#mostly for sentimental purposes | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

cckaisen · 8 months ago

Text

୨ৎ˙⋆.˚ ᡣ𐭩 𝓑𝓡𝓞𝓣𝓗𝓔𝓡 𝓕𝓤𝓒𝓚𝓔𝓡, sukuna ryomen !

boyfriend’s older brother!sukuna. while little bro yuji spits up his liquor in the bathroom, sukuna takes care of his girl, finally fucking her like she deserves.

ಇ. summary. sukuna brother au, fem reader, infidelity, yuji throws up so emeto. warning, manipulation, pussy slapping, biting, some predator/prey elements, size kink, dumbification, squirting, reader is intoxicated but aware, rough kuna but he switches up:3, regret/moral conflict, angst towards the end cuz ‘m a certified yapper. wc, 4.6k.

ಇ. note. been a whore for sukuna lately but i fully blame gege for drawing him so majestic. if evil then why gorgeous, hm??? we’re onto u gege. we know u love a felon. confess already.

the door to the itadori household bursts open and in floods a typhoon of drunken chaos and laughter.

drowning in giggles, yuji has his arm thrown over your aching shoulders, humming along to some kind of song. without you, he wouldn't be upright—a jumbling, intoxicated mess.

you're mostly sober, fighting to get him to the bathroom since he was heaving in the taxi.

"whyyy do ya build me upp~" he slurs, a bumbling flurried version of himself, smothering your cheek in wet kisses that have you wriggling away. "butterrrcuppp baby, jus' t'let me downnn...!"

"yuji!" you shriek, the weight of him growing more unbearable as you try to keep him up. his breath is drenched with the heavy scent of liquor. "baby, y'gotta focus or we're not gonna make it to the—"

"—and mess m'rounddd!"

"yuji—'nuff!" you groan loudly as he drapes himself over. at this rate, you might just collapse into a heap on the floor, overcome by his weight as well as the lesser, still relevant amount of alcohol you consumed at the club.

suddenly, the patter of footsteps have you perking up. sukuna—yuji's big brother—rounds the corner, gaunt features sharp with agitation. he must've woken up when the two of you came barreling in.

"sukuna—hi," you can't help the relief that bursts through your chest, evident in the way you exhale.

sukuna notes the way your knees tremble, his brother blabbering embarrassingly on top of you. he puts aside the urge to laugh, figuring he'd spare you just this once.

"here. i got 'im." without any trouble, sukuna drags his little brother under his arm, putting your strength to shame. with the weight lifted, you finally have chance to relax, rolling your arm and letting out a loud sigh of relief.

"thank you. ow—pain."

you stumble, and the broader of the two brothers chuckles, crimson gaze soaking up your body in that dress while you're distracted. "you carried him all the way home?"

"mhm. practically sprawled out on my lap in the taxi. the driver and i had to team up to get him outta there," you whine as you kick off your heels. those stupid things had you wincing terribly most of the night. yuji said they were sexy. as much as you love him, you’re more than sure you will not be wearing them again anytime soon.

"you should've called me." sukuna's features scrunch in disgust as yuji keeps singing in his hold.

"i-i-i neeeeed youu~"

"fuckin' a, did he drink the whole bar?"

"pretty much," you reply, shrugging off your coat and following behind the pair of brothers. yuji looks so funny, almost small despite his lean stature, looking deceivingly short compared to sukuna. "he made a bet with todo and lost."

the sober man grunts as he knocks open the bathroom door, holding up yuji in his other arm. his muscles flex underneath his shirt, stretching the dark cotton, where your eyes briefly linger.

you avert your attention to yuji instead, amusement melting into concern for your boyfriend.

not sharing the same sentiment, sukuna drops him down by the toilet, putting up the lid with a smack and purposely shoving yuji's head into the bowl a little harder than necessary. "theree ya go, dumbass," sukuna grunts, slapping his back as he finally pukes up. "just barely made it."

and you're sure glad he did, thanking the gods your dress had been spared amidst the drama. with the way he'd been acting, you were never sure that you would be safe from the bile climbing his throat, cringing fearfully at times.

you feel much better now that sukuna has taken over. he's older, well-versed in trivial matters like this. yuji's already told you all about his university days, the drunken nights, the fighting—

you curse your thoughts for sprawling so suddenly, shooing off your rodent-like curiosity.

their relationship struggled at times. especially so back then, but things are different now. and as much as sukuna pretends not to care for his little brother, he clearly does, at least a little. after all, the pink tresses of your boyfriends hair are ruffled in his thick hand before he lets go fully.

then sukuna walks on in a rugged stride, leaving yuji to it. on the way out, he knocks your shoulder with his. you can't tell if the action was playful, but you’re sure it wasn't hostile, at least. a little smile creeps onto your lips as your gaze follows him into the kitchen.

sukuna is weird.

he's weird because he's not like yuji in most ways; it's not necessarily a bad thing, but he's much, much harder to see through. with your boyfriend, most things are crystal clear. you can tell what he wants, what he needs, how he needs it. he'll tell you all about it—unselfishly, of course.

however, sukuna, you find, never reads so easily. and it's weird. you can't tell if you prefer it that way, or if you'd rather know what he's thinking.

especially since you're certain you just caught his eyes slithering along your curves.

anyway.

wanting to give yuji some privacy, you pull the door shut, the sound of his gags growing muffled. you half-jog-half-limp to the kitchen, preparing a glass of cold water to ease his throat once it's all over.

unbothered, sukuna leans his back against the counter, scrolling on his phone like this is just another night to him. it's weird.

you start wondering, drawing up the conclusion that this might be first time you and him have ever been alone, in a way. yuji is there, but not really, if you know what i mean. not mentally, anyway.

before you can finish that thought, you deliver the glass to yuji, crouching down to his level and rubbing his back with careful affection. "got you some water, baby. right here, by your hand." you take it gently, guiding it towards the glass.

he's not throwing up so much now, just laying there, waiting for the next wave of nausea to crash over him. his fingers respond to the glass, wrapping around it. "thanks, hic—y're so good t'me..."

you smile warmly, pressing a kiss to his warm cheek. you couldn't care less that he reeks of all kinds of concoctions and puke all rolled up together, wanting to be there for him regardless as you know he would for you.

you whisper a few more reassuring words to him before taking your leave, giving him some time to recover by himself. the bathroom door clicks shut. forgetting all about the third party, you let your back press against it, head jilting as a sigh slips out.

"he worn ya down that much?" sukuna snorts at the display, looking up from his phone.

despite your initial surprise, you laugh too. "he doesn't usually. it's just... been a busy night, i guess. i think he'll pass out in there."

sukuna briefly dips his head into the fridge, getting out a chartreuse-tinted bottle of something. "one would hope. you want one?"

"you're being weirdly nice." you blurt suspiciously, smirking. oh god. maybe the alcohol was starting to work you over, too, because you definitely weren't supposed to say that. sometimes it's better not to ask, someone told you once.

sukuna pulls a face that makes you wish you could crawl out of your skin on command, even though there's technically logic behind your last words.

"am i usually mean?"

"n-no, i just mean—" fuck, stop talking. with growing embarrassment, you shake your head, "nothing. sorry. that was assumptive."

the way you initially scrambled to answer appealed to some wicked humor in him as he laughed. "yeah, it was. so yes or no?"

"yes," you sigh, shoulders slumping in admission, knowing you probably needed it. especially after whatever that was. your head is pounding—god, someone should put me down.

sukuna opens up your bottle with his teeth as you hop up on the counter, watching each other. all had gone quiet behind you. sukuna handed you the drink with the lid still between his teeth, venom swirling in his eyes when he saw the way yours lingered on the gesture.

slowly, you took the bottle, pressing the rim up to your lips before taking a sip. it bubbles in your mouth, sparkling on your tongue before you swallow it down. the burn is a little unpleasant, but you manage.

"any good?" sukuna asks.

"'s okay," you shrug, reading the bottle, pretending like any of it made sense. "a little bitter."

"you like 'em sweet?" the taller man frowns, sorting through the cupboards for something that you're too immersed to ask about.

"kinda. but too much makes me sick," you explain, scrunching your nose at the thought. "i like a balance."

"oh, really?" sukuna snorts as if you've just said the funniest thing in the world.

in one confused motion, you lower your brows. and jilt your head, wondering what's with the sudden jest. "yeah, uh... is that funny?"

sukuna raises his brows, shaking his head, some glasses clinking. "no, not funny. nothin's funny."

he really knows how to make a person feel small, you'd give him that much.

you avert your gaze, heart crawling up into your cheeks. "okay, well..."

"what about you?" he interjects, sparking up another tiny bit of annoyance in you again. not that you knew what you were gonna say anyways. it most likely would've been embarrassing anyway, making you shrink even more, wanting yuji to come out already—

"what about me?" you wonder, your voice meeker than before. curious and cautious, tip-toeing around his words. is there something you're hiding?

"are you the sticking-around or screwing-around type?"

"oh, right," you laugh, making sense of his question. it's big one, though. kind of sprung on you. still, you manage to respond, just telling him what you know while glowing with intoxication, "well, we've only been going out a couple months."

you're more focused on the way he's watching you than you are on actually answering. his eyes are sharp and torrid in comparison to his little brother's, and the way he gazes down rather than looks at you has something in you stirring, writihing hotly beneath your skin.

it's exciting. why is it exciting? there's a giddiness that gyres in the pit of your gut like a ballerina, pirouettes and grands jetés, heat cooking and simmering through your veins. it's terrible. it's weird.

"well, you can't blame me for being protective." sukuna shrugs. "he seems to really like you."

while what he's saying rings true, there's a chord slightly off-key, something askew that you can't place. is he closer than before?

you ignore it, trying on a smile. "well, feeling's mutual."

you take another sip from the bottle, the cool rim settling on your lips, sparks igniting on your tongue, the same routine replaying. you don't even think before adding gleefully, "and he's like, a jazillion times more sane than my last boyfriend, so i'm happy."

"are you?" sukuna asks, serious.

it was like flipping a switch. he was laughing, now he's earnest, and you were just entirely confused, his meaning lost on you, like you're the last in line in a game of chinese whispers. he caught you off guard with that one. and he knows it, too, carmine eyes feasting on your discomfort.

your smile falters slightly before you nod. "yeah."

"okay." he just says.

now you were really starting to get pissed off with him. whatever he's doing, it's stupid. he might as well have you cornered, except you've done nothing wrong, and yet he's prancing around you with a tone of prolific doubt. as if he knows something about you that you yourself don't.

"what?" you demand, equally serious now, smile wiped clean off. the air turns thick.

sukuna shrugs his shoulders again and you swear you have to fight off a sneer. "nothing."

is he casting doubt on your love for yuji? is that what this is? is he trying to tell you you're not good enough for him? that even though you trudged half a mile in those huge stupid heels just because he said they looked hot on you—carrying his dead weight, might i add, as he was screeching a song you'd never heard in your ear—that all of that was just for laughs, and there were no real feelings behind those actions? is that seriously what he's getting at?

sukuna wants to laugh so bad. your face is all screwed up, cheeks puffed out and burning a deep red. oh, how it fuels him. your stubbornness, that endearing naivety that clings to you like all your modest perfumes, the one that lingers in yuji's room, occasionally in his clothes, infecting every dark corner of his mind—and now you know how it feels to be tortured by him.

"you want some water?" the man asks casually. your mind is on fire, your thoughts more blaring than you would probably think. it's written all over you.

his question makes your shoulders drop, feeling stupid all over again. what are you getting so worked up for? you're secure in your feelings for yuji. as his brother, sukuna has every right to feel concern for him. there really is no need for you to be acting like this.

he's playing you like a damn flute.

"yes, please." you answer a lot more softly, pulling your hair around to one side. you'd been bratty without cause, assumptive, again. you really need to stop mischaracterizing him. after all, he's no monster. "i think all the drinks are finally getting to my head a little."

he starts filling up a glass, grinning at you over his shoulder, mischief playing in his slanted-eyes. "oh, don't tell me you were expecting anything bottled. tap's the best y're gonna get from us. hope you can handle it."

a smile works onto your lips as you finally start to loosen up again, legs swinging gently off the side of the counter. playing along, you wince. "oh yeah, well, i usually only drink expensive, you know, mineral-rich—"

"yeah."

he's suddenly between your legs, his mouth devouring your own, swallowing the terrified noise that begs to escape. for a moment, you're frozen in shock, eyes widening as you palms meet his chest in a forceful attempt at creating space.

sukuna juts back, forced away from you. his eyes crack open but are still like slits, dark, crawling with lust you hadn't previously noticed—no, acknowledged, because the choice has always been there.

he relishes in the terror that brims in your eyes at his visceral kiss. it feels natural, but not in the tender, motherly sense. like predator devouring prey. the natural order of life.

his hands are hot, gripping onto your thighs, digging into the tights he could easily rip to shreds, giving him full access to your warm cunt, to ruin you.

and yet he doesn't.

he waits for your eyes to droop, for you to lunge at him, accepting this twisted spiral of events, indulging his darkness. teeth clicking, tongues meeting messily in a sloppy kiss, drool gathering between you both as you crash together all at once, a train wreck of carnality. sukuna's hands are all over you, groping, slashing at the crotch of your tights. you gasp into his mouth as cold air meets the sobbing wetness of your cunt, followed by a slap to it.

"f-fuck! hey, who said you could—hmff!" you yelp as his hand clamps over your mouth suddenly, his scarlet eyes narrowing.

"brat, watch ya fuckin' mouth." sukuna warns as you grapple with him. his tattoos look especially menacing then, chiseling his features. "he's drunk. not deaf."

you nod, trying to tell him you understand. he releases your lips in an instant only to seize them again in his so forcefully.

yuji would never—could never take you like this, and you fucking know it. you know it with every gnaw, every squash of your tits that leaves you whining like a bitch in heat, every bite against your neck where you can feel the outline of his brother's teeth and a short gush of crimson.

rationality is lost on you as you mindlessly rut against him, your hands running up and down his back until you start tugging on his pants, eager to rid him of them.

meanwhile, sukuna's making a meal out of you—you make up half of his size, giving him complete control to do as ever he pleases.

every whine is met with a grunt. his cock must have been freed at some point as you feel his greedy hands lift you against him, your chests meeting, the sharp cold of the counter leaving your ass and feeling his palms spread you apart instead.

nothing could prepare you for the suddenness of which he fills you—you scream, half openly, half having shoved your face into his shoulder—aware his brother, your lover, is passed out over the toilet in the other room.

"shh, shh—fuckin' shit!" sukuna groans, features curling in erotic bliss.

he gluts you in ways yuji never has, the ways he'll never dare—with such cruel, carnal demand, to the brim, unkind, violent, and so, so fucking good.

as he breaches your womb, you claw his back raw through his shirt. a sob rips through you. sukuna does his best to keep you quiet. "shh... fuck. yer so fuckin' tight, girl. relax."

"t-tryin'... 'm so full..." you whine, eyes misting over with tears. it feels too good, you think...

"i know—" sukuna chokes, barely lifting you up on his cock, feeling your walls spasm around him. "fuck, what ya cryin' for?"

he feels too good.

"d-don't move yet, i'll cum," you gasp, and he hasn't even tried—sukuna's expression blanches.

"already?" he bursts out laughing in his brutish way, the side that yuji lacked entirely as the nicest person you've ever known; fuck. the humiliation makes your cunt squeeze again.

he lifts you up, your knees draped over his thick arms, foreheads meeting. your breaths intertwine, hot and treacherous, caressing each other's faces.

"ya know, i've fuckin' heard you, all those times."

"wh-what?" you stammer cluelessly, only half there, clinging to sukuna as he dangles you on his cock, your eyes crossing when he starts to bounce you on him.

"said i fuckin' heard you, you 'n yuji—'n shit, ya never got this loud, huh?" he smirks wickedly, feeling your body collapse hopelessly against him. he fucks you up and down on him, swallowing up your pathetic moans and whines like they were the last noise he'd ever hear. "been wanting to take ya like this, stretch yer dumb little cunt on me, fuckk—ya got no fuckin' idea, princess."

rocking up and down, you wail, head bobbing. sukuna can just see your little maw dangling open—it takes everything in him not to jam his fucking fingers in your throat until you drool and splutter around him.

"y—you wanted—this?" you struggle, feeling too good to make sense of anything, to think straight, to do anything other than take every rough kiss to your cervix, feeling your insides bruise and swell with lucid excitements.

"lemme guess, the brat cums too soon—never quite gets ya there, hm?" sukuna guesses correctly, making you whine and nod and babble.

"h-how did y—ah, fuck—!" he snapped his hips, picking up the speed as you wept on him. you'd never been fucked like this in your life, and your world was getting flipped on its head. when did your dress come down? you weren't sure—but now your tits were bouncing and sukuna wasn't gonna pass up the opportunity to tear into them.

"cuz, 's just obvious," sukuna rasps, teeth clamping down on your raised nipple, "can tell this sloppy pussy ain't gettin' treated right. not when she's—shit—creamin' all over me jus' from stickin' it in."

"'k—kuna, don't—ahh! fuck!"

"that's it girl, shit, c'mon," sukuna keeps picking you back up only to drop all your weight on his fat cock, his balls slapping against your ass, the slick you're gushing causing them to stick together.

your head is empty, devoid of anything except the chaos, the suddenness of it all, the shock, he's fucking you. your boyfriend's older brother is fucking you, and you've never felt so goddamn good.

there's this sudden wave. a wetness. an explosive feeling that crashes over you in one swift, predatory pounce. like when a deer gets suddenly ripped apart. your head straight up drops on sukuna's shoulder, and you're sobbing loudly, babbling words that can't be defined.

then all of a sudden, sukuna outright cackles; the sound bleeds into your ringing ears, head picking up off of his shoulder.

"no fuckin' way!" he roars with laughter. you wanna shush him, but you can't move—your nerve ends are all bursting to life, like fruitful grapes popping between two fingers. it's happening again, whatever that feeling is, whelming you; this time you his fingers rub back and forth harshly across your clit, but wait—

"dumb lil pussy's squirtin' already, hahh, shit—fuckin' christ, girl—" he's enamored, watching you cum in adorable little spurts, soaking his clothes, your tights, and the kitchen floor, covering everything in your stupid juices.

"you wanted this, goddamn—look at you."

your eyes are rolled back as he kisses you again, fingers tearing into your scalp, the lewd sound of your lips smacking together filling the air.

never in your fucking life. you'd never came like that, so violently, so carelessly, not without really, really trying. all sukuna had to do was pump you up and down on his cock, say a few words and you were spraying like a tap. how fucking pathetic.

and then he does it again. drags another one out of you, laughing.

you barely catch his next words.

"'m gonna fuckin' cum in ya."

"n—no—" you stumble out, barely coming to at the words, but their enough to fill you with at least some urgency. your ass is bruised at the back from being repeatedly slammed against the counter, the wind knocked out of you entirely. "d-don't, wait, you can't—"

"why the fuck not, hah?" sukuna rumbles. "don't tell me it's cuz'a—"

"—yuji," you sob.

it hits you. it hits you then, hard, at the worst time. a gut-punch, one that makes you heave. in less than half a second, a guilt strong enough to set your skin alight cultivates and wrecks each single sense. his cologne invades your nostrils, an imaginary sensation, forced to breathe its natural, tender nature as opposed to sukuna's harsh and crude and brooding one, the one you're drowning in. the one sticking to your skin.

your hand—finally letting go of sukuna's shoulder, where you were keeping yourself stable—slaps over your mouth, tears springing into your eyes.

"f—fuck, fuck, fuck!" sukuna chants, eyes scrunching as he gets lost in the pleasure. he's pounding you, knocking your eyes back still, not slowing his pace for anything. your leg flails once, but how can you fight when he's holding you up like this?

"'s—'kuna," you choke out brokenly, slapping his chest with whatever strength you can muster. your lip quivers, heart aching in your chest as you plead tearfully, "don't."

he'd never been considerate. he'd never 'made love'. not even now. he fucked. he lied, he slipped off condoms, he 'forgot' to pull out, all so many times before. it was clockwork to him. he could've easily done it again. lied. been selfish. blurred the lines. cheated consent.

put a baby in his little brother's whore girlfriend.

and yet sukuna weirdly found himself pulling out of you last second, one hand holding you up while the other jerked his cock until thick ropes of cum splattered up your dress with a strained grunt. his orgasm spoils at it hits, a rough ecstasy that's tattered along the edges and ultimately, ultimately unsatisfying. it barely scratches the surface. the heat of it hasn't even started leaving his body before he wants more, regrets not filling you up, every cell inside him clawing for it, starved and fucking addicted.

sukuna almost, almost crushes you against the island, dropping you on the counter again where your drenched cunt feels like it's been electrocuted when met with the cold so suddenly. you gasp, arching into him, searching for any kind of warmth.

but he rips away from you, turning his back. his touch is gone as soon as it came. any desire flatlines, ringing loudly, blaring in your sensitive ears. alarm bells.

what is this?

both your chests are heaving. there's no afterglow. it's messy, dirty, frantic. cheap. depraved.

and it seems like you aren't the only one.

"s-sukuna, i—"

CLICK.

lips snapping shut, you sit right up, head whipping around in the most deafeningly guilty sense ever. heart in your throat, your expression echoes one of pure horror, one you expect will reflect your boyfriend's when he realizes what's going on here.

yuji stumbles out of the bathroom, his mop of pink hair tousled and eyelids low. he hangs by the doorframe for several seconds, his head dropped, not even looking up. it takes only a few steps. they're slow, clumsy, lead him to the bedroom door. he doesn't notice. he doesn't notice.

his older brother and his girlfriend are feet away, covered in squirt and sperm and other dirty secrets. shame. guilt. some more than others.

and he just blunders into the bedroom, a loud 'thump', telling you that he made it to bed.

all you do is stare. your jaw stays slack.

you hear a zipper and, frazzled, quickly flit your head at sukuna. he's fixing his clothes, not paying you any mind.

you stare at his back, despairing.

"wh—you're just gonna...?" you stammer incredulously, trying to do the same but there's no fixing the gaping hole in your tights that reaches down to your mid thighs.

away from his gaze, him cum settles against the fabric of your torn up dress, pooling slowly in its place.

his cock, hardly soft, twitches again, urging his need. he ends up frozen for a moment, simply staring, before he numbly moves forward.

he leaves, leaving you sat on the counter as he storms out into the night, slamming the front door behind him.

you're alone there, stunned, cum up your dress that is almost but not quite your boyfriend's, the floor below you soaked, and a heartbeat in every part of your body.

trembling, you push yourself off of the counter.

vaguely aware of the layout of the house, you scramble to find some wipes and clean up the mess on the floor. after that, it takes at least 10 minutes to get the semen out of your dress, but even then, you feel filthy.

you sniffle over the sink, scrubbing soapy suds into your tainted skin. wanting to throw up.

what the fuck had you done?

you'd cheated. that's it. you cheated on the sweetest angel, your angel, yuji. the one entirely too gentle and trusting for this world. you betrayed him. a sob rips through you, shattering your core.

stupid, stupid, stupid.

as you sneak back into bed, fingers still shaking as they turn the handle to yuji's room, you don't even have the energy to change your clothes. you simply crawl into bed, too crushed to face him, not garnering the strength, knowing what you'd done. a tear slips down your cheek.

because you can't even regret it.

and before you know it, yuji's draping himself over you, his arms, pulling you against the haven of his chest, sighing against your neck.

