#I know there's supposed to be food on the table | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

your-hockey-mom · 3 days ago

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loved your sick gf/helpful quinn post

can we get a sick quinn this time? I feel like he'd be a big baby when he's sick

Quinn had coughed all night.

It had started off small but had quickly developed into something more consistent and with a persistent wheeze alongside it. He seemed so uncomfortable: tossing and turning, trembling with the chills and cold sweats. It seemed like with each passing hour a new symptom appeared: from the cough to finally the body aches. You wanted to soothe his pain and make him comfortable but he just pushed you away, It had kind of hurt your feelings having him reject you time and again, but you were just trying to help. Best you could do was tell yourself it was just because he felt bad and that he didn't mean to be that way.

By this point, you couldn't sleep. Quinn's constant shifting and coughing had given you no peace or himself for that matter. Sometime in the night, you grabbed your pillow and went to the sofa instead, You didn't want to leave him, but if he was sick, he would need someone to care for him come the morning. If you were running on a couple hours sleep, it wasn't going to be you; you might as well be sick right alongside of him.

Even from the living room, you could hear him cough, hear the wheeze cause him so much pain with its ability to take his breath away. You probably didn't sleep any more on the sofa than you would have beside him. Every so often you'd force yourself to get up and check on him. He had a fever and was burning up yet he appeared to be asleep. Quinn needed medicine and as soon as possible but you weren't about to wake him up to take any. Instead, you'd dig through the bathroom cabinets and find some multi-symptom cough syrup. The label said it would help counteract each of the things Quinn was dealing with but would it be enough? You'd leave it on his bedside table for the next time a coughing fit woke him.

When morning came around he seemed worse. Congestion had set in and it had changed the sound of his voice to something nasally instead of its usually velvety tone. Getting him to take anything was like pulling teeth because he just wanted to lay with the pillow over his head, hidden from everything especially the morning light. Though Quinn wasn't normally the dramatic type, when he was sick, it was like the end of the world.

"Baby, please, just take this and I'll leave you alone. That's all I asking you to do."

"I'm fine. I just-- I'm fine," he said from under the covers.

"You're not and you know it. Please, just take it?"

"I just need to sleep it off."

You tried to contain your sigh but it was hard. He was being completely unreasonable and it was starting to wear on your nerves. If he just took the medicine it would help but getting him to see that point wasn't going your way. This wasn't the first time he had probably felt like this, so why was he being such a baby?

"Why won't you take it, Quinn?"

There was a long pause. You knew he wasn't asleep. Was he ignoring you in the hopes that you'd give up and just walk away? If that were the case, you were close to it.

"Okay, fine. Suit yourself." Leaving the medicine on the table, you'd leave the room defeated. What else were you supposed to do? He didn't want to be touched, loved on, or anything but left alone. At least that's how it seemed. Even simple conversations were proving to be a battle.

You shut the bedroom door behind you and went to the kitchen. Food didn't seem like the magical end-all-be-all cure to his cold but if he didn't want it then you'd just take it for yourself. Soup seemed like the best choice even if it was the cliche option. "Comforting to the soul and stomach," your mom always said when you were sick. However, a quick assessment of the pantry revealed you didn't have what you needed for soup.

Instead of sticking your head back into the bedroom to let him know you were headed out, you texted his phone saying something similar.

"I'm going to the store. I'll be back in a bit."

Short and painfully to the point. It wouldn't be until you were in Quinn's car that you felt guilty for how you had come off. You'd text him once more before finally leaving; trying to rewrite your sour attitude towards him.

"I love you."

- - -

When you returned to the apartment, you could see signs of life that hadn't been there before. The cough medicine was now on the island; the used dosing cup had remnants of the syrup still in the bottom, A loaf of bread was poorly wrapped up alongside it, and what looked like a simple cheese sandwich sat on a napkin with one bite taken out of it. And finally, on the sofa, was a bundled up Quinn, his tangled curls spilling out over one of the pillows he rested his head on.

"Hi," he said, when you walked past him. His tone was defeated, moping even. Had you hurt his feelings? It wasn't your intention to, but it was just frustrating trying to help someone who just came off like they would rather stay miserable.

"Hi, baby."

"Where did you go? I came out and you were gone." Quinn didn't lift his head off the pillow or even his eyes. When you looked over at him he was looking at your feet.

"I texted you. I went to the store to get stuff to make you soup."

"I haven't looked at my phone. You didn't have to do that." His monotone was worse now, tinged slightly with his own flavour of annoyance.

Had you been in a worse mood, you would have said something about checking his phone, but instead you were able to bite your tongue. He didn't feel good, you had to remind yourself of this fact. This wasn't your Quinn - your sweet Huggy Bear - this was someone struggling with their body fighting against them to get better. You knew Quinn would never purposefully give you an attitude or be short with you, and the same should have been said about you.

"I'm sorry I was short with you, Quinn," you finally get out. You had hoped that would have removed some weight from your chest but instead it only made it heavier. He still wouldn't look at you. In fact, he closed his eyes after you had spoken your apology. Seeing him ignore you that way felt terrible, but you felt you had earned his cold shoulder. You had been sick a few times since you had been together and Quinn had been so kind and selfless. What had given you the right to be so unsympathetic?

"It's fine," he said, snuggling deeper into his self-made cocoon.

"It's not fine." Your heart hurts as you cross the room to kneel before where he lay. "Honey, I'm sorry." You brush the sweat-matted hair from his forehead. He was burning up with fever but this time he managed to look at you. He looked like he could melt into tears at any moment.

"I'm sorry I ignored you earlier," he replied, meeting you halfway with his own apology.

"You don't feel good, Quinn, it's okay. I'm sorry I got mad. I had no right to."

Quinn sniffled, either from the congestion or just because he was getting that emotional. Either way, you leaned forward and gave him a tender kiss to his forehead. This made the faintest smile appear on his half-concealed lips.

"You probably shouldn't kiss me," he mumbles, silently thankful for the gentle affection. Deep down, he wanted it; wanted to be babied and taken care of but instead of asking for it, he just found himself coming off as hard-headed.

"It's alright," you reassure him, a second kiss finding its mark along with the first. "I'll just get sick right with you."

"I don't want you to get sick, though."

"I know you don't but sometimes it happens. At least we'll have soup." You give him a smile, the first one that day. He returns the sentiment.

"What kind?"

"Broccoli cheddar and the classic chicken noodle. Which do you want first?"

"You got stuff for both?" His little voice sounded shocked, amazed that you'd treat him to two different types of soup varieties. Sometimes it was the little things that made the biggest impact.

"Of course I did."

Quinn tried to sit but got winded halfway through, a coughing fit taking what strength he had built up.

"Oh, baby, you need to rest. How about you get a nap and I'll wake you up when I get something done?"

"Okay."

"It's okay, sweetheart, I'll manage." You wink, trying to reassure him that everything would be okay, and that you could handle some soup-making alone. When you stood up, you caught the subtle trembling from under his blanket. "I'm going to get you another blanket, okay?"

"Okay."

Those short responses you recognized were the best he could do at the time and didn't strike a nerve like they had earlier. But walking away from him still hurt like it had the first time, and you could feel his eyes on you still. From a tote under your bed, you found a heated blanket your parents had sent you after you made the decision to move to Vancouver. Hopefully this would bring Quinn some more consistent heat despite his body running his internal thermostat like a child left unsupervised.

"Here, baby, this should help you. Do you want this overtop or...?"

"I want that one," he said, pulling the original one from his body as best he could.

"It's okay, it's okay. Here, let me get it," you say, helping Quinn untuck himself before draping him with the ultra-plush heated one. "Should be nice and hot in just a few minutes."

"Thank you," he said, gripping it tightly. "Thanks for helping me."

"Thank you for letting me. I'm going to go make you some soup, okay? I'll try to be quiet so I don't wake you."

"I'll just...I'll be right here," he said through a yawn, the medicine finally kicking in and lulling him to sleep.

#quinn hughes #quinn hughes imagine #quinn hughes x reader #hockey imagine #hockey fanfiction #hockey fic #quinn hughes one shot #quinn hughes fanfiction #quinn hughes fic #nhl fanfiction #nhl fic

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joelmillerisapunk · 2 days ago

Text

Pretty Boy Sub!Javi x F!Reader

Masterlist ★ Wordcount: 4.2K

📽 —★ Summary: The Christmas you made Javi your sub

-or -

javi teases you at the dinner table and you make him pay for it

📽 —★ Warnings: 18+, mdni, javi is a sub, lots of edging an obscene amount, javi is called pretty boy, good boy, m!oral receiving, javi is tied up with a ribbon that is stronger than steel lol, reader wears a dress and has breasts

📽 —★ Notes: thanks to @thundermartini I wrote this at 10am in a Costco on Christmas Eve waiting for them to have chickens ready to pick up because what else was I supposed to do... so anyway, thank you and @milla-frenchy for reading and being the best Javi girls around. I love you both so much. ty @saradika-graphics for your amazing dividers as always

The Christmas dinner table is a picture of warmth and cheer, twinkling lights reflecting off wine glasses and silverware, the low hum of conversation blending with the soft holiday music playing in the background. Everyone seems caught up in the festive spirit—everyone except Javier Peña.

He sits beside you, his broad shoulders relaxed in a way that’s almost deceptive, his dark eyes glinting with something far less innocent than holiday cheer. The corner of his mouth lifts in a knowing smirk as his hand disappears beneath the tablecloth.

It starts innocently enough—a light brush of his fingers against your knee as he leans over to pour you another glass of wine. But then his hand doesn’t retreat. Instead, it inches higher, his calloused fingertips drag along the inside of your thigh, setting your skin on fire even through the thin fabric of your dress. If anything he could say you were asking for it, not wearing underwear at the table.

You bite the inside of your cheek to keep your expression neutral and your hand tightens around the stem of your glass. Javier leans closer, his lips brushing against your ear under the pretense of saying something.

“You’re awfully quiet, cariño,” he murmurs, his voice low and teasing. “Something wrong?”

You shoot him a pointed look but his fingers slide higher, just grazing the edge of your folds, and it takes everything in you not to let out a soft gasp.

The chatter at the table continues, oblivious to the silent battle happening under the tablecloth. Javier’s thumb presses lightly against you, slow moving, sending a pulse of heat straight through you. You squirm slightly, and his smirk widens.

“You okay, sweetheart?” he asks, his voice dripping with faux concern.

You don’t answer, but your hand drops to your lap, brushing his wrist away just long enough to regain your composure. When your fork slips from your hand and clatters to the floor, Javier barely hides his amusement.

“I’ll get it,” you say sweetly, pushing back your chair and slipping under the table.

The faint flicker of triumph in his expression vanishes as your hand slides up his thigh, your nails dragging over the denim of his jeans. Javier tenses, his breath hitching when your fingers press against the bulge straining against the fabric.

“Careful papi,” you whisper, just loud enough for him to hear, your lips brushing the edge of his belt as you work the button open. His hand twitches as he grips the tablecloth, but he doesn’t stop you.

You free him, your hand wrapping around him with a firm, teasing stroke. His hips shift slightly, a faint curse slips from his lips as you run your tongue along his length, savoring his quiet reaction.

“Everything alright, Javier?” one of the relatives asks, and Javier clears his throat, forcing a smile.

“Yeah,” he replies with a tight voice. “Just, uh, enjoying the food.”

You suppress a smile, your movements are languid, making it as hard as possible for him to focus. His thighs tense and his fingers twitch against the table as he struggles to keep his composure.

Satisfied with your small victory, you tuck him back into his jeans and rejoin the table, your expression as innocent as ever. Javier’s dark eyes follow you as you sit back down, smoldering with a silent promise of retribution.

Later that night, after the dishes are cleared and the guests have gone, you take Javier’s hand and pull him into the bedroom. The way his eyes follow you, heated and curious, tells you he knows something is coming—but not exactly what.

“Sit,” you command softly, nodding toward the bed.

He arches a brow at the sudden authority in your tone but obeys, settling on the edge of the mattress with his legs spread, casual yet confident. You hand him a small box, wrapped neatly with a red bow, and watch as curiosity flickers across his face.

“What’s this?” he asks, tugging at the ribbon.

“Your Christmas gift,” you reply, your voice deceptively sweet.

When the lid comes off, his expression changes. His eyes widen slightly, and then he chuckles as he pulls out a long length of red silk ribbon and a smaller spool of the same material. A tiny bottle of oil is nestled beneath it.

“You’ve been busy, haven’t you?” he says, his smirk curling upward.

“I had to get creative,” you reply, stepping closer. “You’ve been a very bad boy tonight, Javi.”

“Oh, have I?” he drawls, amusement flickering in his tone as he eases back onto the bed, propping himself up with his hands. His eyes glint with a playful challenge. “And what exactly did I do this time?”

You slide a hand up his chest, wrapping it around his neck and lean in close enough that your breath fans across his lips. “You know exactly what you did,” you whisper. “Teasing me under the table like that? Getting me all worked up in front of everyone?”

His grin grows wider. “You liked it.”

“I did,” you admit, pulling back before he can kiss you. “But you don’t get to tease me like that and get away with it. Tonight, I’m in charge, papi.”

You step back, letting your gaze sweep over him as you tug at the hem of his shirt. “This is in my way,” you say, pulling it up and over his head. He raises his arms obediently letting you take charge.

Your fingers slowly trail over his chest, down his stomach, following the trail that leads lower to the waistband of his jeans. “These, too,” you murmur, undoing the button and zipper.

“Eager, are we?”

“Quiet,” you reply with a smirk, tugging his jeans and boxers down in one smooth motion. His cock springs free, hard and already glistening at the tip, you take a moment to appreciate him.

“Mmm look at you, now lie back handsome.”

There’s a flicker of hesitation in his eyes—he loves control, loves the chase—but there’s also curiosity. Slowly, he leans back against the pillows, his broad shoulders sinking into the mattress as he looks up at you.

You climb onto the bed, straddling his hips, and slide your hands up his arms, guiding them above his head. “Let’s make sure you don’t forget who’s in charge tonight,” you say, as you wrap the red ribbon around his wrists and tie him to the headboard.

“Red ribbon, huh? Very festive hermosa.”

“I'm not done,” you reply, holding up the smaller spool. His eyes darken as he watches you unwind a length of it.

“What are you planning to do with that?” he asks.

You smirk, trailing the ribbon down his chest, lower and lower, until it brushes against his growing erection. “This,” you say, wrapping the silky material around his already weeping cock, tying it snugly, the bow perched just below the tip.

Javier groans and his hips jerk slightly. “You’re killing me.”

“Oh no,” you purr, sliding your fingers down the length of him, your touch featherlight. “Not yet. But you’ll wish I would.”

You smirk and watch his eyes burn with hunger, his body already taut with tension. You get off him admiring your beautiful sunkissed gift before slowly reaching for the hem of your dress, dragging it up inch by inch until the lacy bra underneath is revealed. His nostrils flare, his jaw clenching as he fights against the silk binding his wrists, desperate to touch you.

"Look at you," you murmur, letting the dress fall to the floor, your bra quickly following. "So eager, so needy. You can’t wait to bury your face between my tits, can you?"

"Fuck, no, I can’t," he growls, his voice rough. His cock twitches against the ribbon, the sight of you makes him ache.

You step forward, leaning over him just enough that your breasts brush against his lips. His tongue flicks out instantly, trying to catch one of your nipples, but you pull back with a grin.

“Not so fast,” you say, cupping your breasts and squeezing them together, the movement making his gaze darken with lust. “You think you’ve earned this, Javi? After teasing me all night? No, baby. You’re gonna have to work for it.”

He lets out a guttural groan, his hips jerking as he strains against the headboard. “Let me taste you, baby. Fuck—please.”

You laugh softly, dragging your fingers over your nipples, tweaking them until they’re stiff, your breath hitching slightly at your own touch. His eyes are locked on you, his desperation is palpable.

"Look at how hard you are," you taunt, glancing down at his cock, admiring the pretty ribbon straining against his shaft. "You’re throbbing just watching me, aren’t you?"

“You’re fucking killing me,” he growls, his voice is rough with frustration.

“Oh, I’m just getting started,” you reply, leaning down again to press your chest against his face. This time, you move them against his lips, letting him feel the softness he craves but pulling back just as he tries to latch on again.

“Bet you want to suck on these tits so bad, don’t you?” you purr, dragging a nipple across his cheek. "Bet you’d bury your face right here, lose yourself completely, wouldn’t you?”

“Fuck, yes," he rasps, his voice breaking. "Let me, baby, please. I’ll do anything."

You trail your fingers down his chest, over his stomach, until you’re lightly stroking his cock. His hips buck at the touch, his head tilting back as he groans.

“You’ll get what you want,” you promise, gripping his shaft just enough to make him gasp, “but not until I’m done with you. And baby, I’m gonna take my sweet time ruining you tonight.”

“Please,” he groans again, as you straddled him. His voice drips with need, more desperate than ever. The sound of his beautiful, breathless whines sends a shiver down your spine—you think you could grow addicted to them.

“Please, what?” you ask, leaning down to kiss his neck, letting your teeth graze his skin.

“Let me touch you,” he murmurs, his tone is rough with need like a man that has been starved for far too long and it turns you on even more. “I’ll be good. I’ll make you feel so good, baby, just let me—”

“No,” you interrupt, with a firm voice.

He groans. “You’re torturing me.”

“Good, you deserve it.”

You shift your hips, grinding against him slowly, the friction drawing a strangled moan from his lips. His head falls back against the pillows, eyes closing as he fights to stay still.

“You’re so sensitive, poor baby,” you tease, your nails grazing his skin as you move lower. “I could make you come just like this, couldn’t I?”

“Try me,” he challenges, never one to back down.

You smirk, sliding off him, in between his legs, your tongue darts out to flick over the head of his cock—a quick, teasing touch that leaves him trembling.

“Fuck,” he mutters, his hips jerking as he tries to chase your touch.

“Ah, ah,” you chide, sitting back. “If you can’t behave, I’ll have to tie your legs, too.”

You smirk as you settle between his legs, your fingers tracing the red ribbon tied snugly around his cock. “You look so pretty like this, Javi,” you say as you press a featherlight kiss to the tip of his length.

“Pretty? I don’t think anyone’s called me that before.”

“First time for everything,” you tease, your lips brushing against him again. “And right now, you’re all mine, pretty boy.”

His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t respond—not when you take him into your mouth, your tongue swirling around the head slowly. His reaction is immediate—a sharp intake of breath, his thighs tensing beneath your hands.

Fuck, hermosa,”his voice is strained, thick with need, desperate for more. “Stop teasing. Just—let me—”

You hum around him, taking him deeper, the ribbon soaking with his arousal and your spit. Your hand strokes the base of his cock in tandem with your mouth. The sounds he makes are delicious—low groans, muffled curses, the occasional helpless whimper when your tongue finds just the right spot.

But just when his breathing starts to hitch, just when his hips start to buck up slightly, you pull away with a soft pop.

“Goddamn it. Baby I can't do this, please. You already got me begging what more do you want?”

You smirk, enjoying his strangled pleas. You wipe the corner of your mouth with your thumb. “You don’t get to come until I say so.”

You return to your slow, torturous rhythm—taking him into your mouth, sucking and stroking him just to the brink before pulling back. Each time, his curses grow louder, more desperate, until his voice is raw with need and he's begging.

“Please,” he groans. “Please, baby, just let me—”

“No,” you interrupt, with a sharp tone. “You don’t get to beg your way out of this, Javi. You’re going to take it, just like I did at the dinner table.”

His eyes blaze with frustration and arousal, his chest heaving as he tries to catch his breath. You crawl up his body, capturing his mouth in a heated kiss. His tongue pushes past your lips immediately, tasting himself on you as he groans into the kiss.

“Feel that?” you whisper against his mouth, grinding your soaked cunt against his cock, the ribbon still snug around his shaft. “Feel how close you are? How much I want you?”

You shift again, letting the head of his cock brush against your entrance, your wetness coats the tip. “You’re so close to getting everything you want, Javi. But you have to behave.”

“I’ll behave,” he promises. “Just—please, baby. Just once. Let me taste you.”

You lean over him, letting one nipple graze his lips. "Once," you whisper, your voice dripping with warning. "You get one lick, or I’ll stop. Completely. Do you understand?"

His eyes burn with hunger as he nods, and you lower yourself just enough for his mouth to capture your nipple. His tongue flicks over the sensitive peak, and you moan softly, arching into him.

The second his tongue flicks out and tries to suck harder, you pull back abruptly. “That’s all you get,” you tease, dragging your fingers through your dripping folds, coating them in your slick arousal before pressing them firmly against his lips. “Taste that, baby? Taste how fucking soaked you’ve made me?”

Javier growls, sucking your fingers into his mouth greedily, his tongue swirling around them like a man starved.

“You’re fucking merciless,” he rasps, his voice raw, thick with desperation.

“Merciless?” you echo, smirking as you slide your slick fingers down to the base of his cock, stroking him slowly, torturously. “No, baby, it's just you don’t get to come until you’re begging me like your life depends on it. And even then…” You pause, leaning in close so your lips brush his ear. “I might just make you wait even longer.”

His breath hitches, his head falling back against the pillow as he bites out a string of curses. "Fuck, baby, please. You can’t do this to me.”

“Oh, I can,” you purr, capturing his mouth in a searing kiss, your tongue teasing his as you taste the mix of your arousal and his desperation. “And you love every second of it, don’t you? You love being completely at my mercy. You want me to let you come, Javi? Maybe I’ll just ride that pretty cock of yours until I come and leave you tied up like this, dripping and desperate.”

Satisfied with his desperation, you shift, crawling up his body until you’re straddling his face. His eyes widen slightly, and then his lips curl into a knowing smirk.

“Oh, you want this nena?”

Shhhh,” you snap, your grip on his hair tightening as you yank his head back. His lips part, his breathing heavy as his eyes burn into yours. “You don’t get to talk. That mouth has one purpose right now, and it’s not to speak.”

You lower yourself onto his face, thighs bracketing his head, and he immediately dives in like a man starved. The first swipe of his tongue against your slick folds draws a sharp gasp from your lips, and your nails dig into his shoulders as you grind down against him.

His muffled groan vibrates against your core, and the sound sends a shiver up your spine. His tongue works you with precision—long, slow strokes that have you trembling, alternating between licking and sucking on your clit until your head falls back, your hips moving on their own.

“Good boy,” you murmur, your voice low and breathy as you roll your hips against his face. “That’s it. Just like that. Eat me like you mean it, Javi.”

A growl rumbles from his chest, muffled by your thighs, as his tongue plunges inside. His nose presses against your clit, and the way he moves beneath you—licking, sucking, devouring—makes your thighs shake as you grip his hair tighter.

“Fuck, you’re so greedy,” you moan, your nails raking over his scalp. “You love being smothered by me, don’t you? Love how I taste, how I feel?”

Javier’s response is a guttural growl, his lips locking around your swollen clit as he sucks hard, pulling a strangled cry from your throat.

“Look at you,” you pant, grinding harder, your thighs squeezing his flushed cheeks. “You’d suffocate just to get one more taste of me, wouldn’t you? Such a desperate, filthy little thing.”

His moan vibrates against your cunt, and you let out a breathless laugh, tugging his head back just enough to let him catch a fleeting gasp of air before pushing him right back where you want him. “Not until I’m shaking, Javi. You don’t get to breathe until I say you can.”

Your orgasm crashes over you like a tidal wave, and you cry out his name, your body arching as your thighs tremble against his cheeks. He doesn’t slow, doesn’t let up—his tongue keeps working you through every shudder, every pulse of pleasure, until you’re left panting and boneless.

Finally, you lift yourself off him, your legs unsteady as you look down at him. His face is flushed, his lips shiny and swollen, his chest heaving as he gasps for air.

“You’re such a good boy for me,” you murmur, dragging your fingers over his slick, damp hair. “You’d do anything for this, wouldn’t you?”

He licks his lips, his gaze dark and feral as he nods. “Anything,” he rasps, his voice raw and wrecked.

“Good boy,” you murmur, stroking his jaw. “You earned that one.”

Javier smirks up at you. “Can I touch you now?”

“No,” you reply, sliding back down his body until you’re straddling his hips. His cock is still painfully hard, weeping with need.

You trail your fingers down his chest, your touch featherlight as you reach for the ribbon. “Now,” you say, your voice teasing, “let’s unwrap my real present.”

