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corrupt-fvcker · 4 years

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Tuesday Mornings (Javier Peña x fem!Reader)

Tuesday Mornings ( Javier Peña x fem!Reader )

Warnings: NSFW, unprotected sex, fluff, pining, curse words, arguing, soft beginning and ending, domestic life

Word Count: 5.8K... this was supposed to be 800 words.

Author's Note: this was supposed to be all fluffy and cuddly but then it turned into a smutty five thousand word treasure. i don't write smut often so pretty please tell me what you think 🥺

Rain patters softly against the bedroom window, the foggy glass striped with droplets that left transparent streaks in their trail. The heavy rainfall pelts against the roof, resulting in a heavy, rhythmic, rapping sound that incessantly echoes through the bedroom, rousing Javier from his sleep.

A gravelly groan reverberates from deep in his chest as he stretches his arms above his head, his back arching slightly as his muscles flex and his eyelids tightly scrunch shut before melting back into the plushness of the pillows. With a twinge of reluctance weighing in the back of his mind, his eyes flutter open, his blurry vision stubbornly sharpening after a few lazy moments. The bedroom basks in a dim gray light, courtesy of the dark thunderclouds looming over the city.

He feels you shift bedside him, one of your legs curling up at an angle by your side.

His eyes flit over to your side of the bed and you're still sound asleep beside him, lying on your stomach with your face buried in the pillows. And you're naked... which is, y'know, nice.

But a little disappointing because it's Tuesday and you're lack of clothing raises his hopes before he realizes its the middle of the week.

So he glances over to the alarm clock and silently prays that it isn't set to go off for another hour so that he can simply exist next to you before having to go to work and pretend that you and him are just work friends.

But he has no such luck. Ten minutes to spare before the cube-shaped clock shatters the peaceful aura of the bedroom and forces the two of you to get up from the safety of the covers and move on with the day.

Could he work with ten minutes? Honestly, probably. But he decides against it, you need as much sleep as you can get, and thanks to his horny ass, both of you fell asleep at ungodly hours last night.

Also, he's glad you're still asleep. It's domestic. Waking up beside you brings a sense of normalcy to his life, stability that only you can offer him. And he doesn't want to even admit it to himself but warmth swells in his chest every time he thinks about how lucky he is because he's the only person in the whole world that gets to wake up next to you in the morning. And he's also a little proud because you chose him. Javier Peña — the DEA agent that had a publicly bad reputation with longterm arrangements and was honestly a bit of an ass to you.

He deeply regrets the latter, because at the time he didn't have a clue that he would be absolutely smitten with you by the end of your first year in Columbia. At first, he was abrasive towards you because you were new. And even though you were no rookie, every hotshot DEA agent that tries their luck in Columbia always either discover that they're in way over their head and leaves or get killed by the end of their second month.

But then you didn't quit, and then you didn't die.

Which is a surprise. A pleasant surprise, but a surprise nonetheless.

And Javier realizes that, yeah, he's been kinda an ass to you and he should probably ease up on completely ignoring you until he's barking orders in your direction. Because if you're going to have a breakdown it might as well be because of Pablo Escobar and not a grouchy DEA agent that has had really no plausible cause to treat you like shit.

But apologizing isn't really his thing so he opted to just ignore the fact that he's been an asshole towards you for the past four months and instead buys you a cup of coffee as some sort of olive branch gesture.

Which he quickly learns is a mistake. A big one, at that.

Because you really don't like him, which is warranted because he has really only been a dick to you. And you're smart enough to realize this. You know he has the decency to at least treat everyone else in the building with some level of fairness. His manners are decent, you've seen him open up doors for passing secretaries and thank them when they drop files off at his desktop. He's confident, but he's not a cocky asshole that treats other agents like they've got a total of two and a half brain cells.

But he doesn't treat you like everyone else, he treats you like you're no better than last week's trash, waiting impatiently for the garbage truck to come lift his burden and haul you out of his life.

So when you basically tell him to go fuck himself, he can't really be too all upset about it. Because, as usual, he deserves every word of it.

So instead of getting all defensive and trying to explain himself like you thought he would, he stands silently from the other side of your desk for a few moments before nodding slowly, like he's actually processing and accepting your two-minute-long speech about how much of an asshole he is, and then he sets the cup of coffee on the edge of your desk and leaves.

He doesn't really make an attempt to interact with you after that, maybe because he's guilty about the whole situation or maybe because it's just not worth it.

You hate him, so why try to cross an already burned bridge?

So instead, he just continues on with life — chases Escobar, bickers with Steve, fucks informants, smokes a pack of cigarettes a day, and drinks a little more whiskey than he probably should. Though he does make the effort to begin treating you like everyone else, which may not mean that he's all sunshine and rainbows towards you, but he's fair. He's equal, and you appreciate it more than he realizes.

It takes a little over a month, an entire bottle of wine, and some deep contemplating before you finally decide that if Javier can treat you fairly, you can do the same. No more ignoring him when he walks into the room, no more only meeting his gaze when your eyes are narrowed into a glare, no more uttering out one-word responses to his questions. Just treat him like you treat everyone else.

Which you soon realize is not as easy as it sounds. Because the morning after you release your five-month-old grudge and you politely thank Javier when he holds open the door to the office for you, the man nearly chokes on his coffee. He stands dumbstruck in the doorway for a few seconds too long, staring at the space you had stood even though you're already halfway down the hall.

Were you messing with him? He figures, yeah, you probably were.

And if he knew better, he would've just dropped it. He should've just shrugged and continued on his life because what you thought of him really didn't matter. You didn't matter, not to him at least.

And he most certainly shouldn't let some random rookie agent distract him when he's so close to taking down Escobar.

That's all you could possibly be to him, a distraction. You didn't matter, you shouldn't matter.

But that's the thing.

Javier Peña doesn't know better. And you do matter — even if he interprets it as just not wanting to see you on the side of the road dead. Because even if you're in a little over your head in Columbia, you're still fighting just as hard as any other agent in the field. And it most certainly doesn't help that you have a set of pretty legs and an even prettier set of eyes.

So Javier comes to a few conclusions while nursing a glass of whiskey. You don't hate him; you're not completely worthless; he shouldn't treat you like you're worthless; and damn, you have some nice legs.

So instead of treating you like he treats everybody else, he treats you like he treats everybody else and then some. Which is a little bit of a step backward because you instantly notice that now he's being friendly, but you try your best not to react to his shift in behavior because it's always going to be better than him being an ass to you.

But then he asks you out.

Well, not really.

He asks you if you want to go to the bar with him and Steve after work, which is strange because he's never expressed any interest in getting to know you before. But thankfully when you politely decline his invitation he takes your rejection gracefully and returns to his own office room.

But then no longer than ten minutes later Steve Murphy pops into your office, and you don't mind because Steve has been nice to you since the very beginning and you might actually consider the two of you friends. You might've even hung out with him in the past if it didn't consequently mean spending time with his asshole partner.

Well, former-asshole partner.

