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d-z20 · 2 months ago

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Rivals (NSFW)

Pairing: Rio Vidal x Reader

Summary: As Agatha Harkness’s loyal, overworked intern, you're used to her sharp critiques, but during tonights debate your focus slips as her opponent, Rio, commands the stage—every smirk and effortless remark dragging your attention away from where it should be.

-OR-

Rio fucks you in a supply closet during the 20 minute intermission

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut, Top Rio, Agatha's a bitch to work for, hints at sub reader, reader gets called a good girl, fingering (R recv), kind of jealous Rio

Words: 2.5k

A/N: Agatha All Along Week Day 3: Politics AU

AO3 | Part 2 | Masterlist

The greenroom hums with quiet tension as you rifle through Agatha's debate notes for the third time, hands clammy and breath uneven. It’s the night of the big political debate, and as Agatha Harkness’s long-suffering assistant, it’s your job to keep her sharp—and yourself invisible. The pages are pristine, you’ve been over them so many times you could recite every policy point backwards, but Agatha's sharp gaze makes you doubt yourself anyway.

“Your collar,” she says flatly, eyes flicking up at you from her seat. “It’s crooked. And don’t tell me that’s the coffee you’re drinking?” Her voice cuts with a blend of exasperation and thinly veiled superiority. “You look jittery. The last thing I need is my intern vibrating through the floor.”

Jen is crouched in front of Agatha with a makeup brush in hand and mutters just loud enough for you to hear, “She doesn’t pay you enough for this.” The words are paired with an eyeroll as she dabs foundation across Agatha’s sharp cheekbones. You resist the urge to laugh or nod in agreement, offering Jen a tight smile instead.

Nearby, Alice—all business in their crisp, dark suit—stands by the door. As Agatha's head of security, she scans the room like a hawk, her gaze never lingering for long, before leaving to check another room. Just as you think you might escape Agatha’s scrutiny, you catch the telltale click of heels against the tile floor outside.

The sound is light and deliberate. Rio.

She doesn’t enter, of course. Instead, you catch her gliding past through the crack in the door, an effortless vision in sleek navy tailored trousers and a fitted blazer that seems more runway than debate stage. Her confidence oozes into the room like smoke, intangible yet suffocating. And as if she senses you looking, she pauses. Her piercing gaze locks onto yours through the sliver of the door, and her lips curl into a smirk—just a small, slow lift at one corner. It’s not smug, not outright. It’s worse: like she knows something you don’t. Your stomach twists, and you look away, your pulse hammering harder than it should.

“Focus,” Agatha snaps, drawing you back. You nod, gripping the notes tighter.

—

Out onstage, the spotlight belongs to the host, Lilia. With her poised, almost theatrical delivery, she welcomes the audience and sets the stakes for the evening. Her voice rises and falls with practiced polish as she introduces the two candidates, her tone dipped in just enough gravity to make the event feel monumental.

“First up, please welcome Agatha Harkness.” Lilia announces, and a round of polite applause follows. Agatha steps up to the podium in sharp black, chin tilted just so. Her expression is cool, calculated.

“And the opposition… Rio Vidal.”

Rio’s entrance is a masterclass in charisma. The lights catch her in all the right ways, her movements fluid as she takes her place. She flashes that grin—just a hint of teeth—at the crowd, and a ripple of enthusiasm bubbles up from the audience. You can feel it, and you hate it. You hate her easy confidence, her unshakeable calm, and the way her presence feels like gravity itself.

The debate kicks off with a bang. Lilia moderates with a firm hand, though at times she lets the tension stew just long enough to keep the crowd engaged. Agatha’s strategy is sharp and relentless. Her words hit like precise daggers, cutting at Rio’s platform with efficiency. But Rio… Rio doesn’t falter. Each barb rolls off her back as if rehearsed. Her responses are smooth, her tone honeyed yet precise. And every so often, when Agatha lands a particularly scathing blow, Rio’s smile spreads wide—like she’s winning something entirely separate from the debate.

From your place offstage, your knuckles are white where you grip the edge of your clipboard. You can’t stop watching her. It’s infuriating. Her ease, her smugness, the way she doesn’t seem to sweat even under the heat of Agatha’s precision.

And then Rio’s gaze flicks sideways—to you.

You freeze.

Her eyes hold yours for the barest beat, her smirk deepening like a silent challenge. It’s only a second, maybe two. But in that moment, she owns you, and she knows it.

—

“Now for a few questions from the audience,” Lilia says, gesturing to a woman in the second row.

“Hello, my name is Sharon Davies, and my question is for Agatha,” the woman begins, voice clear and steady. “How do you plan to address the economic disparity between the local communities?”

You feel a flicker of relief at the straightforward question until Agatha responds. “Thank you for your question, Mrs. Hart.”

There’s an audible pause. The woman’s lips twitch in confusion, but Agatha continues unbothered, launching into a clipped yet polished answer.

Out of the corner of your eye, you see Rio take a slow sip of water to hide the grin playing at her lips. You groan internally.

—

The first half of the debate ends with Lilia’s crisp announcement of a 20 minute break. Agatha wastes no time making her exit offstage, muttering about the poor quality of the audience questions as she brushes past you. You follow instinctively, already bracing for whatever critique she’ll launch your way—

But then a hand grabs your arm.

“In a hurry, are we?” The voice slides into your ear—low, teasing. You don’t have to turn to know it’s Rio. Her presence burns like a shadow just behind you, close enough to feel the faint warmth of her body.

“Move, Rio,” you mutter under your breath, refusing to look back.

She laughs—soft and unbothered. “Oh, I don’t think so.”

Before you can react, Rio’s hand finds your wrist, firm but not painful, and she pulls you toward an empty corridor.

“What the hell are you—”

“Shh.” Rio’s voice drops to a sultry murmur, the dim light casting shadows across her sharp cheekbones. “You talk too much.”

Rio ushers you away from prying eyes, her palms resting flat on the wall on either side of you. She leans closer, her eyes searching your face, drinking in every flicker of resistance and reluctant want.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Your voice wavers. You hate that she hears it.

Rio tilts her head, her lips curling. “You really think she can give you what you need?”

“Who?”

“Agatha.” She says the name like it tastes bitter on her tongue. “You run around after her, putting out her fires, handing her her lines... You can’t tell me you’re happy letting her treat you like that. You deserve better, sweetheart.”

The tension boils over when Rio’s hand finds your wrist, her thumb brushing over your pulse. “You don’t know anything about me,” you snap at her furiously.

Her response is a quiet, taunting whisper against your ear: “I know she could never touch you the way I could. You think she’s ever made you feel the way you do now?”

You open your mouth to protest, but the words crumble when Rio shifts closer—her thigh grazing yours, her scent sharp and distracting, her breath teasing your skin. Your heart pounds against your ribs, wild and traitorous.

“Stop it,” you whisper, though you make no move to push her away.

Rio’s smile darkens, and for a moment, the teasing falls away, replaced by something hotter—something real. Her hand finds your jaw, fingers brushing just under your chin, tilting your head so she can lean in, her lips so achingly close to yours that the space between feels electric.

“I don’t think you want me to stop,” she murmurs.

Before you can retort, Rio’s mouth crashes into yours, fierce and possessive. It’s a clash of lips and teeth—heated, desperate, and almost spiteful. The hallway is empty save for the two of you, and any protests melt as Rio pushes you into a storage closet, claiming you like she’s proving a point.

Because she’s right. You don’t want her to stop.

You melt into it for half a second before your own desperation flares, matching her with equal force. Your hands grasp at her blazer, pulling her closer until there’s nothing between you but heat and ragged breaths.

“Is this what you want?” Rio mutters against your lips, one hand sliding down your side, the other bracing against the wall to cage you in further.

You don’t answer, too far gone, but your body betrays you—arching into her touch, fingers digging into her shoulders. Rio’s smug chuckle ghosts over your mouth as she kisses you again, rougher this time, her hand slipping lower, fingers dipping under the waistband of your pants.

Rio is rough and relentless but never careless—her hands grip your waist as she drags you closer, murmuring filthy promises against your lips about how she’d “treat you right.” Her voice is dark and velvet-soft, each word a taunt designed to unravel you. “You’d feel so much better if you let go, sweetheart... If you let me take care of you.”

The hatred and tension simmer under every touch, the unspoken resentment crackling like a live wire. She hates that you belong to Agatha, that you let her use you like an accessory—and you hate her for being right. But as Rio’s fingers drift lower, her lips leaving heat down the column of your throat, it’s clear this is about something far beyond spite. It’s about want, raw and consuming. It’s about Rio making you lose control—her revelling in every shaky breath you take, every whimper that slips free despite yourself.

Her hand cups you lighly, fingers brushing against the thin barrier of your underwear, and you can’t hold back the soft gasp that escapes your lips. Rio hums approvingly, her smile all satisfaction as she applies more pressure. “Look at you,” she murmurs, voice low and dangerous. “Agatha would die if she saw you like this. Weak. Needy. Mine.”

Before you can snap a reply, Rio moves her hand so it’s beneath your underwear—fingers deft as they find their mark, her movements precise, relentless. She drinks in the way you shudder against her touch, how your hands tighten in her blazer as your body betrays you completely. “You like this,” she says, more statement than question. Her lips skim your ear as she adds, “Say it.”

You bite back your pride, but it doesn’t matter—Rio doesn’t need you to answer. She already knows as she buries two fingers inside you.

Her hand moves with a devastating rhythm, slow and deliberate at first, teasing you with unbearable precision. The tension coils in your body, a heat pooling low in your belly, rising with every measured stroke. You can feel her breath against your neck, hear the faint rustle of her blazer as she shifts, leaning in closer, caging you in further. The soft scrape of her nails against your neck sends a shiver up your spine, and you grip her shoulders harder, holding on as if you might collapse otherwise.

The room feels impossibly small, the air heavy with the sound of your ragged breaths and the soft, wet sound of her hand working you over. Your head falls back against the wall, a soft thud breaking the quiet, and you swear you can hear the faint hum of the debate stage through the walls—a cruel reminder of where you are.

But it’s her voice that drowns everything else out. Low, taunting, dripping with control. “You like it when people use you, don’t you?” She purrs, her words a velvet lash against your pride. She presses her palm harder against your clit, wringing a desperate sound from your throat. “Tell me. Has she ever made you fall apart like this?”

Your pulse thrums in your ears, drowning out everything but her and the unrelenting rhythm of her hand. Every movement grows sharper now, harder. Your arousal builds impossibly fast, the sound of it obscene in the quiet—slick and unmistakable as her fingers slide inside you, claiming every reaction. Her name falls repeatedly from your lips, half a curse, half a plea, but you’re too far gone to care.

The pressure crescendos, and Rio pushes you past it. Her movements grow almost merciless—harder and faster still—and the sound fills the room, echoing in time with your shallow, hitched breaths. It’s like a wave crashing over you, fierce and consuming, leaving you gasping as your body trembles beneath her touch.

Your hands fist into her shoulders as you climax, the pleasure so intense it borders on overwhelming. You collapse against her, your forehead pressing into the crook of her neck as your knees threaten to buckle. She catches you, of course—her arm sliding around your waist, holding you up as your chest heaves against hers.

For a moment, the only sound is the harsh, uneven rhythm of your breathing, the quiet hum of the lights overhead, and the faint, distant chatter from the debate stage. Your pulse thrums wildly under your skin, your body still twitching with the aftershocks as Rio’s hand finally eases, resting against your hip as if satisfied with her work.

“Good girl,” she murmurs into your ear, the smug satisfaction in her tone making your skin prickle. She presses a final, lingering kiss just below your jaw before straightening, leaving you slumped against the wall, dazed and breathless.

Before you can muster a response, Rio steps back, casual as ever. She grabs a paper towel from the small storage shelf, cleaning her fingers with slow, deliberate movements as though she hadn’t just wrecked you against a supply cupboard wall.

The door creaks, and your stomach drops as you scramble to straighten yourself, still too disoriented to think clearly. But Rio doesn’t spare you another glance—she slips out, leaving the door ajar just enough to let in a sliver of light.

You’re alone, the air stifling and charged, your pulse still racing as you try to gather your wits.

—

You make it back to your spot off-stage just as the debate resumes. You’ve got your notes in hand, and your posture is straight, but your mind is far from clear. Agatha’s voice drifts over the room in measured, practiced rhythms, but it’s all background noise. Across the stage, Rio sits poised—calm, cool, her expression as sharp as a blade. There’s no indication of what just happened—no lingering smirk, no flushed cheeks. She looks utterly untouched, untouchable... except for the barest flicker of her gaze, catching yours.

Your stomach flips.

Rio smirks—a slow, deliberate pull of her lips—and then she shifts her attention back to Lilia’s next question, leaving you gripping your notes with white-knuckled fingers, every nerve in your body still singing from her touch.

You keep your face blank, eyes fixed on the stage as if nothing happened, but the phantom heat of Rio’s kiss remains, simmering under your skin like a secret you’re not sure you’ll survive.

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please pretend this isn't a day late, @aceday guilted me into going to sleep at a reasonable time last night instead of running on 2hrs sleep again but don't worry I'm trying to catch up :P

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moraxine · 2 months ago

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Fragments of Us [Ekko]

pairing: ekko x reader

words: 2k

summary: ekko wakes up in an alternate universe where you’re alive and everything feels right—but it’s not his world. torn between love and duty, he must leave to save his reality.

ARCANE SPOILERS!

“Powder. Ugh, she’s so annoying sometimes. I told her that the graffiti on Sevika’s stupid bar wasn’t even that good—like, come on, who even uses pink for a skull?—and she just flipped out ! Called me a ‘wannabe artist.’ Like, okay?”

Ekko’s chest burns as he violently jolts awake, aware , coughing as if he’s been drowning moments before. His head is pounding, all memories flooding his mind and spinning round and round. It takes a few moments for his vision to stabilise and start clearing up.

What the hell happened?

“Hey, are you okay?”

Hearing your voice, familiar yet a voice he never thought his ears would detect ever again, he freezes. His eyes snap open, adjusting to the dim glow of the neon streetlamp. After a while of simply blinking, right hand on his forehead, he dares to turn your way, only to face you in utter shock.

There you are, right beside him, nervously fiddling with a small gadget in your hand while waiting for his answer.

Ekko’s breath gets caught in his throat.

His gaze desperately darts around, taking in the distorted version of Zaun. The buildings look eerily familiar but cleaner, more polished. And then there is you —alive, bright-eyed, rambling as if nothing in the world could ever go wrong.

This isn’t real. This can’t be real.

“You’re staring at me like I’ve got two heads or something. All good in there?” You ask, leaning closer as you gently tap his head.

No, no, no.

This must be some kind of twisted joke, a dream soon to turn into a nightmare, like the ones he experienced after your passing.

A strong wave of dizziness takes over and he loses balance. You’re not fast enough to catch him and he collapses on the floor, tears gleaming in his eyes.

“Shit, Ekko, I told you I’m fine walking home by myself! You need to focus on fixing that sleep schedule of yours. You work too much….”

You kneel down to check on him but as soon as you reach for his arm, he manages to pull himself up, wincing as his muscles protest. “I’m fine,” he mutters, his voice hoarse. “Just… where am I?”

Your brow furrows. “Zaun, duh. Did you hit your head?”

Zaun. But not his Zaun. This is different. Cleaner. Sharper. Brighter. Wrong.

You wave a hand in front of his face when he’s up on his feet again, snapping him out of his thoughts. “Seriously, you’re acting super weird.”

He shakes his head, trying to gather himself. “I’m… just tired.”

“Yeah, no shit,” you say, leaning back on your heels. “Well, you can sleep at my place if you want. It’s a bit of a mess, but it’s better than the middle of the street.”

“Why…Why are you helping me?”

I didn’t protect you. I let you die-

You scoff, crossing your arms. “You have to be kidding me, really.”

He stares at you, his chest tightening. You are so casual, so warm, so alive. This isn’t his world—it is someone else’s. Someone’s whom was able to keep you safe and happy.

You wave a hand in front of his face. “Helloooo? You good, or do I need to drag you there myself?”

He blinks, shaking himself out of his trance. “Yeah. Let’s go.”

“Finally,” you say grabbing his arm. “You’re lucky I’m such a good friend, y’know.”

As you lead him down the street, continuing your pointless rambling about Powder and some argument over graffiti, Ekko follows silently, his mind racing. He doesn’t belong here, but for the first time in years, being near you feels like he is home.

ii.

Ekko is standing in the corner of your cluttered workshop, his fingers trembling slightly as he tightens the final screws on a device he barely understands anymore. Weeks have been spent scavenging parts, tearing apart old tech, and sketching blueprints on scraps of paper. The machine is almost ready—his way out of this world is almost ready.

You, of course, don’t know. In fact, you seem to know nothing about Ekko lately. Ever since that incident outside the bar, he’s been acting strange in a way you can’t pinpoint.

“Hey, genius,” you call from across the room, pulling him out of his thoughts. You’re perched on a high stool, playing with a broken clock. “You’ve been staring at that thing for hours. What is it, anyway?”

He stiffens at your question, keeping his face carefully neutral. “Just… something to help me get around. It’s nothing.”

You narrow your eyes, unconvinced. “Since when do you get all secretive about your projects? You used to brag about your tech every chance you got.”

“Since now,” he mutters, avoiding your gaze.

It’s been this way for quite some time now—Ekko growing quieter, more distant, all while you try to bridge the gap with your usual chatter. You’ve noticed the way he avoids your eyes, the way he flinches whenever you stand too close. It’s not like him.

And it hurts.

“You’re acting weird, Ekko,” you admit, setting the clock down and leaning back on your hands. “Like, even weirder than usual. Did I do something?”

“No,” he says quickly, but his voice sounds strained, and the single word only makes you more assured that there is indeed something going on.

“Then what?” you press, leaning forward slightly. “You’ve been avoiding me for days. Is this about Powder? Because if so, she’s the one being difficult, not me.”

Ekko clenches his jaw, his hands tightening around the tool in his grip. He can’t tell you. You wouldn’t understand—not fully. How could he possibly explain that you’re not even supposed to be here? That this version of you isn’t his you? That in his world, you’re just a memory he carries like a scar?

“It’s nothing,” he says finally, his voice low. “Just… drop it, okay?”

You flinch at the coldness in his tone, but you force a laugh, trying to mask the sting. “Fine. Be mysterious, then. See if I care.”

Turning away, you pretend to focus on the clock again, but your heart isn’t in it. You want to push him, demand answers, but something in his expression stops you. There’s a pain in his eyes that you can’t quite place, and for the first time, you wonder if this is bigger than any conflict he might have had with people in the past.

Ekko exhales slowly, his shoulders sagging. He hates doing this—pushing you away. But if he lets you in, it’ll only make leaving harder.

Because he is leaving. As much as he wants to stay, to pretend this is his life, he knows it isn’t real. He doesn’t belong here. And the longer he stays, the harder it’ll be to say goodbye. Especially to you.

“Hey,” you say suddenly, breaking the silence. “For what it’s worth, you’re still my favorite nerd. Even if you’re being a jerk.”

He looks up at you, startled by the softness in your voice. For a moment, he wants to tell you everything—to explain why he can’t let himself get too close. To tell you he loves you. But that would be partially true as you’re not his. Instead, he just nods. “Thank you.”

You offer him a small yet warm smile and his resolve falters for a moment. But then his gaze falls on the machine again—his way out—and he reminds himself why he has to do this.

It’s almost done. Just a little longer.

iii.

Ekko stands in the middle of the workshop, his hand resting on the activation lever of the machine. The room hums faintly with power, the cobbled-together contraption sparking faintly as it waits for his final command. It’s ready. After days of work, this is it—it’s time to go back to the people who need him.

But his chest feels tight, and it’s not just from the lingering ache of exhaustion. It’s because of you.

The door creaks open, and his heart sinks. You’re standing there, your expression caught somewhere between confusion and anger. “What the hell is this?” you ask, stepping inside. “Ekko, what’s going on?”

He doesn’t look at you. He can’t. “It’s… nothing.”

“Nothing?” you snap, gesturing at the machine. “You’ve been shutting me out for God knows how long, and now I find you messing with… whatever this is you’ve made? Don’t lie to me, Ekko.”

He finally meets your eyes, and the raw emotion there almost makes him crumble. But he takes a deep breath and steadies himself. “I can’t explain it.”

You take a step closer, your frustration giving way to hurt. “Why? Why can’t you just tell me? I’m not mad—I just… I don’t understand why you’ve been acting like this.”

Ekko clenches his fists, his mind racing. He could tell you the truth—about the alternate universe, about the fact that you don’t even exist anymore in his world. But what good would it do?

“It’s better this way,” he replies quietly.

Your hands drop to your sides, and the look in your eyes nearly breaks him. “Better for who? For me? Or for you?”

“Y/n…” His voice cracks, but he quickly swallows it down. “I don’t belong here. I need to leave. That’s all I can say.”

You shake your head, your voice trembling. “You’re lying. You’ve been here all this fucking time, and now you’re just… leaving? Without a word?”

