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presidentsdaughter · 2 months ago

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i’m dumb (she’s a lesbian)

ft. jimmy x fem!reader

tags. homophobia, non-con/rape, jimmy forces himself on a lesbian, homophobic slurs, forced orgasm, facial, death threats, choking, misogyny

note. um #yeah don’t like don’t read. rbs and feedback always appreciated :3 ignore any mistakes this is unedited, gets very disjointed..

Jimmy sees you from across the bar. You have this cute little girl pout and these bouncy tits that really have some life to them. Your stuck-up friend is already all over Curly, raking her acrylic claws down his chest while he buys her a fruity drink.

He doesn’t even get the chance to open his mouth before you’re covering your drink, mouth a thin red line as you tell him—“I’m a lesbian.”

Beside him, your friend is giggling obnoxiously at something unfunny Curly has said. He’s got this pretty young thing rubbing up on him, pressing her perky tits against his and it’s so not fair that he gets stuck with the dyke.

”Didn’t ask.” Jimmy’s lip curls up in distaste like he wasn’t just wondering about whether your pussy was shaved or not. After that revelation, he’s guessing you let it get a little wild. Feminism and lesbianism and bush and all that. They go hand in hand. “You sure as hell don’t look like one.” He can never help himself, he can’t leave it at that.

“Excuse me?” You scoff, standing a little straighter, the anger that flares up inside of you has taken you off guard. The hand once firmly placed over your cocktail is in a tight fist by your side.

Jimmy shrugs. “I’m just sayin’ you don’t look like one.” He leers at you, your shapely thighs and heart-shaped ass. “You sure about it?”

“Yes I am.”

He takes you in. Perfect down to your manicured, painted toes. You’ve got this look about you, a certain softness that comes with never having to work for what you want. “How’d you know?” He taunts, tilting his head in challenge. “You slept with a guy before?”

“I don’t need to sleep with a guy to know.” You take a step back, raising a dainty paw in the air to keep him at arms length - those rings could double as knuckle dusters, well-tended to cuticles, nails filed into perfect chromatic black points, the polish shining like the shells on brilliant, exotic beetles.

He doesn’t buy it. You’re young, stupid, and confused.

“Yeah? You want a sticker for that?” It’s okay, really, happens to the best people. Confusion does. Jimmy caught a glimpse of Curly’s dick at a sleepover once and he was confused for a week or so. He passed it off as jealousy. That thing was a monster. There’s no way Jimmy wanted it up his ass. He doesn’t want anything up his ass, and you just need to be broken in.

You knock back your drink - the one he considered spiking, one hand in his pocket messing with a baggie - signalling to your friend that you’re stepping outside for a smoke. Instead of taking it as a cue to back off, Jimmy follows, slinking behind you like bad news. A fox in the bushes, nifty and deliberate like he’s ready to pounce, but happy to stalk you from afar.

“Leave me alone.” You raise your voice, hoping to catch the attention of anyone as he trails you, heavy footfall matching the click-clack of your pristine heels.

“I just want to talk,” Jimmy drawls, humoured by your clumsy urgency, a hand striking out to clamp down on your wrist. You’re fever-hot, a flame he’d happily let burn him alive. He’s a moth, wings scorched for one fleeting moment in your light.

Worth it.

“About what?!”

“Come on,” Jimmy sighs like he’s hurt, “about us.”

“There is no us, I don’t know you!” You’re so fun to rile up. So young and fiery and easy. “I know it must be hard for you to find a girl that wants to put up with…” With your free hand, you gesture abstractly to him, the wear and tear of his aging face, dirty jeans, scuffed boots, the scruff. “With this… But I am a lesbian, okay? I like girls, I don’t want to have sex with you, I don’t even want to be near you.”

To be entirely frank, it doesn’t matter if you’re a lesbian or a doctor or a cleaner or a nurse or a lawyer, you could be the goddamn president and Jimmy wouldn’t give a fuck. You’re a girl, and even prissy little dykes have wet little pussies between their thighs.

So, he backs you up against a brick wall, blocking your view of the street, of the drunk bar-goers walking by, the cars zooming past. One of Jimmy’s cold hands moves fast up your thigh and under your dress, trapping itself in your cotton undies. “I don’t care,” he tells you honestly, sneering down at you while he cups your warm cunt.

It’s freshly shaved. A lesbian that shaves, alright. Sure. Whatever floats your boat.

“Aw.” Jimmy gives you a falsely cordial smile as you writhe, mouth open in silent terror as you try to comprehend what’s happening. “Look at that.” He runs his finger along the seam of your cunt, the razor bumps. “You thought you were gonna get laid, that’s so cute.” And you will. By him. Your efforts won’t go to waste. A dick is a man’s best friend, and soon it’ll be yours too.

He squeezes your mound and you yelp, squirming in his grasp. You smell like cinnamon and lotion and incense and expensive, girly things that make him slightly ill. “I’ve got a gun,” says Jimmy, who does not have a gun. His unspoken threat has your body going ramrod straight, fear glazing over your eyes. “Good girl,” he hums, taking his hand out of your panties, wiping it on his jeans.

You don’t have the chance to run, not when his arm is around your shoulders, not when you probably think he has a gun, and especially not in those heels. “I don’t want to—I don’t want to go with you.”

“God.” Jimmy rolls his eyes. “I told you I don’t care.” Kicking up a fuss in the middle of the street, you're a difficult one. It’s okay though, he likes fighters. He likes to watch them kick and scream. It gets so boring when they start to like it.

“Help me!” You wave your arm wildly at a group of three who he’d spotted inside the bar earlier, they’re arm in arm, two guys and a pretty girl. She’s the first one to say anything, breaking away from her friends to ask if you’re okay. Ugh. He hates it.

“Babe,” Jimmy says, putting on his patient, slightly stressed boyfriend voice, “we need to get you home, come on.”

“He’s taking me! He tried to—“

“Babe,” he cuts in smoothly, a hand low on your back, rubbing circles into your skin, “I’m sorry about her, total lightweight, I should put her on a leash.”

“No worries, man.” The taller guy says, his cheeks are red from drinking. “This one gets like that too.” He laughs and pats the girls head. She’s hesitant to go even when he takes her arm.

“Are you sure—“

“Yes.” Jimmy nods.

“No! Oh my god—No, please don’t go!” Your eyes dart around for anyone else as they become mere dots in your vision, an escape route that doesn’t exist while Jimmy very happily drags you back to his car.

“I told you I had a gun,” he says very casually, like he’s reading a news report off of a teleprompter, loading you into the car like a fancy piece of luggage, “what if I used it?”

“I don’t believe you.” You cross your arms, trembling, fidgeting, and sniffling. Trying to come to terms with it all. “I can’t believe any of this, oh my god, you’re, like, kidnapping me you sicko!”

“I don’t want to keep you,” Jimmy clarifies. You’re already a handful, what could he possibly want from you that extends past your virgin pussy?

“So what do you want from me?” You ask, frowning down at your lap and dabbing away at the tears in your eyes.

“I’m just gonna show you a good time,” he reassures, patting your thigh, undeterred by the sharp slap you give his naughty hand, “no need to worry.”