And you almost smile when you see Steve but then he starts pressing you to come hang out with him and Peña after work. Teases you about being a stick-in-the-mud and not having any friends in Columbia, and then about how both he and Javier really want you to come. And you're about to kick him out of your office when he adds that he will pay for all of your drinks — you're out of booze at home and today was no walk in the park. You crack, agreeing to go to some dingy bar with two of your co-workers as long as there will be free and endless drinks.

The night surprisingly goes well. You're pleasantly buzzed but not drunk enough to share some embarrassing secrets that sober you would regret in the morning. You sit next to Steve in a booth, across the tabletop from Javier, which isn't exactly ideal because you realize the more you drink, the more you stare. But then again, you figure it was better than sitting next to him on the cramped bench.

They ask you a lot of questions, which is weird because you've grown so used to not talking about yourself after spending now six months in Columbia without making a friend besides Steve.

Does Javier count as a friend?

You decide that no, he doesn't. You're just co-workers going out for drinks. He probably didn't even want you to come, Steve probably made him ask you first because he knows that there's some sort of turmoil between the two of you.

But regardless of who wanted you here and who didn't really care, you had a good time. And it soon became part of your weekly routine, working hard from nine to at least six and then going out for drinks with Steve and Javier. And it takes a few outings but you finally decide that your friend's list could double into two by adding Javier.

But then one night Steve brings Connie along and somehow that changes everything. Because it's no longer three work friends drinking together to forget the troubles of the workday. Now it's a married couple and two single idiots sitting side-by-side in a cramped booth. And it no longer felt like going out to a bar for drinks, now it felt like an awkward double-date.

And if Javier didn't feel the same tension that had your muscles rigid and your grasp around the amber beer bottle tight, he certainly did when Connie gestured between the two of you.

"So how long have you two been together?"

Steve chokes on his beer, droplets dribbling down his chin and Connie jumps at his reaction, you and Javier both frozen like deer in headlights.

You try to save the evening, you really do. "We're, uh— we're just— not together..."

Connie quirks a confused brow. We're just not together?

Javier's brain seems to start working a few seconds too late.

"We're not together," he clarifies, his voice sounding surprisingly impassive despite his strained posture.

You pray that the bar is too dim for Connie and Steve to see how mortified you were, and thank god Javier was too busy staring off into the distance and nursing his beer to crane his neck to look at you. Though you weren't totally saved because both Steve and somehow Connie could see how fucking humiliated you are, but they spare you the mercy to not say anything or, heaven forbid, stare.

And thanks to Steve's small talk and Javier's decision to leave the booth to go hit on some brunette making eyes at him from the bar, the night resumes as normally as it could've gone. Steve and Connie leave together, Javier leaves with the brunette, and you leave with a headache because you had a little too much to drink.

The next few days are off. Steve apologizes in private for any discomfort that Connie's comment caused you, even though you assure him that it's fine because it's really no big deal.

And you believe it because it was just a simple mistake and Javier didn't seem to care, which consequently means that you don't care.

But that's where you're wrong, about both statements actually. Because firstly, Javier did care — he cared a whole lot, actually. And secondly, Connie had only said something because Steve had been telling her how he thinks the two of you are going to get together for months now. And when Javier and you sat beside one another and talked together with such ease and chemistry, Connie had assumed that the two of you had finally gotten together and that it was a double-date.

But none of that mattered now because Javier wasn't talking to you. He was giving you the classic cold shoulder treatment like you had done something wrong. Reverting back to his old ways of treating you like a piece of shit because Connie had made a mistake. Could you possibly negotiate him redirecting his disdain and resentment towards her? Probably not.

And after an entire three months of being treated like absolute garbage, the tension between you snapped, like a tautly drawn back bowstring just before the release of an arrow.

You followed him out of the building when he got up to leave, the two of you being the only agents left in the office. When you called out his name just before he unlocked his car door, his head dropped back as a frustrated groan heaved from his chest.

That only pissed you off a lot.

"What the fuck's your problem, Peña?" You snarl, marching up to him, eyes narrowed into a threatening glare. You're not entirely sure what possessed you, but the next thing you know you're so close to him that you can feel his controlled breaths fanning against your face as he stares down at you with an expression of indifference — staring down at you like you're not even fucking there.

"Go home," he drawls out dismissively through an exhausted sigh, the keys in his hands jingling as he turns unlocks his car door. "We've got a long day tomorrow."

"Oh, fuck off," you snap, your fury raising in your stomach like a swelling ocean, growing and building itself up until it crashes down on your trembling form.

He shifts, the keys in his hands forgotten as he slowly turns on his heels to face you. "What's your problem?"

Your jaw drops, because he has the audacity to ask you what your problem is? No, he's out of his fucking mind.

"No, what's your problem?" You retort, jabbing your finger into the firm muscles below his shoulder as you gradually lose more and more of your self-control. "You've been treating me like a piece of shit for the past three fucking months. What the hell did I do to you? I thought we were friends but now you act like you want nothing to do with me."

Your words are harsh, tone hardened, and confused. Javier can hear it in your voice and it makes his heart ache, but as soon as you touch him — index finger pressing against chest — his resolve shatters.

"Don't touch me," he utters lowly, his once impassive expression morphing into a darker glare.

You shove him, which is a little disappointing because he doesn't fucking move. Doesn't even stumble back half a step, your actions only hardening his glare. "No, you don't get to fucking ignore me. You don't get to treat me like garbage. And I'm not gonna stop until you tell me why you hate me so fucking much."

"Jesus," he scoffs, his head dipping back as he takes a step back and eyes flitting to the sky like you're some ridiculous, immature child that he can't wait to get rid of. There's a pause, his chest heaving up and down. His hands are on his hips as his eyes avoid your stare, he doesn't want to escalate the situation further. He doesn't need to make an even bigger scene. He doesn't need to create yet another memory that plays on his head in a loop, distracting him every minute of the day. This is the last thing he needs.

After a moment he sighs, dropping his head and breathes for a moment. And as you see his hostile composure shift, you feel the storm of rage that you're drowning in lessen.

"I don't hate you," he answers lowly, his eyes still settled on somewhere other than your face. "Just... just don't take it personally."

You shake your head, your voice just as angry but quieter. "No. Not taking it personally was when you didn't talk to me for my first four months in Columbia because you thought I was just some dumb rookie."

"Look..." He's drained, weakened, and has little fight in him left. And he can see how you're trying to stop yourself from crying, he can hear your throat straining from holding back a sob that's painful trying to rack through your chest. He can see how much pain he's caused you, and he knows that you deserve none of it. "We should just... stop."

Your eyebrows raises. "What?" It's merely a whisper, the malice in your tone melting away as a wave of confusion crashes down on you.

Javier ignores the pang of hurt that sears through his heart at the sound of your voice. "We— we shouldn't... it's better if we're not friends."

You swallow thickly, your tongue heavy in your mouth. "What do you mean?" You ask, unsure of yourself.

