#{ i can’t even sift through my likes at this rate }

[hier--soir]

a lover's pinch | two

joel miller x f!reader

pairing: professor!joel miller x f!reader rating: explicit, 18+ minors dni summary: will a complicated realisation drive you and joel apart, or drag you closer together? warnings/tags: au, university professor joel, age gap [20 something years diff], ethically dubious relationship due to inherent power imbalance, some mildly gratuitous Classics chatter, some very gratuitous descriptions of joel's office, trope of being enamoured by your favourite teacher lol [and her fav isn't even joel, sorry guys], angst, a little manhandling, semi-public sex acts with a not-so-stranger, dirty talk, brief impact play, fingering, orgasm denial, oral [m!receiving], face fucking, facial, cum eating, sheeesh i think that's it okay i need a glass of cold water word count: 10.3k i'm not sorry series masterlist | main masterlist a lover's pinch playlist a/n: folks, this series has taken over my entire brain. i'm having the best time writing+outlining it, and i have been so delighted by how many people liked the first part. giving you all the biggest kiss through the screen right now. lmk what you think of part two! this is part two of ALP. you can read the previous part here: one.

Tuesday.

It’s as though a mirage resides in the periphery of your vision.

A wobbling, shimmering thing that offsets the centre of a picture and makes your eyes hurt until you want to close them. The type where you’re squinting and trying to see, trying to make out what’s happening, and people are turning to look at you and pointing and you realise that you aren’t wearing any pants, and it’s a dream, a dream, a nightmare, it’s not fucking real. Illusory. Fantasy.

It's a childish thought that you can’t help but be consumed by. The idea that this is all some cruel, fucked up delusion you’re about to wake up from. That it couldn’t be possible for the charming Texan you’d met four nights prior to be stood only a few metres in front of you, discussing your fucking syllabus. Reality becomes this twisting, writhing thing that is painful and awkward to comprehend, and everything slows to a liquid, dreamlike pace. His voice, his movement, the shifting of other students around you, all drifting by slowly, as if a year has passed in the span of ten seconds.

And yet when you pinch your arm—nails scraping across skin until raw red marks raise in jagged lines—and you don’t wake up, the mirage remains, your stomach rolls.

Joel looks so different here. What had been casual at the bar, a lob of messy hair above a cotton t-shirt, is now professional. Buttoned shirt tucked into pressed brown pants. Beard trimmed, and hair pushed back into soft, tidy waves that roll down to his neck. A set of glasses rest on the bridge of his nose. Square, with black frames that compliment his skin tone, and have your fingers gripping the edge of the desk, wondering why the hell he hadn’t been wearing them on Friday night when he sunk his mouth against your cunt. Dirty little thing.

You can still feel his hands on you, days later. Feel the rough scrape of calloused fingers on your thighs, between your legs. Remember how soft his hair was when you buried your fingers in it and held him against your aching core, whining his name. It had been like this all weekend; holding an image of his tan, handsome face in your mind, trying to emulate the feeling of his hand between your thighs with your own, only to fail over and over again.

And he’s talking. That low, honeyed drawl that tickles across your skin and drips into your ears, warming your insides. It’s a marvellous thing; the way he shifts easily from topic to topic, disarming the room with short, sharp—surprising—jokes sifted in between soft-spoken sentiments about classical academia and the university, and what he hopes you as individuals will gain from a postgraduate in this course, and it feels like it’s been both hours and seconds as you watch him breathlessly, waiting. Waiting for his eyes to skirt to your side of the room, to dance across your face and recognise you, remember you, just as he said he would. 

Joel is talking about The Aeneid when he finally notices you.  

“I want you to be thinking about language,” he’s saying. “And tone. Virgil and Homer’s writing differs in a lotta ways, but it does share that same character of irony. Don’t forget that Virgil wrote during the Golden Age of the Roman Empire – and he’s presenting us with a story about destiny, about fate. Our focus here isn’t so much about love, or reverence, as it is about tragedy – no one in The Aeneid is safe from what their own fate lays out for them. All of these calamities and heartbreaks are necessary for the empire to thrive.”

He pauses. “Take Dido in book four as a prime example. In the openin’ lines of her story, if we’re looking to the West translation; she is suffering from love’s deadly wound, feeding it with her blood and being consumed by its hidden fire. We know from the beginnin’, that her love for Aeneas will be her downfall; that her death is essential for him to leave Carthage. And on that same page, talkin’ about Aeneas, we get, oh how cruelly he has been hounded by the Fates. This is what you need to think about if you’re gonna get to the bottom of Virgil’s bigger plan with these books. Why is he using this language? These words? I want—” 

Joel inhales sharply, dark eyes frozen on your face, which grows steadily warmer beneath his scrutiny. His body doesn’t move, hands hovering in the air mid-gesticulation, lips parted as his next words rest there, caught on his tongue. You swallow thickly. Feel sweat form on your hairline. The silence stretches, dead air giving rise to confused murmurs across the room, and your eyes widen, willing him to look away and continue; to do anything except stand there and keep looking at you like that. But it’s like he’s in a trance. Tan face dimming to a sickly, pallid colour, shoulders shifting as he breaths deeply. Staring.

A few heads turn in your direction, but you can’t bring yourself to look back at them; to snatch yourself away from the feeling of being held in his gaze again. It’s intoxicating—almost euphoric—to have those dark eyes on your skin.

And then it’s over, the moment severed as Joel’s eyes snap away and he clears his throat, offering a pained smile to the rest of the room. And he’s apologising, Lost my train of thought for a moment there, using a playful tone of voice as he says, first day of the semester jitters, y’know?

He ignores you after that.

For the entirety of the two-hour lecture, he makes sure not to spare a single glance in your direction. And it stings, but you suppose you understand. Can see the tension held in his shoulders now; the strain in his voice as he works to talk with that same measured ease he’d had at the beginning.

You take notes carefully, and don’t bother raising your hand when he inspires participation from the other students. But by the end of the class, you can’t bring yourself to walk out – not without saying something, without finding some kind of understanding over what the fuck is happening. You’re practically glued to your seat as students rise, filing out of the theatre hall.

Joel stands by the desk, back hunched as he collects his things, fielding kind comments of thanks and that was great from people as they pass him on their way toward the exit.  Eventually you join the stream, wandering down the stairs on shaky legs until you find yourself at the edge of his desk, fiddling with the strap of your bag and watching his back. His shoulders hunch tighter when you pause there, shadow splaying across the desk. Though his face isn’t visible to you, his hands are almost a blur, scrambling to drag his things into a messy pile so that he can pack up faster. He slaps his laptop closed and you flinch at the sound.

After a few moments, you find the courage to speak.

“That was, uhh, that was really interesting,” you clear your throat awkwardly, watching other students shuffle past in your periphery. His hands move faster, stuffing loose notes into a leather satchel with little disregard for the paper creasing.

You lower your voice to a hoarse, careful whisper. “We need to talk about this.”  

Joel finally looks up, nostrils flaring as he meets your stare. He nods once, looping the bag over his shoulder. “Not here,” he says gruffly, tight eyes darting around the room. “Room’s booked for another lecture in five.”

He tilts his head towards the door, encouraging you to follow him as he paces out towards the hall. You shadow him quickly, clutching your bag and watching the muscles in his back shift beneath his shirt as he walks three paces ahead of you. You fight the urge to place your hand in the dip between his shoulder blades; to feel the heat of his skin, the rolling tension beneath it, and dig your fingernails into him. Joel doesn’t look back to check if you’re following – he knows you are.

He leads you up a flight of stairs and down another hall, makes a left, and then another left, until finally he’s pausing and dragging a key from his pocket, pressing it into the lock of a heavy wooden door and nudging it open. There’s a plaque on the wood that reads J MILLER, PhD. You swallow. And then follow him inside and let the door fall shut behind you.

Joel stalks into the room, feet heavy against the dark carpet. He tosses his satchel to the floor and then stands by the desk, wild eyes trained on where you hover silently by the door. He looks on edge, to say the least. Frazzled fingers race through his hair, mussing the curls until they look reminiscent of the past Friday. Foot tapping against the ground in a quick, jerky rhythm.

And you know that you need to talk, need to clear the air, need to say anything, but you can’t help it when your eyes wander around the room because—

His office is sort of beautiful.

A larger space than you expected it to be, with a north-facing window that allows a natural yellowed morning light to fill the space, and a vast bookshelf stretching across the wall behind a large desk. You can’t make out the titles from where you stand by the door, but texts fill every crack and crevice of the shelfing unit, not organised by any noticeable colour scheme or structure. The space is messy – personal. In fact, everywhere you look seems to expose something private, something intimate.

A jacket hangs from a hook on the back of the door, made of a worn duck brown waxed material that looks soft to the touch. In the corner opposite the desk, a velvet green armchair sits beside a low table that houses a record player and a potted plant. Sleeves of records are tucked beneath the table, stacked upon each other haphazardly, without a hint of dust on them. Clearly touched and rifled through more often than not.

The wide window is cracked just an inch, allowing a warm early-Fall breeze to slip in and rustle the starched curtains. A coffee mug is beside the record player. Two more sit abandoned on the outskirts of his desk. All empty and forgotten about, too busy to be refilled or moved or cleaned. And there are books everywhere; strewn across his desk, forgotten beneath the cushion of his armchair, piled against the wall beneath the window. Worn, well-read books, with frayed covers and broken spines. You almost drool, tempted to ignore him completely and venture towards them; to run your fingers over the covers and find out exactly what kind of writing this enigma of a man spends so much time devouring.

After what feels like an hour of simply looking—but could only have been a minute—Joel breaks the silence.

“Did you know?”

His voice is quiet. Detached. The backs of his thighs perch on the edge of the desk, hands tangled in his lap. Large fingers pluck at each other as he stares at you from across the room, in an almost anxious fiddling movement.

“What?” you ask.

“Did you know who I was?” he clarifies, voice hardening. Those dark eyebrows tighten in the middle of his forehead, features pinching together into a sharp frown. “When you saw me.”

“Joel,” you scoff, taken aback. “How the hell would I know who you were?”

“Your classes were organised,” his voice raises slightly—just a little. “You knew the names of your profess—”

“J Miller,” you interrupt. “Everything says J Miller, that’s it. I didn’t fucking know, Joel.”

His frown softens at that, eyes dropping to the carpet as he nods once, clearly still unsure. You shuffle awkwardly on your feet, shoulders tense. There’s only a metre or so between the pair of you, and yet you can feel it. That static, burning energy, the same as four nights before. Something inside of you that rages and claws at your skin from the inside, begging to get closer to him. You ignore it.

“Why didn’t I meet you when I interviewed for the program?” you ask. You remember the day you came in, six months ago. Sitting with an older man—the Classics department head—and a soft, round woman with light hair. No Joel. You would’ve remembered him. 

His eyes flash, hands tightening in his lap. “I was on vacation,” he grinds out. It’s like it physically pains him to talk to you—to even look at you. One of his hands drops, palm flexing by his side. He’s taking deep breaths, clearly trying to calm the quell of panic that has been swirling inside him for the past two hours. You keep your distance.

After a moment, he speaks again.

“Greece, huh?” It comes out in a low scoff. His eyebrows are raised expectantly, frustration laced through the lines in his face. “Said you were there for a month.”

“Mhm,” you hum. “I was involved in a text translation study based in Athens.”

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he exhales, digging the palms of his hands over his eyes. “This can’t be happenin’.”

“Joel—”

“Y’need to transfer out of my class,” he interrupts, eyes blazing. “They run it online, you can—”

“What?” you blink. You feel your blood pressure rise, anger spiking as you comprehend what he is suggesting. “Be serious – I am not doing the class online because of this. It’ll jeopardise my entire semester.”

“I don’t care,” he glowers, rising from the desk.

“Jesus, stop acting like this was all my doing,” you snap. “If memory serves, you’re just as to blame as I am—you wanted me just as much as I wanted you.”

“Stop,” he growls. It’s a rough, unforgettable sound that fills your stomach with heat. An oddly familiar thing that raises the hairs on the back of your neck. Silly little slut. The memory licks at your throat, the skin of your chest, leaving a hot heady feeling in its wake. You wonder if he’s noticed the hickey on your neck that hasn’t entirely faded yet. A persistent, lingering reminder of his mouth on your skin. Of the sharp scrape of his teeth.

You take a step forward and Joel’s entire body goes rigid, right hand jutting out in front of him, fingers splayed open.

“Stay over there,” he says quickly, voice a low warning.

You scowl but don’t move, feet planted in the soft carpet. The breeze rushes in through the window and causes a paper on his desk to flap upward, and your eyes drift toward the movement. Gaze shifting over the items on his desk, the mess of papers, the half-full mugs, and then… a picture frame. You squint, unable to make it out from where you are. Take a step forward, and then another, and realise it’s Joel’s shape in the image, standing with a tall woman tucked against his side. It’s too far for you to see clearly, but you can tell his arm is wrapped around her shoulder, holding her against his chest, and you know he’s grinning from the splash of white across his face.

“What’re you—” Joel’s words turn to silence as he tilts his head and realises what you’re looking at. A broad hand darts out, gripping the frame and knocking it face down on his desk.  You flinch, eyes widening in incredulity as you turn to him.

“What?” A sardonic laugh escapes your mouth. “Are you fucking married or something? Jesus, Joel.”

You reach for the frame, fingers skirting across it with every intention of seeing, of understanding, of knowing just what it is that he’s so desperate to hide. But then he’s there, strong fingers looping around your wrist, halting your movement. The speed of it sends you stumbling toward the desk, and Joel’s body follows you forward, chest flush against your back as your lower stomach collides with the dark wood. Caught between a rock and a hard place, quite literally. You stiffen, sorely aware of how close he is. How much of his body is touching yours, and how similar it is to before.

“I’m not married,” he bites, and you can feel his breath against your ear. Hot, harsh exhales that send whisps of your hair fluttering forward. A shiver runs down your spine. His grip is firm around your wrist; not hard enough to hurt, but enough to hold you in place with your hand frozen in the air, fingers still outstretched towards the frame.

“Then who’s in the picture?” you grunt.

“None of your fuckin’ business,” he snaps quickly. You can feel his stubble graze the edge of your jaw, and something fizzes in your stomach. Your resolve softens at the frustration in his voice; the truth that bleeds out through his words. It is none of your business. Your body relaxes a little, arm going limp in his hold, and yet he doesn’t let go. It takes a moment for you to realise why.  

Joel’s hips are pressed tightly into you, trapping you against the desk, and he’s hard. You can practically feel him throb against the small of your back, the full length of his cock only separated from you by two layers of clothing. Saliva pools in your mouth, eyes pinching closed as you remember the feeling of him; the delicious burn of his heavy cock dragging through you. Using your free hand, you twist your arm behind you and slide it down his front. A whispered oh fuck escapes your lips as your fingers drag across the front of his pants, and he grunts in your ear, grasp tightening around your wrist. Painful this time, but only for a second, until he’s tearing his hand off you and placing it on your lower back, pushing you down so that your chest is flush with his desk.

You gasp, lips parting to speak, but no words are coming out and Joel’s hands are on the waistband of your jeans, on the button. He’s undoing it, fingers steadfast in their movement, and then he yanks the material down roughly over your ass.

“Joel,” you whimper urgently as he grips your panties, dragging them to your knees as well. He keeps you bent against the desk, so you twist your neck to stare at him over your shoulder, legs tensing when you see the expression on his face. His eyes are dark, pupils blown behind his glasses as he looks down to where his covered cock grinds against the swell of your ass.

“God dammit,” he exhales, and you clench around nothing, warmth pooling between your thighs. This is so different from at the bar. There the door was locked, place full of people who didn’t know either of you. Here, in his office, anyone could walk in. A member of faculty, a student, anyone. And the thought has you fucking aching for him.

Thick fingers streak between your thighs from behind, spreading your slick folds apart. You gasp as cool air hits your throbbing clit, but the sound cuts into a low moan as his fingers expertly roll over the sizzling nerve endings there. He ousts a low grunt of surprise at how wet you are, hips still grinding against you as his fingers drift to your entrance, rubbing and collecting your slick on his fingers until you’re whimpering into your own palm, pressing your hips back and begging him for more. All at once, one of his palms slaps across your ass while two thick fingers press inside you. The sting has your eyes rolling back. Your teeth sink into the palm of your hand to muffle the noise you make, and he’s curling his fingers inside you, rubbing against your g-spot, and your legs are trembling with the effort of staying standing. Your mind is a blur. You feel almost lightheaded at how suddenly this is all happening – and at how relieved you are to feel his hands on you again.

“S’this what you wanted?” Joel pants, scissoring his fingers inside you, stretching you out. “Knew if you followed me in here, I’d end up fuckin’ this pretty pussy again? Huh?”

“Fuck,” you choke out, eyelids fluttering as he adds a third finger. Heat sizzles beneath the tightening muscles in your stomach, and you can feel yourself clenching around him over and over again, your high already approaching. It’s almost pitiful, the affect he has on you; how easily your body yields to the simplest of touches from his hands.

“Huh?” he prompts for a response. You can feel the cool zipper of his pants cutting across the bare skin of your ass, scratching you as his hips rut forward.

“Please,” you say, voice quiet as you can muster. “I’m so close, Joel, please.”

He grunts, increasing the speed of his fingers. Soft squelching sounds are audible now, slick smearing against your inner thighs, his wrist, and your face goes warm at the sound of it. Your fingers claw at his desk, nails catching on paper as your hand lands against a book and grips it tight. Your abdomen burns, that soft thrumming heat licking at your skin, the muscles of your thighs, scorching in its might as your orgasm builds and builds, hanging dangerously close to the precipice.  

“Gonna come all over my fingers?” Joel asks, voice haggard and breathless. “C’mon, give it t’me.”

You’re nodding before he even finishes speaking, forehead knocking roughly against wood, eyebrows pinching together. So close, so close, so fucking clo—

A light knock sounds against his office door.

Joel freezes. Your eyes widen, hips shifting against his hand as you murmur no, no, no, please Joel. But he ignores you, gripping your hip to keep you still and dragging his fingers from your dripping cunt to press them over your mouth. Your pulse thunders in your ears, heart trashing wildly in your chest as you catch your breath, devasted.

“Joel?” a soft voice calls from the hall. A woman. “You in there?”

“Just on the phone,” he says loudly, voice surprisingly steady. You can taste yourself on his fingers. Feel it smear across your lips. “What d’ya need?”

“I’m headed to the café,” the woman calls. “You want anything?”

Joel responds with a sharp, resounding no.  

There’s a beat of silence where you can almost feel him holding his breath, waiting for her to inevitably open the unlocked door and discover the scene in his office. But the silence stretches on, and then you can hear soft footfalls fade down the corridor, and you know that you’re alone again.

Joel rips his hand from your mouth. Grips your underwear and drags it up over your hips, then your jeans, before he’s stumbling away and dropping into the armchair across the room. His chest heaves with ragged breaths, eyes wide as he gazes at the floor. When you push off the desk and turn to stare at him, a firm tent is visible in his pants. You button your jeans slowly, watching him. He doesn’t look at you.

“Joel—” you start softly.

“Don’t,” he interrupts. “Just… just get out.”

You open your mouth to speak—to argue—but once again, nothing comes out. No words to defend yourself, or what the two of you just did. You stare at him for almost a minute, but Joel’s eyes stay trained on the carpet, fists clenched against his thighs.

You leave his office silently and try not to look back. Make two rights and head down the stairs, outside and across the green to where your car is parked. The whole thing feels so dirty, so debauched, and yet you want so much more from him. Want it so badly that you drive home in silence, mind too busy with thoughts of Joel Joel Joel to remember to turn on the radio. 

And behind it all, is a low, itching thought at the base of your skull, something that makes you smile as you drive – the knowledge that he wants you just as badly as you want him.

Wednesday.

You decide very quickly that you like Rachel.

Maybe it was because you were having a good day. The sun had been shining when you woke up; strong beams that teased their way through the window in your bedroom and rested warm upon the bare skin of your back. By the time you rose, the coffee was already done brewing, and Trin met you in the hall with a large mug of it and a soft hey, man, how’d you sleep? And when you went to get dressed for the day you remembered you did the washing two nights before, and found your favourite pair of jeans—the ones that squeezed your ass just right—were neatly folded in a drawer, waiting for you. Yes; maybe all of that had something to do with it. Or maybe, it because Rachel was just great.  

You like her tenacity, her words; the idolatry with which she discusses her work. And she is charming; an intellectual through and through. The soft roundness of her face and the kind slant to her eyes offset by a razor-sharp wit. And there’s this peculiar quirkiness to her that catches your attention in seconds – a rough snort whenever she laughs, the bright orange shade of the toenails sticking out of her sandals.

Her teaching is direct, no-bullshit, and yet she has this smile. This soft, thin-lipped genuine smile that says, I know something you don’t know, and I can’t wait to share it with you.

During her first lecture, you feel rooted to the spot, unable to draw your eyes away from her for two-hours as she waxes poetic about heroines and tragic love stories, about the importance of myth, of gore.

Listening to her reminds you of what you’d always loved about classics – the filth of it, the horror. It feels like reaching your hands into a puddle of mud, flexing your fingers and letting the dirt and grime slide beneath your nails, coating every inch of your skin. The squeamishness of it, the rot, the tragedy – you love it all, and Rachel does too.

“When we talk about the juxtaposition between heroines across different texts,” she says. “We want to look at the values being portrayed; the meaning behind what’s happening to these women. Let’s appreciate the context here, guys! To understand the rage of Medea, or, say, the sacrifice of Iphigenia, we have to get to the root of their roles in society. Priestess, mistress, virgin, mother – we want to understand the perspectives being shown to us. What drives these women? What fire lives within them, pushing them to make their decisions—or to have their decisions made for them?”

She points to a student and nods, “Go on.”

“Do you think Medea holds much bearing here?” someone to your left asks. A man. “If we’re focusing on heroines, I mean.”

“Do you?” she challenges. A hint of a smile—that smile—drifts across her lips, hands clasped to her stomach as she awaits his response.

“Not particularly,” he says, voice less sure now. “I know you can view any text through most perspectives, but I’d never thought of her so much as a heroine in a feminist text.”  

“I see,” Rachel nods. “Well, the short answer is that I’d encourage you to read it again.” She laughs, a soft tinkering sound. “The long answer is that her character is complex. Let’s not beat around the bush; Medea is a woman scorned. Banished by Creon, forgotten by Jason. As the reader, we are able to comprehend the most brutal pain through her – a woman trapped in a world where men have decided everything for her, and she is furious. Even describes herself as a woman born to sorrow. Now, as the reader, it is your right to believe that she is bad, or an anti-heroine, but you cannot deny that she is made bad by circumstances out of her own control.” She pauses, thick eyebrows jutting upward as she looks around the quiet theatre. “I’d say that’s pretty feminist of Euripides.”

You approach her afterwards, fingers an awkward tangle in front of your chest.

“I just have to say,” you smile bashfully. “That was wonderful. You’re so engaging, I was… god, I don’t even know what to say, but thank you. I’m really looking forward to learning from you this semester.”

Rachel’s eyes light up at your words.

Up close you notice a pair of thick, ceramic earrings dangling from her lobes. They look hand painted; thick brushstrokes of dandelion yellow smeared across crimson red ovals.

“Oh, how lovely,” her eyes assess you quickly, mouth splitting into a crooked, fond smile. “I’m very glad to have you here…?”

You tell your name in a mumbled rush, and she nods once, eyes scanning the list of students on her sheet.

“Oh of course,” she says knowingly. “You emailed yesterday, no? Some trouble with accessing the readings online?”

You stiffen. Blink at her, smile dimming somewhat. “Yeah,” you exhale. “Yes, that’s actually—I was having trouble with the link for another class, and I hoped you might be able to help.”

“I see,” she frowns then. “Well, unfortunately if it’s not for this class I won’t be of much help; my access code only gets me so far in that damn portal. Which professor assigned the reading?”

“It’s, uhh,” you speak slowly, the words stiff as they stumble out of your mouth. “It’s Joel Miller.”

“Oh, Joel?” she smiles. “Well, he’ll be happy to help, I’m sure. He’s usually in his office around this time – do you need me to show you the way?”

Your mouth is dry. Yeah, you think. I’m sure he’ll be over the moon to see me.

“That’s okay,” you reply with a tight smile. “I’ll find it.”

She nods, bids you a warm goodbye, and her eyes have already drifted back to the papers in front of her when you turn to leave the room.

Your bag weighs heavy on your shoulder, straps of canvas material digging into the muscle there as you retrace your footsteps from yesterday. Up the creaking set of stairs, taking a left, and then another left, and your mind is a blur, static wobbling in your veins as you rehearse what you’re going to say, how you’re going to say it.

It’s been less than twenty-four hours since you’d last seen him, and from the second you left, an image of what happened in his office played on a loop in your brain. Like the spool on a VHS has been stuck together, wound into a circle, and the tape repeats over and over again, the same images, sounds, smells, soaking your mind until all else is white noise. And it’s twisted, and wrong, and you’re vaguely aware of that, somewhere in the part of your brain where you stash knowledge that you’d prefer to forget. Because it’s easier to forget the hard part, the ugly part, and far nicer to remember the scrape of his stubble against your skin. The smell of him filling your nostrils as he crowds you against his desk. The scratch on your ass from his zipper. Remember how your name sounds when he moans it, and forget the feeling that comes when he refuses to look at you after the fact.  

And you wonder if this is what the entire semester will be like; spending each day reminiscing on your last interaction with Joel, hoping for another touch, taste, another chance, another something, anything, from him. The weight of it sits heavy on your chest, like a wall of freshly cemented bricks left to solidify in the sun. And beneath that, beneath the clay and sand and limestone, excitement buzzes. Indisputable, persistent, anticipation. A vibrating that hums in your bones and has you shivering from the tips of your toes to the top of your skull as you knock on his office door. 

J MILLER PhD. The words glare at you from the bronze plaque for the second time in two days.

You hear his voice call pleasantly from behind the door. Light, relaxed. You swallow down the lump in your throat and step inside.