For what might be the first time in your life, or at least Jimmy assumes, you fall completely quiet, watching the road with big, doleful eyes.

“Listen,” Jimmy sighs, “I just want to help you out, I don’t think it’s wrong or anything, uh, lesbians.“ Dykes, he wanted to say. “I just think you should try it out, a real dick, you ever put anything inside you?” He takes your silence as a no. “I guess not, huh? I’ve watched the videos—“ Religiously he watches them. Girls squeezing their tits together, spreading their holes for the camera before they lick into each other’s cunts, sloppy pussies slotting against one another, clits bumping. “—Just feels like something’s missing, something, uh, something real, it’s not sex if there’s no dick, if nothing goes inside.” He glances over at you. “What I’m trying to say is, you can’t knock it till you’ve tried it.”

“Are you done?” Your voice breaks.

“Uh, not really, but sure.” He wasn’t sure where he was going with that anyways. Maybe that dildos don’t count as dicks.

”You’re going to rape me.” You whimper like you haven’t known his intentions this entire time.

Bingo.

“Yeah.” Jimmy shrugs. “I guess I am.”

Your shoulders begin to shake, chest heaving as you try to control the jagged breaths that cut into you, hands covering your face as you sob.

He sighs, already exhausted by the dramatics. “And then I’m going to kill you,” he says dryly.

You sob louder, tossing your head back to really open your airways up, get as loud as possible.

“Alright, alright, I’m kidding,” Jimmy murmurs, rough palm smoothing over your inner thigh. “I’m not going to kill you.”

Jimmy’s bed creaks with the deadweight of your body, it’s halfway busted, he found the mattress at a garage sale. Stained, noisy, but otherwise okay. He gets on top of you, hair hanging over your face like he’s isolating you from the rest of the world, there’s no way out of this.

You haven’t stopped crying. Snivelling, pouting, hiccuping like a child. Desperate sobs dying out in the face of his indifference. “Let me go,” you beg, “please don’t do this to me—“

God. That gets old fast.

He pays you no mind, used to tuning it out, both your wrists in his hand as he slides your panties down your kicking legs, dress scrunched up around your waist like a belt. Your pussy is too cute to go unfucked.

Jimmy undoes his belt, it hangs loose like a thread while he watches you pant and kick uselessly, thrashing like you’re working against a strong current. It’s cute. You’re trying to push through even as tiredness takes your tender muscles in its claws, spreading through your body like poison. Aw. You tuckered yourself out.

“Done?” Jimmy huffs out a laugh through his nose, sliding his jeans and boxers down his hips in one go, cock popping out and hanging heavy, the thick head prodding your thigh. It wets your skin with sticky pre and you recoil visibly, a shuddered breath passing through you. “Touch it,” he urges, “won’t bite.”

“No,” you mumble, closing your eyes, refusing to look at him or touch him or even breathe in his direction.

Clicking his tongue, Jimmy spreads your thighs, running the fat head up your slit. You’re not wet so he parts your cunt lips with his index and forefinger, a glob of spit dropping from his mouth, trickling down your folds and into your ass crack. It’ll do.

He presses the head to your tiny opening, where no real cock has been, this pretty little dyke cunt all for his taking. You cry out when he pushes in, hands flying to his shoulders, your nails on his skin are rewarding.

“No… No—It hurts, oh god.” Your eyes are wide open, jaw hanging open, pussy split open as he slides his dick in inch by painful inch, the painful drag of his shaft on your raw walls.

You push him out and he pushes harder on purpose, working against the resistance your cunt puts up until his balls press neatly to the swell of your ass. You’re saying something and Jimmy isn’t listening, too busy watching where the two of you meet, your hole split like an open wound. A rusty knife in your guts.

He grows tired of your aimless chatter, hand wrapping around your neck so tight you grow frantic, unable to draw breath, suffocating as every part of you is ruined by him. “I know it hurts,” Jimmy says monotonously, “it’ll get better.”

Hips drawn back, with a little difficulty, you’re not wet enough for it to happen smoothly, Jimmy slams back into you with a grunt, tip jabbing at your cervix so hard you let out a strangled noise. “Tell you what, I’ll pull out if you cum for me.”

Now, the female orgasm is none of Jimmy’s business, its a myth for all he cares, but to get a dyke to cum, that’s a different story. You’re going to cum no matter what, you don’t really have a say. Even when he removes his hand from your throat, there’s not much you can do about the deft fingers working on your clit.

It’s not quite right. Your pussy isn’t wet like a pussy should be. Sticky, letting the pads of his fingers glide over your clit until you cream your stupid dyke cunt all over him. Instead, it’s slippery, he ends up rubbing too hard, pinching your clit until his fingertips prune. Your breath is uneven, shaky, chapped lips parted as a pained look contorts your pretty face.

You are pretty. Too pretty to be a dyke. Too pretty to not be stuffed full of a big dick, he’s doing the right thing here. You just needed a push in the right direction.

He feels it, the way you go rigid, pussy so tight you cut off his blood circulation, and you cry. Boo-fucking-hoo, he made you cum. God forbid. Girls are never happy. You don’t make them cum and they claim to be gay, you make them cum and they freak out on you.

“I told you,” Jimmy hums, popping his cock out of your stretched hole, shifting upwards so his thighs are on either side of your head, “you gotta give it a try, now you don’t have to be confused.” He jerks his cock slowly, admiring the dead-eyed expression you’ve taken on, barely even blinking as he blows his load all over your face, in your hair and those expensive-looking false lashes.

Even dykes are a little straight, they just need a push in the right direction.

#jimmy mouthwashing smut #mouthwashing x you #mouthwashing x reader #mouthwashing smut #mouthwashing jimmy smut #jimmy smut #jimmy x reader #mouthwashing jimmy x reader #dead dove do not eat #dark fic

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p0orbaby · 4 months ago

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Extinguish the Flames with Some Champagne and Pills

summary: your may or may not be in denial about your feelings for alexia

warnings: mention of smut, alcohol and drugs and nothing major

a/n: a whole lot of words based on this request. set after this but you don’t have to read it if you don’t want to

word count: 3k

part 1

You’ve been ignoring Alexia’s messages for weeks now, every one of them its own little bomb you’re too terrified to defuse. Every time her name pops up on your screen, your stomach flips, your breath catches, and you somehow experience the full spectrum of human emotion in a split second. But mostly there’s terror and something closer to shame than you’d like to admit.

It’s a game of avoidance that doesn’t come easily to you; after all, you’re usually the one with a glib reply or some devil-may-care response, the kind of person who thrives on chaos. But this time, it’s different. This time, there’s something closer to shame nestled beneath the familiar terror, a sensation like a splinter lodged deep under the skin—small enough to ignore at first but persistent enough to drive you mad.

