to you.”

Danielle rolls over on her back, and her head is heavy on your legs. She begins to poke you.

“Please,” she whines, dragging the word out. You close your eyes as her voice rings in your ears like a mosquito, taking deep breaths to prevent yourself from murdering her.

Danielle is a lovely roommate. She pays her half of the rent on time, she keeps her space tidy, and she always brings you leftovers from the bakery that she works at. Only issue is, she’s a massive social butterfly. Meaning that wherever she goes, there’s always a party — either in your own apartment, or someone else’s.

She keeps trying to explain to you why she’s like this – saying that she’s an “E” for her “MBTD” or “TMDI” or whatever, but you couldn’t care less. All you know is that you want to peacefully rot in your bed.

But, damn, she can be awfully persuasive. Persuasive meaning incessantly pestering you until you give in.

You sigh in defeat. “Get out before I change my mind.”

Danielle sits up at the speed of light and grins.

“I love you so much,” she presses a sloppy kiss on your hand. You wipe your hand on your blanket in disgust. She then skips out of your room humming some song.

As you force yourself out of bed to get ready, you mentally prepare yourself for the night ahead.

Every time Danielle drags you to one of her parties, you hate her a little more. Which is impossible, because no one hates Danielle. But here you are, cursing her as you stand alone, leaning against the wall, arms folded, and cynical eyes scanning the crowd.

Danielle had practically abandoned you the second the two of you stepped foot in the house, preferring the company of her other friends. You don’t mind of course — this is always the standard drill.

There are the people who are not exactly drunk, just a little buzzed, who are mingling with each other, conversations full of giggles and exaggerated voices. Then, there are the people who are drunk, either dancing sloppily on the floor or passed out. You hear a group of people in the backyard cheering someone on to chug. Lastly, there’s the small group of people who are completely sober, stuck in the same boat as you are.

Okay, so maybe you do mind that Danielle abandoned you. Because you’re stuck here looking like a bitter loner, and in this very moment, you are one. You feel awkward, self-conscious, tired, and extremely bored.

You’re checking your phone for any new notifications (there are none) when you look up and make eye contact with a familiar face for a split second.

You immediately look back down and open Instagram, pretending that you have something to do. You hope she didn’t recognize you. If you can’t see her, she can’t see you, is what you tell yourself.

You hear footsteps approaching you, but you convince yourself it’s just a stranger walking past.

“Hey,” Minji says, a small smile on her face. Nevermind.

“Minji,” you greet her tentatively. “Hi.”

Nothing better than seeing your ex’s best friend for the first time since the breakup that happened three months ago. As expected, she’s taken on the role of the responsible one and is sober.

You mull over the past for a split second — you’ve never seen Minji tipsy, let alone drunk. She’s always been a good friend. It sucks that you guys don’t talk anymore, for obvious reasons.

Minji joins you in leaning against the wall. “How are you?”

“Good. You?”

You’re not curt because you have something against her — you just have no idea how to navigate these types of social dilemmas. There’s no exact rulebook for approaching a conversation with your best friend’s ex, especially an ex who you are still in love with.

“I’m good as well.”

Silence follows after. You fidget awkwardly, pulling out your phone just to stare at the same Instagram feed you were only looking at a few minutes ago. You keep refreshing the feed, but to no avail. You’re staring at the same reel of a cat playing a rhythm game.

“Look,” Minji says. “What happened between you and Hanni—”

Your finger twitches at the mention of her name. You straighten yourself up and rush out an apology. “I gotta go to the bathroom.”

Minji doesn’t stop you as you hurriedly weave your way through the mass of sweaty bodies. You don’t even know where the bathroom is. It takes you a good ten minutes to find it, and it’s surprisingly vacant.

You lock the door behind you. The air is humid inside, and you feel claustrophobic. The lights are dim. You steady yourself by gripping the sink. Hair is sticking to the back of your neck, and your clothes cling to your sweat.

You let out a deep exhale to collect your thoughts before washing your face. You stare at your reflection, and you’re not sure if you like what you see. You’re pale and your eyebags are prominent. You’ve lost the fat in your cheeks that Hanni always used to…

You splash water on your face again. If Minji’s here, then that means Hanni’s definitely here. Fuck, you knew you shouldn’t have come today. You close your eyes as the water drips down your face and back into the sink. It’s been a rough few months.

