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anakinstwinklebunny · 1 month ago

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ANAKIN SKYWALKER HEADCANONS

Author's note: this may be.. different

Anakin Skywalker who has an incredible long-term memory but an awful short-term memory. He is the type to remember something from years ago in painstaking detail—like the exact color of your dress the first time he saw you or a specific phrase you once said that made him laugh—but completely forget why he walked into a room five seconds ago.

He’d be so frustrated with himself, too:

«I can rebuild an entire podracer from memory, but I can’t remember where I put my damn lightsaber five minutes ago!»

If you would just tease him about it, his lips would twist into a pout;

“Well, at least I remembered the anniversary of our first kiss.” (Cue him smugly crossing his arms while you roll your eyes.)

Anakin Skywalker who has a diary that he writes in with a glittery gel pen;

He’d sit cross-legged on his bed in the quarters, hunched over the journal with the sparkly pen in hand, writing furiously:

«Mission Log: Obi-Wan still doesn’t get it. He says I’m reckless, but who saved his ass again today? Oh, right, me. Also, y/n smiled at me when I said goodbye, and I’m not saying it means anything, but maybe it does. Anyway, I need a new purple pen—this one’s running out of glitter ink.»

Anakin Skywalker's diary would be filled with doodles of podracers, little hearts around your name, and the occasional rant about sand;

Humming softly, he bent over the page, scrawling your name in his bold, messy handwriting. He frowned, mumbling under his breath about his uneven letters before shrugging it off. Next to your name, he started to doodle little hearts, as if each colorful heart was the show of his affection. Pink, silver, gold—he used every glittery color he had, filling the margin with love-struck decorations.

He paused, tapping the pen against his lips thoughtfully before scribbling, «You’re my favorite everything», right under your name. The ink shimmered in the dim light, catching his eye in a way that made him grin.

He felt ridiculous, like some love-struck teenager, but he didn’t care. This was for you, even if you’d never see it. A quiet, glittery tribute to the person who made the galaxy feel a little less dark.

A soft knock startled him, and his head snapped up, his heart skipping when your voice came through the door.

“Anakin? You still awake?”

Scrambling, he slapped the diary shut and stuffed it under his pillow, cheeks burning as he tried to change his expression into something casual. “Uh, yeah! Just… meditating!”

When the door slid open and you stepped in, his breath hitched. You were in your sleepwear, hair slightly tousled, and that soft smile on your face made him melt. You tilted your head, eyes narrowing playfully.

“Meditating, huh? With glitter on your fingers?”

He looked down, cursing under his breath at the sparkling pink smudge across his thumb. “Uh… yeah, it’s a new technique.”

Anakin Skywalker who has a sketchbook, where he draws A LOT of things. Podraces, you, ships, speeders, random people on the street

Anakin Skywalker who once brought you flowers after a mission;

He trudged through the Jedi Temple’s halls, boots barely making a sound on the polished floor as he fidgets with the bouquet in his hands. Well, bouquet was a generous term. It was more of a sorry-looking cluster of flowers, their once-vibrant petals now limp and pale, some barely clinging to their stems. A petal fluttered to the ground just as he took another step, and he stopped mid-step to glare at it, like he could will it back into place.

He groaned softly, running a hand through his messy curls, smearing a streak of dirt across his cheek. This had seemed like a good idea earlier. Why does everything he does fall apart before it even gets to you? His pout deepened as he plucked out the most shriveled flower, tossing it to the side with a defeated sigh.

Finally, he reached your chambers. Standing outside the door, he took a deep breath, smoothing down his tunic with his free hand and rearranging the flowers one last time. Maybe if he held them at just the right angle, you wouldn’t notice the sorry state they were in.

The door slid open, and there you were, rubbing sleep from your eyes, your expression softening the second you saw him.

“Ani?” you murmured, stepping aside to let him in.

His voice was unusually sheepish as he held out the flowers, eyes darting everywhere but your face.

“I, uh… I picked these for you. On my mission. But, um… they didn’t exactly survive the wait.”

You looked down at the wilted bouquet in his calloused hands, a few petals already scattered on the floor at his boots.

“They’re perfect,” you said softly, reaching for the flowers.

He blinked, pout fading into something almost hopeful. “You don’t have to say that. They look terrible—”

You cut him off with a kiss, lips pressing to his tenderly, hands resting on his chest. He stiffened for half a second before melting into you, his arms wrapping around your waist, the bouquet forgotten as it dangled by his side.

“You’re such a sweetheart,” you whispered against his lips, kissing him again for good measure.

He huffed, but his cheeks were pink, his free hand gently stroking your back. “I just… wanted you to know I was thinking about you. Even while I was out there. I saw them and thought you’d like them.”

“I love them,” you assured him, cradling his face in your hands, thumbs brushing over the dirt smudges on his cheek. “And I love you for bringing them to me, even if it meant walking through the Temple like this in the middle of the night.”

Anakin Skywalker who sneaked out with you to lower levels of coruscant;

As you passed by a flower stall, the vibrant colors caught his attention. He paused, eyes scanning the rows of flowers, before reaching out and plucking two purple blooms—one light lavender, the other a deep, rich violet.

“Perfect,” he murmured to himself, flashing you a smile as he walked back to you, holding the flowers gently.

“Here,” he tucked the lighter lavender flower behind your ear. Fingers lingered on your skin just for a moment, a little touch, a little enough to make your heart skip a beat. You giggled softly, cheeks flushing.

He grinned mischievously, then slid the darker flower into the breast pocket of his jacket. "For me," voice low, teasing.

You stared at him, smile widening as the warmth spread through you. “Now, that’s a perfect match,” you whispered, giggling.

“Mm-hmm,” the grin on his face stretched even wider. You could see the mischief dancing in his eyes, the way his lips curved up as if to say, «this is my favorite moment ever»

“Got it,” you said with a laugh, pressing your hands together like you were taking a picture in the air.

Anakin's face softened for a moment, and then a gleam sparkled in his eyes. “Wait, wait,” he said, holding his hands in front of him like he was about to snap a photo, just like you did. He mimicked your pose, grinning widely “Got it,” he repeated with a smirk.

Anakin Skywalker who as a young baby used to give you flowers from Jedi temple garden;

“This is for you!” he’d chirp, holding the flower up as if it were the most precious gift in the galaxy.

You’d kneel down to his level, heart melting into a puddle at how shyly he’d avert his gaze, cheeks tinged pink. “For me? It’s beautiful, Ani.”

His smile widened, bright enough to rival with the Coruscant sun. “I thought it’d look pretty on you,” he’d mumble before stepping closer, his small fingers fumbling to tuck it behind your ear.

Affection swelled in your chest as his fingers brushed against your skin, before he’d pull back to inspect his handiwork with thoughtful expression. “There,” he’d declare softly, looking utterly pleased with himself.

Your little arms would wrap tightly around his neck, voice muffled against his shoulder. “Thank you, Ani. You’re my favorite Jedi, you know that?”

“You’re my favorite everything.”

Anakin Skywalker who would eat most of your food he'd find in your chambers

Anakin Skywalker who smells like vanilla

Anakin Skywalker who loves when you stroke his back in the morning while he's still sleepy and just nuzzling to his pillow;

Soft, golden glow of the sunrise gently filtered through the curtains in your chambers , casting a gentle illumination across the side of the room. Anakin laid sprawled across the bed, body entangled in sheets. His breathing was slow and steady, tousled curls sticking to his forehead in a mix of shadows cast by the night and the faint morning light. You, propped up on one arm, tenderly stroked his back, fingertips gliding over his skin while time to time pressing gentle kisses to his bare shoulder. The sensation stirred his body slightly, and he shifted beneath your touch, acting like a contented puppy who curled up to enjoy the affection.

his words laced with a lazy, sleepy drawl. "Don’t stop," he murmured, a soft groan escaping his lips with his eyes remaining closed. With a gentle smile, you continued your gentle caresses, tracing small circles across his back, watching him shift and sigh while his muscles relaxed under your touch.

But as you took your hand away to change your position, he stirred once more, rolling onto his side to face you. His eyes were half-lidded and clouded with the remnants of sleep, a soft, pleading expression in his tone. "C'mon... more... please," his hand reaching out towards you, pulling you closer, fingers grazing along the sheets. You let out a soft chuckle, but without hesitation, drew closer to him and your hand shot out to find itself in his curls. With delicate fingers, you ran them through the soft strands, lightly massaging his scalp, causing a small hitch in his breath.

Anakin Skywalker who read tons of books, watched a lot of videos about gardening all to make you proud that he could seed tulips and make them grow

Anakin Skywalker who secretly sips on your coffee, always muttering that «sharing is caring»

Anakin Skywalker who makes «your mom» jokes

Anakin Skywalker who constantly hacks their stats in every video game he plays

Anakin Skywalker who uses the word «fuck» like a comma.

Anakin Skywalker who definitely has a roblox account and even though he's a softie, he bullies some kids there;

He logs in with the most ridiculous username, something like DarthSlayer69, and his avatar is over-the-top—dark cape, glowing red eyes, and a lightsaber accessory. He’s spent way too much time customizing it because, of course, he has to look intimidating.

And then? He enters some innocent game like Adopt Me! or Brookhaven and immediately starts causing mayhem.

"Get off my property, kid," he types in the chat, standing in front of a house he didn’t even buy.

In Tower of Hell, he’d purposely push people off platforms, then type: "Too slow. Guess you weren’t strong enough."

If anyone dared to clap back, he’d go full into fighting back; "Do you know who I am? I’ve fought in wars. You’re just a noob with bad Wi-Fi."

When you walk into the room while he’s cackling at his antics, you took one look at the screen, and roll your eyes.

"Anakin, are you bullying children again?"

"No, angel, I’m teaching them a valuable lesson." He'd say too smugly

Anakin Skywalker who uses two-in-one shampoo and conditioner yet still has the softest hair ever, which obviously makes you mad because you have to use tons of products to make your hair look decent.

Anakin Skywalker who fixes your lightsaber too often;

Anakin leaned back against the workbench, arms crossed over his chest, as he watched you sheepishly place your lightsaber in front of him. His expression was equal parts of amused and exasperated

"Again?" he drawled, raising an eyebrow.

You shrugged, avoiding his gaze as you fiddled with the hem of your tunic. "It... broke."

"It broke," he repeated, tone dripping with mock disbelief. He picked up the hilt, turning it over in his hands like inspecting some troublesome droid. "No, sweetheart, you broke it. What did you do this time? Smash it against a rock? Use it to pry open a door?"

"I didn’t!" you protested, immediately crossing your arms in self-defense. "I was fighting, and—"

"And you lost control," he finished for you, shaking his head with a chuckle. "You know, lightsabers are meant for precision. Not..." He gestured vaguely, as if mimicking you wildly flailing the weapon around.

Your face flushed at that, and you jabbed a finger at him. "Are you going to fix it or just stand there and tease me all day, Master Skywalker?"

At the sound of his full title, he grinned, as if it alone was enough to satisfy his ego. Setting the hilt down on the bench, he reached for his tools. "Oh, I’ll fix it. Like I always do. But you know..." He shot you a sly glance. Uh, oh.."If you keep this up, I’m going to start charging you."

"Charging me?" You blinked, incredulous. "With what? We don’t even use credits in the Order!"

He leaned in closer, smirk deepening. "Not credits, sweetheart. Favors." his eyes roamed down and up your body

Your stomach did a little flip "Favors?"

He nodded, picking up a small tool and starting to carefully disassemble the damaged saber. "Mm-hmm. Maybe you take over my chores for a week. Or you could cook dinner for once instead of ordering ration packs. Or..." He set the tool down and leaned in again, voice dropping to a near-whisper, eyes darting down to your lips. "You could just kiss me every time you break it."

you scoffed "That’s a ridiculous system," you muttered, but you didn’t pull away when he leaned even closer

"Is it?" he murmured, breath warm against your skin. "Seems fair to me. I put in the work, and I get a little reward."

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t stop the grin that spread across your face. "Fine," you relented, leaning in to close the distance between you. Your lips brushed against his in a soft, quick peck, and you felt him smile against you.

When you finally pulled back, he looked far too pleased with himself.

"See?" tone smug. "Much better payment than credits."

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heartlessvirgo · 18 days ago

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La Camisa Negra

Summary:

Still having no time for Javier's games, you can't help but think about him. But maybe he's thinking about you too?

Paring: Javier Peña x F!Reader

Warnings: 18+MDNI, Swearing, Kissing, heavy petting, UNprotected sex, oral, creampie, drinking,

Word Count: 11K

Part 1 Masterlist

A/N: GUYs, I loved writing this and I hope you love reading it! Okay but Javier in this is so Juanes coded (iykyk) hehe... I got inspo for this from a Javi edit on tiktok and it was top tier, literal GOLD (@/ pascaledittzs). Anyways, requests are open.

Slamming your palm against the copier, you watch it shudder and whir as if the machine itself is mocking you. Another page spits out, this one just as black and unreadable as the last. You squint at it, hoping it’ll somehow make sense, but the jagged, ink-smeared lines mock your every attempt. You don’t even know what you’re doing wrong, and that drives you nuts. This should be easy—hell, you know how to fix a million other problems—but this damn machine? It's an unsolvable riddle.

This was the cherry on top of your already chaotic day. Meetings stacked one on top of the other, each more draining than the last, and paperwork—always the paperwork. You’ve got your own pile and Camilla’s to sort out since you volunteered like an idiot while she’s off vacationing somewhere. Now you’re just trying to catch up, pressing random buttons like you're hoping for a miracle, praying that maybe, just maybe, something will click.

It doesn’t. It never does.

“Dios, what a fucking nightmare,” you mutter under your breath, feeling the words bubble up from a place of pure exasperation. The copier grinds to a halt as you yank out the page, trying to straighten the creases. You shove it back into the tray, adjusting the paper once more, hoping—no, praying—that this time it will just work.

It’s stupid. You're smart, and you know this is all trivial, but still, here you are. So why does it feel like you’re failing at something so simple? Like you're watching your competence slip through your fingers, one black-and-white page at a time. And all you want to do is scream.

The click of footsteps approaching cuts through your irritation, and you don’t even need to turn to know it’s him. The unmistakable presence of Javier Peña fills the space behind you—calm, steady like he owns the damn air in the room. You brace yourself, but you don’t turn around. You don’t want to give him the satisfaction of acknowledging he's there yet.

A beat, then his voice, smooth and taunting. “Come here often?”

It’s playful. Cocky, even, but today? You’re just too damn tired for his brand of charm. You don’t even spare him a glance as you slam your hand against the copier again. It hums back to life with a mechanical growl.

“Yes, Peña, this is the copy room,” you reply flatly, not entertaining his game today.

There’s a silence, and you can feel his amusement. You roll your eyes, almost feeling his smirk widening behind you. He doesn’t get it. You’re not in the mood. There was just too much to do, and adding that would crumble everything.

He strolls in, his steps slow but purposeful, the sound of his polished shoes a steady rhythm against the linoleum floor. You catch a glimpse of him from the corner of your eye—his shoulders relaxed, hands casually emerging from the pockets of his grey slacks. He always seems to move with that certainty, like everything around him is just part of his own personal stage.

“Have you tried not verbally and physically abusing it?” he asks, his voice low, the teasing edge unmistakable. He leans in over your shoulder, his breath brushing the nape of your neck, sending a light shiver up your spine you’d never admit to. His presence wraps around you like smoke—unavoidable, heavy with that clean, musky scent of his aftershave, a combination of woodsy spice and cigarettes, something undeniably him. You inhale sharply, against your better judgment, and the scent fills your lungs, settling in your chest.

Your brows raise. "Oh, I’m sorry—should I try sweet-talking it instead? Maybe buy it dinner first?" You push the buttons randomly now, feeling the weight of his gaze on the back of your neck like a hot, invisible touch.

"You’re right; maybe I should start asking it out to dinner. See how far that gets me." He chuckles dryly, not backing down.

You huff in frustration, turning your head just enough to catch a glimpse of him from the corner of your eye. He’s standing too close, too familiar, and it makes the hairs on the back of your neck prickle.

“All you have to do is ask for my help, but if you're offering, I’m sure I could be persuaded to dinner too." his lips curl into that infuriating grin, the kind that always seems to know exactly how to get under your skin. Especially now, since you were dancing around the fact that you had slept with him. You had fallen for whatever lust-driven curse he had put you under. And you felt guilt deep inside you. You were disappointed in yourself for that as if you had lost some battle within yourself.

You don’t look at him; you focus back on the machine. “I don’t need your help, and I would never ask you to dinner,” you reply, your voice sharp, cutting through the tension between you into tiny pieces and tossing it away.

You can feel him hovering just a little too close again, his presence almost suffocating, and it makes your jaw clench. He’s doing it again—making this more than it should be, and it made your blood simmer under your skin. You’d been avoiding him, but no matter how hard you tried, it seemed like he was a hall away.

