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eowynstwin · 2 months ago

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peristalsis - iii

selkie!soap x reader. depression. suicidal ideation. strangers to "lovers." cunnilingus. analingus. spitting. piv. doggy. missionary. rough sex. size kink. breeding kink. biting. mean soap. manipulative soap. smut. . Running away from life to the Scottish Hebrides, you meet a man who won't leave you alone. . Masterlist. Ao3.

The ocean calls the seal to return, and you finally heed the growing chill you’ve been ignoring, as well as the complaints of your nearly-empty stomach.

Starvation is not on your list of preferred ways to end your own life, so you check the fridge Johnny said he had stocked. What you find is disconcerting—hoping for snack foods, pre-packaged conveniences, you instead find a carton of eggs, hard cheeses, condiment bottles. Milk in a jug, green herb bundles, sticks of butter, and an unopened package of bacon.

The freezer is much the same. Bags of vegetables and meats like shrimp or scallops. Frozen loaves of bread. Not even a single carton of ice cream. When the pantry also yields nothing more ready to eat—no chips, no cup ramen, no cans of soup—you give up.

There’s a hierarchy of action you’re willing to take to preserve yourself, organized around a precept of energy expenditure—eating spends less than cooking, so you focus on the former and do not practice the latter anymore.

Even though most food has lost its taste by now.

So you lay down on the couch. Sulking, maybe, but it’s the only halfway satisfying thing left to you. You angle yourself toward the shelf of books it faces in place of a TV; it’s mostly romance novels. Bright pink or blue or violet or red spines facing outward, most of them already cracked and creased down through their titles.

Did Johnny stock those for you too��emptying the shelves of a thrift book store for a woman he knew would be alone—or are they just set dressing for his dream of a honeymoon getaway?

You start thinking about the cliffs by the cove.

They’re not very tall. Maybe three stories. You would feel the impact—and it might not even work. You would lay there at the bottom, in the packed sand, broken. But alive to feel every consequence of it.

You might still die, but it would be slow. Someone could find you, and save you. Probably Johnny. You might be permanently broken—worse off than when you began.

It’s not an option.

You could have just bought a gun if you stayed home. It would have been cheaper, and faster—

Anxious energy needles at your legs and prickles along the insides of your palms; you sit up, agitated. Your stomach bubbles as the acid inside slides around with nothing to eat into. You scowl at yourself and retrieve Johnny’s jacket from the floor.

It’s colder outside than before, when you leave the cottage for the third time that day for the walk to Vatersay village. You can see it from the front door of the cottage, only about a mile away, and as you get going, you find a walking trail cutting through the machair grass leading in its direction.

The sky darkens far earlier than you expect, on the way. You hadn’t thought you were far enough north for that. Absent of city lights, the Hebridean starscape peeks through gaps in the moonlit clouds overhead, winking to life as the sun retreats around the earth’s curve. You pause—even your ennui is no match for the cosmos—looking to see if you can find the arm of the Milky Way, but the autumn sky does not seem inclined to show it to you.

By the time you reach the village outskirts, warm rectangles of yellow light are already brightening the windows against a heavy blue night. You get directions to the pub from an older man walking his dog—Last Cull, it’s called. You find it with a carved wooden sign, adorned with the silhouette of a lounging seal, hanging by the door at the front, and walk in.

Johnny said that less than a hundred people populate the island; when you walk in, at least a third of them must be here, and their collective chatter, along with the sounds of drinking glasses clinking or hitting tables, and the warble of classic rock music, all rush at you at once when you open the door, carried on a wave of orangey lamplight and the smell of hops and a burst of thick, hot air.

It’s more life—more sound—than you were remotely prepared for, and you freeze in the threshold. You stand there long enough that, worse, several heads turn to look at you—

The outsider.

You duck your head, and look at the floor as you direct yourself at an empty stool at the bar. Your purse beats against your leg with every quick step, heavy with a tourist’s excess preparation, and following eyes lance you like pins through a butterfly’s wing.

A man in a beanie and mutton chops is wiping a glass dry behind the counter; he looks at you drolly when you sit down.

“W’can I get you?” he asks, surprising you with a distinctly un-Scottish accent.

You blink several times. “Um…”

The bartender is immediately unimpressed. “Liverpool, love. You drinking or eating?”

You flush. “I’m sorry—um—both?”

He nods. He does not offer a menu. “Right.”

He disappears with the same abruptness of manner behind a swinging door, leaking greenish fluorescent kitchen light around the edges and through the circular window set up in the middle.

Whatever waves you made upon your arrival already seem to have dissipated, ineffectual in the long-term; conversation in heavy Scots flows around you, relaxed and indistinct. The pub is warm with body heat, little groups of islanders pulled in close together around pints and tankards and easy conversation.

These people likely have known each other for years; seen each other grow up. Watched time etch lines across one another’s faces. You can’t really understand the words being exchanged between any of them, but the tenor is familiar. None of it is especially important to say to one another, you know—it’s the back and forth that’s the point. The sway and rock of practiced call and answer. Of knowing, when they say something, that a response will be given, even if the response is something that’s been said a thousand times before.

You run your fingers along the dented surface of the old bar. Shift in your stool. Pick at a sliver of skin coming up from one cuticle. A single drop of oil in the middle of an ocean.

The bartender returns to you from the kitchen, no food in hand. Instead, there’s a new expression on his face—a hammer aimed at your protruding nail. His eyes are narrowed; his brows are drawn together.

“You’re Soap’s tourist,” he says.

“Um,” you say, pinned under the intensity of his stare, “no?”

He rolls his eyes. “Johnny MacTavish. Everyone else calls him Soap.”

“Oh.” You cannot guess at all where this conversation might be going. “Yes?”

“He cooks for me some nights,” the bartender says. “He’s in the kitchen right now. He says dinner is on him, and he’ll bring it out soon.”

“He’s here?” you demand, jaw dropping.

“Some nights,” the man repeats. He picks his drying rag back up, and gets to work on another glass. Your association with Johnny—Soap—seems to have unlocked in him a geniality that would otherwise be inaccessible to you. “Lad was right chuffed when you rented out the croft. Hadn’t seen him that excited in ages. Wouldn’t stop talking about it for a month.”

He hasn’t offered you a drink and doesn’t seem inclined to. Still intimidated, you don’t ask.

“He told me I was his first guest,” you say, worrying at your cuticle.

“Mm-hm,” responds. Then he eyes you. “See why he was so worked up now.”

You stop your jaw from dropping for a second time, but only just—the weight of Johnny’s hand ghosts down your back, aided by his scent radiating from his jacket, released from the fibers it’s seeped into by your body heat.

“How—um, how do you know Johnny—Soap?” you ask, awkwardly.

“If he told you to call him Johnny, call him Johnny,” the man says. “Was his captain, once upon a time. Served together in the SAS. Name’s John Price.”

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Price,” you say.

He grunts. “John’s fine. He been behaving?”

“Um,” you say, entirely unsure how to answer that, when the kitchen door flings open.

“Bonnie!” Johnny exclaims, apron-clad, rosy-faced, and grinning wide.

He’s exchanged his heavy sweater for a lighter, cream-colored henley, sleeves rolled up his broad forearms. Combined with the cinch of the apron strings around his middle, it highlights and flatters the athletic build of his silhouette. The hem of his kilt flutters around his knees as he hurries over.

“Hi, Johnny,” you sigh.

He balances a steaming dish on one hand and carries some silverware wrapped in a napkin in the other. The plate tilts precariously as he directs himself at you, but the food survives as he slides it in onto the bar in front of you.

“Shoulda told me you were comin’ down, or I’d’ve had somethin’ better ready to make!” he scolds, though he’s clearly too pleased to mean it.

On top of a ceramic plate, the glaze spiderwebbed with cracks from age and constant use, three oblong triangles of fried fish rest atop checked wax paper, attended by a large stainless still cup of large wedge fries that you remember are referred to as “chips.” Beside that is a small cup of some white condiment you don’t recognize. Everything looks fresh from the fryer, as if Johnny could not wait one second to long to bring it to you.

“Oy, lad, how come I don’t get that kinda table service?” someone yells out behind you. “M’ I not pretty enough for you?”

A chorus of laughter answers the teasing. You hunch into yourself.

“Go back to your pint, Angus, ya weapon!” Johnny returns grandly. Then, to you, “Here, this is the best thing for it—”

John Price has already stepped far aside; you and he watch as Johnny retrieves a long-stemmed glass from a shelf, and then pulls a bottle of wine from a low fridge. He sets the glass beside your plate and uncorks the bottle—bicep quivering as he works the screw—and then, thumb in the punt, he pours out a stream of white wine one-handed.

“Tossers over there’ll call me mad but Sav Blanc with a fish an’ chips is pure class,” says Johnny. Then, to your horror, he sets his elbows on the counter in front of you. “Go on, have us a bite.”

You stare at him agog. His cheeks are flushed red, and you’re not sure it’s from the heat of the kitchen or—his gaze flicks to your mouth and back—something far less comforting. He stares back at you, grin unmoving—eyes bright and vibrant and too intense to hold contact with for long.

