#fic: when fire doesn't burn
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i’m coming up on a year of having this blog and i thought i’d do something with this drabble that i can’t stop thinking about so. yeah! thanks for reading my little stories and saying such nice things to me for a whole year <3 love u
summary: in his 40s, touya isn’t expecting anything outside of his normal, comfortable routine. you come along and give him far more than he ever wanted. oddly enough, he doesn’t think he minds.
tags: MDNI, i’ll call this a medium burn, mentions of drinking, reader uses she/her pronouns and is called a lady,etc, age gap (unspecified but like 10 years--both are consenting adults), very little angst (like, the least i’ve ever written. this is just cute, if you can believe that.), smut (dry humping, oral), this is very much a comfort fic to me idk. wc: 10.1k
much to his utter disdain, Touya sees you everywhere after your first encounter. and often.
you have this awful habit of just popping up. in the stool next to him at the bar, with such regularity that his friends now joke about it being your stool, and then around town—everywhere he goes. it’s a small town, sure—but he still finds it ridiculous. even more ridiculous—the fact that you might be growing on him, despite all his resistance.
he doesn’t know when he started expecting you to hop up on that stool every friday. has no idea when he memorized your drink order, or when he started ordering it for you preemptively. this goes on every friday for weeks—until you don’t show up.
and he’s irritated then, because it makes him sore—where else could you possibly be?
“where’s your girl?”
“don’t know,” he mutters. he catches the smirk on his friend’s face out of the corner of his eye. “and she’s not my fuckin’ girl.”
that makes him laugh, and Touya turns away in a huff, face burning.
“sure she’s not.”
it’s another two weeks before he sees you. not that he was counting.
when he sees you again, it’s a tuesday, and he’s just wrapped up at his neighbor’s house. he carries two loaves of bread in one arm, and his toolbox in the other. the old woman had chased him out of there early, telling him, “it’s a nice night. go out there and find you someone!”. he snorts, kicking a bit of asphalt down the pavement. that old bat acts worse than his mother.
there are a few vendors lined up along the road, so he lets himself take his time—strolling casually, eyes raking over the stalls. it is a nice evening—warm, but the breeze is cool as it rustles through his hair. he sees a white tip from the corner of his eye and it almost startles him. it doesn’t matter how much distance he puts between himself and Dabi—it still surprises him when he realizes that he is not the same. physically or otherwise.
lost in his thoughts, he finds himself nearly home when he sees you in his peripheral, taking something from the merchant of the produce stall across the street. he has half a mind to turn and walk the opposite way (away from his house) just to avoid this interaction—still wholly irritated over wasting the $7 on your stupid little drink, and that’s all—but you seem to have a weird sixth sense when it comes to him, and your head snaps up in his direction right before he can make a break for it. you give him that stupid smile that he has to look away from, waving at him happily before you take off in his direction.
he considers if he still has time to flee, but then you’re there in front of him.
“Touya!” you beam up at him, totally ignoring the scowl he levels you with, “what are you doing here?”
“i live here,” he grumbles, looking away from you again, “what are you doing here?”
“ah, i visit my family on tuesdays. whatcha got there?”
he pointedly looks down at the bread in his arms, and back up at you. you’re looking at it a little too intensely, eyebrows scrunched together like you’re trying to figure something out—and then the moment’s gone, and you’re smiling up at him again.
“want to share?” you ask, holding up your bag of produce to him.
he doesn’t, but he finds himself next to you anyway, sitting on a retaining wall while you chatter away—kicking your feet out and handing him slices of an orange between your own bites.
he learns more about you. early 30s (so not as young as he’d guessed, but still young enough to make him cringe), living alone like he is. you grew up in town, moved away for a while, and then came back. you don’t really like sweets but you do like fruit—hence the overflowing tote bag full of it—and you’re more inclined to reach for tea than coffee. you own the little flower shop a few blocks down. he thinks it suits you—and then he shakes his head, trying to dislodge the thought.
“i’m having an issue with the floor though, so part of the shop has been blocked off for a few weeks. not great for the foot traffic, but what can you do,” you shrug absentmindedly, more focused on digging another piece of fruit out of your bag. you settle on a peach, and it’s quiet between you for a beat. as if waiting for the silence, the thought that he’d been holding back for the better part of an hour finds its way out of his mouth.
“haven’t seen you at the bar,” he mutters, picking a stringy bit of peel off the orange piece he’s been holding.
“huh? oh, yeah. i had a wedding order that i was working on. it was so….much,” you shudder like you went off to war instead. “why, did you miss me?”
he looks away, eyes narrowed in a scowl. “just was a waste of a drink, s’all.”
he regrets it as soon as it leaves his mouth.
“a drink? my—oh. wait.”
your eyes go wide—he should’ve known you’d catch on to the meaning behind his words and he wants to die—
“forget it—“
“Touya,” you cut him off, and he can hear your shit eating grin, “were you hoping to see me?”
he’s sure he’s gone bright red and resists the urge to recede into himself like a snail into a shell. now he’s irritated, because did you think your drink just magically appeared in front of you every friday? he can feel the smugness radiating off of you—you want him to say it. he huffs, still looking away from you.
“just…was a waste of money,” he grits out, knowing fully that he hasn’t worried about money in quite some time, “figured you’d be there.”
you hum, and he still can’t look at you. refuses to, actually.
“sorry, Touya,” you tell him, and it sounds so genuine that he finds himself turning to you, just to check—to make sure you’re not fucking with him. “i’ll be sure to let you know the next time i won't be there.”
he rolls his eyes at the way you’re smiling softly at him, always like you know something he doesn’t. he mumbles out a clipped “whatever” and he hates the way he sounds like he did when he was 23. you don’t pay it any mind though, right back to talking his ear off.
“so do you live, like, really alone? or do you have a pet? you strike me as a gerbil guy.”
he huffs out a laugh at that, caught wholly off guard at the thought of being the gerbil guy (have you seen him?) and you smile at the sound, clearly pleased with yourself.
“no gerbil. a dog,” he finally takes a bite of the orange he’s been cradling in his palm for the better half of the last 20 minutes. your eyes don’t leave him.
“mm. chihuahua,” you say solemnly, and he whips his head around to look at you, expression all twisted and incredulous.
“a big fuckin’ dog, you brat.”
you laugh at his outburst, seeming to get some sort of pleasure out of riling him up.
“can i meet him?”
he looks at you then, and you’re really laying it on thick—wide eyes blinking up at him, bottom lip jutted out in a little pout. he can’t find it in himself to say no to you. with a sigh, he pushes himself up from the wall.
“c’mon then.”
it’s a short walk to his place and you’re vibrating behind him. shoving his key into the lock, he hears the familiar thumping of a tail, at about the same frequency as your incessant excitement at his back—he wonders just what he’s done to attract this level of energy.
“wait a minute—he’s going to jump at you—“
“oh, who cares. let me see him!”
he shakes his head, swinging open the door. he sees his big oaf of a dog rear up to jump, and then—
and then his jaw drops, because for what may very well be the first time, his dog is suddenly sitting.
you squeal and the dog isn’t much better off—practically wiggling away from his spot on the floor and whining at the sight of you, but still sitting.
“Touya!” you laugh, shoving past him to throw your arms around the dog’s neck, squeezing him tightly, “i know this dog!”
“you—huh?”
“i—“ your own laugh cuts you off, giggling while the dog fights your grip to lick you directly on the face, “i know him! did you get him at the shelter in town?”
“…yeah?”
“oh man! i used to volunteer—i was there when he was dropped off. i was with him all the time—taught him some manners—but then i took that job out of town for a little bit, so i didn’t get to see him after that.”
Touya, still trying to wrap his head around the fact that his dog is sitting, can’t bring himself to formulate a coherent reply.
“oh, i was so worried about him,” you say quietly, hugging the dog tighter, “i’m really glad you have him. what did you name him?”
that snaps him out of it, and he looks away, sheepish.
“i—uh. didn’t.”
you blink at him, processing, and then you frown.
“are you kidding me?”
he shrugs, looking at the dog— who, also for the first time, seems to be glaring at him with the same sentiment.
you sigh, shaking your head. “that won’t do,” you mutter, more to the dog than to him. “i think i called him Buck.”
as if on cue, Buck’s tail thumps against the floor.
“why?”
“not sure,” you say, scratching behind a fuzzy ear, “he just reminded me a little bit of a deer.”
Touya scoffs, completely in the dark as to how the two were even remotely similar.
“alright. Buck it is, then.”
you smile, patting the dog on the head as if he’d done anything worth rewarding. with a sigh you get to your feet, stretching a bit.
“i really do have to go see my family now,” you tell him, and he swears he hears a tiny bit of regret in your voice, “but thanks for letting me see Buck.”
he only nods, watching you bend down to kiss Buck square on his stupid blockhead.
“see you Friday?”
he swallows thickly, nodding again. your eyes are too bright.
“okay. see you, Touya.”
“hey,” he stops himself from reaching for you as you go to open the door, “i can…look at that floor for you. if y’want.”
every time he thinks he’s used to the way you just throw your emotions around like live grenades, he’s not—you smile at him so brightly he thinks you might just kill him.
you have a hunch that Touya is secretly a really good guy.
it’s almost endearing—how hard he tries to be so prickly—but it’s always all for naught, because he can’t help but go out of his way to do things for you.
you don’t know what to call the relationship—you gathered enough information from hushed whispers to his friends anytime he left his stool at the bar to know that he pointedly did not seek out the affections of women (“or men,” one of his friends said with a shrug, like they weren’t really sure). you weren’t clear on where that left you, so you were content to keep learning what you could about him—to stick around, as long as he tolerated you.
and he just barely does that, but you have a hunch it’s a farce. especially when take out cups full of freshly steeped tea start appearing on your counter in the shop, more days than not.
you lean against the wood top, sipping today's tea with both hands to warm yourself while you watch Touya work. autumn was in full swing now, and you had some difficulty keeping the shop to your preferred level of warmth, but it didn’t seem to bother him. your eyes linger on the hem of his old t-shirt, rising up in the back just a little when he reached for a different tool. it was obvious that time had softened him a bit, but he was still in shape. your vision followed the faded, looping scar that moved with the curl of his bicep as he worked each tool. it was hard not to stare.
it was even harder to get away with it.
“you’ll burn a hole in my head, brat.”
“just checking your work,” you tell him through a grin. trying very hard to feign nonchalance.
“oh yeah?” Touya looks at you over his shoulder, smirking at you. you feel it bodily. “what’s the verdict?”
“looks….” you pause, examining the array of tools and the sizable hole he’s created in the floor, “yeah. yep. like good work.”
he scoffs, shaking his head and turning back to the task at hand. you resist the urge to slam your head off the counter—settling for tapping in lightly as reprimand for your less than intelligent response.
you decide that the best way to get the embarrassment to dissipate is to do the thing that is quickly becoming your favorite activity: bothering him.
“pick a color.”
“what?”
“i said pick a color, grandpa.”
the sigh he lets out makes you laugh. “you fuckin’—fine. red. what’re you doing?”
you smile at him, and you watch him flush. it makes you giddy.
“nothing,” you drawl, sing-songy and incriminating, “don’t you worry your little heart about it.”
“you are the worry to my little heart,” he deadpans, not bothering to look up from the measurement he’s taking.
another thing you learn about Touya—he’s got a bit of a (dry) sense of humor. he seems to enjoy making you laugh.
there’s a lull in customers and you use it to your advantage—you go around to every bucket to ensure that each cut stem is submerged, and take out the wilted ones to dry. you don’t sell those ones—you just hang them up around the shop. you think it’s better not to waste them.
you also pull out some good looking red ones, as inconspicuous as you can—you gather a tulip, a few poppies, a peony, and a big, variegated chrysanthemum for the center.
you hold the makeshift bouquet behind your back as you approach Touya—padding over to him quietly until you’re close enough to lean into his space.
“whatcha thinking about?”
he spares you a pointed glance over his shoulder. “pest control.”
“har har,” you plop down right next to him, grinning at the way he bristles. of course it’s all for show—he doesn’t move an inch.
“made you something.”
“hm?”
you bring the bouquet out from behind your back, brandishing it in front of him dramatically. “tada!”
his eyes go wide—you see it take a minute for him to process that you’re giving him a gift. he sets his tools down and reaches for it, tentatively, like you’re going to fake him out at the last second. you meet him halfway, setting it in his hands.
“well?” you ask after a minute, “what do you think? i do pretty well, right?”
he’s quiet—turning the flowers over and back again, like he’s committing all of the little petals to memory. “what are they?”
you tell him about each flower—where they grow naturally, what conditions they like to live in, how to take care of them. he listens intently, never looking away from them.
“you don’t have to keep them,” you tell him after another moment of silence, “it was just a silly thing.”
“no,” he says, firmly. he looks at you out of the corner of his eye and lets out a breath, looking back down at the flowers. “s’nice. thanks.”
you have to physically stop yourself from jumping up and cheering.
“you’re welcome, old man,” you murmur, nudging his shoulder with your own.
he groans, grumbling a lighthearted “get away from me” as he shoves you back playfully. you let out some sort of dramatic squeal as you topple over, and you don’t miss the tiny smile that stretches across his face as he sets the flowers down next to him and gets back to work.
customers come in and out throughout the afternoon—most not paying any mind to Touya as he works. there are a few customers that eye him hesitantly—and there are one or two that stare pointedly at the scars that split his face. it feels like second nature to drop the customer service persona then—and to do things like drop their change on the counter and revel in the way they scramble to catch it before it rolls off onto the floor.
“have the best day,” you say to one particularly rude customer, all but shooing her out of the door.
Touya huffs out a laugh when you walk back toward him. “didn’t think you had it in you, kid.”
you cock an eyebrow at him. “what’s that supposed to mean?”
“surprised you didn’t kick out her kneecaps on the way out.”
“yeah, well,” you huff, waving a hand at the thought of someone so dreadfully rude, “she would’ve deserved it.”
“why’s that?”
you meet his eyes, then, and for the first time since you met him you think about the fact that they’ve seen terrible things. you knew of Touya, of course—all of Japan did. you knew he’d been through something awful and did things that you couldn’t imagine the man in front of you doing now. you know that he would not be surprised if you told him the reason why you felt she deserved it. you wonder if it bothers him the way it bothers you, or if time has hardened him to his own mistreatment.
“don’t worry about it,” you tell him, walking back behind the counter.
you haven’t seen much of Touya for the last few weeks.
you’d gotten another big order—what would probably be one of the last before winter really set in— so you were busy. he’d stop by sometimes with the excuse of checking the floor (and always with a tea for you in hand), but you learn that he’s uncomfortable with lingering, and he’s usually gone as quickly as he came.
you don’t mind—it’s nice to know he’s thinking of you. you’ve just been wondering if it’s in the way you want him to—and a lot more than you should be, lately.
you concede to having a little crush on him. who wouldn’t? he’s incredibly sweet in his own way and very nice to look at and you suppose anyone would if they’d gotten the opportunity to get to know him over the several months that you have. so what if you’re thinking about where he’s at or if he’s eaten lunch or if he’s at the bar without you, more often than not? it’s just a little secret you keep to yourself.
you try not to think about how it’s one that would make him never speak to you again if he found out about it.
you let out a groan, looking down at the half-formed bundle of alstroemeria and eucalyptus in your hands. you’d been staring at it for 20 minutes now and the motivation to continue just wasn’t coming. you suppose it was as good of a time as any to take a break.
standing up from the floor and stretching your arms above your head, your spine rewards you with a few satisfying pops as you get yourself moving again. your eyes scan the shop, surveying the damage—most of it caused by you in the last few weeks, with scraps of paper wrap and loose stems strewn about. the shop could definitely use a deep cleaning, but little things like that were just part of routine upkeep, so you don’t mind. it’s only when you roll out your neck that you spot it: a tiny, but noticeable, brown stain on the ceiling that certainly wasn’t there before. you lift your phone above your head to snap a picture of it.
sent 5:57pm>>> hi. do you think this is a big deal
received 5:59pm>>> looks like water damage
received 5:59pm>>> when did that happen?
sent 6:00 pm>>> not sure. just saw it
sent 6:00 pm>>> if i just pretend it’s not there will it go away?
received 6:01 pm>>> that ever worked for you before?
sent 6:04 pm>>> i don’t like your tone
received 6:06 pm>>> cry about it. i’ll be over to look at it tomorrow
you smile at his brashness, setting your phone down on the counter. it really was very hard to not be enamored by him. you shake your head, trying to get rid of the thought like a wrong answer in a magic 8 ball. you have no such luck, but you realize what time it is and feel relieved. It’s tuesday—you can finally start getting ready to see your family.
you clean up and pull on the spare coat you have in the shop storage room, locking the shop door behind you as you leave. your grandparents don’t live far—just a mile or so down the road, and it’s not too cold to walk yet, so you don’t mind the trek.
you have a standing weekly visit at your grandparents’ place. they’re just about the only family you have left, and they’re slowing down a bit. it’s meaningful to you to spend time with them when you can—even if your grandmother insists on filling it with her insistence that you find a boyfriend.
you know she means well, so you tolerate it. your grandparents’ love story is one for the ages—high school sweethearts, together and in love ever since. the dynamic is an amusing one—your grandmother, ever the chatterbox, and your grandfather, only ever amused and endeared by his wife’s inherent ability to take up space. you have always really admired their relationship, but a small part of you believed for a long time that there was something wrong with you for not being able to have the same thing. now that you’re older, you don’t feel that way—but that doesn’t make being on the receiving end of the badgering any easier.
like you’ve summoned her with your thoughts, she’s on the front stoop when you approach the house—hand already on her hip like she’s winding up to start her lecture.
“i was starting to think you wouldn’t come!”
“am i late?” you ask genuinely, pulling your phone out to check the time. 6:26pm—you’re early.
“you might as well be!” she quips, pulling you into a hug. you can smell dinner cooking through the open window behind her. you close your eyes, content to be held in the moment. you miss this feeling of home every time you leave—
“alright you old bat, s’fixed. you gotta quit dumping cooking oil down the—oh.”
your eyes snap open at the familiar voice and you find blue eyes staring back at you, shocked as you’ve ever seen them. you blink, still mid-embrace and trying to comprehend why Touya is standing in your grandmother’s doorway. or why he’s a little sweaty and dirty and wearing that tight old t-shirt. if he’s always worn a bandana to keep the hair out of his eyes, or if that’s a new thing and either way, why haven’t you seen it? it takes another long minute before you remember how to get words to come out of your mouth.
“i–uh. hi...hi Touya.” you stutter a little, and your grandmother notices that you’ve gone completely rigid in her arms. she pulls away to look at you, and then at Touya, and back to you—
and your stomach drops when you see the most shit eating grin spread across her face.
you give her your best you wouldn’t dare look.
she just smiles at you sweetly as if to say: i absolutely would.
“do you have dinner plans, Mr. Todoroki?”
he blinks. “i–uh–”
“no? excellent. go wash up! you can join us.”
she starts back up to the door with more pep in her step than you’ve seen in a long time, patting Touya’s shoulder before shoving him unceremoniously to the side with surprising strength and walking back into the house.
you’re left out there together, both clearly still trying to play catch up. true to your nature, you’re the first to break the silence.
“i see you’ve met my grandmother,” you say with a laugh, starting up the steps. he shakes himself in time to open the door for you.
“you’re related to that dinosaur?”
you pin him with your best glare. “that’s not nice. she came after the dinosaurs.”
he follows in after you, the smallest smirk on his face. that you caused it makes your chest feel light.
dinner is relatively tame. to your genuine surprise, your grandmother sticks to easy topics, save for one comment about how you’re “getting up there” and should start thinking about children.
“oh my god, Mam,” you squeeze the bridge of your nose, exasperated. you look to Touya for help—who is clearly very amused and not interested in saving you from this.
“i’m just saying,” you grandmother waves a dismissive hand at you, “now who wants dessert?”
you leave the house a few hours later—with Touya in tow, because he refused to let you walk home in the dark by yourself. you certainly don’t mind the company.
“i can’t believe i didn’t put it together that you knew my grandparents,” you say, shaking your head. no wonder those bread loaves, months ago now, had looked so familiar.
“been helpin’ them out with maintenance stuff around the house,” he mutters, the hands in his pockets the only indication that he feels the evening chill, “they’re good people.”
the way that he talks about them makes you feel warm. “i’m really happy to hear that,” you sigh. you bump into him, and he stays close. “i’m sorry you have to put up with all of my grandmother’s antics though.”
he huffs a laugh, looking at you from the corner of his eye, “s’not so bad. except maybe when she’s trying to arrange a marriage for me with half the town.”
“oh god,” you turn to him in absolute horror, “she does that to you, too? i thought it was just because i’m her grandkid. she really wants to have great grandkids.”
he laughs when you shudder. “what, you’re not gonna give ‘em to her?”
you make a face at that. “no. kids are great, just…not really something i ever wanted.”
you think you see him physically deflate with something akin to relief out of the corner of your eye. you smile and try not to read into it.
the wind picks up and you shiver. Touya blinks down at you.
“you didn’t think to wear a thicker coat?”
you roll your eyes pointedly at him. “no, dad, i didn’t.”
he scowls at you, clearly not entertained, but then he’s shrugging off his own jacket and draping it over your shoulders.
“what are you doing? it’s too cold!”
“s’fine,” he mutters, brushing up against you with each step, “can’t really feel it.”
you go quiet while you consider this, eyes drifting to the textured skin that wraps around his bicep. there’s an ache in your chest that flares up whenever you think about Touya, small and proud and burned within an inch of his life. you wonder if he still feels it, 30 some odd years later. you want to reach for him, but you think better of it.
“do they hurt still?” you ask quietly, after a moment.
“sometimes.”
you get the sense that he wouldn’t mind if you asked more, but you’re not sure what to say. you don’t think it would be fair to ask him to relive any of it to satisfy your own curiosity. there’s just one thing you’d still like to know.
“are you angry?”
he gives you a small smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes when he looks down at you. his gaze is searching, like he’s looking for your fear—fear of him, of what he’s done. you know he won’t find any.
“no.”
the rest of the walk home is shrouded in comfortable silence, save for the crunch of shoes against pavement. all too quickly you’re at the door to the shop again.
you dig for the keys for your apartment on the second floor while Touya leans against the door frame, watching you.
you feel the metal dig into your palm when you close your fist around them. you look back up at him, and it’s almost startling how soft he looks right now. unguarded.
“can i hug you?” you ask, startling yourself a little. he’s so clearly not a touchy guy, but you hope he’ll indulge you—just this once.
his eyes widen for a fraction of a second, and then his face smooths back into his practiced stoicism. he rolls his eyes, but steps forward anyway. you feel like you just won the lottery.
“make it quick, brat.”
you nearly tackle him in your excitement and you hear him grumble next to your ear. you feel an arm loop around your shoulders, and you are suddenly very aware that your little crush is far larger than you thought. you file it away for later, because the beat of his heart against your ear feels far more important right now. everything about him is warm—you stifle a sigh at the immediate comfort that rolls over you like a wave.
“now go inside before y’get sick.”
you resist the urge to pout. you stay there for another beat—and he doesn’t move either.
you untangle yourself from him with a sigh. if you didn’t know any better, you’d interpret the look on his face as something close to disappointment. you start shrug your shoulders out of his jacket to hand it back to him, but he stops you.
“just, ah—” he starts, looking away from you, “give it back to me tomorrow. when i fix your fuckin’ mess.”
you raise an eyebrow, posturing to argue, but something in his expression tells you not to.
“okay,” you say finally, quiet between you, “be careful going home. goodnight, Touya.”
he lingers for a moment more before letting out a little grunt and turning on his heel. your eyes trail over the expanse of his shoulders as he grows fainter down the road until he disappears into the dark.
you drag yourself up the stairs, suddenly feeling exhausted. you stumble through the dark of your apartment until your knees knock into your bed frame. you fall into bed face first, not bothering to change or even get under the covers. still wrapped in the jacket that smells like him.
you dream of fire that warms but doesn’t burn.
“good morning, Mr. Todoroki.”
Touya nearly comes out of his skin, hissing as he hits his head off of the counter he’s crouched under. it would be impressive, how stealthy the old bat was, if it wasn’t so god damned annoying.
“how many times do i have to tell you not to call me that?” he grumbles, rubbing the sore spot on the back of his head as he gets to his feet. she only chuckles.
“you’ll have to forgive me for not addressing you with the same familiarity that my granddaughter does.”
he whips his head around to look at her—which he finds to be a mistake, because she’s just looking at him with that knowing old lady smirk that makes his skin itch.
“don’t know what you’re talkin’ about,” he mutters, stooping down to lodge himself as far under the counter as he needs to to avoid the rest of this conversation.
“oh, please. do i look like i was born yesterday?”
he pauses, mid crouch, to look back at her over his shoulder. she clicks her tongue at him. “don’t answer that.”
“i think it would be nice for you both to have…companionship,” she settles on the last word like it’s not really what she wanted to say, and it reminds him far too much of his mother. usually he’d shut this conversation down, but for a reason unknown to him, he doesn’t.
“don’t y’think i’m a little too old for her?” he asks, half-joking. he’d be a liar to say that he hadn’t thought about it at length.
she waves a dismissive hand at him, rolling her eyes. “oh please—you wouldn’t know too old if it hit you upside the head.”
he hides another smirk from her—which she seems to expect anyway, shaking her head with a sigh.
“you’re both babies still,” she says quietly, with all of the wisdom and yearning of someone who has lived as long as she has, “you have nothing but time. just don’t waste it.”
Touya’s not sure when the shift happened, but he’s acutely aware that it has happened.
he’s doesn’t know when he started allowing you to touch him. he’s usually uncomfortable with that sort of thing—it tends to aggravate his skin and it does well to make him feel queasy. but you lay your arm over his to show him something about your flowers on your phone, and he doesn’t feel any urge to reel back from you. he wants to be surprised at his lack of reaction, but he supposes he’s not—proximity to him has always been something you’ve insisted on, physical or otherwise.
the bar is crowded tonight, which leaves him feeling uneasy. the noise level grates at his nerves and he finds himself having to lean into you just to hear what you’re saying. it sours his mood immensely.
he’s scowling into his beer when he feels you crowd his space. his head snaps up, ready to gripe at you, and he finds you’re turned away from him. he looks around you and sees that your space has been crowded—by some rowdy little punk he’s never seen before.
immediately and on some sort of primal instinct, Touya wraps an arm around you, yanking you into his side. you brace yourself with a hand on his chest to avoid flat out headbutting his chin.
“hey,” he snarls over your head, eyes like daggers at the offender, “watch where you’re fuckin’ going.”
the man turns around, posturing to defend himself, but one look at Touya has his eyes widening in the same expression of fear that he sees on everyone else’s face. usually the reaction sits in his stomach like a rock, but this time, he revels in it. “and while you’re at it, you can apologize to her.”
his looks down at the ground immediately, unwilling to spend another minute under scrutiny.
“sorry about that,” he mutters dejectedly. Touya feels your grip tighten around the hem of his shirt, but to his surprise, you say nothing.
“get the fuck out of here,” he barks, and he holds back a laugh as the man does just that—completely forgetting about the drink he ordered.
shaking his head, he lets you go—expecting you to scramble away from him and back to your stool. he feels himself cringe—he probably embarrassed you.
he’s worried when he realizes you’re still tethered to him by the fabric of his shirt.
“hey,” he murmurs, trying to push you back gently to look at your face, “you alright, kid? you’re not hurt, are you?”
you let go of him, albeit reluctantly. you only move back far enough to tilt your head back to meet his eyes. he can only think of how close you are.
“Touya,” you rasp, cheeks flushed and looking at him through half-hooded eyes, “that was, um—really hot.”
he blinks at you, a little dumbfounded. his eyes rake over your face, trying to find the punchline somewhere. wholly anticipating you to snap out of it and laugh at him—to tell him what a fool he is for falling for such a cruel joke.
but your expression never changes, and he realizes at once that it’s one of desire.
a shudder wracks up his spine. he pulls you toward him again, splaying his fingers across your back to feel the way it arches into him. he dips his head down, lips next to your ear. fighting a smirk at the way you shiver in his hold.
“come back to mine?”
you nod emphatically, and he’d tease you about it if he wasn’t feeling the same level of urgency. he throws a couple bills on the bar top and all but hauls you out the door. he has no idea what he’s doing, but he’s half out of his mind right now and can’t find it within himself to think it over before he does something he might regret.
his own desire is nearly stifling, and he finds he can’t go another minute without something to satiate him, if only for a moment. he pulls you into the alley next to the bar, crowding you against the brick.
“you drunk?” he asks suddenly—slivers of rationality making it through the haze of such thick lust. you laugh a little, breathy and overwhelmed. he can see the puff of steam from your exhale between you in the cold.
“not at all,” you murmur, reaching for him. you wrap a finger around one of his belt loops and pull him toward you—he knows with an unsettling certainty that he’d do whatever you asked him to right now. the knowledge burns him from the inside.
“tell me to stop,” his lips are only a breath away from yours, and yet he almost wishes you would tell him to stop, because he’s not sure what comes after this. he’s alarmed by the weight of his own need, and he has a hunch that whatever happens next may not be enough to quell it.
he has the sudden and sobering thought that he may never get his fill of you.
“no,” you breathe, and it’s all he needs to bridge the distance. he’s instantly overwhelmed by the soft warmth of your mouth, and lets out a quiet groan when he feels your tongue swipe at the seam of his. he opens his mouth to taste more of you, and he truly cannot get enough. you pull his tongue into your mouth, sucking on it gently, and he is nearly frantic when he pulls away from you. he feels absolutely debauched and a little humiliated—in his 40-some odd years, he’s never known himself to get so worked up over some kissing.
“we need to go right now,” he rasps, panting against your mouth. he feels your smile against him and wants to swallow you whole.
“lead the way, old man.”
he barely registers making it through the door—has no idea how he managed to unlock it, let alone open it—before he has you pressed up against it. to touch you like this feels foreign, and he wants to feel everything. after a moment, he gets impatient with himself. he grabs you around the backs of your thighs, hauling you up and carrying you to his bedroom. he has half a mind to thank Buck later, for not bounding between the two of you and ripping him from whatever trance you have him suspended in right now.
he drops you onto the bed unceremoniously and is quick to follow, mouth chasing yours on the way down. you pull your shirt off and he helps you with your pants—he can’t help but pull back to marvel at you.
your demeanor changes immediately.
you're entirely too tense, breath hitching and your grip on his arms uncomfortably tight. he pulls back to look at you and you flinch.
“jesus—the fuck are you so jumpy for?”
"i don't know!" you cross your arms over your chest with a huff, red when you look away from him. "maybe i just don't do this as often as you, okay?"
he snorts, rolling his eyes. "i don't do this often."
it’s not exactly the truth—because the truth is that he doesn't do this at all—but he's still got his pride. he’d been touched before, but mostly in his 20s and only when he was just shy of belligerent. only when he could go numb with the certainty that it would be over quickly and that he wouldn’t remember it in the morning.
no one could hold a flame to you, though—sprawled out underneath him, chest heaving and eyes hooded with unbridled desire. something about it makes him want to reach into the ether and stop time with his bare hands. he wants to savor every bead of sweat that rolls down the curve of your breast, every touch that makes your pupils dilate—the primal need to know takes over everything else.
“i just…” you start, lip jutting out with the tiniest pout. he feels insane. “i feel nervous.”
something inside him twists at your admission, and he finds himself wanting to comfort you. it’s a completely unfamiliar feeling, but he leans into it.
"relax," he murmurs, unwinding your arms and replacing them with his full body weight, directly on top of you. you squeak, and he presses his smile into the crook of your neck. "don't have to do anything you're not ready for."
he feels you slump underneath him—however minutely—and it feels like a reward. and then your hips kick into his, and his brain short circuits.
he pushes back onto his forearms to look at you, and he's endeared by the flush that creeps up your neck as you avoid his gaze. he finds it cute, how quickly you lay your ego down for him. that in itself is another reward, and one he doesn't take lightly.
you might be a little embarrassed under his stare, but that doesn't stop the roll of your hips. yours is a slow grind up into him and he meets you with one of his own, firm and demanding. your mouth drops open and the way you shudder under him pulls a groan from him.
"feel good?" he rasps, sneaking a hand around the back of your neck and holding you there, nosing against your cheek until you turn to him.
"yes."
it's borderline pornographic when it leaves you and his hips stutter—he feels it buzzing underneath his skin as it pushes him closer to a place wholly unfamiliar.
through his jeans, he's sure you can feel him—hot and aching against the flimsy material of your panties. he huffs a laugh against your lips—suddenly acutely aware of the possibility that he may cum in his pants like a fucking teenager.
you seem to be aware of that, too.
you kiss him hard and he nearly whines, and then he actually does when you tangle your fingers in his hair and pull. he reels back from you to catch his breath and you don't let him go very far.
"you feel so good," murmured into his mouth, it's nearly his undoing.
"you gotta stop," it sounds a lot like a plea when it leaves him, "i can't—i'm gonna—”
you hook a leg around his waist, keeping him pressed to you. he knows at once that he is well and truly fucked in a fundamental and totally unrelated way.
"no," you drawl, and it's almost a coo in his ear, "i don't think i will."
he doesn't know when you took the upper hand and he doesn't even care. he's lost in the movement of your hips and he knows that there's a mess between you both—he hears the tacky click of damp fabric meeting with every grind into you.