"Just..." he tries, his hand running over his exasperated features as he struggles to string a sentence together. His mind is blank, any words rising in his brain not seeming right and leaving him scrambling for a single coherent thought. It's embarrassing being speechless when you're staring up at him with wide, glistening eyes. He's never rendered speechless, nobody has ever made him feel so helpless. He isn't sure when his smooth composure cracked, words came so naturally to him. He could charm the shoes off of anyone else.

Fuck, when did it become so hard to speak?

Probably when he realized you weren't like everybody else.

He forces himself to speak because if he's quiet any longer he's scared you're going to give up on him and leave, even though that's what he should be wanting. He should be hoping that you just learn to distance yourself from him, even if it ruins him. And he has a feeling that if you tear yourself away from him it'll ruin you too, but only for a little while. You'll move on, heal over time no matter how much it hurts now, you'll learn to be okay without him.

Or maybe you won't, you may never get the chance to learn to live without Javier Peña. Maybe the cruel universe would consider it an act of mercy to kill you before you ever got the chance. Maybe you'll get gunned down by one of Escobar's men or die in a car crash on your way home from work. Or maybe Javier will finally slip up and get himself killed. He's not exactly sure what will happen to either of you, but he knows it's bound to happen.

With this job, it's not a matter of if, it's a matter of when.

Fuck.

Speak, you fucking idiot.

His feet shift against the blacktop, gravel crunching beneath the soles of his boots. His hands are still firmly placed on his hips, his eyes finally tearing away from the streetlight shining in the distance to look at you.

His gut clenches, chest tightening. "It'll be easier if you hate me."

Oh.

You don't need to ask what exactly would be easier if you hated him. You know the fears that plague every DEA agent's mind. You live your life in the line of fire, the closer people get to you, the more likely they're going to get shot.

But something breaks inside of you, shatters into a million pieces. A part of you that cannot be repaired, no matter the amount of tape or glue.

You slowly drag a breath of air into your lungs, trying the shake the heavy feeling that was going to suffocate you as you stare into his eyes. And you know your bottom lip is quivering and tears are threatening to spill from your eyes.

"But I don't hate you."

And I don't think I ever could.

Your words crack through a broken whisper, and you almost cry at the confession because it just hurts so damn bad.

Javier darts his gaze away from you, knowing that if you start crying he's going to break.

"Then you need to stay away from me," he replies, his voice low but firm. He keeps telling himself that he's not going to lose this argument, he's not going to be selfish and ruin you both for good.

"Why?" You inquire, stepping forward. His eyes flit over at your sudden movement, watching you cautiously as you invade his space one more. "I don't see you pushing Murphy away."

Javier huffs out a soft scoff. Maybe he would've even chuckled at your comment if he was able to breathe. "You know you're not Murphy."

Well, no shit, you're not Murphy. You're not some six foot two blond from Tennessee with a wife and kid.

"What does that even mean?" You sigh, your eyes squinting from a mixture of exhaustion and confusion.

Javier faintly shakes his head, almost disapprovingly. "Don't do that. Don't act like you don't know you're different."

Threads of your patience snap, and you force yourself to not let your calm composure to crack and crumble under the flames smoldering in your chest.

"Why do I have to be different?" you reply sharply, though Javier can hear that your anger is more directed towards the situation than at him.

Because I'm not in love with Murphy.

Fuck, shut up, Peña.

"You just are," he answers eventually, maybe an eternity later.

Well, that's not fair.

"Why?" You muse quietly, and Javier's brain short-circuits. Because have you always been standing so close to him? He can fucking smell you from a here — some floral perfume that makes his head spin and his knees buckle, though he can't help himself from wanting to bury his head in the crook of your neck and breathe you in.

He has to crane his neck to look down at you, and his pulse quickens once he realizes that all he has to do is lean slightly forward on his toes and he'd be kissing you. Your eyes are no longer clouded with tears and the anger in your voice has melted. Your calm, which is new, but it doesn't make it any easier to look at you. Because you're gazing up at him with eyes that reflect the night sky and he thinks he's about to pass out.

And it takes him a moment to remember that you've asked him a question.

Why? Why are you different?

Why does he distance himself from your soft touch? Why does he avoid your curious stare? Why does he have the urge to leave the room whenever you enter it? Why does he only offer you half-assed responses and quips? Why does he refuse to look at your even though all he ever thinks about is your sweet face? Why does he let himself fuck whores when he keeps letting your name slip from his lips? Why does he allow his gaze to linger and trace every outline of your face after you've turned away? Why does he wake up glistening with sweat and a painful ache between his legs because he fell asleep thinking about you?

Fuck. He wants to kiss you right now.

Why does he want to kiss you right now?

"Javier?" You breathe out, still waiting for him to speak even though you are starting to understand his silent answer.

Javier doesn't remember hearing his name softly drip slip from your lips in a whisper. He doesn't remember his hand shaking as he lifts it to cradle your cheek. He doesn't remember the calloused pad of his thumb brushing against your cheekbone as you softly shudder beneath his touch. He doesn't remember gazing into your eyes like he's looking up into the summer night sky, stargazing. He doesn't remember the shaky breath the leaves your lips as his thumb drags lower to graze your plush bottom lip. He most certainly doesn't remember leaning forward on his feet and capturing your lips with his.

His lungs constrict and he's kissing you — desperately, touches drowning in need as the taste of you floods his senses.

But fuck, you're kissing him back. And your tongue is pressing into his mouth, practically purring as your hands rake through his hair.

And you're not entirely sure how the conversation ended with you kissing Javier Peña like you were trying to devour him whole, but he doesn't seem to be complaining as he picks you up with a small grunt and lays you down on the backseat of his car without breaking away from you once.

He's breathing is frantic, grabbing at your blouse and tugging it off of you before your arms are even extended above your head. Your lips part from his with a loud smack and you whine out in pure want, squirming as his mustache tickles the swell of your breasts as his head dips down and sucks a purple mark into the plush flesh that spills from the bra cups. Your stomach is churning with lust and desire as the thought of him burns into your memory like a hot iron searing through flesh.

"Hermosa," he calls out through a heavy breath that ghosts against your collar, his sinful hands groping your chest draws out airy moans. His cock is hard and leaking, the arousal the settled in his belly is burning through him like a wildfire.

Fuck, you're touching him and it's shaking his mind to shambles. Your hand rests on the nape of his neck as he pulls your bra down to run his hot tongue over your taut nipples, your other hand weaving through his dark hair and tugging.

"Javier," you keen, your back arching off the leather seat as something inside your bursts. You rock your hips forward, desperate to reveal the tension that had coiled in your stomach. "I need... I need—"

"I know," he grunts because he needs the exact same things. He's panting, quivering, shuddering out broken breaths between kisses as he hovers over your trembling body. "Fuck, baby. I know."

Then it's like his mind goes on autopilot, acting on pure instinct as he fumbles to unclasp his belt and yank the front of his jeans down far enough so that he can take his weeping cock out of its confinements. His hands then find their way to your pants, hesitating to make sure you still want him but you're one step ahead, already pushing your pants and panties down in one harsh movement.