You look down at the meal again. The fish looks crunchy and thick with golden brown crust; the chips are sharp at the edges and dusted with salt and some sort of green seasoning. The smell is impossible to ignore—hot and floury and oily.

You take a chip and dip it tentatively into the white sauce. Johnny’s eyes dance with excitement as they follow the movement. When you take a bite, the bitter tang of tartar meets your tongue and mixes with the mild potato as you chew.

It is only just shy of hot enough to burn but—it’s good. It’s delicious. It’s the best thing, you realize, that you’ve tasted in you’re not sure how long.

You do your absolute utmost to prevent that from showing on your face.

“It’s good,” you say, and take another bite.

“Barry!” Johnny enthuses. “Now have a dram, go on.”

Rather than allow you to pick up the glass like a normal person, Soap lifts it in one large hand—knuckles and wrist peppered with dark hair—and brings the rim to your mouth. You have no choice but to take a sip as he tilts it toward you, or else end up dribbling white wine everywhere.

You must begrudgingly agree, as it passes across your tongue, that it pairs very well with what you’ve eaten.

You nod at him in lieu of another response; the corners of his eyes crinkle. He sets the glass down and slaps the counter with both palms, pushing himself away from it.

“Enjoy that an’ I’ll be back for ya in a mo,’” he says. With a bounce in his step, he disappears back into the kitchen.

John Price throws you another droll look. “You’re never getting rid of him now.”

When he turns away to address another patron, you scowl at his back.

Johnny comes in and out of the kitchen several times, as you pick at the food. Whatever his usual habits as the pub cook, it seems he’s in a magnanimous mood this evening, bringing orders to every table and chatting with anyone who catches his attention.

And a lot of people catch his attention. Island native or not, it seems that Johnny is everyone’s favorite boy—and it’s hard not to see why. He throws bright smiles at everyone who speaks to him, pats shoulders, trades good-natured Scottish ribbing with anyone who throws it his way. He’s familiar, it seems, with everyone he talks to—or he’s good at making it seem that way.

And the effect it has on everyone he talks to is obvious. Weathered faces, the kind that seem to rest at a permanent, severe frown, rise to beam as brightly as the sun after Johnny spends a minute or two checking in on them. Fond eyes follow him around the pub; the conversations at tables he visits keeps a lively tenor even after he leaves it.

You reach for your wineglass and drink deep.

“There we go!” Johnny exclaims, noticing.

He does not leave you neglected, of course—he keeps circling around, looking at your plate, and then at you, and filling your glass when you empty it. It strikes you as rather sweet until he starts availing himself of a mouthful every time—turning the glass so that his lips cover the marks yours have made on it.

When about half of your plate has been cleared, and Johnny is returning from delivering a tray of sandwiches to another table, he comes up behind you and leans in close, hands curling around your shoulders. Mouth brushing your ear.

“Dinner rush is almost done, bonnie,” he murmurs, butter-smooth and low as banked embers. “Then I’m all yours.”

A tremor runs up the nerves in your spine; you sit up straighter when he pulls away, the fine hairs on the back of your neck reaching toward him as if statically charged.

You catch John Price eyeing you again, expression blasé. You flush up to the roots of your hair and avoid looking at him again.

Eventually, the pub begins to vacate, somewhere close to ten in the evening. No city bar, this one, even on a Friday night. You finish three-quarters of the bottle of wine in between turning the fish and chips into mush and crumbs, finally pushing everything away from you as the last stragglers jingle the bell above the door.

Then it’s just John Price, pulling on a coat, Johnny doing dishes in the kitchen, and you, alone, sneakers hooked to a rung on the barstool.

John Price sticks his head through the swinging door. “We still doing Sunday, Soap? Or d’you have new plans?”

“Course doin’ Sunday!” Johnny yells. “Canny wait!”

“Alright. I’m leaving, lock up when you go.”

And with that, John Price gives you a cursory nod, and makes his exit.

Soon after, Johnny exits the kitchen, wiping his hands on a towel, the motions making his pectorals twitch and flex. His apron is gone, the little v of his shirt collar exposing dark, curling chest hair.

The odd pelt—you realize, from your experience this morning, that it’s a seal’s—still hangs around another plaid kilt.

Your heartbeat is hot and heavy in your ears. You stare at him, lips pressed together tightly, a tremor working its way between your shoulders.

He tilts his head toward you, eyes half-lidded. When you meet his gaze again, his smile is set at an expectant angle.

“Drive me home, Johnny,” you finally say, wine and humiliation pulsing through your veins.

He drives you home in silence, and rests his hand on your thigh the whole way there.

You don’t move it. You don’t react, either—even when his pinky flicks against the seam of your leggings, right where it lays against your pussy. He roves his spread fingers and heavy palm all across the length and breadth of your thigh, cresting down over your knee and back up again, squeezing and massaging the fat of your quad.

You don’t say anything. He does not prompt you to do so. The corner of his mouth, when you look to him at your side, catching his profile, is curled.

The silence continues when he pulls up to the cottage—even the wind is light and quiet, as you unlock the door to let the both of you in. The night sky is cobbled with clouds that pass over slowly, letting only slivers of moonlight reach the earth, so inside the croft is dark and murky.

You don’t move to switch any lights on. Nor does Johnny, following close behind you.

Out of sight, it seems your body forgets who—or what, even—is following you. He is only a presence at your back, a body taking up space, and in the darkness, with only your hindbrain to rely on, he could be anyone.

Anything.

You stop in the middle of the living room. He hovers behind you. Not quite touching—but close enough to feel the gravity of him, strong enough to pull you in.

You drop your purse on the couch, and make to shuck his jacket—his hands take hold of the shoulders, allowing you to slide out of it. The deep, even pulse of his breathing is right there at the shell of your ear.

“Bonnie,” he murmurs, husky.

“I’m,” you say, “I’m going to use the bathroom.”

A pause. Then—“Alright,” he purrs.

You escape.

In the mirror above the sink, you look yourself in the eye. What you see is nothing you haven’t seen before—pitiable, needy, pathetic—and it’s nothing you have any desire to confront now. If you think too hard about it—if you ask yourself what you should be asking—there will be no coming back from it.

He’s been dangling this in front of you this whole time. It’s no fault of yours for taking it. This once, you aren’t to blame for what happens next. This once.

You run the cold tap over a washcloth and dab cool water across your face and down your neck. It does little to regulate the heat flushing through you.

If you don’t go out there now, he might leave.

You throw the cloth into the sink basin and open the door.

And Johnny is there, standing right there in front of it, leaning casually against the opposite wall—

Completely naked.

You stop dead.

Gray moonlight falls across his body in a thin haze. The bulky, sculpted planes of it roll with dense muscle and dark hair, which is thick and curly across rounded pectorals and joins in a broad stream down his abdomen. Twisting into a nest at his groin, they cushion a long, wide cock, uncut, half-hard—

That jumps at your appearance.

He meets your eyes. They are silvery and sharp, even in the gloam. Drags his gaze down—leveling it with your tightening nipples. Then he reaches to his side and twists the doorknob to the bedroom.

It swings open. Empty bed in the doorframe.

His cock jumps again. A diamond-drop of moisture beads at the tip.

“Go on,” he murmurs.

You walk in, barely aware of your own footsteps. His bare feet cross the floor behind you, and then the door shuts again.

He does not say another word as he approaches you; you do not turn to face him. You stand as if restrained in place as large, warm hands skim the dip of your waist, slope easily down your hips and up again; he pinches the hem of your sweater and lifts. You raise your arms, lost in the fugue of your pounding heart; he brings it over your head, and tosses it to the side.

Rough hands smoothing over your bare skin, almost like sweeping away dust. He unhooks your bra with startling dexterity—fingers slide beneath the straps and loosen them down your shoulders. Hands dipping down your chest, edging under and replacing the cups around your breasts.

His thumbs press your nipples in, circle around them; you gasp, flinch back against him, and feel his cock, fully erect, nestle in the cleft of your ass. He huffs a laugh into your hair.

His hands return to your waist, and they slide down, pressed open against your sides, as Johnny goes to his knees behind you. He grasps the waistbands of both panties and leggings and—face centimeters away from the globe of one ass cheek—pulls both down in one smooth, soft sweep.

It feels like being skinned. Your heart beats a hammer in the arteries against your throat. You nearly lose your balance, tilting when you lift one foot out of your clothes, before one of Soap’s hands return to your waist to give you ballast. Holding you up like it’s nothing. He squeezes the meat of your hip tenderly, massages the give of it with the tips of his fingers, skin warm and rough against yours.

The moment you’d first caught sight of Johnny in the airport, he’d slotted cleanly into a certain taxon of manhood; one need only to examine his morphology briefly—the mohawk, the muscles, stubborn refusal to cover his knees even as winter fast approaches—to understand that his is the lifestyle of the fast-living. He leers. He gropes. He runs down what he sets his eyes on whether his prey likes it or not.

An organism with cheap pleasure on its mind, and nothing more. Johnny’s bull-focused intentions had stunk acrid and obvious the moment they’d fallen upon you—aimed, you thought unceremoniously, between your legs and nowhere else.

So why, as his hands drag up the backs of your thighs, is he touching you so tenderly? Teasing you open, rather than prising you apart. Touching you as if he’s in no hurry to do anything else.