“I don’t have a choice.”

“Yes, you do!” you shout, stepping closer until you’re right in front of him. “Whatever this is, whoever you think you are—you’re my… friend, Ekko. You don’t just get to disappear without telling me why.”

His hands tremble as he reaches up to touch your shoulder, his gaze locked on yours. “You are—” His voice breaks, and he has to force himself to keep going. “You’re amazing. You’re… everything good about this place. You’re the reason I’m still alive. But I can’t stay.”

You stare at him, your heart pounding. His words feel final, and the weight of them crushes you completely. You fail to understand. Nothing makes sense, absolutely nothing. “Why?” you whisper, tears burning at the corners of your eyes. “Why can’t you stay? Is it something I did?”

“No!” he says, more forcefully than he means to. He takes your hands, holding them tightly. “It’s not you. It’s… me. It’s my world. I need to go back to where I came from.”

You can’t comprehend what he’s saying, but the desperation in his voice silences your questions. You nod, swallowing back the lump in your throat. “Fine,” you say, even though it’s anything but fine. “If you have to go… go.”

His hands linger on yours for a moment longer before he lets go. “I wish I could tell you how much you mean to me,” he says softly. “But I can’t. Not here.”

Tears spill over as you watch him turn back to the machine. “Will I ever see you again?” you ask, your voice barely audible.

He hesitates, his hand hovering over the lever. “I don’t know.”

That’s all he can give you.

With one last look at you, his expression filled with regret and longing, he pulls the lever. The machine sparks to life, and the air around him ripples with energy. You take a step back, shielding your eyes as the light grows blinding.

When the light fades, he’s there, his tired body slumped down on the ground. You immediately run to his side, kneeling down and pulling him to your lap. The room falls silent, the only sound the faint hum of the now blown up machine. You gently caress his cheek, tears running down your hot cheeks.

After a while, he wakes up.

And it doesn’t take you very long to realise.

You glance at the remains one last time.

And you hope that wherever he is, he’s doing what he set out to do—saving his people, his world, even if it meant leaving this one behind.

#arcane #arcane fanfic #arcane ekko #ekko x reader #ekko x you #ekko angst #ekko fanfiction #ekko x reader angst #ekko #ekko league of legends #ekko arcane #league of legends

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aspenmissing · 25 days ago

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ᴀʀᴄᴀɴᴇ: ꜰɪʀꜱᴛ ᴍᴇᴇᴛɪɴɢꜱ

ᴊᴀʏᴄᴇ | ᴠɪᴋᴛᴏʀ | ᴊᴀʏᴠɪᴋ | ᴠᴀɴᴅᴇʀ | ꜱɪʟᴄᴏ | ᴊɪɴx || ꜰʟᴜꜰꜰ/ᴀɴɢꜱᴛ-ɪꜱʜ

4362 ᴡᴏʀᴅ�� || ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: ꜰɪɢʜᴛɪɴɢ, ᴀᴛᴛᴇᴍᴘᴛᴇᴅ ᴅʀᴏᴡɴɪɴɢ, ʙʟᴏᴏᴅ (ꜱɪʟᴄᴏ'ꜱ ᴘᴀʀᴛ)

ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ: ᴏᴜʀ ᴄʜᴀʀᴀᴄᴛᴇʀꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ʏᴏᴜʀꜱ ꜰɪʀꜱᴛ ᴍᴇᴇᴛɪɴɢ, ꜱᴏᴍᴇ ᴍᴏʀᴇ ɴɪᴄᴇʀ ᴛʜᴀɴ ᴏᴛʜᴇʀꜱ.

JAYCE

Jayce Talis was fresh-faced and full of ambition when he first arrived in Piltover. Accepted into the academy (19) as a promising young inventor, he was determined to make a name for himself. But ambition wasn’t enough to build the dreams he had in his mind. The academy had resources, yes, but they were cautious, slow-moving—bound by tradition. Jayce’s ideas demanded materials and ingenuity that Piltover wasn’t ready to supply.

That’s how he found himself wandering into the Undercity one fateful evening.

The narrow streets of Zaun were a stark contrast to the polished halls of the academy. Steam hissed from broken pipes, and the air smelled of oil and metal. Jayce clutched a hastily scribbled map in his hand, given to him by a fellow student who claimed there was a workshop deep in Zaun where you could find anything—if you were brave enough to look.

He nearly missed the place entirely, tucked away in a crooked alley. A flickering sign above the door read: “Y/N’s Fixes & Finds.”

Pushing the door open, Jayce was greeted by the faint hum of machinery and the clatter of tools. The workshop was a chaotic haven of gears, wires, and half-finished devices. At the centre of it all stood a young woman, roughly about the same age as him, goggles perched on their head, a smudge of grease streaked across their cheek as they worked on a mechanical contraption.

The sound of the door creaking drew their attention. They turned, narrowing their eyes at the well-dressed stranger. “Lost, academy boy?” they asked, their tone sharp but not unkind.

Jayce hesitated, taken aback by the directness. “Not lost,” he said, stepping further into the room. “Looking for something I can’t find in Piltover.”

Y/N leaned against the workbench, crossing their arms. “You’ve got the wrong place if you’re looking for shiny toys and fancy gadgets.”

“That’s not what I’m after,” Jayce replied earnestly. “I’m working on an idea—something that could change everything. But I need better materials, better tools. Someone told me you could help.”

Y/N raised an eyebrow, intrigued despite themselves. “Big words for someone who doesn’t look like they’ve built anything that’s actually worked.”

Jayce smirked, feeling a flicker of determination. “I can prove it.”

They tossed him a battered device from the workbench—a mangled mess of gears and wires. “Fix that. If you’re half as smart as you think you are, it shouldn’t take you long.”

Jayce took the challenge without hesitation, sitting down at the workbench. The device was poorly assembled but fixable. With a few careful adjustments, he realigned the gears and connected the wires properly. Within minutes, the device clicked and whirred to life, emitting a faint pulse of light.

Y/N was impressed but tried not to show it. “Not bad, academy boy. Maybe you’re worth my time after all. Names Y/N” She holds her hand out to him.

"Jayce." He responded, shaking her hand.

They spent the next few hours talking, trading ideas and challenges. Y/N’s resourcefulness fascinated Jayce—they solved problems with a practicality born from necessity, creating brilliance out of scraps. In turn, Y/N couldn’t help but admire Jayce’s vision and his almost reckless drive to push boundaries.

When it was finally time for Jayce to leave, Y/N handed him a small pouch filled with rare components. “Call it a loan,” they said with a sly smile. “Don’t screw it up.”

Jayce smiled back, his grip tightening on the pouch. “I won’t,” he promised.

As he walked back to Piltover, the weight of the pouch felt heavier than it should. It wasn’t just components—it was trust. And for the first time, Jayce felt like his dreams weren’t so far away. He didn’t know it yet, but this meeting was the start of something that would change not just his life, but the world.

VIKTOR

The halls of the academy were always bustling, students rushing between lectures, papers scattered across desks, and the constant hum of ambition hanging in the air. Y/N was no exception, constantly moving, juggling tasks, and brimming with ideas. It was her first semester, and she was already feeling the pressure of living up to the academy’s towering expectations.

Lost in her thoughts about an upcoming presentation, her arms full of papers and books, Y/N’s focus slipped for just a moment too long. Her foot caught on the corner of a rug, and the next thing she knew, her carefully organized notes and diagrams were flying out of her grasp, scattering like autumn leaves across the polished floor.

Before she could fully register what had happened, a soft but firm voice broke through her embarrassment. “Careful now. The floor may not be as forgiving as it looks.”

Startled, Y/N glanced up to see a young man crouched beside her, already gathering her scattered papers. His lean frame was accentuated by the slightly oversized academy uniform, his posture careful as he balanced against a sturdy cane. His unruly brown hair seemed perpetually at odds with the studious air he carried. Most striking, though, were his golden-brown eyes—intense and thoughtful, but not unkind.

“I—uh, thank you,” Y/N stammered, still flustered as she scrambled to pick up the rest of her notes.

“It happens,” the young man replied in a calm, measured tone, his Czech accent thick. He leaned slightly on his cane as he handed her a stack of neatly organized papers. “You’re not the first to underestimate how much these corridors demand your attention.”

She managed a sheepish smile, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “Yeah, I suppose balance isn’t my strong suit.”

“Balance,” he mused, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips. His cane tapped lightly against the floor as he shifted his weight. “An elusive concept, especially here. The academy is good at keeping everyone on edge.”

Y/N accepted the papers, her initial embarrassment giving way to curiosity. “Thanks again. I guess I owe you one.”

He shook his head, his expression softening. “No debt incurred,” he said with a faint chuckle. “Just… perhaps slow down a little next time. Rushing rarely yields the best results.”

As the weight of her papers settled back in her arms, Y/N hesitated. “I don’t think I caught your name.”

“Viktor,” he said simply, his cane tapping softly as he adjusted his stance. He offered a slight nod, polite but reserved. “And you are?”

“Y/N,” she replied, finally feeling steady on her feet. “First semester, and clearly still figuring out how to survive the academy.”

“You’re not alone in that,” Viktor said, his tone thoughtful as he studied her. “Even those of us who’ve been here longer still stumble now and then—metaphorically, of course.” A faint flicker of amusement danced in his eyes.

Y/N smiled, her initial awkwardness fading into warmth. “Well, Viktor, thanks for the save. I’ll try not to make this a habit.”

He gave a small, almost imperceptible smile. “See that you don’t. But… if you do find yourself in need of assistance, you know where to find me.” With a slight dip of his head, Viktor turned and walked down the corridor, his cane tapping a quiet rhythm on the polished floor.

As Y/N watched him disappear into the crowd of students, she couldn’t help but feel that this brief encounter was the start of something far more meaningful than a simple rescue.

JAYVIK

The flickering fluorescent lights of the lab cast long shadows over the scattered blueprints, glowing crystals, and intricate machinery. It was late—most of the academy's halls were silent, the usual bustle of students and researchers replaced by an eerie stillness. Perfect timing for someone who didn’t belong.

Y/N moved carefully, her footsteps light as she navigated the sprawling lab. Her Zaunite instincts guided her, sharp and survival-driven. The tools and devices on the workbenches were unlike anything she had seen back home—polished, cutting-edge, and dripping with the wealth of Piltover’s privileged elite.

It wasn’t personal. She didn’t particularly want to steal from anyone. But things in Zaun had been dire lately, and every stolen blueprint or shard of hextech crystal could mean another week of food, another day of keeping her family afloat.

Her gloved hand reached for a shimmering blue crystal embedded in an ornate device when a sharp voice cut through the silence.

“And what exactly do you think you’re doing?”

Y/N froze, her heart leaping into her throat. She turned slowly, her mind racing for an excuse. Behind her stood a tall man with broad shoulders, his brow furrowed and his arms crossed over his chest. His piercing brown eyes bore into hers, his expression a mix of suspicion and annoyance.

“I—uh…” Y/N began, but another voice interrupted her.

“She doesn’t look like one of the academy staff,” Viktor said, stepping out from behind a stack of blueprints. He leaned on his cane, his golden-brown eyes sharp and calculating as they swept over her. “Too quiet. Too... resourceful.”

Y/N’s gaze darted between the two men. She was cornered. Jayce’s strong, commanding presence on one side, and Viktor’s sharp intellect on the other. Her hands instinctively tightened around the crystal, but she knew she wouldn’t get far if she tried to run.

“I can explain,” Y/N said quickly, raising her hands in mock surrender, the crystal still clutched in one fist. “I wasn’t going to take much, I swear. Just... borrowing.”

Jayce raised an eyebrow, his skepticism evident. “Borrowing? From our lab?” His tone was incredulous. “You know, breaking in and stealing aren’t exactly the best ways to ask for a favor.”

Viktor tilted his head, his expression unreadable. “You’re from Zaun, aren’t you?” he asked, his accent softening as he studied her.

Y/N blinked, caught off guard.

“Your tools,” Viktor interrupted, nodding toward the small pouch at her hip. “Zaunite make. Efficient but improvised. And your shoes—worn from the chemical streets.”

Y/N narrowed her eyes. “You’re observant,” she muttered, uneasy under his scrutiny.

Jayce glanced at Viktor, his frustration softening slightly. “So, what now?” he asked, clearly deferring to his partner.

Viktor considered Y/N for a long moment before speaking. “Running won’t help you. Security will catch you before you leave the building. And if they don’t, Piltover’s lawkeepers will. But…” His gaze flicked to the device she had tried to steal. “Perhaps we can come to an arrangement.”

Y/N frowned, her suspicion evident. “An arrangement?”

“You’re resourceful,” Viktor said simply, his tone calm and measured. “And I assume you wouldn’t be risking your neck unless you truly needed to. If you’re willing to explain your situation, perhaps we can find a way to help each other.”

Jayce crossed his arms but nodded, his earlier irritation giving way to a grudging respect. “We’re not heartless. If there’s something you need, just tell us. Stealing isn’t the only way.”

Y/N hesitated, her eyes darting between the two of them. There was no malice in their words, only curiosity and... understanding? She wasn’t sure what she expected when she’d broken into this lab, but it definitely wasn’t this.

“Fine,” she said at last, lowering her hands and relinquishing the crystal. “I’ll talk. But don’t think for a second that I trust either of you.”

Jayce chuckled softly. “Fair enough. Trust takes time.”

Viktor gave a faint smile, his grip on his cane tightening as he gestured toward a nearby stool. “Then let’s start now. Sit. We’re listening.”

As Y/N sat down, her nerves still buzzing, she realized that she might have just stumbled into something far more complicated—and far more intriguing—than she’d anticipated.

VANDER

The Last Drop wasn’t much to look at back then. It wasn’t the thriving hub it would later become, but a small, rough-hewn bar tucked into the heart of Zaun’s chaos. The air inside carried a mix of sweat, cheap ale, and the faint metallic tang of machinery. It was a refuge for the weary and the desperate—a place where even the broken found a moment of peace.

Vander was behind the bar, as usual, wiping down the stained counter with a rag that had seen better days. He wasn’t much older than twenty, broad-shouldered and already carrying the weight of the Undercity on his back. Silco sat at a bar, drinking from a glass as he writes in a journal.

The door creaked open, and Vander glanced up out of habit. He expected another familiar face, maybe a regular, or some poor soul looking for a drink to drown their troubles. What he didn’t expect was her.

Felicia strode in first, her usual swagger in place, but behind her was someone new—a woman he’d never seen before. Y/N stepped into the dim light of the bar, and for a moment, Vander forgot how to breathe.

She didn’t belong here—not in the way most people did. Zaun had a way of dulling beauty, grinding it down with grime and despair, but she seemed untouched by it. Her eyes carried a spark of resilience, her posture a quiet defiance against the city that tried to break everyone. To Vander, she was a flower blooming in the middle of a wasteland.

“Oi, Vander!” Felicia’s voice snapped him out of his daze. “Quit staring and come over here.”

Silco smirked from his seat, clearly catching Vander’s momentary lapse. Vander muttered something under his breath and stepped around the bar, doing his best to play it cool as Felicia waved him over.

“This is Y/N,” Felicia said, gesturing toward her companion. “She’s new to this part of Zaun, figured I’d show her around. Thought it’d be good for her to meet the famous Vander.”

“Famous, huh?” Vander said, his voice gruff as he extended a hand.

Y/N smiled, and the warmth in it caught him off guard. She took his hand, her grip firm but gentle. “I’ve heard a bit about you,” she said. “Felicia talks like you’re some kind of legend.”

Vander chuckled, a little embarrassed. “Don’t believe everything she says. I’m just a guy with a bar.”

“Don’t let him fool you,” Felicia chimed in, slapping Vander on the shoulder. “He’s got a heart as big as this place—and fists to match.”

Vander shot Felicia a warning look, but she only grinned. Y/N laughed softly, the sound light and melodic, and Vander felt something stir in his chest.

“Well,” Y/N said, her gaze meeting his, “it’s a pleasure to meet you, Vander. This place has a charm to it.”

“Charm, huh?” he said, a hint of a smile tugging at his lips. “That’s not a word I hear much around here.”

She shrugged. “It’s all in how you look at it.”

Vander nodded, his respect for her growing. It wasn’t often someone saw Zaun with anything other than disdain or despair. “Can I get you a drink?” he offered, his voice softening.

“Sure,” she said, her eyes sparkling with amusement. “But only if you join me for one.”

For the first time in a long while, Vander felt a flicker of something he’d thought Zaun had taken from him—hope. He poured two drinks and joined her at the bar, Felicia smirking knowingly as she goes to Silco’s side, the two watching with a smirk

As the night went on, Vander found himself captivated by Y/N’s stories, her laughter, and the way she seemed to light up the dim room. In a city that thrived on shadows, she was a rare glimpse of light, and Vander couldn’t help but wonder if meeting her was the beginning of something he’d been waiting for his whole life.

SILCO

The night Vander betrayed him was etched into Silco’s mind like a blade carving into flesh. The cold waters of the canal still burned in his lungs, and the searing pain from his infected eye was a constant reminder of the man who had once called him brother.

He’d managed to escape, his hands slick with blood, the knife he used to fend off Vander still trembling in his grasp. Every step felt heavier than the last as he stumbled through the labyrinthine streets of Zaun, his vision blurring from pain and exhaustion.

When he finally collapsed in a dark, narrow alleyway, Silco wasn’t sure if he’d ever rise again. The city around him was a blur of muffled sounds and shifting shadows before everything went black.

Silco awoke with a start, his instincts kicking in before his body could fully respond. He bolted upright, only to be met with a sharp, stabbing pain radiating from his face and ribs. His hand instinctively reached for his eye, but a firm, unfamiliar voice cut through the haze.

“Don’t touch that.”

His head snapped toward the source, his remaining eye narrowing. A woman stood in the doorway, holding a small basin of water and a cloth. She looked calm, her expression unreadable, but there was an undeniable edge to her tone—a warning.

“Who are you?” Silco demanded, his voice rough, his body tense despite the obvious strain it was under.

“Someone who just saved your life,” Y/N replied, stepping closer and setting the basin down on a small, rickety table. “You were half-dead when I found you. If you move too much, you’ll tear the stitches I just put in.”

Silco’s gaze flickered to his arm, now wrapped tightly in makeshift bandages. His mind raced, trying to piece together how he’d ended up here. “Why?” he asked, his tone sharp.

Y/N raised an eyebrow, unfazed by his hostility. “Why what? Why did I help you?” She shrugged. “Let’s just say I don’t like seeing people bleed out in the streets, even in a place like this.”

“Charity is rare in Zaun,” Silco said, his suspicion evident.

She let out a dry laugh. “You don’t say.” Her tone softened slightly as she sat on a stool beside him, wringing out the cloth. “I’m no saint, but I couldn’t just leave you there. Now, sit still. Your eye’s infected, and if you want to keep what’s left of it, you’ll let me help.”

Silco hesitated, every muscle in his body screaming at him to leave, to get away from this stranger. But the throbbing in his eye and the sharp pain in his side were undeniable. Reluctantly, he leaned back against the wall, his remaining eye watching her every move.

Y/N worked in silence for a while, dabbing gently at his swollen, reddened eye. Her hands were steady, her touch careful despite the obvious discomfort it caused him.

“You’re lucky I found you when I did,” she said after a moment. “Another hour out there, and you’d have been done for.”

“Lucky,” Silco repeated bitterly, his jaw tightening. “That’s one way to put it.”

She paused, meeting his gaze. “You don’t have to tell me what happened. But whatever it was, it left you in a bad way. You should rest.”

“I can’t stay here,” Silco said firmly, starting to rise again despite the pain.

Y/N placed a hand on his shoulder, gently but firmly pushing him back down. “And go where? Back into the streets? You’ll be dead by morning.”

Her words hung in the air, and for the first time, Silco found himself unable to argue. He hated the vulnerability, hated relying on someone else, but something about Y/N’s unwavering composure kept him from pushing her away.

“You’re stubborn,” he muttered, leaning back reluctantly.

She smirked, sitting back on her stool. “Takes one to know one.”

For the first time in what felt like an eternity, Silco allowed himself to close his eye and let the tension in his body ease, if only slightly. The woman tending to him was a mystery, but as the night wore on, he couldn’t deny that her care was keeping him alive.

And in the shadows of Zaun, where trust was scarce and betrayal ran deep, that simple act of kindness was enough to plant the seed of something unexpected—something Silco would carry with him long after he left her care.

JINX/POWDER

Y/N once lived in Piltover with her mother, enjoying a modest but stable life. However, when her mother passed away unexpectedly, the weight of mounting bills and the high cost of living in the gilded city became too much for her to bear. With no other options, she made the difficult decision to move to Zaun, a place she had only heard about in whispers. The contrast was stark—Piltover's polished streets were replaced by Zaun's gritty alleys and thick, smoky air. Struggling to find her footing, she spent months navigating her new reality, unsure of where she belonged.

