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satoruhour · 2 years ago

Note

need reader to have a confession with priest!geto about how they feel guilty for touching themselves late alone at night and priest!geto helps them by just fucking their brains out as a “penance” for their sins.

yes, i’m okay in the head btw! (lie)

AU REVOIR, O HEAVEN !

wc: 12.2k

warnings: DARK CONTENT, SLOW BUILDUP, CORRUPTION, priest!geto, fem!reader, age gap (reader is in early 20s, geto in late 20s), long descriptive fic that goes in depth of christian lore, lots and lots of christian references / metaphors / analogies, comparison to Satan’s banishment and fall from heaven, religious themes used in inappropriate ways, questions of religion and life, multiple scenes of f! and m! masturbation, fingering, clit stimulation, virginity loss, both f! and m! receiving oral, cumshot, praise, degradation, spitting, sex in a religious place, p -> v sex, unprotected sex, creampie / breeding kink, multiple rounds, n*sfw under the cut

for a small town like yours, it was a no-brainer that everyone knew everyone; and everyone’s drama as well. from the baker’s daughter being a whore to the mayor of the town being sacked for purposes that have since been twisted by word of mouth. that was another thing: word got around fast, and it was particularly suffocating in a conservative town such as yours. people were not outright about the obvious choices they favoured, but there was the older generation who were not shy to turn down progressive ideas.

because of that, the previous priest was kicked out because of the misuse of funds from mass collection and offertory. it was one thing to see a bunch of notes missing from the sack and the money counter but it was another thing to see that money going into funding a new strip club that was opening in the next town over.

it was simply unheard of, and the parishioners basically gave him a free ride to that very strip club by excommunicating him from his own church. it was unbecoming of a priest, especially in such a small congregation that everyone made sure the new priest to transfer here was a God-honouring one.

you hope he was. you’ve always felt the obligated need to serve your god and your parents. always the good girl, following the Ten Commandments, saving yourself for marriage. it was the natural order of a christian, and you could only hope that you’d get even a fraction of the eternal life they preach about in mass. but lately you’ve been having some . . thoughts, and you pray that this new priest could help you immensely, even if you had to do a hundred Hail Mary’s at the pews.

it was peculiar, the first time it occurred to you. the area where your body separates into two and forms two legs — the centre of it all, the middle where Eve had it covered in statues and paintings with a leaf, the middle where you had only learned of it in anatomical drawings. you knew what the vagina, cervix and the ovaries were, but seeing the convergence of pink and maroon between your legs confused you, even scared you.

and the next was when you’d had a guy come up to you whilst doing up your university application, saying something along the lines of how cute you were, would you like to grab a drink some time? and you were left dumbfounded and unable to answer. you let your eyes travel over his features, of the exposed arms of his button up shirt and the thickness of his forearms, you let your eyes skim over his plump thighs before you’re asked “are you okay?”

“n . . no sorry, i already have a boyfriend.” you lie through your teeth and all the guy does is sigh before walking away — but now you’re left with a bigger problem . . why was the thing between your legs throbbing? you swear you can feel your panties getting wet as well, but you aren’t quite sure why.

that night you’re lying in bed with a lewd website shining right in your face, as you’ve laid here for about two hours already, going through in your head whether you really wanted to do this. your hands had been clean, untainted from the moment you were born, but you imagine going to university and knowing not a thing about sex and that makes your whole body burn in embarrassment.

you chicken out and fall asleep.

“honey! come down here, i want you to meet someone.” your mother calls out to you, running about like she usually does. she’s always overworking — caring for the newborn, cooking the meals, cleaning the place. why don’t you ask dad to help sometimes? / nonsense! he works so hard and deserves a break! i don’t mind. / but he just lazes around at home after work . .

you’re pleasantly surprised to find a long-haired man at your front door, clad in a thick and loose turtleneck sweater with a gentle smile on his face. that uncomfortable feeling returns to your core and you land a hand to your stomach to calm the churning that’s happening.

“hello, and you are?”

you’d never think you would see one of God’s angels on earth in actual flesh in front of you. you’re convinced God is looking over you and you think you might see heaven when that silky voice repeats himself again.

“hi, kind miss, are you alright?”

“h . . huh? oh! yeah, uhm— who are you?”

your mother smacks you on your shoulder and sidles up to your side, holding onto your arm a little tightly that it hurts just a bit.

“don’t be rude!” she whisper-shouts to you, “this is geto suguru, and—”

“and i’m the new priest for the church.”

that catches you off-guard. he’s the new priest that was just transferred over? he looks anything but a holy man of God, what with his long hair and gauges in his ears; if you didn’t know any better you would think he was the one paying for the strip club instead. he seems to read your mind.

“i know i look . . a bit of a delinquent, miss, but i promise you the word of God is what i strictly live by. i honour and praise him with all that i can.”

“ah, i’m sorry if you thought i thought that way, father.” you mumble, giving him an awkward smile that he misses because he’s too busy focusing on the way you say father. you’re prepared to close the door on him already; the pulsing sensation between your legs isn’t fading and your whole body feels like it burns in hell. you rub your thighs together for some sort of relief, nothing.

“that’s usually the response i get, so i thought i would preface it first.” a little laugh leaves geto’s lips and if it wasn’t for you holding on for dear life on the door, you definitely would’ve buckled under your knees. “no hard feelings.”

“he’s a charmer, ain’t he?” there’s another sheepish laugh from the pastor at that. “told me he’s been going around giving cakes to all the people as a way to thank them for letting him take over the church.” your heart melts at that — he looked so hot and had a heart of gold, too?

“what cake did you get us, father?” you blurt out and you have no time to take it back, but the preacher doesn’t seem to mind. you also don’t seem to mind that barrier of authority that was established ever since he‘s introduced himself as the new priest of the church. it felt . . friendlier, less intimidating than the previous. it was probably mostly due to him not wearing his cassock or collar, though.

“chocolate.” that one word possibly ignited every nerve in you. the smooth lilt in his voice paired with the slight smirk. it was detrimental. you were going to hell, you were condemned to eternal damnation.

“how’d you know i liked chocolate?”

he shrugs, “lucky guess.” wrong.

he had come around the day before already, but you were too distracted with work and pressured with a deadline that music drained out everything else — one look at your side profile and the hard-working first year university student was all it took for geto to return again today with another cake of your liking. oh! you’re such a sweet one for asking what flavour we like; frankly, my dear boy, my husband and i don’t really eat cake but her . . loves it for some reason. i wonder where she gets the sweet tooth from, honestly.

geto could only thank his saviour that your mother had promised not to tell you he already came around yesterday. and it looks like she didn’t.

“i should get going, miss . .”

“(y/n).”

geto simply nods his head, resisting the urge to call your name pretty and only manages a decent call to your mother. “mrs (l/n), i’m heading off, thank you for having me. (y/n).”

you return his smile, hesitantly, inching the door close with immense difficulty — you wanted to see him walk away with that imposing height of his, of the proper gait he carried himself with and the politeness in which he greets people of the town.

that night you locked yourself in your room, muttering out some dumb excuse of having to study for a test when in reality you were more interested in the feeling between your legs. it both excited and scared you when you first find a comfortable position on your bed, stalling for a good half ’n hour before the clinking cutlery of dinner happening downstairs had brought you to your senses. there were countless articles open in your safari tab, none of which helped your growing dilemma — a tear in the Red Sea between the sin of pleasure and the liberation of acting on it. you felt like Moses, treading in the centre, on the fence.

one last text made you yelp out loud.

[8:03 pm, read]: R u coming down 4 dinner?

it was your mother, as if she knew what was happening behind doors.

[8:03 pm, delivered]: nope, sorry mummy. need to study for this test, its important !

[8:05 pm, read]: Alright, alright. I left out a serving of what we cooked tonite. Heat up if u need to with the microwave O.K.? Don’t sleep so late!

you simply favourited her message, losing all motivation from before; until your mind crosses over dinner and goes straight to that chocolate cake, and then to the person who had brought it.

“Farewell happy fields / Where joy forever dwells: Hail, horrors, hail.”

“geto . . geto suguru.” the name feels foreign. it does sound like a countryside name but it felt like he had come from the city instead. “geto . .” you sigh, letting your hands tremble and move along your body. they brush over your chest, over your nipples and you recoil a little from the strange feeling. they harden under your touch as you continue to repeat his name.

each murmur of his name is a step farther from God, dipping your toes into the waters of hell as your fingers travel lower, lower, lower. you press a finger against your clit unknowingly, and you let out a loud moan; you immediately slap a hand over your mouth.

but the pleasure’s too much, and so you try again. one hand goes back to your nipples, squeezing your tits and playing with them while your fingers rub pathetic circles along your core.

“su . .” you gulp. “geto—”

you pant softly to yourself as you continue to rub your clit, messy, inexperienced circles in whatever shape or form. as long as it felt good to you, you were doing it. you made sure to keep your moans in as your hips bucked into your hands, back arching off the bed in needy movements. your hands were getting tired, clutching at the bedsheets.

long hair, built physique, crucifix on his neck. funny, you never noticed that before, but now you imagine it clearly, dangling over your face. you’re imagining geto fucking you, thrusting his cock into you as he groans out your name.

you’re at the end of your tether, feeling the deep plunge of your body in Satan’s lair the same time you cum for the first time in your life and your body shakes so violently. you flail around on your bed, bite into your shirt, anything to keep you quiet from the immense orgasm you had just felt. your pussy clenches around nothing and your hand aches so much it might fall off, but it just feel so damn good that you only have a minute’s rest before you’re rubbing at your clit again.

scooping up a little of your cum, you marvel at the clear liquid, sucking on your finger to try the thing that’s always drenched your panties. and soon you’re conjuring the image of the long-haired priest yet again, never really studying for that test you made up or even eating dinner — all you do is rest and come again, each time more wrecked than the last time.

you dreaded going to church the next morning.

it had slipped your mind that service was to continue once geto has gotten settled down in the rectory, a small outhouse at the back of the church that had been revamped. you’re not sure on how father geto was able to get it done up so fast but, you’re not one to question.

with the short walk to church, you regret not eating the night before, groaning softly at the discomfort of your growling stomach. what you were more worried of though, was what would happen to you once you stepped foot in the church. was your body going to go up in flames? were you going to get ridiculed by the townspeople? were you going to get called out by father geto in front of everyone?

“what’s gotten you so worked up?” your father was walking behind and smoking, as always, not giving a shit about your mother and the newborn.

“nothing . . just, wondering if i got everything in my head for my test.” your mother coos, and your baby brother in the carrier thinks it’s because of him. he babbles into your mom’s shirt, giggling.

“you’ll do fine, honey,” the reassurance worried you only more. you were lying outright — you had no test, you weren’t even studying, you were busy—!

“i raised a smart girl, didn’t i?” you can only manage a smile, reaching the church within minutes. taking the chance to mutter a short prayer and a plea, you take a deep breath and that light from above Lucifer’s kingdom seem to call out to you again.

stepping into the simple but cozy church, you dip your hands in holy water. Father, Son, Holy Spirit along your forehead, chest and shoulders before you trail behind your mother, suggesting places for you to sit at the back. she only waved your hand away, pointing towards the front. we always sit at the front! why the sudden change? / nothing . . maybe thought we could switch it up a little.

the mass starts after a few minutes of waiting, and you have the luxury of wallowing in your self-pity and guilt for those few minutes, trying to get the very filthy imagery of father geto above you, father geto between your legs, father geto himself out of your head. you fail, it’s only amplified when the bell rings and the congregation stands up.

everyone waits in anticipation for the new priest in this small town, hoping he won’t disappoint them like the last one. but they already seem to be in good spirits as he makes the entrance down the very short church. two altar boys follow behind him in the procession, accompanied by an organist and a duo of choir singers, straining to have their voice heard over the loud instrument. he’s already made some friends, nodding to the excited kid who whispers and the shy girl who waves her hands at him. but while everyone feels anticipation in hopes of a good sermon, dread is only making your legs feel like lead, you feel lightheaded, dizzy even.

because whatever you had imagined last night was him in his sweater get-up, and it just now sinks in what a disgusting thing you were doing as you watch the rich purple of his chasuble sway alongside his stole — the very image of him in his priest robes (in Lent season too, not to mention) — meant to deter you from more thoughts, only fed your desires.

geto suguru made being a pastor look so natural, and attractive, that it was almost criminal.

“good morning, brothers and sisters, how are we all doing this morning?” there’s a few murmurs around, but geto doesn’t falter, instead pressing on with his very convincing, beautiful speech; as does he with the rest of the mass. he conducts himself with as much professionalism as he can, handling the Eucharist with proper hands, giving a sermon whilst giving you too many eyes, distributing Holy Communion with a gentle, accepting smile; your skin burnt when he handed you the body of Christ, a soft inaudible “amen” hanging off your lips.

father geto was all the talk after, some hanging around to catch a minute of geto’s time if they could and you were no different, purposely looping your arm through your mother’s and slowly down your pace.

“goin’ out for a smoke.” your father gruffly tells the three of you, two of which understands better. your newborn simply cuddles deeper into your mother’s breast, humming softly into the nap.

“’kay.” it was opportunistic, now, as your eyes flit around the place to find geto talking to two older ladies. he’s politely bent down to reach their heights better, chasuble now removed and simply in his alb, one patting his shoulder and the other giggling. you think you imagine it but his eyes dart over to you for a moment and then off to the other parishioners.

“how are you two lovely ladies doing?” you hear him before you see him and the voice startles you a little, jumping back from brushing your baby brother’s almost non-existent hair.

“fine.” it comes out kurt and abrupt and you burn when your mother nudges you like yesterday.

“think what she means is that we’re perfectly fine. how was your first mass?”

father geto looks around the church, recalls the altar boys, ingrains each church-goer into his head, “i hope the congregation likes me.”

“oh, nonsense! i’m sure they do,” your mother reassures. she was always good like that, putting others before her and making sure they see the best in themselves, “that was a very riveting sermon you delivered.”

“yeah—! yeah, i . . really enjoyed it, father geto.”

a small smile tugs at the corners of his mouth, “did you now?”

you nod, and he continues, “you enjoyed me telling you that sin was revolting?”

when he phrases it like that . . you swallow, “isn’t that what God’s whole schtick is?”

and that makes father geto laugh, because for such an innocent flower like you, you make it sound like you were forced to go to church and made to learn the basis of why God exists and now you just don’t know what to do with it. it’s common for people at their university age where they’re exposed to more views and mindsets, to question the religion you were born in and think about what it meant to be tied to a god you didn’t even really know existed, and when that happens, Christianity turns stagnant and boring.

“yes, pretty much, miss (y/n), but His schtick also involves forgiving anyone who has sinned against Him. after all, that’s what He died on the cross for.”

“y . . yeah, i know, father geto.”

you only realise now his purple chasuble matches his eyes, eyes that swirl with the colours of amethyst. they’re much brighter in the parish lighting, and they hold your stare much longer than yesterday. there’s the tugging feeling at your stomach again that goes right down to your centre and it throbs; your eyes flutter and blink to get you out of your head.

“good that you know . . of course, it’s not an invitation to sin. self-restraint and chastity still exists,” you hate how he puts an emphasis on the latter word, because he could be referring to anything, “but we need not be worried for our lives. we only need to pray and repent in prayer, and God will have mercy on us.”

but well, if God didn’t want you to sin, how then can he explain creating such an attractive person? if God valued his followers’ self control, why did he have to plant such lewd, inappropriate thoughts of his preacher in your head?

father geto could probably see your dilemma with how hard he was staring at you, and he only makes it worse by putting his larger hand on your left shoulder. it descends deeper to your upper arm and the skin there ignites—

“i hope you liked the chocolate cake.”

you manage a small smile, “haven’t had the chance to try it, sorry, father.”

“don’t apologise.” you forget your mother and baby brother is even beside you with how he talks to you. you’d love to be on his chest, hearing the deep rumbling of his voice or even have his hands be somewhere else but your arm. you don’t know how simply talking to you has got him doing everything in his power to restrain himself; not even a prayer from God could help.

“The mind is its own place, and in it self / Can make a Heav'n of Hell, a Hell of Heav'n.”

what you don’t know, either, that the hand on your shoulder was between his legs just last afternoon, trying so hard not to sneak under his cassock. he could barely keep his moans in, palming his bulge from above his robes at the mere thought of you. no touching means less sin, right? he comes to that pathetic conclusion easily, so all he does is bury himself in the outhouse after distributing his cakes, hips positioned over his pillow and he grinds.

the feeling for father geto was so archaic, been so long since he’s given up his life to God right after graduating university. all the carefree times that he’s experienced — drinking in dorms, going to parties, getting some nice quick fucks in between exams — were going to stop for good. but that doesn’t mean he stopped lusting.

lust. one of the seven deadly sins, a weak point for father geto’s journey as a pastor. it’s obvious now too that he hasn’t really left his older ways, bucking his hips into the fabric of his pillow. he thinks of you, your sweet little eyes and your cute outfit at home, he thinks of your face twisted into pleasure as he’s positioned between your legs.

father geto twitches, friction against the underside of his cock feeling so good after years and years of holding back — with a pretty face to think of, too. his hips ruts in short thrusts, desperate for that high and he chokes on a moan imagining your sweet voice begging to cum. and so does he, shooting such a large, hot load into his underwear that even his cassock is stained with his cum. but unlike you, he’s already thinking of his next round — if he’s doomed to die by lust, then might as well go all the way.

father geto spares a glance towards the door just to be safe before flipping over on his back, and pulls his robes above his lower half. the sight is dirty, underwear painted a darker colour and cum sticking to every part of the fabric. once he wraps a hand around his cock, geto is gone, pumping it so fast he might have gotten a burn along his length but it’s all rewarded by the second quick orgasm he reaches — spurting ribbons of cum all over his holy garments.

it’s why he didn’t have time to write a proper sermon for the morning mass. he was up all night, stroking himself — just, from the thought of you.

it was father geto’s turn to have uneven breaths as you asked if he was okay, hand on your shoulder shaking. but the visions of last night is overtaken quickly by his need to impress the other parishioners, and so he gives you a tense smile.

“enjoy the cake.” it sounded like an innuendo if you’ve ever heard one, but you mutter a soft thank you, before heading off back home with your family. that contact with your shoulder is all you can think of, giddy at the warmth of his hand and eyes.

“baby, could you open the door for me?” your mother calls out to you, hastily wiping her hands on her apron and abandoning the kitchen to tend to your crying baby brother.

“ok, mummy!” the doorbell’s been rung twice now, jogging a little to the door to prevent the person from waiting. you didn’t think to look through the peephole, a tight-knit (conservative) community made you trust anyone, opening the door to find father geto standing in front of you.

“o-oh. hi, father . .?”

he was dressed in his roman collar, a black shirt with a white strip around the neck and some black jeans. it wasn’t as casual as the first day, and it still held an ode to God even on a weekday.

“hi, (y/n).”

“ohhh! it’s father geto, come, come!” your mother bellows throughout the house, baby brother on her hip as she bounces him to get him to stop wailing. “are you hungry already?”

geto displays a meek smile, “a little, mrs (l/n), since you mentioned how big of a feast you were cooking.”

your mouth drops in recognition; was that why she was so preoccupied for the whole day? doing the maximum in the kitchen not just because it was for your father’s recent promotion at his job, but also for dinner with father geto.

“you’re having . . dinner with us.” it’s more of a statement to yourself than a question to the priest, but he still catches on and assists you by closing the door himself, and taking off his shoes. already, he looks part of the family, looking like a hard-working husband coming back from his job to you. instead, he’s answered the vocation of priesthood, and not matrimony.

“it looks like i am.” it’s such a sly comment, like he already knew the effect he had on everyone. this sucking up was just to get every church-goer to like him more, and it’s working.

geto is charming at the dinner table as he is at the parish, cracking jokes that make both your parents and you laugh, talking about his university life and telling a myriad of stories that he’s gone through.

“what did you major in in university, father?” it felt such a weird question, especially with an honorific attached to something that you were doing at the moment — it felt out of place that someone so close to your age was already pursuing a lifetime commitment of serving God.

“my studies focused mostly on philosophy and theology. i minored in linguistics.” there’s a chorus of ooh’s that echo throughout the table, cleaning up the last bit of food on his plate before he continued. “i’m currently going more in depth for latin, which is a stunning language, beyond those who say it’s dead and should stay dead.”

that only makes him hotter, and you cross your legs beside him, looking at him from the corner of your eye at you play with the last meatball on your plate. the sauce leaves a trail of red from the tomato, somehow mirroring the murder of your old self — or what you thought it was. it was more of a knife wound, a cowardly stab in the arm.

that dinner with father geto only deepened your sense of guilt.

it was the way the priest was quick to stand just as your mother does, offering to help with cleaning up the dinner table. even when she brushes him off, he insisted, answering for her when he only silently takes the plates to the back. all your mom does is shake her head with a smile, letting you help as well. your father just watches curiously, entertaining the baby with his canned alcohol.

“i’m embarrassed i can’t fight back against you well enough to stop ya from cleaning up at my own house,” your mother confesses, already having used her last breath to tell him to not help with the dishes as well. you scrub at a stain on geto’s plate over and over, a stubborn one at that until you finally are able to get it out. it still leaves a faint red glow, though.

“it’s nothing, really, mrs (l/n), i’m happy to help whenever.” father geto’s eyes rake over your figure as you clean alongside your mother, heel bouncing up and down; to non-existent music or in impatience he wasn’t sure.

she just takes the soapy plate from your hands with a laugh, “c’mon, it’s okay, my dear. go entertain father geto.”

it was the way his courtesy shined through when he doesn’t enter your room until he has gotten verbal confirmation from you, guiding him in with a uneasy hand as he looked around your quaint little space. it was filled with photos, some plants, tons of research papers and a messy table to match, but all he did was reassure you. you take note of his flowing hair and the laid back hairstyle he liked to don when it wasn’t for mass.

“how is university treating you?” you’re stuck on being completely honest and lying with every answer, but father geto has a face that makes it difficult to lie to.

“it’s . . alright, i guess,” you settle on your bed, crossing your legs and hoping he wouldn’t pick up any of your essays. thinking is manifesting, though, and his hands naturally go for the paper with the many red markings on the front page.

“Paradise Lost? by Milton?” ah. that paper. you shoot up from the sheets before he can read it, because frankly your thesis in that paper was weak and wasn’t well supported, but you still believed it deeply. you were just having a little bit of trouble straying from your reverence for God. you only manage to clutch the top of your paper, but geto is adamant on reading it, piqued by genuine curiosity.

“the retelling of Milton’s Paradise Lost humanises the experience of Satan’s (or Lucifer’s) fall from glory . .” he trails off, reading over your evidences and analysis. you feel like you’re being read like an open book, laid out bare for vultures to pick at and for God to enumerate your sins until you felt no shame.

with his head still tilted down, father geto has to look up through his lashes and bangs, seemingly making you cower more and more in your spot as the unsolicited advice for your essay dies down on his tongue. the size of his hands has you hypnotised, and he decides it’s against his own values to give feedback about a text he so childishly brushed off when he was in university, even if he had to read it to complete four years in the seminary. geto places a hand upon yours and the heat is dizzying; you can’t help but think if he was just normal person, instead, holding your hand like this.

it was the way he let you explain yourself a little better through your own words. it was a premature essay, anyway, made to test out your close reading and citation skills. but he found your interpretation of Milton’s poem to be much more insightful than he expected it to be — you think maybe, your understanding of the text grows the more you learn about your body, how you like to be pleasured; you feel like Lucifer.

“i . . don’t necessarily think you are born into evil. it’s multi-faceted and loaded, this question. God our Father would do anything but create evil willingly, it’s just unfortunate that the people that bring up their offspring contribute to the shaping of their identity and outcome.”

“then, how . .” your lips twist as you think of a way to word the question, “how would that justify evil existing? wouldn’t the fact that evil is developed somehow meant that God created evil in some shape or form, in the first place?”

father geto rushes to answer but—

“why did he have to create the serpent that tempted Eve in the first place? couldn’t he have just left them alone in Eden?”

“...there to dwell / In adamantine chains and penal fire / Who durst defy th' Omnipotent to arms.”

you frown, not expecting the other to answer but instead just wallowing in your thoughts. you never thought the talk with father geto would turn into some philosophy lesson, but the more you chatted with him on the bed, the more the conversation seemed to steer that way.

your own faith wavers in the night, a quietness settling over the two of you like a cloak of stars. the mass of each star weighs heavily with your questions up in the air until you faintly hear his answer.

“i don’t . . know, miss (y/n).”

“ah! no no— sorry to dump everything on you, father geto,” you scratch the back of your head, “it was just passing thoughts. i’ve never thought to think of this before.”

it was morbid, it was macabre. it was like looking over and seeing a skeleton in your place instead of flesh and skin and yet each question after question ignites something in him that no one has excited before. he can already feel lust influencing the other six, pumping through his veins at a life void of God, void of religion, a free place to think of the omnipotence of a higher being that no one was sure really existed.