Your friends—of course, always your friends—keep bringing her up, as if they can somehow sense the crisis you’re trying to keep contained. It’s usually after a few cocktails too many, when your circle is gathered around a dimly lit table in some trendy restaurant or at a rooftop bar where the music is loud enough to drown out the awkward pauses but not loud enough to stifle their teasing. “She’s the best footballer in the world,” they slur with a kind of drunken reverence, like they’re invoking some untouchable deity rather than a woman who once had her strap buried inside you in a strangers bathroom. “You know she won the Ballon d’Or twice, right?” As if you haven’t been low-key stalking her career, watching those achievements pile up like monuments you’ll never come close to matching. “She’s beautiful and talented,” they declare, their words slurring into a familiar refrain, as though her accolades have somehow slipped your mind, as though you might have failed to notice her brilliance or her impossible grace.

But the clincher, the one they love to throw at you, is always: “And she’s Spanish”

There’s a certain relish with which they say it, that singsong tone like they’re divulging some magic spell or a punchline they know gets a laugh every time. It’s as if her nationality carries some kind of exotic allure, like there’s something intrinsically romantic or mysterious about being Spanish that you’re pre-programmed to fall for. Ridiculous, really, but your friends don’t care about nuance. They only remember the endless stories you told about summers in the Balearics—the drunken nights under hot stars, the hazy afternoons spent nursing hangovers and catching fragments of conversations in Spanish that you pretended to understand. “You love Spanish women,” they insist, as if your type is as predictable as your go-to drink order. Conveniently, they overlook the fact that your type mostly translates to ‘emotionally unavailable,’ as if that’s some universal trait of Iberian women.

It’s not that they’re entirely wrong, of course, but they’re oversimplifying. Your attraction to Alexia isn’t some exoticism or romantic fantasy you’ve spun out of nothing. It’s her unapologetic drive, her resilience, that hooked you—though God forbid you’d admit that to anyone. “She’s an athlete,” you shrug whenever the subject comes up, swirling the last melting ice cube in your Old Fashioned like it’s a magic eight ball that might give you a different answer this time. “They’re all players.” The line slips out with just the right amount of indifference, a practiced dismissal, as though you’ve been brutalised by every athlete from Cristiano Ronaldo to Wayne Gretzky. It’s a complete fabrication, of course. You’ve never actually dated a footballer, let alone the best in the world. But who can resist a good story, especially when it’s your own and you get to embellish the details?

It’s easier, you think, to act disinterested than to admit you’ve been replaying that night in the bathroom, the feel of her breath against your neck, every time you catch your reflection in some shiny surface. You thought you were done with all that—had filed her away in the mental drawer labelled ‘Temporary Distractions,’ right alongside the male model who could never quite remember your birthday and the painter who had the audacity to try to psychoanalyse you on the third date. One-night stands are supposed to be transient, fleeting, the kind of thing you can bring up in therapy one day with a detached air. “I think this is worth mentioning,” you’d say, as if it happened to someone else, “but it’s not really important.” Another plot point in the story of your life, never quite making it past the cutting room floor.

But Alexia doesn’t stay filed away. She starts turning up everywhere, not quite a haunting, but a presence you can’t shake no matter how you try. At first, it’s incidental—just a casual Instagram scroll, a stray click on some football gossip account that you don’t even remember following. There she is, grinning in some post-match group shot, looking too happy for someone who’s supposed to be just another fleeting chapter in your book. It’s the kind of unguarded joy that can’t be faked, not even for the camera, and you can’t help but wonder if she’s always this free, or if it’s something that only comes out when she’s on the pitch, away from people like you.

You hardly even realise it, but suddenly you’re following three different Barcelona fan accounts. Then, as if by some magnetic force you’re unwilling to acknowledge, things escalate. She likes one of your posts—a shot from the Venice Film Festival where you’re all decked out in head-to-toe Prada, looking expensively bored, like you couldn’t care less about anything in the world. She comments on one of your stories: just an emoji. A single fire emoji, to be precise. Harmless, you suppose. But the comments start getting specific—little in-jokes that only someone who’d had their mouth on your skin could know. There’s a familiarity in her tone that feels invasive, like she’s reminding you of things you’ve deliberately chosen to forget.

You don’t reply. Cowardice? Yes. Masochism? Possibly. The most crucial thing is that replying would imply there’s something worth talking about, and something always becomes complicated. You’ve already got enough complicated in your life: a demanding agent who keeps sending you scripts for roles that are ‘outside your comfort zone,’ a wardrobe full of designer clothes you’re required to wear for sponsorship deals you didn’t even negotiate, and an on-again, off-again affair with mindful meditation that never seems to stick. You’re in the middle of wrapping up a film that everyone assures you will ‘change the trajectory of your career,’ though they’ve said the same about the last three projects, and you still get recognised more for that face cream advert you did when you were twenty-one than for anything of substance.

The film’s an indie about a morally ambiguous antiheroine, a character so damaged and charmingly dysfunctional you’d think you were being typecast if the role didn’t feel like an emotional excavation. She’s got a drinking problem; you’ve always favoured substances that can be discreetly indulged in penthouse bathrooms, though you’re certainly not going to point that out to the director who keeps going on about ‘authenticity’ and ‘method acting.’ He seems to think you’ve got some untapped well of emotion just waiting to be accessed, as if there’s this depth beneath your flawless skin that’s going to pour out on cue. If only. Most of the time, you’re trying not to let your co-star notice the faint tremor in your hands that’s mostly a byproduct of too much caffeine and not enough sleep.

Then one day, while you’re lounging in your trailer, pretending to enjoy a green juice that tastes like the inside of a lawnmower—another post from Alexia. She’s on the pitch, holding some trophy aloft, her face flushed with victory. Her hair is slicked back, still damp with sweat, strands clinging to her skin in a way that seems impossibly intimate despite the vastness of the stadium behind her. That smile… Christ. It’s like she’s been sculpted out of bronze, an ancient statue come to life, as if she’s somehow timeless and ephemeral all at once. There’s something almost mythic about her, an enduring quality that makes your breath hitch in a way that feels both familiar and unnervingly new, like an old friend who’s overstayed their welcome but you’re not quite ready to let go.

It’s moments like these when you notice how precariously you’re balancing on the line between fascination and obsession. You catch yourself humming the anthem of Barcelona’s football club, the tune woven so deeply into your subconscious that it startles you. You aren’t even sure where you picked it up, but it plays on a loop whenever your mind wanders, like a soundtrack you didn’t choose. Then there are the little things—reading the match reports in the sports section like you actually know what half the terms mean, or memorising obscure facts about the team’s history as if they’re somehow relevant to your life. You’ve started following the scores like they’re stock prices, pretending it’s just casual interest, though a part of you wonders why you keep needing to know how well she played, how many minutes she was on the pitch, whether she looked happy in the post-game interviews.

It’s a form of self-deception that’s becoming harder to maintain. You’re drawn to her orbit, pulled in by a force that feels magnetic and entirely outside your control, as though your fascination is bleeding into the rest of your life, filling the gaps you didn’t even know existed.

You decide, in a moment of what can only be described as poor judgment, to attend one of her matches. It feels impulsive and reckless in the way most of your decisions do, a haphazard pairing of curiosity and a kind of dangerous longing. You book a front-row seat like it’s the most natural thing in the world, like you’re just ticking another item off some glamorous bucket list rather than treading into unfamiliar territory. Naturally, you show up dressed to the nines—your favourite Gucci sunglasses perched on your nose, an Alexander McQueen coat draped over your shoulders with that deliberate, careless grace that suggests you’re either oblivious to or entirely aware of its price tag. Your hair is styled in that kind of artful chaos that takes hours to perfect but is meant to look like you rolled out of bed effortlessly chic. You’re not here for the football. You’re here for her.