"you're—fuckin' wet," he grits out, and he's so close. the knowledge of your arousal has him curling in on himself.
you chuckle, like he's stating something so obvious. "how could i not be?"
he rewards you with a particularly sinful thrust, and you keen underneath him.
"please," you arch into him, "want you to cum."
and he does just that—all the breath is battered out of him with the force of it. his cock throbs with every wave of release in his jeans and he keeps himself pressed snuggly to you, hips thrusting with no particular rhythm as he rides out the last of it. he keeps his face pressed into your neck and lets out a long, broken groan. he stays there—full body weight collapsed on top of you again—and it's a moment before he comes back to his senses enough to feel your fingers scratch over his scalp.
"fucking hell," he presses a kiss to your throat and you giggle. it warms something inside of him that's hard to shake once it starts. he has the sneaking suspicion—in this fleeting moment of vulnerability—that it started well before now.
he gathers his wits and pushes back from you. he sees the look on your face and finds that he couldn't go any farther than an arm's length away, even if he tried.
adoration. it could only be that—you look at him like he hung the stars in the sky, and it twists in his gut. he doesn't understand—he's done so many wrong things. you look at him like they don't hang above his head—like you can't see them there.
what a sweet little thing that's found their way into his bed. and deeper than that, it seems.
"want to taste you," he murmurs, leaning back down to drag his lips over the curve of your jaw. you draw in a shuddering breath, nodding, and it fans his ego immensely.
he takes his time, then—there's intention behind every warm press of his mouth to every inch of your skin. he takes note of the way your breath hitches, and of what makes you squirm. you tip your head back with a moan when he catches a bead of sweat between the valley of your breasts with his tongue.
you breathe out a whisper of his name when he latches on to the skin that stretches over your ribs, and he feels his own arousal swell again—sloshing around in his gut, thick and needing. he finds himself grinding his hips into the mattress below him—lazy, really. just enough to dull the ache.
"hold on," you croak, and he looks up at you, "you’re too dressed."
he looks down at himself and realizes that you’re right—he’s still fully clothed. he huffs out a laugh, shaking his head at his own one track mind, and sits up to take care of it.
he grabs the back of his t-shirt and pulls it over his head in a fluid motion. he feels your gaze on him and feels a little bashful. he’s even quicker with the jeans—soiled and gross as they are now—shoving them down his hips and kicking them from his ankles until his clad in only his (also gross) boxers and leaning over you again.
you reach for him, brushing your fingertips over the scar across his chest. he half expects you to pull away—to recoil from him like you should—but you don’t.
“need you, Touya.”
he could just die.
"s'that right?" he bends down to press another hot kiss to the skin that stretches between your hips. he fixates on the softness of it, and has to stop himself from nuzzling into it. he'd love to draw this out—to really get you pleading for him like he hopes you would, writhing and so wet underneath him. but his own patience nears its end, so he decides to be merciful. he shuffles down until he's eye level with the damp spot in your panties that makes him curse under his breath.
"look at you," he breathes, dragging a finger through the mess. you let out a whine, arching to chase what little stimulation he's giving you. "poor thing. y'really do need it."
he doesn't wait for your response before his hooking a finger through the fabric and dragging it off of you. a string of your arousal stretches and snaps with it, and he commits the sight to memory.
he wastes no time—he sticks his tongue out flat and drags it through your folds, groaning at the slick that coats it.
"oh fuck," you wheeze, reaching down to thread your fingers through his hair to keep him there.
as if you'd ever need to do that.
he can't get enough of you. so swollen and sweet against his tongue, he's nearly out of his mind with the need for more of it. he dips the tip of his tongue inside you and feels you squeeze around it, and it's unbearable how badly he wants more of you.
"Touya," you groan out, eyes squeezed shut tight as he pulls your clit into his mouth and sucks, "please—please don't stop—"
he thinks you're fucking insane for ever believing he would. he pulses his tongue against your clit and revels in the way your back arches as you wail—he reaches up to pinch a pebbled nipple between his heated fingers just to feel you.
"oh fuck, fuck fuck—" the words tumble out of your mouth, slurred and nearly incoherent as he flattens out his tongue and lets you chase your pleasure.
in the throes of it, you reach down to tangle your fingers between his own. he's not sure if you even know that you've done it, but the knowledge that you seek him out for such an innocent display comfort has his heart fluttering in his chest. he gives your nipple a particularly harsh tug with his other hand.
"oh i'm gonna cum—" you cry, hips stuttering with every drag of your sex over his tongue, "please, Touya, i'm gonna—"
he squeezes your fingers when you do, and you let out a sob that goes straight to his cock. he feels you tense up—every muscle rigid for only a moment—and then you let it go, and he's mesmerized. it moves through you violently, like waves crashing into the shore during a storm. he keeps your clit between his lips as you thrash, letting you buck against his face, dragging it out for as long as he can.
he waits until he hears your breathing return to a semi-normal pace before he cleans you up—with his tongue, light and gentle through your folds, not wanting to waste any of the mess you reward him with. he forgets himself and slips his tongue inside of you—drinking up all of your slick. basking in the way you flutter around him and the sweet slide of you down his throat. he only comes back to himself when you start to tremble, whining at the overstimulation.
he rests his head on the inside of your thigh and closes his eyes, breathing you in. never in his life has he ever felt so satiated by something—it confuses him, to get so much pleasure from you without you ever even touching him. he feels you squeeze his fingers and realizes he's still holding your hand.
"you with me, kid?"
you sigh, stretching your free leg out. "think so, old man."
he untangles your fingers to rub at your leg, reaching down to knead at the muscles in your calf. you sigh, light and content, and it makes him smile. it's quiet between you then, and he's grateful that you don't feel the need to fill it. he pulls your leg over his shoulder, moving to massage the outside of your thigh.
"good to me," you sigh sleepily, and he knows you're only a second from falling asleep.
he doesn't answer—his throat suddenly feels too thick and he doesn't think he can—he just keeps rubbing your muscles gently until your breathing evens out.
he finds that he doesn't mind being trapped between your legs like this. when he thinks he might even be able to fall asleep, he realizes for the second time that he's in far deeper than he thought he'd be.
he lets his eyes flutter closed and has a hard time thinking of anything wrong with that.
there’s another shift, after that. the only person that seems to be oblivious to it is you.
it’s not that you haven’t noticed, because of course you have. Touya becomes uncharacteristically touchy, literally overnight. you bask in it when you can, because you know it’s fleeting.
that’s where you split off from, well—everyone else.
“c’mon kid, you can’t honestly think that.”
you huff, glaring into your drink. Touya’s friends had jumped at the opportunity to heckle you the minute he stood up to go to the restroom. you find it endearing, the way they act like little old ladies, gossiping amongst themselves.
“we’re not together,” you repeat, albeit bitterly, “it’s not like that for him.”
the friend closest to you barks out a laugh, and you pin him with your meanest stare. it only makes him laugh harder. he’s wiping tears from his eyes when Touya comes back, filling the space between you.
it hurts tremendously to know that this is temporary, and you feel ridiculous for feeling that way. it’s not like it comes as a surprise—you knew very well that Touya wasn’t one for romance or love. you thought you could live with that, especially with the sex being as good as it is—but it was just so easy to believe the opposite was true, because he really was good to you. if you allowed yourself to forget, it was nothing at all to pretend he was because he wanted this, too.
still—like a magnet, you’re drawn to him. you hop down from your stool to stand beside his, and rest your head on his shoulder.
“you hungry?,” he turns to murmur into your hair, “i’ll get you fries or somethin’.”
“wow, fries” you scoff, rolling your eyes, “how chivalrous.”
you feel him grin. “wasn’t raised in a barn.”
it’s a bad joke. it lodges itself in your skin and makes you ache for him. you try not to dwell on it.
“you could’ve fooled me.”
he rolls his eyes back at you with a little tch, but it’s lighthearted. he slings his arm around your neck and pulls you closer until you’re pressed into the warmth of his side, and presses a kiss to your temple.
“you know, most men would give up their seats for pretty women.” you tease, leaning into his touch.
“let me know if you see one, then.”
“hey!”
he laughs, brushing his lips against your forehead again before leaning back, patting his thigh.
“c’mon then, pretty lady.”
you feel warm as you climb up into his lap, and when you settle in, it’s like a key inside of a lock. you pointedly ignore the knowing glance from the man to your right, choosing instead to feel every inch that connects you to Touya. it feels like a reward, to mold to him this well—like something you’re owed after trimming off every one of his prickly little thorns for as long as you have. you want to tell him so, but you know he’d clam up or shove you off of him. you keep your feelings where they simmer under your skin and focus on the way his hand trails over the curve of your hip—back and forth, like he means to soothe, but his warmth feels like a brand. you close your eyes and imagine a reality in which he does it because he loves you.
“you alright?”
it sounds odd, coming from him—like he’s not used to asking the question. you suppose he’s not—he’s never had anyone to check up on. he reaches to brush a strand of hair from your face, and his fingers linger over your brow bone.
you’d been quiet since you left the bar—you’d followed him back to his house with an uncharacteristically little amount of banter. you’d been pliant as he pulled you down on the bed with him—nearly boneless and without so much as a teasing bite on the way down.
despite yourself, you feel your eyes start to burn. you let out a clipped curse, blinking rapidly and looking pointedly away from him—hoping he wouldn’t press you about it.
he does.
“hey, hey,” he says softly, reaching to grab your chin with warm, calloused fingers and turning you to face him, “what’s goin’ on?”
his blatant concern makes it worse—drives the knife a little deeper into your side—because it’s so starkly different (and far more intimate) from the Touya you started with. it only serves as a reminder of your original suspicion having long been confirmed—that he cares for you because he’s good. not because he loves you. not because he feels this unbearable, aching need that you do. you know there’s no escaping him now—he’s seeded himself somewhere deep in your chest and taken root. when his thumb brushes down over the curve of your jaw, you know that there’s no stopping the words that are about to come out of your mouth.
“i love you,” the tears crest and fall, and you ache when he brushes them away before they can slip down your temples, “i’m really sorry.”
you’re a little surprised when you see his eyebrows knit together slightly in an emotion that’s definitely not the overt and immediate dismay you thought it would be, but you close your eyes before you can see anything else—before you can watch him pull away from you, genuinely and for the last time.
you go rigid when you feel his forehead knock into yours, gently and only for an instant.
“s’that such a bad thing?”
your eyes snap open, and you think the sight might kill you—he’s open and giving you everything with a willingness that makes your breath stutter in your chest. he has his head propped up on his hand to look at you, and it’s almost enough to disarm you completely.
“don’t be cruel if you’re going to leave,” you hear yourself plead, despite what you’re seeing. he only snorts.
“and what makes you so sure i’ll do that?”
“i know that you don’t do this shit.”
he smiles at that—a little thing that stretches across his face slow. it amuses him to hear you swear.
“you’re right,” he murmurs, reaching to brush his fingers over your jaw again. holding you there so gently that it aches. “i don’t. s’different now, though.”
you blink at him through the sting in your eyes, more confused than anything. he lets out a slow sigh, but it’s not in frustration.
“you’re stuck to me now,” he says with such a fondness that you feel the words stick themselves to your bones, “m’not going anywhere.”
“i’m not trapping you here, Touya—“
“you’re not,” he agrees, with more patience than he’s ever afforded you. something starts to click in your mind, but for some reason, you find yourself fighting it.
“you don’t—you’re not—“
“hey,” he cuts you off with a flick to your forehead, “listen to what i’m tellin’ you.”
“it’s…hard. for me.” he says after thinking for a moment, eyebrows furrowed again like he’s trying to make up the words from scratch. “i‘m used to bein’ alone. never really thought about anybody else.”
you’re silent then, mostly stunned, because you don’t think he’s ever said so many words to you. not like this.
“i’m outta my depth here, kid,” it’s nearly whispered and it feels sacred, like a confession between you. you’re suddenly very aware that he’s giving you something that he’s parting with for the first time in his life. “but i can’t think about ya anywhere but here now. makes me feel a little sick.”
you reach for him then—tentative fingertips brushing over the rapid fluttering of his heart. he gathers them in his hand and holds you there.
“i might not be any good at this. but i’d like to try.”
his words hit your ears one at a time, like coins slotted into a carnival game—they reach your mind with a heavy clink and only when the last one drops in do you really hear him. he’s no casanova, but you understand the sentiment under his words as if he’d spoken it aloud.
you close your eyes and draw in one more shuddering breath, and it knocks loose the last of your reservations. you turn on your side, facing him fully, meeting the blue of his eyes with a slow smile that makes them narrow at you in suspicion.
“jeez. you didn’t have to go all soft on me.”
he scoffs, shaking his head. “glad to have you back, you fuckin’ brat.”
you laugh and he chases the sound, leaning forward until your foreheads knock together again. this time, he stays put.
“tell me again,” he murmurs, and your heart balloons inside your chest.
“i love you.”
epilogue—1 year later
Touya trudges up the steps to your apartment after finishing up at your grandparents’. you’d think he’d agreed to remodel the whole house, with how often they call him over now.
he had a hunch that he wasn’t really there just to make repairs, and he didn’t mind. he knew how much your family meant to you, and he’d be lying if he said they weren’t growing on him, too.
“you bring our girl over here to see us,” the old bat called after him as he walked out the door, “don’t let her work herself to death.”
he was quick to agree, because his concerns were similar—you’d gotten busy as the weather started to warm with the first hint of spring, and you did not appear to be particularly skilled at taking breaks or prioritizing yourself. predictable, but no less annoying.
walking up the steps to the home you now share, he looks down at the squirming thing in his arms and lets out a sigh.
it didn’t take much convincing for him to agree to move in. he got to see you everyday (which allowed him to ensure you were, at the very least, feeding yourself) and Buck was over the moon at living in a new space if that meant he could be with you all the time. he couldn’t find a reason to say no (and he really, really didn’t want to), so it was easy to say yes. the smile you gave him when he agreed is imprinted on his heart.
“babe? you here?”
you call to him in response from the kitchen, not looking up at him when he walks in—you’re hunched over the counter in front of your laptop, going through orders while Buck lays at your feet. he makes no move to greet Touya—in fact, the only acknowledgement Buck spares him is a few thuds of his tail against the tile. Touya narrows his eyes at him. traitor.
“hi,” you murmur, turning your body like you’re going to look at him—except you don’t actually look away from the computer.
“hi,” he grins, not moving in to kiss you like he usually does. waiting for you to turn to him.
“what did Mam need—oh.”
you’re finally looking at him—except you’re not really looking at him at all, because your eyes are focused on the shivering thing in his arms.
you look at it, and to him, and then back to it. you’re quiet for a beat, clearly trying to process, and then the thing nearly jumps out of his arms when you throw your head back and laugh.
“what the hell is that—” you say through a wheeze, wiping your eyes on your sleeve, “Touya—oh my god—where did you get that?”
you close the proximity between you—finally, he thinks—and he bends to kiss your temple when you take the chihuahua from his arms. instantly Buck is on his feet, sniffing the air but otherwise content just to look at the dog in your arms. Touya feels relief at the non-reaction—you really had taught his dog some manners.
“the fuckin’ thing was rooting around in the trash,” he mutters, slinging an arm around your shoulders, “figured you’d be mad at me if i left ‘im there.”
you roll your eyes and he knows you know it’s a lie—he wouldn’t have been able to sleep if he’d left the dog there.
“are we keeping him?” you ask absentmindedly, scratching his tiny head. it works to subdue him—the shaking stops (mostly) and he lets out a little huff before relaxing in your hold. it makes you smile, and Touya thinks he’d fill this whole fucking house with chihuahuas if it meant he could see it again.
“do y’want to?”
you let out a stray chuckle, finally looking up at him. “i guess he’d fit, won’t he?”
he feels the grin stretch across his face. “i don’t know. it’d be a tight squeeze.”
you snort, reaching with your free hand to poke at his ribs. “you have to name him, you know.”
“fuck,” he groans dramatically, pulling another giggle from you, “fine. what about…” he trails off, wracking his brain and looking around the kitchen, praying for even a semblance of inspiration. he sees your half-eaten lunch on the counter, and he thinks about the moldy cold cut he’d had to wrestle out of the little shit’s surprising tight grip—
“lunch meat.”
“...i’m sorry?”
“his name is lunch meat.”
you laugh at that, and the sound reverberates off every cell in his body.
“it’s a good thing we’re not having kids,” you say through a giggle, “they’d have the worst names.”
he grins at you and you just shake your head, cooing to the tiny dog in your arms. Touya peels himself from you, settling against the counter just to watch. the other surprise—the one he’d actually planned—involved a fancy dinner in the next town over, because it is your anniversary, after all—but right now it feels like he has nothing but time, and to do anything but stand here and feel every second with you would feel like a waste.
this fic belongs to me (@gardenofnoah). i do not allow anyone to repost, edit, or reproduce this work.
#am i....a sap?#i love him. oh my god do i love him#my baby deserves a good fucking ending#glares at horikoshi#todoroki touya x you#dabi x reader#todoroki touya x reader#touya fluff#touya x reader#fic: when fire doesn't burn
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Boots [joel miller]
Joel doesn't like the idea of someone else gettin' all your best.
pairing: joel miller x female!reader
rating: 18+ (mdni)
tags and warnings: jealous joel giving you a lesson in who really likes you best, birthday sex, (over)protective joel, softie joel, dominant joel, oral sex (m and f receiving), face-sitting, riding, no plot just porn and some fluff because it's me, possessive sex, praise kink, squirting, established relationship
word count: ~ 4.5k
hello, all! i'm beginning to unload my fics onto tumblr for those who prefer reading in this format - and as a result, some of you lovely folks who follow me will likely see works you've already read before. i sincerely apologise for that, but many new projects are in the works as well because i love y'all and i live to please. that aside, if you're new here, welcome, and i hope you enjoy this one-shot!! <3
BOOTS
If there's anything you know about Joel, it's that he can get real angry.
It ain't like he's always mad. He lives a lot of his life in utter silence, but you like to watch him. Sometimes, in the dark, he sits on the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees, steepling his fingers and bringing them to his chin. He’ll sit like that for hours without moving, barely shifting to take in air, and you know never to shake him from that trance. It’s how you’ve learned to read between the lines.
After fifteen years by his side, you can gauge his moods better than the weather. He’s got a restless spirit, but his voice is midnight water. It’s calm and dark and clear, and it rumbles: the ripples left behind by skipping stones. He never lashes out at you, never raises his voice.
Except for that one time in New Jersey.
“Are you goddamn fuckin’ stupid?”
This was a little while before you could patent your Joel-handling techniques, so you did what any woman would do when a man calls her stupid: you folded your arms over your chest and got just as mad. “Stupid?” you said incredulously. “I saved your ass in there. Multiple asses, actually.”
Above you, the canopy of brilliant red leaves felt like a bloody shawl, and they crackled underfoot. You sported a limp thanks to a sprained ankle and your lip was bloody, but you were fine. Truly. And yet, Joel’s anger was pulsating. You could see it: heat waves, distorting the air around him, his brows flattening over his eyes and his nostrils flaring. A bull ready to charge. He was brimming with the need to release this energy.
Behind you, a building burned. The fire was a monstrous, lively thing, and it scorched the hairs on the back of your neck. Inside lay the bodies of the men you’d stolen the medical kits from, along with two of your own crew. It was only you and Joel left. It was autumn, and the breeze was welcome in such relentless heat.
He’d been ambushed just as much as the rest of you, but rotten fuckin’ luck had pinned a man on top of him—armed with a knife, inches from Joel’s eye. Not trusting yourself to make a shot without hitting him, too, you had tackled the man without thinking much. It had worked well enough to send his knife clattering across the burning hut. He’d landed a punch to you before Joel had blown his head clean off. Brain matter still clung to your jeans, but you tried not to look. When you’d rolled the body off you, Joel shot him again. He was covered in blood from his greying hair to his boots.
“Your job is to look out for yourself out there,” he snapped, “not me. The fuck were you thinkin’?”
Your frown only deepened. What had you been thinking? Maybe leaving him to die would teach him a lesson or two about what it was like to fear for someone’s life. Even if it was his own. “We need to go. You can yell at me later.”
Joel didn’t say anything when he kneeled at your feet and lifted your ankle up onto his raised knee. You yelped when you almost toppled over, but he kept you steady and inspected the swollen flesh. He was achingly gentle when he prodded at you, his expression softening into something more like concern. “This hurt?” he asked.
“Of course it hurts, Miller.” You lifted a brow at him, but he wasn’t looking up. “Want me to try on a glass slipper, or can we go?”
“Still think that was stupid,” he grumbled.
You snorted. “Yeah, well, you’re the only one who can navigate for shit, and I don’t fancy getting lost without my own personal compass.”
When he stood, Joel surprised you some more by gently patting your leg. “Real nice,” he said under his breath, shrugging the strap of your pack farther up your shoulder. “Stay behind me.”
You grinned up at him. “Happily.”
He never gets angry for long. Not at you.
There’s a knock at his door in the rhythm only the two of you know. He still checks the peephole, but it’s you. You slip inside, practically bounding on the balls of your feet, that cute fuckin’ grin on your face as you hide something behind your back. “Guess what day it is,” you say.
Joel will never let it leave this room that he indulges in your stupid game. “Sunday,” he tries.
Your pout is extravagant, but he’ll be damned if it doesn’t make him want to bite it off your pretty mouth. “Rhymes with smirthday. Y’know… the only day I ever ask you for anything.”
He clicks his tongue. “Doesn’t ring a bell.”
You roll your eyes and bring your hands around from behind your back. You’re holding a cupcake.
“Holy shit. Where the fuck did you get that?”
“The FEDRA guy who monitors my building likes me,” you tell him, honest as ever. Too honest for this world and too damned sweet to be anything but a liability. And yet, here he is, digging, indulging, sinking his claws in. “Enough to sneak this to me from the kitchen, apparently.”
That makes him feel real fuckin’ grumpy. Nobody with eyes would be enough of a fool to deny that you’re gorgeous, but it doesn’t make him sleep any better knowing other men are chasing that brilliant twinkle in your eyes. He wants to tuck it between his ribs and let it illuminate his insides. He doesn’t want anyone else to see it, not ever.
“He’s tryin’ to make a move on you,” says Joel. “That’s what that is.”
If there’s a second thing you know about Joel, it’s that he lives with his foot in his mouth. Unfailingly.
You have long since learned the tactics of Joel-handling. You'd be offended if it were anyone else, but you just pat his cheek affectionately. “Sit down.”
To his credit, he does, but not after some grumbling. You scrape the second chair along the floor until it's right next to him. You split the cupcake in two as best you can and pass him one of the halves. Joel eyes it suspiciously. “You sure this is edible?”
You just take a bite and groan. It's been a long time since you've tasted chocolate, let alone the decadence of over-sweet frosting. Joel watches you carefully. Your lashes flutter in your trancelike enjoyment, a small speck of white frosting on the top of your nose. He's overcome with the knowledge that people in this world would try and take you from him. That people have put guns to your head, that they have harmed you, that they'll do it again and again. This world does not leave a woman like you untouched.
It's a good thing you've got him to make sure the world goes nowhere near you.
“Got frosting on your nose,” he says gruffly, trying to suppress his smile as he swipes it away with his thumb. “Some killer you are.”
You kick your legs up onto his lap. His thumb idly circles your ankle bone. “I don’t pretend to be a killer. I get by just fine, Miller.”
“Yeah?” He lifts a brow. “And if I wasn’t here?”
You shrug. “Dead, probably.”
Joel takes a bite of the fucking cupcake and he's a little mad when it's not bad.
You sit at the window on his bed later, your knees drawn up to your chest and your cheek resting atop them. You like to watch the lights of the FEDRA vehicles and the occasional star that winks at you from high above the QZ. You're a pretty sight to look at all the time, but it feels somehow more delectable when you don't know he's looking.
It's nearing midnight, and you're getting up to leave. Curfew means you have to scurry back to your apartment across the street or you'll be stuck here all night. It also means you have to walk right past the same officer who snuck you that cupcake.
“You asked me once if I ever wanted to end it.”
Across the fire, he looked like a spectre: a thing you could not touch, sizzling tendrils of silvery air curling around crackling flame. You’d stopped for the night, and neither of you wanted to sleep. Even though you’d both seen enough fire for a lifetime, you still extended your palms toward it and let it warm you as you watched his dark brown eyes grapple for a way through the thistly wood of his past.
“I tried,” he told you. “After I lost her.”
Somehow, you felt undeserving. Like wrapping your fingers around a piece of Joel Miller’s steel-hard aorta and yanking out all the precious bits that came with it. Like licking the blood from the heart and shoving it back inside. Would he ever be the same knowing another soul in the world had this information? Would he come to regret telling you?
He watched you stand and shuffle up next to him on the piss-poor, blood-stained excuse for a sleeping bag. When your fingers lifted to the scar on his throat, he did not flinch away. Your hands were warmed by the fire. It filled the very soul of you, that flame. He did not meet your eye, but you looked into his nonetheless.
“I’m happy you missed.” A hand, warm and kissed by a tenderness he would never deserve, settled at the nape of his neck. Fingers gently combed through the grey strands, and he leaned into your touch, not quite understanding the pull but giving in nonetheless. For the first time in years, he thought he might be able to sleep if you just kept touching him like this.
Your next words were soft, but they were not afraid. “But I’m sad I never got to meet her.”
His head turned, and at last, his eyes met yours.
“Me, too.”
You smiled sadly. “Joel.”
“Don’t ever,” he said slowly, his hand squeezing your knee, “play fast and loose with your life again. Your life happens to fuckin’ matter to me.”
And that was that.
At some point, this began. Neither of you attempt to define how or when. Perhaps it has always been. It isn’t like time matters anymore.
When you pass Joel on your way to the door, he grabs your wrist.
“Does that FEDRA fucker know whose place you go to every night?”
You sigh, turning your head to meet his eyes: glimmering black beetles in the dim light. “Joel. Don’t be an asshole.”
But he’s long past trying not to be an asshole, especially when it comes to people honing in on his fucking territory. He tugs you by the waist so your back is pressed against his chest. His fingers are splayed over your belly. “You like him?” he says into your ear.
Your lashes flutter on your cheeks. “Joel.” His name sounds like the citrus of the oranges you like from the cafeteria. It’s sweet and tangy and somewhat discrete. “You know I need to meet with Robert about the battery tomorrow. You’ll keep me up all night.”
A grunt rumbles deep in his chest. “You’re not goin’ to see Robert alone.”
“That was part of his deal.” You gasp when he buries his face in your neck, sucking at the skin beneath your ear. He’ll make it show up angry and purple for the FEDRA officer and, fuck it, the entire QZ to see. He’ll litter your whole body with bruises and hickeys like he's a goddamn teenager if that's what it takes to keep you here.
“Shit fuckin’ luck.” His fingers dip to the waistband of your jeans. Your hips rock subtly and he smirks against your skin. “Robert doesn't get to decide how this goes.”
“Yeah, he does. He’s the one with the battery.”
The scratch of his beard is rough and deliberate against your neck. “If he doesn't wanna see me,” says Joel, unbuttoning your jeans and sliding the zipper down, “he can tell me himself.”
“He’s terrified of you.”
Joel turns you around and presses you right up against his chest. You feel his hardness at your belly, the sear of his gaze through yours. “Good,” he says. “Get on the bed.”
It’s already midnight, which means you’ll get chewed out if you try to leave now. Joel’s plan, you guess. “You jealous of a little FEDRA officer, Miller?” Backing toward the bed, you smile up at him, coy and teasing.
“You never answered my question.” He chases your body, stalking toward you as his hand juts out to squeeze your hip. Your legs hit the edge of the bed. “Do you like him?”
His lips are so close you could just surge toward him and end this suffering. But he's keeping you at arm’s length, keeping you pliant under his touch because he knows—the bastard—that he’s winning.
Still, getting a rise out of Joel Miller is your birthright. “Would you rather I fuck a Firefly?”
A faint sneer twists his mouth, and this is his anger. This is the simmering, thrilling thing that infests your very blood. He’s jealous, and you're surprised at how deliciously it thrums in your lower spine, knowing he’s furious at the thought that someone else could even come close to the way he knows you.
The kiss begins slowly. For the heat you can feel through the press of his chest against yours, his nose only gently nudges yours as he works his way up to claiming your mouth. When he does, it’s a bizarre and dizzying shift compared to the rage you know he feels. The desire to march out onto the street and beat that officer to near-death. He compensates with a unique tenderness, taking his time with you, his hand pressing down against the exact spot on your lower back that forces his hips to mould to yours. His other cups your face, his fingers winding into your hair and curling at the back of your neck. It forces you to look up at him.
His beauty loops like a knot through your nerves. If you prodded any spot on your skin, the blood beneath would sing with the topography of him. You know the lines of his face better than your own. There is a patch in his beard that resembles a heart. There is a twinkle in his eye that lingers when he frowns and smiles. It’s a rare thing in such a sullen person. But you like finding those eyes in the dark. Somehow, for you, he’s hope.
When his lips finally meet yours, they're soft, and he lets you reach up to tangle your fingers in his soft, messy hair even though he’s doing everything he can to keep you under his control. Not that you mind. He knows you're his.
He deepens the kiss with a soft groan, curving his body over yours, tongue seeking the seam of your lips. You part them willingly, gasping when he lurches forward and slides his tongue along yours, biting and sucking at your lips. Joel growls softly at the faint noises you make, your fingers tightening in his hair, the pleasing sting in his scalp sending jolts down to his hard cock.
“MmmmmJoel.” You’re panting, desperate for air he won't give you. He likes this—making you gasp, making you weak, making you forget entirely that you’re supposed to be teasing him.
“Careful,” you gasp, barely able to form words around his mouth on yours. “Gonna hurt your back.”
That only seems to egg him on. He may not be young and agile anymore, but that’s never stopped him from giving you what you need. He turns you around and lies on his back, wrapping his arms around your waist and pulling you down on top of him. Your jeans go quickly, sliding down your hips with your panties and dropping somewhere on the floor. Your shirt follows, his fingers enjoying their path along your shoulders as he slips your bra straps down: a rare moment of indulgence and appreciation in a world that does not allow either.
For a moment, he just looks at you, brushing the pad of his thumb across your chin. Your eyes glimmer from the light through the window. “You only like me,” he says. Matter-of-fact. He knows.
But you smile, because he decided to say it anyway. “I only like you, Joel Miller.”
A hand kneads your ass, giving it a smack. You jump in his grasp, but he just gives you that crooked smirk and whispers: “Come take a seat.”
You rear back, frowning at him. Is he—
“You waiting for a sweeter invitation, baby?” His voice is low and gruff, unused to compromise. You feel his fingers dig into your ass and pull you up onto his chest. Your cunt is slick with anticipation and the ichor of desire.
He wants you on his face.
“What if I—”
“Sit.” Every letter feels like a deliberate strike, bone-deep. “C’mon, now.”
Let me show you how much I like you.
Your bottom lip between your teeth, you shuffle gingerly up his chest until you can brace your hands on the wall, your cunt hovering over his mouth. Joel doesn't like that. He wraps his hands around your upper thighs and forces you down onto his face. You gasp his name, one hand flying to his hair and locking your fingers in his locks. “Fuck.”
He grunts, squeezing your thighs up to your hips as he pulls your clit into his mouth, lathering it with his spit and your wetness. It’s white-hot: the pressure on your sensitive little bundle of nerves, the insistent bump of his nose against your clit as he teases his tongue around your tight hole. “Joel, Joel, fuck,” is all you can manage, sweet little gasps that he drinks in, his hips bucking involuntarily with the delicious pain of your fingers pulling at his scalp. You're losing grip on the real world and slipping elsewhere, and he wants to get you there.
One of Joel’s hands slides between your legs, easing them open even more, and rests on your belly, shifting to your ribcage and helping you steady yourself atop him. His fingertips graze your breasts, reverent and gentle despite their roughness. Those hands have been split and bloodied, but they hold you like they’ve never known anything but kindness. His eyes closed, savouring the taste of you, his fingers trace a scar on your sternum from an incident at knifepoint six years ago. He cannot see it, but he knows it nonetheless.
Joel is greedy when he has his face buried in your pussy. He doesn’t get the opportunity to take his time like this often; the both of you have only ever been acquainted with impermanence. But now, tucked comfortably between your thighs, licking between your folds like a starving fuckin’ dog, taking what he wants from you.
The sounds are slick and obscene, mingled with your drunken sighs and words of encouragement as you curl your fingers against the wall uselessly. “Joel,” you whimper, your hips rolling against his face, moonlight bursting on your eyelids. “I… can’t… so good—”
He groans, his hand smacking your thigh, feeling your cunt gush on his tongue as he flicks his tongue against your clit repeatedly. He’ll imprint the feeling of him on your skin forever—if he hasn't already. He’ll make sure you never have another man like you have him.
It’s a selfish thing, love. He's mastered clutching it to his chest and keeping his palm closed right around it.
“I’m… oh, fuck, I’m gonna…” Your hips buck wildly, and a growl rumbles deep in his chest, holding you steadfast and firm to his face. He sucks your clit back into his mouth and fixes his tongue to you, wiggling slightly as he feels you stiffen above him. “Oh, my—gonna come!”