The window is wide open today, pale curtains drawn back to allow the bright midday sun to shine through and warm the carpet. Joel’s head tilts upward and within seconds the soft, easy smile on his face dissolves into something unreadable. He’s perched behind his desk, broad frame bent over a mess of papers, pen tucked neatly between coiled fingers. A clear tension simmers in the lines on his forehead; a tangible rigidity that clouds his expression when he sees that it’s you. He clicks the top of his pen once, twice, three times, and says your name in a clipped greeting.

“Hi,” you say, hand raising in a quick wave. “Sorry to barge in like this, I, uhh, I was wondering if you could help me with something.” 

“My office hours are between one and four,” he says tersely, eyes lowering back to his book. “Schedule an appointment over email.”

Your eyebrows shoot up, face warming as embarrassment swells in your chest. All of the excitement—the longing—that had churned inside you since yesterday seems to dissipate, replaced by a looming sense of dread as you register how distant and apathetic he seems. How hard he tries to not even look in your direction. Those words from yesterday ring in your ears. Just get out.

“Seriously?” you mutter, nonetheless, trying to contain the hurt that threatens to spill across your face. “It’ll take five seco—”

“Seriously,” he repeats firmly.

Your jaw clenches, annoyance tightening the already stiff muscles in your shoulders as you march over to his desk, dropping your bag onto the edge of it. The exact same spot from yesterday, where’d pressed you down against the wood and— Joel’s shoulders hunch. The sleeves of his shirt are pushed up to just below his elbows, thin white material stressing around cords of muscle. You gaze at the bare skin for a moment, tongue heavy in your mouth, before looking to what he was doing before you came in. A book in front of him is filled with scribbles and annotations, harsh black marks scrawled beneath thin lines of text. You only get a second to look at it before his hands are snapping it shut, revealing the cover. Robert Fagles’ translation of The Odyssey. The picture frame from yesterday is nowhere to be seen.

“Working on something for a lecture?” you try. If it’s about class, he can’t be mad. If it’s about class, he can’t push you away.

“What do you need?” he asks impatiently, ignoring your words entirely.

A hand lifts to rub the skin above his eyebrow. The tip of his middle finger massages the tan skin there in soft circles, and you watch the movement for a second, transfixed. No ring. I’m not married. His other hand reaches for the mug on his desk, and he takes a long, drawn-out sip of black coffee. Steam billows from the dark liquid, fogging the lenses of his glasses. The sight makes you want to laugh, but you swallow it down, acutely aware that Joel would be less than impressed by the reaction.

“I can’t access one of the readings for next week,” you explain distractedly, dragging the laptop from your bag.

You round his desk in a few short steps and Joel sighs, cringing as you place it down in front of him, opening the screen for him to see. He shifts his chair just slightly to the right, away from you. That persistent feeling of doubt coils in your gut, sharp teeth that twist and nip at your insides, taunting you, telling you that he doesn’t want you. And it’s not why you’re here—not at all—but you can’t bring yourself believe it. Don’t want to believe it. So you bite back – turn your back to his desk and pitch your thighs atop the edge of it, feet dangling an inch off the ground. You jeans are tight, and the fabric cuts into the skin of your hips where they bend.

“Get down,” he warns sharply, dismissing you with a taut shake of his head. “You can ask IT for help with that.”

“I’m asking you,” you persist stubbornly. “You’re my professor, Joel—"

“Yes, I am your professor,” Joel bites in agreement, glowering up at you. You stiffen warily at the heat in his gaze. At the anger you can see stirring in those dark brown orbs, brimming and ready to boil over. “And I don’t think we should be alone together,” he adds. “It’s not… this is bad for us, okay? I can’t… fuck, you can’t just come in here. I don’t want you comin’ in here anymore.”

And the memory plays once more. That thing, that something twisted, something wrong, something familiar, curls in your stomach. Snaps and bares its teeth at your uncertainty, sends it scattering into the distance, and replaces it with want.

“I didn’t even plan to come here,” your voice hardens, hackles rising as the feeling rises within you. “You’re not the first person I asked, alright? I just need some fucking help—”

“Don’t swear at me,” he interrupts through gritted teeth.

A beat of stunned silence hangs between you. A shocked laugh tumbles from your mouth, eyes widening as you take in the grave expression on his face.

“You have got to be kidding me,” you stare at him incredulously. “Joel, you had your fingers inside of me against this desk yesterday. I think swearing is the least of our worries.”

“Jesus,” he spits, pushing his chair further from the desk. His elbows fall against his knees, head resting in his palms as he breaths, not looking at you. “You’re fuckin’ filthy, y’know that? Can you not just behave?”

Don’t swear, you want to tease, but think better of it.

Instead, you nod slowly, drop your hand onto the desk, fingers hovering over his book. “Joel,” you implore, tone pleading. “I don’t… I don’t know how to act around you right now, okay? It’s not easy for me to just pretend nothing has happened between us. To just forget.”

“And you think it’s easy for me?” he gripes. His eyes are focused on your hand; on the way your fingers tense and untense over the bound cover, stroking the frayed paper his own fingers have clearly touched countless times. He doesn’t move a muscle. “To try and act like things are normal, act like I didn’t—” he cuts himself off, lips clamping shut. An anguished look crosses his features.

“We’re both adults,” you frown. “It’s not a crime that we fucked, Joel.”

A harsh laugh falls from his mouth, stern eyes blazing. “Ain’t about that and you know it. It’s against professional ethics,” Joel snaps, tone firm. “Against university policy – if anybody finds out it could put us both in jeopardy.”

You’re silent for a moment, watching him. His glasses have slid down a little, and they rest precariously on the tip of this nose. Dark eyes stare from over the top of black frames, and then his legs are crossing, one tucking tightly over the other, a thick forearm dropping to rest across his lap, and want burns in your throat. You struggle to remember why you came to his office in the first place.

“Nobody is going to find out,” you whisper.

A rasp of your name catches in his throat. Joel looks bemused, face as flat as he rolls his eyes. “Quit fuckin’ playin’ around. You know how serious this is.”

You contain the urge to scowl, lips tight as you say, “Yeah, I know. Just—look, you don’t have to worry. We can cut it off right now – I won’t say a word of it to anyone. Nothing else is going to happen.”

But you can see the way his eyes flicker down your body whenever you move. How his gaze rests heavily at the pinch of your waist, the spread of your thighs against his desk, your bare arms, before darting away. You wonder if he’s touched himself thinking about you, and a jagged heat tears through the top of your thighs as you picture what that would look like.

“But that's not what you want, is it?” you ask softly. Joel doesn’t speak. He’s so still you almost think he didn’t hear you. But his eyes glance to your thighs again, you know that he did.

“You want me,” you say then, voice low and sure.

The muscle in his jaw ticks. Lips purse around clenched teeth and a harsh breath escapes his nose before he’s saying your name again, a strained whisper. And God, you love the way he says it. Like the word was created just to spite him.

“You are walkin’ on some mighty thin ice right now,” he grits out, heated gaze scorching your skin.

You glance down to his lap, where a forearm still balances over his crotch, and arch an eyebrow.

“Show me,” you murmur.

You can hear him breathing. Slow, exaggerated puffs of breath, chest rising and falling at an increasing pace as he maintains eye contact. Large hands tighten into fists, fingers curling against palms, and he’s dragging his arm back from his lap, spreading his legs as far as they’ll go within the arms of his chair. You wet your lips, face heating as you stare. The firm line of his cock is evident beneath his pants, a solid ridge against his left thigh. When you look back to his face there’s a faint red hue colouring the skin of his neck, steadily rising toward the edge of his facial hair. He’s blushing.

“How long?” you ask, voice awed.

“Since you got on the desk,” Joel grumbles, tone almost begrudging.  

You hum softly, a low vibration in your throat, and then you’re slipping off his desk and taking a step towards him. And he doesn’t flinch away. He watches you close the distance between the pair of you and hover between his thighs, your legs almost brushing his.   

“Let me help,” you whisper, lowering onto the ground in front of him. The carpet is warm and rough against your jean-clad knees. Your eyes drift from his face to between his thighs, and then back up, slowly.

“We shouldn’t,” he croaks, lips chapped and dry. You want to kiss him senseless. Want to drag your tongue across his mouth until it’s soaking wet and then push your way inside.

“But do you want me to?”

An agonising beat of silence follows. But there’s no doubt there anymore. No more wondering, or uncertainty, because you can see it in his eyes. The same all-consuming, devastating desire that crawls its way up to rest at the base of your throat whenever you’re with him. 

And then thick fingers are at the waist of his pants, undoing his leather belt, his button, pushing the material open to reveal a pair of black briefs. He doesn’t take his pants off, just adjusts slightly in the chair before pressing his hand beneath the band of his underwear. Joel grips himself, the sight still obscured from your vision, and you find yourself mesmerised nonetheless, unable to drag your eyes away from the dark material. A low grunt escapes him, and then he shifts the band of his underwear down and pulls his cock out.

The head of him is swollen and leaking, tight skin so red that it’s almost a purple hue against the stark white of his shirt. Joel’s fingers tighten around his base, stroking himself once. Impatient, you lick you hand and let it drift forward to replace his, fingers slipping over the silky wet skin of his head and wrapping around him. Your hand is so much smaller in comparison, and your fingertips almost don’t meet as you flex your grip around girth.

Your underwear clings to the skin between your thighs, material warm and damp against you, a result of the simmering heat that rests in the base of your belly and flares every time Joel sighs. When you glance up to see his face, he’s already staring at you, pupils blown wide, lips sealed in a tight line. His length twitches in your palm, and you salivate.

You lean in and place a gentle kiss again his tip, smearing the pearl of precome there against your lips. You stroke the length of him in slow, firm pumps, guiding his head against your puckered lips, but not quite taking it inside yet. Joel’s fists are tight against his thighs, and you wish he would put them in your hair, on the back of your head, grip you, pull you down against him. But he doesn’t, not yet.

He’s got a salty, heady taste, and you swipe your tongue out to clean the hint of it from your mouth, swallowing with a satisfied purr. A harsh exhale shoots from his nose, eyebrows dragging further down as he watches you tease him.

A quick flick of your tongue against his slit has a sharp gasp rising from him, and in response you lathe wet, messy kisses to his head, puckering your lips around it and swirling your tongue, not caring what you look like, not caring that he probably wants you to go faster. It’s purely for your own enjoyment, and you’re moaning and sighing around the taste of him. You want to take Joel Miller a part, piece by piece, and feel him come undone beneath your mouth.

Unable to wait any longer, you let his head slip passed your open lips and sink into the wet heat of your mouth. And he’s so quiet, so composed, so you glide your tongue over his slit again before pressing forward, lips meeting the movement of your own hand as you take him deeper.

Your jaw strains, muscles smarting as you attempt to take the entirety of him. He’s so long, so thick, and the tip of him is nudging against the back of your throat in seconds, making your eyes water. And god it’s better than you could’ve imagined.

Tears cling to your eyelashes as you look up and find Joel with his bottom lip snagged between his teeth, pink skin turning white from pressure. The heavy weight of him crowds your senses, his taste on your tongue and scent in your nostrils, everywhere, and you can feel how hot your face is getting but you can’t look away from him. You don’t stop until his hand is landing on the nape of your neck, collecting your hair in his fist and dragging your mouth off him. You part with a wet gasp, a string of saliva dangling between his tip and your shiny lips.

“Breathe, goddammit,” Joel says, holding you still when you attempt to press forward and take him back into your mouth.

“You’re so big,” you say earnestly, head tilting backward to rest heavy in his hold. You blink through bleary eyes, smiling lazily. Drunk on him after only a little taste. “Couldn’t stop thinking about this, you know. How you’d taste… how it would feel to have you in my mouth.”

“Fuck, stop,” Joel says quickly, voice pained. “Y’can’t say shit like that.” His grip tightens at the base of your neck, and then he’s guiding your face forward so the head of his cock slips back into your mouth, effectively shutting you up.

You hum appreciatively and relax your jaw, taking him until he’s nudging at your throat again, and he’s still so fucking silent. Determined to get some kind of reaction from him, you pull off and lick a broad stripe from tip to base, hand stroking his length in unhurried, firm pulls as your mouth finds his heavy balls. Your tongue glides along the sensitive skin in slow, overwhelming movements, leaving no inch of him untouched. Wet sounds fill the air as the movement of your fist increases in pace, and your lips drag over him, sucking one of his balls into your mouth and then—finally—a long, drawn-out groan spills into the air, and he’s saying, “Shit, that’s it.”

Never pausing the movement of your hand, you pull back just a smidge and grin.

Joel’s hands are on you then, another deep sound sputtering from his lips. He’s brushing your hair off your face, mussing it as he rakes his fingers through it, short nails scraping against your scalp. He swears softly when you take him back into your mouth.

“Fuck,” he mutters breathlessly. “Is that what you want? Needy little thing wants a little praise, huh? Want me to tell you how good you are, how good your pretty mouth feels on my cock?”

You whimper, eyelids fluttering as you begin to move on him desperately. Your mouth tightens around him, and a tear squeezes from your eyes as his hips jolt forward, cock nudging suddenly into the back of your throat. Joel’s hand cups the back of your head, strokes the damp skin at the base of your neck as you gag around him.

“Jesus,” Joel groans at the sound. “There you go, s’perfect, s’fuckin’ perfect.”

The muscles in your thighs tighten, legs pressing together to try and soothe the pulsing ache there. Your head is moving up and down along his length and it’s wet and messy and depraved, saliva gliding down your chin to your neck, and you fucking love it. Joel’s gruff sounds of encouragement only serve to spur you on.

And then, as if by some stroke of divine intervention, it happens again.

A firm rap against the door of his office.

Joel goes silent. Your shoulders tense, and you pull back until his tip rests heavy on your bottom lip. Wide eyed, you gaze up at him, panic swelling in your chest. And then comes that voice; the same voice as yesterday.

“You in there Joel?”

You can feel your lungs squeezing inside your chest, grasping violently for air and finding zero reprieve as the reality of the moment begins to overwhelm you, because you know that voice.

“Fuck,” you whisper dazedly, slumping back to rest on your heels. “Fuck, fuck, fu—”

Joel shakes his head, strong hands gripping your shoulders to soothe you. “Shh,” he hushes quietly. “Stop, hey, stop. It’s fine.”

Another knock at the door. Nowhere for you to go, nowhere to hide.

“Just a sec, Rachel,” Joel calls, voice laced with frustration.

And then those hands are guiding you backwards. You move blindly, allowing him to encourage your body back, back, back, broad palm protecting your head as he nudges you underneath the desk. Further and further until you’re completely hidden, tucked away where only he can see you. And as you settle into the warm, sweaty space, watch Joel drag his chair forward and squeeze his long legs around your body, you feel the panic quell. Your pulse slows, the tremor in your hands settles, and cool relief comes in the form of a chill down your spine.

“Come in,” Joel calls. You can hear the door click open a second later, soft footsteps entering the room. You hold your breath as they begin to talk, heart stuttering, eyes trained on his where his spit-soaked cock rests against the underside of his desk.

“Sorry to be a bother,” Rachel’s soft voice chimes. “I was hoping to grab my copy of The Annals, I need it for the undergrad lecture I’m covering this afternoon.”

“Course,” he says sharply, and you can hear a drawer to your right open and close. A moment of silence. “All yours.”  

Your abdomen tenses at the sound of his haggard voice, and something tight pulls in your chest. A flare of jealousy, of possessiveness, at the fact that someone else is seeing him right now. That the flush on his cheeks, the sweat on his neck, is no longer yours alone. And it’s absurd, because she has no idea. But the desire to reclaim the moment for yourself, to assert that his sweat, his blush—his body—is yours is overwhelming, and you find your hand gripping his heavy cock, tongue gliding out of your mouth to swipe against his weeping tip. The dread from before flares in the back of your mind but you push it away, shove it down until it’s hazy, a faint ringing that fades into the sound of your blood rushing in your ears.

Joel’s thighs stiffen. He coughs, a sharp, surprised noise.

“Thanks for that,” Rachel says, voice slow. “Hey… are you doing okay? Looking pretty faint over there, Miller.”

You smile around him and rub your tongue in teasing strokes along the underside of his sensitive head. He clears his throat roughly, and then his hand is slipping underneath the desk to tangle in your hair. It’s rough and it stings, and you find yourself humming ever so slightly around him, indicating that you love it.

“Feelin’ a little under the weather,” he agrees faintly.

“Should try some of that tea I always tell you about,” she says, ever so friendly. “Works a treat when you’re sick.”

“Maybe I will,” Joel says, and his fingers are twisting in your messy locks, pulling your mouth away from his cock.

Although he can’t see you, you pout. Not wanting to push it, you settle for looping three fingers around him, index middle and thumb, gripping just beneath his head, and begin to rub him in slow, soundless movements. With every forward motion of your hand, the tip of his cock brushes against your lower lip, and his grip on your hair tightens.

“I could bring you some,” Rachel offers then. You can practically hear the smile in her voice, picture the kind slant to her eyes. “Maybe tomorrow, if you think you’ll be coming into wor—”

“I’ll be here tomorrow,” Joel snaps suddenly, voice almost harsh as he interrupts her. “Was that all you needed?”

“Oh,” she replies awkwardly. “Yeah, sorry.”

“No,” he says, audibly flustered. His cock is drooling over your lips, and the salty taste has your pussy aching, clenching painfully tight, begging to be filled. “m’sorry, got a fuckin’ headache, is all. Tea tomorrow?”  

“Tea tomorrow, sure,” Rachel confirms. “Sorry again, I… yeah, sorry, I hope you feel better, Joel.”

Whem the door closes a moment later Joel is shoving his chair backward again, hands wrenching you out from underneath his desk. You fall forward, flushed and breathless. His expression is thunderous, pitch-black eyes glaring down at you. On all fours, you crawl forward and splay your palms across his thighs, feel them twitch and tremble beneath your nimble fingers.

“You couldn’t fuckin’ wait?” he snaps, hand finding a home in your hair once more. He drags it into a ponytail and wraps it around his fist.

“Sorry,” you lie, teeth nipping at your swollen bottom lip. Joel’s eyes follow the movement and he grunts, unimpressed with the apology.

“She could’ve caught us,” he admonishes you.

“Better start locking the door then,” you clip, winking lazily. A short huff passes through his lips, and then his left hand is dropping to land on your chin, thumb rubbing against your lower lip, prying it from between your teeth.

“Open,” he orders.

His jaw is set with concentration, eyebrows drawn low as he cradles your jaw, holding it still while he pushes his cock back into your eager mouth. The salt of him rushes your senses again and you’re moaning around him, cheeks hollowed and eyes wet as he begins to rut into your mouth, the tip of his cock caressing the back of your throat with every thrust. It’s fast and hard, and the noises coming out of you are scandalous, but you can’t drag your eyes away from his face. Lips parted, eyes ablaze as he watches his cock push in and out of your mouth, over and over again. A tear streaks down your cheek and Joel groans, swiping at it with his fingers. Shallow curses and murmurs of your name spill from his lips in a tortured stream of consciousness.

“Always so fuckin’—impatient,” he mutters. His grip on your jaw is near bruising, cock throbbing against your tongue. You can sense how close he is. Feel it in the way his hips start to stutter, snapping thrusts losing their rhythm.  

The stretch has a dull ache searing through your jaw, but Joel is breathless, eyes dark and focused on yours, saying, “Look at you. So pretty takin’ my cock like this.” and you can’t bring yourself to care. Your eyelids flutter closed, and his fingers are tapping your cheek quickly—softly?

“Let me see you,” he says urgently. “Want those eyes on me, don’t close them.” You cast your eyes up to meet his gaze, and Joel hisses under his breath, expression taut.

His hips drag backward, and he’s replacing your mouth with his hand, fucking himself in quick, brutal strokes, and your mouth is open, slick tongue peaking between your lips before he can even say open your mouth.

“Fuck,” he exhales at the sight, tip bumping against your tongue with every wet pump of his fist. His thighs are trembling beneath your hands, and you dig your nails into the muscles there, encouraging him. “Fuck me.”

And then he’s coming, face going slack as hot ropes of his come paint your lips, your tongue, your chin. Unashamed rasps of your name fall from pink lips, washing over you in glorious waves as you sit there and take all of it. And for a moment, you think it’s over. But then Joel’s hand is still moving over his length, calloused thumb gliding against the ridge of his rounded tip, and there’s more.

“Fuck,” he groans. “Fuck—yes.”

Salty strings of his spend gloss over your cheeks and slide down to paint your neck. And it’s like he’s coming a second time, torso jolting in short, jerky movements, and you wish you could see his body while he came; the way the muscles in his stomach would flex and pull taut, entire frame straining as he gives you his all.  

His shoulders slump forward as he stares down at you, hand falling away from his sensitive cock, and his face is ruined. Eyes blown wide, cheeks a dark red, looking at you like he’d enjoy nothing more than to devour you whole. Maintaining eye contact, you swallow down his spend, practically purring at the taste of him.

Joel’s thumb smears his come off your cheeks and into your swollen mouth, making sure you don’t miss a single drop.

“Good girl,” his voice is broken. “That’s it, yeah—yes, s’perfect.”

Perfect, perfect, perfect. The word rings in your ears. Your skin is on fire, and you can’t believe that you are both still fully clothed. You feel naked, bared to him in the truest sense of the word, despite being completely covered up.

He groans heartily when you suck his fingers between your lips, tongue swirling around them greedily, and swallow down the last of his spend. 

For a moment after, the two of you simply sit there, your knees chafed and aching against the carpet, his fingers hooked against your tongue, staring at each other. And you know. You both know – there’s no going back from this.

Joel drags his hand away and snatches a box of tissues from the top drawer of his desk. You stand, knees popping in relief, and lean against the desk to stabilise yourself. He takes a moment to clean himself, and when you’re sure he’s not looking you swipe a pen from his desk, scribble a set of numbers on a post it and press the sticky paper down against the cover of The Odyssey.

He offers you the box of tissues and you wipe your face carefully, make sure no trace of him is left on your skin. Joel watches your movements like a hawk, eyes fading from black to brown as he fixes his belt and tucks his shirt back into his pants.

“You good?” he asks after a moment. And it’s the same. The same thing he asked you that night in the bar after fucking your brains out. After calling you a slut, a dirty little thing. Maybe it’s his thing—you good? And it’s more than anyone else has ever said after you’ve had their cock in your mouth, so you smile at him. Nod. The duality of man, you think.

“Perfect,” you use his word, and cringe at how wrecked your voice is. The corner of Joel’s mouth twitches upward, something sly and conspiratorial in his gaze as he watches you tuck your computer into your bag, IT issue long forgotten.

Even as you wander toward the door of his office, tossing a casual see you tomorrow over your shoulder, you can see it in his face. In the lines by his eyes, the furrow of his brow; never satiated, never finished, never satisfied. More, more, more. This wasn’t enough for either of you. And this will not be the last time.

Hours later, when you’re tucked into bed with a glass of wine and a book perched in your lap, you get a text from an unknown number.

You’re going to give me a heart attack one of these days.

And then another, twenty minutes later.

That can’t happen again.

You grin. Save his number under J MILLER, PhD, and don’t reply.

tags: @lovely-ateez @nana90azevedo @stevie75 @evyiione @dameron-grant-spector @brittmb115 @ashhlsstuff @casa-boiardi @sinfulrock @bbyanarchist @murc0cks4eva @hopplessilse @joeldjarin @anoverwhelmingdin @bluevxnus @kelp-dreaming @prettyinpunk85 @spacelatinos4life @iluvurfather @daisies-yellow @mrsquill @sarap-77 @sunnywithachanceofjavi @alleyy-katt @zeida

thank you for reading! x

#my writing #fic: a lover's pinch #professor!joel #joel miller x reader #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller #joel miller smut

[geeseandlimes]

[Honkai: Star Rail] Simulated You

Rating: G Pairing: Caelus/Dan Heng Character(s): Caelus, Dan Heng, March 7th, Herta Warning(s): None Summary:

A bug in the Simulated Universe causes Caelus to leave with a copy of Dan Heng's Imbibitor Lunae form. A very clingy Imbibitor Lunae. The only way to solve the problem is by either letting it run its course or...to fulfill Caelus' desire. Too bad Caelus is pretty sure Dan Heng doesn't like him like that.

“Well,” Herta says with a drawl in her voice that shows more amusement than disinterest, “it’s not like it’s im possible.” 

Her extra emphasis only makes Caelus cringe. If Herta shows amusement then it just means bad things for him on the horizon. All of the newer features that kick his ass in the Simulated Universe are all prefaced by Herta showing some sort of almost genuine excitement. Though he’s not sure if he wants the puppet to dissect what’s going on right now.

“And can it be fixed?” Caelus asks.

Herta waves her hand, flippant. “Yes, yes, it can. It’ll just take some time.” Herta speak for ‘ I’m too amused by this so I’m going to drag it out as long as possible. ’ There’s the slight narrow of her eyes. A sly little smile that makes its way onto her face. “But, would you really want me to fix it?” she asks.

“Yes,” Caelus says, a little desperately. “It scares me.”

“I scare you?” a voice whispers into his ear. Caelus can’t help the red flush that creeps up his neck. He desperately tries to ignore the press of a soft, but firm, chest against his arm and the press of plush lips against the shell of his ear. Caelus especially tries to ignore the curl of a tail around his leg and the gentle embrace he is currently finding himself in. It makes him have thoughts and he can’t have thoughts because–

“Dan Heng doesn’t like me like this and this isn’t real,” Caelus blurts out. 

All while a copy of Dan Heng’s vidyadhara form is clinging to him and nuzzling close as if Caelus is all he wants in the world.

“He’s real !” Herta sounds almost offended. “He’s fresh from the Simulated Universe–although due to a bug in the system–so he’s very much real!”

“He’s data! ” Caelus’ protest falls on deaf ears. Herta waves him off with a flick of her hair.

“But he’s in the here and now, courtesy of my Simulated Universe!” she says. “So you might as well treat him as if he’s real until I figure something out. Give Himeko my regards.” And that’s that. Herta does not give Caelus any room to argue. She cuts the conversation off, goes back to whatever she works on when he isn’t sifting through the Simulated Universe, and ignores him. Just leaves him to his…clingy Vidyadhara fate.