The atmosphere in the stadium is overwhelming, almost suffocating, a heady cocktail of chants, horns, and the sharp, greasy scent of fried food that turns your stomach. It’s a kind of chaos you’re unaccustomed to, this all-consuming fervor where the world narrows down to the pitch, to the twenty-two players moving with a purpose you can’t fully grasp. You understand about three percent of what’s happening on the field—just enough to know when the ball’s in play but not enough to follow the strategies unfolding before you. You’re mostly people-watching: the sea of jerseys, the faces contorted with passion, the rhythmic clapping that you can’t quite catch the beat of.

When Alexia scores, it catches you off guard. The stadium erupts, thousands of people leaping to their feet with a collective roar that vibrates through your bones. You react half a beat late, your applause more polite than enthusiastic, like you’re at a black-tie gala instead of a football match. You stand, clap along with the crowd, and try not to feel like an imposter. As the cheers die down, you catch her eyes from across the distance, just for a flicker of a moment. There’s something in her gaze—an awareness, a spark—that slices through the noise and zeroes in on you. It’s like she sees you, actually sees you, in the middle of this thrumming, chaotic mass of bodies, and for a split second, it feels like the two of you are the only ones in the entire stadium.

After the game, you somehow find yourself swept into the exclusive VIP area, a place filled with the kind of people who can glide between worlds as easily as they switch languages. A flute of champagne appears in your hand almost before you’re aware you’ve been handed one, and you sip it absentmindedly as you let the buzz of conversation wash over you. You’re halfway through your second glass when she appears, slipping through the crowd with a kind of effortless poise, her hair still damp from the shower, the strands curling at the ends. She’s wearing a loose tracksuit, looking every bit the casual athlete, as though she hasn’t just been commanding the attention of thousands.

There’s an insufferable confidence in the way she moves towards you, that familiar swagger that borders on arrogance, as if she’s amused by the fact that you actually showed up, that you dared to step into her world. “I didn’t think you were a football fan,” she says, a teasing lilt to her voice, though her eyes betray something else—a darker, more searching intensity that you recognise all too well from that night in the bathroom, the one you keep trying and failing to forget.

“I can appreciate a good performance,” you reply, lifting your glass in a mock toast, your voice slipping into that arch tone you’ve perfected over years of industry parties and press tours. “I’ve seen Cats live on Broadway, you know.” It’s a flippant comment, the kind that’s designed to deflect, to distract, to keep the conversation light and meaningless.

She laughs, a rich sound that feels like an indulgence. It’s not so much at your joke but at the way you’re playing this little game, like she’s letting you have your moment, humouring you. “And did you enjoy the show?” she asks, her voice dropping just enough to suggest that her question has nothing to do with the theatre and everything to do with the performance she just gave on the pitch.

“I think you already know the answer to that,” you say, holding her gaze longer than you probably should. There’s a challenge in the way you look at her, an unspoken dare, and for a moment, you wonder if she’ll take the bait. Her lips curl into a small, devilish smile, a private expression that feels like a confession meant just for you.

The moment stretches, teeters precariously on the edge of something you’re not quite ready to acknowledge. It feels monumental, like a line about to be crossed, but then she steps back, just a fraction, and the spell breaks. She turns away with a dismissive grace, leaving you standing there as if you’ve just been defeated in a game you didn’t know you were playing. “Good,” she says simply, and with that one word, she slips back into the crowd, leaving you with nothing but the faint taste of champagne on your lips and the lingering sense that you’ve been left wanting.

After that, you start to notice the divide. There’s Before Alexia and After Alexia, and it’s not a clean break but a jagged line that cuts through your life, shifting everything off balance. You used to think of yourself as someone in control, or at least someone who could fake it convincingly enough to fool everyone else. There was always an understanding that if you messed up, someone would be there to fix it—your agent, a publicist, some overworked assistant who could call in a favor to make the headlines disappear. But now, your phone has become an instrument of anxiety, vibrating with texts and notifications that you crave and dread in equal measure. It buzzes with messages from her that you read but don’t answer, with updates from your agent about the press tour you keep dodging, with reminders of responsibilities you keep pushing aside.

Even after filming there has finished, you start booking last-minute flights to Barcelona under the guise of ‘business,’ convincing yourself that it’s all perfectly legitimate. Your agent rolls his eyes and hounds you to schedule interviews and appearances, but you find yourself at the airport anyway, boarding another red-eye that will land you in some unfamiliar city just in time to catch her match. You’re finding yourself in strange places at ungodly hours, indulging in the kind of fan behavior you’d have found pathetic if you saw anyone else doing it. Ninety minutes of football passes in a trance, where the world narrows down to her figure gliding across the pitch, the fluid grace of her movements cutting through the static in your head like a hot knife through butter.

Afterwards, you’ll send her a coy, inconsequential text—“Not bad,” or “You could work on your footwork.” And she’ll reply with that maddening charm that dances the line between sincerity and sarcasm, always leaving you guessing. “Come and coach me, then,” she’ll say, as if she’s issuing a challenge, or perhaps an invitation.

There’s this one time, after too many drinks and not enough sleep, when you actually consider it. You catch yourself scrolling through Spanish real estate listings, as if browsing apartments for sale in Barcelona is a casual hobby rather than a subconscious form of planning. You tell yourself it’s just idle curiosity, a way to pass the time, yet you’re finding out the details—locations near the stadium, neighbourhoods with the best views, penthouses with terraces that would catch the Mediterranean breeze. You click on the photos of sun-drenched balconies and tiled kitchens, pretending you’re only fantasising about a different kind of life, one where you’re not constantly looking over your shoulder for the next tabloid scandal or PR crisis.

But then you sober up. You stare at yourself in the bathroom mirror of a five-star hotel suite in Madrid, taking in the disheveled hair, the dark circles under your eyes, and you remember who you are. You’re not the kind of person who throws away their life for someone else, certainly not for a woman you haven’t even kissed since that one stolen night, a night that’s become less real and more like a story you tell yourself to explain this unshakable obsession. Besides, you’d probably make a terrible coach.

#alexia putellas #alexia putellas x reader #fcb femeni #fcb femeni x reader #espwnt #espwnt x reader #woso #woso x reader #woso imagine #woso community

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yandere-wishes · 7 months ago

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⋆.˚ 𝔻𝕒𝕣𝕜 𝕍𝕒𝕔𝕒𝕪 ⋆.˚

𐙚Yandere! Qimir X Reader

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ He steals you in summer. Castaway on a planet with no name. But the way his eyes shine under the hot sun has your heart beating out of your chest.

⁀➷ Does this count as "That's that me, espresso"?

🪐 Yandere behavior, obsessive tendencies, Stockholm syndrome, blood, and gore.

⁺₊𝄞₊⁺ Espresso by Sabrina Carpender

Dark Vacay by CAS

The heat licks at your neck dangerously. The scathing red glow cleaves through flesh, through bone.