It feels like an insult. It feels like mercy you didn’t ask for. Without thinking, without knowing you’re going to do it—you slap his hand away.

“Is this going to take all night, or are you going to get around to fucking me sometime soon?” you snap, galled.

An indrawn breath. His or yours, you’re not entirely sure.

Then he rises up, shoves a hand hard between your shoulder blades, and you topple forward onto the bed, flailing, landing face-first, as Johnny knees up behind you.

“So that’s how you want it, then,” he says. Nonchalant. “Aye, I can do that. Come here.”

You don’t have time to scramble away before rough hands grab your hips and yank them back, pulling you up onto your knees, and with no more preamble Johnny shoves his face into your naked pussy from behind. Immediately hot and star-bright; thumbs hook into your outer folds to spread you open moments before his tongue burns a stripe from clit to perineum, no slow build, no warm-up, before he starts eating you out like he’s starving.

You shriek from the sudden contact, hips jerking, but his hold is iron, and the more you resist the more he tightens his grasp, fingertips digging down near to bone. He licks at your folds, at the dips between them, as if he’s pulling swipes of you away on every taste bud, imprecise, mouthing your cleft as if he means to swallow it whole.

When you reach back with one hand to grab his hair—to hold him where he is or shove him away, you’re not sure—he releases one hip and shackles your wrist in his fingers, bending your arm at the elbow and pinning it to your lower back.

“You asked for it,” he growls against you, “and now you’re gettin’ it,” another dig of his tongue around your entrance, “so don’ fuckin’ complain.”

He pulls away and abruptly spits on your asshole before diving back in. With the thumb of the same hand around your wrist, he smears it around, dipping just inside at the same time his tongue breaches your cunt; you feel teeth press against your perineum for a breathless moment before he lets up, and then he prods your clitoris with little jabbing licks, forcing his way up under the hood that fails to protect it from his onslaught.

You have a free hand—you reach back to slap at him again. The theory of insanity proves true; one wrist joins the other, and Johnny uses his own weight to move you as he likes, arms curled over your hips, rocking your entire body against his mouth, lips smacking against you as he alternates between licking up the slick that abruptly starts welling around your entrance and sucking your labia between his teeth.

He grunts and snarls after every brief surfacing for air, every time his tongue touches you again, as if every new taste of you in his mouth is better than the last. His hands tighten into vices around your wrists as he buries in deeper, groaning, shoving his face against you so hard it thrusts your hips forward, which he greedily drags back, and then he flutters his tongue against your clit as if to punish you for his own forcefulness.

“Johnny—” you cry, “Johnny, slow down, slow down—!”

A climax swells within you before you have any time to prepare for it, a closeout curling in so fast that it hits you before you can brace. Johnny thumbs your ass again and suctions his lips closed around your clitoris, tearing a scream from your throat, ripping your orgasm even further out of you as you suddenly, violently convulse.

It jerks you in his grasp, as if whipping you, and then, as fast as it came at you, it recedes; you sag, dizzy and gulping air, but Johnny’s mouth opens around your pussy again as if nothing happened, tongue and lips losing none of their frantic voracity.

“Johnny,” you whimper, “Johnny, I came, you can stop—”

“Don’t give half a shite, am no’ done,” he snarls, accent thicker than you’ve heard it before.

Your breath shudders out of you as he runs the edges of his teeth up your folds, and then, briefly, the flat of his tongue circles your asshole, before dipping back down into the heat of your cunt. He catches your clit again in a quick succession of sucking kisses, loud and wet and pulling at it so hard that tugs at nerves all the way down your legs, spasming through your calves.

Your breath thins in your lungs, escaping you in high, reedy whines, and finally, he pulls his mouth away—only to replace it with his hand. He transfers your crossed wrists into one grasp, wedging all four fingers between the split of your cleft and shaking it vigorously, like a dog might with a small animal clamped in its jaws. He follows this with several rapid slaps against flesh that is already screaming with overstimulation—

And then the head of something hot and hard parts you, circling to find its target, and with as little preamble as he began Johnny shoves his fat, rock-hard cock into you, all the way to the base in one harsh thrust.

It shoves the air from your lungs in one go, leaves you no room to breathe in before he grabs your wrists again, like reins, pulls halfway out, and rams back in again, setting a brutal pace, his thighs slamming against the fat of your ass at a rapid staccato that shakes the old bedframe on its creaky legs.

He barely pulls out as he fucks you this way, thrusting short and hard, your face crushed against the bedsheets as he uses your arms to pull you back against him to meet every thrust. The fattest part of his cock catches your g-spot over and over, bright and hot as iron pulled from a fire, and you can’t even get enough breath in your lungs to do more than whimper every time his hips meet yours.

“This is wha’ she fuckin’ needed, hen, aye?” Johnny snarls. “Hissin’ an’ spittin’ like a stray cat, didnae know wha’s good fer it, jus’ needed a big cock in ‘er wet cunt, didnae she?”

A long, shaky moan is the only response you can give. Fast, fast and hard—he bucks against you wildly, violently, sending shockwaves up your body that jounce your breast and ripple across your blazing cheeks. Your mouth hangs open at a loose angle—if you try to close your teeth, you might accidentally bite into your tongue—

He releases your wrists, and your arms fall hard to the bedspread. Then he bends over your back, planting his hands in the spaces over your shoulders, making a cage with his his body. It changes the angle of his thrusts, lets him force his way in even deeper, kissing the head of your cervix. You climb your hands up the bedspread, claw at his wrists with your nails, but you might as well be a curl of wind trying to knock over a pillar of stone.

“You can bitch an’ whine all you wan’ at me, bonnie,” he says, a nasty thread in his tone, “but I know mean pussy just needs some pettin’ to make it nice again, don’ I, now?”

You try to struggle under him, search for some sort of purchase in the sheets beneath you, and for a moment you think he’s making space to let you; his weight retreats as you rise to all fours, but then one solid, beefy arm closes around your neck in a chokehold. He brings the both of you up, settling you over the cradle of his thighs as he sits back on his heels, clamping your back against his chest.

His free hand snakes down between your thighs, finding your clitoris again with rough, abrading calluses. A hard, grinding roll of his hips, upward and forward, pushes it up into his touch, like the crest of a wave, but gravity gives you no escape on the downwell; he pushes and pulls you as he likes, heel of his hand digging hard into the sensitive edge of your mons.

You scrabble with your hands for something to hold onto—you find the brackets of his wide thighs, wiry with dark hair, and dig your nails into hard, tensed muscle. He only laughs in your ear, speeds the rhythm of his hips, pinches your clitoris between his fingers and drags it around.

“Told ya, bonnie,” he gloats, taking the lobe briefly between his lips, “she wants it—” and he pushes his cock in deep, shaking his hips “—bad as he does.”

He reaches further inward and splits his fingers around his own girth, pressing upward—as if he intends to shove them in too, and choking for air as you are you think deliriously that they might just slip in, no resistance, aided by the wetness free-flowing now around him, dripping in long streams down the inside of your thighs.

Inescable—no matter what you do, it’s nothing to him. You thrash against him, whining through gritted teeth in frustration, but he only moves with you, anticipating every direction you might blindly throw yourself in to get away. You cry out in wordless fury, slapping whatever parts of him you can reach, but it doesn’t matter. There is no purchase for you anywhere, nothing you can use to grab back any sort of control.

He’s too big. Too strong. You finally begin to comprehend it in a way that had been impossible before. Looking at him from a few paces, Johnny is easy to take in; easy to summarize and dismiss when you can see the whole of him at once.

But now, at your back—he feels vast. Enormous. An undulating wall of a hard body flexing against you, mooring you to it, all heat and sweat and sharp, animalistic grunting as it pistons into you from behind. The hand manipulating your clit is wide enough to cover your pussy entirely; the pillar of his body doesn’t so much as shudder as you struggle, instinct overriding desire as you try to escape the lightning-streaks of pleasure he carelessly sends through you.

You are too primed from your earlier climax to possibly last, and Johnny seems to feel it—you flutter and clutch around him, the sensation almost painful, but when both your hands fly to the one between your legs he only increases the pressure.

“You gonna come again, bonnie?” he sneers into your ear. “Jus’ tiring yourself out, poor baby. Fightin’ it so hard, an’ it’s gonna happen anyway.”

It does—he starts slapping your pussy again, right above where his cock stretches you to your limit, quick and sharp, and you break with ragged scream, arms flailing out uselessly, nails finding his forearm around your throat.

“Johnny—” you cry out, “Johnny!”

“Fuck,” he groans in your ear, “steamin’ Jesus, fuck—”

Suddenly he pushes you away from him, and you flail again as you land face-first into the pillows. His cock slips out of you entirely, even as you’re still clenching around your orgasm, but you have no time to react, either to mourn it or be relieved, because Johnny grabs you by the thighs, flips you over in one motion, and drives back in again before it ends.

“Fuck, bonnie, so good, fuck, do it again—”

He throws your legs open, leaving your calves to shake in the air as he fucks you faster. You nearly fold in half under the force of his thrusts, knees hovering nearer and nearer to your ears. Each slap of his hips against yours ricochets up your body, and, with nowhere else to go, back down—you ring like a bell, shaking all the way into your marrow.