“Okay, I’ll see you in there for the meeting then?” He takes a step back, but the cockiness in his voice doesn’t falter. Your eyes involuntarily flit toward him as he moves. You catch a glimpse of his lopsided smile, his shoulders relaxed, as if he’s been waiting for this moment all week. Like he's completely unfazed by your cold shoulder.

“Or… maybe not?” he jokes, his voice dropping to a teasing octave like he's still trying to pull you into his little game.

Infuriating. You turn to face Javier with narrowed eyes, attempting to block out the way his soft eyes send a coursing warmth through you. He was…a knife in your side or something like that. Permanently embedding himself in deeper and deeper. You swallow at the thought, a sheen of sweat forming at the memory of him buried inside you. So deep, nestled in your velvety walls, his tongue, the bite on your shoulder you wear like a hot brand.

Jesus.

“I’ll figure this out; thank you, agent Peña,” you say, keeping your voice steady, determined to push past it. He laughs softly, the sound low and rich, and you almost wish you didn’t find it so... disarming. Like he could see the flicker of the memory brush past you, like he knew exactly what was going on in your mind. And that made you want to slap the smile from his face.

With a casual shrug, he steps back fully, his fingers brushing the doorframe as he turns. “Alright, princesa, I’ll let you handle your... business. But, hey—don’t say I didn’t offer.”

You watch him leave, probably on the prowl for his next victim. Your breath catches as he disappears out of sight. His annoying face playing in a loop in the back of your mind, lingering, haunting you.

Behind you, the copier hums to life, and when you turn, it finally prints correctly. Still, you wonder, how the hell did he manage to turn everything into a challenge? And why did you always want to take him on?

Javier hadn’t stopped working today. After the meeting, he planted himself at his desk, caught in a relentless loop of paperwork and classified reports, the kind where half the damn page was blacked out. The office hummed around him—phones ringing, agents bullshitting, the scrape of chairs against the floor—but it all faded into background noise, except for one thing.

The stare.

He could feel it. Unwavering. Pressing.

Javier releases a long exhale, flicking ash from his cigarette into the tray, barely sparing a glance up. “Y’know, when I let you move your desk closer, I didn’t expect you to fall in love with me so quickly.” His voice is low, tired, laced with smoke.

Silence. Nothing but the faint scratch of a pen against paper.

That gets his attention. He lifts his gaze to find Murphy still watching him, head cocked slightly, brow raised in that infuriating way that meant he was enjoying whatever the hell this was. Like he knew something Javier didn’t, and that agitated him.

“Funny,” Murphy finally says, the corners of his mouth twitching like maybe he doesn’t actually think it’s funny.

Javier huffs, bringing the cigarette back to his lips. The smoke curls around him as he leans back in his chair, feigning indifference. But the silence stretches too long. Long enough for him to notice that Murphy isn’t just watching him—he’s studying him.

Javier exhales, slow. "Que?"

Murphy shrugs, looking around the office, still too damn amused for Javier’s liking. "Nothing. Just—haven’t seen you work this hard in a while."

Javier’s fingers pause on the edge of the file. He doesn’t look up. "Yeah, well. Some of us have jobs to do, criminals to catch."

Murphy snorts. "Right. The job." A pause. "Just funny, though. You haven’t asked who’s going for drinks tonight."

Javier finally glances up, slow, brown eyes shadowing. "Why the fuck would I care who’s going?"

Murphy leans back, stretching his arms behind his head like he’s settling in for the long game. "No reason." His smirk deepens. "Just thought you might like to know—she’ll be there."

A beat. A fraction too long. And Javier’s eyes flicker away, one might say nervously.

Javier keeps his expression unreadable, flipping another uselessly redacted page. "Good for her."

Murphy grins, shaking his head like he already knows, running his fingers through his blonde hair. "Sure, Peña. Keep the cool guy act; ladies love that. Until you get old.” He murmurs in the last part before standing.

“Where are you going?” Javier asks, mouth parting for his cigarette.

“Stretch my legs,” he says over his shoulder, but before he walks too far, he pivots. “Peña, if she ever gives you another chance, don’t be a dick and stand her up again.” With that, Murphy walks in the direction of your office.

—

A burst of laughter erupts from your painted lips, the sound more carefree than you’ve felt in days.

The bitter shot of tequila still dances on your lips as you swipe your tongue. A warmth blooms in your stomach, cutting through the haze of the workweek that refuses to entirely leave you.

The reddish hues of the neon lights in the bar flicker softly, casting a pinkish shadow on your skin. Isabel had invited you—nicely, of course—and while you had no intention of staying, the distraction was welcome.

You take a quick scan of the room, half focused on the chatter around you and half on not giggling to yourself in your drunk haze. The energy of the place buzzes in your veins, making you feel more alive than you have in a while. The tension in your neck seemed to melt and fade away with each drink.

But for you, it was just temporary. The tension was waiting for you on the other side, but you couldn’t think about that. Not about the promotion you were so close to you could almost taste it. No, tonight was sweet, like the agave in your drink, making your lips sticky.

“Another round?” Isabel asks, raising an eyebrow as she leans over the bar. You nod absently, your eyes drifting towards the back of the bar. Where it was less lit, and two men played darts. Squinting, you catch a glimpse of the familiar shapes of the two agents. And you knew that ass anywhere, a lean waist as your eyes travel up, and the black light-weight button-up straining over his shoulders.

“There you go,” the bartender places your drinks on the bar top, snapping your gaze from Javier’s backside.

With the straw between your teeth, you take a long sip, the alcohol wavering any sense of well…sense you have. The sense that tells you to walk away from his gravitational pull, to not meet his stare, and to not beg him to fuck you again. No, that would never happen again. You would not be another notch in his tight little belt.

But, the alcohol dulls that little voice in your mind, and you happen to wander over to that side of the bar. Drink still in hand, Isabel is hot on your heels.

“Ladies,” Murphy says courteously, avoiding the flash of cleavage Isabel flaunts. You couldn’t blame her; she was blessed in all aspects.

“What’s the score?” you ask, offering a smile to Murphy.

“Moppin’ the floor,” Javier replies for Steve, pulling his darts from the board with a smirk. The warm, deep hues of his brown eyes drifted along your body, like he was imagining you, how you were once naked against him. Or maybe that was just your drunk mind wandering.

“¿Ustedes quieren intentar? Mi amor, don’t be shy, shoot for me.” Javier leans down to utter softly in your ear over the music. His eyes flit to Isabel, but they quickly return to you. You watch him, waiting for him to drink her in, to rake down her body. To make her his next target if she hadn’t already been consumed by him. But he doesn’t.

You sink your teeth into your lip, brushing his warm, outstretched palm for the darts. Twisting the metal in your pinched fingertips, you squint one eye. You feel his presence behind you, just there, like one step back, and your ass would grind against him. But with three sets of eyes on you, you fend off the temptation to indulge in the thought.

The first two darts sail wide, both thudding harmlessly into the wall beyond the dartboard. The men laugh, of course—the rumble from Javier just behind you.

Javier’s voice rings out from behind you, low and gravelly, “Come on, you’re killing me, Cariño.”

You take the third dart, your focus sharpening for a split second. Then, just as you draw your arm back, you feel it—the faintest touch, just below your ribs. Javier's fingers skim over the fabric of your blouse, a deliberate graze that almost feels like it’s meant to get your attention, to rattle you. Or maybe to remind you. Shaking your head, you close one eye; you could play his game just as effortlessly.

Isabel’s voice cuts through your thoughts, her excitement echoing in your ear, “You got this!”

For a moment, time falters. The dart trembles in your swaying hand. You could make it. You could aim and hit the bullseye, make Javier grin that damn smug grin. But instead, you let your hand drop, just for a split second, and the dart veers wide.

“Oops,” you say sweetly, dropping your hand. You pout innocently when you turn to face the two men, shrugging. “I guess Murphy wins,” you add, cocking your head to the side.

“What is that, two times in a row now?” Murphy chuckles with a knowing smile, smacking Javier’s slumped arm.

“Hope you didn’t have money on that,” You look up at him, savoring the look of loss on his face. It made you feel so good, so powerful. That wretched pout and how he tries to smother it with his whiskey. He deserved the weight he had on his chest, and you were satisfied that it was you who caused it. God, you were sadistic.

“You just made me a hundred bucks richer,” Murphy smiles, bumping your shoulder with his.

You smirk, hooded eyes watching Javier wedge the missed darts from the wall. You liked this game, not the darts, but the way you made his life harder without even realizing it. You could do it in your sleep, and that sated something deep within your chest. Something that dripped and sank, hot in the pit of your core, and if you weren’t careful, it would trickle down your bare thighs.

You finish your drink and, without another thought, walk back to the bar with Isabel.

You weren’t completely unaware, contrary to what Javier had so confidently assumed that day at the market. No, you noticed things now. You paid more attention to details—like the polished black Chevy Camaro parked across the street from your apartment, which had been there for the last few days, its presence nearly invisible but too consistent to ignore. You noticed the second time you’d seen it when you were drawing your curtains closed.

It didn’t scream for attention—not the way some flashy, out-of-place car might—but it was the subtle way it would return that caught your eye. At first, you thought it was just another coincidence. People parked on this street all the time. But then there was the haze of smoke drifting out the window—a thin veil of it that curled into the cool night air.

Someone had been sitting there. Watching.

The car hadn’t been there when you left for your morning run. Or when you came back from the store, arms full of groceries, eyes scanning the street out of habit. By midday, the suspicion had eased, slipping into the background like white noise. You went about your routine and let yourself believe it was nothing.

But now—

Now, as the sun dipped below the skyline, stretching long shadows across the pavement, it was back. Same spot. The same low hum of an idling engine before ultimately being shut off.

As the sky deepens into a navy dusk, you lean closer to the mirror, smoothing the last touch of lipstick into place. A date. Your first since moving to Colombia. It wasn’t a big deal—not really—but still, there was something almost unfamiliar about the act of getting ready, about the anticipation curling in your stomach.

You’d met him at the bar. He had been polite and charming in a way that felt easy, with no ulterior motives lurking beneath his words. When he’d asked for your number, you gave it to him without thinking much about it. And when he called—actually called, not just some half-hearted approach at the copier—he wanted to take you somewhere nice. Dinner, conversation, drinks, simple enough.

You reach for your earrings, slipping the small gold hoops into place before running your fingers through your hair. Even though he had called to tell you he would pick you up at your apartment, you still worried. The last time you put this much thought into getting ready, you had been stood up. And you know, that leaves a lingering trace.

At the base of your stairs, you pause, adjusting the delicate strap of your heel. The street is quiet, void of passing cars like it usually is. But then—movement. A flicker of amber in the dark.

Your pulse kicks up, a slow, creeping awareness settling along your spine. The black car was back, and someone was currently watching. You squint, attempting to focus on the silhouette of what you assume is a man.

You swallow, trying to make out more— a relaxed slouch, one hand out as he smokes. Familiarity in the way he flicks the ash from his cigarette.

Recognition slams into you. Of fucking course.

A bitter laugh slips from your lips, the kind you can't hold back, and you tilt your head toward the sky, desperately searching for some shred of patience. But there’s nothing there. Only the sharp, relentless sting of annoyance.

The unease from earlier drains from your body, replaced by a heat that crawls up your neck and settles in your chest. The audacity. The sheer nerve of Javier, showing up at your home—of all places. But what else did you expect?

You clench your jaw, hands fisting at your sides, and with a steady, deliberate pace, you make your way across the street. Your heels clack sharply against the pavement with each step, the sound like a countdown echoing in your head. Your pulse quickens and you feel the rush of heat flooding your ears, the anger building with every stride.

Leaning down, you slam your hand against the car door. Javier doesn’t flinch; he just twists the cigarette that perches between his fingers, letting it fall to the street.

“First you stalk me, now you litter on my street?” you fume, searching for any cars passing by for your date. Who was going to be here any minute? You didn’t want him to catch you chewing Javier out, ripping him a new one right here in the street. “What are you doing here?” it comes from your chest.

Lazily rolling his head to the side, he looks anything but guilty. In fact, he seems pleased, and he is smug as he stretches a bit in his seat. His eyes trail along your body, getting his fill of whatever gratified him. It’s too dark to read his eyes, but you watch as they linger a bit too long on your painted lips.

“Just out for a drive,” he replies, shoulders lifting slightly.

“A drive? Your car isn’t even on.” You look inside his car, so close you can smell the leather of the seats. How it smells like him, and it’s clean, just as you expected.

“Well, you know me... always looking for an excuse to hang around.” He grins, his gaze flickering around your street like he owns the whole damn block. His hand casually drapes over the steering wheel.

“You cannot hang around here, Peña.” You lean in a little closer to the car window, and while you’re trying to focus on his words, you can’t ignore how your dress sits just a little too provocatively for comfort. The realization makes your heart skip a beat, but you shove the thought aside.

“Why? Got plans? And I thought we were done with the whole formal thing.” He frowns, tilting his head, an almost innocent look creeping over his face—but you know better. His voice is laced with something darker, some challenge hidden beneath the surface.

“This isn’t about me right now; why are you out here?” You glance around, heart racing as you hope your date won’t appear like some magic trick just when you need him least. Javier notices your distraction, his lips curling ever so slightly.

"Why, you worried I’ll ruin your date?" His smirk grows, eyes glinting with that trademark cocky charm. "Maybe I just like the view... you sure you want me to leave?"

You ignore him, mouth agape, with all the things, all the anger you could unleash.

“You’re stalking me; yes, I want you to leave.”

He raises an eyebrow, giving you a look. “Not stalking. I like to think of it as... preemptive protection. You never know who might be watching, right?”

“Yes, you’re the only one watching. Have you been watching me through my window?” A shiver runs through you, the thought of him watching you through your sheer curtains making you burn. With anger, with annoyance, with need. For what? You didn’t want to find out, especially right before your date.

The visible blush on your skin intrigues Javier, making him shift in his seat, leaning forward to get closer. “Why? You like that?” He licks his lips, nose nearly brushing yours.

Seeing the headlights of a car rolling up in your peripheral, you shoot up.

“No, and you better be gone by the time I get back. I mean it, Javier.” You say sternly, fixing your purse on your shoulder. Something flickers across his face, frustration and annoyance as he watches you walk away. Your hips sway, your dress hugging your curves almost too perfectly.

Javier can feel the sharp blade of agony twist inside him as he watches you smile at your date—who doesn’t even bother to get out and open your door for you. He shakes his head, hoping you don’t fool yourself into thinking that man could actually satisfy you. Not like he could. The thought curls around in his mind like the smoke of his millionth cigarette tonight.

As he sits in your wake, he ponders the thought of leaving, weighing it like a dangerous game. Yet, he’s drawn to stay. The vexation in your voice veils a deeper meaning. You wanted him to stay.

So, he’s drawn to stay when every instinct in him tells him to go—to pull away. To find some whore to fuck in the darkness of the night. And it’s not like he didn’t try. Javier had tried to hold on to whatever piece of pride he had left—like taking a random woman home—yet all he could do was imagine your body as she took him in her mouth, right there in his car. It was embarrassing how quick he came with your pretty face flickering behind his eyes.

This one-sided push and pull was going to be the death of Javier Peña, no matter how much he denied it. And yet, here he was—again—in front of your apartment. Feigning indifference, as if he were simply staking out, making sure no one came to your door.

Lighting another cigarette, Javier stayed where he was, ignoring every sign that told him to leave.

—

You force a sweet smile as your date rambles on, his voice a dull hum in the background.

“You know,” he starts, clearly pleased with himself, “the stock market’s been all over the place lately. I’ve been telling my clients to diversify, but you really gotta be patient with the long-term investments. They say the next big boom is in tech, but you never know. You just gotta trust the process, you know?” He pauses, clearly expecting a response. You just nod.

He talks about his job—endlessly—utterly oblivious to the piece of cilantro wedged between his teeth. You don’t have the heart to tell him, so instead, you focus on his eyes, pretending to listen intently. Every time you open your mouth to speak, he dives back into the same tired stories, and you fall silent again, interjecting only when absolutely necessary, just enough to keep the illusion intact.

“Honestly, I think women just don’t understand how hard it is to keep up with the market. Like, it’s all about numbers, right?” Oh, the cilantro has moved to his front tooth. “I’ve always heard that a woman’s intuition doesn’t really work when it comes to finances. It's more of a man’s game.” You sigh, finishing your wine.

Hours later, after an entire night of that, he drops you off in front of your apartment, obviously wanting to be invited in. You accept the kiss to your cheek with a smile that’s more out of habit than anything else. He promises to call—though, honestly, you’re already hoping he doesn’t.

It’s no surprise to see Javier’s car still parked exactly where you last saw it. In fact, after tonight, you almost feel relief. A part of you had hoped your date would go well, that maybe you could finally sleep with someone else. Someone else, so the last person you fucked wouldn’t be Javier. So you could erase the taste of him lingering in your mouth. But another part of you wanted to see Javier’s car, wanted the comfort of knowing that—despite everything—he was still there. That he had stubbornly ignored your request.