Warm, warm, warm.

The sort of swelter befitting rampant volcanos and rebirthing suns.

The man, no, the Sith has you pinned to his chest. His force,a dark pulsating thing, coiling through your body, keeping you rooted.

Sol's voice echoes through the canopy. Sending ripples through the blood-matted forest floor. "Release her." His saber is drawn, pointed.

Blue vs red.

Hot vs cold.

"Give me the relic." The voice lacks emotion, empathy. It demands, it takes. There is no room for formalities here, no chivalry you've long believed in. This monster deals only in dark. Taking and taking. "And I won't hurt her".

You try to push him away, to fight. Your force against his, clawing at the dark ether around you, hunting for an aperture, a splinter anything to infiltrate. But he is resilient, strong the way most volcanos are.

Impenetrable.

You moan against the tightening noose. He demands and you must obey. Such a dark thing can even make your master bow, make him give up the ancient blood-red relic. "You have your relic, now release my pupil." Behind you the monster chuckles, an airy noise overflowing with malice, "I said I wouldn't hurt her, not that I'd give her back."

The lights dull. Neon fading into a fuzzy mess of colors too tangled to decipher. Voices weave bending to the blaring buzz echoing from within. The world grows darker, you try to clutch onto something, anything. The cool colors of saber light, the soothing tone of your master's voice. The monster's dark cadence. But it's no use, the darkness prevails, pulling you under its crushing waves, burying you in a sea of nihil.

The world is dim upon resurgence. The air tastes of salt, fresh and dry upon the throat. The earth you lay in is warm, not like the smoldering heat of a bloodborne saber, but the warmth you imagine a mother's embrace to hold. Soft in every way that counts.

The place is alien and abandoned. No family, no monsters. Just rock upon rock and makeshift furniture to further the illusion of a makeshift home. The pounding upon your temples has yet to cease, you wonder if the outlines of a bruise have yet to bloom.

Slowly, you emerge from the cocoon of worn blankets. Bare feet scraping across the jagged floor. You feel the monster's presence linger, his essence strong within this place. You remember the dragon dens you used to read about in fairy tales. The gold-adorned caves where little princesses were forced to dwell.

It's funny you should feel like one now.

There are clothes sprawled across the floor. Vanilla ice cream in shade and shape, they feel too pure to have been chosen by a man like him. Too pure to have been tainted by the darkness of his fingertips. It's only now that the dress glares back that you notice your bareness, Jedi robes stripped and discarded.

That fiend...

You feel skinned, alone. No saber to grasp, no golden drapes. Nothing to paint you as Jedi. It's with reluctance that you lace yourself into the sweet dress, with utter reluctance that you step out onto the beach of rocks awaiting outside.

You spot the man,

the sith.

Qimir

His name reverberates within your head. You lick each letter, rolling them across your tongue and drinking in their condensation. "Qi-mi-rr" the name shouldn't taste of exotic fruits blended and bled. It shouldn't taste like fruit cocktails and coconut cubes but it does.

It does and it's disgustingly delicious.

He walks with the steady strout of a man who knows he is the most dangerous thing on this beach, on this island, on this entire planet. A volcano among mountains.

You follow behind bare feet on smooth rocks. Fumbling across the beach.

Chasing shadows. Chasing monsters.

He sheds his robes like skin, peeling away sabbath vestments to reveal cutis. Tanned and scarred, marred flesh risen like volcano veins cascading across his spine.

You shouldn't admit how desperately your fingers ache to trace the tragic thing. You glid your nails across the notched igneous rocks. Dreaming its soft flesh, his soft flesh beneath your touch. He would shutter under your fingertips as you pull apart his secrets. Nibbling on them like picnic cookies.

He's stripped bare, soft skin caught in the dim sun. His open wounds glisten under soft gold rays. You skate away from the sight, that forbidden sun-drenched sight. Eyes averted and hidden behind the rocks, twice locked, to avoid a rogue glance.

He is nothing if not haunting, forbidden in every way.

Odd how the memory of his bare ankles is what lingers. Carved too steep and too deep in a way that looks too marble. They merge into long robust legs. You can't help but imagine the sculpture of his thighs after, the thing at the end of those perplexing ankles. They too must be strong, carved to define each muscle. You imagine being trapped between them, their forceful push against your meaker body as his ankles intertwine with yours.

"You can open your eyes now."

You taste his darkness in your mouth again. Potent tropical fruits laced with sea salt. He couldn't have known you were trailing after him, you'd been quiet, silent like a whisper.

"It's improper to strip out in the open. What would you have done if someone should have come upon you?"

He treads in the water like a pearl unearthed. Shimmering alongside the blue-green of the lagoon. "You came upon me and nothing happened."

"That's because I had the good graces to avert my gaze from such a sight."

"I'd prefer if you'd look."

He pours water over his face, sparkly droplets cascading down sharp cheekbones. Eyes wide with an odd groggy wonder. The sky and the sea and him ethereally in between. He shouldn't look so magical. Some water nymph playing spike ball with the sun. Drinking in the clouds and blue. Before diving back down into his aquatic galaxy.

"Join me"

"I'd rather impale myself"

he's treading closer, water shielding his body like liquid lapis lazuli. "I wonder what your lips will taste like blue?" and it's the first time you've ever thought of your order's regalia as something so macabre.

His eyes are half-lidded, licking over your body like a melting Sunday. Or maybe he actually is, you can feel something wet and sinister sliding across your body. Slipping over and under the dress, sucking at pulse points. Anticipating soft vanilla.

You want to rip out his tongue and harbor in your mouth. You want to devour him as if he were ice cream on a summer day. Butterscotch cone with drizzled caramel and star sprinkles. Your teeth ache desperately for just one small bite.

He's standing, growing into a full man, no longer just a boy nymph memorized by soft whites and bright blues. The water droplet clutch greedy to taut muscles, refusing to leave such a Promethean thing.

The wet thing freezes. Running water to ice cube. His force evaporates from you, you bask in the mist of him. Before the shadow roots behind you impenetrable all over again. Qimir steps closer and you close your eyes on instinct. Stepping back, following the flow of sand in breeze.

Such sights are not for us to love.

It tips you off balance, You can't see Qimir but you can feel him. He's closer and closer. That's why you're stalking back. But the plasmic thing behind you nicks your ankle. Lurching you back. In the blink of an eye and the start of a scream, you're suspended in mid-air. Floating above the sands, save in the gossamer of his black mist.

"Careful" Qimir jests

And you crack your eye open just enough to see his outstretched hand.

"I want to take a shower"

"The lagoone is over there" he throws over his shoulder all so causally. like spelling out sea cemetary.

the warmth of the cave is suffocating. Lacing through your body making it breakout into little pearls of hidrosis. You roll over, watching Qimir, solder the cracks of his helmet. The rampant sparks cast him in a galactic white halo. Some intangible creature from the far reaches of the universe.

You wonder back to the incident by the lagoon.

You wonder if his tongue, his real tongue, would feel cool against your flaring skin. Muscle-bound ice cube rolling across your arms, your chest, drinking in your essence in half kisses and open-lipped moans. Sucking tenderly on the veins of your neck.