Fate intervened when Y/N stumbled across Silco in an alleyway, unconscious and wounded. Taking a risk, she helped him, unaware that this single act of compassion would alter the course of her life. (Silco's Part) After recovering, Silco saw something unique in Y/N—her resilience and resourcefulness—and offered her work. What began as a professional arrangement quickly deepened into a bond built on trust and mutual respect, a connection that only grew stronger over the years. Their dynamic shifted again one evening when Silco arrived at their base of operations with a new addition to their unnatural family.

Powder.

She was small, thin, with wild blue hair, and bruises marring her skin. But it wasn’t just the physical damage that caught your attention—it was the hurt in her eyes. The guilt. The grief. And something darker beneath the surface. You could see it clearly, even through the panic and shock she was clearly experiencing.

“She’s... she’s alive,” Silco muttered, almost to himself, as he carefully laid Powder down on a makeshift cot. His eyes were bloodshot, his face streaked with soot and grime from the aftermath. “She needs care.”

You nodded silently, stepping forward with a calm that belied the storm of emotions swirling inside you. You were no stranger to pain, and you knew what needed to be done. You had seen plenty of broken souls, but something about this girl... something about her was different. She wasn’t just another casualty of Zaun’s brutality—she was a spark, a raw potential waiting to be shaped.

You crouched beside her, noting how tightly she was curled in on herself. She was trembling, hands clenched into fists at her sides as though bracing for something. Her wide eyes, still filled with fear, flickered to Silco’s figure, and you could see the tension in her shoulders, the uncertainty in her gaze.

“Powder,” you said gently, your voice soft but steady. “I’m not here to hurt you. I’m here to help.”

She didn’t respond, but you saw her stiffen slightly at your words. Her chest rose and fell with uneven breaths, and for a moment, the silence hung in the air between you both. You continued your work, not rushing, not pushing her to speak, only ensuring she was comfortable and that her injuries weren’t as severe as they seemed.

“You’ve been through a lot, haven’t you?” You muttered, more to yourself than to her. “Zaun doesn’t make it easy for anyone.”

Silco stepped back, leaning against the wall. “She... doesn't talk. Hasn't since the explosion. Going to need a lot of patience with this one.”

“I can handle patience,” you said quietly, glancing at Silco with an understanding nod. There was something else there, though, that you could see behind his eyes—a recognition. Maybe even a kind of resignation. He had likely seen far too many broken people in his time, but for the first time, you saw a flicker of doubt in him. Whether it was for himself, for her, or both, you couldn’t be sure.

But the moment you looked back down at Powder, you knew she needed something more than just care. She needed someone who could see past the explosion, the destruction, and the chaos she had been a part of. She needed someone who could help her rebuild what had been torn apart—not just her body, but her heart.

“Hey,” you spoke again, this time more firmly. “You don’t have to carry this alone. I know it feels heavy right now, but you can’t carry it forever. It’s not all on you.”

The words didn’t seem to break through at first. Powder stayed silent, still as stone. But you could see the smallest tremor in her hands, the slight quiver in her lip.

The guilt was suffocating her.

"I'm a monster… A Jinx," Powder's voice was soft, barely a whisper, and laced with hesitation. "It's my fault."

You moved a little closer, sitting down beside her. You didn’t touch her, but you stayed there, just close enough for her to feel your presence, warm and steady. You understood what it was like to feel like the world was on your shoulders, to feel like you couldn’t make amends, but you knew one thing: she had to be given the chance to heal. It wouldn’t happen overnight, but it would happen.

“You're not a monster,” you said softly, placing a gentle hand on the girl's knee. "And it's not your fault. You're just a very brave girl."

For a long moment, the room was silent except for the distant hum of Zaun’s underbelly and the faint sounds of Powder’s breath. Silco didn’t respond, but you saw the sharpness in his gaze soften, just a fraction. His stance relaxed, and his lips pressed into a thin line, contemplating your words.

Finally, Powder’s voice, quiet and small, cut through the stillness. “I... I didn’t mean to...”

“I know,” you said gently, offering her a small, comforting smile. “But it’s not about what happened. It’s about what you do next.”

The weight of her past might have been too heavy to erase, but there was still time for her to change. There was still time for healing. And in that moment, you knew: whatever happened next, you would be there to guide her through it.

A new chapter had begun for both you and Powder, one where she wouldn’t have to walk alone in the shadows of Zaun any longer.

#Arcane #arcane fandom #arcane fluff #reader insert #jinx x platonic!reader #jayce x reader #jayce x you #jayce talis x reader #jayce x y/n #viktor x y/n #viktor x reader #jayce x reader x viktor #viktor x you #vander x reader #silco x reader #jayvik x reader

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ratmonky · 7 months ago

Text

Business Strategy

warnings: manipulation

word count: 1k

ao3 link

Some people needed attention, some people needed love and Gods needed to be worshipped.

"You have been trending on almost every visual media and as a podcast topic. How does it feel to be worshipped by everyone?"

Everyone but you.

You look down at him as you sit on your desk with your legs crossed, an unnoticeable smile on your lips. The tip of his cock is glistening with precum that drips on the polished floor. He is impatiently rubbing himself while staring up at you, eyes like a puppy's, begging for you to continue.

"Good work today, John," you praise him, your smile getting wider as his hand around his hand gets faster. "If you manage to spend a single day without any casualties I might even pat your head and rest it on my lap."

He nods with his eyes wide, staring at your bottom as his mouth opens. You don’t scold or comment on him for using his X-ray vision. He has been working hard lately to make you so proud. Precious John. He wakes up every day to make his pretty boss happy and sits by her desk like an obedient dog, waiting to be rewarded.

His gloved hand moves hastily around his cock, it makes a squeaky sound with each stroke. It brings you out of your thoughts.

You continue to smile, watching him pathetically jerk off on another work day after giving his report of the day. You wonder what he is thinking about right now. A scenario where he sucks on your tits while he has his head on your lap and lets you jerk him off? Or getting fed up with your strange power over him and bending you over the desk right now? He would rip your tights and pull up your skirt, humping you aimlessly until his cock finally slid inside. Wouldn't that feel good? You wonder if he had it in him to even pull something risky like that but he would never risk upsetting you.

Good little John.

Begging to be yours.

You decide you want to reward him after the intense feeling of heat building inside your core, making your legs tremble and pussy leak.

"I'll let you do whatever," you say softly, lifting his chin with the front part of your heels. His eyes are on you, clouded from lust. "Just tell me what you want, John."

There is a smile on his face. "I want to eat your pussy," he says after clearing his throat. Nonetheless, his tone is pathetic and desperate, he cannot hide the excited expression on his face like he has been waiting for this moment all his life.

With grace, you spread your legs and let him rip your tights in the middle. He pulls you closer to the edge of the desk and slides your panties to the side. He doesn't bother lifting your skirt and shoves his face in your crotch while proceeding to pump his cock.

The feeling of his hot and wet tongue against your folds feels heavenly after a long day of work. You tilt your head up and close your eyes to focus on how he moves his tongue. He kisses your pussy slowly, nose touching your clit. He slides his tongue inside you in an attempt to taste you and quickly decides against it to focus on pleasing you. His hand on your thigh squeezes the flesh and he tries to imagine how your ass would feel like on his cock when you finally would let him fuck you. He moves to your clit, lapping at your sweet spot and drawing tight circles that get smaller and smaller.

You don’t want to admit it but it feels so good, you try to curl your toes but you don’t have enough space in your heels to do so, you let your legs rest on his shoulders. He keeps moving in a way that mimics fucking you and you find yourself imagining going against your own rule and letting him ravish you like he has been always dreaming about.

As he gets close to his orgasm he loses the rhythm of his tongue and basically moves his head up and down as if he were nodding with his tongue rubbing wildly against your pussy. Your hands grip the desk harder and you let out a quiet moan. He laps at your cunt like a fucking dog and it just works. You feel the rush of an orgasm wash over you and your legs shake as he groans and cums with you. He groans and goes frigid for a second before letting himself sit on the floor to rest.

There is a short moment before you jump down from the desk to fix your clothing and he follows your lead and gets up to fix himself as you return to your seat this time.

"I expect another great day from you tomorrow, John," you say while starting to type on the keyboard of your laptop.

"Yes, sure," he chuckles. "I'll see you tomorrow morning."

"Night," you correct him, his smile disappears as you inform him about tomorrow. "I'll be taking care of A-Train in the morning. Noir has a short meeting with me in the afternoon and well, Deep has been waiting for weeks to have a meeting, I'll take him in the evening."

He frowns, his eyes losing any sign of life in them.

You sigh and roll your eyes. "I'll see you tomorrow night at my house, hmm?" You watch another grin creep up on his face, "Don't get any ideas unless you plan to do something that'll raise our profits by 30%."

He grins all the same, "Well, I'll see you tomorrow then." Then he leaves unwillingly because he knows you're having a meeting with sponsors in an hour.

The next day, you wake up to the news of Homelander selling his official Vought merch in front of the tower and giving interviews about his new show that will air only on Vought+.

#homelander x reader #last episode was too much and it switched something... i was resisting so hard to not write about the boys but man i cant keep this in anym #its been 5 years and still i cant fall asleep without thinking about this one fucked up supe #atrain deep and noir x munkey soon #hjfbduyfre #arghrh everyone is so hot but man especially butcher god things id do

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n0tamused · 5 months ago

Note

dottore having to dispose of a faulty clone (maybe bc they were threatening reader) and then handfeeding reader parts of it like cannibalism as a metaphor for love…. do we see the vision or is this a little too 𝓯𝓻𝓮𝓪𝓴𝔂 💔💔

A/n: pookie you're all good, thank you for feeding my brain worms with this idea I'm sending you smooches. I do hope I executed this well. I had a lot in my head that I wanted to write for this but I didn't want this to turn into a word scramble so here's this. Enjoy <3

Content: Dottore x GN reader, dark content(?), a bit yandere, implied unhealthy relationship, implied cannibalism, cannibalism as a metaphor for love, idk what else to tag as I never posted something like this so if anything else needs tagging feel free to lemme know

Words: 735

Several candles lined the polished oak table, its surface smooth and almost sticky, the light rippling over the dark lines of the carvings on top like little light bugs chasing one another. The golden hues danced over the plates as well, but the dim light scarcely allowed for a good look at the dishes.

The fork extending forward to your lips was the only thing that held your attention long enough to be observed, taken in fully, lips closing around the bit of meat and vegetables. The juice and oil fills your mouth, sinking past your teeth and around your gums, the taste is rich yet stale all at once. You couldn’t comment on it, you didn't know what to say about it. Not with the Doctor sitting at your side and being the one to feed you so, so gently.

It's hard to remember when was the last time he looked so gentle, kind even, perhaps when he was lighting up the candles with such care, as if his own breath would blow the flames into a blaze, allowing you to see your plate in full.

The meat was well done, seasoned to your liking, and something told you it was Dottore’s own hand who prepared it, gave it his all to make it so perfect for consumption. Parts of him were laced through every sensation, every smell and every bite. Your own plate is set before him and he's cutting all your bites, spearing pieces of meat and salad onto the fork before feeding it to you, making sure you ate well.

The dull ache in your arms is brought back into memory as you languidly chew on a bite, and your fingers absentmindedly touch over your sleeves over where the bruises lay, feeling the ache grow.

“Do they still hurt you?” His voice called out amidst smoky smells and brown fog, calling you to the present. “Have you gotten any rest at all, my dear?” He added, his head tilting in your direction, his bird-like mask not allowing you for a glimpse of his ruby eyes, but from underneath you can see glimpses of the scars peeking through, teasing your eyes. For some reason he chose to wear it here, now, only puzzling you further.

“No.. no.. they're fine… I’ll get some rest later tonight, sir..” you reply as you swallow and watch how he grimaced at the title, and you nearly cough from how big this bite was, but you would have taken a bigger bite had Dottore allowed you to feast yourself. Perhaps not, but you told yourself you would. Be it the rich taste or some other factor, you yearned to take up each bone from the meat and lick it clean, sucking out the marrow from within and letting it melt into your guts.

Would he be satisfied then?

Would you be?

The candles flicker. He's still looking at you

“Are you still afraid? I've already told you so, and explained it many times. You have nothing to fear here. This was just an error in the system which will not ever happen again.. and you shouldn't have been around to witness it, anyhow..”. You have to wonder how he can say all this with so little fear. Then again, the clone was his creation. He knew it inside and out, every crevice and every wire.

“I understand.. it's just that.. I'd rather not face the others now..not after that..”

Truth be told, having him around was also slightly unnerving, as he wore nearly an identical face as the one that harmed you. They were the same, but also not. He was gentle, but he was not.

The one that hurt you was long disposed of and would never harm you again, but Dottore was once the one that hurt you, and now he has poured himself out before you, all for your pleasure and the sweet poison of safety and love.

He hopes to convey it to you through each meticulously put bite, every sip he graces your lips with. He had cut himself open for you and would do so again, just as he hurt you through that error. It came as easy as drinking and breathing.

“That’s understandable. I assure you are safe, and however dark the night may get - I'll be there with you… But for now, you must eat, not fear. Open wide..”

248 notes · View notes

macfrog · 1 year ago

Text

ace sex on fire chapter six

this entire chapter is me making up for 1. the golfing line in chapter two, and 2. joel's entire experience of tlou2. naughty dog i'm waiting for ur response. 24 hours to reply

pairing: ceo!joel x fem!reader

summary: joel takes you on a day trip to go golfing. it turns out to be more fun than you expected

warnings: 18+ (minors dni!!!) golf. idk what else to say. age gap (reader is late 20s, joel late 40s), workplace relationship, imbalanced power dynamic, more sugardaddy!joel, discussions of pregnancy + reader perhaps not wanting children, sort of possessive!joel?, praise kink, unprotected piv car sex, daddy kink, exhibitionist fantasy, creampie, more teasing + flirting, angst + pining, alcohol consumption, cursing

word count: 9.7k

series masterlist | main masterlist | playlist

“Good girl. He there?” The image of Daniel flits across your vision, bright blue eyes trained on you. He looks…intrigued, and stunned. He’s not breaking his stare. “Mhm,” you say again, and start to lift off of Joel. “He watching?” “Y-eah,” you choke out, bouncing steadily. “Put on a show for ‘im, pretty girl. Show him what you do for me.”

The cab squeaks to a halt right outside the office, dropping you at the bottom of the concrete steps leading up to the revolving door. There are already bodies filtering in and out of the building, despite how early it is.

You thank the driver – Mick, you’ve come to learn. He seems to run this route on weekday mornings; it’s always him who shows up at your apartment when you can’t be bothered to walk to work, or miss the damn bus. Mick tosses a thumbs up over his shoulder and you swing out into the brilliant sun.

It’s Thursday. You’ve been home sixty-five hours, by your count. Joel gave you a couple days after landing stateside to catch up on sleep, readjust. He’d gone back to work Tuesday morning, though, 8AM sharp. Martha had text to ask where you were, and had sent six laughing emojis back when you replied with, How the fuck is he back already?

You make the climb up the steps, back to work, back to normality. It drags like a weight at your heels, the thought of returning to that gray office after three days wandering around picture-perfect, painted-pink Paris. After three days of Joel.

That split-open feeling, the cavity between your ribs – it’s sewn itself up since you got back to your own apartment, your own space. Since you showered a couple times, washed your clothes, started smelling like yourself again instead of Joel. Its sutures are made from the sound of the subway squealing to a halt, the smell of Chinese takeout from the place across the street.

But there’s a tiny piece of you, small enough to stay hidden from even yourself sometimes, that you know misses it. Misses…him. It only hurts when you touch it – the sewn-up scar, messy in your frantic attempts to close it up – it aches when you remember his hands on your waist whenever you wanted them there, his lips below your ear whenever you needed him.

As you approach the glass doors, you hear a whistle from behind, and turn to watch Joel slip out of his Rolls and jog up the steps. There’s a sports bag hanging from his left hand.

“Am I a dog?” you ask when he reaches you.

“It was an endearin’ whistle.”

“Very endearing. Don’t do it again.”

He nods once. “Yes, ma’am. Feelin’ awake yet?”

“Almost.” You follow him into the building, clicking along the polished marble floor at his side. “You didn’t waste any time getting back into the swing of things, I hear.”

You both nod good morning to the receptionists, and Joel hits the button to call the elevator.

“I’m an important man, baby,” he says, shrugging. “My job ain’t just answerin’ the phone ‘n making coffee.”

You scoff, slapping his back as he leads you through the sliding doors, which closer over and shut you both into your first moment of privacy in almost seventy hours. Joel immediately turns to face you, words behind his eyes that he can’t seem to sort into a coherent sentence.

In what you hear as an attempt to summarize, he says: “Back to reality.”

You brush the shoulders of his blazer, tug on his tie to straighten it. It’s the most you can bring yourself to do that doesn’t involve throwing yourself at him. There’s a throbbing right below your chest, like a magnet tugging you towards the man stood in front of you. Touching the padded shoulder of his suit will have to do. For now.

You lift your eyebrows, staring at the knot of his tie. “Yep.”

It’s pretty reductive, Back to reality. But then, what else is there to say? What else that wasn’t said between your bodies in Paris? A line was crossed there – you both went somewhere you can’t come back from so easily. And moving forward the way you had been before, seems equally as impossible.

There are eyes on you here. There are people who care to know what might be going on – whether they like it or not doesn’t matter. No more strutting out onto the terrace, running your hands all over one another, connecting skin and tongue in ways you wouldn’t have dreamt up two weeks ago.

No. This stays secret. A secret between you, Joel, and the French skies.

Joel places a hand on the small of your back as the elevator doors whip open. He ushers you out, and then, once in view of Martha’s desk, sidesteps to an appropriate distance.

“Welcome back,” your colleague greets you as you approach her desk. “Missed you, kid.”

You smile coyly. “Thanks,” you mumble. Guilt isn’t the easiest of emotions to hide.

Joel taps your arm gently and then nods towards his office. “Catch-up,” he says, and Martha rounds her desk to follow after him.

You drop your jacket and purse over the back of your chair and slip in behind them, leaning back on one of Joel’s leather couches with your arms crossed.

“Alright,” Martha sighs, “few things needing done this morning. First…”

You take a deep breath and slump down until your ass sits comfortably on the couch cushion, your knees draped over the arm, cradled inside your elbows.

Joel notices, and smirks to himself. He dials into his voicemail, hits a button, and a familiar voice echoes from his desk.

“Hey, Joel,” Drew’s voice says, “hope you enjoyed Paris ‘n aren’t still too hungover. I know what Jean-Marc’s like…”

Martha moves to the next bullet point, tilting her pad and tapping the tip of her pen to some messy scrawling you can’t read. You nod, eyes flitting up to watch Joel.

“Just wanted to check in and make sure you’re still good for later. S’posed to be a good day for it. Let me know if you need any help with directions. Alright. Looking forward to seeing you two soon. Cool.”

The machine cuts. Joel sits back in his chair, rests his heels on the wood in front of him. Black, shiny, ridiculously expensive shoes crossed over on top of a black, shiny, ridiculously expensive desk.

“…now, Ken needs to receive this as soon as possible, alright? I said I’d have it done by end of day yesterday – I did not, so I need you to –”

“Who’s you two?” you ask Joel, peering over Martha’s notepad.

He looks up, tossing a rubber band ball in his hands. “You ‘n me, darlin’.”

“I’m sorry,” Martha declares, “am I talking to myself–?”

You push her notepad out of your view, still staring at Joel. “What do you mean, you ‘n me?”

Martha drops her hands with a sigh. You repeat your question.

“Us,” Joel says, hint of irritation in his voice like you’re supposed to be in on something. “We’re goin’ golfing with him.”

“We’re going golfing?”

Martha, now exasperated, swings the pad under her bicep and crosses her arms over her chest, makes something of a growling noise. “You two are unbeliev…Are you listening to me?” she demands, clicking her fingers in front of you.

“No,” you reply simply, eyes locked on Joel’s.

His lips curve with a soft laugh. “You ain’t read your emails?” he asks.

Your head darts between him and Martha. Bewildered. “I was catching up on sleep, thank you very much,” you assert, nodding with finality at the blonde updo hovering over you.

You know she cares about you – at least enough to water your monstera deliciosa while you were gone – but Martha can be sharp; her outspokenness is something to admire and to fear, in one small five-foot-three frame.

She snorts, glancing over to Joel with a disbelieving shake of her head, but he doesn’t take her up on it. Just looks at her blankly and then turns back to you.

“We’re meeting Drew up at Aspen Heights. Few of his buddies are in town, he wanted to introduce ‘em to me.”

“And I’m coming – why?”

“Because he met you last week, musta liked you, ‘n he invited you.”

Your mouth opens to reply, some retort to bring into question the need for your presence at a fucking round of golf, when Joel and his words cut yours short in your throat.

“And I want you there with me.”

Martha raises her eyebrows when you look up at her. The thing is: this all seems very normal, from her perspective. You did such a good job at keeping Joel right in Paris, didn’t you? He made his flight there on time, he met with Jean-Marc without a hitch, and he was actually an hour early for his flight home.