And that part was right.

Your date speeds off before you even reach the door, another reason you won’t be picking up his calls. A few glasses of wine down, and just when you thought you were going to sleep with him—before the cilantro—now you’re left with nothing but a wasted buzz.

But Javier? You’re betting he’s still watching. Maybe, just maybe, a fucked-up part of you wanted the date to go sour just so you could turn right around and get a taste of what was familiar. The thought makes you bristle—yet it’s undeniably there, lodged somewhere between the flicker of your annoyance and the heat in your chest.

In fact, you spent the entire date prying Javier from your mind, like some kind of compulsive itch you couldn’t scratch. The more you tried, the more you realized no one else would ever measure up. Not to the way he made you feel, not to the way his presence dug under your skin, pulling you closer even when you were desperate to keep your distance.

It was his touch, his taste, the way he made you want to lose control.

You take your time, letting your heels click against the pavement as you walk toward your door, making sure to swing your hips with each step. You pull your hair to one side, exposing the soft curve of your neck, and just as you do, your gaze flicks down toward Javier's car. You don’t need to look up to know that his eyes are on you, and the thought of him there—waiting, watching—has your pulse quickening.

You want him to see this. To feel it, to want you like you did in your wine-drunk state. You let your fingers brush against the door handle, pausing just long enough to make sure your movements are deliberate, drawing his attention. You’re baiting him now.

You step inside, the door clicking shut behind you. Your apartment is quiet, and the lamps offer a soft glow to the room. It wasn’t anything crazy, but you took pride in how everything tied together. Splashes of warm colors and soft fabrics. Tossing your purse onto the couch, you move toward the kitchen, your thoughts racing.

The sharp, electrifying knot in your chest vibrates as the anticipation lingers. You didn’t know if Javier would bite, but you want him to. You move to the kitchen, uncorking a red wine and pouring a generous glass. You swirl the liquid as you contemplate how long you’ll wait.

As you take a slow sip, you hear it—soft, barely audible at first. A rap against your door, tentative, almost as if he’s unsure whether to interrupt the stillness of your home.

Your heart stutters, a brief flutter of uncertainty creeping in. You hesitate, the glass halfway to your lips, wondering if you imagined it. But then it comes again—quicker this time, more insistent. Your fingers tighten around the stem of the glass, and without another thought, you set it down.

Still in your dress and heels, you swing the door open—Javier leans against the doorframe, chest rising and falling as he’d just sprinted up the stairs like he’d spent too long hesitating before finally giving in. His black cotton shirt clings to him, shifting with every thundering breath, and the way it stretches across his broad frame only adds to the raw, restless energy rolling off him.

He looks pained. Frustrated. But undeniably himself.

His hair is a tangled mess, like he’s been raking his fingers through it in thought, and his brows are pulled tight, casting a shadow over his dark eyes. There’s something in them—something unreadable, something dangerous—but all you can focus on is how damn good he looks standing there, undone in a way you’ve never seen before.

The familiar scent of him—smoke, musk, something distinctly Javier—wraps around you before he even speaks. And just like that, the space between you feels charged, like an invisible thread has tightened, pulling you toward the unknown.

“Bad date?” is all he says as he saunters in without a verbal invitation. What was the point? Your eyes had done all the talking.

You wanted to agree—to curse the date for even happening, to erase the memory of it, to crawl back to Javier and let him make it better. The words press against your tongue, but you bite them back. Instead, you roll your eyes, shut the door, and twist the lock with a deliberate click.

Behind you, he doesn’t move. Not right away. He lingers in the quiet, soaking in the air between you, before finally stepping further inside. The leather couch groans as he sinks into it, his legs spreading like he owns the place, like he belongs here.

Your fingers twitch at your side.

“Something to drink?” you ask, already walking to the kitchen and reaching into the fridge before he can answer. The cold air rushes over your skin, but it does nothing to cool the heat licking at your neck.

With the glass of wine in your hand, you watch him over the rim, your fingers tracing the edge absently. His beer sits untouched in front of him, but it’s the way he watches you—eyes flickering from your lips to your eyes—that makes the space between you feel smaller. The pulse between your thighs grows stronger, sharper, and undeniable, radiating outward with each sip, each glance. Your skin feels too tight, too aware of the heat rising in your chest.

"So?" he asks, his voice low, almost casual, but there's an edge to it, something you can’t quite place.

"So?" you mimic, a smirk tugging at your lips, but it doesn’t reach your eyes. Instead, your gaze locks with Javier's, daring him to say more, to do something, to break the silence that thickens the air around you both.

“So, how’d that amazing date go?” He tilts his head slightly, his smirk deepening. His eyes run over you with a knowing glint, like he’s already figured it all out. “You wouldn’t be back so soon if it went well, right, Cariño?”

“It was…interesting.” You chew your cheek, eyes flickering to the space between you and him as if searching for something to say. A retort, a jab, anything to cut through the silence and throw him off balance. But the words feel like they're just out of reach, slipping between your fingers like smoke.

As you set the glass down on the coffee table, a quiet resignation settles over you. The game you’ve been playing isn’t as easy as you thought.

Without thinking, without even trying to explain it to yourself, you shift, crawling across the couch with slow, deliberate movements. The moment you settle on Javier's lap, your ass resting against his thighs, the world narrows to just the two of you. His body relaxes beneath you, rough hands crawling up your smooth thighs.

“Yeah?” Javier asks, voice smug with a rasp like you’d proven him right. And that makes your open thighs quiver with anticipation. That he is here, nestled between them, rough denim grazing your clothed pussy. The fabric of your panties so thin he could practically feel how slick you were, the hotness seeping through his jeans.

You nod, lashes lowering as you glance down at him. Your voice is quieter now, barely above a murmur. “You already knew, so why ask?”

Javier exhales through his nose, something unreadable flickering in those dark eyes. “Just wanted to hear it out loud, cariño.” His voice is rough, gravel scraping against silk, each word drawn out like he’s savoring them.

“And? Are you satisfied with my answer?” you press, searching his handsome face. The wine in your blood made him look more flushed, cheeks in high color, like overripe plums.

"Not sure yet," His hands slide upward, heat bleeding through the fabric as he cups your hips, thumbs pressing in just enough to make you notice. The silk of your bunched-up dress is soft under his fingers.

"Might need to hear it again. Tell me what he did wrong." Then—blunt fingernails dig in, sharp enough to send a shiver up your spine, to make you wonder if he’s holding you there or keeping himself from pulling you closer.

So you do it for him, grinding forward to press your pussy into his growing erection. You look at him innocently, your hands finding the searing skin of his neck, fingers splaying into his hair.

“You want to know?” You ask, and he tilts his head to one side, fingers guiding you across his erection again. The seam of his jeans drags against your clit, the rough pleasure parting your lips.

“Tell me, and I’ll make it better, mi amor.” With one hand, he brushes the hair from your shoulder, dark eyes under darker brows, watching you closely.

It’s unsettling the way you feel so exposed under his gaze as it wraps around you as if he’s savoring every slight twitch, every wet gasp from your lips. Like he’s memorizing, retaining you in his mind, and he takes his time. You can’t shake the feeling that he knows you in a way you’ve never been known, that every shift in your posture is being felt by him before it even happens.

"Made me feel stupid. Talked about stuff like I couldn’t keep up," you murmur, eyes fluttering shut as Javier's touch—so constant, so sure—guides you and rocks you against his cock. “Ordered for me without asking, a fuckin’ salad.” A broken laugh escapes you, the sound sharp and brittle, only for it to be quickly swallowed as Javier leans in. His breath brushes against your skin, hot and sudden, before his lips press against your throat.

The kiss sends a tremor through you.

"Pobre cabrón, pensó que te conocía." His lips brush your pulse, his words almost a whisper against your skin. “No sabe que te gusta esto, ¿verdad?" He doesn't know you like this, does he?

With a sharp suck, he marks your neck, coaxing an answer from you. “Didn’t listen to me all night, then asked to come inside.” You almost don’t tell him, but the way he exhales, a soft huff of disbelief, is enough to satisfy you—like he can't believe the nerve.

His hands pull you upward with a force that leaves your breath catching in your throat. The heat of his palms sears through the thin fabric of your dress, sending a ripple of electricity through your skin. There’s no hesitation in his touch—just pure, controlled intention. In one motion, he flips you over, sending you sprawling onto the couch beneath him. The cool leather of the cushions meets your back as you replace his seat on the sofa. Javier drops to his knees on the floor between your legs, his eyes flicking to the damp lace. The material sticks to your pussy, clinging to your lips, giving him the perfect view. His hands are still on you, fingers pressing into the softness of your thighs.

“Would you have let him in? Let him fuck you?” he asks, eyes darting up the valley of your body to your face. Your dress bunches at your waist, your white lace panties exposed to the cool air.

“Fuck no,” you reply quickly and observe as he weighs your answer. He seems content because he tilts his head and kisses the tender skin of your inner thighs.

"Good," he mumbles against your flesh, his teeth dragging just enough to make you shiver. The black silk is weightless, almost liquid against your skin, but still, it does nothing to conceal the stiff peaks of your nipples.

“Spread your legs—wider,” He urges, and you comply, spreading yourself further. You shudder when you feel his rough fingers peel your underwear to the side, his arched nose nudging against your lips, inhaling deeply.

“So good—” Javier interrupts himself by lapping his tongue against your center, dragging the slick up to your clit. He swipes the tip of his tongue, hand splaying across your stomach. “Always thinking ‘bout your pussy,” he tilts his head up, lips glistening with your slick. You gasp, the thrill of being on display to him so fully igniting something deep within you.

Your heart hammers against your ribs, each pulse a steady drumbeat of something dark and electric. He kneels before you, a man who has never known devotion yet looks as if he's offering a prayer. But there is no holiness in the way he stares up at you—only something raw, something that burns your body.

“Want you to come before I fuck you, can you do that for me?” Javier says gruffly. You feel his fingers glide through your folds, spreading you before sinking into his knuckle. You watch as his eyes droop shut, the vulgar sounds of him eating your pussy filling the living room.

“I-I don’t know if I can,” Your breath hitches as he devours you, each flick of his tongue sending shockwaves through your body. You liked being in control but didn’t like being told what to do. But with him on his knees, ravaging you like his last meal, you lose that fight in you.

“You can hermosa,” Your soft sighs and breathless gasps only encourage him further. His tongue rolls over your sensitive clit, dragging it into his mouth as he sucks softly.

A low, primal groan rumbles from Javier’s chest as you grip his fingers, feeling the rhythm of his fingers pushing deeper. The way he loses himself in you, every inch of him savoring the sensation, sends a rush of heat through your body. No man has ever made you feel this alive, this good—and the tight, unbearable tension pooling in your pelvis only builds.

Your heart pounds wildly; its rhythm is the only thing you can grasp as the world blurs around you. Each breath is a struggle, drawn deep into your lungs, as pleasure floods you like sunlight. You arch, drawn toward Javier as if the very act of surrender is as natural as breath. Your back lifts from the couch, delicate and almost weightless, as though you're being drawn into something timeless, something beyond yourself.

"Fuck, I’m gonna—” The words spill from your lips, breaking into a whimper as pleasure coils tight, snapping. Stars flicker behind your eyes, bursting like firecrackers with every curl of his fingers inside you.

Javier’s mouth remains relentless, lips and tongue a force that pulls you deeper. The sounds are wet, guttural—impossibly obscene, filling the air with a heat that mirrors the feeling inside you.

Your hands fist in his dark hair, pulling hard enough to sting, but it only makes him groan against you—like he wants you to use him, to come apart beneath his mouth.

Your thighs attempt to snap shut, trembling from the aftershocks, but Javier’s grip is iron. He presses them back down, keeping you spread for him. Your walls flutter around his thick fingers, milking them as he licks a slow, deliberate stripe, drinking you in.

“Javier,” you whine, pure, intoxicating sultry laced in your tone. You wanted him, needed him inside you. It felt like a line was drawn, and you felt like you were going to die if you didn’t get him. He comes up for air, lips swollen as he runs his tongue along them. His eyes glisten, making them seem lighter, but they are hooded nonetheless as he slips his fingers out.

His fingers slip under the waistband of your panties, and he drags them down your legs, flinging them someplace.

Javier makes you feel like a goddess—like something worshipped, something craved. And maybe that’s why you could never get enough of him. Why he lingered in your dreams, why a small, wicked part of you hoped your date would crumble into disappointment—so you could have this instead.

Him. Here.

Between your thighs, his body pressed against yours, his breath warm, ragged with need. His cock straining painfully against his jeans as his fingers work at his belt, desperate, shaking with restraint. There’s no time to move, no time to think—just urgency, the kind that consumes, that steals breath and reason. The sharp clink of his belt echoes in the quiet, a sound so simple yet electric.

Then, with a groan, he pushes off his knees, rising from the floor, his hands never leaving you. He gathers you effortlessly, pulling you with him, pressing you down onto his lap as he falls onto the couch.

“Condom?” His voice is low, hushed with an almost palpable urgency, eyes dashing up to meet yours as though he’s already losing patience. Before you can answer, he’s closing the space between you, his lips crashing against yours in a kiss that feels like he’s trying to steal the very breath from your lungs.

His lips are heated, a sharp contrast to the cool air between you, and you taste it—the tang of your own arousal mingling with his tongue, so, so sweet.

“I’m on birth control,” you murmur, breathless, your words swallowed by the hunger of another kiss. It’s all you offer, a quiet surrender, hoping it’s enough to make him crave you even more.

The thought of him inside you—all of him—suddenly consumes you. You don’t care about anything else, not the risks or the consequences. You only know the pulse between your legs and the intense craving. You don’t understand what’s happening or why you need him this way, but it feels like an urgent need to let go.

Javier pulls away just enough to give you space, but the trace of concern in his eyes doesn’t escape you. It’s a brief moment, a fleeting hesitation. Still, you see it—his brow furrows, lips tight with something softer than his usual cocky grin.

“You sure?” he asks, his voice rough with uncertainty. If you didn’t know better, you’d swear he was playing the part of a gentleman—though you know damn well he’s anything but.

“Yes,” you blurt out, the words tumbling out before you can stop them, “I’m clean, it’s okay if you don’t—”

You’re cut off before the last syllable can escape, his mouth crashing into yours with a force that leaves no room for hesitation. His kiss is firm, demanding, swallowing your words.

“Say the word, cariño. You lead, I follow.” Javier says into your mouth.

You barely have time to catch your breath before he shifts beneath you, movements hurried. He pulls his jeans down just enough for his cock to spring free, the heated skin of it brushing against his stomach with a slap between you.

Javier can feel the tremble of his hands—faint but undeniable. At first, he wonders if it’s you or him. He feels something stirring in him, something foreign. It’s not fear, but something—something urgent, primal. Desperation, temptation, a potent mix of longing and restraint. It tugs at him, a force he hasn’t felt before.

He’s never been this reckless. Never this in the moment where he couldn’t think straight. Enough to where he would slip into your warm pussy and take you like that. Javier was always careful, contrary to popular belief. Wrapped it up tight, tested, and tested again. Always keeping a record of women as if they were transactions, just to be safe. He couldn’t remember all of them, but one thing was sure, he never fucked without a condom.

But you.

You, above him, looking down at him with those daring eyes. Grabbing the hem of your dress and pulling it over your head. His eyes drink you in, the curve of your supple breasts and the arch in your spine. Telling him to take you raw, with nothing left to hold his sanity in check.

It’s a gift you have given him. A dangerous, treacherous gift. He feels it settle deep in his sternum, making his heart race and his pulse throb with a hunger he’s not sure how to satisfy. He’s never wanted anyone like this—needed them, with a rawness that cuts deep.

You feel the fat head of his cock press against your soaked lips, the tight stretch creating a gasp from your chest. His fingers dig into your fleshy hips, guiding you but letting you do as you please.

“Such a tight pussy,” Javier says with a huff and rests back on the couch, your hands resting on his shoulders as you sink further down onto his length. His gaze drifts lower, eyes heavy with desire, flicking between your faces and the space between you. The subtle shift of your body as you sink deeper until you're flush against him, fully seated.

Javier couldn’t describe the feeling of you, only that he knew it like a second home now. Your walls engulf him, drenching the soft curls at the base of his cock. His brows pinch together as you rock, lifting yourself and sinking back down. You were warmer inside than he remembered, softer.

“Fuck... feels so damn good, Hermosa. Never... never felt it like this before.” Javier’s head falls back against the couch, his breath ragged, and his words slip out like a confession. His chest rises with every inhale, muscles taut beneath his black shirt that has been pulled to expose his stomach.

“Feels so full, Javi,” You exhale slowly, letting his name slip from your lips—his nickname—like a spark that lights the hunger in his eyes.

Javier’s mouth parts, jaw slack, as you fuck yourself. Using him for your own pleasure.

