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konigbabe · 10 months

Text

SHRINE

Pairing: Choso Kamo x fem!reader Word count: 1.3k Tags/warnings: no y/n; smut; soft!dom!choso; female body worship; fingering; cunnilingus (oral sex - f!receive); little religious imaginery; female gendered anatomy Summary: He just wants to please you. Part of my JJKS2 writing week.

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The room’s dimply lit, shadows dancing along the walls, casting a solemn ambiance that hangs heavy in the air.

You can’t take it anymore.

He’s taking his time. It was supposed to be just a quick foreplay.

Time slips away, swallowed by the abyss of pure, primal and raw pleasance.

And Choso isn’t done yet. The weight of his touch – rough and relentless – presses against your flesh as if he’s seeking to sculpt you into something more than human. Something he can worship, pray to – his own shrine. Hands, calloused and weathered, navigate the curves of your body with a fervor that both unnerves and enthralls.

Drawing docile moans from your throat. He takes a long lick; collects your juices. Swallows it all; an intoxicating concoction of metal and salt, a confection so sweet it spreads warmth through his starved body, sets his senses ablaze; a humble acolyte.

Like a serpent in the Garden of Eden – each drop glides down his throat, a symphony of flavors that dance upon his palate.

Christ, how much he has missed you.

His hands gingerly skim up your curves, exploring every inch of the silkiness of your flesh. Fingertips apostles baptizing your skin with trails of reverence, dancing across your thighs, treasuring the way your legs open to accept him; to embrace his expansive frame.

Choso lapps at your throbbing nub, tongue hot and wet, making broad, leisurely strokes that almost cause you pain. He brushes his lips against you then pulls away, not wanting its taste to end too soon; pushing his tongue inside your pussy, stroking the slick walls until they squeeze and tighten around him; the muscles inside you clench even tighter as he flicks your clit with his tongue.

"Choso–mmpmh," his name a mere mewl, "please, more," you sob out, drawing Choso’s eyes up, the color for penitence and mourning – a pleading glance, and he’s aware. Knows what you want, what you plead for.

Heart swelling with the desire to please, silently adoring you. For an eternity, wants to taste every inch of your body – to devour you.

Still, he refuses to give it to you. Wants to prolong this hour to eons, hear you beg more.

One hand slides away from your thigh, his thumb triggering an uncontrollable shudder as it flicks over your clit, circling the bud; he pulls back, lips tracing the curve of your navel. Teeth biting into the soft, pliant flesh before he murmurs against your quivering form, "Words, baby. I need words."

A plaintive whine breaks free from your shaky voice, every nerve in your being gets set on fire as the wet tip of Choso’s tongue traverses the expanse of your bellybutton, meandering towards the tender hollow of your sternum before his face rests in the crook of your neck – a hand enclosing the fat of your breast, thumb stroking over the nipple.

"What do you want?"

The heat of his breath spreads over the slight curve of your clavicles, making the skin tingle. The hand that’s been toying with your nub now fully cupping your leaking pussy, hot and ready; waiting.

"Want your—ahh," his tongue licks the curvature of your neck before his teeth nip at the damp flesh; the pressure of his hand between your legs intensifies, yet it stays still, "Choso–"

Breath hitching, Choso's middle finger teases your slit, running over your entrance tantalizingly slow as he waits.

You grip his hair, legs spreading wider apart, offering yourself up to him more. Hand sneaking over the contours of his shoulder; feeling the play of muscles and tendons underneath your pads.

"Your fingers," you whimper out, heels digging into the mattress as you push your hips against his hand.

The sight of you – spread open, aching and so desperate for his touch, for him – draws a curse from his lips, cock twitching in his pants.

"Christ–," he kisses you then. Wet and needy. His middle finger pushes forward, feeling you grip him, suck him in as you writhe underneath him, swallowing the strained cries, "you’re so beautiful. So perfect."

He takes his time. Adds another finger, stretches you out.

Sinking his fingers deeper inside you, exploring the tightness of your walls in search for uncharted territories, tasting your pleasure and the way your body moves on its own accord. His thumb brushes against your clit with each thrust, setting off mini-explosions within you as his mouth latches on your breast, a hand kneading the other one.

With the flat, wide expanse of his tongue, Choso licks the fullness of your breast, seeking out and taking in your nipple. He circles it until it’s a hard peak and then, ever so slightly, takes it between his teeth. Eyes staying glued to your face, watching the blissful abandon as your eyes close.

Curling his fingers upwards, putting blunt pressure onto your weak spot and feeling the slickness of your heat drip onto his hand, Choso pushes you closer; feeling your pussy contract, walls quivering around him, he doesn't slow down.

Instead, he pushes harder, with greater intensity, his fingers working you in and out, shameless sounds of your juices squelching fill your ears – send heat to your chest, cheeks; only fueled by the feel of his mouth never leaving your breasts.

"Choso–m’gonna–uhh," words incoherent, consciousness consumed by a rapturous trance, "Choso–ahh–fuck–"

He hears you, captures the sweet melody of your voice. Thumb drawing eights, stroking the pulsating nerve, coaxing you; he smiles, a gentle curve that caresses the tender skin of your chest before his lips meet the hollow of your sternum. Each press of his mouth against your skin ignites a holy rhapsody of overwhelming ecstasy, the warmth of his breath mingling with the softness of his touch

"I know," his lips move upwards, "doin’ so good for me," until his breath scorches your cheek, meets the curve of your earlobe, lips tracing the arc of the cartilage, "cum for me, love."

You feel it then – the waves of pleasure washing over you, growing increasingly stronger until you’re shaking beneath him. Every nerve in your body on fire, you surrender and let go, feeling as if you’re floating away on a cloud.

His gaze lingers on your face; burning the image into his mind – the indent between your eyebrows as you furrow them together, the way your eyes are tightly shut, the fluttering of your lashes, and the trembling of your lips as they part to release a cry so raw and pure and blissful that it almost makes him cum.

Choso doesn’t stop.

Fingers plunging deep into you, the white heat of pleasure radiating from your core. His thumb toying with your aching clit; you can feel the heart beating between your legs when Choso moves down, the tip of his tongue drawing a straight line from your chin to your abdomen before he draws his fingers out. Puts them in his mouth instead and sucks them clean.

You watch the way his eyes flutter shut; how his lips curl into a satisfied smirk as he licks away the evidence of your latest orgasm. Then his lips find their place back on your pussy, licks another stripe. Arms supporting your legs, keeping them wide apart with hands gripping your sides.

Your hand sneaks into his hair, messy and flat, sticky with sweat, "Choso–" you whine, twisting under his grasp in an attempt to get away, "can’t–can’t do another."

"Just one," his breath scorches your skin, tongue sneaking its way up your inner thigh, pasty with your own cum, mixed with his saliva lapping at the sweat dripping from your trembling body; he already made a mess of you, "just one more."

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softlyspector · 6 months

Text

here's the little halloween fic that was scrapped! vampire!reader x joel miller.

wc: 700

warnings: love as being consumed, blood drinking, smut 🥰

“It’s all right, baby,” he murmurs. “You just take what you need.”

You hate the way he says that, the sigh of it, the hollowing out of his lungs with it. Like ecstasy and want, need and breaking, all in one. He grunts when the sharp stick of your incisors break the skin of his throat.

He groans, the sound broken and pained and found all in one.

Joel would never know, never believe you, maybe, but he tastes sweet. Sweet, and just a little bitter. It’s not a cloying sweetness, but the kind that goes down easy, your favorite taste, favorite meal.

“Tha’s it,” he mumbles, his palm cradling the back of your head, fingers digging into the base of your skull. His other hand is anchored to your hip, keeping you close to his chest, pressed heart to heart in a sickening pounding of pumping blood, visceral and bloody.

You drink and drink, pull and pull. Joel’s muscles twitch minutely beneath you, the tendon in his neck straining until he loosens.

But his heart is a dull pounding in your ears, quick and sure, steady and strong, slowing as he calms, holding your mouth firm and heavy against his jugular with one large hand.

Your mind goes hazy with the taste of him, fog clouding any coherent thought.

He loves you, wants you always. His cock is hard against your thigh; his hand slides from your hip to your core, his fingers dipping between your thighs and against the damp heat of your pussy.

He’s a bit older than you normally take to but his heart is strong and sure. The pulse of it tempts you closer, entices you to reach between the slats of his ribs and bite right into his lungs. You could pick your teeth after, with the sharp points of his ribs. You want to gorge yourself fat and sated on his blood.

No, you don’t usually go for older humans; too acrid, sour. But you also don’t usually feel anything for the humans either.

This one, willingly opening his throat to you, he’s special. You like him. You have for so long, and so you have to pull away, away from the sweet drip of his blood that you’d like to suck down to the very marrow.

Wearily, reluctantly, you peel yourself away. He looks woozy, drunk; pupils blown wide with want, a different kind of hunger. He wants to see you fed and bloody.

“You already got everything you need?” He asks, confusion coloring his voice.

So willing, this one, this human, to give whatever you might need. You like that about him, that he wants to feed you, see you satiated and glutted and lazy with his blood.

He’s aroused, too. The venom makes him easier to pull apart, connective need stitching you together, want blanketing him.

You know Joel when you aren’t hungry though, and he wants you then, too, wants to give and give and bleed.

“No,” you lick your lips and then the thin stream of blood trickling down his neck, pooling at his clavicle.

The warm rich thickness of his blood explodes across your tongue. He smells good, too. He smells needy, like the salty tang of life.

“You ain’t done,” he says and urges your head back down. “You take what you need, baby,” he says again, inhaling deeply against your cheek.

“I shouldn’t,” you murmur. “You could die.”

“Haven’t killed me yet,” he disagrees, still stroking the back of your neck. His other hand is cupping your pussy, thumb twitching over your clit. You grind down against his fingers, and he gives you one and then another, fucking you gently with a groan that vibrates in his throat. You’re wet, coating him in you in so many ways.

You might yet kill him though, and it’s unfortunate he’s your favorite now. When you say as much, he urges you back to his throat, a tinge of desperation in the way he’s touching you, rutting up against you, the bulge of him dragging against your thigh. “Drink,” his voice is hoarse.

#joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #this was meant to be another little kinda character study on joel lmao #always studying that man like a bug under a microscope

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fayes-fics · 7 months

Note

Benedict + regency + edging 💜

Kinktober: Benedict + Edging

Kinktober 2023 Masterlist

Paring: Benedict Bridgeton x fem!reader

Warnings: 18+ smut, minors DNI, dom/sub undertones, oral sex (m to f) cunnilingus, vaginal fingering, edging/orgasm denial, bondage/leg restraint, vaginal sex.

Authors Note: Hi Nonny, I hope you enjoy this. This went way over the word limit, who can resist a kinky Benedict in a carriage? Enjoy! 🧡

“Benedict, please…” an almost mournful imploring whisper.

Your lips feel parched as you lick them, voice hoarse, every inch of you burning, hairline dewy, necklace stuck to your clammy clavicle, dress rucked up around your hips, stockings hanging loose around your ankles. There is a chuckle from your lap as large palms push your thighs even wider apart, your knees knocking into the carriage doors.

“No darling,” he smirks up at you, “I want you like this always, trembling, yearning for me…” the last word muffled as he dives back between your legs and sucks on your pulsing clit just for a moment, to keep you skating the edge but never letting you over.

Your leg muscles are tense and quivering, held open so lewdly for so long as he feasts on your body and teases you with long fingers. This carriage ride has been almost an hour, and he has had you like this for most of it. Your cloak a cushion for his knees on the wooden carriage floor, his jacket and waistcoat discarded onto the bench seat opposite, now he is just in billowing shirt sleeves, his cravat pulled utterly askew by your clutching hands, his hair wild from your pulling.

The rocking motion of the carriage as you traverse miles of country roads adds to the swimming feeling in your head, unmoored, on edge, constantly swaying. You have lost count of the number of times you have been within a hair's breadth of blinding pleasure, and he halts, leaving your screaming and thrashing, denied, aching, your pebbled nipples chafing untouched in your stays.

He roughly drags your hips forward so you slump even more horizontal, bottom off the edge of the padded bench. His tongue suckles the sensitive skin of your inner thigh as his fingers push back inside your soaked cunt, and you groan. He rocks a languid rhythm that is not quite enough to make you do anything but mindlessly pant, wishing he would go a little harder, faster, rougher, just to let you finally break. You whimper his name again as he tortures you with unhurried strokes, his fingertips mapping your walls thoroughly.

“This is mine, darling,” he rumbles, tapping you from the inside. “Mine to do as I wish. And today, I want you so overwrought that you beg. Beg me over and over. Just as you have been. And oh darling, it has been delicious. My lusty little creature, shaking with want. Just for me. All mine.” he underlined his point by biting the tendon where your thigh meets your pelvis.

His possessiveness makes you even more desperate. In an act of fevered defiance, as he withdraws his fingers with a wet smack, you attempt to snap your legs closed to reach down and finish the job with your own fingers on your clit. But he halts you, overpowering your rebellion easily by leaning heavily upon you. Tutting disapprovingly, eyes glittering menacingly, he manhandles your knees higher as you protest weakly. He reaches over and lashes one limb and then the other with the silken ropes that hold the window drapes open, looping them back into their hooks. Your legs are now tied high against the cool glass, a burning stretch in both.

“That is because you cannot just do as you are told,” he warns.

You pout at him, but butterflies roar as he unbuttons his britches, batting your hands away as you attempt to assist. He taps the tip of his heated, leaking cock on your engorged clit, more teasing.

“Ask nicely,” he lectures, his frenulum dragging over your pearl.

“Please, Benedict, please please…,” you appeal breathily, wantonly, staring at his proud cock.

“Look at me,” he orders curtly, and your eyes snap to his face. “And try again.”

“Please, Benedict, please give me your cock,” you beseech clearly, staring into his hazy eyes as he keeps rubbing tauntingly along your slit.

“Again,” his mouth twisting into a pleased pout.

“Please, Benedict, I need your cock, please fuck me, please, I need to come so very badly,” you throw all the words he has taught you into your appeal.

His lopsided, victorious smirk makes your stomach somersault.

“Good girl,” he compliments, and you scream as he surges into your weeping cunt. Your dainty shoe buckles tinking loudly on the glass as you come screaming, the blunt pressure inside and tugging against your clit sending you instantly skywards.

You come twice more before he eventually follows you, hands clamped around your shoulders, sweaty forehead pressed into your neck.