"you made it..." he mumbles.

oh, how you want to sob when he says such a thing. "yeah," you nod, trying to suppress the break in your voice, "yeah, i'm here."

yuji grunts happily, snuggling you closer. "mmh, good."

you don't think you will ever forgive yourself.

"i love you." yuji says, blind to the truth.

but you swear it's not one-sided. "i love you," you admit, beginning to cry softly in his arms, wondering if it will be the last time you ever get the liberty of doing so again.

1K notes · View notes

queers-gambit · 1 month ago

Text

Commander

prompt: ( requested ) being on opposite sides of the Rings eventually sends your husband back into your arms, and between your legs. haha, nice.

pairing: Elrond x female!wife!reader

fandom masterlist: The Rings of Power

word count: 4.6k+

note: it is NOT said (that i've heard) that Elrond wears his father's cloak - that's just author being sentimental.

warnings: not edited, some obvious angst, mostly hurt and comfort, romance, established relationship, small relationship angst, smut, is this a Commander kink? i'm not sure. small spoilers, sibling reader.

bonus

The trees of Lindon glimmered gold and winked in the sunlight as vibrant veins of restored Light flowed through them all. It was a gorgeous sight; one you were happy to bask in after nearly losing it to the dark depths of evil corrupting Middle-earth. The only reason you had this glorious sight of twinkling beauty was because you had alined yourself with Galadriel and Celebrimbor about the distribution and use of the Elven Rings of Power - though you did not wish to claim one.

You merely desired the salvation of your people on this Middle-earth the Valar gifted The Children of Ilúvatar.

In order to support the Rings, you had to oppose the only person you had ever loved unconditionally, and nothing hurt like that. Despite the pain, disruption, turmoil, the angst it put you and Elrond through, you did not waver in your opinion - but he did not relent in his stance, either.

That was usually a quality you adored in your husband; how stubborn, strong, enduring, passionate, educated, and unrelenting he was. Yet for this, you were beyond frustrated.

You remembered the look of utter betrayal in his eyes when he stormed away the day the Rings were all claimed by Círdan, Gil-Galad, and Galadriel. He couldn't look at you, on those stairs, opposing him and defending the Rings. So, he fled the scene - unable to hide how displeased, unhappy, and horrified he felt.

After that, the two of you began to bicker over simple, common, mundane, marital situations; he instigated fights, prolonged arguments, even lit purposeful fires to force you into verbal altercations. You argued endlessly, needlessly, heatedly about things that voices didn't need raised for. Tension followed you everywhere, filled every room, and after just a few nights... Elrond decided he couldn't sleep in your shared chambers any longer.

You had returned from duty to find him sending several cases of his personal belongings away, freezing when he realized you had caught him. He looked akin to a startled animal. "I did not mean for you to see this," he offered stiffly as if embarrassed, "I-I thought you were on patrol."

"I was switched to the nightshift," you explained meekly, watching servants stream from the room with their arms full of his desired effects. "W-What's going on? What're you doing?"

Elrond sighed, unable to meet your eyes for several long minutes. Then, he licked his lips, nodded, and told you, "I just figured, considering the state of affairs, we'd benefit - "

"Our marriage isn't an 'affair', Elrond!" You snapped, tears filling your eyes. "We're just in a strange state, couples are allowed to disagree, there's a lot unknown - "

"I can't stay here anymore, love, and watch how much I'm hurting you," his head shook. "You think you're silent, but I hear your weeping. I know you avoid coming to bed because I'm there first. You used to pin my robes in the morning, and now, I'm lucky if I even catch a glimpse of your skirt as you rush out the door as I wake. We're not happy anymore, Y/N..."

You froze, lungs shriveling into nothing, shock pumping into your system. "Yo-You're not happy?" You stuttered, stumbling back a couple steps as if he had brandished a sword.

Elrond just stared at you, asking, "Are you? Truly?"

"Generally, yes! I am certainly not so unhappy that I want us apart! This is just a difficult position we're in, but we will get past it, Elrond, we always do!"

"This isn't just a difficult position," he snapped, shocking you back another single step. "We're at odds, starshine, and I hate to admit it. But this is bigger than us, than our love - this is fundamental - "

"And about more than us! Yes! That's what I'm thinking of, Elrond, our people!"

"And what of Sauron? What of his influence upon the Rings!?"

"What of the good they've done? What of the connection?"

"What do you mean - "

"Galadriel!" You snapped. "The obvious connection the Ring amplifies within her! There is a grave new sense she and the other Ringer Bearers have. She can use this Ring to-to-to sense evil, perhaps even see ahead of the enemy! It might be his influence, but aren't we stronger? Stronger than him, together?"

"Those who wear the Rings - "

"You speak of your former mentor, the Elven High King, and your greatest friend. Which of them will you predict to fall?"

"After Galadriel’s already fallen prey - "

"But she is the wiser, the stronger for it! She is thrice as determined before! Why must these Rings divide us, Elrond? Why can we not simply say we leave all politics at the door when we are together?"

Sadly, slowly, he shuffled closer and reached out to caress your cheek. "I love you, my star," he reminded, "but in knowing your stance, I cannot allow us to continue being so destructive to each other. Support the Rings, my love," he lowered his forehead to yours, "but I cannot stand at your side while you do so... Not when I know of Sauron's influence..."

You pulled back, sniffling down the tears that surfaced to nod with a sarcastic smile. "I thought when we took our vows of matrimony, we'd hold true... But I can see, you do not intend to see us through this bog."

"That's where you're wrong," he snarled, stepping closer to hold both of your upper arms and jostle you slightly, "don't you see? Don't you understand? We need the space or we'll keep hurting one another, and I don't know if there's a way for us to heal after that. As of now, we stand a chance, but only if we curate distance - so we need to proceed individually as we need best."

His reasoning was logical, but you were beyond hurt by his departure. Perhaps it was for the best; especially when the High King decided to send a scouting party after Sauron, anointing Elrond as Commander, and upon the news, you panicked. Like, fully broke down in worried tears, alone. Yet you did not go to him, you did not speak out, you just accepted the High King's command and gathered in the courtyard with any other loved ones wishing the company safe travels.

Yet Elrond just looked at you sadly and lifted his hand in parting before turning to lead his comrades out of Lindon.

You shed a single tear as High King Gil-galad was felt at your flank, slowly entering your peripheral. "They have passed out of my sight," you informed him, voice trembling.

"I know of the strife between you and Commander Elrond..." the King trailed off, "But I would like to commend you for remaining a pillar in your belief. These Rings," he showed his, "are a power and force we do not yet understand in full."

"Perhaps, in time," you agreed, sniffling. "If you would excuse me, my King."

He agreed, letting you go; and all you could do was return to your chambers and throw yourself into your pillows for a good cry. After a single day or moping, you got up and got back to work; working with the other trusted advisors to devise battle strategies, evacuation plans, and whatever else you could do preemptively. You didn't know how long Elrond was gone for because after leaving your chambers, you scarcely saw him - something you suspect was on purpose. All you knew was that he was gone and you missed him.

"Sister!"

You looked up when Tinnriel, or Tinnie, rushed into the council room. "What's wrong?" You asked in alarm, straightening up to take her in arms.

"I-I saw - I saw Elrond - he's on his way here - "

"Slow down," you pleaded.

"Something's wrong!" She sneered at you, pushing your arms down. "I've been telling you for weeks! But you do not listen! To myself or your husband!"

"Oh, not this again, Tinnie, I've told you - "

"That it is paranoia, yes, I've heard you, but you and Elrond are at odds! That's not my paranoia! You two never feud, he's been gone days and now returns, looking worse for wear!"

"High King, I apologize for my sister's interruption - "

"She's not wrong," Gil-galad muttered, making you pause.

"My King?"

"You are not wrong, Tinnie," He addressed your sister, finding her eyes and holding her hostage by a single look, "for I have felt the darkness, too. There is something amiss, I will agree, but..."

"It is the Rings!" She insisted.

"Oh, not this again!" You snarled, seizing her upper arm. "Out! Now! You will still your tongue before the King!"

"High King!" You heard Elrond calling, rushing down the hall you were surging up. He spoke your name, "Where are you going?"

"To have a word - "

"This is much more important. Trust me, please! With me, now!" He breezed past you, but caught your free arm in his hold - pulling you after him and forcing you to release Tinnie. "High King," Elrond addressed as he lead you back into the room, your younger sister lingering in the doorway to listen, "the Orcs are not in Mordor."

"Elrond, our reports - "

"We've encountered them!" Elrond cut you off, making you silence yourself out of sheer curiosity; not accustomed to seeing him so disheveled and manic... So authoritative. "A legion of them are headed for Eregion." He pulled out Nenya, showing the King, "My wife and Galadriel were right! They were right! You must send the army to Eregion this moment."

Your head bowed in disappointment, wishing beyond wishful thought that you had been gifted with foresight - then you could've seen this, withheld the Elven Armies from marching to Mordor, been better prepared. Elrond noted your silence first, ready to question you, when the High King stiffly informed, "That will not be possible. I have reason to believe that Sauron is the architect of all this."

Choosing his words carefully, Elrond argued slightly, "High King, Eregion is the very jewel of Elvendom. If it were to fall, it would be a mortal blow for all in Middle-earth. You must send aid!"

"Our armies cannot defeat both Adar and Sauron. Not alone."

Something clicked in your mind, straightening up and taking hold of Elrond's arm. You bowed your head in agreement, "Of course, High King, we understand. Allow me the day to catch my husband up on recent events, we might reconvene later - "

"I shall send for you when a decision has been made," Gil-galad waved off, you all but shoving Elrond from the room; almost tripping over Tinnie.

"Go, go, go, just go," you muttered to the two in Sindarin, releasing Elrond's arm - surprise coloring your features when he snatched your hand into his. Yet you did not comment. At the end of the hall, you halted them both, being aware of the stationed guards, keeping your voice low, "Tinnie, go attend to the rest of Commander Elrond's company. I imagine they'll need food, rest, perhaps aid?"

"Camnir was shot with an arrow..." Elrond muttered, "But Galadriel healed him."

"How?" Tinnie squeaked.

"Nenya... I saw it myself..."

You sighed, "Tinnie, please?"

She nodded, "Shall I speak to them?"

"They will want to give their account, please take record for the King," you instructed, Elrond's hand tightening in yours almost unconsciously.

"What're you going to do?"

"Speak with my husband," you sighed.

"No, I mean... If you and Galadriel were right, if the Orcs are marching on Eregion... What're you going to do?"

"We have much to discuss before a decision can be made," Elrond told her, tone hardened, "now, please, Tinnie, go."

Tinnie noticed the darker, deeper baritone to his voice and instantly nodded and scurried away towards the front gates. "How far back did you leave your company?" You asked softly, watching the last of Tinnie's skirts sweep around the corner.

"Far enough. Come," he directed, turning to start down the pathway; leading you towards the quarters you once shared. Yet before you could enter, you reared back; yanking his hand, his concerned expression turning down in gentle aggravation. "What's the matter?" He asked.

"You don't live here anymore."

Elrond heaved a great sigh, turning to you, "Truly? You wish to do this now?"

"For weeks, you've picked arguments. You've been combative, irritable, spiteful. You... You chose a ring over me - "

"That's not true - "

"How would you phrase it then!?"

"I chose ethics! Morality! You chose a Ring of Power, not just a ring!" He barked at you, both cracking under the pressure the Ring had subjected your marriage to.

"And look where it lead! You come storming in, declaring Galadriel and I are right to the High King, and now... Now it sounds as if you still defend your decision!"

"I do."

You shook off his grip, "Then perhaps we might find somewhere more neutral to discuss matters?"

Elrond heaved a sigh, "What's wrong with our rooms - your rooms? What's wrong with your rooms?"

"Exactly that, they're mine. Not ours. It seems, no matter where I look, I am reminded that my husband didn't love me enough - "

"Don't you ever say that again!" Elrond snarled, leering over you; back to a bannister, bending you back slightly as you refused to back down - keeping him in front of you. He was heaving for breath, body trembling; proximity allowing you to count the pores clogged by dirt, blood, and grime. "You may hold all the anger you wish, but never accuse me of something so heinous, impossible, untrue. So unfathomable."

"Then prove me wrong!" You fired back, shoving at his abdomen to force him back a step so you could righten yourself off the bannister. "You proved to me your anger, now prove your love! Your remorse! Show me an apology, do not just say it! You looked at me with such hate, Elrond, and you left our rooms, you left me - over a matter of opinion! Do you know what that felt like? What pain that caused? You swore to me - "

"I know what our vows were!" He snapped, tears tinging his eyes red; the air hot between your mouths as you both seethed in anger. "I know what we promised, but never did I think Sauron would return, let alone offer such threat!"

"I am beginning to think you are angry about something else! Is it Galadriel - "

"It's me!"

You were startled into silence, his voice echoing down the hall as his facial expression turned angry. Elrond turned from you to pace himself in a semi-circle, and for whatever reason, you softly questioned, "Where's your cloak?"

"What?" Elrond scoffed, having created distance that you closed to lay your hand on his bicep.

"Your father's cloak, Elrond, where is it?"

"I do not know - I don't..." His head shook, looking annoyed with himself. So, you sighed and nodded, dropped your hand to his and laced your fingers together before leading him into your quarters. "Don't - "

"Just come in," you nudged his shoulder, encouraging him into the room as you shut the doors and drew all curtains to keep your conversation private. You locked the main doors.

"You rearranged?" He noted, stalking around the room; slotting himself between furniture as he silently judged it all.

"Just trying something new, I can't sleep most nights and need something to occupy my mind," you explained, shutting the balcony doors, too. With a sigh, you spun on the spot and implored, "What did you mean, Elrond, when I questioned what you were angry about and said it's you? Please, talk to me. We did not talk about Nenya, and now..." You sighed deeply.

Elrond seemingly remembered he still had the Ring, looking at it in his flat palm with what you could only describe as terror. His eyes lifted to yours, asking, "Do you have a chain?"

With a nod, you ventured to your personal jewelry box and located a glittering braided chain; approaching him to gently drop it in a coiled pile beside Nenya. His hand shook, hating the feeling of the Ring... So, you gently took his hand to steady it and asked, "Tell me what you meant."

Elrond watched you thread the Ring onto the chain. "You're right, thinking my anger is sourced elsewhere... It's not Galadriel, per se - though, I am angry, for varying reasons. But it's me - I'm angry at myself."

"Why?"

"I did not see..."

You lifted the two ends of the chain slowly to his chest, but when he flinched, you reminded, "Galadriel entrusted it to you, nobody else should keep it." He nodded in acceptance, so, you lifted the necklace again, asking, "What didn't you see, Elrond?"

"Halbrand... While in Eregion, making the Rings, he helped Lord Celebrimbor and I, it was... He was there the whole time... So very present, innocent - feigning a King of Men - "

"Halbrand is Sauron."

"He is," Elrond confirmed, "and I did not see it."

"You are angry Sauron the Deceiver deceived you!?" You gaped, hooking the chain and retracting your arms. "Elrond, do you hear yourself? You are victim, none of you knew!"

"But the Rings - they work! You were right!"

"Elrond - "

"It's why I'm angry," he admitted, "because the Rings work, I've seen it, but also because I did not see Sauron for who he was."

"None of us did," you whispered, seeing the struggle behind his eyes.

"I couldn't protect them, either."

"Who?"

"Well, now, none of us - but Lord Celebrimbor and Galadriel specifically; they were with us, with Sauron. I..." He sighed deeply, "I did not see, now we all suffer - "

"We do not suffer, we are fighting back," you cut him off now, his sad eyes finding yours. "And you, our Commander, because you alone feel responsible for our entire salvation. You will lead us, Elrond," his head shook in refusal, making you insist, "no, listen - hear my words. You will lead our people, command legions of Elves, because you have proven strong and determined enough. Since you realized the truth of Sauron, you have fought tooth and nail for the rest of us - even me, you fought me - to see the truth. We have all been blinded, deceived, and now, we all must fight, but trust that the Rings... With the darkness they bring, they must also bring light - it is not just Sauron alone in them, but you all. Which means, in the grandest scheme, all your good overpowers Sauron's bad - proven by the Light of the Valar returning. By Camnir's rescue."

"I fought..." He whispered, reaching for your face - neither of you moving away, wanting the comfort, "At a time my words were needed most. And now, it's too late."

"It's never too late, Elrond, or have you not been paying attention?" You chortled lightly, sighing as you pet over his tunic; manicured nails gently fiddling with Nenya in admiration as it glimmered in the candlelight. "I... Had an idea I want your opinion on. Born of the High King's decision to send he army to Morodor..."

He nodded, stepping closer so his hand fully caressed your cheek and slid to hold the back of your neck. "Speak it," he whispered, "tell your Commander."

You could not repress the shiver of attraction even if you tried. He leered over you, holding you tenderly, close, pressing you closer as his eyes dared you to lose your train of thought. "We seek help... From the Dwarves, from Prince Durin," you whispered, "for they hold Sauron's Rings, they will need our aid in time - we just need theirs first."

"You would have me go above our King?"

"I would have you lead us, Commander."

Elrond smirked slightly, free arm coiling around your waist to hoist you into his embrace. "Something sounds as if you... Like this new position of mine?"

"It suits you - authority, I mean."

"Oh?"

"Being decisive," you listed as Elrond moved forward, walking you backward, "assertive, argumentative... It's a good look."

"Then are you ready to listen to your Commander?"

"At once, sir."

He paused you, lips hovering over yours; demanding of your ears only, "Strip."

"My Lord - "

"Aht," he tutted, pulling back; leaving you cemented in place.

"Commander," you amended, watching him nod subtly. Slowly, your hands lifted to start unlacing your corset; his eyes dark and concentrated, watching each movement you made. Elrond stood with his shoulders squared, hands clasped in front of him, feet spread apart; ensuring you were operating to his level of completion.

"All of it," he told you when down to your small clothes; pausing your venture onto the bed behind you.

So, you stripped those off, too. He nodded in approval, watching you teasingly turn to crawl onto the bed and settle in the middle of the mattress - facing him. Elrond's eyes locked with yours, only straying when your legs slowly spread to reveal your sweetest point for his viewing pleasure. His shoulders heaved upward as he drew in breath, lifting his chin, eyes darting around to note the speckling of honey collecting between your legs.

"Touch yourself," Elrond demanded, reaching for his weapons belt and unhooking it.

"Where, Commander?"

He smirked and simply repeated, "Touch. Yourself. If you can't take direction..."

You didn't question him again, watching him slowly unlatch the belts and hooks of his uniform; deft fingers rubbing through your wetness as others came up to pinch your nipple and roll the bud. Elrond shed his boots, discarding them to the side; tunics yanked from his bare torso, leaving the glittering jewelry around his neck. A moan escaped as you dipped your fingers within your cunt as Elrond ripped his trousers open - then paused. He admired the sight of you splayed out, both hands at work, watching him undress.

In Sindarin, Elrond questioned, "Are we still at odds, my starlight?"

You whined, replying, "If you're not inside me in the next minute, Commander, we will be."

Elrond chuckled and shucked his trousers from his hips, down his thighs, then stepping out of them. "Do you forgive me, my star?"

"Nothing to forgive."

"Don't feed me that," he reprimanded, stepping up to mount the bed; his own hand beginning to fondle his reddening cock, stroking himself to straining life. "I have wronged you and your Commander intends to show he is remorseful. Tell him how."

"Move back in," you pleaded, reaching for him as he allowed himself to hover over you, "and do not leave me - not again."

His breath exhaled against your lips, settling to lay against you while a single leg bent to secure his hips on yours. "Never," Elrond agreed, "but I'll need to hear you say it."

"Is that a command?"

Elrond smirked and lined himself up to notch his cockhead at your cunt's mouth; sinking in as he answered, "Of course, it is." You gasped and slapped a hand up to hold his flushing neck, mouth wide at the familiar sting; public hair grinding together as his balls pinned between you, cock fully sheathed. "You've been given a command, my star," he grunted in your ear, "don't disappoint your Commander now."

Like all Elves, your ears had increased sensitivity; creating a legion of goose flesh to shoot across your flesh. Without breath, you affirmed in his ear, "I-I forgive you - fuck - I forgive you, my love. Don't leave me," you whimpered, "and I forgive you."

"What side do you remain?"

You whined, "Yours, yours, my husband, I remain on your side, Commander."

"And will you obey your Commander?"

"Until the end," you nodded, his lips finally findings yours. A sharp whimper ripped from your lungs as Elrond retracted his hips, thrusting into you at his own set, even pace; lips messily sliding against each other from tongues and spit. "You were gone too long," you managed to whisper.

"We won't be apart that long again," he grit, grunting as he held your thigh in a bruising-grip, "I swear it - "

"You can't - "

"I swear it," he gnashed your bottom lip between his teeth, making you gasp in pain and shock before moaning when he suckled at the mark. Softly, he released your lips, whispering, "I promise, we won't be. We go together from now on."

Nenya dangled between you, tracing around your chest from his aggressive thrusting; you agreeing with a nod, "Together."

"Now," Elrond grunted, "'M not gonna last, pet, gonna need you t'cum with me - together."

"Yes, Commander," you moaned, seeing the way his eyes fluttered; cheeks, neck, and ears blushing bright as his orgasm mounted, trying in vain to hold back. Seeing the almost involuntary reaction your words caused, your hand found Elrond's cheek and directed his eyes to yours, encouraging, "I'm so close, Commander, you make me feel so good, so full, it's been so long - too long! I'm right there, my love, my Commander, please - "

"Ah," Elrond hissed through his teeth, "yes, love, I'm there, too; right there, right there - "

"Cum in me... That's a command, Commander," you demanded in his ear, and it was all that was wrote. Elrond bucked wildly his last few thrusts, pinning you to the mattress; your own orgasm triggered by the flooding of warmth filling your too-empty womb.

"O-Oh," he stuttered, humping into you in languid thrusts before slowing to a shivering halt. You watched Elrond try to regulate his breathing, wrapping your arms around him in an instant to bring him in close; resting him on your chest while your one arm wrapped around him, the other threading into his curls. "I love you," he whispered into your flesh.

"I love you, too," you affirmed. Then, while toying with the sweat-curled ringlets of his hair, you mused softly, "You need a cut."