Speaking of Vidyadhara, Caelus is not going to have fun explaining why he’s coming on board with another Dan Heng.

“Caelus?” Simulated Dragon Dan Heng tightens the hold he has on Caelus. “Aren’t we heading back to the others?”

Caelus closes his eyes in defeat. There’s no avoiding this. He can’t just spend an indeterminate amount of time on the space station. Better face the music now. “Yeah, let’s go,” he says, and prays to god that March does not make a fuss.

*****

March makes a fuss.

She’s wide-eyed and flustered, her finger pointing furiously back and forth between Regular Dan Heng and Simulated Dan Heng. Her finger finally lands on Caelus, mouth slack jawed. “ How!? ” March squeaks out. “ How, how, hooooow!???? ” 

Caelus wishes he can answer her with proper words. Maybe something along the lines of the Simulated Universe is just weird, or that there was a little hiccup. Instead, trapped as he is in Simulated Dan Heng’s arms (and tail) he can only awkwardly shrug. “Herta wouldn’t explain it properly,” he adds, as if that will help any. March fumbles for a bit, obviously confused, but it’s Dan Heng that Caelus is worried about. He keeps glimpsing over at the other man trying to gauge his reaction but he sees nothing. He doesn’t even hear Dan Heng say anything.

Simulated Dan Heng nuzzles close, cheek rubbing against Caelus’ own. It’s far too affectionate compared to how Dan Heng usually is. It gives Caelus thoughts again. All the “what ifs” and “could have been” if only–

Simulated Dan Heng presses his lips against Caelus’ cheek.

March shrieks, eyes wide and expression scandalized. Dan Heng looks just as scandalized, if not betrayed. Caelus can only pray for a hole in the ground to open up and swallow him. Maybe eject him out into space where he will then die of suffocation and the stellaron in his body can blow up safely. Anything to save him from whatever is going on right now. 

“What’s wrong, Caelus?” Simulated Dan Heng asks, all coy and sweet. There’s honey dripping from his words. Something that Caelus finds incredibly hilarious considering what a simple question it is. A question that’s followed up by another kiss that lands dangerously close to the corner of Caelus’ mouth.  This is absolutely slipping out of Caelus’ control (not that he had any).  He places his hands on Simulated Dan Heng’s arms, ready to push them off. First thing first, he needs to extract himself from Simulated Dan Heng’s hold. 

As nice as it is to even have Dan Heng (though not the real Dan Heng) pressed up to him, this situation is not meant to happen. Caelus wants things to be normal. Normal conversations, normal interactions–normal, normal, normal. He’ll just keep his feelings for Dan Heng tucked close to his chest. No need to shake the fragile atmosphere on the Express after everything that happened on the Luofu.

“Nothing’s wrong–”

“Everything is wrong.”

Caelus blinks owlishly as he feels a firm grip on his arm. With one harsh tug he finds himself stumbling out of Simulated Dan Heng’s hold and into Dan Heng’s chest. “Everything is absolutely wrong,” Dan Heng repeats. “You need to give him space so he can answer our questions.”

Simulated Dan Heng’s eyes narrow. His arms cross, so reminiscent of regular Dan Heng, and the look on his face is unimpressed. Caelus, still cradled in Dan Heng’s arms, finds himself sweating. He’s not quite sure what’s about to happen now. 

“Then, shouldn’t you let him go, too?” Simulated Dan Heng asks. His tail is flicking behind him in annoyance. “You’re also holding on to him far too tightly.”

Dan Heng lets Caelus go as if he’s been burned.

Caelus stumbles forward, finally allowed to have a little breathing room ever since he left the space station. March is quick to rush up to him, nervously clinging to his sleeve as she stares at the two Dan Hengs staring each other down. “C-Come on you guys, let’s just figure out how to solve this,” March says. 

“Herta is the only one who can help, though,” Caelus tells her. “And you know how Herta treats me.”

“Like a guinea pig, it’s disgusting,” both Dan Heng and Simulated Dan Heng say at the same time. The two glare at each other, but Simulated Dan Heng is the one who does something. He makes his way back to Caelus’ side. He doesn’t hug Caelus like before. He just nestles himself close to Caelus’ side, tail idly coiling around Caelus’ leg.

“I don’t like it at all,” Simulated Dan Heng murmurs. A hand comes up to rest on Caelus’ chest. “She puts you through way too much. You can ask for my help.” That hand trails up Caelus’ throat, delicate fingers coming up to tickle at Caelus’ chin. March is making flustered noises, her grip on Caelus’ sleeve threatening to tear the fabric.

“Stop that,” Dan Heng snaps. 

Simulated Dan Heng scoffs.

“Why? Are you jealous and wish to be where I am instead?” Simulated Dan Heng follows his words up by gently grasping Caelus’ chin. Caelus has to swallow the lump in his throat, eyes widening as his head is turned to look at Simulated Dan Heng. He’s trapped by jade eyes, bright pupils, by his own thoughts of always wanting to kiss Dan Heng. Caelus’ heart is pounding as Simulated Dan Heng leans in. A part of his mind is yelling at him to pull away, but the love-drunk part of him, the one who loves Dan Heng a bit too much, demands he stays still.

“Caelus! Caelus, snap out of it, Dan Heng looks ready to kill!” March’s words fall on deaf ears.

Caelus parts his mouth, body shivering as he feels Simulated Dan Heng’s nose brush against his, their mouths about to connect–

Caelus is drenched in water right at the same time as the door to the lounge car slides open and Himeko comes strolling in with Welt announcing that she was able to get the solution for their problem from Herta. Dan Heng had turned into his Vidyadhara form, having used his cloudhymn magic to interrupt the almost kiss.

“Oh,” Himeko says, eyes wide, “did we perhaps interrupt something?”

*****

Yeah, Caelus definitely wants to die now. Not that he can, considering he is currently sat on Dan Heng’s bed in the archives, with Simulated Dan Heng curled up in his lap and purring .

Purring!

Dan Heng himself is standing by the terminal inputting data to the archive as always. Though, if Caelus squints his eyes a little, he swears he can see that Dan Heng’s movements are stiffer than usual. Angry, Caelus thinks. Dan Heng is angry. Caelus doesn’t blame him for being angry, either. The information that Herta had supplied Himeko with revealed too much information than Caelus was comfortable with. And that information directly involved Dan Heng.

Herta told me that the bug happened due to Caelus’ own desires getting mixed with the system that made Aeons manifest. The Dan Heng that is currently…very affectionate with him is what Caelus wishes to have. It should go away on its own. Or, if you wish to have this entity disappear faster, then simply fulfill those desires.

Caelus groans and closes his eyes. The worst way for Dan Heng to find out that Caelus harbors feelings that go beyond friendship for him. Simulated Dan Heng snuggles closer, as if taunting Caelus. At least the explanation Himeko gave explains the uncharacteristic way Simulated Dan Heng is asking. All of Caelus’ desires, made manifest thanks to a simple bug in the Simulated Universe. Honestly, Caelus should be apologizing to Dan Heng for all of this.

He came on board with a copy of Dan Heng’s Vidyadhara form. Said Vidyadhara form was latched onto Caelus and refused to let go. On top of that, Himeko then dropped the equivalent of a nuke in terms of information by saying that this Vidyadhara form reflected every single desire inside of Caelus. Dan Heng had to find out that Caelus wishes to not only kiss him, but also want him glued to his hip almost twenty-four seven.

Caelus would hate himself, too.

“Hey, Dan Heng–”

“Why aren’t you asking me,” Dan Heng, like he’s been doing since Caelus came back, cuts him off.

Caelus blinks owlishly. “What do you mean?”

“Why aren’t you asking me for help?” Dan Heng repeats. He’s stopped working on the archive, making his way to where Caelus and Simulated Dan Heng are sitting. “We can solve it by fulfilling your desires, right? So why aren’t you asking me?”

“Wha–Dan Heng, you do know what I want considering how this other you is asking, right?” As if to emphasize Caelus’ words, Simulated Dan Heng coils his tail tighter around Caelus’ waist. “I can’t ask that of you. You don’t…you don’t even like me like that.” Admitting it out loud hurts, but it’s the truth. Dan Heng appreciates Caelus as a friend. There’s no romantic attachment. 

Dan Heng’s face looks conflicted, face twisting in rarely seen emotion.

Simulated Dan Heng’s purring stops. His hands cradle Caelus’ face, once again making Caelus look at him. “Look at you,” Simulated Dan Heng says, “so sad. Don’t look like that, you have me.” Simulated Dan Heng leans in for a kiss again, as if to comfort, but Caelus stops it by bringing a hand between them. It’s too much. 

The smile Caelus puts on towards Dan Heng is self-depreciating. “Sorry, this must make you uncomfortable. I know we moved here just because it’s easier to keep an eye on the Simulated Universe version of you, but we can leave.”

Dan Heng doesn’t answer. In lieu of words he sits down next to Caelus. Almost awkwardly, he leans against Caelus to rest his head on Caelus’ shoulder. Simulated Dan Heng watches. Silence stretches between the three, long and awkward. It’s broken by Dan Heng.

“I don’t…I don’t know how to express myself properly,” Dan Heng says. “I’m too used to keeping to myself. That and I didn’t know how you’d react if I told you.” 

“...yeah?” Caelus waits for Dan Heng to continue. Unconsciously, he tightens his grip on Simulated Dan Heng, who also stays quiet while Dan Heng speaks.

“So seeing you come onboard with the other me and seeing him do what I’ve sometimes thought about doing really made me…jealous.” Dan Heng seems to curl in on himself after admitting that. It’s an admission, a confession, that makes Caelus’ heart leap into his throat. He desperately tries to untangle himself from Simulated Dan Heng but only succeeds in draping one arm over Dan Heng. Jealous , Dan Heng is jealous . All because this other him had been clinging to Caelus and kissing him and doing the exact same things that Caelus thinks of whenever he sees Dan Heng.

“So you like me?” Caelus asks. “Like I like you?”

The tinge of red on Dan Heng’s ears tells Caelus everything.

“So I can keep saying that I like you. That I love you and want to kiss you and– mmph! ”

Caelus’ words are cut off by Dan Heng fisting his collar and dragging him in for a kiss. Their teeth bump together awkwardly and it’s more like they’re mashing their mouths together more than kissing. Caelus doesn’t care. He drinks it all in with glee, heart beating hard in his chest.

Dan Heng likes him.

Dan Heng loves him.

“Hey, I want one too,” Simulated Dan Heng says, trying to lean in and steal a kiss of his own. Dan Heng growls, his own tail finally coming out to wrap tightly around Caelus’ arm.

“You can’t have one,” Dan Heng says. “He’s mine.”

“I’m you, so that means he’s mine, too.”

Caelus can only awkwardly laugh as the two bicker, only to pause once he realizes that Simulated Dan Heng is still in his lap and not gone like Herta said he would be once Caelus’ desires were realized. Dan Heng seems to notice this, too.

“Caelus, what was it, exactly, that you wanted to do if he’s still here?” Dan Heng asks.

“Uhm.”

“Caelus?”

The following day, Simulated Dan Heng is gone and Caelus and Dan Heng come into the dining car together for breakfast. March is sitting there, head in her hands, and when they sit down she glares at them.

“Loud,” she hisses, “you’re too loud. Next time you guys decided to have some surprise fun time do it somewhere else.”

Dan Heng awkwardly coughs into his fist while Caelus looks absolutely unashamed. Hard to be embarrassed when he got everything he wanted last night. He casually hooks an arm around Dan Heng, a shit eating grin on his face.

“Couldn’t help it, I was just happy to be with the guy I love.”

Notes: Wooo! Baby's first post on the writing blog lmao. Written for a CaeHeng server's valentine's exchange for my giftee who gave me the fun prompt of Clingy DanHeng and Caelus sandwiched between his normal form and vidyadhara form.

don't question the logic for the Simulated Uni bug it was for plot purposes

#honkai star rail #caeheng #caelus #dan heng #duckies writings

[jellymellydraws]

Masterlist ~ <<Previous Chapter ~ Next Chapter >>

Astarion x Dark Urge Chapter 15 Rating: E Tags: Angst, Fluff, hurt/comfort, slow burn, two guarded people fall in love so hard it makes them stupid

Chapter Summary:

Astarion begs Rose to gossip about Gale's super secret but very obvious condition. She learns that the resident sassy elf might be starting some rumors about her promiscuity. Withers makes his services available, for a fee. With all their scouting and prep done, the whole camp marches towards the Selune Temple.

Whether it was foolishness, desperation, and a deliberate step towards openness: Gale revealed there was something going on with him. Eyes were on her as she departed from the wizard’s tent. The questions were clear on their faces, but she wasn’t going to be the one providing answers. They had to know that much, by now.

Rather than entertain their curiosities, she continued towards the command tent. Aside from distributing the magical items, she still had to prepare her own pack for their visit to the Selune Temple. Anything could happen once they arrived, and she was going to be prepared.

Goblins could be wielding more powerful weapons, or have new mastery of magic. Drow soldiers could be hiding within the shadows. Spiders as large as the arachnid matriarch could be lurking in the rafters. All of this was a possibility. Not to mention: surprises.

Detestable surprises.

Of course, hoping to do this prep in peace was as reasonable as hoping a fish could breathe air. She didn’t need to look up at the shadow which stalked over to her. She already knew who’d be ballsy enough to ask. Only one very nosy and gossip hungry elf: Astarion.

“We all saw that— you can’t honestly believe that you can pretend none of us saw that!”

“I can, and I will,” Rose couldn’t help the small smirk which snuck across her face.

Astarion didn’t understand the concept of ‘minding his own business.’ That was a cute little trick he pulled that morning— toying with his tone to imply he was being coy, stating he heard nothing but sounding like he did. His words spoke true, his tone tricked. 

Clever man. Too bad he sucked at committing to the act when very valuable information came to light. In this case, bright purple lights emanating from their wizard. But oh, his desperation to know what was going on was the sweet confirmation she was waiting for. He had absolutely no clue what happened between her and Gale that morning.

The elf wasn’t going to leave it alone. Not until he knew what the hells he saw. Even if that meant stalking after their leader while she meticulously prepared her pack for the rest of the day. She tried to feign her next steps a few times, looking one direction but turning towards another. He kept up with the fancy footwork, and somehow managed to keep up with her speed.

”Right outside his tent,” the elf continued, “what was that— he hugged the damned things and—“ he crouched next to Rose as she sifted through their potions crate. His voice suddenly hushed, “can he make our stuff more powerful?”

”Wouldn’t that be something?” She sassily answered, stowing a small healing potion in her pack and tying it closed.

“Do you know how useful that would be?”

“I do.” She stood up, turning towards the rest of the camp.

”You still aren’t going to spill, are you?”

”I’m not.”

She playfully bumped her good shoulder into his as she walked by him. He groaned with defeat.

But he continued to follow.

Alright, fine, she’ll give a little. What was a little fun before heading into uncertainty? 

Rose turned on her heel, arms crossed in front of her chest as she faced him. “How about a trade?”

Astarion’s brows raised, before a tempted smirk crossed his features, “A trade? For?”

“Information,” she offered, stepping closer to him as her words softened, “Gale said you have quite the imagination, I’m still intrigued: what exactly did you say to him this morning?”

“Oh, my dear,” his finger hooked beneath her chin, gently tilting her face towards him, hovering closer, “I just asked him if you left him satisfied with…” he pulled away with a devilish smirk, “whatever it was you two did in that tent.”

“Gods above,” she stared incredulously, “you asked him if he fucked me in there?!” 

He burst into laughter. She dragged her hand down her face, only briefly stopping to pinch the bridge of her nose. Her cheeks darkened and she could hear her blood rushing into her ears. This only made him laugh more boisterously. Wasn’t she supposed to be the one having fun, here? 

Mission: failed. Miserably. No— not miserably. 

Laughably.  

“You think I’d be so tactless as to ask outright?” He gasped, remembering to act scandalized once he regained control of his amusement, “Well, maybe I’d ask you, but Gale?! He’s much too, erm,” he circled his hand in the wizard’s direction, searching, but finding nothing but a frustrated tut, “he’s Gale. ” 

She knew she should’ve changed assignments. Of course she should’ve! She knew better— she knew Astarion better!

“But,” the elf continued, much to her delight, “if you weren’t having a quick one in there, what was all the sneaking for?”

”He entrusted me with a private, personal, matter,” she stated with finality, despite his pout. She rolled her eyes playfully towards him, “he’ll divulge the details when he’s ready. Or I’ll do it when I find it necessary for the camp to know.”

“I thought we had a trade,” he continued to poke his lips out, dramatizing his pouting.

”We did, and I kept my end of the bargain. We talked about something private, and I won’t share the specifics. That’s it.” She smirked at him, triumphantly. “Don’t sulk, I’d do the same for you.”

“Hm, I suppose you would ,” his tone shifted. Less playful. “Seems you owe it to me, afterall.”

”What is this about?” Her eyes narrowed warningly. Sounded like their fun was over. 

“Heeding your advice,” Astarion answered plainly, pretending to examine his nail beds, “something about favors?”

“Don’t underestimate the power of a favor owed,” the words felt like an echo as she recited them. 

“Yes, that was it,” he shifted his gaze towards her, lifting a brow at her cautionary expression, “at least you can remember some things.” He hissed his emphasis, not-so-subtly slicing with his words. 

“And what is it that I owe you for?” Her tone dropped out of its playful lilt in response. “Remind me.”

“Oh nothing much,” he began counting on his fingers, “just for keeping quiet about your quirky little bursts of murder. Or perhaps for being so discreet about your memory problems, especially considering how easily Lae’zel reaches for her blade. Oh, and you know, Shadowheart asked me about your scars— I kept that to myself too, in case you were concerned. Quite a debt you’re accumulating, it seems.”

Her eyes widened with disbelief. A speech given several nights ago, a mantra that came to her in the moment that she gave no thought towards. It meant more to him than she intended. He was keeping score in a game she had no intention of playing.

And yet, she had a finger on a piece, in need of completing her next move.

“The favors thing doesn’t apply to the camp,” she clarified.

“Sure it doesn’t!” He scoffed, throwing a hand up flippantly, “you just gave Gale whatever he asked for?”

”Yes!”

”Must not have been so important then, if he doesn’t need to pay you back.”

Her blood simmered as he glanced at her from behind his nose. Through her fury, she saw a slight smirk tugging at the edge of his lips. 

No. No, he would not trick her into whatever the hells he wanted. Whatever outburst he hoped to pull from her, she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.

”I’m not falling for this,” she finally managed after taking a controlled breath, “I’m not going to tell you what he wanted. I’m not going to tell you what that magical light show was about. I’m not going to tell you anything.”

”And why’s that?” His red eyes burned towards her. The creases of a scowl began to form.

“Because I take care of my team,” she articulated slowly, “no favors required. If you need anything Astarion, I’ve got you; just ask and I’ll see what I can do.”

He stared at her, brows furrowed. Examining her face for traces of a lie, of deceit, of trickery. “Just ask ? Just like that?”

She nodded, “just like that. Exactly like how we got you that violin. If it’s that hard to believe that I’m a woman of my word, that’s your problem. Not mine.”

Waves of expressions washed over his face like phases of the moon. Everything from doubt to relief to disbelief flashed over him. Watching him closely, she was just realizing how weary he looked. Bags had begun forming under his eyes, which in turn made her see how pallor his face was. In short, he looked like hells.

Her eyes couldn’t help but soften. She released another heavy sigh, running a hand through her violet locks as she pushed back her frustration.

“Astarion,” she met his gaze, sincerely, “if you need the score to be settled, we’ll go over who owes whom later. I have to focus on our mission right now.” 

He said nothing as she left towards the edge of camp to finalize prep for the afternoon.

The living corpse marked an open scroll with a quill that never needed to be dipped in ink. No one knew where he found such a thing. He muttered in a voice that forever carried from the beyond, faintly echoing at the end of his words.

“Withers,” Rose announced herself as she approached. He didn’t move his eyes from his task. Frustrating as it was, she became accustomed to it. At least, in some capacity, she knew he was listening. “We’ll be departing soon, can you handle watching over the camp?”

“I shall be here in thy camp, for whenever thou hast need of my services.” A practiced response. 

If his voice didn't hint at his age, his manner of speech could make it obvious. She was sure it was in the range of twenty years to twenty centuries. 

“Services like....watching over the camp?” She pressed, somewhat sarcastically.

But, to be fair...would he actually do that? Someone was ALWAYS back at camp to keep watch, never just Withers. For the most part, he might as well not be there. He haunted the outermost edge of their camp, hardly said a word, and hardly made a sound. If no one else saw him, she’d be convinced it was her mind playing tricks.

There was still time for that. Best not to get too sarcastic, unless she wants to accidentally curse herself further.

Finally, he paused his scribbling. His next line of thought needed his full attention and effort, it seemed.

“A mending of threads between life and death.” He lowered the scroll, eyeing her dully, “that is what I can offer.”

Her brow raised, intrigued, “go on.”

“For a pittance of coin: should thou or any of why compatriots perish, I will cleave soul to body once more.”

Both brows raised. “How much?”

“200 pieces of gold.”

Her eyes would've popped out of her head, had they not been firmly tethered to her skull. Suddenly the price of Astarion's violin felt like copper pieces by comparison. Gods, they haven't even been to a proper storefront! Where in the hell's would they get that amount to do coin?!

This was a joke, right?

It had to be?

This was Withers they were talking about-- where the hell would he even spend that money?!

...this was Withers she was talking to. No, this wasn't a joke.

No, he probably wouldn't answer where the money would go.

“Huh, well...that’s,” she adjusted her stance, trying to make light of the price. “That’s a pittance of an assassin’s contract.”

“I know.”

She shifted her weight again, chewing her lip as she stared at the living corpse. She took a quick glance around, making sure the coast was clear before lowering her voice, “do you know anything about me; my bloodlust?”

“Yes.”

“Keep talking,” she demanded.

“For a pittance of coin--”

“How much?”

“--should thou or any of thy compatriots perish--”

“You already said that--”

“I will cleave body and--”

“Withers.”

Uninterrupted by her attempts to disrupt him, unphased by her frustration, he continued. As she rubbed her temples, a dull thudding started to come on as he completed his speech.

“Are you going to charge me,” she quickly interjected, before he could start another rehearsed line, “if I ask you to watch over the camp?”

“No.”

“Okay,” she sighed with relief. “One last thing, then: if the owlbear shows up, give it some food.” She pulled a small parcel from her pack, passing it along to the animated undead being. 

Wrapped carefully in a piece of torn cloth, were pieces of meat that had been dried overnight while traveling. Some of the last pieces of meat that she had for herself, but untouched. Withers held the package with an open palm, as if he collected payment from her. He said nothing. 

“Well then. That's that.” Rose turned on her heel, ending the interaction on her own terms (seeing as the skeleton wasn’t going to). From her pouch, she removed her journal and a piece of charcoal, opening to a fresh page towards the back, “I guess we’ll…” she muttered as she scribbled words to the page, “start a revival fund…”

The entirety of the camp marched their way through the destroyed village. With their reputation of being True Souls, the guards were eager to ask Rose if she needed anything.

An escort. They needed an escort.

Utilizing one of the goblins, they were able to walk by the guard post with ease. The power of their status continued to intrigue Rose.  A thrill ran through her veins with every passing acknowledgement. ‘Yes True Soul,’ ‘right this way, True Soul,’ ‘the temple is just up ahead, True Soul.’

Very few people would question their reasons for being there, none dared to ask. She could get used to this.

Once they were beyond the guard post, their escort was dismissed and free to return to their position by the village.

”Here we go,” Shadowheart sighed, “walking right into a goblin camp. Most would think we’re insane.”

”Aren’t we?” Astarion hummed with a smirk.

”Speak for yourself.”

Rose couldn’t help but shake her head at the banter behind her. They approached the wooden bridge, leading to a stone entrance that was dirtied over time. Statues of similar form to those in the village guarded each side, both in various states of destruction. The bridge was decorated with spike traps, and whatever railing existed had been torn from their posts.

From the looks of it, the goblins were prepared to destroy this bridge, if they needed to. Her eyes scanned along the top of the wall, looking for signs of guards and other goblins who they needed to be wary of. No one watched atop the walls, despite the bits of activity she saw beyond the doorway. 

“Are you sure you’re ready for this?” Rose asked Alfira, who stood beside her clutching the lute in her hands. The bard hadn’t said a word as they got closer, and most of the color drained from her face now that they were mere steps away from the heart of the nest.

“I have to be, right?” She tried to chuckle, weakly. 

As they approached the bridge, their footsteps began to feel heavier. Rose’s heart thundered in her chest, the hairs on her arms began to raise. Reflexively, she grabbed Alfira’s arm, stopping immediately.

“What’s wrong?” The tiefling asked, looking around with caution.

“Hear my Voice,” a feminine voice spoke calmly, steadily. “Obey my command.”

“Shit!” Rose fell to her knees, head aching to the point of her vision blurring.

“Is it the tadpoles again?!” Alfira’s voice started to sound distant.

The others behind her were all brought to the ground, straining to get up or even move.

Then everything went dark.

“These are my Chosen,” the voice continued, echoing around her. “They speak for me.”

A soft light forced her vision to focus on three figures before her. Her chest tightened. Fists clenched. Blood boiled. The longer she stared, the louder her head pounded.

An old hardy elf stood at the front of their formation, looking down at her with an unfeeling expression. Yet, she couldn’t help but feel he was annoyed by her. Disgusted. He wore heavy armor, carrying himself like a commander would. But the voice she heard in her head was feminine, it did not fit this man. His chest piece was illuminated by a colored gem.

Behind the elf was a human man wearing a draped coat adorned in gilded thread. He did not look as old as the elf, but his face was aged by a lifetime of troubles. She saw it in the creases of his brow, the tiredness in his eyes. Old enough to be tired, but young enough to have fire. His smile was easy, sleazy, but oh so charming in a dangerous way. Arrogance oozed from his stance as he looked at her with a cocked brow. Intrigue. Curiosity. Another pang in her chest, joined by a sickly turning in her stomach at the sight of him. She wanted to scream. She couldn’t. Embedded in his shimmering gauntlet was another gem, much like the elf’s, which softly illuminated his features as it glowed.