“So goddamn sexy, Hermosa.” He leans forward, capturing your perky tit into his mouth, sucking as you bounce. He could feel the friction of your walls on his sensitive cock that was no doubt already weeping with precum. His teeth sink down on your nipple, tugging on the nub before pulling away.

He tried to think of anything—anything—to keep himself from coming too soon. But the way you’re wrapped around him, so tight, it almost feels like a vice—swallowing him whole. His breath hitches, and he fights it, fighting the urge to lose control as the pressure builds, unbearable, delicious. Every inch of you clenching around him is a sweet, aching burn he’s not sure he can withstand.

“Can you hear yourself, cariño? How wet you are?” You whine when you feel the pad of his thumb swiping small circles, coaxing you further into the pressure that was building. “Wish you could see this, it's fucking beautiful.” You wish you could, how his perfect cock was splitting you in two.

“I’m so close, Javi,” you whisper, your voice low, strained.

“Already?” He tilts his head, a grin playing at the corners of his mouth, his breath shallow. “I make you come this fast? Don’t think he could. I know he couldn’t.”

You lean in, your lips brushing his, tasting the sharp, familiar salt of his mouth. His mustache scratches your tongue, rough against the softness of your mouth—intimate, gritty, a reminder of how close you are, how much you’ve already given in.

“So beautiful on me, cariño,” The hand clamped tight on your hip refuses to loosen, a bruising grip that keeps you exactly where he wants you. The other weaves into your hair, fingers curling at your scalp as he tilts your head up—commanding, insistent. “Wanna see your face when you come. Mírame.” —Look at me. His voice is rough and thick with something that makes your stomach coil tight.

Your gaze locks onto his—warm honey drowning in dark, decadent chocolate. Intense. Unrelenting. Beautiful in a way that almost hurts. His fingers flex in your hair, holding you there, forcing you to feel every inch of him, every damn second of this.

You take what you want, grinding down until your thighs ache, until the burn spreads through your limbs like fire licking at dry earth. There’s something almost cruel in it—the way you use him, the way you make him suffer beneath you. It’s punishment wrapped in pleasure, a slow torment you draw out just to watch him come undone. His release lingers just out of reach, and you like it that way. You want him teetering on the edge, aching, needing—wanting.

Your mouth falls open, a sharp inhale catching in your throat as the pleasure builds, curling around your spine, pooling low in your belly. It’s too much, too good, the air between you feverish. Damp with breath and heat, and when your eyes meet Javier's, something shifts. There—in the way his fingers tighten at your hips, the way his gaze clings to yours, yearning. Something is there, though it must be the light. Your movements slow, forcing you to feel the way his body trembles beneath you. Attachment. That’s what it looks like.

But before you can make sense of it, before you can decide what it means, it vanishes. Snuffed out the second Javi's lips collide with yours, swallowing your breath, his moan vibrating through the heat of your mouth. Like he’d seen you see him for who he was, and that was someone vulnerable.

Your brows pinch together, a sharp inhale swallowed by his lips as he bites into yours, drawing out something wrecked, something involuntary. The orgasm takes you by surprise—sweeps through you like a fever, rippling from the inside out as your walls clench tight around his thick, uncut cock. It knocks the rhythm from your body and leaves you shuddering, unraveling in waves that roll through you, consuming you.

“Goddamn,” Javier breathes against your mouth, the heat of it searing, feeling the way you choke his length. He grits his teeth, hips jerking up, fucking you through it, refusing to let you drift from him even for a second. His fingers—blunt, desperate—dig into the flesh of your ass, dragging you down onto him like he’s determined to make sure you feel every pulse of him buried inside.

Breathless, panting against your ear, Javier’s voice is wrecked when he finally speaks. “Where do you want me to—” His words catch, thick with desperation, like he’s teetering on the edge of something that could ruin him.

“Inside,” you moan—cry—whimper—you’re not sure which, only that you need it, need him. Your voice is hoarse, drenched in the remnants of your pleasure, your walls still fluttering around him, pulling him deeper, as if your body already knows the answer he was too afraid to assume.

Javier had never come inside a woman before—but fuck, he didn’t care if you lied about the birth control. Didn’t care if this was reckless, if it was madness. All he knew was that you were something he wanted—not just in the chase, not just in conquest.

You burned with something untamed, a wildfire he had no intention of snuffing out. No, he wanted to feed it, to bend it to him, to shape it around his hands. He wanted to control you, break you open in ways only he could. And in this feverish, lust-drunk moment, he didn’t care if that was dangerous territory. If that made him want something…domestic. He was desperate—so fucking desperate.

Javier chokes on his breath, his hands gripping your hips with enough force to carve. The scrape of his nails against your skin sends a sharp thrill through you, and for a moment, the pain feels like possession. Another mark from him, another claim—like a fucking trophy in this twisted game you both play.

“Fuck… fuck...” His grumbled curses fall from his lips, his breath ragged, and his head drops forward, his sweat-slicked forehead pressing against your breasts like a desperate weight.

Inside you, he pulses so deep it’s almost painful. He gives you all he has, each desperate thrust pulling something from you. And for some reason, it’s that very surrender that makes it feel almost pathetic—like he’s losing himself in this more than you have.

"Can you feel it? Can you feel me come inside you?" His voice is murmured, breath brushing over the curve of your breast as his mouth devours your tender nipple. His lips are hot, sucking in soft laps, and there's no shame in his words. No restraint. He’s drunk on you, on the feel of you, on the way your body swallows him whole.

He doesn't care that it makes him sound weak, not with the way he can already feel his come seeping out of you, coating the base of him. You can feel it too, the wetness, the slickness, the proof of him spilling into you.

“Yes, I can,” you whisper back, your voice rasping. Javi's forehead lifts from your skin, his gaze tilting heavenward as his chest heaves. His nostrils flare, his eyes fluttering shut as if the act of breathing is too much. You lean in, your lips brushing his in a soft kiss, his mouth the delicate hue of ripe peaches.

The corners of his mouth twitch into a half-smile, something so boyish, so unlike the man you’ve come to know. A flicker of something you can’t quite place stirs in your chest—a feeling like a weight plummeting through your ribs. No, you remind yourself, eyes narrowing. You were never supposed to want him to feel anything more than the rush of adrenaline and raw chemistry that burned between you both. But now? The burn was turning cold, or maybe it was a flame that had turned blue.

You must be out of your damn mind thinking you could tame someone like him. Who the hell do you think you are? That’s precisely what you’ve been avoiding all along—attachment. The kind of thing that turns into a chain weighs you down and leaves you tethered to a man who never meant to stay.

You swipe your fingers through his damp hair, the sweat slicking against your skin. The words slip out before you can stop them, their clumsiness cutting through the tension in the air.

“We have to fuck other people, Javier.”

A joke, a lie, or maybe a desperate plea to sever the invisible thread already wrapping too tight around your chest. You know it’s reckless, a stupid overstep to assume—but if you’re feeling like this already, you can’t keep going. No. Not like this. Not with him.

Javier’s hands settle at your hips, gripping tight, pulling you in, his soft cock still buried inside you.

“Why would I want to share you?” His voice is low, almost a growl, as he murmurs. The question hangs in the air, but the soft tension in his words makes it impossible to tell if he’s teasing or serious.

You can feel the slickness between you, dripping down onto his thighs.

“Funny,” you say, your breath hitching as you squirm against him, trying to free yourself though his strength is overwhelming. Your thighs are slick now, his skin hot beneath you. “You’re gonna get bored of this,” you say, but even you can hear the playful doubt in your voice, your mouth tasting like lies.

He chuckles softly, a dark sound that vibrates through you. “I’m literally still inside you, Cariño,” he says, and there’s no mistaking the possessiveness in his tone. The words sink into you, making your pulse race even faster.

You can’t stop the blush that blooms across your skin, a rush of heat that creeps up your neck and paints your face. “Well…” you breathe, words faltering.

Javier’s gaze lingers, feeling more intimate than the sex, like his eyes are peeling away the layers you’ve carefully constructed, exposing the parts of you that you’ve tried so hard to keep hidden. He sees you, which is unfortunate for you, and the sharpness of his attention makes your pulse stutter. You’ve always been good at hiding your truths, but with him, you’re not sure you can.

“Is this fun for you?” His voice is rough around the edges as if he's searching for something from you. His brown eyes stay fixed with yours, but there’s a flicker of something beneath the surface. Hesitation? Fear? Or maybe it's just the steady flow of the after-sex—the chemical rush that always makes you say things.

You pull back slightly, shifting, and his soft cock slips out of you, resting on his stomach. But you don’t move from his lap. Not yet.

He watches you tentatively, the faintest curve of his lips pulling up at the corners. “Then that’s all that matters to me.” The words come so quickly, but they hit you like a sharp breath. You want to believe him. God, you want to. But something about this—about the way he says it so casually—feels like a game he plays with everyone else. How many times has he used that line before? You cock your head slightly, torn between wanting to trust him and feeling that bitter, familiar pull of doubt.

“Right,” you say skeptically.

You watch him closely, waiting, and the seconds stretch between you. And then, like he's reading your thoughts, he says, "I won’t get bored." His voice is so casual, but there's an edge to it now, an implication behind the words you can’t ignore. What was he getting at?

“I was joking, Javier,” you play it off, though his words bounce around in your head. He didn’t mean it, did he?

"I know." He huffs, almost annoyed by your amusement. "You can relax, though, if you're worried about me and other women, don't. Never been unprotected…" Javier didn’t know why he kept speaking; he only knew that every word felt wrong.

“I think you made that pretty clear,” you reply.

"Yeah, well, I don’t usually have to explain myself." His voice is rough, a little more tense now. There's a pause, clearly frustrated with his own words.

Javier knew he couldn’t be with another woman if he tried, and God knows he’s tried. He despises that he sounds like a broken record, the same song playing nonstop. Javier doesn't even understand it himself—this thing he’s offering you, this tangled, messy piece of him.

Your breath hitches as his gaze sharpens, and it feels like he's weighing you, searching for something beneath your hard exterior. And then, his voice is softer—hesitant, vulnerable, as if he's scrambling to offer more, to entice you.

“But if you wanted to do this more, we could be... singular… together?” He says it with dark brows furrowed, but his eyes soften, his tone catching somewhere between playful and... desperate?

“Singular? Like just us?” you repeat, raising an eyebrow and leaning back slightly. He looks confused, more than you, and you’re not sure what to think of it.

“I could, just to be safe, if that’s something?” You feel a tremor pass through him, the subtle twitch of his fingers on your bare thighs. He was lying through his teeth, and he knew it; there were no other women.

"Oh?" you say, lips curling into a teasing smirk despite the pit in your stomach.

But then, you hear yourself challenging him: “And what about me? What if I wanted to sleep with other men?” You’re testing him, pushing him to see how far he’ll bend before he snaps. Before he takes back everything he just said. You didn’t want other men; you wanted Javier.

Javier swallows hard, his gaze flicking to the side, momentarily losing its focus. For a beat, he seems genuinely torn—his brows furrowing, lips pressed together in a thin line like he's struggling to hold it together. He couldn’t read you, not entirely, but he sensed it—the quiet understanding that he’d somehow ruined it. His mind races as if fevered because this wasn’t him. He was never this undone, this lost in a moment.

“If that’s what you wanted.” The words come out quietly, almost too faint. You catch the hint of a pout forming like it physically pains him to say it.

A strange, gnawing feeling settles in your chest. What are you doing? Why are you pushing him away when all he’s offering is… everything?

He watches you closely, his lips curling into a small, almost self-deprecating smile. “And for the record, if you’re into dinners,” he adds, his voice low like he’s tasting every word, “I wouldn’t stand you up again. Not this time.”

You bite your lip and look away, trying to hold onto your control.

"I don’t know if you could handle being that loyal, Peña.” The words slip out, but underneath them, you know the truth. You want to give in. Every part of you is telling you to take what he’s offering. But all you could give was an elusive answer, too afraid to say yes, too enamored with him to say no. “But sure, if that’s your offer, I’ll think about it."

Your eyes narrow, and without warning, you climb off his lap, the cool air hitting your skin as you search for your dress. You slide it on, a slight smirk tugging at the corner of your lips as you watch him tug his jeans back on, the silence between you thick with unspoken things.

You shake your head, unable to suppress a dry laugh. Exclusive? The thought of you two being anything more than this, than this constant game, is almost laughable. He really did have a way of making you question everything, even the parts of you you thought were untouchable.

“So, are you going back to watching my house again?” you ask, voice light, trying to bury whatever it was that had just been said between you two.

He looks up, eyes locking with yours, and the cocky grin is back, but there's something deeper, something heavier. “Think I’d have a better view from inside…” he murmurs, his voice dropping an octave as his gaze trails over you with more intent now. “Your house, that is.”

You pause, and for a brief moment, you're not sure whether to laugh or turn away. But you don’t do either. Instead, you raise an eyebrow, almost daring Javier to keep pushing.

"Don’t hold your breath, Peña." You turn away, knowing this game is far from over. But for Javier, it had already ended—there was no more chase, no more play. He wasn’t hunting anymore; he was caught. And worse, he didn’t care. Javier would take whatever piece of you you were willing to give, whole or shattered.

Because after everything—the cartel, the blood, the ghosts that never left—Javier Peña could no longer face danger. Not when you were the most dangerous thing of all.

#pedro pascal #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro pascal smut #papi pedro #pedro x reader #tumblr fyp #new writer #pedropascal #javier pena smut #javier peña #javier pena x reader #javier pena fanfiction #javier pena imagine #javier pena x you #javier pena narcos

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drippingghoneyy · 13 days ago

Text

I Plan To -Viktor x GN!Reader

Summary: You and Viktor share a secret history, known only to you and him. The reader grows weary of waiting, leading them to distance themselves, but who can resist?…

Genre/ Pairing: drabble, Implied smut (?), Viktor x GN!Reader

WARNINGS: MDNI!, tension, teasing, jealousy, possessiveness, dom!Viktor, GN!Reader, dom/sub dynamics, pet names… (lmk if I missed any!)

Word Count: 2.1k.

Notes: Reblog and like!! I read every comment, they make my whole day! If you find any spelling errors, no you didn't. Grammarly don’t fail me now 🙂 If you don't like nsfw content, please don't read it!

The first time it happened, it was a mere accident. Or so you liked to tell yourself. Late one evening in the lab, the soft hum of the machines and the flicker of candlelight had created an atmosphere thick with tension. Viktor had been explaining his latest research findings, his eyes alight with excitement, his voice a soothing rumble in the quiet space.

Your gaze had kept slipping from his notes to the curve of his jaw, the way his fingers danced over the parchment. The air between you had grown charged, until a stray touch of your hand on his arm had sent a jolt through both of you. He'd looked up, and in that moment, the universe had narrowed to just the two of you.

Subtle glances grew into lingering stares, and stolen touches became something more. Viktor was dominant, not in the way that he ruled with an iron fist, but in the way he knew exactly what he wanted and how to coax it from the world around him. His confidence was like a magnetic field, and you, a sweet assistant, of course found yourself inexplicably drawn to the edge of his orbit.

He'd praise your intellect, your dedication to the work, and you'd blush, feeling a warmth spread through your chest that had nothing to do with the nearby Bunsen burner. He'd lean in just a little closer, and you'd catch a whiff of the faint scent of his cologne—spicy and alluring. The line between professional and personal blurred until one night, after hours of a shared passion for science, you found yourselves crossing it.

That first time, he'd walked you to your room, the silence of the academy hanging around you like a velvet shroud. His hand had found yours, and your hearts had pounded in a delicious rhythm that matched your footsteps. You hadn't even realized what was happening until you were both standing in your doorway, the warmth of his body pressing against yours. A look passed between you, one that said everything without uttering a single word. You'd invited him in, and he hadn't needed to be asked twice.

The secret meetings grew more frequent, stolen moments in the shadowy corners of the lab or behind locked doors in his study. It was thrilling, but it was also exhausting. You were torn between your desire for him and the frustration that came with his refusal to acknowledge your feelings beyond the physical.

So, you started to pull away. It was subtle at first, a shift in your schedule here, a missed rendezvous there. You threw yourself into your studies and experiments with renewed vigor. The late nights in the library were no longer spent in heated whispers but in furrowed brows and pen ink smeared across pages.

Your mind was filled with theorems and hypotheses rather than his touch. You ignored the ache that grew with every passing day, the emptiness that settled in your chest when you walked past his empty lab.

Weeks turned into a silent dance of avoidance. You'd pass him in the halls with a nod and a forced smile, the kind that didn't reach your eyes. You had too much to do, too much to prove to yourself and the world. Assignments piled up, deadlines loomed, and projects demanded your attention.

Each step away from his lab was a silent declaration of independence, a rejection of the shackles of a secret affair that had begun to chafe. You found solace in the predictable patterns of your research, the comforting ritual of your experiments. The hiss of steam and the smell of chemicals had become your new lovers, demanding yet fulfilling in their own cold, unfeeling way.