No taglist as these drabbles are so short

#kinktober 2023 #kinktober #benedict bridgerton fanfiction #benedict bridgerton #benedict bridgerton smut #benedict bridgerton imagine #bridgerton fanfiction #bridgerton #bridgerton smut #bridgerton imagine #benedict bridgerton x reader #benedict bridgerton x female reader #benedict bridgerton x you #benedict bridgerton x y/n #bridgerton x reader #bridgerton x female reader #bridgerton x you #bridgerton x y/n

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femininenachos · 8 months

Note

Does Lexa get her turn 👀

Previously: Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4

Turns out, Lexa’s confidence is well founded.

Which is how Clarke finds herself flat on her back and sucking down moans while slim fingers run between her legs.

That, and the drag of lips over her throat, Lexa’s breath hot on her skin, has Clarke writhing, one hand twisted in the sheets, the other buried in Lexa’s hair.

Despite her bedroom being located on the opposite side of the villa from Wells’, Clarke still does her best to keep the volume down—call it force of habit from living in close quarters with roommates in apartments the size of shoeboxes over the years—but Lexa really isn’t making it easy. Slow and deliberate about slicking her fingers, she slides through Clarke with light touches that she can’t help angling her hips up to chase. Sighing when Lexa retreats to trail her fingertips along the tops of Clarke’s inner thighs. Pulling in a shivery breath as Lexa traces her folds, only to stifle another moan when Lexa dips down low to gather the wetness and draw it up and around.

But Clarke is only able to withstand the teasing for so long when she’s crawling out her skin here.

“Lexa,” she pleads, an audible crack in her voice.

She feels the twist of lips against her throat before Lexa licks a path up to the edge of her jaw.

A nip at the hinge. “How many fingers do you like?”

She didn’t think it was humanly possible to be any wetter than she already was, but she gushes a little at the question. Feels it dripping down and soaking into the mattress beneath her ass.

In lieu of an answer, she turns her head to seek Lexa’s mouth, kissing her with unrestrained need for a minute, deep and hard and hungry enough to get the point across that she’ll take whatever she can get.

Even so, Lexa goes no further, her hand remaining frustratingly motionless until Clarke pulls away, breathing heavily.

“Two,” she pants against the soft, plump fullness of Lexa’s bottom lip. “At least to begin with, then… let’s see.”

The searing look Lexa gives her makes Clarke think she could probably take four without breaking a sweat, but she refrains from saying that out loud for fear of sounding too whorish.

Their eyes remain locked while Lexa slides her fingers lower, running slow circles around Clarke’s opening, just barely dipping in. Clarke’s breath hitches, body tensing with the effort to keep still and not tilt her hips up like she wants to in case Lexa takes her hand away once more.

She doesn’t, though.

Dark, dark eyes study Clarke’s face with avid interest, watching every tiny, incremental shift in her expression as Lexa pushes all the way inside at last.

Clarke could cry with relief.

She makes a sound, a whimper drawn from the back of her throat. Another when Lexa starts to move; a slow, curling drag out, followed by a smooth thrust back in that lifts Clarke’s spine off the bed a little with the force of it.

Her hand flies to Lexa’s elbow. Grabbing on. Urging her deeper.

A ragged “oh, fuck” drops from Clarke’s lips when Lexa adds a third finger, building up to a brisk rhythm Clarke is soon rolling her hips to meet.

She tips her head back, eyes closing as pleasure rushes over her. Lexa’s mouth finds her throat again, teeth scraping over her pulse point, and the fluid motion of Clarke’s hips falters only for a second before she rocks down harder, arching to find an even better angle.

“Don’t stop,” she gasps. “Fuck, I’m gonna come.”

Lexa just smiles against the corded tendon of Clarke’s neck, descending in soft bites and licks. She shimmies down the bed a little, skin burning hot and slick with their combined sweat where she’s glued to Clarke’s side, but Lexa never breaks the momentum. Steadily pumping her wrist as her open mouth glides over Clarke’s clavicle and the swell of her breast, catching the nipple and swirling her tongue around the hard tip, taking it into her mouth in a deep, sucking pull that Clarke feels all the way down to her neglected clit.

When her mind flashes back to how it felt to be consumed by the relentless, wet heat of Lexa’s mouth, she can’t hold on.

Amid the rising chorus of creaking mattress springs and obscene squelches that fill the air, small grunts of exertion and high, stilted gasps, the headboard tapping against the wall, keeping time like a metronome, Clarke’s whole frame shudders as she clenches tight around the three fingers driving into her, Lexa’s name ripped from her throat in a hoarse cry as she floods Lexa’s palm.

Without missing a beat to even catch a breath, Clarke seizes Lexa by the cheeks and crushes their mouths together. Hard. Stealing the air from Lexa’s lungs in big gulps, kissing her messily and swallowing her soft, eager groan. Heart racing a million miles an hour, threatening to beat right out of Clarke’s chest as Lexa licks into her mouth.

She hooks her leg around Lexa’s hip, trapping her in place, keeping her fingers inside. Trying to stave off that inevitable, empty feeling once Lexa withdraws for just a short while longer. Weak ripples of sensation are still pulsing through her system, making her tremble and flutter, and Clarke never wants it to end.

Their kisses become less frantic, the urgency fading as her muscles relax and the climax ebbs, and that loose, weightless feeling she gets after a good fuck settles over her. Sapped of energy all of a sudden, she drapes her arms loosely around Lexa’s shoulders, distantly aware of the clammy perspiration that causes their overheated skin to stick together. The room feels stifling, the air dense and muggy, but Clarke would rather faint from the humidity than move an inch or tear her mouth away.

When Lexa’s fingers slip from her at last, Clarke has to bite back a complaint. Maybe Lexa senses it anyway, because she looks far too smug when they draw back to admire flushed faces and reddened lips, heavy-lidded eyes never resting on one place for too long.

“If you’re about to say ‘I told you so’, you can save it,” Clarke warns, though the husky break in her voice is damning enough.

The fact is, she doesn’t think she’s ever come this hard without having at least some attention paid to her clit, but Lexa managed to pull it off so… maybe Clarke was wrong to doubt her skills, even in jest. Or maybe she’s just that sex-starved and thirsty that having a hot girl inside her made her pop like a balloon.

Lexa’s mouth curves just a fraction. “The evidence speaks for itself, no?”

She brings her wet fingers to her lips and pointedly sucks them clean one by one, which leads to another surprising rarity for Clarke: she’s ready to go again almost immediately. Arousal slices through the haze, sharpening her senses while she watches Lexa’s tongue curl around her knuckles to catch every last drop.

It ignites a fire under Clarke’s skin.

She rolls them over and straddles Lexa’s hips.

Satisfaction curls in her chest to see Lexa’s expression slacken with lust. The tip of Lexa’s tongue darts out to lick her lips and Clarke throbs at the sight, wetness tricking down. A thin thread lands on Lexa’s skin and she inhales roughly as she grabs hold of Clarke’s waist, pulling her flush against that toned, flat stomach.

It’s only by the thinnest of margins that Clarke stops herself from grinding down, resisting the urge to slide over tensed abs to reach another quick and dirty orgasm.

“I don’t know, Lex,” she says through a purposefully breathy sigh, and it doesn’t escape her notice how Lexa’s nails dig in at the use of the shortened version of her name. “I’m going to need more conclusive proof.”

Pure bravado, of course, but it succeeds in getting Lexa's fingers back where Clarke needs them. Slipping in with ease and fucking her slowly. She rocks her hips, never breaking eye contact while she rides two digits and a thumb draws lazy shapes around her clit.

Something shifts in the air, in the sweat-soaked intensity that builds between them.

There’s no place to hide from Lexa’s blistering stare. Her eyes drop from Clarke’s face to the sway of her tits to the fingers sinking into her over and over. Everything is on display here for Lexa, and it fills Clarke with such an erotic charge. Under Lexa’s gaze, she feels like a goddess incarnate. A deity of lust from myths and legends brought to life to be worshiped in the flesh.

“You’re beautiful,” Lexa says, and it’s threaded through with awe. “Meizen.”

It doesn’t mean anything more than what it is: a simple expression of physical attraction without any other motive or agenda. But logic doesn’t stop Clarke’s pulse from leaping to hear the note of yearning in Lexa’s voice.

It’s too much when Clarke is on the brink, when Lexa has made her come three times so far and not once tried to assert her own needs or make any demands for reciprocation, like she would be happy just to devote herself to satisfying Clarke all night.

It isn’t what she expected from Lexa. So far removed from any frame of reference Clarke has for what a hookup should be, because she’s used to one-and-done on each side and either party being sent on their way.

There’s no script for this.

Lexa seems almost too good to be true, but she’s staring up at Clarke like she fell from the heavens, which is a stupid, overly romantic notion for what’s only supposed to be a casual fuck.

So she swoops down to kiss Lexa again. Firmly. Almost punishingly so to begin with, in an attempt to squash that thought.

It’s useless, though.

Clarke is disarmed by the way Lexa meets her aggression with gentleness. How Lexa’s free hand lifts to slide up her neck and into her hair, directing the kiss as Clarke speeds the rocking of her hips while she kneads Lexa’s tits. The new angle has her gasping into Lexa’s mouth on every upstroke, planting her knees wider and bearing down until she starts to quake and her release grabs her by the throat. Roughly, thoughtlessly, Clarke squeezes the soft flesh within her grasp as her hips freeze and her muscles lock, and in the next breath she gushes hard, spilling over Lexa’s hand. A shared, drawn-out groan gets muffled by their lips, followed by a broken whine from Clarke at the abrupt retraction of Lexa’s fingers, leaving her clenching around nothing all of a sudden.

Before Clarke knows what’s happening, she’s already being tugged up the bed and brought to kneel astride Lexa’s face.

“Oh. Oh. Fu—” Lexa dives in without preamble. “—ck!”

Clarke swears she blacks out for a nanosecond. She has to reach for the wall to support herself, both palms laid flat against the surface. Her legs haven’t stopped shaking from the last orgasm and she’s not sure she’s capable of remaining upright, not with Lexa’s tongue working her over like this, pushing in as far as she can reach then retreating. Moaning at the taste from the source. Tiny ears tipped pink and eyes peeling open slowly as Lexa inhales deeply, pupils blown so wide Clarke feels like they could swallow her whole.

She drops her hips and rolls them.

Mouth falling open, Clarke’s breath comes in short, shallow bursts as Lexa licks up through her, running around her clit then drawing it into her mouth with gentle suction.

It’s the little divot in Lexa’s bottom lip catching on the underside that does it.

The waves that pulled Clarke under only minutes ago come roaring back and she breaks sharply with a noise that she stifles by biting her knuckles, eyes screwed shut, forehead pressed so firmly against the cool wall that she’s at risk of putting a permanent dent in her brow.

Dragging in a few heaving lungfuls of air, she pries one eyelid open and chances a look down. Greeted by Lexa’s sloping smile, lips and cheeks and chin all glistening.

It makes Clarke go feral.

(Or she will, once her breathing is back under control and her knees stop trembling.)

“Now do you concede?” Lexa asks.

“Never.”

The broadening smile and the silent, chest-shaking laughter that accompanies it makes Clarke’s stomach flip.

Yeah, she’s fucked alright.

~*~

The sun is coming up, orange rays spilling into the room through the diaphanous white drapes when Clarke is roused from sleep by the quiet sounds of movement.

She opens her eyes to see Lexa pulling denim cut-offs up those mile-long legs, still topless, and the sight causes a stir low in Clarke’s belly.

She turns onto her side, head pillowed on her hands as she watches Lexa button the fly, conscious of the residual stickiness between her thighs, the pleasant ache in her muscles, sore from going round after round.

“Sneaking out on me?” Clarke asks, cutting through the silence, voice rusty with sleep and the strain on her vocal cords—how she’s going to face Wells, she doesn’t know, but that’s a problem for later.

Lexa offers a small, regretful smile. “We open early for the breakfast crowd.”

Clarke isn’t entirely successful at masking her disappointment. She clears her throat and lowers her gaze.

“Pity I never got to return the many favours.” Her face heats. “I really only meant to rest my eyes for a minute.”

“It’s fine, Clarke.”

“Still. You could’ve woken me.”

She draws her bottom lip between her teeth and studies Lexa, washed in warm shades of gold, admiring the stretch of her torso as she reaches for her shirt at the foot of the bed. Her hair is a riot of tangled waves thrown over one shoulder, and Clarke thinks, I did that.

She wanted to do a hell of a lot more besides, damn it, but apparently an intense work week and transatlantic travel finally caught up with her.

She summons her courage. “Sure you can’t be late?”

A smile remains tucked into the corner of Lexa’s mouth as she sits on the edge of the mattress and runs her eyes over Clarke slowly. The sheets are twisted around her middle, one leg exposed almost to the hip, but she might as well be completely uncovered given the heat in Lexa’s gaze.

Lexa hums, eyes fastening for a beat on Clarke’s cleavage. For her part, Clarke struggles to not to stare at Lexa’s bare chest too, at nipples that are getting perkier by the second under Clarke’s spellbound attention.

With some effort, she forces her eyes up. “I’ll make it worth your while…”

She thinks about tugging the sheet away from her body as an added incentive, not above using underhand tactics.

“You’re very persuasive, and I am tempted, but Anya would kill me.”

Lexa’s smile edges wider at the not-so-mock pout she gets in response.

“Come visit me at the taverna later.”

“Won’t you be too busy to entertain brash American tourists?”

Lexa looks at her steadily, eyes aglow, the palest green in the dawning light. She brushes a strand of hair from Clarke’s cheek with such familiarity, like she’s done this a million times before, like it’s muscle memory.

“For you, I can make an exception.”

Elation flashes through Clarke but she tries not to react or read anything into it, willing herself into nonchalance even as her pulse kicks up.

She wets her lips to buy herself a second.

“And… will you be wearing that sexy little uniform again? The tight blouse and short skirt? Because I’ve got to admit, I’m a big fan of how many buttons you left undone.”

A splash of pink on her cheeks, Lexa dips head to hide her smile, a small laugh bubbling up. It’s like fucking catnip to Clarke and she has to fight the impulse to drag this girl back on top of her.

There’s a playful gleam in Lexa’s eyes when she looks up again.

“If you’re lucky I’ll let you strip me out of it next time.”

~*~

She floats into the kitchen on a high, lured by the aroma of freshly brewed coffee. Not even the judgemental look on Wells’ face as he shovels granola mix into his mouth can bring her down. Still pleased and preening about the fact that Lexa spoke about “next time” like it’s locked in and guaranteed, a foregone conclusion.

As she pours herself a coffee, Clarke is already daydreaming about it, determined not to miss her chance. She’s going to show Lexa she’s not the only one who can fuck a woman into a nap. Clarke has talents. (She might be a little out of practice, regular solo sessions notwithstanding, but she knows her way around a vagina, and that is a skill that never goes away.)