Opposite of the human was another elven woman-- elven-like, more precisely. Pale was the only descriptor appropriate for her. Pale hair, pale skin, pale eyes. Pale like the corpse she deserved to be . Rose clenched her jaw. The desire to drown this woman in her own blood grew. How beautiful she would be, a blank canvas covered in red. The woman’s grin appeared to grow, burning down onto Rose. Taunting her. She was frozen in her stance, licking the curve of a red blade, which glowed with another gem centered in its hilt. Rose reached towards the blade, but the weight of darkness forced her hand to the ground.

The voice continued.

“Aid them, and you will be worthy to stand beside them. In my presence.”

It was tempting. Delicious. 

Power.

Authority.

Next Chapter >>

#bg3 #baldur's gate 3 #dark urge #astarion #astarion x dark urge #baldurs gate 3 #durge #astarion x tav #oc: rose #I've Got You

[svcredveins]

As season 10 has come to a close, I thought I’d do a one time special post of what I also do! Later today I’ll be sifting through my audio files so more to come of my little lady speaking, but here she also speaks mentally for Porsche 🫀

As I’ve previously mentioned in my introduction that’s pinned on my blog, I am an editor! I’ve been editing for about 8 years now and this is definitely one of my favourite edits I have ever done. Not only just favourite, but a special one as well.

This is my livery reveal for season 10 of the GT3 Team Series in my league. I do this pretty well every season and do their promo intros for their streams as well so pre season is always the most busy part for me before it starts!

Anyway, this livery reveal is so close to my heart because it’s Porsche and listening to the narrative speaking about having a dream that makes all of us Porsche drivers united, and is race born. Porsche is super passionate about their cars and racing and their slogan is, “driven by dreams” and I, myself, is a huge dreamer and lives by passion, that meshes so well for me, and I can’t help whenever I look at their cars or even their race cars and just smile so heavily. This brand is so unique and special, I love it. They are timeless. They have heart. They have perseverance; they never stop dreaming no matter what happens. They focus so much on dreams and I just love that about them. “Dare to be driven by dreams”.

Now for the cardiophile bit! “Feeling the intense emotion behind the wheel of a 565 horsepower machine”. Like could you just imagine racing in the 12 hours of Bathurst (the opening scenes of the video) where you’re literally close to the edge being face to face with an incident that could be imminent? Walls are close with little room for error, heart pounding, breathing heavily, focus to the max, risking everything? The adrenaline! I always think about this every day just dreaming of becoming a Porsche factory driver. I love it. The feel would be so unmatched just feeling nothing but pure adrenaline in my veins - that’s where “svcredveins” comes from.

Anyway, my apologies for the ramble again haha. Thought I’d do a special post sharing what I also do, but also just leaving me with imagining all of that pure adrenaline behind a Porsche…to race for them is a dream. There’s so many reasons why I love the brand and this is one of them. Anyway, more audio files to come! Of course

Also maybe I’m able to buy my stemoscope sooner than I anticipated? Hopefully so, I’ll have to see haha, but I definitely need to just throw a heart rate counter whenever I do my sim sessions and see where my little lady is at! 🫀

#cardiophilia #heartbeat #cardiophile #cardiophile thoughts #stethoscope #female cardiophile #female heartbeat #self stething #beating heart #fast heartbeat

[strawwritesfic]

Sebastian Michaelis x Female!Maid!Reader: College

Summary: At least he can give you one hell of a goodbye before they leave.

Rating/Tags: M (overt sexual references; Phantomhive Manor; major time skip from canon; college-bound!Ciel; Ciel without quotation marks; Sebastian & Ciel; Sebastian & Ciel & Reader; historical inaccuracies; not canon compliant)

Challenge: “160 Collective Drabbles” challenge by BobaPop on Lunaescence Archives.

Notes: I haven’t read Black Butler since 2012, and I haven’t watched the anime, period. However, because I have a friend that keeps up with the series from time to time, I am aware of some plot insanity that makes this scenario completely impossible. C’est la vie. 

Tag List: @imaginesfire​

College

A hollow sort of hush lay over the enormous house and all its grounds that hot August afternoon. The sun beat down on vacant flowerbeds and through the window panes into empty rooms. If any of the home’s usually raucous staff was there to see, none of them moved, none of them spoke. Their tasks were done, and what else was left but to wait for the inevitable? Wait they must. Being shouted at over their apathy was not much different than being shouted at for their enthusiasm.

Only two servants seemed to have escaped the oppressive moroseness that hung like a sheet over Phantomhive Manor. Hot as it was, sad as it was, they still had work to do. Down the deserted corridor, up the stairs, and inside the bare master bedroom stood the pair: a man, slender and dressed all in black, and a woman in a maid uniform. 

The curtains had been pulled back and the window opened in the hopes of letting in some cheer, or at least a breeze. It appeared to be working, for the woman smiled as she watched the man sift through the trunk on the floor.

He lifted his head from its depths with a sigh. “I suppose everything appears to be in order,” he told the woman at his side.

You grinned, pressing your palms together. “That should be the last of it, then! We’re all finished.”

“You say that now. No doubt Mey-Rin will decide to sneak in some last minute token of appreciation and upset things all over again.”

“And Finny will want him to take flowers to remember the place by, and Baldroy will recall how awful university food is and want to send him a whole month’s worth of rations.” A laugh at the expression on the man’s face could not be entirely avoided. “I don’t know where you think you get the right to look like that, Sebastian. I’m the one that has to stay here with them.”

Sebastian, for that was the butler’s name, and the maid’s was [Name], only carded a gloved hand through his messy bangs and collapsed on the end of the stripped bed. “You know that isn’t by my choice.”

“No, but I knew it would be the Earl’s choice from the beginning, even when he said he wanted to leave you here to look after things.” When Sebastian did nothing but continue to contemplate his knees, you lighted down next to him. “Still, I confess myself disappointed. It was nice to believe I might have you all to myself for a little bit.”

A quiet scoff, and then his hands found one of yours to hold between them. “I’m sure that’s why he decided to take me after all. Can’t have the butler having any free time, can we? Not to mention all the extremely useful things for a butler to do on a university campus.”

“Taking out the trash, finding his books at the library, cooking meals at two in the morning while he studies for an exam the next morning…”

He groaned. Giggle though you might have at Sebastian’s predicament, you could see how bone-tired he really was. And who could blame him? Ciel had been running him ragged, changing plans, changing them back, get this, get that, leave him alone, why was Sebastian not at his beck and call immediately? Of course even a demon would be exhausted–or annoyed. 

You bumped him lightly with your shoulder. “Hey, cheer up. I’ll be here to keep things running smoothly.”

“That’s the only thing keeping me from ripping that contract to pieces. No soul is worth this. Not even his.” Sebastian said this so dully that you might have believed he was serious, save for his dramatic fall against your side to rest his head on your shoulder and close his eyes.

“Then you’d miss out on seeing me every day,” you said.

The eyes opened up a sliver. “You’re not exactly worth it either.”

“True. I can almost promise the house won’t blow up while you’re away, but more than that…”

“There will be food and holes all over the walls. Garden dead. No clean laundry. Pantry empty. I’ll have to take each blunder out of your hide, you know.”

“That’s more like the Sebastian I know,” you breathed as you caught the smirk on his face. Your fingers danced through his hair for the shortest time imaginable before he twisted away to take your chin.

“In fact, all of these preparations might have gone more smoothly without your mistakes. It’s partially your fault that I’m considering giving my notice,” he said. “I should take that out of your hide now.”

Without further discussion, he pressed his lips to yours–“press” being the polite term for it. Heaven knew it was hot enough already. The two of you were already on a bed, however, and you were splayed across it, head spinning, before anything could be done to stop it. Sebastian’s mouth and other…admirable attributes made for a much better distraction from the warm summer and Ciel’s departure than any nonexistent breeze could. You gasped as you felt Sebastian hitch your skirts up, and–

“Here you two are. I trust you’ve finished the packing if you’ve decided you have time for a lark on my bed.”

You and Sebastian both sat up to find the master of the house--a young man with dark blue hair and an eye patch--standing in the doorway. His hands were on his hips and his usual peeved expression on his face. Ciel had found you in more compromising positions before, though, and his mind must have been too stuck on his upcoming trip to really be upset over such behavior from his servants–especially his only competent two. 

Sebastian bowed, a smile not quite making it to his face in time.

“And what is it that you are doing on my bed?” Ciel asked, eyebrow raised.

Sebastian did manage a smile at that. “If I couldn’t get my master packed for university and pleasure a woman at the same time, what sort of butler would I be?”

“More hygienic, I should hope.” Ciel lifted his eye heavenward and shook his head. “Sebastian, come along. I need to go over the wallpaper with you again. I don’t think the red was a good decision. [Name], get this room dressed up again. Why did you strip it? Or do you expect me to sleep on nothing when I come home for the holidays?”

“Yes, my lord,” you said, curtsying as you got a little unsteadily to your feet. 

No matter how many times Ciel walked in on you and Sebastian, you could never capture the same indifference as your companion. Too many real human emotions, you supposed. Not that that was going to stop you when Sebastian treated you like that.

“And you can go to the kitchen and help Baldroy when you’re done. I don’t want to hear another word about this going away feast he’s been prattling on about. Something light should do. I want to be situated by nine tomorrow morning, so Sebastian and I will be leaving at dusk.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“And close the window. If I’d wanted the place aired out, I would have said.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Serves you right,” Sebastian said in a low voice, as Ciel turned out into the hallway once again. “I’ll see you this evening, for as long as the master allows it. So be ready.”

“Yes, my lord,” you said with a bit of a wicked grin.

Sebastian smirked again, but before any further promises of punishment could come, Ciel was back in the room. “Sebastian!”

“Coming, sir.”

You watched them go, still smiling for as long as you could. Eventually, you would have to go downstairs and be overcome by the rest of the staff’s grief. Eventually, you would have to say goodbye to Sebastian and your master both. But not just yet, you didn’t think. Years of service to the young earl, and you knew he was softer than he let on–well, softer to everyone but Sebastian. He wouldn’t be able to resist the feast once he actually came downstairs for dinner. 

And after? After the chores, after the tears, after the packing and repacking and packing again? You still had Sebastian for one more night. For a few minutes anyway. In between changing wallpaper and listening to Ciel complain about the heat.

#fan fic #straw writes #reader insert #second person pov #request #one shot #black butler #kuroshitsuji #sebastian michaelis #sebastian michaelis x reader #sebastian michaelis x you #sebastian michaelis x y/n #black butler x reader #black butler x you #black butler x y/n #kuroshitsuji x reader #kuroshitsuji x you #kuroshitsuji x y/n #black butler reader insert #kuroshitsuji reader insert #sebastian michaelis reader insert

[whatsnewalycat]

Just Dumb Enough to Try

Chapter 14: Savior Complex

Word Count: 5k

Pairing: Javier Peña x F!Reader

Rating: Explicit (18+ only)

Tags / CW: swearing, cheating/infidelity, smoking, alcohol use, domestic abuse, nightmare, mutual masturbation, PIV sex, fluff, making out in public, banter, attempts at jokes, made up a middle name for Javi, movie nerd shit, angst, deep talk, argument, crows?

Chapter Summary: Our heroes share secrets, take pictures, and get some drinks.

Notes: Chapter title from "Savior Complex" by Phoebe Bridgers. I'm done with my summer classes so I'm celebrating like a fucking dork and putting this out today (in addition to a chapter on Sunday). Just a heads up since I gave a warning last chapter, there will be some domestic violence scattered throughout this series until... well, when you know you'll know. But I probably won't mention it again in my notes unless I feel the content warrants an additional warning. OK THANKS FOR READING!

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151 Fir St N, Laredo, TX July 1, 1998

“I’m just saying, you’re lucky you didn’t break your goddamn hand,” Javier observes, leaning on the doorway of your bedroom. He’s watching you with curiosity as you apply makeup at your vanity.

I’m sure his watchful eye has nothing to do with the fact that I’m only wearing a robe.

“I’ve been wanting to punch him for a very long time, he just gave me a reason,” you shrug, dabbing a sponge around your face with your bruised hand, “Although, I would have preferred breaking my hand over listening to Dan and his fucking dad scold me about it.”

“Scold you? For what, standing up for yourself?”

“Dale had to call and convince Mark not to press charges. Plus it caused a scene,” you scoff, “Whatever. Then Dan cut my allowance in half as a punishment. I feel like a fucking child.”

You don’t even want to get into the way that Dan yelled at you after you got home from the party. How he called you a psycho, unhinged, and forbade you from attending parties until further notice.

“What am I, fucking grounded? Like a teenager?”

“If you’re going to act like a teenager, I’m going to treat you like one. You’re fucking insane. Starting a fight with my friend at Greg’s party? I can’t fucking believe you would embarrass me like that. You’re sick, you know that? Always have to make it about you. Everyone was having a good time and you had to make it about you. Selfish bitch. You’re lucky I love you, nobody else could.”

The argument reminded you of fights with your dad. They both have a scathing way of making you feel one inch tall when you fuck up.

“Your allowance?” Javi raises an eyebrow and pushes himself off the doorframe to step closer.

“Yeah, he gives me money for groceries and stuff around the house, whatever is left over is mine to use however I want,” you explain while sifting through your makeup bag for blush.

“Do you have access to money other than that?” he asks, brow furrowed, arms crossed, making eye contact with your reflection in the mirror.

You frown and shake your head, then flip open your blush compact, “I had a bank account when I worked at the school, but we closed it after I quit.”

“And that money is…?”

“In his bank account.”

“How much does he give you in your, uhh, allowance?”

Your heart starts pounding. Why does he care?

“Usually $100 a week. Well, $50 now,” you tell him timidly, frozen with your blush brush against your cheek, “Why?”

“It’s just… odd,” he purses his lips and sets his jaw.

Is he mad that I haven’t been paying for myself on our dates?

“I- I can pay for myself tonight, if you want,” you frown, continuing to apply blush, “I’m sorry for assuming that you’d pay for me, I shouldn’t-“

“No, no, that’s not-“ he sighs and puts a hand on his hip, “I just don’t want him to take advantage of you.”

Your shoulders slump as you try to process this, “I know it’s a lot less than what I was making, but it’s enough to do what I need it to.”

“Sure, but it’s not enough to save money, right?”

You shake your head and pause, thinking about this further, gears turning slowly in your head. It’s always struck you as annoying and micro-managerial, but he told you that he’s just better with finances than you are, so he’ll take care of the money. He kept bringing it up until you eventually agreed to it, convincing you that you don’t spend your money wisely. A knot twists in your stomach as you realize that this might not be normal.

He is trying to trap me, isn’t he?

The nightmare you had last night plays in your head. 

You’re entrenched in the void. Can’t see anything. Rope digs into your skin when you try to move, rubbing against lesions that haven’t yet healed, pulling a sharp yelp from your throat. It’s muffled against a gag.

Creak

You shake your head back and forth in a panic. Try to scream out, HELP ME, HE'S HERE, SOMEONE PLEASE- the sound is muffled and your throat is raspy and sore, like you’ve already been screaming for hours. A coughing fit cuts your pleas short, and you gasp for air behind the thick, wet gag stuffed in your mouth. Your blood pressure spikes so fast you get lightheaded.

Creak

He’s close now. Your heart is pounding so hard you can hear it. Get the fuck out get the fuck out. You try to thrash around desperately to no avail. 

Creak

Louder. Right beside you. Your eyes clasp shut because you don’t want to see you don’t want to see you don’t want-

Back in real life, Javi calls your name. You flinch away from the sound and realize you’ve been staring at your vanity.

“Are you ok?” he asks, eyes wide.

You shake the dream out of your head, “Yeah, sorry. Just thinking.”

After inspecting yourself in the mirror, you decide you just need some mascara and lipstick and you’ll call it good. He frowns, “I just… I worry about you.”

“I know, baby,” you tell him with your mouth gaping open as you coat your eyelashes with mascara. He sits down on your mattress and continues to watch you. Desperately wanting a subject change, you make eye contact with him through the mirror as you close the mascara tube and put it away, “Do you like my bed?”

“It’s very comfortable,” he observes while pulling his legs up and laying his head on the pillows.

He looks fucking good there, sprawled out so casually. Like this is his bed, not the one you share with your fiancé. You spin around your swivel chair to face him, biting your lip, looking him up and down. He raises an eyebrow at you. Yearning sparkles deep inside you. You drag your seat closer to him, next to your nightstand, then cock your head to the side with a sly smile, “Can I tell you a secret?”

“Of course you can,” he answers, then rolls onto his side and props his head on his hand so he can see you better.

“Where you’re laying right now…” you lick your bottom lip, “I’ve fantasized about you so many times while laying there.”

All of the breath leaves his body. His gaze melts into a smolder. He looks you up and down while rolling his tongue across his lips, “Tell me more.”

A mischievous grin spreads across your face as you open your drawer and take out your vibrator and a bottle of lube. The vibrator is hot pink, curved, and about 7 inches in length. His eyes are burning into you as you handle the toy, “I usually use this to help me.”

“Show me,” he rasps.

You tug at your robe’s sash until it falls open and exposes your naked body, then kick one of your feet up onto the table, letting your legs spread wide open. Something akin to a growl emits from him.

“I want to tell you about the first time though,” you advise, then set the vibrator down in favor of the lube.

“The first time?” he asks, unable to take his eyes off you as you pop the top open, squeeze some into your palm, then set the bottle down.

You rub your hands together and then spread the lubricant all over your tits, teasing each nipple with little tugs and rubs, “The first time I masturbated with you in mind.”

Never in one million years did you think this was something you would tell another soul, let alone the subject of your desire. But the confession is making you so hot, you can’t stop now.

“Y-you remember that?” he lifts his puzzled gaze to your eyes to ask you, “How?”

“Because it was the night I met you,” you tell him, squeezing your tits together. His eyes are on your cunt, watching you get wet. One hand trails down to skirt through your bush, then you spread your lips open so he can get a better look, “I was already so fucking horny, nobody had touched me in months. Then I saw you. I wanted you.”

His eyebrows draw together in an expression that’s almost remorseful. The moment you saw each other for the first time wasn’t magical. It wasn’t cute. He probably doesn’t even remember it. He completely blew off your existence and went home with your roommate. You suspect if he could do it over and go home with you instead, he would. But it doesn’t matter.

“When I got home, I heard you fucking her,” you bring your middle and ring finger to touch your opening, then drag your slick up to start gently massaging your clit, letting a moan fall from your lips. You look up at him and notice how strained he is, specifically in his pants. You purr, “baby, take your clothes off.”

He nods and sits up, unbuttoning his shirt as he listens intently, eyes glued to your pussy as you draw circles around your swollen clit. The shirt comes off, then he starts working on his pants.

“I heard you fucking her and I couldn’t distract myself. It was driving me wild,” you grab the vibrator. Javi lays back down on your bed and squeezes some of the lube in his hand, then starts stroking himself. Clicking the vibrator on, you watch his face as you press the toy to the inside of your lips, whimpering at the change in sensation. The vibrations radiate all the way into your molten core and make your heart pump faster.

You moan as lust fills your body, then start to grind against the toy, confessing to him between whimpers and pants, “I-I touched myself… while listening to you fuck her. I went in my room- and and I fucked myself against the wall.”

The thrill of this repentance, paired with the waves of vibration against your cunt, have you on a different fucking planet. Your mouth falls open as you pleasure yourself in front of him. His cock looks so slick and good and you just want-

“Holy fuck, baby, come here,” he groans and grabs at you the best he can. You jump up so fast, it’s a wonder you don’t collapse on the fucking ground before clamoring on top of him. As soon as you’re straddling him, he bucks up into you. You let gravity take you all the way down, causing both of you release a strangled moan. You start rolling your hips, gasping at the pleasure of his cock filling you just fucking flawlessly on each thrust. The vibrator is still going in your hand, so you press it to your clit.

“I- I made myself cum listening to the two of you- fuck - the other side of the wall, wish- wishing I was her,” you sputter between labored breathes, “Ssso many nights I’ve wished- holy fuck- you were with me while I fucked th-this toy. But it doesn’t compare. N-nothing compares.”

He groans and grabs your face, pulling you in to kiss you with urgency, velvet tongue exploring yours. He draws back to pant against your mouth, “That’s so fucking hot. You’re so- you fuck me so good, babygirl- take me so well.”

“So good, daddy, so goood,” you mewl. He grabs a fistful of your hair and uses it as leverage to expose your throat, where he brushes circles onto your pulse with his tongue. Your mouth falls open and you lose control of your vocal function, sputtering and gasping out guttural noises, letting your body act on impulse, chasing the climax roiling inside you. With your free hand, you grab his shoulder and dig in your finger nails as you ride him faster now.

“You’re fucking incredible, baby, perfect. Sh-should’ve taken you home- I’m a fucking idiot,” he breathes, releasing your hair so both hands can move to your waist and hold you there while he starts slamming up into you faster, babbling now, “Pussy is fucking perfect, n-nothing compares, you’re right, nothing fucking compares-" he pulls you back down to kiss him as his hips stutter and he exhales a shaky moan against your mouth, then he cums inside you.

His praise liquifies and sinks down into the same molten core that’s being fed by his twitching cock, the vibrator, and it brings you over the edge. Your whole body quivers with ecstasy; you cum so hard you literally see stars at the tippy top of the orgasm. You cry out, not giving a single fuck that the neighbors can probably hear you through your open windows.

You collapse on top of him, absolutely glowing as you catch your breath. He hums and groans in satisfaction, wrapping his arms around you and pulling you in for a lazy kiss. Then you roll off and spread out beside him, flushed body covered in sweat. He turns and faces you with a smile, chest heaving, “Was that true?”

Now you finally start blushing and bury your face against his arm before squeaking, “yes.”

“Fuck, that’s hot,” he chuckles, scooping you up from your hiding spot to pull you closer. You rest your head on his chest, then start drawing arbitrarily in his belly with your fingertips. He brings his hand up to play with your hair. And you’re both content to do this… forever, it seems. It’s heaven in this peaceful bubble of affection.

“What time is the movie?” he rumbles into your hair.

From your very snug position nuzzled into his side, you mumble, “5:00. Is it time to go?”

He plants a kiss on your forehead and hums in the affirmative. Reluctantly, you both roll out of bed to get dressed. You slip on a short-sleeved babydoll dress adorned with light pink and lavender flowers. Javier is still buttoning his purple shirt up when you emerge from the closet, and you can’t help but notice the charming smile that spreads across his face.

“What?” you giggle while looking for the right color lipstick.

He saunters up behind you and wraps his arms around your waist, making eye contact with you through the mirror, “I think this is the most color I’ve ever seen on you.”

You spin around and clasp your hands behind his neck, meeting those gorgeous brown eyes that make you melt inside, then blush as you admit, “I wanted to wear it because it matches your shirt.”

His smile widens, flipping your stomach upside down. You get up on the balls of your feet to capture his lips in yours, then arch into him as his tongue sweeps against yours, sending a shiver down your spine. Your bodies fall so easily together like this; everything about being with him is natural. You pull back and meet his gaze again, “Ok I really do think we have to go now.”

“Hey we would be there already if you’d stop distracting me,” he jokes, throwing his hands up defensively.

Despite the “distractions” you make it to the theater with time to spare. After getting pop and popcorn, you start off to find the theater playing Armageddon, when you come across a photo booth. You stop outside of it and ask, “Can we…?”

He raises his eyebrows and smiles at you, “You want to? Sure.”

He snatches the popcorn from you and sets it down next to his pop on top of the machine, then puts a dollar into it. You clap excitedly and climb into the booth. Javi sits down next to you before closing the curtain.

You get the machine going and it starts taking photos as you both smile into the camera. Javi wraps an arm behind you then tickles your side, making you jump and start laughing like a hyena, which in turn makes him laugh.

“You’re the worst,” you grin. He tilts your chin in his direction, leading your mouth to his for a kiss, just something small and sweet at first. His languid tongue rolls against the seam of your lips and you pull on his shirt to bring him against you harder, meeting his tongue with yours. You get lost in him, entranced by the way the two muscles slide against each other, pausing periodically to breathe, then reinvigorating the kiss anew.

He paws at you while your hands roam from his hair all the way down to the top of his thighs, stopping at the fly of his jeans to press down on the bulge in his tight jeans. He groans quietly into your mouth and grabs the inside of your thigh, sending a shudder across your body. You instinctually spread your legs for him to get closer. His thumb starts skimming across the most sensitive part of your body, catching friction on the black lace underwear, making you whimper and arch your back towards him.

A knock comes from outside of the booth and it’s like you’re violently ripped from the lala-land of living with rose colored glasses on, enjoying heavy petting with your boyfriend  back into the boring reality land of sitting in a photo booth, now get your shit together, what are you, 16?

You both snap your legs shut and sit up straight, dazed from the whiplash of this teleportation. Javi pulls the curtain back, where a theater employee is staring at the two of you with her arms crossed, not amused at all.

“Hi, so sorry,” you smile sheepishly, entire face heating with embarrassment when you emerge from the booth after Javi.

She sighs and rolls her eyes, “Just… keep it in your pants until you get home, ok, kids?”

“Yes ma’am,” you nod obediently. Javier is finding this all very entertaining, suppressing a boyish grin.

The two of you are so out of it, you start to walk away empty-handed, until she beckons you back, “Y’all at least gonna take your stuff?”

A burst of laughter escapes you while Javi has to double back to grab the pop, popcorn, and photo strip. You snatch the photo strip away from him as soon as he catches up with you. There are four photos on the strip: cheesy smiling, laughing, smiling at each other, hot steamy kissy kiss. It’s very cute and it fills your heart with so much happiness it could burst at the seams.

“Which two are you going to take?” you ask, kicking your feet up on the back of the seat in front of you. The images are still in your clutches as you commit them to memory.

“Can we just take them again and both get one?” he asks after a long contemplative pause.

You raise your eyebrows and gape at him, “I don’t think we’re going to be allowed to go back in there.”

He groans playfully, “First Nico’s, now this? You’re getting me into so much trouble.”