He knows. You're already coming. Your hand leaves his hair and braces next to your other one on the wall, ensuring you don’t fall over as your thighs shake uncontrollably and your mouth drops open in a keening whine. Joel keeps lapping at your clit long after your orgasm fades and you cry out from the overstimulation. Gently, you reach down to tug his hair, and he reluctantly pulls away. He’s so hard he can’t conjure much mental activity besides getting his dick wet.
Your chest is heaving as you try to pick your leg up and get off him, but your strength fails you. Instead, Joel grabs your hips and sits up, your cunt sliding down to sit on top of his erection. Experimentally, you grind down on him, watching a muscle in his jaw feather. “Are you going to let me take your pants off?” you ask him, teasing, your finger tracing the metal of his belt buckle.
He grits his teeth, letting you take control for a moment, sliding the belt achingly slow out of each loop. Your wicked little smile is so pretty in the darkness, illuminated briefly by passing patrol vehicles through the window. Unbuttoning his shirt, you dip your body low to his chest and press gentle kisses all the way down to his soft belly and the trail of hair disappearing under his waistband.
Joel moans brokenly when you shuck his jeans down his legs and squeeze his hard length before it can slap up against his stomach. There’s a tattoo on his inner thigh that you like to trace with your fingers, something he got with his brother when they were young. Your tongue darts out and licks up the precum pooling at his slit, making his cock twitch in your grasp. “Jesus,” he groans. “Baby, c’mon, let me—”
Your soft lips parting around the throbbing head of his cock destroy whatever end to the sentence he had planned. Squeezing his strong thighs to ground yourself, you swirl your tongue around the tip and take him deeper, your throat expanding to accommodate his thick, heavy weight in your mouth. He huffs, grumpy that he can't think straight for long enough to stop you and overcome with pleasure all the same. You squeeze his thigh again, your thumb rubbing circles over the little tattoo, and he meets your eyes. They're watery, blinking hard to expel the tears, his hand instinctively cradling the crown of your head to keep you on him, keep you choking around him.
When your nose meets the thatch of hair above his base, he’s the one who chokes, his head tipping back. “Jesus, fuck, goddamn—” His fingers curl in your hair and gently urge you off his cock; you pout, a string of saliva connecting your lips to his length. His dick jumps at the sight, lying hard on his stomach.
“Come up here,” he rasps. You do, crawling up his body until your hips are flush, his hardness slotted, thick and throbbing, between your folds. The hum that leaves your mouth is wanton, your teeth tugging at your bottom lip. His hands move to your lower back, digging into the flesh just above your ass so you’re forced to roll your hips along his shaft.
Your mouth drops open at the jolt of pleasure to your cunt. “Oh…”
“That’s it, baby.”
He cannot come inside you, but he can come like this. And he will, probably faster than he likes; your pretty lips parted, your eyes lidded and boring into his even as you grind along his cock, unwavering. You look good like this. You look happy and soft and all his.
Joel’s hands clutch you a little harder, roll you a little faster, your hands supporting your weight on his firm chest. He’s so fucking close, your wet pussy soaking his length and his tip catching on your sensitive clit with each roll of your hips, but he needs you to come again. You come first.
“Joel,” you sigh, your thighs locking tight around his hips, nectar and frosting and citrus.
“I know,” he says, “I know. Keep goin’, baby. C’mon. Doin’ so good. Jesus, so good.”
The first orgasm was a meticulous build-up. This one crashes down with the ceremony and courtesy of an ambush: it seizes your whole body and leaves you helpless. You moan his name—maybe you whisper it; everything is loud in your ears—and double over, your cheek pressed into the hollow of his throat. He keeps you moving, seeking his own high, bucking up against your cunt.
“That’s it.” His praises gently puff out across the top of your head, tucking your head under his chin, admiring the curve of your back and the supple taste of your skin under his fingers. His balls draw up and his core goes tight with imminent release. “Fuck, baby. Fuck—”
There’s a hot, wet splash against your belly, then another, and another. When you peel yourself away to watch his cum spurt onto his stomach, your cunt tightens with the pulsating rhythm of his shaft under you and another brief, but devastating, rush of pleasure surges through your whole body. It almost fucking knocks you over. You lift yourself off his cock in time to see a burst of wetness soak him, dribbling out around your bodies onto the mattress. Joel groans, his brows lifting, another spurt of cum landing on his belly.
“Jesus Christ.”
You list to the side, unable to hold yourself up in any capacity. You land next to him, your arm belted across his chest, fondly nudging a pec with your nose. “Me, too,” you mumble. Your voice is hollow.
Joel turns his head to face you, and you swipe some cum off his belly with your index and middle fingers, looking him in the eyes as you lick it up and swallow. He grabs you by the back of the neck and kisses you hard. “No fuckin’ FEDRA asshole,” he grumbles into your mouth, “is gettin’ anywhere near you. And neither is Robert.”
You forgot that was what this was about. “Joel,” you whisper, lips migrating from the corner of his mouth to his jaw, his scratchy beard, “you can’t keep me safe forever.”
He reaches around to grab your ass and then hitches your thigh up onto his hip. “Yeah, I fuckin’ can. Stay here.”
“We aren’t related, or married.” You pin him with a stare. “They would never let us.”
Joel lifts his brows. You roll your eyes. “We aren’t married.”
He’ll pick a fight in the morning. But you already know you won’t be going to see Robert about the battery with your big guard dog standing just behind you. Robert can suck it the fuck up, for all Joel cares.
“Happy birthday, baby,” he says, squeezing your thigh. “It was a shitty cupcake, though.”
You laugh, kissing him on the nose. “No, it wasn’t. For all you know, you may never have one again.”
“For the fuckin’ best,” he grumbles, chasing your mouth again. You let him kiss you, and neither of you get much sleep.
He really didn't mind the cupcake.
#kiwisbell's fics#joel miller x female reader#joel miller fic#joel miller smut#the last of us#joel miller x reader#joel miller x you#joel miller fanfiction#pedro pascal fic
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If It All Fell (3)
Pairing: Azriel x Reader
Summary: If it all fell apart—if you forgot who you were—would you love him again? Would the bond guide you back? Azriel doesn't know if that uncertainty is one he can bear.
Word count: 3.1k
Warnings: Angst (obvi)
a/n: It's about to reallyyyy get started in the next part (I promise there will be fluff in this fic eventually). Thank you so much for reading and interacting with this series ❤️❤️ I love writing it!!
Part 1 ♡ Part 2 ☆ Part 4 ☼
Series Masterlist
~~
Mor’s fingers slid along book spines as she circled the room. A fire crackled and popped beneath the mantle, providing ambiance as the blonde retold another story of your life. You, unsure how to move about the space, remained seated in a rather large chair with an uncomfortably low back.
“Gods, you wouldn’t talk to Rhys for a week. He was beside himself,” she laughed, shaking her head in faint fondness. “You refused to stay at the House out of pure spite. That’s when you and Azriel decided—”
She cut herself off, nearly tripping on the ornate rug under your chair.
“When Azriel and I decided what?” you probed.
Mor bit into her lip, taking a large breath. “That story is for another time.”
You hummed, hiding your frustration beneath a close-lipped grin.
A story for another time.
This was your story, and yet, there were so many pieces that weren’t making sense. There was so much being kept from you—you could feel it—but why? Why did Mor omit some things and freely speak of others? Why was the topic of Azriel so… taboo?
Your thoughts traveled back to the lunch yesterday, the way Azriel had abruptly vanished. He hadn’t been able to spend even an hour in your presence. The rest of the meal had been tense, with Cassian attempting to save your feelings by sending subtle jabs Azriel’s way and Mor shooting daggers at the swinging door.
Maybe you and Azriel were enemies? It certainly didn’t feel that way whenever he was around. Granted, you’d only seen him twice since waking up, but those two times weren’t filled with hostility or ire, were they?
Mor moved over to the window. You clenched the cushion of your chair between tense fingers.
Did Azriel not like you?
The thought sent daggers through your chest, which was odd, considering the man had only spoken about four words to you. But… he had to like you, didn’t he? When Mor spoke of your family, of your place in this court, she always included Azriel. He was always some part of the stories of your life.
But that didn’t mean the two of you were friends.
That didn’t mean he liked being around you.
Perhaps the Inner Circle was attempting to rewrite history—reform a bond between friends that had long been burned. Maybe the two of you had constant disagreements and fights and the rest of them were sick of it, using your lack of memories to drive you back together. That would certainly explain Azriel’s disappearance yesterday.
The conclusion ate away at you. It ate and ate until you were left feeling hollow. How could one person—a person you didn’t even know—be affecting you so much? There was a vast array of other problems you should be dwelling on.
“He doesn't like me very much, does he?”
You hadn’t meant to ask the question; the words had spilled out without permission.
Mor’s head jutted back in confusion, her mouth opening in the shape of a scoff. “Who?”
“Azriel,” you clarified, suddenly feeling so small in the large, confusing chair you sat in. “I know I lost my memory, but I still grasp context clues, Mor. You’re always hesitant to speak of him and he didn’t exactly seem overjoyed to be spending time with me yesterday. Listen—” you held your hand up, stopping Mor from giving you the excuses you could see welling up “—I don’t care, okay? I don’t care how bad it all sounds. I just want to know the truth. I can’t… I can’t even begin to figure this all out without the complete truth.”
The conflicted twist of Mor’s brow was glaringly apparent. She brought her fingers together at her waistline, fidgeting with them in what you assumed to be a nervous habit.
A lick of sympathy made you add, “Come on, it can’t be that bad, right? Whatever it is?”
A pause.
“I don’t know if I should be the one to explain this all to you,” Mor said, struggling over each word.
“It seems like no one else will.” You stood from your chair, ignoring the strange sense of loss from your departure. Did the rest of this room smell so much of cedar and night-kissed air? “Please, Mor. I’m so confused. I know more about myself, about you and I—you’ve done a wonderful job at that—but… I need to know everything. There’s a chance that I… a chance that I don’t get my memories back. I need to know who I am. Every part.”
You brought your hands up to grasp at Mor’s, pleading with her through your gaze. Your friend—she had become your friend—stared back at you with so much disparaged hope.
“You could still—”
“Please, Mor.”
You squeezed her fingers.
She closed her eyes and sighed.
“Y/n, Azriel—”
Something crashed, causing Mor to yank your hands back until you were secure behind her, her body acting as a shield between you and the door. There was another bang, a panicked voice, and then heavy footsteps. Your back pressed against the glass window, a chill sinking into your bones.
“—in her and Az’s reading room.”
The door slammed open not a moment later, Cassian bursting through in a frazzled state. He quickly scanned the room before landing on you and Mor. He locked eyes with the blonde, gave a quick nod, almost indistinguishable, and then turned his gaze to you.
“You want to meet our High Lord?”
~~
You could feel the tension the moment you stepped into the room.
Shadows battled for purchase around Azriel, his fists clenched at his sides as he stood opposite Rhysand. A desk separated them, filled with papers and books and notes. Neither made any indication that they had heard your group enter the office until Rhysand shot his eyes to the corner of his vision.
Azriel sighed, deep and menacing, as if Rhysand had insulted him gravely.
But he hadn’t said anything.
Rhysand’s jaw shifted to the side.
Cassian spoke, and it was then you realized his arm was pressing you back into the doorway. “Everything good in here?”
Mor stood ground behind you, keeping a firm hand on your back.
“Everything is fine,” Rhysand replied, steady voice matching his steady gaze on the male in front of him.
“You both sure? Because you told me to get her and I don’t know if having two Illyrians—”
“Everything is fine, Cassian,” Rhysand repeated. Some of the tension left him. With a sharp look in Azriel’s direction, he turned his attention toward you, craning his head to the side to catch you behind Cassian’s broad shoulders. “Hello, y/n.”
A nervous breath left you; whether it was from the hostility in the room or the greeting from the High Lord, you didn’t know. When Cassian nodded to Azriel and moved to the side, allowing you a full entrance, you glanced around quickly and caught the eyes of each person once, and then twice.
You licked your drying lips. “High Lord,” you responded, bending at the knee and lowering your gaze.
You had no recollection as to how long a bow was supposed to last. There was just some intrinsic part of you that knew the gesture was needed. Rhysand was a High Lord and you were… well, you weren’t sure what your title was—if you even had one. What your place was within this court.
No one had deigned to tell you.
When you rose after a seemingly acceptable amount of time, you were met with a still silence. All of the previous tension in the room melted away to create space for the stifling pause that permeated the air. Rhysand blinked at you, and then blinked again.
And then he had to cover his mouth because he began laughing.
A new emotion you could not remember experiencing invaded every inch of your body. It took you several seconds of enduring Rhysand’s muffled laugh before you recognized it as mortification. Pure, unadulterated mortification.
You clasped your hands together in front of your waist and took a harrowing breath in, trying to fight back the sudden burn in your nose.
Azriel, who had been watching you with careful grace since you stepped out from behind Cassian, turned his head with a sharp snap and growled at his High Lord. The leather around his fingers, placed there to keep his blazing siphons in place, groaned as his fists constricted once more.
Rhysand banished the argument before it began, attempting to wipe away the laugh with his fingers. “I’m—I’m sorry, y/n,” he chuckled, collecting himself further, tucking his hands in his pockets. “I know this is not funny for you, but… but I have never seen you do that a day in your life. And you have met several High Lords.”
You glanced around to gauge the reactions of the others in the room, finding Cassian with his tongue pressed to the inside of his cheek to fight a smile and Mor staring up at the ceiling, in the midst of that same battle. Some of the embarrassment fled, but it was only replaced with confusion.
“I.. I’m sorry, I just assumed—because you’re a High Lord, I assumed your station required—”
Rhysand shook his head and gently corrected your rambling. “In a public space, perhaps. Maybe not in Velaris. And certainly not from someone I consider to be a sister.”
A sister.
Your family.
Right.
“I’m sure Helion would welcome the greeting,” Cassian huffed out from beside you, his words laced with an unrealized laugh. “Especially since the last time you greeted the High Lord of Day you told him to never again try baking in his entire immortal life. Not even a hello.”
Whatever discussion was occurring prior to your entrance was long forgotten. Even Azriel cracked a smile at that, and the room was filled with more than Rhysand’s laughs. The sounds, although new for you, had a smile tugging at your own lips. It was the first time since you woke up that no one was frowning at you, or fighting off tears, or storming away in bouts of shadows.
In fact, the feeling was so jarring you found yourself laughing as well—a tentative laugh, but one of the first that felt real.
It was a few more moments of joyous forgetting before silence took over again, but it was a lighter silence this time. Rhysand motioned to the chair facing his desk, and you took the seat, Cassian standing tall behind you, Mor positioning herself on the arm.
Azriel remained standing just a step away.
His face was void of a smile once again.
Rhysand cleared his throat. “It seems wrong to introduce myself now, but I must ask that you call me Rhys—or Rhysand, if I’ve really done something to piss you off. But not High Lord.” When you only nodded in agreement, he looked down at his desk, something lost in his eye. “I’m sorry I haven’t been around for you sooner. I’ve been researching—trying to figure this out.”
“I know. Thank you, Hi—Rhys,” you corrected. Cassian squeezed your shoulder from behind. A shadow followed the movement, slinking down from the Illyrian’s hand to loop around your neck.
“There isn’t much literature on witches, unfortunately. Not here. I’ve had Amren, another member of our court, looking through what she knows. She—well, she knows a great deal about many things that we don’t understand.” Rhysand sighed. Humor left him. “The consensus so far is that anything done by a witch can only be undone by that witch. Meaning—”
“Meaning there’s no hope unless we can find her,” you finished for him. “But—” your brows furrowed “—I’m the only one who saw her. Mor’s told me about that day. No one else saw the witch but me and now I…”
The burning in your nose was back, this time accompanied by the pounding in your head and the pressure in your chest. Both had become constants in your life. A sickening sort of panic twisted its way through you, leaving your breath unsteady even as Cassian ran a comforting hand over your shoulders and Mor offered silent encouragement at your side.
The only thing keeping your tears at bay were the shadows that had sought you out, their presence tickling your skin and serving as a distraction. That, and the azure glow continuously catching the corner of your eye as Azriel clenched and unclenched his fist.
“There are two avenues we can take,” Rhys offered with a kind, calm smile. “I am able to see into minds, oftentimes past what even you might be cognizant of. If you allow me to, I can enter your memories and take a look… maybe see the witch or something useful.”
You could make it worse.
You remembered bits and pieces from the day you were attacked, but some things were clearer than others. You had no idea who said what, but you knew someone had warned Rhys against this—someone had wrapped themselves around you and kept him far, far away.
“Would that hurt?” you asked.
A trembling exhale fell from the shadowsinger’s lips. You turned to look at him, but he kept his eyes forward.
“I would do my best to ensure that it didn’t,” Rhys comforted, his own eyes darting from Azriel and back to you. “At any sign of discomfort, I would stop. The goal would just be to see where your memories lay, if they were accessible at all. And to see if there was anything hidden about the witch.”
You nodded, trying to reconvene privately as you stared down at your fingers.
He would just take a look. Maybe it would somehow stop this incessant pounding in your head or maybe he would be able to see the memory of the witch. Maybe your memories were there, and you just didn’t have access to them yourself.
Maybe, maybe, maybe…
“If you aren’t comfortable with that—” Azriel’s low voice cut through your rampage of thoughts. “—we still have several people looking for information. As spymaster, I can assure you that all personnel available are on the hunt in Spring Court.”
You looked up, and Azriel met your eye for the first time since that disastrous lunch. Something felt like it fractured within you, a desolation so sharp it stung, but just as abruptly, that feeling washed away. It felt as if it seeped through some crack only to be reined in and slammed behind several locked doors.
You rubbed at your chest in an attempt to soothe the ache the feeling left. Azriel flickered his gaze down to watch your hand, clenched his jaw, and then looked back up. Softer this time—an apology you couldn’t comprehend.
“Thank you,” you whispered. “It means a lot that you are spending so much time on this. I—I can’t begin to thank you fully.”
Some of the conviction you had grown so used to seeing on Azriel’s face crumbled. He took a half-step towards you, a seemingly unconscious movement.
“Anything.” His voice was so soft it was almost a whisper. “Y/n, anything.”
It wasn't until Rhys spoke again that you were snapped out of the trance Azriel had locked you in. “I cannot guarantee I will see anything, if you choose to allow me in,” the High Lord explained. When you looked over at him, a sad smile lingered. “Which is why an alternative may be needed.”
“Of course,” you nodded, an encouragement for him to continue.
Rhys pushed his fingers together as they sat atop his desk. “We would take you to Day Court. Helion—the High Lord Cassian mentioned—is skilled in spell-cleaving. He may be able to undo some of what the witch did, if that’s possible. Or just give us a better read on the situation.”
Mor startled from beside you, “Rhys—”
“It wouldn’t be like last time,” Rhys placated, once again glancing toward the shadowsinger. “It wouldn’t.”
“Couldn’t Feyre—”
“She doesn’t have that much control over each of the court powers yet. We—we tried.”
“Feyre?” you asked, but the question was directed to no one and no one answered it.
“It’s a brilliant plan, isn’t it?” Azriel spit out, vitrole tainting each syllable. The heat rose in the room.
Cassian cut in this time, his voice a vibration at the back of your head. “Azriel, maybe—”
You couldn’t focus on anything they were saying as each line spoken left you with more questions, more pieces you couldn’t connect. Azriel was mad, Mor was concerned, Cassian was attempting to play the mediator. You had no idea what role Rhys filled, but you assumed it was the level-headed High Lord who only wanted the best for his court.
But Azriel was too livid and that emotion drowned out all the rest.
It wouldn’t be like last time.
What happened last time?
“I can’t go through that again,” Azriel stressed, his palm now flat on the wood of Rhys’s desk. “We can’t put her through that again.”
But it had sounded like the Night Court was friendly with Day; Cassian made it seem like you were close enough with Helion to make jabs at his cooking.
Put you through what?
“Maybe,” Cassian gritted out, his fingers kneading comfort into your arm. “This isn’t the best discussion to be having. Maybe we start with the first plan and if Rhys can’t find anything, we talk about it.���
Azriel leaned away from the desk, a sharp breath leaving his nose. The shadows that had swarmed around him calmed and flowed along the floor, stopping at your feet. A link between the two of you, it looked like—like a thread or a river or a bridge.
You expected Azriel to leave again, to storm off and avoid this entire situation. You wouldn’t exactly blame him; even with Cassian’s negotiation, there were still so many contingencies and unknowns. This wasn’t simple or clear cut, and it would take a lot of time—time perhaps not so willingly given.
But he didn’t.
Azriel bit back a snarl and pushed back into the shadows, but he didn’t leave.
You felt his eyes on you from the corner of the room, and something within you calmed while something else chafed.
Amidst a soft ringing in your ears, you caught Mor’s low grumble. “At least now we know why they were at each other’s throats when we walked in.”
Cassian scoffed out a disbelieving sound.
And you… you gave in to a few of the tears that had been burning behind your eyes, completely missing that the crack in your chest had returned. Completely missing that it was the cause—emotions that weren't entirely yours influencing the dampness on your cheeks.
Part 4 ☼
#azriel x reader#azriel x you#azriel fanfic#azriel acotar#azriel shadowsinger#azriel spymaster#acotar fanfiction#azriel angst#azriel#azriel fic
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I have been drifting back to STAR WARS fandom lately and I have been greatly rewarded for it, especially in the gen fic veins, because there have been some banger fics authors have been putting out! And the thing that really gets me in the fannish heart is that there's more and more fics about the Jedi, both for exploring the characters and the culture.
I have been able to find multiple fics that have been kind to Mace Windu! I have been able to find multiple fics that explain what attachment actually is to the Jedi and to Star Wars! I have been able to find multiple fics that lift my spirit up or punch me in the feelings in exactly the right way, both for the usual disaster lineage faves, but also for the Jedi as a whole. I'm serious, that means the world to me in this fandom, and I desperately want to share that with you all. LET ME SHOVE FIC AT YOU THAT LOVES THESE CHARACTERS AND THIS WORLD AS MUCH AS I DO!!
FICS THAT PUNCHED ME IN THE FACE WITH HOW GOOD THEY WERE:
✦ wayfinding by night by wrennette, obi-wan & luke & cast, time travel, 10.2k
Before him stood a fellow Jedi, worn and weary with loss. Obi-Wan finds himself on Ahch-To and helps Luke find a path through his grief.
✦ may you inherit his light by notbecauseofvictories, leia & bail & anakin & cast, 2.5k
When your father dies, say the Coruscanti, you are left clutching a star map for a different galaxy. In this, as in many things, Leia is her fathers' daughter.
✦ No Freedom From the Storm (But Peace In Its Midst) by Be_Right_Back, mace & cast, ~1k
Mace is freefalling. On his way down, he meets Hatred, and reaches for Serenity.
✦ "...if you remain his student" by Peppermint_Shamrock, anakin & ahsoka & cast, 3.9k
Ahsoka doesn't leave the Jedi Order. This does not save Anakin. This was never going to save Anakin. Nor stop him.
✦ a distant fire is burning by e_va, obi-wan & anakin & ahsoka & cal, time travel, 47.4k wip
Cal Kestis can move backwards in time (kinda-sorta-not really), and his confrontation with Darth Vader in the Fortress Inquisitorius plays out a lot differently. Fixing the timeline while stuck in his 10-year-old body will be quite the task, but Cal is up to it. He has to be. (Obi-Wan, Anakin, and the clone troopers have no idea what to make of Kenobi's weird new padawan. At least the kid fits in, though.)
✦ No Death, Only the Force by ExtraPenguin, anakin & mace & depa & shmi, 2.8k
Anakin Skywalker is just about to to free his mother from the Tuskens when the Force rudely yanks him to the Jedi Temple on Coruscant – and into Mace Windu's body. Mace, on the other hand, gets tossed into Anakin's body on Tatooine.
✦ Well Met by avocadomoon, obi-wan/padme (unconsumated) & corde & anakin, 19k
"Here and then gone again," Padmé said. "It must be lonely." "Sometimes," Obi-Wan said. "But a Jedi is never truly alone."
THIS FANDOM HAS A HAMMER AND A WHOLE BUNCH OF NAILS AND A REALLY GOOD STAPLE GUN, WE'RE FIXING WHAT CANON BROKE AND NOBODY CAN STOP US NOT EVEN GOD:
✦ Begin again by mauvera, obi-wan & qui-gon & anakin & padme & mace & dooku & cast, time travel, 78.9k
Five years into his self imposed exile on Tattooine, Obi-Wan Kenobi is gifted the chance to go back and bring hope back to the galaxy. With hindsight on his side, he fully intends to save his master, save his padawan, make some new and old friends again, prepare the Jedi for a war they’ll hopefully never see and begin to pull apart all the many tangled threads of the Sith Lord’s plans.
✦ Repetition by Peppermint_Shamrock, cody & obi-wan, time loop, 3k
Cody wakes up from a nightmare on the way to Utapau, again and again.
CANON-COMPLIANT (MOSTLY, UP TO A CERTAIN POINT, WHATEVER) DISASTER LINEAGE:
✦ it's like i can feel time moving by gigglesandfreckles, obi-wan & anakin & ahsoka, 5.4k
“Hi,” Anakin says. It's after midnight. “Is everything alright?” “Can’t a man stop by his old master’s room?” Obi-Wan stares at him blankly. “Are you out of food?”
✦ yes, I will take you / I will love you, again by foreverstudent, obi-wan & anakin & cast, time travel, 2.5k
"So you have tried, Padawan." Qui-Gon takes a moment, and his expression is steely but not unkind--the one Obi-Wan remembers from particularly grueling training sessions. "Would you try again, if you had the chance?" OWK!Obi-Wan gets another chance, with a child he once left behind.
✦ No Good Deed Goes Unpunished by kittona, obi-wan & anakin & ahsoka, 1.1k
Anakin gets a bit overprotective when his loved ones are sick. Luckily, he has the best home remedy for a cold.
✦ nothing a cup of tea can't fix by gigglesandfreckles, obi-wan & anakin & ahsoka, 1.5k
when Anakin shows up to Obi-Wan's quarters in the middle of the night, the Jedi Master knows something has gone awry. answering Anakin's desperate cry for help, Obi-Wan is reminded of how very, very prone to dramatics his former padawan and grand padawan are. or Ahsoka gets sick and Anakin flips his shit.
✦ Stick Figures by KCKenobi, obi-wan & anakin & ahsoka, 2k
war is hard. war is draining. to make it more bearable, little mementos* are routinely given. *mementos: encouraging notes, funny little drawings, little gifts, fun snacks, and poems which might get Anakin in trouble.
✦ When the Ground Breaks by stolen_pen_name23, obi-wan & anakin & ahsoka, 4.7k
An earthquake causes devastation on the planet of Berchest. Obi-Wan, Anakin, and Ahsoka work together to help save civilians until disaster pulls them apart.
✦ never fear, young one by marverse, obi-wan & ahsoka & cast, 6.2k
Ever since her first day of being a padawan, Ahsoka Tano remembers the words that Master Skywalker had once told her. And every time, she wonders, wonders, and wonders.
✦ the street's a little kinder when you're home by gigglesandfreckles, obi-wan & anakin, 5.2k
"So catch me up," Anakin says. "What did I miss?” Nothing. Nothing happens when you’re gone. “Oh, the usual.” [or: anakin goes missing. obi-wan doesn't handle it well.]
✦ holding anchor by foreverstudent, obi-wan & anakin & ahsoka, 3.2k
At the landing of Point Rain, an injured Obi-Wan allows himself to be sentimental over his former padawan, and Anakin patches up his old master.
✦ Nothing to Say by KCKenobi, obi-wan & anakin & satine, 3.2k
(or: Anakin and Satine don’t know how to talk to each other. Until they remember the very important thing they have in common.)
✦ Aggressive Negotiations by SkyBlue1309, obi-wan & anakin & cast, 2.2k
People forget that Anakin was raised by the Negotiator. He was bound to pick up on a thing or two.
✦ At The Window by Peppermint_Shamrock, obi-wan & anakin, ~1k
In the early days of Anakin's apprenticeship, Obi-Wan searches for him in the Temple. ✦ The Words by Ibelin, obi-wan & anakin, 3.9k
Obi-Wan Kenobi has never said I love you in his life. He can say a lot of other things, though.
JEDI CULTURE AND WORLDBUILDING AND CELEBRATION:
✦ Refractions of Light by Independence1776, ezra & kanan, 1.3k
Kanan celebrates a Jedi holiday with Ezra.
✦ The grand outing by Ingata, dooku & sifo-dyas & obi-wan & bant & garen & reeft & yoda & cast, 4.5k
Eight younglings and two Jedi masters on a field trip. What could possibly go wrong?
✦ into the statue that breathes by spoonks, obi-wan & feemor & cast, 8.5k
The night watch in the garden was supposed to be the calmest of them all. No mischievous Padawans “sneaking” in or out, or ne’er-do-well civilians conducting “business” around the lower-level entrances that they didn’t know existed. No the gardens was still, and it was like time was frozen in ice that slowly melted away with the rising of the sun. A slow drip, drip— Drip. Immediately Feemor turned towards the central waterfall. Someone was standing there. Whoever they were, they were small and moved through katas with their hands open like a greeting.
✦ The Temple vs. Order 66 by LauraBWrites, obi-wan & anakin & ahsoka & cody & jedi & jedi temple, 3.9k
The Temple cannot defy the Will of the Force. But it can, it will prepare for the possible outcomes. It can damn well fight back.
✦ We Three Runaways. by Aethir, obi-wan & depa & komari, 2.7k
In which Depa and Obi-Wan bond, and a new sister is found.
✦ A Short Break by Peppermint_Shamrock, luke & yoda, ~1k
Luke complains about his training, and asks about Jedi training of old.
✦ we are made of our longest days by bereft_of_frogs, obi-wan & anakin & cast, 4.4k
Two years after the events of The Phantom Menace, Obi-Wan and his new apprentice are called to a remote moon to fetch a baby who’s showing signs of a rare, unique power. On their journey home, Obi-Wan reflects on the last child he brought to the Temple and catches a faint glimpse of three possibly entwining futures.
I AM A PREQUELS ERA BITCH AND I'M MAKING THAT EVERYONE ELSE'S PROBLEM:
✦ the salle at dawn by maragny, anakin & mace, 1.5k wip
Master Windu is the best duellist in the Jedi Order. When Anakin Skywalker is seventeen, he duels Mace for the first time, and it ruins both of them for anyone else.
✦ Saving People Counts as Revenge, Right? by ImperialKatwala, obi-wan & anakin & dooku, time travel, 4.3k wip
Count Dooku of Serenno is an intelligent man. His methods may be a bit severe, and he may not be allowed true freedom to plan campaigns in the war he helped create, but he has always had an eye for strategy. Moving the pieces around the board and plotting out where they will need to be next. So, when he opens his eyes after Anakin Skywalker cut his head off, he knows to take a moment to assess what’s going on.
✦ if I could find solid ground again by maragny, anakin & depa, 1.5k
“You never told me what we’re doing today,” Anakin says, a little hesitant. “I…I don’t know much about Jedi things yet.” "Good thing we’re not doing Jedi things, then,” Depa replies. “We’re cooking!” Or, Anakin and Depa, finding their places in their family.
✦ Birds Fly in Different Directions by Triscribe, jedi & clones, time travel, 14.6k
In the corridor beyond her quarters, other Jedi were emerging from their own doors, most of them wide-eyed with shock. A few merely looked blearily concerned, and Aayla heard snatches of questions as she darted past, queries as to whether everyone experienced the same distressing vision. But those who clutched at their chests or throats, their weak points- those Jedi bore a muted horror in their eyes, and Aayla didn’t doubt they’d just suffered their own betrayals from trusted men.
✦ The Master, The Padawan, and The Force by Pandora151, padme & ahsoka, 1.9k
Padmé Naberrie was never one to procrastinate. More than that, she maintained a steady, consistent schedule — something that she’d managed to keep ever since she was a Padawan. She was always on top of everything, from her responsibilities with the war to training her own Padawan, Ahsoka. She was well-known throughout the Order for being steady, reliable. And most notably, no matter what, she didn’t just forget things. Which made her current situation all the more…ridiculous.
✦ Off-by-one Error by Jessepinwheel, obi-wan & cast, 12.2k
A stranger appears in the Jedi Temple. Nobody knows who he is or where he came from. Nobody knows what has happened to him except that it must have been something truly terrible. The stranger's name is Obi-Wan Kenobi.
✦ splinters of light by wrennette, dooku & jocasta & sifo-dyas & yoda & jaster & jango & cast, time travel, 22.5k
When Dooku's dying consciousness was sent back into his younger body, at first he remembered only that something important would happen on Korda VI, and soon. His investigations brought both clarity and confusion, and a conviction that he must atone for evils not yet enacted.
✦ The Road that Reaches by ExtraPenguin, anakin & mace & yoda & depa & shmi, 11.5k
As the Council sits down on Naboo to consider the newly-knighted Obi-Wan Kenobi's request to take young Anakin Skywalker as his padawan, they're informed of what transpired on Tatooine – and that Anakin used to be a slave. Mace Windu goes to interview the young child to confirm this, and gets rather more than he signed up for. ✦ the salle at dawn by maragny, anakin &/ mace, 5.1k
Master Windu is the best duellist in the Jedi Order. When Anakin Skywalker is seventeen, he duels Mace for the first time, and it ruins both of them for anyone else.