You grab some tissues to dry yourself and chuck them in the bin before steeling yourself to go back outside. You cautiously creak open the door and peek outside to check if Minji is still there. To your relief, the coast seems clear.

Your eyes scan around the house for a bit longer, searching for another corner to nestle into. And that’s when you see it. Or, more specifically, her.

Hanni’s leaning on the balcony railing, red solo cup in hand, and the moonlight is gently resting on her. There’s someone else with her – she looks familiar but you can’t remember her name. It was either Yunjin or Yeonjung. Or it could be Yeojin.

They’re laughing together, and Hanni’s eyes are crinkling just like you remember, and you remember the sound of her laughter, and how it was a melody that you were proud to bring out, and God, she just looks so pretty. Like she didn’t just go through a breakup.

Then Yunjin/Yeonjung/Yeojin places her hand on Hanni’s waist, and your body goes frigid. You feel hot — anger at first, shame next, and guilt last. And it’s a fiery concoction that burns all over you.

You have no right to be jealous. You force down the lump in your throat and look up at the ceiling until the tears are gone. Fuck. You will not survive the night sober. You take one last glance at Hanni and Yujin/Yeonjung/Yeojin and make up your mind.

You text Danielle: catch an uber, and send her $20 with Apple Cash. She’ll be fine. You hope. Then, you beeline straight to the kitchen, rummage through the cabinets, and help yourself to a small bottle of Jack Daniel’s. Then, you down it.

You grab another bottle of soju from a fridge (peach because it’s the best flavor) to slowly sip on as you settle on some couch. It feels slightly sticky, but beggars can’t be choosers. You know you’ll be too drunk to care in a second — you’re lucky you’re a lightweight.

It’s twenty minutes later that you feel the heat encompassing your body and the tip of your ears burning. You can barely hear the music over the pounding of your own heart. You automatically keel over to the side and relish the coolness of a silk pillow.

You’re mumbling to yourself (and possibly drooling) when you hear a muffled voice.

“Hey, you okay?”

Huh, the voice sounds just like Minji, but you’re too sluggish to respond. A few minutes later, there’s something blissfully cold pushing against your cheek, and then it’s gone. You’re pulled up so that you’re sitting again, and your head lays against the top of the sofa.

“Drink this,” Minji(?) says, and they guide the bottle to your hand. You shakily take a few gulps, and of course, you spill some of it on yourself, but Minji(?) cleans it up with some tissues.

“Thanks,” you mumble.

“Do you have anyone to take you home?”

You try to shake your head, but it makes you feel nauseous and you almost fall face forward off the sofa. Minji(?) luckily catches you and helps you back up.

“I’ll be back,” Minji(?) says. “Stay still.”

You blearily open your eyes, and everything still seems the same. Every movement of your head feels as though it’s in slow motion, like you’re in some kind of TikTok velocity edit, but worse.

People are still mingling, there’s still Boat Race and Beer Pong going on, and the night is still young. Your eyes close shut on their own. Your heartbeat is still as loud as ever.

Clearly, your plan to drink in order to forget about your ex didn’t work, because just a few minutes after Minji(?) has left, you think of Hanni again.

The two of you met in your first year of university the way most people meet: through a friend of a friend. In this case, the friend of a friend was Danielle. So, in retrospect, at least there’s one thing you can thank Danielle’s amiableness for.

You and Hanni hit it off quite well — both still new and adapting to the unexplored terrain that is university, and despite your initial awkwardness and standoffish nature, you both found an unlikely friendship through your common love for simulation and management games.

(If you scroll all the way back to the top of your message history, it would show your first conversation as you teaching her how to illegally download City Skylines.)

Four months later and after countless movie marathons and one laptop explosion (your Macbook Pro died in flames after you attempted to open the Sims 4 with all its DLCs that you pirated), the two of you officially started dating. The way Hanni asked you out was extremely nerdy, but you think that’s what made it all the better.

You were both playing Minecraft one night, and while you were in the dark depths of a comically humongous cave, Hanni was doing God knows what up on the surface. That’s how it always was: Hanni was the builder and you were the miner. There’s no better dynamic than that.

It was relatively silent for around ten minutes until your curiosity got the better of you. “What are you doing up there?”