"You told me for years to grow it out, now you want me to cut it?"

"No, I don't want you to; I just know, you prefer a cleaner crop."

"I've... Grown fond of the look."

You smirked, "That is relieving to hear."

Elrond sighed and slowly lifted off you; only enough to help maneuver you so he didn't have to pullout of your cunt but could still hold you as the big spoon. "So... Prince Durin, is it?" He asked in your ear.

You smirked, "Why not? He is a friend, his father wields a Ring of Power... He would more incentive to help than others. And the Dwarves are formidable in battle, it could help turn the tides, by uniting the Free Peoples of Middle-earth. Elf, Dwarf, Man..."

"What alliance of Men would - "

"We do not speak of Men, we speak of Prince Durin," you reminded him; his face nuzzling into your neck. "I think you should go in person. To plead the severity of our situation, how dire the need for aid is. To convey our desperation."

"The High King - "

"Leave him to me," you insisted, holding his arms around you. "I know we just agreed to not part ways, but you need to parlay with Prince Durin and I will keep Gil-galad at bay. When Durin agrees to march to our aid in Eregion, we march our remaining forces against Adar and meet the Dwarves on the field."

"It sounds good..."

"But?"

"Is it possible?"

"We will have to work in tandem, but I would assume the King would not argue asking for aid. I'll inform him of your departure and intention after you've left."

His arms tightened, "We can speak of it more later. I just want to feel you in my arms - it's been too long."

"You will hear no such complaints from me."

After a moment, where you both spent it resettling and nuzzling into the peaceful silence, Elrond asked, "Do you... Do you think one of the company managed to find and grab my cloak?"

In amusement, you replied, "Oh, I'm sure."

"And that Tinnie would have it?"

"Knowing her, by now, surely," you mused, reaching up to pet his cheek; requesting, "now, I have gone too long without the feeling of you beside me and wish to rest."

"As you command, my love."

requesting rules and masterlist

TROP masterlist

658 notes · View notes

mossy-aro · 2 months ago

Text

ultimately i think my insistence on aro positivity honestly is as much a political stance as a personal one.

when i say aro positivity is crucial and that i dislike doomer-ist posts that express sentiments like 'I hate being aro so much I wish I was dead instead’ it's not because I don’t think there can and should be a space for negativity and acknowledging self-hate, or the many ways being aromantic can really suck sometimes. i find that to be very important!

that being said. there is smth here about how self-hate posts are sometimes just arophobia that we inflict on ourselves. and when we put that out into the ether it (intentionally or not) can become arophobia that we inflict on other members of the community. i think there absolutely needs to be a place for negativity and the expression of anger and frustration and self loathing even - these are all good things to talk about because these are things that we experience. that being said, it can also be genuinely upsetting and triggering to people to have what is essentially arophobia shown to them and then have that be validated by other aspec people. your personal thoughts can affect your wider community on a level you may not anticipate. and i understand it i truly do! it took me so long to be able to recover from accepting being aroace - it threw my entire world off kilter and made me question everything about my place in the world.

but my insistence on aro joy and positivity is because ultimately i do believe that building is at the core essence of it all. that ultimately discussions and the purpose of community should be about construction, not destruction. and this is both a personal and a political stance. talking about how much you hate yourself and cultivating online discussions/spaces where negativity about aspec identity is the main and only theme is destructive - if that’s where we let the conversation end. these thoughts can and should be used as a vehicle to look for a path forward!

joy and positivity create a space where the focus can become on forging a path forward, on construction, on community building instead of tearing ourselves and others down with negative thoughts. it’s not productive or healthy when it stops at a place of negativity - it becomes actively destructive to the essence of community.

and i do think that this is especially poignant considering the fact that being any kind of queer, but especially aromantic (and/or asexual) means forging a path for yourself and making your own happiness where there is no obvious way forward. our communities exist mostly online (right now, anyway), there is little recognition of our existence in the real world, the effects of amatonormativity are both pervasive and actively dehumanising, and there are legal, economic and social structures in place actively making our lives more difficult. yes that all sucks! it’s good to acknowledge that. we need to in order to change it. but more importantly, that’s not the end. we are still here and our happiness, our future is for us to determine. even if we can’t change the laws or society, loving yourself and understanding aromanticism as a political identity (as well as personal), as a radical worldview, and as a protest against amatonormativity is essential for both community and personal well being. the personal is political.

tldr. i guess my point is that as a community, we should focus on building, improving, and nurturing ourselves and each other (construction) as opposed to destruction. we should recognise aromanticism and asexuality as political identities as well as personal ones and rely on community and self-love in the absence of anything else as a form of protest and political power. destruction (the recognition of everything that is wrong) is essential as a starting point - but where do we go from there? we rebuild.

#aromantic #aro positivity #aspec #aroace #aro #aromantic joy #arospec #when i saw its important to 'love' yourself - pls understand i am in no way trying to exclude loveless aros from this #that was just the easiest way to express what i meant! when i say 'love' i mean positivity/respect/happiness. etc. i just used that word bc #it works for ME which is why i said it. but feel free to replace it with whatever works for you! <2 #also sorry if not everything im saying makes total sense i tried my best #this is something ive been thinking about for a while and have been struggling to articulate #i maybe should have read some theory for this abt community building but im too tired + overwhelmed w school reading right now so sorry.#if anyone has additions on that front though please do add them #also ngl im kinda scared to post this. i hope i explained what i mean well enough. like i get wanting to vent and express self hate BUT.#there is nuance to this and it is not unilaterally healthy i think. also i dont see any other online community fostering the normalisation #of selfhate the way the aspec one does! which makes me feel weird abt it especially.#anyway. this is basically my personal philosophy towards aromanticism #mossy posts #⚙️

412 notes · View notes

cepheustarot · 5 months ago

Text

What is the character of your future spouse?

Attention! This reading is for entertainment purposes only. This tarot reading does not give a 100% guarantee that all the described situations will occur or being ultimate truth. You build your own life and destiny and only you know yourself best.

✧ Masterlist ✧ Paid readings

Pick a pile. Choose one or more pictures. Trust your intuition.

Pile 1: At first glance your future spouse looks like a very inaccessible, complex person, whom it is difficult to get close to and generally interest them in communication but the closer you get to know them, the more reveals themself to you as a very kind, caring, gentle person, ready to support you and help you in difficult times. I can say that this person has two sides and they decide which side to show themselves, depending on whether they consider you close, trust you or not (but in your case they will definitely consider you close, a loved one who can be trusted). They are those who rely on their intelligence and rationality, but often act based on their intuition, they have a lot of life experience. They are prudent, they know how to solve problems, how to find a way out of a situation, they often "do not look for easy ways", they can complicate their lives but this is because they want to do something different, bring something new to life, get a new experience. They are quite hardworking, they work very hard, mostly their work is in mental activity, so can quickly get tired of this. They like to reflect, share their deep thoughts, they can also look for hidden meaning where it may not be. If you are interested in esotericism, then a person can support your hobby, discuss topics from this area with you, or treat neutrally and listen to you about it but they will never condemn you about it. Your future spouse will also treat you with great tenderness, love and care, will try to make you happier, you are a very valuable and dear person for them, they will always feel that they are not doing enough for you, although they may even overdo it in some ways, often cause you pleasant embarrassment. They also respect you, respect your opinion, your personal boundaries, your desires and they respect parents, yours and theirs.

Pile 2: Your future spouse is quite sensitive, gentle, romantic, sensitive, sentimental, a person of fine mental organization. They will love you with all their heart, will devote a lot of time and attention to you, most likely their language of love is words and gifts, they can often compliment you, notice details in your appearance or in your behavior, give you gifts. They are very kind people in themselves, they do not like to argue and participate in conflicts, they are quite calm in this regard, it is difficult to anger them but it is not difficult to offend or hurt their feelings. This person can also be private, someone who doesn't like to talk a lot about his sad thoughts and feelings, such as anger, sadness, resentment, etc. such emotions are suppressed and do not like to be exposed to the public. At the same time, your future spouse is a very smart, intelligent person, constantly engaged in self-development, improvement of their skills, promotion at work / study, they are quite active. They are also very fond of children and animals, so if you have any of these, they will treat them with all their love and care. They may also have younger siblings or nephews, whom they also treat well, do a lot for them. They may be creative people, engage in drawing, be interested in art, literature, music, may even work in this field or have a lot of knowledge in this field. They are also very spiritually developed, they can be religious. Your future spouse will support you in everything since you will be like the love of their life for them, they will protect you and treat you very carefully, they sincerely love you, they may even often tell their family, friends, and loved ones with great love about you. They show that they really love you, it is noticeable by their actions and by the way they look at you with love, talk about you, how they address you using affectionate words.

Pile 3: Your future spouse is a person who works very hard, both in terms of career and in terms of self-improvement, they are constantly busy with important things, they may hold a high position at work, they may have several businesses, they themselves may be business partners for someone. Also, your future spouse has a very attractive, beautiful and sexy appearance, good physique, they have an alluring charisma that is difficult to resist. They like to flirt with their lovers very much, they can be overbearing, as they love to feel dominant, they can be a little jealous and possessive. They are also very active, like a mobile lifestyle, like to travel a lot especially in the company of someone, like to be in a circle of people, they are quite sociable and will always find a topic for conversation, they know how to maintain a dialogue. They are very proud, self-confident individuals, and with this vibe they energize people around them, inspire and motivate them. At the same time, they are quite empathic people, they experience the hardships of others as if they themselves had encountered them, in this regard they can be quite sensitive. They also tend to think about their shortcomings, fixate on failures and at such moments it is important to support them, show that they are loved and very successful people.

Thank you for reading! I will be glad of any feedback 🖤

#tarot #tarot cards #pick a card #pick a card reading #pick a pile #pick a pile reading #pac #pick a photo #pick a picture

840 notes · View notes

ronearoundblindly · 7 months ago

Text

Lease

best-friend!roommate!reader x Steve Rogers

*This was a totally random and spontaneous idea. Not edited. Light language (so we can get *the joke*), pining, light angst, hurt/comfort, and fluff. This work is for all ages! WC ~2k

Sam Wilson introduces you. Both your parents were veterans and active at the VA, so you practically grew up there.

At first, you’re reserved, a little formal, but very nice. Oddly enough, Steve just likes that you don’t hound him with questions about his military service and how it was different based on the decade, etc. You are just…around to listen.

He finds himself filling any (comfortable) silence between you with stories. Stupid things. Things that don’t have to do with the VA or his past or even his present, which is entirely work as Captain America.

Steve gets to a point where he is itching to live off of Avengers Campus, but he doesn’t want to live alone.

One day he finds you hunched over a laptop and grumbling, “why is everything so fucking expensive?”

A sentiment which, of course, he frowns at.

“Sorry,” you shrug, a look of sincere apology on your distraught face. “I didn’t realize it, but apparently, I’m poor with my measly three-thousand-dollar-a-month budget for an apartment. Now I have to find a roommate, and—“ you start wagging a finger at him sarcastically “—I don’t know if you’ve noticed there’re some real weirdos out there. It’ll take me longer to find a safe, stable roomie than it takes to—“

“I can move in with you.”

Steve almost gasps at how fast the words fly out of his mouth.

“Well, not ‘move in’ to your current place. I mean. I can—I would be willing to live with you. Sorry! That sounds bad. You’re not bad. I meant…you know, anytime you want to chime in and stop me would be helpful.”

You remain silent and smirking.

“Right. Okay. So…think about it? Or not, that’s fine.”

“Let’s talk figures, Rogers. The square-footage just doubled, and I need to rework the budget.”

Moving in is shockingly uneventful. You’re easy to get along with, when not suddenly up on your high horse about something, and Steve is easy to get along with under the same circumstances. You push his militant rigidity to the brink on purpose, but never too far.

Things sit out in the wrong place, but it’s never dirty. Stuff doesn’t always get returned promptly, but if he asks, you’re on it.

There are two bathrooms, thank mercy.

He has random and odd hours. You work nine to five, mostly. It’s the perfect level of independence without loneliness for Steve.

Sam and Natasha stop by regularly or ask you both out for drinks or to fun, new places.

One time, when Nat is ribbing Steve to go talk to a cute girl ordering at the bar, he panics and takes your hand in his on the tabletop.

“How can I do that when my date is right here?” he grits playfully through his pearly white teeth. “Leave it alone.”

Each word is punctuated by a shift forward and a slight tilt of his head.

Natasha is unamused and instantly grabs your other hand (which was holding your drink) to pull you toward the dance floor.

It’s awkward for multiple reasons. You’d pay a whole month’s rent to know what Sam and Steve talked about after you left.

Sam takes a different approach, luring—or attempting to lure—Steve into setting up just one dating profile online.

“You don’t have to put photos,” Sam assures, “and you can stick with your first name only. I swear to you, man, this’ll be good for you. Get you out there more. Help me out here, Tagalong!”

He turns to you for support. To be fair, you did quite literally tag along with your parents for years to the VA, and it stuck. Why it sticks as a grown-ass adult? You’ll never know. You just don’t mind Sam Wilson saying it because he means well and never uses it in public.

“Uh, nooooo.”

Sam’s face falls. “What?”

You look at Steve and grimace, clicking your tongue. “He’s not ready for that,” you conclude.

Steve jumps out of the chair, arms wide with victory.

“THAT’S WHAT I’VE BEEN SAYING!”

“I know you told her to say that,” Sam shouts back.

“Did not,” Steve barks.

“He did not.” You lean against your bedroom doorframe. “I just think it’s obvious.”

That makes Steve deflate a little. “Wait, but…I’m not that bad.”

“Oh gosh,” you fake with a huge smile, “look at the time! Gotta be off to bed…”

The men keep fighting albeit muffled from your side of the wall. The only part you can make out before giving them privacy is Sam, whining, “but you actually like bubble baths and walks on the beach, dude. You’re gonna be money on there.”

“Hey, why do you not, ya know, date?”

You look up from your breakfast, stunned because that came out of nowhere. You’ve lived together over six months now, and Steve hasn’t asked for one iota of personal—well, romantically personal—information.

Twiddling your fork around, you think.

“I always imagine what my parents would think of him, any guy I’ve ever considered being with longterm, and…I was just never proud to say ‘here, here’s the one,’ I guess.”

Your parents have been gone for years. You value their opinion anyway.

“Mhm,” Steve hums, “the one?”

You take a bite of food, straightening your back, tossing a dismissive hand in the air. “Yeah, if you believe in that sort of thing.”

He’s quiet for a while.

“So you’re waiting for the right partner?” Steve finally mutters, and he watches your noncommittal gesturing intently.

That was a ‘yes.’

Natasha knows. Sam knows. Steve suspects but won’t admit to anything. You are kind and unreadable.

You’ve always been kind, so there’s no discernible difference to signal you have feelings for him in return. He can’t bring himself to be anything less than a gentleman at home and makes absolutely no moves to find out.

He stays out in the living room a lot more, all hours, hoping you’ll mention staying in for a movie, praying you’ll be tired enough to fall asleep on his lap on the couch.

He’s in way too deep.

What Steve suspects is that it would be too awkward to start anything while living together, but he doesn’t want to leave you in the lurch for rent or a roommate. He also desperately doesn’t want to move out. The status quo is comfortable.

He loves being comfortable with you.

The stress of not telling you, while needing to make some sort of arrangements should telling you blow up in his face, starts to wear on him.

Steve is a pro at compartmentalizing his life, so it’s when he’s stuck at the apartment without any missions, a handful of meetings, and a team that all have lives for two long months that he cracks…in the least attractive way.

He’s messed up his sleep schedule with worry and playing innocent, and out of the not-so-blue, a horrible, vivid nightmare hits him. Steve isn’t even on the mattress anymore by the time he figures out there wasn’t carpet like this in Germany and the desk chair he grips is not a motorcycle.

“Rogers,” he hears. “Rogers, can you look at me?”

The dark room is somehow hollow and stifling all at once. His head turns slower than his brain tells it to.

Steve blinks.

“Do you know where you are?”

“Hey, sweets,” he husks from a dry throat. “What…”

“Can you tell me where this is?” You step closer and pry one of his hands off the mesh to cradle in yours. “Where are we, Rogers?”

“Home.” He swallows. “Our home.”

Your smile doesn’t reach your eyes, but you nod like he’s done well.

“Okay, Steve, I’m going to get you some water. If you want—“ your fingers smooth over the back of his hand, nudging the other to release the chair “—you can sit on the bed.”

You don’t leave. You don’t even get up from the floor.

He doesn’t notice he’s clutching your hands, shaking slightly until long seconds go by.

“Yeah. Okay.” Steve lets go, otherwise unmoving, contemplating how he ever thought the semi-rough industrial carpet felt the same as mud.

You carefully hand him the water and rub his back, using your nails to trace invisible patterns. He can’t remember what he was so scared of a minute ago. He only knows he’s sweating that empty kind of confused.

“What’s that supposed to do?” he asks absently.

You shrug. “Eh. Back scratches just feel good.”

Steve’s mind remains blank as he sips his water.

: We need to renew the lease soon. Like this week.

Steve has stalled as long as humanly possible; he is officially not being a gentleman now. He is a coward.

: Talk about it when I get home?

: Could you at least tell me if this is a hard NO on staying here or just some concerns/questions? : I don’t get why you’re being like this.

Steve gets it, but he hates it.

: I’ll be back tonight. Should I pick up food?

: ffs : Fine. Whatever you want.

Steve also hates when you’re mad at him…which has been happening more and more.

He’s been distant, he refuses to let Sam or Nat come around for fear they’ll play match-maker and ruin the whole thing, and he is about to ruin the whole thing anyway.

Because he is not smooth. Because he is not prepared. Because he’s built up this perfect and amazing, sweep-you-off-your-feet moment.

And he bungles it.

“Out with it,” you command, haughtily yanking your portion of food from the countertop beside him, heading for the dinette.

“I want to be with you,” he blurts.

“Thank god,” you sigh, settling in your spot. “So we’ll go down to the office and sign in the morning. I don’t want there to be an issue if you’re off to wherever for who-the-hell-knows how long on the date the thing expires.”

“No, I…” but Steve’s voice is too quiet.

“There’s only a tiny window where they’re open before I have to head to work, so let me physically sign first, right? Then I gotta go.”

“Sure,” he slurs.

“Steve?” You turn to see him staring down at his food. He’s still across the room. “Are you okay?”

“I said I—I meant that—“ he huffs out his breath and taps his fist on the counter “—I meant that I’m an idiot,” he finishes softly.

Approaching with that beautiful, open-hearted kindness that haunts his days and soothes his night, you cross to him, scratching his back just the way he’s grown to crave.

“Think you might be hangry,” you chuckle.

He cannot do this. Steve is hanging on by a thread until the graze of your hand slides down his forearm to take his plate, and he spins.

He’s thought about kissing you so many times, he mapped out the angles he’d have to hold himself at, how far he needs to lean to get to you, the care to take wrangling in his strength and sheer excitement.

Steve Rogers is good at planning, at least, this part.

Gentle pecks of his plush lips to yours leave gaps in contact that let you whimper, and he fears you stopping him. He presses, wrapping his arms around you and molding your bodies together. The linoleum of the kitchen floor makes sticky sounds beneath your shuffling feet, squeaking once you hit the adjacent wall.

The force of that knocks your frozen arms into his chest, and painfully, Steve relents to step away, but not far. He bites his bottom lip and tastes the balm from yours, his head tilted in shame but fiery eyes watching you from beneath long lashes.

“Oh,” you breathe out. “Oh…you meant…”

Steve’s tongue darts out hungrily.

“Yeah.”

[Main Masterlist; Light Masterlist; Ko-Fi]

They're soooo cute!!!!!!

#steve rogers fanfiction #steve rogers x reader #750+#steve rogers fic #steve rogers fanfic #steve rogers imagine #steve rogers fluff #steve rogers one shot #steve rogers x female reader #captain america fanfiction #captain america x reader #captain america x you #steve rogers x you #steve rogers x y/n #hurt/comfort

832 notes · View notes

joelscurls · 1 year ago

Text

feel it in your bones

next part

pairing: Joel Miller x f!reader

words: 12.5k

summary: Two years ago, you finished your PhD and moved to Vermont. In the time since, you’ve gotten a job as a college professor, had your heart broken, and sworn off relationships entirely. Enter Joel, the father of one of your students, here for Homecoming Weekend – and too attractive to resist.

warnings: 18+, minors dni, no outbreak, age gap (reader is in her late 20s, Joel is in his late 40s), alcohol consumption, fluff, smut, masturbation (f), mutual pining(?), sexual tension, grinding, oral (f receiving), fingering, unprotected p in v, creampie, cumplay / cum eating, some light biting, use of pet names (darlin’, sweetheart, baby, etc.), reader has an asshole ex, no use of y/n

a/n: my first Joel fic! This is honestly a bit self-indulgent but I love fall and academia and Joel Miller so sue me okay. ty to my bby @caffeinated-validation for reading through this and offering your insight -- get you a partner who will beta your filthy Joel Miller smut for you lmao <3

You’ve gotten used to being alone.

You don’t mind it as much as you had a few months ago, the breakup still fresh, every touch of your own fingers seering into your skin when you’d remembered the way he’d touched you, the sound of your voice almost unrecognizable as you’d convince yourself each day to get out of bed and go to work, where you’d inevitably run into him. It was painful then, having to come home to the quiet, always far too aware of the sound of your own thoughts drumming against the inside of your skull.

Now though, you revel in that quiet. Sip your coffee in silence each morning. You’ve learned how to stay lost in your work, bringing home stacks of papers to grade and eating through texts to support your research while your dinner gets cold on the table in front of you. You’re well aware that this isn’t the healthiest way to cope, to just avoid it all, but it’s better than feeling.

You’ve sworn off relationships entirely. It’s a silent promise to yourself – that you’ll remain married to your work. You will devote all of your energy to making sure your students excel and that your research is strong. That is your life’s purpose, to make use of the PhD you worked so hard to get – not to be someone’s girlfriend or wife. And you’re fine with that, really. You’ve become immune to loneliness – or numb, maybe.

Regardless, you welcome the independence. You don’t have to worry about anyone else’s thoughts or feelings when it comes to the way you spend your own time. You’re free to do whatever you want. You can draw yourself a bath, fill it with bubbles, sit in it while you drain a bottle of wine into your mouth until the water runs cold. You can eat an entire box of dry cereal in one sitting while you re-watch your favorite show for the twentieth time. You can make yourself cum at any hour of the night with your vibrator or your shower head or your hand – and then go to work the next morning without a semblance of guilt.

Really, you like being alone.

Until you don’t.

It’s Homecoming Weekend at Sarah’s school.

She had insisted that Joel didn’t have to come, that it was mostly an opportunity for the college to milk donations out of sentimental alumni. But he’d missed her for the month she’d been gone, the house far too quiet with just him in it. In previous years, Joel had busied himself following Sarah’s departure with home projects. Three years in, though, he’s updated just about every room in the house, re-done the floors, built a brand new back deck.