“it’s okay . . it’s natural to ask. it’s natural to inquire. God,” he nods like he was in a trance; the word feels weird on his tongue, “God would want this.”

that night you did anything but sin, clutching the essay between your hands and digging your knees into the floor with elbows on your bed until they ached and you prayed. you wished blessings on your family, you wished blessings on the parishioners, you wished blessings on father geto and you wished eternal damnation on yourself.

there’s a heavy pull on your heart when you go to sleep a few minutes after and the dream you have of your body turning to soot and burning with each feet into flames makes you crave salvation all the more — like all a bad dream, it will be fine as long as you pray, and pray, and pray.

but the flesh desires what the heart denies: the more you ‘hang’ with father geto (by God, he was perfectly okay with that word when you let it slip to your mother. he merely throws up a peace sign in a ‘cool’ way and then immediately cringes, but it makes you laugh), the more you find yourself attracted to his morals, to his ideals, to the natural way in which he exists. he could speak for hours on end, voice sounding like birdsong and a chilling breeze all at the same time.

his voice did wonders in your head, as well, coaxing you into betraying your own code; and you betray it easily. that phantasmic voice leaving you to remove your top and pinching your nipples as soft little moans leave your mouth. the imaginary sway of his crucifix above your face while you harshly abuse your clit and dip a finger into you for the first time. the feeling is so foreign and weird that you shamelessly think of the slight lilt of his voice helping you: “it’ll feel better soon, (y/n). c’mon, finger your pussy for father geto.”

father geto had a natural talent for talking and preaching. that downturn of tone like hitting a dead-end when he holds a point above your head (“but”) and then resolves it into perfect cadence like chords ending a phrase when he proposes a solution (“God will take care of everything”). he does it so much you think he’s rather convincing himself more than he’s convincing you, though.

“perhaps this parable that Jesus uses tells us rather to look within ourselves, to look within the vineyard that is us. the owner have done everything: kept the roots tied so it would not be trampled, making sure they get all the sunlight and water it needs, yet . .” he pauses a little, looking at the almost full parish now that he’s won over the hearts of your town. his eyes flit down to you at the second pew, shooting you a quick smile.

“and yet he yields sour grapes. we pray, we act civil and diplomatic, we are giving, but are you truly doing it for the glory of God? is that maybe why we only get the sour grapes — not satisfied with the ‘thank you’ after doing a favour or silence from God after praying daily?”

geto looks over the last bits of the scribbled sermon, a little more coherent than last week, but still done with thoughts of you. there’s multiple smudges of his words that he has to squint and stutter a bit, caused by the frantic cleaning of his cum upon the paper.

“we all . . naturally expect things back, but to be Christian, to be a follower of Christ, we would have to abandon all thoughts of that.” father geto’s mind wanders to last night as his eyes look for you again. “we would need to be generous, to be kind without needing anything in return.”

father geto integrates into the church easily, shown in how his sermons capture the hearts of many. albeit, they never really take in the true meanings of the preachings he gives, but it’s enough for geto if they nod and mutter amen like fools in mass; whatever they do out of it is out of his hands.

but along the many preachings he does, there is one subject he fears approaching: lust, the one thing that threatens the downfall of his vocation and yet he cannot get enough of it. each walk and meeting with you only heightens his desire, makes his cock throb beneath his robes. each sunday he wishes he could split his soul in half — one as the confessor and one as the confessing — and repent in the confessional box.

“today’s gospel from Mark, chapter 6 talks about lust, briefly.” there’s a shake in his voice, eyes now scrambling over the congregation to find you in a much more revealing top contrasting with the out-of-place cardigan you have on. he’s sure it was mrs (l/n) that had made you put that on before you left the house; the house where he’s memorised the placement of your shoe rack and how your door creaks when it’s opened too quickly. geto is so fucked.

geto clears his throat before continuing, seeing you adjust your body for a moment, “King Herod is tempted by his flesh when he sees one of Herodias’ daughters dancing, so much so that she tempts him to commit murder. a clear beheading, just from giving into her body, and when she asks of him, he delivers like a dog. this calls us to truly think of the desires that we possess. they need not be sexual,” soft whispers emerge, a taboo subject, “they can also be related to money, to power.”

“lust for more things turns into greed when we act on that initial lust,” geto is sweating by now. he pulls lightly on his collar when you press your arms together in retaliation and he has to look away from the way your tits perk up so perfectly.

you had to know what you were doing, surely. partially — you were feeling cold, but you stifle a smile when you realise how geto’s eyes linger a little longer on you, or rather your chest, before he coughs and continues,

“when we are driven so terribly by the feeling that we abandon all morals just to please this person, thing on earth is when we tread into dangerous territory. no earthly possession must make you feel this way,”

the irony settles in his bones after he says it and his dick twitches at the thought of having you under the podium right now, sticking his fat cock down your throat while you struggle to keep the gagging noises to a minimum.

“no matter . .” a gulp, “how rewarding the aftermath must be.”

father geto knows you both are braving the edge of God’s merry kingdom. it is just a matter of who falls first.

“your place is in the kingdom of God, meant to fulfil eternal life with Jesus and the Lord which is what we all should be keeping in mind and working towards, ignoring all the distractions that will soon fade and die off.”

geto coughs again in the mic and breaths shakily, finally tearing his eyes away from you before he concludes the sermon and eases into the Offertory and Eucharist. he buries himself so deep in the procession in order to get you out of his mind, and it’s shown in the haste in which he carries the mass. it feels like he rushes so much that even the day outside follows too, because evening seems to arrive earlier than usual.

the sun sets outside, illuminating the altar. it taunts you like reminding you of the beauty of your faith; it deepens the need developing in your core.

“body of Christ.” you can faintly hear it being repeated over and over at the front, just a few steps away from your turn and you wish you weren’t standing behind your dad’s hulking figure so you could actually prepare yourself for father geto. you’re greeted with his cascading hair tied up into a bun and the cup containing Jesus’ body, gold and shining. you see your stretched reflection before your eyes snap back to the pastor in front and you will your hands not to hail routine.

instead, you stick out your tongue for the father to put the communion on and you take in the little panic of his hands and the choked sentence of body of Christ. his eyes drift down to your pink tongue, to the small twitch it does when he places the host on it and he cannot wait for you to get out of his sight, lest he be overtaken by the sin he particularly preached about just minutes ago.

“any test to study for tonight, darling?” your mother asks after dinner, meaning to ask after seeing you be so fidgety like you needed to be somewhere.

“uh . . no, not exactly, but i do have something i need to do.”

“oh! what is it, sweetie?” she doesn’t read your expressions, you mannerisms, so you were safe from that, but you willed your voice to not break. your body is on fire, you needed to quell your needs, now.

“just— i promised father geto i would meet him later for a confession, since he’s so busy, he could only propose a late timing,” no, you didn’t. either way, you give a reason, explain yourself before she can speculate, works every time.

“oh, okay . .” she trails off, seemingly unaffected, “just don’t get home too late, alright, darling?”

you nod even though she’s too focused on the dishes, pressing a hand to her back in thanks and she carries on, carefree, while you sprint to your room. lock the door, get your phone out.

“ . . ings turns into greed when we act on that initial lust . .” the words recorded just hours ago leave the phone speakers on a low volume, already lighting a flame in your pussy when your hand brushes over the microphone and he stops at the same time, “when we are terribly dri . .”

you sigh loudly when your hand starts to make its way down to your centre, rubbing slightly to the sound of his voice. your clit is just begging to be touched, begging for your inexperienced hands flicking your nub in every which way. impatient, your hands dip into your cunt and your jaw drops open at the intrusion of your fingers, just as your eyes widen and your imagination has never worked as well as it does now.

you can see geto’s amethyst eyes boring into yours, you can see his hips fucking into yours and yet it doesn’t give you the same kick as you think it would — you’re fucking yourself with your fingers even faster, circles on your clit increasing in speed and messiness and you smear your juices all around.

“father— father geto—” it was pathetic, the way you moaned for a man of God, but the feeling of your cunt clenching around what you wished was his dick was too good, the coil in your stomach still feeling rather uncomfortable but welcoming and you’re unravelling with a silent scream soon, back arching off the sheets.

“s . . suguru, f-fuck,” the swear word feels weird on your lips, as with his first name, but the trembling of your virgin body is so delicious that you just keep rubbing and rubbing, taking so long to come down from your high as your pants get heavier and heavier. and then his face starts to fade off, eyes turning into lilac air and you’re glancing towards the crumpled essay on your bed with guilt festering in your chest.

“ . . mptations of the flesh are childish, are temporary. they lead you to do foolish things that have no place in the kingdom of God. we may repent and put it past us but the memories that our tainted bodies possess, they remember the sinful things that you did.” the recording of father geto dies out as with his powerful conclusion, speaking so loudly into the mic that it screeches with feedback, you remember. you don’t even know where the guilt builds up from, in your torso and your heart, despite questioning the faith you were in for all your life.

if God did not want us to sin, why did he create temptations and ask us to pray for forgiveness?

you roll over and remove your fingers with a small whine, taking up your phone and opening up the contact with father geto hesitantly. it was meant to be a strictly professional exchange like the conversations he’d had with many other parishioners: updates on the church, changes in mass timings, but your chat was filled with questions from you and answers from him. you didn’t dare ask him anything out of the faith.

[9:37 pm, delivered]: uhm. father geto? are you there?

oh god, it’s you. the you who on the second walk around the town exchanged numbers with him because he found your thoughts so intriguing.

[9:39 pm, read]: Yes, Miss (Y/N). What is it?

you take a deep breath. better to ask for that confession, you couldn’t risk your mother asking about it tomorrow.

[9:40 pm, delivered]: is it alright to have

[9:41 pm, delivered]: can i come over to the church, for a bit

father geto straights up in the rectory, getting closer to the socket where his phone was charging and hovers over the screen. his hands are clammy when typing a response and he manages it in about three minutes.

[9:44 pm, read]: Of course, my dear. The doors of the church are open for the congregation at any time.

bidding goodbye to your mother, you stay on the lit path to the church and you’re bathing in anticipation, too excited to see father geto that you bump into a dark shadow. almost resembling a hard wall, hands emerge from its sides to clutch at your biceps.

“miss (y/n), what is it? what has gotten you up so late at night?” if he was still in university, he would’ve laughed at how he asked that question. hundreds of texts of u up? that mimic the nature of the question right now.

“i was hoping . .” you ignore the tingly feeling of the way in which his hands leave goosebumps along your biceps and then to your forearms. finally, they clutch your hands between his, meant to be like a warm hug but instead is like fire, licking at your fingers and wrist like you’re at the stake. “i was hoping that i could, request you for a confession?”

the priest across you swallows with a nod, swiftly putting a hand across your back to lead you to the booth. you both could’ve done it perfectly fine in the pews, sitting across each other. “the confessional is where we will feel the strongest compulsion of Christ. come,” he answers your question before you can ask it, “take your place on the kneeler behind the curtains.”

father geto showers in the same sea of anticipation when he makes sure you’re okay before heading over to his side of the confessional. he’s imagined this scene over and over — you on the pew kneeler, breath warming the velvet curtains — he cannot help the bulge that forms.

the first words he speak behind the curtain shock you, voice sounding so close yet so muffled and distant.

“come, now, (y/n), make the Sign of the Cross with me.”

Father, Son and Holy Spirit

upon your head, chest and shoulders you do it, taking a deep breath before you start. “bless me, father, for i have sinned. it has been . . about five years since my last confession.”

geto nods, the soft carry of your voice in the late night having an effect on the priest. the hold he has on the crucifix of the rosary is so tight it makes an indent on his skin, the only thing on mortal flesh to keep him from falling.

“What though the field be lost? All is not lost; the unconquerable will, And study of revenge, immortal hate, And courage never to submit or yield.”

your thighs rub together, hot breath sending chills down your clutched hands and down your arm as you ponder over the things you’ve done — “i’ve . . lied to my mother at times, to my friends when they ask me where i’m from. i have stolen money for my own needs, n-not— that high of an amount but um . . still a fair amount.”

“what did you need to buy, sweetheart?”

the name surprises you, but you simply ignore it. “i wanted new clothes — was all the rave at uni when the girls wore miniskirts and little tops. unfortunately it didn’t suit me.”

geto swears under his breath when the image of you in such skimpy clothing infiltrate his thoughts. his curiosity overtakes him; overwhelmed with emotion, he never had the chance to see what you were wearing before he pulls back the curtains and hopes your eyes are closed and they are: pulled tight with quivering eyebrows. there, like a sinning Christian is you in a thin camisole, cleavage showing beneath your arms. he peers lower, gasps softly to himself when you’re wearing a skirt.

“father? father, what’s wrong?” you think you hear the swift swoosh and the rings of the miniature curtain clatter.

“n—nothing is wrong, miss (y/n). are there any other sins you want to confess?”

you swallow, “i . . i’ve wished misfortune on my father.”

not the sin he was hoping for but he wasn’t surprised; his head moves in understanding. he had seen your father — merely a ghost in the house and hardly contributing to fostering the family. it goes against what Mary and Joseph stands for as the Holy Family, but father geto has seen a lot of absent fathers and incompetency to truly be taken aback anymore.

“i’ve also . . i’m not sure whether to tell you this, father geto.”

your breaths were all you could hear in the silence of the church, an eerie quietness settling as if the critters and animals of the earth strived to listen to your ultimate sin, too. Beelzebub, Asmodeus, possibly even Lucifer himself clawed themselves up from hell to eavesdrop.

“of course you can, my dear.” the wind through the wooden confessional box sounds like the hisses of the three demons, like they have had holy water sprayed on them from the mere sounding of his voice; but they look hopefully for a server of Christ to fall exactly like they did.

“it’s, related to my body, father. i,” gulping, you continue with a prompt from the other, “i’ve had this growing need, like, one has when they’re hungry. they have the need to fill their stomachs. or— or a sudden pain you have to massage yourself through, like a cramp in the arm of sorts.”

“well . . is it your torso or your arm?”

“it’s . .” you spare a glance towards your centre under your very, very short skirt, the familiar pulsing of your clit turning more and more prominent. “it’s related to my pussy, father.”

you hear a choke from the other side, and then you realise your choice of words.

“ah— m-my bad! i meant my . . vagina, father geto.”

“no— no u-uhm, the previous term was fine. could you describe what you did? how far did you go so i c-can . . give you the appropriate penance?”

behind the curtains, geto have already started palming his bulge, massaging the ache in his length that still continues to grow and harden. the way you describe is so terribly innocent and unknowing, a deepening urge to corrupt you running through his veins.

“i played with um— my breasts, first. i pulled up my top and felt around my nipples, but i got impatient and . .” geto hangs on to every word of yours, shifting to get his robes out of the way. it was just like the first night: his underwear stained with so much pre-cum it’s probably changed the colour of the garment. he peels it away and the lack of restraint leaves him sighing softly while you ramble on—

“i tried playing with that . . thing between my legs.” you recall the quick google search from that first night, “i played with my clit, father.”

geto stifles a groan into his hand just as he starts to stroke himself softly. “y . . yeah, and?”

“i tried to um . . fit my finger in. it was uncomfortable, at first,” you cannot ignore the pull of your core; your hand shimmies past the clasped hands and down to your skirt. you have no panties to swipe to the side: you came here without any. your finger rubs gently at the throbbing bundle of nerves, a soft whine leaving your lips before you remember you’re in the midst of a confession.

“but i . . i got it into my pussy soon enough. and then i put in another finger.” there was a more audible grunt from the other side, the confessional weirdly heating up immensely as you follow your confession: two fingers easily glide in from just how wet you were.

“when?” there’s a strain in father geto’s voice when he asks it, maybe because he was trying so hard to keep quiet. his jaw is locked as he pumps his cock slowly because his tip is leaking so much that even a simple movement would give him away.

“w-wha—?”

“w-when did you first start . . touching your pussy, (y/n)?” hearing a priest say such a lewd word makes you clench around your fingers.

“after you came to deliver t-that chocolate cake . . father geto.”

“f-fuck—” geto squeezes his eyes shut and it’s like he’s a university student again losing his virginity for the first time by the hands of some random chick pumping him. the implied confession has him stroking faster; it was after that trip he made to your house, it was after seeing you stand at the door like a good little girl, it was because of him, right? right?

you snap back the curtains and your mouth waters at the scene: father geto hunching over the little window that separates the two of you and his head hung low; his cassock gathers around his hips and his cock— good Lord, his cock was so big, clutched tightly between his left hand. his tip was weeping, an angry red as it continued to push out globs of pre.

“f-father!” geto doesn’t seem to care, giving you a drunk and nonchalant glance as he continues to stroke his shaft. he knows it’s wrong, doing this in the house of the Lord but it feels so fucking good. “y-you—”

you’re at a loss for words, pointing to his exposed bottom, but even though you’re speaking out against him, you can’t help but follow his hand as it moves up and down like a spell. his eyes are simply pleading, hips bucking up and you would think he was a parishioner instead. shaking in the presence of God, in the presence of you—

you stick your hand past the squeezy window, drawing his interest and before you know it you’re blindly bumping into his erection. there, he silently grabs your hand, guiding it to his shaft. he uncomfortably leans down to look at your face, eyebrows still furrowed but your tongue stuck out and his dick twitches in your hand.

“s-shit, baby . .” geto swears under his breath, and again when you pull on his dick to the window. uncomfortably his body lightly slams against the partition, a soft thud coming from the booth as his head collides with the wood, “(y/n) . .”

he can’t see you, but he can hear you. “may i, father geto?”

you don’t wait for his answer, gauging mainly from the heavy breaths coming from above you. they really do need to change the confessional, too, because you can clearly hear every word he mumbles out from the holes in the partition.

“shiiit—” when you kitten lick his tip, collection the pre-cum that continues to leave his tip, and it feels better than his Rite of Ordination and when he finally got to host his first mass. it’s better than that prophetic dream he has of God calling him to serve Him and the churches in the city with church-goers of boring faces and predictable stories.

here was a rural place, a place where he never expected such a pretty girl to practice the Christian faith, only to falter in the presence of a pastor. he’s gotten such a cute little slut to corrupt. you start to bob your head slowly, unsure of what to do apart from putting his cock on your mouth. your teeth grazes his skin a little and he hisses.

“no teeth. suck in your cheeks,” he cannot see you but he wishes he can, and he knows you listen to his advice when he feels only the smooth glide of your mouth and he wishes it was your pussy that you fingered.

“going deeper, darling,” geto grunts when he pushes his cock past your mouth and into your throat, the sweet gag you do making him dig his forehead deeper into the uneven wooden partition. he can hear your struggling sounds, the muffled moans with his cock down your cavern. but he cannot go any longer without seeing you and reluctantly he pushes you off, still holding your hand and you seem to catch his drift soon enough.

you’re as eager as him, bouncing off the kneeler and leaving your side of the booth, and you’re opening the door to his. the reality of the situation fully sinks in, geto standing there with his cock dripping with your saliva and your camisole pulled down under your tits.

“oh . . baby,” geto coaxes you into him, under a little spell of his when you trail in a light as a feather. you don’t resist his hands pushing you down to your knees, and just like earlier, you’re sticking your tongue out and the priest looks at you from under hooded lids.

“did you touch yourself to me, little girl?” it comes out stronger than intended but you seem to like it, even when your answers are cut off by him slapping his tip on your tongue. it’s so heavy, his cock, and thick too that you can help but suckle on it when you get the opportunity.

“ever since that day, father geto.” you look drunk, swirling your tongue around the tip and continuing to talk, “i . . i imagine you above me and sometimes i dangle my crucifix thinkin’ it’s yours.”

a small laugh escapes the priest. “did you now?” it’s reminiscent of the time where you praise his sermon. his laugh is cut off as you continue to suck him off, hands still confused. he helps you by bringing your hands to the places you can’t reach and you follow like second nature. “dirty fucking slut, aren’t you?”

“i promise i didn’t know anything before this . . father.” you look up at him through your lashes, big doe eyes proving every last bit of your innocence. aht, partially. you did watch a video of this chick blowing her boyfriend, cumming with your own fingers in your throat, wishing it was geto’s cock in your mouth instead.

but having a real cock in your mouth? it was divine, better than the body of Christ in melting on your tongue. your ministrations speed up, the obscene noises of you gurgling reverberating in the wooden box late at night. it would be even worse at the altar where it would echo everywhere.

“y—yeah, baby, that’s it, that’s it . .” his eyes are shut tight, intoxicated on the way your warm mouth feels. you whine into his shaft, tears forming at the corners of your eyes from how deep he was in you.

“mmf— mmph!” your moans sends vibrations up his body, interrupted when geto thrusts his hips into your mouth suddenly and your nose meets with his pubes, eyes rolling back from the muskiness of his body. it smells like incense and sweat, filling your senses as he keeps you right up to his hilt.

“ohh . . fuckfuck fuucck—!” the father pulls you off to let you breathe, pleasantly surprised when you start pumping him violently, tongue stuck out again. there’s a hint of light from the outside that highlights the pinkness of your tongue and he’s never wanted to cum this badly before.

“i’m cumming— baby, baby, i’m g’nna c-cum—” there’s a long, drawn out whine from father geto upon feeling the warmth of your hands stroking his cock so obediently, resting his tip on your tongue where you’d willingly drink his cum like wine. geto shoots his load into your mouth and is the loudest he’s ever been; he doesn’t care who hears him, he doesn’t care if he gets transferred out tomorrow, all he wants to think about is you on your knees and your nipples hardened from confessing to him. he’d like to bet that your pussy was drooling too, hips bucking into the soft skin of your hands.

some of his cum gets onto your face and on your lips, and geto almost cums again when you use his tip to smear his seed around your face, sucking lightly on his tip.

“dirty girl . .” he pulls on your biceps to bring you up, and your lips meet instantaneously like you were meant to be separated for eternity, doomed only to meet for one day a year. it’s messy and sloppy, drool drips from your sides of your mouths as your lips merge together.

“was that your first kiss, baby?” father geto can tell by how you don‘t know how to follow his lead, teeth clashing and breathing uneven.

“am i that obvious?” you frown, feeling self-conscious, but geto is quick to reassure you.

“father geto’s going to teach you everything you need to know, alright?” he brings you in with a finger to your chin, hovers over your lips like a tease.

he teaches you everything you want to know and more, like how the front of the church looks like and how cold the marble of the altar feels against your back as he eats you out and the sensations are all too much for you. he teaches you that using God’s name in vain is alright when it comes to moaning out how good he makes you feel and how your penance is whatever he makes it out to be he teaches you how you can take not one, not two, but three fingers up your pussy.

they’re so much thicker than your own, one hand pushing on your shaking thighs to keep them open while his three fingers move in and out of you. you’re leaking so much, your virgin cunt dripping like holy water down the white marble and onto the matching marble floor.

he teaches you his first name and he makes sure you say it.

“su—suguru . . god, r-right there—” he latches his mouth onto your clit, suckling and flicking his tongue impatiently because he just wants to see you cum. your legs stretch out to knock over a candelabra and the clatter of the metal against the ground is enough to wake up a whole village but you. don’t. care.

your hips grind onto his tongue, feeling the borderline painful stretch of his thick fingers in you but they reach all the right spots that you can’t find it in you to care.

“you taste so good—” geto spits onto your cunt and goes back to sucking on your clit, “pussy’s so fuckin’ sweet, holy fuck.” your noises come out of you non-stop as you bury your hands in his hair, finally knowing what you sound like in an unrestrictive space under the apse.

father geto teaches you how to take a cock up your cute, tight pussy, not bothering for a condom when basically all of your clothes have been discarded throughout the night. it’s almost midnight and your mother have fallen asleep on the couch, unaware her sweet, sweet daughter is losing her virginity in the place she was baptised, where she got her first communion.

the first push into your drenched cunt is painful, mushroom tip stretching you out slightly as you clutch tightly onto his forearm, brows knitted together at the girth of his cock.

“been wanting . . to fuck this pussy so bad, baby,” geto grunts it out, obsessed with how his length slowly disappears into you. he can feel each ridge of your gummy walls, hugging him so snugly that there’s several moans that leave his lips, “have you been— thinking ’bout this as much as i h-have?”

your jaw stretches beyond your limit when he eases himself inch by inch into you, thanking the hells below that your vision was finally coming true. above you there’s that same crucifix, sterling silver with amethyst stones embedded into the design, you remember, catching the light of the lone spotlight above the both of you. there’s a similar glint in father geto’s purple eyes.

“all the time, father—” you moan out, pulling him by his necklace to your lips that are more experienced now, each minute that passes is one more atom of your body turning black from the fire that licks at you from below the altar. you kiss the lips of your parish priest, whimpering slightly when his hips buck and you feel the stretch more clearly now.

“is this what Isaac felt when Abraham tried to bind him for a sacrifice on Moriah? helpless, confused, betrayed?”

geto lets out a hum, sucking hickeys into your neck and you think it’s a million times better than questioning a God that never showed himself, who never really had the intentions of the people in mind, who created sin to watch the downfall of men while he enjoys his time in his kingdom.

if this was what was meant by losing yourself to your devils, you would gladly shake hands with Lucifer and hope the warmth of the fire in hell would be a hug warmer than any hug you’ve received by people of the Christian faith.

“well, baby, do you feel helpless?” thrust “confused,” thrust “and betrayed?” thrust

he punctures each word with a snap of his hips and the pain gives way to pleasure and soon he’s already lost in the comfort of your pussy, hips starting a pace easily that emphasises just how wet you are. the echoes of your weeping cunt and the lewd slapping of his balls into your ass is like the bell ringing during mass, loud, resonating, it shakes your whole body.

“mmfuck . . helpless, m-maybe,” you whine out, legs wrapping around his back, “confused, n-not— suguruuu, yesyesyes!”

you try again, “n-not really. betrayed . .”

you feel like a sacrifice, but it was willing, of a confession that has led to this lewd showing of just how much the temptations of the flesh were insanely undeniable. there’s a murmur of i don’t think i can last much longer into your ear, cock driving into your tight pussy so harshly you’re hoping the small altar doesn’t move.