But as soon as he looks down at your naked lower half, his daze is snapped in half like a twig and his mind spirals out of control as he realizes that he needs you right fucking now. And you're no better, tears prickling your eyes as you beg him to fuck you in the back of his Jeep.

And even though he craves to taste your wetness on his tongue, he thinks he's going to die if he doesn't fuck you this very instant. He can't stop himself from lining his cock up with your entrance and applying the slightest bit of pressure, relishing in the needy moan that echoes throughout the cab of his car that makes pre-cum drip down the base of his cock.

"Javier." You're chanting his name like a prayer, like he's your sweet salvation. Your hands squeeze his shoulders as your head lols back before one drops to find his, lacing your fingers together to anchor yourself. He's hovering about you, one quivering arm propping his body up while the other is holding yours — he thinks he's about to explode.

"Please fuck me."

Then he's spreading you open, pushing inside of you with one slow and deliberate stroke. You squeak at the tightness, the full feeling that stretches your walls and makes you shudder. Javier's head drops to the crook of your neck and presses a chaste kiss to the pulsating skin, pausing momentarily so that you both can catch your breath.

And as you ask him to finally move, all coherent thoughts as ripped from his mind. All he knows is that he's thrusting into you like he's going to die if he stops. You're going to kill him.

I'll die if you stop. You don't know if you actually said it aloud or if it was only an echo of a thought in your ruined mind.

Neither of you last long, which isn't much of a surprise at the state you're in. Though Javier feels weird because he has some weird sexual reputation and he nearly came in his pants when he was only kissing you. And he wanted to draw it all out because he's secretly scared that you'll never talk to him again after this, even though that's what he originally wanted. But now that he's finally gotten a taste of your lips, he's drunk off your touch and addicted to it. He doesn't want you to leave and pretend that none of this ever happened. He doesn't even know if you like him in the same way he likes you—

No, fuck, he loves you. He loves you and doesn't even know if you like him enough to allow him to take you on a proper date.

So when he asks you if you want to get drinks with him on Friday, skin sticky with sweat and chest sill heaving as he helps you dress, he's surprised when you agree with a coy smile. And he huffs out a small laugh when you teasingly ask if you should expect Steve to tag along or if it's a legitimate date.

And honestly, the following months are a blur — filled with wandering hands, lingering shared gazes, and hot kisses. He can't control himself after the torturous ten long months he spent waiting, ten months of longing and yearning for your touch while he pushed you away.

All that matters now is that you're fast asleep in his arms on a rainy Tuesday morning. Your cheek is squished against his bare chest and he knows that the dark hairs that litter his torso are probably tickling your nose, but you don't stir once your arm is lazily draped over his middle.

And he can't help the dopey smile that tugs at his lips when you nuzzle even closer, still stuck on the thought that you somehow managed to fall in love with him.

"You're warm," you mumble mindlessly, voice heavy with sleep.

Oh, you are awake.

"Have to get up soon," he replies, though his words don't seem fitting as he tightens his hold around your waist and drags you up his torso so that he can tuck your head beneath his chin.

And for a split second, Javier thinks that you've fallen back asleep because he's learned the hard way that you are by no means a morning person. Your heartbeat his soft against his chest and your breathing pattern returns to a slow and silent pace.

"Call in sick," you suddenly murmur as you squirm a bit before stilling.

Javier breathes out a soft chuckle, his breath ghosting over the top of your head. "We can't both call in sick," he refutes lightly, even though the offer is very tempting.

"Fine," you utter before tilting your head up to look at him with dreamy eyes. And as your eyes land on him, Javier remembers just how beautiful you are and how much he really wants to stay in bed with you. "Then you call in sick, I'll play hooky."

A dangerous game, it's hard to keep a secret relationship a secret when there's a pattern of both parties missing work on the same days.

Though, apparently, the game is all too tempting. Because as soon as you lean up to press a gentle kiss in the crook of Javier's neck, he finds himself reaching for his phone.

"Wanna make me breakfast?" You eventually ask through a coy grin, peering up at him through your thick lashes as he ends the call.

He rolls his eyes, a playful gesture that you don't take seriously in the slightest. "You're ridiculous," he answers grumpily even though you both know he's going to cave and make his specialty of coffee and eggs.

"But you love me anyway," you reply smugly, pushing yourself up on your elbow to peck a chaste kiss to his lips. Javier's hand comes up to cradle the back of your head, pulling you closer to deepen the kiss. You can't stop the moan that slips from you breathlessly as his tongue parts your pursed lips.

It's safe to say that neither of you gets out of bed for another hour.

----

tags (let me know if you want to be added): @yespolkadotkitty

#smut #corrupt-fvcker #javier peña #javier peña x reader #pedro pascal #javier pena x you #self insert #reader insert #narcos #fanfic #fanfiction #narcos fanfic #my writing #spicy

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professorsnape394 · 3 years

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The Potions Master’s Apprentice

Chapter Nine: Letters, Lovers and Loyalties

A/N: This is the ninth part to my fanfiction ‘The Potions Master’s Apprentice (Severus Snape x OC)’. Chapters 1-16 can be found already uploaded on Wattpad under the same name. Feel free to leave requests in my inbox for anything Snape related you want me to write. Leave a comment below if you wish to be added to my tag list.

Pairing: Severus Snape x OC (Dumbledore’s Granddaughter)

Summary: A talented young witch is employed as an apprentice professor at Hogwarts, but who will she be working under? Severus Snape is not best pleased with his new responsibility of taking on an apprentice, however she is relentless to create a friendship between them. Will she be successful? Or might the friendship just go a little two far? With the eyes of her grandfather constantly watching over them, an attempt at a relationship might not be in the cards for Aria Dumbledore and Severus Snape.

Word Count: 2185

Warnings: n/a

Credits to Gif Creator

Yet another letter dropped into the lap of Aria Dumbledore as she sat absentmindedly sketching. Dropping her quill back into the small pot of ink which balanced on the arm of her chair, a small sigh escaped her lips. She had been expecting another to arrive any day now.

Aria allowed herself a small glance in the direction of her desk where the ever growing pile of unopened letter sat gathering dust. Disregarding her drawing, Aria traveled to her desk, fingers fumbling with the edge of the envelope. Admittedly, Aria's mind had been focused on that small pile of letters the past few days, and consequently the man who sent them. She couldn't bring herself to reply to his constant inquiries, but she had considered there was no harm in opening a few of them. She longed to hear from him, though she had been in denial for so long now she wasn't sure what to expect from his most recent letters.

Waiting no longer she ripped the paper from its wax seal, her eyes quickly scanning every word on the page.

My dear Aria, Though I know you say you cannot reply to my letters, I write them all with the hope that you will find the time in your busy schedule to at least read them. As always things are quiet here without you. Too quiet. I miss your voice. I miss hearing you sing to yourself in the shower thinking no one can hear you, I miss hearing you hum as you wander aimlessly through the house, I miss watching you draw as I pose for you, but most importantly I miss holding you in my arms. I long for the end of the school year when we will be reunited and I will have nothing to miss except maybe writing these letters. I long for a response to my letters, my darling. I simply must know that you miss me as I miss you. In the mean time I will continue to write to you to keep myself distracted from everything terrible happening in the world, by simply thinking of you. All my love, S.