“Clarke!”

She’s rudely jolted out her x-rated reverie, alerted to the scalding liquid overflowing the mug by Wells’s sudden, alarmed bark of her name.

Cursing under her breath, she hunts for a dishcloth to mop up the spill then wrings it out over the sink.

“My mind was elsewhere,” she says with a sheepish glance in his direction where he sits at the table, already showered and dressed for the day of sightseeing ahead, down to the bucket hat and sensible footwear.

“No kidding,” is his deadpan reply. He stands and collects his trusty fanny pack from the table, securing it around his waist. Checking and rechecking the contents, probably for the tenth time, he frowns, “Where’s Lexa? Still asleep?”

“She couldn’t stick around. Work.” Clarke pushes her fingers through her hair. “Uh, look, sorry if we—”

He holds up a forestalling hand. “Let’s just do the healthy thing and pretend I didn’t hear your all-night sexcapades. You can spare the sordid details.”

“Speak for yourself,” Octavia says as she comes twirling through the space with a bounce in her step, radiating major “sex hair, don’t care” energy, strappy heels hooked on her fingers and slung over her shoulder. She’s still in last night’s dress, her eyeliner is smudged, and she’s absolutely covered in hickeys. She drops her shoes and slumps against the kitchen island beside Clarke, elbows on the counter. “Tell me everything.”

Wells’s nose wrinkles like he smells the overpowering reek of debauchery emanating from the pair of them. Head down, he flees the villa, muttering something about “mentally scarred for life.”

“He’s sorta asking to be mugged in that getup,” Octavia remarks once he’s gone.

“Yep.”

They both sigh.

“So.” Octavia scrutinises Clarke. “Judging by the sex glow, I’m guessing your night went as well as mine.”

“Mhm.” Clarke breaks into a laugh. She glances at the purpling splotches on Octavia’s neck. “Although, unlike your guy Count Dracula, Lexa isn’t a biter.”

Octavia stares. “You sure? Because I spy a little souvenir. Right” - she points at a spot somewhere below Clarke’s jaw - “Here.”

“What?” Clarke claps a hand over the general area. “Oh my god. Is it bad?”

Octavia shrugs one shoulder. “Some people find them tacky. Personally, I think it’s hot. It’s like… that loss of control in the moment when your lizard brain activates and you just have this primal, mff, urge to mark.”

She grabs Clarke’s wrist. “Okay, but hickeys aside? Holy fuck, the things that man can do with his mouth.”

Octavia’s eyes roll back a little as though she’s reliving it in her head, and Clarke smirks at her friend.

“Anyway. Lexa. Gimme the deets.” Octavia props her chin on her hand, grinning now. “She rocked your world, right? I mean, I’m straighter than a destination wedding in Dubai but even I recognise those lips are made for eating pussy.”

The crass observation earns a swift, stern rebuke in the form of Clarke’s scandalised “O!” but Octavia is entirely blasé.

“Don’t act like you weren’t thinking the same thing.”

Clarke huffs, although she doesn’t deny it. After a lengthy silence, she volunteers, “Let's just say I won’t be able to look at the hot tub again without being reminded of Lexa going down on me.”

Octavia’s mouth drops. She punches Clarke’s arm; impressed and delighted. “Clarke Griffin, you harlot!”

“It’s so unlike me.”

“I know, and I approve.” Octavia holds a faux solemn hand to her heart. “I’m here for your voyage of slutty self-discovery.”

“Thanks.”

“Better keep Wells in the dark though, otherwise he’ll spend the rest of our vacation obsessively disinfecting the jacuzzi.”

Despite herself, Clarke snorts, because it isn’t hard to picture Wells in an apron, with a bottle of spray bleach and a pinched expression, furiously scrubbing at an invisible stain.

“What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him?”

“Exactly. And we won’t have to listen to him endlessly bitch and complain. Win-win.”

It isn’t long before Clarke’s thoughts return to Lexa, a small smile creeping onto her lips as her mind replays a highlight reel of the spiciest sections of last night. She feels herself flush.

“That good, huh?”

She draws in a deep breath and lets it out slowly. “Pretty fucking incredible, actually.”

“Hell, yeah!”

Octavia holds up her palm for a high five, and against her better instincts, Clarke doesn’t leave her hanging.

There’s a short lull while she turns the coffee mug around in her hands before she reveals, “She asked to see me again.”

“Well, duh. Now she’s had a taste, she wants another bite.”

“Is it too sad to admit it was probably the best sex of my life?”

“No, not at all. You’re strangers, both certified hotties, and you’re in this magical place,” Octavia gestures vaguely at their surroundings, “freed from your responsibilities and all the boring, fucking humdrum shit of daily life. All these things factor into the thrill, right? So it’s bound to be a heightened experience.”

Clarke shakes her head, because it feels like Lexa is being done a disservice to reduce it to the mere novelty and excitement of a vacation fling.

“It was more than that, O. She’s attentive, but it’s like she anticipated what I needed before the thought even entered my head. And when she—”

“Alright, I’m gonna stop you there. As much as I’m dying for the play-by-play” - Octavia grips the edge of the counter and pushes off from it with a tired sigh - “I badly need to sleep, because your girl here got none. Gotta be well rested, because Linc is taking me spelunking tomorrow.”

“Is that a euphemism?”

Octavia only responds with a long, droll look before she reels away, wiggling her fingers in the air as she tosses a “toodles” over her shoulder.

~*~

The waitstaff are setting up for lunch service when Clarke arrives. Her heart sinks a little that Lexa is nowhere to be seen, but she spots Lincoln behind the bar, polishing glasses and holding each one up to the light for inspection. As soon as he notices her loitering in the doorway, he beckons her over with a smile and a wave. Relieved to see a friendly face, she barely gets a word out in greeting before he’s already calling for Lexa and garnering them a few sly smirks from the other staff in the process.

Clarke isn’t sure what’s more embarrassing: that her reason for being here is so transparent or that everyone seems to know.

But that all melts away when Lexa appears wearing a small scowl, signaling her mild irritation at being interrupted from whatever task she was doing. A scowl that smooths out the moment her eyes land on Clarke, giving a quick once over that warms Clarke’s cheeks and makes her pulse accelerate. She’s just in shorts and a tank top, but if she happened to spend an extra half hour on her hair and makeup, then she’s happy to see it paid off.

A smile steals across Lexa’s face as she approaches, drawing close enough that Clarke detects the subtle notes of perfume that scent the air around her, clean and crisp and enticing. With a wordless tilt of her head, Lexa guides them over to a more secluded corner.

Afforded a small measure of privacy, Lexa runs her gaze all over Clarke’s features, flitting between eyes and lips, and the butterflies Clarke has felt all morning go into overdrive.

“Back so soon?” Lexa says, pitching her voice low. “You must really like the swisswima.”

“Mm. The service isn’t bad either.”

It earns a downward glance and a flirtier smile that Clarke has a sudden desire to kiss. They each open their mouths to speak, only for a terse shout from across the room to puncture their little bubble of intimacy. Eyes down, the other staff scatter in all directions to appear busy as a striking but severe-looking blonde emerges from the back, hands on her hips and a glare on her long face.

Although she bears no obvious physical resemblance to Lexa, they do share a certain indefinable something, which leads Clarke to conclude this must be the half-sister Lexa mentioned.

“Anya,” Lexa confirms with a slight roll of her eyes. She gives Clarke’s forearm a light squeeze, and even that all-too brief touch sends tingles down her neck. “I’ll be right back. Don’t go anywhere.”

Almost from the outset, the hushed confrontation escalates into a terse exchange of rapid-fire Trigedasleng that’s impossible to follow. Lexa looks away, lips pursed and jaw clenched, projecting her exasperation loud and clear. Meanwhile, Anya’s sharp gaze shifts towards Clarke and narrows before she launches into another tirade, and Clarke doesn’t need an interpreter to figure out who the main topic of conversation is.

She and Lincoln share a sympathetic grimace and she points to the doorway to indicate she’ll be outside, which he acknowledges with a nod.

The quarrel still reaches her ears regardless, but she tries to tune it out and turn her focus elsewhere. There are half a dozen cats lounging in the sun on the steps across the street, several others taking shade beneath the rustic tables and chairs arranged out front. Clarke crouches to pet the nearest one, a large tabby with a distinctive white bib and ear tufts. She offers a hand for it to sniff, smiling when the cat rubs its cheek against her knuckles. It even permits some chin scratches, erupting in purrs and basking in being the centre of attention.

When she looks up eventually it’s to discover Lexa leaning against the door frame, observing her with a soft gaze and an amused twitch of her lips.

“You’ve made a new friend.”

It raises a tight smile from Clarke.

“The cat approves of me even if your sister doesn’t.”

A sigh. “Don’t worry about her.”

Clarke straightens up, hooking her thumbs into the belt loops of her shorts, just for something to do with her hands that doesn’t involve grabbing Lexa by the collar and yanking her forward to meet her lips. It probably wouldn’t go down too well with Anya, happening outside their place of business in broad daylight.

“She seemed pretty annoyed about me being here.”

“Anya is always annoyed. She was born that way.”

“Should I go? I don’t want to get you into trouble.”

Without another word, Lexa takes Clarke by the wrist and leads her around the corner and into a narrow, cobbled side street. Backing her against the whitewashed wall, Lexa brings their faces close, long fingers framing Clarke’s cheeks. Looking into her eyes before Lexa kisses her. Mouth soft, but hot and insistent as it moves along Clarke’s.

She matches that passion while her hands slide around Lexa’s trim waist and roam up her back, curling around her shoulders. Fingers digging in as the kiss deepens. Lexa’s palms drop to her hips, dragging up Clarke’s sides and around front to skim over her breasts, and Clarke can’t contain a quiet gasp.

“You are trouble,” Lexa breathes out before kissing Clarke again. “You make me so…”

She growls something in her own language that Clarke understands on an instinctual level. She feels it just the same, lust clawing up inside her body. Aches with it, this deep craving for Lexa’s touch; her mouth. Clarke can’t think of anything else, the draw even stronger after the night they just had together.

“Can we meet tonight?” Clarke asks, clinging to Lexa’s shoulder blades as warm lips attach to the side of her neck.

In her fertile imagination Clarke is already plotting her moves. Because she’s got plans; graphic, detailed plans that involve getting comfortable on her stomach and camping between Lexa’s legs for hours.

A sigh is lost against Clarke’s throat.

Lexa pulls away. “I can’t.”

Her perfect pout is a natural wonder of the world.

“I’m on until midnight and with the mood Anya is in, there’s no chance of her letting me get away early. But...” She tucks a section of hair behind Clarke’s ear, running her fingers over the shell and eliciting a shiver. “Tomorrow is my day off. We could do something together. Unless you already have plans with your friends?”

“Nothing concrete. I could make myself available.” Clarke’s half shrug fools no one. Her hands drift to Lexa’s lower back. “What did you have in mind?”

The flex of an eyebrow says it all, and Clarke can’t control the way her body reacts, the tiny catch of her breath or the rush of exhilaration that sends her pulse rocketing once more. It’s only been a matter of hours since she had Lexa in her bed, but her body is buzzing at the prospect of more, and soon.

“I know a place,” Lexa says, the ghost of a smirk at the edge of her lips. “Be at the harbour at 10 a.m.”

Her eyes darken as they meander down Clarke’s figure then drag back up.

“Bring a swimsuit.”

~*~

A/N: I promise Lexa will get her turn next chapter.

#asks #vacation au #cool for the summer #my fic

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tamurakafkaposts · 9 months

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“From nerves veins valves ventricles from tendons cartilage nerves ducts from follicles nerves ribs clavicles … from every pore my soul erupts.

from “One Hundred Quatrains,” trans. Geoffrey Brock, Poetry (December 2007)” ― Patrizia Valduga

#tamurakafkaposts #selfportret #photographers on tumblr #black and white #artnude #when in italy #old villa in italy

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shibaraki · 1 year

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SOFT INTERLUDE ┊ TODOROKI TOUYA

tags: AFAB GN reader (called ‘angel’ once), NSFT, established relationship, fluff and smut, bath sex, vaginal fingering (mostly clit stimulation; reader receiving), heavy petting, quirk use

wc: 1.4k

“Oi! Where are you?”

Touya’s voice carries through your apartment with an urgency that startles you. Water sloshes loudly against the tub as you sit up straight, blinking away the lavender induced haze.

“I’m in here,” you call back to him. Your ears prick up at the sound of hasty footfalls, stare fixated on the slight crack in the door where it had been left ajar. A cold draft seeps into the bathroom as it widens and Touya pushes his way in.

Taller from where you’re sitting, though hardly reaching the crest of the doorframe, Touya pauses to skim over your naked form—once for signs of hurt or injury and the second, you suspect, for the sake of appreciation. He looks comfortable. A large white t-shirt drapes easily off his shoulders, the collar dipping to expose his clavicle and naturally following the old sutured scars.

His charcoal sweatpants are more fitted. The cuffs stop just above his ankle. You know he struggles to find pants that accommodate his measurements—he’s all limbs. Lower, you catch sight of socked feet, the left one solid red while the right is patterned with snowflakes.

“I didn’t hear you come in,” you say, crossing your arms over your bare chest to rub at the gooseflesh. “Close that, will you?”

“Your front door was unlocked,” he glares, shutting out the draft with a careful kick. “What if a random dickhead tried to break in?”

You snort and look him up and down, “Aside from the one infront of me, you mean?”

The tendons in his throat flex as he grits his teeth. A frisson of anticipation settles in the back of your spine when he moves closer, dragging the nearby stool across the tile with his foot and sitting beside you.

Magnetised, your body is turned at an angle as you lean toward him. His forearms rest on the lip of the bathtub and the frustration in his expression wanes with a quiet laugh when you rest your cheek against them. Peering up through damp lashes, he cups your jaw and draws you into a kiss.

Warm, his tongue dips along the seam of your mouth. His bottom lip is rough, not that you’ve ever minded. You coax him in, deepening, swallowing your name when he groans. It tastes like home.

“Missed you,” you mumble. Touya kisses you again, this time he’s smiling, and you know him well enough to hear the ‘I missed you too’.

“Sorry. S’been a busy fucking week,” he says. Your head tips back as he noses over the swell of your cheek, forging a path to your throat. A soft peck to your pulse point. “Work been alright?”

“You would know if you ever answered my texts”.

“I answer!”

“Cat pictures don’t count,” you laugh into the crook of his arm where he holds you like a cradle, wet skin saturating his shirt sleeve. “Neither do videos of your dick”.