“Soap,” you whine, “Soap, it—I—I can’t—”

Suddenly he grabs your face in his hand, so tightly he squeezes your cheeks together, pushing out your lips, and he lurches forward to get in your face. Fury blazes from him.

“I told you,” he snarls, “to call me Johnny.”

It shocks you so much that freeze up, going completely blank. The dark, sharp lines of his brows arch dangerously over flashing eyes.

He shakes your face. “Say it.”

“J—” you slur, unable to shape it in your lips properly, “Johnny.”

His nostrils flare wide. Fury is replaced by triumph. “Good fucking girl.”

He slams his mouth against yours.

The first time he’s kissed you, and he gives you no chance to participate in it. He purses your lips with the pressure of his hand to meld with his, opening your jaw wide enough to thrust his tongue behind your teeth. The force of it presses your head back into the pillow. It’s an attack; it’s an onslaught. And—if the grunts and groans Johnny makes in his throat as he does what he likes with your mouth are any indication—

It’s what he’s really wanted this whole time.

Everything else, he’s enjoyed. But this—his mouth on yours, lips moving together, saliva pooling and seeping between the seams—is the prize he’s aimed for all along.

It touches something inside of you. Something tiny and ugly. A thing that you’ve wrapped up in nacreous layers of shame and guilt, lodged in your soft tissues, and tried to forget about.

It sends your arms to wrap around Johnny’s neck, fingers digging into the shifting muscles of his shoulders. You close your thighs around his waist, crossing your ankles, and roll yourself up into every meeting of his hips with yours.

He moans, higher, and drops his full weight over you. His belly meets yours; his chest crushes your breasts under his. He uses the full brunt of his weight to rut into you, crashing his hips against you, stealing the breath from your lungs—

It’s an old trick you’ve learned from small experience, inhaling when you feel the rush coming—as if climax blooms in the lungs rather than the clitoral head, and filling your alveoli gives it no place to expand. It’s useful to prolong satisfaction, to stave off the end.

Johnny does not give you opportunity try. The only thing he allows you to occupy your mouth with is his, and as hypoxia thins out your bloodstream—as you begin to struggle for air—you go rigid with your third climax beneath him.

However long it lasts, you don’t know. It freezes you in place, in time. It wrenches your head back, arching your spine, tears one long, broken cry from your throat.

“Fuck yes,” Johnny gasps, feeling you clamp down so hard around him it seems you may never release him. He moves to bury his face in your throat. “Fuck yes, fuck yes, fuck—yes—”

His tempo falters, signaling the end—

Realization—“Wait!” you find some presence of mind to cry out—“a condom! We didn’t use—”

“It’s got a’go somewhere hen, an’ I’m no’ wastin’ it on yer belly,” he snarls, “just—just—yes—fuck—”

Then his teeth come down on your neck, hard, as his hips beat against yours, and then he buries himself to the root with one final, full-body thrust. He shakes his hips flush against yours as he groans long and loud, cock pulsing inside you, wet heat flooding you in jets, so full that it spills back out to drip down between you.

He pants hard into your shoulder. Your own breath labors, vision swimming.

A cloud covers the moon outside. Johnny makes no move to pull away from you—instead his arms wedge beneath you, banding around your back, and he rolls you both to your sides. You feel him kissing the sting his teeth left on your neck, as you lay there together, sweat cooling on your naked bodies.

Eventually, he pulls back enough to look at you. You have no time to arrange your expression, no idea even what you might want to present to him; whatever he sees on your face makes him smile, crinkling the corners of his eyes.

“There’s my bonnie,” he murmurs, and the next kiss he gives you is soft and very sweet.

Your lips rise to meet his without you thinking about it.

He strokes your back very gently. Sooner than yours, his breathing evens out. Even as he softens inside of you, he keeps his hips against yours.

“Johnny,” you whisper.

“I know,” he says. “I know. Just a little while longer. Can you do that for me? Aye, you can, I know it.”

You should say something about spermicide. Plan B. But the look in his eyes is so soft, so content, that you put it away for later. You just hold his gaze as he looks at you like you’re everything that could ever make him happy.

He kisses you again. Soon, the heaving of your chest abates. Exhaustion pours through you in one drenching wave; you turn your head to yawn.

“Go to sleep, bonnie,” Johnny croons, pressing his fingers into the soft part of your lower back. “I’ll clean us up, aye? You just sleep.”

You don’t have the energy to fight anymore. Soon, you’re slipping away—you’re aware for long enough to feel it when he finally pulls away from you, when he runs a warm washcloth between your legs, and then when he slides back into bed beside you and pulls up the covers.

Then you’re gone.

Sometime after midnight, you half-wake.

The moon has moved far enough across the sky that its light floods the bedroom through its one window, casting everything in silver. Your eyes open slowly, blurred with sleep; Johnny is still beside you.

He’s sitting up against the headboard; eye-level with you is his waist, covered by the thin bedsheet. You draw your eyes up his body slowly—there, his navel, dark hair curling around it. There, his chest, full pectorals rising and falling slowly with calm, even breath.

When you reach his face, you find him looking down at you, corners of his mouth curled. You meet his eyes—

The moon reflects in them. Disks of shifting light in both pupils.

Some part of you, buried in your hindbrain, shouts with alarm. It’s far away, cottoned with sleep. Muffled enough by the soreness of three full-body orgasms to be ignored.

Johnny reaches out and drags the back of one finger along the wounded part of your neck. Touch feather-light.

“Why are you here?” he asks.

Vaguely, you remember that you’ve answered this question before, but that doesn’t feel consequential. Any part of you that could protest is still lost to sleep.

As is any ability to dissemble. The truth—the thing you attempted to abandon, that has followed you regardless—slips out.

“Nobody wants me,” you whisper.

So quiet you fear he won’t hear you, and ask you to repeat it.

But Johnny tilts his head. The curl of his mouth softens to something almost kind.

It doesn’t quite get there, because a gleam of satisfaction that you cannot name colors his shining gaze.

“I want you,” he murmurs.

His broad hand covers the crown of your head, and he strokes your hair. The tide of sleep comes back in, and you know nothing more.

chapter 4 early access

#soap x reader #soap x you #john soap mctavish x reader #john soap mctavish x you #john soap x reader #john soap mactavish x reader #soap mactavish #john soap mactavish x you #soap mactavish x reader #soap mctavish #john soap mactavish #mwritessoap #madi writes #selkie soap #peristalsis #remember that hot chef who went viral recently? that's who i'm trying to evoke with pub cook soap

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strawberryyyenthusiast · 4 months ago

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It’s thanksgiving and Steve is making dinner for the guys, plus Robin, Chrissy, and Wayne. Steve is pulling out all of the stops— he’s making a turkey, a ham, Mac and cheese, mashed potatoes, yams and marshmallows, stuffing, the works. His turkey isn’t even dry, which causes Freak to propose to Steve on the spot.

Everything is homemade and obviously super delicious. But, Steve isn’t paying attention to his omnipod and barely eats anything all day. He’s had little tastes of some stuff here and there to make sure that it tastes good, but besides that, it’s been nothing.

Eddie comes into the kitchen and finds Steve almost dead on his feet, monotonously stirring the gravy.

“Hey Stevie, how are you feeling?” He wraps his arms around Steve’s middle and turns the burner off, coaxing Steve to a seat at the table. “When was the last time you checked your level, my love?”

Steve shrugs and motions toward his diabetes pouch.

Eddie first checks Steve’s pod, then his phone to see how far off the app is, before pricking Steve’s finger.

“Yikes, babe. Let me get you a snack and a juice.” Eddie gently places a Garfield bandaid around Steve’s middle finger and kisses the top of his head. “Be right back, baby.”

Ten minutes later, Steve is feeling much better and lets Robin take care of the rest of the cooking. Eddie holds Steve hostage on the couch and continually monitors Steve’s blood sugar levels for the rest of the night.

Steve wakes up the next morning snuggled into a blanket burrito. His head is in eddie’s lap and they are both in the couch. His fingers feel faintly sore and he sees the bandaids on almost all of his fingers.

“Hey Eds?” Steve shakes his partner awake and plants a big kiss onto his lips.

“Yeah?” Eddie is rubbing the sleep out of his eyes and stretching. “What’s up?”

Steve smiles. “Thank you for taking care of me. I love you. And I think we should get married tomorrow.”

Eddie laughs. “I love you too, Stevie. Can you wait until Saturday? I already have an appointment made at the courthouse.”

#steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #stranger things #strawb writes #diabetic steve harrington #diabetic steve verse #robin buckley #robin and Chrissy and Wayne are the witnesses #Steve is a married man by the end of a random Saturday in November #that spring they have an enchanted wedding ceremony in a really pretty garden #everyone is in whimsical clothing and the pictures go viral on twitter #everyone is cosplaying as them it’s kind of funny

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ink-stainedkiss · 3 months ago

Note

What about Saiki meeting a Reader who has pretty appearance like Teruhashi Kokomi, but has the average mindset and personality like Satou Hiroshi?