Javier’s groan is low and desperate as you untie the ribbon with deliberate care, letting it fall to the side. His cock stands free, thick and glistening, and you take a moment to admire him.

“Such a pretty gift,” you murmur, wrapping your hand around him and giving a slow stroke before positioning yourself over him. “You’ve waited long enough,” you say, sinking down onto him slowly, savoring the way he stretches you.

Javier groans, his head falling back against the pillows. “Fuck, nena,” he mutters. “You feel so—”

“Quiet,” you interrupt, placing a hand on his chest. “Be good for me papi and you'll get a treat.”

He nods and you start to move, your hips roll in slow, deliberate circles. The friction is exquisite, and the way his eyes darken as he watches you is enough to make you feel drunk on power.

“You’re so good for me,” you murmur as your nails drag down his chest. “Taking everything I give you, just like a good boy should.”

“Ah,” you warn, pressing him back down when his hips buck up again. “You don’t get to move unless I say so.”

“Cariño,” he groans, his voice a mix of frustration and need.

You lean down, your lips brushing against his ear. “If you’re a good boy,” you whisper, “I'll let you come.”

You adjust your hips slightly, taking him deeper, drawing a strangled groan from his lips. His jaw tightens, but he obeys your command to stay still, though you can feel the tension in his body as he fights the urge to take over.

“That’s it,” you purr, your fingers trailing down his sides, nails grazing his skin. “You’re learning.”

His dark eyes lock onto yours, smoldering with restrained desire. “You’re making this harder than it has to be,” he murmurs.

“Good,” you reply, rolling your hips again, the pace slow enough to keep him on the edge without giving him relief, you lean down closer to his face. “You deserve it for what you pulled tonight, might just sit still and keep your cock warm all night.”

A low growl rumbles in his chest. “You’re being a brat hermosa, I'm gonna return this favor later.”

“I know,” you say with a smug smile. “But you like it, don’t you?”

Instead of answering, he lifts his head just enough to nip at your shoulder, his teeth grazing your skin. The heat of his breath sends a shiver through you, but you don’t let him distract you.

“Careful,” you warn, your nails dragging over his chest hard enough to leave faint red marks. “You don’t want me to stop, do you?”

His head falls back onto the pillow with a frustrated groan. “No, don’t stop, please, don’t stop.” He begs you.

You tilt your head, pretending to consider his plea. “I don’t know,” you say, tightening your grip on his shoulders as you grind down harder. “You’ve been awfully bossy for someone tied up.”

He grits his teeth, his hips shifting involuntarily beneath you. “I’ll be good,” he promises, his tone desperate now. “I’ll do whatever you want, just—don’t stop.”

Your smirk widens. “Whatever I want?”

“Anything,” he breathes. “Just tell me.”

You pause your movements, watching as frustration and arousal war in his expression. His cock twitches inside you, and the sight of him so undone and needy sends a thrill through you.

“Then you’re going to stay just like this,” you command. “No moving, no talking unless I say so. Got it?”

He swallows hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing, and nods.

“Good,” you murmur, leaning down to press a kiss to his forehead.

You resume your slow, deliberate rhythm, rolling your hips in a way that leaves you both gasping. Every movement is calculated to draw out his pleasure without letting him fall over the edge.

You lean forward, dragging your lips along the column of his throat, your teeth grazing his pulse point. His body arches beneath you, and you feel the control he’s so used to having slip further and further away.

“Please,” he rasps again, his voice thick with need.

“Please what?”

“Let me come,” he groans, the words ripped from him. “I need it baby. I can’t—”

You cut him off with a sharp roll of your hips that has him biting back a curse. “Shhh pretty boy. I know you're hurting, I got you, don't worry, but you need to be quiet for me.”

Javier’s chest heaves, his dark eyes pleading with you, but you don’t relent.

His entire body is taut like a bowstring, his lips part as if to speak, but no words come out—just a low, guttural sound that makes you shiver.

“You’re so close, aren’t you?” you murmur, your nails raking lightly over his chest. “You can feel it, can’t you?”

“Fuck, yes,” he chokes out, his head thrown back as he teeters on the brink.

You slow your movements again, watching as frustration clouds his features. His hips jerk upward in a desperate attempt for more friction, but you press him back down with a firm hand on his chest.

“No moving,” you remind him, your voice a soft but stern command.

Javier’s growl is deep and feral, but he forces himself to obey, his body trembling with the effort it takes to stay still.

Finally, when you decide he’s suffered enough, you quicken your pace, your hips grinding down on him with a purpose. His entire body tenses beneath you, his breaths coming in harsh, uneven gasps.

“That’s it,” you purr, leaning down to nip at his earlobe. “I want you to come for me, Javi. Show me how good you can be.”

The permission is all he needs. With a strangled groan, his release crashes over him, his body shuddering violently beneath you. You don’t stop moving, drawing every last wave of pleasure from him until he’s a trembling, panting mess.

You finally slow to a stop, your body still trembling from your own lingering aftershocks. Leaning down, you press a soft kiss to his lips, savoring the way he melts into it.

“Good boy,” you murmur against his mouth, your fingers tracing the faint red marks on his wrists as you untie him.

Javier groans softly, his arms falling to his sides as he gazes up at you with a dazed, satisfied expression. “You’re going to be the death of me, cariño,” he mutters.

You grin, brushing a strand of hair from his damp forehead. “And you wouldn’t have it any other way.”

#javier peña x reader #javier pena smut #javier peña #javier pena x reader #javier pena fic #javier pena fanfiction

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tsukimefuku · 2 days ago

Text

CHAPTER THREE PT. II: DIMINISHED CAPACITY ❀ HIGURUMA SENSEI SERIES

masterlist link | mdni! | oopsie, is that... a special banner? gee I wonder if there's something to see at the end of this chapter, huh?

❀ diminished capacity.

Diminished capacity refers to an individual’s impossibility to form the intent necessary for committing any criminal act, because their capacity to fully comprehend the nature of their actions is impaired. It doesn’t, however, completely exclude their responsibility, and they may be held accountable to a lesser offense.

wc: 5.5K ❀ pairing for the series: professor!higuruma x student!reader

❀ tags and c/w.

non-curse au. college au. slow-burn romcom. professor and college student pre-relationship. internship interviews suck. nobara likes to steal food from people. mentions of hypothetical violent crime. nanami gets pestered by gojo even here. higuruma likes sunflowers. nanami has a sixth sense.

❀ notes etc.

Apologies to any colleagues reading the word “evidence” in place of “proof” and feeling like tackling me with a broom, lol. Also, a huge thanks to everyone who came around for part one, I hope you guys get to enjoy reading this just as much I enjoyed writing it.

Argh… Monday.

Internship hunt was hell. There was no other way to spin that wheel. You knew it’d be incredibly hard, but not this hard.

Mondays were cursed days, but to know that not only cursed, they’d also start with terrible interviews — plural — was not in your bingo card for this week. Between oh, you just started criminal law I this semester? and we will let you know laid the crumbling sounds of your utmost despair of knowing full well you were in for a ride for those next few days.

Well, if only daydreaming about him could save you.

It didn’t, though.

Unfortunately.

You arrived at the campus cafeteria where you were supposed to meet Nobara. Even on a fairly uncomfortable chair, she slouched nearly enough to slide down onto the ground like a rag doll, and it didn’t take you much to realize these past few days were throwing her through the wringer too.

“You look like death,” you joked as you pulled your chair to sit with her, putting your tuna sandwich and can of soda over the table.

“And you look like… like… hmph,” she scoffed while rolling her eyes and propping herself back up again.

“No snarky comeback? Are you that tired?”

“Leave me alone,” she replied, and apparently, she really wasn’t in the mood for playful banter. You took a bite out of your sandwich, pondering if you should ask her about it, but she beat you to it. “Why is getting internships this early in college is so damn hard?”

“Apparently, places don’t trust complete newbies or youngsters,” you noted, “and they want someone who has already studied all the necessary subjects prior to hiring. Also, people with prior experience are preferred.”

“Yet these are internship opportunities! Aren’t interns supposed to be newbies who are going to learn from the experience they’ll get through the internship?” Nobara irritatedly inquired, her implied commentary more a complaint than a question. You nodded.

“Absolutely. It makes no sense, it’s like they’re just trying to hire a junior lawyer with less rights and a lower pay rate,” you churned out through your mouthful of tuna and mayonnaise, “now that I think about it, it’s probably that, actually.”

“I can’t go back home! I mean, I made it all the way here. If I had to go back I would never get over this. I need some money, and I need some money soon, otherwise this will all just have been a waste of my time. I should just get a part time job already instead of insisting in starting my internship as fast as possible.”

Nobara covered her face, and she sounded genuinely upset. You paused your munching for a bit, and after washing it all down with a few gulps of soda, you leaned towards her, pulling her hands from her face.

“Hey, Nobara, we’re not letting that happen, okay? Neither me, Maki, Yuuji or Megumi.” you offered in an attempt to comfort her. She let you peel her palms away, and gazed at you in a mixture of frustration and anger, which softly subsided after your comment. You decided to push your luck, just a bit. “We can refugee you in Megumi’s car. We’ll get you a hammer so you can hit passerbies for shits and giggles to let some collegiate steam out.”

Consternated, she shook your hands off of her while you chuckled. She made her best effort to still look pissed, but you noticed a tiny smile forming on the edges of her mouth.

“That’s a shit plan, but I’ll take you up on that hammer offer,” she said, and you smiled at her, a gesture she finally reciprocated.

“I’d expect no less from you. So, tell me, in which area are you looking for internships? Fashion law?”

“Nope, entertainment.” Nobara picked your half eaten sandwich in her hands and took a bite before you could protest. “Maki had told me it was easier to get internships in entertainment law to garner some experience for a future in fashion law, but honestly? I’m skeptical now.”

“There might be some openings soon. Have you tried Professor Gojo’s firm? It’s the same as Professor Nanami’s, isn’t it? I mean, that giant firm with dozens of departments and that nearly every teacher at our college seems to work for.” You stretched your hand to get your sandwich back, but she slapped you away. “Hey!”

“I need it more than you, I’m sad!”

“I’m sad too! I had four terrible internship interviews today, give it back!”

You both entered a silly slapping match, and the few people walking past the table would look away nervously in fear of getting dragged into the middle of whatever war was going on over a cheap cafeteria tuna sandwich.

“You were having interviews today too?! How come you never told me?! I’m gonna eat your food for not telling me stuff, you’ve been weird ever since that party that you went off for a smoke and dipped!” She took another humongous bite and you jumped over the table, finally snatching whatever remained of your food out of her hands.

“I haven’t been weird!” you had, “and yes, I did. I am interviewing for internship openings in criminal law, but… well, you’ve been through that these days yourself. You know the drill.”

She grunted with tuna smeared around her mouth, trying to reach for the rest of your sandwich, and it was your turn to slap her.

“Stop it, Nobara. Quit being so stingy and buy one for yourself!”

“Not when I can eat your food for free,” she joked while taking a big gulp from your soda can, and you sighed, which only gave her a shit eating grin. “Did you interview for that spot they announced today?”

“What? What opening?”

“I just saw it, there was a new flyer on the main hall board. It’s an internship for criminal law, apparently under the guidance of Professor Geto,” Nobara said while shrugging. “Apparently the huge firm now has a criminal law department too. It was announced last week or so.”

“Did it say up until when they were taking applications?”

***

Each and every tendon in your body tensed as you sat with the perfect lady-like crossed ankles at the 45º angle under your second-hand suit. The meeting room was, for the lack of a better word, mighty, having an entire glass wall peering into the rest of the office, and towered over you high enough to have you feeling like a tiny speck of dust humbly drifting its way over the clearly expensive brown, leather couch. A few people walked by as you waited, and the mahogany table seemed big enough to fit three people. It was probably worth your entire year’s tuition, and you wondered if the ceiling height really needed to be tailored for elves. Or ents. Tree people, perhaps.

The firm’s name hung high right in front of you, the logo and letters made out of stainless steel illuminated by LEDs behind it. Opulence wasn’t a big enough word to describe that pompous display of corporate wealth.

You were fished out of your rags to riches daydreams by the pivoting door opening, figuring it was your interviewer for the position.

Surprisingly, it wasn’t the already well-known foxy-eyed, long haired Professor to come in, but a much more stoic individual with the polar opposite for a hair, not only in length but in color too. You already knew him from afar, as your commercial law Professor. He carried himself in a dignified manner, and upon further inspection, not only was his navy blue suit absolutely pristine, he also didn’t have a single hair strand out of place. You got up to greet him, bowing respectfully, and he returned the gesture.

“Good afternoon, Mrs.,” he said as he sat down on his chair across from you, “my name is Nanami Kento and I’ll be responsible for your interview today.”

You introduced yourself, and remarked, “apologies, but I thought Prof- I mean, Mr. Geto would be the one responsible for this interview today.”

“As it stands currently, the criminal law department is my responsibility,” Nanami clarified, “so I decided I’d be the one responsible for interviewing our future team. I currently work in our corporate law department.”

You acquiesced with a professional smile. Something about how every tiny detail in him was on point gave you enough leads to conclude that of course this man took it upon himself to be the one responsible for the interviews.

“I’ve read in your resume that you are currently undertaking criminal law I and criminal procedure law I,” Nanami said as he held your resume in his hand, glancing at you and then at the paper, “which isn’t ideal for an intern entering a newly built department.”

Harsh enough?

You readjusted yourself on your chair before speaking.

“Yes, I am.”

He hummed quietly and pulled another paper sheet from his briefcase, and even if his facial expression was perfectly collected, something about how the edges of his lips curled gave away that he was less than happy about whatever was written on it.

“Our HR insisted I should bring this questionnaire with me today, so that I could ask you this list of questions as part of our interview,” he stated, his words followed by a quiet sigh. Nanami then proceeded to tilt the paper towards him and took a moment before proceeding. “Tell me more about yourself in three… captivating anecdotes.”

His voice sounded robotic, as if he was feigning not to loathe the question at hand, and deep down, you did find it amusing. Not enough to distract yourself from the fact that you were usually horrible at interviews altogether, though.

“I’m currently in my late twenties. I started law school last year, and worked during my early twenties to save money for tuition. I’m really passionate about criminal law, that is why I applied.”

Oh, God. What was that?

Well, you sounded robotic too, listing off obvious factualities as if providing a recipe’s ingredients. Both of you stared at each other in silence, wondering if that was what this question was supposed to infer, and it took the two of you so long to speak up again that it became uncomfortable.

Clearing his throat, Nanami unconsciously loosened his tie — barely — before continuing.

Well, at least I’m not the only one who’s uncomfortable.

“What…” he paused for a moment, and seemed to be biting down a discontented sigh, “animal would you be?” His gaze quickly darted down the sheet of paper, and his displeasure was palpable. For someone with such a straight face, his eyes were very telling.

What are these questions? Are we a hip tech company? Nanami thought to himself, wondering if he should make a new list to leave at HR. He was quick to discard the thought once he realized that meant he’d be telling other people how to do their jobs, something he did enough of already.

You didn’t quite know what the hell to answer.

“I… don’t know? I haven’t really thought about that in my life? A cat, perhaps?”

“I haven’t thought about that either, don’t worry, that’s unimportant. Let’s move on to the next question. How…” Nanami lifted an eyebrow, and that alone was enough to tell he was absolutely consternated, “many basketballs can fit inside a bus?”

“… Huh?”

Is this serious?

“I apologize, I believe there must have been some sort of mix-up at the HR, let me…”

Nanami was interrupted by three knocks on the glass wall. You both turned your heads to see Professor Gojo pointing at something — the paper Nanami held in his hands — while subsequently making a thumbs up, a wide grin smeared all over his face.

Without uttering a word nor missing a beat, Nanami got up, walked towards the glass and pulled on something you hadn’t yet noticed. Immediately, blinds slowly descended in front of the glass wall, and Nanami calmly walked his way back to his chair as Gojo’s face tried to keep peering inside the meeting room, descending alongside the rim of the blinds. He kept plastering his hands over the glass like a mimic.

A faint pained moan and a thud echoed once the blinds were about a foot away from reaching the floor.

“Is everything okay?” you inquired, pointing at Gojo’s direction.

“Ignore that.”

That wasn’t a request. You nodded.

“Yes, sir.”

“Perfect. Let’s also ignore this for a while,” Nanami remarked while putting the sheet of questions aside with his fingertips as if it was radioactive. “Let’s try something else.”

Nanami had this feeling — a familiar one — that he’d be able to pry from you what he needed to know if he went about this interview in a more practical fashion. It reminded him of someone, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it.

“I’m going to describe a hypothetical scenario, and I want you to debate it with me,” he stated.

“Okay.”

“A client comes to this office being investigated of homicide and he wants to hire the firm to represent them in Court. They intend to plead not guilty.” you nodded, and Nanami continued, “The victim was shot, but there was no gun to be found in the crime scene. However, the client was the only person in the vicinity apart from the victim’s body. The client’s clothes — a long sleeved shirt and jeans — are evidence that has been collected at the crime scene, but no forensics were requested for it by the prosecution. When questioned in their first meeting, the client is adamant that they did not commit the crime. The attorney needs to decide which path to take regarding evidence they’ll request or submit. Now, I ask you, which type of evidence would the attorney request if the client is truly innocent?”

You took a deep breath while mentally going over the hypothetical scenario Nanami had just relayed, and considering all he mentioned, there was only one possibility.

“If my client was truly innocent, I’d ask for forensic evidence on their clothes. Guns leave gunpowder vestiges on things like clothes, so if this person didn’t actually pull the trigger, there should be no gunpowder on their sleeves.”

Nanami acquiesced, but remained silent.

Ok, this is not the only thing he wants to know.

“Also… I’d tell exactly that to the client.”

Nanami’s face remained completely expressionless, but something about how he tilted his head less than an inch gave you the feeling that he seemed pleased with your answer.

“And why would you do that?”

“We need to work with accurate information. If the client was lying, and we submitted a request for that evidence — forensics on their clothes — we’d be tanking their defense. They need to know what we’ll be submitting as evidence and why. I believe telling that to our client would be enough to sway them into telling us the truth,” you sighed, before concluding, “people lie. Even when they shouldn’t.”

Nanami silently picked your resume back into his hands, and seemed to scan it quickly with his eyes. You knew your chances were slim, considering you had just started Criminal Law that very semester, something he didn’t fail to notice.

After a minute, he spoke again.

“Would you be willing to use some of your spare time to study topics you might not have seen yet in criminal law?”

“Yes.”

Your heart was thumping in your chest. This was it.

Here goes nothing.

“Then, it’s settled. Can you start on Monday?”

***

This wasn’t Higuruma’s usual go-to wish when he found himself behind the Passo’s wheel, but truth of the matter was, he hoped more than anything for his car to breakdown before he got to his destination. It wasn’t something completely out of the question considering his car’s track record, but as if some destiny’s mockery had been bestowed upon him that morning, even the clack-clack-clacks he was already used to hear for the past three months were gone. As Murphy’s Law would have it, the Passo glided over the asphalt like butter.

“Of course you won’t fail me when I need you to, you unreliable piece of-”he muttered to himself under a discontented huff.

Put upon wasn’t strong enough to convey how Higuruma was feeling, his knuckle-white grip around the steering wheel being enough to give him a sharp pain in his palms that would surely follow him for the next few hours. In a sense, he had been knuckle-white tense ever since that morning, thinking about this endeavor he was kicking himself to push through. It was the nth time he’d tried to make that visit over the past year, one that he dreaded with each and every fiber of his being.

The Professor eyed his passenger’s seat for a second, his gaze lingering on the plastic bag he carried with him that day. Inside, there were a bottle of Kirin, an incense, and a single sunflower. The flower was definitely too long to fit properly inside the bag, and it’s head peeped though the opening, yellow petals flickering while the car moved, every ridge on the road seemingly making it jump further and further out of its container.

With one hand on the wheel, and the other reaching out, he tried shoving the sunflower back into the bag, and in between eyeing the bag, then the road, picking the flower, pushing it, the bag sliding off the seat, loud news coming on the radio, Higuruma getting startled, his glasses slipping down his nose bridge, him pushing them back in place with his shoulder, tires screeching, a car horn, his heart pounding and his ears ringing, Higuruma came to the sensible conclusion that he should, as any responsible adult would, take a break.

I need a smoke.

Who he was visiting was definitely not going anywhere.

Checking where he was, Higuruma noticed a cafe nearby, and as fate would have it, there was a single parking spot right in front of it. He maneuvered the Passo, and the car fit neatly in between the white lines. Higuruma pulled his sunflower shawl — this time, not caught under any death trap, but laid over his back seat alongside your scarf —, threw it around his neck and got out. He took a moment to stretch his fingers in the cold air, his breath clouding in front of his mouth, and tapped around his coat to take his wallet, finally inserting some coins into the park meter and crossing the guardrail by the sidewalk.

He’d have exactly thirty minutes to get his shit together.

The cafe was warm, inviting, and strangely familiar, its orange light almost emanating the smell of coffee beans, croissants and decadent redemption for weary travelers. The store front had a glass display through which he saw an assortment of sweet and salty baked goods. Higuruma would probably pick one of those to eat — the greasiest one, if possible —, had he not been carrying a rock in place of his stomach for the past few hours.

With his resolution waning, he mindlessly took a step back while peeping, and sighed, his tired sigh weighing on his body deciding for him that an espresso was probably the way to go.

Stepping inside, Higuruma paid no mind to whatever was around him, and waited for his turn in line to order his drink. Across from him, you nearly choked, half a donut shoved into your powdered-sugar smeared mouth, nearly spilling your own coffee over your second-hand suit.

After your interview, you thought it’d be a good idea to have a snack, and made your way inside the closest, warmest, coziest cafe you found, which was across the firm.

At that moment, you found yourself in a cliché adult life predicament — you just saw someone you knew, but they didn’t see you. Should you go over to greet them? Should you not? Would simply leaving be rude? Should you go actually talk to the man you definitely had — and shouldn’t have — a crush on?

You clutched your coffee harder as the thoughts flew around in your mind, as second nature at this point to avoid giving him another beverage shower.

After some quick consideration, you decided you would at least say hello, after all, it was the polite thing to do. You shoved the rest of your food into your mouth, washed it all down with the rest of your coffee, haphazardly cleaned around your mouth with a napkin and slowly walked towards him, stopping a few feet away. Somehow, he still hadn’t seen you, apparently too immersed in thought.

That was when you noticed a shawl around his neck.

It was pretty damn ugly.

“Professor, hi!” you greeted, and Higuruma got yanked out of whatever daydreams — or waking nightmares — he had been simmering in while waiting in line.

“Oh, hello. I didn’t expect to meet anyone here,” Higuruma replied, “I just stopped by for a snack.”

“Oh, nice. Their coffee is pretty good,” you said, “I got the espresso.”

“And… I hope that you’re finished already? With your coffee, I mean.” he asked while checking your hands, his usually unaffected tone slightly playful, earning him a chuckle from you.

“Rest assured, I’m not assaulting you nor your ugly shawl with my coffee,” you quipped, but his eyes only widened. His owlish eyes blinked once, and then twice, in absolute silence.

That was when you realized.

Oh. I said that out loud.

“I-I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to-”

“Awfully hypocritical of both of us, huh?” he noted, with a discreet smile pulling on his lips.

Relieved, realizing he hadn’t taken offense, you sheepishly returned his smile, “I guess so. I don’t think I’ll get to keep being hypocritical about our ugly scarfs, though. I can’t seem to find mine, it’s been gone ever since that party.”

It was like a light bulb went on in Higuruma’s mind, and he cleared his throat before saying, “well, I may just prove you wrong. Follow me.”

Not fully understanding what he meant by that, you stood by him while he paid for his coffee, got it and walked outside. The cold winter breeze prickled your cheeks and your uncovered neck like hair-thin razor blades, and you followed Higuruma towards a car that wasn’t all that strange to you. Upon further inspection, you noticed that it was indeed his car, the old navy blue beat up thing you used as a shield for the wind during that night when you tried and failed at least half a dozen times to light a cigarette.

And then met him, and gave him a vodka scare.

And helped patting him dry with your-

“Here,” he called out, opening the door to the back seat. Sure enough, you saw that red, frizzly old thing tangled up in a ball.