That last part was because you’d woken up with the sun and couldn’t get back to sleep, so you woke him, too and…well. Kept each other busy until you physically couldn’t anymore. There wasn’t much point hanging around in the hotel suite when your cases were packed and your bodies were…fragile, so you left for the airport.

To her ignorant eyes – and bless her – this is all just networking. It’s you building work relationships, Joel at the helm overseeing everything and setting it all up for you. This is clear – that that’s all she thinks – when she says:

“He’s doin’ you a favor, sweetheart. You should go.”

“I don’t even have any golfing gear. I’m in suit trousers.” Your eyes trail down your black pinstripe pants, legs dangling from the arm of the couch.

“And you look fantastic,” Joel quips, though you know he’s half-serious, “but you do gotta find somethin’ more…” he waves a hand, “…golf.”

“Something more golf. That’s helpful.”

“Here,” he says, stretching into his back pocket. His hips lift from the seat of his chair, and your eyes land on the space just south of his belt buckle. He pulls his credit card from his wallet – the same one you could probably recite the numbers of by heart at this point – and holds it out. “Go grab somethin’ nice. My treat.”

My treat. Like he didn’t treat you all damn weekend.

You pull yourself up and take the card from his fingers.

“’n what about my list?” Martha asks.

Joel shrugs. “Ken can wait one more day. You got two hours,” he tells you, and then sits up straight, rubber band ball placed safely next to his Newton’s cradle. “I’ll have Rand take you.”

You follow Martha out of Joel’s office when his phone starts ringing and his head falls into his hands, letting you both know it’s not a call you want to be around to hear. As he lifts the handset, he lightly calls your name, and you exchange a sly smirk as you slip out the door.

Martha wanders off behind her own desk as you pull your purse over your shoulder. She loads her computer back up, chin lifting as she squints through her glasses at the screen.

“There’s a golf shop downtown,” she tells you, two index fingers tapping away on the keys. “Alan uses ‘em. Don’t think they’re too expensive, either. Wouldn’t know for sure, though, he spends so damn much anytime he’s in there.”

You watch her for a moment, nodding along. “Thanks, Martha.”

She holds up a finger as you walk past her desk toward the elevator. “Remember you still got my to-do list to tackle, so don’t be long!”

----------

Rand drops you on a quiet side street. He gives you his number, tells you to text him once you’re done, and the sleek black car rolls off.

On the corner sits Ace’s Pro Golf, a small, charming store, peeling wooden front painted fern green with golf-themed decals decorating the windows. You set off inside, passing under two transparent putters crossed over one another on the window above the door. An old brass bell rings out from overhead when you enter.

Its exterior is misleading. This store is huge. Overwhelmingly huge. Walls stacked with bags, clubs dangling from pegs. Baskets of balls and tees and other accessories dotted all over the creaky wooden floors, which are lined with racks upon racks of golfing clothes – shirts, trousers, dresses, skirts.

“Oh, fuck,” you breathe, edging towards the rails.

You slip between them, hand running along the multicolored choices, when your phone starts to ring, vibrating somewhere deep in your purse.

“Hey, Mom,” you mutter, slipping your cell between your cheek and your shoulder as you begin to search through the shirts in front of you.

“Hey, baby,” her voice sings to you. “Wasn’t expecting to catch you, thought you’d already be at work. Where you at?”

You sigh. “I’m shopping. Joel’s taking me golfing later.”

She almost chokes down the line. “Golfing?”

“Yeah. It’s this friend he went to school with, I met him at lunch last week. There’s a few of ‘em going, so he asked me along, too.”

“Nice guy. So, you’re shopping for an outfit?”

“Mhm.”

“Any…dress code?”

“Dress code?” You straighten up, switching the phone to your other ear. “Like, golfing gear? I dunno.”

She laughs. “Alright.”

“What do you mean?”

“Nothing! Nothing, baby.”

“Meant something, Mom. Tell me.”

“No, I just…” She sighs. “You’re sure this isn’t, like…It sounds an awful lot like a date. Like, you’re going on Joel’s arm.”

You’re silent. You suck in a deep breath, fixing an order of words in reply, when your mom cuts in again.

“I bet I’m way off. Forget I said anything.”

“Yeah, gross,” you refute, metal hangers squealing against the rail when you unfreeze. “No. Not a date. It’s, like, networking, or whatever.”

Mom snorts. “Right. Exactly.”

“Not – a date,” you repeat.

You’re relieved when she changes the subject. “Show me what you’re looking at.”

You huff, pulling the phone down and switching to FaceTime. In a second, your mom’s bright, swollen cheeks and ringlet curled hair are on the screen, and she flashes you a pearly smile.

“Was thinking maybe this…?” You angle the phone to show her a navy-blue polo shirt. “And then a white skirt?”

“Nah,” she cuts, and you flip your camera back to your face.

“What’s wrong with it?”

“Too blue. You look better in neutrals. Try beige or brown. Boring colors, y’know? Blend into the walls.”

You hiss something she doesn’t need to hear under your breath and then follow it up with a slightly more polite, “Screw you.”

Her image on your screen shakes violently with how hard she laughs at herself. “I’m messing with you. You know you’ll look beautiful no matter what you choose. Wait a second, though – can you even golf?”

“I don’t think I’ve ever touched a golf club in my life.”

“Thought as much. Does Joel know you’re about to embarrass him like this?”

“He’s aware.”

“Please get him to take some videos. I gotta see this.”

“You know what,” you grumble, holding back your own laughter now, “I’m hanging up. You just solidified your place in the nursing home, you know that?”

She’s still laughing, words pushing through her cackles in desperate punches. “Wait, wait! I gotta tell you why I called you.”

“Alright, go. Thirty seconds.”

“Riley’s pregnant.”

Your face screws up. Lips curl upside down into a grimace. “Oof. Good…good for her…?”

Your mom throws her head back with a roar of laughter. “Be more enthusiastic about it. A little niece or nephew for you!”

“’s more like a…second cousin, or whatever. I bet Aunt Rose is over the moon.”

“She called me screaming this morning. I just thought you’d like to hear, being that you’re in a permanent state of baby fever.”

“Ha,” you state, blank expression never changing. It causes her to erupt into another fit of giggles. “That’s nice, I guess. For Riley. Tell her I said congrats.”

“I will. And I’ll leave out the part where you almost threw up. Alright, I’ll let you go. Good luck golfing. Come back with a hot millionaire boyfriend, maybe! Love you!”

“Yep. ‘kay. Love you. Love you, too – ‘kay – bye – bye, Mom.”

You hang up mid-laugh and her caramel cheeks disappear from the screen. You drop your phone back into your purse and slot the navy-blue polo under your arm, spinning to the rail behind you to find a skirt to go with it.

Riley, pregnant. That’s fucking insane. You two used to spend entire summers riding your bikes around your hometown, spending all of your allowance down at the mall. You swear you’re not old enough to have babies yet. Swear you’re not even old enough to be out of Mom’s house, living on your own in the city.

But then here you are, five years in, making a mental note to buy a baby gift for your cousin, on top of the pre-existing ones reminding you to message that girl who lived across the street when you were kids to say, Congrats on your engagement, and pick up a new home card for your two friends who are on their third mortgage.

Your mom finds it funny – always has. The instant repulsion you feel, the way you recoil whenever you’re asked about kids, about a partner, about a three-bed-two-bath in the suburbs with a big yard and good school nearby.

You don't think any of it's for you. And that’s fine, and every time you skate over the topic, your mom tells you it’s fine. It’s fine. It’s –

“Can I help you, ma’am?”

“Oh,” you snap out of your daydream, clutching a white skirt in your hands, “sorry. I’m sorry. No, I’m good, thanks. Sorry.”

The assistant smiles kindly and nods. Then he spins on his heel and waltzes off, disappearing behind a cardboard cutout of a golfer mid-swing.

It’s not lost on you, by the way – what your mom said. Sounds an awful lot like a date. You’d be lying if you said it hadn’t also crossed your mind. Joel, wanting you there with him. Giving you his card to buy somethin’ nice, which, after the last week, you translate roughly as: something I’ll like. Something he’ll see, and his second thought will be ripping it off your body.

His first thought will be what you’d look like taking it off for him.

And for that reason, you slip the short skirt under your arm beside the polo, and head across the store to find some more stuff to waste Joel’s money on.

----------

Rand pulls up by the curb a few yards down from Ace’s, where you’re sat on a bench enjoying an ice cream. He rolls the window down and lowers his black sunglasses.

“You bein’ paid for this?” he asks, grinning.

You nod, gleeful. “By the hour. Want an ice cream?”

He snorts when you hold Joel’s black card up between two fingers, tilting it in the sunlight. And then he puts the car in park, climbs out, and jaunts over to the ice cream cart by your bench.

He orders a three-scoop cone, and you nod in approval when he sits down alongside you, unbuttoning his suit jacket.

“Respect it,” you say, cheersing your own half-finished cone against his.

----------

When you get back to work, Joel’s already changed into a crisp, clean golfing outfit. It weakens your knees a little when you saunter into his office.

A long-sleeved, dark polo shirt that shows off every curve and flex of his toned arms, paired with gray, just-tight-enough trousers. And pristine white shoes so sharp and clean you’d swear he’d had them polished just for the occasion.

You ignore the way your head lightens at the sight of him and throw yourself into the chair to his right, white back from Ace’s falling between your ankles.

“Alright, Tom, thanks for lettin’ me know,” he says, arms folded, sat back against his desk. He leans back, places the phone back in its cradle, and looks you up and down. “Have fun?”

You shrug, leaning forward to pick a piece of lint from his thigh. “Didn’t know what to get for the most part, so there’s probably stuff I don’t need in there.”

He squints down at his cell phone. “Like, uh…Duke’s Scoops?”

You stare back at him, mirroring his cheeky smirk. Your leg swings, arms cross over your chest, covering the way your breath falters. He’s seen the transactions.

“You gonna grudge me three dollars on an ice cream, Miller?”

“Six fifty,” he mutters, glancing down at his phone again to double check. His tongue runs across his top lip. You want to replace it with yours. “So…that’s at least two ice creams, pretty girl.”

“It’s a hot day. Rand deserved something to cool down. We sat on a bench in the shade ‘n had a nice chat. He taught me how to swing. Verbally,” you add, when Joel’s eyebrows lift.

“Taught you how to swing,” he echoes, and you nod.

“Did you know he used to compete? Junior league?”

He pouts his bottom lip. “Mighta come up in the, what, fifteen years since I met him?”

You beam in reply, standing up and hooking your fingers through the string handles of your shopping bag. “I’m gonna go get changed now.”

“Could just get changed in the car on the way, ‘s a thirty-minute drive.”

You lean in close, eyes flitting over to Martha’s desk to make sure she’s not watching. Your lips brush softly against his ear. “I don’t wanna take any time away from other stuff we could get up to,” you murmur, and Joel’s hand locks around yours, attempting to pull you back as you skip off.

“Be right back,” you call, letting the door fall shut on his suggestive smirk, his tight trousers, and the hard bulge beneath them.

You return five minutes later in your getup. Joel has much the same reaction as you did with him, though he’s not half as good at hiding it. He sits upright in his chair, fingers tight around the armrests.

“Uhuh,” he says, eyes diving to your legs and then resurfacing somewhere around your chest. “Let me just –” he leans over to his phone, “– call Drew, let ‘im know we ain’t comin’…”

“Shut up,” you scoff. “Looks good, though, right?”

Joel’s eyes are still trained on your bare thighs, one crossed over the other. “Looks…better than good.”

You bat your eyelashes. “Still mad about the ice cream?”

“No, ma’am. Not mad at all.”

He stands, slinging both his bag and yours over his shoulder, and walks around his desk to meet you. You give him one final warning.

“You know I’ve never played golf before, right?”

“I know,” he affirms.

“So…bringing me is kinda pointless. I am not gonna bring anything worthwhile.”

“You in that outfit,” Joel mutters – and as he passes by, he makes sure to brush his swollen crotch up against your ass – “makes it worthwhile already.”

----------

Aspen Heights is a hundred and fifty-acre course, vibrant green fairways rolling over hilly land laid out like crinkles in a sheet of green felt. Rand drives slowly up to the clubhouse, gravel crackling under the tires of the Rolls as you and Joel lean over to stare at the landscape – the unkempt, sprawling wild plants guarding the pristine course, the bunkers like giant splotches of white paint on the grass.

You turn back and look to Joel, brows knitting in an expression which could be translated as amazement, could be intrigue, or could simply be: What the fuck are we doing here?

He mirrors it, shaking his head. And it makes you laugh.

“What?” he asks, smiling.

“You could buy this place, easy. Don’t act like you don’t fit in.”

“If you think I fit in here,” he grunts, getting out of the now parked car, “you think very highly of me, angel.”

He doesn’t deny that he could afford to buy it.

The clubhouse is…much the same. Huge, grand, surrounded by a wide-open porch and fronted by a dome-shaped room, paneled by windows that reflect the scene before them.

You follow Joel’s lead, climbing the steps to the double doors by his side, staying close enough that he can guide you with a bump of his arm against yours, but far enough apart that it doesn’t look like you’re showing up together.

Inside, you follow two smartly-dressed attendants through to a room finished in dark oak, shining wooden floors under bare-bulb light figures, a solid marble bar in the center and six perfectly symmetrical high tables surrounding it.

You glance nervously around the room. Drew’s stood over by the windows with three other men – a tan guy with a white baseball cap on, fluorescent orange polo buttoned up to his neck, a shorter guy with tight black curls, fiddling with the cap of a bottle of water, and finally, a guy with dark hair combed within an inch of its life into perfect place, shoulders almost ripping through his blue polo. He looks like he’s been copy-pasted straight from a magazine called Golf Weekly, or something.

Joel takes one step across a patterned rug and Drew notices you both. He breaks off from the group.

“Hey, man.” He grins at Joel and leans over to shake his hand – well, it’s more of that slap-hand thing. They slap each other’s palms, fingers lock, one quick shake of the wrists together, and then a nod of the head. You know?

Then he leans over to you, kisses your cheek. “Sorry it’s just us guys,” he says, hand on your arm. He looks over to the three men by the window, now looking out over the course and pointing. “My girlfriend was supposed to be joining us, but she got called in to work. You two woulda gotten along, you ‘n Rach.”

You smile warmly. “That’s okay. Thanks for asking me.”

“You play much?” Drew asks, leading you both over to the windows.

You shake your head and Joel breathes a laugh.

“Total beginner,” you admit.

Drew bats a hand. “We’ll show you the ropes. This is, uh, this is Steve,” he points to Fluorescent Orange, “Caleb,” Water Bottle holds his hand out to shake yours, “and that’s Daniel.”

Up close, Daniel’s handsome. Sharp jawline, shadowed by the beginnings of stubble, a dimple in the center of his chin. He steps forward, holding a hand out, and you take it. His palm engulfs yours and squeezes – soft but sure. And then you pull away.

The men all nod to Joel, who probably nods back from behind you, and then catches you gently in his arm, cradling it around your back out of view of the others.

“We’ll be getting started soon,” Drew says, “they’re just fixing up a few buggies for us.”

Joel nods, lets go of you, and crosses his arms. You knot your hands awkwardly at your waist. He stays right by your side, though, which you’re grateful for. The last thing you need is another Jean-Marc, some cloaked assistant swooping you off away from the comfort of Joel.

“How’s business, Joel? Drew was tellin’ us about some deal you’re tryna nail.”

Daniel’s eyes are sharp, cerulean blue drilling deep into the warm brown of Joel’s, which calmly stare back. He looks a little younger than Joel, maybe on the cusp of forty, only a few light strands of grey through his deep brown fringe. There’s no wedding ring on his finger. You don’t know why you’re even looking at that.

Joel doesn’t reveal much in the way of answers. Typical of him – or typical of the Joel he is to the rest of the world. “Yeah, ‘s good. Just takin’ my time, we’re workin’ on it.”

Daniel nods, maybe a little too enthusiastically. He crosses his arms, biceps bulging, and then rounds on you.

“You gotta be run off your feet, chasing after him all day, huh?”

You tilt your head toward Joel. “He keeps me busy, yeah.”

Daniel leans into you, laughter crooning from his lips. It wobbles you a little, forces you one step nearer Joel’s side. You smile back, as pleasant as you can muster the courage, and he eventually leans away.

Before he can ask another question, Drew’s calling you all over to the sliding patio doors. Daniel hops back a step, nods to you, and says, “After you.”

“Thanks, Dan,” Joel cuts, stepping into the space the blue-eyed man had left specifically for you, sweeping you off as he goes.

----------

There isn’t anything about golf that intrigues you. Not even remotely. You’ve never watched it, never wanted to play it – the most you’ve dabbled in it is minigolf, and even that became a fucking bore after two anniversary dates in a row there with Blake.

Still, you watch patiently and politely as the men take their shots one by one, starting with Drew, all the way through to Daniel, who gives his driver a quick shine with a gloved hand before stepping up. On your left, Joel scoffs quietly to himself.

Daniel swings back, and his biceps swell under the tight sleeves of his shirt. You watch as his arms follow through, sending the ball hurtling through the air and well past its three predecessors.

Joel nudges your elbow.

“Ow,” you mumble, running a hand over the skin.

He gives you a perplexed look. “I said, you can use my clubs. You in there?”

“Yeah,” you reply, a little too defensively. “Just…paying attention.”

“Hm.”

The men on your right groan as Daniel strides back over to join them, a satisfied grin across his face. Your eyes trace him as he leans on his driver, one white pant leg crossing over the other.

When you turn back to the tee box, Joel’s lifting his own club from his bag. His broad, muscled shoulders flex under the dark material of his shirt; his tall figure walks over to the tee, delicate fingers dancing along the handle of the club, and he clears his throat.

And suddenly, the memory of Daniel and his stupid biceps is dust in the wind.

Joel takes, like, half a practice swing. Doesn’t even have to aim, not really. Just pulls his arms back, sucks his waist in, and goes for it.

His ball lands a couple meters ahead of Daniel’s. And you wonder when the fuck golf became this sexy.

He turns back and runs his tongue over his top lip, breathing a little heavy. The sight drives you fucking insane for the second time today. And then he’s smiling at you, jerking his head in a gesture for you to join him.

You step forward, a little shy, a little hot, and wander mutely over to him.

“I got you,” he says, and reaches for your wrist.

You move to take the driver from his hand and Joel clicks his teeth, shaking his head.

“Said I got you,” he utters, and pulls your body into his, shelling around you. His beard scratches lightly against your ear.

“Joel,” you whisper, laughing nervously and tossing a quick glance back over to the men standing just feet away. Drew just said something apparently hilarious. Caleb gives him a solid whack on the shoulder and doubles over laughing. Steve’s watching a butterfly float by.

“They ain’t watchin’,” Joel says, curving his arms around yours and fixing your hands on the handle of the club. “s just you ‘n me.”

You wriggle under his grasp and feel the hum of laughter from his chest between your shoulders, the weight of his belt riding on your ass. Your cheeks heat when his chin rests on your collarbone.

“Alright,” he says, hands tightening around your own. “You’re gonna line it up, stand with your legs a little apart, little more…”

The toe of his shoe taps your heel and you widen your stance.

“Good girl,” he whispers. A pulse shakes through your body. “Now, on your backswing, you’re gonna want your left shoulder under your chin, ‘n your hands above your right shoulder. Yeah?”

“Got it,” you mumble, so unconvincing that it makes you laugh after you’ve said it.

He gives your waist a tiny squeeze and steps back, watching as you carefully lift the club and curve it around your shoulders. You hear him from behind.

“’attagirl. Keep your knees bent, you got it.”

You take one good swing, and hit the ball on your first try, but it’s…it’s bad, for sure. It’s pretty terrible. The ball lands on this side of the fairway, muddled in amongst the longer grass of the rough. But it’s your first ever shot – least not with colored balls and spinning windmills in the way – and so when you turn back to Joel with a huge beam across your lips, your expression is reflected in his.

“Good job!” he chuckles, stalking back over to you.

“Good job,” you echo with a laugh, handing him the club. You twist and hold your hand up to shield your eyes, staring down the course. “Look where it is, ‘n look where yours are.”

He glances back over to where your sad little ball sits. “We’ll get a few drinks down those guys,” he whispers, hand on your back. “See how good they are in a few holes’ time.”

----------

You’re back in the clubhouse after finishing the eighteenth hole on something of a high. Joel managed to worsen the accuracy of your competitors only so much – your end of the deal was to improve as the round went on, which you try to argue you technically did, given that you began to land your shots on the fairway around hole seven, but your argument is let down by Joel’s reminder that, on hole thirteen, he had to dig your ball out of the bunker for you.

“And I am eternally grateful to you for agreeing to never fucking talk about it again,” you say through gritted teeth, and he laughs.

“Last time, promise.”

Drew joins the pair of you at your table and slaps an arm down on Joel’s shoulder.

“Your round, asshole.”

Joel grumbles, gives your elbow a cursory tap, and slides off to the bar. Drew takes his seat, nudges your arm.