On this particular day off, the sun had kissed your cheeks with a warmth that seemed to whisper of freedom as you went about your business in the bustling streets of Piltover. The cobblestones beneath your boots echoed with the promise of a day filled with your own pursuits, away from the prying eyes and whispers of the academy.

You'd visited the market, bartered for rare ingredients needed for your latest experiment, and even treated yourself to a cup of steaming coffee at your favorite café. The sweet scent of baking bread wafted through the air, mingling with the metallic tang of the city's ever-present industrial heartbeat.

As the afternoon shadows grew longer, you made your way to the lab, the weight of your pack filled with books and equipment a testament to your dedication. You pushed open the heavy oak door and stepped into the familiar coolness, the scent of dust and knowledge greeting you like an old friend.

The lab was empty, save for the ever-present glow of the crystal tech that hummed quietly in the background. The place felt eerily silent without the usual banter between you and your colleagues. But today was different. Today, you had agreed to help Jayce, and that meant a brief re-entry into the space you had so carefully extricated yourself from.

You set your things aside and began to prep the equipment, your mind racing through the list of tasks you had set for yourself. The sound of your own breathing seemed amplified in the quiet, a stark contrast to the days when you and Viktor had filled the room with the music of your passionate whispers.

You tried to ignore the memories that clung to the corners like shadows, the ghosts of your former self that whispered of what you'd been giving up. Instead, you focused on the here and now, the thrill of discovery that awaited in your research.

The hours ticked by, the soft click of glassware and the scratch of quill on parchment the only noises to break the silence. You had just finished calibrating an instrument when the door swung open, the sound echoing through the room.

You looked up, expecting Jayce, but instead found Viktor standing there, his eyes cold and distant. He didn't say a word, just strode over to his workstation, his movements sharp and precise. A flicker of annoyance danced across his features, as if your very presence was an unwelcome interruption to his solitude.

Your heart skipped a beat, a traitorous reminder of the attraction that still simmered between you. You straightened your back, determined not to let him affect you. You had your own work to do, your own path to forge.

The tension grew thick, a palpable force that seemed to pulse with every beat of your heart. You decided to ignore him, to act as if he were just another piece of the lab's furniture. But as the minutes stretched into an hour, his silence grew deafening, a stark contrast to the electric conversations you used to share.

Finally, unable to resist the urge, you called out to him, "Jayce said he'd be by so you guys could work on some things, and asked if I'd help. You guys are still doing that tonight?"

Viktor's head snapped up, his gaze piercing. "Jayce?" he repeated, the name leaving a bitter taste in the air. "What does he need from us?"

You shrugged nonchalantly, trying to ignore the way his eyes raked over you. "Some kind of new project. He said it was urgent."

Viktor's jaw tightened, his eyes narrowing. "And he just assumed you'd come running?"

The accusation in his tone stung, and you couldn't help but laugh, the sound sharp and brittle. "Well, I'm here, aren't I?" you said, your voice a challenge. "It's not like I have anything better to do on my day off, right?"

He took a step closer, his expression darkening. "Why do you always have to be so...defiant?" The word hung in the air like a challenge, a silent dare to push him further.

"Is that what you think?" you replied with a smirk, the sarcasm thick in your voice. "That I come here to get bitched at?"

Viktor's eyes flashed with something that was not quite anger, but something far more primal. "You know exactly why you come here," he murmured, his voice low and intense. It was true; his authority and how he chose to use it had become an addiction, a secret thrill you craved even as you hated the feeling of being so utterly under his control.

You feeling emboldened by the challenge in his gaze, replied with a smirk, "Oh, I see. So it is all about power with you, is it?" You hadn't meant to goad him, but the words slipped out, a tiny rebellion against his coldness. You turned back to your work, pretending to ignore him, but every nerve ending was tingling with anticipation.

Suddenly, the sound of ripping fabric filled the room, making you jump.

"What the hell are you doing?" you asked without turning around, a smirk playing on your lips. You knew exactly what he was up to. It was a game you'd played before, one of dominance and submission that had become your twisted dance in the shadows of the academy.

When you did finally look up, you met his eyes, a thrill racing through you as you took in the long strip of cloth in his hand. The fire in his gaze was unmistakable, and you felt a shiver of excitement dance down your spine.

You knew this game all too well, the one where he'd prove his dominance and you'd pretend to resist, even though deep down, you craved the loss of control. It was a game you loved to play...

"You forget yourself," he said, his voice a deep rumble that seemed to resonate through the very air. "You forget who it is you're speaking to."

You rolled your eyes, the gesture filled with a blend of exasperation and arousal. "Do I really?" you replied, turning back to your work, pretending to ignore the electricity that crackled in the air between you.

The sound of his footsteps followed by the clicking of his crutch grew louder as he approached, each step echoing in the cavernous space of the lab. You could feel his presence behind you, a physical force that sent shivers down your spine.

You rolled your eyes and turned to face him, your heart racing. He towered over you, the fabric still clutched in his hand, his expression a storm of unspoken intent.

"I'm not afraid of you, Viktor," you said, trying to sound more confident than you felt. But as you met his gaze, you couldn't help but remember the way he'd looked at you when you were wrapped in his arms, the tenderness that had briefly softened his features before he'd pushed you away. It was like looking into the eyes of a wild animal, one that could either purr or pounce without warning.

He stepped closer, the fabric still clutched in his hand. "You should be," he said, his voice a low growl that seemed to resonate in your very core. His gaze was unyielding, a silent command that sent a thrill of fear and desire through your body.

Before you could react, he grabbed your wrists, spinning you around with surprising agility despite his injured leg. In one swift motion, he bound your hands behind your back, the cloth tight and unyielding.

You gasped, a mix of surprise and arousal escaping your lips. His grip on your hair was firm, the pain a sudden, sharp reminder of the dynamics that had always underpinned your secret encounters. But this time, there was something different in his eyes—a coldness, a detachment that sent a shiver down your spine.

"You want to play games?" he said, his breath hot against your ear. "Fine. But remember, I always win sweetness."

He yanked you closer, your back pressed against his chest, you could feel the heat of his desire through the layers of your clothing. You squirmed, trying to pull away, but his grip was like iron, his fingers digging into your skin just shy of pain. His other hand reached around, capturing your jaw and tilting your face up to meet his.

"You want this," he murmured, his voice a seductive whisper that seemed to resonate through your very bones. "You always want this."

Your heart hammered in your chest as you met his intense gaze, your cheeks flushed with a mix of anger and desire.

You bit back a smile, feeling the thrill of the chase, and whispered, "Fuck you," with a laugh that you hoped conveyed the right mix of brattiness and challenge.

Viktor's smile grew predatory as he watched you struggle against the bonds, your eyes flashing with both defiance and want. He leaned down, his breath a warm caress against your cheek, and whispered, "Don't worry, my dear, I plan to."

#arcane #viktor arcane #viktor league of legends #viktor x reader #gn reader #viktor smut #arcane viktor smut #jayce talis #viktor #arcane viktor x reader #viktor arcane x reader #DrippingHoneyy

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floraltypes · 1 month ago

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ᡣ𐭩 •｡ꪆৎ ˚⋅ through and through (🪽)

pairing - meret manon bannerman x fem!reader

synopsis - fellow fans reminisce about the moments when the love between Y/N and manon appeared to grow stronger and more vibrant. through a collection of tweet from passionate fans there is a glimpse into key on-camera relationship moments, along with a sneak peek at what was happening behind the scenes as their bond developed.

"You really want to get the flower?" Manon sat at your side as you were laid out on the covered seat, right arm extended while the tattoo artist began to place down the outline of a small, vibrant flower. "You don't have to."

"Is this a worried Meret?" You softly questioned, looking up at the girl with teasing eyes. "I want to," you reminded her, a soft glittering red gloss smeared and sparkling on the outer corner of your upper lip.

"It'll look really good on you," she grinned back, pinning some of her braids behind her head, allowing the girl to move her head whichever way with no fear of hair in her face. "You're such a flower girl after all."

"What does that mean?"

"They have such an undeniable beauty, easily entrapping those who care to look," she winked, her hand beginning to wind itself with your own.

"Those words sound a little familiar; are they from the song snippet you sent me the other day?" You questioned, tilting your head against the crinkle of plastic as a beam of sun came into view.

"Might have to call the song Flower Girl," she said with such smoothness of her tongue, eyes filled with confidence before concern as she caught you with your lip between your teeth, the buzzing beginning as the machine neared closer towards your skin.

The Ghanaian girl pouted out her own, red gloss catching it's on glimmer from the sunlight, and winded her thumb in tiny circles as it caressed the crease between your own and your pointer finger.

One camera stood prompted right at her face, another further off to the side, ready to catch a different angle of the possible reactions of the Ghanaian girl. She sat calm and collected, flipping through pages of her beloved journal as the cameras caught her eyes, lightening up and a downturning smile when they caught different portions.

"So, Manon," the voice behind the screen began to speak, deeper yet with a gentle tinge as they took in the girl hurriedly flipping further, brief scribbles of dark ink catching the camera's lens. "What is it like to look back at your journal now near the end of the competition? You've made it to the top ten."

"Uh," and an uncomfortable chuckle leaves the girl's glossed lips, eyes widening with clear shocked energy as she looks over towards the person. "Reading this back was shocking."

"What were your journal entries like back when you first arrived with the girls?"

"It's filled with a lot of nervous energy back then," she scrounges back tens of pages to get to the beginning moments, the first few pieces apart of the book. "I got this to help to personally document my experience through all this, so it definitely includes irrational and frantic thoughts." There is a brief pause, her eyes looking and reading throughout the pages as one braid falls to the front of her features. "But a lot of the girls were nice in the beginning; it did not start out with a lot of drama. I remember meeting Nayoung, who was fairly new and Daniela! She had made some joke that didn't go over really well but the fact that it didn't made it funnier. Soon enough, I was introduced to Y/N; she made it like a duty to make me comfortable."

"How so?"

"She helped me unpack and listened to me blab on about my life at home while she shared some stuff about her own and a bit about her fears of coming. Leaving everything behind is really frightening when you don't even know if it will be worth it in the end. I had thoughts like those sometimes, but I felt deep down that I would make it so it didn't come up much." Manon brushed her braid back, sticking a nail between the pages to bring about a random page. "There was a time with some drama; I remember being so nervous but she just held my hand and walked in as if nothing bothered her, keeping me along with her. I feel like since then, especially, we've just always been side by side."

"Would you say you're closest to Y/N here?"

"For sure, she is one of the ones I'm closest with; I can't even think about not debuting with her. It'd be so weird, like wrong."

"Come here!" Sophie whined, the liquid in her glass swishing about as she wobbled on the larger heels, rushing to pull Manon over to the chairs. "No more talking; it's time for drinking!"

"Sophie," Manon laughed, itching the side of her face as she looked her friend up and down. "Might want to start slowing down, Soph."

"Thanks, Mama Manzanita!" She laughed, one that was so short it turned into a whole laughing attack that she nearly dropped her glass; more than half of its contents completely spilled upon the floor at this point. "Get in the party mood, I am!" The music is blasting all about; Manon could barely hear her close conversation with you only minutes earlier. The place is filled with vibrant twentysomething year olds bumping to the pounding beats with different colors of streams of lights seeping through every which way.

"I can't leave Y/N," Manon tries to tell her friend, sitting her on the torn cushion to then take the glass and put it on the wobbly table in front. "I was not expecting it to be crazy tonight. I was thinking something more simple."

"But it's always Y/n this and Y/n that," Sophie grabs both of Manon's arms, almost pulling her on top of her. "What about me? I miss you; you're going to forget about me soon." She whines in her drunken stupor, clearly emotions heightened from the extra liquor.

"Never," Manon shakes her head, a smile now creeping up on her lips as she brushes away a few baby strands from the girl's face, makeup losing its vibrancy. "Y/n is a different kind of friend, like a different kind of feeling, Soph," she winks.

"Oh?" Sophie looks heavily perplexed before she lightly hits her cheek. "Oh! Trust me, I'm going to be the best wing woman ever," she whipped her head around, ponytail smacking Manon in the face. "Y/n! Y/n!" She repeatedly yells, "Get over here."

With uneasy hands, Sophie tries to halt herself up, stealing one of the drinks from the table with a quick gulp before basically falling into you.

"Go get by Manon on that bench right now!" Sophie demands, standing back away from you and pushing you off into the distance. "I need a good picture out of tonight, so Y/N, sit on the bench, good, and Manon, sit on the top behind her! Yes!" The photographer in her takes over the wasted part, guiding you two into the pose that could've taken over the internet, one where Manon slides her hands to lie on your shoulder with your face looking up and hers looking down.

The shot that the girl gets starts wobbled, but one out of the ten ends up clear, clear that either you two are true professionals or truly have a special extra feeling for one another.

"It's so crazy in here," you whisper, your eyes still keeping their steady gaze on the woman above you. "Sophie sure likes to party."

"I mean everyone does," Manon adds, her head moving ever so slightly down towards you, lips reaching closer and closer, and eyelashes filled with the darkened dye that is more noticeable now. It's like a rush of flames that wanders about your skin, leaving goosebumps in its trace. It's addicting the way you subtly try to lift your head ever so higher, a bit closer, just a bit more.

"Bro, everyone is asking about the other girls!" Dani turned towards Manon, shaking her head at the comments that she read off the screen, different ones asking about all the different members. Asking where they were, if they could join, if they were working on new music.

"Just appreciate us!" Manon pretended to fake crying, dragging her hands down her face in a ploy of being distressed. "We clearly serve more with the lives. People always want more."

"Some of the girls are out, and some are at home," Dani answered, dragging her finger down the phone to scroll through more comments. "We are going out soon to meet up with some of the others. That's why Manon has to hurry up with her hair already!"

"Chill, beauty takes time," Manon swished her ponytail in Dani's face, picking up the brush with a helping of gel to smooth back some hairs.

"Y/N is here, probably lounging around in her room," Dani replied, sitting back from where she once sat on her knees. "Who do you think pulls the most?" She read aloud.

"Easy," Manon scoffed.

"Me." They both spoke at the same time, heads quickly spinning towards one another with incredulous looks.

"Yeah, right, you can't even pull the g-" Manon clamped a hand over Dani's mouth, which Dani's own hand followed in tandem. "Anyways," she smiled once both were removed.

Manon let her eyes glide through the comments, now seeming to flood in quicker at their little stunt but she ignored the speculations and tried to keep to ones that would not get her yelled at by her manager or worse, Sophia. "I love watching the edits and seeing artwork; it's all so good. You guys are truly talented."

"Oh, that painting of Y/N and Manon goes crazy," Dani points out the comment mentioning a painting of the two; it had recently blown up all over their Twitter, watching different fan pages go crazy over the quality and seemingly the deeper feelings behind it.

"Don't get me started," Manon chirped up, leaning over excitedly as she panned the phone a little more towards her. It was seriously so gorgeous! They had me looking so valorent, and Y/n looked stunningly soft."

"And it was a huge ship post," Dani clarified, trying to keep her voice lower, yet instead, it seemed to come out at the same tone.

"Wait, really?" Manon whispered back, shock etched into her features, before imagining the piece again and the different details apart of it. "That's actually crazy how the eyekons can-"

"Be quiet!" Sophia swung the door open, shaking her head in the background as both girls fell silent. "You two should not be on live!"

"We're having fun, mom," Manon whined, placing her hands together in a pleading motion while looking back up to her. "Please!"

"Sophia is freaking out in our room," you popped your head into the bedroom. "She's going to pass out from fear."

"Baby y/n!" Daniela cheered, standing up to try and drag you into frame. "Everyone's asking how one of the youngest in the group is doing."

"I'm not even the youngest!" You quickly reminded everyone, crossing your arms at your waist in faux frustration. "This is silly."

"Ever since that clip of your pout went around, you're being called baby," Manon told you, allowing you to sit in the middle of them both, one leg practically over Manon's. "My baby y/n," the girl taunted, squeezing at your cheeks.

"Our baby!" Daniela corrected as she squeezed at your other one.

The phone was carefully angled to hit over your features instead of the girl who sat a few feet away tapping loudly at her own computer playing a new game on Roblox. The redhead completed such actions with a lot of spunk, music blasting from the headphones that wrapped around her ears, as this was her choice to spend her downtime. You just laughed occasionally as she muttered little things to herself, letting your eyes take a peek at her form before finding their way back to the screen.

"Yes, there will be new music before you know it!" You responded proudly, picking up the mascara that lay haphazardly at your desk. Other makeup products spilled about as you comfortably took your time getting ready. "I cannot say more; I am not Manon," you laughed, a fellow comment talking about how the said girl always seemed to be on the brim of revealing more than needed.