“b-betrayed, i think—” you squeal when father geto angles his hips up and it kisses your cervix just nicely, sending multiple chills down your body. your moans penetrate the holy air, hair splayed out like a painting and geto knows this is better than any Eucharist he’s ever tasted.

you clench around his fat cock, and he twitches, switching to short, pathetic thrusts into your pussy and he cries out your name as he cums deep in you, giving you all of his seed deep in your womb. your breath catches in your throat at the feeling of your first load, the warmth already hooking you in and you pull so hard on his hair he has no choice but to follow your hand.

you let him handle you deep into the night, taking you off the altar and pushing you up against it, entering you again and you brace yourself against the marble.

“s-sorry, sweetheart, you were saying?” he also wants to apologise that he hadn’t made you cum just yet, but your pussy’s so fucking heavenly he just has to be in you again.

“i-i feel a little betrayed,“ you sag over the altar, back arching into his hold. father geto is fixated on the movement of your ass fucking back onto him, “that a priest would break his m-marriage to God for me.”

“i thought they were supposed to be men of God,” you barely manage to form sentences. geto’s laugh at that startles you, as with the hand grabbing a fistful of your hair and pulling. payback. you love it, however, a sweet Christian girl turned into a slut, and the last bits of the thread unravels when father geto reaches around to rub your clit.

“’m gonna— cum, suguru—” you whine out, body turning to mush with how hard he rams into your pussy. by now there’s a ring of white around the base of his cock, your juices slowly starting to coat it, too and Lucifer succeeds at sin yet again.

you cannot blame Eve when the serpent is as beautiful and cunning as geto suguru, nor can you blame her when his thick cock just reaches so deep into you, tip kissing your sweet spots and his hand impatiently drawing messy circles on your bundle of nerves.

“that just makes it the best though, right?” geto breathlessly says, “a holy man fucking a virgin raw in a holy place where prayers are said.” your legs are spreading further and further, his sweaty body engulfs yours, you’re dizzy, “you’re too tempting, sweet girl. tempting enough for me to want to abandon priesthood just so i can be buried in this pussy for fucking eternity.”

and you cum, head and heart going a hundred miles per hour as your body trembles in his hold. “there we go, little slut, thereee we go . .” you can feel the chill of the sterling silver into your back and his smile before he orgasms a second time into your waiting pussy, a second, heavy load let go into your pussy. it’s so warm and filling, and you already want more, more, more.

lust for more things turns into greed when we act on that initial lust.

“aw,” father geto coos at your fucked out face, flipping you around to give you a sloppy kiss and forcing himself to his knees just to watch his cum drip out of you, “does she want more?”

“always, father.” you answer with a drunken smile, putting a leg on his shoulder. again, your finger hooks around his crucifix, and you drag the priest down deeper into hell, somewhere father geto would‘ve always ended up.

somewhere where he would renounce his priesthood and worship something, and someone: you.

“Better to reign in Hell, then serve in Heav'n.”

a/n: LOOOONG MAN WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS. also i put the author’s note at the bottom this time bc i wanted to format of the fic to look the best without my goofy words ruining it! hope you guys liked it :) / tagging @crysugu @omgeto @kazushawty @suguruplsr @hydrovillette @slttygeto @hyomagiri @jabamin

part two ✶

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counterblows · 29 days ago

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📄 𝐋𝐚𝐲 𝐌𝐞 𝐃𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐏𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐲

Jayce Talis x Fem!Reader

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 7.2k

𝐀𝐎𝟑 | 𝐀𝐫𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐞 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

𝐓𝐖 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐂𝐖: Angst, Exes to lovers, Broken relationships, Emotional baggage, Eventual smut, Semi-Public Sex, Fingering, Aftercare

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: Piltover’s elite gather to celebrate Hextech’s success, with Jayce hailed as its visionary. But the night takes an unexpected turn when he crosses paths with a former lover — you.

Jayce wiped the dew of sweat on his forehead and adjusted his collar again— for what must have been the seventh time. There wasn’t anything out of place, but that didn’t stop him from fussing.

It was a habit— Jayce had always taken pride in making a good impression. That started in how he carried himself. Even back in the Academy, he made sure his uniform was perfectly pressed, boots shined, and hair in place.

Presentation was everything. His mother had drilled that into him early: look sharp, and people will listen. He even wore his signature musk, subtle but distinct, enough to linger when he left the room.

“You’ve been checking your reflection in that panel for the last five minutes,” Viktor said, not looking up from the notes in his lap. “Nervous?”

“It’s not nerves,” Jayce replied, tugging the collar again. “Just… making sure I don’t look like a complete ass in front of half the city.”

Viktor’s eyes flickered toward him, his tone dry. “No one’s here to see how polished your collar is. They came for your progress, not your posture. Though the golden pin is convincing.”

The gala was being held in celebration of the upcoming Hexgate expansion— a monumental leap in technology and trade for Piltover. The entire city had a vested interest, which meant half its elites would be attending. And as co-founder of Hextech, Jayce would be at the centre of it all.

So yes, maybe he was nervous.

He’d rehearsed his talking points, anticipated every possible question about crystal stabilisation, practiced the confident tone expected of a councilman. But it never got easier— the weight of all those eyes, the expectation to be both brilliant and charming.

“You should come, you know,” Jayce said, though he already knew Viktor’s answer. “It wouldn’t hurt to be seen.”

Viktor didn’t look up. “I prefer to let the science speak. Besides, those galas are loud. No one listens to them. They only toast.”

“Well,” Jayce muttered, half to himself. ��Sometimes you want someone there who does listen.”

They’d built Hextech together— late nights, impossible problems, breakthroughs and failures. Viktor was as much a part of it as Jayce was— maybe more. And though Jayce had always been the one in front of the cameras and councils, part of him wished Viktor would step forward too. Just once.

But Viktor never liked the spotlight. He was content staying in the wings, letting others speak for what he built. Jayce had learned to respect that, even if he didn’t always understand it.

A soft knock tapped against the door, followed by a subtle click as it opened— revealing Mel. She was already dressed— and she was, in every sense of the word, a knockout. Not just in beauty, but in a commanding way she held a room before even entering it.

Being the wealthiest woman in Piltover— and carrying the weight of her Noxain aristocracy— it reflected in every inch in her attire. Her gown shimmered like molten gold, flowing with each deliberate step as if it were alive, designed to catch the light.

Everything about her outfit screamed elegance, from the fine embroidery traced the curve to the train that swept the floor behind her. As she moved further into the room, her heels clicked with measured rhythm.

She offered Viktor a curt nod of acknowledgment before turning her full attention on Jayce. A smile tugged at her lips, equal part amused and knowing, as she took in his anxious tics.

“You clean up well,” she said, her voice smooth as silk. “But don’t mistake polish for power. Tonight is about presence and perception.”

Every word was delivered with purpose as she spoke.

Jayce stiffened slightly, managing a faintly amused expression. “And here I thought it was about celebrating Hextech.”

Mel stepped closer, until there was barely any space between them.

“Oh it is,” she said. “But most importantly, it’s about securing people's faith in it… and in you. So, try not to pace like a man waiting for judgment.”

Her hand reached up to smooth the line of his collar, a delicate yet pointed gesture.

“Confidence suits you better than nerves.”

Jayce could only nod, though the nerves didn’t fade. Still, her words settled something inside him. A quiet reminder that he wasn’t walking into this alone— not entirely.

He just had to keep his footing once the speeches began. After all, this was his life’s work. His passion. And tonight, it wasn’t just being celebrated. It was being seen. And Jayce had every intention of showing what Hextech, and himself, were capable of.

The soft sound of a string quartet music floated through the air, weaving around the crystalline glow that refracted from the suspended Hex crystal above. The Grand Hall of the Academy had been transformed for the evening event— its austere stone now draped in elegance.

Shimmering banners of deep blue and gold hung between marble columns. Gold-trimmed tables lined the space, each one adorned with champagne flutes and trays of delicate hors d’oeuvres. Everything from the presentation of the food to the cut of each guest’s attire gleamed with precision.

It was a few hours into the evening, and Jayce stood near the centre of it all, his Council pin catching the light like a badge of triumph. Around him, patrons and fellow councilmen mingled in conversation. He smiled, nodded, even laughed on cue.

The taste of champagne sat flat on his tongue. The warmth of the room— part ambient magic, part too many bodies in tight proximity— began to cling to his skin.

But Jayce couldn’t leave. Not yet. This event was, after all, in celebration of Hextech— the very achievement that bore his name.

His gaze swept the room absently behind the rim of his glass, eyes searching for escape through distraction. And then, he caught sight of a familiar figure.

He saw you. Or at least he assumed he did.

At first, he thought it was the trick of the heat or light, some familiar illusion conjured by his exhaustion. But then you turned, every so slightly, and his breath caught in his throat.

It was you.

Years could pass, and he would still know the shape of you in a crowd. But what were you doing here? And who had invited you? Piltover’s elites didn’t exactly welcome outsiders, let alone anyone from your part of the city.

His fingers tightens around his glass. A spike of something— a mix of guilt and yearning— rose in his chest, making his heart hammer harder against his ribs. Even from across the room, you still had the power to knock the air out of his lungs.

Would you look at him the same way? Or would your eyes narrow the second they meet? You had every right.

Yet, something tugged at him— an ache he’d buried long ago. The more he tried to convince himself to let it go, the harder it became to stay still.

He ran a hand through his hair. Then again. Straightened his collar for the umpteenth time. Useless fidgeting to stall the inevitable. But eventually, he caved in and crossed the floor. His pulse thudded like a man about to walk straight into war.

He still had no idea what he would say. He only hoped it wouldn’t make you walk away again.

But every step Jayce took toward you, you seemed to take two steps away.

As if you could sense him behind you— your body pulled deeper into the throng of people, into the maze of gowns and glitter. He tried to keep pace, weaving around patrons and murmuring conversations, but you were slipping through the seems like water.

Then you vanished, slipped through a set of doors without a sound.

Jayce pushed after you, struggling to keep up. Frustration was mounting in his chest as he gritted his teeth.

He called your name, voice strained with something that sounded too close to pleading— but you didn’t stop. If anything, you moved faster. Your heels clicked in rapid rhythm against the marble floor until the last echoes of string music faded behind you.

The air outside was a relief, crisp and clean, against his flushed skin. He saw you at the far end of the stairs, sliding down the rails with ease like someone who’s done it a thousand times. You didn’t look back.

How were you able to walk fast in those shoes? Jayce was slowly losing his calm demeanor. He yanked at the button of his cuffs as he chased after you down the quiet streets.

Suddenly, you disappeared between two brick buildings, wedging your body into the narrow space. Then, with no fear, you scaled up the walls.

Jayce stopped in his tracks, completely dumbstruck.

“What—” The word tumbled out of him.

You were halfway to the rooftop already, gripping crumbling bricks, using momentum and muscle memory he never knew you had. In a formal dress. Without breaking a sweat.

“You’re insane,” he muttered to himself, still stunned. Hands rested on his hips as he watched you disappear.

You were long gone— but not out of reach, yet.

He wasn’t going to give up.

Jayce scanned the alley, eyes narrowing until he spotted a fire escape ladder tucked behind a stack of crates. For a second, he hesitated, thinking of the consequences of all of this.

Councilman Jayce Talis, caught climbing unauthorised property in the dead of the night… the tabloids would have a field day for sure.

But the thought of not seeing you again— that you might vanish into Piltover’s veins and never resurface— was far worse.

He grabbed hold of the latter without a second thought. The metal groaned beneath his weight as he ascended, one hand on the cool rails while the other braced against the brick wall. Every rung felt like a gamble. But he kept moving.

Determined to find you. And this time, he wouldn’t let you slip away. The wind grew colder as he climbed higher, brushing across his skin. From this vantage point, Piltover glowed below in gold. The Hexgates stood tall in the distance, the blue light pulsing steadily in the night.

He found you perched on the ledge of the rooftop, your back to him. Legs dangling into nothing. Reckless as always. Just as he remembered.

His boots scraped against the rooftop gravel as he pulled himself up fully with a groan, chest still rising and falling sharply from the chase.

“Why are you doing this?” he called, voice rough with breathlessness. “I know you saw me back there.”

Silence. Just the wind and the beat of the pulse in his ears

“It’s not obvious ,” he said when the silence stretched. “So enlighten me. Why is it that the moment I show up, you take off like a bat out of hell? You didn’t even give me the chance to speak.”

Still facing the city, you said quietly, “You didn’t have to. You already said everything when you left me behind.”

Jayce inches closer, cautious in his steps. “I didn’t mean to—”

“Yes. You did,” you interrupted with restrained fury. The edge in your voice cracked “You chose to chase the glory— of Hextech. And you got it now, didn’t you?”

Jayce winced at the bitterness in your tone, but he knew it came from a place of hurt he had caused.

You had met back in the Academy— two ambitious students who swore they’d change the world together. You were the one constant in his darkest moments, especially when his dreams of harnessing magic were mocked and dismissed by the very scholars he idolised.

Everyone turned his backs on him, saying it wasn’t possible. But you stuck by him.

You’d spend countless nights in the lab, curled besides him as he scribbled down theories, his blueprints illuminated by candlelight and crystal glows. This night melted into stolen kisses and whispered promises between sleepless study sessions.

But all good things were temporary. And promises were weightless in the name of progress.

Even when he stood on the brink of banishment of Piltover, you stayed. You believed in him more fiercely than he believed himself. But when the Council took him in and the spotlight found him, he didn’t look back. Not once

All you could do was watch him rise to prominence from a distance. The same hands that caressed your face now clutched onto awards instead.

And after that speech he gave on Piltover’s Progress Day, you never heard from him again. And your name— your presence— was quietly scrubbed from the story.

You finally turned to look at him, the city lights catching the shine in your eyes.

“Do you know how frustrating it is seeing your face on every poster? Every merchant hawking your invention like they were a divine gift. You were everywhere, the Man of Progress. And I had to pretend you weren’t the first boy I ever gave a damn about.”

The raw emotions in your voice was enough to make his resolve falter. Jayce didn’t say anything for a moment, his throat tightened with guilt, a lump forming making the words impossible to speak.

He hadn’t thought about it from that perspective— how seeing his face everywhere reopened old wounds, the same face that once shattered your heart.

He had been so preoccupied by ambition, he never stopped to consider how his success might’ve tormented you.

Finally, he found his voice and had the courage to speak up again. “I thought I had time. I thought I could make something of myself and then come back to you and—”

“And what? Sweep me off my feet? Apologise while wearing that damn fancy gilded council pin like it means something?” Your eyes burned. “It doesn’t matter now… I’m just another stepping stone for your success, right? Something you left behind once it got in the way.”

“Please don’t say that, you mean more than that,” he said, the words thick with desperation.

He slowly took another step closer to you— though he longed to reach out and touch your face. But he knew he didn’t deserve that intimacy with you anymore.

“I may have the Man of Progress title, but it means nothing if I couldn’t bring the one person I care about along with it.”

You stayed quiet. The silence between you was almost suffocating, despite the open air of the rooftop. The hum of the city faded, and for a moment, it felt like the world narrowed to just you and him.

He wanted to say more. Wanted to reach out. But the fear of losing even this fragile thread between you held him still. The urge to close the distance was getting harder to ignore. Instead, he shifted his weight, tension coiled tight in his chest.

You turned away again, a gesture that felt like a rejection. Jayce knew that there was nothing he could say that could convince you to stay, and he felt his chest fill with anguish.

But then you spoke again, barely audible. He almost missed it.

“Prove it.”

Jayce blinked. “What?”

“If you really mean it—” you ran across the rooftop like a fleeting shadow before you took off and leapt, landing on the neighbouring rooftop. “—catch me!”

And you kept going.

Jayce let out a strangled noise. “Are you serious—?!”

But you were already gone, disappearing over the tiled rooftops. Your silhouette sliced through the moonlight like you belonged in the wind. Your dress flowed gracefully around your body, catching the wind as you moved.

Jayce was frozen in place, stunned by what just happened. Part of him debated the logic of chasing you across the unstable rooftops in formalwear. How widely unsafe and maybe illegal this was.

But watching the distance between you kept growing, and with it, every doubt in his mind was drowned out and replaced with a rush in his blood. The wind, the night, you. It all pulled him forward.

He stepped toward the edge, his gaze dipping to the streets below— too far down. The height twisted in his guts like nausea. But then he looked up. You were still moving.

Your last words echoed in his head, the adrenaline coursing in his bloodstream.

He took a few steps back, then launched himself forward. His body soared through the air and landed on the adjacent rooftop with a jarring thud. His eyes locked onto your figure ahead, all focus now funnelled into one purpose.

You may have had an advantage in terms of dexterity— which came apparent as Jayce pursued you across the rooftops. But he had muscles, stubbornness, and regret that was catching fire in his chest.

Even so, he struggled to keep up. Every time he gained ground, you veered at the last second, changing directions like you knew the rooftops better than your own heartbeat.

No matter how fast he ran, you always seemed to be just a few steps ahead— like a tantalising tease.

One sharp turn nearly sent him stumbling, throwing him off balance and causing him to lose his footing briefly. He cursed under his breath

And then, your laughter reverberated in the night air behind you— light and free. Like you were enjoying every second of this. Like the chase was your vengeance and your flirtation all in one.

It only pushed him harder.

His limbs burned, his formal jacket was restricting, and he’d definitely pulled something. But Jayce pressed forward, leaning into every stride, teeth clenched, muscles screaming.

Finally, he saw his moment. The gap narrowed.

His long legs propelled him forward one final time in a powerful stride, his focus solely on closing the distance and finally capturing you.

With his outstretched arms, he lunged forward and managed to wrap his arms around your waist, anchoring you to him. Your body slammed against his chest and he held on tight.

His grip was firm yet not overbearing— his breath ragged, chest heaving. The heat of your bodies pressed flushed together, your back against the ventilation shaft, his body caging yours.

Your face was close enough to feel each other's breaths— though his was hotter, laced with adrenaline and effort.

Lactic acid burned through his legs, but he barely noticed. His eyes scanned your face, trying to read something behind your maddening calm.

“Your hair’s a mess,” you murmured, glancing up at him. Too composed, too amused.

Jayce instinctively ran his fingers through his hair, only now realising how disheveled it was from the wild goose chase. Wind-tossed. Sweat-mattered. An utter mess.

“Thanks for the reminder,” he huffed— his voice was dry, but hoarse. “It’s not like I’ve been chasing you across half the rooftops in Piltover or anything.”

Despite the sarcasm, there was an undeniable fondness behind his words— exasperated but sincere. Your comment made him acutely aware of his hair. He tried to fix it again, then gave up with a frustrated sigh.

“Your face is flushed too,” you added, your voice remained casual. “Kinda remind me of when—”

“Shut up…” he cut in quickly, face heating further.

His voice was a low grumble, but the vulnerability underneath it gave him away. He didn’t need reminders of those intimate moments, not when you were so close and every part of him was aching to close the distance between you again.

“Don’t…don’t bring that up.”

“And why not?” You tilted your head, your tone playful but prodding.

“Because it’s irrelevant,” his voice faltered. The sarcasm cracked just enough to reveal the truth behind it. “That was a different time. A different situation. We’re not the same people we were back then.”

But even as he said it, a part of him screamed at the lie. You knew it too— he could see it in your eyes. The weight of everything unspoken still hung between you. The love that never really left.

“So why did you chase after me?” you asked, voice growing more serious.

Jayce hesitated, clearly not prepared for the question.

“Because…” his voice dropped to something more fragile. “Because I couldn’t let you go again, not when there’s so much unsaid between us.”

He leaned closer, his forehead nearly brushing yours. Not quite touching, not yet. But close enough to feel the magnetic pull.

“I never stopped loving you. And if you ran again, I would have chased you for another thirty minutes… or thirty years.”

Your gaze didn’t waver from him. You studied him silently, unblinking, almost daring him to mean it. He could almost feel the weight of your scrutiny.

“You look like you’re about to collapse,” you finally said.

Jayce let out a tired half-laugh. “I feel like I’m about to collapse.”

“So why didn’t you stop?” your tone sharpened, just slightly. “You could’ve gone back, cleaned yourself up. Pretend none of this even happened.”

Jayce flinched— not outwardly, but something in his gaze shifted. His smile faltered.

The truth of your words hung heavy before him. He could have turned back. He could’ve smoothed his collar again, walked into the gala, and let this moment vanish into the night.

Carried on like nothing ever happened.

But he didn’t. A new wave of guilt washed over him. He could see it in your expression— you still thought he might.

You still thought he’d choose to walk away. And the worst part was, he couldn’t even resent you for it.

He had walked away once.

Knowing you believed he might do it again hurt more than he expected.

“Because… It's you. I couldn’t stop if I tried,” he replied quietly, less guarded.

His arms were still wrapped around you, holding you close. Slowly, cautiously, he lifted a hand and cupped your cheek. Half-expecting you to pull away. Bracing for it.

But you didn’t.

His pulse throbbed hard— not from exhaustion anymore, but from hope. Longing. And your close proximity.

“I missed this. I miss all of you…the way you used to look at me,” he admitted softly.

For a moment, he thought you leaned closer to him— just a fraction. It could’ve been a trick of his desperation, wishful thinking disguised as movement.

You tried to scoff at his words, but it came out thin and airy. “That was a long time ago, Jayce.”

“Don’t tell me you never thought about it, too.”

You didn’t say anything. But he could sense the words digesting in your mind— the pause in your breath, the flicker in your eyes. He knew you couldn’t lie to him. Not about this. After all, there must’ve been a reason why you even attended the gala, knowing he would be there too.

One of your hands hesitantly reached up, not quite touching him. Testing the tension. Jayce didn’t move, didn’t speak— just waited, letting you decide how close was too close.

He wasn’t prepared for the way you surged forward suddenly, tugging him down by his collar and pressing your mouth into his. It was soft, almost shy at first— but his heart still nearly gave out at the sheer rush of it

His eyes widened, shocked by your sudden boldness— but the moment your lips moved against his like it used to, muscle memory kicked in. His grip on your waist tightened, pulling you flush against him.

The nostalgia of the intimacy soared through him. Your bodies slotted together like memory, muscle, heat and breath. You sighed into his mouth, and he parted his lips instinctively, letting your tongue brush against his.

He kissed deeper, needier, hungry like he was afraid you might vanish. He didn’t want to miss a single moment that you were giving him. Your hands threaded through his hair, and he melted beneath them.

When you finally broke apart, your nose still brushed— close enough that he could feel your shaky exhales against his skin. His hands had already started to roam down your sides, fingers trembling with need.

“Let me make it up to you,” he rasped with raw want. “please.”

You could only nod— one slow, steady tilt of your head.

He tugged at your dress higher, the fabric bunching around your waist. Until the soft swell of your thighs and the edge of your panties came into view. He saw your shiver, not just from the cold but from anticipation too.

If this were a different scenario, one where you were still together, Jayce wouldn’t be so open. He would never touch you like this out in public. Not where someone could see— not like this.

But you always made him forget his caution. And tonight, the rooftops were empty. The streets below were almost remote. Piltover was at the gala, completely oblivious to the reunion that was happening above them.

He sucked in a breath through his teeth as his fingers brushed your inner thigh, then slipped higher, gliding along the dampened fabric of your underwear from your arousal.

“God…you’re dripping,” he murmured in awe, thumbs stroking lightly over the wet patch darkening your panties.

He pulled the fabric aside, watching as the strands of your wetness stretched and thinned between your core and the cloth, until you were completely bare to him.

His fingers moved in, brushing deliberately over the bundle of nerves he knew would elicit a reaction out of you. Slow, deliberate strokes— drawing the sensation out like a secret.

Your body tensed beneath him, a gasp lodged at your throat. Just a few touches, and already you were so responsive. It only made him want more.

His fingers slid through your folds, gathering your wetness on the pad of his fingers. He started with one digit, easing inside of you, and his breath hitched at the feeling. Warm. Familiar. He watched your face, devoured your reaction like a starved man.

He slowly dragged his fingers out, then sank back in, building a steady rhythm. Your walls fluttered, already clenching, aching. But he didn’t want to rush things yet.

It was the first time in years he got to touch you like this. Feel your body against his. It had been too long and he was planning to savour it.

He added a second finger, groaning under his breath as your body welcomed the stretch. His mouth trailed down your neck, pressing a kiss there, like he was reacquainting himself with every inch of you.

“Tell me you missed me…as much as I missed you,” he voice was low against your skin.

“I shouldn’t—” you breathed between moans, voice trembling as you felt his thumb circling your clit “But I did.”

That did something to him.

He curled his fingers inside of you, angling it until he found the spot that always made your body jolt— and when your hips jerked forward and your fingers clawed at his biceps, he knew he found the jackpot.

His fingers didn’t leave your core for a moment, working you open with the care of someone who knew exactly how you liked to be touched. And the hunger of someone who never thought he’d get again.

Eventually, he withdrew his fingers, with your essence still clinging on. He looked down at them, not quite ready to clean them off yet.

You were still catching your breath, chest rising and falling heavily, but your gaze never left him. Slowly, you reached out, fingers finding the button of his shirt— undoing them one by one with a shaky blend of nostalgia and impatience.

You didn’t take his shirt off completely, just enough to part it, revealing the heat of his bare chest. Your hand pressed against him, palms sliding over muscles that taut beneath your touch.

Jayce shuddered.

Your touch was soft, so soft. It was torture. His eyes fluttered shut as he leaned into it, absorbing every second of contact. He had dreamed about this— you, this close, touching him again— and now that it was real, it nearly undid him.

The heat coiled in his lower stomach, arousal flooding through him like an inferno. You reached lower, fingered brushing over the hard shape straining against his pants.

He whined lowly as you palmed him through the fabric. Your movements were needy when searching. His hips twitched up into your hands.

With trembling urgency, he fumbled to undo his own pants, and the moment the last clasp came free, his dick sprang out— already leaking at the tip. The sudden release of pressure left him lightheaded.