But shouldn't the tongues of monsters be spiked? cutting deep in search of blood?

Qimir swats the sweat from his temples. Pulling up the back of his shirt in an effort to fight the humidity. His scars transcend so low. Rivers weaving through him, overflowing with treasured secrets. You suck in the force through your lips drinking in its cold confidence. Marching up to stand behind him, only half admiring the rugged skin below the sandy shirt.

"Ahem" Spine straight, head held high. Your stance is practiced, sculpted in the confidence that the order demands. Lightside in every way.

Jedi, Jedi, Jedi

"I know it is futile to ask a treasonous sith like you to abide by the laws of common decency. But I'd ask that you do not come to spy on me while I bathe" Your hands ball into firsts. Glaring death and shark teeth at his blemished back.

He leaves the workbench with all the grace of a crushing tide. Elegance carved from salt rocks and years of walking through stars and shadows. But this time you refuse to step back. There is no dishabille to fear, no sand lines that may be passed.

But he doesn't confront you. He doesn't bask in his rage and stands proudly in front of you. No, instead he paces, or rather almost floats. He's in front of you one minute and behind you the next. The eerieness of it all only comes from the feeling of entombment. He is your cage, your coffin. Burying you under the sand with his precious secrets and red relics. Your nerve beats out of you in little droplets.

Qimir's fingers lace with your own, his hot breath fans the shell of your ear, "How can I make such promises when you act so cute" his voice is coconut shavings upon white sand. You aren't even sure he spoke. " I thought Sith only dealt in absolutes?" his laughter cuts like fractured seashells. Cutting through heartstrings. You want to hear it again and again until you've memorized its melody. "That's what we want the Jedi to believe."

His teeth graze the nape of your neck. That's the last straw, gravity crushes your nerve, and you take off running.

The pearls that shine within his sockets are entirely too dark. You shouldn't be thinking such this as you disrode. But the glimmer of pure drown isn't a worldly sight, it's something unplaceable.

Sith can not be trusted, even if, until mere days ago they had been things of fairytales like dragons and sea monsters. Mystical monsters used to frighten little padwans into finishing their plates. But the stories are true now, they've ripped open the holobooks and sprouted from the screen. Your fingers flex, feeling the weight of his hand in yours.

The monsters are real...

You keep your undergarments on as you descend with the sparkling tides. Qimir may appear at any moment. And you wish to confront a Sith in a Jedi's skin, or what little is left of it.

You're sinking into the watermelon greens and crystal blues, sinking into him... because even so far from the grotto his presence haunts your thoughts still.

"You wouldn't mind if I invite myself in?" The water laps at his feet, he's standing over the liquid threshold.

"What are you doing here?! I told you not to come."

he shrugs and you can't help but notice the definition of his muscles. "It's hot in the cave. Plus you don't own the beach."

He pulls the shirt over his head.

You scream for him to stop.

But this time as he pulls the waistband down you notice something underneath.

Swim trunks.

Bell-bottomed and shaped like a nebula, but only midnight in hue. The cuffs glimmer with red intricacies, patterns from a different time, a different solar system. Each stitch tells some tale of horror or history. Sith things that you'd rather not know. But why engrave them into a swimsuit? Why paint a tapestry on something so jejune?

He treads through the water, deadset on you. And again in every step, you notice a mettle valor that can only come from having killed and kissed your greatest fears.

The rocks are slippery beneath your feet, running, swimming, gliding whatever gets you further from him. But the rocks form barricades of their own. Igneous confines housing prey and beast.

"I meant it when I said you were cute." He has you pinned to the mineral mountains, eyes prying you open, studying your inner workings like a gutted bot. "So fragile so malleable..." You feel his power rolled over your neck.

You didn't expect the kiss. The taste of coconut shavings and caramel. Your heart hammers as he tugs on your hips, pulling you closer. Your lungs burn, filled with salt water and dark force energy.

But suffocating is a small price to pay when he parts your lips and pushes iced star fruits in your mouth.

That night Qimir had tried to feed you soup. Boiled fish and herbs in a cauldron that looks, entirely witch. But the refusal comes not from the perturbation of poison or the primal mistrust shared between star-crossed enemies.

No the refusal comes because you simply do not like fish.

"Just try a spoonful, it's from a rare breed. Considered a luxury on most planets". His entreaties fall on deaf ears, outvoiced by the stubbornness of a crashing tide. You retire hungry, and maybe it's hunger that stirs you in the dead of night.

Or maybe it's the heartbeat echoing from his mask.

He called it cortosis. But it looks more terror than diamond.

You sink to your knees in front of the haunted heirloom, cradling it gently within your palms. The iron flavor upon lips makes you part them, tongue fleshed tracing every welded scar. Sucking in the solder and crystal and every other poison.

You want to be a part of it, to pry open your ribcage and shove the empyrean taj within.

Let its darkness mingle with your blood. You want to feel it's royalty in the marrow of your bones.

In the morning you do not speak about the pulsating thing within. But the mask stares at you as you eat mint and bread from Qimir's hand.

It knows...

It knows things you can never admit.

You'd been planning on narrowly avoiding him. Tiptoeing across the cave to evade stirring him. But the plans die when first light breeches the aperture.

Qimir's gone.

And in his place, he's left yet another raiment.

The dress is summer and doll. Bowed in the back and studded.

Bar'biee in every way.

The hysterically placed designs parody the crisscross of twilight roses and all their thrones. Checkered in shades of obsidian and ink.

But the black of your dress doesn't quite match the ebony of his robes.

It simply plays testament to your ripeness. You're starting to feel like his little doll.

He lies on a beach towel overlooking the sea. So ordinary it makes you choke. Beach ball in the corner by his feet, waiting to be played with.

Fearless.

You wonder just who he had to kill to reach this hubris?

You float down the little exclaves toes barely touching the ground.

He's adorned the rocky beach with a comically large parasol too dark to even have a name. Another towel, a picnic basket, and little coconut cups with straws. Despite his black tainted sunglasses, he knows you're watching him. Caught in the bosom of this haunted shore. Awaiting your capturer's orders.

"You can sit if you want." again he's saying words without realizing how crushing they truly are. Their full weight pulling your bones until they slip from skin.

Might as well have said shark attack and death at sea.

But you obey because despite everything, the towel looks nice and so does the drink.

"The sun doesn't come out very often. But I figured we could at least enjoy it today."

"Thanks," you mutter chewing on the pink straw. You shift your limbs rigidly. Plastic doll coming to life. Pushing tense bones straight as you rest your uneasy head. The waves hum in your ear and you swear you hear the rocks buzze like star songs.

"Why did you bring me here? Why not kill me."

"Well, you're not really any use to me dead" He offers you a melon slice.

"So I'm bait." Qimir sighs, your query exhausting. He simply sips from his own drink. You notice the jounce of his throat with each gulp. How you'd love to ring to those bones, feel them crack between your fingers.

He turns to you, lips a breath away. He hasn't kissed you since that day in the lagoon. But you wish him too so very much.

This isn't the Jedi way...

What?