✦ through the dark (like two flames) by treescape, kanan/cal & quinlan, 5.3k
A Jedi found him on Bracca. Or, in the weeks after Order 66, Cal Kestis and Caleb Dume are reunited on Jabiim. Five years late, on the run from Inquisitors, they have a decision to make.
✦ Resilience by TemporaryUniverse, obi-wan & mace, 3.3k
Twelve years after his defeat at the Battle of Naboo, Obi-Wan's greatest enemy has returned from the dead. Obi-Wan has faced Maul and lost. Now it is time to face himself.
✦ The Buried Truth is Your Favorite Lie by Peppermint_Shamrock, dooku & yoda, ~1k
Dooku tries and fails to leave the past behind.
✦ Hanging On by the Last Threads of Our Hope by IllyanaA, ahsoka & rex, 5.2k
Ahsoka and Rex have endured too much. After the Fall, they stay together until they can't, but the Force has a way of bringing them back together. It's a fact for which both of them are immeasurably grateful.
MULTIGENERATIONAL STAR WARS IS THE BEST STAR WARS:
✦ Future Tense by CeruleanTactician, obi-wan & anakin & luke, time travel, 1.4k
Obi-Wan and Anakin find themselves twenty years in the future, where they meet a young man by the name of Luke Skywalker.
✦ Keepsakes by Coalmine301, obi-wan & leia, 2k
“You were the one who gave me my bantha, weren’t you?” “Yes,” Obi-wan nodded with a small smile. “Your father told me they were your favorite animal. At least then it was.”
✦ Why the Sith Don't Have Class Reunions by Peppermint_Shamrock, anakin & palpatine & maul & dooku & ventress, time travel, 1.9k
Sith apprentices rarely agree with one another (there’s a reason for the Rule of Two, after all), but Darth Sidious is starting to think that it’s worse when they do.
✦ My Dear Padawan by Tulak_Hord, luke & yoda & palpatine, time travel, 3.2k
In which a time-travelling Luke Skywalker successfully saves the Galaxy in perhaps the most horrifying manner imaginable.
✦ The Return by Pandora151, obi-wan & leia & haja, 1.4k
Haja wonders about the others. He wonders about the people he’s sent to the Path from Daiyu — not just Kenobi and the Princess, but that Force-sensitive boy and his mother, the Nautolan teenager from a few weeks ago, the young Kel Dor child and his even younger siblings. Did they all make it home? Are they safe? Was all of this worth it?
✦ Message From Guiding Light by Batsutousai, obi-wan & leia & mace, time travel, 2.2k
Ben and Leia never make it to Mapuzo on the borrowed supply shuttle, instead finding themselves in the middle of the Clone Wars.
FRIENDSHIP WITH CANON ENDED, THIS COOL AU IS MY NEW BEST FRIEND NOW:
✦ Not A Moment Too Soon by Triscribe, depa & kanan & cast, 2k
The first time she stumbled, her padawan said nothing, simply offering his shoulder for her to lean on.
✦ Parallel Lines by Pandora151, obi-wan & anakin, time travel, time loop, 10.7k
Darth Vader leans back in his chair, allowing a small smile to form on his lips, hidden by his helmet. “There is no escape from this, Obi-Wan,” he utters. He looks down at the neat line of text, and the Force echoes his words. “No escape from the past.”
✦ through the dark (like two flames) by treescape, ca/kanan & quinlan, 5.3k
A Jedi found him on Bracca. Or, in the weeks after Order 66, Cal Kestis and Caleb Dume are reunited on Jabiim. Five years late, on the run from Inquisitors, they have a decision to make.
✦ Loth-Cats and Loth-Rats by TessaDoesThings, mace & depa & kanan & ezra, 19k
All Mace Windu wanted out of the Post-Clone Wars world was a simple trip with his lineage to the long-forgotten Jedi Temples of the Outer Rim. However, on Lothal, the three might have bitten off more than they expected. The Republic may have triumphed, but the roots of what could have become the empire are gripped in the corners of the galaxy, and it might be time for some aggressive space weeding. Or a coup d'etat. That would work too.
✦ a princess, a farmer, a teacher by jesuisdeux, obi-wan & luke & leia & bail, 1.4k
Early in the morning, a girl and few men knock on a door. They don't wear anything resembling a soldier, but Obi-Wan has been a soldier long enough to notice the tense shoulders and wary looks beneath civilian clothing. She doesn't wear anything resembling a princess, but Obi-Wan knows these fierce eyes and grace coming from a righteous cause. or A New Hope AU where Vader doesn't attack Leia's ship and Leia herself delivers the news to Obi-Wan and consequently Obi-Wan doesn't die.
✦ What I Wouldn't Give To See Your Ghost by Triscribe , depa & kanan & cast, time travel, 1.2k
“Who are you?” Depa demanded, externally calm but internally frantic. “What is this place? And where is my padawan?”
✦ when that day comes by katierosefun, obi-wan & anakin & ahsoka & maul, modern au/reincarnation au, 44.8k
[or: the alternate universe where anakin skywalker has the chance at some new life…but only if he saves the life of a reincarnated obi-wan kenobi. the catch: neither of them know who the other was in the galaxy far, far away…but that might very well change.]
#lumi.txt#star wars#obi wan kenobi#anakin skywalker#ahsoka tano#mace windu#depa billaba#count dooku#luke skywalker#leia organa#fic recs#star wars fic recs#long post
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HIS COMPLETE DEVOTION: THE AFTERMATH. malleus draconia
Synopsis: A week after the spell incident, Lilia tells Malleus about all the things he's done to you when he lost his memory. Horrified at his actions, Malleus locks himself away in his room to brood.
Character/s: Malleus Draconia x GN! Reader
Tags: Hurt/Comfort, Crack-Fluff, Malleus is really dramatic, Intense love, Lilia drags Malleus' ass, Lilia turns into his true form, Malleus has gargoyle bedsheets lol, Flustered Malleus, Malleus kneels for u
A/N: Might have went a little bit overboard here loll, I just read a bunch of sagau zhongli fics and it inspired me eheg
WordCount: 800+ | 💌Masterlist | PART I HERE
Malleus Draconia was in love with you. There was no doubt regarding that.
Every bit of your affection, no matter how small or big makes Malleus melt. In the aftermath of your love, he has trouble keeping his heart still as it bounces and dances around his chest. His face blossoms a bright red and a wide silly smile remains on his face for hours, leaving his cheeks burning and strained.
The dragon fae always clung onto you, standing by your side like a devoted knight - so vigilant and attentive that it would put his own retainers to shame.
Though, why is it now that you find yourself eating lunch all alone, with your dragon nowhere to be found?
Well…after the incident last week, Malleus dared not to show his face to you.
Lilia had told him about everything that had transpired that day and oh, how he hated to hear about the sorrow of his cherished treasure. It trod on, tore at, and beat at his poor heart. Even more so once he found out he was the cause of your pain. Such an unpardonable act that Malleus, overcome with grief, shut himself in his room.
No matter how hard you tried, you couldn't visit him. Every time you entered the area around his room, a push of wind magic would always carry you away; it was gentle enough to never hurt you but firm enough to never let you get past.
After days of trying, you decided to simply give Malleus his space, hoping that he wasn't taking it too seriously…
Guilt.
Such a twisted, dreadful feeling which gnawed at his bones and mauled his conscience.
Malleus sits in his bedroom, glaring down at his feet. After locking himself up, the young prince refused to speak to anyone and only came out when it was time for class.
When he was in school, he avoided you like the plague; immediately teleporting away as soon as he caught sight of your figure.
It was safe to say that he wasn't taking the situation so lightly and after a week of his dramatics and Sebek's mourning, Lilia eventually had to step in.
"No!" Malleus growls, tugging his gargoyle themed blanket away from Lilia's grasp and burying his head underneath it.
Lilia sighs and yanks it away from him once more, glaring at Malleus with a stern look. "Do you plan on going about the entire month sulking like this?"
"Yes. Yes I do." Malleus huffs, a puff of fire floating into the air before dissolving into ash and smoke. He turns his back to his guardian and shuts his eyes tight. "Leave."
Silence falls over the room as the two stay still. Lilia squints his eyes, slowly rolling the sleeves to his shirt up. His hair grows, draping over his shoulders and cascading down his back. Malleus turns to glance at him, eyes ripping wide open as he recognises Lilia in his true form.
"I may be old but that doesn't mean I've grown brittle." Lilia rushes forward, tackling Malleus in a vice grip. The dragon writhes in his arms but Lilia's hold doesn't falter one bit. He carries the wriggling fae out the dorm, along a path Malleus was all too familiar with.
"Now, let's go to that darling treasure of yours."
Despite Malleus' protests, the bat fae dragged the poor withered dragon all the way to your dorm.
Once they arrived, Lilia made sure to switch back to the form that you were familiar with.
Unsure of what to do with himself, Malleus stood uncomfortably behind him as the bat fae rapidly knocked on the old rickety wooden door.
There you appeared, disheveled and drowsy with Grim hanging off your shoulder. For the first time in weeks, Malleus' eyes fell upon your figure, and his heart hammered heavily in his chest. Lilia pushed him towards you. "Go on Malleus, I believe you wished to tell them something."
You looked up at him in anticipation, a bright smile on your face. With a trembling sigh, Malleus strode forward.
"I-I'm sorry." He dropped to his knees and bowed deeply, his head striking the ground hard. His shoulders were locked and tensed in a straight line, posture stiff and rigid.
"Malleus!" You gasped, rushing forward. Despite your hasty attempts to urge him to stand, he remained anchored to the ground like stone.
The dragon fae grabbed onto your ankles, his forehead pressed against your feet. "My treasure, I a-am so sorry."
"Oh Malleus, love, you're being a bit too dramatic. It's okay." You shushed him, stooping down to take him into your arms.
Almost immediately, he melts into your embrace, curling up against your chest. His head lay against your shoulder, an arm draped over his eyes. Apologies flowing out of his mouth in an uncommon display of vulnerability.
Sighing, you cast a glance at Lilia who only shrugged as if to say 'Well, he's your problem now.'
"I'll make it up to you." He whispers, throat burning after his numerous confession of guilt. You smiled, burying your face into his hair. "I know, Tsunotarou, I know."
" Though I must say…" You trailed off, and Malleus peered up at you, his eyes wide with curiosity. "That locket you had of me was really lovely."
Malleus coughed, his cheeks turning slightly red. "I hadn't intended for you to ever see it."
"Khee hee~ Ah yes, the locket." Lilia sniggered, grinning impishly. "Prefect, did you know he had a box of true gold specifically custom made for it?"
"Lilia."
"He was so protective of it, always growling if someone dared to touch what was his."
"Lilia, please."
"There was even an enchanted silk pillow! He would always place the box atop it. I'm quite sure both the box and the pillow were embedded with a protection spell.
"I beg of you, stop."
Likes and Reblogs are greatly appreciated and really motivating on my end!
Taglist: @keedas , @spadecentral , @crypticbibliophile
⤷ (want to be added?)
#twstnexus#twisted wonderland#twst#twst x reader#twst fanfic#malleus x mc#malleus draconia#malleus draconia x yuu#malleus draconia x reader#malleus draconia fanfic#malleus fluff#twst malleus#twst malleus x reader#twisted wonderland malleus#lilia vanrogue#diasomnia#twisted wonderland x reader#tsunotaro#malleus draconia fluff
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Niche — {Feat. Hanni}
4.5k words
A/N: Guess who’s back! I’ve returned, from 5 months of hiatus, with a long-waited Hanni fic. This was written when @kaedespicelatte was a total Hanni stan, but idk if he still is doing that… Anyways, please enjoy this spin-off of my Academia series. This time is about a bit about philosophy and love itself. Eternal gratitude to @usedpidemo for editing and polishing this one!
******
"Three, two, one!"
With a cute pout, Hanni, sitting across the table opposite to you, blows the gentle fire off all nine birthday candles. She looks so happy as you can read under the dimly lit dark orange dining room. A proud smile stretches wide across your face.
"Can't believe you're already this big, Hanni. This is for you."
You hand Hanni a small wine-red box, and with a surprised smile she brings it in front of her.
"What's this, oppa?"
"Open it,"
With a silent click the box opens, presenting a thin golden necklace with the letter 'H' in cursive hanging. Touched by your gift, Hanni lets out a long, surprised gasp before she looks up again at you, looking adorable.
"Do you like it?"
"I love it! What does this 'H' mean, oppa?"
"It could mean anything, Hanni. Happiness, hope, heart, and of course your name, Hanni."
Hanni stares at the letter on the necklace for a while with deep deliberation in her eyes. You watch her with a twinkle in your own eyes. She then looks back at you with a certain decision already made up.
"I'll just put all of them in this necklace, oppa. Hope, heart, happiness, and my name… They all are priceless when you say them."
You want to squeeze her in your embrace, only to be denied by the table separating you two. Happiness, hope, heart—and her name, Hanni. They all mean the same to you. She has been your happiness since the day you were adopted to her family. Your opaque, cloudy, uncertain future was given hope by her presence in your life. And heart–
"Heart, oppa. Do you know what the ancient Greeks thought of the heart?"
You shake your head.
"No."
Hearing your response, Hanni softly intertwines your hands together with hers. The cold necklace is handed into your palm.
"Can you put this on my neck?"
You rise from your chair and walk around the table to her, doing what she asked. Hanni rises from her seat too, facing your collarbones due to her height. She lets her hands softly rest on your shoulders, which you freely allow.
"They thought the heart of human beings contained their own souls within it."
You finish clasping her necklace around her neck. Looking down at her, she seems very shy and nervous. One of Hanni's hands trails down to the middle of your chest, where your heart is set alight, beating with an increasing rate because of her sudden but sensitive touch.
"I think your heart does. I can feel it."
For a moment, you lose grip on your consciousness and fall into her, but no.
"What are you doing, Hanni?"
You ask her as calmly and kindly as possible, not wanting to offend her even by the least. You feel so warm and so loved, but still, you are embarrassed and a little shy by the sudden touch on your body from Hanni. Nevertheless, she doesn't back up from where you are right now, as if she completely expected this to happen.
"You know, oppa, when somebody loves someone, the person can feel the soul of someone he or she is in love with."
You feel your heart beating faster and faster, as if responding to every word she says—as if her lips contain the spark that makes your heart burn brighter and hotter with each passing second.
Hanni's other hand finds one of yours and brings it to your chest, drumming fast to the point you’re certain your heart will explode. Your face is no different at all, furiously burning in front of her and throbbing to your crazy heartbeat.
"Which means, I love you."
Oh.
By now, you already knew it was coming, but when you hear it spoken from her divine lips you're struck silent—not that you haven't been speechless so far, and that's because you are not ready for it. Your heart is now merely seconds away from bursting out of your chest, beating wildly against Hanni's palm.
"H-Hanni…"
Not listening to your stuttering, she places your hand on her chest and slightly pushes it into her chest.
"Can you feel it too, oppa? My heart—it has been beating for you since the day I met you. My soul has always been yours, oppa."
You look up from your hand on Hanni's chest to her twinkling eyes; hers have never left contact with yours almost all night long.
"I-I can feel it, Hanni… But this is–"
When you say 'but,' Hanni's eyebrows curl into a frown, and it crushes your heart into pieces. She didn't confess her love sincerely only to hear rejection from you.
This setting—where you are in love with your step sister—might sound a little bit wrong, but now, in front of Hanni, even questioning if it's right or wrong is the most wrong thing possible.
Well, even the strict Nietzsche was in love with his sister.
"Hanni."
You, with your warmest tone, call her name with a solid decision in your voice.
"Yes…?"
Hanni, however, murmurs back, tone disappointed, assuming you are trying to reconfirm your rejection. You have to, given the circumstances, but this time, you break the rules set throughout history—from Epicure to Sartre, reason has to precede instinct. But love—it gives the human mind amazing power and growth. And at this moment you wholeheartedly believe that with love fueling your heart, any rules against it can be buried beside all those “reasonable” thinkers, and that you are the one with the spade. It is okay even if it’s just a blind mistake.
Because it sure will be the most beautiful mistake of the human mind.
"I love you too, Hanni."
Your words land directly through her ears, and they travel straight down to her heart, even before her brain processes them. Love—it's the only language in which the souls can communicate. Straight from your heart and into hers, and they both react wildly, unable to ignore their deepest desires.
Surprised, Hanni swiftly looks up at you, eyes gleaming with tears. Her lips part, but not a syllable comes out, before–
"Oppa–"
You don't have to say a word, Hanni.
Your love has already done more than enough.
And right now, you speak to her soul with your lips.
You kiss her parted lips, sealing the gap perfectly. Your hand remains on her chest, you feel her heart beating even faster as if shaking you off. The same is true on your side.
A few seconds of liplock is enough for your soul to express love to hers, but as soon as you pull back from them, Hanni cups your face with her warm hands to fulfill the paused act of pure love. Your hands slowly climb up to her shoulders, to her soft, pulsing neck, and finally to her blushed, warm cheeks.
Who said following the essence of instincts is not humanly?
Who thought the instant impulses would never create long lasting happiness?
Your love for Hanni and hers toward you defies that right in the face, as you detach from the kiss and peck her palm on your cheek, never losing eye contact with her.
Happiness is reached when one overcomes resistance. Nietzsche was right about it, and he himself did overcome the obstacles and fell in love with his sister to prove that.
Forget about everything tonight. Let the love lead you. It can't hurt deeper than where your love is springing from.
Hanni pulls your hand to her chest again, but this time you feel something different. Her fingers delicately slide down on your shirt, from your chest to where your belly is. Hanni pushes your hand on her chest deeper to make you feel the softness of her breasts, and her other hand on you stops.
"I want you to feel more than my heart tonight, oppa. And I want to feel more than your soul too."
It's a question and a permission at the same time—a question asking for deeper, thicker love, and a permission to develop the love between to the next level, which you can't—and won’t—say no to.
At this point, you feel like you could happily stop loving her if she tells you to, if that makes her happy. But what stops now is your reason and rationality, which have been vulnerable throughout the night.
"Aah–mmmph,"
You softly squeeze her petite breast, inhaling her cute but deep moan right from her mouth, sealing its exit not to let a single strand escape.
Love makes a person grow.
But the only thing growing because of love is the bulge behind your clothes, aching to be unleashed. Hanni sneaks a hand under your shirt to touch your bare abs, chest, and back. Sensing the physical form of love flowing from her warm fingers through your skin, you briefly leave her lips and quickly get rid of your shirt. You see Hanni's glistening lips needily follow your head pulling back and grin at how adorable your little girl is.
Hanni then tries to get out of her own clothes, but you stop her arms from reaching the hem of her sweater and place her arms around your neck. Looking at your eyes with a piercing glare, Hanni crushes her lips on yours again, and you lift her by her legs and head to the bedroom.
Gently setting Hanni down on the mattress, you undress her. Shirt first, then the pants follow. Afterward, you give yourself a few seconds to admire the beautiful sculpture lying in front of you, showing off her bare, fair skin. Brushing your thumb on her midriff, you dive into her neck, then descend to her collarbone, shoulders and upper chest, to let Hanni relax and react to your sexual actions.
Not letting a second go to waste, she responds, arching her back at your most sensitive and stimulating touches before unclasping her own bra. At the sight of her exposed breasts you can’t waste a moment to dive in and softly peck her creamy skin, making her moan lightly. To prepare Hanni for what you’re about to do tonight, you ramp up the stimuli by touching and sucking on her nipples.
"I-I love it, oppa. Do you–haa, love them too…?"
Hanni's arms reach around your back and smoothly wander across your skin. Having showered enough love and lust on her breasts, you pull back from them.
"I do, Hanni."
You fucking love them, but profanities are the least things you want to say to your–
"Fuck…!"
Your fingers are barely touching her soaked panties, yet she lets out a thin moan. Not having seen someone this sensitive, you worry for her, whether she feels uncomfortable or not.
"Are you okay, Hanni?"
You look at Hanni with utmost concern, but she's blushing, covering her own mouth with a loose fist. Instead of answering your question, she confesses to you for the second time tonight.
"Oppa… Th-this is my first time having sex, so go easy on me please,”
“Oh, of course, baby. Just relax, it won’t hurt.”
In contrast to your comforting words, her body remains tense as your tongue makes its way down from her breasts, belly, to her hot crotch. Every squirm she makes indicates the level of her anticipation for how good you will feel between her legs. Her hands softly land on your busy head, relaxing when you pause for a second, your head resting right above her wet spot.
"Hanni, you're wet."
Your teasing words do work. Hanni above your view blushes and bites her bottom lip.
"Oppa, I-I need you to–hnng…!"
You can tell she's loosening up little by little, so you carefully touch her drenched core past the soaked fabric. Slowly going soft and smooth at her most sensitive point, you look up at her face to check if she's fine, only to be met by the newfound pleasure on her disfigured features: the bitten bottom lip, tightly shut eyes, burning cheeks, and mouth covered by the back of her hand.
All of them saying—I'm enjoying this, oppa. I'm loving it. Please–
"Please. Go on."
You give her an assuring smile and dive right in, tongue first. You peck on her wet underwear, immediately sending Hanni's body into overdrive. She squirms, whether intended or not, pushing her crotch into your diligent mouth.
Hanni's mouth, too, is diligent, letting indistinguishable moans free continuously, even at your slightest touches. Your both hands gently massage her slender thighs, while spreading them apart at the same time. Gradually your hands travel closer to the waistband of her underwear, before tugging your fingers under it and sliding it down her smooth legs.
You toss it on the floor, keeping your eyes fixated on her bare crotch and soaked pussy.
You hate it. You never wanted to use such a filthy word on Hanni. But when you actually say it, it's far from dirty—it's beautiful, it's lovely, it's perfect.
Without saying another word you dive in, pouring all your senses on your tongue. You look up again to see how Hanni reacts, and her shaking eyes firmly close when the first divine contact is made.
“Ahh…!"
She yelps—not too loud, but just enough for you to know that she feels so good. Up and down, left to right and then quickly circling around her sweet spot that has been left untouched, virgin–
"I-It's amazing, oppa. You don't know how many times I touched myself imagining this–oh my-oh my god!"
You interrupt her with your middle finger entering her leaking and contracting hole, because you don't want to hear that. Hanni to you has been a pure little girl, the one to be protected from such a sin—not the one moaning words about it, even when you’re committing such a grave act.
Hanni tightly grabs your other hand on her thigh, bringing it on the mattress next to her shaking body which makes Hanni look like she's humping on your mouth and finger.
Every slight curl of your finger and flick of your tongue confines you deeper inside Hanni's warmth—her hand desperately strengthens its hold, her thighs trap your head in between her legs, and the vulnerable tightness of her pussy firmly hugs your finger.
You can feel your dick furiously bulging behind your pants and boxers, aching to have a piece of her too, but that's not the top priority. In front of you is a squirming, moaning, helpless little girl whose entire body is depending on you.
Suddenly Hanni brings your hand to her perky breast, softly pushing it against her mound. Surprised, you look up and your eyes are met with hers, which, a few moments ago, were filled with love. Now you see the evolved form of love in her eyes—lust. But it's only for a short moment, because her approaching orgasm spreads all over her body, preparing for the inevitable explosion.
It was certainly a short moment, but Hanni's gleaming eyes were more than enough to tell you what she wants—what she needs. You squeeze her breast, upping the ante on your tongue and finger. Noticing your effort, Hanni changes her grip on your hand to intertwine your fingers with hers together.
Every part of her body contracts and quivers, completely engulfed by pleasure; relentless leakage of her juice, shallow breaths, and ecstatic scream seeping out of her bitten lip successfully substitute for "I'm going to cum." Fueled by her lewd sound, you double the pace and soon enough, she comes undone.
"Fuck, oppa!"
You keep your tongue and finger working deep through her orgasm, devouring her pure high with such a dirty slurping sound.
Love can be viewed as just a survival mechanism for human beings to reproduce, but when you feel the essence of it, share the true taste of it, it will be the only way to define each other. Hanni is your love, and you are Hanni's love.
Right now is the complete extent of love between you two, in its purest physical form—the most basic form, and the very destination of it at the same time.
Hanni slowly winds down from her orgasm, still breathing heavily, with the happiest smile etched on her lips. She sits up, then gently caresses your bare shoulder and chest. Her delicate touches squeeze your heart, and your dick is the furthest from easing down.
Grabbing her hand pressed on your chest, you kiss its palm and the back of it imbued with love. Putting that hand behind your neck, Hanni forces your body atop hers, closing whatever distance left that keeps you apart. Her eyes gaze at your lips, and so do you at hers, which smoothly leads to a deep kiss. With one arm supporting your body above her you try to undo your pants. Hanni's both hands slide down your bare upper body to help you dispose of those annoying pants. Right after then she succeeds in helping you pull them down, to make yourself finally naked.
Hearing the sound of your clothes being tossed on the floor, Hanni detaches from the kiss, to take a look at your newly exposed dick.
"That's… That's bigger than I thought."
Her face blushes even brighter, which you thought was impossible. An unhidden smile curls her lips, concealed by her digging teeth.
How can a person look so innocent and sly at the same time? The cute, shy version of Hanni is long gone, taken away by the sexual tension and the first orgasm done by someone else. On top of that, your exposed body is making it more profound, resulting in Hanni unconsciously taking her hand to your cock.
"I-It's hard and… and warm, oppa."
You can only moan at her sensitive touch on your cock, wildly throbbing and leaking.
"H-Hanni… It's–"
Hanni again interrupts you, but this time with unholy intent.
"Is it because of me, oppa? Is it for me?"
Stop it.
No, don't you stop. You are enjoying this as confused as you are.
Hanni, once underneath you, flips you onto the bed next to her and prepares to ride you out. There's no sign of innocence on her face now. She stares you down with an anticipatory, excited grin with those piercing eyes shooting straight into yours.
"Hanni, are you sure about this? We can slow down or–"
"I am, oppa. You've done enough for me tonight. For my whole life, too. Why don't you let me show you how big I've grown up?"
This is it. This is what she has been wanting to show you—to show you that she's not just a little girl anymore, that she has grown big enough to love you.
That you don't have to feel guilty at all for loving her back.
Again, love makes people grow.
Now you see the difference. She is independent, confident, lady-like and mature. Every attribute you're obsessed with is on full display.
She’s blossoming right before your eyes.
"Hanni–"
You try to sit up and kiss her, but the Hanni atop you is no longer passive and shy about receiving kisses from you. She can express how she feels, and she can lead the way herself.
"I love you, oppa."
Hanni pushes you back down on the mattress, then crushes her lips on yours. You can’t help but reciprocate with your tongue, while your arms hastily wander on the silky skin of her back and descend to the bottom.
"Why don't you put it in? I'm soaking wet for you.”
Those words don't sound sinfully wrong anymore, but still they send novel sensations down your spine.
You rub your hard dick on her wetness to prepare for the penetration. As if emphasizing that this is her first, Hanni, just at the briefest touch on her sensitive entrance, moans vulnerably and hugs your neck tightly.
"You've grown up, Hanni. That's true."
Still dangling from the edge, Hanni manages to reply, but it's merely an orgasmic shout.
"Yes, opp–Ahh, nnngh!"
As you push the head of your cock in, Hanni screams loudly as if she wants the whole universe to know how much she loves it, but the flooding pleasure of the first sex proves to be so overwhelming, so her nails dig into your back skin, and her teeth also make their mark on your shoulder, as if to inject her suppressed erotic moans into your pulsing veins.
"But you're still my little girl, baby."
Hanni quickly nods at your declaration, pleading for more. You don't want to hurt her, so you keep it slow, trying your best to make the experience comfortable for Hanni.
Yes, she has already proven herself right, and you can accept that, but you just can't go wild on such a weak girl. So weak and soft that if you make even a slightly deep, hard thrust, she'd break.
Slowly, slowly. You're halfway inside Hanni and she seems to have adjusted a bit. It's agonizing for you that you only have to explore her inside like this.
Just then, without warning Hanni sinks down swiftly, forcing sharp gasps from your lungs out of unexpected sensation.
"F-Fuck, Hanni that's…!"
"Nnngh…!"
You are now fully inside her, completely hugged tightly by her violently contracting walls. Hanni's entire body also is wildly reacting to her pussy being filled up to the hilt.
"Are you okay, Hanni?"
"Haa, haa, th-that's deep, oppa…"
You tilt your head a little and whisper in her ear.
"I'm going to move, okay? Tell me when it hurts, baby. I'll stop."
"I'm-I'm okay, oppa. I love it."
Her words hit your shoulder with her hot breaths and are shattered at the edge.
You carefully pull back from her pussy, leaving only half of your cock inside. With your both hands firm on her cheeks below, you gently slip back in and press contact with her sensitive cervix again.
"I-I can't wait, oppa, just fuck me. I'm alright, so don't worry about me and make love to me."
Hearing that, you flip your bodies over and put your hands at each side next to her head. Hanni never lets go of her embrace, looking at you nervously and excitedly. You swipe her glistening lips with your thumb before meeting them with yours, tongue first.
As soon as your lips make holy contact, you start pistoning in her cunt, forcing moans out of her mouth and straight into yours. With one hand supporting your body, your other hand trails down her body. You stay at her taut nipple and perfect mound for a while, playing with it before continuing your journey downward.
To her side, her belly, tummy, and lastly arriving at her hot crotch. Your thumb again draws a loud moan out of her when it touches her clit. Pleasure from her clit triples the pleasure of your consistent thrusts in and out of her pussy.
"I-I think I'm close, oppa."
It only means that you have to ramp up the pace, so you do. Sensing the increased tempo, Hanni bites your lower lip, desperate to find an outlet for the tension from the unbearable pleasure coursing through her body.
"You're going to make me cum, oppa. Please make me cum, make me cum hard on you, please…!"
Still biting on your lip she begs, and with passionate love you make your thrusts even harder to fulfill her desire. Hanni's walls convulse, and every deep thrust makes her back rise bit by bit, until her belly meets yours.
"Mmmph! Oppa–Ahh…!"
When Hanni peaks you don't stop, fucking her through her orgasm. With every thrust you make sure Hanni's cumming hard. You make sure she's feeling good and loving every single second.
"I l-love it, oppa! Just like that…!"
There's no slowing down, when your own high is right ahead of you, a stone’s throw away. There's never coming down for Hanni when your fucking only gets harder.
"Hanni, baby, I'm close."
With an orgasmic frown on her brows contradicting her satisfied smile on her lips, she says, "Oppa, it's your turn to feel good. Let me make you cum, so don't you dare slow down."
"Where do you want me to finish, Hanni?"
"I-Inside, oppa. I'm on pills. Give me all your love."
You can't believe this is her first time, but you can certainly believe in love, turning your thrusts that are after your orgasm into motions of love. Hanni looks at you, while you’re struggling to keep your eyes open. Still, you manage to meet her halfway, even at the very moment when you are–
"I'm cumming…!"
Looking right into her eyes, you let the pleasure overpower you. Stuck deep inside her pussy, you release your cum. Your neck gives in, and your foreheads kiss.
"Yes, inside me… I've been wanting this so much…"
This is one of the highest highs you've ever felt, and it never lets you go soon. You really want to say 'I love you’ to Hanni, but the aftershock of sex leaves you devoid of strength, you can't do anything but breathe heavily on her face.
"I loved it, oppa. Thank you for being my first. I love you."
You give her a peck.
"I love you so much, Hanni. I'm so happy that you're here for me. I'm so happy that you're the one that loves me."
Strength regained, you reply. Then you give her another quick peck.
With lust washed away, there's only love left in her eyes. Hanni’s smile never leaves her face, even when you pull out and lie beside her.
"Hanni," Out of curiosity you ask her. "How are you on pills…? Oh, is that–"
Hanni giggles.
"Yes, oppa. I've been planning this for weeks. Thank god you liked it!"
"I loved it, Hanni."
You put your lazy hand on her midriff, and her hand rests atop your hand on her glistening belly.
"You're sweaty, baby. Let's wash ourselves."
You carry her to the bathroom, and Hanni lets out a cute, excited yelp as you lift her up.
******
After the shower, you two are lying on the bed, facing each other and looking at each other, without any words.
"Oppa."
"Mhmm?"
You raise your brows.
"I really really love you."
You giggle at how adorable your little girl is, like always. But the adorableness you sense now resonates even deeper in your heart, and the reason is for all the universe to know—with the big difference you two have made tonight, you won’t view Hanni Pham in a way like never before. But that’s nothing to lament on, of course, rather a perfect example of happiness and love.
"Love you too."
Whether straight through a shortcut or some other way around, Hanni, once your step sister, and now, your lover, has found the perfect place to be. Where she belongs.
Hanni has found herself the niche.
She comes into your arms, buries her face on your chest.
Yes. In your arms, she's perfect here, inside your warm, loving embrace.
"Good night, oppa."
She muffles her words on your shirt. You kiss her head and muffle back sweetly.
"Happy birthday, Hanni."