“I am impressed,” he tells you, slurring his words a little.

“Yeah?” you ask, and he nods. “I didn’t think I was so good.”

“Oh,” he shakes his head, “you weren’t. I meant I’m impressed you stuck it out.”

“Oh, fuck you,” you hiss.

He snorts, head bobbing with the alcohol bubbling in his blood. “I’m kidding. You were great, for your first time. I’m really glad you came.”

“Me, too,” you admit.

Drew opens his mouth to say something else when a clatter from across the clubhouse interrupts him. You turn at the same time to see a waiter on his ass at the other side of the room. His metal tray rattles against the wooden floor, flutes smashed in a pool of champagne by his side.

“Oh, shoot,” Drew mumbles, setting his glass down on the table.

You push off your stool, sliding your drink alongside his, but he motions for you to stay.

“I got it,” he says, palm lightly tapping your wrist. “I got it.”

He shuffles off to the waiter, now being helped to his feet by Caleb. The last you see is Drew bending to grab the silver tray, before he’s swept out of your view by –

“Poor guy,” Daniel muses, fist locked tight around a lager. He pulls Joel’s stool out and slips onto the cushion, elbow brushing against yours.

You readjust awkwardly in your own chair and pull on the hem of your skirt.

“So,” Daniel clears his throat, the bottom of his glass scraping along the wooden tabletop, “how’d you find your first round of golf?”

You smile politely. “Uh, good. Yeah. I wasn’t expecting to be much, but it wasn’t too scary.”

He chuckles. “Yeah? Think you’ll be back?”

Your shoulders jerk with a shrug. “Maybe.”

He nods and dives headfirst into some long ramble about golf – something about the time he brought his sister and her kids here and how much worse they were than you, so you should really be proud of yourself, and he’d love to see you around here again sometime – but you’re only half listening. You’re stealing glances over at the bar, hunting for a chiseled jawline and monochrome beard.

You spot him locked between Steve and some other guy in all black, waiting for the bartender to draw up his order of drinks. He’s nodding, saying words back to the pair, but keeping his eyes locked on you.

You give him half a smile, half a, There you are, what the hell’s taking you so long? Can you come the fuck back? and hope he reads the words across your face.

“…so, as long as you stick with what you know, it’s actually a really enjoyable game.”

Daniel stares at you blankly, waiting for a response.

“Sure, sure,” you answer, after too long a pause to convince him that you were listening. “Sorry,” you close your eyes and give your head a shake, “was just checking on that waiter.”

Daniel nods. Follows the trail of your eyeline across the room, and looks back to you. “So, uh,” he clears his throat nervously, “I know this place downtown – Italian, has this big open rooftop seating area. If you’re interested, I’d, uh…I’d love to take you, sometime.”

You stare at him for a few seconds, frozen. Like, actually convinced the air in your lungs has turned to ice, frozen. Your eyes probably look like they’re about to burst out of your head, your mouth stuck in a dumb O-shape as you search frantically for the words to form a reply.

He smiles awkwardly. Watches as you blink straight back at him.

“I…” you manage, after what feels like fucking hours. “…That’s – so nice, Daniel, I – really – I’m flattered. Um…”

He interrupts, and it’s like a cold flannel on an acid burn. “Oh, Jesus. I – I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to – I’m sorry.”

“No,” you shake your head, suddenly animated, “no, listen. It’s – you’re –”

Daniel’s still apologizing. “Are you – sorry, I don’t mean to assume – are you and – you and Joel…?”

His head jerks. One eyebrow cocked. His fingers press into the table, making counter-rotating circles across the gleaming surface.

You stare from his hands to his face, open-mouthed. “N-no,” you tell him, with a single shake of your head. And then you realize he’s being serious. “No, no, we’re not – no, absolutely not. We’re just – friends.”

“Right,” he says, brows knitting. “It’s just – the guy hasn’t taken his eyes off you the entire time I’ve been sat here, so I just figured…maybe…”

You follow Daniel’s gaze across to the bar again, where Joel’s still standing, this time with Drew at his side. He’s mouthing Yeah, in reply to whatever Steve’s gabbing about, but not fucking listening to a word of it.

“No,” you say again, looking Joel dead in the eye. “We’re just friends.”

You turn to look back at the slick-haired man by your side, and he nods.

“But, uh,” you look into your glass, the ice suddenly more interesting than Daniel’s hopeful expression, “you’re a really nice guy, and I appreciate you asking, but I’m…not…exactly looking for anything right now. I’m – yeah.”

“Right – no, absolutely,” he says again, flustered. His fingers wrap tight around his glass and he shifts as if to stand. “That’s absolutely fine. I just thought I’d ask, y’know?”

He laughs nervously. You feel kinda guilty. He’s being so decent about it, and he means well, but you really just wish he would…fuck off.

He isn’t given the option.

Drew comes bounding over like a golden retriever and leans in to Daniel, another freshly poured pint swinging in his fist. “You’ve improved your game, Gilbert,” he sings in your suitor’s ear. “Must be years since the last time you scored an eagle!”

Daniel copies Drew’s guffawing, nodding along. He opens his mouth to say something, but Drew jumps ahead, offering to buy him a drink to celebrate.

“C’mon, my treat,” the blond tells him, and swaggers off towards the bar, a vice grip on the blue polo shirt.

The shadow of Joel slips around your back as soon as the two figures are out of view. He brushes against your shoulders and nudges his stool nearer to yours with his foot, before sitting back into it with a sigh.

You stare at him, smirking behind your hand, elbow resting on the arm of your chair. He catches your eye and watches you for a few seconds.

Sorry, he mouths eventually, and sneaks a hand onto your thigh.

You lean into him, feeling the weight of Daniel and his proposal and his fucking Italian restaurant fall like insignificant grains off sand off your shoulders. You trace a finger along the shape of Joel’s knuckles. “I feel bad,” you whisper.

“The hell for?” his voice asks, a deep rumble by your temple.

You shrug, looking up at him. “He’s a nice guy. He asked me on a date.”

“And did you want to go?”

Your face pulls into a wince, lips flinching. “Not really.”

“Then what’d I tell you about doin’ stuff you don’t want to?”

You don’t reply. Your mind sails back to that boat ride in Paris, when he basically told you off for feeling guilty about rejecting a fucking marriage proposal, never mind a downtown dinner. It doesn’t bear thinking about what fantastic rant he’s currently bottling up where Daniel’s feelings are concerned.

Joel’s a no-nonsense guy, you know this. Known it for as long as you’ve known him. He’s rational, he’s pragmatic. He says what he thinks, and you deal with however you feel about it. He doesn’t waste time making anyone feel better with lies or cushion-soft landings. His yes is yes and his no is no. And sure, maybe there’s something in there that you’d do well to adopt, too.

But there are inconsistencies to him that you can’t work out – yet. Something that makes him break his rules. He still hasn’t shared whatever the hell Jean-Marc said to him that made him sweep you off of that terrace minutes later. He won’t admit why he keeps dragging you along to these so-called ‘work’ events.

Part of you wants to break him open, chip away at him like the sculptures in the Louvre until his beating heart is in your hands, the rhythmic pulses sharing secrets like it’s speaking in Morse code.

And part of you – bigger, stronger, wiser – hopes you never get close.

When you come back to the room, sound of glasses clinking and men’s roaring laughter washing away any thoughts of jilted boyfriends or lonely golfers, Joel lowers his head to look you in the eye.

“You wanna go?”

You nod, scrunching your nose. “That okay?”

He leans in close, as close as he reckons he can get without drawing attention, and smiles softly. “You coulda asked to go home the minute we pulled up ‘n it woulda been okay. Let’s go.” And he takes your hand.

Drew’s slung over the shoulders of some argyle-patterned men who you’re sure have spent more time drinking than they have actually on the course. He’s lifting his glass, about to toast to life, or love, or fucking golf, when Joel sneaks by behind him, never letting go of your hand.

The Rolls Royce is sat in park at the bottom of the stone steps, hazard lights blinking. Joel holds the door open as you hop in under the twinkling ceiling.

“Well?” Rand asks, looking in the mirror. You respond with a toss of your head, squinting. “Did you keep your feet straight like I taught you?” he demands.

“Honestly, I was more focused on making sure I hit the ball, Rand.”

He snorts. “Office, Joel?”

“Office, Rand.”

As the partition closes, Joel’s hand comes up to cup the back of your head. You lean into it, tilting to look at him properly through eyes glazed with tiredness, alcohol, relief to be back in only his company.

And he’s staring back, eyes flitting from yours down to your mouth when you speak.

“Did you…did you send Drew over to get Daniel away from me?”

Joel’s eyes stay fixed on your lips. “You didn’t want me to do that?”

You ignore him. You want him to answer your question. “Did you?”

And then he looks up. Searches your eyes for a second, and then says, “Yeah.”

Your stare falls down into his lap. To his closed fist, resting on his thigh. His fingers are stroking the back of your head in lulling movements. You focus on the shine of his watch. And horror sets in.

“You wanted him to stay?” Joel asks, bringing you up for air for half a second.

You’re quiet when you reply. “…No. I didn’t want him anywhere near me.”

And that’s somehow scarier. That you didn’t want this decent, attractive-enough man around you. That the entire time he sat nipping your ear, your eyes, your hands, your heart was searching all over the room for Joel. Listening for the twang of his voice, looking for him out of your peripheral. Counting every second until he sauntered back to your side.

It’s rolling. The feeling. Like a snowball gaining speed down a mountain. Starts off a twinge, a plucking somewhere buried deep in your heart, and turns and turns and turns until it’s a weight behind your ribcage. Unable to burst free.

You take Joel’s wrist and move his hand to the curve of your thigh, then lock your fingers between his. He lets you. You lift your free hand to the cut of his jawline, training your fingers down his bristled beard, and he lets you do that, too. And when you pull his face down to meet yours, lips warm and wet and starving, he opens his mouth and slips his tongue past your teeth.

Your hands are knotting in his hair. You’re leaning back, trying to pull him down on top of you, but he’s stronger. His hands take a strong grip of your waist and hoist you over the center console and into his lap, your knees pressing into the soft leather either side of his hips.

“You gonna tell me what you’re up to, pretty girl?” he asks, tipping his head back. His shirt smells like his cologne. Fresh, sharp, clean. It sends your head spinning.

Your lips find his jawline and nip kisses and bites along the sharp ridge. He tastes like whiskey, tastes like the sun, tastes like he did four days ago. Sweet and smoky and laced with something intoxicating.

Joel sighs. His hands knead into your hips, and he pushes you down, grinding you into his body.

He’s hard. Already.

“Feels like you already know,” you mutter, still peppering his neck with kisses.

He laughs the cocky way he always does when you’re on this road, heading this way. His hands find your hair again and he pulls your head back, drawing a whine from your lips.

“You gonna take it like a good girl? Take daddy’s cock?”

“Mhm,” you mewl, rubbing your damp panties over the bulge in his pants.

Joel unzips his trousers and shifts the waistband loose. You move his hands and peel back the top of his boxers yourself, and he watches from under heavy lids as you take him in both hands.

“That’s – my girl,” he chokes, eyes following your pumping fists. His head tips back with a quiet groan.

You push yourself up, shuffle nearer to him until your cunt hovers over his cock, and pull your panties to the side. You’re fucking soaked, already wet enough that Joel’s thick head catches on the cusp of your entrance as you line him up, stealing a gasp from your lips.

You sink, slowly, letting him push through into your sex inch by inch, feeling yourself pull open around him. Your brows furrow, jaw falls wide at the white-hot feeling between your legs, and you look up to see your expression reflected in Joel’s.

His hands clutch at your hips. “So – fucking – tight,” he hums, eyes rolling.

You lock your knees and begin bouncing, resting your hands on top of Joel’s. You’re steadily picking up pace, each nudge of his tip against the edge of your pussy sending another spasm of stars across your quickly-blinding vision.

“Off,” Joel mumbles against your lips, fingers pinching the fabric of your shirt.

“Huh?” you ask back, looking down to where he’s already peeling it up your torso.

“Just the skirt,” he pants, desperate, “nothin’ else.”

You lift your arms and let him pull the polo from your body, tossing it onto the carpeted floor. Joel unhooks your bra and pulls the lace down, before he’s angling his hips up again, hitting you somewhere deep enough inside to steal the breath from your lungs.

And then his lips are on your naked chest, sinking into the valley between your breasts, kissing over to your nipple. His tongue flicks over and over until the bud is pointed, enough to take it between his lips and graze over it with his teeth.

Your thighs are burning. Your skirt sits bunched up on your hips, only just covering your ass as Joel’s hands press into the supple skin, lifting you effortlessly up and down. You melt into his touch, let him do the work for a few seconds as he sits back in his seat to watch your body on his.

“My good – girl,” he groans, voice thick with arousal. “You know how pretty you look right now?”

You hook your hand around his neck, draw him in a little nearer. Shake your head with a filthy smile on your lips. “Tell me.”

Joel laughs shakily. “Wanna – fuckin’ – show you off to everyone, babygirl.”

He’s kissing you slowly, his tongue pressed to yours, when you pull back and separate your lips. He’s planted a seed in your mind.

Joel’s hips stop moving immediately. “Y’okay?” he asks, light hand on the side of your head, keeping your eyes on him.

You nod, breathing heavy. “Mhm.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” you shake your head, “just…”

You look down to your skirt, your bare thighs spread over Joel’s lap. The thought flips over and over in your head, unsure if it’s brave enough to trot down to your lips and show itself to Joel.

“Baby?”

It’s Joel, though. Same guy who bent you over his desk, same guy who fucked you senseless feet away from his flight attendants. Same guy who, a few days ago, you were in this exact position with: writhing in next to nothing on his lap.

Fuck it. Right?

“…want him to watch,” you say, in a small voice.

Joel’s expression doesn’t change, save for the way his eyes narrow. “Want who to watch?”

You look at him a beat longer, and it sinks in. He gets it.

“Yeah, babygirl? That what you want?”

“Mhm,” you reply, shifting with him when he starts moving his hips again. The car moves forward, pushing you closer into him. “Want him to – watch you fuck me.”

“Dirty girl. You want him to watch you cum for daddy, pretty girl?”

“Ye-ah,” you moan, Joel’s hands now pushing your waist down, the stretch of his cock deep inside you almost burning with pleasure.

“Yeah, you do,” he whispers, watching as your face pulls and your brows knit together.

“Only cum for you, daddy,” you whimper.

“I know, darlin’, I know. Close your eyes.”

By this point, Joel’s assured tone, his strong hands on your hips, his fucking length buried inside you, are enough to convince you. You just do as you’re fucking told – as soon as you’re fucking told.

Your eyes flutter closed, and you lean forward, hooking your chin over his shoulder and feeling him turn, his lips pressed close to your ear.

“Good girl. He there?”

The image of Daniel flits across your vision, bright blue eyes trained on you. He looks…intrigued, and stunned. He’s not breaking his stare.

“Mhm,” you say again, and start to lift off of Joel.

“He watching?”

“Y-eah,” you choke out, bouncing steadily.

“Put on a show for ‘im, pretty girl. Show him what you do for me.”

You focus on the feeling of Joel, cock fucking deep into you, nuzzling against your walls and splitting you open; the sound of his voice in your ear, gently encouraging, sweetly reassuring; the smell of him, the taste of him, the heat from his skin, and…the sight of the steel-blue stare behind your eyes. The tight polo shirt. The round biceps. Watching you.

Watching you be fucked by someone else. Watching you come undone for someone else. For the same guy whose stare he couldn’t shake while he so much as talked to you. Watching your face as it twists in filthy pleasure; listening to you make sounds, whisper words, whisper daddy in the ear of your fucking boss; have him whisper words back that make your cunt tighten around him and push the image of Daniel two steps back with shock.

“Tell me again, angel.” Joel’s voice starts to swipe Daniel away.

Your eyes peel open, the backseat of the Rolls a blur as you roll your head back. “What, daddy?” you whimper.

His hand takes your jaw, holds you in line with his own. “Tell me who this pussy belongs to.”

You breathe a laugh. It pulls across your mouth two seconds later. “M-me.”

Joel mirrors your grin. His hips buck once. You cry out. “Yeah?”

“Uhuh,” you yelp, getting louder as he snaps up into you deeper, faster, harder.

You’re drawing around him, warm and wet, feeling him deep in your stomach as your movements become sloppy and staggered. Pleasure swirls like a whirlpool between your legs, tightening, tightening, tightening.

Joel’s face sharpens into your vision. His eyes are fixed on yours. You watch his lips shape the words good girl, before he pulls your foreheads together, noses flush against one another.

“’n who fucks it like this?” he asks into your mouth.

You take a deep breath, inhaling his question, and let a satisfied exhale carry your answer back out.

“Just y-you, daddy.”

And you both fall.

You rock back and forth as the feeling drowns you both; open-mouthed, silently screaming, eyes trained on one another as you ride out your high together.

You throw your head back, eyes losing focus just inches under the stars until they blur into little white halos. Your arms lift up to lean against the tiny dotted lights, steadying yourself.

Joel’s hands clamp around your waist, holding you down on his cock as he shoots hot ropes of cum deep inside you, mixing with your own and filling you up. Your name escapes his lips hand in hand with a deep, throaty moan.

You body aches. Your cunt throbs around him, still humming with pleasure as your body curls again, falling forward until your face is hidden in the crook of his neck. His hands run up and down your spine, lips press featherlight kisses to your ear, shhing, whispering praise, bringing you slowly back into the car with him.

“Daddy…” you whisper into the soft cotton of his shirt, and you feel the weight of his cheek on your head.

His hands cup your cheeks and he lifts your face until you’re staring at one another. Your eyes are tired, you can hardly keep them open, but Joel holds you upright.

“We gotta stop this,” he whispers, and your foreheads fall together again as you laugh. “I’m gettin’ too old for it, baby.”

He’s still buried deep inside, slowly softening, but you don’t want him to go. Not yet. He reaches for your bra, helps you slip it back on, and you bend back to take your shirt in two fingers.

When you’re dressed, you sink back into him.

Joel laughs, brushing the wisps of your hair disturbed by pulling your shirt over your head. “That what you were thinkin’ about? While he was talkin’ to you?”

You smile lazily. Shake your head no. “Was thinking…about you taking me to the Italian he was talking about.”

Joel’s smile grows bigger. Biggest you think you’ve ever seen him smile before. It breaks into a laugh, a toothy chuckle, and then he kisses you.

You melt into him, tongue and teeth crashing against one another. Joel’s open palms surf along your thighs, molding around your skin. He squeezes the dimpled skin on your hips between his fingers.

“Tonight work for you?” he asks, and you giggle.

“No,” you tell him, “I got Martha’s to-do list to work through.”

He nods knowingly, eyes closing. “You want a hand with it?”

You smirk. “Can we fool around in your office between items?”

His head tips back against the headrest with an obvious expression. “What do you think?”

The car slows to a stop and Rand’s knuckles rap against the glass of the partition. You slip off of Joel’s lap, fix yourselves quickly, and then amble off back to the top floor, still a little weak in the knees.

“Home time, Martha,” Joel calls almost as soon as the elevator doors pull open.

“Excuse me?” she yells back.

He laughs. “I’m lettin’ you go early. It ain’t fair that we get to go have our fun ‘n you’re stuck here ‘til five. Let us know what needs done, ‘n then you can get goin’.”

“Ain’t that chivalrous?” Martha beams, blinking at you.

You saunter by her with a smile and toss your bag under your desk. You spin around, brace yourself against the arms of your chair, and throw yourself back against the comfortable leather.

“So,” she announces, almost fucking skipping over to you with her trusty notepad back in her clutches. “I whittled it down to just six things, so it shouldn’t keep you much longer than five o’clock…”

You lift your brows and nod along.

“…as long as you don’t find anything to distract yourselves with, that is.”

----------

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darlingdreadwrites · 14 days ago

Text

cam 5

pairing: Edward Nashton x GN!Reader*

part: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5

summary: Edward is finally rewarded with the warmth of your touch and affection – or is he?

contains: reader working at a bookstore, slight dom elements, obsessed Edward, religious imagery, suggestive touching, riding

warnings: MDNI, *AFAB!Reader but i don't specify gender, dub-con, stalking, degradation

word count: 3.1k

masterlist

For a moment, Edward feels as though he is floating. He is suspended in a massive plane of darkness, unable to move. He doesn’t remember the last time his mind was so quiet, so peaceful. It was as if he was in a realm between time and space – until he finally opens his eyes.

He was in the bookstore – your bookstore – standing in front of two bookshelves. You were there, standing in between them, shelving books. The sight of you surrounds him with a warmth that emitted from where you stand, ethereal and glowing. You were something angelic, and yet undeniably human. Edward could feel the weight of your presence settle in his chest like a blessing. You were an impossible vision, a being neither entirely of earth nor heaven, a force that demanded worship and devotion. The shelves around you seem to bend toward you, as though bowing in reverence.