“Makes you forgive me quicker though,” the bath is colder, but when you shiver it is at the flash of his wolfish grin, gaze all too knowing and incendiary as he sees right through you. “Let me”.

Touya reaches. The surface breaks, a soft sound echoing as his hand slips into the water. You feel it in the next breath—his quirk. Heat emanates from his palm, syrupy and slow as it suffuses and fills the tub. Gradual, subtle turns of his wrist, encouraging circulation, warming you inside and out.

A moan slips past your lips and you sink deeper until you’re swaddled to the shoulders, and his fingertips are brushing the inside of your thigh. They’re hot, twitching at the contact, and then purposeful as he begins to knead the muscle.

“Feel good?” he murmurs, voice low enough that it barely disturbs the quiet. You hear it like cymbals crashing, and his touch moves higher. Tension wrung from your body, you’ve no inhibitions to conceal your reactions, and he gets to marvel in just how honest they are.

The water moves, ripples between your legs. Your knees fall further, now braced either side of the tub, and suddenly you are an open book without a spine. “Touya,” his name comes on the end of an exhale. What was meant to be a warning is heard as a plea, and he presses his fingers to your clit as though that was all he needed to hear.

He hums a contented little note. “I won’t even ask you to say please,” and the gentle circular motion begins, pressure light. Touya strokes around your clit, starting small and tight, widening with each pass.

Arousal pools in your belly, spreads, seeking to fill every bit of you. It prickles at the nape of your neck, pushes the air from your lungs as his tentative fingers slide through your folds and spread, deliberately teasing.

Intertwined lavender and smoke pervades the air, condensation clinging to the tiles. You grasp his wrist, the scarred skin rough and pruning. Watching through half lidded eyes, you shudder at the loving hunger in his own, lips parted for heavy breath.

“Sensitive?” he wonders aloud, tongue sliding over his canine tooth. You whine as he plays with your entrance, barely dipping in, his fingertip crooked in a relaxed come hither movement. Hips chasing the feeling, you roll up against the heel of his hand and water laps up the bath's edge. He cups you full. “Look at you, all desperate. So fuckin’ cute”.

Touya indulges. Squeezes, retreats, smooths over your soft stomach to your breasts where they perk above the surface and back. In turn, you’re kept there; in a fractured kaleidoscope of pleasure and frustration.

Your thighs press together to relieve the ache. The bath oils leave you silken, and the dulled friction isn’t enough. “Hurry up or I’ll make myself cum,” you complain, voice airy with no real threat behind it. He kisses his teeth.

“Let me have my fun,” you hiss as he pinches your nipple, massaging over the sting with his thumb. “It’s not like I can fuck you like this. You’ve put too much… smelly shit in here”.

You concede, albeit with a pout, “That smelly shit helps me relax”.

Touya bends, hiding his fond smirk in the corner of your mouth. “Yeah, yeah, I get it. I’ll help too,” he nips at your puckered lip, coaxing you into another deep kiss. Dazed from the heat, the fervent touch, the slide of his tongue across your teeth, you’re barely cognisant of the hand settling back between your legs.

You pulse at the first stroke. Touya’s arm settles around your shoulders to support your weight as you sink into him. Your hips jump. Two fingers brush against your clit, then again, back and forth as your arousal swells.

This time you let him play, build the bridge as he pleases, drawing out the crescendo. Your breasts heave as the feeling swells. Gradually, the pressure behind his fingers grows in harmony with his rhythm. The tension in your body follows closely behind; abdomen clenched, trembling thighs clamped either side of his forearm, toes curled as your hips start to stutter.

“Touya,” you gasp, brows drawn taut as your face pinches. The bath water rocks up and down the tub, tipping over the side. “Touya. Fuck, I’m—I’m close”.

“Yeah. That’s it, angel,” he dips, lips brushing the shell of your ear as they shape around his words. His voice is rough and wanting, erring on a growl, almost like he was just as desperate as you. “Let me see you cum”.

It’s always a little more intense when he strings you along. You crest. Searing, the tight coil in your belly releases, and you cling to him as the pleasure pulses through you in waves. He wraps around you, keeping you tethered, gently rubbing your clit in alternating motions until you whine at the sensitivity.

He hums in amusement, and the sound settles around your shoulders. The water is hot again. There’s steam dancing on the water's surface in broad, svelte movements.

Touya kisses your temple as he withdraws his hand from between your legs. You can’t find it in yourself to complain when he cups your cheek, stroking his wet thumb in an arc beneath your eye. “Better?” he simpers, tilting his head to meet your lidded gaze. “Am I forgiven?”

Fatigue is starting to wear at your bones. You inhale deeply, wearing a satiated smile, though noticeably empty.

“Bed first. Then we’ll see about forgiveness”.

#dabi x reader #bnha x reader #todoroki touya x reader #mha x reader #this is unedited (forgib me too)

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asimplearchivist · 3 days

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𝓕𝓲𝓻𝓼𝓽 𝓚𝓲𝓼𝓼

𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐑𝐘 𝐕𝐈 𝐨𝐟 𝐗𝐗𝐕

[𝓪𝓼𝓲𝓶𝓹𝓵𝓮𝓪𝓻𝓬𝓱𝓲𝓿𝓲𝓼𝓽'𝓼 𝓶𝓪𝓼𝓽𝓮𝓻𝓵𝓲𝓼𝓽] [ 𝐌𝐎𝐎𝐍 𝐊𝐍𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐏𝐎𝐒𝐓 ] AO3 | SPOTIFY | PINTEREST summary ☾ ⤏ there was no possible way that you could have romantic feelings for steven. right? pairing(s) ☽ steven grant/reader-centric | constellations!verse word count ☾ 4.1k a/n ☽ ⤏ my sixth entry for the moon knight bingo hosted by @juneknight and @spacecowboyhotch over at @moonknight-events. I will eventually crosspost this to the main fic for constellations on ao3 when it will best fit the chronological progression of the chapters. this takes place post-chapter ii. ⤏ trying to resist the urge to tell myself this is repetitive. had to cut it off there or else it would’ve been way too long. ☽ MASTERPOST ☾ ☾ PREVIOUS ENTRY ⤎ ☥ ⤏ NEXT ENTRY [TBA] ☽

You’re going to give us an ulcer if you keep this up—and I, for one, do not want to have to chug that wretched pink shit for the next few weeks.

“Hush,” Steven muttered, glancing towards the window next to him to level his host with a dark glare, but he was distracted by the skewed angle of the lapel lying haphazardly across his clavicle. He frowned in concentration as he readjusted it and smoothed it back down to rights with a clammy, trembling palm. “You’re not helpin’.”

Marc’s brow was furrowed, arms folded tightly over his chest, appearing rather dour to be mirroring the pressed, brightly patterned shirt and light slacks he’d talked Steven into wearing—Marc’s canvas jacket suited the look as well as the stormy weather, although Steven’s insistence on wearing his favorite dress shoes was the one concession that the alter was unwilling to sacrifice.

Marc had argued with him for nearly ten minutes not to wear the suit coat for just a quick bite before returning to the flat, and Steven had only relented once he’d realized that you’d still be wearing your casual clothes since he was picking you up from work. He knew that you liked to dress up, too, if he made the effort to do so, and that you grew a little self-conscious if you looked ‘frumpy’ (although, in his opinion, you never looked anything short of stunning—even with dust smudged on your cheek from the shop’s prolific collection of old books, espresso splattered all across your sleeves, or ink smeared on your hands after your long days spent working and studying), so he’d sooner invest in your comfort than to preen at your expense.

…Not that he was trying to preen or anything. You just made him feel like the biggest catch this side of the Thames, for once in his life—and while he would never willingly admit it, Steven liked the idea of showing off a bit for you. His nerves and insecurities still got the best of him every now and again, but most of the time your adoring gaze and easy smiles served an invaluable salve for his fretful tendencies.

He liked to look nice for you—liked the way you’d give him that lingering once-over out of the corner of your eye like you didn’t think he’d notice it. Depending on the colors he wore, he could elicit varying intensities of a reaction; the studious side of him was fascinated with how soft shades of blue kept your gaze trained on the contrast of the collar and his neck, whereas deeper jewel tones of crimson and juniper drew your stare further up to his unkempt curls and eyes. Trim slacks and khakis caused lingering glances towards his legs and posterior, if he happened to have his back turned to you. If he took off his coat, you’d peek at the silhouettes of his arms and shoulders under the pressed cotton. If his sleeves ever happened to be rolled up, you blatantly and openly gawked at the muscles flexing in his forearms and the articulation of tendons in his hands—that flustered him more than anything else.

You weren’t shy about telling him that you found him attractive, either. Although he was still growing accustomed to your consistent sprinkling of compliments—each as sincere, as meaningful, and as thoughtful as the last—he appreciated your earnesty beyond any thanks he could express with simple words. He stood taller in your presence, didn’t stoop or hunch to make himself appear smaller; he didn’t stutter as much, and he spoke with confidence and ease even when launching into his infamous tangents and drawing skeptical glances from strangers; he even found it getting easier, over time, to flirt with you in return, learning that you grew flustered when he gave you half-lidded looks or shivered when he lowered his voice into a murmur near your ear (although he wouldn’t have noticed the subtle, subconscious changes in his behavior had Marc not remarked upon them).

He felt comfortable with you—attractive and valuable and wanted without deceit nor facetiousness—something he had never before experienced beyond his connection to Marc. To others, he was an overenthusiastic nuisance, or a negligible commodity at best, but to you he was important. You cared for him, wanted him to be happy, and never expected anything in return, save his honest companionship.

…But the boundaries for that had started to blur, hadn’t they? Ever since he and Marc had returned from Cairo, you and Steven had grown closer than ever before. With you given just short of full disclosure about his situation (although this was not for lack of faith in your reasonability, since Steven himself hadn’t been aware of all the details until relatively recently—and they would cross the bridge about telling you about their suited vigilante days when it became relevant, although he hoped it never would be), he no longer felt the urge to keep up appearances. He no longer had to fret about hiding the more cornering traits of his supposed sleeping disorder from you, since the true nature of his midnight meanderings had been discovered. He had no more secrets save those that no longer occupied his life at present, no more worries, because you saw and knew and understood most everything that encapsulated him.

That, inevitably, led to a rather blatant and ardent infatuation on his part, seeded by his initial attraction and long-standing friendship with you and germinated by your steadfastness and dedication even after their…episode—one extremely difficult to restrict, and one for which Marc had been teasing him relentlessly now that he had met you, too.

You really ought to tell her, you know, said the devil about whom he thought.

“Yeah, right,” Steven scoffed, tilting his head forward to scrutinize and pick at the layers of unruly curls parted along the side of his scalp with his fingers—they never did sit quite right, even when he made the effort to comb them while they were wet. Marc had wanted to plaster them back with gel to avoid the hassle altogether, but Steven had resolutely set his foot down—you adored their curls and Steven despised the sensation of the pomade on his scalp, so he would not stand to see Marc glue them down like he always did when he had the steering wheel. “Sure, I’d love to put myself out there to be rejected again. You know how bloody well that went the last time I had a date.”

That was my fault. Marc owned up to it, at least. But it won’t happen again.

“You don’t know that,” Steven told him, hushed and tense. “I could just…she’s said we’re mates, yeah? But she could think we’re just mates.”

The way she looks at you? Yeah, totally platonic, Marc remarked, rolling his eyes. You’re her ‘bestest friend in the whole wide world’ and she just so happens to want to climb you like a tree when you ramble about regicide in Ancient Egypt of all things.

Steven’s face prickled with heat as he glared at his host. “How would you know, huh?”

Marc tipped his head forward and raised a knowing brow. The bastard had the gall to smirk at him.

Steven scowled. He could point out how utterly insufferable his host had acted around Layla, awkward and ignorant like a teenager as far as reading her as he had been, but he wouldn’t stoop so low…for now. (As long as he didn’t continue to take the piss out of him, that is.) “Oh, Mister ‘I’ve-Been-Married-A-Grand-Total-of-Once’ is suddenly an expert on the art of interpretin’ female attraction! I’m sure you’ve just got the entire situation nailed down like a psychoanalysis, yeah?”

Give me ten minutes to let me direct the conversation and I can tell you all of her—

“No! No, thank you,” Steven blurted, dragging a hand over his eyes and nose to clasp over his mouth. If his face had grown any hotter in the handful of awkwardly silent seconds that followed that particular statement, Steven was certain that it would have been capable of spontaneous combustion. He floundered for a moment, mouth opening and shutting in search of a response, while Marc started chuckling, but he was saved by the bell, so to speak.

“Hey, darlin’!” you chirped through the doorway as it cracked open and you slipped out of the coffee shop. “I didn’t realize you were here at first, but Amy saw you in the window. You could’ve texted me, you know—I hate that you stood out here in the cold.”

“Oh, I haven’t been here long,” Steven assured you, turning to offer to take your purse. You allowed him to hold it while you shrugged on your coat and wrapped the scarf he’d recently gifted you around your neck. “Where would you like to eat tonight, love?”

“Actually, I was hoping you’d let me try my hand at something new tonight,” you started, then hesitated. “If that’s, uh, okay. I’d have to run into the store to grab some groceries, so if you’d rather wait for another night we can. I completely understand if it’s too late for that.”

And refuse your feats of culinary masterpieces? He thought bloody not. “That would be wonderful, as long as you’re not too terribly knackered to stand over the stove,” Steven said brightly. “I can help.”

Your smile was dazzling even under the unflattering whine of the fluorescent street lamp. “Thank you. I think you’ll like this one.”

“As if I’ve ever disliked anythin’ you’ve cooked for me,” he scoffed in disbelief.

“Okay, sure, but I think you’ll really like this one,” you amended, slinging your purse over your shoulder and grabbing his arm to tug him towards the bus stop. “Come on.”

The ride was filled with idle chatter about each other’s days. Steven was still adjusting to working during the day shifts after his reemployment as a tour guide at the museum, and he somewhat missed sitting with you while you closed up the coffee shop already—but it had given him the opportunity to tidy up the flat and to clean up before returning to the block to fetch you. You’d been tasked with reorganizing the used classical and poetry section, so you’d spent the better part of your day elbow-deep in dusty old books. (Steven was having a very difficult time resisting the urge to snuff the biblichor lingering on your scalp—there was nothing better than the combination of your signature perfume and books to him.) An older man had walked up on you to ask you a question and it had startled you—you’d barely stopped a whole row from toppling down on you since you’d been standing on a stepstool at the time. He’d apologized profusely, but you said that the image of you teetering on that rickety old hunk of metal was probably the funniest thing you’d pictured yourself doing in a long time.

“But you’re not hurt, right?” Steven pressed, brow furrowed.