The cool night air kissed his overheated skin, but the heat radiating from his core only grew stronger. When your hand delicately brushed over his length, skin-to-skin this time, his hips jerked instinctively— an unrestrained twitch that betrayed just how wound-up he was.

Your fingers wrapped around him, stroking him with slow deliberation, your thumb swiping over the slick bead of precum that had gathered at the tip. The sensation was enough to break his composure. But he didn’t want to come— not yet— but the way you touched him made him feel dangerously close.

His hand caught your wrist, gentle but firm. But his retrains were slowly thinning like thread unraveling from a seam. It was hard to stay grounded with your touch clouding his every thought.

“I’m not gonna last if you keep touching me like that…” came out an airy whisper from him, his voice sounding like a wreck.

The corner of your lips twitched up in a faint, knowing smile. But you stopped.

He didn’t waste another second to hook one arm beneath your thighs, bunching your dress up again guiding your legs around his waist. His other hand braced you against the cold metal of the ventilation shaft.

He hadn’t meant for his movements to come out rushed and frantic, but the desperation was clawing at his control.

His cock, hard and aching, pressed against your entrance. He could feel your wetness painting his tip. You were soaked just for him and only for him— just as it should be.

And that was when he paused.

Not from doubt. But from the sheer weight of the moment.

The gala that was still going on. The rooftop chase. The defiance in your eyes. It was all catching up to him. And now he was going to take you, in the open air where only the stars bore witness to you, suspended above the city that didn’t know how the world was tilting back into place.

His mind was at war with itself. One part still clinging to caution— not only about the location, but about whether this would really heal what had broken between the two of you.

But the rest of him burned with a different truth. Maybe it wasn’t about the place. Maybe the recklessness proved it was real. That he would go to the ends of earth— or the edge of the rooftop— just to be close to you again.

His gaze dropped to yours, searching. Your eyes were already silently pleading for more, but he still needed to hear it from your lips. Even if his hips ached to move.

“Tell me to stop,” he breathed, barely holding it together now. “And I will.”

There wasn’t a shadow of doubt from you. “Don’t you dare.”

Your words rang in his ear as he slowly pushed the tip inside of you, feeling the tight resistance of your walls give way around him.

He started slow— partly to keep himself from finishing too quickly, the pent-up tension nearly tipping him over. And partly because of the precariousness of the rooftop, forcing him to stay balanced. He couldn’t risk slipping, or worse, you slipping from his grasp.

But once he adjusted to the angle and your weight in his arms, confidence returned to his movements. He gripped you tighter and pressed deeper, hips rolling in rhythm that grew more reassured with each stroke.

The rooftop rocked beneath you. Wind swept across his sweat-slicked chest, cooling his burning skin. And beneath it all was the heady relentless sound of skin on skin. Carnel and raw.

Your bodies moved together in sync— like they hadn’t passed at all. Like every year apart had simply been a pause. Now, everything came flooding back. The feeling of your walls clenching around his cock with your wetness. Your bated breath fanning his lips. The way you clawed at his back.

It only encouraged him to thrust in deeper, until he felt drunk on the feeling of you — his balls pressed against you.

“You’re so perfect— fuck, look at you,” he panted, forehead pressing to yours. “Look at what you do to me.”

You couldn't even form a response, too far gone, too blissed out. Every moan that trembled from your lips only drove him further into you.

“Jayce—” you finally gasped out. “I… I can’t think straight when ah—”

Your words cracked around the sharp thrust that followed, breaking off into a cry. His name trembled from your lips again, unfiltered and messy— like it was the only word you still remembered.

And God, the way you said it.

You were a mess beneath him, breathless and clinging, just as wrecked as he was. All because of him.

How was he supposed to walk away from this and pretend he didn’t still belong to you? Pretend he hadn’t spent years missing this exact feeling?

The painful memory of him neglecting you twisted in his mind, feuling his every thrust now as if he could make it up to you in the way your body responded.

But he was losing rhythm, his body was too close to the edge. Especially when your legs locked tighter around his waist. The high of it hit him like a wave.

All the accolades, the praises, the reputation he’d built. None of it compared to the sound of your voice falling apart on his name.

The sound of wet slaps filled his ears. Then, he saw white and felt blood quickly rush into his ears.

His vision blanked out for a second as his release tore through him. He managed only a few more stuttering thrusts before he spilled inside you, his breath catching as the tension finally broke.

For a moment, he didn’t move. Just let himself stay buried inside you, letting the haze simmer through his body.

But then reality returned, and panic punched through his chest. You hadn’t come. Your face was flushed and you still pulsed around him.

He leaned back to look at you.

“S-shit. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—” his words got tangled. “I didn’t mean to finish so quickly, are you okay?”

“Shh, it’s okay ... .really,” you ushered, soft and reassuring. Your hands reached for his face, thumbs gently brushing over his cheeks. “I wanted this, don’t apologise.”

Time seemed to freeze at that moment. The gravity of what just happened sank into his bones. You hadn’t pushed him away. Your hands were still on him— still reaching.

Slowly, he eased out of you, his softened length settling between his legs as the high faded and clarity started to slip in. You let out a hiss at the loss, but didn’t pull away.

He helped you adjust your dress, smoothing down the fabric gently. The way he touched you now was reverent— like he was in awe that you let him have you again. Then he fixed his pants, buttoned his shirt, and ran his fingers through his hair with a distracted glance toward the skyline.

Before the distance could creep back in, he wrapped his arms around your waist again, drawing you in. You rested your hands on his chest, his heartbeat still racing under your palms. Even now, your touch made his sense flicker like sparks off embers.

The air between you wasn’t awkward anymore. Just quiet. Peaceful.

Fragile, but still healing.

“Come home with me,” he uttered, barely louder than the wind.

You didn’t respond with words, just leaned in and kissed him, slow and sure. He let himself smile into it before he could stop.

It was his internal clock that woke Jayce naturally. As sleep ebbed away and the familiar outline of his room came to focus, so did the memory of last night— lingering like a dream he was scared to believe.

And then, his ears picked up the soft sound of breathing beside him.

He turned over and saw you curled on your side, still asleep in his bed, facing him. He couldn’t believe you were still here on his bed.

Despite knowing you weren’t the kind of person to leave without a word, a part of him had expected to wake up alone. It would’ve been fair, even deserved.

He quickly shook the thought away— there was no point getting pessimistic. It wasn’t like him.

His hand hovered over your waist for a moment before settling there gently. The morning light spilled through the window and lit your features more clearly than the streetlight glow from the night before.

He took in every detail— the slow, even rise and fall of your chest, the way his dress shirt hung loosely over your frame, paired with the shorts he’d given you.

Something about seeing you in his clothes stirred something in him all over again, a pang of yearning or a glimmer of hope.

You started to stir, and your breathing shifted before you opened your eyes and looked back up at him. Neither of you said anything at first. The silence felt fragile, like one wrong word could shatter the thread between you.

Eventually, he broke it. “You stayed.”

“Only for the night.” Your voice was curt, guarded. It landed in his chest like a stone.

Jayce could feel his heart sink a little at that. “I see…”

You hesitated, picking out your next words before you spoke. “This… doesn’t erase what happened. You hurt me, Jayce. You left me behind.”

You weren’t looking at him with the same tenderness from last night. Like the kiss you initiated hadn’t even happened. There was warmth that lingered but it dulled beneath the layer of pain. It hurt him harder than anything else had.

Perhaps you had a change of heart. That the adrenaline and desire from last night had been replaced by something colder. Logic. Caution.

“I know… I’m sorry,” he said quietly, the remorse was apparent in his tone. “I was so focused on trying to be everything for everyone else… I didn’t see what I was losing.”

“You did see it. You just didn’t stop it.”

Jayce only sighed, low and heavy. He knew he couldn’t argue with that— not without lying to himself. Had he really been so blind? Or had he just refused to face his own failings, hiding behind duties as an excuse?

You deserved better than that.

Even if you chose to walk away, at least you’d know he regretted what he’d done. But God, how he ached for more than just closure.

“I was foolish. I should’ve fought for us. But instead I let you go and now…”

He was met by your silence and the next words came out shaky— like the truth itself might snap the connection between you both.

“Will you ever find it in yourself to forgive me?”

“It’s just…” you paused. Jayce waited patiently, hanging onto every word. “I’m not ready to fall into it again without thinking.”

He had a feeling you were going to say that, he expected nothing less and he respected it. One night of passion wasn’t going to fix everything. Still, the door wasn’t shut, and that was something.

“I get it…” he murmured. “I’m not asking you to trust me blindly. But I’m willing to do whatever it takes to earn it back again.”

Your eyes narrowed slightly. “What do you want to get out of this?”

“I want to show you that I’ve changed, that I’ve learnt from my mistakes.”

“So, a second chance?”

Jayce nodded, his eyes never leaving yours. It might’ve been too much to ask, but he’d rather you know his heart than wonder.

“Yes, a second chance. I know I messed up, but I want another chance to show you that I can be the man you deserve.”

“Are you just saying that so I would stick around in your life, or… do you want more?”

“No, I want more. I want us to have what we had before. The intimacy, the connection, before I ruined everything.”

“But why? Why do you still want me after everything?”

Jayce smiled sadly at that, as if the question itself pained him. If he had truly shown you what you meant to him, maybe you wouldn’t need to ask. But clearly, somewhere along the way, he failed to make you feel seen. And now, all he could do was try harder.

In your eyes, he probably had it all. Hextech was thriving. Piltover finally applauded his brilliance. From the outside, it looked like he could move on— anyone in his position might. That thought struck a nerve.

Had you moved on? Or were you still holding on by a thread?

How many times had you given him the chance to fight for you— and he just… didn’t?

Jayce reached for your face, cradling with a touch so gentle it nearly trembled. His thumb traced your cheeks as he looked into your eyes, grounding himself in the person he’d been too blind to protect.

“Because I’ve never had anybody have faith in me in the way you had, even when I didn’t deserve it. I didn’t realise how much that meant until you were gone. Everything else just… kept moving. But without you, it all felt hollow.”

His voice caught at the edge of honesty as he continued.

“But…after seeing you last night, it reminded me of what I was missing. And I would do anything to bridge that gap and be better for you.”

Jayce shuffled closer until there was hardly any space between you. His thumb brushed over your bottom lip, then paused. He took in every part of you— your breath, your softness, your eyes.

Your eyes.

They’ve always been his favourite feature of yours. It expressed more emotions than words ever would. They never lied. Not even when the rest of you tried to.

“You’re more beautiful than I remembered,” he murmured in awe. “Even now, when I’ve done so much to hurt you, you’re still the most stunning person I’ve ever seen.”

You gave him a look, not of distaste but something softer. “You’re not so bad yourself, I guess the councillor circle rubbed on you a little.”

Jayce grinned, a little too pleased at the subtle compliment “You think so?”

“Don't let it get to your head,” you said dryly— though that didn’t stop the ghost of a smile on your lips.

“Too late,” he quipped, his feigned arrogance peaking through. “I already feel my ego growing exponentially.”

He found himself chuckling for the first time in a long while. It came out naturally, light. A silver of joy breaking through the ache. The weight in his chest began to lift, just a little. The tension between you easing like the morning sun slipping through the curtains.

“I thought you were going to make it up to me. Not gloat,” you huffed, though your smile was unmistakable. “Is this how you treat all your guests? Laying around in bed all morning?”

“Are you implying that I’m a lazy host?”

“I’m starting to believe it.”

“Well.” He rose from the bed, the sheets slipping around his hips. “If I start off with making breakfast… will that help with my redemption?”

Your expression softened— visible this time. The guardedness you wore like armour was loosening.

“That’s a start…”

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iloveyoongi4321 · 2 months ago

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Drawn To You Ⅱ ᯓPt. Ⅰ ᯓpairing. artist! shouto todoroki x afab! reader ᯓwc. 1.1k

He books more sessions with you. Once or twice a week. You pose differently each time—sometimes clothed, sometimes not. He tries different mediums, gets experimental. Once he tried sketching with coffee and called it "warm-toned innovation." It was hideous. You framed it. He always gravitates back towards charcoal, like the traditional man he is. Reliable. Hot.

Sometimes you talk. Sometimes he mumbles to himself while sketching and you lie there silently, afraid to break the delicate moment. Once you sneezed while he was in the zone and scared him so badly he smeared the drawing with his thumb.

Another time, he’s the one who forgets he’s not on mute. You’re stretching between poses, arms up like a cat, when you hear him mutter:

“…that’s actually insane. Who even looks like that?”

“Like what?” You watch his face, unblinking for three seconds before he plays it cool and shrugs.

“Like… bendy.”

That earns him a giggle.

A few days ago, he mumbles something about feeling underprepared for finals. Says he’s been getting distracted during online sessions. Asks if you’d be open to meeting in person—just once, just to try it. Says he learns better that way. You say sure.

You spend the whole day cleaning your studio, just to keep busy. Rearranging chairs, wiping down the windows, dusting corners you forgot existed. You even light a candle. It feels stupid, so you blow it out. Then light it again.

You wonder how he’ll carry himself. If his voice will sound the same without the weird compression of a mic. You wonder if he’ll look at you the same way in real life—or if he’ll even be able to.

Ridiculous. You’re ridiculous. This is a purely educational meeting with a really handsome client and you will not be getting ahead of yourself.

Which would’ve been convincing—if you didn’t mumble it into an empty room.

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

You don’t expect the knock to rattle your studio door like that. Three short taps. Precise. Hesitant. You open it. And there he is.

Icy-Hot, in the flesh. Tall. Broader than you pictured. He stands just slightly off-centre with a messenger bag slung across his chest like it’s a shield. Jacket half-zipped, There's a faint red line pressed into his cheek—you think he might’ve been leaning on it before he arrived. Boyish. His eyes flick up to meet yours, pale and arresting, then drop again like he’s afraid of being caught.

“Hi,” he says, then clears his throat. His voice is soft, frayed at the edges. “I hope I’m not late.”

“You’re five minutes early.”

“Oh.” He says, adjusting his grip on his bag. “I wasn’t sure how long it’d take to find the place.”

You step aside to let him in. The floor creaks under his weight, the sound swallowed by the vast of the studio. He brushes past with all the grace of someone trying very, very hard not to touch anything. His scent trails behind him, clean, but not neutral— soap, worn cotton, and something green. Mint, maybe.

“Lighting's nice,” he says, his eyes lingering on the candle you spent too long setting up. “You have a good eye. For ambience.”

You raise a brow. “That sounds like a compliment.”

“It is.” Then, almost reluctantly, “I don’t usually give them.”

You smirk. A tiny win in your book.

He looks at you from the corner of his eye. “You’ve got clothes on now.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

His ears go pink. “Nothing. I just meant you usually wear… less layers.”

You tilt your head. “Would you prefer if I didn’t?”

“No—I mean, yes? No— I just—” He shuts his mouth.

You lean forward, walking towards your platform, the makeshift stage where you usually pose, pointing him toward the stool across from it.

He settles into the corner, sketchbook braced against his knees, body folded in tight like he's trying to shrink into himself. You wonder if he always carries that sort of tension in his shoulders, or if it's just you.

"Are you going to pose me?"

That startles him. He looks up, almost wary, like you’ve said something dangerous.

"I'm not—" He hesitates. "You’re the one who agreed to this."

"I did," you say. "But you haven’t told me what you want."

He opens his mouth, then closes it again. His fingers tighten around the pencil.

You raise your eyebrows. Wait.

He gets up slowly, like he’s not sure he’s allowed to.

Then, with a steady hand, he reaches out—touches your wrist. Gently moves your arm higher, so your elbow curves like a line he’s already sketched in his mind.

“Here,” he murmurs.

His fingers brush your jaw next. Tilts your head. Angles it toward the sunlight coming from your window.

“There.”

You hold still. Say nothing. But your pulse answers for you.

When he sits back down, it’s quiet for a long time—just the scratch of pencil on paper, the rise and fall of your chest. The smell of charcoal clings to the corners of the room, warmth blooms where a lamp hovers over your shoulder, golden and steady.

You wonder what he’s thinking. He looks so peaceful, like he belongs in the quiet of your studio.

Then, hesitantly, “You can call me Shouto.”

You smile. “Shouto,” you echo, like you’re tasting it. “Why’d you wait so long to tell me?”

“I didn’t think you wanted to know,” he breathes. He really likes the way you say his name—thinks maybe he should’ve told you sooner.

“I caught it in your signature. On the back of that sketch made of coffee, the one you mailed.”

“You kept that?”

You point to the wall behind a particularly tall house-plant. He follows your finger, squints, and—yep. There it is. Framed. Crooked. Proud. You think he looks smug.

“Not my best work.”

You hum in agreement. “How’d you come about being Icy-Hot anyway?”

“Highschool nickname. Couldn’t use my real name, anyway. Didn’t want strangers to know me like that.”

“Too late now.” He smiles.

It doesn’t take him long to finish, setting his pencil down. When you lean in to sneak a look at the sketch, he doesn’t stop you. It’s impressive how insanely you it is, while still holding something distinctly him—like the way he sees you, with a little piece of himself in every line.

And as he walks over to the door—the two of you sharing goodbyes and promises of another meeting, you cant help but notice that the air feels different now, quieter somehow. The space—this big, open room—suddenly feels a little emptier, like it’s missing something. Or someone.

please dont expect this kinda speed with the next update LOL

#mha #bnha #artist todoroki shoto #shoto x reader #mha shoto #mha x reader #my hero academia #mha todoroki #bnha x reader #mha x you #fluff #venuswrites

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mapileonxputellas · 1 year ago

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Beckham II: 2 That Day

Part 2 is here!!!!!

Short one for this part but I think some context is needed before I bring us back to the present day!

Hope you enjoy! Also in this the third place game doesn't exist.

(Part 1 can be found here x)

2nd July 2019, England vs USA, World Cup Semi-final

25th minute – 1 - 1

“This is a real battle out there isn’t it Sue?” Jonathon Pearce broadcasted to the UK, all eyes on the England team trying to defeat the US. Though they had gone behind very early on, an Ellen White leveller had brought them back onto even terms.

“It certainly is, you can see how much this means to all the players out there. None of this England team have ever experienced an occasion like this before but they seem to be carrying that emotion well.”

Out on the field it felt like an out of body experience. Before this the biggest game you’d played in would have to be a substitute appearance in an FA cup final, now you were starting the semi final at a World Cup. You were 19 and felt like the whole world was watching you.

At the start of the tournament you hadn’t been expecting to start but when Jill Scott picked up an injury in the round of 16 you’d stepped into the starting position next to Keira and never looked back. Receiving praise back at home for the level-headed game you played but still managed to bring out that touch of David Beckham in you.

It was a free-kick in the quarter-final that really brought you to the forefront of the nation. A slick ball which soared into the top corner of the net leaving their goalkeeper stranded and left everyone open-mouthed at home. You were never a nobody but now you were here to stay. Your Instagram following doubled and whenever you left the hotel in the past week the camera had never left you. The pressure was on.

“Fucking hell.” You swore coming up to take a corner for England nestled into the corner of the ground flooded with US fans.

“Nepotism trash!” “Daddy not here to hold your hand!” “Can’t even kick a ball!” “Weak!” “Spineless!”

The insults were flying in from every angle, everything was covered in the thirty seconds you had to wait to take the corner, of course your dad was mentioned but so was your appearance in the media. Newly turned 19 and yet it seemed like you were still the five-year-old girl who had her father carry her everywhere. Everyone just presumed you were an innocent little baby who couldn’t put in a tackle, you hated it.

But now was not the time to let that frustration out. Now was game time when nothing else mattered.

Your in-swinging corner found Millie on the edge of the 6-yard box but she couldn’t quite get the connection on it to trouble Naeher, instead giving her an easy catch but you could feel it coming.

The only problem is now there was now a break on. A quick release from the goalkeeper had set Lavelle free, Keira had stayed back but you couldn’t leave her one on one with Morgan in the centre.

You had one second to make a decision.

One second to work out how to stop her. You could try and get further back but you knew you had to stop it at source.

You were known for your pace so you had no trouble getting back to her but Lavelle was known for her trickery and skill.

In your head you made the best decision you could. You followed the rules you played football by and trusted your instinct.

That was where the world as you knew it slowly began to fade away.

“Oh that’s a nasty one from Beckham there and Lavelle seems seriously hurt.”

You thought it was clean, in fact you were sure of it. The contact with the ball was clear sending it flying out of play, you didn’t touch her other than her leg coming into yours as she came over the top of you and yet as she rolled around on the floor it was like the opposite had happened.

Suddenly you were surrounded by players in red, all screaming at you. “What the fuck did you do that for?” “Learn that one from your daddy did you?”

Millie came to stand in front of you, trying to block you from the players as Steph and Lucy surrounded the others at the referee.

“She didn’t touch her.” Millie defended you. “Tell your own player to stop cheating.”

You thought that would be the end of it. Tempers flared, emotions were high and you would get on with the match again. When the referee reached into her pocket you were convinced it was to calm everyone down, a booking usually helped to send a message out but when you saw it was red and it was flashed in your direction it was like time stopped.

“It’s a red card for Beckham, just like her father that name has once again come back to haunt England.” Jonathon commentated. “It’s a long way back for them here.”

You couldn’t believe what was happening. “Go and have a look yourself.” Millie shouted at the ref to overcome the noise in the stadium. “It was a clean tackle, she didn’t touch her.”

“The contact was enough to endanger the opponent. It’s reckless, dangerous and that it is a red card.”

“VAR has got to overturn this.” Sue Smith pointed out. “She’s nowhere near her opponent, it’s not even a yellow card.”

“When you make a challenge like that you bring about a decision from the ref.”

“But that’s what VAR is here for, to show the referee what actually happened. Beckham has arguably been one of the players of the tournament and yet she could be remembered for just this moment.”

It could have been minutes, it must only have been thirty seconds that you stood there. Waiting for some to tell you it had all been a big mistake. Apologies would come and you’d be able to restart the game.

Instead VAR confirmed the red card. You’d been sent off in the most important game you’d ever played in, maybe would ever play in.

This time though it felt like the impact hit you immediately, looking back it was probably the reason you hated showing any emotion now. Your teammates tried to comfort you as the tears started to come but the guilt was already too much, you couldn’t bare to be around anyone right now so pulling your shirt over your face you walked back inside. Every step towards that sideline felt like you were wading through quick sand, the boos from the US side ringing in your ear as you tried to head to the tunnel.

Before the match had begun your brother had FaceTime’d you, at the time you imagined looking up at them at the final whistle, perhaps celebrating with them. Now you couldn’t face looking where you knew they would be sat. The disappointment from yourself was too much to handle right now never mind disappointing your idol, your father.

You can vaguely remember Karen Carney coming out to meet you on the touchline, a kiss being pressed to your head and a little muttering of “keep it together” in your ear. Maybe it was for the best that everyone else was busy trying to reshuffle the pack a few sympathetic faces were thrown your way but you knew football didn’t have time for sentiment. Maybe it was also for the best that Phil didn’t even look your way, your favourite kitman met you to head back into the changing rooms with you but the rest didn’t even bat an eyelid at you.

It was only when you got inside, when you were all alone that the emotion fully came out.

The anger, the pure sadness, the hatred you felt towards yourself. It started that day and it felt then like you’d received a life sentence. A life sentence hating yourself.

……

“Phil, a lot happened out there today. Can you tell us your overriding emotions right now?”

“Oh I’m just proud of every dingle girl out there who competed to the very end. They gave it their all tonight and this result shouldn’t tarnish their pride in themselves or in each other. They stuck in the game when it seemed like other people threw it away.”

“We can’t shy away from Y/N Beckham, what were your thoughts?”

“As football players we know that every tackle we put in can lead to a card and she made that decision. It’s hard because I know the talent is in there but talent can’t be everything.”

“Do you think it should have been a red?”

“Like I said the referee was put in a position where she had to make the decision. We can all wish for different outcomes on the pitch but sometimes we just have to accept them.”

“How is she doing now?”

“As a team we are all very disappointed right and I think it’s the team we should be focusing on right now.”

“Fucking bullshit.” If this was your own bedroom perhaps you would have thrown the remote at the TV, instead you calmly had to just turn it off.

Maybe it wasn’t the best decision to turn on the TV when you got back to the hotel room. England had lost in the end, going 2-1 down to an Alex Morgan winner, they’d given it there everything but it just wasn’t enough.

In the two hours since the game finished you couldn’t count the number of times you’d cried. Firstly on your own, then with some of the girls, then on your own again on the bus and yet not a single word had been said. You knew you’d never be able to say sorry enough times and they knew it was no use telling you anything right now. Though you were crying it was almost as if you were blank inside, you couldn’t take in anything else right now. Your usual spot on the bus next to Keira was left vacant, instead you found a little corner and tried to kid yourself and other that you were asleep when how could you be with all the thoughts swirling in your mind.

Your phone lay switched off on the other side of the room, that interview being the first real insight you’d got into any opinions on the matter. He was right, he might not have said it outright but it was obvious he blamed you. When Phil brought you in for your first senior camp fans were concerned about favouritism but if anything it was the opposite. He had this almost saintly view of your dad and you would never be anything compared to him.

You knew he would be worried, he tried to protect you from everything growing up but now he was powerless. Yet even knowing that you couldn’t bring yourself to switch the phone on, answer any of the messages or calls you’d received before you turned it off on the couch.

It was all too much.

…..