“Nothing,” you could hear the smile on her face. “Just building.”

“I know that,” you huffed. “I mean, what are you building?”

A muffled giggle. “Secret.”

You paused your mining. You’d probably see endless corridors of stone and coal in your dreams. “Should I go back up?”

“No!” Hanni quickly exclaimed. “Please, not yet.”

“Alright,” you grumbled, placing down a crafting table to make a new pickaxe. “Hurry up, I’m almost out of food.”

Fifteen minutes later, you heard a meek, “You can come up now”, and then the abrupt sound of her ending the Facetime. You were confused, and you tried to call her back, but to no avail. You spent an embarrassing few minutes trying to remember where the stairs back up were. Eventually, you began the arduous journey back up to the surface, and when you reached the top, your thumb ached from pressing the space key too much.

You saw it immediately. Right next to your cottage was a custom cherry blossom tree with a bench under it. You moved towards it, and a sign caught your attention: “Can we place our beds next to each other from now on? <3”

You laughed to yourself, blushing, and entered the house Hanni made before breaking your bed and placing it next to her pink one. You took a screenshot of this and sent it to her. She replied immediately with a Facetime call back. And that was that.

It was 9 months of this: enjoying each other’s presence, being disgustingly in love and domestic, opening yourselves up to one another… before The End arrived. Maybe you should have seen it coming. You were never good with your emotions though.

(Danielle’s horrified reaction upon seeing your ‘T’ result after that nonsense test she made you do flashes through your mind.)

Even if you did see it coming, would you have been able to stop it anyway?

Looking back now, it was so obvious. The number of dates dwindled down. The dates that did happen, once full of animated conversation and laughter over silly little things, now consisted of half-hearted and dry replies.

Maybe it was your fault. You know how distant you can get under academic pressure, and especially with a course as demanding as nursing, there’s barely any time to yourself, let alone Hanni.

The End happened on a Saturday evening. A familiar rhythmic pattern of knocks echoed through your apartment, and you slowly made your way to the door to greet Hanni.

“Hey,” you smiled tiredly as you leaned against the doorframe. “I missed you.”

With the hand that’s not holding takeaway, Hanni squeezed your hand lightly. “I missed you too.”

You both made your way back inside the apartment. You went to your room and slumped back in your chair, continuing your work as Hanni set up the table for dinner. Even though both your schedules were packed, you were glad that you were able to see her once in a while. It sucked, but it had to be enough, was what you told yourself. Little did you know.

At Hanni’s calling of your name, you remember running your fingers through your hair, closing your eyes for a second and taking a deep breath. A second was the plan. You ended up dozing off right then and there, and Hanni had to come in and shake you awake.

Dinner was quiet, save for the sounds of the clinking of cutlery and the occasional slurp. It had been like this for a while. At least there was background noise with the TV playing on some obscure channel. You wondered when this became the norm. The two of you didn’t even bother to ask about each other’s day, because it would elicit the same response: “Exhausting.”

You swallowed the last of your food and mentally prepared yourself to drop the bomb.

“Hanni,” you started off cautiously. “You know how we’re in second year now?”

She hummed in response, her eyes meeting yours. You missed when it used to have so much life and love in them.

“Well,” you breath hitched. “I start placement soon. And it’s full-time.”

“Oh.”

You both knew it was coming, but you guess it wasn’t something you were both prepared to face. Full-time placement typically ranges from four to six weeks, and the university allocates you a location to work at, usually far from home.

Hanni’s face was unchanging, and you hated this. She used to always be so expressive around you. You would always be able to read each other like a book — that’s how it always was. “How soon is soon?”

You tapped your finger on the desk nervously. “Like… next week type of soon?”

She dropped the chopsticks on the table. “Are you serious? You couldn’t tell me sooner?”

“It’s not that deep,” you hastily defended yourself. “A month isn’t that bad. At this point, it’s normal for us to not see each other for a month anyway.”

Your tone was harsher than you intended, but in the heat of the moment, your pride and your stress got the better of you. But this was the worst mistake you could’ve made, because it all escalated so fast and so wrongly.

Hanni scoffed in disbelief. “You say that like it’s my fault. You’re the one who’s always busy. You’re the one constantly canceling our plans. I’m the only one who’s trying to keep this relationship together.”