“No, I’m good,” you answered, nudging him in the side with your elbow. “I’ve got a thick skull—you ought to know that by now, darlin’.”

The stop in the general store was, true to your word, a quick one. He recognized some of the ingredients, but he had no idea how you were going to combine them all into something undeniably delicious. By the time you both got to his flat, you were cutting up and he was laughing a bit louder than what was appropriate close to midnight.

“Here, I’ll get started,” you told him as you unloaded the sacks on the kitchen counter, “why don’t you go pick something to put on for background noise?”

“Sure thing, love,” he responded, turning to do just that. When he came back, you were in the middle of warming oil in a saucepan while dicing some vegetables. “What can I do?”

“I’d kill for some of that lemonade we made the other day if you have any left over,” you commented. “But you could help me get this chopped up. I’ll need the emulsifier. It’s just a simple soup I thought was interesting—I haven’t used sundried tomatoes before. It reminds me of a pasta sauce I’ve seen before, but this is more like a tomato soup than anything.”

“Sounds divine,” Steven told you, stooping over into the fridge to pull out the pitcher in question. He’d left enough for two more servings. “Will you want a grilled cheese?”

“No, I’m okay.” You bumped your hip into his as thanks when he set a glass within your reach, the ice clinking against the glass. “I’m kind of beat, honestly, so if I can get this down before I pass out, I’ll be lucky.”

“I washed your spare clothes if you’d like to go shower while I watch the pot,” he offered. “They’re on top of the dresser.”

“I may take you up on that offer,” you admitted. “Can you dice these tomatoes?”

It, perhaps, should have been a little worrisome how easily he fell into such a domestic routine with you. Even if Marc suspected you had feelings for him that weren’t strictly platonic, Steven wondered whether your natural exuberance was causing him to misread your behavior. But it was in the moments that you intentionally brushed against him when such contact could’ve been avoided, displaying your comfort so loudly without saying a word, that he dared to let that little flicker of hope breathe itself to life. You seemed committed to keeping some form of contact with him at all times, your hands touching his arms or sides as you orbited him like his own personal little moon. You only spoke in that low, inexplicably soothing tone.

Steven watched the pan while you retreated to the bathroom. You reemerged with damp, shiny hair and dewy, softly-scented skin, and it was even harder for him not to catch a whiff as you floated around him grabbing cutlery and bowls and napkins like you had the layout of his flat memorized. You even put the kettle on without him even having to ask, setting out a mug and a teabag for him to fix how he preferred it.

After blitzing the vegetables together and adding a bit of coconut cream to smooth it out, your dish was completed and smelled utterly divine topped with fresh basil. You both ended up settled shoulder-to-shoulder on the couch in front of the television, slurping spoonfuls and idly commenting on the film he’d chosen. It was cozy and calm and exactly what he needed after having a class of rowdy six-graders that had seemed interested in anything but what he’d had to say during their field trip for which he’d been tasked to provide a tour that morning (he should have suspected something was remiss when the teacher’s name had popped up on the itinerary and all the other guides had—quite brightly and appraisingly—suggested he take it; it was a marvel to him, really, that the school could miss the fact that she had utilized the opportunity to be paid to scroll on her phone while he was forced to wrangle the feral children supposedly under her care).

That was exactly the tale he regaled when you asked him, midway through the movie during a lull in the plot, if anything interesting had happened to him that day. You looked rightly disgruntled on his behalf, huffing that he was far too nice to tolerate that sort of negligence and that you would have set her in her place had you been there. He’d gently, if amusedly, informed you that it had somewhat worked out in the end—with no small (nor well-hidden) amount of satisfaction, he told you that his obligation to supervise them all had ended upon delivering the troop to the gift shop at the end of the tour…where Donna had been stuck on shift yet again (since so few people applied for the position due to its low wages combined with the high turnover rate as a result of her nasty behavior and poor management style…but Steven wasn’t normally one to gloat over such things; you, however, had been utterly delighted to hear it).

“At least that bitch got some of what she deserves,” you said, tipping your chin up and glaring down the end of your nose at the screen. “I hope she regrets every last negative word she said to you now that she has to pick up all the shit she dumped on you.”

“It doesn’t matter in the long run, love,�� he reminded you, although his chuckle was difficult to smother. It did give him some satisfaction to see it, else he’d have been made a liar to suggest otherwise…but just a little bit. “I don’t answer to her anymore.”

“Good, or else I might’ve felt the need to cut a bitch,” you grumbled.

Steven jumped slightly as Marc’s low, huffing laugh caught him off guard. He glanced over at one of the mirrors he’d mounted on the available space of a nearby bookshelf, and his host’s moody, brooding eyes were twinkling with equal parts mirth and mischief. He didn’t say a word, as he tended to give the front a wide berth when Steven was having personal time with you, but the weight of his presence was a reassuring one. His host lifted his brows and glanced pointedly in your direction, tipping his head towards you for emphasis.

Steven cast him a dark glare. Marc had been teasing him for a week now about finally making a move in the most cliché and inane manner possible, but Steven was resolute that it was not ideal. He respected you highly and didn’t want to give you a poor experience that might smother any chances he had of winning over your good graces. Your ex had been the pushy sort, and he wanted to be anything but. It was simply unfortunate that his and Marc’s individual approaches to romance were vastly contrary.

“Let’s not add ‘murder’ to your long, impressive list of accomplishments, yeah?” Steven proposed mildly, watching you glance up at him with a smirk and glittering eyes of your own.

“Fine,” you sighed, resting your temple briefly on his shoulder. “If you insist.”

“I do,” he nodded. “Wouldn’t be very good if you wind up in prison defending somebody like me.”

“You ought to know by now that there’s not a whole lot I wouldn’t do for you, Steven,” you responded, rolling your eyes, but there was something couched in your tone that piqued his attention.

He blinked, then glanced towards the mirror again, but Marc was gone. So much for his bloody help regarding women.

“You do know that, right?” you prompted a little quieter, and when he looked over, you were gazing up at him through your lashes out of your periphery.

Steven relaxed as that familiar warm, fuzzy feeling unfurling within his chest like the blooming of a flower in the morning. “I do,” he returned softly. “And I hope you know that sentiment is mutual.”

You stared at him, then, head turning little by little until your full, beseeching gaze was fixed on him. His heart pounded raucously against his ribs as he became acutely aware of your hand slipping over to squeeze his knee gently—he was shocked you couldn’t hear it, because it was loud enough he very nearly didn’t hear your next words. “…Can I kiss you?”

He swallowed roughly, a reflexive action that caused him to jump. His hand, shaky and clammy, settled over yours, his fingers slotting alongside your own. He licked his lips, sucked in a breath that rattled in his lungs, and managed a jerky nod. “Yeah,” he croaked. “Please?”

Your free hand cupped his chin, fingertips tracing along his jawline with undeserved reverence before settling his cheek into the cradle of your palm, and he stooped slightly to save your neck as you lifted your chin to meet him halfway. He blinked, startled, as your lips—soft and smooth—chastely met the corner of his mouth. The split-second confused thought of you missing was promptly erased when you tilted your head and repeated the motion to the opposite side, lingering just a tad bit longer there.

Oh. Oh.

He clamped his eyelids shut.

The featherdown flutter of your doe-like lashes tickling the arch of his cheek as you kissed him proper, gentle and slow and tender, skyrocketed his pulse. He wondered idly, somewhere in the back of his muddled mind, if he was in any danger of having cardiac arrest at this rate. Heat flooded his face like wildfire, sweat springing up along his hairline as he reached out to touch you, too.

His trembling fingers made contact with the side of your neck, first, and to his inexplicable delight and relief he could feel your heartbeat racing alongside your throat, too. He curled his hand around your nape, thumb stroking the tender skin beneath the shell of your ear as an indescribable, high-pitched whine escaped you. He cracked an eye open to watch your expression cringe with embarrassment, but you made up for it by sliding your fingers into his curls to tug his head into a deeper angle. A gutted, broken groan bubbled out of the pit of his chest before he could stop it.

You began to litter his lips with quick, light pecks, and never before had Steven quite felt cherished. You pulled back just a hair’s breadth to catch your breath. “You have…no idea how long I’ve wanted to do this.”

“I can hazard a guess,” he mumbled, pulling you back in, “‘cause you’re in the same boat as I am.”

You let out a needy, desperate little noise that lanced down his spine. Steven Grant had never considered himself a selfish person by any stretch of the imagination, but he was quite certain at that moment that if he didn’t hear it again immediately he would die.

Oxygen became a hazy concept, but even the most ardent and devoted of adorators required it. When you broke away to suck in a lungful, Steven dared to look at you. You were dazed, eyes hazy and lips puffy, but the way you glowed in the dim lighting was like nothing he’d ever envisioned in all his studies of art. And you were staring at him as though he had hung each and every last individual star in the sky.

“I was so scared you wouldn’t feel the same,” you murmured, “but I couldn’t hold it anymore.”

“I never wanted to assume,” he added quietly. “I was fine with being mates, but I always wondered…I didn’t want to pressure you, after…I just wanted you to feel comfortable if…”

“I know,” you interrupted him mercifully, leaning back in. “I know. Thank you for being patient.”

“There were so many times I wanted to tell you,” he mumbled into your mouth, too enchanted to shut off his stream of consciousness, “but it never felt right, and I didn’t want to lose my only friend—my best friend—yet it was absolute torture not knowing—”

“I didn’t know if I could bear to make myself vulnerable to be hurt again,” you returned, shifting to kiss along his cheek, “and I had to work myself up to take the risk. You’re all I’ve got left anymore. Maybe I’m selfish to want more than what we have, but God, Steven, I want you so bad, I can hardly stand it.”

The lump in the pit of his throat nearly choked him. He buried his face in the crook of your neck and shoulder, arms coiling around you and holding you tightly against his chest. “I do, too,” he breathed. “Like I need air.”

You returned the hug with a ferocity he hadn’t felt from you before. You were shaking, too, and it soothed him to know that the nerves were mutual, as well. For being very transparent people by nature, the both of you had managed a miracle of hiding your feelings from each other for so long.

“I need you to know that I can only do it if you’re all in,” you said, muffled by the material of his shirt. “My heart can’t take it otherwise.”

“You have all of me and more, poppet,” he told you, smothering his face into your scalp. “I swear to you I’ll do better than anyone else has or could. I’ll earn it, I promise. I can be worthy of you. I’ll sooner hurt myself than ever dream of hurting you.”

#fisara's codices #fanfiction #moon knight #moon knight fanfiction #moon knight fluff #reader insert #steven grant #steven grant/reader #steven grant x reader #steven grant/you #steven grant x you #steven grant fanfiction #steven grant fluff #moonknightevents

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whumpookies · 4 months

Text

General hospital Jason Morgan's whump list...

Suffered permanent brain damage following a drunk driving car accident caused by his brother, A.J. [Dec 28, 1995]

Hospitalized after being beaten up by men working for Sonny Corinthos [Aug 23, 1996]

Fell when the ground caved in beneath him while trying to rescue Sonny and Brenda; pulled back up [Mar 3, 1997] **giffed**

Shot in the abdomen by The Tin Man [Jul 11, 1997] **giffed** here

Shot in the side by Moreno's men when their mob meeting went wrong [Dec 1, 1999] **giffed**

Attacked with a knife by Lucky Spencer, who was brainwashed by Helena Cassadine [Mar 20, 2001Held at gunpoint by a cemetery

Cut his hand after breaking a glass window at Kelly's to unlock the door [Aug 13, 2002]

Jumped overboard Luis Alcazar's yacht and was subsequently shot at by his men; suffered a laceration to his forehead as a result [Sep 5, 2002]

Renrered unconscious after being hit over the head by Coleman Ratcliffe [Oct 23, 2002]

Hit over the head with a candle stick and tied to a stair banister by Jax [Dec 23, 2002]

Injured in a car accident with Courtney Matthews while headed to tell Sonny about them [Feb 5, 2003]

Had emergency surgery for injuries sustained in the car crash [Feb 7, 2003] **giffed**

Knocked unconscious [Apr 15, 2003]

Knocked unconscious [Aug 14, 2003]

Engulfed in a backdraft that separated him from Courtney and Brian Beck during the PC Hotel Fire [Feb 11, 2004]

Shoved down stairs by Andy [Feb 13, 2004]

Left handcuffed to a pipe to burn to death during the PC Hotel Fire by Andy [Feb 13, 2004]

Caught in an explosion during the PC Hotel Fire after Nikolas accidentally broke a gas pipe saving him [Feb 16, 2004]

Caught in an explosion that occurred in the courtroom during Sonny and Carly’s custody hearing due to a bomb being planted in Sonny’s car; not injured [Mar 15, 2004]

Knocked unconscious by Courtney [Apr 12, 2004]

Shot in the side by FBI agent Reese Marshall [Feb 2005] **giffed**

Injured his arm after falling from a balcony at the Quartermaine Mansion [Apr 2005] **giffed**

Crashed his motorcycle [Aug 2005]

Almost poisoned to death by Asher Thomas [Aug 2005]

Began suffering from a potentially fatal brain aneurysm which was causing him severe headaches and seizures after taking an experimental drug [Aug-Dec 2005; Jason was revealed to be suffering from a brain aneurysm on Sep 6, 2005; he survived]

Suffered from amnesia as a result of the brain aneurysm [Aug 24-Nov 28, 2005]

Shot in the leg by Manny Ruiz [Oct 13, 2005] **giffed** here

Injured in a train wreck [Nov 2005]

His heart stopped [Nov 2005

Began suffering extreme seizures as a side effect of the drug and required surgery [Dec 2005]

Shot in the shoulder by Manny Ruiz while attempting to rescue Sam McCall [Jul 4, 2006]

Shot in the knee by police [Nov 2006]

Hit over the head with a tequila bottle and rendered temporarily unconscious by Lulu Spencer [Nov 2006]

Suffered burns to his hands while trying to save a women in a burning ambulance [Jul 2007; GH:NS]

Severed tendons in both of his hands from shards of glass being embedded in them[43], while rescuing Elizabeth (and Sam) from Diego Alcazar (aka the Text Message Killer) and required three reconstructive surgeries[44] [Mar 2008; suffered from severe blood loss due to his hand injury

Almost smothered to death with a pillow in his sleep by Claudia Zacchara (it looked like she was about to but when he woke up she just told him she was giving him an extra pillow) [Jun 23, 2008]

Trapped in a cave with Sam [Dec 2008]

Accidentally shot in the shoulder by Sam McCall during the hospital bio-toxin crisis [Feb 4, 2009]