The room stretches upward, spiraling to an unseen paradise. The air feels thick, and his view of the world is heavy. The shelves move never-endingly; they were no longer neat rows of books but towering spirals getting sucked into a luminous void behind your figure.

His breath catches as you finally turn to look at him, a kind smile on your face. You approach him with the grace of someone who already knew his every thought, every longing—someone who had chosen him. Your steps are soundless on the polished floors, and he feels an impossible pull to be closer to you, as though his soul is tethered to yours. He can almost not feel the pain in his chest. A throbbing, pulsing hurt that recedes once you get close enough. Or maybe it was that the pain had consumed him enough that he grew numb to it. It doesn’t matter in the end, you’re here now. You are warm, kind, and comforting – a stark contrast to the strange, twisted cathedral around you.

Your hands are soft, the kind of touch that felt both maternal and intimate. You cup his face like you were cradling something precious. Your thumbs graze over his cheeks in a way that makes his eyes sting. He is too afraid of you disappearing if he blinks. Your face tilts, studying him like he has any worth. He is fragile and tender, so tender. Edward feels cherished – safe. His knees shake slightly under the weight of this moment, but he fights it. He should be on his knees before you, but he wanted to stay between the warmth of your hands. As he gazes up at you, he can’t help but tremble.

For a moment, there is only peace – a powerful, sacred peace.

A whimper escapes him as you apply pressure to his face, fingers digging into his skin. Your nails sting while you grip him tightly, the smile on your face unwavering. Your fingers press harder, squeezing so hard that his mouth falls open with a sharp cry. And just as the pain started to become overwhelming, your grip loosens.

One of your hands slides down, dragging your nails over the curve of his neck, down his chest, and it burns. Edward shudders under your touch, the sensation not entirely painful, not entirely comforting – just too much. He swallows hard. The heat of desire and shame tangle together in a painful knot.

Then, the words came. Soft, lilting, but slicing through him.

“You’re disgusting.”

The words – so cruel – come from a place where malice and sweetness are one and the same. Your smile, still welcoming and pleasant, belies the puncture of your statement. His confusion makes him dizzy. There is nothing that feels right about the words, nothing logical about them, and yet… they are the only thing that make sense. They are what he needs to hear. He flinches, his body responding involuntarily.

His heart hammers in his chest as you tilt his chin up, your thumb pressing into his skin in a way that makes him ache. He feels small and insignificant under your gaze. The hand that wasn’t on his face travels lower, palming and pressing against his groin with deliberate force. His mind screams at him to reject the sensation, but his body betrays him. He jerks, hips twitching into your palm – seeking more of that sinful pressure. He can’t breathe, can’t think as his chest heaves. The shame twists inside him as his eyes widen.

“Please…” he whimpers, his voice cracking as the smallest shift in your hold on him causes him to moan.

You lean in, your face hovering just inches from his. Your beath was warm on his trembling lips.

“Filthy, filthy thing,” you whisper, the words ghosting against his skin.

The bookstore around you both begins to collapse, the arches crumbling into darkness. The shelves twist, warp, bend in on themselves. The golden light dims to an abyssal void – yet you remain bathed in a holy light. He is consumed by you – by your presence, by your touch, by the haunting words. You hold him in place, your smile syrupy and mocking as you get closer to him. He reaches for you just as your lips brush his.

Edward wakes up with a strangled cry, drenched in sweat. He bolts upright, wide eyes attempting to make out anything in the darkness of his apartment. His heart pounds like a drum, and painfully. The sensation of your touch still scorches his skin as his mind races. He touches his face where your hands had been.

There is a purpose to that dream, he rationalizes, you’re calling to me – touching me beyond this plane of reality.

Edward sits at the edge of his bed, staring at the empty coffee mug on his desk. The remnants of the dream still cling to him like a phantom touch. He’s spent the better part of an hour replaying it in his head. The way your voice had curled around that single phrase – “You’re disgusting” – makes him shiver even now. He is repulsed by the fact his body seems to enjoy how you insulted him with such a loving tone.

He needs to get out of his apartment.

It was suffocating him now. It was logical to get out, wasn’t it? He has been cooped up here for too long, buried in the glow of his monitors and the labyrinth of code he’s been pouring over for weeks. Normal people went out to public places. They sat in cafes, walked in parks, and – yes – they read in bookstores. It wasn’t suspicious for him to do so. It wasn’t strange.

I need to take care of myself.

The thin veneer of his words failed to hide the truth he is unwilling to admit. His attention drifts to the books relevant to his research on his desk. And now, here he is, preparing to go back to the same bookstore under the flimsiest of excuses.

Edward stands and moves to his closet, fingers brushing over the very few neatly hung shirts as he tries to decide what to wear. It wasn’t like this was a date – it wasn’t – but he can’t help the flutter of nerves in his chest as he debates between the gray sweater that makes him look softer or the green button-up that matches his eyes.

He settles on the sweater. Soft was better. Non-threatening. Approachable.

Next comes his hair. He stands in front of the cracked mirror, meticulously combing it into place only to muss it up again. He runs his fingers through it over and over, muttering under his breath how it refused to cooperate. Finally, he gives up and leaves it as it is. He wipes his glasses clean on the corner of his sweater, holding them up to the light to check for smudges. He can’t help but picture you noticing them, leaning in close with a teasing smirk to point out a speck he’d missed. The thought makes his cheeks flush, and he shoves the glasses back onto his face almost frantically.

“Okay,” he whispers, taking a deep breath and facing his mirror again. He attempts at practicing a warm, friendly smile – but it seems too unnatural on his face. He raises a hand and waves, practicing what he’d do if he saw you. “Hello. How, how are you today?”

It was completely normal for me to rehearse like this. I’ve seen it in movies.

Doubt creeps in as he assures himself.

He sits back down on his mattress, elbows on his knees and head in his hands. Was this really okay? As self-reproach gnaws at him, he replays the dream – your voice just as sharp and cutting as you call him disgusting.

Edward’s stomach churns. Maybe he is disgusting. He shuts his eyes tight, trying to block out the image of your kindhearted, smiling face from the dream. The image of your hands had roamed over him, one of them traveling lower and lower until—

“No,” he snaps, standing abruptly. He can’t let his mind go there; he can’t let his body failing him again before he stepped out the door. He doesn’t have time to touch himself – to relieve himself – again.

He paces the room, his steps uneven and hurried. He mutters to himself that it’s fine to go to your bookstore with no other reason than to just be there.

With a determined breath, he grabs his coat and slings it over his shoulders. He hesitates only once more at the door. His hand stills over the knob as your voice echoes in his mind again, soft and cruel all at once. “Filthy, filthy thing.”

His grip tightens, his knuckles whitening around the doorknob as he shoves the memory aside. Instead, he focuses on the warmth of your touch – the comfort he felt as you held his face in your hands.

Edward steps out into the deafening silence of the hallway, the door closing behind him with a resolute click. He tells himself that he isn’t walking toward you. He isn’t trying to chase the fleeting connection he felt in the dream. He is only going to read.

And that isn’t a lie. Not entirely.

Edward pauses in the doorway of the bookstore for a moment, overwhelmed by the familiar scent of paper. There were a decent amount of patrons this evening, the distant hum of conversation creating a low symphony of activity. Edward’s gaze sweeps the room until he catches sight of you. You stand behind the counter, your back to him as you help someone. Even from this distance, you are magnetic. Your presence commands his focus with the same intensity as the figure in his dream—

His heart beats so fast it feels like it might bruise his ribs. The dream! It was vivid and consuming, filling his chest with reverence, dread, and arousal.

“Just… sit,” he tells himself, forcing his legs to move away from you.

He wanders through the aisles, feigning interest in the messily arranged books but barely registers the titles. His sole focus was finding the perfect vantage point. At last, he finds it – a small table tucked into a corner with a direct line of sight to the counter.

He sinks into the chair with a small smile, placing the book he’d grabbed at random on the table in front of him. His fingers fidget with the edges of the pages. His eyes flick up to you every few seconds despite his best efforts to focus on the text.

Stop staring, he berates himself. You’re making it obvious.

But your pull is too strong. Each glance was a sin, a stolen moment of connection.

Edward’s mind begins to betray him as the dream bleeds into reality. In the dim bookstore light, your form seems to glow faintly. The edges of your silhouette blur and he blinks hard, trying to dispel the illusion.

“You’re disgusting.”

He whips his head to the right, a soft gasp on his lips. You were not there – nobody was. The words echo in his mind and his stomach twists. He snaps his attention back to his book, suddenly feeling like all eyes were on him. You didn’t say that. You wouldn’t – not to me.

He shifts uncomfortably in his seat as he feels your hands snake all over his body. He was starting to feel remorseful again, but it isn’t enough to make him leave.

Then it happens.

You turn, making eye contact with him almost immediately, as if you had felt his presence. For a moment, your eyes meet, and you smile. A smile that was merely a polite gesture to others, but to him, it was as inconsequential as it was devastating.

Edward’s heart hammers so loudly that he is certain you are able to hear it. His face flushes, and he quickly looks back down to read the words swimming before his eyes in a meaningless blur.

You saw me.

The thought reverberates in his mind, equal parts exhilarating and terrifying. He clings to the image of your smile. It is everything to him. A slow smile spreads across his face, eyes wild and glued to a single word on the page. “Passion.” It is almost fitting – actually, it is perfectly fitting.

The minutes tick by, stretching into an eternity as he sits there and sneaks glances when he thinks you won’t notice. He can’t stop – not even when each look feels like a delicious risk.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, a darker thought begins to spread. This isn’t enough. Sitting here, watching you from afar. It is a poor substitute for what he truly wants. What he truly needs.

Edward swallows dryly, his hands gripping the book as his imagination runs wild. He pictures you looking at him the way you had in the dream – not with polite indifference. But with a look of intensity of someone who wanted him.

You’re touching yourself – or touching him, he can’t tell from the proximity – breathing heavily and looking at him with half-lidded eyes. Neither of you are wearing any clothes. He can feel your skin, but his mind refuses to conjure up what your body might look like even as he desperately tries to look down at you. You both moan, sweat covering both of your bodies in a sticky tangle of limbs. The fantasy spirals, painting an intense picture of you closing the distance between you. What he believes is your perfect, naked body on top of his – thighs caging his hips and grinding sensually as you throw your head back in pleasure. He's embarrassingly loud, sputtering and panting like a dog while you’re mewling softly and elegantly.

He grunts in frustration, trying to squint and make out your peaked nipples or how your heat rides his length in vain. His hands grab onto your hips to bring you impossibly closer to his stuttering hips – he was so close. You look down at him to smile sweetly. It softens into something fond as you lean down to whisper in his ear. He can almost feel your breath on him, hear the saccharine venom of your words—

“Stop it,” he says under his breath, shaking his head to dislodge the fantasy.

He needs to leave. He’s throbbing with a discomfort that borders on pain.

Edward stands, the chair scraping loudly against the floor as he pushes it back. He grabs the book and returns it to the nearest shelf, his movements clumsy. As he makes his way to the door, he can’t resist stealing one last glance at you. You are busy again, helping yet another customer with the same warm grin that had shattered his composure moments before.

The bell chimes violently as he steps outside, the cold evening air hitting him like a splash of cold water. That’s what he needs – a cold shower. He shoves his hands into his pockets, his mind buzzing with visions of him and you. He was disgusting.

The water steams down Edward’s back in scalding rivulets, but it does little to wash away the lingering sensations of the day. His shower was supposed to be freezing – a penance to purge himself of the memory of your smile and the fantasy that followed. Yet, it hadn’t taken long for his resolve to crumble.

Edward had given in – his mind stuck on every detail of your fleeting glance at the bookstore, every imagined touch from the dream and fantasy. He’d cursed himself through gritted teeth even as his body betrayed him, chasing an unbearable high that left him slumped against the shower wall. He felt ashamed and hollow.

Steam fills the small bathroom, the heat now oppressive as his mind begins to clear. Edward slides down on the wet tiles, burying his face in his hands. The sound of water drowns out his sobs.

The words from his dream ricochet through him, cutting through the fog of his exhaustion. He winces, stomach feeling like it’s coiling at the memory – no longer making him feel aroused.

No, you’re wrong, he protests pathetically. I’m not disgusting. This isn’t disgusting.

He clings to the threadbare justification like a lifeline, dragging himself back to his feet as the water cools to a lukewarm drizzle. Edward shuts off the shower, the sudden silence amplifies the turmoil in his mind.

He dries himself and avoids his reflection in the mirror, unable to face the pale figure staring back at him. Instead, he focuses on his hands – hands that had sinned against you. The same hands that would someday cradle your face like you had done his. If only he could make you understand.

Back in his room, Edward plops down into the creaky chair at his desk. Like a robot, he searches for your computer. The webcam feed blinks at him, and there you are again. At the sight of you, he almost wants to cry once more. The smile from the bookstore lingers in his mind. His eyes drank in the soft curve of your lips, the way your hands moved as you organized something on your desk. The image of your hands from his fantasies resurfaces, making his heart ache.

“Thank you.” Edward wets his lips, his voice a dry whisper in the quiet room. “For bringing this angel into my life.”

He clasps his hands together, fingers interlocking tightly in prayer. He isn’t sure who he was thanking – a god he’d long since abandoned, fate, or perhaps the dream itself. All he knows is that he feels chosen, as though your existence is a message meant solely for him.

The fantasy builds again as he stares at you, unbidden and unstoppable. In his mind, he sees you smiling at him the way you had in the dream – soft and cruel all at once, yet impossibly kind.

#edward nashton x reader #edward nashton #edward nygma #riddler x reader #paul dano riddler #fanfiction #fanfic #x reader #dano riddler x reader #dano riddler #the batman 2022 #batman 2022 #the riddler 2022 #the riddler #riddler fanfic #riddler fanfiction #stalking mention #stalking tw #tw stalking

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smellrain · 10 months ago

Text

𝐧𝐡𝟏𝟑 - 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐢𝐜𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐬𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐭

in which: nico and you had met years ago in a cold rink in canada but then lost touch for several reasons. It's hard, growing and correcting mistakes of your past but you try anyway.

tags: written, angst, hopeful ending, mentions of: depression, injuries, hospitals, doctors, etc. (masterlist)

notes: [5.1k] I have no idea what this is? I woke up, wrote the entire thing and passed out again for 2 hours. Tried polishing it through editing? Yeah. It turned out a lot different than the rest of my stuff so far, so it's scary posting this. Come & tell me if you liked it.

The ice was as harsh as it was unforgiving.

The cold air of the rink has seeped into your bones years ago and the reddend tips of your fingers went numb a while ago, but you were used to it by now. Nothing really mattered when you got like this, too caught up in your head for anyone to reach.

Not even yourself.

You had been home and then suddenly not, your body already knowing what you needed before your mind caught up to it.

The rink wasn’t open, not yet, but you had gotten a key years ago. The owner, David, had been the only one that had looked at you the same back then. There had been a knowing sort of look in his eyes when he had seen you waiting for him at the front door stepps, eyes red.

He had given you a key, because he had seen you for who you were: a girl whose entire life had collapsed around her.

Bronze at fifteen, silver at sixteen, gold forever out of reach.

You could still remember the red pen tucked into your doctor’s coat. The ‘my condolences, but’, the white light, the letter in your hand, the sinking realisation that this was it.

That you were going to be one of the several girls that had pushed their body too far.

The same way you had done everything back then you had followed the instructions of your therapist to the letter. Stretching, compressions, different exercises. Still, there was no full recovery, no chance of ever skating professionally again.

That might be the worst part, still being able to skate but knowing that you will never be able to feel it anymore. That you were cursed to be in this limbo, never letting go of it but never being able to live for it anymore.

The harsh sound of your blade cutting over the fresh ice was as pleasant as it was torture. You wanted more, but you had to settle for this. You had to learn that this was all you were ever going to get.

These select few hours in the early morning, just before your classes started, before you had to start living your life.

You could feel yourself drawing harsh breaths, but it didn’t matter. You had pushed through worse, hunger, hurt and feelings just to stand here for a bit longer. The ringing in your ear accumulated when you thought about all that you had lost, that you could never regain.

Suddenly the heavy door of the entrance fell closed. You slowed down, curious who it might be. The clock in the corner of your vision reflected a red 05:57 back at you. It was too early for it to be anyone aside from David or another person with a key, someone like you.

It was a guy, a bag in his hand and another slung over his shoulder.

You would recognize the equipment anywhere, familiar with it in a distant way. It must be a hockey player that David had picked out out of the hundreds that frequented this place.

For some reason you already didn’t like him. Maybe because unlike you, he had the chance of actually archiving his dreams. Bitterness was an annoying but frecent emotion that stained the back of your mouth.

You wanted. You wanted more than this. You wanted the early morning practices, the ones after school, the rigidous schedule, the heavy monitoring. What were you without all that?

The static in your mind had been interrupted by his arrival but you hardly noticed, more focused on the way he walked down the stairs, casually like he had done so hundreds of times already.

It was almost six, which meant it was time to get off the ice anyways, so you circled a few laps, rotating your wrists and shoulders to feel if anything was off, and then made your way towards the outside of the rink.

“You look pretty,” said the boy from where he was tying his shoelaces up on the benches. “Out on the ice, I mean.”

Something in you hurt at that, as if your heart started pulling at its own strings. It’s been a while since anyone has watched you skate,, since you let someone else watch you. There was a sharp kind of anger rising up in you that it had been him watching you which dissipated as soon as you looked back at him.

It wasn’t his fault. There really was something wrong with you.

You knew your parents didn’t approve of you being here, but they couldn’t look at you anymore when you skated, disappointed that this was how it had ended. Disappointed in you.

“Thanks,” you said, your voice completely scraped raw. You hoped he didn’t notice it.

“I’m Nico,” he said, approaching you. He held out his hand. He wasn’t wearing gloves yet but his dark shirt had thumbholes that his thumb peeked through which was weirdly endearing on him.

You looked back up to his face. There was a tired but polite smile plastered on it but you didn’t have the energy to give him one. Instead you simply told him your name and took his hand. Even through his layer of fabric it was warm beneath your icy fingers.

He didn’t flinch at the cold of your hand and instead started genuinely smiling which took you by surprise. People didn’t react to meeting you like this, not anymore.

Then, without saying anything else, he took off his guards and stepped on the ice, skating around to warm up. You watched him for a bit while scraping off the excess ice and putting your skates away.

His skating was differentthan yours; not as delicate. The beauty of it had been hammered into you from an early age on which didn’t seem to be the case form him. It was weird, not being on the ice, being the one to watch instead.

You changed back into your shoes and walked up the steps.

From the top, which wasn’t all that high because this rink wasn’t that big, he seemed small. You wondered if you looked like that too, if anyone had thought that when you fell down, when they had seen you sprawled on the ice at fifteen, not being able to get up again.

A sick shudder passed through you. You wondered if you had ever gotten up from that ice.

Then you turned around, your back to him and left without saying goodbye.

~*~

The next time you saw him again, was two days later, just after six.

You knew you were going to be late for class but didn’t really care. Today you weren’t as cooped up in your own head, but it was still hard to let go of these stolen few hours of freedom and face reality.

“Hey,” Nico said, “it’s you again.”

“Hello,” you said in return. He stepped on the ice and you fought off the urge to leave immediately. That would be impolite, a voice reminded you in your head, even if you didn’t want him to be here right now.

“Are you here every morning?” he asked you, falling into step beside you and therefore joining you on your cooldown laps.

Your eyebrows furrowed in annoyance. Couldn’t he just do his own thing? Did he have to come talk to you? “Yes.”

"Dedicated. I only come every second day,” he said as if it mattered to you. You might have to leave early every second day now to avoid talking to him, which made your scowl even worse.

“Okay.” You said instead.

He hummed in reason but dropped the conversation after. When you took a look at him from the corner of your eye he didn’t seem deterred at your attitude, seemingly just satisfied that he got a response.

After another lap in, you hated to admit it but companionable silence, you left, without saying anything but this time he waved back at you from below. You didn’t return his gesture.

~*~

Despite your early judgement, the two of you formed some kind of routine over the next few weeks. You came early, and sometimes you left a protein bar for him in the stands and sometimes he brought you a hot tea for when you got off the ice.

Still, always without fail, he joined you for a few laps. He talked about his life and sometimes asked you a few questions. Sometimes you answered him, other times you didn’t. He never pressed for answers.

Nico told you that he was from Switzerland, which explained the heavy accent. He just joined Halifax, and he came early to work on his technique, preferring to do so in silence without his teammates chirping at him. You, in turn, told him that you had skated, professionally, before your injury. He didn’t ask for details about either of these things and you didn’t share of your own accord.

Slowly, so slowly that you didn’t even notice, you realised that he had become your friend.

It was strange. You hadn’t made friends in a long time. Before, you had had school friends, but because you never hung out outside of it, always training, it never deepend.

A weird sort warmth seeped in under your skin at the thought of the two of you being friends like a steady fire that kept you warm at night.

The friends you had made while skating splintered along with your knee.

It was hard, you knew that, to see their worst fear reflected back at them, but it was still hard for you to reach out, so you simply stopped talking to each other.