“Don’t act like I’m not trying here,” you gritted your teeth. “You know my schedule. All the free time I have, I spend it with you.”

“I can’t believe you’re guilt-tripping me over wanting to spend more time with you.”

“I’m not—” You stopped yourself from raising your voice. “I’m not guilt-tripping you. You should’ve told me how you felt rather than just dropping this all on me today. I’m already stressed enough.”

Hanni let out a scornful laugh. “Oh, you can’t be the one to talk about dropping bombs. And have the past few weeks not been enough of an indication for you? You’re too stressed to notice how we literally act like strangers?”

“You can’t expect me to read your mind!”

“Well, I expect you to at least care enough to notice!”

You threw your hands up in exasperation. “Look—”

She cut you off. “Whatever. I don’t think this will work out. Especially now that you’re practically going MIA for a month.”

“Are you serious?” You spat. “You don’t think our relationship is worth fighting over? You can’t even handle a few weeks?”

The jarring screech of the chair scraping against the floor as Hanni sharply stood up rang in your ears. “I have been fighting. But clearly, you’re too in over your head to see it. We’re over.”

And with that, she stormed out of the apartment with a thunderous slamming of the door.

You’re crying. You’re still at the party, drunk out of your mind, and you’re bawling your eyes out. You at least have some dignity to force yourself up and stumble outside so that no one has to witness what a horrible mess you are.

You drop yourself against the wall, and you hit your head against it. It hurts like hell, and there’s going to be a bruise tomorrow, and you want to scream so badly. You clench your fists instead, feeling the digging of your nails into your palm, your body racking with sobs as you try to breathe, but it’s too hard.

You couldn’t even grieve in the first month, because you were on placement. It did provide a temporary distraction from The End, but at night, when you lay in bed, miles away from home, there was nowhere else to run.

You sat with that weight, that feeling of your body closing in on itself. Tossing and turning, you could only rely on completely crying your eyes out until you were so drained that you had no choice but to fall asleep.

All you were left with each morning was the swelling in your eyes and the ache all over your body.

When you finally finished placement, you did what anyone else would do after a breakup: entirely shut the world out. The only time you left was for mandatory classes, which you barely survived. A cap and mask to hide your miserable self was the solution.

In the third month, Danielle somehow managed to lure you out of your room. She offered you some takeaway from your favorite restaurant, and you were surprised that she didn’t pry. You must’ve looked really bad. After that, you gradually assimilated yourself back into normal society and got a grasp of your usual routine.

What hurt most was that it wasn’t hard to live without Hanni, because you had already been separate and distant before you even broke up. The other hardest part was learning how to move on, because it was something you never thought you’d have to do.

You didn’t want to move on though, and although Danielle reassured you that it was fine (you finally broke and told her everything one night when she found you drunk on the couch blabbering to yourself), there was this nagging feeling in your chest that it was the right thing to do.

After all, it was your fault.

You hear the door of the house open and there are faint voices floating around. “Check if she’s outside.”

Some time passes by before a soft voice calls out your name. This is followed by a few gentle taps on your cheek.

You curl yourself up and turn away from the stranger, your voice small and croaky. “Leave me alone.”

“I’m gonna take you home.”

You shake your head. “I don’t want to.”

A few seconds pass by with no response. You assume mystery person has left, but they speak up again. “Why?”

“I’m sad,” your words come out nasally because of your blocked nose. “I’m really really really sad.”

You hear a sigh before the mystery person sits next to you, a few inches apart. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“I miss my ex,” you whine. “I miss her so much.”

“Um—”

“I want her back,” you continue, slurring your words. “I’m so stupid. So stupid.”

Mystery person listens silently.

“And the universe keeps reminding me of her. Yesterday, I was playing the Sims, and the Sim I made of her burnt my house down. She must really hate me.”

“...You made a sim of her?”

You sniff. “Yes. And I made one of me. And I made us marry.”

Mystery person laughs quietly. The two of you sit there and focus on the muffled music from the party for a few minutes.

“Did you really mean it?” They suddenly ask.

“Mean what?”

“That you want her back.”

The question makes you burst into tears again.

“Yes,” you ramble. “I miss her so much… I want her back… I’d do anything…”

Your voice grows weaker with every passing word. You pass out after a minute of repeating the same thing over and over again.