Aria couldn't help but feel a great pang of guilt in the pit of her stomach for ignoring the letters, but she couldn't bare the thought of reading them, while she was still coming to terms with how she felt when she decided to leave for Hogwarts. She knew immediately she would not be able to maintain a long distance relationship with him. Though he was the first man she had ever loved she had been too cowardly to confess her feelings for him in person, let alone on a piece of parchment. She knew she was a pathetic coward from the moment he told her he loved her and she could not find it in her to return the favour. Her cowardice was more than proven the day she left for Hogwarts. Aria had planned to break up with him, to avoid further heartbreak down the line. But she could not even find the courage to do that.

Instead she was living in denial. In her mind they had broken up, and refused to face up to whatever she was truly feeling until it was absolutely necessary. Her plan had been to distract herself as much as possible, suppress her feelings and just forget about the situation completely. And to be totally honest her plan had been working for her, with the exception of a few off days such as today. However when it came time to wake up and face the music she had no idea what her plan would be then.

Leaving the letter open on her desk she took a stroll around the grounds of Hogwarts to clear her mind. The time to figure out all of her problems was not now. She was still a young, carefree woman and she didn't want the burden of guilt stopping her from living her life however she so wished.

Arias walk led her to the village of Hogsmeade, and after working up a light sweat, the young professor opted to pop into the Three Broomsticks to quench her thirst.

Unsurprisingly for a late Tuesday evening the place was barren. Besides for a drunken wizard practically falling off his bar stood, a crazy witch whispering to herself and two well dressed men, sitting out of place in a side booth, the place was completely deserted. Planning to only stay for a pumpkin juice Aria took a seat at the bar and begun chatting to the same barmaid who had served her and Severus all those weeks ago.

"Busy night?" Aria joked, rolling her eyes at the drunk to her right.

The woman laughed in return, handing over a glass of pumpkin juice. "This is pretty much the standard, at this time." She shrugged, polishing off a perfectly clean glass, to keep herself busy. "That one over there doesn't even order anything, but its not worth the hassle kicking her out." She gestured to the old hag in the corner, her perfectly polished nails glistening in the dim bar light.

"I wish I could say I felt sorry for you, but a break away from the chaos that is Hogwarts is a slight relief." Aria sighed. She was still not used to being around so many people all the time having spent the past few years alone, besides her mother, she often needed time alone to breathe.

"Oh, then you must be new. I've had my fair share of lonely professors spend an evening behind my bar, and I usually remember who's spilled their whole life story to me. Though you do look familiar, what do you teach?" She finished up with her glasses, leaning her elbows on the bar to get a closer look at the younger woman, her breasts practically falling out her blouse.

"I'm just an apprentice for now. I'm the new Potions Mistress." Aria smiled, taking a small sip of her drink.

"Oh yes, now I remember. You came here with that Severus. He's not unfamiliar with our whiskey selection, if you know what I mean." Both women rolled their eyes in unison. "He doesn't seem to talk much though, I can't say I know anything about him. I must admit I was surprised to see him with a gorgeous young witch like yourself."

"You weren't the only one." Aria scoffed, finishing off her pumpkin juice.

"Well it makes a little bit more sense now." She laughed, a set of pristine pearly teeth emerging from her red glossy lips.

It seemed Aria was not the only one who had been admiring the woman's beauty, and almost right on cue the drunk decided to look a little bit more lively, demanding another pint. Reluctantly the barmaid obliged, shooting Aria an apologetic look.

Aria couldn't help but notice the gruff looking man practically throw himself over the bar in order to get a good gawk at the barmaids behind. The slightly older woman seemed unfazed by the mans actions, in-fact Aria wasn't entirely unsure she wasn't enjoying the attention. Choosing not to interrupt as neither party seemed to object to the altercation, Aria kept her mouth shut.

That was until the man's attention turned to her. The barmaid disappeared from view, presumably to refill the barrel the drunk had practically drowned himself in. "Haven't seen you around here before." He started harmlessly, though Aria did not miss the way his eyes seemed to scan the whole of her body.

"Just moved into Hogwarts, haven't seen much of Hogsmeade." Aria admitted, but made the conscious decision to turn away from him, hoping not to engage in any further conversation.

"You a friend of Ros'" He asked, intrigued, while downing a good half of his pint.

"Not really, no." Aria shrugged. "I didn't even know her name until just now."

"Rosalind Rookwood." He edged his seat closer to Arias. "Fantastic barmaid, though I wouldn't say it was her best profession." He winked.

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean." Aria turned her nose up at the man, just praying he would leave her alone.

"Well, you know, bein' a barmaids fine an all, but it doesn't always pay the bills. Miss Rookwood's got her fair share of stories to tell, and not all of them her own." He laughed, the potent stench of his alcoholic breath suffocating Aria as he leaned in closer, wrapping a heavy arm around her shoulders. "If it turns out teaching isn't for you, just know you'll have a loyal customer in me." He hiccuped, his free arm, reaching down to stroke the woman's exposed thigh.

Instinctively Aria gripped onto his wrist, forcing it off of her. "What the hell do you think you are doing!?" Aria exclaimed, pushing the man away from her. "Don't you dare lay your hands on me again."

The drunk showed no sign of guilt or remorse, he simply chuckled to himself, revealing a shocking lack of teeth. Disgusted, Aria made to move but found herself cornered against the bar.

Fortunately the altercation had caused enough disruption to alert the two men having a casual evening drink. Instantly one rushed over to her aid, stupefying the old man. The second man followed suit and made it his business to remove the frozen figure from the bar.

"Are you alright?" The first man asked, his brow furrowing with worry.

"I'm fine, thank you for stepping in." Aria smiled, brushing herself down, as though she was riding herself from the drunks disgusting touch.

The man returned a boyish grin, his eyes bright blue and full of kindness. Aria had never seen anyone like him. His presence was almost cartoon like, with positivity radiating from him. Aria couldn't help but let out a nervous laugh, her smile growing just by looking at him. His energy was contagious.

"Is... is there anything I can do to thank you?" She tried your shake herself back to reality though remained entranced by him.

"Nothing at all. I'm just glad I was here to help." He extended a hand, almost nervously, introducing himself. "Alexander Turner, pleasure to meet you."

"You too." Aria blushed, unable to break eye contact with the man, and was now incredibly aware of how dumbfounded she must look. "I'm Aria" She stuttered, the sound of his friend retuning sending her back to reality. "I apologise for staring, but I just can't seem to take my eyes off you, you have an enchanting aura about you. I'm sorry if I may seem a little strange."

"There's no need to apologise, I get it all the time." He laughed, though not arrogantly, it was sweet and innocent. "My mother's a Veela." He added, almost embarrassedly, upon noticing the slightly look of confusion appearing on Arias face.