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i. the likeability paradox.
pairing. joel miller x fem!reader
synopsis. joel miller is not a man who strives to be liked, with a chip on his shoulder and a scowl on his face, until his world is flipped on its axis when the pretty young thing living under bill and frank's roof, with an irritatingly unwavering smile and the literal sun shinning out her ass, says those five damned words: i don't like you, joel.
warnings. no use of y/n, enemies to lovers, slow burn ( i have several oneshots planned for this couple ), unrequited love ( except you will never catch joel miller admitting he feels anything beyond grief, hunger and exhaustion ), pining, poor communication no communication, no seriously joel is down bad it's actually disgusting and highkey 🚩toxic🚩 but luckily red is your favourite colour, sunshine!reader, grumpy!joel aka canon joel, kinda perv!joel ( if you squint ), implied queer!tess, undefined age gap ( reader implied late-20s ), descriptions of canon-typical violence, smut ( oral- f receiving, fingering, degradation, panty stealing, hair pulling, dirty talk, dubcon due to intoxication, joel kinda gives her a wedgie at some point and honestly i don’t know what i was hoping to achieve with that, discussions of a lacklustre sex-life pre-apocalypse ). reader is a) hinted at being shorter than joel but it’s not central to the plot and b) described as lithe but the meaning intended is graceful, not thin!
word count. 12.9k
hyde’s input. half-way through, the regret of choosing to write this from joel's pov started to settle in but lmao i was too far in to not commit to the bit. don't come at me for the fact the timeline or events may not seem plausible with canon, i just wanna write this silly little depraved fic about joel in peace :( anyway, enjoy my first attempt at writing for tlou, forming a prayer circle rn in hopes that this doesn't flop because i will cry and you will hear about it
taglist. @kayleezra @newavenger + add yourself to the taglist here !
read on ao3 ! ( capitalization available )
distaste is not new in the life of joel miller.
in particular, one that is loaded, aimed and fired directly at him. he is not a likeable guy, often by choice and rarely by accident. the years of pain from a bleeding wound have now scarred over into nothing but an empty shell of the man that once was, from a world that no longer is, and he’s tried little to fill himself back up.
if anything, he’s made himself more empty.
rid himself of feelings, that which saves him the weakness of appearing sympathetic. discarded the need for luxuries, for which he’d scarcely cared for prior to his world ending. lay to rest what was left of the optimist inside him, leaving behind the danger of hope for it to rot with the rest of the infected.
an apocalyptic world brings out all sides of man that one would never dare to engage with in normal civilisation. joel learned swiftly that he was built to endure, quick to evolve and adapt to the new world order. the man who once worked his hardest to keep the peace among his neighbours, smiling that little bit wider on days he’d catch them scowling to themselves in hopes of brightening one part of their day for even a simple moment, would be at odds with the man who wears a heavy layer of enjoyment when met with the scowling glances and the hushed voices, all the watch out for that miller guys passed between cowardly members of fedra and the keep away from mr. miller's lawns spoken harshly from mother to child becoming music to his failing ears.
this plague of fear-driven dislike keeps him alone, how he likes to be, no one to lose and nothing to be taken. somewhere along the years the idea of safety in numbers has morphed into an illusion, something people say and never truly mean, to distract themselves from a reality more bitter than a snowstorm: in times of survival, people become dead-weight.
“so that’s all i am to ya, huh? dead-fucking-weight?” his brother’s voice still echoes in that damned space he calls a home, weeks or months or years since the day he’d departed for something else, somewhere else, leaving joel to do what joel does best: endure.
somehow, silence was easier than telling the man he’d taught to tie a shoelace, to shave his beard, to tune a guitar that he was the dead-weight, doomed to drag all those who remained too close down into his pit of despair.
she was an exception, his tess, buried 5-feet-under in her own swell of darkness, nothing but the tips of her fingers stretched out above her head to feel the sun upon her skin and keep her from going that last foot deeper. they’d made a home for themselves in one another, one where he keeps them fed, and she keeps them safe, and neither of them keeps the place clean.
she never asks for more, and he never offers it, both content to survive without the weight of affection smothering them. contrary to the belief of any misfortunate soul who’s encountered the pair within the quarantine zone, she is the one who holds the leash, tugging joel along close by her heel and keeping him from wandering off into the wild to surrender himself to a feral lifestyle.
which lands him here, sat at a table playing happy family, each time he dares to snark out a few words being met with the sharp kick of tess’ foot against his shin.
“... and then,” frank struggles over a cough, so excited in his story-telling that he fails to separate taking a breath from taking a sip of his wine. with a roll of eyes and a disapproving grunt, bill’s no more than two seconds away from clapping down on his back, urging the other man’s wind-pipes to unblock and welcome back airflow. “otis dragged his muddied self over the whole house. we were finding paw-prints for days!”
joel’s unamused, too keen to think of what a nuisance that would be. as if incapable of feeling the buzzing energy of disinterest, the german shepherd drops its head further up his lap, begging for a morsel of anything that sits atop the table.
“which means i was cleaning paw-prints for days.” bill, the only one at the table besides himself who wears the looks of a cynic, grumbles out before shovelling what remains on his plate into his mouth.
frank is quick to shush him.
“i’m sorry, again, bill,” he doesn’t mean to break eye-contact from the mutt at his thigh, but the voice calls to him like a siren calls to a ship in the night, like a flame dances and seduces a moth into its brightly burning touch of death, a spotlight in the dark which promises- or threatens- more light to come. “i’d no clue there was a storm coming till we were already a good few miles away, and there was nowhere to take cover to wait it out.”
there you sit, parallel to him.
the sun rests lower in the sky as time carries you all into the late noon, its rays a beacon of light bursting out just behind your head, painting you in the glow of the golden hour and staining a mockery of a halo above you. it hurts his eyes, this brightness that you so easily bask in, forcing him to squint and deepen the frown on his face.
you catch him with his sights on you, at some point, and the smile you meet his scowl with has him cursing at the sun, and the moon, and every star that sits between.
the threat of a great war looms in the air as you rush to rise up and help clear the table of the remnants left behind- none of which joel can account for, mouth to keen and body too starved to skip out on enjoying the mundane luxury of a fresh, home-cooked meal. the battle ends swiftly as you surrender to bill’s hardened stare, and frank’s disapproving head-shakes, and tess’ own plan of action to simply force you down back into the seat you’d been sat in- the one you always sit in.
“you, sit. no one should have to clean up the food they made.”
they get no fight out of him when they insist he’d done enough catching the so-called food.
silence casts its shadow over the table, dampening the light and painting you both in a mockery of greyed tones- truthfully, it is the disappearance of the sun hind a large cloud that causes such a thing.
being alone, with you, is something joel’s never mastered. the affliction of your presence is so much greater when there’s no one else to balance out your natural shine- the kind that has his head spinning and his cock aching-, no one but him.
were he not a sick bastard, he’d try harder to not make you sad.
something bumps his hands, ripping him out of his moral self-condemnation. the dog meets his gaze, eyes a widened mess of puppy-dog pleading that punctuates its existence with an impatient whine.
just like your owner, he finds himself thinking and not saying- never saying-, yet to find your bark.
the ball’s a sticky mess of slobber and dirt, and joel touches it all the same, throwing it up in the air once, then twice, before tossing it across the yard. he’s slumped back in his chair by the time he registers the dog’s departure, a ball of dark fluff bouncing its way across the garden, and all the man can think is fuck, he’ll be feeling the effect of that throw on his shoulder come the morning.
the pain is not enough to stop him from tossing the ball again, and once more, and then yet again, sending the dog in a never ending loop of chase, grab, retrieve- a parallel to his life of wake, survive, sleep.
“he likes you,” you never leave things the way he wishes them to be, bursting his bubble with the vocal reminder of your presence.
as if on queue, prompted by your addressing of it, the dog drops its interest in joel, and the ball, and the chasing, tail wagging uncontrollably by the time it reaches your side. standing on its hind legs, it collapses the front of itself into your waiting lap, and joel watches how you wrap your arms so easily around something that could cause you harm.
to envy a creature that licks it own shit off its ass is a new low for joel.
“thinkin’ he might like ya more, sol.” the nickname rolls off his tongue with ease, the safer option than uttering your name, a vice and virtue he’s only permitted himself in idealistic fantasies that play out in his own troubled thoughts.
“most people do,” whether you mean to make it seem like you’re degrading his very existence or not, he’s unsure, but it rouses a chuckle out of him.
he takes note of how you don’t protest the name he’s branded you with, not like how you’d fought tooth and nail against it every other visit he and tess have made.
“you’ve got a whole load in common, you know? i think that’s got something to do with his fascination-”
“how the hell’s a man like me got somethin’ in common with a four-legged mutt?” there he goes again, making that smile slip down your cheeks with a simple use of his voice. it helps as much as it hurts, frown loosening up and eyes no longer strained beneath the bright shine of your visceral optimism.
“well, you’re both... hairy,” he restrains himself from reacting, washing down a laugh with the help of the dregs of wine that lay collecting at the bottom of his glass. he’s let his appearance grow more rugged over the past few months and your noticing of this brings an unwanted warmth to his aching bones. “and have the most kickass women in your lives to stop you from dying.”
he’s interested to know what life would be like under your protection.
discovering the answer brings the threat of pain, and loss, and an openness to vulnerability he can not afford himself, so he takes the safer option: “‘s easy stayin’ safe when you live in this fantasy land. doubt your mutt’d last any longer than a day out in reality.”
with you as its protector.
he doesn’t say it and, still, it somehow hovers in the space between you both, a heavy, syrupy implication that slips down your throats and threatens to suffocate you. he watches you choke on it, coughing on his cruelty and feigning it to be a simple clearing of your throat. your eyes glue themselves on the dog, delicate fingers smoothing over the well-groomed hairs down its back.
survival has turned him into a man who knows when to seize an opportunity, and this is one he takes with both hands, basking in the simplicity of staring, watching, observing you without the crime of being caught.
but i could keep you safe.
he toys with the danger of uttering such a thing aloud. it’s not the first time he’s thought it. truthfully, he’s unsure when it first nestled its way into his mind.
his memory, which ails him more than it aids him these past years, would have him believe it was way before the dog had even appeared, back when it was just bill, frank and you. a few whiskeys in and a campfire lit for you all to gather for warmth around- why you’d all chosen to sit out in the gardens on a winter’s night joel remains unsure of to this day-, it was frank who’d prompted the question. “where were you all when... this started?” tess went first, braver than most people he knows, sharing stories of a version of herself he’ll never meet.
he never imagined her working in a bank.
bill, with reluctance, took the next step, keeping his account factual and to the point. “was shit-faced drunk and getting my stomach pumped.” he’d been quick to skim over the story of the young nurse who’d guided him to safety out the hospital, losing her own life in exchange for his survival. she was barely out of school. “i knew her dad, bit of an asshole, but boy, was he proud of his baby for graduating.” frank couldn’t let him swim too deep in his thoughts, afraid a current of guilt would trap him and drown him in the depths of it, and so he raised his own voice and began his tale.
joel had always been a good listener. being a single parent to a teenage girl required him to be, or so... she would have had him believe, nights at the table set for two spent listening to the playground he-said-she-said gossip. years later and he at last prefers things this way, a rare gem of safety found in the act of saying nothing and hearing everything- that his hearing will allow. all this to say, he’d tried his best to pay attention to frank’s impassioned retelling of his heroic misadventures that had lead him to the unintentional arms of bill.
but you weren’t smiling.
he watched you, you watched the dancing flames, face stoic and drained of that natural shine his eyes had only just started to be able to gaze upon without the threat of being blinded by such light.
the desire crept up on him like a tiger to it’s prey, hiding in the far off bushes until the opportunity to strike presented itself and the feeling lunged for joel’s back, gripping him in its claws and piercing his ribcage with its gnashing teeth. with each bite, it plagued him with the delusions of a wandering mind, imagination left free to run laps around his head with visions of you from another life, another time, another set of people gathered round a dining table. he’d wanted to hear about the ones you’d lost, and comfort you with all the things he hated hearing (“you’ll keep ‘em alive, in spirit and memory!” “those we remember never truly die!”). he’d needed to bend a knee and swear a vow to be the one to stand between you and death, to fight for your survival on your behalf. ‘could keep you safe. there, then, the thought did cross his mind.
he’d washed it down with a swig of lukewarm, flat beer.
“-could fix it, you know. i’m good with my hands.”
he almost chokes on his own breath.
i'm good with my hands, it swims in circles round his mind, replaying and echoing off the walls of his skull. and he knows- oh, how he knows- that he’ll be replaying it in those moments of solitude for the next few nights, weeks, months- however long it may take till he forgets the way such thought-provoking words sound on your lips.
“what?” the question leaves him harsher than he intends, drawing an enemy line between you both with the foul sound of it. in the corner of his eye, he swears he sees you flinch backwards, physically recoiling from the disdain-filled bullet he fires in your direction.
the mutt in your lap retreats, hackles rising as it turns to face joel once more.
he sees it, in the dog’s brutal protectiveness over you, this similarity you claim exists.
“your watch, it’s broken.”
“hadn’t noticed,” he’s retreating into his own space now, mentally and physically, scraping the legs of his chair against the ground as his mind works to strengthen those walls that threaten to crumble so often in your presence. “don’t need ya to fix it.”
you pull a face, brows furrowing and lips pouting. confusion.
“don’t you want to know the time?” you ask, as if time could ever be relevant in a rotten world where down is up, and up is down, and joel miller is not the overprotective father to the most delicate creature the god he’d stopped believing in had gifted him, just to force him to watch as life snatched her away.
“i don’t keep it for the time.”
you smile, and this one’s a killer, piercing straight through the cages of his ribs to carve itself into his withered heart.
the german shepherd relaxes with the rebrightening of your aura, shaking out the tension from its body before sauntering its way back over to joel, ball in mouth and tail wagging excitedly, as if it hadn’t just contemplated having its first taste of human flesh.
he’s throwing the toy in a matter of minutes, enjoying the repeated run and retrieve game, and the renewed silence that comes along with it. nature sings its tune with rustling leaves, cawing crows, and pounding paws. it’s almost so easy to leave your offer, your words, his broken watch in the rearview mirror of this otherwise pleasant afterno-
“ooh, so there’s a story to tell!” you’re blinding him with your excitement, lithe limbs leaning forward in your own chair in an attempt to reach closer, table between you be damned. “i’ve never heard any of the joel miller backstory, this should be-”
“i get that likin’ everyone is your thing, but would’ya give it a rest?”
nature falls silent.
skies grow dull.
you juggle sadness.
there’s a crash that comes from within the house, followed by the unmistakable sound of tess’ sailor mouth, cursing whichever delicate dish she’s broken into smithereens with the help of her accident prone hands. the dog’s lain itself down upon the grass, ball between it’s paws as it begins to bite, and chew, and break it under the pressure of its canines.
joel wonders what the mutt’s practicing for.
“sure,” then, with the return of your voice, all sounds resume, harmony upon planet earth once more. only, the gates have been shut in his face and joel finds himself forced to watch as everything unfolds from the outside, an unwelcome visitor forced out into exile with the fungal freaks and the inhumane. “but you’re wrong. i don’t like everyone.”
“‘s that so.” his eyes roll. the hole he’s dug for himself sinks deeper, casting you higher up on the pedestal joel will always be wiling to place you on.
“yeah,” you’ve risen out your chair, gifting him the view of how the fabric of your dress dances above your knee, a final twist of the knife in his heart that he lets you pierce his flesh with each time he surrenders himself to your existence. “i don’t like you, joel.”
the hours come and go, but your words linger like a bad tattoo, shamefully engraved into his skin and banning him to a life of noticing the horrendous thing each time he passes by his own reflection.
we’re staying, for tonight. tess had called the shots, and he’s been learning not to argue when she gives him one of her stern looks, biting down on the comments he’d wanted to make of the dangers of being out of the qz for too long, which would likely earn him nothing but a shrug and the reminder that they both were off duty the following day
the nights are beginning to grow darker as winter grows nearer, leading bill and frank- mostly frank- to excuse themselves to bed, bidding the two visitors with a final reminder to make themselves comfortable in whichever room they can find. if only joel could remember which door leads to yours.
the two women in his life remain awakened, passing a bottle of wine between each other as you both converse back and forth, catching each other up on one another’s life, satiating that craving for mundane gossip.
tess recounts the scandal of the poor boy who’d been caught sleeping with a fedra agent’s wife, you whisper that frank and bill had been fighting again recently. the memory of being ambushed by raiders- now dead raiders- comes to life once more with the help of tess’ voice, while the promise to uncover what exactly bill and frank were hiding from you as of late is sealed in your words.
at some point, he lays himself to rest atop the couch, legs stretched out and arms crossed over his chest, ignoring the squeeze of the fabric over his forearms as the too-small flannel struggles to contain the muscles forged by the need to survive. at another point, he’s lulled to sleep by the lullaby of your mingling voices, a safety blanket draping itself over his tired body and enveloping him in the comforts of having that which he struggles to care so little for, so near him once more.
-n’t tell me you’re a virgin.
the words are muffled as the man slips back into consciousness, a frown coming to rest on his forehead as he battles against the demons urging him awake, the nightmarish memories of car crashes, and soldiers, and so much red chasing him away from the sleep he longs for so badly.
a protest rings true in his head and his ears.
was gonna say. knew you were young, but not that young.
it’s the sound of your laughter that awakens him fully, saving him from the tortures of his own mind.
“god, no! me and my ex, we... a few times. it was alright, i guess. i just, yeah, there’s not much to miss.”
he’s unwilling, unable to reopen his eyes, curling in on himself as he rolls over onto his side. a groan slips past his lips, one he’s hoping tess and you will dismiss as nothing more than the sleep-filled rambles of a dreaming man.
neither of you make any acknowledgement of him.
“not much to miss?! sweet christ, you’re breaking my fuckin’ heart.” he’s learnt over time the common traits of a drunken tess. each word becoming an exclamation, curses becoming more frequent, and that irritating habit she’s picked up of imitating his own accent. there’s no need to bother opening his eyes, joel’s already sure he’ll find his companion with flushed cheeks and glassy eyes. “i’d give up a hand for some head!”
you must do something, pull a face or shake your head, for the sound of tess’ renewed shock fills the room. he wonders, as the sound bounces off the walls, how late into the night it’s grown.
late enough that the cicadas singing outside the window are now accompanied by the hoots of an owl.
“you’ve got to be shittin’ me.”
“it bores me!”
“it bores you!?”
the couch beneath joel creaks as he shifts once more, turning his back on you both as the ability to contain his laughter grows harder with each word you exchange and each gasp tess gives. the last thing he needs is to be caught eavesdropping on your sex life like some dirty old pervert.
the crueler part of his mind replays your voice, i don’t like you, and the knife twists in his guts this time.
you like tess. love her, even. it’s been that way since the first time you’d met the duo, eyes giving one look over the woman before the smile on your face grew even wider, voice as sweet as honey sighing out finally someone with a pair of boobs, i’m bored of the sight of my own. joel’d gotten caught up in the thought of how he’d never tire of such a sight that he’d failed to acknowledge your greeting towards him, catching just the moment you drew your outstretched hand back to your side and offered him an understanding smile.
maybe that was the moment you decided you didn’t like him.
“must not have been doin’ ya right,” the bottle of southern comfort is working its wonders on the older woman, accent growing further and further from its true nature with each glass she nurses. joel hears the faint sound of ice smacking against glass and knows it must be yours. you’ve always struggled with liquors, slipping as many ice cubes as you can manage into a glass in hopes that they’ll eventually melt and water the alcohol down. it’s oddly endearing, you think no one has noticed. “this fella of yours.”
joel has no right to despise the idea of you and some fella.
he does so, regardless.
“well,” he imagines the shape of your meek smile and the way you shrug your shoulders. “we were each others firsts.”
“that’s no excuse! trust i left mine cryin’ into her pillow the first time i went down.” tess and he have a silent agreement to never speak of the nights joel would take refuge on their beaten-up couch while tess indulges herself between someone’s thighs in the bedroom. no discussing the sounds she pulls from her concubines, no addressing the wet patches left behind to stain their shared sheets, and definitely no speaking on how his hand winds up stained in his own cum.
you scoff and follow it up with a saccharine laced giggle, so sweet its bound to rot your teeth if you even attempt to hold it in. “what, are you offering your services?”
this he likes less than the image of you with some fella, the thought of having to lay upon a mattress on which tess had raised you to heaven while he once again remained locked out in the dark leaving his skin crawling with unwarranted rage.
“‘as sure as i am that you’re sweet all over, ‘fraid to tell you i like my women a little older than you.”
he knows he should do the same, should lust after those women his own age who shoot him carnal looks in the streets of the qz. it should be skin his own age that he longs to taste, and eyes who’ve seen as much as his own he wants to stare into, and lips as cruel as the ones he owns that he fights off the urges to kiss. but he can’t, and he won’t.
and you’re the one to blame.
you, with the glow of a thousand suns. you, with the hands that tend to flowers instead of corpses. you, with the gentle nature he’d have to spend the rest of his days fighting off every other living thing just to protect.
his own self being the first he’d need fight.
joel wonders what he’d missed in his hours- if it had even been so long- of rest, how the playground gossiping dissipated into reminiscing the pleasures of supple flesh and the sins of unfulfilling lovers. sleep steals him away once more before he can find the answers.
the next time he awakens, he’s drowning in a plight of cruel memories, a cold and brutal ocean of faces, places, and traces of the ephemeral sentiment of happiness he’d possessed once upon a time, back when the price of letting one’s guard down was not so high.
he’s learnt, with time, that losing her comes in waves. some small, meaningless little things, that ripple joel’s surface and coast gently over his dirt ridden skin. others, tsunamis. big, angry, all imposing. they’re born in ground-shaking explosions of grief, building speed, and height, and weight the closer they grow to crashing over him.
amidst the passing of time, he’s tried to keep himself busy in his awakened hours, to keep his mind occupied and avoid thinking about her too much. but the waves always come back, no matter how hard he tries to fight them or swim away from them. they catch him off guard, crashing over him when he least expects it. in the middle of a raid, lost in thought and standing ten inches deep in grime, blood, infected, and suddenly the weight of her absence will hit him like a ton of bricks.
the currents grow more violent whenever he closes his eyes.
this evening, it had been a minuscule wave, yet it’s damage still leaves him with sweat slicked skin. he reenters the land of the living choking on his own fear and shooting up-right, hardly registering his surroundings till his feet hit solid ground. the gentle, barely-there croon of a sinatra record punctuates the room alongside the dim glow of a lightbulb which flickers with the threat of expiring and leaving naught but the moonlight to wash over the dark of the night. across from him is tess, nursing a half-emptied cup against her chest and wearing tired eyes. snoring comes from below him, where joel finds he’s a mere foot away from having stepped upon the sleeping dog, curled in on itself and laying soundly by his side.
you take up no space of this room.
neither the dog nor the drunk pay him any mind as he pushes up onto his creaking knees, stretching out his limbs in a fight to undo the tension in his aching bod. languid steps carry him out into the hall, where he freezes under the self-questioning of where he’s going.
there are three answer to this: where he should, where he could, and where he would.
he should find himself a bedroom, perhaps be ostentatious enough to rid himself of those stale clothes and let the warmth of running water wash away the sins he’d committed throughout the day. a good night’s sleep, atop a mattress where springs do not dig into his back and the sheets are clean as could be, it would do him good.
he could head towards the kitchen, quench that thirst that he’s awoken with, cottonmouth and a headache to go with it too. perhaps he’ll find himself something to eat, indulge in the luxury of readily available food just this once, he’s sure frank wouldn’t mind. bill definitely would, but that’s not something he’ll need care about when he’s miles out and heading back to the qz.
he would try find you, open whichever door it is that leads into the haven that must be your bedroom. he imagines its clean, and organised, and smells of some syrupy lavender that is bound to nauseate him as he smothers his face into your bedsheets, eyes shut, and mind relaxed, the threat of those violent waves no concern to him as he anchors himself with an arm around your warm skin. skin he’s never felt, yet he stands firm in his belief it must be the most soothing thing to touch, as gentle and inviting as the heart it keeps safe within it.
i don’t like you, joel.
those words stop him from trying.
he tells himself it’s for the best.
with a mind of their own, his legs have made the choice for him and deliver him outside the opening to the kitchen. he swallows down a gulp of his own saliva at the prospect of a glass of water. the door’s already half-opened, and joel nearly thanks christ for it as the fear of waking anyone with the squeaking of the handle is eliminated. the darkness of the night encompasses the room, even with the moon’s shine reflecting off every surface it touches: the counters, the knife stand, the metal drawer handles, the refrigerator.
the refrigerator.
it’s open, a blue light shining out of it and illuminating anything it its proximity. a subtle beeping noise rings from it, and suddenly joel’s back in his thirties, dead-beat yet well-intentioned brother stealing the food off his own plate as he beckons his pre-teen daughter back into the kitchen.
keep leavin’ this open and it’s a job you’ll be gettin’ this summer, not a dog.
she never lived long enough to get either.
he catches something move beneath the artificial light. cautious at first, it’s all the more startling to find the object of his ire and the embodiment of his desire stood leaning back against the countertop, a glass full of orange liquid pressed to a mouth that parts and welcomes in the sugary sweet delight.
“why aren’t ya sleepin’?” the words rasp out his throat, catching and scratching on the parts of him that still yearn for something to wet his tongue with.
beneath the light, you shrug, “could ask you the same thing, texas.”
he curses tess for teaching you such a nickname.
he curses himself more for the way you saying it twists up his insides.
you’re teasing him, smile a little looser and eyes less focused than he’s used to seeing. whether you’re tipsy or simply delirious with exhaustion, joel remains unaware.
he grunts, daring to take a few steps further into the kitchen. the door behind him closes over and give the illusion of the space becoming smaller, tighter, more compact.
“i asked first.” you laugh, at him. full on chest-rumbling, hand over your belly, head thrown back- so abruptly it nearly crashes against the corner of the opened cabinet door. the corner of his mouth is curling upwards before he can catch himself. he hopes the refrigerator light shows less of him than it shows of you, bare legs, and messed hair, and pointed nipples all on display for his undeserving eyes. “‘s so funny, huh?”
“nothing, nothing,” he successfully fights off the urge to follow the drop of orange juice that spills down the side of your mouth, over your chin, down your neck, disappearing beneath the collar of your dress. perhaps he is not as successful as he believes. “just never heard the joel miller say something so childish. you’ve usually got your panties all in a bunch if someone so much as looks at you for too long.”
you make way as he inches closer, sliding yourself over to rest against the island counter. a fragrance of things he can’t quite pinpoint, but enjoys nonetheless, wafts in his face as he travels down the path to the sink. uncouth and unbothered, joel opens the tap and cups his hands beneath the stream of water.
“you know there’s a cupboard full of glasses right next to you, right?” you call out behind him as the man brings water to his dry lips, splashing and just about guiding his head beneath the stream. the thirst does not budge. he hums an acknowledgement of you, yet continues with his method.
by the time he switches the water off, you’ve made yourself busy, back facing him while you work at something atop the counter, a consistent chop-chop-chop filling the silence that settles between you both.
“i’m making soup,” you state, like there’s nothing quite more logical you could be doing at whatever-o’clock in the morning it is. “make sure you take some with you when you leave. tess said she’s been fighting off a cold the past few days, need you to keep her warm and fed for me.”
would you do the same for him, if you knew he’d been the one to catch that damned cold in the first place? four days of just about coughing up his lungs, and not a single soul- not even his tess- had offered soup, nor warmth, nor sympathy. he’d not needed it, until now, when he hears you gifting it to someone else.
i don’t like you, joel.
of course you would do the same. not because you care, nor because doing otherwise would way heavy on your conscious, but because you’re nice. nice in a way he’ll never be, has never been. patient, welcoming, comforting, warm. all words that spring to mind when one thinks of you. they violently oppose the closed-off, angry, dark cloud that had rolled in years ago and casted it’s shadow over joel’s entire persona.
he straightens his back, weight shifting from one foot to another as he contemplates you from behind. the sway of your dress as you move has him in a trance, beckoning him closer before he can even realise he’s taken a step. his hands drip water onto the floor in a rhythm, and the record player sings in the distance as a reminder of tess, and your sweet out-of-tune humming fills the empty kitchen with a brightness greater than the moon, but that’s not what joel hears.
i don’t like you, joel.
i don’t like you, joel.
i don’t like you, joel.
i don’t like you, joel.
over and over, you taunt him without even trying, nailing the words into his head and heart, impaling him with your sweet condemnation. you’re not the first to say it, to his face or otherwise, yet you’re the first to evoke such a reaction out of him, to leave a lasting impression hours after you’d declared such a thing.
and, suddenly, joel’s angry. at you, at himself, at the sound of that damned knife in your hand slicing down onto the chopping board. the fog of his ire blurs his vision, rendering him to move blindly through the night.
only when he finds himself looming over you from behind does his vision clear.
a hand meets the curve of your hip and you gasp, leaving joel to wonder if it’s because the shock of his cold, damp touch or, simply, because it’s his touch. without a thought spared, he firms his grip, fingers squeezing tight enough he feels your flesh bulge between each one, a bruising promise joel gifts you.
you may leave your marks emotionally, but joel’s will always be physical.
“why,” he pulls in a breath, loading up the will to keep his voice a low rumble, a quiet disturbance in the night for no ears but your own to hear. “don’t ya like me?”
if not for the pause in your practiced movements, knife stilling midway through slicing a carrot, he’d believe you’re unaffected by his proximity. “why do you care?”
he scoffs, “i don’t.”
“hmm,” this hum is far less delightful than the way you’d been following along to whatever melody tess was playing in the living room. “sure sounds like you do.”
“yeah, well, i don’t,” he insists, and he swears he almost feels the way it only digs deeper the hole he’s created for himself.
joel knows he cares. it’s been burning at his skin and itching on his mind since the moment you’d welcomed yourself to a little bit of unfiltered honesty, dropping the perfectly poised and eternally polite mask you’d worn since the moment he’d first met you, an attitude he loathes as much as he anticipates surrounding himself with it each time he’s tugged along for the trek to bill and frank’s.
what joel doesn’t know is why he cares. there’s nothing to be desired about him, no traits to respect and certainly no looks to admire. he’s near crafted his entire being in a way that makes sure of this, the more undesirable his presence is, the less likely he is to be approached, be it by other people or fate itself.
maybe there was a part of him that had wrongfully imagined you being the exception.
instead, you’re stood barefoot in the latest of hours, knife working away the vegetables in front of you, dress sticking to skin beneath his damp hand, and you don’t like him.
not one bit.
joel grabs at your hips harder, his free hand curling round the shape of your left forearm. his feet shuffle forwards, until there comes a point where one would struggle to make out where you end and he begins. his chest pressed to your back, his muscular legs trapping your soft thighs, his forehead digging into the side of your head so intensely it threatens to shatter both your craniums and leave nothing but dust made by bones blown into smithereens.
he inhales, and finds you don’t smell of lavender.
“for the record,” he watches your movements over your shoulder, entranced with the back and forth sawing of the knife through unidentified vegetables. ‘s like how i sliced that raider’s throat, he thinks, and instantly regrets it. no part of him should ever be compared to you. “i don’t like ya either.”
he’s lying through his teeth, hoping you don’t notice.
the knife never ceases its movement. back and forth, back and forth. chop, chop, chop. blurs of greens, and oranges, and more greens cover the counter before you. it’s oddly soothing, this repeated and unbroken pattern, reminding joel of times he’d found comfort in the mundaneness of cooking a meal after an emotionally exhausting day. perhaps, this has the same affect on you, a momentary lifejacket to keep yourself afloat amongst the waves that haunt you awake.
the hand on your forearm travels, mind of its own, drawing up the shape of your shoulder with featherlight touches that contradict the way his nails dig deeper into the the skin you hide beneath the waistline of your dress.
“that’s not news,” you must think he’s blind to the hitch in your breath when his fingers slip over your pulse-point.
it’s his turn to respond with a hum.
“you only like yourself,” words more untrue have never been spoken before the man who’s every moment is spent drowning in his loses. his wandering touch halts. “a little selfish, if you ask me. but, that’s just what i think.”
this strikes a nerve. fury commands his hand into a fist and fingers find themselves tangled in the tresses of your hair. the realisation of how surprisingly soft it feels barely finishes registering when he’s pulling on it, dragging your head along with, till it lays flat on his puffing chest and your eyes stare up at him. “d’ya know what i think?”
even upside down, your beauty is striking.
“no, unlike you i don’t care what you think about-” joel tugs on your hair once more.
“i think you’re a brat. a silly little girl who thinks she can smile and get away with murder.” you could. he’d forgive you as you soak your hands in the blood you draw from him. knife in the heart, bullet through the brain, bat to the face, he’d slip away easily from this life if only to have you smile as he goes.
“you’re hurting me,” you whine, joel growls.
animalistic, beastly, a rabid animal sinking its claws into its defenceless prey. his gaze dances over your features, catching himself before he can sink deep into your captivating eyes, tracing the shape of your mouth, slipping down the peaks of your collarbones.
your dress- red, a colour joel miller will no longer associate with bleeding wounds and stained weapons- sits tight on your chest, squeezing the swell of your chest beneath the fabric, and gives away all your secrets.
“you like it,” he speaks in awe, unable to pull his eyes off the two stiff buds that poke against the red fabric.