You wake the next morning with a killer headache and swollen eyes. Huh, this doesn’t feel too unfamiliar. You’re snuggling yourself deeper into the bedsheets, but then you realize that this is way too comfortable to be your own bed. You blink your eyes open, adjusting your vision, and thankfully the room is dark, otherwise you would’ve been flashbanged.

Oh my god, your mind eventually registers. This is not your room. This is Hanni’s room.

You sit up in shock and horror. It makes you nauseous but you hold it down. How on earth did you end up in her room?

You can hear some shuffling outside the door. Okay, you think. Two options here. Best case scenario: It’s Minji, and you can awkwardly say hi and bye. Worst case scenario: It’s Hanni. There is no current thought as to how you will approach the situation.

Then you hear humming, and just your luck, it’s Hanni.

Okay, you think to yourself again and look out the window, is it possible to survive that jump? (It isn’t.) Your brain runs through hundreds of methods to somehow suddenly die, but none of them are plausible.

Hanni approaches the door, and you quickly hide under the sheets and pretend to be asleep.

She flicks the light on. “I know you’re awake.”

You sheepishly peek out from under the covers.

“Go brush your teeth and shower,” Hanni says. Then, in a smaller voice, as if embarrassed, she continues, “Your toothbrush is still there.”

You stand in the shower, contemplating all of your life decisions that have led to this very moment. You brush your teeth, still contemplating all your life decisions. You consider sending a text to Danielle, something along the lines of: I HATE YOU!!!! THIS IS ALL YOUR FAULT!!!!, but that’s not very fair to her.

You decide on sending a nicer text: hi i hope you got home okay… sorry for not staying sober!

You pace around the bathroom, thinking of what to say to Hanni when you step out. You could just take off and run, but you’re probably not coordinated enough to do that. Guess it’s time to be the bigger person and have a mature conversation.

You take one big dramatic step into the living room of her apartment. Minji isn’t home, it seems. You gulp as you see Hanni, back turned to you as she’s cooking breakfast. There’s already a glass of water and Advil waiting for you on the table.

You wordlessly sit down and gratefully take it. After a while, Hanni sets the table up, and this takes you back to the day of The End. You sit there, frozen, but then she stares at you in confusion and you remind yourself to eat like a normal human being.

“So,” Hanni says after a bit. “Do you remember anything from last night?”

“No,” you fidget in your seat. “Did I do something bad?”

“You said you missed me. And wanted to get back together.”

“Oh,” you swallow.

Hanni tilts her head. You still can’t read her. “Did you mean it?”

You play around with your scrambled eggs. “...Yes?”

She continues to stare at you.

“I did,” you say, a bit more firmly this time, albeit shakily. “And I’m sorry — for everything. I took you for granted… and I should’ve been more considerate of your time and your feelings.”

A pause.

“I’m sorry as well,” Hanni bites her cheek. “I shouldn’t have expected you to know how I felt.”

Another pause. “And I miss you too.”

“Truce?” You offer an awkward smile.

Hanni puffs out her cheeks. “No more last-minute news?”

“No more last-minute news.”

“Spend more time with me? Quality time?”

You nod. “Tell each other how we feel?”

“Tell each other how we feel,” Hanni repeats. Then she says in a serious tone, so serious that you almost don’t believe what you’re hearing. “Buy me Planet Zoo?”

“Buy you… Planet Zoo?”

Hanni swiftly hooks her pinky into yours before you can stop her. “You pinky promised!”

Unbelievable.

“Whatever,” you mutter with a smile.

Planet Zoo is a small price to pay to get the love of your life back.

(“Okay, how drunk was I on a scale of one to ten?”

“Oh, you were so drunk.”

“I said on a scale of one to ten.”

“Like, passed out on the floor, crying, mumbling my name scale of drunk.”

“Okay, not my finest moment. But you were there with Yunjin… or Yeonjung. Or Yeojin. What else was I meant to do?”

“Yujin. It’s Yujin.”

“Oh… Agree to never mention this again?”

“Nope. Love you.”)