The couple shared an awkward smile, both at a loss for words.

Alexander's friend passed by the pair silently, slapping him encouragingly on the shoulder before disappearing behind the bar, Rosalind following closely behind.

Aria noted the difference in both attitude and appearance in the two men, finally able to distinguish between the two. The friend was tall and broad shouldered, his hair messy though not long. He gave off a sort of American football, "bro", fratbroy vibe. In other words kind of arrogant and full of himself. Clearly he saw himself as the one in control. Alexander on the other hand was more slim, but not skinny. Tall but not lanky. Innocent but not naive. His clothes appeared similar to his friends but presented more neatly and well put together. She assumed he felt sorry for his friend, knowing his Veela parentage would gain him lots of female attention, and in return Alexander simply allowed himself to get pushed around to boost his friends ego.

With a roll of his eyes Alexander practically confirmed her theory and Aria couldn't stop herself from laughing once more.

Knowing that while Rosalind and 'Braydon'; as he turned out to be, would not be returning any time soon, Aria and Alexander chose to occupy one of the booths and get to know a little bit about each other, where Alex truly confirmed all of Aria's suspicions.

Upon Braydon's return, he flashed his rather large biceps, kissing each one in turn as he flexed them, before letting out a hearty growl, presumably this was a display of male dominance among his kind. His kind being; douchebags.

With another roll of her eyes Aria bid farewell to the men, thanking Alexander once more for his heroic rescue.

"How about a date?" Alex called nervously as Aria had just about reached the door.

"I'm sorry?" She replies, caught off guard.

"A date, here, with me. What do you say?" Aria shook her head unable to look away from that damn charming smile of his.

"I'll agree to a few drinks." She clarified. "Just send me an owl, you know where I'll be." And with that she disappeared once more down the path to Hogwarts, the grey sky above all the while threatening to rain down on her.

Taglist: @ayamenimthiriel @lizlil

#severus snape #severus snape fanfiction #severus snape one shot #severus snape imagine #severus snape x reader #severus x reader #severus x oc #severus x y/n #Harry Potter #harry potter and the goblet of fire #harry potter fanfiction #alan rickman #dumbledore #dumbledores granddaughter #potions master #potions masters apprentice #Severus Snape smut #severus snape fluff

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nerdy-novelist017 · 5 years

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Awakening (Joker/Arthur Fleck fanfic)

This is my first Joker fanfic. I absolutely loved the 2019 movie. Joaquin Phoenix deserves an Oscar for his performance. The film was cinematically beautiful The writing was haunting and stuck with me for a long time after. The soundtrack deserves its own Oscar, it was a perfect representation of Arthur Fleck. I just HAD to write something after seeing this movie.

Enjoy!

Ps. Feedback is appreciated greatly!

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She had never wanted this for her life. When she was a young girl, her dream was to be a princes and fall in love with her brave prince charming, just like all those Disney movies had sold to her. The idea that she could live in a perfect world, waking up to birds chirping and animals talking, singing all day and, eventually, falling in love with this perfect, pure person. But it was all a story, a lie told to eager young girls. There was no talking animals. And singing in public caused people to to look at you strangely. And there definitely was no prince charming of any kind. Just a broken world full of broken people just like her. Elizabeth was no princess. She was a prostitute.

Elizabeth walks down the sidewalk of the empty sidewalk. Her shift had started ten minutes ago, for that she is sure that The King would have her head. Her black, strappy heels leaves soft clicking noises as she quickens her pace. Thoughts of how she could slip past her boss races through her head as she rounds the corner to go to the back entrance. She yanks open the door and slips mutely inside. Almost immediately her nose is filled with the obnoxious smell of cigerettes and beer, smells that she has gotten use to in her career. The noises of the club surrounds her with yelling, laughing and, of course, cursing. She feels like it might have warmed up at least five degrees inside from the the crowd of people. Liz is use to this atmosphere. She is use to rude drunks, the sore losing gamblers, and her customers.

She ducks into the back hallway where it leads her to the back room filled with her other coworkers who are lounging on the uncomfortable, velvet couches. The room is dark, and falling apart at the walls. Ugly, cracking gold paint covered the walls with a faux rich atmosphere. The front of the casino was rich and fancy, the back was not.

"Look what the cat drug in," a voice speaks loudly in a thick New Jersey accent. Elizabeth knows who it is without even looking. She can recognize that wretched, annoying voice in her sleep. The voice belongs to a woman named Imani. She is a prostitute in her late twenties, just slightly older than Liz. She's a beautiful, tall, African American girl who had been in prostitution since she was eithteen. Ever since Liz had found Saltwater Casino all those years ago, Imani has made it her personal goal to make her life a living hell. As if it isn't already.

"Dragged," Liz corrects her grammar as she digs around in her purse. Her fingers find the tube of lipstick at the very bottom, under piles of napkins, loose change and packets of gum. She quickly rushes to one of their many full-length mirrors to apply a fresh layer of her favorite red lipstick.

"Oh, screw you, Lizzie," Imani spits as she rose from her lounge. In three long strides, she is across the room, glaring daggers at Liz. Years ago, when Elizabeth had first started working at Saltwater Casino, she would have flinched away from Imani's towering form and beautiful glaring looks. She would have immediately apologized and slunk away like the weak person she was. But that was the past when Liz was just a young girl. Now, she turns directly towards Imani.

With faces just inches away , Liz speaks calmly, "Get out of my face, Imani,"

The room full of girls has turned their attention to the fight brewing. The atmosphere grows tense.

"Girls, knock it off," a strict voice averts all of their attention to the doorway where a larger man stands, arms folded over his large chest. He barely fits in the doorway with his towering height, but where he is tall, he certainly lacks any attractive physic. He's skinny, with arms and legs that look like they have not seen a day's worth of hard work in their entire life. Liz figures he is built this way from the cocaine she knows he uses often. His veins are in a perpetual state of protruding down his arms. However weak he may appear, he is certainly no weak man. She knows this from experience. All of the girls do.

Without missing a beat, Imani takes a step back, throwing her arms open wide, "Mistah King, look who was ten minutes late, yet again. She came in here with an attitude lookin' to start a fight with me as usual."

Elizabeth rolls her eyes, knowing there was no use arguing her side. A few of the others girls laugh, they all knew she was lying, but none bother to back Liz up. It is survival instincts that keep them quiet. Each of them know that if they say anything to her, Imani will make their lives unnecessarily complicated. So, they say nothing.

"Lizzie, walk with me," Mr. King demands as he turns, leaving Elizabeth to slide around Imani and follow her boss out of the room.

"She's lying, I wasn't --" Liz starts once they were out of earshot and down the hallway. The hallway that was decorated with dreadful red and gold wallpaper that warped and peeled in more than one area. It was dim, the wall scorns not bright enough to lighten the hallway. Nothing could brighten the back of the building.

"So you were on time?" Mr. King cuts her off. Liz looks away. Great, he was already in a bad mood tonight.