Injured in a car bomb explosion [Apr 23-24, 2009

Developed an infection after Jerry Jacks shot him in the clavicle and trapped him underneath the rubble of an abandoned church, leaving him for dead; he suffered from hallucinations as a result the infection [Aug 2009]

Suffered a head injury after a car accident [Aug 2011]

Underwent a brain biopsy [Aug 2011]

Has a seizure [Aug 2011]

Underwent brain surgery to remove a piece of dashboard from his 1995 car accident with A.J. [Aug 2011]

Passed out in his hospital room [Aug 2011]

Drugged and trapped in a room by Franco and was forced to watch what he believed was Franco raping his then wife, Sam [Nov 2011; Sam learned that she hadn't been raped in May 2013]

Rendered unconscious after running into Michael while on his motorcycle [Dec 2011]

Passed out in the hospital corridor [Jan 2012]

Passed out [Feb 2012] Underwent surgery to relieve the swelling on his brain [Feb 2012]

Experienced a fever after ingesting the toxin Jerry Jacks had placed in the Port Charles water supply [Sep 2012]

Shot in the leg by Ewen Keenan while rescuing Elizabeth Webber [Sep 2012]

Presumed dead after being shot in the back by Cesar Faison (disguised as Duke Lavery) and kicked into the harbor [Oct 19-22, 2012; Jason was revealed to be alive in 2014]

Held captive at a clinic in Russia by Dr. Klein under the orders of Peter August [Oct 2012-Oct 2017; as Patient 6]

Given a sedative [Sep 25, 2017; as Patient 6]

Jumped into the water to save Sam [Oct 30, 2017; as Patient 6]

Ran into Charlie's pub to save Kristina and was caught in an explosion [Sep 10, 2018]

Assumed hypothermia and bruised ribs after falling into the catacombs [Jan 22, 2019; escaped and made it into cold waters of Pier 55 on Jan 23, 2019; rescued by Sam on Jan 24, 2019] **giffed** here

Infected by a latent virus and rendered temporarily blind [Feb 22-25, 2019]

Attacked and nearly bludgeoned to death by Shiloh after losing a fight to him [Sep 25-26, 2019]

Rendered unconscious after a motorcycle crash caused by Cyrus [Aug 6-11, 2020; Cyrus' involvement revealed on Aug 7, 2020; had exploratory brain surgery on Aug 10, 2020]

Left the hospital prematurely [Aug 24, 2020]

Jumped into cold water in an attempt to find Sonny, who disappeared after a bridge collapse [Dec 21, 2020]

Stabbed in the stomach by Shawn Butler under Carly Corinthos's orders to get him out of Pentonville [Apr 22, 2021]

Shot at by Carl Pine, one of Cyrus' men, while escaping with Dr. Britt Westbourne [May 3, 2021; saved by Brick]

Shot in the back by an unknown person while escaping with Britt [May 3, 2021]

His blood type is O- [revealed May 4, 2021 Received a blood transfusion from Carly [May 4, 2021]

Tied up and held hostage at gunpoint on Cassadine Island by his twin brother, Drew Cain, who was being programmed by Peter to do his bidding [Nov 2, 2021]

Held hostage with Drew in a wine cellar on Cassadine Island by Peter [Nov 2-18, 2021; revealed on Nov 8, 2021; Jason escaped]

Presumed dead after being caught in a tunnel collapse which was caused by his shootout with Peter [Nov 19, 2021; Jason was legally declared dead on Mar 15, 2022; ]

2024! March 7th Shot (gifset here )

March 8th reunion with carly, injury treated and suspect (gifset here )

#whump #male whump #whump community #general hospital #whump liist #jason morgan gh #jason morgan whump list

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cannibalgh0st · 4 months

Text

My shoulder is so achy today😭😭😭😭 I felt it last night....was hoping to feel better this morning...

#shoulder pain #my clavicle is achy too FML #clavicle pain #body aches #meh #sharing time #tendonitis

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tsutsumi-kaina · 2 years

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I think about the implications behind Tomura’s teeth a lot....

Like... as a child, we see him vomiting in response to extreme stress multiple times. Hori had a finite number of pages to work with during MVA, and despite that, he dedicated three separate instances to Tomura losing his lunch while under extreme stress. When he wears his family’s hands, he explicitly states that it makes him feel like he’s going to vomit. And again, after he’s goaded into murder by AFO, he explicitly mentions how ill he feels-- “I feel sick.” “Like I’m going to hurl.” The overall implication being that Tomura has basically vomited from stress -so- much and -so- frequently that his teeth are ruined beyond repair. Frequent vomiting wears down enamel and gum tissue, vastly increasing a person’s risks for cavities even if they do otherwise brush their teeth regularly.

As an aside: AFO’s grooming rears its ugly mug even when the narrative isn’t explicitly drawing attention to it, as usual-- with adult Tomura reframing his nausea as something “awesome.” Yeah, it’s totally awesome that you feel like vomiting whenever you kill people, Tomura! I’m sure there’s no underlying reason for that! :’)

There’s also the fact that he’s so malnourished you can see his spinal cord and clavicles protruding from beneath his skin during his first appearance. And there’s so little body fat that the tendons/bones in his hands are also sharply visible.

Honestly, Hori is excellent when it comes to using his art to convey what’s going on behind the scenes and between the lines-- and that’s especially true in Tomura’s case. There is so much of Tomura’s story that’s conveyed through art alone, and dissecting that art really is necessary if you want to understand the full scope of his abuse at the hands of AFO. This is also why I don’t feel that Tomura being an unambiguous victim in need of rescuing was a “last minute” decision on Hori’s part-- because the evidence that he was being mistreated was always there.

#emeto ment #shigaraki tomura #shimura tenko #my hero academia

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letters-unsending · 7 months

Text

No. 38

////

Villain is disguised as a Hero and Superhero takes them to a safe house.

////

Villain had only ever seen Superhero from afar. He was a sharp line, silhouetted in red by the rising sun on the eve of battle. He was a streak of gold, tearing through opposition with a sure hand. He was a squared figure with shoulders pulled back, hands curled round and claiming the podium in front of him as he addressed the crowd with a voice that bellowed chest-deep.

Walking beside him felt like trespassing, like treading the line between concept and reality, and Villain startled as Superhero squeezed his shoulder.

“We’re almost there. It’s right down this street.” Up close, quiet, Superhero’s voice lost its bold tenor. It was soft, scraping, catching along each word like the gravel under their heels. The sound slid down Villain’s spine, too textured, too real and the pressure of Superhero’s hand suddenly screamed into his nerve. Villain held back every instinct to wrench himself away. Trapped beneath his sternum, fear writhed like a dog with a frothing mouth.

“Sounds good,” Villain hummed. He let his body rise back into Superhero’s palm and recalled each bone below. He thought about the thin, winding clavicle and the curved back of his scapula; he thought about the tendons and muscles drawn between. He thought about how easily Superhero could choose to clamp down and shatter him all the way through.

Superhero drew his hand away and Villain sagged, tucking his sigh of relief into a shallow cough as he lingered a few steps behind. It was easier this way, to stare at his back, to break him down into the line of his spine and the breadth of his shoulders. He wondered how many steps it would take for Superhero to completely dissolve into the distance. The clouds of ash would smear him grey and formless. The wasteland would enfold him.

Superhero turned, debris churning beneath his boot, “are you coming?”

“Yes.” A hound cried in the distance. Villain jogged forward.

////

The safehouse had only lamps for light. Superhero set one on the table and wiped the oil from his fingers as the flame flickered in its glass shell, casting a molten, wavering glow over the small room. He sighed and sunk into an old armchair. Like the couch Villain was settled in, its cushions were clotted with dust and soured by mildew, but Superhero slumped into it all the same, tilting his head back toward the yellowed ceiling tile.

Once more, Villain’s stomach jumped at the wrongness of the sight. Superhero belonged in throne rooms, with a mantle of velvet cast over his shoulder and a crystal wine glass pinched between his fingers. He should’ve only been visible in the fullest light, rendered in sharp edges and planes, constructed in poise and power, and nothing more.

The rusty light and warm shadow sunk Supervillain further into the chair. Flaring, the glow licked across his knuckles as they rolled and tensed, and Villain discovered that the back of his hand was scraped raw. The darkness implied scratches and furrows, but Villain couldn’t see the blood; the shadows were too rich and flushed in the lamplight for the red to show.

But Superhero could see blood. Of course, he could see, with those inhuman eyes, animal pupils swollen black in the dark.

“You’re bleeding.”

Villain's brow twitched. He knew where the cut was; a bright line of pain arced from his ear to the base of his skull. At first, he’d thought it was sweat, slipping down his neck, but it was warmer, slower, and grew tacky as it seeped into his collar.

“It’s fine,” Villain replied, tongue dry, not daring to look away from Superhero. He focused on the shadow beneath Superhero’s brow. It deepened as Superhero frowned, sinking into the folds of his skin.

Superhero tilted his head and dragged his gaze across Villain, slow, methodical, and keen. Villain’s arm was thrown over the arm of the couch and his spine bent to accommodate the sagging fabric behind him, which cast his legs in a long and languorous sweep. It should’ve been an easy posture, but Superhero saw the hard, locked angles of his joints. He saw the way Villain kept his head from hitting the cushion, neck straight and jaw drawn so tight it made his cheeks ache.

“It’s safe here,” Superhero assured and Villain almost bared his teeth, “you can relax. Once headquarters receives our distress call, they’ll come and retrieve us. It’ll take no more than a few days.” Superhero’s voice was soft again, softer than it was on the walk there. The syllables slinked, lifting the hairs on his arms.

Safe. Villain pushed his tongue against the back of his teeth, staving off a grimace. How safe could it be, sitting alongside a man steeped in shadow–a man who could rend the very room in ribboned halves?

“I am not used to battle,” Villain’s breath cracked, and he wished it was fake. He wished that each pitching breath was for show, rather than real fear leaping onto his tongue. “I’m terrified,” he looked up and Superhero stared back, “scared of it all.”

Superhero rose from his chair and Villain curled further into his seat, tucking his heels beneath the underside of the couch. “I’m fine,” blood slithered down behind his ear, “just nerves. Everyone gets a little shaken up after a big battle.”

The lamp flickered, flame jumping as Superhero bumped into the table and settled on the couch beside Villian. Fabric rustled. Dust floated up around Superhero’s thighs, glimmering like floating embers in the light before drifting down to his feet.

“Your fear doesn’t make you weak. You don’t need to excuse anything.” He settled a hand on the couch, leaning forward. His face was stiff, focused; his sclera burned orange. “There’s no shame in injury either.” Villain glanced down Superhero’s knuckles, finally able to follow the red–dark, deep, and ripping all the way into his forearm, disappearing between the torn fringes of his sleeve.

“I believe we’re both guilty in that regard,” Villain whispered. He willed his sternum still, scarcely breathing.

“Yeah,” Superhero smiled, keeping his eyes on Villain’s, “it’ll heal fine though.” Superhero leaned further on his arm. Villain wondered if it hurt, wondered if Superhero even felt the blood slipping down the side of his palm and onto the cushion. “Do you mind if I take a look at your head? You’re probably going to need to bandage it. Head wounds are never pretty.”

Villain had pushed so far into the end of the couch that the side of his leg burned, but Superhero was still so near. His weight spilled over, sinking into the space strung between them, and Villain felt his presence like a phantom touch, clutching his shoulder and cupping his ribs; awareness blazed along his side. Villain blinked. He breathed through his teeth and Superhero waited in perfect stillness, predatorily calm.

“Sure.” He turned his head toward the wall and offered his up his ear. In front of him, there was a window, cracked, fogged, and warped with age. Water had broken through and rotted the mantle. He tried to follow the dripping lines where rain had eaten through the wallpaper and spliced it into wilted silver whisps, but his vision swam, trying to climb back into his head, into the weeping wound.

“Do you mind if I move your hair?” The couch creaked. Superhero shifted closer.

“Whatever helps,” Villain spoke to the spiderweb fractures in the window. He listened to Superhero’s breath, then felt it as it washed over his blood-matted curls, a warm, dragging breeze.

His first touch was tentative. Fingers whispered into his scalp, slipping across his skin like a sigh. Villain should’ve flinched, should’ve lurched, should’ve done anything to snap the tension corded and coiled in his chest, but Superhero’s terrible hand was tender. Villain could only spill forward and clutch the arm of the couch. The fabric scraped against his palm.

“That bad?” Superhero asked, touch retreating as Villain slumped away.

“Just getting comfortable,” Villain whispered. Any louder and he felt like he would choke. Again, he tilted his head and proffered his hurt for display.

Superhero was firmer this time, parting his hair, letting the wound breathe. As Superhero prodded the hot, bruised skin running astride the cut, Villain exhaled and rested his chin on the top cushion, looking at the window again. The glass had taken a silver sheen, misted with the onset of rain. The first droplets carved delicate white arcs downward before settling in the broken seams and divots.

“Someone got a pretty hard hit on you.” Superhero noted, finding that purples of the bruise spread much farther than the neat tear. Villain knew that much. Supervillain had grinned before swinging the iron end of his staff into the base of his skull.

Villain hummed in affirmation.

////

“You’re bleeding.” Villain echoed the statement, much later. The candle had burned out sometime during the night, and white morning light washed through the room in its stead. No longer warm, no longer tucked into the bed of shadow, Superhero leaned back into his chair in an arrogant sprawl. He should’ve looked untouchable again, divinely separated from the world around him.

But his fist trembled against his stomach, bunched in his shirt.

The cloth was stained. Terrible. Red.