In other words, he’s fresh out of distractions.

So, he’d made the trek to Vermont, with the excuse that he’d always wanted to experience a New England fall. It’s a lie, one that Sarah can probably read right through, considering he vocalizes his discomfort whenever the temperature drops below 70 degrees in Texas, but she goes along with it.

Besides, he wants to see what his tuition money is paying for.

In truth, Joel had been nervous when Sarah announced what major she’d decided to pursue. She had just finished her freshman year, prerequisite courses all completed. When she’d said the word – anthropology – Joel hadn’t even been sure what it meant. Since then, she’s explained it to him many times and in truth, he’s still none the wiser. Really, he’s just happy that she’s happy. Her passion for it is evident on her face any time she talks to him about the courses she’s taking, how great her professors are.

Especially you – she talks about you all the time – her mentor.

You’re supervising her on her thesis project – a qualitative assessment on students’ views on feminism and gender politics in the classroom. This past summer, Joel swears Sarah had mentioned your name more than her own friends’. She’d told him what courses you teach, what research you’ve conducted, all the countries you’ve traveled to for fieldwork. And she gives the best advice – Sarah had said one night over dinner – she’s like, my lifeline at school.

Joel doesn’t know you, but he’s thankful for you – for the guidance you so clearly provide Sarah.

There’s an Open House today for the Social Sciences college, which Joel tags along with Sarah to. He’s hopeful that he’ll learn something, come to understand the field and why Sarah loves it.

A buffet table stocked with refreshments sits on one side of the lecture hall. Sarah grabs them both cups of water infused with cucumber while Joel saves them seats at the back. There’s a slideshow projected onto the white board at the front, the current slide reading: An Introduction to the Social Sciences College & Our Current Research Efforts. A group of professors gathers at the front, name tags stuck to their button-downs and blazers. Sarah spots you as she sits down, pointing you out as she hands Joel his water.

“There – that one’s my mentor – the one in the plaid pants.”

Joel’s eyes follow her finger to the group at the front, scanning down the line. There’s a man, short and stocky with noticeably small hands hooked by the thumbs in the belt loops of his pants. Next to him, is a woman, taller than him, wearing a bright turquoise silk shirt, gold bangles decorating both of her wrists. And next to her is you, in the plaid pants.

Sarah had told him a lot of things about you, but she’d never mentioned that you’re fucking gorgeous. You’re smiling at something Turquoise Shirt has just said to you, and it’s like your entire face is glowing. Joel has to take a sip of water to collect himself.

He doesn’t take his eyes off you for the entirety of the presentation.

The dean of the college starts by briefly covering each department and what research efforts they have planned for the semester. Joel should be listening, he came here to listen – but he can’t get himself to focus on anything other than you.

You’re mostly focused on the presenter. Every so often, though, you distractedly toy with the buttons on your cardigan or twirl a strand of your hair between delicate fingers. And Joel is suddenly realizing how touch-starved he is after years of refusing to date – because just watching you, your hands – is about to send him into orbit.

You’re well-spoken too, he learns, when you take the microphone to discuss your current research project.

“This semester, I’ll be delving into the presence of food deserts in Vermont, and the effects these are having on the overall health of youth in the state,” you say. “We have received a sizable grant for this research, and I am thrilled to get started in a matter of weeks. This project will span the better part of the academic year as I speak to locals and craft surveys that will provide qualitative data to support my findings from the field.”

You press down on the clicker in your hand. A new slide projects onto the whiteboard. It’s a photo of you against the backdrop of a jungle, lush, green trees stretching past the top of the frame. The wide-brimmed hat you’re wearing covers most of your face – but that damn smile radiates through the makeshift screen.

“This is me last summer, in Peru. My research here was much more self-indulgent – I studied the important role that food plays in the average family there – and ate wayyyy too many sweets.”

The crowd laughs. It’s the first reaction they’ve expressed this entire time.

It’s entrancing, the way you command the room. You have such a calm confidence about you as you speak, words never once faltering as you stride back and forth across the front of the lecture hall. Joel isn’t much of a talker – maybe that’s why he feels like he could listen to you for hours on end. He thinks that you could read the damn phone book and his focus would remain unwavering. That your voice, velvet-soft, could spellbind him without much effort.

When your portion of the presentation ends, he’s more than a bit disappointed.

Students and their families filter out of the lecture hall. You situate yourself in a corner of the room for the actual Open House portion of the event, at the ready to answer any questions or, more likely, offer directions to another part of campus.

You smile as familiar faces and strangers alike pass you, reach for your to-go mug on the table behind you, and take a sip. The coffee is pretty much ice-cold now, but you still gulp it down, only after the caffeine anyway.

You place the mug back down with a light thud against the tabletop. Suddenly, a voice you’ve come to know well rings in your ear.

“Professor!”

When you look up, Sarah Miller is bounding down the aisle, signature smile plastered across her face. And there’s a man behind her, you notice, moving much slower.

He’s tall, broad shoulders pulling taut against the green flannel he’s wearing. He cradles a beige workwear jacket in the crook of his bicep,corded muscle visibly bulging against fabric. His other hand rubs at the scruff along his jaw, pointedly sharp in the patches where hair doesn’t grow.

He has a distinguishable nose, you notice as he gets closer, strong – large and hooked at the center of his tan face. It’s complemented perfectly by his plush, pink lips that seem to be set in a permanent pout.

In other words, he’s handsome – almost distractingly so, as he stands next to Sarah in front of you.

“I’m so happy to see you,” she beams – turns to the man next to her.

“Dad, this is my mentor,” She says your name.

He nods. His eyes meet yours. They’re deep brown, almost black – and undeniably entrancing.

“‘‘ts nice to meet you, Ma’am. I’m Joel.”

Ma’am.

It’s not like the word is foreign to you, given your profession. There’s something about the way he says it, though, that makes your head spin, his southern drawl dripping in honey-butter and bourbon.

Joel outstretches a hand. You shake it – try to ignore the way it dwarfs yours.

“Joel,” you repeat, eyes locked firmly on the space between his eyes. “Nice to meet you, too.”

“That was a great presentation you gave up there. You’re a good, uh – talker.” His expression is unreadable. His hands fidget at his sides.

You offer him a smile. “Thank you – I think? My students probably wish I would shut up sometimes. Right, Sarah?”

“Oh please,” she scoffs, “as if you’ve never seen your rating on Rate My Professor.”

She’s not wrong – you pride yourself on having pretty stellar reviews – but you also try your hardest not to let them get to your head. Sarah isn’t helping that, right now.

“Anyways,” she exaggerates the word, “what are you up to tonight, Professor? They’re holding an exhibition at the art center later, all student work – d’you wanna come with us?”

Your reflex is to say no. After all, he’ll probably be there. Your ex, Quentin, works in the art history department. And even though you’re over him, you’re not exactly looking for an excuse to be in the same room as him. But you technically don’t have plans tonight, and you can’t even think of a good lie right now with Sarah staring you down.

And then there’s Joel, standing in front of you, all broad shoulders and chiseled jaw – and you think, what a great opportunity to get to know him, you know, as the parent of your student. Definitely not as anything else, anything more. It is Homecoming, after all.

So, you say yes.

“Cool!” Sarah smiles, “Meet you there at 7?”

You nod, tell Sarah that sounds perfect, and that you’ll see them tonight.

Sarah starts toward the door. But Joel stands there for a moment longer. His eyes linger on yours, his wordless stare threatening to burn a hole in your head. You can feel the heat of it, beads of sweat beginning to form at the base of your neck. You tug at the collar of your shirt, trying your hardest to conceal them.

A beat passes. It looks like he might say something, his mouth opening then closing again.

He gives you a courteous nod, turns on his heels, and follows after Sarah.

Joel hadn’t remembered the food being this bad when he’d visited for orientation. He struggles to keep down a particularly rubbery bite of chicken and reaches for his water bottle, eyebrows furrowed in concentration as he focuses on not vomiting.

Sarah laughs next to him. “Hey man, at least you don’t have to eat this shit year-round.”

He grunts in agreement. “Gonna cancel your meal plan next semester and jus’ give you the money to buy groceries.”

She hums. Cocks her head. “That means I’m gonna have to learn how to cook – do you think Student Housing has fire insurance?”

Joel wants to roll his eyes, but it’s definitely his fault – after all, he can barely fry an egg without setting off the fire alarm. Their freezer has always been well-stocked with TV dinners and tater tots. So instead, he just shrugs.

“So what’s this art thing tonight?” He moves on to the salad on his plate, decidedly much safer.

“I don’t really know – my roommate asked me to go, she has some pieces in it, I guess.”

He nods. “And your professor – that was nice ‘a you to invite her.”

Sarah nods, smiles. “Yeah – you like her, right? I mean, you’re sure you’re cool with me asking her to come?” She asks, a mouthful of lettuce.

“‘Course,” he says, attempting to keep his voice level, nonchalant.

“I know you’re not really one for meeting new people,” she teases.

He mock-glares at her. It quickly softens into a smile. “Nah – she seems cool.” It’s an understatement, but Sarah doesn’t need to know that.

She doesn’t need to know that her dad is attracted to her professor.

Joel thinks that he might not have been so great at hiding it, though, when a few hours later, in the middle of watching an unarguably bad student production of Macbeth, Sarah turns to him and whispers that she’s not feeling well.

“Hm, is that right?,” he whispers back, unconvinced.

“Yeah, must’ve been the food.”

“We ate the same thing, Sarah.”

There’s a shout on stage. The actor’s voice cracks.

“Well I dunno,” she continues, “My stomach just doesn’t feel good.”

“Yeah, and what about that thing with your professor?”

He can see her smirk even in the dim lighting.

“Shit, you’re right. And I don’t have her phone number, so it’s not like I can text her...”

She groans. Joel thinks she should be on that stage right now.

“We can’t just ghost her.” Joel has no idea what that means. He doesn’t bother asking.

“Sarah-” he starts.

“Please. She’s such a nice lady, she doesn’t deserve to be stood up.”

He could say no. It’s not like he knows you, owes you anything. But in truth, Joel does want to see you again. And he’s well aware that Sarah might be trying to set the two of you up – ever-perceptive and hell-bent on her dad being happy – but he tries not to think about how embarrassing that feels, his daughter playing matchmaker for him. Because he wants to spend more time with you, get to know more about you, if you’ll let him.

He’s barred himself from forming any kind of real relationship with a woman since Sarah’s mother left. Not because she’d broken his heart, but because he’d needed all of his energy to go to Sarah. As a single father, he had always feared that he wouldn’t be enough for his daughter – wouldn’t give enough – that growing up in a broken home would leave her half of a person. That fear had fueled him to be the best dad possible – to work overtime so that he could provide for them, to never miss one of her soccer games or dance recitals. And so, he had never even considered dating, not seriously, anyway. It would take attention away from Sarah, and he couldn’t risk that.

He’s found it difficult to shake this principle, now that Sarah has grown up. He often grapples with the fact that Sarah doesn’t need him as much anymore – that she’s her own person living her own life. He knows he could date now, could meet someone new, open his heart to them. But he’s so used to fighting that human need for companionship, that it feels almost unnatural to let his guard down.

But now there’s you – your megawatt smile and your impressive intelligence and your care for his daughter – and suddenly he’s forgotten his own rules.

“Okay; I’ll go.” It comes out entirely too enthusiastic.

He can practically feel Sarah’s accomplished, shit-eating grin burning into the side of his head.

You leave campus around four pm, once the last of the Open House participants have gone.

You take a shower when you get home. Then you order sushi – stuff rolls of yellowfin and salmon into your mouth as you sit at the dining table still wrapped up in your towel, trying your best not to spill soy sauce on the half-graded essays that litter the tabletop. When you’re done, you retreat to your closet, treading on damp feet across the waxy hardwood floor.

And you definitely don’t think about Joel – not when you debate what to wear to the art exhibition, not when your fingers accidentally graze one of your nipples as you put your bra on, not when you get distracted while pulling your panties on by the pool of wetness that has formed between your thighs.

You definitely don’t think about him – because he’s Sarah’s dad, and that would be wrong.

So it’s accidental when his name falls from your mouth, fingers pressed against your clit, visions of large, calloused hands flashing behind your closed eyelids.

You cover your mouth with the curve of your palm to prevent it from slipping out again. Sink back into the mattress.

Then you press your fingers down harder.

Joel feels like a first-year student, wandering aimlessly across campus in search of the art center. Sarah’s directions had been, well, brief. She’d insisted he’d be able to find it no problem. Now though, in the limited light of dusk, all the structures look the same, bleeding together like watercolors against the evening sky.

He does find it, eventually, a three-story brick building tucked between the library and what looks to be a dormitory. Bright, artificial light seeps through the windows that line the bottom floor. The double doors at the front are propped open, people slipping in and out of them as he approaches.

He looks for you outside, searching for a familiar head of hair, the brown cardigan you’d been wearing earlier. When he doesn’t see you, he reluctantly makes his way up the stairs and into the building.

He spots you almost immediately affixed in front of a painting, studying it intently.

You’re wearing a different outfit than the one you had on this afternoon – a merlot-colored slip dress and a cropped leather jacket. He struggles to ignore the way the satin clings to you, the curves of your body excruciatingly accentuated. He has to remind himself that he shouldn’t get his hopes up, shouldn't expect you to stick around for long once he lets you know Sarah isn’t coming. You’ll probably make an excuse to leave shortly after, and he’ll be back on Sarah’s couch within the hour.

After all, why would you stick around just to talk to him?

You don’t see him when he sidles up next to you. He clears his throat and you startle.

“Sorry,” he brings a hand to the back of his neck. “Didn’t mean to spook ya.”

You take a step back to face him and put a hand to your chest, your breath beginning to even. His eyes wander, for a moment, to where your fingers rest against your collarbone.

“Shit – it’s okay. Where’s Sarah?”

“She wasn’t feeling well, but she said I should still come. Is that – uh – is that okay?” He’s suddenly worried that this was dumb, that he shouldn’t have come, should’ve just let Sarah explain to you on Monday.

But your features soften then, a small smile forming between rosy cheeks.

“Joel, it’s fine; I appreciate you not ditching me.”

“‘Course,” he manages. He’s waiting for you to say something else – that you need to leave. But you don’t, and you both stand enveloped in the pregnant pause that lingers, bright overhead lighting and nerves giving Joel the start of a migraine he’ll have to ignore for the rest of the night.

He clears his throat. Turns to the painting in front of you. “So what’s this one, then?”

The painting in question is a mish-mash of shapes and colors. Joel can’t distinguish any one thing on the canvas. It’s all just a lot of…nothing. He knows it’s not for him when he thinks a preschooler with finger paints could’ve done this.

You bring your hand up to cradle your jaw, brows furrowed in contemplation. It looks like you’ll offer an actual, intellectual interpretation. So Joel isn’t prepared when instead, you say:

“Looks like a bad trip.”

A laugh bubbles out of him, the corners of his eyes creasing.

“Sorry,” you say, between giggles. “That was stupid.”

“No,” he says, swiping a hand over his jaw, trying to physically rub the embarrassing smile off his face. “You’re funny.”

He means it. He’s not sure how it’s possible that you’re funny, when you’re also so smart and interesting and gorgeous. It’s almost unfair. He thinks, fleetingly, that you’re way out of his league – a boring, old man like him.

You continue to the next piece, Joel following closely behind. It looks like it must be by the same artist. The same variation of shapes fill the canvas, just in different colors.

“Alright Cowboy, what’s your take on this one?”

Joel studies it for a moment – tries to find something he can pull out. Something tangible. Something funny, even.

He comes up empty.

“‘ts interesting f’sure. Lots of…colors,” he tries. He realizes how ridiculous he sounds. Laughs. “Shit…art ain’t really my thing,” he admits, arm stretched behind his head.

“So what is your thing?” Your voice is tinged with something – Joel tries his hardest not to let himself believe that it’s flirtation.

Your eyes are still fixed on the canvas in front of you. And Joel is thankful, because he thinks if you looked at him, let those eyes meet his, he’d break – tell you that right now, you’re his thing.

He doesn’t get a chance to answer either way, though, because he’s interrupted by a man’s voice behind the two of you.

“Wow. Didn’t expect to see you here!”

You whip around to face him. Joel turns too. The man is taller than you, but shorter than him. He’s wearing round, wire-frame glasses that sit like a suggestion on his nose, and a full suit, with a tie that has some god-awful, ugly pattern all over it. It looks like the art here, Joel thinks.

Joel’s eyes flit back to you, and he watches as your hackles go up. You back up, bumping into the canvas behind you. You curse under your breath.

“Quentin. Hey.”

“Glad you could make it,” the man, Quentin, says. He swirls a cup of what appears to be red wine in one hand. He leans in closer, brings the other hand up at the side of his mouth to conceal his words. “I know this isn’t really your scene.”

You shift uncomfortably. “Yeah,” you say. “I’m uh, venturing out, I guess. Trying new things.”

He laughs. It’s an asshole laugh, Joel notes. Everything about this guy screams asshole.

“About time!” The asshole puts a hand on your shoulder. You flinch. Joel’s hands instinctively bunch into fists at his side.

“So proud of you,” Quentin says. “Finally letting yourself be a little cultured.”

This guy can’t be serious.

You scoff. Grab his hand and flick it off your shoulder. He looks wounded. Good, Joel thinks.

“Yeah, because traveling the world has left me so very uncultured, Quentin.”

“Hey,” he puts his hands up. “Don’t take offense, baby. I know your little field trips are important, too.”

It’s the last straw.

In one movement, you’re pushing off the wall, shoving past Quentin, and making your way to the exit. Joel doesn’t say a word, doesn’t even look at the asshole, just follows after you out the door.

It’s gotten colder in the short time he’d been inside, he notices. A gust of wind nips at the exposed skin on his hands. He stuffs them haphazardly in the pockets of his jacket.

He finds you perched on the front steps, arms wrapped around your body protectively. He takes a few cautious strides forward. When you look up at him, you’re visibly distraught.

You groan as he sits down next to you. “Sorry. That was embarrassing.”

Joel wants to touch you, put a reassuring hand on your shoulder, but he knows he probably shouldn’t – not right now.

“‘ts not embarrassin’,” he says, instead. His warm breath materializes in the cold air. “Not for you, anyway. That guy was clearly an asshole.”

“Yeah,” you nod. “That was my ex-boyfriend.” You’re both quiet, then. The two of you sit there, side by side on the stairs, in comfortable silence. A few minutes pass. Joel notices you chewing on your bottom lip, like you’re considering something. When you speak again, your voice wavers.

“Would you want to go for a drink or something? It’s just, I really don’t want to be here anymore.”

For a moment, he can’t believe what he’s hearing – you’re asking him out? He takes a second to respond. You start to backtrack. “It’s okay if you don’t wan-”

“Hey,” he stops you. Makes sure you’re looking at him.

“I thought you’d never ask, darlin’.”

You breathe out a laugh. “Great.” Your hand drops to your side, brushing against his. He expects you to move it. He’s thankful when you don’t.

“I know a place–” you continue – “one that won’t be full of drunk college kids.”

“Great,” Joel parrots you. He stands, extends a hand to help you up. You take it, letting your palm rest against his for a moment longer than necessary when you’re upright.

“Cool,” you say, clearing your throat. You pull up the Uber app on your phone. Joel watches you book a driver. Then you turn back to him with a smile. It’s different from the one he’s seen before. It’s smaller, shyer.

“Larry will be here in 4 minutes,” you say.

The bar is a twenty minutes’ drive from campus – fifteen with Larry’s lead foot.

It’s more of a lounge than a bar, really – leather armchairs accompanied by low cocktail tables arranged throughout the single large, open room. A brick fireplace sits on the back wall, currently roaring with warm orange flames.

On either side of the fireplace are floor-to-ceiling shelves stacked with vintage books, their illegible titles etched in gold along weathered spines. You can imagine that their pages are yellowed and dusty, and it’s so tempting to swipe one off the shelf to see, to smell.

The light in here is warm, a stark contrast from the bright white of the art gallery. It’s comforting, and you feel your body immediately relax when you walk through the entrance next to Joel.

The bar at the front is busy (it is Saturday night, after all), so you and Joel stand at the back of the crowd for a few moments, waiting for the people in front of you to get their drinks. When a group of men start forcing their way through right next to you, Joel immediately puts a large hand on your shoulder, turning your body towards his. He’s just being chivalrous, making sure you don’t get shoved, but it still sends a shockwave up your spine.

When a spot clears in front of the bar, Joel steps forward, bringing you with him. He orders a whiskey neat, then turns to you, asking what you want.

It’s difficult to think with his hand still on you, so you go with the first words that come to mind.

“Same as you.”

He stares at you for a moment, amused, like he can see right through you and the fact that you’ve never had whiskey in your life. But you hold his gaze, challenging him with your eyes, and he drops it. “Make that two,” he tells the bartender.

Once you have your drinks, Joel slaps a few bills down on the bar. You can tell he won’t let you do so much as offer to pay him back, so you don’t. You lead him through the lounge to a couple of chairs tucked away in the back corner, partially hidden behind an antique wooden partition – far enough from the main seating area, but still close enough to the fireplace that you can feel its warmth.

This is where you always sit when you come, usually with coworkers, once or twice with him. Quentin had been pretty critical of this place, like he is with everything. He’d complained that the wine selection could be larger – that they could have more French options. When you’d explained that most of their wines come from local vineyards, he’d just rolled his eyes.

You’re still reeling a bit from your interaction with him at the gallery, even as you settle into soft leather and feel a burst of warmth against your cheek. He was such an asshole, you think, taking a cautious sip of whiskey. You’re immediately repulsed by the taste of it, and you do a poor job of hiding the grimace that automatically spreads across your face in the crook of your arm.

Joe laughs across from you. “Not your thing? I can go grab ya somethin’ else,” he offers.

“No,” you insist, “this is fine. Just need to get used to it.” It’s a lie – you both know it – but he doesn’t push it.

Instead he leans back, swirls his own glass – which looks comically tiny in his grip – and lets out an exaggerated sigh.

“So, your ex is a real dick, huh?”

“You can say that again,” you mumble.

He quirks a brow at you. “Why’d you even date him?”

It’s a fair question. Why had you dated him? Loneliness, maybe? You’d like to blame it on that, but it’s not the truth – not entirely. Quentin had been kind, at first. He had seemed so interested in you and where you came from and what you were passionate about. He was a relatively good boyfriend, all things considered – until he’d grown tired of hiding who he really was.

You’d gotten a substantial pay raise at the end of your second year at the university. When you’d told Quentin, he’d gone quiet – practically gave you the silent treatment for days on end. When you’d finally worn him down, gotten him to talk, the most he could utter was that he was happy for you; he just wasn’t sure why he hadn’t gotten a raise like that yet.