You screwed open the pink tube, lightly dragging the brush against your eyelashes, fingers clad with golden rings as the jewelry part of your outfit had already been assembled. Once you were finished, you used your unoccupied fingers to flick through the comments. "I do know Sophie; she is funny," you laughed in remembrance of hectic times with the sporadic woman. "Her and Meret make a good pair," you smiled lightly. The comments seemed to speed up slightly, questioning if that was a subtle move to ship the two women, an action you definitely were not trying to portray.

"No! No," you raised your hands up in a type of defense, frantically trying to clarify what you had previously meant. "It makes sense why they are good friends, that is all." Yet a comment from a certain 'Ynonlvr' caught your eye, writing, "See how she defended that one quick, possessive Y/n peaking through.". It was a comment you couldn't help but softly smile at, a memory of just how much this specific woman played a toll on your heart.

A specifically patterned knock was placed at the wood of your door, creeping you away from such thoughts but just enlarging the smile on your features. You scooted in closer to the camera, hands cupped around your lips as you leaned in. "You are all going to be excited to see who is here!" you turned towards the door, raising your voice "Come in! I am live."

"Hello gorgeous!" Manon swung the door open, dropping down to her knees so that she could lightly push you, fitting herself into the frame. "Oh no, I was not speaking to Y/N. I was obviously speaking to you, eyekons," the Ghanian girl spoke, winking towards the camera before throwing one arm around you to pull you close again. She turned her head to the side, leaning up to her ear so that you could feel the soft, hot breath that was let out before she spoke. "Let's go get going; I've got a surprise!"

"Oh?" You looked over at her, eyes glancing up and down in faux disbelief. "Really now?" Her eyes, though, were captivated by the comments, ones rolling in explaining that the scene was somewhat sensual and fulfilling their Ynon addiction.

"Well," she stood back up on her feet, outfit all glammed with a stunning pair of shoes to match. "I am glad you eyekons are feeling the outfit, as am I." She placed a hand on your head, looking down to make sure you got the unsaid message to hurry up. "I gotta go now, and soon will Y/N!" She placed her attention back fully onto you, removing the hand. "See you soon; love you through and through," she stepped out the door, peeking her head back in once again. "Hurry!"

You scrounged around with your makeup products, trying to put some back in their respective places while looking for the needed ones. As the brush bristles of your bigger brush danced against the pink pigments of your Fenty blush, you tried to answer some last remaining comments.

"A lot of people actually ask about that," you dragged the makeup brush against your skin. "The whole 'love you through and through' is like how people will say 'love you to the moon and back'; it is just a little more personal addition. Like throughout it all, we will be there; our love will be there."

katseye masterlist

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allfearstofallto · 1 year ago

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Day of the Wedding

Yandere! Genshin Men x Fem! Reader

Ft: Diluc, Childe, Scaramouche

Forced Marriage AU

TW: Yandere Themes, Forced(?) Alcohol Consumption

AN: I checked today and I have 900 followers??? That's actually insane!!! This is what I've got to offer I guess!!

Diluc

Who wouldn't cry tears of joy when marrying the most desired bachelor of Mondstadt? That's what people thought when they saw you dressed from head to toe in pure white, the only thing throwing your princess attire off being your smeared makeup. Your eyes, so red and puffy, had mascara running down your cheeks. Black tears staining your face.

Despite the way you looked, you still forced a smile. It was a small wedding, containing only those close to the both of you, but your family couldn't help, but wonder why you chose to stay close under your newly wed husband, almost seeming afraid to talk to them.

When the vows were spoken, you could barely get the words out. Your voice shaking through sobs as your tears fell upon the page of written notes, eventually making the ink leak and becoming ineligible. You still spoke your I Do’s, followed by him lifting your veil and kissing you right upon your lips. His hand snaked around your waist and the other held your head in place. But you, you stood there stiffly, like kissing him had made you turn into stone.

Diluc pulled away with a smile, his mouth stained with a slight tint of your lipstick. He walked you back down the aisle, with the crowd throwing rice and cheering. On the happiest day of your life where you were supposed to be looking forward ahead of you, you just kept looking back, hoping that your family could see the distress in your eyes, though they never did.

Childe

So many of Childe's siblings and cousins and aunts and uncles came to the wedding, but not a single one of your family members joined you.

“She's not close to her family,” he'd say, holding on to your waist with a threatening hand. That was a lie. You loved your family. You saw them often, at least, you did before the day you abruptly decided to move to Snezhnaya without a word to them. You hadn't seen them since and they didn't know where to send letters, you were essentially a ghost of their past. Your memory haunted them daily as they missed you dearly and you missed them too.

The wedding lasted days and days. A surprise to even you, but apparently that's tradition. Games and singing. There was dancing happening for what felt like hours. And drinking. So so so much drinking. With a feast that spanned almost an entire table, there was an abundance of alcohol to match.

You could hardly keep up with the festivities. In an unfamiliar place with unfamiliar people being wed to a man you thought you knew. Childe wouldn't let you show your discomfort on your face, meeting your lips with a glass of whatever he was drinking, you'd gulp down even more and fall into that drunken dizziness. When the wedding ended, you don't exactly remember. It all became a blur near the end. But you remember waking up to Childe laying you down in bed, placing a kiss on your forehead and whispering words of praise to you that would've been comforting, had it not been for who he was.

Scaramouche

He always adored the way you looked in kimono. Today was no different. The pure white silk draped over your body was by far the nicest one he'd gifted you. Dolled up in traditional make-up, you felt so stiff with your now decadent appearance.

You'd feel less scared if he wasn't still wearing that same glare. That same look of anger and disappointment. Even though it was just the two of you in the room, you him and the officiant who would wed the two of you, he still glared at the man like one mistake would kill him. And it probably would.

Your hand shook as you picked up what looked to be the tea pot, something he made you practice time and time again to prepare just for today. Getting it wrong today would mean facing his wrath later, yet you still shook while pouring it into the small bowl. You watched with a pounding heart as you managed to spill some, dripping onto the floor and sinking between the wood.

Meeting his gaze and preparing for a scolding, you instead saw him lightly chuckle. Seldom did he smile and even more rare than that, did he actually laugh. The sight was even scarier than his usual glares, somehow his joy made him seem even more menacing.

“I expected this much from you,” he whispered into the silence. His nimble fingers gripped the rim of the bowl and he brought it to your lips, making you take a sip of the warm alcohol. It was bitter and disgusting, just as you'd remembered. When you swallowed your sip, he took one right after you, finishing off what was left in the dish, then sitting it to the side again.

Your names were signed onto a piece of parchment, a wedding document written in traditional Inazuma script. You couldn't read a word of it, but there was no worse contract than the one that said you'd be his lawfully wedded wife.

Scaramouche held your hand as the two of you walked out of the shrine, his fingers cold and his grip tight. It was such a beautiful day out. That was all you could think about as you were walked back to his carriage which would take you to his home. Your last day as a truly free woman, you were glad it was beautiful.

#genshin #genshin x reader #genshin impact #yandere genshin #yandere x reader #yandere genshin impact #yandere genshin x reader #yandere x you #yandere headcanons #yandere imagines #yandere childe x reader #yandere childe #yandere diluc x reader #yandere diluc #yandere scaramouche x reader #yandere Scaramouche

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cheriecoke · 1 year ago

Text

when nanami dies, there's a box of letters waiting for you.

months pass before you find it. it's not until you're cleaning out his things, wondering if you can stand to get rid of them, that the letters are there waiting for you.

its no bigger than a shoebox, dark wood engraved with an intricate design, one that you're certain kento picked out specifically for you. you've never seen it before, and you open it with shaky hands, tears already pooling in your eyes at all the memories your lover left behind.

inside, there's a stack of letters, each one dated at the top with kento's name intricately signed at the end. some are in sealed envelopes with beautiful stamps. some multiple pages long and include some little haikus that are far too lovely to be about someone like you. and some are just quick little notes scribbled on napkins.

your spread them across the floor, staring down at each of the tiny little hearts he'd drawn next to your name on each note. even though you'd been together for years, you had no idea that he'd been writing all of them—hours of his life dedicated to this little pastime, and you'd been clueless.

they're like journal entires. insights into kento's life and your relationship, both the good moments and the tough ones. he leaves behind everything to you, entrusting you to keep his entire existence safe in your hands.

you read the letters with tears streaming down your face, and you choke on your sobs, trying so hard not to smear the ink from the wetness on your cheeks.

when you pull one out with shaky hands, you realize it's a decade old. the writing has faded a bit, and the paper is yellowing, but it's kento's handwriting, nonetheless.

it makes you near sick to read it. for a minute, you have to set it aside, cry into your knees as you curl into a ball, wondering when you'll ever stop feeling this empty.

this letter is from a sixteen year old kento; a quiet boy who had a silly little crush on girl in his year that was much too pretty for him. and in the letter, he says he knows you're too good for him, but he can't help but love you. he can't help but hope that one day, in a few years, you'll want to marry him as much as he wants to marry you.

it hurts, burns in your chest because even back then, kento had known you were the one. he'd known and he wrote you these letters because he'd felt that his life would be cut short. he'd felt like that since haibara died, and geto left, and it started to seem like the life of a sorcerer was always doomed to be an unhappy one.

kento had been so afraid that his friend died without knowing how much he meant to him, and he refused to make the same mistake with you.

there are letters from even when you weren't together. from the years that you were eighteen, nineteen, twenty, and kento had been so desperate to leave jujutsu behind that it meant he had to leave you too. even then, even when you were nothing more than a shadow from his past, he adored you.

you feel so outside of yourself, nauseous and filled with so much grief that you're not sure where to put it.

sometimes, you’d doubted if kento felt as loved by you as you did by him. but there's pages and pages of him speaking of how special you make him feel, even when you were separated, and he missed you so much that the thoughts of you consumed him.

you spend hours going through the letters, and then, you see one dated halloween, 2018. even breathing feels hard, but you can't stop yourself from reading it, even though you know it will destroy you, know that you won't be able to leave the house for days after reading it.

in the letter, kento says he loves you. he talks about the day before, when you'd convinced him to watch some halloween movies, and though most of them were silly, he didn't care how he spent his time with you as long as it made you smile.

he says that he feels bad for cancelling your dinner plans, and he's going to be thinking of you when he's in shibuya. that it's such a shame that being a sorcerer is so much more fulfilling than a salaryman, because it cuts into your time together, and you’re the most important part of his life.

he says he loves you again. that he really hopes he makes it back from shibuya because even though he's never told you, he wants a family with you.

he says he’s decided he'll bring it up when he gets home safe and sound. he’s not sure how you’ll feel about it, but you better know that he’ll always love you no matter what you decide, even if what he really wants is a little girl that looks just like you. and lastly, he hopes that you don't stay up too late waiting up for him—you’ve been so tired lately, and it’s making him feel bad.

his name is at the bottom with another little heart.

you let the letter fall from your hands.

#AHHH #so this is the aforementioned nanami thought <3 #im definitely coping very well #i miss him :( i love him :(#kento 💋 ⋆ ˚｡⋆#nanami x reader #kento nanami x reader #nanami angst #xoxo rylie 💌 ୧⋆ ˚｡⋆#xoxo rylie 💌 ⋆ ˚｡⋆

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cr4yolaas · 1 year ago

Text

the weight of words — alhaitham x mute! reader

notes: based off of this tiktok i found a long while ago featuring a poem that serves as the base for this fic <3 i feel like this is very poorly written / rushed and it lacks a good flow but i wanted to get it out asap bc i didn’t have any more energy to write it LOL

tags: italics represent handwritten notes, reader is implied to be rlly smart / top of the class, implied depressive episode (reader), self deprecation (reader), fluff → angst → fluff, may or may not be an inaccurate rep. of mute individuals, ooc alhaitham, not proofread

this was a little more irksome than he wanted to admit.

at the very top of the akademiya, far away from prying eyes, sat a student bathed in sunlight. from a distance, he observed. you held a book in one hand and an apple in the other, while your legs dangled off of the ledge. he couldn’t discern much from your backside.

but what bothered him the most was that you were seated in “his” spot. the spot he always crept away to during lunch, mainly for its isolation and breathtaking view.

without hesitation, alhaitham approached you. he tapped on your shoulder and stared with an intensity akin to the blazing sun in june. “excuse me,” he began. “i normally sit here. i would greatly appreciate it if you moved to another place, as i’m most accustomed to this spot.”

a silence washed over as you stared up at him. your lack of response left him annoyed — did you find this funny?

however, as you set down your book and snack gently, alhaitham found himself surprised for the first time in a while.

a notebook sat on your lap as you wrote rapidly. the man watched quietly.

i’m afraid not. there are countless other spots up here, and i just happened to get to this one first.

a sigh slipped from his lips. while he wasn’t unfamiliar with stubborn personalities around campus, this particular interaction seemed to interest him more than it irritated him. alhaitham nodded and sat beside you, much to your surprise.

he listened as you flipped your page and began writing again, this time taking up less space on the paper.

why do you like sitting here? you passed the notebook to him.

he wrote much slower in comparison to you, however, his handwriting bore an elegance you had not seen before, as if each letter carried a song in the ink. you found it beautiful.

the lack of noise.

his short response made you smile — simple and straight to the point. another thing you deemed wonderful.

he did not hand the notebook back to you, but instead, continued to write. i dislike unnecessary sounds. they serve as useless interruptions. up here, i find that in comparison to the chatter of students, the ambience is soothing. alhaitham placed the notebook in your lap gingerly and looked into the distance, his gaze absent yet his thoughts reverberating.

you continued this back and forth with him for the entirety of the lunch break. the lines engraved on your palms spilled over with ink smears, and you found your dominant arm growing weary. you did not write your goodbyes on the paper, therefore leaving your conversation unfinished. you left with a smidge of warmth in your heart and a smile on your face in hopes of meeting him again the next day.

from afar, you could see the way he sat leaning slightly more towards one side, and the occasional tapping of his fingers against the table as he wrote. he drank from a small mug of what you presumed to be coffee, but rather than holding the handle, he gripped the cup from its mouth. another intricacy that piqued your interest.

he noticed your stare after a few seconds, eyes of jade and clementine meeting yours. without a word, he relocated to your table, sitting directly across from you. “hello,” he greeted softly. “i didn’t know you frequented this place either.” his gaze flickered over to your notebook peeking out of your schoolbag, and when you pulled it out to respond to him, he found himself getting uncharacteristically excited.

i don’t, actually. i wanted a change of pace, but i’m not sure how much i’m enjoying it. you pushed the book across the table to him.

is it too loud to study? that’s surprising.

you looked up at him questioningly for a moment before jotting down your reply. i’m not studying. i’m just here to read. his lips upturned noticeably at your words, an expression you wished to carve into the crevices of your memory for eternity. he was painstakingly beautiful.

alhaitham didn’t respond for a handful of seconds, instead opting to look outside the window to his left. strands of sunlight draped themselves onto his perfectly crafted face and fell between each strand of hair. a view that compared to the one at the top of the akademiya.

a conversation of short responses — ranging from questions about your darshan, to your favorite season, to the books you enjoyed reading — ensued, the evidence splayed onto the paper. you appreciated his company, for it was rare that anyone sought to talk with you.

he asked another question, his curiosity seeping out endlessly. why do you communicate like this?

a thin-lipped smile etched itself onto your lips. the ink of your pen ghosted atop the paper, your hesitation evident. i was born mute. i have no voice, therefore i cannot communicate in a normal manner.

you grew increasingly anxious as he looked at you with an expression that was terrifyingly unreadable. your hands rested atop the notebook, keeping it away from him for reasons you didn’t understand quite yet.