“no, i don’-” dampness follows wherever his hand goes, fleeting as he makes the journey around your waist and up your side, crawling higher and higher to where he can feel your heart beating from within your chest. “joel.”
he retightens his grip on your hair, aiding you with the way your curve your spine and force yourself deeper into his uncaring, ungentle, enamoured touch. whoever joel had been in a past life must have moved mountains or performed miracles to grant him the luck to be holding you this way, the fingers he’d gifted with nothing but the cocking of guns and the feel of his own pulsating lust now expertly tweaking at one of your stiff nipples, all thoughts of the fabric scratching at your sensitive skin dissipating into the abyss as he realises you’re enjoying the pain.
“heard ya, earlier, in the living room,” at the time, he’d been mortified to be overhearing such intimate words between you and tess. the blood that insists on rushing to his crotch now wants you to know, to hear the admission of guilt be spoken from his own mouth. “ talkin’ bout your past.”
he doesn’t specify.
he doesn’t need to.
you give away your shock with parted lips, widened eyes, frozen eyelashes, pupils staring up at him like a wounded fawn he’s about to take his first bite out of and, hopefully, it won’t be the last one.
“tess turned you down,” the hand on your chest switches sides, donning your other breast with some much needed attention. his hand must still carry residue of the water, for you gasp and shut your eyes in the shock of his touch, your own fingers shooting up to scratch at his wrist. near convinced you mean to push him away, the pressure against his hand that pushes deeper into his unholy affection has him realising otherwise. “i wouldn’t.”
you say nothing. joel pulls harder.
“too bad i’m-” you cut yourself off as he presses himself closer to you, your poor hips bound to awaken with bruises from the counter he’s got you pressed against. with a distance so small he can hear your teeth grind, joel watches you like a hawk. the twitch in your brow, the flutter of your eyelids, the bobbing of your throat as you silence what he imagines would be an otherworldly kind of moan, a whine he’d let kiss his ears and wind up poisoning himself with the torture of it replaying in his head each waking moment till he kicks the bucket, once and for all. the want to see you fall apart evolves into a need. “too bad i’m not offering you the chance.”
joel miller is a hot blooded man, at his core, weak to emotions and vulnerable to the warmths of flesh. with notches on his bedpost and a tally of lives beneath his belt, he sees little wrong with taking what he needs.
“who said anything about an offer?”
the descent to the floor is far from graceful, with bitten back groans of pain as clicking noises resound throughout the room while his joints bend and break in an effort to get him where he needs to be, where he’s needed to be for far longer than merely this exchange on kitchen grounds: on his knees for you.
a part of him would prefer it if you weren’t wielding a butchers knife.
the other part wishes you were facing him, eyes full of that repressed anger, hatred and discontent you likely harbour for him as you point the blade down at him and threaten to paint the floors with his blood. you’ve yet to do that, and so he takes it as his queue to progress.
smoothing his hands up your legs, he admires the landscapes of your body from this angle, with legs longer than any tree in the amazonian jungle and curves with peaks that resemble the mountains of the himalayas. arriving at the top of your knees, the hem of your dress both welcomes and conceals his touch, inviting him into the wonderful world it hides beneath it yet denying him the privilege of feasting his eyes on your paradise, an island of safety amongst the open ocean of his mind.
your breathing is measured, precise, too rhythmical to be natural, the subconscious action now turned into a practiced routine you mean to maintain nonchalance with. perhaps you’re yet to realise that, while he may remain indifferent to those that surround him, joel knows how to read people. and, right now, you’re a whole novel of lust, awaiting for someone to open up your pages and drink in every lyrical prose you promise to tell.
joel finds purchase mid-way up your thighs, hands sliding around to the front of them to grip the buttery smooth skin and ground himself in the reality he kneels before.
you breathe in, you breathe out.
one knee buckles, ever so slightly, the weight of you collapsing into his welcoming hold. he revels in the feeling of supporting you, in every meaning of the word, thumbs not even waiting on a command from his consciousness to begin soothing your tingling skin with a gentle back and forth movement to match the knife in your hand.
inhale, exhale.
your legs straighten once more, a hand of his winds its way back out from under your skirt and shoots up to grab your free one, dragging it down his pits of desire.
“hold,” he’s parched all over again, mouth drier than the texan wastelands on a hot summer’s day. all he can do to survive is peel up that infuriatingly soft, red fabric of your dress, skin unveiling itself to his hunger struck eyes. with the skirt bunched up, he shoves it into your awaiting palms, pinning your hand against your own waist. “don’t move.”
where he expects protest, he receives more breathing.
lace covers your skin, a delicate shade of a colour his eyes can’t quite distinguish in the dark of the night. one flicker of his sight to the very core of your body and he notices it, that tell-tale sign that you’re enjoying this little display of attention, despite what your measured breaths may have him believe. a wet patch, your wetness. the stickiest, sweetest of honeys that only a woman like you can possess, and a man like him should never bare himself witness to.
curiosity gets the better of him- one day, joel hopes, this will get him killed- and his touch is reaching for the lacy fabric, fingers curling themselves in the waistband of your panties and the fabric that covers your right asscheek before curling his hand into a fist, tugging upwards.
in and out, shaky breathing comes from above.
the lace pulls tight on your delicate skin, no choice but to nestle itself in the slit of your cunt as two pretty soaked lips peak out from each side. a heady smell he can only begin to describe as stiflingly sweet, tongue-tingling tanginess hits his nose. he makes sure to take a deep breath, letting the blood rush straight to his head- the one that sits packed uncomfortably in his tightened trousers.
delectable as sin, you keen back into his fist, back curving ever so slightly. there’s a tremor in the hold you have on the fabric of your dress. joel basks in the visual affect he’s beginning to have on you, no need to doubt if the fabric of your underwear rubs at your likely aching clit. he wonders if the sting of the lace digging into your skin hurts. he thinks it must hurt.
his fist curls tighter, pulls higher.
“ah,” at last, a ripple in your surface. though you still wield a knife, the carrot you’d been failing to chop rolls off the counter and onto the floor, lost somewhere in joel’s peripheral vision.
“shut up,” he grunts, like it doesn’t make his balls throb to hear you whine. “people are tryin’ to sleep.”
you scoff, and for a moment you seem to have rediscovered your composure. “tess is drunk as a sailor, and the old men could sleep through nuclear warfare.”
“‘s that an invitation to see how loud i can get ya,” he’s still caught in the way you mold against the lace, slickened skin carrying a reflection of the moonlight. this, he thinks, is what all them poets were writing about in their prose of love and beauty. “or a challenge?”
“it’s an invitation to stop lecturing me on volume control,-” you catch yourself, he realises, right before you can gift him some nickname a sweet girl like you would never use. asshole, dickhead, bastard, he’s heard them all and, still, he wants them on your tongue, in his mouth, condemning him for all the brutish, oafish ways he masks his obsession for you.
as coquettish as it may be, painting a picture worthy of a front-page on some playboy magazine, the sight of lace becomes a nuisance he no longer holds the patience for. so he strips you of it, hand moving to pull the garment down, down, down the length of you, till it hits your ankles. he awaits no movement of your own, taking it upon himself to lift each of your feet individually out the leg-holes.
it’s merely impulse that has him shoving the soiled lace into his back pocket, though he’s sure he’ll make use of them on lonely nights.
“you’re drippin’” his proclamation is ego-driven, pride swelling in his chest as he takes in the full sight of your bare heat. the view is a little obscured from behind you, but with the right amount of tilting of your hips at a certain angle and the widening of your legs, he’s bound to sit front row and centre for your private show. “‘s actually a little pathetic, sweetheart. is it cause ya like it when men get mean wit’ ya?”
he can imagine the way you’d roll your eyes at his words, and it has him thinking about how you’d look with your eyes rolling back for different reasons, reasons he’s about to gift you.
but first, he curls one hand around your ankle and tugs the limb along as far as he wants it. much better, he now faces no blockage in the path up to your slit, freely letting his wandering hands ascend to his newfound heaven. perhaps he’ll revisit the life of gospel, if you promise to be the altar he prays before.
cool fingers to warm skin, you swallow a gasp a little too late for joel to not notice as he drags the tips of his middle finger up the length of your slit. soft, puffy lips part for him, until he presses against that special button that’s bound to turn on your engines.
rolling his finger over your clit a few times, he refamiliarises himself with the female anatomy, with your anatomy, memorising each soft bump and meaty lump he finds along the way.
it happens so sudden, and unwillingly, the way his mind switches to thinking of tess. he wonders what exactly it is she does to those poor things she sends home on shaky legs, where she even begins to touch them. joel imagines she makes use of what she has and starts with her fingers.
so he does the same.
working over your slippery wetness, he coats the tip of his middle finger with it, till he finds what he’s been searching for: the gateways to your heaven, your entrance. he breaches your walls with that single digit and somehow that’s enough to have you squeezing around him so tightly he wonders if blood still manages to flow to his digit.
two, three, four pumps of his hand and he’s introducing his pointer finger too, pressing them both into you to witness the ways you mould around this wider stretch, the lips of your cunt a pair of cushions his knuckles collide against each time he fucks his fingers in.
“so now you shut up. ‘s the matter, huh?” he’s contradicting himself and he doesn’t even care, too busy focusing on curling his fingers inside you, delighting in the feel of that spongy tissue they press against. “am i too borin’ for ya?”
“you’re the most infuriating man i’ve ever- oh!”
a tongue meets skin.
the knife clatters onto the counter.
you lurch forward.
his hand pulls you back.
“tess was right, ya know?” he can still taste you on his tongue, nothing more than a simple lick over your slit and your salty pleasure already seeps deep into his veins, staining his very being with the memory of his new favourite flavour. he pulls his fingers out, slipping them up to your clit. three little taps to the pulsing bud- tap, tap, tap- and he’s slipping them into his mouth, tongue working overtime to clean up every last drop of you that coats him. “that boy of yours wasn’t doin’ ya right.”
the common sense that screams at him to not feel envy over some ex-lover, someone who was likely barely even an adult at the time and no longer appears to be around, is no match for the green eyed beast that commands him to tell you, without using words, that he can do better- touch you better, protect you better, fuck you better, if you’d just let him.
‘could keep ya satisfied.
that’s a new thought, one he’s never needed before yet never wanted more, a burning ache to be worthy of your trust, affection, lust. he’ll never forget the first time he thinks it, mouth salivating at the sight of you.
“is this the part you say some cheesy line straight out a porno? what ya need is a man, a man like me!” the softness of your giggle is still sharp enough to cut through the tension, god it’s never sounded sweet, and joel finds himself freely smiling into the darkness, yet still too stubborn to laugh at the deep voice you attempt to imitate him with.
“well, was you who said it,” his mouth finds it’s way back onto your soaked heat, taking his time to work his tongue up the length of it, his saliva mixing itself in a nasty cocktail with your wetness. he imagines the air is cold against your skin, and that you like it, memory of those hardened nipples hidden beneath the fabric of your dress. “but if ya insist.”
diving in head first had always been his style, from his first lover to his last, and to now, knees aching on the kitchen floor. the tip of his tongue dances round your clit, tantalising you to grind your hips to the rhythm of his sinful touches.
licking into you, he’s reminded how much he enjoys that swelling in the chest that only comes from bringing another pleasure.
he’d not been a perfect lover, far from it, but he’d liked to believe at one point he’d been trained by only experience that comes with age, years of touching wrong and kissing badly to learn the right ways to make those he shared a bed- or a counter, or a backseat, or a club bathroom- with see angelic white as they writhed and squirmed under his touch. you’re lucky to have him now, matured by past lovers and broadened by age, with all the knowledge he needs to open your eyes to how a man pleasures, kisses, loves.
he’s out of practice, sure, with recent years adding notches to his belt that were merely frantic, unexpected, barely undressed run-ins with strangers, in strange places, cock barely getting a moments affection before he’d be spilling his seed and tucking it, limp, back into the confines of his trousers and locking it away beneath a zip.
what a perfect excuse you are, for joel to remaster the arts of lust.
it’s messy, wet dripping down his chin and staining itself into the stubble of his growing facial hair. it’s noisy, his mouth openly groaning depraved joy into your warmth as you sing him a song of sweet euphoria, slowly building towards that crescendo on the horizon. it’s animalistic, barely human as he revokes all earthly needs such as rest, and food, and socialising, his mind, and soul, and heart, and cock all screaming in unison to spend whatever days he shall possess on his knees before you.
and all the while you writhe and wriggle, some times running away from him touch, other times rutting so far back into him that you threaten to suffocate him somewhere between your warm thighs, and sugar sweet cunt, and the two well-rounded globes of your ass.
his only saving grace is that he can’t see you.
hearing your pretty whines, and hand-muffled moans, and heavy intakes of breath is enough to curse him for the rest of his waking days, condemned to wander the wastelands of earth knowing the noises you make on the brinks of pleasure, with a touch-starved man satiating his hunger for flesh and blood with the sugary sins of your soaked cunt.
burrowing deeper into you, his consciousness rips through the fog of his lust to curse out his perversions as the tip of his hooked nose bumps against the puckered entrance of your ass. it does nothing to stop him tearing his tongue away from your clit, flattened as he drags it over the expanse of your cunt, and over your taint, and up the crack of your behind.
“n- ah,” you can’t deny him while sounding so eager for more, the tip of his tongue now circling your back entrance, mimicking the treatment previously given to your little pearl. “no, don’t, not there.”
next time, he thinks, we’ll try that next time.
sights returned to his previous desires, he works to rip every sigh, and every whine, and every dirty little song you’ll grace him with. the sound of whatever record tess has put on in the other room becomes a safety blanket, dousing you both in the warm protection of not being overheard.
and, then, he does it, he makes the ultimate mistake.
his eyes flicker to the left and he finds himself faced with the stove that sits within bill and frank’s- and, by an extension he does not enjoy to remember, your- kitchen. there’s little that’s remarkable about the appliance, just your standard, everyday oven that he’s sure you’ve spent countless hours cooking up those comforting meals he’s come to anticipate each time tess tells him they’re due a visit.
except, the oven door is made of glass.
glass which now paints the most pornographic masterpiece for no eyes but his own. you, with hands gripping the island’s counter like your life depends on it, and the skirt of that goddamn dress he’s envied all evening for the way it got to rest against the warmth of your thighs now bunched up in your tight grip, and your head thrown back, curving your spine in a way that has him wondering about the other ways he’d be able to bend and break you beneath his touch.
and then there’s him, down on his knees like a devotee laying himself down to worship his goddess, face burrowed in the space between your legs, mouth devouring you from behind with the help of his hands, the same ones that had strangled a man less than a day before and reigned fire down on countless others for years, that now grip the meat of your thighs to pull you back onto him, fucking his tongue into your sopping heat.
the image will haunt him more than the face of any man he’s killed.
“d’ya touch yourself, sol?” you don’t answer him, but that’s okay. in a sweet change of pace, joel miller’s perfectly fine with talking enough for the both of you. “yeah, bet ya do. late at night, right? once you’re all alone in bed. ya seem like the kind who can make herself scream.”
you back into him, smothering him under the weigh of your body. becoming his holy grail, he drinks from you like it’s the key to eternal life, and what a way of living this would be, time disregarded as nothing but meaningless while your bodies melt together in the heat of passion.
fucking his fingers back inside, he becomes frantic beneath the need to make you cry, fall completely apart with only his hands to hold you together. “let me do the honours this time though.”
you don’t scream, can’t scream, hand over mouth muffling whatever profanities and theatrical proclamations he rips from within you with the stroke of his agile tongue, the only muscle of his that’s yet to develop aches and pains. he imagines that will no longer ring true once he awakens past sunrise.
he’s unsure how much longer he works his tongue over you, slipping and sliding through the liquid pleasure, but it ends with fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him away and tilting his head up.
you’ve never looked more holy, moon casting it’s shine around you, eyes glossed with unshed tears, lips parted and swollen from the pressure your own teeth had bitten down on them with. your expression, he can’t quite read. not sad, not happy, not mad.
your eyes catch on something, abandoning his own for something closer to the floor, to which he follows and finds exactly what you’re staring at: the evidently dark patch that now stains the front of his jeans.
the discomfort of trekking back to the qz will now be tenfolds worse in the stains of his own pleasure.
“joel...” his name is nearly a beg, a prayer, an invitation. hand still in his hair, you tug, pulling him upwards off the ground. legs open wider and back arches deeper, a seductive sight that your body pleas for him with.
he swallows a groan, knees alleviated at last from the floor, and presses himself against you once more. strong arms crush you in an embrace, pulling you back into him as his head slips to rest against your shoulder. he’s capricious with the way he lets himself litter a few wet kisses over your neck, breathing in the smell of you.
“that,” you grind back into him, a torturer who takes his aged body as her victim and toys with his barely recovered cock, the cum in his trousers sticking uncomfortably to his skin. he pulls tighter on your body, grounding himself in the weight of it against his own to find the sanity to finish his sentence. “shouldn’t have happened.”
joel hopes no one awakens as he slams the door on the way out of the kitchen.
people once spoke of how the only certainties in life were death and taxes but, nowadays, the words don’t ring as true and the guarantee of life with taxes has morphed into something else entirely; a reality where death and time go hand in hand. as sure as tomorrow will arrive, death will come too, eventually. not today, however, and joel miller finds himself stood throwing a ball back and forth for a dog.
it chases and retrieves, trailing it’s happy self all the way back to him only to spit the ball down at his feet, siting and waiting to repeat the process once more. there’d been a time where this is all he’d wanted: white picket fence, dog in the yard, home-cooked meals filling a house with warmth.
that dream seems so far away now, even as he stands within it.
he cracks his back, huffing out a groan. “no, not again. my back’s fucked as it is, buddy,” with no one around to witness, joel lets himself crouch down onto his knees- both popping obnoxiously as he does so- and rakes his hand over the german shepherd’s head. it whines and makes an attempt to nudge the ball against him, protesting in the only way it can. a scratch to the ear does the trick to distract the animal, to which it tilts its head and forces itself deeper into his blunt nails. “not so bad, are ya? huh?” never in a million years did joel think he’d be talking to a dog when him and tess had set out for their routinely visit to the bill and frank’s. never would he have thought that would be the least shocking event to unfold on this trip.
he hears you before he sees you.
“you planning to make your knees familiar with every surface of this place, texas?”
he tries to rise, he truly does, but the four-legged foe he’d been petting mere seconds ago betrays him the instant it catches sight of you, charging past him and knocking him over in the process, ass to floor and head to sky.
the world above is a storm of greys, clouds swallowing one another with a looming threat of danger on the horizon and not a lick of the sun’s warmth seems to make its way through.
so instead, it sends you.
peering over him from above, hair a tangled mess, eyes a wreck of under-bags and sleepless tears, the collar of your jumper lowered just enough at this angle that he can see a tease of cleavage, you radiate a brightness like no other, more dangerous to his naked eyes than uv ray could ever be. he’s squinting again, frown etching itself on his forehead with the threat of becoming permanent soon. a few more years and his face will be nothing but frown lines and crows feet. at the very least, he considers, i’ve survived long enough to wrinkle.
the smile above him is worth a million laugh lines, a kindness laced within it that matches perfectly with the hand you hold out. when he does nothing but stare at it, you wriggle your fingers, enticing him to take a hold. he does most of the work, truthfully, but you play a part in pulling him back to his feet. upright once more, he can’t help but bask in the way he’s able to physically look down on you.
“thanks for tiring him out,” you’re the first to talk. you’re always the first to talk, and he curses you for it. “won’t need to walk him as far tonight.”
a queasy feeling overtakes him at the thought of you walking the dog alone at night, nothing but the moon to light your way. he’ll need to remember to tire the dog out next time he visits. “no problem, thanks... for feeding tess and i.”
“no worries!” you’re so kind, so good, smiling at him with a cheerful chirp in your voice. he can’t wrap his head around how you can bring yourself to treat him this way. “oh, actually, that’s why i came out here, i was looking for tess-” of course you were, when would you ever be looking for him? “hold on!”
you shoot off back inside so quickly that otis just reaches the doorway by the time you return. with an idle pet to his head as you pass by, joel once again sees, in the way such little affection can have the dog so elated, that resemblance between them you’d spoke of. in your hands, you carry an array of containers full of food- soup- each filled to the brim.
“i wanted to give you these, before you guys leave,” you’re explaining yourself, and joel wonders if it’s nerves that bring you to need constant babbling to fill any gaps of silence. he can’t imagine how he could make you nervous and therefore that thought is quick to be discarded. “i know the journey up here and back can be long, consider them a token of my appreciation towards you both for-”
“why don’t ya like me?” he cuts you off.
pathetic, he knows, but he can not stop himself, a deer caught in the headlights of your brightly burning, too-good-to-be-true, too-pure-to-be-fake personality.
you show no signs of hearing him, smile unwavering as you continue to hold out the boxes to him, “there should be enough to last you a few days, if you watch your proportions.”
it’s too much for him to handle- the food, the smiles, the sweetly glistening eyes-, and joel just has to know, needs an answer before the heat of his confusion consumes him entirely in its flames and leaves nothing but his smoking remains.
so he tries again, louder.
“why don’t ya like me?”
“and i’d probably say you’re best to heat it up, especially for tess,” you ignore him, again, lips stretching what can only be described as uncomfortably wider. “winter is sure coming in faster than last year, isn’t it?”
he grabs at your arm, fingers curling round the swell of your bicep as he speaks through gritted teeth, "answer me." like a frightened dog backed into a corner, he bares his teeth and yells his bark.
"for someone who doesn't care,” you try his patience, knowingly or not, and his grip tightens. you don’t flinch, welcoming the sting of his blunt and bitten nails against your flesh. “you sure do talk about my opinion a lot."
"answer the damn question, girl.”
“or, what?” you’ve got him there, he’ll admit, holding no real plan as to how to punish your silence. “you gonna give me the same treatment as last night?”
had he known you’d be so unabashed to mention the events on the kitchen floor so flippantly, as casually as one would speak about the weather, he’d never have dared to get on his knees. truthfully, he’d not given things a second thought, disregarding the later for the now, living in the moment with caution thrown to the wind over what the morning would bring. perhaps he’d hoped you’d been intoxicated enough to dismiss the memory as a nightmare, maybe he’d wished you’d keep away from him to free him of the volatile grip you have on his soul.
instead, you stand tall, proud, eyes fiercely staring back at his own as you challenge him to retaliate, mock you with none of those saccharine smiles you hide harsh tones behind.
joel says nothing.
“how about this, let’s make a deal, like the ones you and bill make.” inching closer, crowding in on his space and forcing him to take note of the smell of freshly cleaned clothes mixed in with your own fragrance. clean, warm, inviting, scents he’d never given meaning to before now. “you get me something, i’ll tell you what you want to know.”
he grunts out a response, hands meeting his hips as he juts out one knee, the shifting of weight between feet a perfect distraction to the rising tension in his worn-out jeans. “what d’ya want? ‘cause if it’s somethin’ like a gun, think again. i ain’t messing with none of bill’s strange politics on you havin’-”
“a dress.”
“a dress?” the statement has him quirking his brow, burning questions swimming in the depths of his eyes as he stares back at you.
“yes, and don’t look at me like that!” it’s hypocritical, he believes, for you to berate him for the looks he sends you when all you do is cast stones his way with your gaze yet shake him to his very core each time you smile. “i need a new one, my favourite one got ruined whilst making soup.”
unaware he’d even began to lean closer, joel’s quick to recoil, as if your words are bullets and his skin the target you hit on the bullseye every time.
“joel!” his name resonates from somewhere in the house.
neither of you dare to break eye contact. again, his name is yelled. this time, he manages to identify tess as the owner of the voice. habits have him used to running to her whenever she calls, but habits have never been caught between the choice of tess or you.
his feet remain glued to the ground.
tess yells once more and, though you speak up, you don’t dare look away. “think you might be needed inside, macho man. your missus is calling.”
“she ain’t my-”
“you two just gonna stand and stare at each other all day, or will you help a woman out already?” tess enters the scene somewhere behind you, a blur of her familiar shape standing out the front door.
only when your head spins and he no longer finds himself lost in the black of your eyes does joel take her in completely, hair clearly damp and complexion a little paled by her hungover body. in her arms, she struggles with the weight of a folded table. you approach first, he follows, his two hands aiding in carrying it out into the front yard as you retighten your grip on the boxes of soup in your arms.
“i should probably,” laying the containers down on the now unfolded table, you fidget with the sleeves in your hands, eyes downcast with something he can only read as guilt. he decides he much prefers the fire they hold when you berate him. “go check on the food, before it burns.”
you’re in the door and out his sight before he can so much as ask you to stay.
tess and him hit the road by noon. earlier than predicted, later than he’d wished for. the bite of cold already marks the air, despite the sun heating the world with its rays. he walks a little ahead, feigning ignorance to the repeated coughing coming from tess and racking his brain for answers.
answers to why he’d never noticed how hoarse she’d been sounding till you pointed it out. answers to what awaited them both upon returning to the qz. answers to when will be their next chance to visit the safe haven bill’s created. answers to why you don’t like him.
i don’t like you, joel.
it motivates him to walk quicker, faster, racing to put as much distance between himself and that damn kitchen floor, miles upon miles not enough to rid him of the dull ache in his knees that goes hand in hand with the throb within his too-tight-jeans. if he were alone, he’d break out in a sprint. but tess is here, he’s not alone, and home will simply have to wait on the passing of time to drag him back to it.
till then, he needs to find a dress.
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fragile.
' you have broken down my defenses, and i don’t really resent it. '
- vita sackville west
in which you really don't want to care about him and his careless attitude, but you always find yourself coming back to him. always.
feat. diluc ragnvindr & gn!reader
w.c : 5k
warnings : childhood friends to lovers, diluc lore spoilers, minor angst but ends w fluff, diluc ragnvindr.
note : happy new year! sorry for the delay hehe, but this is for @seraphiism's 2023 collab event !! please support the other authors and enjoy the fic ^^
your mother had always instructed you to stay close to her side, to never stray far away from her lest you find yourself in trouble with the master of the winery or the other servants working the orchards and tending to the land of the estate.
but with a beautiful land of ripe grapes and friendly staff greeting you as you rush past them, how could you ever just sit still beside your mother as she did her job around the winery?
the late summer breeze rushes past your face as you weave through the wooden stakes holding the wiry vines of grapes above you. the warm sun rays heat your skin as you leap over the small rocks that litter the passage leading into the main area of the ragnvindr estate. the wind whispers in your ear, making you grin as your little legs take you wherever it guides you.
you feel free, the wind pushing past your wings to lead you to your newest adventure around the manor.
your feet land firmly on the grounds behind the manor when you hear the gentle sniffles coming from behind a couple of barrels. despite your mother's warnings echoing in your head, you take gentle steps towards the sound as curiosity takes over.
you're not expecting to see a young boy with fiery red hair and matching eyes that hold the warmest, flickering fire glaring up at you with tears at the corner of his eyes and holding a bleeding knee.
"...are you okay?" you ask, kneeling down beside him. you begin to frown when he pulls his knee away from you and his glare deepens.
"i don't need your help," the young boy hisses at you and you roll your eyes.
"really? you don't need my help even though you're crying in a corner all by yourself?" you scoff at him. he doesn't say anything in retaliation and you take it as an okay for you to help him.
you pull a handkerchief from your pocket; nothing too fancy as your family couldn't afford the finest silks like the nobles could. it's cotton, white, and had a simple design of a little sparrow emroidered in the corner.
"i don't have any bandages on me," you mumble softly. your little fingers gently wrap the handkerchief around the young boy's knee several times before tying a small knot on it. without even blinking, you lean down to kiss the wounded knee.
"what are you doing?!" the young boy exclaims, yanking his knee away.
"kissing it better," you say as if it's the most obvious thing in the world. "my mother always does that when i get hurt. she says it takes the pain away and makes it heal faster."
"that's stupid," the boy mumbles with a glare.
"says the one who tripped and fell and hurt himself," you argue back. you stick your tongue out when the boy shouts out a 'hey!' and roll your eyes.
"who are you and what are you doing here anyways?" you ask the young boy, kneeling beside him once more. he's still glaring at you, but it's less hostile than it was a few moments ago. "my mom said strangers aren't allowed to be here."
the young boys eyes are red, vibrantly so. the life in them burn brightly, reminding you of a fire as it flickers with warmth and a promise of a brighter tomorrow. like the hearth of a fireplace, the young boy seems to be the incarnate of warmth itself with the way he's filled with the flame of life.
"i live here, dummy," he quips back at you with a frown and your eyes widen.
"really? i've never seen you around, and i've been everywhere on this estate," you reply, bringing your thumb and forefinger to your chin as you remain deep in thought. truly, the only people you've managed to catch were all adults working for the master of this winery. never once have you seen a kid running along.
with a bright smile of your own, you lean towards the young boy. "we should be friends! since i don't know anyone else to play with here, we can play!"
the boy looks you up and down with furrowed brows, but he slowly nods. "...okay," he mumbles and you grin brighter.
"great! what's your name then? i'm-"
your name is shouted as hurried footsteps rush towards you. your mother pulls you aside as she looks at the young boy in front of you with panicked eyes.
"young master, i'm so sorry if my child said or did anything to hurt you," your mother says in a rush. she pushes your head down to bow in front of the young boy. she hisses something into your ear and you stutter out your own apology too, even if you did nothing wrong.
you find out the young boy you helped earlier that day was the son of the nobleman your mother works for, diluc ragnvindr. apparently, he's some big deal because he's the young master, but what kind of big deal hurts himself and hides between the barrels instead of asking for help?
you huff as you kick your feet sitting down by your bedside. because of the whole debacle, your mother had ordered you to stay inside to prevent even more debacles from happening even if you explained that the young master getting injured was not your fault. the sun shining from your windowsill feels so far away as you stare outside and ponder what to do.
until you hear a light pattering sound come from your window.
your curiosity is piqued as your small frame approaches the glass panes, wide eyes peeking over the wooden frame as your eyes scan the scenery.
the foliage of the trees surrounding your home cast shadows over your house with small animals running back and forth from the greenery above, causing the rustling of the leaves. the sun trickles in through the gaps of the leaves and your eyes settle on the boy with red hair standing outside your window, a small rock in his hand.
there's a proper bandage on his knee now as it was properly dressed, and his fiery eyes meet yours. he looks hesitant at first, but his brows furrow and his lips open to prepare to speak.
"...come outside and play with me," he tells you when you push open the window in your bedroom, a slight pout in his voice.
"you got me in trouble," you reply shortly, "and now i'm stuck inside because of you."
the young boy bites his lip, pondering what he could do or say to make things better. from the way he's thinking hard enough for you to see steam coming out of his ears, you could tell that he was trying really hard to think of anything to say.
"i'm sorry," he mumbles, kicking the dirt with his shoe.
"sorry, what was that?" you ask, holding your ear out.
the young master huffs, his cheeks puffed out in annoyance. he stomps his foot before-
"i said 'i'm sorry'!"
you smile at him smugly before crossing your arms on the windowsill. it was amusing to see the supposed young master like this; for such a renowned young boy, he was such a cry baby.
"okay, i can't go outside, but we can still play inside if that's okay," you tell him with a bright smile. "i'll let you in!"
"diluc..." he says, red eyes meeting yours. he reminds you of a fire with the way he's looking at you; so full of life but almost burning you if you get him too riled up. but the flames are tame now compared to the anxious flickers you saw earlier before he apologized.
"okay; i'll let you in then, diluc!"
ever since that warm summer, you and diluc have been inseparable; every afternoon is spent exploring the land of the winery but never straying far enough to get lost or end up on the other side of the lake where monsters lurk.
you were there the evening master crepus brought home another young boy around your age home; his blue hair reminding you of the blueberries your mother bought from mondstadt for you to eat. it was a bit of an adjustment with another young boy to play with, but soon you got along well with him as well.
his bright blue eyes always sparkling as you invite him to play alongside diluc and his little hand held in yours. he reminded you of the stars above with the way his eyes twinkle with youth and reflect the night sky above you when the three of you snuck out of your homes to stargaze with your hands holding onto each other until the morning sun began to rise over the horizon.
with your hands held tightly with diluc's and kaeya's, your youth together was only just beginning.
it's a cool morning where the early frost is beginning to melt as the sun continues to rise over the horizon, spreading her warmth and love across the fields of dawn winery. the young master has been gone for a couple days now; something about some sort of knight exam or whatever happening in the city of mondstadt. you would have gone with him, but your duties lie in caring for the winery whilst your friends head off to the heart of mondstadt to finish their training and hopefully become part of the knights of favonius that crepus ragnvindr had always encouraged them to be a part of.
you know having their father's praise meant a lot to your dear friends and you could only hope for the best for both diluc and kaeya as they were off doing their duties.
your ears perk as your name is shouted through the winery along with the sound of hooves rapidly against the dirt road. over in the distance, you can make out a red haired young man galloping over on his steed at near full speed. with wide eyes, you try to tell him to slow down before you get trampled and-
"oof!" you groan as a heavy body slams into you, both his weight and warmth tackling you to the ground. you're thankful that his arms cradled your head as you both go tumbling into the dirt road underneath you and the only pain was that of your body against the floor.
you don't even get to question why diluc had tackled you to the floor when he pulls his face away from you, giving you a clear view of his expression. he's smiling brightly, a wide grin on his face and his eyes of rubies twinkling brighter than any flame you've ever seen. the flames of his soul flicker brilliantly in his excitement and you can't help your own match his energy.