“My scarf!” you reached inside and took it out, instantly throwing it around your neck. Higuruma noticed how you were genuinely pleased to have finally found it, and thought to himself that he’d most likely feel the same way if he ever lost and found his beat up, old shawl.

It was just one of those things imbued with a sense of history and familiarity that only beat up, old tokens from days past had.

“Thank you,” you whispered, while sliding your fingers through the worn out cotton. “It was a gift. I might complain about it more often than not, but-”

“But it’s an important part of your life,” he replied, and you both glanced at each other while you nodded.

“Yes. Something like that. It’s my favorite curse to carry around while complaining about it, you know?” you mused, adjusting it around your neck and gratefully welcoming the warmth it brought around your neck.

“I think I do,” he answered finally, taking a sip from his coffee.

“Let me repay you,” you offered. “Can I offer you a snack, or anything? Perhaps a smoke?”

“I’ll take you up on that cigarette offer,” he replied, and you pulled your pack out of your coat. Giving it a few taps, a cigarette popped up, and you took it in your lips, pulling another one and handing it to him.

Against his better judgement, Higuruma was slightly disappointed, and for a second, felt like kicking himself over it.

Idiot, you can’t seriously be expecting her to light a cigarette for me every time she offers you a smoke. Actually, I shouldn’t expect that at all.

Against his will, Higuruma felt his cheeks warming up, and he tried his best to dive his face into his shawl while politely took the cigarette off your hands. You didn’t notice his moves and offered him your lighter — the same yellow, disposable one he had given you days ago. He picked it up, lit his cigarette and returned it.

“I see you still have it,” Higuruma noted, smiling gently, and you acquiesced.

“It has been my faithful companion for these past few weeks. I’m just glad I haven’t lost it like I lost my scarf,” you said before chuckling.

Higuruma leaned over the guardrail with his elbows, finally relaxing after… God knows how long. Slowly, he seemed to be getting lost in thought, and you seized the opportunity to better look at his shawl. It had a sunflower pattern that went in a straight line right in front of it.

Still looking around as he stewed in his silent contemplations, you noticed there was a bag laying on top of his passenger’s seat. Peeping through it, stood a single sunflower, and what seemed to be the top of a Kirin bottle.

A sunflower man, hm?

The thought amused you as the corners of your mouth perked up in a gleeful smile, but you were quickly pulled out from it.

“Do you work nearby?” he asked, while taking a drag from his cigarette. “This is far from campus.”

“No. I mean, not yet. I was just… chasing my dreams,” you remarked, puffing some smoke. “What about you, Professor?”

Higuruma chuckled softly.

“I was being haunted by mine.”

You must’ve looked puzzled, because he quickly amended, “I was just on my way to visit someone and took a break for some coffee, that’s all.”

“Oh, I see,” you replied, realizing you were probably getting in his way. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to keep you from your appointment. I-”

“It’s okay, there’s no one waiting for me. Or so I like to think.”

That comment left you with more questions than answers.

“Apologies. I don’t mean to keep you from going about the rest of your day too,” he bid behind a curtain of smoke, “and thank you for the cigarette. I really needed it.”

With your final puffs, you put your cigarette out and smiled at Higuruma.

“It’s okay, Professor. I should really get going, though. We are, indeed, far from campus and I’d like to get to my dorm before it’s dark.”

With a bow, you walked away, leaving Higuruma to his own devices. He sighed, alone with himself and his thoughts once again, turning his attention once more to the bag he had inside his car.

“Hiromi,” a familiar voice called out. Higuruma turned around, only to be met by Nanami, who had a indecipherable expression on his face.

Minutes before, Nanami decided to visit the nearby cafe and check if they had his favorite casse croûte that day. He wouldn’t mind getting a croissant, though.

Upon stepping outside his building with dreams of pastries swirling around his overworked mind, he noticed you and Higuruma outside the cafe, and figured that was the perfect opportunity to approach you both and introduce you as the new intern for the criminal law department. It was just a matter of time before Higuruma accepted his offer, as Nanami thought, and you’d be both working together. However, before he could, Nanami noticed you and Higuruma were chatting, and not only that, but you approached Higuruma’s car and got something — apparently belonging to you — from his back seat. The ugliest red scarf Nanami had ever seen.

… What?

Nanami then remembered that you were a student on the very same university he tended to.

The same one in which Higuruma was a teacher too.

Why does Hiromi have things belonging to a student in the backseat of his car, of all places?

Nanami was at a loss for words, and faltered for a few moments, wondering how he should ask Hiromi about this. That is, if he even should ask Hiromi about anything at all. Nanami decided to watch from afar, and something about the way Higuruma was carrying himself bothered Nanami.

He had only seen his best friend behaving like that in very specific scenarios, ones in which Hiromi definitely shouldn’t be interacting with a student of his.

After you left, Kento finally walked towards Hiromi, still uncertain if he should question his friend about the nature of your relationship with him. He could be imagining things.

But something was definitely disturbing him, he was sure of it. Something he couldn’t quite put a finger on.

“Kento, hi! Oh… I had forgotten, your firm is nearby, isn’t it?” Hiromi asked while looking around. “Sorry, I always seem to forget where it is. That explains why this cafe felt so familiar. Care for a smoke?”

“No.”

“You haven’t smoked with me in a long time,” Higuruma offered, pulling his own cigarette pack from his coat’s inner pocket.

“I quit years ago,” Nanami reminded him, trying to put an end to this conversation detour.

“You still smoke on special occasions,” Higuruma offered, “eh, I wish I had your resolve.”

“You do, you just fail to direct it at things that will benefit you in the long run.”

“Just my little human shortcoming, I guess,” Higuruma finally replied, sparing Nanami a soft smile. He walked towards his car while unlocking it, “Let’s have something to eat, the coffee opened up my appetite. I just need to get more coins in case I end up going over the meter’s time limit, hold on.”

“Hiromi,” Nanami said once again, his tone graver than usual. That caught Higuruma’s attention.

“Hm, is everything okay?” Higuruma asked while leaning into his car.

Before Nanami could go on with his planned line of inquiry, he noticed what was over passenger’s seat. Especially the sunflower.

“Are you at it again?” Nanami asked, gesturing with his head towards it.

“Ah, you saw it…” Higuruma commented, as if he was a child being caught red handed while making a mess out of the house. “Well, yes. I’m trying to, and failing at it once again.”

“You know you don’t have to go, right?” Kento offered, while pulling some change from his pocket. “I have coins, we’ll be fine. Let me get you a snack, this cafe has the best casse croute around.”

“I do have to go, though,” Higuruma closed the door and stepped back onto the sidewalk. “I should, at least.”

Higuruma’s earlier energy seemed to wane ever so slightly, his shoulders falling while he slouched, unconsciously making himself smaller.

“I don’t think I’ll manage to do it today, either,” he finally said, his eyes low on his feet, and his voice barely above a whisper.

Assessing the situation, it was clear that Higuruma was in no way in the right mindset to have that conversation regarding you, so Nanami put a mental note on it to ask about it at a later time. He stepped beside Hiromi and put a hand gently on his shoulder, sighing.

“Is it low tar?” Nanami questioned, clearing his throat to disguise his displeasure.

“Hm, what?”

“Your cigarette. Is it low tar?”

Higuruma huffed, a tiny smile forming on his lips as he said, “yes, yes it is.”

In a smooth motion, Higuruma pulled his pack back out of his coat and took two cigarettes out of it, handing one to Nanami along with a lighter. With the disposition of a man ready to face the electric chair, Kento pursed his lips around the cigarette, and lit it, only to be thrown in a coughing fit moments later.

“How the mighty do fall,” Higuruma noted with a discreet smirk on his lips, “you used to smoke more than me.”

“Shut up,” Nanami managed to churn out in between coughs, “this brand is awful.”

His friend chuckled while taking one long drag from his cigarette.

“Hey, Kento.”

“What?” Nanami considered tossing the cigarette as far as he could, but tried his best to survive it, even if just for Hiromi’s benefit.

“Is that offer still on the table? To…” Hiromi paused for a moment, clearing his throat, “hm, work in your firm?”

Managing to get his throat and lungs under control, Nanami glanced at Hiromi, knowing full well that good things came to those who wait.

Just like he had.

“Yes. Why do you ask?”

Hi, did you know I like to shamelessly plug people's work? No? So, yeah. I love doing that.

I got this STUNNING commission from @radish-breath and I have no shame to admit that I scrumpt a scream never screamt before when I got this 😭💜 I think you should go check out her work if you still haven't, lots of great sfw and nsfw pieces (all truly delectable 🤌) - Twitter | Patreon | Carrd.

Rad, once again (you already listened to me screeching like a banshee and ugly crying over it, lol), thank you very much for this amazing piece. It is beyond my wildest dreams alsdjasldkj

Tag list (updated):

@arusearu @yammy-yammy-yama @redlikerozez @killerplink

@alwaysfreakingout @murderofravens @cmdrfupa @higurumapet @cindyneko-strider

@ohhheymessa @bigbaddulce @actuallysaiyan @s-witch-bitch @yeonjunarchives

@soft--cherry @quinnyundertow @traffi @shibataimu @shimadalluvia

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immobulusmalfoy · 3 days ago

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Won't Say I'm in Love // Fred Weasley x F!Reader

Summary: In which the reader is best friends with the twins and they convince her to help them with something extra special for WWW. Warnings: Mentions of food and bodily harm, plus Umbridge. A/N: Look what I found in my drafts! A Freddie fic I forgot to post!

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When you woke up Saturday morning after a seriously long week of classes, the first thing you wanted to hear was definitely not your name being yelled at top volume from a certain boisterous Weasley twin you happened to call your best friend.

“Fred, you better have a damn good reason for coming in here at this ungodly hour and waking me up with your screechy voice. And if you don’t shut it, I’m going to blast you with the nastiest hex I can think of,” you warned him without opening your eyes. You snuggled further into your pillows, but Fred snatched the blankets off your body.

“Wake up! I need your help with something.” Fred demanded.

“What the bloody hell do you want, Weasley? Can’t a girl get any sleep these days? I was dreaming,” you grumbled, body pulled into a ball to keep from freezing in the chilly air of the dorms. Fred groaned.

“You’re such a drama queen. I need your potions expertise.”

“Oh yeah?” You peered up at him, both eyes open, suddenly curious. “What for?”

“Y’know those Wonder Witch products you’ve been helping me and Georgie with? The secret ones even Granger and the rest don’t know about?” Fred started.

“You mean those ‘temporary’ love potions that took me two months to get right? The ones that you made me try and caused me to be in love with Lee for three miserable weeks before I figured out the issues? Those products?” you asked, embarrassed when you remembered what you had said and done during that time. It was mortifying.

Fred sheepishly rubbed the back of his neck and mumbled an affirmative answer. “But this time is different!”

“How so?” You cross your arms, now fully awake. You glanced to the side of your bed, hoping Fred had the decency to at least have brought you breakfast or caffeine or both. You were disappointed to see that he’d done neither. “You’re not very good at convincing me. Didn’t even bring me food,” you grumbled.

“This one is a soulmate potion.” Fred grinned, eyebrows going up and down.

“A soulmate potion? What the bloody hell is that?”

“A potion that helps you find your soulmate? It’s not that difficult to grasp, mate. No one’s ever done it before!” Fred was animatedly explaining his thought process and you groaned as he laid out the plan.

“And I suppose you want me to test it once I brew it?” you sighed.

“Well, it would probably be best? Unless you want to test it on some first years? I’m sure they’d love to have a go. Who wouldn’t want to find their soulmate?” Fred’s eyes glittered with mischief.

“I’ve got a bad feeling about this.” You grumbled as you rolled out of bed, blindly searching for a sweater to dispel the cold taking over your frame. You ended up with one of the Christmas sweaters Molly had knitted you over your pajamas causing Fred to grin.

“Let’s go, then!” He snatched you away down the stairs, which did turn into a slide, and eventually into the room of requirement where you’d set up a temporary testing space for your potions experiments and their various prank products. Much to your chagrin, George was already there.

“Hey, sweetheart. Got you some breakfast and a cuppa since this nitwit didn’t want to let you sleep.” George gestured to the potions table where he’d laid out the aforementioned items. You brightened immediately.

“Georgie, you’re now my favorite twin. Don’t you forget it.” You said, smacking a kiss to his cheek as you headed over to the table.

“And what am I?” Fred scoffed. You shrugged and held up your food. The tea was downed quickly as well as the beans on toast before you got to work making notes on what both boys wanted the potion to do.

Unlike the love potions you’d created for them, which had actually been a whole line of about five different versions that all did similar things, but still varied in results, this potion was going to be highly complicated.

Two weeks later, you finally had a prototype to give them. Fourteen days of little to no sleep and brewing more than sixty cauldrons of failed potions, except for this one. The potion swirled a nice purple color, but you’d designed it to taste a bit like butterbeer at the boys’ request. It was designed to have different results for each user, as well. To find their soulmates, they’d have different side effects. Some users might feel their soulmate’s pain, some might see only in black and white until they touched their soulmate, or have small identifying tattoos show up on their skin from their soulmate. Only one person would have to take the potion in order for them to figure out who their soulmate was, one bonus you were glad of.

“So, who wants to take the plunge and try it first?” You asked nervously. Fred grinned and handed the little bottle back to you across the Gryffindor table at breakfast. Some of the first years were watching from down the table and you eyed them cautiously. You never knew what some of them would try to get their hands on Wizard Wheezes’ prototypes, especially after they’d all gone bonkers for the Skiving Snackboxes and the silly hat that made your whole head invisible.

“As our lovely assistant, dedicated friend, and favorite classmate (sorry Lee), we figured we’d give you the honors of finding your soulmate first. It’s been ages since you’ve been on a date anyway.” Fred grinned.

“What my dear brother is trying to say is that we want you to be happy and we very much appreciate what you’ve done with our products so far, so we’d love for you to find the person who’s going to make you happier.” George smoothed over his twin’s remarks with a pointed glare at the other redhead.

“Fine. Take notes of what I say.” You snorted. The potion was downed with four sips, the flavor seeming to follow your directives. “The taste is decent, but could use some tweaking. Side effect is that I feel a bit woozy and I’m seeing a few black spots in my vision. I’m not sure if this will work, but it seems alright so far.”

“Do you feel any different? Are you seeing in black and white? Can you hear your soulmate’s words in your head? Did initials ink themselves onto your skin?” The twins bombarded you with questions which you tried to answer as they made notes on a parchment, but the truth was that nothing seemed to have happened. There was nothing that would suggest your potion worked or that it followed any of the soulmate stories muggle writers attempted to tell.

“I don’t feel any different. It may not have worked.” You sighed, eying the potion bottle as if it would tell you what was wrong with it. It couldn’t. You ran over the ingredients and your methods mentally, but even that didn’t give any clues.

“Quidditch practice, lads! Don’t make me yank you by ‘yer ears.” Angelina Johnson’s barking yell sounded from the other end of the table and your favorite twins groaned.

“We’ll discuss this later. We’ve got a quidditch captain to torment.” George grinned, both boys rushing away.

About two hours later, you were in the room of requirement again working on the potion and taking notes on the color and taste when a sharp pain started shooting through your right arm, the muscle throbbing.

“Shit,” you cursed, dropping the vial you’d been swirling. It shattered on the ground, glittering for a second before the room sucked the potion and the broken glass into the ground to clean it. “Thanks, room.”

The muscles in your upper arm throbbed, and you pulled up your sleeve to look at it, a gigantic bruise the size of a bludger forming under the skin. You stared at it in disbelief, then darted your eyes to the potion. It worked.

Somewhere out there, you had a soulmate and you’d just gotten their injury etched into your own skin. But then you started cursing yourself, because of course you happened to get the one effect you hadn’t really wanted.

“Why couldn’t it have been the tattoos or the black and white thing?” You muttered, moving back over to the table to make notes on the things you’d just discovered.

You were so lost in your studies and notes that you didn’t even notice the twins entering the room with Lee until they were right next to you.

“Any developments?” George asked, causing you to jump.

“Merlin’s beard!” You yelled, smacking him on the arm. Fred and Lee snickered from behind you both.

“Well?” Fred asked expectantly, his gaze sweeping over the table that was now covered with multiple cauldrons and a rack that you’d filled with at least twelve versions of the soulmate potion. He made to pick one up, but you swatted his hand away.

“I’ve made some developments, but those ones aren’t ready yet. So don’t touch my system, Weasley.”

“Alright, alright. Won’t touch ‘em. We’ve come to bring you down to dinner anyway. It’s getting late.” Fred said, guiding you towards the door.

“How long have I been in here?” you asked, forgetting that you’d forgotten the wrist watch your mum had gotten you so you had no clue what time it was or when you’d last eaten.

“Johnson kept them in practice for about five hours, so we missed lunch.” Lee remarked as he walked beside you, “George nearly got her with a bludger to get her to let us leave, but it got Fred in the arm instead.”

You froze, hearing what Lee had said, but the others didn’t seem to notice and you darted your eyes to Fred’s right arm. There was no way, right?

“Yeah, gave him a nasty bruise.” George winced, “Ah well, nothing a little bruise paste can’t clear up.”

“Was it that bad?” you asked shakily, hoping they wouldn’t notice the inflection to your voice. You needed more details, more time, to determine if what you suspected was true.

“Nah, just got a lump on my arm the size of that bludger. It’s pretty gnarly. I’ll use it to market the bruise paste later tonight. See if we can get some of the Gryffindors to add that to their purchase list.” Fred grinned, surreptitiously rubbing his arm. His right arm. The same arm that was sporting a bruise on your own body.

Dinner passed quickly with the twins talking to you and Lee about upcoming plans for the products you all were inventing when, all of a sudden, Lee stabbed Fred’s left hand hard with his fork, nodding his head at a Ravenclaw witch who had just entered the Great Hall. He’d been talking about her for weeks, but never made a move to ask her out despite his long-winded speeches of being a ‘lady-killer.’

The pain radiated on your own hand and you were horrified to see the marks from the tines on both the back of your hand and Fred’s, though he didn’t notice since he was too busy brandishing his own fork at Lee who’d surrendered quickly. You snatched your hand off the table, trying to focus on your pumpkin juice instead of the fight the boys were having, rolling your eyes at their stupidity.

Only George noticed your odd actions, but he very smartly didn’t say a word in your presence and you didn’t notice his pointed stares. You were trying to convince yourself, and failing, that what you really needed was a good night’s sleep and that you must be imagining things. But two injuries to Fred in one day and you receiving the aftermath of both of them just couldn’t be a coincidence.

But the topping on the cake was three days later when Fred landed himself in detention with Umbridge. You knew what she was going to make him do and so you waited in your bed for the letters to appear on the back of your hand, as you figured they would. It would be the final test to see if you were right about the soulmate potion and who it was pointing you towards.

And finally, there they were. A burning sensation took over your skin, making you feel like you’d been stung by a hundred bees as the cuts appeared on your skin, spelling out the phrase “I must not be a nuisance.” You gasped, the pain sharper than you’d expected. You hadn’t landed yourself in detention with Umbridge yet, but this was horrible. The pain made you cry, but the shock of your findings was almost worse.

Fred Weasley was your soulmate. There was no other explanation.

You laid back on your bed, clutching your hand, and closed your eyes. Fred couldn’t be your soulmate, you reasoned. For multiple reasons.

Number one, even though you’d had a horrible crush on him for the past year or so, he had never once seemed to indicate that he felt the same and you were never going to ask him. Number two, he had just broken up with Angelina a few months prior on summer holiday and tensions were still high between the two of them. You were sure that that was part of the reason she’d kept them in practice for so long the other night. Number three, the only logical thing was that he’d tampered with the potion so that it would point to him and so they could get a laugh.

All three things made you upset, so you were grateful when sleep claimed you for the night, and you were thankful that you didn’t hear any of your roommates come in either.

The next morning, the back of your hand was still mottled and you looked at it in shock. The pain was gone, but the scars were still there. There was no way you were going to be able to hide this without a glamor of some sort. So that’s what you did.

At breakfast, you were strangely quiet, even when the twins asked you for updates on the potion. You were hesitant to say it worked, but the words came out anyway when they asked. Both their eyes nearly bugged out of their heads when you said you’d realized who your soulmate was and that they were at Hogwarts.

“Who? Who is it?” They asked, stumbling over each other’s words as they grilled you for information.

“I’m not revealing that.” you scoffed. “Now, I’ve taken copious notes on the subject, improved the taste of the potion, and made sure it can be replicated, so you shouldn’t have any issues there. You can market it with the Wonder Witch line, or do something else. But that’s all I’ll say on the matter.”

George and Fred both looked at you curiously, but didn’t disagree with you so you let the matter drop as you discussed the ways you were going to prevent Umbridge from figuring out some of the other things you were up to with your inventions.

But the twins didn’t really let the matter drop and they combed through your notes, finding the one paper you had forgotten to take with you from the Room of Requirement.

“Injury to the arm last Saturday, imprints of a fork on the same day, a burn from a firework on Wednesday, and blimey! Words from Umbridge’s evil quill etched into the skin of the hand.” George read aloud to both Fred and Lee.

“Is she taking notes of my injuries?” Fred asked, looking over George’s shoulder at the list you’d written.

Lee gasped, then started cackling, pointing at Fred with tears in his eyes as he continued to laugh.

“Quit taking the piss, mate. What are you laughing for?”

“Merlin’s beard, Fred! You asked her to make a soulmate potion and she got one of the lamest options! Did you tamper with the cauldron when she was making it?” Lee asked, tears of laughter still twinkling in his dark eyes.

Fred looked at him in confusion.

“George, what’s this tosser talking about?”

George, to his credit, shook his head and handed him the list. He’d figured it out far quicker than Fred and Lee had, noticing your odd behavior around Fred for the past week or so, especially when you started taking notice of what Fred had done to himself injury-wise.

“She’s your soulmate, you dummy.” Lee answered for him.

Fred furrowed his brow, reading over the list. And sure enough, it wasn’t just a list of his injuries, but where they’d appeared on your body. Not his. You’d correlated them to him, though, and it was obvious now. You were his soulmate. His best friend, you.

Lee and George stood there, waiting to see his reaction, but Fred didn’t say a word before rushing out of the room with the list in his hand. Lee and George tore after him, sure he was about to muck this up.

And muck it up he did.

Fred found you in the common room, having fallen asleep reading a book. You were sprawled on one of the couches, Hermione and Harry near you in comfy chairs by the fire. They looked up when the twins and Lee came in, but stared on in horror as Fred marched right up to their friend with a crazed look in his eyes and shook you awake.

“W-what?” you startled, dropping your book on the floor. The impact woke you immediately and you looked up just to make eye contact with Fred. You gasped, seeing the look in his eyes.

“What is this?” he demanded, shoving your list in your hands. You took the list and scanned over it, gaping up at him without saying anything. Fred didn’t speak either as he snatched your left hand and pointed his wand at it, saying, “Revelio!”

The glamor you’d placed over it to hide the scar faded immediately, leaving the words glaringly imprinted in your skin. You snatched your hand back, trembling, and looked back up at Fred who was looking more determined than you’d ever seen him.

“So did the potion work?” he asked thickly. You nodded hesitantly. “And it’s me? I’m your soulmate?” Another nod.

Fred raked his hands through his hair. Lee and George watched from behind, ready to jump in if needed.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Fred asked incredulously.

You gaped up at him, panicking as you stole glances around you at the other people in the common room. Quite a few of them were looking over at your little group, causing you to shrink into yourself.

Why didn’t you tell him? Why? So many reasons, but one being the most notable.

“I didn’t want to force it on you.” you murmured, moving to a sitting position on the couch as you kept your hand hidden. Fred knelt down beside you on the floor and gently took your hands in his this time.

“It’s not forced if I want this too. Why do you think I had you make this potion?” Fred asked quietly, rubbing his fingers over the scarred tissue his request had inadvertently caused.

“For the profit?” you asked dumbly, still trying to process the turn of events here. Fred laughed, but not unkindly. He smiled at you.

“Because I wanted you to be happy. You’ve always been there for us and we’ve done precious little for you in return. And I’ll be honest, you’ve been catching my eye for the past year, so I’m thrilled that it’s you and me, yeah?”

“Really?” you whispered.

“Honest to Merlin.”

“And you’re not upset with me?” you asked nervously.