The plan was always for you to spend the 2 weeks you had off after the weekend in the south of France, a quaint villa in the middle of nowhere which you’d had since you were a child. This place was one of the only true places you could just be yourself. You could vividly remember the holidays there once a year being the only time you felt truly free. Your father would spend every second of the day just being a father and your mother could show you her true self, the fun and carefree woman she was away from the pressures of the public eye. This was the place where yourself, Brooklyn and Romeo would spend hours on the beach with a ball and jumpers for goalposts, where you all taught Cruz to ride a bike and Harper to swim. This place meant so much to you.

It felt wrong to tarnish this place with the thoughts you had right now.

That’s why when you touched down in London the following day instead of rushing back to your apartment to pack and meet your family at the airport, you sat, staring at the clock. Time passed, they would have waited for you to arrive and slowly realised you weren’t coming. They would probably be worried and it was for that reason only that you finally turned your phone on. The messages flooded onto your lock screens, dozens of missed calls came through but you ignored them all simply sending a message to your mum claiming you were fine and didn’t want any company right now, only one of those statements being true.

Maybe you should have expected the phone call that immediately came up from your father but they also should have expected your immediate response, decline.

You always thought you were quite strong about the media. You’d grown up with famous parents, you sadly were used to comments about every aspect of yourself from your appearance to the way you spoke. In your time at Chelsea you’d had your fair share of stick from the fans about your place in football but before this you’d proved everyone wrong.

People called you dumb, you passed all your exams and were studying part time for a degree.

People commented on your appearance, your friends and family’s comments opposed that.

United fans taunted you in an FA cup match, you stuck the ball in the top corner and celebrated right in front of them.

All those times you’d known they were wrong and could do something about it. All that media training and yet in that moment you broke the number one rule and opened Twitter.

The results were more horrendous than you ever could have imagined. Not only were there comments about your performance, but they also came for your family, your friends, yourself. The death threats were constant, every other comment on an article link were suggesting this was punishable in unimaginable ways.

Instagram though more concentrated felt worse when you checked a post from your best friend outside of football, comments were left under her post for even just being associated with your name. Taunting her, taunting you and threatening the both of you. Not only had you disappointed everyone but now you were putting those you loved in danger.

Leaving Instagram, blurry eyed and shaking like a leaf, twitter was opened once again. You couldn’t stop and the more articled you read, the more the panic started to set in. People knew where you lived from media pictures, it wouldn’t be long before they came here again. You lived in a gated community but they’d find a way in. You’d never be alone.

Your throat was closing in, it was becoming harder to breath as you panicked more. The only thing you could do was phone the only person who would understand.

“Dad…. dad I need you.”

……

Everyone probably thinks they have the best family but in this moment you knew yours were the best. Thirty minutes on from that phone call you were in your old family living room, curled up in blankets next to your mum and dad, eating homemade chocolate cake and listening to your sister talk you through her week. The biggest drama in which being a girl who took the last apple juice carton and left her with orange juice, which to an eight-year-old felt like the end of the world.

You hadn’t even said another word on that phone call before your dad was ordering you to pack a bag and promised he would be with you in less than ten minutes.

“Why didn’t you go to France?” Your thoughts came out. “We were meant to go.”

“Like we were ever going to leave you here alone,” Your dad chastised you. “I know you well enough to know you might not have needed us in that moment but we were always going to be there when you did.”

“I didn’t mean to do anything, I thought I made the right decision and now people are threatening me. They’re going to find me.”

“They’re not.” Your mother immediately comforted you. “I’ve watched enough football over the years to know tackles like that are made every week and they never get punished. Football is a game, you live for it but it’s a game and people sometimes forget that. You were a big reason England even got to the semi-final and people need to remember that.”

“What did your teammates say?” Brooklyn asked from the next sofa with my other brothers.

“I haven’t spoken to them.”

“What? You flew home with them this morning.”

“I can’t look at them. They’re all sad because of me, everyone knows it, they were always on the back foot because of me and now they’re going home.”

“Millie messaged me this morning.” Brooklyn said. You were of course very close to the Chelsea girls and they’d met your family more times than you could count. You remember they exchanged numbers before you went away on a summer camp one year just in case they needed to contact your family. “She asked me to look after you, they’re not upset.”

“They’ll never admit it, at least not to my face but how can I play with them again after all this.”

“They’re your friends.” Your mum implored and she was right. You were the youngest in the world cup but yourself Leah, Keira and Georgia had formed a little England squad bond. Your sensible and often shy nature balancing out their craziness.

“They’re better off without me. I need to get out of here.”

“Out of where?”

“Out of England, I can’t stay.”

#woso imagines #woso imagine #woso #barcelona femeni #woso x reader #leah williamson #leah williamson x reader #lionesses #leah williamson imagine #beckham #lionesses x reader

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skendoss · 6 months ago

Note

hii idk if u write for link click yingdu chapter characters so ignore this if u dont!!!

can i request a xiafei or vein x reader about how would they be like in a relationship?? thank uuu

hey anon! sorry for the delay!

if it’s link click i’ll write for ANY character fr 🥰 here’s xia fei for ya - i’ll do vein when i’ve seen a little more of him 🫶

xia fei (felix) - boyfriend!headcanons

cw: mentions of burnout caused by work, possibly ooc but i can rewrite the more we get to know him

- working as a model, felix has experienced more than his fair share of people throwing themselves at him, all because of his pretty face. truth be told; he simply hates it.

felix is tired. every day is the same. studying, photo shoots, studying, photoshoots. the cycle is relentless - life is boring, and seeing his face plastered everywhere doesn’t make him feel any better. that is until you come (quite literally) crashing into his life

- the way you two meet is cliche. you’re in a hurry to get to work as he’s on his way to a shoot, you trip over air??? and now your coffee is all over the white button down shirt of the unfortunate stranger you collided with.

- he felt a little guilty, using the incident as an excuse to get your number ‘for his dry cleaning bill’, but that guilt soon subsided as the two of you progressively ended up texting more and more. texting turned to phone calls, phone calls turned to dates, and before you knew, the two of you were in a relationship. you’d just moulded into each others lives so easily, it just - happened. and it felt right.

- it was tough at first, the glares and stares from groups of jealous women, muttering tasteless insults toward you under their breath when they see you in public with the model on your arm, but felix was always quick to stop it. the only person he truly values is you, he has no problem throwing insults back to them, strong words and a cold smile. works a charm every time.

- his camera roll is full of candid photos of you. thanks to his job, he knows how to snap the perfect shot. his favourite is a photo of you kneeling on the sidewalk, beaming as you stoke the cat you befriended. it’s also his wallpaper

- his love languages are quality time and physical touch. he likes to be with you as much as he can, as close as he can possibly be. his happiest place is simply laying on the sofa with you, watching reruns of an old tv show with you pulled close, one leg draped over him while he wraps his arms around your waist

- you are the centre of felix’s universe, and he makes you feel like it too. he’s always complimenting you, calling you beautiful. he doesn’t stop until you’re smiling and blushing every time. your happiness is his favourite thing to see

- would propose to you using a ring pop; quite early into your relationship, too. to others, it would seem ridiculous, but to the two of you it meant everything - resembling the start of the future that the two of you are building together

- he pampers you profusely. will paint your nails for you without ever being asked. tries different hairstyles on you, and makes an effort to learn all your favourites so he can do it for you.

- self care nights 🥹 the two of you, a face mask, a tub of ice cream and a movie? these are your favourite date nights ❤️

🫶

i know this is ooc, but soft xia fei hc has my heart 🥲 i hope this is okay for now! i will for sure do a part two to this when we’ve seen more of him in the show!❤️

#link click #link click x reader #xia fei #xia fei x reader #link click headcanons #me not writing ab cheng xiaoshi for once #who cheered #it’s 4am rn #link click is truly on my mind 24/7 #linkclick x reader #linkclick

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lillaydee · 4 months ago

Text

Shhh!!! Part 5

Celebrity!Joel Miller / F Reader

A reluctant celebrity contractor who has closed his heart for love meets a celebrity-hating Cafe on Wheels owner...

She HATES him. Thing is, he couldn't get enough of the coffee she makes...

Tag List:

@kirsteng42 @peelieblue @harriedandharassed @joelalorian @vickie5446 @inept-the-magnificent @maried01 @brittmb115 @peedrow @lovefreylove @liciafonseca

Let me know if you would like to be added/removed from the tag list.

Dividers by the awesome @saradika

Header by Moi cause I learned how to use Canva! Yay me!

WARNINGS: Grumpy Joel (The Last of Us), Protective Joel (The Last of Us), Good Parent Joel (The Last of Us), Joel is Bad at Feelings (The Last of Us), Alternate Universe - No Cordyceps Outbreak (The Last of Us), Joel Needs a Hug (The Last of Us), Celebrity Joel Miller, Fluff and Angst, Eventual Smut, I'm Bad At Tagging, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Tags May Change, Hurt Joel (The Last of Us), Jealousy.

SERIES MASTER LIST

Part 4

“Here you go, Sir, enjoy your coffee, come again soon!”

You couldn’t help but laugh at the exasperated sigh that escaped him after the last cup was handed to the last customer, an older man who wouldn’t stop asking him questions about which caulk was best to use for the small project he was DIY-ing. Joel must’ve extended his hand with the coffee in it towards him five times before the man finally took it, very quickly flipping the ‘open’ sign to close before plopping himself on the lone stool you had offered him before.

“How do you do this every day? My jaw, my cheeks are killing me feom smiling too much! And don’t even ask about my back!” he rubbed his face, massaging his jaw and cheeks with both hands, cracking his back and neck a few times.

“Don’t you hammer things for a living? I can’t do that to save my own life!”

“Pfft… I don’t do all that anymore. People do that for me. I just tell people what to do.” There was a look on his face when he said that. A longing one, perhaps?

“You’re telling me you would’ve been okay doing that on your own if I hadn’t stayed?”

You nodded, hands busy cleaning the machine, running hot water out to clean it of any residue.

He got back up, “Can I do anything to help?”

“Oh, no, you are not touching my very expensive machine, sir.”

“How do you keep the truck safe? Aren’t you worried someone might break in, steal the machine?”

“My apartment has very good security, so does the truck. I made sure to invest in that.”

“Where do you live?”

You told him, and he just whistled. He threw the rag on the counter, asking you if he could buy you lunch.

“Taco truck, next door. Tell Tony it’s for me.”

He tipped his hat at you, leaving to get the tacos.

You finished cleaning, wiping everything down, taking not much time at all. You’ve done this daily for a long time, it was all on autopilot. By the time you rinsed all the rags, Joel was back, bags of tacos in hand, asking you if you would join him for lunch. The two of you ate and chatted, mainly about the tacos, but also about the rec centre itself. Sarah had been here a lot, volunteering. Ellie too, obviously. But he had only dropped them off and picked them up. You suggested he should visit. They do amazing work with underprivileged kids. He looked as if he was genuinely contemplating it.

“I have to apologize for something else now,” he told you, wiping his mouth after everything was demolished. “I never knew selling coffee could be that tiring. I don’t know why. But that was…” he stopped talking, rubbing his own shoulder and neck. “And how the heck do you keep a smile on at all times like that? I watched you. You are always smiling when talking to the customers. How do you do that?”

You shrugged, “Been doing this since I can remember. My Dad didn’t have a helper early on, so he would keep me in a sling across his chest as he served his customers. I just grew up in a café, smiled at customers since I could. A smile goes a long way when you’re in service. It was something my Dad did a lot, so I sort of just caught the habit, I guess.”

“Your Dad was a barista too? Which café?”

You told him. He nodded. There were a few of those cafés all over LA. He had even seen them in New York.

“You’ve always worked in cafés?”

“Yeah… since I was old enough to know you shouldn’t touch boiling water with your bare hands.”

He looked taken aback. “Isn’t that child labour or something?”

You laughed. “He didn’t hire me, exactly, he just let me help. Learn the ropes.”

“Is he retired now?”

“He did a few years back. Passed not long after.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. He’s still with me. That’s why my stepmom and I started the truck. He loved his job. I feel like he’s here whenever I make a cup, you know?”

He nodded. “It’s why I started building in the first place. My Papa was a labourer slash carpenter. He practically built all of our furniture. He helped me build my first project – a small recipe box for my Mama. Been building stuff since. I did the TV stuff at first for the steady income, you know? I was alone, I had to think about Sarah, and then when everything blew up it just got so… invasive. Fake. It’s all about the viewership. No one gives a damn about the work anymore. It’s just… I don’t know. Doing this job used to make me feel closer to my Papa, but now… I just feel like my life has turned into a circus, you know? Everything’s just hyped. Sexualized. I don’t get the same rush I used to get from doing this work anymore. I just dread going to work now. The more exposure, the more invasion there will be, the less close I feel to my Papa.”

You listened, feeling a bit sad for him.

“That’s why I was so rude to you that first time. I didn’t mean to be, you know, I’m so sorry about that. It’s just, every time a stranger taps me on my shoulder it’s to ask for a selfie or something. You saw that girl the other day. She just leaned in, right up against my chest and snapped a picture. No respect for my personal space at all. I was literally standing at a urinal once and someone just whipped their phone out to take a picture with me.”

Your eyes literally went round with shock. Seriously? Okay, that was so much worse than being sent to some organic store to buy a packet of sugar for one teaspoon, or even counting 100 drips of espresso, for that matter.

“So when you tapped me on my shoulder…”

You nodded, hand still over your mouth, seeing his point of view. You already knew this, Ellie had told you. But when it came from the horse’s mouth… particularly Joel, who you had only seen as a grumpy, moody, seemingly entitled man, looking extremely uncomfortable at the mere mention of these happenings, you sort of get it.

“God, Joel…” you rubbed your face, cringing a little at how much you had judged him. “I’m sorry too… I just… having lived here all my life, I’ve met all kinds of celebrities, you know? Most are actually nice… but the ones who are not…”

It was his turn to nod. “Tell me about it. I have to work with some sometimes – for special episodes. God… the entitlement!”

You rolled your eyes.

“I know, right? ‘I’m famous, I don’t need to pay.’ Girl…”

He laughed as you sneered, copying said celebrity so well he actually recognized who you were talking about, head thrown back, free, loose, relaxed.

“Hey, I have a question for you,” he said, leaning on the small foldable table you set out front. “Where do you get your beans? That coffee… how is it bitter but sweet at the same time?”

You zipped your mouth, locked it, and threw away the key.

“Oh, come on…”

“Nope. Trade secret, that. Passed down to me by my father, and I am never sharing it!”

“You mean, you roast your own beans?”

“Of course I do! What do you take me for, Joel Miller?”

He looked impressed. “Will you sell me a bag?”

“Nope.”

“Oh, come on! I’ll pay anything!”

“Careful what you wish for. If I can charge you 40 bucks for a cup of coffee, just imagine what I would charge for a whole bag of beans,” you joked, getting up to throw the paper plate out, wiping the table with your free hand as you did.

He got up and began helping you fold the chairs and tables, loading them in the cargo space under the sill. You closed everything up, handed him the mill he brought, and got into the driver seat of your truck. He waited for you to get in and closed the door for you.

“It was nice spending time with you today, Mr Miller. Thank you for helping me out, and for lunch. Should I pay you now, or should I just give Ellie a raise?”

He smiled, his dimple showing, and shook his head. “I’ll tell you tomorrow, when I come for my cuppa. Since you won’t sell the beans to me.”

You laughed and thanked him again for helping you out that day. You turned to him one last time and gave him a smile. Joel’s heart stopped beating. There was something different about that smile, he thought. It wasn’t the smile you gave your customers.

He took a step back from the truck and raised his free hand, standing in that spot until your truck turned the corner and went out of his sight, the mill he brought held tightly to his chest.

Joel Miller drove all the way home before realizing that he hadn’t stopped smiling at all since you left.

“So, the plan was successful?” Sarah asked, painting her toenail as she spoke into the phone propped on a box she had packed and unpacked for the millionth time.

“Well, he went, left at seven-ish and he hasn’t come back, so I’m just waiting with breath that is bated. God just don’t come back angrier, that’s all I’m hoping for,” Ellie shoved another mouthful of chips into her mouth, cringing a little at the vinegary taste.

“I still can’t believe he yelled at Lil. Of all people! You know Lil hates celebrities? Tony told me. One came to the rec centre once, apparently for some supposed volunteer thing for his community service, the guy made a scene, obviously high from something – climbed into her truck started snacking on coffee beans like nuts – Tony swore Lil chased him out with an airgun. I’m just thankful all she did was overcharge Dad for coffee and not tear his face off or something.”

Ellie snorted, “Imagine how mad Angela would be if that were to happen. Money making face and all...”

“I don’t know… he’s been thinking of quitting. Doesn’t want to continue his contract, apparently.”

Ellie sat up. She took the mug she was using and propped her phone up, looking at her big sister with wide eyes. “What do you mean? How do you know?”

Sarah moved closer to the phone, looked around a bit, as if worried Joel might suddenly burst through her door miles and miles away at any moment. “Don’t tell him this, but Angela called me. Begged me to talk him out of retiring. I mean, she wouldn’t have done that if he hadn’t said something, right?”

Ellie rolled her eyes. She did not like that woman. Neither did Sarah. She had a problem with Ellie from the start. Pulled Sarah aside and tried to stop her from volunteering at the rec centre, not wanting her to mix with the ‘riffraff’ there. Anytime Ellie was within her vicinity before the adoption, she looked at Ellie with a look that said she smelled bad.

When Joel decided to take her in, Angela went all out to stop him. Did a background check on her mom and dad, smugly presenting her findings to Joel. Sarah remembered like it was yesterday. “Bad breeds bad,” she had told him. “She’s the daughter of a drug addict and a criminal, Joel. Bad enough that Sarah is seen with her a lot, God knows what she could pull Sarah into, but now you want to legally invite her to stay with you? She’ll rob you blind Joel! I’m only looking out for you,” she had simpered, a supposedly concerned look on her pulled-too-tight face.

Joel didn’t listen, thankfully. When the public found out, Joel got so much publicity from it, his name was everywhere. He was ‘Daddy’, hot, responsible, good hearted, basically a handy hunk that women couldn’t get out of their heads. Suddenly, adopting Ellie was the most brilliant idea ever. In fact, she might have talked Joel into doing it, at least, that’s what she told Twitter back then. She had always known Ellie was his good luck charm, she crooned to Joel when she came to the house unannounced with a big bag of donated clothing, most of which were far too small and girly for Ellie, pinching her cheeks. Ellie was only 12, but she remembered recoiling away from the obviously fake lady, in both manners and physique, determined to stay away from her as much as she could.

Angela also pitched the idea for a reality show – Meet the Millers, where cameras follow their day to day lives. Imagine the money! That got shut down really quickly, even Tommy was barking at her. He may like the money, but no one touches his nieces. Even he wouldn’t stoop that low, he had told her.

So no, the girls didn’t like Angela. And no, Sarah wasn’t going to talk her Dad into signing on for five more years. Ellie certainly wouldn’t. They wanted him to rest. Relax. Settle down. Be happy. If he wanted to continue working, let it be on his own terms. Something that he would be happy to do, not something he would be forced to do. The girls may think he’s the grumpiest, most stubborn man to ever live, but they were fiercely protective of their Dad. And nothing Angela could do or say would sway them.

“What do you think he would do, if he really does retire?” Ellie asked.

“I don’t know. But I can’t imagine he would want to stay here. Would you be okay if he decides to leave LA?” Sarah was worried, changing school, making new friends, that’s a lot of change.

“I’ll follow him anywhere, you know that.”

Sarah smiled, “Well, I’m…”

“Oh shit!” Ellie scrambled. “He’s back. Fuck! Do I look sick?”

“Erm, no… you look like you’ve had too many chips, but otherwise…”

“Shh… he’s coming in,” Ellie picked up her phone, screen towards her torso, lying on the couch, blanket all the way up to her chest, doing her best to look sick.

“Ellie…” Sarah whispered. Another shush.

“Hey, old man,” Ellie croaked as Joel waltzed in, carrying the mill. He placed it on the coffee table, coming towards Ellie to check her temperature.

“You feeling better kiddo?”

Ellie opened her mouth to answer.

“Great! Rest up! Work tomorrow!” Joel was already turning around to go to his room, whistling as he did, a little jig in his steps. He looked at her over his shoulder and winked at her, his whistling now morphed into a humming, continuing his little waltz as he went up to his room, closing the door behind him.

Ellie shot up, her phone still clutched to her chest.

“Ellie! What’s going on?” Sarah’s whispers were filled with urgency.

Ellie looked at her sister, looking perplexed. “Sarah, I think we need a doctor.”

“What? Why? Is he okay? Are you really sick?”

“He was… whistling… and Sarah…” she paused, looking worried as heck, she leaned in and whispered, “He sorta did a little jig... and I swear he was humming!”

Sarah didn’t say anything. She looked troubled. Her Dad, humming? And doing little dances?

Shit.

What the fuck happened?

The next morning, Ellie woke up to a very enthusiastic banging on her door. Wake up kiddo! Don’t wanna be late! She groaned, jumped out of bed and had a quick shower – all about 30 minutes too early compared to the usual time, but maybe Joel had somewhere to be? It wouldn’t be the first time. His schedule can vary a lot, but wasn’t he on a break?

She walked out to Joel shoving a packet of pop tart and a granola bar into her pack, a buttered toast into her hand, telling her she was late. Let’s go!

She walked out into the garage to him standing next to an open passenger door, frantically gesturing for her to get inside, practically shoving her in as she climbed her way up to the seat. He checked the door really quickly before running to the driver side, muttering ‘come on, come on…’ as the garage door slowly opened,

He drove the way he usually did, but his fingers were drumming on the steering wheel every time they hit a red light. The man just looked odd. Ellie was worried.

“You okay?”

Joel looked at her, lips scrunched up, nodding as if he was behaving that way every single day, foot immediately on the gas pedal as soon as the light turned green. When he finally pulled to a stop at the rec centre, he leaned across Ellie and opened the door for her, the teenager still stunned at how keen this man was to be rid of her.

“Will you chill? My class doesn’t start for another 30 minutes. I’m gonna go get iced tea from Lil. You want coffee?”

He went quiet. All jitters stopped. “Uh… sure. Tell her I want the usual. The expresso thing.”

“ESpresso,” she corrected, as she climbed down the truck, mumbling she had no idea how he could drink that every day.

Joel waited for her to disappear around the corner before letting his head fall on the steering wheel. Shit. Now he had to wait for her to come back and go back inside before he could see you again. He looked at his watch, feet tap-tapping on the floor of the cab. God, why was she taking so long?

He took his phone and dialled Sarah’s number, the young lady picking up after only two rings, face all swollen and sleepy still.

“Dad, everything okay?”

“Yeah, just calling to see how the packing is going. You sure you don’t want me to go get you?”

“Yeah… I’m sure. I’m all packed, Dad. Just a few loose things I’m just gonna throw in my backpack at the last min… what are you searching around for?” she asked, her Dad clearly jittery, his eyes looking around as if he was worried some mafia head was gonna pop up and off him.

Joel refocused on his daughter, a bit embarrassed to be caught. “Just waiting for Ellie to come back with my coffee. Need coffee, that’s all. Machine’s busted again.”

“Uhuh… so you just need coffee? And then you’ll go back to your old self?” she questioned, looking wary as heck, side-eyeing her Dad on the FaceTime.

“What are you talking about? I’m my old self.”

“Okay…”

“So, what’s the plan for tomorrow?” he asked her, determined to focus on his daughter now. “I’m excited to see you! We should have a cookout. Maybe go somewhere before you start your internship?”

“Uh… The three of us plan to start driving before dawn, stop for breakfast on the way, drive a few more hours and stop for lunch, get to Lindsey’s, spend the night, and then start again the morning after. Drop Jenna off at her place and I should be home around dinner time.”

“Anything special you want for dinner?”

“Sushi. Please. And that ramen from that place.”

“Okay. You call me before you leave, okay? I don’t care what time. And take turns driving. Don’t try to be a hero.”

“Yes Dad… I know… How are you enjoying your break so far?”

“Well, it’s only been a few days… I… oh, my coffee’s here. Hang on.”

Sarah watched as he wound his window down, eager hand claiming his coffee from Ellie. He tilted the phone towards Ellie, who took the phone out of his hand, saying hi to Sarah. “Watch,” she whispered to Sarah, clicking on the reverse camera feature, focusing on Joel as he took his first greedy sip, taking a deep breath, closing his eyes, tilting his head back to rest it on the headrest, an unwitting smile on his face.

Sarah watched as her Dad smiled, looking all… something… she didn’t recognize this. She had never seen him like this. And the whistling and the jigging and now this… over a sip of coffee. No wonder Ellie was worried. She was too, now that she’s seen the evidence.

Joel was struck by the silence, he opened his eyes, looking questionably at Ellie, who quickly clicked on the reverse camera button again, “Sarah, can you hear me? I think your line is patchy. I can’t hear you… you’ve frozen… I’ll call you later okay?” She quickly hung up and gave Joel the phone. “I’ll call her back…” she mumbled, standing there, just waiting to see what he was going to do. Joel looked flustered for a bit, reaching out to give her head a rub before putting the truck into reverse and driving away.

Ellie took out her phone and dialled Sarah’s number. She picked up before the first ring was over.

“You saw that, right?”

Joel drove around the rec centre before turning back into the parking lot, relieved Ellie was no longer there. He glanced at his watch again, the tap-tapping was back. He class wouldn’t start for ten more minutes. He looked around the truck for something to do until then, just to be safe. He didn’t want Ellie asking too many questions.

He had no idea what was happening. He just knew he wanted to be here. He took another sip of the coffee, his insides warming up, that smile back on his face. This must be why he wanted to come here. Yesterday, he was standing for hours, his back hurt, but he just felt at peace. Must be the smell of coffee. It calmed him down. He took another sip, savouring the somehow still sweet bitterness that took over his senses.