“that’s okay,” he spoke, the baritone of his voice cutting through your shared silence. “i don’t mind it. actually, i think i prefer it. over the grating voices of the other scholars i know, at least.” he went on about his senior, a friend in kshahrewar who apparently could never keep his mouth shut in his presence. you merely listened, soaking in his words and absorbing each syllable that spilled out of the cracks between his teeth. your confession rendered you utterly silent, but seemingly, he paid no mind.

again, your conversation ended without a proper goodbye. your notebook sat still on the table. moments after his departure, you stayed in your seat, contemplating the complications of this newfound acquaintance.

alhaitham’s life revolved around routine and quiet. he needed both to go about his day in an efficient and satisfying manner; otherwise, he would end up feeling rather unfulfilled and bothered.

perhaps that is why he found himself so drawn to you. in comparison to many of his classmates, who were incessantly obnoxious and needlessly talkative, you were quiet, not just vocally, but in every other aspect. your handwriting was consistent and each letter looked just as neat as the other. your responses were similar to his in that they were direct and honest. and, oddly, you radiated a warmth that he could not see in anyone else.

his next encounter with you wouldn’t be for a handful of days. he knew you were a student, thus resulting in his confusion — he had never seen you around campus until that day.

he ran into you during one of his lectures. you sat right beside him in a seat that wasn’t usually occupied. he began to question you with pen and paper, as usual.

since when were you enrolled in this class?

i always have been. this isn’t a necessary class for my darshan, it’s just an extra period for me to increase my credits. i don’t come to class very often.

he quirked a brow up. you fiddled with your pen.

interesting how i haven’t heard of you until now. alhaitham smiled softly at your muffled giggle, one that he had not heard until then. the noise swarmed his chest with a lightness he could not replicate.

you might have fallen too soon.

alhaitham was a simple man, yet alluring all the same. you had snuck away his perfections and imperfections in a different notebook. for instance:

3 - straightforward and direct

21 - prefers tea over coffee

44 - can’t sleep without a weighted blanket

your ever-growing infatuation for him began to blossom in the cavities of your stomach, and soon, it would infect everything above. you could not bear it — nights spent in solitude, where he would discuss his interests (which were minimal) until you fell asleep; afternoons spent in comfort, where you would share a slice of cake to celebrating a particularly difficult exam. he consumed your very being, the neurons that invoked muscular response and the veins that carried your blood here and there; all of it was him. and yet, you could not meaningfully share this with him, your silence embedding your heart in a crevice far away.

it seemed that he got to it first, anyways.

alhaitham asked you a simple question — if you were capable of speaking for a day, what would you say? he had begun carrying his own memo book to conversate — another addition to the list.

you sat in silence for a brief period before writing, every thought and feeling and idea that has ever encountered my mind would leave my lips.

he wrote, then i will give you just that, and more.

when you began dating alhaitham, you found that he was much more eager to “speak” to you consistently. he would write in his same font and present to you a variety of inquiries, ranging from plans for the day to what you wanted for dinner. he was the epitome of a loving man, a far cry from the tales of coldheartedness and brutality you’ve heard of him. and yet, something began to gnaw at your lungs as he did so.

alhaitham was your voice to speak through — he was the monotonous ramblings, the heavy whispers, the gentle laughs; he held all of those for you. seemingly, life became far more breathable.

but your love was just as restricting as it was kind. to speak is to suffer, but to not speak at all is beyond that — it is torture. nights were spent staring at alhaitham’s sleeping figure, questioning whether he truly felt the affection you expressed. gifts, contact, quality time; what good was it if you could not do something as simple as converse with him? it extended beyond him, as well — for reasons unknown, it grew increasingly difficult to communicate with your new professors and classmates, the downturns of their lips as you pulled out a notebook gut-wrenching. you questioned if alhaitham felt the same.

you began to spiral.

a rapid set of knocks arrived at your door at a questionable hour. the sun hung high in the sky, albeit obscured by your curtains. a soft buzz rung in your room.

“i know you’re inside,” a voice spoke from the other side of the wood. he knocked again.

you made no move to open the door, nor to approach it, nor to get up from your bed. in response, the hinges creaked and heavy footsteps neared.

“why have you locked yourself in here?” alhaitham asked, his tone indiscernible. you didn’t see it, but you heard him shuffling around your bedroom. “where is your notebook?”

it was silly. he spoke as if you could respond, and you weren’t sure if you were supposed to be sorrowful or upset.

he pulled the blanket from off of your head, his face indifferent as he witnessed your disheveled state. “i’m not sure what’s going on, but i can assure you i will wait until you’re well enough to speak to me again. i will always wait.” alhaitham set his own memo book and pen beside your pillow. a warm hand held yours, a signal of reassurance. “please get better as soon as you can.”

he turned around to leave, and you could not bring yourself to reach out for him. what would you do? would the words crawl out of your throat, akin to a miracle? or would you plead at him with desperate eyes in hopes he’d read your mind? you did not know. every instance would inconvenience him in some way — that you could not bear.

you did not step foot outside for another week. alhaitham (and kaveh, much to your surprise) had left meals and gifts next to your door, all of which remained untouched. you were in stasis.

each thought had been replaced by a fog so asphyxiating that it had drowned every word the moment it rose to the surface. a bubbling exhaustion boiled in you. you wished to speak, to express anything at all, to apologize for inconveniencing those around you, and to apologize to alhaitham for putting him through such an obstacle.

as if sensing this desire, he arrived at your dorm again, this time with a more gentle appearance and a large bag behind him.

you reached out for the notebook he placed beside you a week prior. why are you here?

he kneeled down beside you, paying no mind to your disheveled appearance, and spoke softly, “i’m sorry.” if it were fitting, he would have laughed at the instantaneous furrow of your brows. “i should’ve realized. and in failing to do so, i have failed you.” alhaitham took the notebook and pen from your grasp, and with an unrivaled delicacy, he held you.

“i would give up my own voice if it meant i could spend an eternity with you,” he began. “i do not care if you lack a voice of your own. you’re still embedded in my heart all the same.”

you had not written to him for days. and yet, he understood everything. he read the words displayed in your features with a familiarity no one had demonstrated.

758 - willing to help me heal.

alhaitham sat across from you, his back hunched over his work and his face framed with a mix of feather-gray hair and wispy sunlight. he wrote with an unmatched fluidity, as if time were escaping him.

he let out a sigh as he set down his pencil and sat up straight. “why must you sit with me if you’ve finished this assignment weeks ago? it’s as if you’re mocking me.”

it’s entertaining. he grabbed the notebook from your side of the table and wrote haphazardly, contrasting his smooth technique before.

it’s really not. i feel as if i’m being ridiculed and observed under a microscrope. it’s horrible, he teased.

you’re smart, anyways. you’ll survive.

afternoons in the akademiya’s library were once suffocating and exhausting. to be surrounded by peers who could only sneer and misjudge and question was unpleasant. now, as you sat with your lover in a soft silence, you felt at peace.

#genshin impact #genshin #genshin impact x reader #genshin x reader #genshin fanfic #genshin angst #genshin fluff #genshin smut #genshin impact angst #genshin alhaitham #alhaitham #alhaitham x reader #alhaitham fluff #alhaitham angst #alhaitham smut

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sashiavi · 11 months ago

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Imagine being tagged team by Al haitham and corrupted Al haitham 😍😍😍😍😍 bbg ain't gonna walk for weeks

Oh mannn I haven't thought of Corrupted Alhaitham in so long thank you so much for bringing him into the forefront of my brain <33

Getting bent over the desk in Alhaitham's office at the Akademiya, chest aching hard, pressure building up in your ears from the awkward position. Corrupted!Alhaitham pinning you tight to the wooden surface, fucking up into your gushy cunt from behind.

Archons, you drool and spit all on Alhaitham's important paperwork, ink bleeding across the pages in splotchy drips. You're unable to handle yourself, too fucked out at the brutal thrust of Corrupted!Alhaitham's hips.

The door to the office creaks open - but you don't even acknowledge it - not until Corrupted!Alhaitham wraps his fingers around your throat and forces your dumb head up from the desk, squeezing tight on your neck.

"Looks who's here.." His pace never falters, keeping his cock wrapped up all nice n warm in your pretty cunt.

Alhaitham struts in, he would barely bat an eye, already having heard your dribbly whines down from the Akademiya library. With long strides he's over the room in no time, elbow rested on the desk, his fingers coming up to squeeze hard at your cheeks, smushing your lips in a drooly pout.

"Don't get too worked up now." He'd deadpan, barely a flick of emotion licking at the end of his words.

Corrupted!Alhaitham would cackle a growley laugh, watching as his counterpart slaps the pink, pre pebbled tip of his cock on your forcefully pursed lips. He juts his hips in hard stacattos, forcing your body to slide up on the hard mahogany desk.

You moan and whine, stopping short when the fat, blunt tip of Alhaitham's cock kisses up at the back of your throat.

Archons they would use you.

Corrupted!Alhaitham with a fist full of your hair, forcing you to throat at the other's full and fat cock while he ruined your poor pussy. He'd bully and abuse, hand pressing hot pressure on your head, fingers tugging and stinging against your hair as he pulls and pushes you up and down, up and down. He'd ignore every gag, drink up all your whines while his own thick length stretched and fucked you out.

Alhaitham with a hand on the edge of the desk, humping his hips up against your lips while his Corrupted counterpart compelled your pretty mouth to take him nice and deep. He'd meet your nose with his pelvis, purposely urging an embarrassingly wet gulk and gag up from your throat. Your eyes would meet his, glossy and tear struck, face hot with pressure, cheeks stained and drenched in fat, hot tears. Gods, just one look and he's almost gone.

The poor desk creaks and rocks with the force. Corrupted!Alhaitham mounts up on your pussy, body over your own, hips angled just enough to fuck up your cunny, impossibly deeper than before. His thick, pudgy tip presses into something all too taboo, ruining you with a hot sting and stretch. His force rocks your achey clit all up on Alhaitham's desk, smearing your pretty slick all over his documents, surely permanently ruining them for him. The friction is delicious, forcefully bringing your poor self up to an orgasm of a lifetime.

The hot squeeze of your cunt on Corrupted!Alhaitham's cock is enough for him to yell, grinding his hips into your ass cheeks, relishing in the sweet, milky confines of your red and puffy hole. He'd laugh with delirium, watching you spray dumbly over the desk and everything around, sticky squirt covering his front, dripping to the floor.

He'd follow in suit, thick rod blowing hot ropes of cum all up in your pussy, humping and grinding hard into your aching core. He'd force you to milk it all up, clench n squeeze on his cock, let him breed up your cunt as a treat for behaving for him.

Alhaitham can't help but pull out of your throat, watching you cry out as you cum, fisting his cock in his hand, paying special attention to his drooling wet tip. Your pretty glossy eyes, barely registering his presence in front of you, your tongue lolling out in a pitiful whine, dragging up on his silken slit, all forcing him to cum all over your pretty face. He'd squeeze his cock tight, aiming his hot pulses of cum over your lips and mouth, tapping his sensitive head over your tongue, relishing in the automatic response of you Kitten licking at him.

They'd even scold you after for making such a sticky mess on all of Alhaitham's important things. It's not your fault, you'd cry. And they simply wouldn't care. It seemed a punishment was in due.

Property Of: SashiAvi ;3 ♡

#ʚ•*°SashiAvi Writes°*•ɞ #genshin impact x reader #genshin smut #genshin x y/n #afab reader #genshin impact smut #alhaitham smut #genshin impact #alhaitham x reader #genshin x reader #alhaitham #corrupted alhaitham #corrupted!alhaitham x reader #alhaitham x reader smut

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buryustogether · 2 years ago

Text

lilac - chapter 3

miguel o’hara x f!reader

summary: your boyfriend doesn’t have the time anymore. good thing both miguel o’hara and spiderman do.

wc: 5.2k

tags/warnings: domestic dispute, unhappy relationship, pining, mentions of kidnapping, mentions of violence, allusions to suicide, mentions of strip clubs

author’s note: got a lil carried away with my emotions for this one ngl

Your pink pen pressed harshly down on the science quiz you were grading, smearing a pit of the sparkly ink as the searing noise of an electric guitar being tuned submerged your little apartment from the floors to the ceilings. You glared up from beneath your brows, a predator chained just inches from her prey, as Ferris and his band of four barked and howled between themselves in your living room. From your perch at the tiny dining table, you watched them, your knuckles paling around your pen. They had moved the furniture around to make room for their equipment, shoved your couch, your armchair, your coffee table - fuck, even your television stand - against the walls so that they could spread out and practice for a gig the drummer had managed to score; probably by going down on the manager of the place, but you’d never say that out loud.

Unless they provoked you - which, with every ticking, prolonged minute that passed, you were getting closer and closer to your inclined tipping point.

Sniffing quietly, you shook your head and tried to go back to grading your quizzes. So far, your class had done a fairly good job. A few percentages below eighty, but not many. No matter what score they got, however, you were sure to place a sticker on the corner of the page. Of course, as you had expected, Gabriella O’Hara’s score was a perfect hundred. A small smile graced the corner of your lips. She was a bright kid, you’d give her that. While she needed a little extra help in mathematics from time to time, she practically excelled in every other subject. You scribbled out a little note praising her for a job well done before beginning to move on to your other papers.

From the living room, another glass-shattering, skin-crawling shriek was raised from Ferris’ guitar. You twitched in your seat, subtly raising your eyes to watch the band. Your boyfriend was downing his second beer of the day, despite it being barely eleven in the morning, and he had his feet propped up on some chick’s - the new keyboard player, because the last one stormed out of the group after realizing what a bunch of asswipes they were - and idly strummed a lazy medley on the taut strings of his guitar. It was hooked up to the speaker, so every note that he twanged out was amplified tenfold.

Downstairs, your neighbor knocked against their ceiling with a broom. Telling you all to shut the fuck up, no doubt.

Taking a deep breath, you put on your best smile - which looked more like a grimace, actually - and cleared your throat. “Babe,” you said tightly, drawing Ferris’ attention away from the keyboard player. He regarded you with a roll of his head and hand on the strings to stop the vibrations. “Maybe it’s time to pack it up. You’ve been…” You hesitated. “Practicing for almost two hours now. Why don’t you save some of the music for the paying customers tomorrow instead of the neighbors?”

To your chagrin, like he was dumping fuel across the little flame that had flickered to life in your chest, he shrugged a shoulder and went back to his guitar and the girl across from him. “We’ll leave when we’re done,” he replied nonchalantly, eyes never meeting yours again. “Still got some more songs to run through.”

“Yeah,” you scoffed and went back to your work. “You look real fucking busy.”

“If you’re so tired of listening to us,” your boyfriend snapped suddenly, “why don’t you find somewhere else to go? This is my place too, you know.” He exhaled a venomous sigh and downed another swig from his bottle. “Always on my ass.”

By now, the rest of the apartment had gone silent. The other band members glanced between the pair of you, movements suddenly stiff with tension they had no idea how to release. It felt like no matter what they did, it would light the fuse on either one of you.

Feeling your cheeks heat and your palms become sticky with embarrassment, you swallowed thick and nodded your head slowly. Then you stood, began to gather your papers, and stuffed them into your purse.

“Hey,” said the band’s drummer, a pudgy guy with thick lenses that had, actually, always been nice to you despite their leader’s obvious intentions, “if you need us to clear out, we can. We can find another place to set up where we’re not bothering you.”

You released a short huff, sounding more akin to a snarl than anything else. It seemed your judgment in men really was shit; you’d chosen the wrong fucking band member. “That’s okay,” you spat as you tugged on your shoes and checked that you had your keys. The drummer’s face flashed with guilt and you felt bad for a moment, but then your eyes flickered to where Ferris had wandered into the kitchen to fetch himself another drink. Like a raging wildfire, the flames in your ribcage roared and seared your insides, making them feel like you’d implode upon yourself if you stayed here - in your own damn home - any longer. “I’ll go somewhere else.”

With that you exited your apartment and slammed the door behind you, not stopping your frantic escape from Ferris’ snarls and rolling eyes until you hit the street down below. Before you on the road, traffic moved at a sluggish pace. Horns blared and street lights flickered. Shop fronts gleamed in the sunlight and bells over doors jingled. As you took a long, deep inhale that granted your lungs a wave of fresh air and your eyes with a certain wetness in the corners, you realized your crumbling relationship with your boyfriend was such a trivial little thing in this city. Nothing was going to stop, halt in its tracks, just because your world was falling apart.

Life went on. There was nothing you could do to stop that.

Plopping yourself down on the bus stop bench, you placed your head in your hands and tried to keep yourself from crying anymore. You couldn’t let anyone else see you cry, because what if they did, and they turned out to be like Ferris? Told you that you were being dramatic, that you needed to pull yourself together and be a girl? Fuck, you didn’t think you could handle someone else telling you that. You didn’t need anyone else against you; it already felt like the entire world was.

What you needed, desperately, terribly, pleadingly, was someone else in your corner.

In your pocket, your phone chimed with an incoming text. Wiping away the tears sitting heavy against your lids, you pulled it out. It was an unknown number; your cyber security app had blurred the message, waiting until you accepted to see it. You swiped on the blurred screen, then clicked open the message.

Hi, it’s Miguel O’Hara. I hate to cross any lines here, but Gabriella is having a hard time understanding the homework assigned for this weekend. I tried to help, but it’s beyond me. Some sorry excuse for a geneticist I am, right? Anyway, I was texting to ask if you’d be able to meet us somewhere today and help Bri. I was thinking the public library? We’re going to be headed to the park afterward for soccer practice… you’re welcome to come along. She’s eager to show you a new trick she learned yesterday. Again, excuse my forwardness. We understand if you’re not available. :)

You sniffled slightly, rereading the text over and over again, trying to stuff down the fluttering feeling arising past the flames inside you. Your head snapped up and you were on your feet in less than a moment, hailing the first taxi that passed you. When you climbed inside, the driver asked you where to.

“The public library,” you said, and managed a smile at him in the mirror.

Half an hour later, you sat at a desk in the middle of the study section of the New York Public Library, already having drawn out fresh sketches and examples of the mathematics homework you had assigned for this weekend. Your foot bounced with anticipation under the table, and you found yourself constantly glancing over your shoulder at the wide, arched doorway that let into the private section.