Dedicated to user shuxiii… hope you enjoyed if you are reading this…

#newjeans x reader #newjeans fanfic #newjeans fic #pham hanni x reader #hanni pham x reader

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yuenthevoices · 4 months ago

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i think bots would be really baffled on our fear of bugs. one day their human partner is standing ontop of the counter so said bot proceeds to panic too only to realise theyre?? freakin scared?? of a bug?? like what your ancestors killed entire lands of animals and your?? scared of this weird smaller creature??

wait cuz i actually love this idea, ty anon!

Imagine a cybertronian just coming home to/visiting their human partner, only to see them on top of the furniture, as far away from the ground as they could possibly get themselves, a panic stricken look in their eyes. They're understandably very worried, immediately asking what's wrong and if they're alright. The human just points somewhere on the floor, and as they scan the general direction in which they're pointing, they just see this tiny speck on the floor - absolutely miniscule in comparison to them. And they're understandably very confused. I mean, they're scared of something this small? this tiny little insect that their human could easily squash themselves or even easily outrun?

The more confident or cocky bots would probably laugh at their human for being so scared of such a miniscule insect. The sweeter or more observant ones would probably console their human first, trying to calm them down. Either way, after a few moments (and maybe some yelling from their human), the insect is gone - much to the relief of their human.

Upon further questioning from the bot, the human probably has to explain how danger some insects can actually be to humans. I'd imagine they'd be surprised at how diverse and dangerous some insects actually are. Black widows with their high harmful venom, or jumping spiders too fast for humans to easily catch, or even mosquitos, which could carry dangerous diseases with them. With this explanation, many bots would suddenly understand the fear humans often have - although some would still make light fun of their partners whenever they get scared - but many will be quite devoted to keeping their human away from any insects, either getting their human away, getting rid of the spider, or perhaps both.

Little extra: Imagine the bot placing a fake insect somewhere visible in order to have an excuse to hold their human away from the "danger" - or maybe just to feel heroic :)

#headcanons #scenarios #transformers #transformers x reader #transformers x human

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d34dlysinner · 1 year ago

Text

So I fully unlocked the bathtub Satan story parts and wanted to write a post summarising the story.

MINORS DNI

Spoilers under the cut

(Since there's a mistake with the male/female MC usage in the card my story will probably lean more to Male body MC instead of female.)

Story part 1:

War is raging in Gehenna as usual and Satan runs up front to confront angels wrecking the place. You catch up later with Sitri and Ppyong. All demons fight against the angels while you/MC see a child demon watching in awe from afar. Worried you made your way towards the child. You decide to protect the child when an angel flies above your head. The angel tried reaching towards you and the child. Satan defended you both and even took a powerful blow (the angel blew up) for both you and the child.

(Rare moment with his eyes closed)

After the fight, you, Satan, and the child make your way towards the parent of the demon child. You were worried about Satan as he took a powerful attack to protect you and the child. He responds with: "It was like a mosquito bite."

Sitri and Ppyong joined you and Satan later and also were worried about their king. That's when Sitri noticed that Satan wasn't drenched in blood from the angel. Ppyong and MC noticed that Satan was too clean and not even hurt from the explosion. This is where Sitri confirms both Ppyong and your questions. Satan was hit by cursed angel blood.

Cursed angel blood gets absorbed by devils and can weaken devils. Demons can't touch the blood since they'll also be affected so MC needs to wash it off/help him.

You tried rushing to the palace to do something about the situation immediately, but Satan made no effort into rushing towards the palace. There, demons in black uniforms as Satan greeted Satan, Ppyong, and Sitri.

Sitri and Ppyong made their way toward the bathroom to prepare the bath. Meanwhile, Satan was taking off his clothes in the long hallway towards the bathroom. Leraye and Paimon greeted Satan and started asking about the cursed blood. Leraye even tried to approach Satan, but Paimon stopped him before Leraye could attract the curse.

Satan rid himself of all clothes except his underwear so that Paimon and Leraye can burn the clothes. Paimon and Leraye then told you to wash Satan off and that they want to bathe with you later.

Soon after you and Satan left the two other demons, he started to feel weak and he started to pant and almost collapse on the spot.

He doesn't want others to worry for him so he makes himself look strong in front of them. You both make your way to the bathroom to meet Sitri there. Sitri handed Satan a shirt and pants to wear and left you and Satan in the bathroom. Satan approached you and started licking and kissing you.