You’re Nothing Special (AKA: Perfect)

- Kusuo Saiki

Synopsis: The new student is more than Saiki expected. You are completely ordinary. Nothing about you is different or odd and Saiki loves it. He has decided he must become your closest friend, all throughout a 3-step plan.

Guys I have noticed the favoritism towards this little psychic, which I completely understand. I guess I just thought people would like my Jjk works better, but I’ve been having so much fun with your request. Anyways, this is the first “series” of Saiki I’ve made and I hope you guys enjoy it! Part 2 is in the works as I type ;)

“Regular speaking.”

Regular thinking.

Saiki Thinking.

‘Saiki Speaking.’

Your texts

Saiki’s text

Warnings: None. Although Saiki does act tad bit obsessed about you.

Word Count: 1.8k

Pt.1 ᯓ★ Pt.2

The school was buzzing with anticipation. Whispers flooded the hall of the new girl in school. They wondered if she would be popular or just another extra wandering the halls.

“I hope she’s hot.”

“I’m betting she’ll be a nerd.”

“She won’t be as pretty as me.”

“Maybe she’ll join the math club?”

“Shut up geek.”

Yes, the campus was very excited to see their new classmate. Except for a certain psychic. I really couldn’t care any less. And Saiki meant it. A new student meant another headache Saiki had to endure and it was wishful thinking to hope they didn’t create any sort of problem. As Saiki’s luck would have it, the new girl was moving into his own class.

“Buddy!” An overly loud voice shouted, making Saiki let out an audible sigh,”Have you heard about the new girl?” The big oaf, Nendo, slid his way to Saiki’s desk, carrying along Saiki’s other pain,”I heard that she’s quiet and shy, so I bet you when she gets a look at The Jet Black Wings, she’ll fall into my arms.” Or she’ll run and find the nearest psychologist.

Saiki was so tired of these two, but they clung to him even if he wasn't particularly kind to them. Although, they were both extremely out of the ordinary and they could make perfect distraction. It was as if a lightbulb had flicked on his head, ‘You should go for it.’ Kaidou and Nendo whipped their heads around, astonished by Saiki’s proposition.

“Woah, are you being serious?” Kaidou questioned,”I thought you would call me an idiot or something.” Nendo scratched his neck, a bit freaked out by his buddies' words,”I mean, if Saiki is saying that, then I would listen to him.” Like a flipped switch, Kaidous' unsureness washed away and he was standing confidently with his chest puffed out,”Yeah, I will. Thank you for your wise words, my closest friend.” Good grief. Now you’re just making it weird.

Kaidou marched back to his seat, leaving only Nendo to watch the blue-haired boy pridefully. He looked down, tossing a large thumbs up at the psychic,”You’re a great friend Saiki, I’m so proud.” A tear slipped from Nendo’s eye and Saiki truly couldn’t believe Nendo was a human who walked earth. As he walked to his seat, he slapped his hand on Saiki’s back, and while he could just teleport to the side to avoid his hand, the class was too crowded, so he miserably had to accept the pat.

Eventually the class settled down, everyone in their respective seats. As soon as the bell rang, the teacher clapped grabbing everyone’s attention,”I’m sure you have all heard of the new student,” this caused a small chatter to start, but the teacher continued anyways,”Well, lucky for you guys, she is moving into our class,” Moving towards the door, Saiki’s teacher motioned to it,”Come on in!”

A deafening silence fell over each student, everyone holding their breath as the girl began to walk in. Saiki couldn’t deny his own anticipation, but he was much more toned down. When you finally came into view, Saiki wanted to disappear, teleport out of the school, because there was no way you were going to bring anything good. You stood before the class and Saiki was the only one who could see the tiny golden ring of light embracing you. It wasn’t as blinding as his, or Teruhashi’s, but it was still there.

Those around him let out gasps, because, even if Saiki didn’t want to admit it, you were beautiful. Great. She’ll most likely join Teruhasi’s group or become her enemy. Either way, I want nothing to do with it. His classmates' thoughts made it worse, each of them annoying the psychic more and more.

She’s so hot, but not as much as my goddess.

I can already tell she’s going to love her knight, Jet Black Wings.

What time is lunch again?

“Why don’t you introduce yourself to everyone?” The teacher suggested. You nodded, stating your name,” Um, I hope we all get along,” This intrigued Saiki, just a bit, but his interest was caught nonetheless. The teacher let out an awkward laugh at your bland answer,”Why don’t you tell the class about why you moved here?”

You shrugged,”It’s nothing special, they just moved here because of my moms job and this school was a good option.” The teacher was obviously trying to get more information out of you,”Right and any fun facts about yourself?”

Taking your time, you conjured a few,”I have a pet cat at home and I like to bake.” The teacher's jaw dropped, how can she be so ordinary? They thought,”Do you have a favorite class? At least?” You nodded shortly,”Science is pretty fun.”

The class was so confused. You were so pretty, but so boring. On the other hand, Saiki was having a very good epiphany. There’s nothing weird about you. No odd fascination or addiction. You hadn’t moved to a different school for being a bad student. You don’t play make believe and you don’t seem dumb.

The teacher had dismissed you to your seat and it was then that Saiki realized what you were. You’re not anything special, you’re ordinary. Perfect. A while ago, Saiki had found someone like you, but sadly for him, Hiroshi thought Saiki was too odd to be friends. But you were going to be his redemption. Maybe today the universe was on his side, because you strolled up and sat right next to him. Maybe Saiki was going to enjoy school from now on.

—

The psychic had curated a three day plan on how to become your friend and at the most, your closest friend. Because of your normal introduction, no one spoke about you. The excitement from a few hours ago was gone. Whenever someone asked who hadn’t seen you yet, they waved them off, saying something like,”Don’t even worry about her, she’s like the boringest person here.”

And Saiki adored it. The more people ignored you, the more valuable you became. The word some would describe Saiki as at this time, is obsessed, but how could he not be? Everyday he wished for someone to come along that had no interesting traits about them and you were that person. So the next day, he began the first step to his plan. 1. Prove that Saiki can be kind.

Kind was a bit of a stretch, but he couldn’t be mean to you, even if he tried. He was going to have to play it friendly. The downside to you being normal, meant that nothing problematic happened in your life. So as Saiki sat next to you, waiting for a chance to show you his kindness, no opportunity came forward. You were just taking notes like a normal human. Which Saiki would usually gush over, but he had more important plans. He glanced at your desk, noticing the extra highlighter resting near your notebook. He knew you weren’t going to accidentally hit it, so he took matters into his own hands. Someone has to do it.

Saiki focused on your highlighter, using his telekinesis to pull it closer and closer to the edge of your desk, until it fell onto the floor. People turned their heads, but when they saw you, they didn’t seem to care and turned back. The psychic saw you turn and before you could reach down and pick it up, Saiki was already lifting it from the ground, handing it to you,”Oh, thank you.”

Your short and simple response almost made Saiki forget to answer you, ‘It’s not a problem.’ And that was it, you turned back to your work and left Saiki alone. Little did you know, you were putting that boy in a trance. You barely interacted with him and Saiki was starting to smile.

There was a tiny setback in Saiki’s plan, but he didn’t seem to notice. His first course of action was to prove he was a nice person, but he only spoke to you once, so you didn’t have a great impression of him, just that he had manners. Still, Saiki couldn’t see a problem and left you alone the rest of the day. Well, he searched for you in the halls and the cafeteria, but he would never mention that.

—

The next step was to grow in proximity together. Only sitting with you in one class wasn’t enough time to create a good friendship, so he had to use the resources around him. Like the new duo project assigned by the teacher.

“And Saiki you will be paired with the new girl.” The teacher called out, lifting the two slips of paper they had pulled out of a bowl. Okay, so Saiki may have used his hypnosis ability to make your name appear on the slip, but it’s all in good nature. How else am I supposed to get closer if you’re stuck with some idiot?

After hearing this, you turned to the boy next to you,”I guess we’re stuck together, huh, Saiki?” The psychic couldn’t believe it. You knew his name. You were speaking to him, making jokes, maybe he actually had a chance this time. He gave a soft smile, nodding, ‘I don’t mind it.’

The teacher kept going on about the partner and you turned to him, pulling out your phone,”Here, we can swap contacts to plan a get together.” It was music to Saiki’s ears and he happily accepted your suggestion. Once he put his name into the contact, the bell rang out, making the students around you two stand and exit the class. He passed you back your device, watching as you stood,”Well, see you later, Saiki.”

You gave him a small wave and faded into the crowd of students. My plan is going better than expected.

—

Saiki sat in the lunchroom, surrounded by his group of annoyances, but rather than spending his time listening to the exasperating conversations between Nendo and Kaidou, or over hearing the drooling thoughts of Teruhashi’s goons, his attention turned to his phone buzzing on the table. When he flipped it over, he was surprised to see your name in the notification. It was you. His food was abandoned quickly and he typed back.

Hey, do you have anything going on this weekend?

No I do not, would you like to study together at that time?

It’s like you read my mind lol

Saiki gave half of a smile. If only you knew.

Anyways, yeah that sounds good, does Saturday work for you

Any day works for me, so yes.

Okie dokie my mom already suggested for you to come to my house, so if it’s fine with you, I wouldn’t mind us working there.