When was the last time he felt this at ease? God, he couldn’t remember. Maybe… when he was a kid? When he was sick and his Mama and Papa slept on either side of him? He felt as if he was all bundled up in a protective blanket, like everything would be alright, he would be alright, whatever came. He just wanted to savour that feeling for as long as he could, before life came after him again.

And if being at that truck, breathing in the glorious smell of coffee was what it took, he was more than willing to go back and suffer through the back pain and aching cheeks once more.

He finally got out of his truck, locked it and walked towards your truck. He could already see you smiling at your long line of customers, joking around with them. He took yet another sip of his coffee, jogged a little towards you, climbing into your truck, absent-mindedly taking the spare apron hanging on the hook and put it on, placing the hat he brought with him on his head. You lectured him about taking it off the day before, so yeah, he was keeping it on today.

You were shocked he was there, to say the least, but you were busy, and he did behave himself the day before. So you moved out from behind the till and took your spot in front of the machine, ready to make the next order.

You had no idea how, but the two of you worked well together. The truck was small, but somehow it wasn’t cramped with both of you in it. He learnt that till quickly, only making a few mistakes the day before, and you quickly fixed them, and he never repeated the same mistake twice.

About half an hour later, the line slowed. He went outside after the last person took their drink and began clearing up the tables for you. You leaned on the window, watching him sing along to the tunes Tony had on, shaking your head a little, wondering why on earth this man had decided to return and torture himself again.

“So… not that I’m not appreciative,” you called out to him, “But what the heck are you doing here Miller?”

He tossed the empty cups in the trash, a wide smile directed at you as he walked back towards the truck, tossing the rag he was holding on the sill, resting his elbow on it. “You don’t mind, do you? I have nothing to do. I’m bored. Sarah won’t be here for two more days, Ellie’s out for the class, have a heart…” he pleaded.

You jokingly contemplated his plea. “Do I have to pay you?”

“Just that cup of coffee.”

“Deal.”

The two of you shook on it. A customer came to the sill, asking for an iced tea. He ran back up into the truck, keying it in, and asked if he could watch you make the tea, maybe he could help with the non-machine-touching drinks? You let him, telling him exactly how much tea to put, how much hot water, brewing time, the likes.

Joel listened, taking everything in. The amount of tea. The hot water. The brewing time. The way your lips moved. The way your dimples played peekaboo. The way your ponytail swayed as you moved. The way the neckline of your blouse today gave him little peeks of your skin.

When the tea was ready, you turned around to give it to the customer, asking her how the baby was. You chatted with her for a bit, leaning on the counter below the window. Joel couldn't help continue studying you... how your legs were crossed together at the ankle, how your ass…

Wait… stop it.

Joel picked up a rag and wiped the counter you had just wiped again, just to have something else to do that didn’t involve staring at your ass, perfectly jutting out for his viewing pleasure, swaying a little as you laughed with your regular, clad in the perfect pair of jeans that hugged your curves just right.

You turned around to face him, took the rags off the counters and his hands, and went to the small sink you had to wash them. He stood next to you, watching you wash them, earning him a light-hearted jab from you – what, you want to learn the art of washing rags too? He laughed, telling you that he might just. Maybe coffee truck rags had a different method of cleaning.

“Joel?”

The two of you turned around. Ellie was standing in the doorway of the truck, looking at Joel as if he had two heads. “What are you doing here?”

Joel stood up straight, his hand went straight for his cup of coffee, now empty, and took a sip of air. He flustered a bit.

“I think the question is, what are you doing here? Aren’t you supposed to be in class?” he blubbered, a hand on his hip, the other awkwardly on the counter.

“Frank has car trouble. Class is postponed. I thought I’d work ‘til you pick me up. I thought you had something to do?”

“Erm… my thing got cancelled,” he managed to say.

“Oh, so maybe we can go watch a movie or something? You’re okay if I don’t work today, right Lil?”

You nodded. You understood. Ellie had always told you Joel was a busy man. He really should be spending time with her when he could.

“Uh… yeah, sure,” Joel said, trying hard to hide his disappointment from his youngest daughter. He began to untie his apron, missing Ellie’s widened eyes upon noticing that he had it on.

“Hey Lil?” Tony called out, walking up to the window. “My cousin just called me for some food for his office, he also ordered coffee, do you mind? Pickup in 30 minutes,” he said, forwarding you a list of orders on your phone.

Joel retied his apron, pushing Ellie out of the truck, telling her to wait for him at the tables. Maybe practice drawing the truck. He’ll be right with her.

Ellie sat waiting with her phone in her hand, filming her grumpy adopted father who hated fancy, thieving coffee chains help you with the order, keying in the order, labelling the cups, readying the to-go bags, he even filled in a smaller bag with sugar and creamer packets, complete with those fiddly stirrers he made fun of at least a thousand times in the few years she had been living with him.

When he was finally done, Ellie watched as Joel Miller took off the apron, telling you he would see you the next day, before turning around to walk away with a nervous look on his face, his hand rubbing the back of his neck. He turned back to face you as he took out his phone and sheepishly asked for your number, “So I could text you if I can’t make it,” he said. He waited patiently as you keyed in your number, and immediately texted you something, smiling widely as he heard your phone ping.

Ah… Ellie immediately texted Sarah.

‘I think your Dad has a crush on my boss.’

To say you were in a jam was an understatement. Your showerhead decided that today, of all days, was the perfect day to shoot out of its socket and spray water everywhere. The super was out of town. You called your plumber, but he said the earliest he could get there was after lunch. He was booked solid. Relax, he told you, you’ll be fine ‘til then.

You texted Ellie, telling her that your shower broke and you wouldn’t be working today. Please let Joel know. You were about to toss the phone on your bed when the phone immediately pinged.

‘Send me your location’

‘Why?’

‘We have a plumber, he can get to you now.’

Your fingers had never worked faster. You sent her the location and your apartment number, going back into the bathroom to empty the bucket you’d placed under the shower. The last thing you needed was a flooded bathroom.

You were disappointed. You had never wanted to go to work more than you did today. You didn’t know why exactly. Your heart just felt… heavy. You felt guilty… or something… for not being able to go in today. You wondered why.

Ah… Joel texted you last night asking if there was a chance you would teach him to brew a good cup of coffee, just so he could have one daily when summer was over and Ellie no longer needed to go to the art class. He won’t even touch the machine, he promised. Just teach him how.

You promised him you would, and now you had to break that promise. You just hated disappointing people, that’s all.

Yeah. That must be it. That’s why you were disappointed you couldn’t go in.

The doorbell rang, so you placed the bucket back in its place and ran to open the door.

Joel Miller was standing outside your door, a toolbox in his hands. His face lit up when he saw you, but then suddenly snapped shut awkwardly, turning his body around.

It was only then you realized you were standing in front of him in your sleep shirt.

Your white sleep shirt. Your wet, white, sleep shirt.

With nothing underneath but a pair of panties. Your nipples were sticking to your wet shirt, which was now basically see through.

You ran inside, yelling your apologies, telling him to come in, grabbing a bathrobe and putting it on, trying hard to laugh your embarrassment away. He didn’t answer, and when you went to the door, his tool box was there, but he wasn’t. The riot that was your spraying shower went quiet, and he came back after a few seconds, telling you he shut the water line for your house – easier for him to work, he said.

There was still water dripping from the shower, but he fixed it within 15 minutes, coming out of your bathroom with water trickling down from his hair onto his neck, coming down his chest. He went back outside and came back to test the shower, now working perfectly.

You asked him how much you owed him, telling him he didn’t need to come all the way over to your apartment.

He smiled and told you his payment was a cup of coffee, as he had told you the day before. He watched as you made him a cup, jokingly asking you if he had to buy a fancy coffee machine now?

For some reason, apart from those few sentences, the two of you didn’t really talk. There was a silence as you both had your coffees, both awkward and not awkward at the same time. He wouldn’t really look at you, and you found yourself unable to look at him much either.

“Would you like some breakfast?” you asked him, taking his cup from him, your fingers brushing his for a split second, a spark of static causing you to pull back quickly, the mug slipping from your grasp, crashing onto the floor. He bent down to collect the pieces while you got a broom, sweeping the remnants off the floor, telling him you’ll vacuum later. He picked up his tool box, hesitantly telling you he should be going, looking regretful.

For some reason, you found yourself feeling sorry he had to leave so soon. But you walked him to the door anyway. He turned around once he was outside, thanking you for the coffee, asking you if he could see you the next day? Sarah was coming back, so he won’t be coming for a while, wanting to spend time with her before she started her internship the next week.

“Of course,” you told him, “Thank you so much for helping me out, you really didn’t have to.”

“It’s no trouble, really,” he insisted, “The coffee was worth it.”

You didn’t know what came over you, but you leaned in and lightly kissed him on the cheek, whispering your thanks to him one more time, unable to help yourself from taking in his scent, making you feel lightheaded. He didn’t pull away, staying where he was when you pulled away. He looked you in the eyes, contemplation in them. You may have imagined it, but you thought you saw them flick towards your lips for a split second.

“Joel? Joel Miller?”

The two of you turned to see the source of the snappy voice. Your young neighbour Lucy, formerly known as the off-key alarm system to your building was standing there, obviously on her way out, her keys clutched in her hand. She eyed your bathrobe, your wet hair, his slightly wet appearance.

“Lucy,” he said, rather awkwardly.

She turned around and went back inside, slamming the door behind her.

“I should be going,” he said once more, before turning around and walking away as fast as he could.

Okay that was weird, you thought, but it was none of your business, surely? You had an anvil in your chest, but you didn’t know why. You distracted yourself by vacuuming your small kitchen, getting rid of any remnants of that broken mug.

You didn’t understand what happened. What happened? Between you and Joel. Between him and Lucy.

The doorbell interrupted your thoughts. You opened the door to Lucy standing outside.

“Are you fucking Joel Miller?”

Huh?

“If you are, we need to talk,” she said, pushing you aside and walking into your apartment, aggressively turning around to face you, her arms across her chest, a serious look on her face.

Part 6

#joel miller fanfiction #joel miller x reader #the last of us fanfiction #joel miller #tlou fanfiction #joel miller x you #Celebrity!Joel Miller

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lokisprettygirl · 1 year ago

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Rain to his Fire (Modern! Daemon Targaryen x Female Reader) (Non Canon 80s Au) (18+)

Series Masterlist

Chapter 1

Summary: In 1985, you were assigned as a custodian in the King's Landing Psychiatric inpatient and wellness center after your mother's passing. Your job was mundane and boring, but that was until a new patient arrived, a young man with a wild and eccentric personality, harbouring a secret that will change your life forever.

Warning: 18+, discussion of mental health (it's a fic based in a mental health facility), the fic would contain several mentions of several disorders like mpd, did etc, if something triggers you don't read, smoking.

“Room 393 needs cleaning up, new guy is coming” you heard your supervisor Mona so you sighed and quickly nodded. Working as a custodian in a mental health facility wasn't ever really a dream job for you but you didn't have any option at the moment. Your mother had worked all her life for the center and when she passed, as per her request beforehand, the job was immediately offered to you, and you had debts to pay so you couldn't really deny that offer.

At thirty you didn't really see your life heading towards anything better anyways and you didn't really despise working here. Helping people feel good at times. Your job wasn't limited to cleaning services, you would often get assigned to patients who needed a caregiver for physical and emotional needs.

King's landing psychiatric inpatient and wellness center was a six floor building at the outskirts of London, it was established in 1955 and your mother had started her job the same year, it's been thirty years now and two years since she had passed, she was living nearby because she was married and had a child, you on other hand didn't want to travel back n forth so you chose to live here itself as a permanent live in staff of the wellness center.

You were accustomed to seeing patients coming in for various disorders, most were delusional at worst or suffered from some sort of dysphoria. However, the patients at the King's Landing Wellness Center were not usually considered dangerous and you had never felt threatened by any one of them except a few women who lashed out at you and pushed you around last year. But with time, you had learned to provide them with the care and attention they needed instead of judging them for the outburst.

“Are you listening y/n?” You snapped back to reality as Mona called your name and gathered your cleaning cart to go fix room 393, there was this girl that had just gotten released from the facility, Tanya, she was a shy, quiet girl in her mid twenties with a debilitating case of multiple personality disorder.

You mostly kept to yourself at the facility as you didn't want to get involved or too overly attached with the patients.

The moment you took the mattress off to deep clean the bed, you discovered a piece of paper underneath. Curiosity got the better of you, and you decided to open it. Once you saw the writing on the paper, a feeling of unease coursed through your body, the words seemed almost ominous

“They are going to hurt me. I know, I'll never get out of here, if you find this please make sure to check up on me please”

You sighed before you folded the paper and placed it inside your apron quickly before it would get lost. What did she mean you wondered? The centre was under the supervision of three doctors. Doctor Vis was a man in his early forties and he was the most feared of all three because of his unorthodox methods of treatment but the other two doctors, Lisa and Darren seemed more approachable.

As you made your way out of room 393, you saw Doctor Vis standing in the hallway, having a conversation with another man. The other man stood with his back against the wall while Doctor Vis stood uncomfortably close to him, he was handcuffed so you assumed that he was being aggressive in his therapy session, as you walked past them you looked at the man briefly and normally you'd have looked away but this time you couldn't for some reason, he had a shiny silver hair that you had never really seen on a man before and it caught your eye immediately. The uniform he had on wasn't a surprise as it was a dress code for the patients, a white shirt and same coloured trousers.

His eyes met yours briefly and he smirked so you looked away immediately ,

“You didn't tell me you hired such beautiful chicks around here to be your servant-” Daemon had barely finished his sentence before Vis grabbed his collar to warn him. Vis looked as you walked past them and turned to make left into the hallway, disappearing out of their sight.

“Don't make this more difficult than it already is you moron”

Dr. Vis escorted Daemon into the room where he was immediately uncuffed. With the doctor now gone, Daemon let out an angry roar before throwing the chair into the room's window, shattering it into pieces.

“New guy is here” you mumbled as you reached the canteen. The rest of the staff members, including those from the pantry and cleaning services, were already gathered at the table. Shyla, who was the same age as you approached you. But in contrast to you, Shyla appeared to have a backup plan in mind after her tenure here.

“Oh god have you guys seen him, he's really hotttt in a really weird way”

You gulped as she said that, she always lived on the edge, it was unprofessional and unethical to talk about patients this way. Besides, he wasn't hot at all.

“Cut out with the heart eyes girl he must be a cuckoo to be here”

Another woman, Dina , intervened as she whispered very quietly, you didn't appreciate her language but then she wasn't wrong, sane people didn't come here.

“Hey y/n, new patient broke the window in 393, clean it up”

Mona suddenly entered the canteen so you sighed but then you were left feeling confused.

“How did he break it? Those windows are supposed to be unbreakable” you asked her curiously as the windows in the patient's room were specifically designed to withstand extreme conditions and were built to be unbreakable for security reasons.

“Don't question what's and how's, do your job girl” she glared at you so you picked up your cleaning cart again.

As you entered room 393, you spotted the new patient on the bed, seemingly engrossed in a book. Your brow furrowed as you took in the sight of the debris of shattered glass scattered around the room. Quickly, you grabbed a broom and began the cleaning process, starting from the corners to ensure that you picked up every last shard. As you swept, you couldn't help but feel puzzled as to how the window was broken in the first place,

“You shouldn't be doing such things, they are not afraid of sending violent patients to the lone ward” you mumbled so he looked up from his book and then glanced at you from top to bottom before he let out a snicker.

“Awnnn do you get paid to offer advice around here or cleaning is your only area of expertise?”

You glared at him as he said that but you remained calm, you couldn't raise your voice with patients even though you had been wanting to do it for a long while now.

“Sir im just-” you cringed internally as you addressed him as sir, it wasn't a norm but then you didn't really know his name yet. He had changed out of his uniform so you couldn't even read the name tag.

“Do your fucking job girl and get out”

You cut back on your words as he spoke rudely to you, perhaps he was admitted for extreme anger issues, whatever it was you just wanted to get out and not see him at least for a day.

You missed Tanya, she was a sweet girl, and you hadn't forgotten the note you had found under her bed this morning but then she wasn't exactly stable in her mind, people often scribbled down their most intrusive thoughts in their free time, and there was abundance of that around here. Besides you had bid her goodbye, she had hugged you warmly and she seemed happier for once.

During the lunch service you saw his smug face again as he sat down in the corner of the cafeteria, his eyes met with yours and he gave you a small smile but you didn't return it. Though you didn't want to take his words personally, he was dealing with something and that's why he was here.

“Mrs Rodriguez, are you finished with your food?” You asked the elderly lady so she snapped out of her thoughts and nodded but as you raised your hand forward to pick up her plate she grabbed your hand,

“Simon thinks i should eat less” she mumbled almost fearfully and your heart clenched for her, Simon was merely a figment of her imagination.

“Well he's wrong because you are eating as much as you should” she let go of your hand and smiled as you said that to her. When you reached around his table you noticed that he hadn't even touched his food,

“Are you going to eat sir? Your half an hour is almost over” you asked him so he chuckled. New patients in the center had strict rules and regulations to follow during the beginning of their treatment.

“Who should I be asking around here for a smoke?” He asked you and your brows furrowed.

“That's not allowed, i will help you with a nicotine patch if you're feeling restless -” he rolled his eyes as you said that.

“I don't need that shit” he grumbled under his breath so you looked at the time. Looking at him you couldn't really tell what actually was wrong with him, well besides the anger issues obviously, he seemed almost normal, almost self aware which really wasn't usual around this place.

“Please finish your food, dinner service is around 8 and a man of your size won't get any nutrition from the snacks we offer during tea time” you spoke a bit sternly and the corner of his mouth curved into a small smile.

“What's your name y/n?” He asked you so you looked at him baffled, he clearly read your name on the badge and he said it as well.

“I don't know your name either” you mumbled politely so he gave you a smile

“Daemon”

“Have an easy day Mr. Daemon, first few days are always difficult” you ultimately grabbed his plate as you left because he didn't seem to be in any mood to eat at the time.

Around evening as you finished your shift you made your way to your room at the fourth floor to take a shower and relax a bit. You took out the note you had found under Tanya's bed and placed it inside your cupboard safely, a part of you continued to feel uneasy about this thing, another was thinking about Daemon.

Why was he there? What had he done? You were not allowed to enquire about these things unless or until you were told the information by the authorities.

Daemon couldn't really sleep at night, how could he? He was locked up in here and was being treated as if he was crazy but he knew what he was and he wasn't delusional about it either. Even as sleep came for him he had a horrible nightmare that had him tossing and turning in his bed again so he woke up and stepped out of his room quietly as the room was starting to suffocate him. That's when he found the window at the end of the corridor and that was all he needed.

Around 2 at night, you were enjoying a peaceful moment to yourself on the terrace of the building, taking a break with a cigarette. As you were absorbed in your own thoughts, you heard a loud thud sound from behind you. Startled, you jumped and quickly turned around, only to find the new patient, Daemon, standing there. You couldn't believe how he had gotten there, he didn't have the key to the door and you clearly remembered locking it when you had gotten in. The terrace was strictly off-limits to patients for obvious reasons.

“What..are you doing here, you can't be here mister” you almost sounded frantic and kind of scared to be honest. And why didn't he have a shirt on? It was freaking cold out here. And why was he so freaking ripped?

“Hooking me up with a bloody nicotine patch when you got this sweet thing right here?” he asked you as he approached you so you took a few steps behind you until you had hit the ledge. You quickly threw the cigarette butt on the ground and crushed it under your flip flops before he could attempt to steal it from you.

“Now that's a waste of a good cigarette” he almost seemed offended with his brows furrowed and scowl on his face.

“Look, don't come near me alright?” You warned him so he crossed his arms and stepped closer to you despite your warning.

“I'm not going to harm you, I can, don't get me wrong.. but I won't”

Was that supposed to make you feel better?

“Please come with me, let me take you to your room .. please”

As he heard your gentle voice his teeth gritted together. “Please just listen to me ..it's only best for you” You brought your arm forward to grab his forearm but you flinched away as soon as you had touched his skin.

“Are you sick? You're burning like a furnace” You asked him worriedly so he scratched his scalp before he looked around and took a deep breath “And how did you get here?”

“I'm not sick, do I look sick to you?” He asked you so you shook your head but that was pointless, if he was a regular smoker, perhaps he was feeling the withdrawal.

“Just one puff, I'll be indebted to you forever darling, please, what do you want me to do beg? I can beg on my knees .You want that?..”

“Ohhh shut up for god's sake -” You cut him off mid sentence as he started to ramble but the stupid smirk on his face was still there. “I'll lose my job Daemon -”

“Nobody will know”

“I can't do it.. please understand please..”

He sighed and the pleading look on your face made him willing to listen to you ultimately.

How did he even come up here? You had come via the main entrance and it was locked from inside. As you escorted him back to his room, you mumbled a quick good night but he suddenly grabbed you by the shoulders and pushed you against the door, your heart was right into your mouth at the moment for several different reasons, you had been pushed over by several women at the facility but never a man, especially not a man like him who seemed so strong and so unstable. If worse comes to worse you knew you wouldn't be able to defend yourself.

“Daemon let go of me” you mumbled sternly but his hands were on your upper arms, holding you tightly still. He wasn't hurting you, not yet at least.

“Shhhhh shhh shhhh” as he whispered in your ear you were going to scream but nothing came out of your throat, not even a squeak, you feared that he was going to touch you inappropriately, if this wasn't inappropriate as it was, but then he placed his nose on the crook of your neck and took a sniff. Like a wild animal he sniffed you, literally.

One sniff, two sniff, and then one two three at once, you couldn't help but wonder why you weren't feeling as uncomfortable as you should have in a similar situation.

“What are you doing?” You asked him gently to not aggregate him so he looked you right in the eyes before he cupped your cheeks and stared at your lips, his nose rubbed slightly against yours before he closed his eyes, grunted a little and finally stepped away from you. His chest was heaving from breathlessness, same as yours as you both stared at each other for a moment. What the hell was that?

“Get out lady”

He mumbled so you immediately got the fuck out of there, you were looking behind every step of the way to see if he was following you but he wasn't. At the end of the corridor you stopped as suddenly, your feet came in contact with a piece of fabric on the floor, and when you bent down to investigate, you realized it was Daemon's shirt but it was completely shredded in several pieces - the same shirt he had worn this evening.

The realization left you feeling even more puzzled and disoriented. How had he managed to enter the terrace when it was locked from the outside. It seemed impossible. It was impossible. Or perhaps there was another way? Or maybe you were going crazy yourself? Now that was possible.

As your head hit your pillow you ran your fingers over your neck, right where he was sniffing, he seemed so...so primal in that moment, so animalistic, if that was the right choice of word. Did you atleast smell good? God you hoped so. Or not. He was a patient, you had to keep that in mind, he had issues.

The next morning while Daemon was away for his therapy session with the doctors you decided to clean up his room, he had left you feeling a bit unnerved last night with his strange behavior but you weren't really scared of him and then you wondered why you weren't scared of him after what he had done.

The iron bars on his window were the first thing you had noticed as you had entered the room. As you heard loud footsteps approaching the room you quickly collected your stuff to prepare to leave.

As Dr. Vis entered with Daemon he looked at you and spoke politely “Will you please step out ?” Vis asked you so you nodded immediately.

“Yes doctor, I'm almost done” you grabbed your cart and walked past them, your eyes met with Daemon and he seemed angry, but also really sad? His eyes were read and teary, such a contrast from his snarky demeanor yesterday.

As the door slammed shut, you found yourself in a state of morbid curiosity. So instead of minding your own business as you should have, you pressed your ear against the door instead, hoping to catch a glimpse of what was going on inside. Why did he look so sad?

“You had promised you wouldn't start with the absurdity right off the bat” Dr. Vis yelled at Daemon and that bothered you. Why was he yelling at a patient like this on his second day?

“Absurdity? You think me speaking of my true self is absurd?” Daemon asked the doctor and you didn't understand what was happening, what was he suffering from?

Dazed and confused as you reached the staff area Shyla walked around the table with a smirk on her face so you finally gave in.

“What?”

As you asked her she slammed her hands on the table in a dramatic manner.

“I found out why the new guy is here”

You weren't the one to gossip but you really wanted to know why Daemon was there? Why was he here? What was hurting him?

“How did you find out?” You asked her to seem disinterested as you didn't want to make your interest apparent.

“I have my source girl” she patted herself on shoulders so you crossed your arms together.

“Uhuh and what did your source tell you?”

“Well you're not ready for this-"

“Just spill it already” you chuckled as you spoke but the way she was stalling had only gotten you more curious.

“He thinks..now listen to this..he thinks he's a dragon” she mumbled excitedly so you stared at her all perplexed.

“What?”

“The new guy believes that he's a human dragon hybrid or something like that.. unbelievable right?”

Oh well!! That was a big problem huh.

👀👀👀👀👀👀👀👀👀👀👀👀👀👀

#daemon targaryen x female reader #daemon targaryen x reader fluff #daemon targaryen #daemon targaryen x reader smut #daemon targaryen x reader angst #modern day au #non canon au

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bebetaian · 22 days ago

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A Taisho or early Showa houmongi, a type of semi-formal kimono. I love the long sleeves. I'm siding with early Showa. There's something about it that reminds me of 1930s tomesode that came from Ichiroya, who really went through a lot of effort to identify fine details of kimono. I appreciated it so much because I don't have any Japanese experts to ask and learn from.

The seller described it as "pure silk" but the lining feels synthetic to me. Too rough, even for rougher silk weaves. And the lining has a synthetic feeling. It's harder now, that the nerves in my hands are damaged and the fingertips especially are getting rough from hand-sewing and cleaning so often. I'm certainly no aristocratic person, that's for sure. A synthetic lining would have been a Good Thing at the time though, since I think they were less likely to have the colour bleed into the shell.