“Oh my god, you started it, Javier,” you pause your bratty attitude to sidebar, “what’s your middle name?”

“Ferdinand”

This… rocks your world for some reason. If you were given infinite guesses, you never would have guessed correctly.

“Shut the fuck up, your middle name is not Ferdinand,” you howl with glee, a little too loudly, earning some side eye from patrons around you. Which… is fair.

He starts laughing, “It is, though,” and leans forward to take out his wallet, where he shows you his driver’s license, which, indeed, states JAVIER FERDINAND PEÑA.

“That’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me,” you smile from ear-to-ear, then clear your throat and resume your scolding, “Anyway, you started it Javier Ferdinand Peña, so don’t tell me I’m getting you into trouble.”

“Whatever you say, cariño,” he winks, then grabs a handful of popcorn and tosses a few kernels in his mouth. After swallowing, he points to the photos and tells you, “I want the bottom two.”

You beam at him and nod, fold the strip in half, then tear the flimsy photo paper in two. He puts his half of the photos in his wallet before returning it to his back pocket; you put yours in your purse.

Armageddon is entertaining. It’s full of clichés and kind of silly, but regardless, the ending makes you cry. You’re right in the middle of hoping that Javier doesn’t notice, when he grabs ahold of your hand, stroking his thumb against yours on occasion until the credits roll.

After the movie, he takes you to the Pour House. You’re grateful that the Wednesday night crowd is light and there aren’t any familiar faces present. Sometimes you forget that he’s your paramour. It doesn’t ever feel like that’s how it should be. You secretly wish he could take Dan’s place.

Javi approaches the bar and orders a whiskey from Gina, who grabs a glass.

“Can I get one, too?” you ask after pondering briefly.

Gina raises her eyebrow, but gets it for you regardless.

“I don’t usually drink straight liquor, except shots when I’m shitfaced, but you do it and it looks cool… so, I want to try,” you explain to Javi, who must think you are an extraordinary dork by now.

This makes him chuckle and shake his head at you in admiration. Gina returns with your drinks. Javi sits across from you in a booth and watches with amusement as you take a sip and grimace, “What the fuck, why do you do this to yourself?”

“Well this whiskey is… not great, first of all,” he takes a long sip, you suspect it’s just to show off, then continues, “But I’m more used to the taste so it’s probably just not as…” he trails off, trying to find the right word.

“Gross?” you offer.

He raises his eyebrows appraisingly and shrugs, confirming your word choice, “Gross.”

“Will you show me what ‘good whiskey’ is, then?” another sip passes through your lips and burns the whole way down into your belly. You gag.

He smiles and nods, “I’d love to.”

After you go back to Gina and ask her to add some ginger ale to your whiskey, she agrees, and barely gives you shit about it. Sliding back into the sticky booth, you ask Javi, “What did you think of Armageddon?”

“I liked it. Kind of cheesy, but fun.”

You agree, nodding, “A little bit predictable. But… obviously it got to me.”

“The romance was grossly cliché,” he admits, then waits for your thoughts. He lights a cigarette and offers one to you, which you accept.

“Why?” you frown.

“So there’s one woman on an oil rig and she just happens to find a soulmate in her dad’s protégé?,” he shrugs, “I just think if there were more women it would be different. Resource scarcity.”

You take a drag, twirling the words around in your brain to figure out how you feel. You sigh, “I don’t know. I mean, I guess there’s no way to know. Maybe it was fate that they both ended up being on the oil rig. If we’re subscribing to the idea of soulmates, we can subscribe to the idea of fate, right? To me, at least, they both sound too much like destiny to be coincidence, ya know?”

He furrows his brow, nodding thoughtfully, then leans forward across the table and swallows hard, “Do you ever feel like it was fate that we met again?”

You’re feeling dangerously open and vulnerable, so you throw caution to the wind and tell him, “I do. I think it was in San Antonio, too. The first- erm, well, second time I talked to you, it was like,” you snap your fingers, “instant. I felt comfortable with you immediately. That doesn’t happen for me with anyone.”

He shifts uncomfortably in his seat and looks down at his drink, “There’s so much bad that came before this. So many bad things I’ve done, things I’ve seen. I don’t know how… my life could lead to anything good. Why would it? That’s unfair for good people. I don’t… I don’t deserve good,” his gaze turns up to meet yours and there’s so much pain in those warm eyes, “But you’re good. You’re so good. And it doesn’t make any fucking sense. That is, unless the universe is chaos.”

These words sit in your head for a minute as you absorb them, trying to understand and formulate a response. You could point out that you're not so good, for a plethora of reasons. However, you understand that you're drawing conclusions about yourselves and each other based on heavy biases. That being said, you cannot comprehend him being anything but wonderful.   

Finally, you take a deep breath and say, “I refuse to believe it’s all happenstance. I… I wish you could see how good you are. I don’t think there’s a deity keeping a score sheet of your decisions, tracking their moral judgments on everything you do. Everyone deserves love and belonging. You do, too,” you take a sip of your drink, drag of your cigarette, then continue, “And besides, the bad that you’re talking about… don’t you think you’ve learned from it? You don’t work for the DEA anymore, and you tried your best to rectify the situation when you were still in it, which are pretty big indicators that you did learn from your mistakes. And you’re a better man for it-“

“Yeah, ok,” he scoffs, then juts his jaw and glares at his whiskey, “While I sit here and revel in the fact that I’m a ‘better man’ because I ‘learned a lesson,’ there are people that are fucking dead,” he bites off. You flinch back like he spit in your face.

The words hang in the air for a moment before you react, snipping at him, “Yeah. They’re fucking dead. What can you do about it? Didn’t you already do what you could?” He says nothing, just sulks and signals for Gina to bring more drinks. You stare at him sternly, hard eyes searching his face as he looks around at anything but you, “You can’t do anything else for them, Javier. You don’t need to make yourself fucking miserable for them. Why keep punishing yourself?”

His eyes snap to yours. You just stare at each other and marinade in the wake of this spat, eyes slowly softening as your tempers go from a boil to a simmer. Gina sets your drinks on the table and walks away. Your hand extends across the table to him, then he releases his breath and reaches out to hold it. As your eyebrows knit together, you search his face and tell him earnestly, “You’re not that person anymore. You’re good, I know you are. And you deserve good things.”

He squeezes your hand, neither of you realizing that it’s the injured one until you yelp in pain. Apologies pour out of his mouth as you assure him you’re ok. The two of you sit there for a while, lost in thought, not really paying any attention to the fact that your hands remain intertwined across the table.

You’re zoning out, wondering if maybe there’s something you said that was out of line. Probably. You gave unsolicited advice and dove too hard into aspects of his life you don’t have any right to discuss. And then… he snapped at you. He raised his voice. Is this when he starts to realize he doesn’t want you anymore? When it dawns on him that you’re a fun plaything whose allure has faded? Safe to use temporarily but will attach itself if used too frequently?

I’m catastrophizing. Javi isn’t that kind of a person.

The sound of Javi calling your name pulls you out of your thoughts. You shake your head like an etch-a-sketch, “Sorry, what?”

“I’m sorry for getting upset with you,” he sighs, takes a sip of his drink, and admits, “It’s… it’s difficult for me to find myself deserving. To forgive myself.”

You nod knowingly, “It is hard. I struggle with it all the time.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you say quietly, stomach churning while you try to decide if you should delve into it further.

Is it too much? Am I revealing too much?

“What’s wrong?”

You frown and look down at your free hand, then start picking at your nail polish, “I just… never really know if I’m getting too much into things people don’t want to talk about with me. I don’t know when to stop. Then I go too far, like I just did, past peoples comfort zone and…” you gesture to him, “that happens. Then I sit and ruminate on it for… days. How I shouldn’t have said anything. I should mind my own business. Shut the fuck up,” you scoff at yourself, then sigh, “Anyway, yeah, I know how it feels to not find worth in yourself. How hard it is to forgive yourself. It’s fucking hard . Easier said than done, am I right?”

He nods, mumbling in agreement, “Easier said than done,” then he frowns and looks up at you, “Me blowing up wasn’t about you stepping over a line, cariño. If I don’t want to talk about something, I won’t. And… as someone who has been told to shut the fuck up, I don’t know, hundreds of times,” he chuckles, causing your spirits to lift and a smile to crack across your face, “please don’t shut the fuck up. I want you to feel safe… to be exactly who you are. I adore you.”

I adore you.

“Ok,” your smile widens until it can’t anymore, “Ok, I can do that. You’ll regret it when I talk at you about crows for an hour straight though, I promise.”

He clicks his tongue, “I’m sorry, when you, what now?” he laughs, tilting his head at you with curiosity.

“Like how, for instance, I have crows that visit me every day, and I feed them, so they bring me shiny gifts.” you inform him, rubbing the back of your neck.

“Wh- why do they do that?” he leans in towards you, taking the bait.

You clap excitedly and lean in, too, “Well, see, the thing about crows is…”

[ Next Chapter ]

#javier peña x fem!reader #javier peña x you #javier peña x reader #javier peña x ofc #javier peña #javier pena #javier pena fanfiction #javi pena #narcos fanfiction #narcos fic #javier pena x reader #pedro pascal characters #pedrostories #narcos #pedro pascal #javi peña #javi peña x reader #pedro pascal fanfiction #jdett

[rypnami]

Into the Snake Pit (part 1)

Characters: Solomon Sallow x Alice Bernadotte (f!OC)

Word Count: 1.04k

Rating: PG-13

Warnings: Death, general trauma, Solomon is kind of a bitch but that’s nothing new, major character death, cult mentions

Summary: In 1874, Solomon Sallow is an Auror. Partnered with Alice Bernadotte, a girl who’s been a thorn in his arse since their Hogwarts days, it seems like his job can’t get any harder. Until a new, powerful cult emerges, the Minister for Magic disappears, and he gets closer to Alice then he would care to admit.

“You know, Alice, some of us actually want to do well at our jobs!” He snapped at her, finally finding the page he’d been looking for.

“Oooh, ouch! Someone is in a bad mood today!” Alice snickered and sat back on his desk, despite the warning only moments before to not sit on the bloody desk. “What’s it this time? Alastair up your hole again?”

Solomon grimaced at the mention of his brother, but said nothing.

It was another slow, boring day at work. The absence of Dark Wizards to chase might seem like a positive thing to others, but for Solomon, that just meant he was stuck going over paperwork and filing reports for the day.

Things were going fine, for the most part, until a brief but powerful gust of wind swept through his office and scattered his papers everywhere. 

“Oh, for the love of-” He was inside; wind should not be an issue, surely. “Stupid bloody-!” He stood and turned toward his desk to grab his wand, and… “Ah. It’s you.”

Alice Bernadotte was perched on the edge of his desk, a look of mock-innocence on her face as she kicked her feet like some goddamn toddler. She twirled her wand between her fingers and grinned.

“I know you did that.”

She tilted her head, her ginger curls spilling off a shoulder. “Did what?” She asked, in a poor attempt at feigning innocence. 

“Messed up my papers!” Solomon growled. “And get off my desk. I’ve told you not to sit there at least a dozen times…” 

With a shrug, Alice slid off the desk, her boots making an annoying click as they hit the stone floors beneath her. Solomon could swear she deliberately stomped her feet a bit harder as she landed, just to mess with him. 

He snatched his wand from its place on his desk and cast a quick charm to re-organise his papers. This woman, I swear to Merlin. 

As long as he’d known her, Alice had always been like this. From their time in Hogwarts, to training to become Aurors, and even now, when he’d gotten stuck with her as his partner on the job, she seemed to like pushing the envelope. To see just how far she could go with her shenanigans before someone eventually got pissed off. In his case, that was happening with more frequency. 

Still leaning against the table, she watched him with an amused expression, her eyebrows slightly raised. “I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about, Solomon.” The mischievous sparkle in her blue-grey eyes gave her away, though.

“Fine, fine. You don’t know what I’m talking about.” He rolled his eyes and bit back a scathing remark. You have to remain professional until the work day is up. Then you can shout at her all you like. Hmph. Not like she’s ever bothered to remain professional on the job.

She just kept grinning, that infuriating, obnoxious little smile of hers, clearly attempting to hold back a laugh as he sifted through the papers, trying to find where he’d left off. Some report on a Pureblood Supremacist cult or something like that…  “Oh, wonderful. I’ve lost my place.”

Alice was giggling now, incredibly pleased with herself. “You’ll find it again. Live a little, Sallow.”

Solomon chose not to respond, and instead tossed one of his ornate wooden paperweights at her. She dodged, now laughing so hard she was bent over and holding her stomach.

“You know, Alice, some of us actually want to do well at our jobs!” He snapped, finding the page he’d been looking for. 

She snorted. “Oooh, wow, someone is in a bad mood today!” She stepped closer and plucked a few of his papers from his hands, pretending to read them. “What is it this time? Alastair been up your hole again?”

He grimaced at the mention of his brother, but said nothing. In his opinion, his family matters were none of Alice’s concern.The one time, one time, he had somehow decided to spend time with Alice outside of work, he’d gotten loaded on Firewhisky and practically spilled his guts about all of his family troubles. Since that night, Alice would constantly bring it up. Just another one of his buttons that she liked to push. 

“Fine, don’t say anything. Keep brooding, I don’t care.”

Solomon yanked the papers back from her and gave her another dark look, shuffling them back into his stack. “Damn kids…” He muttered to himself. “Don’t know when to stop prying.”

Alice burst out into a fit of raucous laughter. “Kids??? Kids? I’m the same age as you!”

“I’m three months older!” He shot back.

“Oh, three months, yeah. Big difference. Compared to you, I’m just a wee little kid, right?” Her tone was sarcastic, but she still was giggling. 

“You act like one,” Solomon glowered. 

That just made her laugh even more. “Ha! True!” 

Hmph. Not the reaction he’d been hoping for. Perhaps owning up to her childish behaviour and acting more her age? Too much to expect from her, really. 

He placed his paper stack back on his desk as Alice made another grab for them, and he smacked her hand away. “Don’t. Touch. Those.”

“Why? We are partners, you know.” 

“Ugh. Don’t remind me.”

Completely ignoring him, as per usual, she grabbed the top sheet and read it. “Hmmm… ‘The Purists,’ eh?” She glanced over the top of the paper, eyebrows raised once again. The lenses of her glasses seemed to glint in the torchlight. “Seems like a nasty group of people…”

That was true. From the preliminary reports left on Solomon’s desk that morning, they seemed like a very dangerous bunch. A new-ish cult, formed by a man called Anthony Kane, they were dedicated to “keeping wizard blood pure” and eliminating those deemed beneath them. Essentially, anyone who didn’t have at least 5 past generations of purebloods. Groups like them would pop up every few years, and typically went down very quickly, but this one was hanging on. They were meaner, more violent, than previous pureblood supremacist groups.

“I’m not worried,” Solomon grumbled. “Dozens of groups like this have cropped up over the years. Never last long.”

“Yeah…” Alice went back to reading. “But how many of them murdered an entire wing of Aurors in just two days?” Her eyes widened as she got further down the page. “Oh, bloody hell, they’re who killed Vivianne Blackthorne?” Her eyes met Solomon’s, and for the first time in the years he’d known her, he detected a hint of fear in her usually upbeat demeanour. He nodded wordlessly. 

Alice chewed her bottom lip, clearly deep in thought. “I reckon we’re absolutely fucked, then.”

#sallow sunday #hogwarts legacy #hogwarts legacy oc #hogwarts legacy fic #fanfic #harry potter #hp fandom #harry potter fic #sebastian sallow #slytherin #gryffindor #solomon sallow

[earninganincomplete]

Venti Latte

Summary: You are out on a date with Venti, and her mood seems off, somehow.

Rating: G

Characters: Unnamed Builder, Venti

Pairing: Venti/you

A/N: For some reason I decided to do second person present tense.

Venti normally had plenty to say, but that night she only occasionally pipes up to share her thoughts. You don’t like to talk much, so it's slightly uncomfortable trying to lead the conversation.

At first, you assume she’s had an especially tiring day salvaging. Even with the best possible tools, it’s intense, physical work. She usually seems to draw energy from the garbage she sifts through, but tonight is an exception.

“Venti, are you all right?” Maybe she’s sick.

“Oh!” She immediately brightens, but there’s a plastic fakeness to it. “I’m great! Sorry. I don’t know where my head is!”

“If you’re tired, let’s just call it early.” It’s a shame, since you’re both so busy.

“No, no! Please don’t.” She reaches across the table and grips your arm. “I don’t want that. Can’t we just sit together? I’m sorry I’m not my usual chipper Venti self.”

You rest your hand on hers. “You don’t have to be. Just be yourself, okay? I was just worried you were coming down with something.”

“Peach, I hope not,” she says. “Nah, I’m just. I don’t know. Thinking. ‘Bout stuff maybe I shouldn’t.”

“And you don’t want to talk? That’s okay.”

She stares at your hand on hers, biting her lip.

You don’t know her as well as you want to. You’ve been dating for seasons, now, but you are both working so hard, it feels like you are still just a little better than acquaintances. You want everything, but all you have are scraps.

You wish life wasn’t so hectic, and that your work was just important, and not necessary like it is at the moment. Sandrock is bleeding out and you are part of the medical team struggling to keep its heart beating.

You need a vacation.

“I guess I’m just kind of worried,” Venti says, quiet.

With the way your thoughts are turning, you assume you know what she means. “About the water,” you say.

“No, I—” she breaks off, laughing. “Well, yeah! Pile that on too, I guess.” She sighs and retrieves her hand. “Can we go? Someplace quiet? I really want to see the stars right now. If that’s okay.”

You nod, and the two of you head out of the Blue Moon, hand in hand. She takes you to one of the higher points near your workshop, and you both lay down on the rocks and sandgrass.

The sky is clear; the stars bright. Sometimes dark shapes flutter across the moon. Clouds seem to race to escape the dry air of the desert. You can’t remember if it’s been two or three seasons since the last rain.

“I lied to you,” Venti says. “I just wanted to be close to you so bad, but…” she trails off.

“Is this about when we snuck in to the salvage yard? You know that didn’t bug me. I was just worried about you.”

“No, it’s not – well, maybe. Partially. I just – it’s so hard to explain what’s it’s like, you know? What everything was like for me, before Sandrock. I’m so happy here, but it all feels so fake, sometimes.”

“Does it?” You struggle to think what she means. You want to fix what’s making her miserable. You’ve always struggled with how some problems had to be “fixed” with sitting and listening, not by doing. If Venti needs a chair or a better axe to solve her problems, you’d help in a flash.

“I just had these dreams, you know? Getting to have a house someplace that’s not a dumpster. Having a job that pays good. Maybe running a business of my own. Meeting someone great and they’d be…” She covers her face with her hands. “Someone like you! And it is so great, better than I imagined. Even without the house and kids and a little cafe where I can stand behind the counter and wash mugs and talk to customers. I’m still happier now than I ever thought I would get to be.” She pulls her hands away from her face and smiles. Her eyes are wet. “I have such a big family, now! Pebbles calls me Auntie Venti and Krystal always wants to help me pick out clothes for when we go out, and, and – there’s you.”

She sniffs. You fumble to find a cloth, and eventually pull a scrap piece out of your pocket she can wipe her eyes on.

“I kind of love you,” she says. “And them. And all the people in town, even!” She blows her nose loudly on the cloth. “And the only reason I get to be here instead of someone else is ‘cause I’m a liar.”

“Maybe you’d feel better if you were honest with me about it, at least?” You’re still not sure what she’s talking about. “I can’t say I won’t be mad, but I can’t imagine ever hating you.”

“That’s what you say now.” She sighs. “But, okay.” She sits up and leans back on a rock outcropping.

A gust of wind sends sand scattering. You worry there will be a sandstorm soon, but right now it’s just pretty when the moonlight hits the particulates.

“I already told you how I got into school that one time, right? And then I used some weird stuff they said there to impress Rocky and get this job.”

“I don’t think he cares.” He had probably already guessed that Venti wasn’t a financial expert. “He knows you’re a hard worker. He told me himself you’re one of the best.”

“Did he? Aw! That’s sweet. I think if I don’t mess up again, my job will be okay. It’s actually...something else I’m trying to figure out how to talk about. I think I just want you to understand me. And like how everything good I have is ‘cause I’m a sneaky liar.”

“Everything I have right now is because my parents helped me at the start,” you say. “You didn’t have someone who could do that for you.”

“That’s what I always told myself, too! 'Venti, if you’re going to have anything, you have to take it!' Everything was free in the garbage dump. Because it was worthless. I didn’t want that. To be worthless forever. I can’t feel guilty about doing what I had to. To eat real food every day and sleep in an actual bed and not have to worry about clouds of noxious fumes from the garbage making me feel sick all the time. I can’t feel bad about it. Even if Rocky and everyone is so nice and so good to me now. I just can’t.”

“You shouldn’t. Do you?”

“Not as much as I should if I was a good person.” She flings her arms in the air and makes a frustrated noise. “I know I’m not making sense! I’m sorry.” She settles down. “That’s not even what I wanted to tell you. You know that already.”

You set your hand on her calf and squeeze. You’re still on your back. “Just say it.”

“I know.” She rubs her forehead. “I know! Okay. It’ll be fine, Venti.” She grits her teeth and braces against the rock. When she speaks again, it’s in a rush of words. “I don’t like yakmel milk!”

You think you misheard. “Pardon?”

“I don’t hate it! But it’s just kind of weird tasting and I don’t like it! I wish everyone would stop giving it to me. But I lied! I lied to you and everyone and said I liked it! That I loved it!”

“What? Why?”

“So you’d like me! Rocky likes milk; the other salvagers like it – all the real Sandrockers like it. I thought if I said I didn’t want any, everyone would stop wanting to hang out with me.” She’s tearing up again. “I just wanted to belong somewhere that wasn’t a trash bin. I didn’t want anyone to go, ‘oh, you want to invite Venti? She’s so boring and she never wants to get drinks with us.’”

“You could just drink something else, couldn’t you?” It strikes you that you’re trying to logic your way out of an emotional issue, again. You’re not even trying to fix the right problem. “I don’t think they’d be like that. I figured out you weren’t that into milk when I saw how you looked at me whenever I gave you some. I saw the difference when I got you coffee. Your face would just light up.” You finally sit up, too, so you can look at her properly. She’s beautiful. “I wanted to spend more time with you.”

Covered in dirt, tear tracks on her face, a wad of scrap cloth in her hand – you want to kiss her every time you see her. You think it’s the bright light in her eyes that makes her so beautiful. Even when she’s upset you can see it glimmering. That strong, indefatigable hope. She’d been born at the bottom of the world, seeing sky in cracks between mountains of garbage. The sky was open to her now. You never wanted to see that light go out.

“I know,” she says, quiet. “I know you want to...be with me, now. But I feel like I tricked you. Into this. Because I wanted to be like you, or with you, or...both?”

“I think I could’ve cared for you, even if you told me right away you didn’t like milk.”

She snorts. “I know it sounds stupid. I know that.”

“Even if you had to trick me to get to know you. I’m glad you did. I’d want you to do it again.”

“It’s not just the milk, though,” she admitted. “It’s everything. The milk’s just, like, the obvious thing. Sometimes I’m not that optimistic or cheerful about things. But I pretend I am. Because I can’t do anything else. I’m so...I’m so, so scared this crisis or the next one is going to ruin everything. Rocky will have to close shop and we’ll all move. I have a real job to put on my resume now, so I’m not worried about finding more work, anymore. But I love this place. These people. Even if they don’t know me or like me, I care about them. I don’t want this all to go away. It feels like home here.”

You sidle over so you can put your arm around her. “I’m scared, too.”

“Oh no! You too? You’re always so confident. And at least you can help do something about all these things that keep happening, unlike me.”

“I’m sorry,” you say, “I lie sometimes, too. This was just a contract job, but the longer I'm here, the more I want to live here the rest of my life.”

“Yeah. It’s really good, isn’t it? Like, good good.” She buries her head in her knees. “Everyone says it’s okay to be scared. It doesn’t feel okay.”

“Yeah.”

She sighs. “I’m sorry if I made you feel like you had to be confident around me all the time. Good job, Venti. I know you’re a person and not, like, just someone for me to look up to.”

You nod. “When I’m working, it’s easy to be confident. So I’m not constantly afraid. But I feel it too, that same fear you do. I think that fear is more what makes you a Sandrocker right now than what you drink.”

She rests her weight against you. “It’s that we care, right? Listen to me! Acting like I’m from here, or something.”

“If you were just worried about the future, I’d say you could come back and live with me and my parents until I signed another contract. I’m sure wherever I went next would have salvaging work.”

“You’d want me to go with you?”

“I know it’s pretty early for that, but, yes. I would.”

“That does make me feel better, actually.” She knocks against your shoulder. “I would miss Rocky and Krystal and little Pebbles and Fei and even Peck...oh! And Amirah and her brother at the shop and Owen is always so nice to me and everyone. I wish we could stay with everyone forever, right here.”

“It could work out,” you say.

“But it’s too much about luck, right? Who knows when a big disaster will be too big to come back from.”

“Hey. Maybe it’ll be good luck, next time.”

“Maybe. I must be worried because I’ve been feeling too lucky lately. I’m so happy right now.”

“Me too.”

“I’m sorry I lied. Even if I’m not sorry if it made you like me.”

“I’m sorry I lied,” you say. “Unless it was the only reason you wanted to be my friend.”

“It’s not,” she says. She laughs. “You’re real pretty, too.”

You smile at that. “We didn’t have to worry, did we? Not about being friends. Because we’re both so beautiful.”

“Beautiful people like us are always attracted to each other! We’re like magnets.”

You nod. After a brief silence, you continue, “Let’s be more honest from now on.”

“Well, I’ll do my best.”

“Me too,” you say. You found yourself less concerned about the current crisis. If this place ends up not being able to be home, maybe Venti can be one with you.

But you aren’t going to give up on this place, either.

She looks up at you, finally meeting your eyes. She takes a deep breath, grabs the sides of your face with the palms of her hands, and pulls you towards her, into a kiss. The wind picks up and the air is sharply cool against your bare skin. Her hands and lips are warm and all your anxiety and hope fades away into the moment.