Saiki’s smile grew bigger, this had to be a dream. You were inviting him over to your house.

It sounds perfect.

Great! I’ll see you tomorrow :)

Great indeed. It was a good thing Saiki had an extreme amount of patience, or else he might’ve asked to see you after school, but no. Good things come to those who wait. And this reward was most definitely going to be worth the wait. It might even be on the same level as coffee jelly.

Until Saturday…

#writers on tumblr #x reader #fanfic writing #@ink-stainedkiss #fluff #the disastrous life of saiki k.#saiki fluff #saiki k #kusou saiki #psychic kusuo #saiki k x reader #bros a cutie patootie #psychic #viral #fanfic #saiki kusuo

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inkprilled · 4 months ago

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How do you feel about kindness being filmed like they’re performances. Someone hands a homeless person a sandwich, and boom, the cameras rolling. I’m a good person, they say without saying it, but the thing is a sandwich can only last so long, yet you'll be dining on those social media likes all week. Sure,it’s lovely, helping people. But here’s the thing: It’s sad that the world’s become a stage for doing good when you have a camera in your face, or worse in the face of someone struggling to live each day, they are not the supporting actors in your new tiktok. We don’t just help anymore. We sell the moment. Isn't it lovely though getting credit for being decent when your not just doing good. Your doing good for the algorithm.

#Inkprilled #I know that social media attention can really help causes and people in need and Im aware that when a acts of kindness go viral this..#Leads to others feeling inspired to help people that need it or even just do something to make someone smile...#I'm just talking about the complete strangness that is proformative charity and wonder how the person being filmed feels.#spilled ink #spilled thoughts #writeblr #spilled writing #spilled poetry #writing #Writers #new writers on tumblr #Poems

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xoxoyenn · 2 months ago

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DRUNK REGRETS

⌗ sabrina carpenter x fem!reader

၄၃ — (sweetheart!reader comes home from a party drunk and her darling girlfriend takes care of her.)

You barely make it to the couch before collapsing onto it with a groan, burying your face into the cushions. The world is spinning. You swear you can still hear the bass from last night’s party thumping in your skull.

And then, like a guardian angel in an oversized sweater, Sabrina appears.

“Oh, babe…” Her voice is soft, laced with amusement but mostly concern. She crouches beside you, brushing stray strands of hair from your clammy forehead. “I told you not to let Liv pick your drinks.”

You whine in response, curling further into yourself. “I didn’t let her. She just—she just handed me stuff, and I was too weak to say no.”

Sabrina chuckles, pressing a kiss to your temple. “You’re a sweetheart, baby, but you have to learn the power of no.”

“I’ll practice,” you mumble. “Tomorrow.”

She shakes her head, amused, before slipping an arm under your shoulders. “C’mon, let’s get you in bed before you pass out here.”

It takes some effort, mostly from her, but she manages to guide you to your shared bedroom. You practically melt onto the bed, sighing dramatically as she tucks you in.

“You’re an angel,” you murmur, voice muffled by the pillow.

“I know.” She smirks, pressing another kiss to your cheek. Then, she disappears into the kitchen, only to return a few minutes later with a glass of water and some Advil. “Here, baby. You’ll thank me in the morning.”

You grumble but obey, swallowing the pills with a grimace. Sabrina watches you with a fond smile, her fingers absentmindedly tracing soothing patterns on your arm.

“You’re being so nice to me,” you mumble sleepily. “Do you—do you secretly like it when I’m a mess?”

Sabrina laughs, climbing into bed beside you. “No, I just love you. Even when you smell like tequila and regret.”

You hum in contentment, nuzzling into her warmth. “Best girlfriend ever.”

She pulls you close, letting you rest your head against her chest. “I know, sweetheart.”

And with her heartbeat in your ear and her fingers gently stroking your back, you drift off, safe and loved—even in your hungover misery.

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tobiosbbyghorl · 1 month ago

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The Things I Never Said | psh

pairing: closefriend sunghoon x reader

word count: 1.06k

summary: loving him was never the problem—pretending I was okay when he loved someone else was.

.·:*¨༺ ༻¨*:·. .·:*¨༺ ༻¨*:·. .·:*¨༺ ༻¨*:·. .·:*¨༺ ༻

I never thought much about Sunghoon that way.

He was just my friend—one of my closest, actually. The person I could always count on, the one who made even the most boring days fun. Our friendship was easy, effortless.

At least, that’s what I thought.

Until one of our classmates planted an idea in my head that I couldn’t seem to shake off.

“Are you guys dating?”

The question had come out of nowhere, catching me completely off guard. I had just taken a bite of tteokbokki, sitting across from Sunghoon at the market, when I nearly choked on my food.

“What?” I coughed, reaching for my drink.

Sunghoon, on the other hand, barely reacted. He just made a face, completely unbothered. “As if,” he said, waving his chopsticks dismissively. “She’s just my friend.”

Just my friend.

I laughed along, brushing it off like it was nothing. Because it was nothing.

Right?

But after that day, I started seeing him differently.

.·:*¨༺ ༻¨*:·. .·:*¨༺ ༻¨*:·. .·:*¨༺ ༻¨*:·. .·:*¨༺ ༻

I began to notice things I hadn’t before—the way his hair fell messily over his forehead, the way he ran a hand through it whenever he was frustrated. The way his voice softened when he spoke to me, like he never had to put up a front.

It started off small. I always had my mobile data on, just in case he needed it.

“Hotspot?” he’d ask, already holding out his phone with his puppy eyes already looking at me.

I’d sigh dramatically, pretending to be annoyed. “You should just get a better plan.”

“Why would I? I have you.” He’d grin, connecting without hesitation.

He had no idea what those words did to me.

Then there were the small touches, the teasing, the way he always found a way to be close to me.

One time, we were sitting on the bleachers after school, just watching the sky change colors when he poked my cheek out of nowhere.

“Why do you always look so grumpy?”

I swatted his hand away. “I don’t.”

“You do,” he said, leaning in with a smirk. “Like a little angry hamster.”

“Sunghoon.”

“Okay, okay, I’ll stop.” He laughed, but then a second later, “...Hamster.”

I groaned, shoving him lightly, but he just laughed harder. And despite myself, I smiled. Because that was just how we were—bickering, teasing, but always comfortable.

I liked him.

I liked him in ways I wasn’t supposed to.

.·:*¨༺ ༻¨*:·. .·:*¨༺ ༻¨*:·. .·:*¨༺ ༻¨*:·. .·:*¨༺ ༻

Sunghoon had this annoying habit of taking random pictures of me.

It didn’t matter if I was mid-bite, yawning, or caught off guard—he always found the worst moments to snap a photo.

One day, we were waiting at the bus stop when I felt him holding up his phone.

I turned my head just in time to see the camera flash.

“Sunghoon!” I lunged for his phone, but he pulled it away, grinning.

“Too slow,” he teased, turning the screen toward me. “Look at this masterpiece.”

I groaned. My mouth was slightly open, my eyes half-lidded, caught mid-blink. It was possibly the most unflattering photo ever taken of me.

“Delete it,” I demanded.

“No way,” he said, laughing as he pocketed his phone. “I need to keep this. It’s a core memory.”

I pouted. “You always take the worst photos of me.”

“Because it’s funny.”

What he didn’t know was that I kept every single photo he ever took of me.

Whenever he sent them to tease me, I secretly saved them. The ugly ones, the blurry ones, even the ones where I was caught in the middle of a sneeze.

Because they were all taken by him.

Because they were proof that, even if just for a moment, he was looking at me.

.·:*¨༺ ༻¨*:·. .·:*¨༺ ༻¨*:·. .·:*¨༺ ༻¨*:·. .·:*¨༺ ༻

I should have known it wasn’t going to be me.

The way he looked at her—it was different.

I noticed it when we were all hanging out after school, sitting in our usual group at the café. Sunghoon’s eyes would follow her movements, his expression softening whenever she spoke.

I knew that look.

And then, one afternoon, he finally admitted it.

“I think I like her.” His voice was light, a little uncertain, but I could hear the excitement underneath.

I forced a smile, hoping he didn’t notice the way my fingers tightened around my cup. “That’s great,” I said, keeping my tone even. “You should go for it.”

I don’t know what hurt more—the fact that he didn’t notice my hesitation, or the fact that I meant it.

I wanted him to be happy. Even if it wasn’t with me.

.·:*¨༺ ༻¨*:·. .·:*¨༺ ༻¨*:·. .·:*¨༺ ༻¨*:·. .·:*¨༺ ༻

Supporting him was second nature. I helped him figure out what to say, listened when he overthought things, reassured him when he doubted himself.

And when he finally worked up the courage to confess, I was there too.

I was the first person he texted.

She said yes.

My heart cracked, just a little.

I told you she would. I’m happy for you!

And maybe if I said it enough times, I’d start believing it.

.·:*¨༺ ༻¨*:·. .·:*¨༺ ༻¨*:·. .·:*¨༺ ༻¨*:·. .·:*¨༺ ༻

My friends noticed before I did.

“You need to stop,” one of them told me after Sunghoon had left the room. “You’re only hurting yourself.”