"Yes," Elizabeth lies, focusing her gaze on a particular bubble of wallpaper that shapes a mangled dolphin. Anything would be better than looking into her boss' cold, dark eyes. She swallows the frog in her throat. She hates the effect he still has on her. The knots in her stomach, the shivers on her skin. She hates the way he makes her feel vulnerable, small.

"What have I told you about being late, baby girl?" Mr. King leans in closer to her as he speaks in a low whisper. Elizabeth almost flinches at his pet name he had given her throughout the years.

"Don't let it happen," She answers, emotionless. Her nose burns from the stench of alcohol on his breath.

He reaches his skinny hand out to stroke her cheek and down to her neck. Elizabeth refuses to cower under his touch. She doesn't want to satisfy him in any way. Instead, she looks him straight in his beady black eyes, "You got a shift for me?"

He is quiet for a long time, only staring at her. Finally, he backs away and says, "Yeah, you're on from nine to five,"

She bites her lip in anger. He has purposefully given her a crappy shift because she had talked back to him. She shakes her head and makes her way to the front of the casino. It is a busy night as usual. It is a Tuesday night, so there is classical music playing in the background as customers gambled, drank or talked. She sits on a high stool where the girls sometimes wait for men who were looking for an hour's escape from reality. She immediately spies her coworker and closest thing to a friend she has.

"Hey, Nat," greets Liz as she moves to sit closer to the young girl at the opposite end of the bar.

The woman looks up from her ciggerette, causing her kinky, blonde curls to bounce slightly at the sudden movement. Her face breaks out into a wide smile, "Hey, sugar!"

"Is that a new shade of lip gloss?" Lizzie asks when she takes a seat.

"Oh this old thing?" Nat's messy manicured nails gestures to her lips, "Nah, I've had this for quite a while. Got it from my second cousin. Anyway, I didn't know you would be working tonight." her southern drawl slurs her words together. She constantly speaks of her childhood home back in New Orleans, where she has inherited her accent. Whenever she would ask Elizabeth about her childhood home, Liz would dismiss it as unimportant or not worth the time.

"Got nine to five," Lizzie confirms as she signals one of the many bartenders to bring her a drink. He's a kind man, often servers her for free.

"Oh, honey," Nat shakes her head in shame, "that is such a shitty shift. He's such an ass."

"It was because I was late, slept through my alarm," she leaves out the part where Mr. King got too close for comfort. It isn't like she is the only girl he has done it to. She's seen multiple new girls go into his office for longer than they should have. She pities them, but doesn't dare speak up against him. She needs this job. It is the only thing she is good at in life.

"Well," Natasha props her elbows on the glossy oak top, "at least you got a good night, there's been a dozen of cutie butterflies that came in earlier. They are all over there, by the slots."

Elizabeth's dark eyes follows Nat's gaze directed over to the east wing, where a group of clean-cut men pool around, cheering on their friend who was about to roll his dice. The two girls have code words for different type of customers. Butterfly is the code for an attractive young man. Because they are few and far between, they have been given the word butterflies. Moths are the name given to just about every other customer. They are usually old, fat and unattractive married men. Moths are ugly and always a pest to deal with, thus the nickname was born.

"I don't know, they seem pretty invested in their game," Elizabeth shakes her head and leans her chin on her palm, resting her elbow on the table top.

"A girl can dream, right?" she flashes one of her brilliant smiles.

As the night progressed on, Elizabeth chats with Natasha as much as she could before one of them would most likely be whisked away by a needy customer. They both have a drink of vodka before their Mr. King could see. Throughout her years of prostitution, she has learned to yearn for a drink to calm her nerves. A couple moths sway through, looking for a date for the night, both girls quickly show them to the other prostitutes on shift.

"Lizzie, you're on room nine, guy's already in there waiting for you," Mr. King appears behind her, eyeing them as if they are threatening him at gun point, "You planning on paying for that, or am I gonna have to take it out of your paycheck?"

"Course, Mister King," Natasha winks at him over the brim of her glass as she downs the rest of the amber colored liquid.

"I didn't even see anyone go in the den," Elizabeth raises her eyebrow in confusion. The den is what the girls called their workspace. Usually it consists of a queen bed and a couple of rickety night stands. It's a sad room where the girls spend most of their nights with various men.

"Let's hope he's a butterfly," Nat smiles in encouragement as she raises her empty glass of vodka, "look good, babe,"

Elizabeth nods, forcing a tight smile. She follows Mr. King out of the main room and moves down the cramped hallway, all the way until he pauses in front of a door. The wood has been painted black with a giant red heart and in the center is the number 9. Before her hand can grab the door handle, a large first curls around her bicep.

"This man is paying very well, baby girl, so don't screw anything up with your woman emotions, got it?" Mr. King spits through clenched teeth.

Elizabeth nods her head, "Got it,"

He releases her arm and takes a few steps back, "Good, he paid for an hour, so that's what your going to give him," and with that, he turns and disappears down the dim-lighted hallway.

Elizabeth knows if this man complained in any way, Mr. King would punish her severely. She runs a hand through her dark chestnut hair to make herself look more seductive. A shaky hand reaches out to grab the door handle again. She curls her hands into a fist to stop the shaking. She is strong. She can do this. Her usual prepping rings out in her head. Opening the door, she is greeted with a dark room, the only light illuminating was the light spilling in from the hallway behind her. For a moment, she actually thinks she has the wrong room. She reaches to flick on the light switch. The lights pop on and she can see his towering form over by the window, broad back facing her.

She gently closes the door and moves towards the bed in the center of the room, "So, you like standing in dark rooms?"

"No," his voice was low and calm. He speaks clearly, without any stutter or shyness. He is sure of himself, "I like the look of the city. When the lights are on, it leaves a glare on the window."

He still hasn't turned to face her yet, giving Elizabeth a chance to see his body. He is very tall, long legs and broad shoulders. Soft layers of black hair spills out around his neck and just touching his shoulder. He is lean but muscular enough to be intimidating. He wears a beige jacket that stretches across his long back. Simple boot cut jeans covers his lengthy legs and finishes at his boots.

Elizabeth thinks he is strange, but she shrugs it off and lays on her side of the bed, leaning one leg over the other, "Are you gonna come over here, or are you gonna stare out the window the entire time?"

His towering form turns slowly, stepping away from the window. Elizabeth can see that he has a sharp jawline, littered with a light dusting of stubble. His lips are splashed with just enough pink hue to make them look full and playfully tasteful. His hooded brows and lack of light in the room conceal his eye color from her.

His feet stop when he approaches the end of the bed. He rings his hands out as if he is nervous. She studies his face for a moment and frowns. She has seen him before. But where?

Elizabeth clears her throat before she speaks, "You don't have to worry about wearing anything. That's already taken care of by me."