Story part 2:

A very heated kiss continued in part two. He made sure you couldn't pull away as blood and saliva were exchanged between the two of you. He pulled away satisfied. He told you to join him and to wash him. You immediately touch his skin which has multiple scars. He then asked you whether you wanted to know about his scars. You looked at him confused. Thinking to yourself how he could know. He then says that you both are sharing senses. So he knows what you're thinking.

You started to pinch and bite him since he didn't seem to mind you lusting over him.

He then asked what your next move was.

Story part 3:

It starts with you strangling Satan. You took a deep breath and gripped hard. Your hands strangled Satan harsher and you felt the same on your neck.

He chuckled when you stopped choking him. You both coughed and panted for air. With a smile on his face, he moved his hand from your shoulder towards your pants. Undoing your pants and moving his hands into your pants. He grabbed your bottom and soon after teased your hole. You use his fingers to stimulate yourself. It pleased Satan to see you move on his fingers. While you moved on his hand you reached towards his nipples. Biting and licking the soft skin. You moved your hands and scratched the skin on his butt. Yet again satisfying him. He turned around and revealed his bare bottom. You slapped his bottom hard and felt the same impact on your own ass.

Soon after you saw that he was still fully dressed while you were already half naked. You took his pants off and spanked him again multiple times. The feeling of the slap is also present on your ass. Satan was very satisfied and asked you teasingly whether you were done.

You, of course, weren't finished with him. You felt aroused, but Satan also was feeling aroused as his penis was growing in size.

Story part 4:

You wrapped your thighs over his penis and rocked back and forth. You both felt ecstasy. He grabbed your waist and moved into your thighs.

He started talking about how he allowed someone to make the bath a century ago. Then goes on about how the parents of "The Blacksmith" gave birth inside the castle. Satan held the baby for a second when it was delivered. The kid became a skillful artisan.

He started another story where a lady in tattered clothes asked Satan to bless her baby. He named the kid "Richrich" and then sent the mother and the child back with food. The kid is now a good healthy devil who walks around in Gehenna uniform in his army.

He continued moving his penis between your thighs the entire time and made sure to never enter you.

He pointed at your navel and asked. "Are you interested in making children in here?"

Sweet king moment where he said that all his people are his treasures. He wants to protect the entirety of Gehenna. The children and their futures. Satan never stopped moving.

You felt immense pleasure as you told him that you were going to cum soon. He then teased you asking what you would do if he said the same thing. You suddenly knew what he would say. "Hold it.", you thought as you knew that he wouldn't allow you to cum.

You felt annoyed at being unable to cum and wanted to blame someone. So you bit and scratched Satan. You licked his sweat and bit him wherever you wanted on his skin. You felt the pain, but the excitement was stronger. He forcibly moved your head away from his shoulders and kissed you. You bit his lips during the kiss and felt his blood flow into your mouth.

Story part 5:

You stopped thigh fucking him and moved so your lips could attach to his penis. You sucked him off until you felt the liquid of his horn pour onto your head. You looked up and saw his horns leaking just like his penis. You reached up and touched his horn. You both flinched. That's when you felt something leak inside of you. You continued holding his horns. The stimulation you gave to his horns made it feel as if you were being fucked. He held you tight as you started to lick his horns. You both grunted and moaned as you came at the same time. After coming down from the high of an orgasm, you scooped up the liquid that sprayed on your face and licked your fingers. Making sure to show Satan.

You both rested in the empty bathtub. The water was all on the floor. The candles had all gone out and the rose petals were scattered all over the place. You filled the tub again with hot water and sat in it with Satan.

He said that the curse was all washed off with a smile on his face. He praised you for helping him.

You thought of what he said during the entire scene. He loves his people. Satan talked again and said that it wasn't any big kind of love, but he didn't want them to be homeless or lose families. Since he apparently knows what it feels like.

The somewhat sad tone quickly shifted and Satan was about to start a heated session again. You tried to go against it because you were tired and embarrassed

His response was

You decided that you'd like to spend time with him anyway, but 3 minutes in, both Paimon and Leraye entered the bathroom.

They dived into the bath to join your bath time.

#whb #what in hell is bad #what in “hell” is bad?#whb satan #whb thoughts #whb unholy board #whb stories

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