56 notes · View notes

hexonthepeach · 6 months

Text

a gentle tongue breaketh the bone | 20: clinical

pairing: fem hybrid fox omega!reader/hybrid Alpha!nct 127

tags: reverse harem, non-traditional omegaverse hybrid! cyberpunk au, pack dynamics, polyamory, slowburn/slowbuild, angst & hurt/comfort, heavy content warnings inc. torture, graphic violence, suicidal ideation, explicit sexual content

summary: the year is 2127. decades of eugenics and warfare have led to the rise of designated populations: the ruler Alphas and their rare, prized omegas sequestered from the Beta population. in the aftermath of the War of the Two Tigers, New Goryeo ushers in an Imperial dynasty determined not by birthright but by the alliance of the Syndicate’s clancorps to choose the best pack of your generation. you are destined to take your place within the Imperial harem as a queen, and–perhaps–Imperatrix herself

but you have a secret, written into your skin and bones–one that could easily kill you, depending on who finds it out

ten years ago you chose your Alpha and their pack in a fateful meeting

now, you must make them choose you

[masterlist & glossary] [read on AO3] [19: burial]

wc: 6k

chapter warnings: gross misuse of medical terminology (don't correct me, taeil is just tired) and some smut under the pretense of medical care (pelvic massage), mentions of vomiting

recommended listening: love is a beauty - nct 127

Moon Taeil [Nyctereutes procyonoides α] - magna cum lauda Imperial Academy of Medicine Physician, 2nd rank

>>> patient 1 recovering, expected rate for non-developed hybrid form Felid. sustained fx, inj. are as follows: >>>> gross injury to levator scapulae, supraspinatus, teres major and minor >>>> humerus luxation treated with closed reduction w/o sx intervention, possible crush injury to humeral head, imaging negative >>>> clavicle and scapula injuries healing w/o sx fixation, blood flow to right arm inhibited by subclavian artery and thyrocervical branch closure, recommend amputation if unable to restore bloodflow to lower extremities >>>> wounds to scalp from forcible claw damage, penetrating, inc. possible puncture of sphenoid bone. temporal skull fissures healing without leakage, no artificial grafts available for outer ear, treated with amputation of dead tissue and cauterization >>>> platelet levels depleted, multiple donations made including from known genetic rejection variants >>>> sx intervention to insure subclavian artery reformation, rapidity of healing within 2-3 hours. may be grafts, or donated plasma. a full genetic spectrum analysis is rendering, delayed by recombination, captured >>>> abn variant detected on scan, will need confirm by biopsy if deep tissue or contam. suspect contam, due to multiple sx performed under non-sterile non-quarantine procedures. patient 0 is recovering from sternum, mult. rib fx from chest compressions, deep tissue calcaneal tendon refixture, performed with local anesthetics only, report to follow

To say Taeil is exhausted is an understatement. Spiritually, emotionally, and especially physically–he feels much older than his age.

When he's caught a break to shower he's scrubbed blood off that’s no longer there, still smelling and feeling it's tacky, flaking texture on his skin. The last time he's truly slept was when he’d shoved your dose of ketamine into his cephalic vein, woken up to a nightmare that hopefully, mostly, has come to an end.

Performing surgeries better suited to specialists with one amateur combat medic and a decades-old TraumaTeam surgical bot wasn’t easy, but he's managed it. It was the only solution while in lockdown. Yuta had clapped him on the shoulder with his forearm after they’d performed the first round of Mark's intervention, blood smeared on the Felid's face from wiping sweat and hair from his forehead.

"Just like the old days," he'd said, smiling ruefully. Battlefield humor never ceased in Nyctos, not for the old guard.

It hadn't been as funny when they'd been tasked with treating Jaehyun, or you.

Now that he could feel you, knew you, he understood how much you'd kept locked away. It penetrated past every defense he'd trained into as a war medic, as a physician treating young and old, alike.

For the first time in a decade of being a physician he'd heaved up the non-existent contents of his stomach. If it weren't for an IV after that, and maybe a careful injection of sedation and caffeine, he wouldn't still be standing.

But he had to be, for his most important patient.

Mark's recovery had begun without the accelerated genetics of a fully designated hybrid. From what Taeil knew of Mark’s childhood he’d received twice as much anti-shift therapy as someone like Jaehyun–treatment for an accident on base when he was a teen had almost ended his life. It had delayed his development so long everyone had assumed he’d never present, not as he neared his 25th year without the markers.

But all that had changed overnight. Mark’s ancestral genetics had returned with a vengeance. If human healing was a problem, so was rapid cell reconstruction without a stable network for tissue to form or the biological materials to build it out of.

Johnny, Jungwoo, and Haechan had managed the night mission to obtain grafts, replacement cartilage and bone scaffolding while the other Felids donated plasma. It had taken another 4 hours in surgery to make sure there was no long term damage, this time with surprisingly efficient results–Taeil had watched as muscle tissue and skin reconnected, the only visible sign of injury in the shiny, faint scars on Mark's neck and torso and claw marks on the shaved side of his head.

The little cat would be fine, given enough time.

He's sure nothing can prepare Mark for the burden of healing from what he'd been through, emotionally, but he has hope for that, too. Jaehyun had stayed most of the night under the guise of wanting to donate more blood if needed, but he'd recognized the same impulse in him that had kept you holding Mark's hand the first day: survivor's guilt. All three of you seemed to be connected by it.

From an outside observation, it felt almost intrusive to see the two Felids together. The older Alpha slept folded over Mark's legs as if he could keep him fixed to this plane of existence. Perhaps it was the deep rumble of Jaehyun's breathing, or the way Mark's hands occasionally dug into the sheets with the delicate, white claws he'd begun expressing after the first twelve hours. More than that, their scents had combined in a tell-tale way, a little like meadowgrass warmed under the sun.

He doesn't want to chase down the possibility of a claim caused by injury–he still has never heard of any made that way that didn't involve you–but he's also a scientist. Phenomena observed once are an anomaly, multiple times a basis for a hypothesis.

Whatever occurred, Taeyong and Doyoung had agreed to keep the reports of Mark's condition as quiet as possible. They didn't need Third Princess Lee Eunchae finding out about her son's brush with death by any means, especially second-hand.

Taeil knows he'd be the first to suffer her wrath, Taeyong and Doyoung would follow. The Princesses' late-life vows as an Allfaiths nun did not preclude her from rending him or the former Crown Prince to pieces. He's sure once she sees Mark's scars she'll do it with words, alone.

Thankfully Mark would be able to relay the news, personally, now that he was conscious. The would-be Prince of Goryeo is currently experiencing his first real painkiller and sedative cocktail, his forkful of melon dripping into the sheets as he attempts to referee Yuta and Haechan's card game.

"Is it poker? Man. You can't play poker with two people. Where's the pot?" he laughs, feet kicking beneath the sheets. “Deal me in.”

"Go fish," Haechan says, throwing a Jack of Hearts on the pile that's begun to slide off the overbed table.

"Koi koi," Yuta answers, picking up another card to add to his hand from the stack.

A goofy smile appears on Mark's face as he tries to parse the rules Taeil knows they're making up on the fly just to fuck with him. It's good his friends are here for him. Johnny would join them once he was back from the lower levels–Taeil had messaged the prime the moment his ward came to.

He busies himself checking the supplies in his field kit, unable to escape the scrutiny of the three others in the room.

"Doctor, are you going somewhere special looking that good?" Mark slurs. The other two share a laugh, but not at Mark.

"He's got a date," Yuta says, picking up the discards to shuffle. Haechan snorts, laying down his hand.

"Dinner with the queen," Haechan says, eyes darting up full of spite.

Taeil ignores it, checking himself in the mirror over the handwashing station.

"Just a housecall," he says. He adjusts the slim tie he's knotted over his dress shirt, the tightness on his neck reminding him of a noose. Black on black: for his own funeral, he supposes.

"____ really made it, huh." Mark has already heard a few words to relay the current situation but it's never broached past a general sense of your condition–as if the details would be too much for him.

"She's fine," Haechan says, lightly. "I saw her this morning. Looked good as new. Maybe a little . . . peckish."

"Princess has an appetite," Yuta says. Haechan snickers at it, folding back in his chair, as Mark takes small bites of his fruit salad contemplatively. Taeil watches him for a bit, unable to anticipate the younger man's response to the news or the lewd jokes the twin devils at his bedside are exchanging in a tone they know he can hear.

"She’s doing surprisingly well," Taeil says, voice level. "For being dead for a minute and a half."

The hum of equipment is the only sound in the wake of his statement. He expects Yuta or Haechan to say something glib, but they just look at him expecting him to continue–their faces masked.

"It felt a lot longer." Taeil adds, palm spreading over his shirtfront. His chest still aches with the memory of the broken breastbone and ribs you'd sustained during chest compressions. “I hope you never have to feel what that’s like.”

Taeil feels badly that Mark looks deathly ill, again, but at least so do the others.

He waves his hand over the door control. "I'll be back before midnight. If there's another emergency, I want to be the last to know."

Being off-duty after a double shift has always made him giddy (he's joking with himself, in a way–he hasn't been off-duty in his entire adult life) but it does feel like he’s back in the early days of his training doing days-long shifts, looking forward to the long break.

Even if it's with you, in your . . . state. Your perfume has saturated the entirety of the executive floor, perceivable at the lower levels.

Based on the interesting nature of his dreams when he’d managed a brief nap last night, as well as the scent on Johnny that morning when he’d checked in on Mark, you weren’t adhering to the appropriate schedule for rehab.

He doesn't blame you for breaking your fast with what you need, but he's also riddled with anxiety over how soon you've begun your descent into the next dip in your cycle. You're back on bio-monitoring and the expected hormonal spikes are, just as he imagined, off the charts.

Back when he'd been in the Imperial College a favorite pastime of his dorm mates had involved a contraband bottle of ginseng wine and dramatic readings from the private journals of the old Imperatrix's personal doctor (and rumored lover). Not one to indulge, they'd been burnt into his memory ever since.

Subject appears to be in a constant state of estrus. Diestrus is non-existent in this particular line of vulpes vulpes forma amicus. Breeding her has surpassed the abilities of a mere mortal. She is described as having the stamina of a dozen of her kind wrapped up in one. During the second ceremonial mating ritual a team was quietly dispatched to resuscitate the Imperator and administer numerous fluid IVs, as well as a recommended reprieve from additional intercourse. The Imperial palace was almost burnt down for the first time since it was last sacked in the 16th century. Perhaps we have made a mistake in our calculations of Vulpine appetite.

You're at least burning nothing but candles, and certainly not the meal you'd prepared for him, when he enters the suite. Your shoulders are relaxed as you work in Taeyong's kitchen, listening to what he thinks might be 20th century music, tail keeping time with the fits and starts of a piano recorded a few centuries ago.

You look over your shoulder at him, coquettishly, adding green onions to a clay pot of samgyetang.

"I asked Doyoung your preference of foods, if you don't mind," you say, looking up at him with a hint of slyness on your lips. "Samgyeoupsal?"

It could just be white rice served a grain at a time for all he cares but Taeil nods, smiling a little in return.

"I was surprised when I got your message about dinner. I thought I was just checking your ankle," he says. "How does it feel?"

He doesn't have to ask, distant throbbing in his heel, but he knows your language now better than anyone, sees the way your black-and-orange ears fold back with a touch of shyness and delight. You do love being cared for, but even more, listened to.

"Much better, thanks to you," you reply, half-curtseying so your robe pools on the floor. He thinks it must be one of Taeyong's many embroidered silk luxuries, so long it almost trips you. What’s more notable is the way you've wrapped the sleeves back, tie criss-crossed over your torso in an ancient fashion.

"How about your dreams?" he asks. He feels like a fool the moment the words slip from his mouth, moreso when you look at him with concern.

"I mean, did you sleep well?" He course-corrects.

"Very well," you say. "Most of the day, actually. When I wasn't learning how to make kimchi."

Your eyes do look irritated, but he thinks it might not be from onion or garlic. He drops his bag to help you bring dishes to the table, mouth watering not just for the spread on the ancient wood table.

After he catches himself staring for the hundredth time he realizes now he's never seen you with your hair drawn back from your face. You've always made an effort to hide your scars.

He's never once entertained the thought of running his finger down them without your permission but he can't stop his hand from raising unconscious, wanting to touch them.

"Do I have something on my face?" you ask, rubbing at your cheek with your sleeve.

Damn his rut, and damn his awkwardness as he flounders. You're looking at him with amusement, intuiting his emotions easily.

"Oh, no." he says. "Sorry. It's been a long day." Days.

"Of course," you say, dipping your head. "Please, eat. I have a selection of drinks for you, as well."

He refuses your offering of alcohol with the excuse of being on duty, too sure he'll stumble again. He regrets it immediately, watching the artful way you pour your own glass of soju.

"Don't worry, I won't poison you," you say wryly, expression going sad as you sit down beside him. He understands where your emotions are taking you, stopping it firmly with a hand on your head, stroking your ear absentmindedly until the movements of your tail warn him off.

"Thank you for treating me to such a nice meal. It's a very nice gesture," he says.

It's strange being on the receiving end of a home-cooked dinner, after all the ones he's prepared for the pack. He has to stop himself from over-indulging after days of convenience store fare, picking choice bites of spring chicken from the samgyetang and letting the broth and sweet rice heal his queasy stomach.

You continue to serve him, taking charge of the electric grill like you're in one of the old pop-ups he's used to frequenting, conversing while your eyes dart up to him. You talk about the weather, ask about the news. It feels comfortable in a way he's completely unused to–to the point that he can barely hear what you're saying until you ask about Mark.

"Oh," he says, choking on too much lettuce and ssamjang in his last mouthful of velvety pork belly. "He's doing well. Awake. He might still need a few more transfusions but he’s recovering much more quickly than we expected."

"He needs blood?" you ask, drawing up. "Could I–?"

"No. No," he says a little too forcefully. "He'll survive. The other Felids are more suitable donors, anyway."

Too close of a genetic match, too likely a rejection of the grafts he's received, he thinks, but it's better left unsaid. Your scent has changed, mournful chrysanthemum as present as when you'd lain beside Mark the day before–the same he thinks Jaehyun smells like, now.

“You should go visit him once you’re feeling up to it,” he says. “Although . . . I think we’ll have time tomorrow.”

Another message had been fed through the internal network, pushed to all parties–well, not the recruits, but they'd enjoy the leftovers, if there were any. You'd crafted a beautiful invitation in the style of Old Seoul's etiquette, individual messages written in brush strokes of digital ink.

Dearest Doctor . . .

He'd barely registered the words after that, just that you'd planned a formal dinner, early, to recognize the pack's tribunal. And, he thinks, your likely departure.

“Yes,” you nod, poking at a piece of garlic skittering on the hot plate. “I asked Taeyong if I could prepare another meal. For the whole pack. As a way to give thanks, I suppose. My mother taught me that when one doesn't have much to offer they can at least find a means to ease another's burden."

"That reminds me," he says, "I think this might be the first time we've eaten together. Unless you count cup ramen."

You nod, laughing a little dourly at the memory. "One of the many benefits to having Doyoung and Taeyong back is that the grocery deliveries are more suited for an Imperial palette."

You look up at him, smiling. It's the first time he's realized you're wearing cosmetics–nothing immediately discernible but your lips are shaded rouge, your eyes circled in black making the orange in them that much brighter.

"Could I ask you something personal?"

You wait for him to respond, fingering your untouched glass.

"It depends," he says. "Shoot."

"Are you still . . . ?" Your voice drifts off, husky.

He feels his ears burn at the implied question. He must be addled from lack of sleep if he's letting a simple matter of biology embarrass him, but then you'd put a damper on his professional facade the moment you'd put teeth in his wrist.