She looks down at her cheap clothing, expecting him to want her to start stripping her sheer, black tank-top to reveal her lacy, red bra. She unconsciously plays with a loose thread on the purple bedspread. The nerves always eats through her stomach right before she meets a customer. None of the men that came in for the night are good people. All of them are either drunks avoiding their nagging wives, young men getting a taste of freedom, or even aged men without anyone in their lives. She can't quite tell what this man's tell was.

When he does not acknowledge her, she sits up a little, propping her upper half of her body on her hands, "What's your name?"

He tilts his head to the side, "I'm Arthur," he seems to pause a moment before continuing, "what's yours?"

This causes Elizabeth to pause and stare at him with a small, agape mouth. Hardly any of the men that come through on their nightly livelihood ever ask her name. They don't care. She is just a tool to them, just disposable. "Call me Lizzie,"

"Lizzie," he looks down at his feet as he tests the name on his tongue. An uncomfortable silence fills the room, creating a tense atmosphere for Elizabeth. Usually she is not this uncomfortable and stiff, but this man, Arthur, is forming a very afflictive attitude within her. His presence is unsettling, making her want to get away.

"Um, do you want to sit on the bed?" Elizabeth suggests, motioning to the fluffed pillows.

Arthur cautiously lowers himself to sit on the edge of the bed, furthest away from her as he could possibly be without falling off the side. Elizabeth scoots over to the middle of the bed, laying down on her back and closing her eyes. When he still does not move or speak, She peers an eye open.

"You alright? You only paid for an hour, so..." Elizabeth trails off.

"I paid for an hour in this room, right?" he asks.

"Yes, an hour with me in this room." she confirms.

He looks away from her face, suddenly finding the wood paneling more interesting than ever, "Is it alright if we just...talked instead?"

Elizabeth tilts her head to the side in utter confusion. She is expecting him to request a lot of different things, but she definitely does not expect that to be one of them. When his eyes float back to hers, she immediately looks down in embarrassment. She can feel heat rise in her cheeks. Who was this guy? "We can start with that, to calm your nerves,"

"I don't want to use your body for prostitution, Lizzie," he speaks softly and quickly, "I don't want that from you."

Her head is pounding with confusion as she stares at the mysterious stranger. Most men don't even care for her name, and now here this man is telling her that he doesn't want to have sex with her? Her immediate thoughts were that he is shy to be naked in front of her, hence the lights. "We don't have to leave the lights on, if that's what you mean,"

His face remains straight, "It's not. I did not hire you for sex."

She hears bells of alarm and panic in the back of her mind. This man was so odd, so unpredictable. "Are you a cop?"

He laughs loudly and shakes his head. he looks to be in pain as he covers his mouth with his hand and turns away from her.

Then she suddenly remembers that laugh. That eerie laugh. The same laugh he gave when he was on the Murray Franklin Show. The same laugh he gave before he killed the popular tv host.

She stands so quickly she stumbles in her heels. The door is the only thing on her mind. She needs to get out of this room and away from this murderer. However, she needs to accomplish this sneakily. Who knows what he would do to her?

He notices her change and stands beside her, his laughter has died down. She panics at his towering form and rushes for the door, barely pulling it open before he's by her side, slamming it shut.

"Don't," he growls and she yelps, hand still on the door handle.

"You're him," she whispers, "you're the Joker,"

"You aren't going to run out there and scream for security. I don't get out of jail just so that I can go right back in," he says lowly, his warm breath fans across her face. He smells strongly of cigarettes and a musky cologne. He is so close to her, she turns her head to the door, she doesn't want to look into the eyes of a murderer. Of her murderer.

"Are you going to kill me? My boss is just right down the hall. He and others would here if I screamed." she surprises herself with her newfound courage.

"They don't appreciate you as you should be," he says, "they wouldn't care if they found you dead in this room. You are just a tool to them. Just something to be used to gain them even more money. The rich come in here and abuse you then pay you way below what you're worth."

Tears prick her eyes as she gripes the door handle tighter. Though she knows all this to be true, it still hurts to hear.

She startles when she feels his cold hand slowly turn her cheek to face him. His fingers move to her mouth, his thumb gently tracing over her bottom lip before pulling her mouth into a large smile. He mimics her forced smile with one of his own, "Smile, I'm not going to kill you."

She feels herself being drawn to him, her hands falls of the door knob as he pulls her closer. His eyes, a brilliant green, hold so much emotion. So much pain. So much honestly.

His hands drop from her mouth, and he backs away. It feels as if she can breathe again. She watches him retreat to the bed, sitting alone. She swallows, her throat feels dry as she glances back at the door.

"You can leave," he speaks without looking at her as he pulls a cigarette from its pack, "but we both know you don't want to."

She wants to leave, more than anything. Her mind tells her to run and call the cops. But when she turns back to him, he's sitting on the bed, pulling out a cigarette from its pack. He lights it and takes a long puff from it before putting his head in his hands. He looks so broken, so defeated. So lonely.

"There's nobody to talk to anymore," his voice drops off to a lower octave, "Even before they cut all the funding to those therapists, they never really listened. They never really talk. They didn't care."

She is quiet for a few minutes before speaking with a scratchy voice, "I'm not a trained therapist. I don't know what to say like they do."

"They never knew what to say either. That's why I like you, Lizzie. You aren't like them. You are like me." he smiles at her, and she wraps her arms around her torso uncomfortably.

"I'm nothing like you."

"You can't see it now. You haven't found your awakening yet," he takes another puff of his cigarette and looks away again.

She hesitates a moment before slowing moving into a sitting position on the bed as far away from him as possible,"You paid an awful lot of money just to sit in this dingy room and talk with me,"

He nods, "I know you must be confused, but I paid for an hour."

She is quiet for a few painfully awkward seconds. She self-consciously tugs down on her skirt, no longer confident in her own skin. He sat completely still, as if he were waiting for her to leave through the door. But she doesn't. She needs this job. She needs the money. When she got home last night, her landlord had stopped her as she stumbled into the apartment building at two in the morning. Dan Flemmings was a short, balding Latino . Liz likes to blame the fact that his wife ran away to Belize with his best friend on why he was so mean, but the truth was, he was born to be bitter in this world. He never shows any mercy on her, or any other building attendant, in fact. If your rent was a day short, you needed to find a new building to live. He caught her as she was unlocking her door, ready to shower and sleep for a few hours before needing to wake up and repeat the process all over again. He had been waiting for her.

“You got your rent, Griffin?" his grating voice startled her, "It was due yesterday,"

She kept her emotions at bay, no matter how irritating Dan was when he used her surname, "That was yesterday? Must have slipped my mind."

“You know damn well that its always the first of the month," he stepped closer to her, the fluorescent light hanging above them highlighted his scared top lip, a final parting gift from his ex wife, "I won't make exceptions for you or your sister."

“Got it," she mumbled. She didn't have the money, in fact. She was almost two hundred short. With her food bills and her sister’s medical bills, she did not have enough money to pay for both her meals and her rent.

She needs the money. That's why she stays with the Joker.

“What do you want to talk about?"

#joaquin phoenix joker #dc universe #gotham #romantic #darkromance #joaquin phoenix #my ocs

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