I laughed, trying to brush it off. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

They gave me a knowing look. “Come on. You don’t have to pretend with us. We see how you look at him.”

I opened my mouth, ready to deny it, but the words wouldn’t come out.

Because they were right.

I had spent so much time pretending to be okay that I started to believe the lie myself.

But how could I walk away?

Sunghoon was still Sunghoon—the person who made me laugh even on my worst days, the one who always saved me a seat, who made everything feel lighter. I couldn’t just stop caring.

Even if it hurt.

Even if it felt like I was breaking a little more each day.

So I stayed.

I smiled when he talked about her. I listened to every story, gave him advice, laughed at his jokes like my heart wasn’t aching.

And if Sunghoon ever noticed the sadness behind my smile—

He never said a word.

But at night, when I was alone, I’d open my gallery and scroll through the photos he took of me—ugly or not.

Because at least in those pictures, for a fleeting moment, I was the only one he was looking at.

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lady-hibiscus · 4 months ago

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THERES UHC SHOOTER X READER YAOI NOW. AO3 NEVER CHANGE

#tiktok is circulating the female ver but i know tumblr can make the male ver viral #13k on the straight version and 4k on the gay?? we can do better as the gay website oml #united healthcare #CHAT WHAT IS THIS??#ao3 #writing #uhc ceo #uhc shooter #yaoi #gay #brian thompson

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gentle-author · 3 months ago

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"one step closer to heaven"

Tríkala Korinthias, Greece

Captured by @gentle-author 🤍

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ladythornofrivia · 4 months ago

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Mr. Targaryen Will See You Now

Modern!Aemond x Reader (three parts)

warnings (for the future chapters): sex, oral sex, loss of virginity, squirting, stalking, obsession, manipulation, reader being clueless, but not totally innocent, blackmail, p in v sex, blood kink, knife kink, gun kink, handcuff kink, bdsm, masturbation, fingering

a/n: I’ve been doing okay, but things have been complicated. There are times I wish someone would love and protect me like in the romance book—longing for a romantic life and longing for connection and consistency. I’m still clinging on. Oh, and I started to drive, I’ve gotten better at driving, but still need to learn. And my family has been cruel to me that even made me believe that no one will love me. But art is my passion, one thing that keeps me alive until now. And thank you guys, for supporting me. I love you guys very much.

The morning hair wasn’t cooperating; you took a nice long, hot shower the night before the interview—which you knew nothing about, and planned on spending time to read books and drink merlot and binge on snacks, or watching korean soap operas, being a usual daydreamer you are— and you were getting ready for the interview, groggy, and sobbing on the inside.

The iron curl is broken. And nothing to repair except for your roommate’s curler, tried to make the curls tighter, hence why you brushed your hair back for a softer effect.

Long story short, your friend has called in sick, and asked you to fill in the details for her. Nevertheless, a shy and innocent girl such as yourself. Under a bad weather, you have to fill in, that’s what a good friend does.

Any shenanigans and canceled during the day of interview meant blacklist.

The appointment must be that important.

Clad in knit white jacket with black lines, white top and silky pleated skirt, with your sideswept longish strands tucked in, you were sure you’re going to vomit. Vomit from misery, vomit from stomach pain, or vomit from an awful weather, you made sure your clean, it-girl makeup is on plastered to your sleepy expression, hoping no one would take you as a joke. Presenting as possible also means the downside of being insecure or inferior is low. But with amount of makeup you set up, you made sure you’re neither too plain nor extravagant.

Everything has to be balanced accordingly. But appearance willing to stand out, if the destiny allows it to be.

“You got that tape recorder, right?”

“Yeah.”

“And the interview sheet?”

“Got it right here in my purse.”

“How about the gift for him?”

Your brows knitted. “I have it all set. I don’t think he’s going to accept this. There’s no way in hell.”

“Not if it comes from gorgeous lady like you. You look prim and proper today! Ready to go at the Met Gala, Miss Victoria’s Secret Model?”

“Ha, as if! Besides, I can’t go in looking like a wet rag. They’ll kick me out.” Sprayed a fee spritz of the sweet, vanilla, cotton-candy smelling perfume on your neck and neckline over your interview getup.

“Funny.” Your friend howled a wet, sloppy and stuffy sneeze. “Don’t mind me, just get your round ass going before someone decides to come behind you and give it a good smack, and it’s not going to be me.”

She spilled a good part of the soup as your friend accidentally swallowed and slurped the noodle and coughed. Oops.

“Careful, that’s a $50 white carpet I just got,” you said with a tiny smile.

“I’m being careful,” your friend said, inspecting the bowl if the spicy soup spilled. And there’s none.

“Alright, alright. I’ll go ahead. Stay still.”

“And you stay naughty with your ass poking out,” your friend shouted behind you as you walked off.