“Not in the slightest. Do I wish I’d noticed sooner? Absolutely, but we can’t change that. I’m sorry you got the one side effect you didn’t want. You didn’t deserve to feel the same pain as me or get marks because of it.”

“It was worth it. Well, mostly. They all hurt like hell.”

Fred chuckled.

“Now what’s the antidote to your potion? Y’know, so you can stop getting the same injuries as me?”

And that’s when you blanched.

“I didn’t make one.”

#Fred Weasley x reader #fred weasley #immobulusmalfoy

122 notes · View notes

muniimyg · 2 days ago

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⋆꙳•❅ jhs: last christmas ❆•꙳

series m.list // taglist

note: halfway thru the series !!! letsgoooo

warning: bratty oc, v light dirty talk, handjob,, cum/food play ???

“jung hoseok, hold it still!” you snap.

glaring at the slanted wall of the gingerbread house, you huff as the creamy icing betrays you again. it smears rather than sticks. the roof slides off with an insulting little thunk, and you groan in defeat.

you drop the piping bag onto the dining table.

“i am holding it still,” he bites back, one hand gripping the crumbling wall while the other hovers like it might somehow save this sugary disaster. “you’re the one using frosting that’s basically soup!”

“oh, so now it’s my fault?” you whirl on him, your hands sticky with icing and frustration. “you were the one who said, ‘just eyeball the measurements, babe.’”

he scoffs, dragging a hand through his hair, smudging a bit of icing near his temple.

“okay, chef, excuse me for thinking we could be a team on this.”

“team?” you snort, grabbing the roof and attempting—futilely—to stick it back on. “we’re supposed to be competing against your friends in, like, an hour, and we don’t even have a house. it’s more like... gingerbread rubble.”

hoseok stares at you for a beat, the corner of his mouth twitching like he’s trying not to laugh but knows better.

“you’re kinda cute when you’re mad.”

“don’t,” you warn, pointing a frosting-covered finger at him.

but he grins, that infuriatingly charming grin, stepping closer until the counter is the only thing keeping you apart.

“i’m serious,” he murmurs, leaning just enough that you have to tilt your head to hold his gaze. “all huffy, covered in icing… kind of a look for you. reminds me of you at night—”

“hobi,” you grit out, but your voice betrays you, a little breathier than you want it to be.

“what?” his eyes flick to your lips, his tongue darting out to wet his own. “we’re already losing. might as well enjoy ourselves before the humiliation.”

“we have to be there in an hour—”

“i’m hearing we have 45 minutes.”

“hobi…” you sigh. “i want to win like last christmas. i refuse to lose before we even get there—”

“is it really that big of a deal? there’s no prize.”

“i want to win.”

“yeah… but i want you,” he says, his voice dropping a notch as he leans even closer, his hands bracketing yours on the counter. the tension in the air shifts, sharp and electric, and you swear your pulse skips when he murmurs, “we could just call it a draw, you know. skip the party. stay here.”

the way his eyes drop to your lips sends a shiver down your spine, but you refuse to let him win. “... so, you just want to make out instead of fix this mess?”

his grin widens.

“ideally, i wanna cum at some point. but, yeah, sure. let’s make out.”

you narrow your eyes at him, but it’s hard to keep your composure when he’s looking at you like that—like the messy gingerbread house and the ticking clock don’t exist, like the only thing in the room worth his attention is you.

“hobi,” you say again, softer this time, almost a warning, though even you can’t tell if it’s meant to stop him or urge him on.

“what?” he asks innocently, though the way he leans in, his breath brushing your cheek, betrays him. “you’re the one who’s irresistible right now.”

“i’m covered in frosting,” you point out, trying for sarcasm.

“exactly,” he murmurs, his fingers curling lightly around your wrist. he lifts your hand, his thumb brushing over the smear of icing on your skin before he brings it to his mouth. his tongue flicks against the frosting, slow and deliberate.

“hoseok…”

he doesn’t respond this time, just sets your hand down to his lap.

“we’ll fix the house later,” he says, his voice low, almost a rumble. “right now… i have other priorities.”

you don’t get the chance to respond, because his mouth finds yours, warm and insistent, and everything else—the gingerbread house, the party, the sticky frosting—falls away. his hands guide yours to his bulge. you feel around it, already knowing what’s to come.

and also, what’s to cum.

you let out a small gasp against his lips, and he takes it as encouragement, deepening the kiss, his tongue brushing against yours in a way that sends a shiver down your spine. when he finally pulls back, his forehead rests against yours, his breath uneven.

“seriously… we’re going to be late,” you murmur, though your hands are still tangled in his hair.

“don’t care,” he replies, grinning that mischievous grin again. “we’ll tell them the gingerbread house broke in a… freak accident.”

hoseok doesn’t know what it is about you… but man, are you good at making him cum.

his pants pool around his ankles as your body leans towards his. his head is thrown back and icing you two had once used on the gingerbread house has spilled over his cock.

your hands have been wrapped around his cock for a good 15 minutes now and he’s on his second urge to nut. each time he approached his climax, you simply giggled, kissed him, and held his dick.

you held it as it throbbed.

as the tip grew angrier and angrier.

as his precum leaked down to your wrist.

“f-fuck, fuck, fuck! baby, please…” hoseok grunts. “can i cum?”

you pout at him, leaning closer and kissing his lips softly. as you pull away, you shrug.

"but your cock is so pretty. i don't want it to go down yet."

"baby..."

you frown at him. "also, our gingerbread house needs more icing…"

"so?"

"what do you mean so?" you hiss at him. "i wanna use your cum like icing."

his eyes widen at your request.

as innocently as possible, you bat your eyelashes as you tighten your grip around his cock. you move up and down, his skin dragging along with your motion. without breaking eye contact, you spit and let it drip over his tip. he hisses at the wetness. in fact, his entire stomach flips.

hoseok has always loved your handjobs. he doesn’t know if it’s because you have such soft hands or if it’s because he liked the way they look wrapped around his girthy length. another thing is that you always have your nails done so… yeah.

it’s a thing.

your hands are so pretty to him and to see them covered in icing… it turns him on. he likes what he sees. he likes seeing how wet, sticky, and full your hands look.

from his precum, from your spit, and from the icing you poured on top.

delicious.

the only thing that could make it any better is if you sucked his hard cock right now…

but you don’t.

and he doesn’t feel like begging right now.

he knows you and knows that him begging would feed your ego too much. right now, he’s just lucky to be here. just 20 minutes ago, you were bitching at him about the icing… now, you’re milking him for some.

as you pump his length, he moans and groans. you giggle as his upper body winces and you feel the way his hands roam to your ass.

“___… p-please? can i... nghghhhhh... c-can i cum?”

you think for a moment.

then, you reach over to the table and grab the piping bag. you open it up and prepare it for his aim.

“okay,” you answer him. “but i want you to cum inside here, baby. can you do that? can you cum inside here?”

hoseok gives you a weird look, but agrees quickly.

fuck it.

he doesn’t give a shit.

if you told him to cum in your mouth, in your pussy, or a fucking piping bag—he’d do it.

so, you continue to pump him. you stroke him, adding more and more pressure. the pacing goes along with the way he reacts to your touch, slow then you speed it up to match his breathing. he huffs and fidgets in his chair.

then, easily, he cums.

"oh my god," hoseok nearly sobs. "mhmmmmphhh... fuckkkk... holy shit, ___. holy fucking shit."

he spills himself into your hands.

it leaks and for a moment you forget the bag. when you remember, you wrap it around his dick and try to get the access off. quickly, you put it aside and continue to pump him, milking more out of his climax.

blinking, you watch as more ooze out from his tip.

hoseok’s cum is creamy and milky, prettily contrasting the colour of his angry pink tip. the way it mixes with the icing in your hands makes it look even more appealing. for a second, you contemplate sucking his dick.

“you wanna suck it, don’t you?” he breathes.

you look up at him, biting your lip.

“yeah,” you admit. “bet it’ll taste good.”

he rolls his eyes and leans forward. this time, he kisses you. as he pulls away, he rests his forehead against yours.

“as much as i’d love to say yes, we have a party to get to. besides, you got what you needed. should we get to icing?”

that night, your gingerbread house ends up winning the contest.

not because the cum worked like glue...

but rather because the others had gingerbread houses in worse shape than yours... and partly because everyone agreed that the shiny glaze you put on top of your gingerbread house made it look extra special.

festive, even.

very, hoe hoe hoe vibes.

#bts fanfic #bts smut #hoseok smut #hobi smut #hobi boyfriend au #hobi scenario #hobi fluff #hobi fanfic #hobi imagine #hobi x yn #bts hobi fanfic

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kawoala · 3 days ago

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IM SO SHY SENDING THIS RN OMG

Just saw you want requests, and I was thinking (not something good for me, btw) 😇😇 about 😇😇 kita w a really shy!reader and he asks the miya brothers for help, and they say that he should flirt w reader 😭😭😭

IK YOU DONT REALLY WRITE FOR KITA AND THIS MAY BE HARD FOR YOU BUT I LOOOOOOOOVVVEEEEEEEDDDDDD WHEN YOU WROTE MY LAST REQUEST W HIM IT WAS SO GOOD I WAS SCREAMING CRYING THROWING UP RAINBOWS IT WAS SOOOOO GOOODDDD UUUGHHHH

𝐒𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐒𝐔𝐊𝐄 𝐊𝐈𝐓𝐀 year and a half word count ; (719) content warning ; (request, more fluff haha, social anxiety! reader, asking someone out, advice from the miyans)

You’re nervous. But, for you, that’s normal. Your fingers are in your lap as you tug at your fingers— a response to your constant anxiety. Your classmate is almost finished with their presentation, meaning that you’re up next. Your heartbeat quickens. You hate speaking in front of the class.

Beside you, Kita bounces his leg. You know it’s not out of nervousness, like it would be for you. He’s always relaxed like that. You’re not sure if he’s ever been nervous in his entire life. His fingers drum against his desk. He looks bored.

Your classmate finishes their presentation and a round of applause startles you out of your nervous haze. Kita clears his throat and stands. You do the same.

After you finish the presentation, you realize you were making a much bigger deal than you should have been— like always. Your face is hot when you sit down and you know your cheeks are a different color than the rest of your face.

You lay your forehead down on the table and let out a weak sigh.

Kita knows you get nervous. He knows you get nervous, because he likes to stare. He knows you get nervous because of the way you change color so fast, the way you pull on your fingers. He knows because he likes to pay attention.

You started at Inarizaki in the middle of his second year. Almost immediately, he recognized just how smart you were. You didn’t advertise it like others, but your grades were always the highest in the class. He also recognized that you were beautiful. Kita had never been one for crushes, but he knew that what he felt for you was a crush.

Throughout the next year and a half, he had tried to get your attention. He had gone out of his way to try and get your attention. But nothing seemed to work.

He would make you food under the guise of simply “making too much” and you would refuse to take it, saying that he might need it after practice.

At least you knew he was on the volleyball team.

When he would ask for help on his homework— even though he didn’t need it— you would tell him of another classmate that was far better at teaching things.

All of his attempts were unsuccessful and it was driving him crazy. So, the day of your presentation, Kita goes to the twins for help. He knows it’s a bad idea, but what has he got to lose?

“Ya gotta impress her, Kita-san,” Atsumu says, popping a potato chip in his mouth. “Girls like it when you do impressive shit.”

“No, you gotta be straightforward,” Osamu says with a sigh, shaking his head. “Girls like her— shy girls, I mean— gotta be told straight up, or they’re going to think you’re just being nice.”

Kita takes Osamu’s advice, because even though Atsumu seems like a ladies man, Osamu has had two girlfriends and Atsumu has had none.

So, the next day, after class, Kita asks you to wait a moment. When everyone has left the class, he turns to you and takes a deep breath. “Do you want to go on a date with me, Y/n?”

He watches you blink a couple times, watches your face change colors, and briefly wonders if he should have taken Atsumu’s advice instead.

“Um, me?” You ask, pointing at yourself. You tuck a strand of hair behind your ear and look away from him. “I don’t… Is this a prank? It’s not very funny, Kita-san. You’re supposed to be the nice one.”

Kita doesn't know what that’s supposed to mean, and he doesn’t want to. “It’s not,” he says simply. “I’ve been trying to work up the nerve to ask you out for the last year and a half.” You look up now and he smiles softly. “It’s not a prank.”

Again, you blink dumbly. He can hear when you swallow. “Okay,” you whisper, nodding. “I mean, yes. That sounds, um, fantastic.”

Kita’s smile grows and he nods triumphantly. “Okay. I’ll text you the details tonight, alright?”

You nod again and, that night, when Kita goes to practice, he gives Osamu a firm handshake and makes Atsumu run three laps for the objectively dumb advice he had given.

#kawoala #haikyuu #haikyuu x reader #haikyuu!!#haikyuu!! x reader #kita shinsuke x reader #haikyuu kita shinsuke #haikyuu kita #kita shinsuke #shinsuke kita #return to sender

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arcaneconfessions · 3 days ago

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I hate that the memes about Vi being worse after a situationship compared to growing up in prison are somehow correct.

When I first saw it in the trailer I was like, this is clearly a cumulative thing. As she said she spent all those years starving, abused and freezing simply on the hope that Powder survived, so she has absolutely nothing left when Powder is dead and Caitlyn abandoned her, it’s just all that catching up. It’s not that she could stand all those years in prison and not last a break up.

but then they made the most idiotic choice of centring her breakdown entirely on Caitlyn- she is the only one that haunts her and nobody else when I know damn well Vi has other regrets and there’s so much more to her character. You can’t even make the argument that those other regrets are implied, because they aren’t - we are literally within her head. She’s constantly trying to drown out the noise (of Caitlyn) via drinking/fighting and it’s not working.

How about her family? Failing to fulfil Vander’s dying wish to take care of Powder? The last they saw, Jinx was trying to kill herself using Vi (“Go on”/“I’m glad it’s you”/ actively saying no and not moving off the table when Isha gets in the way of her death/“no, no this isn’t how it’s supposed to go”- in reference to her surviving) so what’s her thoughts on that and Isha?

how about some reflection on last season where she told Jayce to stfu and continue because one dead kid is more than worth putting an end to Silco?

How about her becoming an enforcer? The same people that abused her and murdered her parents? Now she was one of them, using brutality that she was a victim of since she was a child, willing to use the same poison gas that arose because of Piltover’s exploitation of Zaun within the streets- again told to her by Vander. (And don’t give me bs about it not being that bad when Viktor’s terminal illness is caused by it YEARS LATER, we are shown in s1 that CHILDREN work in those factories and with chembarons, we are also shown how bad the grey is in that music video). When Jinx brought it up, all she says is that she’s done blaming herself for Jinx’s mistakes- but those aren’t Jinx’s mistakes, those are her own. Does she recognise this?

Vi in s1 had opinions about “scraping together coins whilst [Pilover] has plenty”, the Lanes being her streets, wanting respect, growing up feeling less than them and wanting that to change etc. She’s super happy to be eating Jericho’s food, parkouring and correcting Cait’s assumptions. So does she still hold these opinions in s2? What changed if she doesn’t? Her entire thing was being Vander-mini with feeling/being responsible for the lanes/her family. How about now? How does she feel about anything?

I adore Vi and seeing her reduced to “Emo lesbian can’t get over her situationship” is awful. I’m not talking about the jokes, but in canon how things she should have strong feelings about are entirely ignored for her feelings about Caitlyn. Her trauma isn’t properly explored at all, a music video where she’s only upset about Caitlyn is so unfair to her.

#anti caitvi #anti caitlyn kiramman #vi arcane #vander arcane #jinx arcane #arcane

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foli-vora · 1 day ago

Text

masterlist | foli jolly xmas list

A/N: gif by moi. Yeah I recycled the same from part 2 idc. Are you telling me it's been two fucking years since I wrote this? Get out. The flow of time is fake. Everything was against me this week trying to get this fucking thing out but I finally got there! Merry late Christmas, angels! Thank you all for being so fucking wonderful and supportive and patient with me while I worked out a really messy year and I wish you all nothing but the very best! Enjoy x

Word count: just shy of 7k

Warnings: cheesy hallmark romance, I want to be kissed by a cowboy under the mistletoe. Swearing, this hot af man, a solid semi-public make out sesh with said hot af man, SOFTNESS! so much fucking softness I want to throw up, smut with all the feels 18+ ONLY: soft and sweet and so fucking tender I'm so into it, fingering, oral (f rec), this man practically makes out with pussy and I won't hear otherwise, bit of hair pulling, mention of the implanon, unprotected p in v and a christmas creampie yay

PART ONE | PART TWO

It’s quite the occasion, he finds. This Christmas Eve ball-party thing. The whole town and more is there, crammed into the town hall decorated heavily with tinsel and lights and spilling out onto the snowy grounds around in the form of various food and Christmas stalls. There are craft tables full of parents with their kids, a little choir singing carols, and people having a snowman contest in the taped off carpark.

There’s an older man dressed as Santa sitting on a big seat for family photos, joyfully laughing and ho-ho-hoing as kids wander by in awe. Jack watches on comfortably, not yet interested in pursuing any of the stalls or food until he knows if you and the kids have eaten.

Despite his general dislike of the holiday, it’s hard to not feel… well, merry, and it has a content smile tugging at his lips. If Tequila could see him now, he’d never let him live it down. He’d get matching Christmas ties or some other ridiculous shit. Maybe there’s somewhere he could buy one for the agent here, he’s sure you’d find that funny.

“That’s not the real Santa,” Gabe says suddenly, appearing beside him.

Jack startles from being broken from his mental reverie, briefly wondering if a couple of weeks worth of leave had gone and ruined his well tuned Statesman senses. Champ would only have himself to blame. He turns expectantly, heart hammering wildly from the hope you’d be only a few paces behind your boy, but when he looks he finds you nowhere to be seen.

Gabe continues, oblivious to the way Jack shifts and deflates next to him.

“The real one’s too busy, so he gets George to step in. He does it every year.”

“Is that right? Suppose he would be a busy man.”

“Are you kidding? One night to get around the whole world? Dude’s insane.”

Jack grins, looking down at the boy and noting his styled hair. “You’re lookin’ sharp tonight, kid. You brush your hair?”

“Mum made me,” Gabe grumbles, ruffling his neatened curls with a thick gloved hand. “She’s in the hall with Lou, if you were wondering.”

“And why would I be wonderin’ that?”

The boy gives him a look, something bordering the line of smug and Jack rolls his eyes, giving him a gentle shove. Jesus, even the damn kid knows.

“Cut it out.”

“I didn’t say anything!”

“You didn’t have to. Now go on, lead the way. And stop lookin’ at me like that, or I’ll tell the big guy you need to go on the naughty list this year.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“Oh, I would. Believe me. You think he doesn’t know about you hustlin’ me out of my hard earned money? You’re messin’ with fire, kid. You’re probably already on it.”

—

“Should’ve gotten more lights. I told him, you know.” Edith tuts to herself, frowning up at the hall ceiling.

You briefly pause from fussing over the cake competition table and glance up at the warm fairy lights dangled and intertwined between tinsel and garlands. She’s worrying over nothing, as always. Every year it’s a winter wonderland—inside and out, and this year is certainly no different. Has Jack seen it all yet? What does he think of it?

“Edith, any more lights and people would need sunglasses in here. Everything looks wonderful, as always. Now please relax and have some rum with your eggnog before your heart gives out. You don’t need to worry about anything tonight, leave it to the committee.”

“The only thing I’ll worry about is you not getting on top of that cowboy.”

You and me both, Edith.

You snort, directing your attention back to the cake stands and ensuring every label was front and centre. “On second thought, maybe stay away from the rum.”

“Speaking of the cowboy, here he comes. Fix your dress.”

“What’s wrong with my dress?”

It’s too late to worry, that southern drawl melts into your ears as he jokes about something with Gabe within the next few seconds and suddenly your insides are twisting and turning upside down. You play around with the table some more, gathering up a bit of courage before turning and smiling at Jack.

“Hi,” you breathe softly, cheeks already warming as his eyes meet yours.

Does this man ever not look like pure sin?

“Hey sugar,” he greets with a grin of his own. “You look incredible.”

“Oh, this old thing?” You tease, running a hand over the brand new dress you had painstakingly agonised over in an attempt to impress a stranger only in town for a few weeks. You’d spent an admittedly ridiculous amount of time in the local boutique trying and retrying dresses trying to find the right one. God, he doesn’t need to know that. “Not looking too bad yourself, cowboy.”

“Save a dance for me, won’t you, Jack?” Edith rasps sweetly, acting the innocent and delicate elderly lady and tapping his arm softly.

“Just try and stop me, ma’am.”

She wanders off into the crowds, more than happy to be stopped along her way to be praised on the decorations. She’s still going on about the damn lights.

“So what’s all this?” Jack asks in interest, body brushing yours as he steps up beside you to eye the table.

“It’s the yearly Christmas bake off, which I unfortunately have to judge as the town's resident baker.”

“Unfortunately?”

“I don’t like judging people's creations. They’re all wonderful and everyone always puts so much effort into it… makes me feel like a villain when I have to pick winners.”

Gabe steps up on your other side and eyes this year's entries. “Mum made a kid cry last year.”

Jack laughs in surprise. “What?”

“I didn’t know it was made by a child, okay?” You stress, rubbing along your brow line as last year's nightmare plays in your mind. After pinning the ribbons in place, a ten year old girl had promptly fallen into tears after not being given one, and you’d felt guilty about it for fucking weeks after. “If I had known, I would’ve picked them.”

“Well that defeats the purpose of it being a competition then, doesn’t it, sugar? You can’t pick a winner just because they’re a kid. I’m sure they knew that upon enterin’.” His hand runs comforting strokes up and down your middle back, entirely innocent, and yet your skin feels like fire beneath his hot palm.

“I think that one is the ugliest.”

Excellent timing, baby.

You sigh, “Gabriel—”

“Ah sugar, I gotta give it to the kid,” Jack drawls, eyes locked on the cake Gabe’s finger levelled at, “I’m thinkin’ it, too.”

“Well… obviously,” you agree quietly, discreetly looking around just in case its creator is somewhere lurking close by, “but we don’t say that out loud. That’s something we keep in our heads, okay?” Your gaze darts between them until they give a nod in agreement.

It’s quiet for a moment longer, Jack’s hand never once straying from your back or ceasing its gentle strokes as you each silently judge each cake, until Gabe smacks his lips and shrugs.

“They definitely lose.”

“Gabriel.”

A little body squeezes itself between you and Gabe, and your hand automatically falls to rest on Lou’s head. She’s quiet, happily making her way through a gingerbread cookie and swaying to the music being performed by the town's little local band when Jack peers curiously around you, smiling indulgently at the little girl.

“There you are, sweetheart. Was worried you didn’t make it tonight, thought I was gonna have to dance by myself.”

She grins shyly, hiding her face in the long length of your dress and forgetting about the half eaten treat in her hand. You don’t blame her, Jack definitely has that effect on people.

“Will you dance with me, little lady?”

Lou peeks up at Jack from under her lashes. It takes only a minute until she gives a small nod before pressing the cookie into your hold and reaching out to take his large hand in her much smaller one. He gently spins her as he leads her to the dance floor, and her giggles as her bright red tulle dress flows around her can be heard from over the crowds.

You watch them go with a content smile, before moving your gaze to Gabe.

“Would it be totally lame for you to be seen dancing with your mama?” You ask him softly, brushing a hand over his hair. All the kids from his school are here, and you know he’s starting to reach that age where others' opinions may sway his decisions on things. He still lets you hug him at school drop off and pick up though, so maybe you still have a bit of time.

He gives you a toothy grin, looping his arm through yours and pressing into your side. “I don’t care.”

—

It’s hours later when you finally get him selfishly to yourself, once Lou had promptly fallen asleep on your thick winter coat spread over some chairs in the corner and Gabe had been whisked away to a snowball fight with the other kids. Jack had approached after your yearly duty had been completed with thankfully no one falling into tears, and asked you to dance.

You don’t usually dance. Not properly, anyway. Swinging the kids around and twirling them under your arm while they giggle and jump along is one thing, but this? Tucked up close to someone and trying not to trample on their toes? You haven’t done this in a long time.

Jack doesn’t seem to mind, and with the feel of him pressed up against you? You don’t care if you seem a little awkward. It gives you both a chance to talk, and without interruptions. You ask more about his work, his life, which he seems to still not want to divulge in as much as you had hoped. He does tell you a little more about himself though, what he enjoys during his limited free time and that he’s starting to realise he doesn’t get away from work as much as he probably should.