On your bad days you thought that it was all their fault, on your good you knew that it was a mutual mistake.

The thing about Nico was that he was hard to pin down. He was hardworking, thrived under pressure and loved hockey. He was also afraid of falling and failing, he loved sitting under the sun in the summers, feeling his skin heat up and his favorite colour was green, but he admitted that it changed every few weeks.

You knew that this friendship wouldn’t last, not really. Neither of you had any way of reaching out to the other, and neither expressed the desire to do so but it was still nice, this tentative kinship.

~*~

“Have you ever played hockey?” he asked you, once.

It must have been a Saturday or Sunday because you were in no hurry to get off the ice, instead basking in his company.

“No,” you answered, simply.

He grinned, “you are missing out.”

“Really now?” you asked, teasingly, when you turned around to skate with your front to him.

“Really. I wanna teach you,” he said, leaving the choice up to you without outright asking. If you wanted to you could just brush it off and the conversation would continue.

Instead you said, “yeah, sure, why not.”

His smile was blinding, the adoration for his sport bleeding from every inch of his skin. It was a good look on him, happiness. Distantly you wondered if anyone had ever thought that about you.

It was different, skating with a stick in your hands but it was fun. He taught you how to shoot and aim at a certain spot which you weren’t half bad at if you stood still.

Hours later when the two of you stepped off the ice your tea was cold but you hardly noticed it.

~*~

Another day you asked him what he was reaching for.

“Olympics,” he had answered immediately but after a beat of silence he looked up as if the lights in the ceiling were stars he could wish upon. “I think I want someone to look at me and think ‘I want to do that. I want to start playing hockey.’”

You looked at him and the only thought that crossed your mind was that he was the reason you could step off the ice again, that you knew you would always be able to come back, just one more time.

“I like that,” you said because it was true.

He tilted his head back to you, and the way his eyes glimmered with a rare vulnerability made your breath catch. Or maybe that was just the effect he had on you, standing still, alive and just in reach.

Oh.

That was that feeling in your chest.

~*~

Yet another day he joined you on the ice and you immediately kicked him off again.

“What did I say about injuries?” you asked, frustrated in a way only he could make you.

“That they were not to be ignored,” he parroted back, his gaze between his feet as if staring at his ankle would magically heal it.

“Exactly,” you said. Then, gentler than before, “you need to give yourself time to heal, otherwise you will never get better.”

He looked back up to where you were hovering above him. “Okay.”

You didn’t want him to have the last word. “Okay,” you said firmly and sat down next to him.

The two migrated up to the changing rooms where he sat on a bench with his ankle elevated while you worked through your stretches, your knewww aching in phantom pain.

~*~

Today your mind was quiet.

It was your last time and you had wanted to take it all in again, one last time. You were moving, your father had gotten a new job somewhere in New Jersey. You knew it was good, a new start away from everything, a chance to start over.

But still, you were going to miss this. The rink, the quiet, the place you had grown up in. The place that was your prison as much as it was your salvation.

As you looked up towards the ceiling, the lights shining down on you, the dark gary that seemed black in contrast, you thought you should cry. This was the perfect moment to, and you hadn’t yet.

Then, the door opened.

You were surprised because he wasn’t supposed to be here today. Nico had been here yesterday and the two of you had argued about your favorite brand of cereal, and you selfishly had wanted to leave it at that.

To leave your friendship without having to say goodbye, without having to ever really let go of him.

“Nico,” you breathed, before you could stop yourself.

“Hey you,” he said, as he came up to you. You didn’t even realise that you had stopped moving.

“It’s late,” he stated. You looked up to the clock and sure enough, it was almost twenty past.

“Ah,” you said, uncaring. It’s not like you had school today. You wondered when he went to school, if his just started later than yours had. In all your talks you had never actually talked about it.

And you never were going to anymore, you had to remind yourself. Suddenly it was a lot harder to breathe through the ache in your chest.

“Are you okay?” he asked, and you knew he meant it, “you look, I don’t know, sad?”

“I’m moving,” before he could ask anything more, “like tomorrow. This is the last time I’m going to see you in a while.”

“Oh.” The expression on his face was hurt, because he must have realised that you had intended to leave without saying anything.

“I’m sorry,” you said. “for everything.” You weren’t really sure for what, but it seemed like the right thing to say. For your intentions, the way you acted, maybe.

“It’s okay,” he said, but it wasn’t, not really. You knew that and he knew that you knew.

“I’m moving to New Jersey.”

He was quiet for a bit.”America,” he started. Then, “do you want to exchange numbers?”

You ignored the sting behind your eyes. “I’m probably going to have to get a new simcard, but you can give me yours.”

The two of you skated back to the door, from where you had stood still in the middle of the open space. He got a piece of paper and a pen from his bag and then somewhat messily tore off the corner of a worksheet and scribbled down his number in blue ink and signed it with his name.

He looked up at you but neither of you said anything for a while. What was there to say, anymore?

“Don’t forget about me,” he ended up telling you and you reached out to hug him. He was warm under your hands, steady and you were going to miss this, him.

“Don’t forget me either,” you murmured into the crook of his neck.

Still, in the back of your mind, you knew that you were never going to use his number. You were going to cut off your old life before it could follow you to your new one. But for once you had told him the truth, you weren’t going to forget about him, probably ever.

And that was that. You said goodbye, waved and you left him there. He returned the gesture, face unreadable and you were sad that the last time he looked at you he wasn’t smiling.

From the top you looked down at him one last time. He seemed bigger now, compared to that first time you had looked down at him, still filled with bitterness.

Maybe that was just your imagination, or maybe it was his confidence after playing with his current team, after seeing his results pay off.

You turned and let the door fall closed behind you.

Then, and only then tears started to well up in your eyes. You ignored them and moved on. Always looking ahead, never back.

Still, you kept the number tucked away safely hidden in a small corner of your wallet. A piece of him that you would always carry with you.

~*~

You made new friends, graduated and decided to attend college. Got diagnosed with chronic depression and mild anxiety, got a boyfriend and broke it off again after three months, cried, laughed and finally lived.

But there was part of you hidden in the corner of your wallet, too.

~*~

If you were being honest, Nico didn’t really cross your mind when your friend asked you to go to a hockey game with you.

In a way he did, because he had been one of your few friends that played hockey, but it was more of an oh yeah, the sport Nico loved and not oh yeah I’m going to a hockey game and I wonder if Nico is still playing, I wonder if he made it to the big leagues.

Okay, maybe that was a bit of a lie, but still. You hadn’t expected this.

The two of you went to the Prudential Center and you were excited despite your earlier apprehension. Your phone with the blocked tags of icehockey and nhl seemed to burn a hole in your pants but it’s not like anyone would know.

Your friend had told you a bit about the team, but if you were being honest, you could not remember any of their names, much less which position and line they played.

When the players got announced, the home team first, you froze. Suddenly the noise of the cheers around you were completely quiet until they flooded back to you, a harsh reminder of reality.

Because it was him. That was Nico. Your Nico. Or like your past Nico.

There, with a red thirteen and a small C over his chest, was Nico. He was all grown up now, and instead of thinking wow, he is kind of attractive when he smiled at the camera, you thought, holy shit, he is really, really handsome.

Your friend picked up on your strange behaviour. “What's wrong?”

I know him, you wanted to scream. I think he saved my life without meaning to, and I think I loved him but I never told him. What came out instead was, “I think I'm going to be sick.”

“What?” she asked, suddenly even more worried, “do you need fresh air? Or do you just want to leave?”

You wanted to stay. You wanted to shoot a puck at his head and tell him to look up at you, the way he had done back then.

“No, don’t worry about it,” you said and when didn’t change at your reply, you added, “I’m just going to get some water. I think it might be the crowd or something.”

“Are you sure? Do you want me to come with?”

You knew how much she had been looking forward to it, and besides there was nothing she could help you with anyhow. “No, really, it’s all good. Just need to breathe for a second.”

She gave you a look, and you smiled despite wanting to curl up in a corner and cry, “if you are sure. But if anything,” she took your hand in hers, “if anything is wrong call me. I’m gonna have my phone in my hand the entire time.”

You squeezed her hand the same way your heart did at her words. “Thank you, really, but it’s okay. I'll be right back.”

Then you fled up the stands and you couldn’t help but think about the first time you had seen him, how you had left without saying anything. You looked down, just once, and spotted him immediately, as if he was the north pole to your south, your eyes drawn to him.

He seemed even bigger now, as if he had finally grown into the steady confidence he had had, even back then.

You smiled. He deserved it, genuinely. You were glad that he did end up making it to the big leagues, even if some part of you hurt at that. You still missed ice skating, your rink from back then, David, but most of all you missed what could have been if you hadn’t been scared.

What could have been if you had just texted him.

Regret was a useless emotion to feel, but all of a sudden you felt yourself drown in and you coughed once, just to ease that feeling in your throat.

Then you turned your back to the ice and walked up the rest of the stairs to the stands to get yourself some water.

It was useless trying to think about any of it now, so you pushed the thoughts aside for later.

~*~

A week later you were drunk. It was a Friday evening and you had finally finished the gruelling lab you had worked on for the entire day.

You were hanging out in your friend’s room, the same friend that had taken you to the game a week before. Two of your other friends were sat ob the floor, leaning gainst the opposite bed and a warm, content feeling spread through your chest.

You had friends now.

“What’s wrong?” she suddenly asked from where she was sat next to you on her bed, her back against the headboard, yours against the wall adjacent to it.

“Nothing,” you answered because nothing was.

“Don’t ‘nothing’ me, tell me,” she said, “you've been quiet ever since we came back from the game a week ago and I’ve waited long enough for you to say something, so now I’m going to.”

Had you been that obvious? Or did she just know you that well? Either way, she deserved the truth, the full truth.

“I just,” you began and stopped again, starting to peel off the sticker on your beer with the blunt edge of your nail.

“When I was younger, I skated.” You started. You knew that she had never expressed any kind of interest in skating so you elaborated further, “really well.” Wow, you were really eloquent tonight.

“Okay,” she said, no doubt wondering where you were going with this.

Your mind was fuzzy around the edges because of the drinks which made harder than usual to focus on your words, but it made it easier to talk about it, too. These people didn’t know about anything that had been, only what was. “I was good enough to win. Olympics, I mean.”

Suddenly one of the other two friends from the other side of the room joined in. “The Olympics?”

“Yeah,” you said, staring firmly at the bottle in your hands, not looking at any of them. “I won bronze and silver, fifteen and sixteen.”

“Holy shit,” she said, as did your other friend, but one of them remained quiet, so you looked at her.

From the look in her eyes you knew that she knew. “And then I fell, badly. Tried to get up again but couldn’t. Went to the doctor and you know,” you trailed off, “retired. Started physiotherapy, got a lot better but…”

“Not enough to ever compete again,” she finished for you.

“Yeah,” you said, voice hoarse. “But I couldn’t let go of it, you know? So sometimes, before school, I snuck out to the local rink and skated around just because I didn’t know anything else.”

Your friend that was next to you on the bed made an encouraging noise, and laid a hand on your knee, so you continued.

“Then I met a guy. I was in a bad mental place, not really talking to anyone unless I had to, but we somehow became friends.”

Then you looked at them, “I don’t know, it was a weird friendship because we only ever saw each other at the rink every few days, but I felt something for him anyway. It wasn’t quite love but could have been, maybe.”

The others were still listening, and the words rushed out before you could stop yourself. “Then I moved. Wanted to leave before saying goodbye because that would hurt too much. On the day I was leaving I saw him anyway. He gave me his number but I never used it.”

“You wanted to make a clean cut?” your friend asked.

“Yeah. It was sefish, because it wasn’t just about me, you know? I should have told him how I felt, but I didn’t.” You shook your head, “but that’s not even the point. I saw him again at the game.”

“Oh,” your friend that had dragged you to it, said.

“Yeah,” you answered, and your other friend asked, “why didn’t you talk to him?”

The other friend, the one that had never asked you about your skating, even though she had known, even though she had every opportunity to, said, “because he was playing, right?”

“Yeah,” you said and you wanted to cry. You could still hear his name announced by the speakers. “Funny, all the time we spent together and I never knew his last name.”

“Who is it?” she asked, gentle, and you knew you could just not answer. You could bury it deep down, once and for all. But that’s not what you wanted to do, not anymore.

“Nico Hischier.” And your friend laughed.

“Of course it’s the captain,” she said and you couldn’t help but join in, the effects of the alcohol cursig through your veins. What were the chances, really? That he ended up in the state you had moved to all those years ago.

The others joined it. “He changed his number by now, I’m sure.”

“Oh yeah, definitely,” one of them said.

All of you were quiet for a second. “Wait, I have an idea,” she said and moved her hand from your leg and grabbed your phone.

She gave it to you and made a motion for you to unlock it. You did and gave it back to her. From where you were sat you weren’t able to see your screen, much less what she typed on it.

After a few seconds she gave it back to you.

It was Nico’s instagram profile. You hesitated before clicking on his most recent post. Your other friends that had been sitting on the floor climbed up to join you.

“Follow him,” one of them said. You could feel your heart thumping in your chest. This was not the account you had used to document your wins and training back then, but it still had your first and last name in the username, but it was on private.

Underneath your thumb the button changed colour. “Fuck,” you said.

The other three laughed at your exclamation. “Wait, do I text him?” you asked, turning to the others.

They all looked back at you, and one of them asked, “do you want to?”

You did. You really fucking did, but you had no idea what to say. “But what do I say? Hey, sorry for being a dick to you when we were like seventeen, I was half in love with you and didn’t know how to tell you, so I just cut you out before anything could possibly hurt me.”

One of them leaned her head on your shoulder. “If you leave out the half in love part, it’s not too bad.”

“You should also ask if he wants to meet and talk in person,” the other said.

You opened your notes app and the four of you composed a message to him.

Your hands were shaking and your heart was beating too fast. This was it, this was your chance and you weren’t going to let go again without a fight. This time you would stay and he could make the choice: to stay or to leave.

Then, you hit the small blue icon and sent it and let out a quiet scream. You wouldn’t be able to take it back, not anymore.

You threw your phone away from you onto a small patch where the blanket you were sitting on was still visible.

Over an hour passed and you still hadn’t heard back from him. Soon after you pased out, but a quiet acceptance had settled in your stomach. He forgot. Or maybe he didn’t see the message or maybe he didn't want to talk to you again, which you couldn’t blame him for.

But when you woke up the next morning, you had a single notification from him.

For a second you debated not clicking on it, but that would mean standing still. It would be different this time. You would be different this time. There was an unfamiliar, new kind of determination that flickered up your spine and it reminded you of the steady ice under your skates, of the final hug the two of you had shared. Harsh, unforgiving, certain.

You clicked on it and there was no going back now.

Nico Hischier Hello, it’s been a while. Of course I remember you, didn’t I tell you? For sure, I'd love to meet up and talk. Does next weekend work for you? I have a home game which makes it easier for both of us.

notes: So. How are we feeling? Thoughts? Part 2? Please talk to me about this one because this lives in my mind rent free.

#nico hischier #nico hischer x reader #nico hischier x reader #nico hischier x y/n #nico hischier imagine #nhl #nj devils #nhl imagine #nhl x y/n #nhl x you #nhl x reader #ame writes

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rawmeknockout · 1 year ago

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pls can I get a lonely cassette!reader being taken in by soundwave???? i need that man carnally and i need to be inside his boobs even more 💥💥💥

The city is burning. It's been on fire for days, the skyline you loved nothing but smoke and ash, and there is no relief in sight. Metal melting into itself and the surroundings, buildings merged together, until it looks like a great beast crying in agony. Fighting to pull itself out from it's own destruction. Your cassette-player is among those trapped under the rubble, squeezed beneath concrete and metal. Perhaps it's fortunate, then, that you know he's dead. You were his only companion, and now you're alone. It gives you comfort knowing he's not the one in your place.

There is no one coming to save you. The Decepticons and Autobots have torn Cybertron apart, your home just collateral among the list of casualties. It had filled you with rage when you saw the way they would cast anything in the way to achieve victory, but your anger is hollow now. You're not even sure you can feel anything at all. All you can think about is where you will find energon next.

There are no more relief stations near you, no more safe encampments that can take you in. All neutral parties, all crisis servants, have been pushed to the very edges of Cybertron where there is still just a bit of energon to mine. It wouldn't matter if you could get to them, anyway. Most have picked their side and will push recruitment if you come looking for aid, ensuring you will be safe if only you will be their fodder.

And you can't leave your home. Even when it is unrecognizable, the bright city lights long since blown out. This is where you want to be, the only place for you. You slowly duck and trudge between buildings, dirt settling in your joints and making the ache of your frame worse. You scan for any sign of energy, a leak of oil even, but it is bare here.

So lost in your HUD, you don't hear the clink of pedes on concrete, the glitching of your processor getting worse and more obstructive by the cycle. You try tapping at settings on your helm, but the static clears minimally. A giant blue mech stands in front of you when your vision clears of errors. You jump back, stumbling over your pedes to stay upright, and lean back to take in the intimidating bot before you.

His face is covered and his visor is red. So red against the white and blue of his paintjob. The blue gleams beautifully under the muffled sunlight, just barely able to break through the ash covering the sky. He must be important, or was. You could have never afforded a polish so uniform and bright. His chest is a window into a docked and rather comfortable looking cassette. You could laugh from how fortuitous this oasis is.

The purple of his insignia almost misses your awareness, but it is an ugly symbol and it hurts your optics to look upon it. You should be angry, but there is nothing. Perhaps this meeting is Primus' mercy, no matter how cold.

The large mech kneels in front of you, his helm still looming above your own, as his servo comes to rub dirt away from your faceplate. You don't shy away, despite the true dirtiness being in his allegiance. It's nice to feel a friendly touch. You eye his tapedeck enviously, like you want to rip the mech out of there and settle in its place. It's a horrible feeling that leaves a pit of shame in your tank. The fear and grief has turned you into an animal hungry for any sign of salvation.

The intimidating mech pulls from his subspace a wrapped packet: energon rations. Meager and half-eaten, it wouldn't be the best you've ever tasted, but you're grateful for the pity. It's hardly two bites before you're done. Despite the quality, it's the sweetest energon that's ever touched your glossa. Lubricant tracks down your cheekplates.

And despite it all, you want to live. A feeling that builds in your chassis and sings in your spark. You want to live, you want to leave this place. You don't care what you have to do. All you want is to tear free of the rubble and rip yourself from the metal melting down around you.

"Inquiry: Free to dock?" You grasp the opportunity with firm servos.

#asks #txt #reader insert #transformers #reader imagine #transformers idw #tf idw #transformers mtmte #tf mtmte #soundwave #tf soundwave #idw soundwave #mtmte soundwave

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imsuperhungry · 6 months ago

Text

change.

"𝙨𝙡𝙚𝙚𝙥𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙨𝙤𝙪𝙣𝙙𝙡𝙮 𝙬𝙞𝙩𝙝 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙡𝙤𝙘𝙠𝙚𝙩 𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙨𝙝𝙚 𝙜𝙖𝙫𝙚 𝙮𝙤𝙪, 𝙘𝙡𝙪𝙩𝙘𝙝𝙚𝙙 𝙞𝙣 𝙮𝙤𝙪𝙧 𝙛𝙞𝙨𝙩"

packing was bullshit, and if you say you like doing it, you're lying to yourself

he exhaustion sets in fast when you're constantly using all your strength to break down large items like shelves or a lamp just to fit them in a suitcase. And don't even get me started on how tired your arms get after folding clothes for hours, only to realize they won't all fit. Now you're stuck rearranging everything to make more room.

You glance down at the suitcase after cramming everything in, disorganized and messy. One way or another, you were determined to make it all fit. With an irritated sigh, you lift your head to scan the room, only to realize, with a sinking feeling, that you're nowhere near finished—despite having been at it for at least three hours.

.. okay well maybe it's been 30 minutes, but you get the point

You break down in frustration, briefly contemplating if a bullet might be your next piercing. But after taking a deep breath, you decide to flop face down on your bare mattress. You needed a break; you felt like you were losing your mind.

After a stretch of silence, you turn your head and pull out your phone to check the time. It's barely noon, meaning you still have hours before you need to finish packing.

with a small smile, you decide to take a much well-earned nap...

Do all airports fucking smell awful, or is that just a Texas thing? Probably the latter. But whatever—at least you managed to get some sleep. After a day of packing, you were drained, so as soon as you sat down, you grabbed your blanket and dozed off in the hard, plastic airport chair.

You likely would have slept longer if not for the hand shaking you awake so roughly. When you open your eyes, your gaze drops to the hand, and you instantly recognize the chipped black nail polish and those pale fingers.

"Come to the bathroom with me real quick; I'm not going alone," she said. Given the dreadful male-to-female ratio here, it made sense. There were fewer than seven girls and at least fifty men. Maybe that explains the awful smell...

"Nicole..." you whine, it would be as soon as you get the chance to sleep, you're forced to get up.