You must achieve perfectionism at all costs. That’s what beauty is for.

~~~

As you entered the high floor of the building, the receptionists, looking flawless and elegant, greeted you, as if you’re another member of the company. Beautiful women with beautiful problems with beautiful men, you’d assume.

“Miss Stark?”

“Yes?” you replied, the receptionist insisted to take your coat off, but you politely refused with a sweet grin, but you gave your umbrella instead. Nonetheless, the secretary lead you to the high double doors—grey and glossy.

Immaculate.

“Mr. Targaryen will see you now.”

And opened the door. By your mistake, you didn’t realize one of your items dropped, causing you to lunge forward and knees bruised, following by your personal items and paper for the interview flopped on the ground.

Your ankle received a sharp pain, pressuring.

By the glass window, a long-haired man in a steel grey suit pivoted his head around from the noise and approached. “Are you alright, miss?”

His voice tuned in your ears. You have never heard a voice with profound deepness and…seduction.

A realization pang when you found yourself agitating like a shy teenage girl in high school, a shy, awkward girl talking to a handsome guy. You bet he’s the type of guy who’s popular, but doesn’t give a fuck what anyone thinks of him, or that he doesn’t occur to him as a benefit of being popular.

You’ve never seen him on papers and articles on the internet. No picture has come to a close when you glimpsed at him in person. Too long, in fact. You thought it would be an old man wanting more attention from the source of dangerous media.

He’s that gorgeous.

Immaculate. Neat.

And strictly punctual.

Is he taking his father’s place for the interview?

“I’m doing okay, sir. I apologize for the inconvenience,” you replied with modesty, nearly breaking the sweat on your brow.

Instead, he huffed, returning back to his desk and leaned himself over the table, awaiting. Watching. A faint scar outlined from the thin brow to cheekbone.

You’d assume he’s associated with dangerous people underground. Though you never knew him personally. Only an assumption.

“Sit,” he commanded, ever so still.

Gulping your parched throat, after drinking water and caffeine—you purchased on your way—in the car, heading for the massive building, you wondered drinking coffee has an effect on the stability in the nervous system. Sat on one of the empty green chairs, you had your utensil pen you bought online from a Japanese website and an aesthetic mini notebook, readying the questions. Flipping over the rippled pages, you studied over the questions, and as it turns out your friend has more of an aspect on the side of…inappropriate philosophy.

Nearly face palming yourself, you wanted to strangle your friend for setting you up for failure.

What the hell are you thinking, dude?

“Are you just going to sit there and act like a mousy librarian or are you going to interview me for the benefit of my time and success?”

Shoulder blades flinched at the sound of his tone. “Pardon me, sir,” you stated, nearly shitting your skirt and thong on his green velvet chair. And cleared your throat. “My first question is…” Your friend’s questions doesn’t give that much benefit for his time and success, so you tweaked your friend’s intentions to more of a productive approach. “How do you stabilize the company despite on the near downfall from the predecessor’s influential endeavors?”

Aemond’s violet eye gleamed. “You did your research on my father.”

In silence, your head inclined as acknowledgment.

“My father’s attempts on reclaim to the company was rather a long difficult process. His real endeavor was to lure people for…unsavory tasks and planned on passing his inheritance to his oldest daughter, my half-sister, Rhaenyra.”

Something in his statement was trying to say he wishes to air the dirty laundry. But you knew that he’s not an idiot.

“And how do you approach it compared to his “past” attempts?”

“Business travels had more suitable to catering and stabilizing the company in years, by speaking to several CEOs and their predecessors who are much more responsible to financial and stocks, how they be able to keep the staff members and their company intact in excellent condition and how business traveling has more benefits on success than staying in one place in one country. Their predecessors are much more controlling than how much stocks they hold—eventually they lost their staff and shares due to certain disadvantages. I learned both sides of the same coin, and I learned to take advantage of both.”

“By being fair and firm,” you assumed, pen scribbling. “You want to be superior and be well-respected, but you also try to be fair in all sides to keep a steady balance, hence why you travel to different countries to learn about different cultures and their ways of work culture, how they handle their staff and clients. And you looked at the bad effects to make sure no mistake is taken place.”

“Precisely.” Aemond smirked as you wrote along his statement.

Scribbling further down on the page until you flipped to a next one, you tweaked another question that your friend’s opposing curiosity has.

“With comes along the inheritance, and with the hefty influence of social media, how do you manage to steady the balance as well? With your father’s…whereabouts and the company, and with today’s social influence and societal aspects on differences, how else do you keep manage from falling?”

Aemond clicked his tongue. “It was a difficult process, and like any ordinary day, we strive for sanity to survive. Not everyone handles scandals correctly. While those who handle with promiscuity, I handled myself, the staff and the company with grace.”

“I assumed that some of the members who are in connections with you, have no ability to face the outcome with grace like you?” you said without thinking.

Aemond frowned at that. “Not everyone.”

“My apologies, sir.” You flipped the blank page over. “And with that said, how do you envision your company in the next 30 years?”

“The questions you asked are vitally intimidating. Are you trying to challenge me in a way?”

“For your benefit of time and success, yes.”

Aemond’s lips curled into a soft grin. “Clever girl.”

Gulped again, you found your legs coiled to a tighter position. Hand nearly shook and released the pen, but caught on it.

Focus, (Y/N). No time to be naughty.

Stop being naughty. Don’t leave yourself along with naughty thoughts. You don’t want to jump on him.

Aemond sat down near you to another set of green velvet chair.

“Continue,” he said, almost sounded like a purr.

“I, uh,” you looked over your friend’s silly questions and alternate it with another. Meanwhile Aemond amused himself with your fluster. “With you as a CEO of the Targaryen Company, where do you find yourself in the next 20 years? Are you planning to be the CEO, or are you planning to inherit the company and stocks to someone new, someone who’s not related to you, even?”

Aemond’s head tilted to the side, his white-blond hair spilled over his right shoulder.

“I would like to know more about yourself, Miss Stark. For a woman who belongs to a prestigious family, your wit and tongue are sharp. Are you always this curious?”

“You’ve met them?”

His brow flicked up. “I met your father during the meeting sometime last week. He has a well-deserved reputation.”

Your hands clutched tighter.

Aemond squinted his hues. “There’s more than meets the eye. What is your name?”

Correcting your postured, you answered in delicate voice. “My name is (Y/N), sir. (Y/N) (L/N).”

Aemond hummed. “(Y/N). I never thought you took your friend’s place to interview me.”

“She’s sick.”

“Figures.”

Your brows scrunched. “How do you know?”

“I can see the way you’re fidgeting to your pen.”

“How do you know her?”

“I know she’s not the brightest girl, nor a brightest student. I overheard her spoke once over a party on how she wanted to have a wonderful marriage with a wealthy man to make her ex-boyfriend jealous.”

“Okay, I don’t need to know that sort of detail, but—”

Aemond took the folded paper from your hand. “Are you single? Are you interested in marriage besides marrying to your own company? Does your family know that I’m single?” He looked at you in disbelief and said, “I’m surprised you have thought of particular questions you asked on the spot despite the opposing questions your friend makes.”

“It’s a job interview. It’s meant to be taken seriously.”

“And you did well, Miss (Y/N). Therefore, I wished to know more about you.” His back leaned in on a large chair frame, as he tossed the folded paper on a small coffee table. “What are you studying right now?”

“I major in history and art.”

“What are your favorite things to do on your spare time?”

“I like to go to the gym. Go to Starbucks and drink coffee. Sometimes I make coffee at home, and then…I sometimes read and watch a lot of shows…”

“What kind of shows?”

“You wouldn’t understand.”

“So it’s romance?”

“Yes, but a different kind of romance…” you stated, awkward.

Aemond titled his head again.

You shifted in your seat.

“It’s a…um….”

He chuckled. “I never meant to put you on a spot, Miss (L/N), I apologize. So what are your plans regarding to work?”

“I’m studying at the moment for my finals.”

Aemond uncrossed his legs, his back leaned forward, gazing to your eyes. “I would like for you to be as my secretary.”

Your lips parted.

“There’s an internship that I’m offering at the current moment. More benefits for my staff and PTO.”

You leaned back and thought of the offer, but Aemond stopped you.

“What sort of books are you into, Miss (Y/N)? If I were to guess, Jane Austen, Charlotte Bronte or Thomas Hardy, which author do you prefer?”

“I prefer Leo Tolstoy and Fyodor Dostoevsky.”

Aemond folded his hands together. “Sad and poetic?”

“It’s the closest thing to reality. I don’t mind Jane Austen and Charlotte Bronte or Tom Hardy. Although Tom Hardy’s stories are also considered as tragic. But..reading modern romance novels isn’t so bad. But I found myself more addictive to coffee, fashionable clothes and beauty products more now.”

You found yourself smiling at that. The sharp gasp filled in your throat when Aemond’s hand reached you, and tugged the band wrapped around your hair, loosening it, and combed the silk, lustrous strands through his fingertips, staring at you.

“Perfect,” he whispered.

You nearly pinched yourself before the secretary entered. “There’s a meeting in the conference room. Another company has requested for your presence.”

Aemond retrieved his hand on time. “I’ll be there soon.”

The door closed as you said, “It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir.” And a heavy thud clashed onto the ground. It was a gift. For him.

“For you,” you said, handing the gift over.

“What is it?”

“Chocolate.”

Aemond chuckled shortly. “I don’t eat sweets, Miss (L/N).”

As you got up from the seat, Aemond’s hand grasp for your wrist, making your head turn to meet his beautiful eyes. “Think about my offer,” he said, along that, he handed you his card by tucking the card in on one of your back pocket of your skirt, lingering on feeling your round ass than how someone touched you.

With that, you bowed and left his spacious offer, leaving him with wonder and amazement.

He ripped out the ribbon and wrap, revealing it to be compliments for him. Chocolates—as you claimed—and framed translucent glass with a green ink dragon inside.

He ripped one of the pieces from the chocolate box and ate one. Sweet, like yours. He wondered what you would feel and taste like.

Aemond found himself a new toy to play with. Another bite of the caramelized chocolate, with finding himself in an entrance with you, he has his sights on you. And thus dialing the phone number on his smartphone.

“Sir?” a voice said on the other side of the phone call.

“Hello. I have a task for you. You won’t fail me.”

One taste of you, and he won’t ever plan on letting you go.

~~~

Heavy door slammed shut and met up with your friend again.

“Sooo…how’s your meeting with him? What’s he like?”

“He’s…nice?”

“Nice? Saying the word ‘nice’ is automatically a code for friend zone.”

“No, I mean, he, he’s intimidating, and yet he’s able to answer my questions.”

“You mean my questions?”

You handed over your notebook to your friend on your original questions. “Wow, even I can’t ask a question like that.”

“Aemond found out that I stepped in for the interview instead of you.”

“How can you tell?”

“He met your father last week. And he already knows what you look like.”

“I never even knew him personally.”

“And he overheard you on how you wanted to marry a rich to make your ex jealous. That’s not something to easily slip by. Aemond has sharp ears and tongue.”

“Ugh, he caught me.”

“And yet those questions you wanted to ask him is simply more than an interview because why?”

“Because no one knows about him personally.”

“Yeah, but on a matter of a serious spectrum, not a flirtation. Do you even find him attractive, or do you want to set up with his siblings?”

“Ew, no, I don’t find Aemond handsome, but his other brothers do. Or his uncle.” Your friend looked over your interview questions. “Looks like he’s impressed by you.”

“He is.”

“So is he asking you out on a date?”

“No he asked me to be as his secretary.”

Your friend gasped. “No!”

“Yes, he is. He mentioned about the internship, and..”

“Are you going to take it?”

“I haven’t thought about it that much. I’m still studying for the finals.”

Your friend made a casual dismissive wave. “You’ll do great in the company and you get to see his gorgeous face everyday.”

“I thought you said he’s not your type.”

“He’s not. I like his uncle more. Older guys are my thing.”

“Right. Because older men knows how to take care because of their experience.”

“Exactly! I think you and Aemond are going to get along so well! Who knows you’ll get benefits. Even from him.” She winked and took the rest of the coffee.

“Hey!”

“Thanks for the coffee!” And the bedroom door slammed shut, leaving you happy about today’s outcome.

Clapped your hands together, you said aloud to yourself, “Alright! Time for me to take a shower, get dressed and watch some drama on Netflix.” And cheered your way into the bathroom. “By the way,” you called your friend out, shouting, “I didn’t get to tape-record him!”

“WHHHAAAAAATTTTT?!” is what your frantic friend responded.

~~~

Unbeknownst to you, while you’re undressed and soaked in the shower, Aemond’s pants unzipped, his hand caressed his large cock, pressed it harder as you scrubbed your legs and backside.

Delicious.

The bulge in his pants was ready to spring during the interview with you.

Thanks to the card he handed over by tucking it into your back pocket, he felt how good your ass looks. How your ponytail given him an impression that you’re a good girl on the outside but a bad girl was somewhere hiding, dying to get out.

Stroking his hard cock faster, moaning aloud—strained—as he watched you rinsed the soap from your body and stepped out of the shower with your tits bounced, remembering the perfume scent as Aemond went close to you. How he’ll perform his fantasies with you. Envisioned you, right next to a knife, he’ll play with blood trickling down on your skin alongside of bruises on your wrists on handcuffs.

It was beautiful.

Divine.

Cum spritz out, flying and plopping over his thighs, leaving him with a heavy huff and lustful gaze glueing to your naked body, drying up from a steamed shower.

She’ll be mine.

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