#mtas #mtas venti #fanfic #my time at sandrock

[queer-charming]

1000 Words - Part 4 - SFW

Rating: SFW

Words: 3.2k

Warnings: Language

Synopsis: Chuuya requests that you personally come to his office to receive his report on his latest mission over a glass of wine. Feelings ensue.

P.s. Part 5 (The final part) will have NSFW content, this is just a pre-emptive warning :)

~~~~~~~~~

Meeting in the kitchen for coffee after everyone else in the building had gone home became a regular occurrence, at least during report season. Just another reason you’d started looking forward to them. When you and Chuuya had started this little habit, it had been day 3 of that report season, and you two had done it again on day 4, then day 5, day 6 and finally on day 7. The meetings were full of all kinds of chatting, whether it was more telling of stories or talking about the day’s the two of you had had, of course Chuuya’s recounting of his day was always far more interesting in yours. He actually went out into the field, you sat at a desk reading about other operatives who went out into the field. Over the next 4 weeks while you waited for the next report season, you found yourself growing restless, it was too quiet in your apartment, and by too quiet you meant there weren’t enough firey redheads around to liven up your day. You found yourself thinking about Chuuya far more than you should, especially for someone determined to maintain their feelings as platonic. You were fairly certain trying to imagine what he’d look like shirtless did not count as platonic. (Didn’t stop you from doing it though)

Today was the third day of the new report season and you were antsy in your office, unable to focus on a report for longer than a few minutes before your mind started to drift to a certain redhead. You knew he’d just gotten back from a 4-day mission alongside the ADA, somehow the flimsy alliance between your two organizations had yet to crumble, and he was bound to have quite the report for you. As if on cue, there was a knock on your office door.

“Come in.” You said, making an effort to look busy at your desk, even though you’d had the same report open in front of you for about 10 minutes and had only managed to read the first two sentences. The door opened to reveal one of the mail clerks, he looked utterly exhausted and utterly over walking from office to office delivering envelopes and messages.

“Tonight’s new reports, ma’am.” He said, swiftly handing you a stack of maybe 5 or so envelopes before quickly making his exit. You felt bad for him. Sure, you stayed late too but at least you got sit down while you did. You sifted through the new stack of reports, unconsciously searching for that handwriting you knew so well, and you weren’t surprised when you found it, however, despite the fact that Chuuya had been gone on this mission for 4 days, the envelope felt strangely light, hardly like 4 days’ worth of writing. You popped the seal on the envelope, pulling out only one sheet of paper, folded neatly. There was no way this was the final report, some if it had to be missing right?

You unfolded the parchment, reading its contents.

“Mission number – 36248 – was a success! Well aside from the fact that I had to deal with that asshat Dazai again. This whole cease fire thing is really starting to grate on my nerves, can’t wait for the day when I can finally plant my fist right into that mackerel’s face without worrying about Mori getting all pissy that I bruised his favorite waste of space. Anyway, the night started pretty normally, Dazai was yapping about something, tiger boy and Akutagawa were having a shouting match every five minutes and my ever growing migraine made its grand return.”

Despite the fact that Chuuya was notoriously ill tempered and abrasive, you were surprised at his way with words. He was so concise and ordered, hardly ever missing a beat, and recounting events like he was reliving them.

“Our purpose there was to infiltrate the headquarters of a rival organization, one hell bent on dismantling both the Port Mafia and the ADA, hence why I was stuck with babies first detective agency. I swear every time I get roped into one of these missions, I feel less like a Port Mafia executive and more like a glorified baby sitter. I don’t get paid enough for this.” That was a lie, you knew he got paid plenty. “Said headquarters were located inside an abandoned mine, just south of Yokohama, isolated enough that me making a few bangs wouldn’t disturb the general peace but close enough to take less than a few hours to get there. Not gonna lie, it was pretty nice out there, quiet, isolated, without the added bandaged freak I might have even considered getting a place somewhere similar. Anyway, we infiltrated the mine at approx. 10:00pm. It wasn’t hard, exterminate a few pesky guards, avoid some less than top notch security, expose some snob nosed assholes to the force of gravity and bingo! Done. Or so I thought, but of course there’s some extra fun anytime the ADA is involved. But now that I think about it, I think I’m having a hard time remembering all of the details at this moment…

I guess you’ll just have to come to my office, and I’ll tell you in person.

P.s. Bring wine.

-Chuuya.”

You stared at the letter for what must have been a solid five minutes, reading the last few lines over and over again before a smile found it’s way onto your lips. You should be annoyed, irritated that it was taking so long to get the full story on such an important mission, but you couldn’t bring yourself to be mad, or even close to it. In fact, you were downright giddy as you thought about what type of wine to take. You were beginning to think running into Chuuya in the kitchen days ago was the best thing to happen to you in a long time.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Chuuya’s office was just past the kitchen, you got lost a few times trying to navigate the winding hallways of the Port Mafia building. Eventually though, you did find yourself standing outside office 9-B, an aged vintage red wine in your hands, gripping the neck of the bottle probably a little tighter than needed due to your trembling hands. Why were you so nervous? Chuuya was a friend. This is what friends do. There was nothing intimidating about this, there was no reason for you to be so nervous. Your little internal monologue did little to sooth your overactive nerves. It wasn’t like you hadn’t been alone with Chuuya before, you’d been alone with him just about every night this week, so what made this different?

You knew exactly what made this different. This wasn’t a communal kitchen, this wasn’t somewhere where at any moment anyone could walk in, this was a private space… Chuuya’s private space. It was intimate. This was new, and it was new very fast, it wasn’t exchanging letters or spending the evening in a kitchen under the illusion of being alone with Chuuya, the second you stepped through this door, you were going to be truly alone with him, and that kicked the air from your lungs and made your heart feel like it was going to hurtle out of your chest at any moment. You took a breath to steel yourself, Chuuya would notice you were nervous and there was no way in hell that you wanted that. Once the trembling in your hands had settle somewhat, you raised one, knocking on the door a simple three times, waiting only a moment before the door swung open, revealing a very exhausted looking but very pleased looking Chuuya. You stood a moment, taking him in, he was dressed differently than you’d seen him before, trading his typical formal field attire for simple but well-fitting trousers and an equally well fitting, very well fitting you might add, sweater; he looked like a man who was here because he had to be, not because he wanted to be. When you realized you were staring, you quickly looked away before handing him the bottle in your hands.

“Figured you for liking a good vintage.” You said, trying to keep your voice as even as possible in the presence of a man whose intense gaze made you feel like you needed to sit down for a little bit.

“You figured correctly.” He responded, easily taking the bottle from you, and stepping aside to let you in. You gazed around the spacious office as you stepped inside, honestly it seemed less like an office and more like a full on living space, two decently sized couches nudged against a far corner, a large flat screen television mounted to the wall across from them, numerous potted plants very clearly well maintained, on the other side what seemed to be a bar of some sort, you could identify a clearly impressive collection of different kinds of liquors, though most of them seemed to be rarely touched. Chuuya seemed to notice your gaze, his eyes following where you were looking. “I’m not much of a hard liquor man, not really built for it.” He said as he popped the cork on the wine you had brought, opening a cabinet, and procuring two obviously expensive red wine glasses. You turned your attention to the other side of the bar, where your eyes caught something peculiar.

“I’m guessing you like community coffee more than your own?” You joked, pointing toward the clearly expensive and well used coffee maker on the far end of the bar. He glanced at the piece of machinery before glancing back at you.

“The night I met you I had run out of coffee to use here.” He explained. That made sense.

“And the nights after?” You asked. He looked at you a long moment before settling on his answer.

“I still have yet to replenish my supply.” You simply hummed. In the center of the room was his desk, it was large, not nearly as big as Mori’s, but it was certainly bigger than yours, behind it was a wall of floor to ceiling windows with one of the most beautiful scenes of the cityscape you’d ever seen. You stared out at the city you’d called home for so many years, it was just before sundown, the normally clear blue sky highlighted and dyed in a cacophony of pinks, oranges and violets as the sun began to sink beyond the horizon, giving the ocean the most picture-perfect glimmer.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Chuuya’s voice pulled your attention away from the window as he handed you a glass of wine, your fingers just barely grazing his gloved ones in the exchange, but that little touch was enough to send your heart racing, and you really hoped he couldn’t tell. Chuuya looked out at the skyline, his eyes seemingly following the sun’s descent past the edge of the water. “The office was a gift from Mori after Dazai defected, an attempt to make sure I stayed right where he wanted me, not like I would have followed that bandaged bastard anyway.” Chuuya talked big, he always did, but if there was anything you’d learned about him over the last several months, it was that Dazai’s leaving was still very much a sore subject. Your eyes traced the planes of his face, the lines of his cheekbones, the straight edge of his nose, the deep set of his eyes. The way the colors of the setting sun reflected on his skin, made his hair look so firey you thought it might actually burn you if you touched it. You wondered, for only a moment, what it would be like to card your fingers through it, before you returned to you senses, ripping your eyes away from him and back out the window.

“Mori’s lucky to have you.” You found yourself saying, once again training your eyes back to Chuuya, but this time, instead of looking out at the horizon, he was looking at you. He seemed to think about your words for a moment.

“At least someone is.” There was a certain sadness is his tone. ‘I’m lucky to have you.’ You wanted to say, but by some stroke of luck managed to hold your tongue. “Anyway,” Chuuya’s loud change in tone jolted you as he walked over to sit at his desk, motioning you to take a seat across from him. “About the rest of that report.” And like that, the seriousness of the moment was gone, replaced by the familiarity you’d come to love so much, but it also left a curiosity on your tongue. Chuuya had so many walls up, and you had only just barely started chipping away at them.

“So, what happened in the mine?” You asked, taking a sip of your wine as you crossed one leg over the other, leaning back in your chair. “Sounds like it should have been open and shut.”

“It should have been,” Chuuya sighed, bringing his own wine glass to his lips. “However, a certain ability user managed to get in the way of that.”

“What was his ability?”

“Illusion.” Chuuya’s tone betrayed the clear annoyance at the memory of this particular foe. “Specifically, manifesting the images of enemies that didn’t even fucking exist, had us shooting at smoke.”

“Can’t Dazai,” You had to keep the smile off your face at the way Chuuya’s contorted at the mention of his ex-partner. “Nullify any ability?” You finished. You knew very little about Dazai, as did most people, but you at least knew what his ability was, considering it was one of the things that made him so dangerous.

“Yes… and 80% of the time he uses it to annoy me in particular,” Chuuya explained. “However, in order for Dazai to be able to do anything but be a thorn in my side in this case, he needed to come in physical contact with the ability user in question, and we couldn’t figure out where he was.”

“Which is why the mission ended up taking 4 days.” You connected.

“We eventually found him, holed up in the base of the mine behind a rock wall, he had security cameras that gave him a view of everything going on outside and topside.” Chuuya traced the edge of his wine glass with one of his fingers, your eyes following the movement. “However, by the time we’d found him, most of my men, and the ADA, were out of ammo, and in order to get more we would have had to go back up to the surface, and who knows what this guy would do if we left him and I wasn’t about to let Akutagawa go and bring the whole mine down on our heads with his knack of turning humans into pulp.. along with any structures they may be inside, so yours truly cleared up the problem.” Your eyes snapped back up to Chuuya’s face.

“Do I want to know how?”

“Probably not.” It was here that you noticed the startling lack of light in the room, the sun had completely gone down, instead the moon hung high in the sky, framing Chuuya’s hair like a halo. It took your breath away. “(y/n)?” You jolted slightly when he said your name, you realized you’d been staring.

“Any casualties?” You asked, your voice wavering a little, but if Chuuya noticed he didn’t mention it.

“No, well except our favorite illusionist, he is very dead.” You chuckled lightly, and despite the low light, you could see the smile on Chuuya’s face. Love was too strong of a word, it didn’t fit right now, but there was definitely something close stirring in your chest as you looked at him, how the hell had you gone a year without talking to this man? Just reading his reports and calling it a day, these last few months have made you realize just how much you wished you had sent that first reply sooner. Fuck not supposed to have feelings, you failed that task miserably the first day you met him. You had feelings and there was nothing you could do about it.

Making the decision to leave Chuuya’s office had been a hard one, but eventually he’d convinced you that you should get some sleep.

“You look exhausted.” He’d said as he put away your now empty wine glasses.

“Says you.” You quipped.

“Hey!” Chuuya tried to sound mock offended. You gave him a look that said, ‘am I wrong?’ and he sighed. “Okay what if I made you a deal,” He started, approaching you again. “If you go home and go to bed, I promise I am not far behind you, and we’ll both come back tomorrow fresh as daisies.” You laughed at the suggestion, you were tempted to accept it, just to make sure he at least got some sleep.

“I still have so much work to do, Chuuya.” You explained.

“We all have work to do (y/n), if you go to bed, I promise I will personally come help you catch up tomorrow.”

“Do you even know how to do my job?” You asked.

“What, think I can’t read some reports?” It was at this moment you realized just how close the two of you had gotten, he was standing directly in front of you, so close you could feel his breath on your skin, could feel his body heat. You could tell when he noticed too, you saw when his eyes flickered from yours to your lips, and for a second you thought he was going to kiss you. If you just moved that much closer, just a fraction of effort and then…

The knock at the door is what made you two jump apart, Chuuya laying a hand flat on his desk to steady himself as he shouted an only slightly breathless “Come in”.

Looking at the door, you saw as the same mail clerk from earlier walk in. “You’re still here?” You found yourself asking.

“Always ma’am.” He replied simply, making a conscious effort to avoid your eye contact, you supposed being in Chuuya’s office did offered that kind of intimidation factor. “Finalized statements, sir.” The clerk handed Chuuya a stack of papers held together by a sturdy looking black clip before swiftly taking his leave, not once meeting yours or Chuuya’s eyes. Once he was gone you turned back to Chuuya, the absurdity of the situation finally hitting you. You worked to get your brain moving again.

“So bright and early in the morning, yeah?” You asked, a smirk plastered to your lips. A look of recognition to what you were referring to crossed Chuuya’s face before a  smile formed on his own lips.

“Scouts promise.” He replied, before he finally bid you goodnight.

You stopped at your office to grab your things before you left for the evening. You leaned your hands on the top of your desk, finally letting out the breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding until just then. You replayed the events of the night in your head, how Chuuya had spoken to you, how close he’d been to you, the way he looked at you.

…

Was he flirting with you?

~~~~~~~~~~~

#chuuya #bsd chuuya #chuuya nakahara #chuuya x reader #chuuya x y/n #bungou stray dogs #bsd #bsd x reader #bungou stray dogs chuuya

[georgiapeach30513]

Pretty Little Secrets, Part 2

Summary:  Nick is struggling, and Scott is getting to you

Pairings:  Nick Gant X Reader, Scott Huffman X Reader

Rating:  explicit

Warnings:  explicit language, sexual content, fingering, teasing, 18+ ONLY

Word Count:  2.4K

Previous

Series Masterlist

You walk back into your bedroom, trying to ignore what’s sitting on your bed, and walk over to the closet, sifting through the many dresses in there.

“Cherry?” Nick begins, but just like the package, you ignore him, too. “Cherry?”

Thinking about anything but the prospect of being a politicians wife. While some girls were excited to get out of the Hive, you were terrified. They had lived outside of these walls, but this was all that you had known.

“Cherry?” Nick asks again, this time, coming up behind you. His hands circling around your waist before he starts kissing on your shoulders. “Sweetheart, you ignoring me or what’s on your bed?”

His hand dips lower, sliding past your short hemline. His fingers digging into your skin, stalling before he nibbles on your heated neck.

“Nick, we shouldn’t.”

“We already have. You’re scared of the Vice President’s cock, it only seems fair that I stretch you out a bit,” you whimper out his name again, and his hand winds up your leg, playfully going under you dress, before barely touching over you cotton covered mound.

“Tell me to stop,” you shake your head no, before he palms you. You turn your head to look back at him, and he starts to pepper kisses on your lips, “You gonna let me properly feel you?”

“Yes,” you whisper. Achingly slow his hands move to the elastic of your panties before, dipping back in. Gasping when his hands finally touch your velvety and slicked up lips. Arching your back, you push your ass further into his body.

His fingers rub gently over your bundle of nerves, and you can’t help but to whisper his name again. Crying out when his finger teases around your entrance. “Have you given anybody this pussy?”

“No,” you pant up at him.

He gives you a hard kiss before letting a finger slide into you. Your breathing stutters, and his free hand grips tighter to your pliable body. “Easy, I’ve got cha,” he looks over to your bedroom door before back to you. Circling his finger around, before pulling out. Your body reacts by moving with him. Your pussy trying to capture him again, ready to suck him back into your quivering cunt.

“You like it?”

“Mhmm,” moaning desperately before his finger is sucked back in. This time starting to create a steady pace, and grunting on your skin, when you hear embarrassing squelching noises. “Nick, don’t.”

“No, no, it’s beautiful sounding. You’re getting all hot and bothered from my finger. You want me to add another? Scott and Frank will never know.”

“Okay,” he looks back at the door, watching while he puts a second finger near your entrance. When he doesn’t move fast enough, you grind down on his fingers, yelping at the extra stretch. Your head going back to rest on his shoulder, as your body rocks over him.

“There ya go. Got you moving like a pro, look at you,” his free hand twists your face to look into to full length mirror while you fuck his fingers. Watching your hips push and pull those beefy extremities out.

“You see, this pussy is so restless and needy, she’s gonna do anything to get off. Watch you. Does it feel good?” answering by nodding your head, and you push down harder. A whimper rising up your throat with just how Nick’s fingers feel.

Closing your eyes tightly while you envision how it would feel for Nick to have you properly. Echoing a constant cadence of his name. His hand pressing up against you, stimulating your clit, while you’ve got visions of what life with Nick would be like. Even when he gives you a sweet kisses, somehow, just knowing he reserves that only for you.

“What are you two doing?” Nick’s hands move out of your panties quickly, while you can only stand there, staring at these stupid dresses, when all you want is to feel him again.

“She needed help picking out a dress for her meeting with Scott,” Frank walks closer to the both of you, giving a hard look to Nick, before pressing his hand up against your forehead.

“Picking out a dress make you this hot?” his eyes glare at you, and you refuse to look at him. “Nick, go wash your hands before meeting Mr. Huffman at the door,” he gives him a nod before trotting off to do as he’s told.

Reaching around you, Frank grabs a dress. He places a hand on your shoulder before guiding you over to the bed. “We’ve talked about this.”

“But Frank…”

“You were told, that Scott didn’t want Nick around you. Hell, I have even told you, that you and Nick are getting too close. Cherry, I can’t protect you if you go against your contract.”

Your eyes are icy and distant, still unable to look at him. Bringing your fingers to your wrist, you start to give it a scratch, but even that, Frank stops.

“If you need to get off that bad, there are things Scott can do,” you snort out a fake laughter, reaching behind you for the gift. “Nick is off limits.”

“What about you?”

“That causes us to lose money. And everyone here knows who you’re crushing on, and it’s not me. That puts you and Nick at risk, is that what you want?”

With a look up at him, you sigh, shaking your head, “Need I remind you, this is the future Vice President. He’s as powerful as he is rich.”

“Yeah, and Clover got the President.”

“I figured that what’s got you all irritable. Andy said you were too much work, also, that you were younger than what he was looking for. Andy, for lack of a better word, is a man that needs to be taken care of. Needs to get out of his head, but you would require work and training, and he doesn’t want to put forth the effort. Scott does. Open your gift.”

You take extra time to slowly open up the well wrapped gift, but as soon as you open it, your cheeks heat up in embarrassment before you slam it shut. “What is this?” you ask, glaring at Frank.

“Something he asked you to wear.”

“This is lingerie. He…he hasn’t paid for my…”

Frank reaches into your lap, and pulls out the outfit, shrugging a bit, “It’s quite modest. He can ask you to wear anything. What he can’t do is ask to have sex with you. Most likely, he wants to see what you look like outside of your clothes.”

Grabbing up the modest lingerie set, you toss it to the ground, wishing that you could make this all go away. “Should I tell him what you and Nick were doing when I walked in.”

“We weren’t doing anything.”

“I guess that’s why his fingers were glistening in your pussy juice. Just remember, we’re the ones that keep you protected. You will do as Scott says. This isn’t a discussion. Now put on the fucking outfit, and stand there looking pretty.”

He stands to walk out of your bedroom, turning back to give you one last look over, “You’re mean.”

“I’m not your friend. Get dressed, you and Nick will be dealt with later,” he walks out slamming the door, and you sit there for a moment, a look at the clock reminds you that there’s ten minutes until the meeting with Scott, and you dread it. Not wanting to be here anymore, but definitely not ready to leave with him.

Begrudgingly you pick up the garment, and start to put it on. With a look at yourself in the mirror, you don’t hate it, you just feel so exposed. Walking over to your closet, you grab up a robe.  Wrapping it around you, while you wait for him. Doing anything to pass the time by, but when that door opens, you stand quickly.

“Mr. Huffman.”

“While I do like the way that sounds coming out of your mouth, please call me Scott,” his eyes rake down your body, taking in what you’re wearing, and how he can’t see his present. “Was it the right size?”

“Yes.”

“Should I not be able to see what it looks like on you?”

Taking a deep breath, you cast your eyes to the floor. Humiliated at how exposed the outfit makes you feel, “It’s quite revealing.”

“As was the point,” he walks closer to you, lifting his hand to untie the robe slowly.  The silk ties slip out of his hands as his eyes look you up and down lingering on your body, and never giving your face another glance, “You’re beautiful.”

“Mr. Huffman,” he clears his throat, and you hiccup out, “No one has ever…please, can you look at me?”

“No one has ever seen you in this amount of undress?” you shake your head no, wanting to cover yourself back up, but you’ve been told, his needs get met first. He drops the robe, “Cover yourself up then.”

Quickly you fasten it, and he sits at the table, holding a hand out for you to join him. “You understand I have no problem with your inexperience, correct?”

“I’m well aware, yes.”

“This will be something you share with only me. I know that I seem intense, but that is my job. I want to get down to business. So you will be mine.”

“The final decision is left up to the girls, sir.”

“Not with the amount of money I’m willing to spend. Your virginity just now paid for, but I will wait. I’d like for you to want it,” you start to speak but he holds up a hand and you halt immediately.

“I’m on a bit of a tight schedule, I’d like for you to join me on the campaign trail, that way we’re not spending too much time apart. We can have a big wedding, or a more intimate one, if you would prefer.”

“Can I be honest with you, Scott?” his blue eyes finally look up at you, and you feel nothing towards him.  Your mind still drifting to Nick in here earlier. “I’m not really feeling a connection with you.”

“You’re not pushing me away,” his voice low, and nearly a growl, Scott’s fists clench tightly, and you want to push away from the table, “What are you afraid of?”

“You mean other than you?”

“Me? I’m just a politician that’s willing to take you away from this place. Living in a home with mostly women, and a few men that train you in how to be a good wife, pleasing to her husband. You’re lucky you’re over here. The ones on the other side are nothing but common whores. I’m willing to treat you like a princess.”

“Andy’s Clover was other there,” Scott gives you an almost evil smirk. Relaxing his hand, he taps his fingers on the wood.

“What do you know about Andy’s Clover?”

“I’m honestly jealous of her. Rescued from the streets, and given a life to continue her job, but this time with high paying men, including your President. He wasn’t the first politician to seek her out. Although he was the idiot who decided to make her his wife.”

“You and I, we could get along. I want you to have a choice,” with just a slight face change from you, your eyes turning up in glee, he realizes what you need, constant praise. The need to be told you’re doing a good job. The desire to be special.

“I looked at every girl in this Hive and none are as beautiful as you. They’re common, lackluster. You shine brighter than any of them I could give you a good life, where more than just me would worship you. Would desire pictures of your beauty. Won’t you let me give you that?”

“How much for my virginity?”

“I’ve never made a purchase quite that large, and I have a beautiful home in a good neighborhood.”

You preen at the thought of your rarity, and how someone didn’t hesitate to pay up the money. “I’m scared of what’s outside these walls. I’m scared that I will not measure up to what you want.”

“If you can behave and do as I say, you’ll be perfect. You’d look beautiful on my arm. Waving and smiling at everyone.”

You pull at the robe, opening it, and push it off your shoulders, sitting up straight, you trace the swells of your chest.

“What do good girls do, Mr. Huffman?”

He pushes his chair back and rubs along his thigh, beckoning you to sit in his lap, and you do. Scott’s hands move slowly over your skin, tracing every hill and valley, smiling when your body reacts to his motions. Your nipples pebble up, and even you let out a beautiful whimper.

“Good girls do as their told.”

“And what are you telling me to do?”

“I’m telling you, that you will take what I give you, and become my wife,” you swallow, moving your eyes over his face. His thumb goes to move back and forth over your hardened bud, leaning forward to kiss on your neck.

Ghosting his lips over your sensitive column, before stopping just as quickly. Sitting up to gaze at your blackened and lust filled eyes. “Scott…”

“Not tonight,” giving your body a little nudge, he walks you over to your bed, “Tonight, you sleep. But are you willing to let me give you everything you desire?” he kisses down the expanse of your body, a straight line down, before moving to your thighs. Needy and wanting so much more, your legs spread, and he stares at the darkened spot on your panties. Moving up your thigh, he gives a long stripe up your dampened panties, and you yip at the feeling.

His eyes look up at you, asking again, “Do you want me to give you everything you desire?”

He peppers sweet kisses over your covered mound, and your hands, move to card through his hair. “Cherry?”

“Whatever you want,” his nose moves over your slit, before hooking his fingers on the innocent lingerie. Pulling them down, and off of you.

Just when you think that he’s going to give you more, he stuffs the panties in his pocket. Turning to leave, he gives you a smile, “Goodnight Cherry Blossom, until next time.”

Frustrated you flop over, burying your face into the pillow, you let out a scream. Not even realizing that Nick is the one standing at your door, and staring at your naked ass. Frank places a hand on his shoulder pulling him back, “It’s time to quit playing your games with her.”

“They’re not games with her.”

“She’s agreed to a marriage. He won’t be taking her innocence here. He’s requested to have her bought and paid for soon, and she’ll be out of our hair. Stay away. That property belongs to Scott Huffman.”