"It doesn't matter." Taeil waves you off, stealing your drink to take half of it in one quaff. The liquor is sweet on his tongue, tasting a little like you.

"Why do you ask?"

You play with the ties on your robe, black-tipped claws tugging the satin.

"I need your help," you say, beginning to ramble. "I know that you'll probably say no–not that I don't think you like me enough just that–it's a great deak to ask. I hope I can convince you of the urgency of the situation–"

He's been wondering if this dinner was a gambit again, a way to make him comfortable. But a good physician is always prepared.

"You don't need my permission to have intercourse with Johnny," he says, at a much slower cadence. "While I can advise against it, especially so quickly after your injuries, your body is your own."

You look disturbed for only an instant before gasping out a curse under your breath, your uncomfortable laughter growing into peals as you fold over your knees.

"I was going to ask you if you–" you say, wiping away tears, laughing again when you see his droll expression. "–if you could help me cook. Tomorrow."

You pour yourself another glass of soju, pushing it towards him after a moment.

"I hope you don't think I'm laughing at you," you say, hiccuping a bit. "Just at the absurdity of this situation. Thank you for the approval."

"Of course I'll help you," he says, loosening his tie, reaching to turn off the grill. "What are you planning?"

"You'll find out," you muse. "Let's not focus on plans right now. I think you should relax."

Relax?

Taeil measures the way your hand reaches out to him but doesn't respond as your fingers encircle his tie and tug on it, softly. If his body follows, it's just to save himself from being strangled.

"Now that I have one favor do you think you can grant me another?" you ask, the fall of your lashes dark in the light from the chandelier. He can see you fight the smirk of knowing whatever response he gives he'll be completely at your disposal.

"I value my life enough not to fuck you," he says, words distant. "Anything but that."

"You really are an old dog," you tease, claws pricking through his shirt when you drop the tie to run your hand down the line of buttons.

"The favor isn't related to that. Although we can kill two birds with one stone here if you'd like to give me the blessing to consummate with Taeyong. No one's told me what that will entail and I'm a bit tired of feeling foolish–"

"Oh," Taeil says, backing up quickly. "I would just need to do another exam. I admit, I didn't bring anything for that–"

"We can start with the exam. But like I asked before . . . it would be nice to have some instruction. Just a physical demonstration, of course."

You're having so much fun at his expense, flustering him, but worse is the crackling heat of your arousal, as if having a cold metal instrument shoved inside you would be something to look forward to.

"Why don't I send you a few papers on omega male physiology, and come back tomorrow once you've had a bit more time to recover. And read."

Once I have enough time to remind myself why I played anesthesiologist on my own vein rather than spend another moment alone with you, he thinks.

"Do I scare you?" you ask. Your hands move lazily as you begin to undress in front of him. There's not much to remove, though thankfully you're wearing something under the robe, just a blur as he focuses on your face to keep from running for the door.

"No," he says. Yes, he thinks.

You're not a patient anymore, not off-duty. But you are his prime's mate. Johnny hadn't even bothered to get his agreement in the farce of his pack order, confident as an elder and a healer he'd follow the correct and righteous path in the face of an omega in heat.

"Truth be told," Taeil begins, "Suh hasn't been himself lately. I would like to avoid getting on his bad side."

"Noted," you say. "I'll be honest as well. I'm actively trying to get on it."

There's that Vulpine deviousness and playfulness again–which any sane person would run at the sight of. You do look different when your eyes are narrowed and your fangs are bared. It's enough to make him dizzy, feeling you preen a little at the thought of malice towards your mate.

"Have you considered another target than the one person who can treat mortal injuries in this pack," he says.

"Of course," you demur, leaving your robe open as you climb on to the table from your chair. "But what excuse would he have for mistreating you if you were simply performing your duty as a physician?"

Taeil's breath hitches in his throat, paralyzed at the sight of you pulling your underwear off, kicking it from your foot into his lap. You don't remove your robe but you lean back against the table, legs opening so the dim light catches on the shimmer of your slick.

"Where are you going?" you ask, when he immediately gets up and turns away.

"I need–"

"Instruments? Gloves?" you ask.

"To wash my hands."

He feels himself crumbling like a sun-crisped leaf, maintaining a facade that neither of you are fooled by as he puts his glasses back on, rolls up his sleeves, and spends more time than necessary scrubbing under his fingernails with the soap at the sink. Knowing Doyoung, it's antibacterial.

"Before I do this I'd like you to swear you won't play around. I would like you to take this seriously," he says from a safe distance.

You smooth the crimp in your mouth, eyes dancing. "Of course, doctor. No orders, no games. No biting."

All your rules seem to be a joke, your tail swishing. "Well, I won't. You're welcome to. It's only fair."

He gives you an exasperated sigh as he attempts to clear the table with his forearms, preoccupied with the thought of you ending up sloshed in cold broth. "Hands and teeth to yourself, this time."

"Shh," you say, pulling on his tie again until his hips cage yours. "I'll be a good patient."

"Then why don't you be a good patient and get into position," he says, leveling your attempt at dominance with as much seriousness as he can muster.

You scoot to a clear part of the table, feet placed flat once you've kicked them free of the silk beneath you. You know the drill, have probably been forced into this position from the time you came into breedable age, expected to continue to live permanently in it when you bore pups.

He's performed and watched thousands of exams, but it's remarkably different when it's with you. You're spread before him, physically unremarkable, nothing he hasn't seen before. It's only the first time again for the way you look at him now, hair pooled against the rings of dark wood as your head rolls against the table, your ears folded back with curiosity.

He digs in his bag for sanitizer, gloves. He hadn't even thought to bring a speculum, but he thinks it's not right to involve a device, considering the last time he'd subjected you to it. He finds gloves, at least. He doesn't need that scent under his fingernails.

"All the doctors I knew from the Palace treated me like just another test subject. But you never have, have you?"

"No," Taeil says, pulling you by the legs, helping you slide to the edge of the table with your knees relaxed, fabric falling beneath. "I've never seen you that way."

"How do you see me?" you ask, tail moving more inquisitively now that it's between your legs.

"You're going to feel a little pressure. Just relax."

His left hand rests on your twitching belly as his right hand gently pushes in. He's never done this without the safety of a clinic setting. He doesn't have to tell you to breathe after that initial inhale, your next breaths transmitted through your belly as you focus on relaxing for him.

The rough patches of scab tissue are no longer present, but you gasp all the same when he palpates your walls to check for any remaining soreness, slick oozing warm around his fingers the longer he stays embedded inside of you.

"Everything check out?" you ask, breath hitching when he presses firmly on the dip below your navel, fingers curling up inside. He is trying to perform the examination with as much efficacy as possible and you seem to be trying to hold it together as well, muffling each spontaneous cry out into your shoulder.

This angle affords him a view of your ecstasy, smelling it so deeply that he knows it will linger regardless of his efforts to wash it away.

"Any pain?" he asks, voice a croak.

Your answer is inaudible as well, face towards the ceiling as you swallow whatever else you have to say.

There's no way that Johnny mated you; the only lubrication is the copious amounts of slick you're producing. You'll need another IV, he thinks. He gently curls his fingers into the rough patch of your silky insides, well below his other hand and feels a wisp of delight in the back of his mind as your hips rise up from the table.

"You know–you know where it hurts," you shoot back between caged breaths. "Is there anything else wrong with me?"

"Nothing, unless you count being an incorrigible little vixen," he mutters.

He sees your indignation disappear the moment you realize he's horrified at his own words.

"I'm sorry, that–it really has been a long day." He breathes shallowly through his nose at the first squeeze of your laughter around his fingers. In another strike against his professionalism he's as hard as a rock, trying to keep from crushing himself against the table.

"Doctor, I didn't know you had it in you," you say.

You're so accepting that he forgets the context of his penetrating you, his collar much too tight, exhales sharp as he stays buried. You sit up a little, elbows bent back and just as out-of-breath.

"Are you alright?" you ask. Your mouth is agape, expression lit from within with unchecked arousal. From the look on your face you're about to dare him to continue.

He's not going to be able to maintain that distance. Not when you can read him like a book, making micromovements to bring him deeper inside.

You're a furnace radiating warmth on a winter's night, opening up for him, as he finds himself pushing into you in soft strokes that have absolutely nothing to do with medical care and everything to do with observing you come undone.

"This–" you gasp, moaning a bit. "This isn't standard protoc–fuck."

"What was that about being a good patient?" He keeps his voice steady, his own erection throbbing in sync with the little spasms inside you as you're stimulated exactly right. "Want me to stop?"

You throw your head back, shaking it.

"Consider this a part of your treatment," he says.

It's not unprecedented–some of the best passages in those old notes had to do with the various ways to cure omega hysteria, although he knows there's no cure for yours. Not one he can provide, at least.

He digs in a little more, hand spreading over your core, thumb lowering to the dip of your folds. Clinically, of course.

"Thank you, thank you," you mumble, biting your lip. "Please don't stop, please keep going."

"Open up your legs for me, relax," he says, decisively. When you've stopped fighting him he adds a third finger to better stretch you, the impact of it felt palpably in his hand pressed over your pubic bone. Your cervix is right there against his fingertips, body adjusting to take him.

Wouldn't that be nice? He knows it would be easy. If he let himself he'd be knotted in you until this expensive dinner table would need to be burnt from how much slick you spilled on it.

"Don't stop, please, please don't stop," you beg, taking his hand so well. "Please."

He leans forward to curl his hand around your nape, holding you by the scruff like they'd been trained to keep your kind from squirming. You're arms brace behind you to hold yourself up, unsure of your position until he pulls you forward to rest your head against his shoulder, making you watch his fingers disappear inside of you.

You're a whimpering, desperate mess, robe hanging off your shoulder, hair coming loose. It's even more lovely inside of you, walls tensing around him with each spasm of your pelvic floor muscles, a light brush of his thumb against your clit with each thrust propelling you forward into your climax.

He's not much better, rocking against your limp leg and the sharp table's edge. He can hold it together even as you lose yourself. You come on his hand with a sharp little sound, music to his Alpha's ears as he closes his eyes to ride the same tremor ghosting through his groin.

"Good girl," he murmurs, movements easing in time with the lengthening period between each contraction.

His hand is cramping by the time he releases you, webs of slick between his flexed fingers wiped on your robe, as saturated as it already is. He removes his gloves, discarding them without much concern for where they land, not when you're still pressed into his chest.

"You'll probably want to get one of those every few hours, until you decide to break your heat," he says, back to himself. "You have options."

You lean against him, breathing hard.

"Please don't leave me," you say in a tiny voice, legs wrapping around his hips. He lets you hold him for a little while longer–there's no reason not to enjoy being immersed in the satisfaction he's given you, or to provide you with the comfort you both crave.

"You can just say it's treating me. It doesn't have to be anything else if you don't like me that way."

Anger trickles down his neck, sullying the glow he's feeling having you against him. He's never thought of himself as a jealous or dominating person, content to be the one others came to for help or guidance even if he wasn't prime, but the thought of you underestimating his feelings and your own worth, again, has him livid.

You feel it, eyes widening as you peer up at him.

"Did I say something wrong?"

"What ever gave you the impression that I would use you?" he asks. "Or that you're not important to me?"

"I marked you against your will–"

"You have a bad habit of giving into your animal urges. But you're also fully capable of defending yourself when you need to," he says, brushing a sweat-pinned strand of hair from your forehead. "I was . . . angry. I still should be. I just don't blame you for it."

Something Doyoung had said a few days ago had stuck with him, unneeded advice offered as he drank bitterly strong coffee and indulged in a vaporizer pen for the first time since residency.

"It's not any consolation, I know, but if she chose you, it means she trusts you."

"I knew you were a good choice." You look up at him, eyes glazed over with something impenetrable. He catches himself before he can lean in to kiss you.

"I think that's as far as we go before we cross a threshold I'm not sure you can come back from," he says.

It's too early to feel anything real with you but there's a tiny corner of his mind that can't help but be occupied by the hope you'd look at him as fondly as the others. That you wouldn't take for granted his feelings when you were overwhelmed by your own or of the more vocal members of the pack.

You nuzzle into his chest, scent-marking him even more with the side of your mouth, nipping slightly at the pocket of his shirt.

"I know you think I'm compromised because of the heat but I don't feel that way with you. I want to take care of you, like you take care of me."

You look up at him, blinking wetly. "You deserve to be treated well. It's the least I can do."

Physician, heal thyself.

"As sweet as your offer is–" he begins to laugh, changing tack when he sees that you're serious. "I would prefer it not be under the obligation of us both needing physical relief."

You don't seem to understand what he means in his rambling, a twinge of embarrassment passing through him. He lets his guard down for a bit, petting the back of your neck and shoulders to make himself more comfortable, closing his eyes and imagining what he wants in a way more easily communicated than with words. If his dog growls a little, at least you don't laugh at him for it.

"You're worried I don't like you for who are," you state, voice breaking. "That you're not someone I would have chosen."

"I . . . I think we have a long time and different circumstances before you reasonably could care about any of us."

"Because I might have to leave?" you sigh.

"Because you're not just a convenient remedy for an Alpha's needs. And some of us . . . well, I don't want to have a purely physical relationship with you," he says. "I could have that with anyone."

"Anyone?" you ask. You look intrigued, lips curling in an amused smile.

"Poor choice of words. I've had my share of beta companions. Not every relationship we have is communal here, you know."

"Is that a backhanded way of calling me shared property?" you flirt, not helped by your core dripping against his pants. "Or are you calling me a whore?"

You drop into bliss again when he adjusts so you can press into his thigh. Johnny is going to kill him if he doesn't find a way to extract himself from your clutches.

"You're neither of those things," he corrects. "I just mean I don't think your biology would allow you to be satisfied with one of us."

"No," you admit. "But I have a choice in who I want to mate. I chose you."

Somehow that admission feels more genuine than he can allow himself to accept. "I'm flattered. But you're far too important for me to take advantage of."

"And you're much too polite for your own good." You lean up to nose his jaw, lips pressing to his throat. "You should accept that this is a perfectly reasonable way to start to get to know each other."

"You don't know what my rut is like." He swallows, keeping still as your tongue darts out to taste him. Everything about being held by you feels indecent, overstepping. Which is ridiculous considering he'd just finger-fucked you.

"Who better to teach me how to take care of Taeyong than someone I trust?" you ask. "Someone I already know can treat me well . . . with experience . . ."

You angle his head with a tug on his hair, kissing his neck with a little more tongue and teeth than he expects. This close to the gland has him reeling–the Alpha inside of him waking up from its slumber as starved as he knows he's felt for the past few days.

"A favor for a favor, then," he says, pulse thundering in his ears. If he's damned either way, he may as well enjoy it.

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