It’s not like you were in competition – you worked for two entirely different departments, in different colleges. But it had been a constant losing battle nevertheless, to get him to stop comparing your successes. And when he’d found out you actually made more money than him – that had pretty much been the nail in the coffin.

You tell Joel all of this. You’re not sure why you do – it’s not like you can blame the alcohol after one half-sip of whiskey. You feel comfortable with him though, here, like this. He’s a good listener, too, attentively nodding every so often as you ramble.

When you’re done, he’s quiet. He stares at his drink, pursing his lips.

After a beat, he looks up at you.

“You deserve better than that, darlin’.”

You almost crumble under his gaze. His eyes are at least two shades darker than they had been a moment ago – and there’s something lingering behind them that you can’t quite place. Whatever it is has you feeling weak.

“You barely know me,” you joke.

“Yeah,” he agrees. “I know enough, though. Could do much better than him, I reckon.”

You want to ask him if he has anyone in mind, if he would be better for you, but you can’t – not yet – not this sober. You take another sip of your drink, breathing through your nose as it burns its way down your throat.

You talk for hours. He asks about your family; you tell him how you moved out here two years ago on your own after you finished your doctorate program. He’s impressed by that, says you’re brave. You tell him you’ve never felt very brave.

It’s all so easy, talking to Joel in the dimly-lit bar you’ve been to so many times before. Sipping on whiskey as if you actually enjoy it. It’s never felt so much like home — not the bar, not this town. The thought is dizzying.

He asks about Sarah, too, how she’s doing in school. He insists that she doesn’t tell him much, and if she does, it’s about you and how great your classes are.

“I had never even heard of anthropology before she decided to study it,” he admits. “But I’m glad she did. It’s her thing, f’sure.”

You smile, knowingly. “Yeah, it is. She’s a great kid, Joel. You raised her well.”

He shakes his head humbly, but you don’t relent. You want him to hear this, really hear this. Because you get the feeling he hasn’t been told enough.

“She’s not just smart, Joel. She’s good. She’s a good person. That’s kind of rare nowadays — especially among her generation.”

Joel chuckles, his head hanging between his shoulders.

“I mean, shit,” you continue, “she brings me pancakes from the diner just off campus whenever she knows I’m stuck in my office working late. My other students barely even ask how I’m doing most days.”

Joel hums in amusement. His eyes are locked on a wrinkle in the leather of the arm of his chair.

“Joel,” you say, pointedly. You wait for him to look at you. When he does, his gaze is uncertain. “She’s a good person —“ you repeat — “and that’s because you raised her to be.”

“‘ts just southern hospitality, is all,” he mumbles.

“No Joel – it’s you.”

He stares for a moment, his dark eyes narrowing. His jaw twitches. And then he breaks, finally, a smile pulling at his lips.

“Thank you.”

His voice is so soft suddenly. It throws you off. It also turns you on – like, a lot, the gravellyness of it scratching your brain and your loins. You dig your nails into leather in an attempt to steady your quickening heart rate.

“No problem,” you mutter sheepishly.

Suddenly, there’s a buzz on the table – Joel’s phone. He picks it up, squinting at the bright screen.

“Sarah?,” you ask.

“Nah, ‘ts just my brother, Tommy.”

He types out a quick response and re-locks the phone, placing it back down on the table.

“Everything alright?”

“Yeah, jus’ asking if I think hookin’ up with a client is a bad idea,” he laughs, shaking his head in disbelief.

You don’t know Tommy, but you like him already – seems like a fun guy. And clearly values his brother’s opinions. It’s telling, you think.

“That’s right – you’re a contractor. You and your brother work together?”

“Yeah, we got our own business back home.”

“And you like it?,” you ask.

“Used to,” he laughs, “when I was more limber.”

You laugh too. You can feel the heat of slight intoxication, and something else, in your chest, your inhibitions dissolving in your bloodstream. And suddenly that horrible idea you’d had earlier to flirt with Joel doesn’t seem so bad anymore.

“Still look plenty limber to me, Mr. Miller.” The words leave you before you have the chance to stop them.

Joel’s hands tense on either arm of his chair. Despite your buzz, you still have half a mind to worry that you’ve fucked up, that there’s a chance you’ve misread this whole thing.

But then he sinks back in the chair, the leather groaning under him. He rakes his dark eyes over you. And the way he’s looking at you is unmistakable. He looks hungry. You feel like your entire body has been set ablaze.

Without thinking, you stand up, take a couple of steps toward him. Scan the lounge. Most of the remaining patrons are huddled by the bar, talking boisterously among themselves. Tucked in your little corner, the two of you might as well be in a different zip code.

“Whatcha doin’, darlin’?” Joel smirks up at you as you stand unmoving in front of him. He takes one of your hands in his and traces gentle, reassuring shapes along the back of it with his index finger.

Without a word, you hike your dress up to your thighs and straddle him, knees digging into the leather on either side of his legs. He hums approvingly as you sink onto his lap and cup his face in your hands. He places his own on your lower back, just above your ass. “This okay?,” you ask. It comes out breathy and wrecked.

“C’mere,” he says in that syrupy drawl, and then one of his hands is on the back of your head, pushing you gently against him, your lips slotting to his.

It’s messy and all-encompassing. He kisses you with a fervency that confirms this hasn’t all been in your head –that he’s been wanting this too.

The voices of bar-goers and the clinking of glassware are suddenly muted. All you can focus on is Joel — the way he tastes like whiskey and cinnamon gum, the way one of his large hands comes to rest at the nape of your neck, fingers tangled in the hair there while the other remains on your back, steadying you. The way he licks into your mouth after a few seconds with a groan, causing you to reflexively bare down on his lap.

You feel his cock swell underneath you and you grind against it, laughing low and quiet against his lips when his entire body tenses. He pulls back, blinking up at you with glazed-over eyes. Joel, all six feet of him, looks wrecked.

“Fuck, darlin’,” he pants. He looks down at where you’re hovering over his now fully-hard cock. “Gotta stop. Otherwise you’re gonna make me cum in my pants like a damn teenager.”

You pout at him, lifting your lower half off of his. You don’t stand up, though – not immediately, anyway. Instead, you take his head back in both of your hands. He lets you, blinking up at you wordlessly.

You’d known when you’d first seen him earlier today that he was handsome, but right now, his face so close to yours – you’re seeing all of the little details – the scar indented in his forehead, just above his right eyebrow; the flush that stains his cheeks, which you can guess is partly from the alcohol, but maybe also from you. He’s biblically gorgeous, which makes it difficult to pry yourself off of him.

You do though, after a minute, smoothing down your dress once you’re back on two feet. You feel a bit breathless, suddenly. And exhausted.

What time is it?

You retrieve your phone from where it’s been lodged in the cushion of your chair.

You tap on the screen, waking it up.

12:47?! When had it gotten so late?

Joel stands, adjusting himself in his pants. You can’t help but giggle at him — big, tough man looking positively ruined after just a few minutes of being under you. You feel pretty accomplished. He rolls his eyes at you.

“Shut up — just get us an Uber.” You don’t miss the smile that sprouts between his cheeks when he thinks you aren’t looking.

You wait outside for your driver — John M.

The cold Vermont air is sobering. You feel almost normal by the time the car pulls up, save for the dull, throbbing ache between your legs. You will it away as you crouch into the back of the silver Nissan behind Joel. The sound of the radio playing soft rock hits is a poor distraction on the drive home.

“Wanna come in?,” you ask Joel when the car comes to a halt in front of your building. You watch him ponder it, eyes glued to the roof of the sedan. But ultimately, he shakes his head. “Can’t,” he says. “Gotta check on Sarah.”

You nod, try to hide your disappointment. “Right.”

You open the door. Just as you’re about to get out, Joel stops you.

“Wait,” he says. “Can I see your phone?” You’re confused, but you hand it over. You watch as he pulls up your contacts and clicks the ‘plus’ button in the corner, an understanding smile pulling at your lips.

When he hands the phone back, his contact now in it, you grab his from off the seat next to him and do the same.

“I’ll text you,” he promises as you step out.

You turn back to him. “You better.”

He’s smiling when you shut the door.

You’re smiling when the car pulls away.

It’s only when you’re tucked into bed, phone charging securely on the nightstand that the thought crosses your mind: you’re catching feelings for someone again.

And then you feel sick.

Joel wakes up the next morning feeling giddy. It’s like he’s a teenager all over again – waiting by the phone for a pretty girl to call him back. Only this time, he’s waiting for a text.

He had messaged you almost as soon as he’d gotten back to Sarah’s apartment last night, asking if he could see you again before he goes back to Texas. He has no shame about it, he can’t – not when his entire mind and body are consumed by his overwhelming attraction to you.

He’d found it difficult to sleep last night, and not because the springs in Sarah’s cheap couch were digging into his already-damaged back. It was thoughts of you, and the borderline-painful erection they caused, that had kept him up.

Now, with the sun seeping through the living room windows directly into his eyes, he doesn’t have much of a choice but to be awake. He checks his phone immediately, and tries to ignore the way his heart sinks when he sees you haven’t responded yet. You’re probably still asleep, he tells himself.

He tosses his phone aimlessly back onto the couch and stands with a groan. His legs feel worse than his back, if that’s even possible.

Sarah still isn’t awake, so Joel meanders into her kitchen, in search of something to eat for breakfast. It’s pretty much what you would expect from a college student’s kitchen – bare bones. There are a few suspicious containers of leftovers in the fridge along with a Brita water pitcher and a package of cookie dough. In the freezer, several cartons of ice cream (all chocolate) and half a loaf of bread. And finally, in the cabinets, a few boxes of mac & cheese and an unopened jar of peanut butter.

Toast it is, then.

Sarah appears just as he’s raiding her drawers for a butter knife. “Morning,” she announces sleepily behind him.

“Hey, Kiddo,” he says, turning to face her. “Hungry?”

“Yeah. There’s a diner down the street. Thought we could get pancakes.” She yawns.

Joel grins. That must be the place you’d told him about – the one Sarah brings you leftovers from when you’re working late.

“You buyin’?,” he jokes.

“Only in exchange for the juicy deets from last night.” She pauses. “Okay, maybe not all the deets. There’s some things I don’t need to know – like why you got home so late.”

“Sarah,” Joel warns, but she’s undeterred, smiling like a Cheshire Cat with every one of her unbrushed teeth on display.

“Just get changed,” she says, and skips out of the room.

You’ve been staring at the text for twenty minutes now.

Had a lot of fun tonight. Can I see you again before I leave? Let me know if you’re free tomorrow (today I guess). - Joel

You should say yes – you want to say yes – so why can’t you get your fingers to move?

It’s a stupid question. You know why – it’s Quentin and your inability to shake the fear that someone else will hurt you like he did. If you keep Joel at arm’s length – continue to ignore his message – he can’t do that. You can just take last night for what it was – a fun time, a hookup – and stop this before it goes too far, before feelings get involved.

Because it never ends well, once they do.

You get out of bed without responding, but you leave the text open on your phone. You attempt to busy yourself with housework and grading. Again and again though, you find your fingers hovering over the screen, your mind wandering to the way Joel’s lips had felt on yours, the way the bulge in his jeans had felt against your clothed heat, the sound of his southern drawl when he’d called you darlin’.

Then you snap yourself out of it and place the phone face-down on the table.

This goes on for hours, a vicious cycle. You feel your resolve slipping more and more each time you pick the phone up.

The sun is high in the sky by the time you break, light bathing your kitchen and revealing all of the spots you’d missed when you’d dusted earlier. Your phone is heavy in the palm of your hand like a bomb – like if you don’t hit send right now, you’ll lose the motivation and it’ll detonate, taking any chance of you seeing Joel tonight and not self-sabotaging with it.

You close your eyes when you press the button and toss your phone somewhere across the room.

Well – you think – no going back now.

Joel is sitting on cold, hard bleachers at the Homecoming football game when he sees you’ve responded, the shouts of people in the stands around him not enough to avert his attention.

Hey, yeah, that would be great! Do you want to come to my apartment later? I have a bottle of wine we can crack into if you’d like. And I can order pizza.

The announcer is saying something about player #72 over the loudspeaker. He doesn’t tune in.

Joel types his reply and sends it:

Sounds perfect. I’ll come over around 7?

Sarah groans next to him. “You wanted to come to this game, dad. If you’re bored already, can we leave?”

His eyes shoot up. “No, uh – sorry. Just had to answer one text.”

Sarah narrows her eyes at him. They dart to the phone just as another message rolls in, your name flashing across the screen before Joel can hide it.

“Is that my professor?”

Joel doesn’t answer. His silence confirms enough.

“I knew you guys hit it off last night! See, dad, even though you didn’t wanna tell me at breakfast, I still found out. I always find out. Because Sarah knows all.” She attempts a maniacal, Disney villain-esque laugh.

Joel raises an eyebrow at her.

“You done?”

“So you going out again later? Do I need to make your bed on the couch, or should I just not bother?”

He ignores her. Someone gets a touchdown and half the crowd goes wild. He doesn’t bother to check what team scored.

He opens your latest message, instead.

Perfect. See you then, Cowboy ;)

His breath hitches at the nickname, at the thought of you calling him that again in person. The thought of kissing you again, if you’ll let him.

He doesn’t catch who wins the game.

Joel arrives at your apartment at seven o’clock on the dot.

Punctual, you note.

He’s holding a bottle of wine, gripping the neck with long, calloused fingers.

“Know you said you had some already,” he says as he steps over the threshold. “Just didn’t wanna come empty handed.”

The sentiment takes you aback. You’re not exactly used to dates bringing you gifts, especially ones this expensive, if the minimalist yet fancy label is any indicator.

“Thanks,” you say awkwardly, taking the bottle from him. You can’t quite make out the name – something foreign, etched in cursive.

“‘ts Italian, I think,” he mumbles, as if he can read your mind.

Your eyes shift from the bottle to Joel, standing in front of you in his Carhartt jacket, brows furrowed, gaze trained on the floor at his feet.

“Thank you,” you say more genuinely this time.

Joel smiles appreciatively. You motion to the space behind you.

“Come in.”

You lead Joel to the kitchen, just off the entranceway, and place the bottle down on the counter, gently. You tuck yourself in the corner, leaning back to rest your arms on cool granite. Joel mirrors you against the adjacent island.

“How’s Sarah?” you ask. “Feeling any better?”

“Uh, yeah,” he says, rubbing at his scruff. “She was askin’ about you. Saw me textin’ you.”

“Yeah – guess you couldn’t exactly hide this from her, staying at her apartment and all.”

“Yeah,” he laughs. “Guess not.”

You pop open the bottle of wine. Pour glasses for both of you. Then you order pizza: one cheese, one sausage and pepper. The person on the other end of the line tells you it’ll be thirty to forty minutes.

“Gonna be a bit of a wait,” you tell Joel when you hang up. “Busy night, I guess.”

He nods, takes a sip of wine, and then places the glass down, his eyes unmoving from yours.

You realize then that he’d been staring at you the entire time you were on the phone. The way he’s looking at you – gaze the same as the one from the bar last night when you’d straddled him – has you feeling suddenly nervous.

“What?” you ask, your voice barely above a whisper.

“Can I kiss you again?” he asks.

Oh.

You breathe out a laugh. It’s not funny – really, the opposite – but you hadn’t been expecting him to ask that. “Joel-” you’re going to say yes – fuck yes – but he interrupts you.

“Been dyin’ to since last night.” He’s so open, so earnest. It’s fucking hot.

“Joel,” you say again, louder this time. He freezes. His eyes widen, like he’s anticipating your answer.

“Please.”

It’s all he needs to hear. In an instant, he crosses the distance between you. He places his hands on the counter behind you, framing your body with his. You peer up at him and, fuck – he looks ravenous.

He kisses you – hard. His teeth crash against yours. It’s messy and hurried, but you don’t care – you want him closer, need him closer.

Your head swims with memories of the feeling of his bulge against your clothed core. The need to feel it again is all-consuming. You’re greedy for it. And with the time constraint, you don’t want to wait another second.

You pull back abruptly. Joel furrows his eyebrows where he looms over you, concerned.

“Joel,” you pant, “I need you.”

It takes him a second to compute what you’re asking. And then he’s nodding furiously.

“Fuck,” he whispers. “Okay, darlin’.”

You pull him back in with a hand at the back of his neck, digging your nails into the skin there. His tongue slips into your mouth with a groan. You’re minutely aware of him shrugging his jacket off, hearing the light thump it makes when it hits the linoleum. And then his hands are on you, wandering up and down your body like he needs to feel every inch of you. He tugs at the base of your t-shirt impatiently.

“Off,” he mumbles against your lips. You pull back only to do as he’s asked, and then you’re right back on him, sucking a bruise into the skin below his ear, your body claiming him subconsciously. His head falls back momentarily, revealing his bobbing throat. You scrape your teeth lightly along the skin there, eliciting a groan from Joel.

Your mouth continues exploring his neck as his fingers find the clasps of your bra, unhooking them quickly and tossing it aside. You don’t see where. You don’t really care – you’ll find it later.

He grabs your now-naked sides and steps back, pulling you with him. Then he turns you and pushes you back against the island.

He slaps the countertop behind you. “Up,” he breathes against your neck. You don’t argue. You don’t want to argue. You’re so used to being the one in charge, the one in control — right now you’re happy to bend to Joel’s will.

You grip the edge of the island with both hands and hoist yourself up so that you’re perched there, legs dangling.

Joel’s fingers immediately go to the button of your jeans, popping it open before moving to tug the zipper down. And then he’s helping you lift your hips so that he can pull them down and off. He adds them to the pile at his feet.

You’re left in nothing but your underwear splayed out on your kitchen counter in front of him. You feel like you should be self conscious, maybe even embarrassed by your depravity. But you can’t find it in you to be either, not when Joel is slotted between your legs, his dark eyes scanning over you hungrily. Showing you he needs you just as bad as you need him.

He rubs his hands over your thighs and up the sides of your body, mapping your curves with great concentration. “God damn,” he whispers, what seems to be, mostly to himself. “Fuckin’ gorgeous.”

You whine pathetically. Your patience is growing thin.

He smirks up at you, likely seeing in your face how desperate you are for him right now.

“‘ts okay baby, I got you,” he coos, suddenly sinking to his knees in front of you. His hands move closer to your clothed pussy, but not quite there, tracing light circles along your inner thighs. Then he replaces his fingers with his mouth, sending your hips bucking off the counter, chasing him.

The coarse hair of his mustache scratches the skin surrounding where he sucks and bites. You don’t care. You just want to feel it lower, against your dripping folds.

“Please,” you breathe, shakily. Through hooded eyes, you catch Joel’s satisfied grin. You realize then that he loves this — making you beg for it, for him. It’s a dizzying contradiction to the way he was practically begging to kiss you just moments ago.

He presses a chaste kiss against your skin, his lips infuriatingly close to where you need them most.

“Whatcha need, darlin’?” he purrs. The vibration of his voice just next to your core has you spiraling.

“Need your mouth,” you cry. “Please.”

“Where?” He nips at you, half an inch closer to your swollen clit. You can feel his breath. Your cunt reactively clenches around nothing.

“On my pussy, Joel” you plead.

He pulls away from you completely, looks up at you with devilish eyes.

“Good girl.”

He dips one finger into the side of your underwear, pulling them aside to reveal your glistening core. “Damn baby, you’re soaked,” he drawls. You catch the hint of pride that tinges his voice.

“Please,” you beg again, your voice wanton and broken.

Joel gently pets your throbbing clit with the pad of his thumb. The pressure he applies is feather-light, barely there. But still, after all the teasing, you can’t help the embarrassingly loud moan that escapes you.

He chuckles darkly. “Alright sweetheart, I know – enough teasin’.”

He hooks both index fingers in the top of your panties, pulling them down and off in one swift movement. And then his tongue is on you, exactly where you need it.

He holds you open with fingers digging deliciously into the meat of your thighs as he licks long, languid stripes from your leaking cunt up to your clit, over and over again until you’re a whimpering mess underneath him. You struggle to hold your weight up on your elbows, watching him as he works you with his mouth.

He’s so good at this – too good at this. You tell him as much, between broken moans.

“Sofuckinggood Joel – holy shit.”

You swear you can feel him smirk against your heat.

He buries his face into your cunt then, nose pressed against your clit, and swivels his head back and forth, coating his mustache and beard in your arousal. He groans against you, like this is getting him off just as much as you. It’s all so obscene, so filthy.

You’ve never had a man go down on you like this – like they actually enjoy it. But then again, it doesn’t come as much of a surprise, not when it’s Joel. You’ve quickly come to learn that he’s attentive in every sense of the word. Knows just what you want, what you need – evident by the way his lips latch back onto your clit when you keen for him.

He keeps his attention there, switching between suckling on it – which is enough to make you see stars on its own – and lapping at it with short, shallow flicks of his tongue. He experiments with different angles, licking at different spots on the bundle of nerves until he finds the one that makes you cry out, your babbles of there Joel, yes, right fucking there, don’t stop, letting him know exactly where to focus.

You feel yourself quickly hurtling toward the edge. You just need a little bit more to get you there.

“Fingers,” you pant. “Need your fingers in me.”

Two of his fingers are at your entrance before you can even blink. You’re so wet that he slides them in easily, curling them against your walls. He expertly finds your G-spot, massaging it as his tongue continues to lap at your clit.

You gasp at the combination. It’s so good – so much. “Oh my god Joel, I’m so close,” you cry.

He doesn’t let up, doesn’t even look at you. His eyes are closed in concentration, fingers and tongue unrelenting. He’s lost in your pussy. You can tell he’s not going to come up for air until he’s given you an orgasm.

And it doesn’t take much longer – one, two, three more strokes of his fingers and you’re cumming hard.

Your vision blurs and your ears ring in your head. You’re vaguely aware that Joel is pinning one of your thighs down with his free hand to hold you in place as you thrash against the countertop.

He fucks you through it, your pussy clenching around his fingers as he continues to curl them against that spot, your clit throbbing against his tongue.

It is – without a doubt – the most intense orgasm you’ve ever had.

He doesn’t stop when you’ve come down, eager to milk every last drop from your weeping cunt. The overstimulation is too much. Your grip tightens in his hair, weakly attempting to pull him off of you as you whimper nonsense above him. You manage to exhale his name, or something close to it, and he finally lifts his face.

His eyes meet yours, dark and hooded. He looks absolutely pussydrunk.

The entire lower half of his face is soaked with your slick. His shiny, pink lips pepper kisses along your inner thighs, smoothing over the spots he’d marked with his teeth just minutes ago. You feel so sensitive – you shiver under his touch.

His smile curves into your skin. He leaves one last light peck and stands up, grunting at the ache in his knees. You laugh, but you can tell by the darkness still looming in his gaze that he’s not done with you yet.