Next

Masterlist

Taglist:   @tis-thedamn-season​ @marveloustaylortot​ @pono-pura-vida​ @peaches1958​ @thedarkplume​ @duuhrayliegh​ @rebekahdawkins​ @johndeaconshands​ @ccmarvelxx​ 

#pretty little secrets #scott huffman #scott huffman x reader #scott huffman x cherry #nick gant #nick gant x reader #vp!scott huffman #vp!scott huffman x reader #politicial au #nick gant smut

[jedifarmerr]

When Javier Met...(Series)

Pairing: Javier Peña x F!Reader (no name or physical description)

Word Count: 3.3k

Rating/Warnings: E (18+) smut (P in V/unprotected - wrap it folks). FLUFF. Discussions and themes of loved ones passing. Language.

So, it's been two months since I've updated this series, but I hope this will be worth it. Thank you to everyone for reading!

Series Masterlist

Chapter 12: Finale

The sun seeped through the curtains, pastel yellow beams flickering in Javier’s eyes, awakening him to a new world. The mundane sepia had switched overnight to technicolor like a scene straight out of The Wizard of Oz. 

A grin curled on his lips at the measured puffs of air skimming his chest, your legs twined in his. Nudging his nose at the crown of your head and breathing in the scent of you, his fingertips stroked the planes of soft skin exposed by your camisole nightdress. Making a warm fuzzy feeling wrap around him, perfectly content to stay right here forever; tucked safe and sound under the weight of you, immersed in the intimacy of it all. 

It was a feeling he never before experienced, not even with Lorraine and made him wonder how he lived without it. 

You stirred with soft morning mumbles and his hold on you tightened as if to tell you he was still there. Lashes fluttered against his skin, heavy eyes opening as you nuzzled further into his chest. Looking down, he found sleep-happy eyes blinking up and a grin which mirrored his own. 

“Morning,” he grumbled against your hair, placing a kiss at the top of your head. You returned his affection, tenderly dragging your lips along his pecs and tracing your fingertips across his ribs. 

“You sleep alright?” You asked. 

He nodded. “Best I’ve slept in decades.” 

“Really? Cause, I never took you as a cuddle sleeper.” You teased and he snorted out a laugh. 

“Neither did I,” he said while wiggling his numb fingers, “But don’t get used to it, my arm can’t take it every night.” 

“I can live with once a week,” you giggled. “What time is it?” Javier craned his neck to look over at the bedside clock. 

“A quarter till 10.” 

“Shit,” you hissed and rolled away from the warmth of his arms and out of bed before he could pull you back in. 

Javier shifted, sitting up. “Got plans?” 

“For once, yes,” you scoffed, wrapping the silk robe around your body and tying the sash in a lazy bow. “I told Marie I’d get brunch with her a few days ago. You know to give her the low down about the party.” You chuckled, more to yourself then to him as the closet doors squeaked open. “Man is she gonna eat this up.” 

Javier leaned forward, the comforter cinched between his lower torso and chest. “In a good way?” His lips twisted in worry, you’d surely told her all about his mess up and he suddenly wondered her opinion. 

“Oh, in a very good way,” you said, glancing behind your shoulder for a second before returning to sift through the hangars. “She’s wanted us together since she met you at the bookstore. Well, actually I think at that time she wanted you for herself, but she got over that the moment we started hanging out.” You pulled out a pair of biker shorts, heading to the dresser to grab a t-shirt. 

“So, you’re gonna tell her we’re together?” 

You turned on your heels, suddenly appearing small as you wrung the t-shirt in your hands. “If that’s alright.” 

Javier immediately reached for your hand, pulling you towards the end of the bed, realizing the question came out all wrong. 

“Of course,” he assured and a smile ghosted your lips as you gave in, sitting on your knees in front of him. “I just didn’t know. I’m new to this, it’s been awhile since I’ve been a…boyfriend.” 

The word felt foreign on his tongue and almost silly to say. Was he too old to be someone’s boyfriend? What’s another word? Partner? Ew – no, that reminded him too much of Steve. Or even worse – Joe. 

“Oh, so you’re my boyfriend?” His brows arched with a twitch of a smile, he liked it when you said it, especially with that teasing lilt as you leaned in closer. 

“If that’s okay with you.” The words fanned across your mouth, his lips nipping yours. You hummed through the soft, lingering kiss and his arms wrapped around your body, feeling the silhouette through the slinky thin material. His lips trailed to your neck. 

“Javi, we can’t,” you moaned, but did little to stop him as your fingers raked through his hair while his kisses trailed to your collarbone, sweeping your shoulders. Insatiable, he couldn’t get even despite having you two more times last night – once after eating cold lo mein, taking you right then and there, desperately hard and fast across the kitchen counter – the second time slower and more intimate before drifting off to sleep. 

He groaned as he palmed the soft flesh of your thighs, his teeth grazing over the skinny silk strap. “I’m gonna be late.” 

“How long till you gotta leave?” He asked while roaming up to cup your ass and squeezing. Your head rolling back as he toyed with the string of your thong, pulling it tight to your swelling clit to give you an ounce of friction. “Baby, how long?” 

“I’m thinking. You’re making it incredibly hard to focus.” He chuckled darkly, smiling into your chest as your hips rolled and brows pinched in thought. “I need to shower and, oooh. Makeup, Javi.” 

He teased the soft material at your seam up to your clit and when your hips bucked into his growing cock, his voice turned raspy – sinfully deep. 

“Hmmm, seems like those are optional,” his tongue flicked over your clothed nipple and you shivered as a tinge of wetness imprinted the fabric. “Smell perfect to me,” he flicked the other. “So beautiful, you don’t need any makeup.” His hand slipped into your panties and your head burrowed into his neck with a soft mewl. “But, you’re so wet, don’t you think this needs to be taken care of?” 

“You got a point,” you said with a breathless giggle, and Javier could feel you smiling against the tender skin of his neck. He sunk one, then two fingers into your tight cunt, your walls clamping around them and soaking his fingers as he languidly pumped in and out. 

“Is that a yes, baby? He asked, swiping his thumb over your clit. “Want me to take care of you?” His fingers curled to hit the perfect spot, and you whined at the precision of his strokes and the flickering friction he supplied to your bundle of nerves. 

“Please, Javi.” 

There was no way he could ever deny the keen in your voice, the desperate hold you had on both his heart and the digging clutch to his shoulders. His lips captured yours in a searing kiss and he poured every ounce of passion and love into it, frantically searching out your tongue and tangling himself into you – drinking down every moan and pant of his name while working you up to a quick climax. 

“Need you - inside of me,” You whimpered as his thumb continued to swirl around your oversensitive clit. A quip about your time restraint latched onto the tip of his tongue, but disintegrated at how needy and determined you looked, lifting and shifting your hips, eagerly sinking down on his cock until you were flush against him. 

Every hair on his body stood at attention when your slick-soaked walls clenched around his bare cock, moaning your name, his arms wrapping around you, palms exploring the expanse of your back. Grinding down on his cock, you chased a second orgasm, slipping your hand between the sweat of your tangled bodies to draw tight and fast circles on your clit. 

His brain short-circuited at the sight, making his mouth ramble. Babbling out praises as moans flew from the O-shape of your mouth. Massaging your breasts, he pinched your nipples and the word Mine popped into his hazy mind. It was all his and he was all yours, and the unbelievable thought pushed him closer to the edge. 

“Come on, baby,” he said in a husky voice, “Wanna feel you come, need to feel you come on my cock.” You gasped as his large hands dug into your hips, guiding you up and down on his cock. “Look at me,” he ordered and your lust-blown eyes met his loving gaze and your cunt fluttered, clenching him tighter and tighter as a gush of slick coated his cock. His lips surged to yours, hardly meeting you in a kiss before he was groaning into your mouth, the wave of ecstasy pulsing through him and filling your cunt. 

The sound of your ragged breathing binded to his, mixing with the chirping of birds outside. 

“You’re gonna be the death of me,” you said with a breathless smile. 

He chuckled, “The feelings mutual.”

---

Marie looked unamused as you frantically waved through the tables of people in the busy restaurant. Thanking the hostess for pointing in the right direction before scurrying off. 

“I’m so sorry. I’m late, I know.” You sank down into the wicker chair and shoved the big-rim sunglasses atop your head. 

“You better have a good excuse,” Marie sarcastically huffed, and you couldn’t help but smile, knowing she was soon to be falling out of her chair with excitement. 

The waiter rushed over, introducing themselves while pouring coffee in your cup. As Marie ordered you scanned the menu, picking an item in a matter of seconds before handing over the flimy paper with a gracious smile. 

Marie took a sip of the bitter black liquid, eyeing you conspicuously over the rim of her mug. 

“What?” You brushed the sides of your mouth, “Is something on my face?” 

You’d stayed in Javier’s arms for far longer than you should’ve but it was hard to leave his embrace, the soft kisses and I love you’s made you weak, powerless to wiggle away and head out the door. 

She shook her head, “No, something seems weird with you,” she tapped on her lips. “I don’t know what it is, but you look…different.” 

“How so?” You cleverly asked, wanting to hear her answer. Playing coy, you swirled your spoon, the liquid blending into a neutral tan. The metal sang as you tapped it on the ceramic brim before picking it up and taking a sip. 

Her lips quirked as she examined your freshly fucked aura, leaning back in her chair at the hard to hide smile that was basically pulled to your eyes. You saw the wheels turning in her mind, ideas she couldn’t believe and debated on voicing aloud, in case she was wrong. 

“Okay, fine fine. I’ll tell you. Javier and I are together,” you said with a giddy clap and a little wiggle, unable to contain yourself any longer. Even hearing yourself say it out loud was enough to make you swoon. 

Marie’s hand clasped over her mouth, but did little to hide the drop of her jaw. 

“Shut up, shut up. Oh my god, shut up.” She squealed and squeezed your hand. “Tell me everything, and when I say everything, I mean everything.” 

You spilled about the party first, the longing stares that led to his emotional apology/plea in the kitchen. She dabbed her eyes at his confession in the moonlight of your door, sadly just as you were into the dirty details the waiter dropped off your food, but Marie quickly picked up right where you left off. Hanging onto every word and shoving food in her mouth like it was popcorn at a movie. 

“So that’s why you were late,” Marie said with a wiggle of her brows while ripping into a piece of bacon. 

You bit your lip then giggled like a schoolgirl who just got caught. “Can you blame me?” 

“No.” She huffed. “I should be lucky you didn’t just stand me up. If Javier was naked in my bed, you wouldn’t see me for years.” 

You barked out a laugh. “Oh, trust me the thought came into my mind. But, what can I say? I’m a good friend,” you said with a cocky roll of your eyes. 

“The best,” Marie smiled, knowing you’d finally found your match.

---

The crunching of gravel was the last thing Chucho wanted to hear on this particular Friday, but there it was. 

He’d finished up his chores for the evening barely twenty minutes ago, deciding to crack open a beer and sit next to his wife’s rocking chair on the front porch as he waited out to see if Javier would show. Wiping the sweat from his brow, Chucho turned to the empty chair next to his as the rim of his son’s jeep peeked from behind the bend, the harsh yellow beam coating his windshield, and covering (what he expected) was the fallen face of his son. 

“Guess it didn’t go well,” he said into the thin air. A strong gust of wind swayed the chair back and forth and he took the creaking wood as a sign that he was right. 

When he didn’t hear from Javier all week, he hoped that things had gone well or were improving, and while he’d never turn his son away and cherished the time together, he hated to think it was really over between the two of you. 

Chuco’s knees popped with a groan as he stood up, stretching above his head before planting his hands on his waist. He waved to his son, but as the shade of the oak trees covered the sun, his hand stalled in the air and he squinted at the passenger side and what appeared to be a shadow. 

A gasp of his wife’s name fell from his open mouth when he spotted the smile on Javier’s face, the one which matched yours and a salty residue surged in the back of his throat like a tidal wave. Gulping it down, his hand cut through the windless air as a smile stretched across the wrinkles of his sun-tired skin. As the jeep parked, Chucho barreled down the concrete steps like an excited child, much like Javier did when his father returned from a weekend expo. 

“Hey Pops,” Javier yelled over the car, “I hope you don’t mind, brought a guest with me. You remember her, right?” 

Chucho said your name, like a prayer, one that’d been answered as his son wrapped his arm around your shoulders and stole a loving glance that reminded him of how he once looked at his wife, so many years ago before turning back to the glassy-eyed older gentleman. 

“Hey Chucho,” you smiled, a smile which no one could steal away from your lips and Chucho’s heart bursted at the seams. 

“So, I assume the party went well?” He asked and when he looked at his son, he realized the weight he carried around on his shoulders like a pack mule had lessened, his eyes were clearer and while there would always be a small pain of memories which could never truly fade, a new hope glistened in them. 

“You could say that,” you giggled and Javier kissed the top of your head, mumbling about the bags before heading over to the trunk. You stepped towards Chucho and he couldn’t help but wrap his arms around you. 

“Thank you,” he whispered and looked up to the cloudless sky.

---

Javier squeezed your thigh under the table as Chucho came into the room with a platter of burritos he’d popped in the oven; his aunt Paula had brought over a gallon sized ziplock bag of them earlier in the week. 

While passing a few side dishes and the foil wrapped burritos around in a circle before digging in, Chucho asked a few questions to find out how it happened and got the PG version, much like everyone else aside from Marie. 

Chucho wiped the sides of his mouth, “Have you told Joe?” He asked. 

You nodded, putting up a single finger as you swallowed. “We did on Tuesday. I was already going over for dinner, so I brought Javier along. He was pretty shocked at first not gonna lie, my sister-in-law was over the moon though.” 

Javier chuckled internally at the memory of Joe’s face when opening the door to find his little sister and his commitment phobe ex-partner holding hands. While Joe fought to keep upright, Ruby pulled the both of you into a squealing hug then spun around to rub it in her husband’s face, boasting all night about how she totally knew it. 

As Javier grabbed a container of leftover casserole and you kissed your niece and nephew goodbye, Joe morphed into a protective older brother and patted him on the back with a warning, If you hurt her I’ll kill you. It lasted only a second, turning back into a friend and letting him know how happy it made him to see not just his sister but Javier like this, like a piece of his old self had been found after missing for so long. 

“So, he knew before me?” He teased his son, and Javier snorted while shaking his head. 

“Yes, but we wanted to wait till we saw you,” he said while looking over at you. 

“Well, I’m happy for you two.” He took a drink of his Coke, “You know, I knew he liked you even though he refused to say so.” 

“Oh, really?” You asked, nudging Javier. 

“Dad,” Javier said like he was a teenager again. 

“No, please. Tell me more,” you cradled your chin in your hand and leaned over to listen to an all too eager Chucho, who talked and talked until the plates were clean. 

Chucho and Javier gathered the dishes as you trotted off to shower. Once the shower was running, Chucho turned to his son who was spraying the dishes. 

“She the one?” Chucho asked, and Javier shrugged with a telling smile. 

“We’ve been together less than a week, Pops.” He handed Chucho the clean dish to wipe down. 

“Doesn’t matter, I knew the moment I met your mama she was the one.” Javier continued to work at the stack of dishes, but his lips twitched with a smile – he could recite his parents love story like a child’s favorite book having heard it so many times. “You know, I still have her ring.” That grabbed his attention, and he stopped scrubbing, setting down the plate with the rest, hearing a clattering clink as he looked over at his father. “Look, I know it’s too soon,” he said before Javier could interject, “But, if the time comes and that’s what you want, I have it. You could even get a new diamond, something a little bigger if you wanted.” 

Javier knew his father had bought the ring using every dime he had saved at the time which wasn’t much, the ring wasn’t anything grand just a single diamond on a silver band, but his mother didn’t care – too young and in love, she wore it with pride everyday until she passed. 

“You’d be alright with that?” Javier asked, knowing his father kept the ring next to their wedding picture on her nightstand. 

“It’s what she would’ve wanted,” Chucho said, “You know, she was never a huge fan of Lorraine.”

“Really? She never said anything.” Javier couldn’t believe his father nor his mother never said a word. 

“Don’t get me wrong, she liked the girl but I think she knew that you weren’t right for eachother. That there was someone better for you out there, someone like her. Hmm, if only she could’ve met her, she would’ve loved her.” Chucho’s voice cracked, tears glistening in his dark brown eyes.  

“I know,” Javier said with a small nod then turned back to the dishes. The two worked in a somber silence until the last dish was dried down and put away. When the shower shut off, Javier knew he had but a minute before you appeared and looked to his father. 

“I’ll take it,” Javier said and his father’s eyes grew big, he grabbed his son’s shoulder and gave it a small shake. “Don’t get too excited, it’s not gonna happen anytime soon.” 

Six months later, Javier proposed.

A/N: Thank you to everyone who has read this series, I seriously have loved working on this. I struggled to finish this up because I didn't feel ready to say goodbye, so I decided to write a sequel (Javi's Having a Baby) so be on the lookout for that!

Taglist: @hnt-escape @seasonschange-butpeopledont @littlemisspascal @furious-rogue-stuff @catchallfangirl @0celesteisthebest0 @athalien @honeyofthegods @peoniarose @vanemando15 @blub-senpai @bruxasolta @iblogtopassthetime @southotheborder @kirsteng42 @phandoz @whatodair @oliviajdjarin @paintlavillered

#pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro pascal #javier peña x you #narcos fanfiction #javier peña #javier pena x f!reader #javier peña fic #javier peña x reader

[tacroyy]

posting some bits from wips so i'll work on them #3 - lead, rated e, vetinari/vimes, invisible magical collar & leash. i have a LOT of this one!

The wizards were no help at all. No bloody help, the jackals, the godsdamned lot of them, making like this was a blasted joke—

“You must admit that they were of some help, Vimes,” said Vetinari, calmly. Calmly! The man was calm! “They gave a perfectly reasonable explanation for our circumstances.”

“I have a mind,” Vimes snarled, as if he hadn’t heard Vetinari at all, “to pick them up by the scruff of the neck and shake them until the brains fall out of their ears. It wouldn’t take much shaking!”

Vetinari watched him pace. Vimes wasn’t going far. Three steps back, sharp heel turn, three steps forward, sharp heel turn, all directly in front of Vetinari. The whole time, Vimes clawed at his neck, face ruddy and jaw grinding. At Vimes’s emphatic insistence, they’d left the Unseen University grounds and were hidden a short ways away, up a small alley covered in a half centimeter of powdered sugar and flour next to the Jam Street bakeries.

Unfortunately, Vimes missed the tiny curl of Vetinari’s lips, which would have given him the necessary warning for what was coming next.

“An interesting turn of phrase you’ve used,” said Vetinari reflectively, rubbing at his wrist. “Scruff of the neck.”

Vimes stopped in his tracks and turned to face Vetinari very slowly. If Vetinari had ever gulped in fear before in his life, he would have done it again now. Instead, he gave Vimes a particularly bright smile. And rubbed his wrist again. Which Vimes saw him do.

“That is, considering what’s around y—” Vetinari started.

Rumor Made Real, the wizards had called it. Some god’s hero had failed a task on the other side of the Disc, losing a big chunk of followers, and all that belief had to go somewhere. The spare belief shattered and shot across the world, and one of those pieces hit Ankh-Morpork, where the citizenry believed, mostly metaphorically, that Lord Vetinari kept his watchdog, Commander Vimes, in a collar, on a three-meter leash.

Blessedly, the collar and leash were invisible and—according to the wizards, whose expressions were not to be borne—wouldn’t last for more than a few hours, when the spare belief started settling back into gods again. The tradeoff was that Vetinari couldn’t drop the leash. It was attached to his wrist. 

Vimes felt no remorse about slamming the Patrician into a floury wall. There was a puff of white dust that settled instantly in their hair and aged them each twenty years, and haloed around them like a cheerful cloud with an uncanny—one might even say Vetinari-like—unwillingness to read the room.

“This might be the day,” Vimes growled, his forearm pinning Vetinari’s chest to the brick, the silver buttons of his jacket hard and cold on Vimes’s skin. “You owe me a life or two, and I am strongly considering collecting.” 

“Vimes, you must see the humor in the situation,” said Vetinari patiently, as if he were not being lifted bodily off the ground by someone who had been removed from the Assassins’ roll for being too dangerous. Vetinari, of course, was Vetinari, and thus had a certain laissez-faire outlook towards Vimes’s frequent existential threats. He even dangled gracefully. “This is a temporary inconvenience, and somewhat of a compliment. The citizens of our fine city think that we work well together.”

“My gods, you can’t really believe that,” said Vimes. He dropped the arm (Vetinari practically floated down) and took a step back, shaking his head. Threatening a madman was pointless. “You don’t understand. You’re not the one on the end of the rope, here.” Vetinari opened his mouth and Vimes slapped his hand across it. “If you say anything clever about dogs and leashes, I will put a hole in your other leg, just to even things out.”

They stared at each other, Vetinari’s mouth covered by Vimes’s hand, as the flour sifted through the air. Vimes felt as if he’d run all the way down Short Street; his lungs were burning. Vetinari’s mouth was open a little under his hand, and Vimes could feel the heat of his small, controlled breaths, in such contrast to Vimes’s panting.

Vimes’s mind had a tidy business going this afternoon, supplying him with little tidbits that it would lob around corners when he least expected it. They think I’m his. They think he owns me. They think we—

“You are not,” Vimes spat, “going to win this one.” He pulled his hand back abruptly and, surprisingly, the Patrician fell forward a little, so obviously trying not to react that it counted as a reaction to Vimes. “So stop trying.” Vimes turned his back on Vetinari, squared his uniformed shoulders, tilted his helmet back into place, and stomped out of the alley for a dramatic exit.

And on the fourth stomp, was yanked abruptly backwards and fell, very hard, flat on his ass.

#vv #dw tag #original flavor

[brother-genitivi]

19 or 22 for Mason and Aydın 👀

Nairuz my beloved, thank you!! I went for 19 - *“you are everything. everything.”

Rating: teen + up Pairing: Mason / Aydın Word count: 772

“Aydi, what the fuck was that?” Mason demands.

Aydın whips his head around to regard him with a narrowed stare. He presses his hand to his arm to stem the flow of bleeding from a shallow cut. “What the fuck was what?”

Mason is by his side in a flash, his initial anger (or is it fear?) dissipating almost immediately. “You’re hurt.”

He smells the blood before he sees it. There’s only a small amount, but it’s enough. It teases him, dripping from between Aydın’s fingers and overwhelming him with a tantalisingly enticing scent.

Mason shoves the impulse out of his mind.

Aydın shakes his head. The bleeding has begun to slow down. “It’s fine. Especially if it means you’re fine.”

Mason’s initial fear returns in full force, slamming hard against his chest for a reason he can’t fathom. He grasps Aydın by the arms, struggling to sift through his emotions as Aydın winces from a wound that should’ve been his.

He had taken a hit for Mason.

It sent Aydın sprawling across the clearing, his body making a terrible thud as it smacked against a tree. Mason easily dealt with the rogue supernatural afterwards, then rushed back over when the rest of Unit Bravo joined them.

It's the first rogue they've had to deal with in a while. No doubt Adam's kicking himself for being caught off guard.

“Don’t do that,” he snaps. “It’s not fine. You’re hurt.”

Aydın gives him a strange, inquisitive look. His fingers absentmindedly rub comforting circles into Mason’s arms. It does little to calm him.

“I’m okay, Mason,” he finally says. “I'm not bleeding anymore. The worst I’ll get is some bruising and that'll be it.”

Mason suppresses a groan. He can be so infuriatingly stubborn sometimes! He could give Adam a run for his money.

He shakes his head. “Don’t you get it? I wasn’t kidding around when I said that I wouldn’t be able to cope without you. You have to stop doing stupid shit like taking a hit for me when you know I can deal with it.”

Aydın yanks his arms back, folding them against his chest. Mason can hear his heart racing.

They stare in silence at one another, neither one of them backing down.

Confusion is starting to become an old friend for Mason, now. He doesn’t get why he’s so damned scared of the fact that Aydın was hurt in his place.

It’s because he's a member of the team, he thinks. But even as the thoughts form in his mind, he knows it’s because of some other reason. Something more.

Something that makes Mason utterly afraid that one day Aydın will dive in front of a blow meant for him and not come back from it.

Aydın breaks the silence. “I’m sorry if I worried you. But you need to understand that me being hurt so you aren’t makes perfect sense in my head.”

Mason makes a small noise.

“I just… did it without thinking. I’d do it again.” Aydın shrugs. He says the next part matter-of-factly. “I don't matter as much as you do.”

Mason approaches him slowly, grasping Aydın gently by the chin and tilting his head up to meet his eyes. He finds something soft in those deep, dark browns.

“You do. Of course you do.”

A mix of confusion and disbelief cuts across the softness. For some reason, that hurts Mason more than he expects.

Aydın doesn’t believe him.

“You're everything,” Mason says firmly. He traces the line of Aydın's jaw with his thumb. “Everything. Do you hear me?”

Aydın’s breath hitches. He opens his mouth to protest… and shuts it again. He nods slowly.

“Come here,” Mason mutters.

He envelopes Aydın into a hug, supporting the back of his head with an unusually shaky hand. His fingers bury themselves into the curls there. Aydın secures his arms around his waist.

He sighs into Mason’s neck, his breath tickling his skin. Mason doesn’t mind. It’s just another reminder that he’s alive.

“Sorry, güneşim.” He looks up from Mason’s neck, a real smile finding its way onto his face that causes a dimple in his left cheek. Mason can’t tell how many times he has tried to memorise it now.

Aydın’s gaze falls to Mason’s lips, then back to his eyes. It’s a gesture Mason has become familiar with. And just like every other time, Aydın pulls away.

But instead of leaving immediately, Aydın slides his smaller hand into Mason’s larger one. Their fingers intertwine, reluctant to let go, fitting together like a lock and key mechanism.

Meant to be.