"Come on, you can sleep after, I need to pee." She says as she yanks you up out the chair, making you nearly fall.

With a grumble, you straighten up and adjust the pink, fluffy blanket you've wrapped around yourself. If you're being dragged up, you're at least going to be warm.

Nicole quickly started practically dragging you through the airport while you were still trying to wake up. Honestly, if she hadn't been pulling you along, you would likely have been bumping into everything, as your eyes felt heavy and your vision was a bit blurred.

After a few seconds, you both finally reach the bathroom. You decide to wait outside the stall where Nicole has gone in, unsure of what else to do. While you wait, you pull out your phone to check the time.

2:09 am...

You decide to stay awake since Nicole is up and likely has plans, meaning she probably won't let you sleep. It's okay, though—your flight is in two hours, and you can catch up on sleep then. You start stretching to help wake yourself up, as the uncomfortable chairs have left your back feeling sore.

Once you were done, you broke the silence by asking, "Are you ready for Virginia?" while letting out a yawn.

"I don't really have a choice but to be," she replies, her tone tinged with annoyance about the move, and understandably so.

Nicole was always on the move, but she had hoped to settle in Texas for a while. Recently, however, she, her mom, and her brother were forced to relocate because her brother had downloaded illegal content.

You recall how desperate she sounded, almost begging you to come with her—she'd never sounded that vulnerable in the two years you've known her. Although she wouldn't admit it, she's grown very fond of you, and she'd be devastated if she had to leave her only genuine friend behind because of her brother's mistake.

You two met during your freshman year of high school and became inseparable within a month. Your many similarities helped forge a close bond between you. Nicole appreciated you because you weren't boring and were always there for her. Whether she was sneaking off to get high or pulling other stunts, you'd cover for her and tell her mom she was with you. She'll always be grateful for that.

Before this move, Nicole wasn't a "bad" person; she was just trying to figure things out. She had a lot of friends and was considered one of the "popular girls," just like you. You balanced each other out—she was black and you were pink, with your lightness contrasting her darkness. You truly bonded when you opened up to her and shared your deepest feelings.

You were both at her house, high out of your minds. With her mom away for a few days, it was just the two of you and her brother at home. You sat on the floor with your head resting in her lap, and she absentmindedly ran her fingers through your hair. As the conversation shifted from gossip about the pregnant girl in your shared chemistry class, it eventually veered into your own deep-seated mental struggles.

When weed hits your system, you tend to get chatty, and Nicole seemed like the perfect person to unload on. So, you shared every traumatic experience from your life with her—your past suicide attempts, your ex-boyfriend cheating on you with your friends, your struggles with drug abuse, your father's poor behavior, and much more.

Nicole listened intently to every word that night. She liked you—thought you were pretty, funny, and a perfect match for her. What's not to like? Although she'd had her own struggles, she found your situation a bit more intense than hers, and she appreciated that. It wasn't that she enjoyed seeing you in pain; she hated that. Instead, she valued knowing that someone truly understood her. You weren't just someone saying, "I get your pain"—you were as messed up as she was.

Over time, your mom had given Nicole a key to your house, and she practically lived there. You two were inseparable. If she skipped class, you were right there with her. If you wanted to go out to eat, she suddenly became hungry too. And if she needed to use the bathroom, you were there waiting for her, which is how you ended up in your current situation.

Eventually, the toilet flushed with a final whoosh, and the door swung open. As Nicole washed up, you occupied yourself by scrolling through your messages, your thumb moving swiftly over the screen as you replied to old texts from friends. Nicole brushed past you, heading for the towels, her footsteps light on the bathroom tiles. You slipped your phone into your pocket and settled back, waiting for her to finish.

"you wanna get something to eat?"

#class of 09 #co09 #emily class of 09 #jecka class of 09 #class of 09 nicole #nicole class of 09 #wattpad #x reader #nicole x reader #co09 jecka #co09 nicole #co09 emily #class of 09 game #co09xreader

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aceofshitposts · 7 months ago

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Batquinn oneshot where Harley switches sides after joker kills Jason? Like it's the catalyst for her escaping

OOOH what a good one. i usually headcanon that harley is accepted as the arkham psych right after jason's death and joker's admission into arkham post getting almost every bone in his body broken for it BUT

i like this a lot here we go

It's the first time Bruce has been in public since Jason's death.

Jason never liked these things. Neither has Bruce, not really, but especially now he feels the sharp sting of holding a champagne flute in one hand and holding a placid smile on his face with no one here to commiserate.

The parade of well wishers seems never ending. People coming to shake his hand and sympathize for his loss in one breath and try to talk business the next. The same people had shown Jason nothing but disdain when Bruce had adopted him; whispering about street rats like Jason belonged under the shoes.

Bruce clenches his fist, not for the first time tonight. He wants to be out on the streets. He needs to be out there. Out on patrol where he doesn't need to hide behind a tired smile.

"Hey, take it easy there, big guy."

There's a hand on his bicep and for a moment Bruce sees pure red. He barely manages to reign in a snarl as he turns to whoever just touched him-- gently. Like they actually cared. None of them actually cared--

Blonde hair swept over one pale shoulder. A red cocktail dress with a slightly garish feather boa wrapped delicately around her elbows. Red lipstick and pale blue eyes looking at him without fear.

Harley Quinn. Joker's girlfriend. What was she doing here and did that mean Joker was prowling around too? He should be in Arkham, there was no way he was fully healed from Bruce's last encounter with him--

"Hey, hey, eyes down here," Harley says, snapping her fingers in front of his face. Bruce's vision focuses back on Harley, a small smile gracing her face when he makes eye contact. "Deep breaths. He's not here, he's not coming, okay? Let's go sit down before you break that champagne flute."

She gently reaches for the glass, taking it easily from his hands and leading Bruce off to the side from prying eyes.

His mind continues to race. Was this a trap? And-- she mentioned him. She's must mean Joker but then. Did she know? If she did, how did she know? And why was she even here?

"Sit," Harley demands as they step outside into the night air.

Numbly Bruce finds himself sitting on the bench she points at, dropping himself onto the polished wood with a grunt. Harley settles in next to him, a small gap between, and begins to pick at the feathers in her boa.

"He was a good kid. He didn't deserve that."

Bruce has heard a lot of people say some variation of that all night long.

It's the first time he's actually believed someone means it.

"You know," he says in response. There's no use in denying it. He's too tired to even try.

Harley looks at him with a lopsided smile.

"Course. Who do you take me for? I've got a PhD, y'know."

Silence settles between them. Bruce doesn't know what to do. Even with her association with Joker, she wasn't involved in what happened. Bruce was clear headed enough to acknowledge that.

"I'm not with him. Anymore, I mean. We were already on a break when he left and..." she's fiddling with her boa again, red feathers falling to her feet. "You have no reason to believe me but I never wanted to hurt Jason like that."

Harley stills, taking several deep breaths.

"I never wanted to hurt you like that. But this isn't about me." - Harley stands, dusting plucked feathers off her lap. - "I just wanted you to know that."

Bruce grabs her wrist before he has time to really think about it. She starts, looking at him with wide eyes. There's going to be talk tomorrow, probably pictures in the paper.

Brucie Wayne with some new arm candy after the death of his adopted son.

Let them talk. There was no stopping the gossip mill regardless.

Harley was the only person at this gala that really saw him.

"You can stay," he whispers, releasing his grip on her wrist. "If you want."

Harley smiles, small and genuine.

"Okay, B. I will."

#batquinn #astrix writes #Harley used the tried and true method of looking confident that's how she got in to the party lmao #And this will lead to a team up and unofficial adoption of one Tim Drake #Cuz y'all know I love my Harley and Tim friendships

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fyonahmacnally · 11 months ago

Text

Watching Her

Kara stares at the blank screen in front of her. She’s been sitting at her dining room table for what feels like days. She needs to be writing her article, but it seems her brain has other plans. Instead, she’s trying to string together the words that have plagued her mind for months. Well, plaguing her for years really, if she’s being honest.

Plus, lately there’s this urgent need to explain to her raven haired goddess of a best friend how much she means to the hero. Every time Kara thinks she can speak it aloud, the words get stuck in her throat. So, she thought she’d write them instead. Apparently that’s not working either since she’s been staring at her screen for Rao knows how long. No article and no words for Lena. She’s come up short either way. Since the genius woman left for Newfoundland a few days ago, the blonde hasn’t been able to think of much else.

Just Lena. Always Lena.

Her time in the Phantom Zone was wrought with the fear of never seeing those mesmerizing bi-colored eyes or touching soft porcelain skin again. Their relationship has weathered storms most married couples haven’t faced. A sentiment that forces her thoughts down a path she’s skillfully avoided for years. Kara knows they reconciled and have swapped both apologies and forgiveness, but she’s still not sure where they stand. What they are. Friends? Yes, but there’s always been more. Unfortunately, dealing with the madness surrounding Lex and Nyxly hasn’t given them much time to sort through things. To truly talk.

There are countless things Kara wants to say. While in the Phantom Zone, she relived almost every moment of her relationship with Lena. The worst of things played out before her on most occasions, but the visions also allowed her subconscious to say things she’s always been too cowardly to say. As much as being there sucked, it also gave her insight into how much is still unsaid between them. Insight into where her true home lies. Who is her perfect partner at game night.

It’s Lena. It has always been Lena.

She shakes her head with a sigh. The cursor on her screen mocks her. This is what happens every time she tries to put words on the page. Her thoughts instantly drift to Lena and all the words she’s choked back or refused to speak. Then a smile drifts across her lips, thoughts of how close she came to kissing the raven haired goddess. Right there in the middle of the tower when she first greeted Lena. If it hadn’t been for Alex and everyone else in the room, she might have.

No, she’s sure she would have.

“Rao, stop it Kara!” She mutters to herself, slapping her forehead to punctuate her point. “You have an article to write. Even if it is a fluff piece for Andrea.”

Rolling her eyes at the thought of her boss, she straightens her spine, stretches her arms in front of her, shakes them out, and settles back in to write.

A few hours later, Kara realizes she’s been writing a stream of consciousness. Her once blank document is filled with words. It’s great that she was able to get so many words on the page, but it’s absolutely, 100% not related to the article she needs to write for her deadline. A deadline two days from now.

Nope.

Every single word is related to Lena.

Kara drops her chin to her chest, blowing out a breath of frustration before sitting back in her chair and dragging her hands down her face. “Okay, I guess I should read through this mess of thoughts. Maybe it will give me something for Lena.”

As her eyes rove over the page, drinking in the words she has written, Kara feels her body grow warm. Before her, on the laptop screen, sits the words she’s been looking for. The combination of things she’s longed to share with her best friend for the better part of six years. Sure, she’s going to have to edit some things and polish it up. However, she’s confident she finally has the words she wants to share.

Lena comes back early. Kara isn’t sure why, but her raven haired friend doesn’t seem open to talking about it. She can tell something is on Lena’s mind though. The woman’s behavior certainly derails Kara’s plan to give Lena the journal/letter she wrote.

Just another delay. Such is the life they live. The life of a hero.

They make plans to hangout together. Kara invites Lena to her loft to catch up and eat pie. Because…pie!

The blonde watches her, drinking in her profile. Strong, sharp jawline. Soft, pouty lips. Perfectly manicured brows, vibrant porcelain skin, and shiny ebony locks cascading down her back, a few strands hanging over her shoulder and resting on her collarbone. Lena is without a doubt the most beautiful person Kara has ever seen, across any and all planets she’s been on. This woman captivates her, steals her breath, and owns her heart.

She must get lost in her observation because the next thing she feels is a soft hand on her forearm breaking her from her trance.

“Kara?” Lena practically whispers, squeezing the hero’s forearm. “Darling, are you okay?”

She clears her throat, her embarrassment no doubt on display across her cheeks, spreading onto her ears. “Umm, yeah. F-Fine.”

Lena cocks her head to the side, patented eyebrow raise in place. “Want to try again? I know you didn’t catch what I said because you undoubtedly would have responded.” She releases the blonde’s forearm before shifting to face her. “Now, tell me what’s going on in that beautiful brain of yours.”

A long, shaky sigh makes its way out of Kara’s mouth. She is unquestionably not going to admit what currently has her distracted. Which means she needs to come up with something that is close to the truth, but doesn’t force her to admit her feelings. Not yet.

“I just, well, I missed you.” She reaches up to adjust glasses that aren’t there before diverting her hand to tuck a stray hair behind her ear. “There’s so much we have to catch up on and it’s a little surreal that you’re here. With me. Right now.” She trails off, the fading blush from a few minutes ago rushing back across her impervious skin.

A full, gorgeous, dimpled smile spreads across Lena’s face. It’s the smile that Kara used to see all the time during their countless lunch dates and game nights. It makes her heart stutter in her chest, a sight more beautiful than Rao’s dawn on Krypton.

“I missed you, too. We do have a lot to catch up on.” Lena winks at her before sitting her half-eaten pie on the coffee table. “Do you want me to finish what I was saying or are you ready to tell me what’s got you so distracted?”

“Y-You go ahead and finish what you were saying. We can talk about my scattered brain later.” She gives her most endearing grin, hoping it will persuade her best friend to continue.

It works. They exchange stories for the next couple of hours. Lena shares what she learned about her mother and how apparently she comes from a long line of powerful sorceresses. Kara shares the crazy things they fought and dealt with in her absence along with the plan to get rid of Lex and Nyxly for good. Another night of completely skirting her inner dialogue.

And so it goes for several weeks afterward. They spend their time working to get rid of the worst Luthor and his psychotic fifth-dimensional girlfriend. In the aftermath of William’s death, losing Lillian, and Alex and Kelly’s wedding, Lena seems to come to terms with her magical abilities and gain confidence in her new identity as the last Luthor standing.

The good Luthor.

While Alex and Kelly are on their honeymoon, Kara and Lena finally have the conversation both of them have been putting off.

The two of them are curled up on opposite ends of Kara’s couch, each holding a cup of their preferred tea. They exchange shy, knowing smiles for several seconds before Lena breaks the comfortable silence.

“You know, I used to think the biggest monsters I had to fear were Lex and Lillian.” Lena softly says, running her finger along the edge of her rapidly cooling mug. “Over the past year and especially these last few months, I’ve learned we make our own monsters. We make our own monsters, then fear them for what they show us about ourselves.”

A plethora of emotions swirl in the verdant eyes that look up and connect with concerned, but affectionate blue ones. They revel in brief silence, drinking in the intimacy and vulnerability of their shared space. Two battered souls that completely understand one another in ways no one else can.

Lena takes a deep breath, sits her now cold mug on the coffee table, and pats the cushion next to her hoping Kara will slide closer. She watches as Kara places her own mug down and shuffles across the couch, planting herself close enough that Lena’s knee sits against the side of her thigh. A delicate, pale hand rests on top of a warm tan one.

Kara turns her hand to lace their fingers together, gently squeezing Lena’s in a show of comfort. “I get that, at least I think I do. We’ve both been through so much in our lives, so much trauma.” The hero sucks in a ragged breath, all the things she’s lost flashing through her mind. “We both have wounds that will never show on our bodies. Wounds that are deeper and more hurtful than anything that bleeds. But, as painful as they are, they’ve built us into who we are.”

A soft huff and a chuckle of incredulity sound beside her causing blue eyes to shift from their hands to Lena’s half-amused, half-saddened expression. “You’re not wrong, but I wish there was a better, less painful path to get here.” She rolls her eyes at the situation. “I guess part of my point in saying this about Lex and Lillian is that loving and yearning for love can be blinding. Sometimes, I think, we don’t really see how toxic someone is until we finally breathe fresher air.”

Lena lifts her free hand to gently rub soft patterns into the skin on Kara’s hand still clasped in hers. “When I was in Newfoundland, it reminded me that who I am and where I came from are only small pieces of who I want to be. Being in the fresh air, away from the Luthor name gave me a new perspective. It helped me realize some things.”

A wistful smile spreads across her face as she pauses her ministrations on Kara’s skin. “There is a home no one can take from you, a home that will last. I think who you are, who you surround yourself with, and what you believe in is your real home. For me, that home is you, Kara.” She takes a shaky breath and makes eye contact with the blonde, hoping to convey how truly sincere she is. The raw truth in her statement.

Kara’s breath catches, her eyes glisten with tears. Lena hasn’t actually said the words she longs to hear, but it carries the same meaning. She does her best to collect her emotions and prevent the epic ramble she can sense coming. There is a journal/letter or whatever you want to call it she needs to share with Lena. So. She needs to get herself together.

Which is hard when Lena looks so stunning. The happiness and confidence that exudes from her without Lex and Lillian looming over her, it makes her more alluring than ever. Kara’s mind constantly drifts to thoughts of ebony locks and viridian eyes.

Rao, Lena has never looked so beautiful. She’s a goddess amongst mere mortals…

She shakes her head and forces herself back to reality.

“You know, I spent a lot of time thinking about things too. While you were in Newfoundland, I mean. Well, and while I was in the Phantom Zone. Lots of time to think there.” She shakes her head, the urge to ramble growing stronger and she wants to do this right. Blowing out a breath and pulling another in, she tries to calm herself before trying again. “I’ve given a lot of thought to having a home and what it really means to me. I always see the same thing, Lena. Your face, your smile. It’s always you. I, umm, I wrote something about it while you were gone.”

Releasing their connected hands proves more difficult than she anticipated, but she manages. She pulls the folded paper from her pocket where it has been since she finished it. Her hope was the right moment would present itself and she could either let Lena read it or read it to her. Now the moment is here and she’s more nervous than her Pulitzer ceremony.

Clearing her throat, she pauses before locking eyes with her best friend and lightly shrugs. “I guess I’m not sure if you want to just read it or if you want me to read it to you. I mean, I’ll do either. Just as long as you know what it says and…” A nervous chuckle escapes and she shifts herself on the couch, turning her body toward her best friend. “What would you prefer? I’m going to be nervous and jittery regardless.”

Lena tilts her head and lifts her hand to her chin feigning thought. “Well, if you are giving me the choice, I am going to choose having you read it to me.” She pats the Kryptonian on the thigh before leaning her elbow onto the backrest of the couch, propping her head in her hand. “If I can listen to your words and hear your thoughts through your voice, I am going to choose that option every time, Kara.”

They laugh and settle into place as Kara unfolds the paper. She knows this is going to change things, she just doesn’t know how much. With one last look at the woman that holds her heart, she begins to read.

--------------------------

Watching her. It’s something I catch myself doing quite frequently. It’s not that I mean to or I do it on purpose. It just happens. She’s always captivated me. Her wit. Her brilliance. Her grace. Not to mention her eyes. Her smile. Her armor piercing eyebrow raise. There are so many things about her that reel me in.

From the first moment our eyes met, the first time my eyes connected with the deep pools of sea green, I knew she was special. Someone important. And that is the moment my world shifted.

Watching her is distracting. She moves with a sense of surety and power unlike any I’ve seen. Her intelligence is a super power very few possess, she wields it with both caution and tenacity. The desire to help others is so innate to her soul, even the sinister Luthors couldn’t break her drive to do good.

From the first time she helped save the city, I knew she was a hero. A woman worthy of respect and honor, no matter the name she was born under. That was the moment I knew we could take on the world together.

Watching her is awe inspiring. She is so willing to give, to help others, to share her inventions and love of science for the betterment of society, for the greater good of the world. She strives to help others, sometimes even at the detriment of herself.

From the moment she put herself on the line for the safety of others, I knew she was worthy of more than what so many hurl at her. Worthy of love, trust, and respect, leagues beyond what the world has given her.

Watching her is life changing. Life has so many twists and turns, nothing is guaranteed or promised. But when I see her, when I watch her teach her goddaughter new things, when I watch her toss her head back in unrestrained laughter, even when I watch tears drift down her pale cheeks…watching her is life changing.

From the moment I first held her in my arms, I knew my life was forever changed. The gift of her smile is priceless, the gift of her trust is sacred, but the gift of her love is divine.

Watching her has forever changed my life, finding her is how I found my home. --------------------------

Kara finishes reading, but is hesitant to look up. She’s not sure how Lena is going to react and doesn’t want to see rejection reflected back at her. It isn’t until she hears a soft sniffle that her head bolts up and her eyes find teary, sparkling green ones.

Her eyes widen and she reaches out to wipe the tears away. “I-I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you cry.” The blonde grabs the box of tissues from the coffee table and hands one to Lena. “Are you okay? Do you need me to leave? I can…”

Her rambling words are halted by a soft finger pressing against her lips. She keeps her eyes on the woman the finger belongs to. The mossy pools she’s gotten lost in countless times search her oceanic ones, apparently finding what she needs.

Lena slowly removes her finger, gently lifting both hands to rest on Kara’s cheeks. She presses their foreheads together and sighs. “I guess two lost little girls finally found their home.”

Neither of them know who leaned in first. In the end, it really doesn’t matter. Not when the result is their lips pressing together and a home to call their own.

#supercorp #supergirl #lena luthor #kara danvers #supercorp fanfic #fanfic #fanfic writer #mac writes

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