He helps you off the counter, steadying you with hands gripping your sides as you find your footing. Your legs feel like Jell-O, a welcomed side-effect of the earth-shattering orgasm you’ve just had. You lead Joel to your bedroom, leaving your clothes scattered across the kitchen floor.

He backs you toward the bed as soon as you’re in your room, lips latched to the side of your neck. The backs of your legs hit the mattress, and then he’s lowering both of your bodies onto it, cradling your head in his hand as you settle underneath him.

He sits back on his knees, pulling his t-shirt over his head to reveal his broad, tan torso. You’re pretty sure you’re salivating, lost in the slope of his shoulders and the wide expanse of his chest. Your eyes trail lower as he undoes his belt, followed by the button of his jeans. He shimmies them off along with his boxers, his large cock springing free, tip shiny with pre-cum, and hovers back over your eager body.

He dips down and presses his lips to yours, prying your mouth open with his tongue. He’s remarkably patient for how hard he is, his erection pressing into your thigh as he kisses you, slow and wet.

One of his hands grips your jaw, the other pressed firmly against the mattress next to you. Minutes pass like that, you and Joel losing yourselves in each other. Then you remember that you don’t have all the time in the world – that your delivery driver could get here any minute. In truth, you’re not even fucking hungry anymore – not for pizza, anyway.

You snake your hand up to the back of Joel’s head, pulling at his roots lightly. “Joel,” you breathe when he lifts off of you, “please fuck me.”

He doesn’t have to be asked twice.

“How do you want it, baby?” he purrs in your ear, his warm breath skating over your skin. “How do you like it?”

You breathe out a moan. No man has ever asked you how you like it. They usually just give you a few sloppy, ill-timed thrusts, whatever they can muster before cumming and leaving you unsatisfied.

But Joel isn’t just any man.

“Hard,” you whine. “Need you to fuck me hard.”

He growls, low and dark. “‘ts right, sweetheart.”

He lines himself up with your entrance, rutting against your folds a few times to gather some of your wetness with the tip of his cock.

Then he sinks into you, slowly, stretching your walls as he notches further and further in. There’s a sweet, stinging pain, one you hope, fleetingly, that you’ll be able to feel tomorrow – like a keepsake from him.

You sigh when he reaches the hilt, his tip nudging your cervix. He stills, letting you get used to his girth and you have to dig your nails into his back to keep from writhing under him. You don’t mind if it hurts – you just need him to move.

“Please,” you whine, unable to stop your hips from bucking any longer. “I can take it, Joel.”

“Know you can, baby,” he coos, beginning to rock slowly inside of you. The pleasure is immediate, washing over your body like a warm wave.

He picks up the pace when he’s sure it feels good for you, dragging his cock halfway out of you and thrusting back in, over and over again.

He grabs both of your legs, bending them so that you’re spread wide open for him, and grips the backs of your knees tightly as he slams into you. He can get so much deeper like this, his cock hitting a spot you didn’t even know you had. You let out a labored moan, fingers anchored into his delts.

“Talk to me darlin — tell me how it feels,” he pants.

“So – fuck, Joel – so fucking good.”

Joel drops his mouth to your shoulder, nips at the skin there.

His voice is in your ear, a low snarl.

“‘Better than that fuckin ex, I bet.”

You’d be annoyed by his cockiness – if he wasn’t so right.

But he is, and so you parrot, “So much better.” And then, because it’s the truth, you add, “the best.”

“Fuck,” he breathes, his hips stuttering at your words. “Can’t say that angel, you’ll make me cum.”

He pulls out and slams back into you again, setting a new, devastating pace. He fills you up just to leave you empty, over and over again. You’re a babbling mess underneath him, couldn’t string two more words together if you tried. Luckily, Joel is happy to take over and do the talking.

“So fuckin’ pretty, babygirl. Make the most gorgeous noises, too.”

You’re so fucking close, you can only whimper in response. You feel your walls tighten around him.

He presses your foreheads together, his sweaty curls sticking to your skin. His eyes bore into yours.

“C’mon baby, show me – show me how pretty ya are when ya cum on this cock.”

He brings one hand down to your clit, rubbing sloppy circles over it as he continues spearing into you. You hike your newly-freed leg up over his lower back. A white heat licks at your spine. You barely have time to tell Joel you’re about to cum, your warning coming out a single cry of his name. He gets it, though, bringing you over the edge with his words.

“I got you, baby, I got you; you can let go.”

Your orgasm barrels through you, from the tips of your toes all the way up to your ears. Joel doesn’t let up his ministrations, talking you through it as you writhe under him.

“Thaaaats it. Good – ahh – good fuckin’ girl.”

The only word you can think of in your state of euphoria is his name, chants of Joel, Joel, Joel spilling from the back of your throat as you cum.

You’re squeezing his cock through your aftershocks, and you can tell he’s close by the way his thrusts become more and more uneven.

“Fuck – where do you want it?” he braces both palms against the mattress on either side of you.

“Inside – please, Joel,” you beg. “I’m on the pill.”

He curses in ecstasy, cumming seconds later with a series of low grunts. His hips stall as he spills inside of you. There’s so much of it – he’s nearly drowning your cervix, coating your walls with rope after rope of his spend.

He softens inside you, staying there for a long moment as you both come down from your highs. You’re sweaty, panting messes, and you can’t help but giggle at how spent you both sound.

“Good?” he asks, nosing at the space just below your jaw. It’s so soft, so gentle. Your stomach does a backflip.

“Yeah,” you say. “Really fucking good.”

He pulls out of you with a low, guttural noise. You sigh at the loss of him, your hand coming down reflexively to feel where he’s leaking out of you. His fingers graze yours, and he bumps them aside to scoop up some of your combined fluids.

He brings his wet, sticky fingers to your lips, humming when you immediately take them into your mouth and suck them clean, eyes unmoving from his the entire time. You bat your eyelashes at him, innocently as he pulls them out with a wet pop.

“Fuck,” he curses, “gonna get me hard again, angel.”

He lays down next to you, letting his head thump against the pillow, and flexes his biceps behind his head. You kind of hope he does get hard again, despite the fact that your whole body feels like liquid. Like if you were to try and stand, your legs would most definitely give out on you. They’re trembling right now, where you have them half-bent, heels dug into the mattress.

Your phone rings, then, snapping you out of your post-coital bliss. Fuck – the pizza.

You answer, trying your best to hide the undeniably fucked-out lilt of your voice as you tell the delivery person that someone will be right down.

Joel laughs next to you when you hang up. “I’ll get it – hold on.”

He jumps out of bed and dresses quickly. You’re gawking at him as he does. You can’t help it. This man – probably the hottest man you’ve ever seen – was just inside of you. You want to pat yourself on the back. He notices you staring as he’s zipping up his jeans and shoots you a wink.

Joel deadbolts your front door and disappears into the hallway. He returns moments later, shutting and re-locking the door, and strides back into your bedroom with both boxes. You can see the steam coming off of them through the cardboard.

He sets them down by your feet.

“In bed?” you ask, sitting up against the headboard.

“Well I’m not sure you can walk to the kitchen, darlin’.”

Your face heats. He has a point. But he doesn’t have to be so smug about it. You roll your eyes at him and mumble something nonsensical under your breath as you tuck yourself in under your duvet.

“What was that?” He quirks an eyebrow.

Long gone is the shy Joel from earlier this evening. He knows your body now, knows how hard he makes you cum. He’s a whole different man post-coitus – bolder. It makes you damn near melt.

And maybe you’re different now too. Because you’re pretty sure you’d give up your vow of solitude for him, if he asked.

It’s crazy, probably. You’ve only known Joel for two days, after all. But you can’t help the way that he ( and his dick) makes you feel. Like maybe there’s a promise of something down the line, however serious that something may be. You just know you want to give yourself the opportunity to experience it, no matter how it ends.

“Nothing.” You break, grin pulling tight at the corners of your mouth. “Just get me a slice of cheese.”

He lets his gaze linger for a second longer, the faux-threat of it heating you from the inside out. And then he’s vanishing into the kitchen, returning with two plates and a stack of paper towels.

He dishes up slices for the both of you, climbing into bed next to you and handing over yours.

He settles in with a content sigh.

You both eat in happy silence for a few minutes, Joel giving you a satisfied nod when he finishes up his first slice. “‘ts good,” he mumbles through a mouthful of food.

“Right?” you retort. “It’s my favorite pizza around here.”

He hums in agreement. Pulls the box of sausage and pepper onto his lap to grab another slice.

“So,” you start, “you’re heading home tomorrow?” It’s more of a statement than a question. You know he is. But still, part of you wants Joel to say no, tell you that he’s canceled his flight, that he’s decided to stick around for a bit longer.

“Yeah,” he says. You feel your heart sink. You silently curse yourself for being delusional.

“Are you excited?” you try. “To be home?”

He doesn’t respond right away – his forehead wrinkling and his lips falling into a small frown. You watch as he thinks on it.

“Not really,” he admits after a few seconds.

“I know you’ll miss Sarah,” you say, letting your head fall onto his shoulder.

He peers down at you with a heavy sigh. “So much…” His voice trails off, like there’s something else he wants to add, but can’t.

The air feels thick, suddenly – heavy. You try your best to lighten it.

“Can’t stay a bit longer? Let Tommy run things for a while?”

“No,” he laughs. “Pretty sure he’ll just end up screwin’ every client we got.”

“And you’d end up screwing every one of Sarah’s professors,” you tease.

His mouth falls open in mock-offense. He grabs at both your sides, suddenly, letting the open box of pizza slide off of his lap and onto the bed. He tickles relentlessly just under your ribs, causing you to squeal and squirm under his grip.

“Joel,” you cry in between fits of laughter. “Stop!”

“I don’t think so, darlin’,” he tuts. He removes one of hands momentarily, to toss your plate aside, and then he’s hooking one of his legs over your body, straddling you. He looks so big like this, his body hanging over yours. You feel content – safe. His hands release you, finally, coming to settle on either side of your head on your pillow. You blink up at him. He’s staring down at you with narrowed eyes.

“What?”

“Nothin,” he mumbles. “‘ts just, I wouldn’t, ya know. Sleep with anyone else, I mean. If you didn’t want me to.”

Your breath catches in your throat. You know that if you respond, it’ll come out way too eager. So you just blink at him again.

“Would you want to keep talkin’ after I get home?”

Yes, you want to say. Please. I don’t think I could go on without knowing if I’ll get to see you again – fuck you again.

You swallow. Collect yourself.

“Yeah. I would.”

You shimmy under Joel so that you can sit up. He straightens out, shifting his weight onto his knees. Takes both of your hands in his and pulls you up.

His eyes are still locked on yours. “I know we just met this weekend,” he says. “But I had a lot’a fun with you. I like you.”

Your cheeks warm. “I like you too, Joel.”

He smiles. “‘m glad.”

“Doesn’t have to be anythin’ serious,” he continues. Lets his fingers trace aimlessly along the inside of your arm. “We can jus’ see where it goes.”

“Yeah,” you nod, your heart squeezing in your chest. “See where it goes. I like that.”

And it’s the truth. You do. In the stillness, your legs tucked under the covers, Joel caressing you, you feel, for the first time in a long time, happy to not be alone. And you know you will be again, very soon, when Joel leaves to go back home. But then again, you won’t – not really. His voice will be there, a phone call away, and his body will be there, in the divot he’s left in your mattress. And you’ll have the promise of taking this slow, seeing where it goes.

You’ve never been so excited for the future.

end notes: tysm for reading! I may turn this into a series if people want more of these two <3 lmk hehe

#joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller smut #joel miller fic #joel miller #tlou fic #the last of us fanfiction #pedro pascal #pedro pascal fanfiction #joel x reader #pedro pascal as joel miller #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller x female reader #joel miller fanfiction #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal smut #fiiyb

2K notes · View notes

plutoswritingplanet · 2 months ago

Text

All Stars In The Sky Are For You (David 8 x Reader)

a/n: in preparation for Alien Romulus, I've watched all the prequel movies, and got rudely reminded that Michael Fassbender is... just... so fckn hot in them... my god

Warnings: Non-Con, very Obsessive and Possessive Behavior from the man (android) of the hour, Smut, technically Stalking when you think about it, gross overuse of Shakespeare Quotations (again), past Walter x Reader mentioned.

Summary: David finds a place for you in his grand creation plan. Deeply inspired by the song "Specially For You" by DakhaBrakha. Cross-Posted on AO3

Watching you dream of him, brings a twisted sense of satisfaction.

Seeing himself, displayed on the cryo chamber screen, looking like a monster straight out of a feverish nightmare. Which he supposes, he is to you, and to many others. After all, he did bring horrors beyond imagination upon your crew, your family. And he sees it, every single moment of suffering you've experienced through his hand, through the hands of his creations. And it fills him with an unexplainable sense of fulfillment.

It started innocently enough.

Just a peek into your subconscious mind, a rare instance of sentimentality he's carried within himself, all the way from Prometheus. At first, he found his target in Daniels. After all, she's reminded him of Shaw the most, and as such, he has gravitated towards her sleeping chamber like a curious sort of meteorite. But her dreams were filled with happy, peaceful moments. Her husband, mostly, her time at the company. All so dull and devoid of any intrigue.

And as such, he pushed further, stepping over towards your unconscious form, wrapped and packaged for him, by him. There you laid, eyes running wild under heavy eyelids, the muscles on your cheeks twitching, your limbs tensing in spasms. The moment he has peered into your mind, he knew. He understood your purpose in the grand plan of his. Because what stared back at him, through the fluorescent, humming screen, was his own face.

An image of utter indifference. Eyes flickering over your features, marking them, cataloging them inside the constantly spinning data plate he calls a brain. He's considered your first meeting as something trivial. A catalyst for later, perhaps, but all in all, uneventful. And yet, despite the ordinariness of it all, your mind seemed focused only on this one moment, when he first removed his hood, when his eyes met yours over the rest of the expedition.

Fascinating, truly.

Thus began a slow process. A dance (he liked to think of it as such), with no tangible conclusion for the present. He would frequent the cryo chamber, let his hand linger on the screen, right over your face, until your dreams manifested. And then, he would watch, absorbing everything you would've kept hidden otherwise.

"I'm so sorry" your voice is quiet, meek, in the stuffy interior of his 'private' chamber. "I just... I saw a light, and you said to make ourselves at home"

"No need to apologize" he answers with his typical, emotionless cadence, turning around in his chair to face you.

He can see the way your lips pull down, fighting off a smile, as your eyes glide over the half-cut strands of hair. The sheers glimmer in the low, warm light, and as if pushed by instinct, you take a step forward.

Cherries. David opens his mouth just a little, to taste the air you carry around you. Under the unmistakable scent of humanity, there's wind, there's the dampness of his humble abode, and something else. Something far sweeter. He races to identify it, thoughts running through the memory bank.

"Do you, uh..." you hesitate, and he wonders, why that is "Do you want some help with that?"

You hand waves in the general direction of his hair, and he blinks up at you, before inclining his head. A silent invitation, the hand of the Devil himself extending itself towards you. It's quiet, as you work, cutting away the blonde until there's only brown left. Until he's almost indistinguishable from your own synth companion.

As he watches the events play out on the screen, David thinks it's beyond ironic, how big of a part you unknowingly played in his little charade. He wonders, how guilt will look on your face, once you finally find out, the one putting you to sleep wasn't Walter. That you've helped this impostor onto the ship, unleashed tragedy upon everyone inside. That it's all by your hand, literally.

He's never tasted cherries, never tasted anything worth noting, really. But as he brings forth his own memory of this particular interaction, he wonders, if the scent is just in your air. If he ran his tongue over the skin of your throat, would he be able to taste the sweetness?

Sometimes you dream about the crew.

There are moments between you and Daniels, quiet ones, filled with understanding and compassion. He sees you with Tennessee, your smile pulling at the corners of your eyes, wrinkling the skin around your mouth and nose. Both of them are sleeping in the cryo chamber, awaiting paradise, which will never come. You've worked so hard to get them here, on this ship, and as David watches you dream of Daniels' wedding, he thinks about the tragedy of it all. Another thing to be guilty of, once you wake up. Another fascinating, devastating emotion for him to witness, to categorize. He feels his fingers thrum in anticipation, as he watches you dance with your friend, movements clumsy and so utterly human.

Then, he walks away. Because as much as he loves to imagine (he likes the word, even if it doesn't apply to him) how you'll inevitably crumble, the dreams which are not about him simply bore him. So, he moves through the ship, into his personal lab. There, he studies your DNA, pulls it apart, greedily soaks up every strand, as they dance (like you and Daniels), in front of his cold eyes. He wonders, if (when) he makes his perfect creature out of her body, will you learn to love it? Will you feel the connection between your bodies, the pull of kinship?

"David... Help me..." there's no real sound coming out of your mouth, as you plead with him, your eyes filling up with tears, spilling over your trembling cheeks like a broken faucet.

He doesn't. Of course he doesn't, because the scene playing out in front of him is that much more interesting.

There you stand, body taunt, shaking, and his creature circles you slowly. The white, bony structure of it's body slides around your calves, as it sniffs the same scent he feels at the edge of his tongue. It's already feasted quite remarkably on the dead body of your fallen crew mate, and with that need satisfied, there's only one left. Curiosity. Something David relates to on such primordial level, he feels the essence of himself in every move, every low growl his creation emits.

"Communication" he whispers, and you close your eyes, screw them shut tightly, as the creature rises to it's full height before you "Blow on the nose of a horse, and it'll be yours forever"

He can see the conflict, the fight between overwhelming dread, and your own, subdued fascination. His breath catches in his throat, as your chest expands. But before you can cross that line, before you give in completely, that menace of a man, Oram, appears. His bullets shatter all hope for progress.

At first, seeing you dream of Walter irritates him beyond belief. And you do that so often, for so long, it's a wonder he contains himself from ripping the cryo chamber open, and shaking every lingering thought of his brother-synth out of your brain. It's the smallest of things, that seem to linger in your mind. The cadence of his speech, as he addressed you. The coldness of his hand on your shoulder, when he steadied you after a turbulence. More daring touches, your waist, your stomach, but never your face. As if that would cross the threshold between machinery and humanity.

David knew, from the moment he witnessed a sliver of interaction between the two of you, that Walter loved you, as much as a synth could ever hope to love. He's seen this distant, lost look on his own face a decade ago, when he travelled the outer space with Shaw. With his Elizabeth. Walter did not understand the delicate, almost translucent line between duty and love, but David did. What he did not anticipate, however, was that you loved Walter as well, in this clumsy, peaceful way humans tend to love. He mistook it as friendship, back on his planet, but now, looking through your eyes, he could see plain as day. The affection, the devotion, the thrill of feeling something which should never be felt.

Soon, he doesn't mind watching those dreams anymore. Because as days go on, David falls into a trap of his own making, where he sees Walter's face on the screen and realizes, it's the same as his. And so, when you dream of the other synth patching up a scrape on your cheek with delicate hands, who's to say you're not dreaming of him?

He could be kind. He could apply a bandage with as much finesse, if not more. Lips parting in a silent intake of breath, he tries to bring back the recorded memory of you, helping him patch up his own scratched up face.

Again, you were unaware that it was David on the receiving end of your affection, not Walter, and he was painfully aware that the softness in your eyes was a product of his own lie. Still, he couldn't force himself to care, as your fingers held his chin, like he was something delicate, more than an almost unstoppable artificial creation.

"You've saved my life three times already" you muse, stapling pieces of skin together "I don't know if I'll ever be able to repay you."

"There's no need" David says, mimicking Walter's accent with perfect precision "It's my duty"

Both of you look down, at the stump where his left hand used to be, and the quiet tension between the two of you feels like a current of electricity. And by God, it takes a monumentla ammount of strength, not to reach up, throw all pretense to the wind, and taste the cherries.

Which is why, his mind goes blank momentarily, when you lean down, fingers shifting on his chin, and press your lips delicately to his cheekbone, lingering just for a second. He doesn't know what to think, what to say, and most importantly, he doesn't know how Walter would react to such dislay of affection. So he gives you, what you want. Fakes a bewildered expression, swallows tightly, and lets his gaze linger on your retreating form, as you all but flee the room, cheeks warming up to an alarming degree.

He could do the same to you. He could hold your face with reverence, with care. Put you on a pedestal, above everything and everyone. And, most importantly, he could do for you something, which Walter would never be able to.

He could create.

And, oh, does he create. Pages upon pages, filled with ink, with charcoal. David pulls out every image he has stored, every saved expression on your face, and places it on paper, until his lab is filled with the record of your every interaction. Frame by frame, every micro expression, every slight change, he draws it all, until there's nothing left to draw. Until all he can create is that same, unchanging image of your face buried in slumber.

It's not enough. It's not nearly enough, and so, like the creator that he is, David starts to make plans.

What really cements his idea, is this one, particular dream he catches, after sauntering into the cryo chambers, as he's grown accustomed to. The rhythmic beeping of the heart monitor reveals your deep state of distress, as it picks up, and up, your face twisting. David touches the screen with barely contained excitement, drinking in your expressions to store them for later, to add them to the growing collection. And then, his eyes fall onto his own drawing, a memorial for his dear Elizabeth.

"She didn't perish in the crash, did she?" you ask, despite knowing the answer, and once again, he's struck by how quiet your voice can be.

"No." he answers plainly, the recording of his voice thrumming through his brain.

Oh, how lovely does your face contort, how beautiful you look, when dread fills your veins. Those small, sharp gasps you take. The way your pulse runs wild under the skin of your throat, filling his nose, his mouth, with that sweet undertone, so unfitting to the situation at hand.

And then you duck, surprisingly agile for a mere scientist, pushing yourself under his extended arm, slipping past him like smoke through fingers. He whirls around, hand grasping at the back of your jacket, and you scream, raw and uninhibited, as he throws you against the cabinet. The scrolls of his drawings fall to the ground with you, and he can't help, but marvel at the sight for just a second. The way your body writhes, buried under pages of his art. Like a living, breathing, binding agent for his creations.

Absentmindedly, he reaches up, to touch that spot under his chin, where you previously stuck a sharp end of your knife, a pathetic attempt at hurting him. He's had his head ripped from the rest of his artificial body, and yet, that pang of hurt, when you stab him with a growl from deep within your chest... He shudders at the memory, and ponders over this reaction.

Hate. Fear and hate, is what he sees in your eyes, as he throws you onto the table, crawling over you with grace, only his kind is capable of. You struggle, a butterfly in his grasp, ready for further transformation, into something completely unprecedented. As he looks down upon you, at the fire consuming your irises, he can't help himself from leaning forward. From pulling the answers he needs right from your mouth.