"i got in!" diluc says, his boyish smile growing wider. the small divots in his cheeks are cute and evidence of how hard he was grinning at the news. "i passed the trials got to do the oath swear and- oh, i wish you could've been there!"
despite growing up into a more mature-ish teen, it is moments like these where you're reminded that even as time passes and he grows taller than you, diluc is still the bright eyed boy that you've known since you were young. he looks so cute, in an endearing way, when he eagerly tells you all about his trials and how tough they were.
you really hope that the young master stays the same as he is now.
with a gentle hand, you reach up to ruffle his hair; it's soft to the touch and your eyes don't miss the way diluc pauses in his excitement as your fingers weave into his hair. you assume it's because he's not used to your praise and brush it off, even as he leans into your touch and waits for your words.
"why don't we head inside first? i want to hear everything that happened, but inside where it's warm and comfortable rather than on the dirt floor, diluc," you say to him, a slight lilt in your voice. you laugh softly when you see his cheeks flush a little in embarrassment before he gets off of you.
"i apologize, i was just so eager to tell you," diluc says softly, reaching down to offer a hand to you. you take his hand; you can feel the natural warmth emanating from his body through his gloves and, before you know it, you've been pulled up from the ground. his arm wraps around your waist to assure that you're balanced as you stand up.
"i just," diluc begins. you watch him as the young master of the winery averts his gaze briefly before he meets yours, warm rubies enveloping you with nothing but the comfort he holds for you ever since you were both younger.
"i wanted you to be the first person i told and to tell you."
a wave of something pleasant washes over you knowing that diluc, the heir of dawn winery and one of the most hardworking and talented man in all of mondstadt, rushed back home on horseback in the early hours of this chilly morning just to announce the news to you in person.
just so he could be your first in regards to his good news.
you laugh softly as something warm settles into the pit of your heart, squeezing his hand in yours as you tug him towards the main mansion of the winery estate with no intentions of letting his go for the time being.
even with the budding flowers of youth begin to bloom and the happiness that was promised to you has yet to come, you would have never expected for the spring of your youth to end so abruptly.
it happened all so quickly; crepus ragnvindr wielding a delusion, his death and the anger of diluc exploding, and the fall of your friendship with kaeya and diluc.
you weren't given the details of either one's situation, just a witness of a near death experience and the unforgiven apologies spewing from kaeya's lips as he held his injured eye in the midst of the rain washing down on them as if mourning both the loss of crepus ragnvindr and the wound wedged deep between the relationship of the ragnvindr brothers.
it was like in a mere second, the once warm diluc that would blush and hold your hand so delicately had been wiped away and replaced by a diluc grieving the loss of his father as the flames of his anger and betrayal of both his own brother and the knights of favonius for trying to brush the murder of his father under the rug explode and engulf his entire being.
he doesn't even give you a proper goodbye, leaving only a letter dedicated to you and his vision dimly glowing on his nightstand behind.
it feels like a fever dream when you hear the news of diluc finally returning after all of these years. you don't even hear it from the man himself; rather, from the whispers and excited chatter that the master of dawn winery had returned home.
part of you is excited at the news that he's alive; with no news of his existence after he ran from home in search of the truth behind his father's death other than the faint glow and warmth radiating from his vision clutched in your hands when you missed and worried for him, you were ecstatic knowing that he truly was home now.
that he's alive and breathing and still with you.
and yet, another part of you twinges in pain that he didn't come to you and announce that he was home. he had left you without even a single goodbye, not even bothering to visit you and explain his situation before leaving you questioning whether or not he even cared about how you felt about him.
of course, you aren't entitled to being the first to know, but after growing up together and usually being the first to know of everything in your youth, your heart aches knowing you were one of the last to hear of this at the winery.
it doesn't help knowing that you have not even caught a glimpse of diluc after his supposed return.
so imagine your surprise coming home one evening, the cool night air biting against your skin as you return home after a long day's work, seeing a figure leaning against your home.
at first, your blood turns cold as your heart races in your ears; it couldn't be anyone bad... the winery is a safe place and any suspicious figures are dealt with accordingly before they even step close to the winery grounds. you don't even have anything to defend yourself against if they did happen to be someone with malicious intent.
you take a step back to turn tail back to the estate but freeze when you begin to recognize the figure outside your door; red curls resembling that of flames flickering in the air and warm ruby eyes that you could recognize anywhere. despite standing in the dim evening light and having only the glow of the lantern outside of your home, you could make out the injuries through his dark clothing.
just what did he get himself into?
you hesitate at first, but eventually let your instincts take control as you begin to walk over to your home. it's as if you were both in the blooming stages of your youth again, bringing diluc home to mend his wounds after training for the knight exams.
caring for him was like muscle memory to you, even after all of the events leading to him leaving you in the dust.
you don't say a word as you open the wooden door and guide diluc in, pulling out a chair by the fireplace. wordlessly, he sits in it as you leave to prepare to clean his wounds.
your fingers shake ever so slightly as you remove diluc's coat from his shoulders, the heavy fabric falling to the floor with a thud. you apologize softly as you begin to unbutton his shirt and, as each button is undone and reveals more of his skin, your fingers begin to flinch every time your skin brushes against the skin of his chest.
his breath is warm, you can feel it against your skin as you slide off the remaining clothes on his torso. his chest is bare to you, and normally you would be gawking at how much he has physically changed since you were younger. but you cannot help but stare at how much he had been injured in the last few years you have seen him.
aside from the scratches from the most recent scuffle which led him to your quaint home beside his manor, scars litter his chest and arms. although most of them are healed, the damage that he had experienced was still evident on his skin and you hold back a gasp at how deep some of them had been; there's a huge scar that runs diagonally from the top of his chest to his stomach and you could already feel your stomach churning at the pain.
you couldn't imagine having to sustain those injuries for so long, and being alone through it all.
and, now, you hope that the injuries currently on his body heal faster knowing that he isn't alone this time. not when he has you by his side.
diluc's eyes burn holes into your skull as he watches you dip a towel into the bucket of warm water at your side; you pretend to ignore him. twisting the soaked cloth to rid it of the excess water, you gently begin to clean the wounded man in front of you.
a man you consider an old friend, but you fear he doesn't hold the same sentiment. not anymore.
it's quiet, the only sound shared between the two of you being the occasional sound of the towel dumped back into the bucket and the crackling of the fireplace in your living space. the moon casts her illuminating rays through the window of your home, but her light is nothing compared to the comfort of the fire in your home.
the comfort of the man in front of you, even if you didn't want to ever admit it to him now.
the glass jars containing the disinfecting ointment for diluc's wounds clink gently as you open them to spread over his skin.
"why are you helping me?" his voice breaks the thick silence between you two. his sudden question makes your hands pause, but you don't raise your head as you think of something to reply.
"and let an old friend bleed to death outside my door? you think i'm that heartless, diluc?" you ask him. your fingers resume their previous job of slathering the medicine over his new wounds. "i could say the same to you, why show up to my house like this?"
another silence follows your words and you assume he's done interrogating you for your kindness to him.
"i had nowhere else to turn to," diluc says after a while. your eyes catch his fists tighten on his lap as he takes another breath. "you've shown me nothing but kindness even after i was so cruel to you."
you exhale softly at his words. of course he thinks dealing with his own problems this entire time was the worst thing he could do to you. if you were being honest, it did hurt when he seemingly pretended you didn't exist or pushed you away when he had returned home from whatever he was dealing with away from mondstadt.
you had hoped for a joyful reunion, one filled with tears as you finally welcome home your old friend. but he never announced when he was coming home and you only figured out through the grapevine. he was never home when you looked for him and when you finally caught a glimpse of him, your eyes would meet for barely a second before he rushed off elsewhere and leaving you in the dust.
according to kaeya, his brother whom you've kept in touch with throughout the years. diluc had changed even more ever since his return; he kept his feelings to himself and his face remained 'constipated,' as per kaeya's words, due to his inner turmoil.
but from everyone else, he had always been so kind to them. the old women in the city would always praise how gentle the young master was, helping them walk across the city or carrying their groceries if they needed it. the young women also constantly swooned over how mysterious, yet warm-hearted diluc was; seemingly cold in nature but treating children and animals with such tenderness.
"it did hurt knowing you were ignoring me," you confess as your fingers begin to unravel the gauze to wrap over his wounds. "even if you wanted everyone to think you've changed and have become cold and guarded, i know you're still the same caring boy i've known since we were young. i hope so, at least."
his skin is warm to the touch, another feature you realize has never changed about your old friend. with bated breath, you lift your head to let your gaze finally settle on diluc's own. just as you predicted, despite the physical changes, you can still see the diluc you once knew within the scarred and older man in front of you.
diluc has definitely gotten older; the baby fat on his face slimming down slightly to reveal a more defined jaw and the bags under his eyes were evidence of his restless nights away from mondstadt. there are light scars on his face, nothing too deep to keep from his princely demeanor but are definitely proof of a troubling journey, and he has grown taller than the last time you had seen him in your youth.
but one thing that has never changed is the fire the lights up his eyes. so red and warm, you're tempted to hold his face in your hands to get a closer look. they're so vibrant, alive like the embers that flicker in the fireplace that lights your home, as they stare back at you in anticipation of your next words.
"you would never intend to hurt me on purpose. so if i should have to wait forever for you to be ready to come to me like you've had in the past, i don't mind doing so."
diluc's stoic expression wavers at your words. a sliver of guilt shines in his eyes and he looks away briefly as he digests the words you've spoken to him.
he couldn't tell you the reasons why he always kept you at arm's length; was he wary of your intentions for always being kind to him despite how he treated you or was he so used to people close to him lying to his face that he feared you were also pulling a facade?
or was he scared of you sharing the same fate as his family should he loved you with his heart on his sleeve, a fate of being held in his arms as he feels the warmth that once comforted him when you were young fade away like the embers in the hearth of a fireplace?
diluc did not want to know and he did not need to know, not when you're looking at him with such trust and compassion that he finds it hard to even hold any distrust towards you.
his dear friend from his youth who was always there to pick him up when he fell.
you did not break through the walls shielding diluc's heart for you had already found your place beside it, holding he's life with your gentle hands and protecting his soul's flames with your faith in him.
"i'm sorry," diluc apologizes to you, looking into your eyes. one of your hands is grabbed to be held by him, rough and scarred and so calloused as it held the memories and grief of what he went through to become like the man in front of you, the gauze held in your other. his warmth seeps into your skin, heating up your skin as the flames of his heart grow and encase your entire being within its embrace.
your lips part to say something, but he continues to speak.
"i thought keeping you away would benefit us both," he takes a breath as his eyes scan over your own features, taking in all that has changed since the last time he saw you in your adolescent years; how much you've grown both physically and emotionally. you look so much more mature than the naughty child who ran around breaking their mother's rules just to play with him or the dear friend who would bicker with him endlessly during their teenage years.
the years of their beautiful youth, years that he wished so dearly he could go back to and live in that peace for eternity.
but while the winds continue to blow and move time along, you've continued to stay the same despite the change.
you're still so kind, so inviting to someone like him.
you treat him like the friend you've remembered in your adolescence, even if his hands were bloodied with vengeance and his heart is scarred and wounded from betrayal and deceit.
he is still diluc, just diluc in your bright and beautiful eyes; he always had been.
his hands squeeze yours tightly, hoping that he has the courage to say what he wants to say.
"i don't deserve your kindness, or your love. but if i imagine a life where i have succeeded in pushing you away and we no longer talk," diluc begins, the fire in his eyes wavering as they hold your gaze.
"i don't think i would ever want to live a life where you're not in it."
diluc's words shake you to your core; it's something you wouldn't expect him to say now after all these years. as much as you want to immediately forgive him and push back the years of agony, waiting for any sign that he was alive while leaving his vision behind, or even watching as he ignores you despite being home after all these years, your heart aches knowing knowing he even did this to you in the first place.
"how can i know that you won't leave me like you did?" your voice is small despite being so close to him. in fear of having him see how much his actions have affected you, you face tilts down to your lap to avoid his gaze. "i can't just wait for you forever, it hurts sitting here all these years with a promise i don't even know if you'll keep."
you take a shaky breath as you speak again.
"you didn't even say goodbye."
your voice breaks as you say those words and you can feel the burning sensation as the tears threaten to spill over your eyes.
there's a moment of silence between the two of you before you hear him gently call out your name. his free hand reaches up to cup your face, tentatively guiding you to face him. he says your name again, softly as if even saying your name too harshly would cause you to break, and you hesitantly meet his gaze.
there's a tenderness that you recognize deep in those fiery pools in his eyes, one that flickers like the hearth of your fireplace and suddenly you feel like you're experiencing the most beautiful yet fleeting moment in life once more. diluc's thumb gently presses against your cheek to wipe away any tears that overflowed from your already wet eyes.
his pinky links with your own, a childish thing to do but one that you still hold dear to your own heart.
a promise between the two of you bathed in firelight and your youth reflected back at you in the shape of the young man sitting before you.
#diluc x reader#diluc ragnvindr x reader#genshin x reader#diluc fluff#diluc fics#didi writes#seraphiism'23#events !!#this was fun!!#sorry this is really late TT life is life-ing o(-(#n e wayz; i do think diluc would b such an annoying kid LOL#b r a t to the core#but he mellows out and all that fun stuff later#happy new year everyone ! i hope you enjoyed my (late) work !!
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Yandere Dabi accidentally made reader blind
*sighs* it's time for another fic idea:
Imagine Dabi terrorising the city and doing evil shenanigans, the usual stuff, and while he's welding his fire quirk, you- an innocent civilian gets hurt in the process. Now look, a lot of other civilians got hurt too, but what made you stand out was the fact that you locked eyes with him, saw his face right before your retinas were burned by the blast of fire aimed at a hero past you.
You were taken to the hospital, where you got the news that you'd be blind for the rest of your life now and Dabi had begun stalking you from the moment you woke up from surgery, only because he thought you'd spill his identity to the police or whatever. But you didn't, probably because you forgot his face, but "probably" isn't good enough for him. He needs to be sure you won't rat him out to the authorities, so he continues to stalk you and eventually develops yandere tendencies for you.
Of course, as he falls in love, he also begins to feel guilty as he sees you struggling with your daily chores because of your new disability. I mean, you worked at a school, volunteered at orphanages and nursing homes, fed strays, the perfect daughter, friend, employee.
You are the nicest human ever and Dabi made you blind😭
He sees that you can't continue working at the school, and he sees its harder to volunteer when you haven't learned how to deal with life without the ability to see. And his chest hurts when he sees you break down at nights, in your apartment alone because you don't know how you'll be able to take care of your aging parents as their only child, when you can't even walk in traffic without help.
That's when Dabi decides to step in. Sure, you may have seen his face, but you haven't heard his voice, right?
He makes the first meeting seem like a chance encounter, bumping into you and catching you before you fell. Faking concern when you apologise for being blind, he takes you to a nearby cafe and offers to buy you a coffee for the one he made you spill.
And eventually, he asks you out and now you're two dating. You think he's the sweetest guy, always helping you but never patronising. And sure, deep down Dabi's heart jumps whenever he catches you in a danger, but he knows he shouldn't be coddling you. How else will you navigate?
Then again, the deeper Dabi falls in love with you and the more yandere he becomes, the more he wants you to become dependent on him for everything. But he has to be smart; he doesn't want to drive you away just because he wants to wrap you up in bubble wrap.
He helps you use you walking stick, gets you Braille, and with your permission, he babyproofs the house a bit (mainly because he saw the bruises on your leg from the sharp corners you bumped into).
And since you two are not living together just yet, he worries what would happen to you if he's not there. So he stays a while longer, hiding in the background just until you fall asleep, making sure you have your mobile (with his number on speed dial) near you.
But Dabi can't always be there to watch you. He's still pursuing his successful career as a villain, so without your knowledge, he installs cameras in your house, purely out of concern and not because he's a creep. Yes, even the ones in your bathroom are just in case you slipped and hit your head.
After some time, you two do end up moving in together. He of course modifies his house so that its more safe for you, like rounding off sharp edges, installing devices that let you know when youre near stairs, etc. And Dabi just absolutely adores spending time with you. Be it cooking, he's right there with you as you tell him all the steps to your favourite recipes and taste test food (he blows on your hot food), dance slowly in the kitchen while the pizza bakes in the oven, straddle you and tickle you until youre near tears, or cuddling on the couch as you enjoy each others silence. You're so nice, so kind to him. He won't ever say it outloud but you being blind is a huge positive for him because he doesn't get insecure with the way he looks. Plus, he can smile as much as he wants without feeling like its tarnishing his "villain image" (he has absolutely melted when you said you adored the way he laughed. Stfu bitch, hes never laughing again😭💖🫶) And you're great at matching his vibe too. He can see the way he's rubbed off on you, how you joke about your disability, the two of you surprising people with your dark sense of humor.
He can be intimate with you, because you feel perfect against his charred skin. When you touched his staples and his burned skin, his breath hitching when you pulled your hand away, your brows frowning. Did you find him ugly now that you knew he didnt have smooth, pristine skin?
When you didn't say anything for a few seconds, he asked if you'd like to know what happened to him.
You shrugged. "Only if you want to tell me. I just want to know if it hurts when I touch your skin." Hes so glad you can't see because my man had tears falling down his face. Why are you so concerned for his well being??? Why are you so sweet? Why Why Why Why-
Not to mention the way your parents absolutely ADORE him???? Like, the first time he met them, they immediately welcomed him into their homes and into their hearts. Dabi is like so overwhelmed because he's never felt so accepted and loved. Your parents never once looked at him differently because of his scars, and Dabi knows he looks like a criminal for sure, but your parents???? They don't care. Hell, they've already begun telling him all your embarrassing childhood stories and are inviting him to family gatherings and have already decided what clothes he's gonna wear for the family Christmas picture. And Dabi has realised that both you and your parents are way too naive and trusting and so so so so precious, he's adopting all of yall😭😭😭 (like fr, your parents just saved themselves from being killed and/or thrown into a nursing home).
Anyways, years pass by, Dabi had left the crime life the day you got hurt in his house and he wasnt around to help you. Now he works from his home office and you work at the school for visually impaired. Your relationship has reached it peak and Dabi pops the marriage question and you say yes. But before you guys can get married, someone (maybe an ex, or a cousin or friend) reveals to you who he really is and how he's the reason you're blind, and Dabi is eavesdropping because he needs the prefect opportunity to both kill the guy who spilled his secret and catch you before you run off.
"I know."
"You know?"
"I know. Always have. And I'd appreciate it if you don't bring it up ever again. Also, you're not invited to the wedding." You said before having the guy leave the room.
"You can come out now, Dabi." You called him inside.
"How did you know I was here?" He asked standing in front of you.
"I'm smart like that." You chuckled.
"Y/n- you knew?" He asked quietly, wanting to confirm what he'd just heard. You nodded. "How? Why didn't you say anything?"
You sighed. "You're not the only one keeping secrets, Dabi." You sat down, patting the seat next to you for him. "I have a quirk like you do. I have a heightened sense of smell. So, I pretty much recognised you from the moment you bumped into me."
"Huh? How could you recognise me? We never met before that." You shook your head. "We didn't meet before, but I noticed you the day of my accident." Dabi's mind couldn't stop at how you chose to refer his attack as an "accident", which is exactly what it was. You were never his target. Honestly, you're the best human being, an actual angel-
"I only noticed you because you smelled like charred barbecue."
.
.
.
"WHAT?!"
"Hey, no yelling!" You scolded. "That day, I was walking home when I was suddenly hit with this intense smell of grilled barbecue and I was superrrr hungry that day, so I was like I gotta get me some of that and then I looked up and I saw you."
Dabi listened to your explanation, and he honestly wouldn't have believed you if he hadn't spent so much time with you to know how your brain works. "If you knew who I was, then you knew you lost your eyes because of me. So, why did you..." He couldn't complete his question, afraid of you admitting to leading him on just so that you could take revenge and hurt him by pretending to be in love.
You cupped cheek. "It wasn't your fault. You weren't aiming for me. Besides, you and I both know that I would've been dead that same day if you wanted me to."
"Still... I am a bad person-"
"No, Dabi. You're not." You cut him off, not wanting him to taint himsslf with such foul thoughts. "No one is born good or bad. People just do good things or bad things, as circumstances force them to. The world isn't so black and white, Dabi. Everyone's got a grey area."
A tear fell down his cheek, and Dabi pulled you in for a deep kiss. "God- You're just- perfect." He whispered against your lips. You smiled and pecked him once more before settling on the couch, your head on chest.
"So... I smell like charred barbecue?" Dabi asked, playing with your hair. You hummed. "And it doesn't bother you?"
"Nope!"
"Why not?"
"I love charred barbecue. They're the best pieces!"
Ah, if you keep saying things like that, Dabi will need to buy you bigger diamonds.
Fuck it, he thought pulling out his phone.
He's already ordering one online.
Now imagine someone hurts Dabi's baby, and she dies. That'd suck, huh?
#yandere dabi#yandere dabi x reader#yandere bnha#bnha headcanons#yandere mha#bnha imagines#dabi imagine#dabi todoroki#dabi bnha#dabi x reader#bnha dabi#dabi
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Vamp — Simon ''Ghost'' Riley x Reader
Ghost mentors you on how to interrogate people the right way. Unfortunately for him, your head is in the gutter.
Content: femdom, temperature play, torture, cock torture, Ghost is a masochist. Based on the dynamic in my K-9 fic.
''Ready, L.T?'' Your gaze drifts down to the masked soldier, hands bound behind his back in a tight knot, legs bound to the old wooden chair. He has been talking you through the art of psychological warfare, different tools that could be used for torture set on a table in the dimly lit room. He nods and stares at you with haunted, dead brown eyes.
''Do your worst, soldier.'' You hum softly in acknowledgment, walking to the table and looking at what you could work with. The corners of your lips tug into a smirk as you see it— a red candle among the many different tools, a zippo lighter you recognize as his right next to it.
''Interesting.'' He doesn't even have to look to know what caught your attention. Your hand reached out for the lighter, flicking it on and staring at the flame for a few seconds before looking over your shoulder, gaze catching his. His eyes follow your movements, from the way you slowly walk up to him, to your hands lifting up his shirt, wrinkling the fabric together, his strong body exposed.
His breath hitches when your cold finger trails up and down, from his abs to his chest. He watches you light up the candle, waiting until the wax started to melt before slowly tipping the candle closer and closer, pausing before the burning flame makes contact with his skin, waiting for his approval. All he can do is stare down at you and nod his head once.
Your eyes focus on his strong torso, tipping the candle until the wax began slowly dripping into the pale skin, muscles flexing underneath. He takes a deep breath, trying his best to not give you a reaction despite the burning pain on his sensitive skin.
''That all you got?'' He challenges and that does nothing but make the dangerous glint in your eyes dance along with the fire. Your hand went higher, tipping the candle again until a new bead of wax dripped down his chest, not a single sound coming out of him besides his heavy breathing.
''Not yet.'' There's a small smirk on your lips as you notice the jolt that ran through his body, flinching slightly when the hot wax landed on his nipple, yet he still didn't let out any sounds of struggle. His rock-hard cock twitched in his jeans, another deep breath coming out of him as the muscles on his stomach flexed involuntarily. He takes his eyes off of you when the wax drips onto his other nipple, staring at the ceiling as he tries his best to calm down, body shifting in discomfort.
''Try harder.'' He ordered, gravelly voice growing deeper. A small snicker escapes your lips at his words, nodding your head. From this angle, you can see how his pupils dilate, the black speck quickly overpowering his dark brown eyes.
Your free hand traveled from the wax, all the way down to his jeans, fingers neglecting his hard cock and undoing his belt instead. His eyes snap back down on you, yet he doesn't deny you. You pull his cock out with your free hand, freeing him from the tight fabric, before you let it go, allowing the thick shaft to rest on his abdomen. The candle goes up again, teeth softly biting on your lower lip out of excitement as you look at the red wax drip on his shaft.
''Fuck.'' His stare is firm, but the moment the wax touches his skin, he winces in pain. There it is. His head leans back on the chair, eyes closed tightly as more wax drips all over his painfully hard cock.
''Stay with it... It's nothing.'' He reassures himself, voice nothing short of a pathetic whimper. He shifts his body as you start letting the wax drip higher and higher, movements slow and calculated. He shifts his body, trying to escape the searing hot pain of the wax.
''Fuckin' amateur.'' He spits out, eyes opening to look down at you. His muscles are tensed, jaw clenching underneath his black balaclava. You can see a drip of sweat spill down from his forehead, moisture gathering at the bits of skin you can see from his face, eye black looking shinier than before.
''You seem to be enjoying what this amateur is doing, sir.'' Your words are taunting, clearly trying to get a reaction out of him, yet he gives you nothing other than a soft, low moan, half-lidded eyes looking down at you intensely. Your smirk grows at his silence, looking down at the hardening layers of wax all over his thick cock.
''You wanted me to break you, so I will.'' You watch the wax drip down to his glistening tip, mixing in with his precum. He can't help the way his body thrashes against the rope, trying to get away from the pain as a deep moan of pain escapes his lips. You say nothing this time, simply moving the candle around, angling it up so the dripping wax lands on a different part of his tip.
''Fuck! H- I cant—'' He whines out, eyes closed tightly as his body reacts involuntarily. He's still struggling against the rope, yet he doesn't have it in him to ask you to stop.
''That's all you can take?'' You taunt with fake pity and he inhales sharply, beads of sweat running down his forehead, pain showing in his face even when the balaclava is covering it. He finally lets out a quiet whimper, eyes struggling to remain open simply to stare down at you as he always does, yet this time there's no confidence behind them.
''Do better.'' He's clearly trying to spite you and it works. Your free hand comes up to flick his tip harshly and this time, he doesn't fight himself, a low moan of pain and pleasure escaping his lips. His hips thrust up slightly and in that moment you know— Ghost's resolve was broken.
''Fuckin'... hell.'' He moans out, bound hands behind his back becoming tight balls, veins bulging in his arms. His head tilts back when he feels a new drop of wax falling on his tip. He can't help it, really, the way his hips thrust up in nothing but pure desperation, ropes of thick white cum staining his abdomen as he groans out in a mix of pain and pleasure, muscles flexing underneath your touch.
''I win, Ghost.''
#cod mw2#cod mwii#simon ghost riley#ghost mw2#simon riley#ghost cod#simon ghost x reader#simon riley x reader#ghost call of duty#ghost smut#mw2 smut#ghost#mw2 fanfic#call of duty#cod modern warfare#call of duty mw2#cod#mw2#mw2 ghost#cod mw2 x reader#mw2 x reader#mw2 x you#simon riley x you#ghost simon riley#simon riley imagine#simon ghost riley x you#simon ghost x you#simon ghost riley x reader#simon riley ghost#simon riley call of duty
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you should absolutely add naoya to the story!!!! i would LOVE some drama between gojo and that loserrrr i just know they hate each other so MUCH
useful context for this fic can be found in three conditions!
"'salt to taste,'" satoru reads, already confused. "what the hell does that even mean?"
tuesdays are always his day to cook dinner - meaning the second you smell something burning, you kick him out of the kitchen to take over - but you'd left about left twenty minutes ago to pick the kids up from karate, so he's on his own.
shrugging, he pours a questionable amount of salt into the bowl of vegetables he's been attempting to season.
after tossing in the rest of the spices, the next step is to cook over medium-high heat. so he flicks the stove on, leaning against the counter as he waits for the pan to heat up.
that's when a knock sounds at the door.
he doesn't move, hoping whoever it is just gives up and goes away. he wasn't expecting any guests, and the backup food he'd ordered shouldn't be arriving for another half hour.
but whoever it is bangs on the door this time, clearly impatient and wanting to get on his nerves.
huffing, he flicks the stove off and stomps to the door, yanking it open.
"you've gotta be fucking kidding me."
"still as uncouth as ever, i see," naoya zenin scoffs, rolling his eyes.
"and you're still as ugly as i remember," he fires back. "no wait— uglier."
that gets the reaction satoru's hoping for, naoya scowling as he says. "seems the rumours are true. my dear relative's run away to become a gojo whore."
satoru barely manages to keep his hands off the blond's throat, because killing him would start an all out war with the zen'ins, and he isn't ready to make waves (yet).
it wouldn't take much force to just put his head through the wall, would it?
"just tell me what you want so i can say no," he says instead, voice fighting to remain steady.
god, he hates the smug look on his face as he asks, "how much do you want?"
"excuse me?"
"how much do you want," he repeats slowly, as if he were talking to a particularly stupid animal. "for her. and the fushiguro boy."
it takes satoru a moment to realize what exactly he's asking for, the request so outlandish that he can hardly believe it. "how much do i— you're insane."
he goes to slam the door, but naoya is quick to catch it.
"it's only right that they should be with their family, don't you think?"
"and that's you?"
"if we're being sentimental about it, yes."
"well, they're not for sale," he says firmly, removing his sunglasses and tucking them into his pocket. every molecule of restraint is quickly leaving his body. "nor will they ever be. now leave."
stupid as he is, naoya senses the thinly veiled threat and turns on his heel, satoru keeping his eyes trained on him until he disappears down the hall.
_____
"naoya stopped by."
"what did he want?" you ask, lips already pulled down into a frown as you take another dish to dry.
"you and megumi."
"of course he does," you sigh, setting the plate aside and resting your palms on the counter "they want ten shadows."
"what are we going to do?" he asks seriously. "what if next time they don't ask?"
"there's not much we can do right now," you tell him grimly. "it’s the zen’in clan, satoru. we just need to keep our heads down and focus on getting megumi into jujutsu tech. at least he won't be so vulnerable with all of us around—”
“hey, hey,” he murmurs, pressing his forehead to yours. “i’m not going to let anything happen to you both. you know that, right?”
“i know,” you smile, kissing the tip of his nose. “that’s why i’m not suggesting we’ve halfway across the world.”
“that’s not a bad idea. we could move somewhere hot and tropical. i’d get to see you in a swimsuit almost everyday…”
“you’d get sunburnt,” you correct, laughing as he nudges his face into the crook of your neck.
“i’d happily let myself get sunburnt if it meant you were safe,” he murmurs into your skin. “the kids would probably eviscerate me if i let anything happen to you.”
“of course they would. they’d starve otherwise.”
#gojo x reader#jjk x reader#gojo satoru x reader#jjk fluff#gojo fluff#keeping up with the fushigojos
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NaNoWriMo fic, day one: obligatory sugar daddy Tim/sugar baby Kon AU.
Tim Drake had absolutely no intentions of ever becoming anyone's sugar daddy when he met Superboy.
This would have worked out better for him if Superboy had ever had an actual legal identity or an actual legal guardian or just . . . literally anything whatsoever in life. Ever. At all.
Just a bank account, even.
"You're working for Cadmus," Tim says slowly. "Cadmus, as in the lab that stole Superman's body and cloned him without his consent. Cadmus, which you had to break out of so they couldn't put mind control code words in your head."
"Yeah," Superboy replies like that's not literally insane. Tim stares at him.
"Why?" he asks incredulously.
"Food and shelter?" Superboy shrugs. "And I mean, I dunno, where else am I gonna go?"
Tim is not okay with this situation.
"What did Superman say?" he says.
"Just to like, keep an eye on things," Superboy says with another shrug. "Make sure they're not up to anything shifty."
Tim stares at him.
"Superman," he says. "Told you to just . . . 'keep an eye on' the dubiously ethical cloning lab. The specific dubiously ethical cloning lab that tried to put mind control code words in your head. Specifically."
"Yeah," Superboy confirms.
Alright, Tim is actually even less okay with this situation than he thought, apparently. Like, impressively less.
"Okay," he says. It is absolutely no kind of okay in any way whatsoever, of course, but he doesn't want to put Superboy on the defensive. That'd make effectively interrogating him a lot harder, for one thing. Cooperative subjects are best in these situations. "What are they paying you?"
"I mean, like, they gave me my own room and they're feeding me and whatever, so I don't really need much money," Superboy says. "There's a discretionary fund I can use if I need to go on an undercover mission or anything like that? But I'm not really the undercover type anyway."
"Sure," Tim says. So . . . no way for Superboy to save up to move out and get an out-of-lab life, then. Great. That's not fucked-up or crazy or horrible at all. "Do you like it there?"
"It's okay," Superboy says, shrugging again. "Better than literally everybody in Hawaii yelling at me every time they see my face, yeah?"
Tim wants to set the world on fire, but he's trying really hard not to go supervillain before he's thirty and he'd hate to throw out all that hard work.
"They just let me do whatever, mostly," Superboy adds. "They don't really care as long as I'm around when they need me."
He'll go supervillain as soon as Bruce dies, Tim promises himself. Just–he'll give his share of the eulogy at the funeral and then he'll blow up three-fourths of Arkham and the entire GCPD while Commissioner Gordon is on his lunch break. He can time that out, that'll be easy. And then he'll go and personally murder the Joker with the very specific combination of a rusty crowbar and a shrapnel bomb, and then he'll just . . . well, he'll just go with the flow from there, he figures. Do whatever feels natural.
Seriously, the world as it is does not deserve to exist. It really just does not.
Tim figures he can probably convince the rest of Young Justice to tag along for the whole supervillain thing and hopefully Dick and Steph and Barbara too, and ideally also Alfred, in the unfortunately likely event that he outlives Bruce. He's got time to lay the groundwork with them all and all, and also everything really is awful and horrible and really does deserve to burn.