“Maybe you should invest in a holiday cabin,” you tease, head tilting in a playful manner as you sway between the other locals crowding the hall. “I’ve heard they’re pretty popular to rent out when you don’t need it.”

“That’s not a bad idea, darlin’. Know any good locations?”

“Nowhere local, I’m afraid. You don’t fit in.”

He makes a low noise of understanding, pushing you softly away only for him to spin you under his arm and drag you right back up against him. You’re fucking giddy at the movement.

“Too handsome?”

“Too much of a grinch.”

“Hey now, that’s not fair. I ate a candy cane.”

“And I heard you singing along to a Christmas song, too.”

“Me? I would never,” he responds gruffly, but when his gaze slides to meet yours he grins. “It’s your fault, sugar. What’re you doin’ to me?”

“Working my Christmas magic.”

Christmas magic? Is that what you’re calling this? He feels like a damn school boy, twirling a pretty girl around at a winter dance. He quite likes it. Working at the office and back to back missions have filled his days sure, but there’s a slight tug of loneliness he hasn’t quite been able to hide with distractions for a long time. It feels damn nice to finally soothe that.

His eyes dance across your face, the hand splayed on your lower back tightening and bringing you in impossibly closer. “You’re workin’ some kind of magic, that's for damn sure.”

Holy shit. Heat immediately flares beneath your skin and spreads across your cheeks, biting sharply at your ears. What a smooth bastard. You fight the urge to shyly curl in on yourself, instead letting your grin widen in amusement as you trail your hand from his shoulder to the base of his neck.

“Is that right?” You ask softly, fingers gently twisting and carding through the small patch of hair you could reach from under his stetson. He likes that, you discover quickly, catching the way his eyes drop to your lips the second your nails scratch lightly over his skin. Noted. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, cowboy.”

His chest heaves with a sigh, his lips never losing that charming upturn.

Shaking his head at your playful antics, he coaxes you to rest your head on his shoulder with a rumbled, “C’mere,” and it’s impossible not to melt into a fucking puddle right then and there. Thank god he’s got a good hold on you. He thinks you’re working magic? Then what the hell is this?

“You can’t do that. It’s not fair.”

“Do what?” His drawl rumbles into your body from the close proximity and settles thickly in the pit of your stomach. You feel the slightest brush of lips over the shell of your ear and fight the urge to shiver.

“That. This.”

You’re so incredibly aware of him, of every move and touch. It’s overwhelming, maddening, and you want so much more. He absolutely knows what he’s doing, feels the way you’re practically jelly in his hold. His lips press into the side of your head before his breath ghosts your ear again, and this time you can’t fight the tremble when he speaks lowly.

“I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about, sugar.”

Air. You fucking need air.

Jack must feel the same, or at least know what you need, because as soon as you pull away to meet his eyes, he’s giving you one of those heart achingly handsome smiles and gently leading you through the people towards the doors. The night air nips at your uncovered skin, cooling the heated feel of it and thankfully bringing some clarity to your mind.

Any more of that low honey drawl in your ear and mouth watering aftershave sinking into your nostrils and you would’ve absolutely made a fool out of yourself in front of your friends and neighbours. The last thing you need is to be the topic of town gossip for mounting a tourist right in the middle of the bloody dancefloor.

The few steps are thankfully clear of people when you tread just outside of the hall doors, with the late hour bringing most of the remaining people inside as the temperature drops. The food trucks and stalls had been mostly dismantled and packed away, those remaining still working away before the snow comes in and otherwise ignoring you and Jack lingering on the steps.

You feel the slight tingle of nerves all of a sudden, which is ridiculous considering the amount of time you’ve spent with him recently. Maybe it’s because this is your first time properly alone, without the kids running around and without having to say goodbye. You have time to just be, to enjoy his company and not have to worry about interruptions.

“Forgive me for sayin’ so, sugar,” Jack murmurs, halting your train of thought and bringing your attention fully to him, “but I can’t help but notice—that looks an awful lot like mistletoe up there.”

You fight the immediate tug pulling at the edges of your lips and glance up to where he points, spying the familiar cream bulbs amongst a sprig of fresh green leaves wrapped neatly in a small red bow.

“I believe you’re right, cowboy.”

“Now hear me out… I know I ain’t big on this whole festive season thing, but I figure it’d be mighty rude of me to break a well loved tradition.”

“I agree,” you breathe in reply, eyes falling to where his lips morph into an indulgent smile before snapping back up to meet his warm brown eyes. They’re soft, radiating with such a sweet tenderness that you feel it deep in your chest.

A warm hand cups the side of your throat softly, his thumb brushing your jaw delicately and it’s ever so easy to lean into the touch and relish in the comfort it provides. Your breath seems to hold as he moves in, stepping closer until you feel the brush of his jacket against your torso through the thin material of your dress. He holds for a moment, seemingly content to let his gaze roll along your features before he gives another little smile.

“Would you mind, darlin’?”

Returning his smile is automatic—it simply can’t be helped.

“Not at all, Jack.”

The tickle of his moustache and tender press of his soft lips is nothing short of perfection. You don’t feel the bite of the cold, you don’t hear the music and the laughter and the constant roll of chatter from the hall. It’s just him. Just Jack. It’s all Jack.

He pulls away far too soon, and you merely make a low noise of denial before curling your fingers into his shirt and pulling him gently back for more. He indulges you with a throaty chuckle, lips returning to yours with a little more pressure, a little more wanting. This time his tongue ever so slightly comes to trace your lips, and they part immediately, the kiss deepening until you feel the effects of it right down to your toes.

If you thought you were in trouble before, you don’t stand a chance now. The faint traces of peppermint still linger on his tongue and you chase the taste eagerly, stomach in knots when an arm curls around your body to bring you flush against his. Though you’re lost in the feel and taste of him, Jack remains aware of the goings on around you both and inwardly curses the sound of people nearing the door inside of the hall.

Words are mumbled against your lips.

“Darlin’, is there somewhere we can go a little more private?”

He’s not quite finished with you yet, and he’ll be damned if anyone’s cutting this short. Your boy included. He’s a great kid and all, but not the best with his damn timing. You don’t even realise your hands have wandered, finding a home on his hips and fisting desperately at his shirt.

Private? There’s nowhere private in this town, especially here. The hall is practically the centre of it. There’s out the back, you suppose, where the dumpsters are. It’ll have to do, because you need more of those lips preferably as soon as fucking possible.

You snatch his hand and start leading the way, the icy air nipping at your arms.

“Is there nowhere inside? You’ll catch your death out here,” Jack speaks behind you with a tinge of concern as you lead him down the steps and around the building.

“Guess you’ll have to keep me warm, then.”

“I got no problems with that, sugar, believe me, but still—”

There’s rustling, his hand pulling softly out of yours and then the cover of something heavy and warm, smelling distinctly of that intoxicating cologne that has your mouth watering, over your shoulders. You shift in his jacket, smiling at the typical chivalry that seems to come so naturally from him.

Jack eyes your surroundings when you eventually get around the building, not exactly pleased by the thought of not being able to give you the romantic environment you deserve, but he can’t see or hear anyone in close range and that’s damn good enough for him. He sweeps you into his arms, grinning at your little sharp cry of surprise and crowds you into the wall, his jacket saving your thinly covered shoulders from rubbing against the rough brick facade.

Settling back against the building with a smile of your own, you blink sweetly up at him and tilt your head in playful curiosity. “Is there something I can help you with, cowboy?”

“Yes, darlin’, as a matter of fact there is.”

His hot breath sweeps over your lips and they part in anticipation, your heart beating heavily in your chest as his nose brushes along your own. He drags it out, teasingly pulling away at the last second when you get only centimetres away from his lips and grinning when you make a low noise of impatience.

“Did you need somethin’, sugar?” He drawls deeply, warm brown eyes hooded as they flick between your eyes and lips.

“Oh, shut up,” you groan softly, tangling your fingers into the front of his shirt and tugging him forward. His mouth slants messily over yours, a sudden tangle of tongue and teeth, and you can’t help but moan softly at the overwhelming intensity of it.

A sound that has the power to be his entire fucking undoing, he finds as it ricochets through his ears and right to the very core of him.

Gone is the tender moment of before, cuddled under mistletoe and filled with the warmth of something sweet and unknown. He presses into you fully, firmly, his body pinning you to the wall and giving you the chance of feeling dip and curve of him. His hands grab at your waist, fingers digging roughly into your skin and you curl into him even further, your own hands finding and clutching at his broad shoulders.

You’re left panting against the side of the building when you eventually part, the sound of shouts and laughter off in the distance cutting through the dizzying haze that had fallen over your mind. Jack’s no better, clearly struggling to regulate his own breathing as he braces himself against the wall with his palms, effectively caging you in.

One shared glance and you both dissolve into quiet laughter, either the kiss or the cold bringing a charming pink tinge to Jack’s cheeks, which you trace softly with icy fingers.

“I think the snow’s about to come in, I should get the kids home. Are you still okay to give us a ride?”

“Of course, but I’ll uh… I’ll catch up with you, sugar. I’m gonna need a minute.”

—

Despite the obvious exhaustion hanging in the kid’s limbs, he does a damn good job of fighting the call of sleep long enough to set up for the big visit. Cookies that absolutely had to be presented on a christmas tree dish, a glass of cold milk and nine individual carrots. When Jack asks if using the whole bag was necessary, Gabe levels him with an unimpressed glare.

“One carrot isn’t enough for nine reindeer.”

“That’s a fair point.”

“Will you still be here in the morning?”

Jack casts a glance towards the kitchen, where he can hear you washing the cups that were used for hot chocolate upon getting home. “Uh, probably not, kid.”

Gabe deflates with a quiet oh, his face falling into a little frown. He shifts on his feet, gaze moving from the twinkling Christmas tree to Jack before stepping closer and wrapping his arms around the man. Jack holds still, not exactly sure how to take the sudden sweet affection from the boy whose love language was calling him lame and taking his money.

“Well, Merry Christmas, Jack,” the boy mumbles into his chest, and Jack swallows the sudden feel of something building in the back of his throat as he returns the embrace.

“Merry Christmas, kid,” he rasps quietly, hand stroking through the hat flattened curls on the back of his head.

“Alright mister, time to hit the hay.”

Gabe releases his hold as you reenter the room and nods, giving Jack one last smile before making his way to the stairs. You follow behind him, stopping him on the third step and spinning him softly to face you.

“Did you brush your teeth?”

“Yes mum,” he sighs dramatically, rolling his eyes up to the ceiling and back.

Grinning, you fix his baggy pyjama top and plant a kiss on his cheek. “And what about your Christmas wish?”

“I don’t need to make it anymore,” he shrugs, and you recoil in surprise. “My wish has been the same for ages, and I think it’s coming true now.”

“Oh?” You frown in curiosity, brushing a stray curl from his forehead. He’s never told you what he wishes for, so the fact he thinks it’s suddenly coming true has you wondering what it could be. “Can I ask what it is?”

“Nope,” he grins, casting one final glance towards Jack before giving you a cuddle and starting back up the stairs. “Night mum.”

You watch him go with a look of interest, listening to the creak of his bedroom door as he closes it behind him. Did he somehow know he was getting a new iPad? Did he find it stashed away before you could wrap it? Damn, you thought you hid it so well.

“He’s a real good kid,” Jack says from where he lounges against the doorframe of the living room. “They both are.”

“I know,” you smile.

The conversation echoes the one you had when he first came over, and the memory isn’t lost on Jack either as he grins in return.

“I had a good time tonight, sugar. I suppose this festive season stuff isn’t too bad, after all. Don’t tell anyone I said that.”

“Your secret is safe with me.”

His grin widens briefly as he looks back to the tree, uncertainty beginning to stir in the pit of his stomach. It’s probably getting to that time of the night where he should leave you to it, no doubt you’d have a few things to organise before going to bed yourself, but he doesn’t want to just yet. Can’t seem to find the strength to grab his stetson and jacket and say goodbye.

He doesn’t want it to seem like he’s expecting anything to happen. The night could end with that kiss shared against the hall and he’d leave a damn happy man, but curiosity has him waiting, wondering what move you’d make next, if any. You don’t say anything for a few moments, comfortable with the silence you share as you each watch the other.

Louisa’s long gone and lost to dreams, the girl barely able to keep her eyes open for more than thirty seconds when Jack pried her from the car to bring her inside. Gabe’s ability to fall asleep as soon as his head hits the pillow should be scientifically studied, so you wouldn’t have to worry about him either.

You quietly start making your way up the stairs, pausing just half way up and glancing back at Jack over your shoulder. He’s watching, waiting. The shy little sultry smile you send him is all the invitation he needs.

Knowing he’s right there and following your footsteps has your heart going wild with every step you take closer to your bedroom. A hand presses to the small of your back when you eventually reach your door and push it open, Jack moving damn near silent as the grave as he steps in behind you and closes the door.

“I haven’t done this in a long time,” you admit, nerves finally getting the better of you when his eyes land on you.

“Don’t you worry about that, sugar,” he replies, stepping forward to cup your jaw and you turn into his hand, seeking the reassuring touch. “Now you’re sure about this?”

A silly question.

“More than anything.”

His mouth is on yours as soon as he hears your words, and your head swims from the sweet press of his lips. It’s soft, a moment to put your nerves at ease and work you gently into it, something you’re thankful for as the tension slowly leaks from your shoulders. You follow his lead, letting him kiss you into an absolute frenzy until you feel brave enough to move your hands to unbutton his shirt and push it from his shoulders.

It’s when you trail your hands softly over his ribs and stomach does he kiss you deeper and let his own hands wander, palms smoothing over your sides and back before finding the zipper of your dress. You hold your breath as he tugs at it, shivering at the warm fingers that run along your bare skin when it’s finally open.

You slip your arms out of the short sleeves and let the fabric puddle at your feet, your bra quickly following, and your body warms under the way he unashamedly rakes his eyes over you in the muted light of your bedroom.

“Lay down for me, darlin’. Let me take care of you.”

He watches as you sink into your mattress and wiggle yourself up the bed until your head rests comfortably on your pillows, that charming grin you love oh so much tugging at his lips when you give him another shy smile.

“You’re beautiful.”

He’s one to talk, standing at the foot of your bed shirtless and looking like that.

“And you’re too far away.”

Your thighs part as he climbs onto the bed after you, crawling between your spread legs and over your body, chasing the taste of your mouth before directing his attention to your jaw, and then your throat. His teeth nip at your skin, his tongue soothes the brief tinge of pain away, and you don’t know whether you’re trying to pull him closer or push him away with the more he works your body into an absolute fever.

Fingers trace the waistband of your underwear and your heart starts to beat that much harder in your chest you think he must be able to feel it under his lips. You start to squirm beneath him when his fingers slip beneath the fabric and run softly over your core, brushing over the slick build of arousal and tracing your clit.

“Fuck—”

“Easy,” he murmurs soothingly against your skin, and you swear you hear a smile in his tone.

A thick finger slides into you, probing and curling against your hot walls before a second joins, and the stretch burns in the best of ways. He works you open slowly, more than content to go at his own leisurely pace and indulge in every twitch of slick muscle and quiet moan he can pull from your lips as he kisses his way along your body.

By the time his mouth reaches your stomach, you’re an absolute mess.

He pulls his fingers from your pussy to rid you of your underwear and you whine at the sudden loss of them filling you, but anticipation builds deep in the pit of your stomach as he settles comfortably between your spread legs, arms hooking under your thighs until they rest over his shoulders.

“Are you trying to kill me, cowboy?” You breathe weakly, biting at your lower lip when you feel his warm breath blow over your pussy.

He chuckles softly, “Sorry, sugar.”

The feel of his tongue making a path between your entrance and clit feels like anything but an apology. Your hand flies to his hair, fingers tangling tightly in it as he applies pressure to your clit, lips sucking at it softly and tongue rubbing slow, firm circles until you could almost go mad from the steady lull of it.

He likes to take his time.

There’s no rush with Jack, no quick foreplay so he can turn around and ask for his turn and get right to what he wants. He seems to enjoy working you up as much as you enjoy being victim to it. He waits until you’re breathless to change course, to alternate between building up your climax with firm laps of tongue and then letting it die down to taste you deeper, open mouth flush to your pussy as his tongue tastes you right from the source, and then right back up to start all over again.

Again and again.

“Jack, please—”

You feel a touch of teeth against your clit as he grins and you think then and there that he really is out to kill you. Slowly, and very fucking nicely.

“You can handle a little more, sugar.”

“No, no I really can’t. Please, please do something—”

He groans softly against you, and the vibrations against your clit have your fingers tightening in his hair. He does like that. You tug at it some more, breathing another few pleas for good measure and finally—finally—you get what you want. He breaks free of his routine, tongue merciless as it strokes and rubs into your clit.

There’s no room to wiggle or squirm free of his hold. His arms lock around your thighs, giving you no room for reprieve as he chases your climax and you can only endure, barely remembering to keep your noises to a minimum as he drags you up and over the edge and then some.

You’re trembling in his hold when he finally breaks free of you, sweat slicking your brow and clit throbbing from the overstimulation. That damn smile is back on his face when he eventually crawls back over you, placing a wet messy kiss to the corner of your lips when you can only manage a half hearted glare his way.

“How’re you holdin’ up?”

“Shut up.”

“That’s the second time you’ve told me to shut up tonight.”

“Yeah, well… you deserve it.”

He chuckles quietly, resting his body weight against yours and you whine at the rough press of denim to your sensitive flesh. Your eyes flutter closed when his lips close over yours, his moustache wet and slick with your arousal. It’s hard to feel self conscious about any of it when he’s kissing you like this—tenderly, hungrily.

“Jeans,” you murmur into his mouth, hands tugging impatiently at his belt until he kneels and undoes the thick leather band and begins to slip out of his pants.

He’s back over you within minutes and you relish the feel of hot skin against yours, the heavy feel of his hard cock resting against your core. Your pussy clenches as he gives a small thrust against you.

“Do you have anything?”

“I don’t exactly get a lot of action, cowboy. Do you?”

“I wasn’t really expecting to sleep with the town's prettiest baker, sugar.” He grins, eyes warm as they dance across your face. He kisses you again, soft and reassuring. “It’s alright, we don’t have to—”

“No. No, no—please. I’m clean, and I’ve got the rod. Are you—do you—”

“Clean,” he rasps, and with your final nod of encouragement his hips shift until he’s lining himself up and sliding into you. He’s thick, the stretch of him almost too much even with his earlier attentions to get you ready. He stops halfway before pulling back out, only to sink deeper in on the next thrust.

He keeps the pace slow and steady, letting you adjust to the feel of him while kissing you senseless. Your hands are unable to stay in one place too long, going from curling around his neck to keep his mouth on yours, to his shoulders, to his back and hips. You start to rock up to meet his thrusts, coaxing him deeper and harder until he drives into you hard enough to rock the bed and knock the headboard against the wall.

You both freeze at the sudden sound, and he breaks away from your mouth to eye the headboard with a frown. This won’t work, not with the way he wants to have you, the way you obviously want him to have you. And how could he disappoint you? No, this won’t do.

“It’s okay,” you breathe softly with a smile, “we’ll just have to be careful.”

“‘scuse me, sugar,” he mutters after a moment of thought, tugging a pillow free from under your shoulder and leaning up over you to shove it harshly between the headboard and the wall. He gives an experimental heavy thrust of his hips once he deems it in position and your hands scramble for purchase, coming to tightly clutch at his waist.

When the headboard doesn’t knock against the wall again, he gives you a sly look of victory and grins.

“There we go. Now where was I?”

“Doing that again.”

“Of course, how could I forget?” He teases playfully, curling back over you to swallow your broken moans as he resumes the pace he had been working into before.

You clench, tighten and flutter around him as he fucks into you, mouth still so sweet and soft against your own it’s hard to keep up with the contrast of it all.

He kisses you until he physically can’t anymore, breaking away to hide his face into your throat as the slick feel of your pussy builds that tightening growing in the pit of his stomach. He pulls you closer, tangles his fingers with your own, finds every possible way to be even closer still. He wants to drown in you, feel and taste you and be surrounded by nothing but you.

It’s your final barely coherent utter of his name that sends him hurtling off the edge, a long drawn out fuck muffled into the skin of your throat as he feels himself fill you. He doesn’t move from covering you until he’s long gone soft, barely able to bring himself to pull out of you and collapse softly beside you.

His heart hammers in his chest, something else swimming beside the post-climax bliss and he’s not quite sure what to make of it, what to think. This is more than a simple fleeting attraction.

He likes you.

He really fucking likes you. Great sex out of the equation, he likes your company. He likes that you can laugh at and with him. He likes your home and how comfortable he is in it. He likes your kids.

Shit.

Now what?

“You doing okay over there, cowboy?” You ask gently, head rolling to the side to watch him. He’s thinking long and hard about something, and you hope to god it wasn’t something like regret.

“I don’t think I can leave this behind, sugar,” he mutters, eyes locked on the ceiling as he works his way through his thoughts and swallows the brief shake of nerves. “I thought I’d be runnin’ out of town by the time my vacation was up, but this… you and the kids, I don’t think I can leave it so easily.”

He leaves his confession to sink in for a moment, tongue sweeping along his lips as his heart starts to roar in his ears. He can’t look at you, doesn’t want to see the potential rejection build in your eyes before it passes through your lips, so he keeps his eyes away.

“I know I said I don’t have the option of datin’ because of my work, but… would you let me try?”

It’s a long shot. You’ve never had this conversation, never broached potentially taking this further than just a little fleeting moment in your lives. There’s a chance he’s just gone and ruined whatever casual thing you’d both crafted, but it was worth a shot, right?

Maybe he should’ve just kept this to himself and thought more on it back at the cabin.

“Long distance is hard, but we can take it slow,” you decide quietly, smiling softly when his eyes dart to you. “I don’t think I can just let you run out of town and never see you again, cowboy.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

Thank Christ. He heaves a sigh of relief and rolls onto his side, coaxing you into his arms and brushing a few fingers gently across your cheek. You turn into the heat of his body, winding an arm around him and letting your fingers dance random patterns up and down his back.

“Would you like to stay for Christmas?” You ask against his chest, nuzzling into his hot skin.

“It’s a special time for the kids, I don’t wanna intrude—”

“You wouldn’t be. You’re invited. They’d love to have you here, if you want to be. Do you think you’ll be able to survive a proper Christmas with us?”

He grins, “I’d love nothin’ more, sugar.”

“So it’s settled. Come on, you grinch. I’ll show you how to play Santa.”

He watches you roll from the bed and tuck yourself into your dressing gown, and you only notice his frown when you’re tying the thin belt and sliding your slippers on.

“What's wrong?”

“The fact that you’re up and walkin’ so damn easily. I’ll take care of that, once we’ve taken care of this.”

—

The chair next to him is empty when he sits down, and Tequila throws a curious glance Champ’s way. He’d half expected Whiskey to be clawing his way back into the building first thing this morning. His desk had been untouched, the corridors empty of his presence. No one had seen or heard anything about him.

Worry begins to stir in his chest, wondering if they’ve maybe pushed him too hard and he’s gone and quit for another agency, but it quickly dissolves away when he realises Champ’s at ease and unbothered. Losing Jack would hit the older man quite hard, so to see him reclined in his office chair with a cigar in hand is a sign everything is well.

“Agent Whiskey’s extended his vacation,” Champ states, breaking the silence and answering the questions building on the young agent's tongue. “He’ll be back after New Years.”

Tequila settles back into his chair and grins. So good ol’ Scrooge ended up having a decent Christmas after all. Good for him.

“Finally enjoyin’ some peace and quiet, then.”

“He’s enjoyin’ somethin’, alright. He’s asked for the weekend of Valentine’s Day off, too.”

—end.

#jack daniels x reader #jack daniels x f!reader #jack daniels x you #agent whiskey x reader #agent whiskey x f!reader #agent whiskey x you #pedro pascal x reader

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sepdet · 3 days ago

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Killing Time excerpts #2: the boys compare dreams over breakfast

(from that totally canon Star Trek novel that Pocket Books rapidly recalled from stores to scrub certain Kirk/Spock scenes, but my Mom beat the censors to a first edition!)