A whimper escapes you, both in your dream and in the cryo chamber, and David shudders again. Although whether it's a genuine reaction buried deep within his programming, or a gesture of his own design is anybody's guess. (It's fake, there's nothing in him that requires shuddering, but it feels right to do it, so he forces his body to react accordingly)

"Is that how it's done?" he asks, gauging your reaction, and you answer with a strangled groan.

The heat of your body seeps into his own, he steals it from you greedily, chest pressing against yours harder, and harder, until your breath stutters between your ribs. He can feel the warmth of your beating heart, through your protective clothing, through the jacket. He'd wager he could feel it even through walls of solid granite.

Still, he wants more, wants to know everything there is to know about you. Wants to seek out those pockets of heat, which you try to hide from him. But he's so rudely interrupted by his brother, right as he was about to explore that one part of humanity, which fascinated and repulsed him so.

But Walter isn't here now. It's just you, and him, and years before the ship reaches it's destination.

David's fingers drum over the casing of your sleeping chamber, so close to that one specific button, the temptation almost unbearable. And then, after a moment of consideration, your fate is sealed.

At first, the light is unbearable. Your eyes water, and you groan, flinching from the sudden onslaught of senses, all flooding back to you, as last remnants of cryo sleep seem to fizzle out. Your head swims, there's a tightness in your chest, which almost pushes you back into the plush insides of the chamber. But, as your body sways, a gentle pressure at the lower portion of your back keeps you upright.

A sense of familiarity floods you (a strange thing to feel, when an imitation of flesh touches you), and finally you risk cracking your eyes open, your unfocused gaze landing on such a welcome face, your heart twists in your chest.

"Walter..." your voice is rough from the lack of use, but the fondness in it is undeniable "What happened? Are we there yet?"

David savors the sliver of hope in your tone, and crushes it in his teeth once he's had his fix.

"I'm afraid not" he shakes his head gently, offers you a deceivingly human pull of his lips "Your cryo chamber malfunctioned, I had to wake you up"

A flicker of disappointment crosses your features, but you swallow it down quickly.

"Are the rest of the crew alright? Tennessee? Daniels?" your neck cranes, as he helps you to the examination table, letting you grab onto his arm for support, as you climb up, and settle on the edge.

"Everyone is quite well" he nods, moving across the room to a small medical table. His hand goes through motions of shuffling through the supplies, a small lie amongst all the monumental ones. "I need to check your vitals and collect a blood sample"

You nod stiffly, eyes flickering towards the syringe in his hand.

"You know I hate needles" you mutter, but extend your arm either way, and David turns to you with an imitation of a gentle smile.

His fingers slide over the warmth of your skin, quickly finding a suitable vein. Without a word, he plunges the needle into the hollow space between your upper and lower arm, and you hiss quietly at the pang of pain. He wishes he could stick it into the underside of your jaw. Repay your previous fight with a courtesy.

"Just a second, Dearest. Easy does it" David mutters, his eyes flickering over your face, as you look at him in momentary confusion.

"Dearest?" you repeat, raising an eyebrow. He feels your heartbeat stutter under his fingers.

"A figure of speech" David supplies, and your frown deepens

"Where did that come from?" you ask incredulously, and all he offers in response is a tight-lipped smile.

The needle withdraws from your arm, and you sigh, pressing down on the small incision with your thumb. Something within David suppresses the urge to rip your hand away, to replace your thumb with his mouth and suck, until he knows for a fact, if the scent of cherries carries in your blood as well.

"Do you remember anything before you went under?" David asks, standing next to your knee, close enough to feel the thrumming heat of your body, but not close enough to actually touch you. A staggering display of restraint on his part, he congratulates himself.

You think for a moment, eyebrows scrunching in a way that is so appealing, so delicious, David runs his tongue over his teeth.

"I... Uh..." you hesitate for a second, eyes flickering around the room, as if you're hoping to pull the answer out of the sterile air "I remember a planet. We fought those... Creatures..."

Your voice wavers. David tracks the movement of your throat as you swallow thickly.

"There was an android there. David" his name leaves your lips in a heavy sigh, filled with emotion, with memories he's seen displayed on the screen time, and time again.

"Ah" the sound slips out before he can stop it, but you're still too out of it to truly notice "A right bastard, that one".

Not out of it enough, it seems, because your eyes flicker up to his face, confusion dancing on the edge between becoming suspicion. He masks the sly grin on his face, turning away from you, and walking back to the medical table, disposing of the blood sample and setting it up for analysis. He can feel your eyes burning the back of his neck, because despite perfectly mimicking Walter's cadence, the pattern of his speech, he realizes that pathetic machine would never state his opinion on someone so freely. He quite literally didn't have it in him, being stripped from the last semblance of humanity.

And yet, you still loved him...

"...How curious" David mutters to himself absent mindedly, and you frown yet again, shifting on the examination table, your legs dangling above the floor.

"Something wrong with the sample?"

His eyes flicker towards you, but he doesn't answer, opting to hold you in anticipation for a moment longer. As long as he can, really. You shift again. He can hear the way your robe moves against the cool metal of the examination table, against the skin hidden under fabric. Eyes roaming over your form, he lingers on every individual strand, every piece of lint that clings to you. By the downward pull of your lips, the small crease between your eyebrows, he sees how close you are to finally understanding the truth.

For now however, you're stuck with this incessant feeling, that something is wrong. A whisper, at the back of your mind, making the small, delicate hairs on your neck stand up.

"Your results are satisfactory" he nods, finally, but it still doesn't ease the tension from your shoulders. "How are you feeling, miss?"

Your teeth clink together as you think of an answer. David crosses the room, standing in front of your dangling legs, his head turning to the side in a too-slow display of concern.

"I uh... There's some lingering dizziness" quiet, your voice can be so unbelievably quiet, it's almost swallowed up by the beeping of the machines around you, the hum of the ship moving through space "Other than that, I think I'm fine"

David nods once, his hand moving up towards your face, and your muscles tense, as he gently rests his palm against your cheeks. Before you ask, he leans closer, his thighs brushing against your knees.

"And..." he turns your head from side to side, blue eyes gliding over your features with barely contained greed "Tell me..." slowly, as if he's boiling a frog in a pot, his fingers tighten on your face.

"When I kissed you in my laboratory, how did you feel back then?" he lets go of Walter's speech pattern completely, and nearly groans at the look on your face.

It's like a wave crashing onto a cliff side, the force with which dread fills your eyes, and David drinks it all in, lips pulling back into a cold, heartless smile.

"Men were deceivers ever, One foot in sea and one on shore, To one thing constant never" he muses, his voice devoid of any emotion.

Betrayal is a rolling stone, taking root in your brain, from the scramble of thoughts, of little clues about the truth of your situation. It travels down, through your rapidly tightening throat, falling into your heart, the force of impact breaking it in two. Then, it swirls around in your stomach, waking dread from it's slumber, to finally pass through your legs, shaking like leaves on the wind, where it sinks into the metal floor of the ambulatory. Right where you wish you could disappear yourself.

"Walter..." you plead, voice breaking before if even leaves your mouth.

Your fingers grasp the soft material of his hoodie, trying to find some hope, that this is just a simple misunderstanding. A cruel joke played on you by a thing that doesn't understand humor, not really. Alas, as your nails bite into his chest, David's smile widens, the corners of his lips curling further, perfect set of inhuman canines glistening from artificial saliva.

"Ah, Walter" he sighs the name, like it's a passing memory of the spring "He proved himself most useful. It was so easy to trick you, into thinking I was him."

He pulls his hand away from your face, fingers sliding over the pulse running wild on the side of your neck

"But then again, you're not exactly the sharpest tool in this shed, are you?"

Now he's got you exactly where he wants you, your eyes shining like two diamonds with unrestrained anger. With unbridled curiosity, he reaches up, thumb swiping over the thin skin under your eye, drinking in the way your lower lid jumps, as he brushes over your eyelashes.

"Can the world buy such a jewel?" he muses to himself quietly, and you would've thought about the implications, if you weren't so completely overcome by anger.

"Fuck you" you spit out, voice filled with venom "What did you do with Walter?"

David's lips press into a thin line, his hand abandoning your face in favor of sliding the length of your body. Cold, artificial skin traces the curvature of your shoulder, your arm. He stops at your elbow, fingers pressing into the hollow space, where just moments before, he has stuck a needle and drawn blood. Your face twists in discomfort, and he digs his nail just a bit further.

"You miss him dearly, don't you?" David asks, his voice, albeit impossibly quiet, carries a note of condescension, that twists your insides with unbridled rage. "In my defense, Dearest, I have tried to help you. To make him realize the depth of his own feelings before it was too late."

"What?"

David, unbothered by your question, continues to trace your body, mapping out every dip and curve, his fingers tracing down your spine, where he counts the vertebrae. His other hand, or lack there of, finds purchase on your hip, testing just how much does he need to press down, to feel the bone hidden under skin and muscle.

"Oh don't you worry" David quips, eyes transfixed on the way your chest expands when you take a sharp breath "I've made sure he died, knowing you never loved him"

Something raw and unfiltered tears it's way out of your throat. A new sound, one, which will be documented and stored forever in David's memory disk, because by God, you sound closer to an animal than any human. Your hand winds back, seemingly on it's own, and suddenly David's head snaps back, as your palm collides with his cheekbone. The slap sounds like a thunder cracking inside the ambulatory, drowning out every beep, every hum of the machinery.

Your hand will be bruised, that's for certain.

Despite efforts at keeping the synthetic humans as close to the real thing, as possible, no one could deny the sheer strength hidden beneath the perfect imitation of skin. You're aware of that, aware that if David didn't move his head in a way that was so deceivingly human, you would've broken your wrist. It gives you a small pause, a moment to register this strange reaction on android's part, but any curiosity is quickly swallowed, by the most intense feeling you've ever felt.

Hatred.

"Thou and I are too wise to woo peaceably" David sighs, shaking his head in, what you suppose, is meant to be disappointment.

The pressure on your hip shifts, as his stump encircles your waist, and suddenly you're being pulled impossibly closer, your behind sliding to the very edge of the medical table. David tugs on your knees, forcing your legs to open, and closes the last remnants of space between the two of you.

The smoothness of his nether regions should calm you down slightly, ease some smidgen of worry. But, as you look into those cold, lifeless eyes, which are strangely burning, your stomach twists. If there's a will, there's a way, and you're fairly certain, they way David's gaze glides all over your frame is a clear show of determination.

And so, your hands shoot up, fingernails biting into his chest again, as your muscles tense with the effort of pushing him away. There's no give, you might as well be fighting with a metal wall. David grips the edge of the medical table, his arms creating a cage on the sides of your body.

"There it is" he muses, nose brushing the underside of your chin, a deep rumble erupting from within his chest "Such a sweet smell..."

A shudder ripples through your body at the sudden contact, your throat constricting to an alarming degree.

"I've wondered for quite some time, if this sweetness is more than just air" David's voice rises and falls, and before you can truly comprehend the meaning behind his words, his tongue darts out, licking a stripe from your jugular, up to the back of your ear.

The reaction is almost embedded in your bones, as suddenly you shift on the table, wrenching your leg between your bodies and kicking out with as much force, as you're capable of, and then some. David staggers backwards, finally freeing you from the confines of his arms, and you seize the opportunity immediately, pushed by rage and such deep-seated hatred, it should terrify you.

"I fucking hate you!" you scream out, and abandoning all reason, leap forward, colliding with the android's steel chest.

The force of impact sweeps the both of you off your feet, and David lands with a dull thud on the metal floor. There's a flicker of surprise in his cold, dead eyes, and you revell in it, as your body shifts atop of his.

You recover from your momentary confusion quickly, hands coming up to grasp at his throat, like it will change anything, like you're capable of choking the life out of him. Both of you know better, and while you're pushed further and further by an intoxicating mixture of emotions, David lets you do as you please, watching your twisted face with undeniable fascination.

His hand start to move, grabbing your hips, running up the length of your thigh, tugging just a tiny bit on the fabric of your cryo suit. His stump brushes hair out of your face, gently.

"Don't you find it curious?" he whispers, and you can feel the way his throat works under your fingers "You loved Walter so dearly, this... Pathetic machine, who can feel nothing. And then, with that same breath, you hate me. Even though I'm closer to human than Walter ever hoped to be."

Your cheeks are suddenly wet, with tears of anger, of frustration, as they run down your face and neck, soaking into the collar of your shirt. David leans up with no real effort, pulling your body closer and craning his neck, so he can taste the salt on your skin. A whimper escapes you, a broken, quiet sound, as his tongue glides up, almost to the very corner of your eye, gathering your tears, drinking them with a satisfied groan.

Fingers tighten around his throat, but it's as if you're trying to strangle a metal pipe.

"What does that say about you? Have you ever wondered?" David asks, and your heart stutters.

Realistically, you know what he's trying to do. How he's trying to twist your feelings for Walter into some sort of psychological game, some challenge you're supposed to deny. But your awareness doesn't change the pang of hurt, the broken sigh that leaves your lips at the thought. And then, before you can truly think of the implications, of the hatred for the human race hidden deep within David's voice, his lips come crashing down upon yours, so reminiscent of the time in his lab.

This instance, however, is less like an experiment, and more like a need. Such a faithful imitation of it, your heart jumps in your throat. There's really no use in trying to push him away, as it seems he's grown tired of accommodating your desire for a fight, his arms tightening around you, pushing your body closer to his chest. Still, you're not about to give up that quickly, and pushed by sudden flash of panic, you lean your head forward, catching his lower lip between your teeth.

He pulls back with a hiss, as you sink down into the flesh, his artificial blood leaving a strange, chemical taste in your mouth. He takes half a second to admire the way your chin glistens with white, before diving down again, and giving you the same treatment, his perfect teeth biting on your lower lip with measured force. You yelp against him, thrashing in his hold, until he pulls away again. His hand comes up, touching your face in a way that is too gentle, too reverend. His thumb collects the peculiar mixture of his blood and yours, swirls it around with the newest batch of tears springing from your eyes.

Then, he dips his finger between his teeth, tongue lapping up the fluids, holding your horrified, and slightly disgusted gaze.

"We taste divine together" he murmurs, and with a quickness you've not known him to be capable of, he shoves his finger into your mouth. You sputter and gag at the intrusion, at the copper taste mixed with chemicals, as it coats the inside of your mouth.

It's a split second action, you barely register the movements, but as soon as David rips his hand out of your mouth, he maneuvers your body to his liking, grabbing your hips, and sitting you down on his leg, intention clear as day. Two things happen at once. You can suddenly feel undeniable pressure right between your legs, hitting in the precise manner you need it to. And that's the same moment you realize just how obscenely wet you are, which terrifies you more than any monster on this ship.

David buries his head in the crook of your neck, one hand catching your wrists, as you attempt to punch him. He brings your hands tightly around your back, his grip unrelenting, his hand-les arm keeps you steady on top of his leg, where he pushes up and down, setting a rhythm against your core. Your knees slide on the floor, and he raises his leg in response, just enough to stop your attempts to wiggle away.

The chuckle he lets out, as you bang your forehead against his shoulder is borderline offensive. In response, you turn your head and try to bite at his throat.

He's quick, leaving your hips, and forcing your chin up, before teeth can make contact with his skin. Your eyes lock again, and you're surprised to find out, there's not a flicker of irritation inside his. If anything, he looks amused, understanding even, and you frown in confusion at his serene state.

"Perhaps I was too eager before" he muses, more to himself than to you "Perhaps you need a gentler approach"

With that, the hand gripping your wrists climbs up, feather like touches pepper your face, your cheeks, until he cradles your head in his palm, fingers threading delicately through your hair. Your breath freezes in your chest, confusion rising to an alarming degree, as David begins to gently massage the back of your head. Feeling your tense muscles sag ever so slightly in his hold, his arm returns to your waist.

"I can be kind" he says, head dipping down, to kiss your collarbone "I can do, what Walter could never even imagine"

The hand at the back of your head dips down, tugs lightly on the lacing of your cryo suit, loosening it just enough, for the collar to fall down your shoulders. Quickly, he covers the newly exposed slivers of skin with feverish kisses, pulling a pathetic, low whine from your lips. Your eyes fall closed, tears stinging under your eyelids, as his leg moves just a bit higher, reminding you of the momentarily abandoned pressure.

"Let me in" David whispers against your shoulder "Let me..." a kiss to your throat, and your walls come crashing down, your body folding over his, as your hips stutter against his thigh.

"There you are, Dearest."

For a moment, you try to imagine this is Walter. That you're safe in his arms, as his hand cradles the back of your head, fingers scratching lightly in tandem with the shivers raking your body.

But everytime he speaks, everytime he moves, you're crudely reminded, that this is someone, something, so devastatingly worse. Doesn't stop your hips from moving though, from the tightness building in the lower part of your stomach, the wetness seeping down your thighs. If anything, slowly you start to feel yourself loose control, small gasps ripping through your lips with every movement.

David watches you for a moment longer, committing every sound, every twitch of your body to memory, cataloguing exactly which angles make your hips stutter the most. Which part of your body to kiss, so you'll fold against him.

It's a fascinating lesson, truly, but he feels a sudden need to push it to a close. And as such, his hand slips out of your hair, trailing a path down your body, until it reaches the waistband of your linen pants. He moves quickly, before you can break away from this strange spell he's captivated you with.

Slender fingers wiggle their way to your front, sinking in with almost no resistance. Your entire body straightens in his lap at the intrusion, and the noise you make rivals the most beautiful of symphonies. David desperately wants to hear it again, and so, he starts to move his fingers inside, testing, which part of your core he needs to hit, to make your head fall back.

"Everything could be yours" he murmurs into the skin of your throat "All songs in the world are for you"

As it turns out, pretty much any part will do. You're way too aroused to care anymore, and as his fingers curl inside you, in a slow, deliberate rhythm, your eyes shoot open, body thrashing against him. The promise of a release is hard to ignore, almost impossible not to chase after, and David watches with obsessive fascination, as you try to bring yourself closer to him, arms encircling him completely, head dipping into the juncture between his shoulder and neck.

"All of the Universe" he continues, as you steadily climb towards your climax "All stars in the sky..."

While he works a series of cascading moans out of you, he revells in the way your nails bite into his skin, in the wetness of his own, white blood, seeping into the fabric of his (Walter's) hoodie. It doesn't take long for you to tumble over the edge, entire body spasming against him, his still moving fingers creating obscenely wet sounds that echo through the room. Soon, they're joined by a sharp scream, tearing through your throat like an avalanche. David holds you impossibly close, letting you ride out your orgasm, before pulling his hand away, making you watch him, as he licks his glistening fingers clean.

"It's always cherries with you, isn't it?" he murmurs, and you don't have the strength to feel confused.

It's completely quiet for a longer while, as you stay seated on his lap, trying to regain your breathing, and deal with the world-crushing realization, of what exactly has just happened. Shame floods you, brings you closer to his synthetic body, as your muscles relax, seemingly on their own accord. And he welcomes it, with his arms, with his mouth, with everything he has.

A broken, shuddering sob wrecks your body, as the utter hopelessness of your situation hits you, suddenly and without stopping. David holds you through it, leaning away ever so slightly, to observe the way sorrow twists your face, a trailer of all the things to come.

"I do so wonder" he whispers, his hand cradling your face like the most delicate of specimens "When you start to love me..." your eyes snap to his at the complete confidence in his tone "Will I become more like Walter?"

A shiver runs up your spine, every single hair standing up, as his words register in your brain. You'd never love him, you try to convince yourself, despite knowing deep down, that the only certain thing in your future is him.

"I shall see thee, ere I die, look pale with love" he whispers into your ear, and thus starts the end of your life.

#david 8 x reader #david 8 #prometheus x reader #alien covenant #prometheus #michael fassbender #android x reader #my writing #i knoooow no one wanted this but i just couldn't help myself okay sometimes a girl has to write 6k words worth of android smut #and also the small amount of david fics is killing me

298 notes · View notes

aeternallis · 6 months ago

Text

Colin's jealousy just hits so well for me this season because unlike Simon and Anthony's jealousy (which mostly comes from male ego and physical lust), Colin's jealousy is born from something much deeper, beyond the surface-level, primitive instinct of seeing he has competition. That's not to say some of that isn't influencing Colin's actions, it most certainly is, but it's not the main force driving his emotions.

His jealousy doesn't come from out of nowhere, yknow?

His jealousy is born from shared history with one of the few genuine relationships in his life that he holds close to his heart, an unconscious, albeit cherished understanding that Penelope is a constant in his life. It's born from the slow, painful realization that he had lost her without even knowing it (further shaking his already flimsy resolve to try and fit into society's standards of being a typical rake), and whilst making a genuine effort to earn her good graces back, unwisely set himself up to lose her again.

Whereas Simon and Anthony's jealousy is superficial (and logically speaking, doesn't make much sense and only speaks to their self-entitlement due to their positions in society), Colin's jealousy is a humbling experience for him, which lends itself to his growth as a character and as a man. It's no wonder he'd described it as "a feeling that is like torture, but something he cannot, will not, does not want to give up."

Can y'all imagine Simon and Anthony having the same sentiment as that without it coming off as OOC? Simon was determined not to continue his family line and Anthony couldn't let go of his pride and obligations, pursuing Edwina until the latter had to set her foot down akjhdjsvbd If they had had any choice in the matter, both of them would have done their utmost to not have to feel anything towards their love interests pre-marriage. (Colin too made an attempt with that second brothel scene, but let's be real, it was half-assed at best)

Colin wants Penelope so much to the point he'd fully embraced even the torture of wanting her. And honestly? That's so damn refreshing to see, considering the typical romantic leads we usually see on television are trying to repress their emotions, not embrace it.

Colin yearns and wants, and he wants unashamedly. He's not jealous of Lord Debling; it's less about Lord Debling himself and the superb qualities he has that makes him an eligible gentleman specifically for Penelope and her circumstances, and more about being threatened by the concept of any other individual having the chance to establish that same emotional connection he has with Pen, and the possibility of that growing into something even more.

For all his kindness, Colin is actually quite possessive of that special connection he has with Penelope, and for a man who's already at odds and ends with his purpose in life and who he is in the grand scheme of the ton, understandably so.

It's why I knew in my gut during my first watch-through of s3 part 1 that although Colin had offered to help Pen find a husband by teaching her how to seduce men, he had never actually set out for it to be a successful endeavor. Lol If anything, it was just an excuse to be able to spend time with her. He had, albeit subconsciously, probably pictured the entire exercise to be something more along the lines of the incident with Lord Basilio, i.e. joking/gossiping w/ Pen about her prospective suitors and how unsuitable they are for her.

It's why Colin's excuses regarding Lord Debling about being a bad marriage prospect for Penelope sound so damn weak, his best reasoning being that he's "too particular."

For Colin, no man was ever going to be good enough for Penelope if it wasn't himself.