"Are they sending you to school or anything? Or tutoring you?" Tim asks with what little scraps of hope he has left. Higher education would be . . . well, something, at least. And actually it probably wouldn't hurt for Superboy to learn a bit more about genetic engineering from the same place he got genetically engineered, just in case anything goes wrong with his DNA again. Cadmus should at least be good for that much, right?
"Ew, no, thank fuck," Superboy says, making a face. "Like I said, they mostly let me do whatever until something needs punched."
So . . . no furthered education or learning any usable job skills or making real money or literally anything that could, again, lead to Superboy ever getting any kind of an actual out-of-lab life established.
Great.
Just great.
"I see," Tim says.
"It's a pretty sweet gig, considering," Superboy says, and grins brightly at him. It's a very nice grin. Normally being faced with that particular grin would make Tim need to beat down the highly unprofessional urge to kiss it.
Right now, though, he's a little bit more concerned with the fact that his teammate is just . . . living in and working for a fucking lab. As a matter of course. Just as a thing.
And Superman of all people thinks that's . . . fine, for some reason? Like, normal and ethical and okay? Somehow? In some way?
What the actual fuck, Tim thinks to himself.
"You said Superman told you to keep an eye on things?" he asks.
"Yeah," Superboy says, his grin widening. "He took me to his fortress and asked me to do it there. Showed me around a bit, too."
"That sounds really interesting," Tim says, wondering in vague disbelief if that means Superman had never taken Superboy to the Fortress of Solitude before. He must've, right? And just . . . inexplicably not shown Superboy around then.
Yeah. Sure.
"It was awesome!" Superboy says with more enthusiasm than Tim's seen from him since they met Nina Dowd's . . . endowments, seemingly forgetting the need to be "cool" for long enough to lean forward in his seat and outright beam at him. Tim is gonna need a minute to recover from the sight of that expression, probably. "It's seriously freaking freezing up there, but there's so much cool shit in the place. Like, from all over the universe, but from Krypton, even! The only thing I'd ever seen from Krypton before was kryptonite!"
Tim considers moving up his supervillain timeline after all. Like. Just possibly. Just a little.
Maybe he can convince Bruce to take an early retirement off-planet and just go from there.
What the hell is wrong with Superman?
"Oh, wow, really?" Tim says, simultaneously pretending he didn't already know what Superman has in his fortress and trying not to be screamingly obvious about the internal calculations he's running on figuring out how to weaponize red sunlight. Or like, maybe he could look into learning some magic. That's technically an option. Probably more time-consuming and harder to hide the process of, though. Still, it's on the table.
"Yeah. He showed me some of it. Told me some stories and stuff, even," Superboy says, and that excited grin turns just a little bit shy and soft and somehow even more distracting than usual. He ducks his head just a little, and then that soft grin is more like a soft smile, and Tim suffers. "And I, uh–and he gave me something, too."
"What did he give you?" Tim asks, praying to God that the answer is "an emergency contact number" or "an allowance that can cover a semi-decent Metropolis apartment" or "an offer to live literally anywhere but Cadmus, including in the thirtieth century or on a hostile alien planet or inside an active volcano". He's technically an atheist, so the praying thing is probably moot, but times of desperation are times of desperation.
"A name," Superboy says, and his smile widens helplessly. "Like, you know, a real one."
Tim might hate Superman, he thinks. That might actually be a thing now.
Yeah, he's definitely going supervillain after Bruce dies and doesn't need an emotional support sidekick anymore. Better start stocking up on the kryptonite.
"That's great," he says with a very carefully not-forced smile of his own instead of anything more along the lines of "wait, you've been alive and active as a superhero for all this time and no one ever actually named you?!" Superboy would probably take it the wrong way, not in the least because that genuinely never actually occurred to him as being a thing before. Like–he really did just assume Superboy was keeping a lid on whatever his real name was for personal reasons or Superman reasons or something. "Are you allowed to tell me it, or is that a no-go?"
"Oh, yeah," Superboy says with a sheepish laugh, rubbing at his arm. "It's like, a Kryptonian name? Not like a secret identity one. It's, uh, Kon-El."
Of course it's not even a damn secret identity, Tim thinks in absolute frustration and abject loathing. Of course not! Why would it be?! Fuck forbid!
"I like it," he says, because he lies to Batman and therefore there is no fucking way that he's going to let Superboy–Kon–see any sign whatsoever of the metaphorical 9.9 on the Richter scale that is currently happening in his psyche. "It suits you."
"You think?" Kon grins all the wider. Tim can't even calm down enough to want to kiss him, except in the sense that he always wants to kiss him.
"I do," he says, and smiles at him again.
Kon smiles back.
Tim hates everything. All the things. There is nothing that Tim doesn't hate right now, except maybe Alfred's snickerdoodles because he might be having a nervous breakdown but he's not, like, criminally insane or whatever.
Yet.
"Yeah, it's kinda cool," Kon says, straightening up in his seat and then leaning back, clearing his throat and slipping his sunglasses back on like they're not in a literal cave right now. Tim doesn't call him on it, because he has a supervillain timeline to work out and that's much more important.
Also because the teammate he has an inadvisable crush on is in a much, much shittier situation than he ever realized and he has to reconcile that with his worldview and also his opinion of Superman. Tim doesn't especially idolize the man except in the sense of knowing he's one of the greatest heroes on Earth and a very, very good man that Bruce thinks incredibly highly of, one of the best men on the League and maybe even on the planet, but . . .
But if he's such a good man, then why the hell is Kon living in a lab that tried to mind-control him and why has he only just seen the Fortress of Solitude for the first time?
Why didn't he have a real name?
"So do we call you Kon or Kon-El now?" Tim asks, which is a bit of a senseless question but also at least a bit of a distraction. He wants to say this whole situation is a horrible idea, who the FUCK convinced you this situation was a good idea?!, but there is no possible way that Kon would respond well to that. Ever.
Also, Kon had a point. Where else is he gonna go?
Clearly not the Fortress of Solitude.
Seriously, would it be that hard for Superman to give him a room there? At least a place to stay sometimes, so he wasn't exclusively relying on the mind-control cloning lab for food and shelter and basic comforts?
"I think just Kon?" Kon says, frowning consideringly. "'El' is like Superman's last name, I guess? So I think just Kon."
"Makes sense," Tim says, internally seething. Superman gave him the "El" name but not a secret identity? A name from a dead civilization with a bit of sentimental value, maybe, but nothing usable on this planet? Fuck, you'd think Kon didn't already know his secre–
. . . Kon doesn't know Superman's secret identity, does he.
Tim had thought he was lying, when he'd said that stuff about Superman not having one, before. Thought it was supposed to be a cover or a misdirection or something. But Kon actually thinks that, doesn't he. And Superman has just . . . kept letting him think that.
Becoming a supervillain actually might be an underreaction, in retrospect.
"Just Kon sounds less formal anyway," Tim says instead of so just in theory, do you think tactile telekinesis could trigger a heart attack or stroke in a full-blooded Kryptonian, if you could REALLY concentrate on doing it? like not FATALLY, just dehabilitatingly?, because he still has some groundwork to do before they get that far into potential supervillainy. There's steps to the plan. The steps need to be followed. They're very important steps. "You don't want Bart full-naming you every time he's looking for the remote."
"Like he'd even bother, it's faster for him to turn the living room upside-down than actually ask anyway," Kon says with a laugh, dropping his head back on his neck. Tim has some thoughts about climbing into his lap and figuring out if the TTK makes him hickey-proof, and then buries them. Not appropriate. Not professional. Just not.
. . . technically, if Kon wanted a hickey, he could just let his TTK down and ask for–
Tim buries his thoughts deeper.
Much, much deeper.
"Point," he says. "So what time does Cadmus expect you back?"
"Dude, it's a job, not a boarding school," Kon says, giving him an amused look. "I don't have a curfew."
Tim, technically, hasn't followed his own curfew any way but accidentally once in his entire life, but for god's sake, is Cadmus even pretending to be raising a teenager or are they really just being that flagrant about ignoring all the child labor laws they so clearly do not give a fuck about? Like, there must be something illegal about this. There has to be.
If there's not, Tim will be adding "burn down Project Cadmus" to his list of supervillain plans to set up in advance. In red pen. Underlined.
Twice.
God, why is the world like this. Why are people like this?
"I guess that'd be convenient," Tim says, internally ranking various methods of combustion. "Though I guess it depends on the cafeteria hours, too."
"It's whatever, I can always eat later," Kon replies with a shrug. "I think I've still got a couple protein bars in my room anyway."
"Just protein bars?" Tim asks, mentally upping the amount of explosives he was considering going with. Cadmus is going to be a crater by the time he's done with it. "Don't you need more calories than that?"
". . . well, sort of," Kon says, folding his arms and looking very briefly embarrassed. "Superman doesn't have to eat, apparently, but, uh, guess I'm not Kryptonian enough for that. Actually I kinda need to eat more than normal humans, it's weird. Like. A lot more."
"I'm ordering pizza," Tim says, upping his mental explosives count again. "What do you want on it?"
"We're the only ones here," Kon says, looking puzzled.
"More pizza for us, then," Tim says.
#timkon#tim drake#kon el#conner kent#dc robin#superboy#young just us#young justice#long post#rinfic#wip: obligatory sugar baby Kon
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I Loved You (Dangerously)
drunk off that love, fuck my head up
PAIRING: lee jeno x reader
GENRE: infidelity
WORD COUNT: 1.8k+ words
WARNINGS: bulging kink, choking kink, strength kink (?)
SYNOPSIS: You're in a lovingly, domestic relationship with your boyfriend. Or so everyone thought.
A/N: first jeno fic, happy reading! please do leave your thoughts if you can! <3
Lively chatters, car honking, vendors selling. The sun has exchanged positions with the moon yet it is not the end of a day for the people of Myeongdong. The chilly breeze bites through your flesh, but you suppose you are to blame for not dawning a puffer jacket.
Steps quickening, your keys jingling in your hands as you head back to your apartment. Your phone pings and catches your attention, it displays an email from your co-worker but it's not what you looked at though. Eyes settling on the time, you glance where the picture of your lovely boyfriend smiling innocently and widely lies. A quarter after 8PM, he should be in his own apartment now.
Upon arriving, your doorknob twists easily, as though it wasn't locked. Did you forget to? You were certain you did before leaving. Carefully, you hold the door open, heart beating rapidly as fear creeps up on your spine. Am I about to die? Hopefully not. You have a lot of things on your bucket list and dying young isn't one of them.
The lights are on, and music fills the entire flat. That song is too familiar for you. Closing the door behind you, your eyes roam around, observing. Not even a minute and as if on cue, a man who wears the face of your boyfriend walks into your vision, seemingly fresh out of the shower. He then meets your eyes with no surprise.
''Great. You're home.''
You roll your eyes. Raking your eyes up and down on his body, heat burns your cheeks as you turn away, pursing your lips at the sight of water droplets dripping along his bare chest. You chuck your shoes off and head to the kitchen. ''Why are you here?''
You heard a scoff. Footsteps following your trace. ''Why not? I'm more comfortable here than at my own apartment.''
''Cut the chase, Jeno.'' You face him. ''What are you doing here?'' And when you only receive a grin from the man who's leaning on the wall, you sigh. ''Did you got fired again?''
''Ah.. you know me too well.''
Irritated, you shake your head and proceed to walk out of the kitchen but before you could, Jeno's already catching your wrist– preventing you from getting away. Tugging you closer, he offers a smile.
''Don't walk out on me now, babe.''
You click your tongue. ''Shut up.''
Chuckling, Jeno wraps his arms around your waist and nuzzles his nose on the crook of your neck. ''So feisty.''
Jeno runs his palms on your side up and down as he plants sweet sweet pecks on the vastness of your neck. His kisses then eventually travels upwards where he connects your lips with his. What a lighthearted kiss turns into somewhat a desperate one, swiftly licking each other's lips before sucking on them.
''Fuck, I missed you–'' Grabbing the back of your thighs, Jeno carries you with ease as he transfers both of you to your bedroom, his body leading him despite the lack of vision. It's like telling him 'Worry no more about tripping, you've been here enough that I've memorized every single thing.'
Jeno is lying if he says it doesn't fuel the smugness in him.
He slowly settles you on the bed, hovering over you, gripping your hips as your legs circle his waist. Pushing his tongue in, Jeno licks every wall, every part that he can reach. A drool escapes the end of your lips as you share the messy kiss with Jeno, groaning when his boner rubs against your clothed core, putting pressure on your clit.
A string of saliva that connects your lips is the thing you see before your top gets taken off of you and your bra flies somewhere in the room, the only thing your mind could fully register is Jeno's tongue flicking over your nipple as he keeps his fingers entertained with the other. The air thickens, and suckles echoes in your bedroom.
Pleasure shoots up your spine as Jeno grinds, angle perfectly aligned for the head of his cock to nudge your clit. You whimper. ''Jeno, fuck...''
But Jeno's ears are shut the moment he takes your nubs in his mouth, eyes closed as he savors the delish before him. Tightening your legs, you move to press your core onto him harder, hands squeezing his biceps. ''Jeno, please..''
Jeno snaps out of his daze at the vulnerability. A music to his ears, his eyes darken, once again he captures your lips in a bruising kiss. You squeak, body jostling as your pants and underwear get ripped off of you, thrown carelessly.
His fingers trace the line between your pussy cheeks, dipping a little before bringing it to his mouth, licking your wetness– tasting you. Jeno moans, head cloudy. Jeno takes in the sight of you after opening his eyes that he doesn't even know had closed.
''Please, Jeno..'' Breathing heavily, legs wide open for him, already looking so fucked out when he haven't even done anything yet. Jeno growls at the urge to eat you up, make you his.
Cupping one ankle, Jeno peppers kisses along your calves, eyes not leaving your figure. ''Tell me what you want. What exactly are you saying please to, baby?''
At this point, all your sanity had left you. Embarrassment? It was a thing of yesterday. Reaching up to Jeno, your next words snaps his patience. ''W-want your cock.. I want your cock in me.''
Smirking, Jeno pecks you again before going down on you, making out with your pussy as if it's your lips. His tongue wiggles, pulling out lewd moans from you, gripping the sheets in an attempt to prevent yourself from pulling his hair instead. Jeno flicks his tongue over your puffed clit.
''Fuck, Jeno–!''
A finger slides past your entrance, your walls engulfing the digit with warmth and velvetines. You're so fucking wet, there's little to no resistance. Another follows suit, Jeno scissors you properly all the while he enjoys himself in getting drunk from your essence and the music that is your explicit sounds.
Pulling his face away, his skin covered by your slick glistens under the bedroom lights. Jeno chuckles as your walls clamp around his fingers. He then curls them in an angle that prods at your spot sweetly, your back arches off the bed. Latching on your perky nipples, Jeno tugs his towel and gives himself pumps to tend his hard cock.
''Put it in..'' Jeno mumbles profanities seeing the desperation in your eyes as you stare at his angry leaking tip.
Before you could whine about the loss of his fingers in your, Jeno replaces it with his girthy cock, slipping inside as you moan in unison. Burying the rest of his cock, he presses your knees on your chest and starts a brutal pace that jostles your body to the headboard repeatedly.
''Jeno! F-fuck! So big.. it feels so good–!''
Jeno grips the top of the headboard as he madly drives his cock in and out of you, his eyes glinting with lust and something you couldn't decipher.
''When's the last time I had you like this?You're so fucking tight– you're suffocating my fucking cock. Look at that, baby. Look how your pussy stretches widely and sucks my cock inside. It feels good, huh?'' Jeno nudges your legs to a wide V, planting his foot on the bed as he gives it to you faster, harder, and deeper.
Looking down, he notices a bump that continuously appears and disappears in sync with his thrusts, growling in realization that it's his fucking cock that cause the bump in your belly. Gripping your waist, Jeno slams your pliant body to meet the snap of his hips, your breast jiggles and Jeno will be damned if he resists the urge to feast on them. God, he's fucking crazy for them.
''Oooh shit! You're so big and so hard inside me– ah ah ah– fuck! More! More, please–''
Jeno hums against your ear. ''More? Does my girl want more?''
Drunk in pleasure, you nod absentmindedly, nails raking down Jeno's back, creating red lines all over his skin. He slams a couple more times before taking a pity on the headboard that hits the wall due to your vigorous fucking. Jeno groans, scooping you in his arms, and pins you to the wall before hammering his cock inside you. Biting the junction of your neck, Jeno laps the red beads that seeps past your skin. The graze of teeth on your skin itches in pain yet you crave for more.
Wet skin slapping bounce in the room, wanton moans escapes you as Jeno snaps his hips fiercely.
''Oh, god!''
''Yeah?'' Jeno licks your tears. ''You like that? You love getting stuffed full of my big, fat cock, huh?''
Pulling you away from the wall, your eyes roll to the back as Jeno's length digs deeper inside you, so deep that you could feel it at the back of your throat. You cling to Jeno, drools dribbling down your chin as carnal ecstasy takes over the entirety of your body and mind. ''I'm coming..''
Grabbing your ass, Jeno bounces you to meet his thrusts, parting your cheeks to slide even deeper. ''Come on my cock, baby.''
Strained moan leaves your lips as Jeno sucks the pathway of your drool, feeling himself get closer to climax as your walls clenches continuously around him, painting his cock white. Jeno pistons his hips violently, eyes shut close. And when your hand encloses on his neck and tightens just the way it sends him an irreversible euphoria, Jeno holds on to his strength as he shoots strings of white, filling you up to the brim.
Breathing heavily, Jeno brings you back to the bed, fetching the towel to wipe down your mess before laying beside you, hugging you from the back. His loving kiss on your shoulder is the last thing that registers in your mind before drifting to a slumber.
As Jeno combs his fingers through your hair, a smile unknowingly appears on his face. You look so beautiful like this. So peaceful. Sure, you can certainly protect yourself but it still makes him want to gatekeep you from the harsh world so that you're out of harm's reach.
Though, Jeno knows it is impossible. The constant pings from your phone is a reminder.
JIHO: Hi, baby. I just got home!
JIHO: Mom asked for help to look for Jeno because she received a call from his work telling to pay for the damages or sorts.
JIHO: Sooo sorry I didn't send you a text!
JIHO: Are you gonna sleep now?
But as long as you don't stop him from having you, Jeno supposes he can ignore the fact.
The fact that you will never be his. And the fact that you're in this loving, domestic relationship with his twin brother.
#nct#nct smut#jeno smut#nct dream#nct scenarios#nct imagines#nct boyfriend#nct angst#nct fanfic#jeno scenarios#jeno imagines#jeno angst#jeno fanfic#nct dream smut#lee jeno#prodbymaui
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Two detectives in your bed
Self-Aware! Edogawa Ranpo x GN! Reader x Self-Aware! Dazai Osamu
Description: You wanted to take a nap. But, there are two detectives in your bed. And all of your blankets and pillows are gone.
Fluff. Silly short fic.
Sequel to Delayed package
Warning: OOC. English is my second language.
______
You just wanted to take a nap.
You just wanted to lay down on your bed, cover yourself with the blanket, put your head on a pillow and have a nice nap. Because you deserved this nap. You are working hard in the university. And you are helping with the house chores. You deserved to have a small rest.
The plan was simple. Go into your room - Lay down on the bed - Cover yourself with the blanket - Lay your head on a pillow - Sleep.
Pretty simple plan, right?
Well, wrong! You were wrong!
You shake your head, hoping, that you were just too tired and started seeing things. It must be a mistake and your room should be empty.
You opened your eyes and stare on your bed.
They were still there.
Dazai Osamu and Ranpo Edogawa were laying in your bed. Ranpo was lying across the bed, while Dazai was laying on his side, looking at you with a sly grin.
It's not like you were against their company. Or against anyone's company. It wasn't even the problem, that they were in your room. Or in your bed.
You knew that some of BSD Cast find your room shooting. They love spending time here. They like staying here. And you allowed them to go into your room, while you weren't there.
A few times you returned to your room, finding Lucy reading a book here, or Kunikida, taking notes in his notebook, or Tetchou taking a nap in your bed.
Of course, they have some restrictions. They weren't allowed to search through the drawers, and they must ask if they want to take something from your room to theirs, be it a textbook or a laptop. And, as long as these rules are followed, there were no problems.
So, you weren't angry, that Ranpo and Dazai got into your room when you weren't here. You were angry, that your blanket and pillow were gone.
And, if Ranpo's and Dazai's sly smirks imply something, that they were the reason, they are gone.
You frowned and looked at two 'intruders'.
"What are you two doing in my bed?"
Ranpo rolls on his side and turn his head in your detection. He smirked.
"Oh, you know, just hanging around. Waiting for you."
You rolled your eyes. There is no Purple Sigh on your door, so these two aren't in distress. And it doesn't explain the missing blanket and pillow.
"Why? And where are my blanket and pillow?"
Ranpo's smirk became bigger.
"Somewhere. I wonder where... Do you know where they are, Dazai?"
Dazai chuckled and looked at your direction. He looked as sly as Ranpo.
"Have no idea, Ranpo."
Ranpo hummed.
"Oh, I remember! Kids were building a pillow fort? I recall they were asking for a permission to took blankets and pillows."
You rub your temples. You recall, how Sakura asked your permission to take some blankets and pillows for the pillow fort. Okay, you can do this. It's not like kids took all your blankets and pillows.
You start searching through your shelves, trying to find a blanket and a pillow. You must have a few more somewhere there.
During your search, you felt Ranpo's and Dazai's gazes on you.
Ranpo yawned and looked at Dazai.
"Dazai, have you heard about what happened yesterday? You see, Fyodor and Nikolai were visiting [Y/N]'s old house, trying to retrieve something..."
You let out a nervous whine and feel, like you were burning up. Your cheeks and ears were on fire. You try to focus on anything else, not paying attention to Ranpo.
"... And when they got back home..."
Where are the blankets and pillows?
"... We didn't see [Y/N], Fyodor and Nikolai for the rest of the day and night..."
Maybe they are in this wardrobe?
"... And [Y/N] appeared only at the morning..."
Why you can't find blankets and pillows?!
"... Do you think you can explain, what happened, [Y/N]?"
You turned back and looked at two detectives on your bed. Dazai and Ranpo both looked like two cats, that ate all sour cream in the house. Your face still felt like it was on fire.
You breathe in and out.
"Where... Where are the rest..."
Ranpo grinned and finally opened his eyes.
"Kids wanted to make a huge pillow fort. They took all blankets in the house."
What? Were kids trying to make a fort that is big enough to live in? The idea of going to them and took one pillow and blanket was rejected immediately. It's still daytime, let the kids play.
But, you want to be nice and cozy while taking a nap.
Two detectives noticed your face expression. Dazai dramatically raise both of his hands up.
"Oh, My Dear Iris Flower, don't worry, you won't be cold or uncomfortable! I will be your blanket and Ranpo..."
What? A blanket?
Ranpo waves his hand.
"And I will be your pillow"
You will repeat. What? A pillow?
You blinked owlishly. Dazai open his arms, inviting you to hug him.
"Don't be shy, [Y/N]! Come here and hug me. Look, that I am soft and warm. A perfect blanket."
Ranpo lift his shirt up, showing his stomach.
"And my belly is soft. Softer, than any pillow you will ever have."
Ranpo opened his eyes slightly.
"And, both Dazai and I are much more good-looking than any... print on a pillow case you could find."
YOU DIDN'T EVEN KNOW THAT BSD CAST WERE SELF-AWARE, WHEN YOU ORDER TWO DAKIMAKURAS WITH FYODOR AND NIKOLAI ALMOST A YEAR AGO!
AND, IT'S NOT YOUR FAULT, THAT PACKAGE GOT DELAYED, AND, WHEN IT FINALLY ARRIVED, YOU NOT ONLY FORGET WHAT SHOULD BE INSIDE, BUT ASKED FYODOR AND NIKOLAI TO GET IT FROM YOUR PREVIOUS NEIGHBORS!
AND, YOU DIDN'T KNOW, THAT YOU WERE SHOP'S 5000 CLIENT AND, AS A PRESENT, YOU GET PILLOW CASES FOR DAKIMAKURAS WITH DIFFERENT BSD CHARACTERS!
You feel a chill running down your spine. Yesterday, you spent half of the day and all night, cuddling Fyodor and Nikolai. Well, to be more specific, you were wrapped into a blanket and stuck between Fyodor and Nikolai, that wanted to show you, that they are better than any pillow. And prettier. And clingier. It was the best cuddles you ever had. Almost. All their teasing were unbearable!
You don't want to know, how Ranpo and Dazai learn about the pillows and pillow cases. Either, because they are Dazai and Ranpo. Or because Fyodor and Nikolai told them. It doesn't matter right now.
...
You probably could take a nap in the living room. On the couch. With no pillows and blankets.
Or, you can give up and have a nap with Ranpo and Dazai. And, once again, cuddled for the rest of the day.
Ranpo, whose eyes were still opened, laughed.
"There are no free blankets or pillows in the house. Your nap on the couch will be cold. Besides," Ranpo had a tight grin on his face. "Is it really that bad to sleep with us?"
You massage your temples. It wasn't bad, just... They will never let you live the dakimakuras incident down, right?
Dazai give you the best puppy dog eyes he can.
"Are you tired, Dear [Y/N]?" Dazai cooed, opening his arms for a hug again. "Take a nap. You will feel better!"
You give up and plopped down on your bed, rolled to Dazai and put your head on Ranpo's stomach.
He was soft and warm. You still can't believe, that BSD Gang were real, breathing, living people.
Dazai nested on top of you, pinning your hands between his chest and yours. Dazai's face pressed against the crook of your neck.
Ranpo's fingers started running through your hair.
"Aren't we better, than any pillow or blanket you will ever have? Or any pillow case?"
You let out a tiny groan.
"I already explained it, that I forgot about the package! It took almost a year to be delivered!"
Ranpo chuckled and Dazai rub his nose against your throat.
"Dear Iris Flower, don't be embarrassed. You gift us a great opportunity to cuddle with you more!"
You rolled your eyes.
"Yea, it's not like we don't snuggle almost every day"
Ranpo and Dazai laugh a little. Dazai kissed the tip of your nose.
"Well, I still want more cuddles!"
Ranpo poked your cheek.
"So am I."
You mumble something, but close your eyes and doze off. Dazai and Ranpo were great as a blanket and pillow.
Right before falling in Dream Kingdom, you heard Ranpo's voice.
"Sleep tight, [Y/N]. Have a good dreams."
#self-awarebsd#self-awareau#bungou stray dogs au#bsd#bungou stray dogs#bsd anime#bsd x gender neutral reader#gender neutral reader#Self-Aware Dazai Osamu#Self-Aware Ranpo Edogawa#ranpo x you#ranpo edogawa x reader#edogawa ranpo x reader#bsd ranpo#ranpo x reader#bungou stray dogs ranpo#bsd edogawa rampo#dazai osamu x reader#dazai x reader#bsd dazai#bungou stray dogs dazai#osamu#bsd x reader#bsd x you#bsd x y/n
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Raven!Neil Au where Andrew and Neil meet for the first time at a banquet.
They sit across from each other and Neil smart-mouth Josten can't help but go off at Kevin, still angry about being abandoned by him.
To his surprise it's Andrew who answers him. It's a bit of a match. Cutting remark after cutting remark, but.... it's unexpectedly fun.
Both Ravens and Foxes watched in shock as Neil and Andrew somehow moved from insults to genuine conversation.
They lean closer to each other, no longer raising voices. Neil practically showed everything on the table to the side so he can lean almost half of his body across the table just so he and Andrew can talk freely.
Everybody moves subtly closer just to overhear even a snippet of what they are talking...
... they plan an apocalypse plan. Arguing about cons and pros of bunkering in the supermarket.
And they look like they’re having fun... or as much as they would let themselves show any kind of enjoyment in the environment they are in.
They lean close, talking in hushed voices... looking almost like they are flirting.
Or rather they are flirting, thinks NIcky, watching as his usually emotionless cousin lean closer to the redhead rolling his eyes with a shadow of a sarcastic smile on his lips, and he promptly shoves his entire fist into his mouth to muffle a squeal.
I just love to think that it infuriated Riko, that he isn't the center of attention in the 100%. Riko trying to stop their conversion, to butt it, interrupt, only to be ushered by Neil or Andrew everytime.
Neil remembering how in Ferdinand’s show Andrew played with Riko by pretending to not remember his name and doing the same thing, looking straight into Andrew eyes, ignoring his captain having a furious meltdown at his side.
Andrew watches it all with his eyes burning into Neil.
(All of the foxes and Ravens stimulatingly wondering how the heck the most meddling one from their team suddenly found the most meddling one from the opposing team. What kind of cosmic justice is this?)
In the end Neil just takes a napkin and doodles something quickly on, His eyes smile with a fire that could only promise a disaster (Andrew knows better not to let himself get burned, and yet...) and before Riko has enough and pulls all the Ravens away, he slides it towards Andrew.
All the foxes are gapping.
Did... Did that Raven just propositioned Andrew? Like in the middle of a banquet??? did he just casually give him his number??? What is going on???
Andrew refuses to feed their curiosity in any way.
But when they are safe in the bus, Kevin drunk into oblivion, rest of the foxes bored with his silence…
He lets himself unwind the napkin.
There is a letter inside. Neatly folded multiple times so it doesn't even look like it was hidden inside the napkin until Andrew could feel it in his hands.
Letter describing how Kevin is the son of Wymack.
And a little note on the napkin....
"Have fun with it.”
And Andrew can't help but feel his interest stir inside him.
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If anybody is interested i wrote short fic about this :) Here is link
#Neil Josten#Neil Abram Josten#Andrew Minyard#Andrew Joseph Minyard#andreil#All for the game#Foxhole court#the foxhole court#aftg#aftg andreil#aftg headcanon#Raven Neil destroying Riko's life is my jam
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Honestly I love the idea of dabi gaslighting you into being crazy for him, because it mixed the two camps yandere dabi gets written as, the first being cruel and awful with darling as a plaything, the second being softer with darling as a fragile doll. Personally I think it's a little bit of both, because Dabi is no where near a good man, but the idea he'd completely abuse darling just the way his father did to his mom, seems to hypocritical. Instead framing it like Dabi hates the vulnerability but sorting accepting it hatches a plan where if he can slowly but surely convince you that you are the crazy one, you somehow need him, that you'll need him and that's more stable than love and when he's that insurance he can trust you enough to be softer and all you'll be is grateful. It mixes his love with the awful means he chooses to take it, since he can't be vulnerable enough to trust love but taking it is what a villain can do
I just can't see him as the 100% sadistic bastard which some fics portray him to be. While I do agree that sadism would be a big aspect of his character, there would be times when he would just. Hold you. Cling onto you.
It's weird when it happens for the first time. You've been alone for a few days and then Dabi is home. He kicks off his shoes and wordlessly makes his way towards you. He reeks of ash and blood but you find it difficult to focus on that when you feel the scorching feeling of his arms enveloping your frame.
You still as Dabi gently rests his forehead against the crook of your neck. You feel the staples of his marred flesh against your own as he uncharacteristically inhales your scent.
"...I missed you." he mumbles in a tone so quiet that if he weren't sitting so close you could have sworn that you made it up. As much as he makes fun of you, Dabi loves your fragility. He loves just how easy you are to break but he has the fire power to ensure your safety. The thought makes him giddy like a schoolboy but he's sure not to show it.
His glee would give you an inkling of power over him. He doesn't want that.
As time goes on, it starts becoming hard to judge Dabi properly as a person. You slowly unveil the truth over the ages you spend with him and, to be frank, you are lost at how you ought to see him.
It really is his father's fault for turning out the way he did. The man hardly ever spoke about his feelings but one evening a fuse broke and he told you everything. Your horrified reactions only added more fuel to his hatred as you held him in your arms, by your own volition for once. He proudly boasted how he lost the ability to cry ages ago but the pools of blood leaking out of his eyes told you a different story. The scarlet liquid stained your white t-shirt, the splotches a grave reminder of this evening.
In that moment, you were not speaking to Dabi but rather the lost little boy who could never be good enough. He made your heart swell with all sorts of colorful feelings.
By the time he fell asleep, you were still wide awake, terror running rampant in your heart with the realization that you started to fall for your captor.
And in no time, Dabi picked that fact up. Let me tell you, it made his life so much easier.
Whenever he wanted to prove a point he would just thug at your heartstrings and make you feel like a fool. He has done so much for you, is this how you are going to repay him? Depending on the severity of the fight he might threaten to burn you, but that would be a last resort.
Dabi would like to keep you in one piece, thank you very much.
He is awful and he knows it. But he's just gone too far, he is too attached to you. If you were to ever leave, he would simply go haywire. It has gotten to the point where he needs you like air but you will not have a single clue about that.
The less you know, the better.
#yandere#yandere x reader#yandere x you#yandere imagines#yancore#yanderecore#yandere aesthetic#yandere male#bnha dabi#yandere dabi#yandere dabi x reader#dabi#dabi x reader#dabi x you#mha dabi#my hero academia#my hero academia x reader#mha x reader#mha x y/n#boku no hero academia#yandere boku no hero academia#yandere bnha#yandere bnha x reader#yandere my hero academia#touya todoroki#touya x reader#yandere touya
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