Kirk poked at the eggs on his plate with the tip of his fork, but it was blatantly obvious to Spock that the captain had little interest in the food.

"I don't know who I was, but ... I wasn't who I was supposed to be." He laid the fork aside and took a healthy gulp of the reconstituted orange juice. "And that's not exactly right either," he continued, not quite looking at the Vulcan. "It was as if I was still James Kirk—the same James Kirk I've always been—but I wasn't in the right. . . place." He shook his head in frustration. "I can't explain it, Spock."

Spock eyed his friend carefully. "Dreams of alienation are not unusual," he pointed out. "In situations such as exist onboard starships, they are, in fact, extremely common." Taking a sip of the hot herb tea, he pushed his own plate of untouched tood aside. He couldn't help remembering that he, too, had been experiencing dreams of alienation and displacement for nearly a full solar week; but something restrained him from mentioning it. "In your dream, Captain," he continued cautiously, "was it as if you were ... not how you would normally envision yourself to be?" Kirk frowned thoughtfully, then glanced up as his open palm slapped the table.

"That's exactly it!" he exclaimed, then lowered his voice as he noticed a young yeoman at the next table cast a quick look in his direction. He leaned closer to the Vulcan, feeling vaguely ridiculous for the outburst, but somehow

closer to the solution. "I was on the Enterprise— but it wasn't even the Enterprise—at least not like I know her," he added as an afterthought. "And... I kept seeing you." At last, he looked up. "But you were different, too, Spock," he stated emphatically. "I'm not sure, but... I think you were the captain."

He shuddered internally, as the haunting quality of the dreams sharpened. He thought he saw a faint smile come to the young yeoman's face as she stood and quickly left the dining area, but he no longer cared. At least it might alleviate her boredom. "And I didn't know who I was." He shrugged uncomfortably. "I must've been an ensign or something, because I remember trying to think of some way to approach you—to tell you that things weren't the way they're supposed to be."

He grinned without looking up, and took another swallow of the orange juice, tasting it for the first time. It only strengthened his resolve to put in a formal request to Admiral Nogura for fresh orange juice at the next opportunity. "And I also remember thinking that you would never believe me. After all," he added as the smile broadened, "you were the ship's captain— and a Vulcan! What chance would a lowly human ensign have of trying to inform the Vulcan commander that he (meaning me!) was supposed to be the cap-tain?" He laughed aloud, feeling some of the tension ebb away just in the act of telling Spock about the absurdity of it all.

The Vulcan leaned forward, and their eyes met across the table. "Jim," he murmured in a tone suddenly deep and foreboding, "I also dreamed." Kirk swallowed the lump of nervousness which rose in his throat, but he could only stare mutely at his first officer. Guiltily, he looked around to see if the yeoman was still eavesdropping. Bad enough that the captain's having anything but delusions of grandeur, he thought. But if Spock buckles... He let the thought drift into silence.

The Vulcan steepled his fingers in front of him. "At

first, I believed the dreams were attributable to the somewhat uneventful mission currently assigned to the Enterprise. However, I am no longer convinced that such is the case."

Kirk looked at his friend for a long time, their eyes holding them together. "What did you dream, Spock?" he asked, forcing his tone to remain neutral.

But he didn't need to hear the answer; it was clearly inscribed in the dark eyes, carved in the angular features, written in the almost tangible conviction with which the Vulcan spoke.

One eyebrow arched, and it seemed for a moment as if the first officer might surrender to the human urge of shrugging. He did not. "I do not believe it is worth concerning yourself, Captain," he said as if attempting to dismiss his own statement. Somehow, it sounded far less logical in reality than it had in his own thoughts. "We have observed in the past that our minds have developed a telepathic rapport of sorts. Perhaps I was merely receiving fragments of your dreams, thereby—"

"Spock," Kirk interrupted with an exasperated sigh. He reached across the table, resting his fingers lightly on his friend's arm. "I know it's an inconvenience to your Vulcan logic to have this link with a human, but just tell me!" But the gentle smile robbed the words of any harsh implications.

After a moment, Spock nodded almost imperceptibly and took a deep breath. "I dreamed that you were an ensign," he stated, "and that I was ... captain of the Enterprise."

Kirk leaned heavily back in the chair, letting his hand fall back to his side. He could think of nothing to say.

"Perhaps we should inform Doctor McCoy," Spock suggested. "Since Vulcans do not normally dream whatsoever, and since our dreams do bear remarkable similarity ..." His voice drifted into silence.

Kirk glanced at the chronometer on the wall, then nodded. "You're probably right," he agreed. "As a

precautionary measure, we probably should tell Bones. But..." He put one hand to his forehead, sensing a headache struggling to break through. "Just keep it to yourself today, Spock. I'm going to talk to a few other people and see what I can come up with first."

Spock's head inclined in acknowledgment, and he rose from the chair as Kirk stood and followed him toward the door.

Once inside the lift. Kirk tried to shake the feeling of uneasiness with a deep breath. His success was marginal. But when the double doors opened to reveal the familiar refuge of the bridge, he stepped back, smiling deceptively at Spock's apparent confusion. "After you ... Captain Spock," he offered graciously.

The Vulcan turned, both brows climbing in a moment of surprise. "Illogical," he noted, but nonetheless stepped onto the bridge first. "Captain, I need not point out that it would be irrational to base rank solely on the basis of dreams—regardless of the fact that I would, no doubt, make an excellent commander.*

Kirk shrugged, scrutinizing his first officer dis-creetly. "Maybe," he conceded, stepping onto the bridge and pulling the professional air of command into place. But he couldn't resist one final urge. "But keep in mind that I'd make one hell of a lousy ensign, Spock!*

The Vulcan stopped, meeting Kirk's eyes warmly. "Of that," he readily agreed, "I have no doubt."

—•—

Next Time

Things get steamy (literally) as Kirk dons a lumberjack shirt and invites Spock to stroll with him in a garden.)

See tag [Killing Time excerpts for more]

#killing time excerpts #killing time #spirk #pocket books #star trek TOS #star trek #kirk/spock

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stansthemans · 1 day ago

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Back at it again with the next round of teen fem stan. This one got away from me yall so settle in bc we’re at over 6k. Slight warning for Caryn and Filbrick’s A+ parenting, but its all mostly just implied

“Sweet Moses, Sixer, was that your spine?” Stan’s attention has barely been clinging to her home ec project—because honestly, she has no intentions of being a pretty little housewife and it’s not like Ford is going to care about table settings when they’re finally off having their adventures on the high seas—but she thinks even if she had been engrossed, the sound of Ford’s spine cracking as he stretched would have jolted her with the same intensity as a gunshot next to her ear.

Ford huffs a bit of a laugh. “I suppose I’ve been working for a while now,” he says, returning to his slumped posture over his desk.

Stan frowns and scoots off her bunk. She stands over him with her hands on her hips. Sometimes this works, sometimes it doesn’t. It’s always worth a shot. “So, what, you just immediately slump back down,” she asks. “Get up and take a break. You’re gonna develop scoliosis.”

“Poor posture is not the cause of scoliosis,” Ford says. “And I’m busy.”

“You’d say that even if someone handed you a multiplication table,” Stan says. She still has to think about it, but Ford has been able to spout all those things off without a hitch since they were about five.

Ford rolls his eyes. “Those are for babies,” he says. “This is actual work.” Stan looks at the paper and can’t make a lick of sense about it, but she does recognize the notebook as one of his pet projects. Something about motion and the senior science fair next year.

“Actual work that’s gonna give you a crooked spine,” Stan says.

“Again, not how that works,” Ford says. He shifts his shoulders, and something cracks again. Stan is already making a face at him when he looks up at her with a frown. “That was simply ill timed.”

“Uh huh,” Stan says.

Their bedroom door, which has been slightly cracked, is suddenly thrown open, and Stan both whirls to face the threat and steps away from Ford. The immediate spike of danger warning danger drops at the sight of their mother standing in the door frame, her purse slung over her shoulder.

“Kids, we’re about to head out,” she says. Her sister is having one of her biannual crisis that requires Caryn to drive upstate to manage. Their father doesn’t trust her to go that far in the car alone, so he’s dragged along with her. Stan has been looking forward to this. Three days without their parents in the house. Three days where she can breathe freely.

As expected, the twins step forward for their mother to kiss on the cheeks. Ford also gets an affectionate pat, but when Caryn takes Stan’s face in her hands, there is a slight harshness. “Stanley, the fridge has plenty of food. Do not make junk for your brother. You cook him a good meal. He’s too skinny.”

“Ma,” Ford groans, but he’s ignored.

“You hear me,” Caryn says.

“Yes, Ma,” Stan intones.

Caryn’s eyes are sharp as they dart over to her things scattered on the bunk. “Stanford, bubbe, you make sure she actually does that homework. And do not let her skip school.”

“Ma, she wouldn’t,” Ford says, and everyone in the room knows that that is a lie. If it wouldn’t get her in trouble—trouble that Stan can in no way afford—she absolutely would bug it off.

“Caryn,” their father yells from the living room.

“Calm down,” she yells back. “Two minutes won’t change the traffic.” She levels them with one more look, one more silent warning about each of their expectations, and then she’s gone.

The door clicks shut behind their parents, and even with the very clear undertones of that encounter, Stan’s chest already feels lighter. It’s better when Ford reaches out and wraps his hand around hers. “You don’t have to cook for me,” he says.

Stan smiles up at him, very glad that he’s there. “What, you gonna try it,” she asks. “We’re dead if we burn the house down.”

Ford grimaces. “There was not a fire,” he says. “Not a real one.”

“Facts are facts, Stanford,” she teases. “Old lady Fitzgerald called the fire department.”

Ford blushes as he scoffs. It’s very cute. “That hardly counts. She’s always been an over-dramatic busybody.”

Stan laughs and squeezes his hand. “I don’t actually mind it,” she says. Stan’s hackles raise every time someone yaps at her about being a sweet little housewife, but this is the one part of it she doesn’t mind. Everyone’s got to eat, after all, and there’s a lot about cooking that she honestly finds soothing, especially when she’s just doing it for her and her brother.

Stan goes out into the kitchen and takes stock of what they have. There’s a slab of chuck that isn’t too big, so she pulls that out along with potatoes and carrots. She’s done this plenty of times, so it’s hardly fifteen minutes later that everything is in the oven. Stan heads back into their room. “If you’re good with a later dinner, I’ve got a roast going.”

Ford is back at the desk. “That’s perfect,” he says. “Yours always turns out very well.” If that little compliment maybe puts an extra spring in her step as she walks back to her bunk, well, so be it. Stan has always soaked up compliments from her brother.

They continue to each work in a comfortable silence. Stan is quick to abandon her homework, shifting her attention between other things. Comics, doodling on an art pad that Ford lets her borrow sometimes, filing her nails down, flipping through magazines. Every once in a while she hops up to check in on the roast. She takes stock of the other groceries and plans out the rest of their dinners.

She’ll need to do a bit of rearranging some things, maybe even make one quick trip to the store. Her mother prefers to cook large meals, things that they can’t possibly all eat in one sitting or even two. Caryn’s busiest call hours are in the evenings and nights, times when she should be wrapping up cooking, serving her family, and seeing that things get cleaned up. It’s not really feasible to do that every night, so she’s a leftovers type of person.

Stan doesn’t like that. She’d rather have to prep and cook and clean every time because that means something fresh. And yeah, so what, Ford always smiles up at her and thanks her for whatever she’s made, no matter how complicated or simple.

When she finally pulls the roast out of the oven, Stan congratulates herself. It looks perfect, and there should be just enough for their two portions tonight and a quick lunch tomorrow. She spoons everything up into bowls and puts the pot in the sink to soak and deal with later.

“Room service,” Stan calls as she breezes into their room with the bowls balanced on her palms. She has napkins between them and her hands, but the heat is already seeping through quickly, so she deposits Ford’s down on the desk with maybe a bit too loud of thump.

Ford blinks owlishly at the bowl and then her as she settles onto the stool by the desk. “Already,” he asks, pulling back his sleeve to take a look at his watch.

“It’s been three hours, Poindexter,” Stan says, jabbing her fork in his direction. “Three hours closer to your scoliosis onset.”

Ford rolls his eyes but doesn’t bother correcting her this time. He hooks a finger onto the rim of the bowl and pulls it closer. He looks in and takes a deep breath. “This smells amazing, Stanley, thank you.”

Yeah, she preens. So what. “Oh, wait, I forgot about drinks,” Stan says, leaping back up.

Ford starts to turn. “I can go get—“

“No, I’ve got it,” Stan hollers back, already to the door. She knows that their old man has beers in the fridge, and for just a second she toys with grabbing a few just to mess with Ford, but she decides against it quickly. It feels like something Filbrick would just sense that she touched, and she in no way wants to deal with the fallout from that. Besides, nothing wrong with a nice, cold glass of milk.

“Your cow juice, sir,” Stan says as she presents the glass to Ford with a mockery of a fancy waiter’s bow.

Ford snorts in that way he does when he’s laughing but doesn’t want to. “You say the weirdest things,” he says, taking the glass. He inclines his head towards her bowl. “Did you actually get enough for yourself? Mine has a lot more.”

“Yeah, there’s a point to that,” Stan says. “Protein—“ She points at the bowl. “—meet bones.” She points at his scrawny arm. Ford levels her with a look, but Stan just grins at him. “Come on, Sixer. Can’t hurt you. Pa’s still making you take the boxing lessons, so you might as well do a little extra to reap the benefits.”

“That aside,” Ford says stuffily. “Do you have enough?”

“More than Ma would let me eat,” Stan says. “But, hey, I’m already reaping the benefits.” She lifts her arms up and flexes, knowing exactly the reaction she’s going to get.

Ford’s eyes lock onto her biceps sharply. They both take the boxing lessons, but Stan is so much more serious about it. There are multiple reasons, but really, she does love it. She loves the anticipation, sizing up her opponents. She loves the sweating and buzz of adrenaline, the feeling of her fists landing a solid punch, even a solid punch landing on her. She loves that it’s a place she can actually focus, that she’s good at it, that all of her other inadequacies can melt away when she steps into the ring, that at least in there it doesn’t matter that she’s too loud, too brash, too unladylike.

She really likes that it makes her body look a certain way and that Ford likes it. He’s never said anything, but Stan catches him staring at her arms and shoulders a lot with a hungry look in his eyes. Everyone else makes snide comments, but Ford likes how she looks. And if Ford likes it, well, that’s all that Stan needs.

Stan flexes once more and wags her eyebrows. Ford’s cheeks go pink and he clears his throat, sliding his hands around his bowl tightly. Stan laughs and lowers her arms to take her bowl too. “Ok,” she says, done teasing. “Bone appetite.”

“Sweet Moses,” Ford mutters, clearly done with her. Stan laughs and stabs a good chunk of meat with her fork.

Eating dinner just the two of them is nice. The house being empty besides them is nice. They can just sit there and talk and goof around and not have to worry about either of their parents walking into the room and bringing with them waves of tension. They can move through the house when they’re done, Stan going to the kitchen to clean and Ford making the rounds downstairs to ensure everything is locked up, without tiptoeing and keeping their eyes down.

One day it’s going to always be like this. Just the two of them. Free and happy. The smell of salty sea air all around them and the floor rocking under them with the the pull of the waves.

When Stan walks back into their room, Ford is standing before his desk, looking ready to get right back into his work. But he’s stretching first, using one hand to lock onto the opposite wrist behind his back and arching. There’s a notable wince as something cracks.

“OK, that’s enough,” Stan says.

Ford drops his hands. “Stanley—“

She throws up a finger, jabbing it in the direction of his chest. “Don’t you Stanley me,” she says. “You’ve been hunched over all that nerd junk for hours. Call it quits for the night.”

“I really only have just a bit more,” Ford tries, inching his way back to his seat. Stan tries to intercept him, but he drops down into it too quickly and then grins up at her. He knows as well as she does that yes, she can definitely take him in a wrestling match, but if he decides to go boneless—which based on that grin, Stan knows is his play—she isn’t going to have much luck moving him. He’s a scrawny nerd, but he’s still decently heavy and is still growing. She teases him about being skin and bones, but Stan can tell. Ford is going to be broad like their dad and Shermie when he’s done growing.

“You’re ridiculous,” she chides over him, and Ford just laughs.

“You can’t have the monopoly,” he says. He picks up his pencil and starts back at his notebook. Then he startles a bit when Stan drops her hands over his shoulders. They really are bigger than she gives him credit for. He has a shirt on, but she knows there’s some muscle definition there too. She moves one hand, just enough that she can drag her thumb over the skin right above his collar. “Stanley.”

“How about a deal,” she asks. “You can keep being a nerd, but I’m gonna give you a back rub. Really, it’s best of both worlds for you.”

“It’s distracting,” Ford says. “If you’d just let me finish working—“

Stan digs her fingers into Ford’s neck to cut him off. It works. He lets out this sound, something close to a moan, and it makes Stan’s stomach swoop. But she also winces at the tightness of the muscles. “Cripes, Poindexter,” she says, kneading lightly over a knot in his neck, her other hand squeezing his traps. “I don’t care what you say about scoliosis. This shit can’t be good for you.”

Ford hangs his head, breathing a little bit harder through his nose as she continues to move her hands. “Possibly,” he says. “But you don’t have to do this.”

Stan scratches lightly at the hair on the back of his neck. “Does it feel nice,” she asks.

“Yes,” he says, almost like he doesn’t want to admit it.

Stan leans down, dropping a kiss to the top of his head. “You always help me when I’m aching,” she says. “Let me help you for once.”

Ford reaches back and grabs one of her hands. He turns his head and kisses her palm. “You say that like you’ve never helped me before.”

“You just fight me more on it now,” Stan says, careful to keep any hurt from her voice. That’s not the point of this, even if it does eat at her every time that Ford insists he can take care of himself, that he doesn’t need his little sister to swoop in and shield him from anything.

Ford doesn’t say anything to that, but he also doesn’t stop her when she brings her hand back to his shoulders and kneads her thumbs into the tension knotting just under the skin. Stan moves her hands slowly over him, working carefully with the knots. She’s had a few nasty ones in her day. She knows how they can hurt when they’re getting worked out. Ford hisses at the pressure, and she whispers, “Sorry. I know.”

“It’s ok,” Ford says.

“Do you want me to leave it,” she asks. He shakes his head. Stan kisses the back of his head again and applies more pressure. Ford tenses, grunting a little until suddenly he relaxes. “Better,” Stan asks, and he nods. “Good.”

Stan moves her hands up and down Ford’s back, dipping under the collar of his shirt when she’s up near his neck. His skin is warm, and when she’s touching him like that, his breath picks up more. Stan’s does too. Her chest feels tight, in a very good and specific way. It feels like a risk, like something very, very huge that could go very, very bad, but Stan tries. “It—“ She clears her throat. Her voice is usually a little too deep and raspy, but that was something else. “It might be better without this.”

She tugs just a bit at the sleeve of Ford’s shirt, and for a moment, they both are very still. Then, Ford nods, and Stan slides her hands down his sides, down to where his shirt is tucked into his pants. She digs her fingers into the material and pulls it out, pulls it up. Ford lifts his arms. As it goes over his head, it knocks his glasses aside and ruffles his hair. Stan takes a moment to right them first before she returns her hands to his body.

It’s immediately different. If this was innocent at first—and Stan doesn’t really know that it was—it doesn’t feel that way now. Ford’s skin isn’t just warm, it’s hot and softer than it should be even with the hair that is definitely growing in thicker and thicker. Stan drags her hands over his back, along the sides of his spine, tracing the muscles under his skin. She watches—feels—as his back expands with every deep breath.

Stan definitely can’t call it innocent anymore when she curls her hands over his shoulders, over towards his chest. Ford sits back, leaning against her as she trails her fingers over his pecs, stopping just short of his stomach. She moves her hands back up, scratching her nails lightly over his skin, through his chest hair. Stan’s hands go back up his neck, into his hair, then back down again.

Ford is breathing hard, and so is she because from her vantage point she can see very clearly that the crotch of his pants is much, much tighter than it should be. Ford is hard. All from just her hands. Just on his torso.

“I could help with that too,” Stan whispers, and Ford is very nearly trembling under her. Of course, she’s no better staring down at the way his pants are straining against his erection.

“You don’t have to,” Ford says, his head pillowed against her chest.

“What if I want to,” she asks.

Ford growls. He actually growls, and it sends a jolt down Stan’s spine. His hands go for his belt, and Stan hurries around the chair, crouching down in front of him, between his splayed legs. She reaches up to help him tug everything out of the way. When his hard dick springs free, for a moment, they both just stare at it.

Stan has never seen an erect cock before. Sure, she’s seen some things. She’s shared a room with her brother for their entire lives, and yeah, lately, they’ve been getting into things with each other, but not like this. All of their humping has been with clothes on. Yeah, Ford has touched her, slipped his hands into her panties, but they’ve always stayed on. And before today, she hasn’t been brave enough to return the favor.

Looking at him now, hard and pink and leaking at the top, what in the hell has she been waiting for?

“Stan,” Ford starts to say and then hisses when Stan reaches out and wraps her fingers around him. It’s softer than Stan expected, heavier. And hot. Ford runs hot in general, but his cock is on fire. Stan strokes lightly, watching as the bead of pre-cum grows until it’s heavy enough for gravity to pull it down, trailing along the underside of Ford’s cock head.

Stan keeps her grip loose. Guys are sensitive down there, right? She doesn’t want to squeeze him too tight and hurt him. Unless, maybe it’s too loose? “Is this ok,” she asks, surprised by her own breathlessness.

“Yeah,” Ford pants, his fists clenched hard enough that his knuckles are a stark white.

“Should I—“ Stan doesn’t really know what to do here, and she feels a bit ridiculous. Ford always seems to know when he touches her. He just does it, and it lights up every single nerve in her body in the best of ways.

“Here,” he offers, wrapping his hand around hers. He guides her, adjusting her grip a little tighter, moving just a little faster. “There—that’s—God, Stanley.”

Stan clings to the loose material of Ford’s pants bunched up over his thigh. She doesn’t know what to stare at. The way Ford’s eyes are locked onto her, his lids heavy but gaze still sharply focused. The pink flush spreading over his cheeks. His teeth digging into his bottom lip. The way his chest heaves with the force of his breathing, his stomach clenching. Or his cock. The color, the way the skin moves up over the head. The vein on the underside. The way her fingers can’t quite fully wrap around it. Stan has nothing to compare it to but does Ford have a big dick?

The tip of Ford’s cock leaks the longer she strokes him, and it’s hypnotic, fully entrancing. It makes Stan’s mouth water even as her throat feels dry. She doesn’t really think. She just leans forward, her tongue out to taste it.

“Fuck,” Ford shouts. His hands grab at her, one clinging to her arm, the other gripping her hair.

For a moment, they are both still. Ford stares down at her with wild eyes, his pupils blown so wide his eyes are almost entirely black. And Stan, well, she’s had her hair pulled before in a way that has been very, very bad, but this—Ford staring down at her like this, his hand in her hair like this—

Stan closes her lips over Ford’s cock, and the noise he makes—a groan from deep in his chest—shakes Stan down to her core. Her stomach twists, molten hot arousal pooling between her legs. She lowers her head, taking more of him into her mouth, and Ford gasps. “Stanley, oh fuck!”

Stan bobs her head, dragging her lips up and down the shaft of Ford’s cock, her tongue pressed flat to the underside. Ford’s hand slides through her hair, over her cheeks, brushing against where her lips stretch around him. “Stanley, God, this is—you feel so good.” She tries to take more of him, and Ford’s hips buck up. Stan chokes a bit, and quickly, Ford stills himself. “I’m sorry,” he gasps. “Sorry, I—“

But Stan does it again because even though he was nearly to her throat, that felt good. That felt really good. Ford’s hands are both in her hair now, clinging, not too tight, just the right amount. “Stan, Stanley, I’m—I’m gonna—“

Stan moans, her entire body on fire. Yes, she wants that desperately. She wants him to come in her mouth. She wants to make Ford feel good, wants to feel him come, wants to taste it.

Stan hollows her cheeks, actually sucking hard, and Ford comes with a shout. Stan watches his face, absolutely awed at how beautiful he looks, cheeks flushed a deep red, sweat beading on his brow, eyes finally slipping closed in pleasure. She keeps her lips closed around him, using her hand to gently stroke him through it as spurts of his semen coat the inside of her mouth. Stan wouldn’t exactly call it a good taste, but it’s Ford, and she made him feel like that.