#twc #the wayhaven chronicles #twc fic #twc mason #specialist agent mason #twc detective #mason x detective #aydın çağlayan #maydın #my writing #THANK U FOR THE REQUEST ILYSM <3<33

[lulubelle814]

Just Dizziness - Chapter 30

Together, we sifted through several recommendations sent over from not only Luke but ones provided by Dr. Shepherd as well.  Tom had a great idea to see if there were any crossovers from the lists which narrowed it down considerably.  That gave us 4 names to continue looking at to see if one stood out among the others.  We knew we had previously seen Dr. Day but wanted to start fresh with someone new.

“Oh, this one went to Oxford.  She’s obviously out,” he said as he tossed that one off to the side.

“Oi!  Just because you're a Cambridge boy doesn’t mean you get to be a snob about this.  It says right here that she’s had massive success helping people in my position, is highly rated, and even does house calls in some circumstances.”

Tom put on a pouty face which fell away quickly.  “You’re right, dear.  I shouldn’t let my school rivalry get in the way of your recovery.”  Placing a quick kiss to my temple, he moved on to another candidate.  

“You know what, I think I quite like the idea of a female therapist.  Just something about it feels safer, easier.”

“I say we go with your gut.  The therapist will be helping you more than anything, and we want to make sure you’re comfortable.”  Tom looked through the candidates and removed the men, leaving only two, the lady with the Oxford credentials and another one we hadn’t had a chance to look at.  Picking up the info sheets, something about her felt right.  She has an office and uses it for those who prefer a professional setting but also meets at people’s homes and alternate locations as needed for appointments with trauma and recovery, works pro-bono with battered women’s shelters, fantastic feedback from past patients, and a degree from…….

“Look, love.  She went to Cambridge!”

Pursing my lips, I wanted to select the other therapist just to spite him, but my intuition said this person was the one for me; however, nothing said I couldn’t mess with him first.

“I don’t know, hon.  I hear Cambridge is kind of chancy with things like this.  Finding you was one in a million, and I feel incredibly lucky, but I don’t think lightning strikes twice.  Maybe we should go with Oxford?  They are listed as one of the top programs for psychology.”

The look of shock on his face was priceless.  How dare anyone insult his alma mater!  I let him stew for a moment before dissolving into laughter.  “I’m just messing with you, love!  Cambridge here actually feels like the better fit.  I can’t really explain it, but she’s the one.  Oxford has all the right credentials as well, but there’s just something about Cambridge.”

Pulling out his phone, Tom looked at the info sheet for the number.  “Would you like me to schedule an appointment?  Or we can wait if you’d like to think about it?” “Probably better to go ahead and schedule rather than put it off.”

“Let's do it.”  Inputting the number, he called.  It rang two or three times before someone picked up.  “Good afternoon!  Yes, my wife and I would like to make an appointment with Dr. Natalie Bertram, please.”

Gripping his hand, I listened in as he answered their questions.  “That would be perfect.  Thank you very much.”  Hanging up the phone, he turned to me.  “They had a cancellation and have an opening in 2 days in the afternoon.  She’ll meet us here at the house for the initial visit and then take it from there.  Her office will be emailing us the paperwork shortly to fill out and send back to them which I can take care of if you’d like?”

“I can help with the paperwork.  You’ve done so much already.”

“I am beyond happy to help and take care of you.  We’re a team, partners. How about we tag team it then?”

“Sounds great!”

Sure enough, the paperwork came in about 20 minutes later.  With both of us working on it, it took roughly an hour to get it all filled out and sent back.  While he worked on the standard insurance forms, I started on the mental health and history questionnaires.  Once he finished the insurance forms, we worked on the questionnaires together.  By the time we finished, we were both famished and ordered Chinese take away.

The following morning, Tom called a company Luke recommended to him about coming to fix the garden fencing.  It was pure luck that they had someone nearby who had some time between projects and arrived roughly thirty minutes later.  He introduced himself as Keith and took a look at the back fencing Tom showed him as well as the other sections and the side gate. 

"Fixing those parts of the fence by the gate you showed me is definitely not a problem. We can have someone over early next week.”  

With that all set up, we looked at options to have a dog door installed, whether to have one built into the wall or simply have one placed into the sliding glass door.

“Well, that seems like an easy one.  It seems to be better to have one placed into the door.  Plus they have all sorts of techy ones so that only Bobbers can get in and out and none of those stray cats that like to antagonize him that I’ve seen.”  Tom quickly agreed.

We spent the evening looking at various options, eating take away, and watching telly.

I woke up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat, confused again. Unable to help myself, I began to shake and cry. As if sensing it, he woke up as well, embracing me from behind. I leaned into him, turning to face him and bury my head in the crook of his neck. 

He tried to ask if I wanted to talk about it, but words escaped me. So he rocked me back and forth, cooing in my ear that everything would be okay. 

It was a while before I was able to calm down. "Would you like some tea?" I nodded, and he left. Bobby wasted no time in taking his place. When he returned a few minutes later, Bobby refused to move, but once I finished my tea, I moved him to the other side so he could be the tiny spoon, me the middle spoon, and Tom the big spoon.  Although Tom fell asleep shortly after, sleep didn't come so easily to me, and I wasn't sure I wanted it to.

Chapter 31

#tom hiddleston #hiddles #hiddleston #thomas william hiddleston #twh #tomhiddleston #twhiddleston #hiddlestoners #damn hiddleston #hiddlesarmy #hiddleston daily #dammit hiddleston #tom hiddelson #tom hiddelston imagine #tom hiddelston x reader #tom hiddleston x original female character #loki #tom hiddleston x ofc #tom hiddleston x plus size reader #tom hiddleston x you #tom hiddleston x reader #just dizziness

[ultyso]

The Puppy and the Panda

SUMMARY: L has 23 days left to live and Matsuda wants to spend them all with him. Can Matsuda help him open up and have fun for these remaining days or will L end up wallowing in his lonesome? (Loosely based on movie ending where L wins)

Warnings: Eventual Character Death

Rating: Teen

Pairings: L x Matsuda

Main tags: Major Character Death • Slow Burn • Friends to Lovers • L Wins • Hanging Out • Tsundere L • Touch Starved L • Holding Hands • Kissing • Pining • Fluff and Angst • Plushies • Emotional Hurt/Comfort • Name-Calling • Teasing • Coping • Demiromantic L • Mentions of Death • annoyance to lovers

🐶-Chapter 1: Never stop working - 3 Days -🐼

Chapter summary: -3 Days - Matsuda wants L to rest and enjoy his final days with fun instead of work.

Word Count: 967

“You can’t be serious, Ryuzaki.” Matsuda nags at him, trying to tug the files out of his hand.

“Matsuda…”

“Come on. These are your final days. Go out and do something! Live a little! Go somewhere nice! Go out on a date! Have fun! Stop working! Don’t live out your final days with regrets .”

“Who says I have any regrets ?” He sighs and looks up at Matsuda, “If I knew any better, I would surmise you have regrets.” He turns back to his work. “Out with it.”

“H-huh? This isn’t about me!” He slams his palm down on the table, causing L’s fork to jingle against his plate of cake.

“Are you sure about that?”

“Agh! Enough, Ryuzaki! I hate to see you waste away when you only have 23 days to live, need I remind you.”

“I am aware. I needn’t need reminders of my current predicament again.” He flicks through a stapled set of papers.

“You will constantly have those reminders by sitting in this damn office wasting away on old cases Watari had! Someone else can take them!”

He groans at Matsuda’s incessant whining, “I can’t help but feel Matsuda has ulterior motives…What do you want?”

“Ulterior motives? ULTERIOR MOTIVES?” He grabs onto his own hair in frustration as he paces the room. “I just want you to have fun and enjoy your last days. Is it so bad to want that for a friend?”

“You know how I am. I’m quite content with my work.” He rests his papers down and gets a forkful of cake. He looks up at him unamused, “I didn’t know we even established a friendship between us. We are merely colleagues.”

Matsuda drops his head and hands, “I just…it doesn’t feel right. For you to work yourself to the bone till the bitter end. Your life is worth more than work…and I see you as a friend. We’ve been through it all on the Kira case. You’re not just a colleague to me. I genuinely care about you. It hurts that you haven’t seen it the same back...” He clenches his hands into fists.

“I assure you my work is beneficial to many. It is not worthless .” He picks up another file and starts inputting data on the computer unfazed by Matsuda’s moping, “Am I meant to befriend my colleagues? You were just a means of helping with the case.” He shrugs it off.

“But someone else could still take on those remaining cases…Someone else can take off that heavy burden you feel you have to carry on your back. And what!? You don’t see me as a friend, not even a little?” He looks at him genuinely hurt. “You’re cold, Ryuzaki.”

L sits in silence. “It…it is heavy…” he purposefully ignores the other question, picking up another stack of papers. “Call me whatever you like. This is how I am.”

“Stubborn as hell.” He grumbles to himself. “Let us help at least.” He gestures to the overwhelming pile. “We can help you finish up these remaining cases as colleagues. How many do you have left to sift through?”

“Hmm…158.”

“158…okay…if we all help you finish tying up loose ends with his work…could you just please. At least, for one day, take a rest. Enjoy things for once? Promise?”

“Will Matsuda keep pestering me until I agree?”

“Yes!”

He sighs and turns his chair around to look at him with a swing of his head, “Then Matsuda has to define what this “fun” will be.”

“Huh? Why me?”

“You were so adamant about me having fun and now you question me back? Idiot…” he presses a finger to his head in annoyance, “I am under the impression Matsuda has countless things he would deem fun to do as he is the purveyor of this sort, so he should be able to enumerate what to do then.” He says in a snarky tone.

Matsuda frowns and looks at him a little peeved, “No, it should be somewhere you would have fun.”

“If Matsuda is to take me somewhere fun, shouldn’t it be a place he likes too?”

“H-huh? You want me to go with you?” He points to himself. “Do you want to try and be actual friends with me then?” He looked at him, hopeful.

“Well, things are more fun with others, are they not? I do not have Watari anymore to accompany me…” he goes silent for a moment, “Perhaps on this little excursion, I may consider…” he puts his thumb to his lip in thought and looks up at him with a small smile, “Be sure to impress me with somewhere good for me to even think about establishing such a bond.”

Matsuda looks at him a bit softer now, “Okay. Fine. I’ll join you, if that’s the case. Is there any place in particular you’d be okay going to?”

“Somewhere quiet…”

Matsuda’s eyes lit up from the new challenge, “Okay, I’ll come up with the best place to go. So be prepared. We’ll have so much fun you’ll regret saying you didn’t think of me as a friend already.” He said with a cocky grin, putting his hands on his hips.

He merely nods and points to a stack, “Start with that one.” He goes back to focusing on his work currently in hand.

•••••

From that point on, they spent the next two days going through the cases with the help of the other members. Matsuda felt like it was never ending. This was wasting L’s precious last days of life! He tried his best, as well as the others, to finish as efficiently as possible to give L as many free days as possible. These were going to be L’s best days. Matsuda was going to be sure of it.

⬅️ Prologue | Chapter 2 ➡️

#Lawtsuda #L Lawliet #Touta Matsuda #Death Note #Fanfiction #UltySo Writes

[taliaxlatia]

Rating: T Summary: If they are ever to regain the closeness they once had, Xemnas has to find a way to make up for what his former self did to Xigbar. (AKA, stabbing him and turning him into a Nobody.) This would be easier to do if Xigbar wasn't hiding from him. Word Count: 2853 Notes: Apprentice Xehanort uses the name "Another" in Xemnas's memories.

XXX

The World That Never Was fits Xemnas in a way that Radiant Garden never fit Another. The dark sky provides no false promises. The twists and turns of the Castle are as bleak and empty as his hollowed-out mind. 

As his hollowed-out body, now.

It’s better this way. It must be.

Even if Braig—Xigbar—can’t understand. Even if his horrified face haunts Xemnas’s dreams.

Xemnas floats a few inches from the floor of the Altar of Naught. There’s no real reason to, except that he can, and he might as well make use of the magic this new state has given him. He had always been slightly envious of Braig’s space-distorting abilities.

“What shall I do, old friend?” Xemnas sighs up at the empty sky. 

No moon. No stars. Nothing that should remind Xemnas of him.

And yet.

“Hearts are the source of all misery. This has never been more true than in my own case. Without that burden within me, there is no reason that I should… that I should miss you.”

He shivers, just briefly, from the cold that his new coat can’t ward off. He imagines that a friendly arm slung around his shoulder might provide the warmth that he lacks. 

He has no way of testing that hypothesis, however. Even if he were to search the winding halls for his oldest friend, Xigbar would elude him. Xemnas’s wanderings have proven fruitless so far.

“The beginning of this new world… I had hoped to share it with you.” He folds his arms tightly behind his back. “We still share the same goal, do we not? To understand the secrets of the heart… without allowing it power over us. As its power once puppeted even me.”

He clenches a hollow fist over his hollow chest. Though the “heart” is a metaphysical force, its lack stills the drum beneath his ribcage. Nothingness is all that flows through his veins, now.

“Know this. If I had been in full possession of my faculties, I would not have taken you so carelessly.”

If not for the thump-thump-thump, the pressure in his chest, the memories being squeezed into his mind. A life he never lived. A name that wasn’t his, that he’d cast aside long ago. 

Xehanort’s name. Xehanort’s heart. Xehanort’s keyblade—

(Stabbing through the chests of his fellow apprentices, of his friends, staring at him with that eye, staring through his soul and cutting him to pieces, sifting him apart nice and neat until he’s no longer Another, just Xehanort and Terra and no one no one no one—

Until Braig’s words slash him like knives. The name they chose together discarded, in favor of Xehanort, Xehanort, Xehanort. Accusations Another can’t refute. Not when he’s barely holding himself together, all spit and glue as the voice in his head laughs, taunts—

“How long did you think you could pretend, boy?” 

“Another” is just a vessel. A tool, a shell, a stepping stone from the past into a future he has no say in. The memories he’d worked so hard to understand avalanche around him, until he can’t breathe.

Until that thorned keyblade is piercing Braig’s chest, heedless of Braig’s outstretched hand or the horror in his wide, golden eye. Another’s puppet arms won’t let him catch Braig as he falls. Won’t let him grasp the glowing heart that emerges from his chest.

But Another feels it—a heart stronger than any of those he’s studied. Stronger than Even’s or Ienzo’s, or Aeleus’s or Dilan’s that will come after it. Not overflowing with light or darkness, but packed tightly within its ephemeral container, dense as a neutron star. Holding more something than any life should contain.

And then it’s gone. 

Braig is gone.)

Xemnas floats forward to grip the ledge that surrounds the rooftop. He has no fear of falling, but something to hold onto grounds him, so to speak. 

If he can just put this into words. If he can just stop reliving that awful moment, that loss of autonomy, that loss of trust…

“I cannot say I would not have taken you,” he murmurs. With the blank sky as his only witness, he may as well speak freely. “It is clear that I could survive my heart no longer. And to enter this new life without you… it would have filled me with terror. If I were capable of feeling such a thing. Regardless, my actions have done nothing to preserve our bond. Is there no way that we can begin anew…?”

The sky doesn’t answer. He is unused to silence, to the lack of quips and laughter. He would even accept shouts filled with anger, if it would blot out this emptiness.

He cannot exist with his heart. He cannot exist without it. What a useless paradox.

“I suppose I should exercise patience. We are the only beings who can comprehend each other. We are nearly on even ground, this time… though I do not wish to think what may happen if you dig up that ground. You know me too well, old friend. You would make a formidable enemy.”

No terror strikes him as he voices the possibilty. Only deep, aching emptiness. 

He misses his heart. But, perhaps more than that, he misses his Braig. His Xigbar.

His grip briefly tightens on the ledge.

“With this in mind, I cannot allow your silence to persist. Even if forgiveness is beyond my reach, I must know your intentions. For the sake of our goal.”

He turns away from the endless night, facing back towards the Castle—

And towards Axel, who is sipping on a smoothie.

Xemnas blinks. Axel adjusts his straw, letting out a loud, plastic squeak.

“Huh. Guess this isn’t the bathroom.” Axel looks back and forth. “Yep. No toilets up here. Carry on, Boss.”

He gives a grin and a lazy salute. It is… disorienting, to say the least. Losing his heart seems to have only made the teenager more bold.

Should Xemnas do something? He never said Xigbar’s name aloud, and Axel doesn’t personally know any of the Organization’s members beyond Saix. There is little Axel can do with this information—particularly now that Xemnas is incapable of feeling embarrassment.

Axel heads back to the stairwell before Xemnas can come up with a suitable punishment for eavesdropping—one that would not only incriminate him further.

It is of no importance, then. Xemnas should direct his efforts towards the matter at hand. But where to find Xigbar, when his attempts have proven futile so far?

“Hmm…” Xemnas’s eyes narrow in the direction Axel had left. 

Perhaps the younger Nobody’s interruption had been of use after all.

XXX

Nothingness comes to Xemnas’s aid, in the form of a shroud of invisibility. He had tested the spell while walking past Xaldin, and even the attentive ex-guardsman hadn’t noticed Xemnas’s presence. 

Now it is Xemnas’s turn to keep guard. He hovers just left of the bathroom door, prepared to wait for as long as the task takes. This is the only bathroom in the Castle that currently has running water—a welcome gift, courtesy of the Dusks who live in the Dark City below. A couple of the creatures had experience with plumbing in their past lives, Lexaeus had told him. There is still much to study about the Nobodies they share this world with. Perhaps they will be the key to the Organization adjusting to their own lack of hearts.

Xemnas’s inability to feel boredom serves him well as he keeps his vigil. Vexen enters and exits the bathroom without looking up from his stack of notes. Losing his heart has done nothing to deter his research, it seems. Other than that, nothing of interest occurs until the door opens from the inside, though Xemnas has not seen anyone else enter since taking up guard thirty minutes ago.

“Rollin’ off the rails on a crazy—oi!” Xigbar sings before plowing directly into Xemnas’s invisible chest. Xigbar bounces backward, gripping the towel at his waist.

The towel. Which, unless you count his eyepatch, happens to be his only raiment.

Hmm. So physical, hormonal reactions were not eliminated with their hearts. He will have to make note of that.

“What in the…?” Xigbar rubs his face, leaving his eyepatch askew.

Muscle memory has been left untainted as well. Xemnas is helpless to fight it as he straightens Xigbar’s eyepatch.

Xigbar lurches back. His expression is blank, unfazed despite everything.

“Seriously, Xemnas? You can’t even let a guy take a shower in peace?”

Xemnas unweaves the cloaking spell. He cannot feel disappointed by Xigbar’s words, but the emptiness grows and grows. 

He wants nothing more than to tangle his hands in the coarse hair on Xigbar’s chest. To pull him close, in the hopes that two empty beings might fill each other.

“We need to speak,” he says instead.

“We need to, do we?”

“Please.” The word slips out so quickly, it surprises Xemnas himself. 

Xigbar’s brow quirks.

“Heh. Ain’t this rich…” He shakes his head. “Sure, why not. What’s the worst you can do? Kill me again?”

Xemnas opens his mouth, but before he can think of what to say, Xigbar continues.

“You gotta at least let me get some pants on, though.”

Xemnas carefully looks away. He never expected to miss Braig’s crass jokes about undressing.

“Of course.”

Xigbar grips his wrist, just long enough to teleport them both to… Xemnas isn’t sure where. It doesn't appear to be a location within the Castle. The sparsely furnished room looks like the victim of corrupted data—angular bed and dresser clipping into the walls and floor, the texture pattern of the gray carpet repeating in squares ad nauseum. It’s difficult to look at. 

Xemnas looks through the window for refuge, and sees the Dark City’s towering skyscraper. Garish cyan and chartreuse flicker across the screens at its top—

(Braig carrying Another to bed, his eyelids fluttering to read the end of his report before Braig gently pulls it from his hand.)

(Braig teaching him to shoot his mysterious weapons, laughing loud and deep when Another clips one of Dilan’s sideburns instead of the target.)

(Braig’s empty form beneath him as Another falls, the traitorous heart finally torn from his own chest. Together, one last time.)

“Man. For someone who wanted to talk so bad, you’ve sure clammed up.”

Xemnas turns back to Xigbar, who had donned his black trousers while Xemnas was distracted. He’s still shirtless. Xemnas wonders if this is some sort of intentional punishment.

“My apologies.” He licks his lips absently. “The view is quite… distracting.”

“Beats that gloomy Castle, for sure.” Xigbar snorts. “If I had a bathroom in this place, you’d never catch me going up there.”

So that’s how Xigbar had managed to elude him for so long. If not for the plumbing situation, would Xemnas ever have seen Xigbar again?

He doesn’t want to think about that.

“I have missed you,” Xemnas admits while leaning against the windowsill. 

Those are the wrong words, judging by Xigbar’s disbelieving cackle.

“I’ll buy that. Your aim was always pretty lousy.” He snickers. “Now, why don’t you cut the crap and tell me what you actually want?”

Xemnas turns to face him, fighting through the pangs of nothingness in his chest.

“I have never been more serious, Xigbar. What came to pass in Radiant Garden…”

Xigbar steps forward, jabbing Xemnas’s chest with his index finger.

“What ‘came to pass’? You ripped out my heart, Xemnas. I was kind of using that, y’know.”

Xemnas closes his eyes, letting the full brunt of Xigbar’s feigned anger wash over him. It’s better than nothing.

“I know,” he whispers.

Xemnas had wanted that heart. Braig’s heart, with all the heady emotions swirling within. Now thanks to his hubris, it’s forever out of reach.

“I should have stopped. I should have listened to you, about the dangers of my true memories. You were never meant to pay the price for my mistakes.”

He opens his eyes to see Xigbar blink.

“That sounds suspiciously like an apology,” Xigbar says slowly.  

“It… is.” The words scratch in his throat, and he swallows. 

Pride had gotten him into this situation. Casting it aside is the only way he can escape.

“I’m not Xehanort. This I swear on my nonexistence. But, when I unlocked his key… his portion of my heart gained control.”

(Teaching him a lesson about what comes from getting attached. Ripping away the few connections Another had made. Hollowing out vessels for a plan Another doesn’t understand.)

(Leaving him no choice but to hollow out himself.)

Xigbar frowns and scratches the side of his face.

“I ever tell you how I got these?” He asks, gesturing to his scar and eyepatch.

The question catches Xemnas off guard. As much as he would like to continue the current subject, the forbidden information is too tantalizing to pass up.

“No. You did not.”

“Yeah, I didn’t think so. Seemed kinda rude to make ya feel guilty for something you couldn’t even remember.”

Xigbar plops down on his bed, making it clip into the floor briefly before rising to support his weight. Xemnas takes a tentative step towards him.

“I… did that…?”

“Eh. Depends on who you count as ‘you.’” Xigbar laces his fingers behind his head, kicks his bare feet up on the footboard. “The old man used me as bait, pretty much. Got Terra to let his darkness loose on my face. Worst makeover I’ve ever had, that’s for sure.”

Xemnas can’t feel guilt. Maybe that’s why Xigbar waited until now to tell him. 

He wishes he could, though. He wishes it wasn’t too late to make things right.

“I am sorry,” he says, regardless.

“I’m not looking for apologies. The point is, this ain’t the first time I’ve been collateral damage. My own fault I keep sticking my hand in the snake’s den, right?”

“No.” Xemnas sits at the edge of Xigbar’s bed. If Xigbar doesn’t want him there, he’s more than capable of moving. “You trusted me. You gave me a second chance at life, and in return, I stole yours.”

“‘Trust’ is kind of a heavy word. I was just curious, that’s all.”

“...I see.” Xemnas slumps a bit.

“Well, at first, anyway.” Xigbar sighs. He sits up, crossing his legs beneath him. “Look. I believe you—about not meaning to kill me, I mean. I can’t think of any other explanation that makes sense. But ya can’t blame a guy for still being wary, y’know?”

Of course. Of course it would not be that simple.

“I know.”

“I mean, how do I know the old man isn’t gonna puppet ya around again?”

“Because I tore him out.”

Xigbar starts. Was he not aware that Xemnas is a Nobody, as well? Or does he think that Xemnas lied about his missing emotions, for his own personal gain?

“Prove me, if you desire.” Xemnas gestures to his own chest. 

“Ah. I see how it is.” A familiar twinkle returns to Xigbar’s eye. “You still can’t get enough of me, huh?”

Without blood, Xemnas is physically incapable of blushing. His face feels cold, rather than warm, as the void in his veins tries to flush his cheeks.

“I am only trying to provide you with the most convincing evidence.”

“Sure you are.”

Xigbar blips into Xemnas’s lap. Xemnas holds his breath, not daring to move, lest he accidentally push his friend away again.

“Alright. Let's have a look-see.” Xigbar unzips the front of Xemnas’s coat, only to groan at the black undershirt beneath. “Oh, come on. If you really wanted to get back together, I thought you would slut it up a little.”

Xemnas makes a choking noise. Not out of embarrassment, of course—he cannot be embarrassed any longer. But it would be impolite to leave Xigbar’s teasing without some sort of reaction.

“Does that mean… you would be willing?” he asks quietly.

Xigbar hums as he removes his gloves, exposing cold hands that he slips beneath Xemnas’s undershirt. Xemnas shivers, trying not to lean into the touch too desperately. 

“I’m doin’ some considering.” Xigbar grins. 

His hands splay across Xemnas’s chest, in a way that once made his heart thump, thump, thump. The silence leaves space for Xigbar’s uneven breathing.

“May I… consider… as well?” Xemnas asks, gaze flickering to Xigbar’s bare chest.

“Ever the gentleman.” He laughs. “I should say no, after all the hell you put me through, but… well, I’d be lying if I said becoming a Nobody didn’t make you even easier on the eyes. …That’s one of the reasons I was ignoring you, actually.”

Xemnas sits up a bit straighter, practically purring. “Really?”

“Yeah, unfortunately. Not real fair of you to kill me and look hotter about it.” Xigbar scowls. 

His hands untangle from beneath Xemnas’s shirt. He’s getting some mixed signals, here. 

At least, until Xigbar squirms in his lap, ending up straddling Xemnas’s hips.

“Now, are you gonna make it up to me or not?”

Xemnas doesn’t waste time removing his shirt before pulling Xigbar’s face to his.

#xigxem #xigbar #xemnas #kingdom hearts #fic tag #tali writes #forgot to crosspost this here