Collar style is bachi-eri, prefolded and sewn, no snaps or strings. Sleeves are so, so long, longer than most of the other kimono from the same era. I think today it would be considered chu-furisode length.

The fabric is shiny with a woven sayagata pattern overlaid with flowers that resemble daisies(?) and grasses. The yuzen patterns are three season: tachibana, bamboo, plum blossoms, chrysanthemums, maple leaves. Lots of fine gold painting which has somewhat flaked off.

There is a single mon which is embroidered, called 'nui mon.' The mon looks like kyuumaizasa, "nine bamboo leaves." (九枚笹) But I'm not sure because the centre does not have the leaf divisions.

Wrist to wrist: 50" Sleeve length: 29.25" Neck to hem: 61" Body width: 24.5"

There are some minor flaws but those are very typical for a kimono this age. The small sections where the silk is white, sometimes they have very tiny pale marks where the silk naturally turns brown, or there is subtle "bleeding" from the dye lines. It really doesn't trouble me at all. Instead, it shows authenticity.

This houmongi came from ebay seller Kimono Kyoto Ikkidou.

#japanese #japanese tradition #japanese culture #kimono #japanese kimono #showa kimono #taisho kimono #antique kimono #private collection

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sipenvs3000w25 · 4 months ago

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Unit 10- My Personal Ethic as a Nature Interpreter

Nature has always been an integral part of my life. From childhood explorations in the forest to my current conservation efforts, my journey as a nature interpreter is deeply rooted in stewardship, accessibility, and inspiration. Early experiences shaped my love for nature and my commitment to ensuring that others, especially children, have similar opportunities to connect with the natural world.

(Photo of me at about 8 years old just hanging out in a tree, captured by my mom!)

Beliefs That Guide My Interpretation

One of my core beliefs is that everyone should have access to nature. Chapter 7 of our readings emphasizes inclusivity in interpretation, stating, “Role models are important in generating interest in any field.” Another key point from the chapter highlights that “Barriers have been found to discourage park attendance and participation in interpretive programs by minority populations.”

As a camp councillor, I’ve worked with children who had never hiked before or had limited access to nature. Seeing their wonder when they held a frog for the first time or discovered a camouflaged insect reinforced the importance of welcoming and inclusive outdoor spaces. Expressing excitement over finding a stick bug or a caterpillar reinforces their enthusiasm. One memorable moment was when we found a garter snake hidden in the tall grass on the property. Initially, some children were fearful, but after I explained its role in the ecosystem, their fear transformed into curiosity. By the end of the session, they were eager to find another one. These transformations demonstrate that a connection to nature can be nurtured and that curiosity is contagious.

(Photo I took at nature camp, this Polyphemus Moth caterpillar was definitely the centre of attention for the campers this day)

I also believe conservation should be an active responsibility, not just an ideal. If we want to maintain ecosystems, we must do more than admire them, we must protect and restore them. I have seen habitat destruction firsthand, from invasive species overtaking wetlands to littered trails. This influences how I engage audiences, urging them to move from appreciation to action. Through hands-on conservation activities, citizen science projects, or leading by example, I aim to instill a sense of responsibility in those I teach.

Responsibilities as a Nature Interpreter

1. Respect and Honor the Land

A key responsibility is treating the land with respect. Just as campers are taught to leave no trace, interpreters must model and encourage respectful interactions with nature. One experience that reinforced this for me was arriving at a campsite that had been poorly maintained. Trash was scattered around, food remnants had been left out, and the fire pit was full of half-burnt plastic. It was disheartening to see such a lack of care for a place meant to be enjoyed by all. I spent time cleaning up the site before setting up my own camp, but the experience reinforced the importance of teaching responsible outdoor ethics. If everyone left nature as they found it—or better—our wild spaces would remain pristine for future generations.

(This is a picture of our campsite, after all the preexisting garbage was removed and we finally got to setting up our tents. I definitely was not a happy camper that day)

2. Inspire and Educate

Another responsibility is inspiring curiosity and learning. As an interpreter, I must tailor my approach to different audiences, ensuring inclusivity and engagement. One of my favourite methods is storytelling. Instead of listing facts, I frame information within narratives that make it memorable. A story about a squirrel forgetting buried nuts, inadvertently planting trees, is far more impactful than a simple list of ecological functions. The impact of storytelling is further delved upon in chapter 10, Arts of Interpretation. According to storyteller Susan Strauss (1988), “in the world of interpretation, the job of the storyteller is to bridge the gap between human beings and the natural world.”. This truly resonates with my experiences as an interpreter for children, stories can connect the real world with their active imaginations.

3. Foster Stewardship in Others

Beyond education, my role involves instilling responsibility in others. When people feel connected to nature, they are more likely to advocate for its protection. One summer, I led campers in clearing an area of invasive Phragmites. Initially, they saw it as a chore, but as I explained the impact of invasive species, they became invested. By the end of the day, they were identifying invasives on their own and asking how they could help outside of camp. These moments prove that people need to feel personally involved in order to care.

(My group and I on our way to the invaded wetlands)

Suitable Approaches to Interpretation

To sustain enthusiasm and effectiveness as an interpreter, I turn to Beck and Cable’s (2011) “Gifts of Interpretation.” One that resonates with me is The Gift of Joy: “Interpreters can promote optimal experiences through intentional and thoughtful program and facility design.”

To maintain joy in my work, I adopt the following approaches:

1. Staying Curious

The more I learn about nature, the more I find to love and share. Expanding my knowledge keeps my enthusiasm alive and ensures that my programs remain fresh and engaging.

2. Engaging with My Community

Connecting with fellow interpreters and nature enthusiasts helps me stay inspired. Sharing experiences, challenges, and successes fosters motivation and belonging.

3. Practicing Self-Care and Balance

Nature interpretation can be demanding, especially in extreme weather or challenging situations. Setting realistic expectations, taking breaks, and enjoying nature for my own sake helps maintain a sustainable approach.

(Me trying to keep a positive attitude even through the torrential rain and flooding at camp)

Conclusion

My ethic as a nature interpreter is built on love for the natural world, a commitment to accessibility, and a dedication to inspiring others. Through mindful practice, continuous learning, and conservation efforts, I strive to make a difference, one moment of wonder, one inspired child, and one protected ecosystem at a time.

By embracing inclusivity, fostering curiosity, and leading by example, I hope to inspire future generations to protect and cherish the environment. The role of a nature interpreter extends beyond delivering information—it is about igniting passion, removing barriers to participation, and cultivating a lifelong appreciation for the natural world. Through this work, I aim to ensure that nature remains a source of wonder, learning, and connection for all.

References

Knudson, L.B.T.T.C.D. M. (2018). Interpreting Cultural and Natural Heritage: For a Better World. Sagamore Publishing LLC. https://sagamore.vitalsource.com/books/9781571678669

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spaghettificationandpretzels · 2 years ago

Text

The Hollow Men

Part 1, part 2

Part three of The Way the Stars Love the Heavens series.

Contains: Fluff, slow burn, unresolved feelings, angst, violence, blood, death, a cliffhanger. Not beta read, likely full of mistakes.

Follow #the way the stars love the heavens for updates

2.9K words

This is the way the world ends

You stood in the briefing room with all eyes on you, and Price had a smile a mile wide on his face. Your translations were front and centre, and your laptop, which someone must have collected from your office, was open on the table. Price nodded a greeting to everyone as they walked in, then gestured towards you. "The boys gave me the rundown but I want to hear it right from you."

You blinked, unsure of what he was talking about. "It's all in the files sir, I'm not quite sure what more I can offer." There was that look from Ghost again, the same one he gave you when you stopped yourself from telling them about the American theory.

Price nodded. "We all know how thorough your work is y/n, that's not the issue here. I want to hear what you think, not want you know."

You took a deep breath, there was no point in protesting again. "He's in his late thirties to early forties, from the south and highly educated, but it came late, my guess is in the military. He acts like he likes the person he's talking to but he doesn't and judging by the last few communications, he's planning something big."

Price reached into his vest and pulled a memory card out. "So far, all your translations have been from text right?" You nodded, and he continued. "How long would it take you to translate a disguised voice?"

He handed you the card and you understood what he was asking. "A few seconds, I wouldn't even need to do anything, there's software that will clean it." You placed the card into your laptop and started the programs, and a stillness fell over the room as it worked through the file.

The speakers popped to life, and a voice came through them. "Yeah, yeah, I get you. But now that it's done, I'm not going to be his bitch boy anymore."

"You were right, love." Ghost turned to the group, his eyes hard and filled with anger. "That's Graves."

Soap had told you everything that went down in Las Alams, you knew this was serious. "Umm, I'm going to go, I'm probably just going to get in the way now."

"You'll stay right where you are." The only time Ghost had been that curt with you was the first time you met, and it lasted a total of two hours. "Who do you think he's talking to?"

You thought for a moment, going back over all his conversations in your head. "I think it's someone on the outside, someone he complains to. And I think the person he's referring to is now very dead or about to be."

You were waiting for the blow up, for someone to finally crack and for the rage to pour free. After everything they went through, you could only imagine how they felt.

"I need to contact Los Vaqueros and let them know that Las Almas might be in danger." You understood why Alejandro was so upset, after the dust settled with Hassan, the 141 returned to Las Almas to finally stamp out the cartel. Alejandro and Rudy only agreed to join now because they knew their home was safe.

Price nodded. "Go, we'll send some axillary men. We don't want you and Rudy to go home just yet." He swallowed and turned back to you. "Is there anything else you can tell us? I don't care how small it is."

You took a deep breath, you weren't used to being this important. "I know he's planning something. At first, he seemed unsure of himself, like he was figuring everything out but after a while, that went away. It would take me hours to explain word choice and syntax and punctuation, it might be time you don't have."

"Then you better talk fast because we need to know whatever's in your brain." For the first time, you wished Ghost didn't have so much faith in you.

****

They never interrupted, but the questions came thick and fast, and the more they learned, the more complex the questions got. It felt like you were teaching them linguistics and psychology all at once. But the room got tenser the more you talked, and there was clearly something they were understanding that you weren't. By the time you were done, they all looked ready to kill.

"I'm going to take all of this to Laswell, you should be ready to roll out at a moment's notice." Price's tone was short, you had no idea what was going on, and he left in such a hurry that you knew something was wrong.

"Did I do something wrong? Please tell me I didn't neglect to tell you something important?" Your thoughts started to race, something very serious was going on.

Soap shook his head. "No doll, you didn't. You've been a big help, really." When he saw that his words brought you no comfort, he kept going. "You wouldn't have known the stuff you told us was important unless you had worked with Graves. Really, y/n, you're a lifesaver."

You breathed a sigh of relief and smiled. "Oh thank God, I was really starting to like this job."

The room let out a chuckle and everyone started to pile out, just as you crossed the threshold, Ghost turned to you and stopped you with a hand on your shoulder. "I'm posting men outside your office and dorm when we're not here and I don't want you taking your morning walk alone anymore." His tone left no room for argument.

"Am I in danger?" It was the last place you'd expect to be at risk, despite the circumstances, you had always felt safe on base.

He shook his head. "No, but I just want to make sure. Graves is a bad man and if he thinks you helping us will end him, he will do anything to stop that." You understood what he was saying, trust no one. "I'll assign them personally, you don't need to worry about that."

You nodded. "Ok then. Thank you for listening to me today, it really means the world to me that you guys think what I have to say matters."

You could see the smile in his eyes as he reached up to brush your cheek with the back of his hand. "We'll pick up that other conversation, love, I just gotta deal with this first."

You truly hoped whatever they were doing wouldn't take long, you might explode if you had to wait any longer to tell him the truth about how you felt about him. "I'd like that."

****

The base was a rush for hours before you saw Ghost again and when he knocked on your office door, he wasn't alone.

"Y/n, this is Denise Peters and Arin Moss. Moss will be on the day shift and Peters will be on the night shift. You do not leave their sight." It was a small base and you had talked to both of them before, they both seemed alright. Peters was a little too arrogant for your tastes, but none of that mattered, if Ghost trusted them, so did you.

You nodded. "Alright. Maybe it will be good to have an extra pair of hands."

He smiled, waved them away and closed the door before sitting on the corner of your desk. "I think we have something to talk about love?" He paused and reached up, pulling his mask free as he leaned in close. His umber eyes looked over your face, and you placed a hand on his cheek as he brought his hand up so he could stoke your face.

You were too caught up in the moment to utter the words, he already knew anyway, he made that much clear every time he looked at you. "We do."

You leaned in closer, resting your forehead on his as you brushed his nose with yours. Your lips touched in a barely there graze and his hand slid from your cheek to the back of your neck as he shifted to pull you closer. You were stuck between confessing and finally kissing him but it seemed Simon had made up his mind because your lips brushed again as he went to speak. "Y/n, love. I love.."

"Ghost wheels up in ten." You glared at the flung open door, Price was standing there stock still, staring at both of you, his eyes going back and forth as he figured out what to do.

Simon had pulled away from you and was pulling his mask back over his face when you lost it. "You have the worst fucking timing known to man, did you know that?"

He nodded and glanced at the floor. "It seems so." His face fell and he gave you an apologetic look. "There's no time to continue your conversation, I'm sorry."

He left and Ghost followed, his hand lingering in yours as he went. "I'll be back soon love."

You nodded. "Yeah, be safe." You daren't say the words, it felt like bad luck.

****

It had been three long days since they left, with only a few words over the radio since and to say you were over it was an understatement. Arin Moss was a jovial young man who could talk for hours, he made Simon being away easy. But Peters was only just tolerable, he kept his distance and spoke when spoken to, which got lonely after a while, no one wants to feel like their company is a chore. Despite everything, you understood why Simon assigned him to you, he picked up on every detail, and you never needed to tell him something twice.

Tonight was no different, you were in the small kitchen getting a snack while he stood against the wall eating an apple and you must have said two words to each other since he started his shift. "You seem busy tonight?"

You blinked away your shock and nodded. "Yeah, I'm working on an old stone tablet, I tend to get lost in the dusty stuff."

He let out a single laugh. "Why didn't you go into archaeology?" The sudden interest in you felt strange but there was no one else to talk to, the 141 section of the base was always quiet.

You snorted. "I have a PhD in it, I'm just better with languages." Had it been one of the guys who had asked, you would have given more detail but something told you Peters wasn't interested in an explanation.

"Wow. You're a smart women, I can see why Ghost likes you so much." That struck you as odd, he normally worked in another building and unlike most bases, there wasn't a lot of gossip going around.

You took your grilled cheese out of the sandwich press and turned it off before offering him half, along with a question. "What makes you say that?"

He flashed you a slight smile. "He's put two men on you to keep you safe, he wouldn't do that if he didn't care about you."

You nodded. "I guess you're...."

BANG BANG BANG

"What the hell was that?" He looked around and handed you back the plate. "I don't know but I'm going to go see what it was. Stay here."

He ran off and you went to sit down and eat but before you pulled out your chair, there was another bang, louder this time, then alarms started to go off.

The base was under attack.

The chuff chuff of a helicopter sounded overhead and your heart started to race, and the air was filled with the sound of gunshots. Another bang, this one had you getting up and to shut and lock the door, it sounded like a door close by had just been broken open. Then more shooting and men yelling, it was getting closer and closer.

The guys had told you what to do if this ever happened, grab the closest weapon and use it on anyone you didn't recognise, so that's what you did. You went to the draw and, grabbed the longest knife you could find and waited. It didn't take long, the light flickered and you saw men rushing by in the door's small glass window before the lights went out and you were bathed in almost darkness that made it hard to see anything.

You protested at first when the 141 wanted you to join them while they trained, you had to meet basic firearms and hand to hand proficiency to work on the base, you could look after yourself. But right now, crouched behind the door frame, ready to stab the first person through the door, you were grateful they had insisted.

There was no call out as the footsteps got closer and you knew what was coming, the handle twisted and the door opened and you lunged. You topped your class in Biology, you didn't need anyone to tell you where to aim the knife. The feeling was strange as the knife went into his neck, hard and soft all at once. He made a strange sound and you shoved him away from you, the blade staying in your hand as he fell.

Your eyes had adjusted to the dark by now and you looked down at the man, he was reaching for his gun but his hands were failing him and with one more beat of his heart, he was dead. The adrenaline racing through your veins made it hard to feel anything but the urge to run but you were aware of the wet metallic stickiness that was clinging to parts of you.

There were more gunshots, the muzzle flashes lighting up the hallway as they went off. You went over to the body and grabbed what you could, his custom helmet and vest were out of the question but his crackling radio would at least help if more were coming, so would his gun.

You had to get out of the kitchen and walking through the door wasn't an option, neither was waiting but you didn't have the chance to think because another round of gunshots went off and then there was another flash of movement in the hallway and the dead body in the room had stolen the element of surprise.

You didn't get the chance to raise the gun before you were bodyslammed into the kitchen counter. "You struggle and I hurt you." You didn't listen and a swift kick to his groin had him going limp and doubling over. You thought fast and grabbed the sandwich press before swinging it down onto the unprotected back of his neck.

You threw the appliance down on his back and took your only option and ran, but he had recovered and yanked your ankle hard, you managed to grab the edge of the table to soften your way down. He pulled himself towards you as you tried to pull yourself away but it was too late and he was pissed. "I told you I hurt.."

BANG

Someone grabbed the back of your shirt as the body fell on top of you and pulled you up, it was Peters. He looked at the other body on the floor and gave you a nod. "Good fucking work." He listened to his cracking radio and looked around. "We need to go now."

You nodded. "If you can get me to my office I can get us out, there's an old service door behind the shelves."

He placed a hand on your shoulder and all but pushed you out the door. "I think I can but you stay behind me, and if I'm shooting at something, you shoot too."

It felt strange to accept that so readily, killing was easier than you thought it would be. You had made it halfway down the hall before it started away, it was hard to suppress the urge to duck as the shooting roared behind you, even more so when Peters shot a man who popped up out of a connecting hallway in your path.

There were bodies everywhere, both sides, and it struck you as strange that you were almost at your door with only one encounter. "What's going on?"

He didn't glance back. "What do you think. We're almost there."

You didn't relax when you reached your office, even as he cleared the room so you could go inside. You ran over to the shelving and he helped you push it aside. A few hard pushes on the door got it open and he pointed his gun down the tunnel as he looked both ways before waving you in.

There was even less light here, and Peters' flashlight and the one you had taken from the dead man only did so much. The door shutting didn't give you any relief, they had to have had the blueprints and it was only a matter of time before they came looking. For a moment, your thoughts drifted to Simon, you hoped he was on his way back here but deep down, you knew that communication would have been the first thing they took out.

Your mind raced to find something that told you who these men were but there was nothing, the dead man's uniform and the bodies around the hallways didn't have any patches on their vests, just grenades and magazines.

You paused in the hallway and looked at to the door as your blood ran cold. "What is it?"

You swallowed, you hoped your lie was convincing. "Nothing, I'm just worried about the guys."

The clicking of a holster told you he didn't buy it.

"What gave me away?"

Part 4

@chaos-4baby

#simon riley/you #simon ghost riley #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #cod mw2 #simon riley x you #simon riley #simon ghost riley x female reader #simon riley/reader #the way the stars love the heavens #call of duty

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residences-of-the-darkforest · 8 months ago

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Dark Forest Resident: Berrypaw

Aliases / Nicknames: Brat, Bratpaw, Annoying Flea

Gender: tom

Sexuality: bisexual

Family: unnamed mother, unnamed father, five unnamed littermates

Other Relations: unnamed mentor

Clan: ThunderClan

Rank: apprentice

Characteristics: talks back, childish, shameless, bold

Motive to Harm: fun

Number of Victims: 1+

Number of Murders: 0

Murder Method: N/A

Method of Harm: disrespecting his leader, disrespecting StarClan

Known Victims: Specklestar, StarClan in general

Victim Profile: his leader, his ancestors

Cause of Death: crushed by fallen branch

Cautionary Tale: ??

Story:

He learned early on that the best way for cats to pay attention to him was to annoy them.

Play games? Only works if they have the time and until they're tired.

Flicking their ears or sticking out his tongue at them? They'll be so irritated that they'll stick around him.

He was born in a large litter of six healthy kits, and that was a lot of divided attention for his parents. Berrykit started acting out because of frustration at not being soothed or spoken to enough by his mother or father. The moment he did something bad, he was scolded, but all he could focus on was that his parents were paying attention to him.

Berrypaw focused on training and, not including the occasional prank or joke, was professional when he was alone or only with his mentor. But the moment there was a peer around or more than two other cats, he put on his smirk and began his prodding.

The bigger the crowd, the better. He loved being the centre of attention, it didn't matter if that attention was negative.

This all culminated in his final, big joke: saying "I don't" to the Clan leader instead of "I do" during his warrior ceremony.

Immediately he was met with anger and gasps. No one thought that it was funny, but that didn't matter. Berrypaw thought it was funny, and a big smile spread on his face as he looked up at his flustered and annoyed leader.

Specklestar pressed on, asking if Berrypaw knew what he was doing, asking if he was sure. As Berrypaw kept confirming, Specklestar's questions became more serious. She asked if Berrypaw knew he was disrespecting his leader and StarClan, then if Berrypaw was sure he wanted to continue with his attitude, reminding him that StarClan was watching.

Berrypaw put on an innocent face, saying that he knows he's not ready to finish training, so why is everyone putting up such a fuss? He's just being honest.

Eventually the meeting ended and Berrypaw was punished with cleaning out the elder's den and cleaning the dirtplace until after everyone else was asleep.

Then he curled up in his nest in the apprentice's den--unusually cold and quiet with all his littermates now sitting vigil.

He was about to drift into sleep when he heard creaking from above. Then the den roof collapsed.

Additional Information:

--His littermates were the first to hurry to the apprentice's den because they were already up.

--The branch would have fallen even if StarClan was not disrespected--they did not cause it to fall. But had Berrypaw not ruined his own ceremony, he wouldn't have been in the apprentice's den at that time, and would have survived.

--Base: F2u Apprentice Base by KouNavi48 on DeviantArt

#long post #berrypaw #place of no stars #place of no stars oc #dark forest #dark forest oc #dark forest apprentice #profile #dark profile #dark forest profile #place of no stars profile #dark forest resident #resident #resident profile #dark resident #place of no stars resident #wound tw #injury tw

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aneeqa123 · 1 month ago

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Ten - Mango Sticky Rice

The chipped paint on the windowsill felt rough beneath Ten’s fingertips as he watched the sunset bleed across the Singapore skyline. He’d promised Y/n he’d be home early, a rare quiet evening after a grueling week of promotions and late-night meetings. He’d even picked up her favorite mango sticky rice from the hawker centre downstairs. The anticipation of seeing her smile, the warmth of her embrace, had been a comforting thought all day.

But the apartment was silent. Unusually silent. He pushed the key into the lock, the familiar click a jarring sound in the stillness. He stepped inside, the scent of jasmine incense usually hanging heavy in the air replaced by a sharp, metallic tang that prickled his nostrils.

“Y/n?” he called out, his voice a low murmur. No answer.

He moved through the apartment, the silence amplifying his unease. The living room was tidy, the cushions arranged meticulously on the sofa, a half-finished book lying open on the coffee table. The kitchen, too, was pristine, the mango sticky rice still nestled in its Styrofoam container. Everything was in its place, yet something felt profoundly wrong.

He found her in the bedroom, bathed in the fading light filtering through the sheer curtains. She was sitting on the floor, her back against the wall, her head bowed. A small, silver blade lay discarded beside her, glinting faintly in the gloom. His blood ran cold. He knew that blade. He’d seen it before, hidden away in a drawer, a secret shame he’d thought they’d both left behind.

He knelt beside her, his heart a frantic drum against his ribs. He reached out a trembling hand, gently touching her shoulder. She flinched, but didn't pull away. Her skin was pale, her breathing shallow. Crimson welts marred her inner wrist, a stark testament to her silent struggle.

“Y/n,” he whispered, his voice thick with unshed tears. “What happened?”

She didn’t answer, only continued to stare at the floor, her shoulders shaking slightly. He pulled her into a hug, her body rigid against his. He held her close, the scent of her hair, usually a comforting fragrance, now heavy with the metallic tang of blood.

“I… I told you to knock first!” she finally choked out, her voice barely a whisper. The words, a desperate attempt at deflection, a shield against the vulnerability she was clearly battling.

He knew that wasn't the real reason. The self-inflicted wounds spoke volumes. He held her tighter, his own tears finally spilling over. He didn't press her for answers, not yet. Right now, she needed comfort, not interrogation.

He spent the next hour cleaning her wounds, his hands clumsy and shaking. He applied antiseptic, bandaged her wrists, his touch gentle but firm. He spoke softly, his voice a soothing balm against her silent pain. He talked about the sunset he’d seen, about the mango sticky rice he’d brought home, about the silly things they’d laughed about earlier that week. He spoke of their future, of the dreams they shared, of the life they were building together.

He didn't mention the blade. Not yet.

When he was finished, he helped her into bed, tucking her under the covers. He sat beside her, holding her hand, the silence between them no longer heavy with unspoken accusations, but filled with a quiet understanding, a shared sorrow.

The next morning, the sun streamed through the window, casting a warm glow across the room. Y/n was awake, her eyes puffy and red-rimmed, but her gaze was clearer, less clouded by the fog of despair.

He started by making her breakfast, a simple bowl of porridge and some toast, the familiar routine a comfort in the wake of the previous night's turmoil. They ate in silence, the only sound the gentle clinking of spoons against bowls.