Ford collapses back into the chair, his chest heaving as if he’s just sprinted a mile. Slowly, Stan pulls herself off him, swallowing as she goes. Ford stares down at her like she’s just done something amazing. Maybe she has.

She wonders if she should stand up, move away, but Stan just stays seated there between Ford’s legs. She drops her head down to rest on his thigh, and they just stare at each other, both trying to catch their breaths.

Stan just sucked Ford’s cock.

She should maybe be freaking out about that a little. A lot. Because he’s her twin brother. And this—this is well outside of the boundaries of what happens when she’s on her period. Hell, it’s well outside of the light groping and stolen kisses that have become increasingly frequent over the past few months. She should be freaking out a whole lot about this.

But.

One of Ford’s hands is slowly dragging through her hair, almost petting her. His other is at her cheek, thumb tracing light circles. And he’s looking down at her like she’s something precious. He’s looking at her like she’s something that could be adored.

It should be wrong. Anyone else would say that this is wrong, but Stan feels so perfectly right. This is where she’s meant to be. This is what she’s meant to be doing. The entire reason she exists is to love Ford. If Ford knows that she loves him, then she has done everything she needs to do in life. Nothing else matters.

Stan smiles at him, and Ford smiles back. Everything is all right. Everything is perfect. They are supposed to be like this. They were made to be like this.

“Are you ok,” Ford asks, and he sounds wrecked. The heat in Stan’s stomach flares again. She did that. She made him sound like that, and this was only the first time. God, what could she do with some practice? The thought makes her incredibly aware of how much slickness has pooled between her legs, and Ford hasn’t even touched her.

Stan nods. She is more than ok. She runs her tongue along her bottom lip, and she can still taste Ford there. His eyes zero in on it, his thumb trailing along after her tongue. Her hand, the one that had been locked in a death grip on his pants, slides up his leg. She wants to touch his skin again, feel that warmth against her.

“You’re hard again,” Stan says lowly, pointing out the very increasingly obvious.

“Well,” Ford says, his hand still stroking through her hair, “I’m sixteen, and a very pretty girl is lying with her face in very close proximity to my crotch.”

It’s dumb that that’s the thing that makes her blush, not when her brother came down her throat, but that’s just kind of how it works with her feelings about Ford.

Ford touches where the blush is staining her cheeks. “You don’t have to do anything else. Stanley, that was—that was amazing.”

She doesn’t have to. He always says that, always gives her the out. But she wants to.

Stan makes a decision. She pulls off her shirt and bra. Then, as she stands up, she pushes down her shorts and panties. Ford stares up at her with wide eyes, his pupils blown. “God,” he breathes, and he reaches for her. His hand slides between her legs, as he’s done before, but this time she’s naked, bare before him, and he can see it. “God, Stanley, you’re so wet. Just from blowing me?”

“Yeah,” she pants, grabbing onto his shoulders. “It was good, Sixer. It was so—I want more.”

Two fingers push inside her, and Stan’s legs are starting to shake. Ford’s thumb slowly circles over her clit. “You want to suck me off again?”

Stan shakes her head. “No—I mean, yes, yeah, I do want to, but—“ She moves, and Ford’s hand leaves her as she climbs onto his lap. He stares up at her with wide eyes as she positions herself over his cock. “This, Ford,” Stan says, wrapping her arms around his neck. “I want you inside me.”

Ford’s big hands splay wide over her hips, and he pushes just so slightly. Permission. Stan slowly sinks down. They both hiss when the tip of his cock presses against her pussy. By the time the head is inside, they’re both panting, eyes locked onto each other. She moves almost torturously slow, overwhelmed by the sensation of him filling her up. When she makes it that last little bit, when she is seated firmly in his lap, some kind of guttural noise claws its way out of her throat.

“Stanley,” Ford gasps, hands all over her, kissing her. “Stanley, are you—God—are you ok? Are you hurt?”

“No,” Stan says, although it’s difficult to talk when it feels like the air has been punched from her lungs. “No, I—Ford, it’s so deep.”

Ford cups her face. “You feel so good, Stanley, God. So tight. You’re ok?”

“I’m ok,” she answers. “I’m—oh my God, Sixer, please—“

He kisses her again, harder this time. Hungry. “Bounce,” he growls against her lips, one hand sliding down to squeeze at her breast, the other settling back on her hip. “Bounce for me.”

Stan holds onto Ford’s shoulders for leverage as she raises a bit up on her knees and then drops. She moans as it punches the air from her lungs all over again, and Ford curses. “Again. Do it again. Faster.”

Stan does as she’s told. She bounces herself on Ford’s dick, and it feels like it’s rearranging her guts in the best way. When her thighs start to burn, she stays seated, rocking instead, and that feels just as amazing. Ford’s mouth is on her jaw, her neck, closing over her nipples, and all she can do is cling to him, hands tight in his hair. They’re both making noises that sound crazy, but Stan couldn’t stop even if she wanted to.

She can feel her orgasm starting to crest, everything in her clenching up. “Ford, Ford, I’m close—I’m—“

Ford’s hands loop under her thighs, and he stands up so fast that it makes Stan dizzy. She clings to him, and suddenly in another swoop of motion, her back hits the hard surface of his desk. Ford kisses her, something that manages to be bruisingly passionate and intimately delicate. “Stanley,” he says against her lips.

“I love you.” It bursts out of her. She loves him. Of course she loves him. He’s her twin brother. He’s the center of her world and has been for their entire lives—her mother has complained to plenty of people that Stan was a loud and fussy baby, that no toy or food or rocking or anything but Stanford could ever settle her cries—but this kind of love. A different kind. They aren’t supposed to feel this, but she does, and it’s completely consuming.

Ford’s forehead drops over hers, and he intertwines their fingers—six surrounding five—and for a moment they just lie like that, staring at each other and connected in so many ways.

“I love you too, Stanley,” Ford says, and he starts to roll his hips. Stan groans, her legs circling his waist. “I love you so much, my sweet girl.” Every word is punctuated by a thrust that gets harder and sharper than the last, and Stan’s eyes roll back. “You’re mine. You’re mine. Stanley, tell me.”

“I am,” she moans, and it’s so true. “Yours. Only yours. I don’t—I never want anyone else. Just you.”

Ford takes his hands from hers, and Stan has no time to complain because he grabs her hips and starts to pound into her like their lives depend on it. In seconds, she’s screaming through an orgasm, and Ford just keeps going in a brutal pace, thrusting deep inside her, filling her up so much that Stan can feel it in her throat. She clings to the edge of the desk that’s shaking under their weight.

“I’m close, sweetheart,” Ford says, his fingers digging deep enough into her hips to bruise. God, she hopes she bruises. “God, I’m—“

Stan squeezes her legs tighter around Ford, pulling him closer, trying to pull him completely inside. “Stay,” Stan begs. “Stay, please.”

Whatever control Ford was clinging to before is lost. His hips sputter out of his set rhythm, thrusting himself as deep into Stan as he can with a wild abandon. “Stanley, Stanley,” he breathes hot across Stan’s neck as he spills inside her, hot and wet. His lips find Stan’s, and Stan tightens her insides, giving Ford everything she can. She swallows down the moans Ford lets out as he thrusts shallowly through the orgasm. Then he collapses on top of her.

It’s a very long moment that they just lie there, panting harshly, sweaty skin sticking together. Stan’s hands are trembling as she drags them through Ford’s hair.

“Stanley,” Ford finally breaks the silence, his voice raspy. “Are you ok?”

“I don’t think I have bones anymore,” she says. “I mean, except the one.”

Ford’s laugh is little more than a shaky huff. “Uncouth,” he says, pressing a kiss over the still rapidly beating pulse point in her neck. He pushes himself up onto his forearms, looking down at her. His glasses are a bit foggy, and his hair is curling more than usual across his forehead. “I’m serious. Are you ok? You aren’t—I didn’t hurt you?”

Stan wipes the sweat from his face. “You couldn’t,” she says. Not strictly true. Ford has the power to hurt her more than anyone else ever could, but he’s her brother and he loves her. He never would.

Ford nods. “Good. Good. Ok. I’m—I’m going to—get out of you now.” Stan snorts at the awkwardness, and Ford laughs too. “Don’t say it,” Ford warns, and Stan just grins.

Ford rubs his palms over her thighs, and she remembers that she’s still clinging to him. She unlocks her ankles and slides her legs back down. Ford pulls himself from her, and Stan groans. “Stanley,” Ford asks in alarm.

“It’s ok,” she says. “It’s ok. Just—you really went to town, Poindexter.”

His brows furrow. “You said I didn’t hurt you.”

“You didn’t,” Stan says, pushing herself up on still shaking arms to pull him to her. They wrap their arms around each other, Ford’s hands splayed wide over her back, and one of hers carding through his hair again. “I promise you didn’t. I thought it was supposed to. You know, people say that it does the first time. But it didn’t. I’m ok. Maybe gonna be a little sore, but I’m ok.”

“Promise,” he asks. “You’ll tell me if I ever—“

“Promise, Sixer,” she says.

Ford kisses her neck, then both her cheeks, then a sweet press of his lips to hers. He steps back from between her legs, hands finding hers and ready to help her down off the desk and then he freezes. Stan follows the line of his gaze, and she’s treated to the same sight. His cum dripping out of her into a puddle on the desk.

“Holy shit,” she says, opening her legs just a little wider to get a better look.

Ford is back immediately, his fingers coming to her pussy and sliding through the mess. Stan clings to him, moaning again at the sensation. She’s just short of being too overstimulated for this, but Ford’s touches are gentle. “This is—Sweet Moses, Stanley,” he says lowly. Two fingers slide into her, curling, and the noises it makes. Stan whimpers.

“God, I want to do this to you again. Want to do this to you every day,” he says. She wants that too. She wants him to fuck her and never stop.

“But we can’t,” Ford says, and Stan nearly sobs. What? No. That’s not something she wants to hear, especially not when he’s actively finger fucking his cum back into her pussy, his thumb pressing hard onto her clit. “We just—we have to be careful, Stanley. You can’t get pregnant.” His other hand stretches wide across her stomach. “Not yet.”

And Stan comes harder than she ever has in her life, so hard that her vision blacks out, so hard that she’s crying, so hard that she slumps completely boneless and Ford has to catch her before she falls off the desk.

“Stan! Stanley,” he frets, and Stan fumbles, desperately trying to find his face because she needs to kiss him, needs to breathe in his air, or she’ll suffocate.

They kiss for a long time, desperation slowly giving way to tiny little pecks. Ford has fallen back into the chair, taking Stan with him and settling her in his lap. They’re both trembling just a bit. They stare at each other, foreheads pressed together. Ford’s fingers caress her cheek. “Stanley,” he asks, his breath whispering over her lips. “Are you ok?”

She has never been better in her life. She has been fucked so well, so perfectly, and now she’s curled up in Ford’s arms, and he loves her. Instead of saying that, she nods and yawns.

Ford laughs lowly, and Stan snuggles into where the sound vibrates from his chest. He checks his watch and makes an alarmed sound. “It’s late. We have school tomorrow,” he says.

“Poindexter, you’ve gotta be kidding me,” Stan whines.

“It’s Friday,” Ford says. “It’s not that bad.”

“Don’t pretend to be stupid,” Stan says. “There’s only room for one of us to be a dummy here.”

“Stop,” Ford says. “You are not dumb. You just need to—“ He stops short. For a brief moment, he just looks at her. Then he shakes his head and presses a kiss to her forehead. “You’re not dumb,” he says again, and leaves it at that. “But the fact that we have school tomorrow doesn’t change. I did say I would insure that you go.”

Stan pouts at him, but she knows it isn’t going to work. “There’s definitely better things we could be doing,” she tries.

“Oh, we will,” Ford says. “If you’re amenable to it, I plan to fuck you as often as possible while we have the house to ourselves.”

The matter-of-fact tone, the use of the word amenable, those two things should not be so hot, but it’s Ford, and it sends a jolt down Stan’s spine, and all she can do is nod and says, “Yeah, I’m down with that.”

Ford kisses her again, and they climb into the bottom bunk. They are both definitely disgusting—Stan in particular with the mess drying between her legs—but they can shower in the morning, and Stan honestly enjoys it, enjoys the evidence of what they mean to each other. Ford folds Stan up in his arms, curving their bodies to fit together under the mass of blankets. Their fingers slot together—six around five, as always—one set resting over Stan’s heart, the other her stomach.

Even as exhaustion washes over her, Stan replays Ford’s words in her mind. Not yet. It’s absolutely crazy. Crazy and possibly dangerous, but at the same time, it’s right. For them, there isn’t any other option. Ford isn’t just Stan’s past or present. He’s her future. He’s everything she’s ever known, everything she’s ever wanted, and she doesn’t need to see the rest of the world to know that that will never change. His heart is beating in her chest right alongside hers. He’s everything.

“Stanford,” Stan mumbles, so close to sleep.

“Hmm,” he hums back, nearly there himself, but she needs to let him know.

Stan presses their joined hands more firmly against her stomach. “One day,” she says.

Ford’s breath hitches, and then he pulls her impossibly closer. His lips press a tired but still searing kiss behind he ear. “One day,” he promises. Stan’s eyes close, and she falls into the best sleep of her life, one that someday soon will be the only sleep she knows.

#stancest #fem stan #teen stancest #i promise one day I’ll write dude stan but for now Constance still has me in her grip #i know i write it with her full name still Stanley but there’s a reason for that

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magical-reid · 2 days ago

Text

A Little Bit of Normal

Paring: Stiles Stilinski x GN!Reader

Word Count: 1.2 K

Summary: In the midst of Beacon Hills' chaos, you find solace in Stiles Stilinski's playful distractions and heartfelt words, gradually realizing that your friendship is evolving into something deeper. As he confesses his feelings for you, you both share a tender moment that marks the beginning of something real and meaningful.

It was another quiet afternoon at the library. The hum of pages turning and the faint chatter of a few students were the only sounds filling the room. You sat at your usual spot by the window, attempting to study for your next exam, but your mind kept wandering. The books in front of you blurred into a mess of letters and formulas.

You sighed and leaned back in your chair, rubbing your temples. It wasn’t that you didn’t care about your grades—it was just hard to concentrate with everything going on in Beacon Hills. Between supernatural chaos, werewolves, and endless mysteries, school was the last thing on your mind. But you couldn’t just ignore it, not when your GPA was on the line.

“Hey,” a familiar voice interrupted your thoughts. You glanced up to find Stiles Stilinski standing at the table, his trademark goofy grin plastered across his face.

“Hey, Stiles,” you said, a smile tugging at the corners of your lips despite yourself. He had that effect on you, always able to make even the most stressful days feel lighter.

“Shouldn’t you be studying?” he asked, raising an eyebrow as he leaned against the table.

You sighed, running a hand through your hair. “I’m trying. It’s just... hard to focus, you know?”

Stiles gave you a sympathetic look, his expression softening. “Yeah, I get it. Believe me, I do. But I have a solution.”

You raised an eyebrow, curious. “Oh? Do you now?”

He flashed his signature mischievous grin. “Of course. It’s simple, really. All you need is a little Stiles distraction.”

You laughed. “A distraction? I’m supposed to focus on my studies, not get sidetracked by your endless supply of weirdness.”

Stiles smirked, sliding into the chair across from you. “First of all, you’re welcome. Second of all, weirdness is an understatement. And third, who says you can’t do both? You study, I distract. We’ll call it a study session.”

You chuckled, shaking your head. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m adorable,” he corrected, leaning forward with a playful gleam in his eyes. “And I’m about to prove it.”

You couldn’t help but smile as he launched into one of his usual rambling monologues, jumping from one bizarre idea to another. He told you all about a “brilliant” theory he had about why every fast food chain’s fries tasted exactly the same and how he was convinced there was a conspiracy behind it. His enthusiasm was contagious, and before long, you found yourself laughing at his absurd theories and forgetting about the stress of school.

When he saw you laughing, Stiles seemed to glow with a certain pride, as if he had just accomplished the greatest feat. His smile softened as his eyes met yours, and for a moment, you felt like the world had narrowed down to just the two of you in that little corner of the library.

“So, I have to ask,” Stiles said, his voice suddenly quieter, more serious. “Why do you always look so stressed, (Y/N)? I mean, I know Beacon Hills is... a lot, but you seem like you carry the weight of the world on your shoulders sometimes.”

You hesitated. The weight of his question hit you harder than you expected. You’d gotten used to the chaos, to the constant danger, but there was always that undercurrent of worry that never seemed to leave you. You pushed it away as best as you could, but it wasn’t always easy.

“I guess... I don’t really know how to stop worrying,” you confessed, your voice barely above a whisper. “There’s just so much going on. I have to keep everything together, and sometimes, it feels like I’m barely holding it all in.”

Stiles’ expression softened even more. He leaned in closer, his voice low and gentle. “You don’t have to hold it all in. Not with me. You know that, right?”

You looked up at him, caught off guard by the intensity in his eyes. Stiles was always the jokester, the one who made everyone laugh and took everything in stride, but in this moment, he was serious—genuine.

“I know,” you said quietly. “It’s just... I don’t want to burden anyone with my problems. Especially you.”

He reached across the table, his hand brushing against yours in a way that made your heart skip a beat. His fingers lingered for a moment, the touch warm and reassuring.

“You’re not a burden, (Y/N),” he said softly, his voice thick with sincerity. “And if you ever feel like you are, I’ll be the first one to remind you that you’re not. We’re friends, right?”

You nodded, your throat suddenly tight. You felt something stir in your chest, a warmth spreading through you as Stiles’ gaze never wavered.

“More than friends, though,” you murmured, not even realizing you’d said the words until they were out in the open. You felt your cheeks flush, but when you looked up at him, you saw the surprise in his eyes.

“You mean...?” he trailed off, his voice quieter now, almost tentative.

You swallowed, trying to steady your nerves. “Yeah. More than friends.”

There was a long beat of silence between you, a breathless pause where everything seemed to hang in the balance. You watched as Stiles’ expression shifted, the playful grin replaced with something softer, more vulnerable. He reached out and gently took your hand in his, his thumb grazing over your skin in a way that sent a flutter of nerves through you.

“I’ve been wanting to say something for a while now,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “But I didn’t want to mess things up. But... I really like you, (Y/N). More than I should, probably. And I’ve been kind of terrified to tell you that, because... well, it’s you. You’re amazing. And I’m just... well, me.”

You felt your heart race as his words sank in, your chest tightening with emotion. You had no idea that Stiles felt the same way, and hearing it out loud made everything seem more real, more intense.

“You’re not just you,” you whispered, squeezing his hand. “You’re Stiles. And that’s more than enough.”

He smiled then, the same goofy grin that you loved, but this time it was softer, more genuine. Slowly, almost like he was afraid you’d disappear if he moved too fast, he leaned in and kissed you. It was brief, but the moment his lips touched yours, a wave of relief washed over you. Like everything was falling into place, like you were exactly where you were supposed to be.

When he pulled back, his hand still holding yours, his eyes were full of that familiar mischief, but there was something deeper there, too—something raw.

“See?” he said, teasing once more. “Told you I was the best distraction.”

You laughed, your heart still racing. “I think you might be right about that.”

Stiles grinned, leaning back in his chair, but this time, he didn’t let go of your hand. It felt different now, more intimate, and you both knew that this was the beginning of something more than just a friendship.

In the middle of all the chaos, all the supernatural madness, you had found something simple, something real. And for once, it felt like everything was going to be okay.

#magical-reid #self insert #reader insert #fluff #stiles stilinksi x reader #teen wolf #teen wolf imagines #teen wolf x reader #stiles stilinski x you #stiles stilinksi fanfiction #stiles stilinksi imagine #stiles stilinksi self insert #stiles stilinski x y/n

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aishangotome · 3 days ago

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Azel Radwan: Chapter 3

Chapter 2

Thank you @shatcey for providing the video for this chapter!

♡———♡

Azel: Good evening. I've been wanting to see you, you know?

When I came to, I was here again.

In this rose garden full of buds, there’s a man with an otherworldly appearance, resting his hand on an oak table.

I have a strange feeling like this has happened before, or maybe it hasn't.

(Somehow, only the presence of this Living God feels strangely vivid.)

Emma: ...A dream, right?

Azel: Oh? There's no way to prove which is the dream and which is reality.

Azel: Human wisdom hasn't progressed enough to unravel the mysteries of dreams.

Azel: It's possible that you being here is actually reality, and vice versa.

(I kind of understand, but I kind of don't.)

Azel: By the way, are you good at cooking?

Suddenly switching from a mystical topic to a realistic one, it took me a while to grasp the meaning.

Emma: I wouldn't say I'm good at it, but I can make decent food.

Azel: That's good. Actually, I've been interested in the local cuisine of Rhodolite.

Emma: ...Why are you suddenly bringing this up?

Azel: Because I know what will happen in the future.

Azel: When the time comes, you'll understand my intentions.

(It's hard to believe, but I guess that's how Gods are.)

Azel: By the way, I haven't had dinner today.

Emma: Eh? Are you feeling unwell?

Azel: No, it's due to various circumstances.

Azel: You're supposed to be a kind-hearted woman. You wouldn't do something cruel like leave a God on the verge of starvation, would you?

Emma: ...Rather than a prophecy, it feels like you're blatantly pressuring me to "come and cook for you."

Azel: Not at all, not at all. I'm just telling you that I prefer hearty meals to sweets, but I have no ulterior motives.

(I feel like there's nothing but ulterior motives.)

Azel: Besides, "you" over there hardly remembers what happened here.

Azel: There's no point in pressuring you, is there?

Prince Azel smiles mercifully – and the world begins to distort.

Azel: Ah, I'm looking forward to it.

Azel: –– ...I just happened to need a slave.

I woke up with a start, drawn by the light, and found myself in the guest room that had been given to me yesterday.

(I think I had another dream.)

(...It was a dream with the Living God in it.)

As usual, my memories crumbled away.

What remained today was the puzzling information "hearty meals, not sweets," and a chilling, inexplicable pounding of my heart.

(It wasn't a nightmare, but... how strange.)

Emma: There's something I've been wondering about...

Emma: Owner, what's that?

The city surrounding Tanzanite Castle was even more lively than Rhodolite.

The reason was obvious; everywhere I looked, there were tourists who seemed to have come from foreign countries.

Some people were enjoying food bought from stalls, while others were browsing souvenir shops selling pottery and textiles, which were local specialties. But what drew the most attention was the statue of the Living God, sitting majestically in the center of the city.

(I only passed by yesterday, so I couldn't get a good look at it...)

(Looking at it now, it's a spitting image of the real thing.)

Akatsuki: It's a tourist attraction. It's famous as a power spot where wishes come true.

Emma: Ah, that's why so many people are praying.

Akatsuki: You want to go too?

Emma: No... I'll pass.

(My wish is "to fall in love," so somehow I feel like I shouldn't pray to this statue.)

(...Really, it's just a feeling.)

Emma: So, what are we doing today?

Akatsuki: We're delivering an item that was requested.

Emma: So the Living God wasn't your only client?

Akatsuki: I have about 100 business partners in Tanzanite.

(That many...?)

Akatsuki: Sometimes I sell books, sometimes I exchange them for other books.

Akatsuki: Watch and learn.

Emma: Yes! I'll do my best to learn.

(This is completely different from looking after the shop. I have to work hard.)

Renewing my determination, I chased after the Owner's back as he walked ahead.

But I soon stopped in my tracks.

Akatsuki: ...Seems like something's happening.

Emma: ...!

The crowd gathered a short distance away was different from the others; they were buzzing with commotion.

Thanks to the Tanzanite soldiers, people were already starting to disperse, but through the thinning crowd, I could see a man with a swollen face.

Emma: He's badly injured. Was it a fight?

???: Something like that. It's been happening a lot lately.

(Ah, that voice...)

When I turned around, I saw Basil carrying a large amount of luggage, and Kamal, whose beauty, as always, was attracting attention.

Basil: I suspect a diviner misread the divine oracle.

Emma: What do you mean?

Basil: Divination in Tanzanite is considered to be the interpretation of the divine oracle, which reads the will of God from the stars.

Basil: Since Prince Azel is a God himself, his words directly become divine oracles...