Qimir's fingers trace over your thighs and hips. Finally, they land heavily on your shoulders, pushing you into the rocks with zeal. He blocks the sun and you can't help but think he's lovelier than any red goliath in the macrocosm.

Qimir's teeth gnaw at your throat, kissing the blood and smearing it with his tongue. Traling open-mouth kisses to the plinth of your neck.

Your nails, rasp curiously at his back, tracing scars, tracing cortosis veins.

His fingers dig into your ribs, painting it in seastars. Kissing starlights and pearls in your bones. His body is hot, scolding. And you wonder if the minerals he surrounds himself with were all nursed in the womb of a violent volcano.

The result of destructive habits is knife bites called kisses and a heart that's finally exploded.

When he pulls off, he poises himself on his knees before falling back to his side, searching for something in the basket. You stare, dress distorted, and breath hitched. You taste the exotic fruit blend again. Burning, caramel, and coconut that linger across your body.

"Hey, can you put this on me?" reality blurs back in, he's dangling a yellow bottle in front of you. "What" he shouldn't have this ease with you. He shouldn't be playing make-believe lovers on the beach with the girl he kidnapped.

But he does.

And you play along too.

"it's sunscreen, believe it or not, I burn easily."

"No"

"please"

"N-"

You don't control your hand as it pours the cream onto his chest. He touches you with such familiarity, the force on this planet is just an extension of him. But you shy away at the thought of running your fingers across his muscle bound chest. What is the force if not a child's toy? If not another doll.

He notices the shyness. Or rather reads it from the air. His force pokes at your arms, laughing at the discomfort. Before you know it he's harbored between your thighs. Large hands holding your wrist.

Firm yet delicate.

He moves your hand over his chest, charting every bump and muscle. Coating the blocker over his skin. It feels like piecing together armor. Preparing him for a battle you've never been invited to.

You don't want this.

Well not quite.

You want to feel his body jolt under your touch and hear the sweet little quips he offers to lighten the mood. You want to capture the fleeting moment where he bites his lip and preserve it for eternity.

But more than anything you want to peel away his armor, his flesh, and bury yourself beneath. Become another one of his secrets and staying inside him. Safe and warm forever.

"Qimir"

He makes pomegranate soup that night. As he nestles your body over his lap. Kissing the half-healed bruise on your forehead. He brings the spoon to your lips and gently nudges your mind to let him in. You part your lips, welcoming him in with the shyness you've been raised on. Blushing little bride-doll.

Legacy. You realize when the seeds erupt inside your mouth.

He's feeding you his secrets, his bequest. Boiling you like the fish and the fruit. And birthing you anew.

You sleep with your head buried in the crux of his neck. Listening to the lullaby of his tattered heart, singing psalms of conquest.

That night you dream of a river red. You blame it on Qimir, the pomegranate seeds were too maroon in color and flavor.

From the crimson water the helmet surfaces. Bobbing in the waves, beckoning you. You cup your hands inside the river, guzzling down the water and licking your fingers after. You let the red kiss your lips and fill your lungs choking you by essence alone. You want to die drinking from the bloodlust. Die in front of his helmet.

So maybe he can call it love.

Or Devotion.

Or anything else equally sweet.

The river doesn't taste like pomegranates, or fruit cocktails, or iced coconut.

It tastes of salty iron, volcanic diamonds and Qimir's lips.

You plunge into the red...

He's thinking about you again. You know it from the moment you awake. His voice is loud inside your head. Reverberating from wall to wall until it is the only thing you hear.

This time the garments are waterproof. Swimwear. Two pieces in black, just black. And adorned with red trees on the seams.

Right, because you beat me in the forest.

Clever.

He has left bangles too, jagged and bruised purple with veins of white. cortosis. Accompanied by a golden necklace that looks like a beating heart, ripped freshly from someone's chest.

"You look beautiful," he remarks after you've dressed in his colors. When did he come in? You need to get better at hearing the man born from shadows. The man who's walking between worlds unseen, unheard his entire life.

He pulls you close, nails picking at the soft flesh of your tummy. Scratching skin and leaving red crescents. He kneels and licks and bites, claiming this new chart of unmarked skin.

This has always been about possession, domination, damnation. "Qimir" you moan and it feels so wrong and so right. Like saber to the heart.

Oh force, how far you've fallen.

Qimir laces his fingers with yours pulling you outside the cave. The sun shimmers off his lopsided smile and he really does glow brighter than every star in the known cosmos.

The lagoon is red.

It shouldn't be red.

"You killed them" Since when have such dire words spilled so easily from your lips? Sol, Jacki, Yord. Are they in this pool? shimmering translucent awaiting a vengeance you do not think you can deliver?

"Yes...But not your Jedi, not yet. These were just some self-pious knights who got in my way."

He brings his arm up showing you a fresh saber cut, before pulling you into the water. It's so warm boiling, lava meets water. You think your skin will peel off.

But you stand your ground. Force directing your every breath. Spine straight head high. Darkside in every way

Sith, sith, sith

You grasp at his forearm, pulling it to your lips. Your tongue finds the slit in the skin and dives it. Mapping out the muscles and drinking in the red.

Exotic fruits bled and blended.

"I think I'm finally getting through to you," Qimir says, brown pearls glazed over with pride. "My sweet little acolyte."

You giggle at the term. It tastes so bitter, like a raw espresso before dawn.

"Oh, master" you moan. As you pull him under the red waters. Lips and legs entwined.

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seancekitsch · 2 days ago

Note

Can we ask to see how Vik and Journalist! Reader met? That one request was so cute! I loved their dynamic

this is the prequel to this little bit

You look through the lens of your camera at the expanse of the room, much too large and much to garish in its lighting. You know for a fact you’ll have to be working extra time in your dark room to fix all of the yellow tint to this lighting. You snap the shutter a few times: at dancing couples, at dignitaries and councillors talking, at the fancy centerpieces on the tables filled with exotic flowers that probably cost more than your apartment. The night is a dull affair, but that was to be expected. All of these galas with insane names like “the covalence” or “inventorium” never failed to bore you to tears, sometimes literally. All night you find vantage points in balconies or certain corners or near the bar to capture portraits that you hope tell a story of opulence and progress. Sometimes, and more selfishly, you take pictures of what you think would make good gossip as well. More eyes means more funding for the scientists, and more money in your wallet when people pay good money for the stories those pictures could tell when you sit down in front of your typewriter tomorrow morning.

Your eyes scan the crowd from the little table that you’ve set yourself up at, a little plate of cheese and a shimmering and all too fruity cocktail that Mel, your point of contact, insisted you take. She always asks your publishers for you for these events, claiming that you capture the perfect photographs and quotes to report on the beauty and the fun of these nights. You don’t necessarily see it, as you never have any fun, but she makes sure you get paid very well and you cannot turn that down. Plus, she’s an angel, a contract you definitely don’t mind because of her sweetness and understanding. And her not-boyfriend, Jayce Talis, one of two guests of honor is maybe the nicest person in all of Piltover.