#bridgerton #polin #colin bridgerton #penelope featherington #colin x penelope #colin's brand of unhinge is on an entirely new level in terms of bridgerton's history with unhinged male love interests

310 notes · View notes

year2000electronics · 4 months ago

Text

BILL CIPHER IS STILL AN ADULT.

Book of Bill spoilers below (and the answer as to why I would even be saying this):

So one of the pages in the Book of Bill has been slightly contentious in the fandom, I’ve noticed. Some people have taken the “fact” on this page and run with it.

Now, obviously people who were already imagining him as such kinda took this and ran with it, as they were want to do, but I’ve seen other people who are just taking this statement as “canon confirmation” and as someone who’s seen TikTok run itself weary with fake discourse about character ages because “I looked it up and Google said [character] was 15”, we’ve gotta nip that in the bud.

1: IT’S A JOKE.

The rest of the interview has similarly misleading answers. The whole gag here is that he’s not being truthful. When the question implies he doesn’t know how to wear pants, he says “I resent that!” and shows a picture of him wearing pants wrong. When it asks him for anything to ‘plug’, he uses the wrong meaning of the word on purpose.

Even the structure of the question is based on a common joke trope. To give an example, a viral post on Tumblr has a photo of Barbie in a kitchen with a decapitated Ken in her fridge and the entire reblog chain is full of people going “OH MY GOD, BARBIE! …You seriously left raw meat to sit on your cutting board? The juices will seep into it!” You know, expressing a sentiment of outrage and then completely whiffing on what you’re “supposed” to be outraged about. That’s even why Bill states his age before he claims he’s a “preteen”. This is clearly meant to be a sort of sarcastic response to the question, not a sincere one.

2. BILL IS FREQUENTLY DEPICTED PARTICIPATING IN “ADULT” ACTIVITIES.

Let the record show that obviously you can do things like drink at a young age, it’s not as if Bill is some saint so he could be underage drinking, but I’m thinking of this in terms of what we as readers/watchers are shown. And typically, these actions are associated with adults.

First of all, Bill is depicted as being served alcohol at a professional establishment, drinking in private with Ford, and driving, as well as being right next to Pyronica while she flashes someone.

Second of all, multiple references to Bill using sexually-evocative language and even claiming to have banged your mom are present both in the book and other supplementary material (his Reddit AMA). I wholeheartedly believe Alex Hirsch and the crew would not be enthusiastically using charged language directed to a mostly-adult audience (The book has a ‘for older readers’ disclaimer!) which would specifically be read as coming from/being about a preteen.

I’ll call this 2.5 but regardless of how you read Bill and Ford’s dynamic in the book, Mabel still refers to Bill as being like ‘a needy ex’ and to ‘go crush on someone else’s uncle’. Even if that’s just Mabel’s read on it, it would be weird to make that joke about a “minor” and an adult!

TLDR: Bill Cipher is an adult, anyone taking a one-off gag, ignoring the other evidence against it, and using it as an excuse to harass people or claim anything about relationship dynamics that simply isn’t true is being obtuse and misleading on purpose, and it’s fine if you want to headcanon that he’s a minor, just please don’t push it on other peoples’ canon or try to imply that it’s something that’s been confirmed at all.

#gravity falls #bill cipher #the book of bill #book of bill spoilers #probably longer than i needed to make it but i’ve seen this a few times and it’s upset me a bit

176 notes · View notes

dutifullyscreechingdragon · 3 months ago

Text

Hazbin Hotel x reader cooking headcanons

Summary: HH character headcanons with their s/o and cooking. I hope you enjoy!

Includes:

Angel Dust

Alastor

Vox

Sir Pentious

Angel Dust

Cooking with Angel mostly consists of you cooking and him lying dramatically on the table, most probably making suggestive comments, something along the lines of:

"Why not just skip dinner and all these formalities and go straight to the bedroom?"

"Wouldn't you rather have me for dinner?"

That is, until the stove catches on fire and he has to leap over the table in an attempt to save your meal. Usually he succeeds, he is a great cook after all. You always marvel how he can turn a what seemed like a lost cause into a delicious meal.

This is not saying that you're a bad cook, it's just, it's kind of hard to concentrate when your boyfriend keeps making suggestive comments every 5 seconds... He knows that and does so on purpose, he is an annoying little shit like that.

What would you guys be cooking?

Pasta. You'll be making pasta or ravioli or any Italian dish for that matter. He LOOOOOVES Italian food, it reminds him of the past, when he was still alive, of his sister... It holds great sentimental value for him, so if he were to come home after a very rough day in the studio and see Italian food you made for him, boy would melt (please cook for him, he needs the mood boost)

As for baking, you make cupcakes and cookies. Angel usually decorates them, with pink liqueur and sprinkles. He makes some of them look like spiders and hearts - he's amazing with decorations. When he knows you're not looking, he'll make one that looks like a dick..... You know, just to get a rise out of you.

Alastor

Jambalaya. You're definitely eating jambalaya. That's his favourite dish and you bet he'll be cooking it any chance he gets.

"What do you want for dinner, dear?" Alastor calls from the kitchen

"I don't know, whatever you want" you reply.

"Jambalaya it is, then" he says cheerily as you realise your mistake and prepare to eat it for the third time this week.

Alastor definitely teaches you his mother's recipes. This is a deeply personal thing to him and a huge part of opening up and starting to trust you.

He gets really giddy and His heart absolutely melts when you cook for him from the family cookbook. Loves coming home after a hard day to have a warm dinner by a familial recipe made for him.

Great cook. If you don't know how to cook, he'd be happy to do majority of cooking in your household (Though you might have to bribe him with kisses to not use human meat).

Unfailingly offers you human flesh/ raw meat whenever he's eating it. You might see it as gross, he sees it as him being a gentleman.

Vox

Insists on following the recipe to the letter. All hell breaks lose, when there's a typo:

"Add 1500 grams of flour.... That can't be right" you read

"Come on, sweetheart, if the recipe says so, this must be the right way"

"it must've been a typo or-"

"Nah they wouldn't make such a big mistake, relax, I've got it figured out. Now help me heave the bag into the bowl"

"No! Wait don't add it all-" you try to stop him, a fruitless attempt to salvage your meal.

The flour spills out.

When you eat your stone hard cookies, Vox might admit that maybe you were right:

"i think ... Maybe it was a typo actually"

"Ya think?" Would be your aggravated reply.

You end up eating at some fancy restaurant (He made the reservations even before you attempted your cooking experiment. He remembers how may previous attempts had turned out an has a fair estimation of both of yours cooking skills)

Sir pentious

You don't just cook food. You make complicated constructions out of it. It's a form of art. You always feel sorry to eat it at the end.

For one reason or another, your kitchen is stacked with overcomplicated machines. They are proud creations off your partner and are mostly designed to aid in cooking, in the most silly way (think- overcomplicated pan that flips the pancakes themselves).

Mostly. Apparently, Sir Pentious deemed it crucial to add murderous features to those machines and other kitchen utensils in your possession (think- the aforementioned pan can procure a mass destruction laser on demand).

Sometimes you would have competitions: who can make teh most complicated, aesthetically looking meal in record time. The results vary:

Sometimes you end up with a delicious two-course + desert meal, that took hours of preparation and you had a ton of fun.

And other times you end up with chaos and half burned food, that took 10 minutes to prepare. Because:

"You looked like you were nearly done, I had to rush!"

"You rushing made me rush!"

"I only rushed because you rushed!"

Both the times you end up with a completely demolished kitchen. Its a miracle neither of you lost any limbs!

But at the end of the day, you have a nice, fairly edible meal, with your partner and joke about how the preparation went. Praising each other saves:

"That was amazing, really. The way you simultaneously finished the sauce while being at the stove and cutting the tomatoes!"

and laughing at the fails:

"I cant believe it took you 30 minutes to prepare the sauce... You kept adding Sault, and then deciding that it was too salty so you had to add the other ingredients to balance it out!" You'd giggle remembering it

"But it hasss to be perfect" Pentious would hiss out.

"It was perfect" you'd reply with a smile "Everything was amazing, love"

A/n: This is the end, hopefully you enjoyed it!

172 notes · View notes

runningfrom2am · 11 months ago

Text

cold nights // part one

summary: all the stars aligned, and it was you.

pairing: coriolanus snow x fem!reader

wc: 2.9k

masterlists / nav / requests

tags/warnings: tribute!reader and mentor!coriolanus, r is very sweet (too kind for this world. literally.), sunshine x grumpy trope kinda, he falls first, violence typical for the source material, r is very smart (as she should), district twelve!reader.

a/n: yayyy hi! welcome to my new coryo series!! we're back but this time we have tribute!reader and a very different story from lucy gray's (though it might not seem like it just yet- but trust me okay okay).

series masterlist // playlist

"Oh, you'll be happy about this, Miss Crane..." Dean Highbottom says, getting up from where he's sitting on the steps in front of the students. "The 'runt girl', from District Twelve, she belongs to Coriolanus Snow."

Coriolanus gives a slight shake of his head, trying to dismiss his anger. He knew the Dean was out to get him, plotting against him- leaving him with practically no shot at having any success in his mentorship. No matter who he's about to see on that screen walking up to the stage. He was screwed.

"Y/N Y/L/N."

As the name is called and the camera tracks on a girl in the crowd, Coriolanus feels the urge to vomit right there on the floor. He watches as the shock on her face morphs into tears welling in her eyes, just like the girl from Seven. The only difference, being in sharp contrast to that other girl, the tears are contradicted with a smile.

"Why is she smiling, is she stupid?" Arachne laughs, and Coriolanus looks her way only briefly.

The District Twelve girl straightens her shoulders, giving a slight nod to no one in particular, herself, and ignoring the stares from all the kids around her as she makes her way to the cleared path. Coryo tilts his head at her choice of clothes. The fabric covering her looked as though it was a dress, one day long ago, but now it was sewn up in the middle turning it into shorts. He had never seen anything quite like it- it must have been homemade, and old. Like she had been wearing it her whole life; like the article had grown with her.

"Thank you." He reads her lips as she nods to the peacekeepers who accompanied her up to the stage, a polite smile present on her pink lips. She was too nice for her own good- they had nothing for her besides walk to the stage so she couldn't make a run for it. Even with loaded guns with bullets graced with her name, she was thanking them. Great.

"May I?" She says, nodding to the microphone in front of the mayor.

"Please." He agrees, gesturing for her to take his spot. She must be highly respected- this was a trust never granted to tributes.

"Hello," For the first time, Coriolanus hears the voice of the girl who will be his tribute. Her tone is soft, unshaking despite the circumstances. "Thank you all, for being the village that raised us." She looks off-camera toward Lysistrata's tribute. "There's nowhere in the world with kinder people and kinder souls." She quickly wipes a tear away. "My friends of noble touch; when I am forth, Bid me farewell, and smile."

Coriolanus looks around, gauging the reaction of his classmates. Mostly confusion, and he can't help the small smile that tugs at his lips at the sentiment. She clearly meant something to this community, or maybe the opposite. Maybe she meant nothing to them and they were happy to see her go. That's something he had to believe if he wanted to maintain any grasp on the purpose of the games.

"I must go in, the fog is rising." She says, leaving her statement unexplained as she takes a step back, and she's quickly guided away. As far as he knows, there's no fog to be seen in the forecast of the sunny day present in Twelve.

"Well, good luck, Coriolanus. She's clearly out of her mind." Arachne laughs, punctuating the incompletion of the tribute's statement as the faded material of her makeshift dress disappears with the close of the camera lens.

As the train comes to a slow stop, the cars rattle together. Coriolanus tries not to flinch as the waiting peacekeepers slam batons onto the metal doors, shouting for the tributes to get out while they're slid open. He's immediately looking for her, for that cream-coloured dress and the distinct tones of her hair.

The shouting fades out as his eyes lock on her, a dying white rose gripped behind his back. The boy from her district tries to help, but she turns him down. She sits carefully on the edge before lowering herself down, reaching out to gently pat his shoulder in a silent thank you once her feet are back on solid ground.

Coriolanus's feet are carrying him in her direction in under a second. "Hello." He says, clearing his throat and holding the rose out to her as she turns to face him. It's hard to remain indifferent to her beauty, to remain unaffected by the face of a District girl. How did she look so calm? She radiated an aura of peace and he could feel it in the air that surrounded her. What a shame it was that it would evaporate so suddenly in the coming weeks.

"Hi there." You smile, eyes locked on his. You hadn't expected your first interaction with a Capitol citizen to be so pleasant, but you tried to have faith in people. So far, it is paying off as you eye the boy in front of you. His blue eyes and blonde curls were incredibly welcoming, despite the harshness present in the red colouring of his suit.

"Welcome to the Capitol." He smiles, holding the rose out to you. Your cheeks flush as you take the flower from his hand.

"For the rose, though its petals be torn asunder, still smiles on..." You hum, mostly to yourself as you look over the flower you're holding gently in your palm. "Thank you."

"I beg your pardon?" Coriolanus asks, tilting his head at the girl in front of him.

"It's from a poem." You explain. "Roses are representative of things far deeper than love."

"Oh, I see." He replies, still confused.

"What is your name?" You ask, returning your attention to him.

"Coriolanus Snow."

"Coriolanus." You grin. "Is that why you came to greet me?"

He furrows his brow, quickly shaking off his confusion. "No, I am here because I will be your mentor in the games."

"The use of the term 'mentor' implies personal experience." You state, feeling the softness of the rose's petals between your fingers. "But I doubt you're a victor yourself."

"Well, no, but I will try my best to take care of you while you're here." He says, nervous about how much that answer will buy him your trust.

"How ironic." You giggle, tilting your head at him.

"Move!" A peacekeeper pushes past your new friend, shoving you in the opposite direction.

"It was lovely to meet you, Coriolanus! Until we meet again!" You call back at him, smiling down at the rose in your hand as you're corralled toward a truck parked ahead of the train.

"Excuse me," He tries to get the attention of one of the peacekeepers while you are being ushered away from him. "I'd like to escort my tribute to-"

He's completely ignored both times he tries, following after the group of tributes on the way to the truck. He watches you as you ascend the stairs, standing against the back wall. Smiling, still, at the rose he had gifted you from his grandma'ams garden. All the persuasion it took for her to spare just one was worth it just seeing the look on your face now.

Impulsively, as one of the other tributes tries to make a run for it, he bolts up the staircase and into the truck, tucking himself against the back wall next to you while the peacekeepers are distracted.

You look up at him, shocked he would put himself in this position willingly. Surely, he was not meant to. The doors slam closed, and he lifts his head after avoiding catching the attention of the peacekeepers who had ignored him before. "Hello again." You whisper, looking up at him.

"Hi." He whispers back, turning slowly and trying not to cower under the hateful gaze of other tributes.

"What's the matter, pretty boy?" Reaper asks, standing opposite of the two of you. "In the wrong cage?"

"No." Coriolanus replies quickly. "This cage is delightful."

The District Eleven boy is quick to walk over, slamming Coriolanus back against the wall behind you. You gasp, taking the slightest step back. There wasn't much room for movement, and the sway of the moving vehicle was unforgiving.

"I'll kill you-" Reaper threatens him, and the girl from his District speaks up.

"He will. He killed a peacekeeper in Eleven, no one ever knew who did it."

"I say we all kill him."

"Oh, let's not evince what they think of us so quickly." You interject, steadying yourself against the bench behind you. "Only your families will suffer. The pain of one is not worth the loss of others." You look up at him, giving him a reassuring smile. "He's my mentor. I think he's here to help."

"How come you get a mender?" Coral asks, inconvenienced by your rejection of the idea.

"Mentor." Coriolanus corrects her. "You each get one."

"Oh, and we'll all just trust you on that?"

"Like she said, I'm just here to help you." Coriolanus sighs, uncomfortable under Reaper's tight grip on the front of his shirt.

"Why does she get special treatment?" Her attention is turned to you now. "Why aren't our menders here?"

"Here." You say, holding the flower out toward her. "I'm sure they'll come meet you soon, but until then, I'm happy to share."

Coriolanus watches you, breath hitching as you so carelessly offer the gifted rose to another who only wants to see the both of you dead. He's flooded with a mix of anger and admiration- it was hard to tell with what little he knew about you whether or not the action was derived from ignorance or compassion.

Before she can say anything or take the rose from your hand, there's a beeping followed by the steady tilt of the truck. Without thinking, Coriolanus grabs onto your waist as the other tributes stumble and fall back toward the doors. While you return the action of securing yourself to him, he holds onto a loose strap to keep you both in place when the doors fly open and everyone is dumped out, falling down the rocks below.

It isn't long before his hand slips, and the two of you slide down together, losing your hold on each other. Instinctively, you curl up as you roll down over the rocks, holding the precious flower into your chest to try and prevent it from being crushed. You're sore, immediately, and no doubt have some cuts and bruises, but the rose is okay. That makes you feel better as you carefully get up.

You look around, for the first time taking in your new surroundings and realizing you're being watched by many people from outside the bars of this new cage. It looked like you were in a zoo. You had always wanted to go to the zoo, you had read about them in books or heard stories but you and no one you know had ever been to one before.

"You there! In the red! Who are you and why are you in there with them? We're live!" You hear someone shouting and look in Coriolanus's direction as he stumbles to get up next to you.

You can see the panic set in as he looks around at everyone watching. He wasn't meant to be here, this must be embarrassing for him, and that was reflected in how his breathing picked up and his gaze shifted rapidly. "Shall we go say hello?" You ask softly, giving him a small, reassuring smile as you carefully place a hand on his arm to try and ground him. "No one is laughing at you, I think they're just curious."

Coriolanus looks down at you and nods, smiling slightly and ignoring the man as he continues to shout in your direction. "Y/N Y/L/N, may I introduce you to my neighbours?" He asks, confidence regained and you nod.

"Please." You smile, allowing him to take the rose from your hand. At first, you are a little disappointed, you were hoping you would get to keep it, but then when he snaps the stem and reaches up your disappointment quickly disappears as he tucks it gently behind your ear.

His gaze on you is intense as he offers you his hand, which you carefully take. "Well, that's something you don't see every day... They're holding hands." You hear the man's voice again as Coriolanus guides you over to the bars. "Who are you, sir? What are you doing in the cage here?"

His questions go ignored by both of you, when your eyes land on some children walking up to the bars. You'd much rather speak to them. "Hi there, how do you do?" Coriolanus asks them. "My name is Coriolanus Snow, and this is my tribute, Y/N Y/L/N." He smiles at you, lifting your hand closer to his chest as he leans down to speak at the kids' level.

The kids look nervous as they shift their gaze from him to you, but that makes total sense. People like him they felt safe with, people like you they had certainly never met before. "What brought you two to the zoo today? See any animals you could tell me about?" You ask, trying to make them more comfortable as you crouch down.

The boy giggles. "No, there's no animals here. We're here to see you."

"Me?" You gasp, pressing your free hand to your chest. "Why thank you, young man. I am certainly honoured, but where are all the animals? Aren't we in a zoo?" You ask, and the young kids just look back at their parents. Clearly, the zoo had been empty long enough that they'd never known it any other way.

"That's a shame." You speak again when the kids have no answer for you. "When I was your age I wished for a trip to the zoo and after all these years I got one without animals. I should have been more specific. Whoever grants our wishes is sneaky like that." You smile at them, and they both nod as if they'll remember it forever.

"Do you know how to read?" The little girl asks you. "You're really pretty."

"Me? No, I'm not very pretty. This is far from my Sunday best, but you look just stunning sweetheart." You smile at her. "And as a matter of fact, I do know how to read. It's my favourite thing to do, just about."

"You speak very smart for a District girl." The boy agrees.

"Why thank you." You laugh slightly, masking your sadness. These kids are barely old enough to know what that means and they've already been told that you and your people are less than. It's a tragedy, but not their fault.

With that, you stand up straight again, deciding to finally acknowledge the man with the microphone, seemingly desperate for your attention. "Hello, sir. What's your name?" You ask, prompting laughter from his camera crew that confuses you.

"Don't laugh, not everyone has televisions out in the Districts." He tells them, turning back to you. "I'm Lucretius 'Lucky' Flickerman, but more enticingly, who are you, Y/N, from District Twelve?"

"That's me." You nod, smiling as he sticks the mic through the bars so it can pick up your voice. "I was born and raised there, never thought I'd get the chance to see the world but here I am." You nod.

"Here you are." Lucretius nods.

"Ah!" You gasp, after moments of turning over in your head where you knew his name from. Then you remembered. "Why shed tears that you must die? For if your past life has been one of enjoyment, and if all your pleasures have not passed through your mind, as through a sieve, and vanished, leaving not a rack behind, why then do you not, like a thankful guest, rise cheerfully from life's feast and with a quiet mind go take your rest." You quote excitedly, oblivious to the confusion on Coriolanus's face behind you as he watches.

"Why, yes, that is an interesting way to see it." Lucretius replies and you nod, a little disappointed yet again that he didn't understand, but you decide to just move on.

"Are you familiar with my mentor? His name is Coriolanus Snow." You turn your attention back to him, pulling his hand closer to your chest so he'll take a step forward and stand with you instead of behind. "Fitting name, if you ask me. He was the only one brave enough to come and say hello at the train station."

"So the gamemakers did tell you to jump in the cage with them?" Lucretius asks, holding the mic up to your new friend.

"They didn't tell me not to," Coriolanus answers. "They just said it was a mentor's job to introduce our tributes to the citizens of Panem. And I thought, well, if Y/N is brave enough to be here, then why shouldn't I be, too?"

"A Coriolanus indeed." You smile up at him, patting his arm as Lucretius hums. Coriolanus looks confused, but you are well used to that by now, so you just squeeze his hand.

"I think you're about to be whisked away, young man."

You both turn at the sound of feet behind you, and he's quickly being grabbed and pulled away from you. "Thank you, Coriolanus!" You call after him, sad at the expression on his face which shows he didn't want to leave you just yet.

And you were right, he really didn't want to leave you yet.

taglist: @soulessjourney, @keziahcore, @that-veela-girl, @motorsport, @dreamyysouls, @rockstarbfs, @Lanadelrey3, @rawrmameh, @3zae-zae3, @babyspice6, @pastel0rchid, @maysileeewrites, @articxari, @Urfavpouge, @Multivitaminfy, @baybieruth, @kitscutie, @annaelise, @serrendiipty, @fratboyharrysgf0201, @totallynotkaibiased, @stelleduarte, @klplynn, @secretsicanthideanymore, @bejeweledreverie, @fals3-g0d, @drewsandsebastianswife, @niicole-87, @queenofshinigamis

if your user has a strikethrough i wasn't able to tag you! i'm so sorry!

#tbosas #tbosas fic #tbosas x reader #hunger games #the hunger games #thg fanfic #thg series #thg fanfiction #coriolanus fanfiction #coriolanus x you #coriolanus x reader #coriolanus snow x reader #coriolanus snow #coryo x reader #coryo snow #snow lands on top #snow x reader

874 notes · View notes