Basil: Diviners are required to be skilled in how well they can interpret the will of God.

(Speaking of which...)

*flashback*

Azel: The basis of divination in our country is astrology.

Emma: Astrology...?

Azel: It's what you call astrology. What's popular here is unique to Tanzanite.

*back to present*

(Unique, so that's what he meant.)

Basil: However, it seems that many diviners have been misinterpreting the divine oracle lately...

Basil: Customers who are angry about the blasphemy against God sometimes lash out like that.

It was a logic I couldn't understand.

(I think divination is something that can be right sometimes and wrong sometimes.)

Emma: ...Are mistakes not allowed?

Basil: Well, divination is something that can change a person's life.

Basil: In this country, to call yourself a divinator, you need to have a certain level of resolution or preparedness.

(I guess I don't understand because I'm from another country.)

Basil: The idea that Prince Azel's thoughts are something that a mere divinator can read is preposterous.

I felt a shadow fall over Basil's face as he pushed up his glasses.

(Basil also has something on his mind, and that's dangerous!)

As he touched his glasses, the balance of his luggage was disrupted, and the Owner supported it with a speed invisible to the eye.

Basil: Oh dear, I'm so sorry! Thank you very much.

Akatsuki: Don't mind it. But, is this for a feast?

(I thought so too.)

The contents of Basil's luggage were a large quantity of groceries.

It was such an amount that it seemed difficult even to walk while looking ahead, and at least I wouldn't be able to carry it.

Basil: No, it's just an errand.

Basil: It certainly feels like there's more than usual, but I'm sure there's some noble reason for it.

("Noble reason" means it's an errand for Prince Azel, right?)

Only Basil was running the errand; Kamal was empty-handed.

When our eyes met, his long, beautiful fingers pulled out a letter.

The envelope was presented to the Owner.

Akatsuki: An additional order?

The Owner, who opened the seal on the spot, furrowed his brow at the letter he took out.

Emma: ...What's wrong?

Akatsuki: It says they found a clue to the book I was looking for.

Akatsuki: ...But it's suspicious.

Emma: Isn't that a good thing?

Akatsuki: If they were willing to tell me like this, they could have told me yesterday.

Akatsuki: Yet they deliberately contacted me later. And they're telling me to come and get the clue.

(...Indeed, I wonder if there's some intention behind it.)

Basil: Well, Prince Azel also apologized for that.

Basil: He said, "I accidentally forgot to tell you."

Akatsuki: .............

Akatsuki: In the first place, I don't have time to go get it for a while.

(I'm sure he has appointments to meet with his clients after this.)

(...But I think the information about the book is something the Owner desperately wants...)

(It might be rude to refuse the goodwill of a God.)

(Alright, this is where the assistant comes in.)

I raise my hand and volunteer to the Owner, who has a grim expression on his face.

Emma: Shall I go and get it?

Azel: My apologies… I am truly sorry.

Prince Azel warmly welcomed me when I visited his residence with Basil and Kamal, after parting ways with the Owner.

The way he emerged from the building with such perfect timing, as if he had foreseen everything, made me truly believe that he possesses some extraordinary power.

Azel: Thank you for your hard work, you two. Please bring the luggage inside.

Basil was frozen with his eyes sparkling, saying "H-huh..." Kamal grabbed him and pulled him inside.

(Now it's just the two of us.)

Emma: I've come on behalf of the Owner. I heard that you would give me a clue about the book...

Azel: Yes. I will give you a map.

Prince Azel turns his back to me and starts walking.

His eyes urge me to "follow me," so I follow him, but he's fast.

(Are his legs long, or is he just unusually fast...!)

I desperately chase after him, and as I follow Prince Azel through the uniquely shaped entrance---

Emma: ………… Huh?

I stop involuntarily, blink a few times, and pinch my cheeks.

It hurt like normal.

Azel: What's wrong?

Emma: No...

(Wh... what's going on here!?)

It was a shock, as if I had stepped into another world.

Unlike the weathered exterior walls, the interior was so neatly maintained that it didn't feel like it had 1000 years of history, and there was no sign of the precariousness that made it seem like it was about to collapse.

It's hard to say it was a brand new building, but the description of a "castle" truly suited it.

(I initially thought it was a solitary castle in the desert, and maybe I wasn't far off.)

Emma: The atmosphere is quite different from the exterior.

Azel: Of course, I can't just live in a 1000-year-old building as it is.

Azel: It's under major renovation right now.

Azel: The right side is mostly finished with renovations, so there's no problem, but the left side has partially collapsed.

Azel: If you happen to walk around here, never go to the left side.

Azel: If you do happen to enter it–

Emma: ...If I do?

Azel: Hehe.

(I'll be careful not to accidentally wander in there.)

Azel: Please be careful where you step.

Prince Azel goes up the stairs and proceeds to the right.

While chasing after him at a running pace, I casually glance to the left, and even though the sun should be directly overhead, it seems like a dim darkness lingers there.

(...I wonder if it's because the renovations aren't finished yet.)

After passing through the entrance hall, there's a corridor, which is also beautifully repaired.

At the end of the corridor where Prince Azel strode purposefully, there was a door.

Azel: Now, please come in.

Even though I was out of breath, I entered through the open door without a shred of suspicion... and found myself not in a guest room, but a kitchen.

(...Why?)

In the tidy room, the large amount of luggage that Basil had been carrying was carelessly placed. As I picked up a fruit that had rolled out of a bag, question marks popped up in my mind one after another.

Emma: Prince Azel... is the map in the kitchen?

Azel: Of course not, you idiot.

(!?)

(What? I just heard him speak like a different person...)

The door slams shut.

Prince Azel leaned against the closed door, blocking my escape route, and the corners of his mouth lifted.

Azel: Now, it's time for collection.

Emma: C-collection?

Azel: Here you go.

A letter, seemingly produced from thin air, is thrust in front of me.

Emma: This is...

I rub my eyes and look again.

No matter how many times I look at it, I can only read it as a "divination fee invoice."

Moreover, the numbers lined up on it were of an exorbitant amount that I had never seen before.

Emma: ...Is this addressed to me?

Azel: Yes, it's addressed to you.

Emma: I'm sorry, but I don't recall this.

Azel: Don't tell me you thought a God's divination was free?

Emma: ...Eh?

Azel: Wow, how rude. Don't underestimate me, okay?

(The divination from yesterday, it wasn't free!?)

I hurriedly pulled myself together as my senses started to fade.

Emma: But you said it was a thank you gift...!

Azel: There are many people who want to receive my divination but can't.

Azel: The thank you gift is the "right to receive divination."

Emma: You didn't say a word about that!

Azel: Well, it's common sense.

Emma: I don't know any such common sense!

Azel: Don't blame your ignorance on me.

(This is a scammer's tactic!?)

The me of yesterday, who thought he was a merciful and kind God – it seems I was seeing an illusion.

(Maybe this is his true nature.)

*flashback*

Clavis: But it's surprising. You're the current "Belle," and you're good at seeing through people's true nature, right?

Clavis: ...No, that's not right. Or rather, is it that impression precisely because you "saw through" it?

Clavis: Hmm, very interesting. I wonder if it's me who's seeing the illusion, or you.

*back to present*

(–That's what he meant. How pathetic of me, even though I'm Belle.)

Azel: Ah, but please rest assured. I'm not so cruel as to say "pay now."

Azel: We have two payment methods available: cash or labor.

(I can't feel assured at all.)

Azel: You don't seem to have any money, do you?

Azel: To repay this amount, you'll have to work like a slave...

Azel: Good luck.

His benevolent smile fueled my anger.

(Everyone's been deceived.)

(This person is not a merciful God at all. Rather...)

Emma: You, evil God!

Azel: Oh my, are those insults? As expected, a foreign girl is quite spirited.

Azel: But you see...

As I glared at him, Prince Azel grabbed my chin with his large hand–

Azel: Shall I show you what happens if you defy me?

Letter

If you’d like to support my translations, feel free to buy me a coffee here! :)

#ikepre translations #ikemen prince translations #azel #azel radwan #azel radwan main route #ikemen prince azel radwan

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celestialmuses · 2 days ago

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"Thank you for validating me." Elio laughed as they rushed into the apartment and out of the cold wind. He loved the city truly, but the wind tunnels created by the skyscrapers were more annoying than fun. He pointed to the kitchen table, as if Avery didn't know where to set up food, she'd been here dozens of times, and grabbed some extra napkins. "Can't go wrong with the Bell. You want anything else? I might have some random hot sauces if you don't want to use the packets." He asked, ripping open the bag of nachos so it laid flat on the table in between them. It was funny, Elio had grown up in the lap of luxury, had chef prepared baby food. He traveled the world trying new recipes and flavors. But this here, eating cheap beef and processed cheese under the yellow light of his kitchen with Avery, made it one of the best meals he'd ever had. Elio cleared his throat and smiled at her. "Uh, you left some stuff here last time, I put it in the washer for you. I don't know if everything can be dried, I know there are fabrics you're only supposed to hang dry."

Avery and Elio never had any issues chowing down on food; it was one of their favorite ways to share time with one another. Offering a smile back, she listened as he ordered all the items she had mentioned, on top of what he wanted as well. "Shut up," she said playfully, her hand gently pushing against his arm before taking the food from his hands and placing it between her feet in the passenger seat. She glanced over at him, listening to every word he said as a smile appeared across her lips. "There is nothing about you that is out of shape, trust me. I definitely think it was from how long we spent on the water," she reassured him, her tone filled with warmth and sincerity. As he ensured they safely made it back to the apartment, Avery stepped out of the car and gathered the bags of food into her hands, following him up to his apartment door. The tantalizing aroma wafted through the air, making her stomach rumble in anticipation. "This food smells so good," she exclaimed, her excitement evident in her voice.

#vntageheart #avery connors #elio threads

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notsofrozt · 1 year ago

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WIP

#hannibal #hannibal lecter #art wip #this is taking me too long #Mads face is going to haunt me in my dreams #I know there's supposed to be food on the table #but I'd rather die than spend an hour drawing carrots #art #wip #notsofrozt art

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skoulsons · 2 years ago

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Eye To Eye Is All We Can See

• gif by @azertyrobaz

Pairing: Ezra & Cee (Prospect 2018)

Word count: ~2900

Summary: Ezra says something stupid and Cee tries to convince him that he’s wrong

A/N: Nothing except I wrote this until sunrise , so I apologize if it is absolutely terrible, downright ooc, or horribly grammatically. I have not rewatched the movie quite yet 💀 Just a bit of fluff and a tiny hurt/comfort?? Don’t ship them!!

Tagging my favorite people who I get to talk about this movie with: @sotvtaughtmehowtofeel @not-so-mundane-after-all @orangechickenpillow @jessahmewren @alternatewriter @starchild0985

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

“Thank you,” she said.

They’ve been together a few cycles, the Green Moon left far behind them.

The cycles have been nothing short of eventful in a small spacecraft and two strangers in a very complicated relationship. Cee has had to keep an extra keen eye on Ezra. Not because of distrust, but to make sure his arm is healing well. Or, as well as a cut-off limb could heal with limited medical supplies and a kid, though capable, having done the operation.

Also because Ezra keeps forgetting he’s lost an arm and continuously reaches out for support along the walls of the ship when he moved from their sleeping quarters to the cockpit and he has fallen every single time. He fell out of his bed the first night they were in it; Cee spent five minutes trying to pull him back into the bed and then another fifteen having a verbal battle with him to try and convince him to get back in bed.

There have been moments of frustration where things catch up with Cee, her irritations coming out verbally to Ezra. He never fights back. He always sits, patient and understanding as Cee rehashes the things she’s kept bottled up and taped down for years with all the strength of scotch tape that’s lost all its grip.

They were also navigating their route off the Green to somewhere safe and figuring out… what exactly they were. Strangers? Partners? Friends? Family? Ezra has treated Cee as a real person, a girl with agency and deserving of a fruitful life since the second he met her; it’d be difficult to walk away from someone who gave you something you missed out on all your life. In that same way, it’d be hard to walk away from a kid that saved your life—twice.

Cee also had nightmares about the Green. The Saters, the mercs, the music, even her own father. Ones of Ezra, too. Him dying, abandoning her. Him using her, just like Damon seemed to do. On the worst night, the night when Damon and Ezra’s lifeless eyes were all she could see and their cold, torn open skin were all she could feel, she woke up crying.

Ezra was at her side before she even woke, unsure what exactly to do. He waited, and when she finally did wake, with a tear-stained face and a burning throat, Ezra’s compassion was overwhelming. His eyes were gentle, concerned. He kept his only arm hovering over her shoulder, waiting for permission. She let him hold it, for both their sakes, wishing she’d hugged him instead. Wishing she met him on the floor, their legs a conglomeration of limbs as he held her tight against his side. Instead, he stayed beside her until she calmed, quiet and reserved affirmations in It’s okay, little bird and You’re safe, Cee. Damon's cold, almost robotic responses to her harsher dreams were always Quit your crying or It’s a dream, calm down, so when Ezra keeps a firm, reassuring hold on her shoulder, talks her through it, and wears a soft smile Cee thinks she got to see even before Kevva knew of it—one that is only heightened when the stars of the Black shine enough light in to highlight his strands, making him look less intimidating than he makes himself out to be—Cee relaxes. How a stranger, of all people, can sit beside her and walk her through something so small compared to what all the Black has to offer is beyond her. How Ezra, literally, stooped down to her level to comfort her.

It doesn’t make sense. Nothing that has happened the last seven cycles makes sense. The Green and the people, if they could even be called such a thing, that the pair encountered still seemed so far away from Cee. That they were things that seemed only to be written in fictional novels and included in stories of old.

Except for one thing. One thing that makes sense. One thing that Cee is becoming more clear on with each passing cycle. Perhaps the clearest thing to come out of their time together.

He cares.

She cares, too.

And now they were in the Black, and had been for six cycles. The vastness and eternity of the growing darkness offered a strange comfort to both of them. Despite their care for each other, freedom was out there. Freedom awaited the both of them out there. Separate freedom.

Cee was always confined to Damon. She was always just another pair of hands to mine or hold something Damon couldn’t. An extra pair of eyes to search for Aurelac or an extra pair of ears to listen for any harm or to protect him, completely selfishly. Damon never acted selflessly, not even for his own daughter.

She hadn’t much freedom apart from him. She was always tied to him and his work. She was never given opportunities away from him. No chances for her to explore on her own. To see what was so great about this life that Kevva gifted her. She never had the chance to meet other people and form lasting friendships. She wasn’t given time to… live.

The Black offered that to her—Opportunities. Planets to stop at, to lay low on. Places to settle down. A life to live.

Ezra had freedom ever since he was a kid. He was free, encouraged even, to explore. To get to know the world around him. The vastness of the growing creation. He had the freedom, the opportunities, to explore all of it. But as he grew, there was a hunger for earning. A hunger for points and mining. Anything that could offer him a more than satisfactory life. Aurelac, specifically. An attachment to the work, the hunt, also selfishly. He did what he had to to get what he wanted, similar to Damon. Only Ezra, despite being on his own for most of his adulthood and being separated from his family for longer, cared. He cared enough to listen and pay attention to a little girl he didn’t even know.

He cared enough to be fair. Even split.

Being free from his work wasn’t too far-fetched for Ezra, but it happening because of a child was definitely not his expectation.

Especially someone like Cee. She had a fire in her. She was capable, he knew first hand she was. She was strong, threatening when she needed to be. She was skilled, intelligent, able.

But she was just a kid. He saw how scared she was, even with Damon. But in their time on the Green, he’s gotten to know her. Cee was kind, careful. Ezra noticed the way the inflection in her voice changed when she got excited about Streamer Girl. She cared and she protected. Her heart was big, willing to risk her life to go back for him, even after he specifically told her to go.

Cee was good. All she did was help. Love. She wasn’t a killer. She wasn’t selfish. She wasn’t ruthless or hungry for points. She wasn’t bad.

Ezra believed himself to be. He killed. He was willing, ready, to kill. Someone who has that reputation isn’t good, especially when killing a little girl’s dad gets added to the list, despite what he thought of the man.

He doesn’t believe he’s worthy to be thanked. That anything he’s done, especially to her, is any reason for thanks.

“Oh, no, nothing to thank me for, birdie. I have left you barren and deem your gratitude inappropriate for such a time. Ever since you touched down on the Green Moon, your conditions have been less than unacceptable…”

“Ezra…”

“...and I have been present in all the things that have troubled you so greatly these last few cycles. You have been burdened with dragging my weakened bag of bones across the Green.” “Even as we venture into the Black, you have continually endured my long-winded communication and idle, though I believe fascinating, narrative.”

“Ezra-”

“I am a bit crestfallen that you’ve been subjected to a multitude of predicaments in the time we’ve been together and that I have imparted insignificant salutary to your current expedition.”

“Ezra.”

“The Saters, the mercenaries… I’ve only brought you hindrance after hindrance, little bird. Allow me to implement points in to your care so that you may persevere in your journey and-”

“Ezra!” she shouted, grabbing at his face. Her hands reached his neck first, fingers stretching to the back of his neck, tickling his hairline.

She doesn’t know what this is like. Damon was never really gentle with her. Not physically, at least. She thinks, maybe, he was gentle with her when she was born. Holding her in the crook of his arm, her small, fragile head resting in the safety of his hold. Her skin held against his, breathing in tune with his, eyes fluttering open to catch her first glimpse of the world; her father, a tight-lipped smile strung across his face as tears well in his eyes, his thumb gently rubbing back and forth over the blanket she’s wrapped tightly in, occasionally bringing his thumb up to her red cheeks, a quiet hi to greet her.

Something she thinks Ezra could’ve done.

Something she suspects Damon didn’t do.

Something she knows Ezra would’ve done.

Cee pulled her hands away from his neck and brought them to his face instead, her palms too small to hold him the way she wanted to. She tried, letting them rest against his cheeks and feeling the scratch of his beard beneath her fingers. She kept her fingers outstretched, her pointer and middle threading lightly through the hair above his ears as her last two sit beneath his ear. She kept her thumbs in place on both his cheeks.

If there’s something to say, Cee can't say it.

She’s used to apologizing. She’s used to apologizing over taking up too much space. She’s used to apologizing over getting excited over Streamer Girl. She’s used to apologizing for eating too much of their rations, even when it was the amount she and Damon agreed on. She’s used to apologizing over resting, even when there was nothing to do. She’s used to apologizing over… being around him. Her breath was enough to apologize for.

But this wasn’t for apologizing. Ezra said something stupid and she needs to convince him that he’s wrong.

But the words can’t come to her. They don't. A contrast to how Ezra seemingly has an eleven page research paper of words on hand at all times, no matter the situation, Cee comes up short on correcting him. On affirming him that he’s wrong. On reassuring him that he has helped her.

He’s a grown man. A grown man who killed her father doesn’t need affirmation. Doesn’t need reassurance. And he surely does not need his face held because some kid thought he said something stupid.

Definitely not.

She holds his face firmly, the skin of his cheeks forming at her hold. “Don’t… say that, please. You’ve…” she pauses, inhaling and exhaling through her nose, forcing herself to catch his eyes and to make sure he hears her. “You’ve done a lot. You have. I know it’s… it’s only been a few cycles, but…”

You saved me. You protected me. You kept me. You came after me. You encouraged me. You made me feel safe. You tried to sacrifice yourself for me. You killed for me, more than once.

You loved me. You love me.

Her mind races with all of it, every word holding an unimaginable weight she had never experienced prior. Every word holding truth and passion behind them. Honesty covered every single one, Cee knowing in her soul that that was the man Ezra is. Those things he has done for her, how he’s treated her—that is who he is.

She watches him, wondering if, somehow, the look in her eyes could say the words for her. And if the glimmer in his eye is any indication, she thinks the burning it has left in her heart has found its way to his, too.

She could never say any of that about Damon. He wasn’t an encouragement and any dreams she had and wanted to pursue were shut down by him. She didn’t feel safe with him—not the kind of safe where she’d hide behind him if they were approached. There wasn’t any confidence that he’d care to protect her with his life. And if it came down to the Saters, Damon wouldn’t have kept her.

Ezra was different. Ezra was new, fresh. Real. He showed her more in seven cycles than Damon showed her in sixteen years.

That, to Cee, was enough.

She was wanted now. She could tell. Ezra’s attempt at telling her he was no good for her and saying he offered her nothing was the furthest thing from the truth.

Cee has sought connections all her life and was always denied or taken too soon to form a new one. It was always just Damon. Ezra went through so many partners in his life that he became numb to anyone who would stick around permanently. Numb to anyone who would ever be with him—his other half. And when a child entered his life and created and filled the hole in his heart that wasn’t there before, it became something supernatural. A longing he had immediately, and also a resisting. He was dangerous and he managed to put Cee in some of the most risky situations in under a day.

But Cee didn’t focus on that. She saw through that. She saw his passion and interest in the things he talked about. While it has only been with her, she’s seen the way he cares. The way he went to walk her through the operation on his arm. How he smiled at her and had an immediate pet name off hand to call her by, which, surprisingly, has stuck around—not that she would ask for him to stop using it. How he indulged her interest in Streamer Girl, saying he must now read it after hearing her praise it so well. She’s seen his gentleness in how he’s treated her, spoken to her, but also his violence in how he’d protected her from the mercenaries.

He’s done more than enough, as much as he may try and convince her, or himself, that he has not.

She smiles at him, her hands still on the sides of his face. Before she has a moment to really think, she brought her hands around his neck more, tilting his head down and his forehead towards her. She goes to the side a bit, kissing the skin right at the hairline of his blonde section of hair. She takes a moment to breathe in while her lips are still pressed to his forehead and her fingers lay by his ears, gently holding his head in place.

If she can’t find words, she hopes this works in their place.

She pulls away from him, keeping her hands still on his face as she settles their glances back. Ezra smiles as he shyly drops his head, breathing out a light laugh. Cee smiles, too. A wide, happy smile. One almost unfit after all she’s been dealt.

Cee drops her left hand to his shoulder and takes her right hand away from his face and brings it to the blonde section of his hair. “So…” she starts, rubbing some strands back and forth between her thumb and pointer finger, “how did this even happen?”

Ezra lifts his head, trying to move his head out of Cee’s grasp, but she just laughs, continuing to rub the strands together. He stops moving his head and looks back at her, a more serious expression on his face. “Quite the story there, little bird.”

She makes a face. “...And? We’re not in a rush.”

“That we aren’t, birdie. That we aren’t. Still, it’s a bit of a lengthy tale that I don’t believe to be worthwhile taking up any cherished time we have on our trek-”

“Ezra.”

“Yes?”

“Are you avoiding my question because it’s an embarrassing story?”

Ezra looks offended and starts backing up his claim with no’s and some long and winding explanation as to how, after inhaling alarming amounts of Dust in the Green, he was brought to Central to be fixed up. A few cycles in, Ezra, prematurely, got out of bed and tripped over himself, hitting the small guard rail on the other side of the bed, knocking himself unconscious. The incident gave him nine extra cycles at medical bay and, within a few weeks, after his wound had healed, his hair was growing back blonde.

They laugh together in the ship, the joyous noise echoing off the walls as they continue to pile on jokes and more stories as the conversation flows. By the end of it, Cee’s face is red and Ezra is breathing heavily, both of them slumped against separate walls, holding their stomachs.

It’s true, there are opportunities out there in the Black. Places to settle down and figure things out. And with each new passing cycle, their decision becomes more clear: they’re figuring it out together.

~~~~~~~~~

post-fic note: I can’t remember exactly, but Ezra’s hair growing back blonde after an incident I think comes from another prospect fic out there, I think we violent ones, but I’m 100% sure if it was that one or another one. All that to say it is not an original idea and I don’t take credit for using it for Ezra’s character. I liked the idea of it when I first read it and wanted to use it similarly

#this is an absolute dumpster fire #but it’s fine #everything’s FINE #im sorry my WIP is getting very close but #I had to write them last night #I was gonna slam my head through a table if I didn’t #I know only like 5 people will see this #and I love all of you five people #im so sorry if this is bad I haven’t written them in a WHILE #not to mention I wrote for hours straight with no food and little water and sleep deprived 💀#prospect 2018 #prospect fanfic #prospect fic #L writes #fun fact #this was supposed to be cee kissing where Ezra’s blonde hair was #that was it #that was the WHOLE idea #and it is not that anymore

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