You lift the viewfinder to your eye, ready to capture a shot of two of the academy students speaking to Heimerdinger when someone new comes into the frame. Holy shit, a new face, and a handsome one at that. Chestnut hair, pale skin, two moles punctuating sharp angles of his cheeks and jawline. Absolutely beautiful, even in the gaudy light that threatens to drown out his lovely details.

You press the shutter without thinking. Capturing him feels like instinct.

He looks like any of the other scientists, really. The same uniform way of dress, the same colors, the same tired eyes that the rest of them have.

You press the shutter again, still not thinking.

He turns, stares back at you through the camera. With a smirk, he begins crossing the room with the help of his cane. You move your camera down, caught. Shit, you’ll have to think up a few bullshit interview questions on the fly. With luck, he’s as interesting as he looks.

He crosses through the crowd, as if liquid and invisible, his command of the space impressive and making you feel for the first time tonight trapped.

“You must be Councillor Medarda’s little reporter,” his heavily accented voice says, no proper greeting as you place your camera down on the table. The accent sounds familiar, you’ve definitely heard it before.

“Guilty,” you shrug, “So you’ve heard of me?”

“Eh, more like I was warned about you.”

That surprises you. Warned him? What would anyone need to be warned for about you? Sure, you can be a bit crass, drink a little too much, laugh a little too loud, get up to more gossip than appropriate. But none of that is really a problem on the level that any of these people should worry about. They’re scientists and politicians, people who genuinely deal with dangerous, taboo, and unknown matters.

“Worried I’ll dig up some scoop on you, Mister…?” you trail off, hoping he’ll give you a name.

“There’s not much to find, but my partner Jayce said you have potential to be vicious.”

You could ask him what he meant, but your eyes widen in shock. You’re so stupid. Stupid, stupid, fucking stupid.

“You’re Viktor!” you exclaim, and curse under your breath. He’s one of the guests of honor here. He and Mel’s not-boyfriend have just started some new breakthrough project. Of course, you should have known this was Viktor. Jayce had said ‘you’ll know him when you see him’ and he was right. He told you the man was quiet and aloof and not interested in impressing anyone. Jayce never told you he was so attractive, though.

He nods, and plucks one of the cubes of cheese off of your plate as he leans himself against the table.

“I’m supposed to ask you a few questions,” you tell him, but all of the questions you had come up with vanish from your mind now that his eyes are trained on you.

“I will answer one if you go over and ask that man for a refill of our drinks,” he says, which buys you time to think and space from him so that maybe you can think about anything other than his beautiful cheekbones and terrifyingly sharp eyes. You nod, smiling as you take a look at his cup, and he drinks a negroni. A man after your own heart, and maybe you’re fucked. You walk over to the nearest bartender, a worker just like you, with an apologetic smile. Mel always insists you enjoy, so why not actually enjoy? You ask him kindly for two negronis, pressing a few coins into his hand that from his reaction tells you has been his first tip of the night.

What to ask Viktor, what to ask? You walk back over to him, feeling less stable on your heels not from the drink but from nerves. Viktor has, in the maybe three sentences he’s spoken, managed to knock you completely off kilter. You know you’re supposed to ask the details of the new project, of how it feels to work with the funding of the council, of the controversy surrounding their ideas, but it feels wrong.

Viktor smiles when you return with the cups; he doesn’t smirk or scrunch his nose like you’ve noticed he does. He smiles with a lopsided and close lipped grin as you pass the cup to him.

“Cheers,” you both mutter, clinking the rims before thunking your drinks down on the table and once again lifting them to press them to your lips.

You sigh as you finish your sip, letting your cup rest gently on the little napkin on the table and you notice in your absence Viktor has stolen three more pieces of cheese. You’ll make sure he owes you them later, sometime.

“So how does a breakthrough make you feel?”

Viktor seems taken aback by this question, as if he expected anything but this. It doesn’t feel out of the realm of the possibility, just not the boring normal sort of interview question. It’s vague and centered on him, not specifically the project. Maybe not what the press will want to hear, but interesting. You pull the recorder out of your little bag carefully, placing it on the table between the two of you as an unspoken ask of consent. He thinks for a moment, and then nods at you. You press the button.

“It…. It feels like seeing an ancient God, maybe but also learning that a God exists. Euphoria and understanding meeting. Does that make sense? There’s something weird and otherworldly about uncovering something previously unknown.”

You nod, and stop the recording again.

“That was my one, right? But can I ask for more off the record?”

“Thank you, for stopping,” he tells you, and takes a very long sip of his drink, “I will continue to entertain you because you did not ask a stupid question.”

“Thanks, Viktor,” you say, relaxing the reporter act, “Your accent though?”

You narrow your eyes, sip your drink, and watch his body language. He stays still, like a statue.

“Are you from…?” you don’t dare say the word Zaun in this room, knowing better, “I’ve heard your accent before, I mean… I’m from.”

Again, you don’t say it, but Viktor understands what you’re trying to say.

“Are you?” he asks, “A long way from home, yes?”

You laugh, a sigh of relief. You nod and clink your glass against his again. He picks it back up and drinks again, this time feeling conspiratorial in nature. Two Zaunites in the room of Piltover’s elite. Interlopers willingly invited, beggars to the feast in the bourgeoisie midst and they might not even know it.

“Too far, sometimes,” you admit, “But this is refreshing.”

“Yes, it is,” Viktor concedes, and silence fills the space between you. Comfortable silence, ease permeating the little bubble you’ve created for yourselves. Every once in a while you pick your camera up, taking photos of the councillors and well dressed patrons. The hours pass more quickly than they do on a usual job, with mostly silence between refilling drinks and snacks and the interludes of Viktor supplying you with a little snippet of gossip or some sharp witted insult about someone he doesn’t like. He’s such easy company, easy to talk to and easy to look at.

“That one,” Viktor tells you, pointing at Jayce Talis dressed similarly to himself, “My partner. Get his picture too.”

You point the lens where he tells you, and you snap a total of three pictures where Jayce is the focal point; a gap toothed smile and bright eyes command composition. You swivel around the room again to take a few more pictures before you decide that perhaps you have a photo of at least everyone for any editorial or photo gallery of the event your publishers would want. Before you put your camera down though, you turn it back towards Viktor. The angle and closeness will be awkward, not one that you can use for your story. You click the shutter as he grimaces.

“Must you commit me to film?”

“Well I’ve never seen you at one of these before, what if I never see you again? I need something to remember you by.”

Viktor’s eyes narrow as he takes in your words. He doesn’t respond immediately, as if he’s running some kind of calculation your voice had written.

“Do you… want to see me again?”

You bite your lip harshly, lest you shout your yes and embarrass the both of you. You taste copper.

“A little off-record meeting would be…nice.”

Viktor scoffs, and finishes his drink.

“Please, drop the professionalism,” he tells you, and it’s your turn to scoff, “I am a busy man, I would like it if you were upfront with your seduction attempt.”

“S- Seduction attempt?” you stutter before you regain yourself, leaning in closer to him as you realize he is messing with you, “is it working?”

“And if I say yes?”

Ego swells within you, and before you can think about bad ideas or prying eyes, you lean a little further until your lips brush his earlobe.

“Then yes. I’d like to see you again.”

#viktor x reader #viktor arcane x reader

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