After breakfast, he sat beside her on the sofa, his arm around her shoulders. He didn’t press her for explanations, but he did speak about his concerns, his fear, his love. He spoke about the importance of seeking help, of not fighting her battles alone.

“I know this isn’t easy, Y/n,” he said softly. “But you’re not alone. I’m here for you, always. We’ll face this together.”

She leaned her head against his shoulder, her tears silent this time, a quiet acceptance replacing the earlier defiance. She didn't promise anything, didn't make any grand declarations of change. But in the gentle pressure of her hand against his, in the quiet sigh that escaped her lips, he saw a glimmer of hope.

The road ahead wouldn't be easy. There would be setbacks, relapses, moments of doubt and despair. But they would face them together. He knew that. He knew, with a certainty that went beyond words, that their love was strong enough to weather any storm.

The weeks that followed were a slow, painstaking process. Y/n started therapy, attending sessions twice a week. She began journaling, pouring her thoughts and feelings onto paper, a way of processing her emotions without resorting to self-harm. Ten was by her side every step of the way, offering unwavering support, patience, and love.

He learned to recognize the warning signs, the subtle shifts in her mood, the subtle changes in her behaviour. He learned to communicate his concerns without judgment, without accusation. He learned to listen, truly listen, to the unspoken words that lay beneath the surface of her silence.

He also learned the importance of self-care. He started taking regular breaks from work, prioritizing his own well-being, understanding that he couldn't pour from an empty cup. He joined a running group, finding solace in the rhythm of his feet pounding the pavement, a way of clearing his head and refocusing his energy.

One evening, several months later, they were sitting on their balcony, watching the stars twinkle over the city. Y/n leaned against him, her hand resting gently on his. The silence between them was comfortable, peaceful, filled with a quiet understanding that transcended words.

“Thank you,” she whispered, her voice barely audible above the gentle night breeze.

He smiled, his heart overflowing with love and gratitude. “For what?” he asked softly.

“For being here,” she replied. “For never giving up on me.”

He kissed her forehead, his heart swelling with emotion. The road had been long and arduous, filled with pain and uncertainty. But they had made it through, together. And that, he knew, was the greatest victory of all. The mango sticky rice was still a favorite, but now, it was shared in a quiet peace that had been hard-won, a testament to their enduring love and the strength they had found in each other. The blade remained hidden, a forgotten relic of a past they were determined to leave behind.

#writing #angst #wayv #nct #kpop fanfic #fanfiction #kpop ff #kpop angst #Spotify

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incoherentbabblings · 2 years ago

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Thinking about Tim’s attachment to Steph when he sobbed for her not to leave him in WIBF. 😭😭😭

Could you give your two cents in that scene?

Oh gosh it's been a while I had to go back and reread the fic because I couldn't... remember.

But! Okay.

In the fic they have gone through everything pre-New52 had to throw at them, plus Take Back the Cake I wanted to write about Tim and Steph who are sort of at the end of their tether? Like, Tim thinks a lot in the fic along the lines of 'I can be happy if we can just get over this finishing line' - the line being marriage, of course. He's falling into that trap which he does sometimes of thinking sequentially.

If I do A, then I can do B. And once I've done B, I can be C, which is good.

But life doesn't work like that, and he's doing the thing were he forgets that Steph has her own motivations and interpretations of their shared history that don't necessarily match up with his.

So Tim's trying to convince himself that he's totally fine, totally healthy, no trauma, no lingering unresolved issues etc. And then he goes and gets concussed and Steph is having fun adventures with Damian and Hugo Strange is writing invasive and creepy things about his family and the girl he's sort of pinning all his 'I'm fine' emotions on. And it's just upping the emotions and logic is falling to the side and he begins spiralling.

And from Steph's point of view, she is sort of buying into the same idea right? Look how far we've come we're in a much better place now a clean slate etc. etc. even though she is still hiding things from Tim which she probably shouldn't, but at the same time she's trying to include him in her problems and be honest with him and yeah, move forward with her life with him as a unit, whereas Tim is really struggling with reciprocating.

Then there's the 'welp time to commit a murder bit' which... well. This is pre-New 52 Tim right? He knows its a bad idea to kill because he has seen firsthand where that goes for him. But he also can be really blase with the rule, especially as he gets older. And Steph has been threatened and he is this close to being happy so is incredibly desperate.

So I wanted to write him out of his mind a bit with stress and trauma (mental and physical) and just that primal fear of being left alone because she has done it to him before (again he's not thinking about why she left in the first place, centring it all on himself), and this time its over a moral issue that she used to be fine with (crime of passion) so it shows how far she has gone up, versus how far (in Tim's mind) he's gone down. So feelings of inadequacy spike and he has his wee breakdown.

Steph is caught off guard, completely. She genuinely thought they were moving forward and things were good and - if things were bad, or approaching it - that the two would talk about their issues and work together, like how she tries to in the early art of the fic. She learned her lessons, no more shouldering things alone. A problem shared is a problem halved etc. etc... But she isn't his nanny, or his caretaker, or his morality chain. It's not fair on her.

...So yeah. I think that was what I was going for. :|

#dc #ask and i'll babble #timsteph #tim drake #stephanie brown

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sirowsky-stories · 1 year ago

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The Flowers Always Know

Chapter 9 - Spaghetti Fixes Everything

Description: Working at HQ wasn't just challenging, it was threatening to completely burn you out after just the first few days. Of course, it didn't help that you were so stressed you forgot to eat most days.

**Beware! Author chooses NOT to display warnings on the individual chapters of this story. Read at your own risk!**

Rating: Mature 18+ONLY Word Count: 4657 (1649 words added) Masterlist (this story)

The weeks passed way too quickly after that. You couldn’t understand how the clock reached 8pm so damned fast every day, you never seemed to be even halfway done with your tasks, even though you arrived a half-hour early and worked at least three hours late every single day, including weekends. As if you’d been dropped into a black hole, and time had gotten warped, no matter how many hours of work you put in, it never seemed to add up to anything.

You’d quickly learned two things on your first day. One, that your predecessor had left so abruptly he hadn’t even cleaned out his little wardrobe. And two, he had not kept his house in anything resembling order. How the man had been able to get anything done, at all, astounded you. There was no order or structure to be found in his wake, and when you’d complained about it to Mrs. Moreno a couple of days later, she’d completely stumped you by saying:

“Yes, well, now you understand why I wanted you to take it.”

You’d sort of frozen in place right in the middle of transferring a file from one stack to another, with the shock of realizing she’d actually paid you a sideways compliment, but then she’d immediately ruined the moment by adding:

“So, stop dilly-dallying and get that mess sorted out already.”

You’d felt a lot less guilty about calling her horrid, then. That was about two weeks ago. Or was it three? Shit, what day was it now? You genuinely had no idea.

Marcus had tried to stay in touch with you, popping his head in whenever he passed by your office, and calling or texting if he hadn’t found or seen you in too long. While he was technically still working in the field, he didn’t go on every mission, electing to oversee and direct things from the control centre instead. So, most days he was just a few floors and corridors away.

But you just never had the time to actually talk to him. When he stopped by, you were almost always heading out, or on the phone, or in a meeting. And while you always answered his calls and texts, the replies were short and mostly just apologetic. And since you always worked late, and got up extra early, there wasn’t really any free time to just hang out either.

In short, thus far, you were not very happy with your job.

But today had been the worst one yet. You’d been in meetings all day, not even having enough time to squeeze in a tea-break in between, much less lunch. You’d also managed to piss off two reporters, damned near broken your toe when you’d bumped into a railing, walked straight into a poor assistant on his way to deliver a bunch of documents to someone, sending them flying across the hallway, and just when you’d given up and decided to call it a day, the fucking phone rang.

You had just gotten out of the chair and put your jacket on. Ten more seconds and you would’ve been close enough to leaving that you wouldn’t have bothered to answer the damned thing. But you did. And to put the cherry on top of this disaster of a day, the person calling was a designer friend of yours who you’d reached out to for help on a project involving the supers’ children.

He was calling to let you know that unfortunately, despite already being a week into it, he wouldn’t be able to do it. There’d been a family emergency, and he had to pull out. Which effectively meant you’d have to start over. And of course, that project was the one thing with a deadline which simply could not be pushed. Andy had been your first choice to help you with this, and you’d been so thrilled when he’d agreed, because you knew he’d understand what you were looking for.

You’d been tasked with creating something like a gym-hall for the powered kids at the local schools, because they needed physical exercise as much as the next kid, but they could so easily hurt the normal children. But of course, the budget wasn’t great, and Management wanted you to do as much as you could with existing buildings and materials. And that’s where Andy had sprung to mind, because he was a genius when it came to material and repurposing.

But this was also why you were now in serious trouble, since no one could do what his mind was capable of, and Management was expecting your proposal within the next week. The clock was already after 6pm when you got the call, and since you’d gotten used to working until eight or nine, you decided you might as well get started on trying to salvage this right away, rather than go home and still not be able to sleep because you’d be stressing over it.

You took off your jacket and sat back down with a heavy sigh, then reached into your desk to retrieve the project file. It was thick and heavy and slammed down on top of your desk with a thud. You opened it to the first page and started to look over what would have to be scrapped, and what could possibly still be utilized, already knowing you weren’t gonna be out of the office until past your bedtime, with such a thick folder to get through.

So, hunched over your desk, leaning on your elbows with your head resting against one palm, tired, starving and completely engrossed in the papers in front of you, you never heard the light knock on the door, or when it clicked open and then closed again. You didn’t notice the slight ruffle of clothes, or the presence of another person in your space, you just wanted to get this done so you could go home and crash.

But you did notice the warmth of his arms as they came around you from behind and pulled your back into his chest and didn’t let you go again. You noticed his breath on your neck before he kissed it, slowly and ever so softly. You noticed when he pulled you up and out of the chair and turned you around so that he could hug you properly.

The file and the problems which were stacked a mile high on your shoulders, all disappeared when he brushed his lips against yours and that heat instantly flared somewhere in your chest and abdomen. You made no attempt to control yourself, at all, letting your exhausted body decide for itself what it wanted right then, resulting in what you could only describe as another attack.

The heat surged through you until every single inch of you felt red hot. You kissed him with every bit of passion and desire you were capable of, while your hands made their way to his belt and tugged his hips closer. And he responded in kind, lifting you up on your desk and parting your legs with lightly quivering hands. You were wearing a skirt today and he pushed the fabric back all the way to your groin, before settling himself flush against you, letting you feel his arousal.

And damn, did he feel good.

He broke the kiss to allow you both to breathe, and nuzzled into your neck, but when he felt you flex your hips against him, he growled and lightly bit your shoulder as his hands started squeezing and massaging their way along the outsides of your thighs.

“Hermosa… if we keep this up for much longer, I don’t know if I can uphold my promise to take things slow,” he cautioned, with an unexpectedly feral vibration to his voice.

“Mmh… You started this,” you retorted, receiving another growl as you ran your tongue along his jawline, tracing back towards his mouth to kiss him again.

“Sweetheart…” he tried again, after very reluctantly pulling away from your lips, “Either ask me to stop now, or this office will be christened in bodily fluids in a moment.”

For a few seconds, you were confused, because surely, you’d somehow been transported to a bedroom by now. That was where your head was at… But no. A quick glance around revealed the mental image to be fake, and the dull cappuccino-coloured walls and sound absorbent ceiling to be the reality you were still mercilessly trapped in. And that killed the mood like sand poured over a campfire.

“Okay. Stop,” you grumbled, disappointed to have to leave the fantasy.

He instantly pulled back and loosened his grip on you, but kept his hands on your thighs, and your hips close together, possibly to hide his very obvious erection from anyone happening to walk in. Like Anita… For a minute, you just looked at each other’s blown pupils while trying to calm your breathing down, then he smiled.

“Hi. How was your day?” he politely inquired, trying to distract himself most likely, but he couldn’t have chosen a worse question.

“Ugh… If you ever need to quell my desires, trust me, that’s all you need to say.”

And you weren’t kidding. The frustration, exhaustion, stress and general feeling of inadequacy slammed down on you like a concrete slab, and suddenly you felt impossibly heavy. He noticed the shift in your energy and took his hands off your thighs, snaking them around your waist instead. He stared intently at you for a beat, and you could almost see his mind working to try and figure out which level of exhaustion would lead you to say that.

“Oh, preciosa. You’re trying too hard. Ask for help, delegate, don’t try to do it all by yourself.”

“I do delegate, Marcus. Fuck, some days all I do is delegate!” you exclaimed, throwing your hands in the air with hopelessness. “But that asshole, Turner, left behind a bigger mess than anyone even realized, so no matter how much I get done, there’s always another fifty problems left. And now Andy bailed on me, which means I have to start all over again on the schools, which of course has the shortest deadline of everything I’m working on, and which was the one thing I thought was handled. I really don’t know what more I can do?”

You sagged against him, resting your forehead on his chest, wanting so badly to cry but you were somehow too spent even for that.

“I can’t do this. I’m so tired,” you whimpered, and he started softly running his hands over your back again.

“Why do you think I have sofas in my office? Naps are your friend, my dear,” he hummed, but you scoffed at that.

“I haven’t even had time to eat today, when exactly am I supposed to-…”

“What do you mean, you haven’t eaten?” he cut you off with a dead serious look and his voice was suddenly sharp against the quiet of the room. “Since when?”

Taken aback by his sudden shift in temperament, it took you moment to remember you were supposed to reply, and then you had to try and recall when exactly you’d last eaten something.

“Uh… Yesterday, around 7pm, I think. I ordered something. No wait, that was the day before…” you fumbled, genuinely unable to remember, and the Heroic was apparently most displeased with this.

“Ne creo en mis oidos…” he said, in a tone you interpreted to be incredulous.

You had no idea what the phrase meant, but he sounded almost angry as he untangled himself from your legs and reached for your jacket. Sitting there on your desk, you couldn’t help but shrink a little at the thought that he was probably angry with you, even if you didn’t understand why. And you were so exhausted that even such a small thing was enough to make you want to run away, when you would have normally just challenged him.

“Come on, hop off the desk, you’re coming with me,” he declared then, holding the jacket out for you so you could just slip your arms into it once you were off the table.

“I can’t just leave all th-…”

“Sweetheart, I admire your loyalty to your work,” he brusquely cut you off, “but get your ass off that desk right now.”

Not even bothering to ask why or where you were going, you simply did what you were told, and he slipped the jacket on you and led you out of the building, having to help you stay upright by keeping an arm around your waist the whole way to his car. You dozed in and out of sleep as the vehicle hummed its way along the roads, having no idea where he was taking you. But at some point, you must have fallen asleep for real, because you woke up to the passenger side door opening, and him reaching over to unbuckle you.

“Hey, we’re here. Come on,” he beckoned, and when you looked out in front of the car, you saw a house which wasn’t yours, but didn’t think any more of it as you forced yourself to get out of the car and let Marcus drag you to the front door.

“Hey, dad. You’re late,” a voice called out as soon as you stepped inside.

“Hey, sweetie. I know, I’m sorry, but I had to help a friend,” he answered just as the person the voice belonged to came skipping into the front hall.

Oh… His house, of course. Where else would he go at the end of the day? His daughter. Possibly the most adorable human being you’d ever seen. If only you’d had the strength to greet her as politely and warmly as she did you.

“Welcome to Casa Moreno. You’re the first woman my dad has ever brought here, I’m very impressed,” she smiled and winked at you, and you so wished you could’ve played along.

“Missy,” her father cautioned, but half-heartedly at best, and his daughter knew it.

“What?” she countered, sounding innocent but defiantly crossing her arms, daring him to try and deter her from enjoying what was apparently a rare moment for these two.

“She’s exhausted, and I’m pretty sure she hasn’t eaten in anything between twenty-four to forty-eight hours, so just be nice, please.”

“I am being nice; it was a compliment,” Missy tried to deflect, feigning absolute innocence, but it got her nowhere.

“Don’t even try that with me, young padawan. Go set the table,” he ordered, before following her into the kitchen where he raided the fridge for leftover spaghetti and meatballs.

You couldn’t help but smile at them as they continued bantering while they worked. But you got so lost in their lovable conversation that you didn’t even remember to ask if you were invited to sit down, and after a minute, the room started getting darker. Which was odd because the sun had already set, hadn’t it? Still, it kept getting darker, until you realized it was all in your head. But by then you were already falling.

You woke up to an extremely worried Marcus fidgeting with wet towels and… Was that a blood-pressure machine? Then, out of nowhere, you suddenly felt completely panicked. You practically bounced up to sitting on what was apparently their living-room sofa, and immediately scrambled yourself into a tiny ball in the furthest corner of it. Your entire body was shaking with fear, but you had no idea why.

“Dad… What’s wrong with her?” Missy whispered from the other end of the sofa, and she sounded so worried.

“It’s okay, sweetie, she’s just scared,” he tried to reassure her, but she was a smart girl, and this had apparently truly rattled her.

“Of what? She was fine a minute ago.”

“I’ll explain later,” he said, meeting her eyes so she’d know he meant it, but also using the moment to move back and give you more room before he tried to reach past your fears. “It’s okay. I promise you’re safe. You’re not trapped, you can move, you can talk, you’re not lost in the darkness. You’re right here… with me.”

His honey-soft voice soothed you, making you wonder how he could know exactly what to say to help you? How did he know it was the darkness that had scared you? You hadn’t even realized it yourself until he’d said it. At those last two words, his current came flowing through you, and it was like a balm, moving through your nerves, coaxing them to relax.

“Hermosa,” he finally whispered, not with expectation or pressure, but as though the word was an invitation for you to have a safe haven within him.

Willing your body to move again, you crawled towards him, and he helped you by meeting you halfway and then hugging you so tightly.

“It’s okay, hermosa. You’re safe, I promise,” he mumbled into your cheek, and you tried to stop yourself from shaking but it didn’t work.

“I’m sorry, I don’t know what happened,” you cried, still too tired for the massive cry that was still clawing around inside your chest, looking for a way out.

“You just got lost. We all do sometimes.”

“What’s wrong with me?” you asked, your voice breaking with too many emotions to name.

But Marcus pulled back to look at you then, and there was something very reassuring about how much he seemed to believe in what he said next.

“How many times do I have to tell you, sweetheart? Surviving what you did was impossible. Did you really think something like that wouldn’t stay with you? There’s nothing wrong with you. Being afraid of things that have seriously hurt you isn’t wrong, it’s wise. You were trapped in darkness for a long time, feeling helpless and weak. It’s only natural for you to be scared when faced with those same sensations again.”

There was nothing wrong with his logic, you just couldn’t understand where the depth of his insight was coming from.

“But… how did you know that that’s what I was feeling?”

“I was with you all the way, remember? I saw every stage of your recovery. Every hurdle, every obstacle, and every victory, big and small. I know you,” he said, shifting one hand up to your face to catch the tears as they finally began to fall.

If you’d had a crush on him before, you were now certain that you absolutely loved this man. And you really wanted to tell him about it, but perhaps not in front of his daughter, still standing by the end of the sofa, when he clearly hadn’t told her about you yet. Not that there was much to tell, it wasn’t like you’d even been on a single date yet, you’d just… made out. You sighed and closed your eyes, leaning your cheek into the comforting warmth of his palm. This really had been a terrible fucking day.

“Hey, you still have to eat something, or you’re gonna collapse again,” he gently reminded you, while beginning to rise.

You let him help you to your feet and over to the kitchen where he sat you down at the table before getting back to re-heating the leftovers. Having fully expected Missy to keep a safe distance after watching you have a breakdown, you were quite surprised when she brazenly came to sit next to you instead, plopping down in her chair as though this had been the most normal, inconsequential evening ever.

“So, you’re the one,” she pondered, but with that cleverness children had to their tone when they were equal parts curious and sure about what they already knew.

“Huh?” was all you responded, confused by the notion that she would know anything about you.

“The one the mad scientist… hurt,” she elaborated, and it sounded like that little pause was her catching herself before saying something else.

It made you wonder how much she might understand about what had been done to you, and whether what she’d been about to say might’ve been something like “tortured” or “killed”, either of which would’ve been technically accurate, but perhaps harsher to hear. The mere fact she’d stopped herself said a lot about her maturity and sensitivity towards others, and it softened something inside your chest as you listened to her continue to explain.

“Dad wouldn’t tell me too much about it, but I read some articles and I saw a few of the news reels,” she confessed, quietly, in the hopes her father wouldn’t overhear and scold her for circumventing his efforts to protect her from the horror of it. “And he did tell me how you were so sick no one knew if you’d ever wake up. And then when you did, he said he needed to help you because he seemed to be the only one who could. He wasn’t home much for those few months.”

She finished on a thoughtful note, but it made you terribly sad and regretful. You’d known that Marcus had needed Anita’s help to look after her while he’d helped you, but you’d had no clue of how extensively he’d been absent. Now that you thought about it, though, you could remember countless evenings of his diligent efforts, never hesitating to keep working well past his regular hours if he felt it was needed. All for you. Which made it feel like your fault.

“Oh… Missy, I’m sorry.”

“No, no, that’s not what I meant!” she hurried to correct you, and you felt like it was important to her that you understood this. “It’s not your fault, of course it isn’t. What I’m trying to say is, I’m really glad all his efforts helped you in the end. Cause dad… Well, he was so sad all the time you were in the coma, until he started being able to help you, and then it was like… he came alive too. It means a lot to him, you know. That you made it.”

Her father had his back to the two of you, while he worked on the leftovers, so you couldn’t see his face. But you were close enough that he should’ve heard most of this conversation, and something about the stillness of his movements told you he had, and that it was probably affecting him deeply.

“I couldn’t have done it without him,” you replied, a little louder to be sure he heard it, before turning your full attention back to his daughter. “And I’m sorry you had to see me freak out like that before. I’m not normally this… fragile.”

“It’s okay. We’re all allowed to have bad days, right?” she chirped, and you chuckled, but entirely without humour.

“Yep. I just wish I could have a good one someday soon. Or I think I might really break.”

You’d turned sombre and serious again, and if anything, you’d have expected her to not know what to say to that. But contrarily, her eyes brightened, and a sly smile filled her face.

“I’m sure my dad can help you with that too,” she grinned, actually cocking an eyebrow at you as she got up from the table.

She then skipped over to a flabbergasted Marcus, the poor man too flustered to know how to react, hugged him goodnight and then disappeared down the hall, having already had her dinner at a reasonable hour. You watched her disappear down the body of the house, realizing with both joy and dread, that you already loved his kid as well.

“Um, I’m really sorry about-… She’s nev-… I’ve never seen her behave like this before,” he stammered once she’d left, clearly seriously rattled by Missy’s not so subtle attempt at matchmaking.

“Don’t worry about it. I think she’s amazing,” you reassured him, and he threw a nervous glance over his shoulder, visibly relaxing when he saw the earnest smile in your eyes.

You wondered if some part of him had been anxious about the two of you meeting, or thought you might not like her, for some inexplicable reason. Which then made you think it was possible he hadn’t just not brought any women home before, but possibly not even gone on a date since the loss of his wife. Because you couldn’t think of any other reason he’d be so nervous about all this.

Once he’d recovered, he brought the plates over and all but ordered you to dig in, while he did the same. You didn’t really feel all that hungry anymore, mostly you just wanted to sleep. But with each delicious bite it was like your body began to remember it actually needed this stuff, and you ended up helping yourself to another large serving. Which Marcus heartily approved of.

“Now, that’s the appetite I’m used to seeing with you,” he grinned. “Feel better?”

“Loads,” you admitted, noticing how a full stomach seemed to have made so many of your troubles seem a lot smaller.

You leaned back in your chair once the last bite was swallowed, holding your glass of water and taking slow sips, when he reached out and took your other hand, resting on the edge of the table.

“Hey. You can’t skip meals. I don’t care how hard you’re working, without fuel you will crash, that’s just a fact,” he admonished, and you stared at your empty plate, feeling like a kid being scolded for skipping class.

He squeezed your hand, looking for a response and when he didn’t get one, he pushed his chair back and turned his whole body towards you.

“Look at me, hermosa,” he demanded, and you did.

“You. Can. Do. This,” he articulated, believing every word himself. “Find a way to do it on your terms. Find a way to make the tasks fall in line behind you, don’t let them try and climb onto your back and stack themselves on top of you. Force Management to hire you your own assistant if that’s what it takes. You’re stronger than this, I know you are. Stop trying to shape yourself into a manager and start making the manager shape itself from you. My hermosa doesn’t let a fucking job dictate her life.”

Yes, everything he said was good and made you want to believe it. But in the end, all you really registered was one thing.

My hermosa.

You put your glass down and leaned over to kiss him, and for the first time, you didn’t lose control. You just kissed him. Warmly, lovingly, with your hands on his cheeks. And he just kissed you back. With no demands, no expectations. But as much as you loved the intimacy and the comfort of being so welcomed by him, your body had been fed a huge meal and all remaining strength was now being rerouted to handle all that nutrition.

He noticed how limp you were getting even before you did, and quickly helped you to your feet before you fell asleep at the table. Then he practically carried you to a bathroom, where you found some extra reserve of strength to brush your teeth and use the toilet, before he brought you to a bedroom. There, you flopped down on a soft and cool bed while he took off your shoes and helped you get under the covers.

“I’d ask if you want me to help you undress, but I might get ideas,” he whispered while he pulled a few errant strands of hair back from your face.

You could hear the smile in his voice, and you wanted to say something clever in return, but you were only seconds from unconsciousness by then, so all you could manage was a less than sexy grunt. The last thing you were aware of before you succumbed to the blissfulness of sleep, was his lips brushing against your temple, and a whisper to sleep tight.

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