You’d tutored students outside of class before, so you shouldn’t have been so excited. You’d met with them in diners and cheap restaurants, outdoor pavilions when the weather allowed, hell - you’d even sat with them outside their cramped apartment buildings on overturned milk crates and used cardboard as a back for the worksheets while their parents were busy working three jobs and balancing five other kids on their hips at the same time. You weren’t one to judge; you knew how hard it was out here for some people. You were a teacher; it was your job to love and nurture and teach your kids, no matter who they were or where they came from.

So you shouldn’t have been this excited to tutor one of your students. Even if she did have a smoking hot dad.

Small, quick-paced footsteps - like thunderclaps along the ground in the nearly-silent room - pricked your ears and turned your attention to the doorway. A wide, easy grin broke across your lips as you spied Gabriella breaking away from her father’s side to rush toward you and your table. In her arms she carried a wrapped bouquet of flowers. When she reached where you had risen from your seat, she pressed her face into your belly in lieu of a hug.

“Hi, Miss Y/N,” she said, rather loudly, then presented the flowers like they were sterling silver encrusted with diamonds and jewels unimaginable. An ear-to-ear smile stretched from one of her ears to the other. “These are for you.”

Miguel arrived behind her, a backpack slung over his shoulder and a gentle grin of greeting gracing his beautiful face. He tilted his head at you for a moment, then ruffled his daughter’s hair and said, “What are they for?”

“A thank you,” Gabriella rushed to say as you accepted the bouquet. “For coming to help me.”

You tried to squash the butterflies that fluttered through your stomach when he smiled at you, instead pushing your focus to the flowers clutched to your chest. They were fresh blooms, a collection filled with pinks and purples and a few yellows here and there. “Well, thank you so much, sweetheart,” you said as she rounded the table to go and sit by her father. “They’re beautiful.” You took your seat again and carefully set the gift beside your purse. “And you don’t have to thank me. I was already out today anyhow, so it wasn’t any trouble.”

“Really?” said Miguel. He pulled the bag from over his shoulder and gave it to Gabriella for her to begin pulling her schoolwork out. He quirked one of his thick brows, his sad-looking eyes meeting yours. Jolts of excitement, and pleasure, and adoration went sprawling down your spine all at once, like back to back shocks of raw, untamed electricity. “I figured you would have been staying in during a tourist weekend like this.”

You wanted so badly to tell him just what you were doing out, why you weren’t at home enjoying your two days of free time between your two jobs - one that required every bit of your soul and heart during the day, and another that required every bit of your body during the night. You wanted horrendously to confide in him the troubles plaguing you like an illness only he could cure you from, wanted him to secure those thick, sinewy arms of his around your form and hold you tight, assure you in that husky tone that everything would be alright.

But instead, all you said was, “Can’t let tourists drive us locals from our stomping grounds, can we, Mister O’Hara?”

The corner of his mouth quirked upwards, his eyes stuck upon your form even after you’d pulled your attention to the worksheet Gabriella had pulled out.

For a long while, the three of you sat at that table in the library. You taught Gabriella the maths lesson over again as many times as she needed it, helped her with the more challenging problems on the worksheet, then made up a few on the spot to give her for the extra practice. You even tilted around your textbook so that Miguel could see it and gave him a rundown of the next few lessons so that he could help her the following week, should she need it.

It was perhaps an hour or so later when you sat back in your chair, watching as your student set to work on the few practice problems you’d given her. You shut your eyes for a moment, exhaling a long breath, and allowing your brain to shut off for a moment. You’d succeeding in getting Ferris and his stupid, stubborn fucking attitude off your mind for a time, but now you were faced with the realization that sometime today, you’d have to go back home. You’d have to see him again, most likely get into another argument that would lead to one of you sleeping on the couch the next couple evenings.

Most likely you.

“How are you doing?” came Miguel’s voice from across the table.

You thought for a moment he was speaking to his daughter, looking over her work, but when no reply came, you opened your eyes and realized he was talking to you. You blinked a few times, watching as he smirked kindly and crossed his arms over the table. Fuck, he was so easy to look at. He was wearing a t-shirt against the sunny day today, giving you a generous view of the muscles in his arms. They sloped down to his elbows, and further still to wrists wrapped in Gabriella-made friendship bracelets, to large, wide hands that were callused at the fingers and bruised at the knuckles. You wondered briefly if he boxed during his workouts.

Sliding your hand up your face, you gave him a tired smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes. Despite only speaking to one another a few minutes every time at pick up and drop off, you felt you could talk to him better than even the girls at your nighttime job. “I’m alright,” you said, then added, “Just… tired, is all. Lots on my plate right now. Work, stuff at home, the whole ‘masked vigilante swinging around the city’ thing. Well… you know how it is.”

It was not the last detail that seemed to faze him. It was the second. “Is everything okay?” he asked, tilting his head to the side slightly, like that of a curious puppy. The lines beneath his eyes deepened a bit, the untamed hair atop his head slipped to his temple. “Sorry if I’m overstepping a boundary, or anything like that. I just -”

“No, you’re alright.” You reached out to finger at a petal on one of the flowers in the bouquet, fondly brushing the delicate thing as if it would disintegrate if you handled it any rougher. His eyes followed your movements deftly. “And, everything’s… okay. Sort of… okay.” You sighed and pulled away from the flower, instead opting to rub at your temples. “Just drives me out sometimes, you know? Everything… happening in those walls. Sometimes it gets too much.”

“You’re never out on the streets, are you?” Suddenly his gaze had turned serious and stony, his mouth set into a hard line across his chiseled expression.

You swallowed thick, feeling the dropped baritone of his voice hit the bottom of your belly and head south to your core. You shifted slightly in your seat, crossing your legs over one another to mask the subtle movement. “No, never.” Forcing yourself to chuckle, you dropped a hand to the desk. “You don’t have to worry about me, Mister O’Hara. I’m just fine.”

Before you realized what was happening, Miguel had reached out to brush his long, thick fingers over your knuckles. Your skin was suddenly alight with a blaze you didn’t even know existed. He leaned forward slightly across the table, lowering his voice so that only you heard it in the cage between your ribs. “It’s alright to ask for help, you know,” he murmured quietly. You were caught in his gaze, unable to pull yourself away. “If you ever need something, some place to stay… our door is open.”

Your tongue had ceased its ability to work, your heart its ability to beat properly. You could only stare at him, wide-eyed, as he settled back in his chair. Miguel O’Hara had just offered you his home. Fuck - he knew. He had to have known. Maybe he could see it in your eyes, hear it in your voice when you whispered; maybe it trembled too much. Or maybe he could just sense it, feel it from the bottomless pit in your soul screaming out for someone to pull it back into the daylight.

Just when you trusted yourself to speak again, both your and Miguel’s phones alerted at the same time. Across the study section, other devices went off, as well. Simultaneously, you pulled out your cells and read the messages scrawled across the screens.

“Jesus,” you muttered upon scanning the message. A kidnapping had just taken place not a block from the library. Car details and plate numbers were attached, along with an urging for anyone with information to call the authorities. “This city gets worse every day.”

Miguel glanced up at your words, hesitated, then looked down at Gabriella. She was still busy with her work, tongue stuck out gently between her pink lips. You sensed him tense from across the table.

“...Miguel?” you asked, tentative to use his first name. “Is everything okay?”

After a short, brief moment, he seemed to make up his mind about something. He stood from his chair so abruptly that it squealed softly against the tile floor, throwing the backpack over his shoulder and rounding the table. “Excuse me just a second,” he said, already heading toward the doorway. “I have to make a call. Ten minutes, tops.” Then he was gone, jogging too quickly and hurriedly to be making a phone call - or so you thought. You wanted direly to follow him, see what he was doing, but you couldn’t. You had your student to take care of.

Inhaling shortly, you turned to Gabriella only to find her staring at the doorway her father had disappeared through. You were quick to find something to change the subject. “These flowers are so pretty,” you told her and nudged the bouquet slightly. She met your eyes, your gentle smile, and it seemed Miguel’s sudden absence was wiped from her mind. So was the inner workings of a nine year old.

“I got to pick them out,” she said proudly, then went back to her worksheet. “But it was Daddy’s idea to get them for you.”

Your heart skipped a beat in your chest. You did your best to maintain your smile, trying not to grasp at your chest and stop the oncoming heart attack making its way through your systems. It had been Miguel to get the flowers? “Yeah?” you said in a small voice.

Oblivious to your strained tone and the excited bouncing of your leg under the table, the little girl nodded and hummed. “Uh-huh. He like-likes you. He told me so.”

Holy fucking goddamn son of a bitch.

You cleared your throat because you knew if you talked about this any longer, you would explode into a little cloud of confetti. Then you’d never even get to see him again, look at him in this new light because fuck, was it a new light. It was a new light you could dance under, twirl and sing and jump under, because no one was going to judge you anymore, and even better, now you could invite him to be under it with you. And you knew you just might have a chance of him saying yes.

And fuck, what a dance that would be.

“Are you excited for the field trip to Alchemax on Tuesday?” you asked her, recalling the months it had taken Washington Elementary’s principal to get permission to bring classes there. She had insisted it was an important place for them to visit, considering all the work they were doing as of late. You guessed your suggestion for a trip to the zoo had been vetoed. “Your dad works there. Maybe we’ll see him. You can brag to all your friends that he’s a fancy scientist.”

“Maybe,” she said, scratching out a wrong answer on her paper. “He works on the seventh floor. I’ve seen his work badge thing. We probably won’t be able to go up there.”

“Here’s hoping we can,” you said to yourself beneath your breath.

Ten minutes passed since Miguel’s sudden disappearance, and then another. Thirty minutes was just approaching, as was the beginnings of sundown, before you sensed him approaching you from behind. Turning in your chair, the first thing you noticed was that he was out of breath, sweating at his temples and down his neck slightly. God, he looked good like that. But then your rational side kicked in. Had he been running somewhere?

“I think that’s enough homework for today,” he said as he reached the table and ruffled Gabriella’s hair again. She batted his hand away, but nonetheless began to pack up her things. As she did so, he switched his gaze to yours, tilting his head in that way he did. “We’re going to head to the park, kick a ball around for a while. You’re welcome to join us, if you like.”

Numbly, because now that you knew he not only liked you, but like-liked you, you heard yourself accept and follow them out the doors of the library and onto the street. The deep purple sky felt a bit brighter than before, and the steps you took together, side by side, seemed a little closer than necessary. The sidewalks were cramped, sure, but not enough so that your hands needed to brush every few seconds. Not enough so that your shoulders bumped when you stepped off curbs to cross roads.

The park was quiet this time of day, occupied only by a few elderly couples leaning against walking canes and teenagers out past their curfews sprawled out on benches making out like they knew they were going to die tomorrow.

How long had it been since you had kissed Ferris? The saddest part of you knew that you couldn’t recall.

For hours, you sat on the sweet-smelling grass of the park’s lawn and watched Miguel and Gabriella scrimmage, kicking around a ball worn by years of scuff marks and green stains from fields. The breeze blew their matching hair this way and that, the dying sunlight illuminated their identical smiles as they round about one another in only a way a parent and a child could know one another. You cheered when either scored a goal. You laughed when they called one another names. And when they urged you to come join, even though the night was throwing itself over the sky and the stars were beginning to wink down at the park, you got to your feet and played.

You realized, through your aching laughter and the grass stains on your knees, that you hadn’t been this happy in a very, very long time.

That night, after you had wished Miguel and Gabriella a goodnight and walked home, after you had found Ferris crashed out in bed and the dishes still in the fucking sink, you found yourself sitting on the rooftop of your apartment building. It wasn’t quite silent up here, not with the helicopter chopping in the distance, or the occasional honk of a car down below, or the dog barking three stories down, but it was better than facing the quiet of your own home. You knew you would go mad in between those damned four walls, listening to your boyfriend snore and the clock in the kitchen tick and the floorboard creak when you walked to the bathroom.

You couldn’t face the quiet, not after the wonderful, deafening, blaring joy of this afternoon.

You let your legs dangle off the edge of the rooftop, sitting back on your hands and staring at the glaring screen of your phone. Your thumb ached slightly from scrolling through anything and everything you could find to keep yourself distracted. The newest clean energy replacement from Alchemax. The latest from politics. The child that had been kidnapped this afternoon, now home and safe, thanks to Spiderman snatching the kid from the backseat before plowing the speeding car with the kidnapper into a metal gate.

There came the soft, muted noise of a weight landing on the power box on the rooftop behind you, and you whipped around to find a familiar - but no less startling - red and blue figure sitting perched on the metal edge. Spiderman tilted his head at you, balanced on the balls of his feet despite the hulking frame of his muscles.

“Just came to check up on you after the other day,” he said through the mask. His eye lenses moved as his eyes roamed your figure. “Didn’t know you were this far gone.”

Clicking your phone off anxiously, feeling your heart thunder in your ears, you gave a little laugh and looked down at the drop beneath your feet. “I think if I was ready to end it,” you joked in return, “I’d go for something a little less traumatizing for pedestrians.”

Spiderman was still for a moment. Then he extended his wrist, and a string of web shot across the rooftop to stick to the space on the lip beside you. He used it to yank himself across the tarmac of the roof, landing again on the balls of his feet on the edge. He shifted himself, resting his forearms overink his thighs, and turned his masked gaze to the city before you both. Golden lights twinkled from skyscrapers and apartments and office buildings, creating a constellation of life between windows. The night air was crisper up here - as crisp as it could get, what with the smog from arsonist fires and churning factories and gas emissions - and the stars seemed to shine just a touch brighter.

“So… how are you doing?” the vigilante asked, keeping his gaze on New York. “After the robbery, I mean. Something like that, it can… stay with you.”

There came a fluttering in your heart. But rather than express such a sensation, because you had every right to be wary about giving yourself away anymore, you said, “It wouldn’t be the first thing like that to happen to me. And I’m sure it won’t be the last.” You lifted a hand to the star-lit city, crowded to the rim with life and hatred and love. “We’re in New York. What more can you expect from a city like this?”

For a long while, neither of you said anything more. It was strange being so close to the man everyone had been talking about for the couple weeks he’d been active - so close you could lean right over and pull that mask off. But you kept your distance.

Spiderman took a breath and said, “Couldn’t sleep?”

You shrugged a shoulder. “As if I typically sleep at this time anyway.” Then you turned to face him again, locking your ankles together over the edge of the rooftop. The breeze swayed your hair back and forth, like you were suspended underwater. The tension in your lungs certainly felt that way. “Did you enjoy the show the other night?”

He was still for a moment. For two. Then he met your gaze through his mask, his eye lenses narrowing. Even through the cover that hid his face, the heat of his eyes scorched holes through you. “What do you mean?” he asked.

Feeling slightly bolder than you had a moment ago, you lolled your head at him. “You know what I mean.” You sniffed, leaning back on your hands. “Did you follow me? Or was it just a coincidence that Spiderman showed up to my club the day he saved my ass?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“...Sure.” You felt a flutter of embarrassment within you, of doubt and guilt. What if that hadn’t been Spiderman that night at The Menagerie? What if it was some other guy, with some other scar on his collarbone, and you had gotten it all wrong? Despite your sudden worry, you refused to let your confidence waver. “So… do you make it a habit of checking up on every person you help?”

For the first time, you watched and listened as he cracked a smile and chuckled. The lenses over his eyes narrowed as his cheeks rose and his mouth spread into a smirk. You watched the bit of mask over his lips stretch. “You got me there,” he drawled in that low, husky tone of his that made you cross your legs a bit tighter, squeeze your thighs tighter. “Just… couldn’t really get you off my mind. You’ve got courage, saying no to that guy. That’s admirable.”

You felt your cheeks flush. Spiderman? Calling you brave? What an ironic sense of humor the universe had.

“I guess someone has to stand up and say no,” you murmured into the breeze.

“Yeah. Someone has to.”

Moments turned into seconds, and those turned into minutes. You almost wished you could stay like this forever; here, on the rooftop with Spiderman, with the breeze rustling your hair and the car horns beeping and the rest of the world forgotten.

But all too soon, it was over.

Spiderman rose to his full height in a seamless transition, turning his head to face the street away from you. “Should get back now,” he said, then switched his gaze down to you. You wondered, behind that mask, what color his eyes were. “Sure you’re not going to jump?”

You felt yourself smile. “Promise, Spiderman.” You watched as he nodded his head, then prepared to catapult himself off the building and swing onto the next one. Before he could, however, you called out. “And hey,” you said, drawing his attention, “if you ever drop by the club again, ask for the Monarch.”

He stared at you for the longest moment. Then he turned, stepped off the lip of the rooftop, and disappeared.

You didn’t bother leaning over, watching him spring a web from his wrist to flip through the air and parade down the street above the cars and streetlights. Instead you looked back to the city’s skyline far above yourself, silhouettes of buildings framed by a rich violet horizon.

Perhaps one day, you would see what it looked like without all this smog and the army of dark clouds hanging over it.

But for now, you were content with watching it darken until it was nothing but black and purple.

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